Mate, I’m fucking desperate. Suzie’s on the rag again and between that and Tommy being ill I’ve not got off in a fortnight. I’m going stir-crazy.”
“Why are you telling me about it?”
“You fucking know why I’m telling you!”
“You said we couldn’t do that stuff anymore. It was just something teenagers do to experiment.”
“Yeah, well, I’m desperate. And be honest, Billy, I know you’re still doing it.”
It was 1958. Homosexuality was still illegal in Britain; any mention of that kind of goings-on between men just wasn’t discussed in polite society.
Billy Jones and Joe Pointer had been friends since they were 11. They’d lived around the corner from each other, growing up in the dingy terraced streets of Leeds. They were so close people compared them to brothers — which was nice since they were both, unusually for the time, only children. Yet they couldn’t have been more different.
Billy was the nice boy: soft, bright and charming. He was slim, with tidy blond hair, a clean-shaven chin and the kind of face people called cute rather than handsome. Despite being 24 he was still boyish. He’d done well at school, gone on to college and now worked in a tidy new office building. The kind of job that meant his mother would say to people, “Our William has done very nicely for himself, thank you very much.” The kind of job the people he grew up with called poncy, and joked about his soft hands.
Joe, on the other hand, was none of those things. He was big, muscly, though with a slight belly from too many pints. The kind of body you get from hard labour, not exercise. He had short brown hair, almost buzzed because he couldn’t be bothered to keep it tidy otherwise. His features were certainly not boyish: he had a strong jaw, always covered in thick dark stubble, a perpetually grumpy face that seemed to send the girls wild. He’d spent most of his time at school getting into fights and chasing girls. He’d left at 15 and gone to work at a builder’s yard. The work was hard, but it gave him a great body — muscles, rough hands and sex appeal. At 20 he’d got Suzie, a girl from the neighbourhood, up the duff and had to marry her. Now at 24 they’d just had their second kid and lived in a little terrace just like their parents.
Yet for all their differences, Billy and Joe remained close friends. They just got each other and were comfortable around one another, like an old jumper you couldn’t bring yourself to throw out.
That day they were at Billy’s new flat. He’d just rented it in town and Joe had come round to help him sort the furniture out and put shelves up. Billy was useless at anything practical like that.
With the shelves up and Billy having just handed Joe a cold beer as a thank-you, Joe had got on to the subject of his blue balls.
“What are you talking about, Joe?” Billy looked concerned — actually it was more than just concern; he looked genuinely scared about what Joe had just said.
Joe just looked at him, like he often did when Billy said something he thought was ridiculous (though usually it was when Billy was saying something poncy about classical music or the book he was reading). “Look, Billy, I don’t care you’re a puff. I’ve known since we were like 14. Doesn’t bother me what gets you off.”
Billy looked like he was actually sweating now. “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about, Joe.”
“So you’re telling me you’re not sleeping with Ted who works at the cinema? Or that when I came round last week to fix your tap I didn’t see Richard Brown from The White Horse leaving your building? I’m not daft, Billy. I don’t care. You’re my best pal, always will be. The thing is, Bill, I tell you everything. You know all about me — you know how much I fucking hate Suzie, about my plans for my own builder’s yard. Admittedly I’m not that interesting, but I tell you it all.”
Billy slipped into the armchair by the door and stared at the ground. After a minute or two he looked at Joe. “Since we were 14?”
“Well, probably 12 really. You remember we used to go swimming on a Saturday? You can only catch your buddy checking you out in the changing rooms so many times before you start to get suspicious.” Joe grinned.
“Besides, Billy, let’s be honest — when we used to mess around together there wasn’t much give and take, was there? All those times you sucked me off, how many times did I return the favour?”
“Never,” Billy replied.
“All those times I fucked you, how many times did you fuck me?”
“Never,” Billy said again.
“In all those years I probably wanked you off a handful of times? Yet when I asked if you could help me out you never once said no, never once objected. I kind of got the message, Billy.” Joe couldn’t help but chuckle.
Billy was staring up at Joe as he leant casually against his new bookcase. “I just thought you’d think it was buddies helping each other out. Boys being boys.”
“It was, Billy. For me.”
“You really don’t care?”
“No, Billy, I really don’t care. Though I’ll be a bit honest — Ted? Really? He doesn’t seem like your type at all.”
Billy looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, as far as I can remember, buddy, you always liked it rough. Liked it when I took control and especially liked it once I’d started working at the yard and packed on the muscles.” He flexed one big arm as he said this. “Ted — he’s, well, he’s a bit of a sissy, let’s be honest.”
Billy blushed crimson once again. “Well, I don’t have a lot of options really.”
Joe grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “So I’m right then — you still like your men big?” This was accompanied by him flexing again, this time both arms.
Billy just nodded.
“So…” Joe said, eying him like prey.
“So what?”
“I’m horny, you’re not getting what you want from little Ted. Why don’t we both help each other out? I get my balls emptied and you get to enjoy having a big man take control of you.”
Billy hesitated. “Joe, you’re married. You’ve got kids. Wouldn’t it make things weird?”
Joe shrugged and smirked. He moved slightly closer to Billy in the chair, sensing the weakness. “Come on, man, it’s just two buddies helping each other out again. Besides, why would it make things weird? I’ve been balls deep in your arse so many times I’ve probably put more of my seed in you than in Suzie.”
“Joe, I just think that—”
“See, there is your problem, Billy. That’s always your problem — you think too much.” Joe put his beer bottle down on the table and pulled his sweatshirt over his head, revealing his chest and arms.
His chest was broad, a thick slab of muscle forged by years of hard labour. Powerful pecs rounded and heavy, stretching the skin taut over their full curves. A dense mat of dark, wiry chest hair covered them generously, swirling around wide, dusky nipples already tight and eager. The hair trailed thick down the deep centre line of his sternum before spreading across the solid pecs and trailing off above his stomach. Here he was softer — drink had given him a small paunch — but it served to make him look even more masculine, a real man’s body, and did nothing to detract from the image of strength and virility that oozed from him.
He flexed his arms once more; bulging biceps peaked, thick triceps horseshoed underneath, forearms corded with veins. Built for raw power and hard work. His eyes bored into Billy as he did so.
“Now, Billy, tell me you don’t want this.”
Billy couldn’t. He just reached for his drink and knocked back what was left. He didn’t say anything. He knew Joe was right — he did want it, more than he’d ever wanted anything. He’d loved all those times when Joe would start groping at his crotch while staring at Billy and then ask if he’d help him out. He’d loved when Joe used to climb on top of him and pound his arse. He’d been gutted when Joe had told him they were getting too old for it, when he’d started finding trampy girls to empty his balls into instead. Yet he also knew letting Joe fuck him now would be exposing himself to pain later, because he loved Joe — he’d always loved him — but how could he give up the chance to have him inside him again? He couldn’t.
Joe wasn’t one to give up. He could see he almost had what he wanted so he went for broke. He removed his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, letting them fall to the floor. He was left in just his baggy boxers — or at least they should have been baggy; that was the style of them after all. On Joe, however, they were absolutely not baggy.
His thighs were massive, solid slabs covered in a light dusting of dark hair, straining the fabric. The kind of thighs that could crush a man’s skull — and that was exactly what Billy was picturing as his eyes wandered over them.
What they framed, though, was even more mind-boggling. Billy remembered vividly Joe’s dick. It had always been big, always much bigger than his own, but not like this.
His bulge strained thick and heavy against the snug cotton of his boxers, a full, rounded mound that pushed the fabric outward in a shameless, obscene swell. The outline of his fat cock lay along his inner thigh, semi-hard, the broad head clearly defined beneath the stretched material, while his heavy balls hung low, creating a plump pouch that sagged invitingly.
A dark shadow of pubic hair pressed through the thin weave at the base, framing the whole package and exaggerating his masculinity. Billy was sure he could see it pulse and twitch as Joe breathed.
Any thought of resistance Billy had entertained before had evaporated. He just sat there staring. His mouth had gone dry and his own dick had rapidly hardened, straining painfully in his trousers.
Joe had known the effect this would have. It was the same effect it always had — and not just on Billy, but on all those tarts over the years he’d fucked in alleys behind pubs or on sofas while their parents slept unknowingly upstairs.
He moved now, with surprising lightness for his size, closing the gap to where Billy still sat mesmerised. He ran his hand softly through Billy’s neat hair and down the side of his face. With surprising tenderness he lifted Billy’s head to meet his gaze. “Come on, Billy. Help me out.”
Billy just nodded. His hands reached out to pull down the boxers. Fingers hooked under the waistband. He tugged them down slowly, inch by torturous inch, the stretched cotton sliding over the heavy swell of Joe’s bulge and those thick thighs. The dark shadow of pubic hair emerged first, thick and wiry, framing the thick root of his cock as it strained upward.
The fabric caught briefly on the flared head, then released with a soft snap. Joe’s dick sprang free, already surging hard at the promise of what was to come. Veins pulsing, shaft thickening rapidly until it stood rigid and proud. It slapped wetly against Billy’s cheek, leaving a glistening streak of salty precum smeared across his flushed skin. The musky scent filled the air as Joe groaned low and hungry.
Joe’s dick stood thick and proud, released from the boxers — a heavy, veined shaft curving slightly upward, flushed deep pink at the swollen head. The broad mushroom cap glistened with a fresh bead of precum at the slit, while the rigid length throbbed visibly; a long vein ran down the underside and the skin stretched taut over pulsing ridges. The coarse dark hair framed the thick base, balls hanging full and low beneath, swaying with every hungry twitch.
Billy ran a finger over his own face, catching the precum and moving it to his mouth, tasting his best friend for the first time in years. He moaned quietly.
Billy tore his eyes from the dick only for a moment to look once more into Joe’s own. “Please can I suck it?”
Joe grinned broadly. “Good lad. Get to it.”
Billy sank from the chair to his knees between Joe’s spread thighs, eyes wide as he stared up at the thick, throbbing length resting heavy across his face. Tentatively he leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the underside — slow, uncertain strokes along the prominent vein that pulsed hot against his lips. His hands settled on those massive, furred thighs, fingers digging into the dense muscle for balance as the musky scent flooded his nose and the salty weight pressed down on his cheek.
At first it was careful, exploratory, like he wasn’t sure he could handle something so big. But the taste hit him — rich, heady, addictive — and the overwhelming heat and heft erased every last shred of hesitation. Billy groaned softly against the shaft, then dove in harder, tongue flattening to drag long, wet stripes from base to leaking tip, swirling around the swollen head before sucking greedily along the ridge. His lips sealed around the vein, tracing it with hungry pressure while his hands kneaded Joe’s thighs, thumbs brushing the inner crease where skin met heavy balls.
Joe’s fingers slid into Billy’s hair, gripping just tight enough to guide without forcing. A low, ragged groan rolled out of him as his hips twitched forward. “Fuck,” he rasped, voice thick with lust, “I forgot how good you were at this.”
“I missed this dick, Joe,” Billy murmured against the slick head, voice thick with need. “I missed it so much.”
He dragged his tongue slow and deliberate over the broad, swollen crown, flicking the sensitive underside of the ridge in quick, teasing lashes. Joe’s hips jerked; a raw, broken whimper slipped from his throat, the sound so unguarded it made Billy’s cock throb in his jeans.
“I bet you fucking did,” Joe growled, voice gravel-rough. “Now suck my balls.”
Billy pulled back with a wet pop, eyes locked on the heavy, furred sack hanging low between those massive thighs. He leaned in, nose brushing coarse hair first, inhaling deep — the sharp, salty musk of a man who hadn’t showered, pure and unfiltered. It hit Billy like a drug, flooding his senses, making his mouth water harder than any clean, perfumed hookup ever had.
He started with long, flat licks, tongue bathing the wrinkled skin, tasting sweat and heat. Then he opened wide, drawing one thick ball gently into his mouth, sucking soft and reverent while his hand cradled the other, rolling it in his palm. Joe’s fingers tightened on the back of Billy’s neck, stroking slow circles through his hair as low moans rolled out of him.
“Fuck yes, Billy… just like that. Worship my balls.”
Billy hummed in agreement, the vibration making Joe hiss. He switched to the other side, sucking deeper now, lips sealed tight, tongue swirling lazy patterns over the sensitive skin. The taste was intoxicating — sweat, musk, raw masculinity — and Billy realised with a dizzy rush that none of the guys he’d been seeing lately came close. Joe had been right; they couldn’t fulfil him, but Joe was different. Joe was a real man. And Billy fucking loved it.
Billy let Joe’s balls slip from his mouth with a wet, reluctant pop, the heavy orbs glistening and swaying free as he tilted his head up. His lips, already swollen from the stretch, parted wider as he guided the thick, leaking head between them. The mushroom crown filled his mouth instantly — hot, salty, pulsing against his tongue — and Billy moaned around it, the vibration rumbling straight down Joe’s shaft.
He attacked with renewed hunger, sucking hard on the head while his tongue lashed the sensitive slit, scooping up every fresh bead of precum that welled there. One hand gripped the slick base, stroking in tight, twisting pulls that matched the bobbing of his head; the other stayed braced on Joe’s massive thigh, fingers digging into the dense muscle like he needed the anchor to keep from floating away on the sheer intensity of it. Billy worked passionately, no hesitation left — just raw, eager devotion to making Joe feel every second, every bump in the back of his throat.
He pushed deeper again, relaxing his throat as much as the aching stretch allowed. The fat length slid past his tonsils with a wet gluck, forcing more thick spit and throat mucus to bubble up and coat every veined inch. Billy’s eyes watered, tears mixing with the mess already streaking his flushed cheeks, but he didn’t stop. He hollowed his cheeks on the upstroke, lips dragging tight along the ridges, then plunged back down until his nose mashed into the coarse pubic hair. The musky, unwashed scent overwhelmed him, fuelling the frantic rhythm — sloppy, desperate, relentless.
Joe’s moans grew louder, rougher. His abs clenched, thighs trembling under Billy’s hands. “Fuck… Billy, you’re gonna make me blow,” he growled, voice strained, hips jerking in shallow, helpless thrusts that fucked Billy’s throat in short, greedy bursts. Billy hummed encouragement, throat convulsing around the invading girth, spit dripping in heavy ropes from his chin to splatter across Joe’s balls and Billy’s neck. His jaw screamed from the relentless stretch, but the ache only made him suck harder, tongue swirling wildly under the head on every pull-back.
Joe’s breathing turned ragged, balls drawing up. His fingers tightened in Billy’s hair, holding him in place for one deep, shuddering thrust — then, with a guttural curse, he yanked Billy off. The cock sprang free with a wet smack against Billy’s cheek, glistening obscenely with layers of throat slime, spit, and precum. Billy gasped for air, lips puffy and red, face a shiny mess — streaks of saliva and mucus smeared from chin to forehead, cheeks flushed dark, eyes glassy with lust and exertion.
“Not yet, buddy,” Joe panted, chest heaving, one hand still tangled in Billy’s hair as he tilted his face up. His voice was low, gravel-thick with barely leashed control. “I’m gonna fuck your arse yet.”
Billy whimpered at the promise, cock throbbing painfully in his trousers, the taste of Joe still coating his tongue, the ache in his jaw a delicious reminder of how thoroughly he’d worshipped. He stayed on his knees, tired but still eager and ready, staring up at the man who’d just denied himself — and him — the finish line, knowing the real stretch was still coming.
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“Why are you telling me about it?”
“You fucking know why I’m telling you!”
“You said we couldn’t do that stuff anymore. It was just something teenagers do to experiment.”
“Yeah, well, I’m desperate. And be honest, Billy, I know you’re still doing it.”
It was 1958. Homosexuality was still illegal in Britain; any mention of that kind of goings-on between men just wasn’t discussed in polite society.
Billy Jones and Joe Pointer had been friends since they were 11. They’d lived around the corner from each other, growing up in the dingy terraced streets of Leeds. They were so close people compared them to brothers — which was nice since they were both, unusually for the time, only children. Yet they couldn’t have been more different.
Billy was the nice boy: soft, bright and charming. He was slim, with tidy blond hair, a clean-shaven chin and the kind of face people called cute rather than handsome. Despite being 24 he was still boyish. He’d done well at school, gone on to college and now worked in a tidy new office building. The kind of job that meant his mother would say to people, “Our William has done very nicely for himself, thank you very much.” The kind of job the people he grew up with called poncy, and joked about his soft hands.
Joe, on the other hand, was none of those things. He was big, muscly, though with a slight belly from too many pints. The kind of body you get from hard labour, not exercise. He had short brown hair, almost buzzed because he couldn’t be bothered to keep it tidy otherwise. His features were certainly not boyish: he had a strong jaw, always covered in thick dark stubble, a perpetually grumpy face that seemed to send the girls wild. He’d spent most of his time at school getting into fights and chasing girls. He’d left at 15 and gone to work at a builder’s yard. The work was hard, but it gave him a great body — muscles, rough hands and sex appeal. At 20 he’d got Suzie, a girl from the neighbourhood, up the duff and had to marry her. Now at 24 they’d just had their second kid and lived in a little terrace just like their parents.
Yet for all their differences, Billy and Joe remained close friends. They just got each other and were comfortable around one another, like an old jumper you couldn’t bring yourself to throw out.
That day they were at Billy’s new flat. He’d just rented it in town and Joe had come round to help him sort the furniture out and put shelves up. Billy was useless at anything practical like that.
With the shelves up and Billy having just handed Joe a cold beer as a thank-you, Joe had got on to the subject of his blue balls.
“What are you talking about, Joe?” Billy looked concerned — actually it was more than just concern; he looked genuinely scared about what Joe had just said.
Joe just looked at him, like he often did when Billy said something he thought was ridiculous (though usually it was when Billy was saying something poncy about classical music or the book he was reading). “Look, Billy, I don’t care you’re a puff. I’ve known since we were like 14. Doesn’t bother me what gets you off.”
Billy looked like he was actually sweating now. “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about, Joe.”
“So you’re telling me you’re not sleeping with Ted who works at the cinema? Or that when I came round last week to fix your tap I didn’t see Richard Brown from The White Horse leaving your building? I’m not daft, Billy. I don’t care. You’re my best pal, always will be. The thing is, Bill, I tell you everything. You know all about me — you know how much I fucking hate Suzie, about my plans for my own builder’s yard. Admittedly I’m not that interesting, but I tell you it all.”
Billy slipped into the armchair by the door and stared at the ground. After a minute or two he looked at Joe. “Since we were 14?”
“Well, probably 12 really. You remember we used to go swimming on a Saturday? You can only catch your buddy checking you out in the changing rooms so many times before you start to get suspicious.” Joe grinned.
“Besides, Billy, let’s be honest — when we used to mess around together there wasn’t much give and take, was there? All those times you sucked me off, how many times did I return the favour?”
“Never,” Billy replied.
“All those times I fucked you, how many times did you fuck me?”
“Never,” Billy said again.
“In all those years I probably wanked you off a handful of times? Yet when I asked if you could help me out you never once said no, never once objected. I kind of got the message, Billy.” Joe couldn’t help but chuckle.
Billy was staring up at Joe as he leant casually against his new bookcase. “I just thought you’d think it was buddies helping each other out. Boys being boys.”
“It was, Billy. For me.”
“You really don’t care?”
“No, Billy, I really don’t care. Though I’ll be a bit honest — Ted? Really? He doesn’t seem like your type at all.”
Billy looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, as far as I can remember, buddy, you always liked it rough. Liked it when I took control and especially liked it once I’d started working at the yard and packed on the muscles.” He flexed one big arm as he said this. “Ted — he’s, well, he’s a bit of a sissy, let’s be honest.”
Billy blushed crimson once again. “Well, I don’t have a lot of options really.”
Joe grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “So I’m right then — you still like your men big?” This was accompanied by him flexing again, this time both arms.
Billy just nodded.
“So…” Joe said, eying him like prey.
“So what?”
“I’m horny, you’re not getting what you want from little Ted. Why don’t we both help each other out? I get my balls emptied and you get to enjoy having a big man take control of you.”
Billy hesitated. “Joe, you’re married. You’ve got kids. Wouldn’t it make things weird?”
Joe shrugged and smirked. He moved slightly closer to Billy in the chair, sensing the weakness. “Come on, man, it’s just two buddies helping each other out again. Besides, why would it make things weird? I’ve been balls deep in your arse so many times I’ve probably put more of my seed in you than in Suzie.”
“Joe, I just think that—”
“See, there is your problem, Billy. That’s always your problem — you think too much.” Joe put his beer bottle down on the table and pulled his sweatshirt over his head, revealing his chest and arms.
His chest was broad, a thick slab of muscle forged by years of hard labour. Powerful pecs rounded and heavy, stretching the skin taut over their full curves. A dense mat of dark, wiry chest hair covered them generously, swirling around wide, dusky nipples already tight and eager. The hair trailed thick down the deep centre line of his sternum before spreading across the solid pecs and trailing off above his stomach. Here he was softer — drink had given him a small paunch — but it served to make him look even more masculine, a real man’s body, and did nothing to detract from the image of strength and virility that oozed from him.
He flexed his arms once more; bulging biceps peaked, thick triceps horseshoed underneath, forearms corded with veins. Built for raw power and hard work. His eyes bored into Billy as he did so.
“Now, Billy, tell me you don’t want this.”
Billy couldn’t. He just reached for his drink and knocked back what was left. He didn’t say anything. He knew Joe was right — he did want it, more than he’d ever wanted anything. He’d loved all those times when Joe would start groping at his crotch while staring at Billy and then ask if he’d help him out. He’d loved when Joe used to climb on top of him and pound his arse. He’d been gutted when Joe had told him they were getting too old for it, when he’d started finding trampy girls to empty his balls into instead. Yet he also knew letting Joe fuck him now would be exposing himself to pain later, because he loved Joe — he’d always loved him — but how could he give up the chance to have him inside him again? He couldn’t.
Joe wasn’t one to give up. He could see he almost had what he wanted so he went for broke. He removed his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, letting them fall to the floor. He was left in just his baggy boxers — or at least they should have been baggy; that was the style of them after all. On Joe, however, they were absolutely not baggy.
His thighs were massive, solid slabs covered in a light dusting of dark hair, straining the fabric. The kind of thighs that could crush a man’s skull — and that was exactly what Billy was picturing as his eyes wandered over them.
What they framed, though, was even more mind-boggling. Billy remembered vividly Joe’s dick. It had always been big, always much bigger than his own, but not like this.
His bulge strained thick and heavy against the snug cotton of his boxers, a full, rounded mound that pushed the fabric outward in a shameless, obscene swell. The outline of his fat cock lay along his inner thigh, semi-hard, the broad head clearly defined beneath the stretched material, while his heavy balls hung low, creating a plump pouch that sagged invitingly.
A dark shadow of pubic hair pressed through the thin weave at the base, framing the whole package and exaggerating his masculinity. Billy was sure he could see it pulse and twitch as Joe breathed.
Any thought of resistance Billy had entertained before had evaporated. He just sat there staring. His mouth had gone dry and his own dick had rapidly hardened, straining painfully in his trousers.
Joe had known the effect this would have. It was the same effect it always had — and not just on Billy, but on all those tarts over the years he’d fucked in alleys behind pubs or on sofas while their parents slept unknowingly upstairs.
He moved now, with surprising lightness for his size, closing the gap to where Billy still sat mesmerised. He ran his hand softly through Billy’s neat hair and down the side of his face. With surprising tenderness he lifted Billy’s head to meet his gaze. “Come on, Billy. Help me out.”
Billy just nodded. His hands reached out to pull down the boxers. Fingers hooked under the waistband. He tugged them down slowly, inch by torturous inch, the stretched cotton sliding over the heavy swell of Joe’s bulge and those thick thighs. The dark shadow of pubic hair emerged first, thick and wiry, framing the thick root of his cock as it strained upward.
The fabric caught briefly on the flared head, then released with a soft snap. Joe’s dick sprang free, already surging hard at the promise of what was to come. Veins pulsing, shaft thickening rapidly until it stood rigid and proud. It slapped wetly against Billy’s cheek, leaving a glistening streak of salty precum smeared across his flushed skin. The musky scent filled the air as Joe groaned low and hungry.
Joe’s dick stood thick and proud, released from the boxers — a heavy, veined shaft curving slightly upward, flushed deep pink at the swollen head. The broad mushroom cap glistened with a fresh bead of precum at the slit, while the rigid length throbbed visibly; a long vein ran down the underside and the skin stretched taut over pulsing ridges. The coarse dark hair framed the thick base, balls hanging full and low beneath, swaying with every hungry twitch.
Billy ran a finger over his own face, catching the precum and moving it to his mouth, tasting his best friend for the first time in years. He moaned quietly.
Billy tore his eyes from the dick only for a moment to look once more into Joe’s own. “Please can I suck it?”
Joe grinned broadly. “Good lad. Get to it.”
Billy sank from the chair to his knees between Joe’s spread thighs, eyes wide as he stared up at the thick, throbbing length resting heavy across his face. Tentatively he leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the underside — slow, uncertain strokes along the prominent vein that pulsed hot against his lips. His hands settled on those massive, furred thighs, fingers digging into the dense muscle for balance as the musky scent flooded his nose and the salty weight pressed down on his cheek.
At first it was careful, exploratory, like he wasn’t sure he could handle something so big. But the taste hit him — rich, heady, addictive — and the overwhelming heat and heft erased every last shred of hesitation. Billy groaned softly against the shaft, then dove in harder, tongue flattening to drag long, wet stripes from base to leaking tip, swirling around the swollen head before sucking greedily along the ridge. His lips sealed around the vein, tracing it with hungry pressure while his hands kneaded Joe’s thighs, thumbs brushing the inner crease where skin met heavy balls.
Joe’s fingers slid into Billy’s hair, gripping just tight enough to guide without forcing. A low, ragged groan rolled out of him as his hips twitched forward. “Fuck,” he rasped, voice thick with lust, “I forgot how good you were at this.”
“I missed this dick, Joe,” Billy murmured against the slick head, voice thick with need. “I missed it so much.”
He dragged his tongue slow and deliberate over the broad, swollen crown, flicking the sensitive underside of the ridge in quick, teasing lashes. Joe’s hips jerked; a raw, broken whimper slipped from his throat, the sound so unguarded it made Billy’s cock throb in his jeans.
“I bet you fucking did,” Joe growled, voice gravel-rough. “Now suck my balls.”
Billy pulled back with a wet pop, eyes locked on the heavy, furred sack hanging low between those massive thighs. He leaned in, nose brushing coarse hair first, inhaling deep — the sharp, salty musk of a man who hadn’t showered, pure and unfiltered. It hit Billy like a drug, flooding his senses, making his mouth water harder than any clean, perfumed hookup ever had.
He started with long, flat licks, tongue bathing the wrinkled skin, tasting sweat and heat. Then he opened wide, drawing one thick ball gently into his mouth, sucking soft and reverent while his hand cradled the other, rolling it in his palm. Joe’s fingers tightened on the back of Billy’s neck, stroking slow circles through his hair as low moans rolled out of him.
“Fuck yes, Billy… just like that. Worship my balls.”
Billy hummed in agreement, the vibration making Joe hiss. He switched to the other side, sucking deeper now, lips sealed tight, tongue swirling lazy patterns over the sensitive skin. The taste was intoxicating — sweat, musk, raw masculinity — and Billy realised with a dizzy rush that none of the guys he’d been seeing lately came close. Joe had been right; they couldn’t fulfil him, but Joe was different. Joe was a real man. And Billy fucking loved it.
Billy let Joe’s balls slip from his mouth with a wet, reluctant pop, the heavy orbs glistening and swaying free as he tilted his head up. His lips, already swollen from the stretch, parted wider as he guided the thick, leaking head between them. The mushroom crown filled his mouth instantly — hot, salty, pulsing against his tongue — and Billy moaned around it, the vibration rumbling straight down Joe’s shaft.
He attacked with renewed hunger, sucking hard on the head while his tongue lashed the sensitive slit, scooping up every fresh bead of precum that welled there. One hand gripped the slick base, stroking in tight, twisting pulls that matched the bobbing of his head; the other stayed braced on Joe’s massive thigh, fingers digging into the dense muscle like he needed the anchor to keep from floating away on the sheer intensity of it. Billy worked passionately, no hesitation left — just raw, eager devotion to making Joe feel every second, every bump in the back of his throat.
He pushed deeper again, relaxing his throat as much as the aching stretch allowed. The fat length slid past his tonsils with a wet gluck, forcing more thick spit and throat mucus to bubble up and coat every veined inch. Billy’s eyes watered, tears mixing with the mess already streaking his flushed cheeks, but he didn’t stop. He hollowed his cheeks on the upstroke, lips dragging tight along the ridges, then plunged back down until his nose mashed into the coarse pubic hair. The musky, unwashed scent overwhelmed him, fuelling the frantic rhythm — sloppy, desperate, relentless.
Joe’s moans grew louder, rougher. His abs clenched, thighs trembling under Billy’s hands. “Fuck… Billy, you’re gonna make me blow,” he growled, voice strained, hips jerking in shallow, helpless thrusts that fucked Billy’s throat in short, greedy bursts. Billy hummed encouragement, throat convulsing around the invading girth, spit dripping in heavy ropes from his chin to splatter across Joe’s balls and Billy’s neck. His jaw screamed from the relentless stretch, but the ache only made him suck harder, tongue swirling wildly under the head on every pull-back.
Joe’s breathing turned ragged, balls drawing up. His fingers tightened in Billy’s hair, holding him in place for one deep, shuddering thrust — then, with a guttural curse, he yanked Billy off. The cock sprang free with a wet smack against Billy’s cheek, glistening obscenely with layers of throat slime, spit, and precum. Billy gasped for air, lips puffy and red, face a shiny mess — streaks of saliva and mucus smeared from chin to forehead, cheeks flushed dark, eyes glassy with lust and exertion.
“Not yet, buddy,” Joe panted, chest heaving, one hand still tangled in Billy’s hair as he tilted his face up. His voice was low, gravel-thick with barely leashed control. “I’m gonna fuck your arse yet.”
Billy whimpered at the promise, cock throbbing painfully in his trousers, the taste of Joe still coating his tongue, the ache in his jaw a delicious reminder of how thoroughly he’d worshipped. He stayed on his knees, tired but still eager and ready, staring up at the man who’d just denied himself — and him — the finish line, knowing the real stretch was still coming.
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