Customer service

[ray007]

Hi folks, should you like that appetizer, might well be continued ...





Damn. Overslept again! I stumble into the bathroom, pulling the black and white striped boxer shorts over my cock which is half-erect as always in the morning and is bobbing lazily in front of me, grab the toothbrush, squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles and brush my teeth under the shower, from which warm water is gradually flowing. While I brush with one hand and squeeze shower gel out of the tube with the other, I empty my rather full bladder into the sink, spit out the toothpaste, soap myself from head to toe, rinse myself with cold water, so that my cock shrinks in offense, so that it almost disappears into my lush bush - I really need to shave again! - and meets my balls where the three of them are gossiping about me.

Quickly back to the bedroom, blindly reaching into the underwear drawer, fish out a pair of boxer briefs, jump into my jeans and pulled on a T-shirt. I forego socks.

I burn my tongue on the piping hot coffee, shove a piece of crispbread between my teeth and leave the apartment, crunching.

Only when I've got on my bike do I notice: my underpants are pinching. I must have grabbed an older pair in my haste. Grrrmph! As I pedal into town and feel the equipment between my legs more intensely with every pedal stroke, I decide - not for the first time, by the way! - to make a clean slate in my underwear drawer. Everything that has become too tight goes to the used clothing collection. From there, I imagine, my briefs are either recycled and taken apart to the threads, or they are freshly washed and sent to some clothing bank, where they are then distributed to people in need who need the size I had two years ago. I doubt that it is my genitals that have grown significantly in size and are therefore causing the discomfort below my belly button. I probably washed the underwear too hot and they finally shrunk two sizes in the dryer.

The idea of someone somewhere wearing my used underpants is something... exciting.

When I get to the office, the first thing I do is go to the bathroom, lock myself in the cubicle, pull my jeans down to my knees and tug at the hem of my briefs. No relief. I pull them up to the middle of my thighs, stretch the material, push my fist in, pull them up again, sort the balls in the middle, point the cock upwards, let the bush grow out on the sides. It's high time to trim it again. But it's definitely not the hair that's causing the feeling of tightness.

Apart from that, I don't particularly like my balls when they're completely hairless. At least not in summer. They always stick to my thighs.

I pull the jeans up again, tug on the zipper, fasten the belt in the second hole and not the third as usual, just to be on the safe side. I do a few squats.

No noticeable relief.

I walk to my place with my legs apart, sit down on the chair, slide as far as possible under the desk and fumble around between my legs again.

“If I were you, I’d rather jerk off at home.”

I turn around as if I’d been struck by lightning. André, my colleague on the other side of the desk, is standing behind me, a crooked grin on his face. He has a girlfriend, but also meets men, “because I like to fuck asses and squeeze my bottom’s balls,” as he freely admitted to me over an after-work beer. (When I asked him what a bottom was, he just looked at me in disbelief.) “My girlfriend can’t offer me that.”

“Why? Doesn’t she have an ass?” I asked him.

“Yes, but no balls. At least none that you could finger or knead. And besides, she’s not into ass fucking. My cock is just too big for her.”

“Show-off,” I say and empty my beer glass.

“Do you want to see?” André grins lasciviously. “It’s worth taking a look. That’s what everyone who has seen him says.”

“Maybe later,” I evade.

To this day, I haven’t even taken a look at his cock.

“By the way, I don’t jerk off,” I say now. “My underwear is too tight.”

“Then take them off.”

“No, better not. My jeans rub everything off.”

“If you only ever buy the special offers – no wonder.”

“They were pretty expensive,” I clarify. “But they’re scratchy nevertheless.”

“Hm. Unfortunately, I don’t have a spare pair of underwear in my desk drawer. And stupidly, I didn’t pack them this morning either. I would lend them to you.”

“Thank you, that’s so kind of you. I think I’ll use my lunch break to buy a new pair.”

“Speaking of special offers: get a pack of three,” he recommends. “They’re cheaper than buying individual items.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say. And start up my computer.

*​

The shop is in a small side street right around the corner from our office. I rarely walk past it because I come to the company from the other direction. If I had had more time, I would have gone to the department store. But that's a twenty-minute walk away. A period of time that I don't want to subject my squashed genitals to.

The shop window is not particularly large and is crammed with boxer shorts, boxer briefs, briefs, thongs and G-strings that are lined up on a pole in a back corner. Three underwear dummies stand in between on the left, middle and right - sawn-off thighs, sawn-off torso. T-shirts, tank tops and socks in all possible colors and patterns complete the range. I open the door and enter a not very bright room. The bell above me rings. A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, emerges from a back room between two curtains.

“Hello. What would you like?”

“Fish’n’chips and a coke, please,” I say.

He looks at me as if I'm crazy.

“Just kidding," I clarify.

“Oh, I see,” he says.

“I need some underwear,” I continue.

“Okay.” He looks at me. “I think you've come to the right place. Unfortunately, I'm about to take my lunch break.”

“It'll be really quick,” I say.

“What would you like?” he wants to know. “If it's quick, that's fine with me. But still…” He goes to the shop door and locks it. “So that no more customers come,” he explains as he turns back to me.

He comes closer. He is wearing a light blue T-shirt that is tight on his body, jeans that are quite low-cut and show the white waistband of his boxer shorts. He has medium-length, dark hair, brown eyes and an open face.

He looks good.

“Underpants, then,” he picks up the thread again. “A specific brand?”

“Brand doesn’t matter,” I answer. “The main thing is that they’re L. Big enough, then.”

“It’s not that simple,” he replies. “L in one brand is smaller than S in another. And XL can sometimes be quite L.”

“I see,” I say. “Then recommend something to me. As I said, I’m not tied down to one brand.” “That’s good,” he says. “I’ll pick out a few pairs for you. You can go into the changing room.” “Since when can you try on underwear?” I ask, astonished.

“A service I offer my customers,” he answers. “After all, I want them to be satisfied and come back.”

“I understand,” I say.

“Changing room’s over there.” He nods toward a half-open curtain.

I push the curtain aside and step in. All three sides of the changing room are mirrored, so that I can see into infinity. I look around again at the salesperson, who is now putting together his selection from drawers and shelves that fill the walls up to the ceiling.

I close the curtain and unbuckle my jeans. I open the zipper and balance on my trouser legs.

I look at myself from all sides in my underwear. Dark blue with white stripes and a light blue waistband with no print. From behind, it stretches tightly over the crease of my ass, and at the front it bulges out. Damn tight. I press the bulge flat as best I can. The elastic on my thighs has left deep grooves and pressed a two-finger-wide pattern into my skin below my belly button and above my buttocks, as I notice when I look in the mirror.

The curtain parts. “So, I brought you something,” says the salesman and puts a few boxes and a few loose items on the bench. “By the way, my name is Mike.”

“Hello, Mike,” I say, feeling strange because I’m standing in front of him in my underwear. “I’m Mark.”

“Hello, Mark,” he says and picks up a box. “Let’s go then.”

“Us?” I ask.

“You want professional advice, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do…”

“Well, don’t make such a fuss. Or better yet, imagine you’re at the urologist. You show yourself to him in all your glory.”

“But I’m not at the urologist.”

He makes a dismissive gesture. “Urologist and underpants – both start with a U. So what’s the difference?”

He grins, and I have to grin too. “Apart from that, you want to find the right size for you, don’t you? So, down with those panties! Because if you put underpants over your underpants, we have a problem with the right size. Or do you wear two pair of briefs at the same time? L over M or something like that?”

“Rarely,” I answer, pull off my underpants and, for lack of other options, throw them under the seat, because Mike has laid out a wide selection of his offerings on it. My genitals are overjoyed to finally be freed from their rather tight fabric prison. My cock stretches happily and my balls relax downwards, swinging loosely back and forth.

Mike reaches for the first box. I have noticed that he had previously taken a long look at my cock, which suddenly gives me the feeling that it is no longer hanging down so limply. But I'm probably just imagining it.

*​

“Here we have the classic one,” Mike announces, holding up a pair of white fine rib briefs with a longer leg and a piped fly. He puts one hand in and spreads his fingers. “They don't pinch anything. And they leave enough room for all eventualities.” To confirm his words, he now puts both hands in and pulls the old-fashioned underpants apart until the fly gapes open, through which he puts the index finger of his right hand and lets it hang down. Then he turns his hand with the finger outstretched 180 degrees upwards.

Teasingly.

“And we should put it aside again immediately,” I say. “After all, I don’t want to be confused with my grandfather.”

Mike grins. “Have you ever been in a situation where that happened?”

“Not yet. But it’s unlikely anyway, because my grandfather hasn’t been with us for seven years.”

“I’m sorry,” says Mike, putting the old-fashioned monster aside. “Actually, I would have been surprised if that was your taste. On the other hand – there are customers who like exactly that kind of thing. And some of them aren’t even particularly old. Recently a seventeen-year-old guy took five of them home with him. Of course he got a discount.”

“Interesting,” I say. “Did you help him try them on?”

“Of course. Four times.”

My gaze falls into the mirrored infinity. I almost forgot that I had stripped naked. “Do your customers always have to take off their clothes if they want to buy underwear from you?” I want to know and casually put a hand on my cock, which has stopped its upward tendency for the time being.

“Of course only if they want to.” He looks thoughtfully at my cock and the balls behind. “What else do you wear?” He points to my underwear, which is under the bench, bends down, picks it up from the floor and looks for the label. “By the way, I don’t offer that brand,” he explains with a quick look at the logo. “It comes from China. No good quality. One time in the washer and it shrinks.”

Which I can only confirm.

“That your standard equipment? Boxer briefs with half-length legs?” He waves my underwear in front of my nose.

Maybe I should invite him to my house and show him my underwear drawer, it flashes through my mind. Do underwear sellers also make house calls? An interesting question, I think.

“By and large, yes,” I answer. “Mid-length, short or a little longer under scratchy pants. I only wear boxer shorts at night in bed. Them crumpling under my jeans drives me crazy. The last time I wore briefs was when I was fourteen.”

“Whitey tighties?”

“Right.” Why am I telling him all this?

“I understand. How about this?” He pulls out a black trunk printed with white skulls. Funny. “I’m not going to a funeral any time soon,” I object.

“Not to a wedding, either?” From another box he pulls out a pair of pure white boxer briefs with “UNDERWEAR” embroidered on the elastic waistband in bright red letters. Probably a reminder for all those who tend to wear their underwear over their jeans or chinos or shorts.

“Elegant,” I comment on the piece. “Maybe for my next visit to the theatre.”

“Okay.” He carefully folds the underwear up again and pushes it back into the cellophane wrapping, which he puts in the box. “Do you want to try something different?”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Well, something like this, for example,” he says, letting a neon-colored G-string dangle in the air on his index finger. “It doesn’t show even in the tightest pants.”

“No thanks,” I say. I can't imagine how it feels to have a narrow strip of fabric in the crack of my ass, rubbing against my hole with every step, and my balls would hardly fit in the tiny thing. At least not together with my cock.

“Have you ever had a narrow strip of fabric in your ass?” he wants to know, and I look at him so astonished that he grins. Of course he can't read minds... or can he?

“No, I haven’t,” I answer.

“Then just try it. It's stretchy and adapts to all conditions.” He holds the tiny pink fabric in front of my nose.

As I take the silky thing, my cock jumps a little. Mike didn't notice - or at least he pretended not having noticed. (To be continued)

 

[RicoVA]

More please

 

[ray007]

Here we go: Customer Service, Part 2



I put one foot into the G-string, then the other one, and pull the little bit of material up. I wiggle my hips and snap the elastic over my hip bones.

“A little lower,“ advises Mike. “May I?“

But he doesn't even wait for my permission. He pulls the thin elastic bands a little lower, walks around me, pushes the narrow strip into the crack of my butt, and in the mirror I see that it disappears completely between my butt cheeks. Then he turns me towards him by my shoulders and starts to fiddle with the front. He unashamedly puts my balls under the material, which peek out on the right and left, and points my cock straight up.

“That’s what I call a bit of a bush,“ he comments on my dark blonde curls that grow out on all sides.

He's right. Between my legs it's high time for an elegant pubic hair style.

“There.“ He takes a step back and looks at me critically. “It looks pretty good after all. Men's Stuff,“ he adds.

“What?“

“The brand. It's called 'Men's stuff.'“

“What size is that?“ I ask, trying to distract myself from the fact that my cock has gotten a little bigger.

“L,“ he says, and makes sure of his answer by turning the elastic waistband inside out and looking at the label. “L,“ he repeats. “Is it comfortable?“

I turn around and look at the bulge under my belly button. I feel the strip of fabric rubbing against my asshole. “It’s … well … okay,“ I answer. And turn around again. Which isn't really necessary. Because thanks to the triple mirroring, I can see myself from all sides to the horizon anyway.

“And XL?“ I ask.

“Hmm... would probably slobber around on you,“ he informs me. “And then everything would hang out. That would be really uncomfortable.“

I don't think I'm a G-string type. Somehow I find those things weird too. They seem intrusive. Look at that cock, they seem to announce. Notice the balls. Do you like the package? Big things in a small space. You don't see that every day.

“Do you wear something like that?“ I want to know.

“Sometimes.“

“And what do you do when you...“ Halfway through, I lose the courage to finish the question. Although - why? He saw my ass, my balls, my balls. My cock. It can't get any more than that. Well, my nipples. They are still under my T-shirt. But they are already clearly visible.

“Have a hard-on?“ he finishes the question for me. It's amazing how buying underwear can loosen your tongue. “No problem. The briefs are very stretchy and can take on a lot of volume without tearing.“ He grins. “Well, for most people anyway. And even if they did - it would be an incredible feeling of success, don't you think? Just imagine the headline in the newspaper: GOT TOO HORNY – UNDERPANTS EXPLODED IN SUBWAY STATION.”

“Why in the subway station?”

I wonder if I’ve ever had a hard-on in the subway station. Probably. Actually, I’ve gotten a hard-on everywhere. At school. At Aunt Mary’s birthday coffee. At the swimming pool under the warm shower after having finished pissing in my bathing trunks. Even in the confessional when I told the priest that I jerked off every night before I went to sleep. I was twelve and still believed in hell. I was a late bloomer, at least as far as that went. However, I had discovered unchastity, as the priest called my crime, much earlier. I didn’t tell him that, though.

“It was just an example,” Mike interrupts my thoughts. “As far as I’m concerned, the briefs can rip at the supermarket checkout or while groping in the back row at the cinema.”

“Hasn’t it exploded for you yet?” I want to know.

“Nope. And even if it has, it’s just sticking out. No big deal.”

“Really?” I grin.

“That was more like… that’s a saying,” he says. “Just a big deal. Well, no big deal. Not my thing, anyway. Besides, I usually wear more than just underwear when I’m out in public.”

“Oh,” I say, looking at him in one of the three mirrors. I have the impression that the zipper of his jeans has moved forward a little. While I’m still thinking that I could actually grab it again – after all, he’s already groped around with my balls and greeted my cock personally – I take a step closer. Mike grins. Am I mistaken, or is there a certain expectation in his look?

*​

At the last moment I decide not to do a personal inspection.

I clear my throat and look into his eyes. “What else do you have to offer?“

“You seem to be a bit too forthcoming,“ he grins.

“Underwear, I mean,“ I clarify.

“Well, if you don't like G-strings, you probably don't like thongs either.“

“Nah,“ I say.

He pushes aside two packages showing a man from his deeply indented belly button to his muscular thighs wearing a bulging, bright red thong, and puts two more G-strings and three thongs on top.

“And we can forget about the jockstraps, then,“ he says, more to himself. “Or do you like a bare ass under your jeans?“ He shows me a jockstrap - a cock and ball capsule held together by a few straps. Probably the only type of underwear you don't have to take off to shit. It's amazing what Mike has managed to gather in the few minutes I waited for him in the changing room.

“Not really,“ I answer his question.

“I suppose long underwear isn't your thing either?“ he asks, picking up another package.

“Only in winter,“ I answer.

“Really?“ he wonders.

“But when is it winter here?“ I ask, pulling the G-string out of the crack of my butt and peeling it down my thighs. I hold the triangle of fabric in my hand, undecided. Since Mike is busy doing something else, I hang it on a hook intended for jackets or coats.

“Say...“ A thought occurs to me. “How many people have tried on the underwear here...“ I make a sweeping gesture over the packages and plastic bags that Mike has scattered on the bench and the floor, “...actually before me?“

“You mean because of the cleanliness?“ asks Mike.

“Yes.“

“Don't worry about it,“ he replies. “Everything you wear here is a demonstration model. They are put into the hygiene machine every evening.“

“Hygiene machine?“

“It's a pretty new machine. I had to buy one. The underwear that has been tried on during the day goes in there and is cleaned of anything that might have gotten into it using some kind of infrared or laser beam. The machine is really expensive,“ adds Mike. “But the purchase has already paid for itself.“

“And why did you buy the thing?“

“The food inspectors from the public order office insisted on it when they inspected the shop and I explained my sales methods to them,“ answers Mike.

“Food inspectors from the public order office?“

“Yes - or what are the names of the guys who make sure that every customer can try on a pair of clinically clean underpants? It doesn't matter. You can check for yourself...“ He pulls a yellow pair of briefs (size M) out of a package and stretches them to size XL. “No pubic hair, no skin flakes, not a speck of anything. Clean, eh?“

I have no idea whether he's kidding me with his story. But the briefs really are spotless, as I can see after a thorough inspection. And they smell like new too.

“If you decide on a pair of underpants, you'll of course get a pair in a sealed original package,“ he assures me.

“And what do you do with the demonstration pieces?“ I ask. “They'll end up on the bargain table for little money at some point. I call that my private SBS.”

“What?”

“Summer briefs sale.“

“And WBS,“ I add.

“What?”

“Winter briefs sale.”

“A razor-sharp combination.“ He grins. “You have to come by sometime. The bargain tables are always very busy then.“

My cock is now at a forty-five degree angle from my stomach, and my balls hang a little lower as I stand up. They roll back and forth in the bag, the skin of which has become thinner in the warmth, rising and falling like two scales. I comb my blond tangle of curls with two fingers.

“Okay, let's take a look then,“ says Mike, and sorts the boxes. He pulls a light green boxer brief with a dark green waistband with a narrow white stripe through it out of the packaging. “Size L. Very soft cotton fabric. Snug. Emphasizes everything that needs to be emphasized. Slip them on and feel good. Here you go!“

My cock twitches higher. “Fifteen bucks. Twenty-four ninety in a double pack. Six bucks saved. A bargain.”

I actually only need one pair of underpants to get through the afternoon at my desk without pinching and relaxed, and not two or four. But since I get such a good deal…

I put on the bargain. This time I adjust my balls myself, pull my cock up, and tuck the dark blonde curls under the fabric, except for a few stubborn hairs. I examine myself three times in the mirror.

Mike is standing behind me and looking at my ass. “Looks good,“ he says and folds down the hem that had risen up at the left leg opening when I put them on. His fingers dance over my thighs. I feel a pleasant pull between my legs.

“Two light green ones?“ I ask.

“Excuse me?“

“You said they come in a double pack. Two light green ones?“

He looks at the box. “Interchangeable look.“

“What?“

“One is light green with a dark green waistband, the other dark green with a light green waistband. I can also offer you the same model in blue, orange and burgundy.“ He thinks for a moment. “But burgundy only in M and XL. I can order it if you want.“

Now he actually runs his right hand over my left butt cheek and stays there for a few seconds. His hand feels warm. My cock immediately notices it with pleasure.

I turn to him. “What do you prefer?“ I ask him. Since he doesn't take his hand away, it now touches my cock. Mike squeezes lightly, holds it for two seconds and then lets his hand fall.

“In what way?“

“I mean, what kind of underwear do you wear?“

“It depends. The time of year, the occasion, the weather, my mood.“

“And how are you feeling today?“

He looks at me searchingly. “Should I really tell you?“

“Only if it's not too much trouble,“ I grin challengingly.

“I think I can manage that.“ He puts a hand on the belt of his jeans. I'm getting warm and my cock is getting a little bigger. I hope that I don't leave a stain on the underwear I'm trying on. Then I'll have to buy them. I have a small problem: sometimes my precum shoots out uncontrollably. Actually, all the time. Almost like a gush of piss. Even when my cock isn't fully erect yet. As soon as I get a little bit horny, I start dripping like a leaky faucet.

This is due to an abnormal overproduction of my bulbourethral gland. Bul-bo-u-re-thal-gland. You have to let the word roll off your tongue. I can now say it without stumbling.

The doctor explained to me why I produce so much stuff. My bulbo, as I lovingly and simply call it, is probably constantly active, and that's why a fair amount of juice builds up inside me every time. Sometimes it starts flowing just thinking about sex. What I could do with my cock. Or with someone else's. Or what someone else could do with my cock. And then my underwear gets wet. I've only got my head going.

That's why jerking off is always a pretty wet affair for me. Not to say: a soaking wet event. Not recommended without a towel. Unless I'm looking for fun and relaxation in the great outdoors. The grass on the dried-out ground is happy.

Mike looks through the half-open curtain as if he expects to see more customers in the shop. I lift the dark green elastic waistband and check just to be sure. Everything is dry. Everything is fine. Where are my juices, I start to wonder. I look up again.

“You just locked the door,“ I remind him.

“That's right,“ he says with a grin. “Juvenile dementia.“

He looks into my eyes as he unbuckles the belt of his tight-fitting jeans and slowly pulls down the zipper.

My pulse quickens. My mouth goes dry. My cock gets stiffer.

Under these circumstances, it will be difficult to try on any more underwear in the right size.

I've already seen that the waistband of his boxer briefs is white. The rest, which he exposes inch by inch, as if he were putting on a private strip show for me, is dark red.

I notice that it is the same color as his socks. Dark red.

“Is that a coincidence?“ I ask, pointing to his socks and underwear. “The same color?“

“That's one of my quirks,“ he explains. “I make sure that my socks and underwear are always the same color. It makes me feel good somehow.“

“I see,“ I say. Although I don't really understand it.

The dark red underwear clings tightly to his torso. The leg opening reaches just above his hairy thighs, the elastic clings to the flesh. It looks as if he chose them a size too small. A narrow strip of dark hair grows above the elastic down to his belly button.

The bulge under the dark red material is quite pronounced. The glans is clearly visible; the corona is visible, and the balls bulge noticeably.

Mike’s cock bends to the right.

(To be continued)

 

[freakyretro69]

Nice build up.

 

[ray007]

Nice build up.

thanks!

 

[ray007]

We stand opposite each other: Mike in his dark red boxer briefs, me in the light green ones that don't belong to me yet.

We see ourselves a hundred times in the three mirrors.

Mike's light blue T-shirt is stretched across his chest; his nipples are small mounds that protrude boldly. He has muscular arms and sturdy thighs. He is probably a regular at the gym.

His ass is plump and round and firm.

Mine is flatter.

It looks as if he has shoved a tennis ball into his briefs. His balls must be impressive.

There is nothing to complain about my bulge, of course. I am happy with it, at least.

As I said - we see all of this a hundred times. And it looks good.

“Yes, um,“ I finally say. “The color suits you well. It goes with your light skin.“

“Thanks,“ he says. “The green makes you look a bit pale, though. I think blue or red would be better for you. As I said, I can order the red ones for you. You can pick them up the day after tomorrow.”

“If you could do that – gladly,” I answer. “Then I’ll take one of the red and one of the blue double pack.”

“In that case, I can give you an extra ten percent,” he promises.

“Hey, that’s really nice of you. Well, I don’t want to keep you from your lunch break any longer,” I say and peel off the light green underpants, which luckily stayed dry and which I fold up so that he can put them back into the box.

My cock sticks up straight; my balls hang low. Until now, I had no idea that buying underwear could make me so horny.

“Size L,” he says and stares at my hard-on.

I look down at myself. “At least,” I say, and he takes a step closer.

And another.

And then I feel his cock through the fabric of his dark red underpants, pressing against my exposed cock. Rubbing lightly against it. And pressing a little harder. My cock moves to the right; his stays in position, supported by the tight material.

I am rock hard. He is not. His cock is huge and soft. Obviously a flesh penis. I feel him give way under my pressure.

I put my hand around his hips. He grabs the hem of my T-shirt and pulls it over my head.

Now I am standing stark naked in front of him.

My armpits are wet. My ass crack is too.

I see my erect cock, my ass cheeks, the crack of my butt. The imprint of the rubber that the light green underpants have left on my stomach and thighs.

A hundred times over.

Just like Mike.

Maybe I do need XL after all.

“Your lunch break,“ I remind him. My voice sounds hoarse.

“No problem,“ he says. “I only eat in the evening anyway.“

He sticks his index finger in my belly button and runs his hand higher up my chest. Suddenly he pinches my nipples and I flinch. They are very sensitive. Always have been.

And then he puts his palm under my bag, weighs my balls, rubs them gently together, feels for the epididymis, finds them, squeezes them a little. A fleeting pain that goes away as quickly as it came. Mike's eyes are glued to my hard-on.

My cock, just to mention it briefly, is slightly curved when it is fully extended and is streaked with blue veins, as well as a noticeably larger vein on the underside that snakes its way from the seam of my bag to just below the glans. There are so many blue lines that it looks like I'm wearing my second best piece in a net. I'm not circumcised, but I've always pulled my foreskin back below the corona, so that my glans is framed by a crumpled collar. Mike tickles my swollen mushroom with his thumb, presses on the dry slit, and after he has found it, tugs at the frenulum. The dry slit won't stay dry for much longer.

Did I already say that I have a problem with my precum?

Or actually, not a problem.

Mike has barely playfully run his thumb over my shaft when I shoot the first load of crystal-clear liquid at him. It lands on his dark red underpants.

“Wow,“ he says appreciatively. “But I have a toilet too. Back there. If you have to pee...“ “That's not piss,“ I answer. “I'm sorry. Unfortunately, that always happens to me. But it's not an orgasm. At least it doesn't feel like it.“

“It doesn't look like it either.“ He dabs the wet tip of my cock with his index finger and checks the crystal-clear, slightly yellowish liquid. “You don't need to apologize,“ he says and massages the next gush from my cock. He seems to enjoy making my source bubble. His underpants now look as if he had been caught in a rain shower.

I don't know if I'm unique with this phenomenon - some would call it a talent. At least it's rare. For most people, it doesn't shoot out of their cock; it oozes out drop by drop and hangs down from the tip of the cock in long, increasingly thin threads until they become too long and drip onto the floor.

Not so with me. Anyone who experiences it for the first time really thinks they're being pissed on. What I secrete is not as sticky and is often clear like water. Most people like it.

Mike seems to like it too. With his thumb and forefinger he massages the bulging ring of my retracted foreskin and continues to tug on the frenulum. It doesn't take long before I shoot another load. Not as much as the first time, of course. A small portion for his right thigh. The drops stick to the dark hairs and slowly run deeper. “With that amount you could have easily given me an enema,“ he says.

“It's all happened before,“ I answer nonchalantly.

“But I know what it's like,“ he says and wipes his hand where his underwear is still dry. On his ass. “I have hyperspermia.“

“Oh,“ I say. “And what is that?“

“I fill half a glass of water every time I ejaculate,“ he explains. “It's not a big deal - apart from the fact that the semen is so diluted that I'll probably have problems if I want to father a child. And of course that I make quite a mess every time.“

“Is that what you want?“ I ask him.

“What - child or mess?“

“Child.“

“Not today,“ he grins and pushes me against a mirror. The glass sticks coldly to my ass.

“Can we get more of your juice out? Try hard!“ He kneads my balls and actually manages to milk a few more drops. Now it just seeps out of me. The liquid becomes cloudy. A few strands of semen must have pushed their way to the front.

I remember that my lunch break is almost over. Mike's too. My cock promptly sinks heavily down, bobbing up and down a little. The tip glistens wetly. A final drop releases from the fish-mouth opening and falls to the floor.

“Aren't your wet underwear uncomfortable?“ I ask caringly. “If I were you, I'd take them off.“

“I was actually going to leave that up to you.“

“The socks too?“

“If you want.“

I bend down and peel the right and then the left sock off his feet, crumple them up and put them to one side.

Have I already mentioned that I'm a pretty neat person? Some people think I'm meticulous. In my sock drawer, the socks are neatly folded and sorted by color, and my underpants are stacked on edge and also sorted by color. The patterned ones are on the far right, next to them are the plain ones, white, gray, black and all the colors in between, and the three Christmas underpants (with fir trees, Santa Clauses and Christmas tree baubles) at the very back of the drawer. You don't need them that often. Of course, the order also applies to my T-shirts and jeans. But that's just a side note.

I stand up again and touch the white waistband of his boxer briefs, which I have thoroughly moistened and which are sticking to his skin. I slowly push them over his hips, peeling them from his plump ass cheeks. As if by chance, my index finger ends up in the valley between his crescents and touches his wrinkled rosette. I stroke it once. And again. He pinches them briefly, keeps the anal sphincter tense. As if he wants to suck my finger inside.

And then I start to free his cock. Inch by inch.

His underpants stick to his skin.

Halfway up, I stop and look Mike in the eyes.

“Do you like what you see?“ he wants to know.

I push my hand into the wet gusset of his dark red trunks and pull them further down. Now I can answer Mike's question.

Mike has a magnificent meaty penis. It must have only been a few days since he shaved. The dark hairs on his bulging bag, in the seam of which he has a silver piercing, are two to three millimeters long. His right ball hangs half an inch lower than the left. Above his cock, a semicircle of dark brown stubble arches up to his belly button, the cartilage of which lies deep inside. Freed from his tight underpants, his cock now hangs down straight with a tapered glans covered by a lush, dachshund-wrinkled foreskin. It sits like a small wrinkled crown above his mushroom.

Seven inches, I estimate. Maybe seven and a half. It dangles gently back and forth. I nudge it to make it swing more. This also sets his bag in motion. It's like those shot put pendulums - one pushes the next and sets them in motion. Well, not quite. Mike's balls are arranged a little differently - not behind each other, but next to each other. It would look strange if it were otherwise. But even so, they move. Back and forth. Back and forth…

Back to his magnificent cock: when it gets erect, it shouldn't get much longer. Just thicker. Firmer. More stable. More impressive. Steely inside and velvety skin. A pleasure for every fist. An experience for lips and tongue. A feast for every ass that is ready and able to be impaled by this lush strap.

I look into the mirror. I see our bodies, his muscular, mine slender. Our beautiful cocks. Reflected a hundred times into infinity. Mine has temporarily retreated to its usual four inches. It needs to be brought back to life. Mike takes care of it.

(To be continued)

 

[ray007]

Part 4

He takes my cock in his hand, my balls too, and clenches his fist around the whole package. He opens his fist and lets my cock roll over his palm, weighs my balls, kneads my balls. “How many people have seen it or held it in their hand?“ He squeezes lightly and my cock begins to stretch.

“Do you really want to know?“ I ask, astonished.

He grins. “I would find that interesting.“

My cock bounces up and down on his palm and twitches itself into a horizontal position, only to rise further up from there. I watch him and myself in the mirror.

Have I mentioned it? I love watching my cock get hard. And not just mine. There is nothing more fascinating than watching a penis that gets stiff and firmer. Gradually moving away from the bag, from the balls. How the erectile tissue slowly fills with blood and becomes plumper. More resilient. You can feel the spongy tube when you put your fist around it and squeeze it. You can feel the counterpressure. How the cock twitches upwards. Stretches and expands. How the foreskin gradually slides over the mushroom that is getting fuller. How the glans swells proudly when the cock is in an upright position. How you can make the cock bounce when you tense the anal sphincter.

Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror with my legs apart, switch on my mind's eye and watch my cock getting hard. Until the precum just flows out of me. I filmed it once with my cell phone. The recording is a bit shaky.

Live is better anyway.

I still remember how confused I was when I experienced it for the first time. Up until now I had only held my cock in my hand to pee. But then I got a feeling that it could perhaps be used for something else. But - for what?

I still remember that special moment very clearly. A kind of initial spark. As if it were yesterday.

A Saturday afternoon, outside the bathroom window, dingy November weather is smearing clouds of mist on the glass. I'm lying in the bathtub, steam rising from the warm water, which has made me sluggish and drowsy. Lost in thought, I'm playing with my little dick and balls. Suddenly I realize that I really have to pee.

Since I don't feel like leaving my warm surroundings, I stick my butt up a little so that the tip of my cock just pees above the surface of the water. Of course, I could have peed completely discreetly underwater, like I do in a lake. But I enjoy doing something naughty. On the other hand: a little piss in so much bath water - that shouldn't be a problem. So I lift my butt and give it a good pee. A golden semicircle splashes onto my narrow chest, and when I sink back, empty and easy, I notice that my little cock has gotten a little harder and bigger. I hold it between my thumb and forefinger. It feels different to the soft snail that I usually hold in my hand when I pee - as if a tendon was stretching across my appendage. A tendon that I have never felt before. Where did it suddenly come from? Is that normal?

I carefully feel my friend, who spends most of the day in the darkness of my briefs and the night in my pajamas, from the tip to the seam of his bag, push the little balls aside, press against the base and feel a very strange, very unfamiliar, but very nice feeling somewhere in my abdomen - a pulling, a swelling, a warm flowing and streaming - without being able to pinpoint the exact spot. As I continue to fiddle, something happens to my snail. It transforms in a strange way, inflates, gets thicker and bigger, and after a while a hard stalk about four or five inches long protrudes from my stomach into the air at an angle. The foreskin has slipped back and half of the mushroom-shaped head is exposed. When I touch myself there, I flinch. A very unusual feeling.

I flick the stem back and forth a few times, it bobs above the water surface, I close my fist around the hard part and squeeze firmly to see if I can soften it again. I have to interrupt my examination, however, because my brother comes tumbling into the bathroom and stands in front of the toilet bowl. He fumbles his cock out of his light blue briefs and pees in a big gush. It splashes mightily in the water of the toilet bowl. As he shakes off the last drops, he burps audibly. Then he tears off a piece of toilet paper, dabs his fish-mouthed slit dry, packs his cock up again and disappears. “Wash your hands!“ I call after him.

“Fuck you!“ he calls back.

When I'm lying in bed that evening, I decide to continue my experiment. Would I be able to make a stem out of my snail again? I put my hand in my pajama pants and start kneading. And hey presto: it works. The soft tissue turns into something hard again. The same feelings arise: my abdomen becomes warm, a delicious pulling sensation spreads, a flowing and streaming like in the afternoon in the bath, and then something explodes in my cock, and not only there, the whole area seems to shake, glowing sparks shoot up to my belly button, and my whole body trembles. I gasp involuntarily, my breath comes in gasps, I stiffen my legs, lift my ass, pull my anus inwards, and it cramps again. Shortly afterwards, the wonderful feeling subsides again and I lie under the covers, breathing heavily, wondering what that was.

I have no idea. But I like it. A lot, in fact.

From now on I have a new hobby. Hardly an evening goes by when I don't play with myself before falling asleep, until I experience this wonderful little explosion again.

Unfortunately I have to take a forced break from my hobby when we go on our annual autumn trip with the school class. Some small town in the South. During the day the usual boring hikes and museum visits. In the evening I lie in a dormitory with five other boys and, with my knees pulled up so that the duvet doesn't bulge telltalely, I discreetly fiddle with my little erection. Do the others do that too? I ask myself before I eventually doze off. Strange images flash through my head as I half-sleep. I'm sitting again at the fountain on the market square in the middle of town where we had our picnic. Water bubbles from the top bowl into the one below and from there into the basin. It foams and splashes and glitters in the sun.

Suddenly everyone else has disappeared and I'm sitting alone on the bench. I know I can't lose them or I'll get in trouble with the teachers. I twitch my feet nervously, but somehow I can't move. Then a stone breaks off from the bottom basin of the fountain; the water flows across the square, gushes towards me, flows over my feet, I have to go, after the others, I'm stressed, and that's probably why... I feel something warm that seems to be running out of me - is the water from the fountain really that warm? - combined with that insanely indescribable feeling that I already know.

I open my eyes wide and breathe heavily; the sensation is still there, a pleasant pulling, and it seems to be right in my stomach. I put a hand in my pajama pants and freeze in shock. I feel something warm, wet, sticky... Did I wet myself in my dream? Impossible. Pee feels different. And my pajama pants would probably be soaking wet. I lift the covers and take a look. I reach for the flashlight that's on my nightstand and turn it on. And I get a huge shock.

A small white pool has formed on my stomach and is slowly running down, seeping between my sparse hair. White drops are beading on my balls. How embarrassing is that? I hope no one noticed! But how could they, I calm myself down. Firstly, it didn't make any noise and secondly, it happened under the covers. There is no one else lying there except me. I wipe the white stuff off with my pajama bottoms, sniff my finger... the smell of the liquid reminds me of something. And then it occurs to me: it smells a bit like the chestnuts we collected around the market square that afternoon.

I quickly peel off my pajama bottoms, crumple them up and put them under my pillow. Then I feel around for my briefs, which I have difficulty finding in the darkness - I have put them on the chair next to me - I take them under the covers and somehow struggle into them. I stare into the darkness with my eyes open. The stress is gone and I feel strangely light and content.

Eventually I fall asleep again and only wake up when I hear Leon's voice. “Shit! My briefs are is gone!“ he shouts. “Someone stole my underwear.“ He has just showered, his hair is still wet and he is holding his pajama bottoms in his hand. He doesn't even bother to cover his cock in front of his classmates. Laughter from the other beds; his classmates' sympathy is limited.

“9-1-1!“ shouts one.

“What?“

“9-1-1. The police number. You can report it there. They'll catch the thief.“

“Yes. Strike Force Underpants!“ giggles another.

Leon mumbles something incomprehensible and looks at me. I pretend to still be asleep and watch him through my eyes almost closed. I see him glancing at my chair, where my things are lying. He quickly digs through his jeans, T-shirt and socks and pulls out my underwear. He jumps into them on impulse.

When he turns around, I look under the covers. Sure enough, I've caught his briefs White like mine. And not only that - I put them on backwards in the dark.

I guess that's what you call a swap - in every sense.

My brother, who is three years older than me and to whom I tell privately about my experience on the school trip after my return, looks at me patronizingly. “Well, little bro, you're gradually growing up. This will happen to you more often if you don't get the stuff out of you regularly. I advise you to take a pack of tissues to bed with you. You can use them to dry yourself off after wanking without having to keep changing your pajama bottoms. At some point, it would be noticed.“

“I didn't wank,“ I protest.

“That's the problem. Because you don't do it regularly, the cream will eventually automatically run out of bag sack and balls.“

I don't know if his explanations are physiologically correct, but somehow it sounds logical. So from now on I'll have a bag full of cream dangling between my legs? A funny idea. And if more and more cream is added, it will eventually have to come out. It's probably just like peeing. At some point my bladder is full and I have to go to the toilet. After all, you can only fill a glass of water to the brim and then it will overflow.

“Do you wank regularly?“ I want to know.

“First of all, it's none of your business, and secondly, of course I do. At least once a day. So that I'm not surprised by the mess one night.“

“Can I watch?“

“While I'm wanking? Forget it, faggot.“

“What's a faggot?“ I want to know.

“That's someone who...“ His cell phone rings and he pulls it out of the back pocket of his jeans. I catch a glimpse of the display. It's Anna, his girlfriend.

“My monthlies started this morning,“ I hear her voice through the phone. My brother exhales deeply. Then he turns away and goes into his room. “Oh, shit, thank God...“ The rest becomes mumbling behind his closed door.

Faggot. Monthlies. At times my brother and his girlfriend talk very strangely.

Of course, I've seen him pumping the cream out of his balls at some point. Secretly, of course. One day when I come home from school, I hear voices coming from his room. I sneak to the door, which is only ajar.

My brother is lying on the bed. Anna, his girlfriend, is kneeling between his legs. She pulls his briefs down to below his knees and pushes his T-shirt up. My brother's cock is sticking up in the air. Anna has brown curly hair, small breasts with red tips, and she is naked except for a pair of pink panties. Her curls and breasts bounce up and down as she takes my brother's cock with one hand and rubs it up and down. With the other hand she pulls his balls so hard that it hurts just to watch. He groans and moans and she rubs faster and faster. As she does so she looks at his face, which keeps grimacing as if something was hurting him like hell, and sometimes at his cock, the tip of which slides up over her closed fist with every movement.

Shortly afterwards my brother clenches his legs, lifts his butt and starts to squirt. A white fountain, thicker than piss. Anna has his cock pointed at her and gets his full load. As he shoots his cream onto her breasts, his facial expression is not particularly intelligent: open mouth, wide eyes, flared nostrils. He sniffs and pants, lets his head fall back onto the pillow. Anna giggles and continues to knead his cock until it has shrunk so much that it disappears between her sticky fingers. Then she lies down on him with her wet breasts and kisses him so loudly that I can hear the smacking all the way to the door.

They haven't seen me. I sneak into my room. Legs apart. I have a hard-on in briefs. And I would have loved to see what Anna looks like under her panties. Maybe she took them off? I consider sneaking back again when I hear my brother leading Anna to the door, which closes shortly afterwards.

 

[ray007]

Part 4

“Are you still counting?“ Mike asks in my thoughts.

“What?“ I look back from the mirror to his face.

“How many people have seen your cock in action?“

“Oh,“ I say, remembering Mike's question. “Well, I don't really know,“ I answer now. “There weren't that many.“

In any case, Justin is the first person to see my cock. I don't mean in the changing room at school sports or swimming; most people peel off their underwear quite unashamedly, and some take their time and let their jewels, which are covered in a delicate down, bounce before they get into their swimming trunks.

Justin is a year older than me and is doing a victory lap in my class. One afternoon, after we've done our geometry homework together and he can't cycle home yet because of a heavy rain shower, he asks me if I've wanked yet and if I've ever done it with someone else. My heart is pounding in my throat as I follow Justin’s example, unbutton my pants and push them down to my ankles along with my white briefs. His, by the way, are dark blue. We sit next to each other on the edge of the bed and examine our cocks. His is bigger and thicker than mine, and it gets even bigger when he starts to work on it. I can't keep up; mine is at least one inch shorter. But at least just as thick. And my glans gets pretty thick too when I use my anal sphincter.

I watch him in fascination as he works on his cock while I start to masturbate. At some point Justin pants and my mattress makes a strange noise. Wait a minute, is that really my mattress? No, the noise is coming from Justin. From his ass. He farts. Stops rubbing. Continues rubbing. Farts again very loudly. And then he squirts his cream onto my pillow, grunting. Three thick white ribbons seep into the fabric, and a little bit runs down his cock and disappears between his fingers. He wipes them off on my bedsheet. Then he supports himself with his hands behind his back, and while his cock gradually shrinks again, he watches me as I work on my cock and shortly afterwards shoot my fountains. I am amazed to see that I am panting and gasping just as much as he is as the sauce spurts out. Then we fall onto our backs, gasping, and start giggling uncontrollably.

Neither of us has touched the other's hard-on. We are not there yet.

When our fit of laughter is over, I ask him: “Did you notice that you farted just before you came?“

He sits up straight, pulls up his underpants, pushes one of his balls that is stuck outside under the fabric, buttons his jeans and explains to me that this is his technique for delaying climax: when he notices that he is about to come, he presses his anal sphincter outwards as if he wants to shit, and sometimes he has to fart loudly. This way he can squeeze out a few seconds of pleasure before he shoots out his spunk.

I try it out that same evening. Every time I am about to be overwhelmed by the delicious pull, I push my asshole forward. At first I only squeeze out a quiet pffft. But when I press it for the second time, a veritable storm of farts pops and crackles from my intestines so loudly and extensively that I stop in shock. It must be because of the bean stew from lunch. I don't want my brother, who is sleeping next door, to be woken up by my ass explosions. My concerns have weakened my cock and it will take me a while to get back into top form. To be on the safe side, I refrain from farting any more and head straight for the liberating discharge at the first sign of pleasurable trembling.

“No, there really weren't that many,“ I repeat.

Mike slaps my cock with his hand and takes a step closer. “Want to touch it?“ he asks.

“If you ask me.“ I take his meaty penis in my hand. It is soft and warm and begins to swell between my fingers. His regrowing pubic hair tickles the back of my hand. Actually, I remind myself, I only wanted to buy some underwear. And now I'm standing stark naked in front of the salesman and massaging his cock. Life is sometimes full of surprises.

I slowly move my closed fist over Mike's long cock. I feel the erectile tissue filling with blood. The soft tissue becomes harder and more resilient. He begins to twitch and rise. I use my thumb and index finger like a cock ring and place them around his balls. I press harder and make his balls dance. I let them slide from left to right, press them against each other, let them slide past each other, backwards, forwards, pulling his balls deeper until Mike moans softly.

“Was that too hard?“ I ask.

He shakes his head. “It's OK. Keep going.“

I let his balls disappear in my fist, put my free hand on his shoulder and press him against a mirror. My hand wanders from his shoulder over his loosely hairy chest, I tickle his nipples - first the right one, then the left one. An imperceptible tremor runs through his body. I use both hands to stroke the underside and top of his cock with my thumbs up to the head and down to the base. The skin is warm, velvety soft, his vein throbs and swells when he squeezes his asshole.

I limit myself to this movement for a while, which finally makes him rock hard. Gripping his cock tightly, I pull his foreskin up to the crown and expose the dull, lustrous glans. A crystal-clear drop oozes out of the slit. I rub it on the glans. Then I devote myself in detail to his frenulum, nibbling around it with two fingers, pulling and stretching the thin skin. Next step: I take Mike's cock between my palms and rub them back and forth as if I wanted to light a fire with his cock.

“Take your time,“ he whispers. “I don't want to cum yet. Not yet.“

I take a step back to examine the result of my actions. Mike's cock stands proud and magnificent in front of me. It twitches and trembles. To the right and left, the impressive rod blurs in the infinity of the mirror images. I was right; it hasn't gotten any longer, just hard. Warm steel in my fist. I slide a finger under his balls, playfully tug at his piercing, feel for his rosette, which he willingly pushes towards me. I slide the tip of my finger in, play with the wrinkles at the entrance, tickle it with my fingernail. I can't reach his prostate in this position, but given the fact that we're both only on our lunch break and an anal orgasm requires a lot of time and even more lubricant, I decide not to continue in that region.

Mike closes his eyes. His breathing becomes a little faster. The next drop glistens on the tip of his cock, grows larger, oozes out and runs down the shaft until it is rubbed by my fingers. Now I put both hands around his erection, interlock my fingers and squeeze so hard that more drops ooze out. Mike moans. “Should I cum?“ he asks me.

“Already?“

“Think about your lunch break,“ he groans.

Suddenly I remember that I actually only wanted to use it to buy myself some underwear. I haven't gotten very far with my plan. Instead, I stand naked in the changing room and devote myself to his mammoth penis.

“Do you want to?“ I ask back. “Now?“

“Wait,“ he gasps, while I continue my movements undeterred. His stomach twitches inwards. His ribs protrude.

(to be continued)

 

[ray007]

And here, folks, cums the rest of my story. (Hope you) enjoy!


Part 5

I stretch his sack down until the skin becomes very thin and the swollen balls are pink underneath. I pull the piercing down until the balls are on top of each other. The fine veins in the stretched skin also become visible. The short hairs sprouting on his bag tickle my hand. He pulls in his stomach so that his ribs are visible under the tanned skin. My movements become faster and his groans tell me that he is only seconds away from his discharge. I hold his cock tightly and feel the spasms starting.

And for the first time in my life I experience what hyperspermia is.

Now the first jet shoots out of his slit and hits my naked chest with full force. Shortly afterwards, the second portion follows, just as powerfully. Mike's thighs tremble and he leans against a mirror. I have wandered back to his ass with my fingertip and press it firmly into the hole, which moves rhythmically back and forth. I play with the wrinkles, penetrating deeper until the first tip of my finger has completely disappeared into his asshole.

Mike grunts like an animal and shoots his third fountain. My finger is stuck in his ass cuff. I can't move it anymore. The third portion lands on the opposite mirror wall, the fourth collects in a lake of cream on the glass. It immediately melts and runs down in milky tears. I fidget with my finger in his asshole as soon as he loosens the rosette, but I still feel the firm resistance, the ring that clamps around my finger and tries to push it out the next moment. I hold my position.

When nothing happens for five seconds, I think that's it. But then it starts again. The cream shoots out of his cock like a fountain, splashes on the floor, on my stomach, hits a pair of underpants - my underpants! - and Mike gasps and moans while I pump out of him what has accumulated in his testicles, epididymis and prostate. A seemingly endless stream of unbridled horniness. It bubbles white past my face; a small portion lands in my hair. His cream flows down all the mirrors to the floor in long streams.

I can't help but think of what the son of a farmer on whose farm we were on holiday told me. I had become friends with the boy, we roamed through the forest, bathed naked in the lake and jerked off together as often as we could. On the last day we satisfied each other for the first time. It was the first time that I had held a cock other than my own in my fingers. We were both nervous, rubbed each other straight to climax without much fuss, I came pretty quickly because he gripped me very tightly, but the sight of my spurting cock in someone else's hand was an incredible feeling, really! Given the relatively small amounts of cum we shot into the grass, straw or into the water from the jetty, he told me that a boar can squirt up to half a liter when he mounts a sow. And while we put our wet cocks back in our underpants, we consider whether we want to be boars. And we both come to the conclusion: No, not really. Even though it must be pretty awesome to be able to squirt half a liter.

Mike hasn't even ejaculated half a liter, but he's still not finished: his asshole clenches around my finger as he releases another jet from his quivering cock, and it hits me right in the face, on the tip of my nose, it drips onto my lips, I taste the salty goo on my tongue, and I swallow the slime. At some point the cream dries up, I pull my finger out of his tight hole, and Mike sits down on the bench, breathing heavily, after sweeping the demonstration underpants aside in one movement. His upper body is wet with sweat, his balls stick to his thigh, and the last drops that ooze out of his gradually sinking cock fall onto his feet, disappearing between his toes.

In the heat of the moment, I didn't count, of course. But he must have pumped ten to twelve portions out of his cock. If not more.

What a mess.

What a wonderful mess.

In the changing room it looks as if someone had been throwing pots of cream around.

Which in a way did happen.

So that's hyperspermia. You could also call it a semen tsunami. I'd like to have something like that.

“With that amount, you could have easily given me an enema,“ I say.

“It's all happened before,“ he replies casually.

Mike has squirted more cream than I can manage in ten wanking sessions.

Now he looks at me with a grin. “So, did you like my Niagara Falls?“ He scratches his balls and scrapes the millimeter-short stubble of his growing pubic hair with the tip of his thumb.

Niagara Falls is perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but I was certainly impressed by his show. I grin back, reach for my underpants, look for a dry spot and wipe Mike's cream from my chest, stomach and dark blond bush, in which a few of his drops have also become caught and are glistening between the curls. I crumple my underpants again and throw them carelessly on the floor.

His socks, by the way, have also gotten a small portion. Silver-white drops on a dark red background.

“Now you,“ he tells me.

“I can't keep up with that,“ I answer.

“Never mind. Just spill what you have. I'll watch you. After all, I'm still on my lunch break. And I like watching you jerk off. I'm curious to see if I can learn anything from you. In terms of technique, I mean.“

He leans casually against the mirror, spreads his legs and lets his balls hang loosely. His piercing in the seam of his sack glitters, dangling back and forth.

It would probably be too much to ask him to work on my cock after the detailed advice he gave me about underwear. And I love it when someone watches me jerk off. My viewer doesn't even have to do anything; he can just sit back and relax in his chair, drink a beer or whatever, or even work on his own cock, play with his balls or tug on his balls while I concentrate on my cock.

After Mike's demonstration, it doesn't take me long to come. After all, I've warmed up properly. Which is a good thing, since I'm already fifteen minutes over my lunch break. I don't regret it and concentrate on my hard-on, which is extended to its full size. Seven inches. Seven point two if I push hard, that is, tense the anal sphincter and the mushroom swells up as if it wants to burst. But it has never done that before.

My cock isn't exactly world record-breaking. At the casting for the porn film “Meeting of Monster Cocks,“ I probably wouldn't be cast in a role. But you have to be happy with what you have. And there is also the question of whether an orgasm with a seven-inch-cock is less intense than one with an eight or ten-inch-cock, where the semen has to travel a longer distance through the dark tube before it is shot out into the light of day. Are the feelings stronger with an ten-inch-cock? Is it more intense with a twelve-inch-cock? Or does each of us feel the same when we cum? The reactions are definitely similar: when we cum, we gasp, pant, moan, breathe faster. Some stammer “fuck“ or “shit“ (why, actually?) or, totally redundant, groan “I’m cummin’ ...”

Or has nature laid out a different program for everyone? Just as every person has their own, unique fingerprint, they may also experience a very individual, unique climax that is tailored to them personally. Interesting thought. I don't know and I'll never find out. I only have this one cock and it's the only one I experience orgasms with. With my seven-inch-cock. We've known each other since we were young. Real elementary school friends. We got to know each other really well in third grade. I was nine, he was too. Since then we like each other and often play together. I'm attached to him and he's attached to me. And I'll take him to the grave with me. Although he probably won't be much use to me then.

On the other hand: if it's up to the priest to whom I confessed my constant masturbation as a twelve-year-old altar boy - during the day in the toilet before or after peeing, in the evening under the covers, at school under the bench (since I sat in the last row, no one ever noticed) - then there is life after death. And eternal life at that. Under these circumstances my cock could still be useful.

It's possible that in the afterlife we experience orgasms that we can only dream of in this life.

Just put that into temporal relation - eternal life, that means... forever. If the day doesn't have 24 hours, but 24 million hours. Or even more, who knows. Just a guess. Then an orgasm like that doesn't just last the average paltry eight to twelve seconds, but eight to twelve million seconds. Without taking into account the preparatory work, which varies between two minutes (these are, mind you, calculations for this world, to be used in cases of extreme horniness) and an hour (for the masters of Buddhist self-control), that would result in a climax lasting about 115 days. As I said, in eternal life.

Hot idea, isn't it? 115 days of 24/7 ecstasy! 115 days of constant squirting. 115 days of hard cock. 115 days of the cock pumping white slime out of the slit non-stop. You could easily fill a lake with your cream if it kept shooting out of you like a fire hose. Unless, halfway through, not only the cream but also your brains squirt out. At the end of such a gigantic mammoth orgasm, you'll not only be completely groggy, but probably completely crazy too. No one can keep squirting like that without losing their mind. Well, I'll see.

Now I run my finger around my swollen corona, massage my frenulum and then get going. I rub my cock, slippery with precum, quickly to climax, pausing only once to glance at Mike, who is playing with his balls while keeping his eyes on me, and shortly afterwards I shoot my usual amount, about two to three thimblefuls. Not a lot, I admit, but my reach is impressive (I was usually the winner when it came to jerking off cookies): My load lands on the mirror next to one of the streams that Mike has left there.

“Neat.“ Mike nods approvingly. His cock is again at a right angle to his sack and nods benevolently at me.

“Speaking of neat,“ I say when I catch my breath. “Who's cleaning this up anyway?“ I point to the streams of cream.

“Do you want to lick it off?“ He looks at me dead seriously.

“Um...“ Does he really mean that? Maybe that will turn him on even more. But I'm not really in the mood for cooled, salty slime. “To be honest, I prefer it fresh from the producer,“ I answer. “From the tube straight into the mouth. Cock-warm, so to speak.“

“I understand. And then you would have swallowed all this if I had docked with you?” With a sweeping gesture he points to the white-yellow blobs, streams and drops that stick to the mirrors and slowly trickle down. There is a little of mine in there too.

The amount is a challenge, of course. Half a glass. At least. No comparison to previous portions that I have had the pleasure of getting to know.

By the way, the very first time I tried to swallow, my stomach rebelled. Or maybe it was my head. Because as soon as I had the slightly musty, earthy smelling brine, reminiscent of the bitter taste of beetroot, halfway down my esophagus, it came back up again. Together with the pizza that we shared before we started fucking. I lie across him, our still half-hard cocks crossed, while I vomit profusely on my T-shirt and underpants, which are lying on the floor next to the bed (I then had to borrow both from him). When I'm done throwing up, he looks at the brownish-red sauce next to the bed, confused, and then at me. “Was my stuff bad?“ he asks, grinning. “Unfortunately, I didn't pay attention to the expiration date. But I always make sure I have fresh produce. Several times a day, in fact.“

“Good to know,“ I groan, roll onto my back and wipe my mouth with my hand.

“I'll clean it up right away,“ I promise him.

“Good idea,“ he replies. “It smells terrible.“

“Sorry,“ I apologize. “Next time I'll throw up perfume.“ Then I have to burp.

“Hey, just not in my bed!“ he says, alarmed, and tugs at my cock as if he wanted to pull me off the mattress. “I just changed the sheets yesterday.“

But his concern is unfounded. Nothing but sour air is going into my mouth. My stomach feels empty. What I had in it is now seeping into my T-shirt and underwear. Incidentally, I couldn't get the stains out even at degrees in the washing machine. What a pity, actually. It was one of my favorite pairs of underwear that I ruined. And pretty expensive, too. Italian luxury brand. I had bought them especially for this evening. You don't want to splurge on the first time you fuck outside.

“The amount is obviously a challenge,“ I say to Mike. “But people grow from their challenges.“

“Is that a yes?“ he asks hopefully.

“I think so.“

“Then maybe you'll come to my shop more often - for training purposes?“

I don't actually need that many underpants. After all, I already have a whole drawer full. I should count them. Sixty, definitely. If not eighty. On the other hand - why not? You can never have too many beautiful things. I'll just clear out a second drawer to expand my collection. Or get rid of a few old ones.

My eyes fall on my underpants, which are crumpled up on the floor, damp and streaked. Mike follows my gaze.

“You can forget about them,“ he says.

“I agree,“ I agree. Now they wouldn't just pinch. They would also be damp and sticky.

Ten minutes later, I've put my jeans and T-shirt back on, and Mike has wiped the mirrored walls clean with a rag and bucket. Then he threw on his clothes and went to the door to unlock it. (For the record: he is now wearing turquoise socks with yellow dots.)

Two guys are already standing in front of the shop window and push past us into the shop as soon as he opens the door. “Take a look around, I'll be with you in a minute,“ Mike calls after them, while casting a benevolent glance at their plump hemispheres in their skin-tight white chinos, under which the outlines of their skimpy, also white briefs are visible, which probably don't cover much of their tight asses. The guys immediately head for the rack with the thongs. The smaller one scratches his crotch while examining a pair in bright green.

Mike winks at me. “I should have guessed,“ he whispers conspiratorially.

“What?“

“That they like that kind of thing.“

“Is this actually a shop for gays?“ I ask in a suppressed voice.

“Hotties wear panties too,“ he explains. “Sometimes, anyway.“

“Don't tell me,“ I say.

“They often choose the hottest things. The brightest colors, the skimpiest briefs, to best package their piercing device. Apparently the girls like that.“

I don't know. A bit more packaging has its appeal. It just makes unpacking more fun.

“Chacun à son goût,“ he replies. A polyglot underwear salesman. Respect.

“See you the day after tomorrow then,“ he says now. “It's best to come just before closing time. Your order will definitely be ready for picking up by then.“

“Great. See you.“

“You bet!“ Mike winks at me again.

“Thank you for sacrificing your lunch break for me.“

“No problem. I was happy to do it.“ As if to emphasize his words, he puts his hand on my right buttock and squeezes lightly. I lean briefly against his palm to intensify the pressure. I feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric. He strokes me gently.

I look after the two boys. They are sixteen or seventeen years old at the most. Fresh flesh. Tender and untouched. Probably. But who knows what stories their family jewels could tell. I would be really interested. My cock seems to be too, as I notice.

“And have fun.“ I wink at him.

Mike winks back. “I will“ He closes the door behind me.

I head for my company. I went half an hour over my lunch break. I will have to make up for it this evening.

I move easily and carefree. Nothing pinches, nothing constrains me. There is nothing like underwear in the right size, in which not only I feel comfortable, but also my cock and balls. They can now make themselves really comfortable in their package. After all, they deserve it. I was also able to fit my dark blonde curls in. Not a single hair peeks out. Enough space for the whole load.

Mike has thrown my dark blue underpants with white stripes and a light blue waistband without a print in the bin and given me the black trunks with skulls on them. Size L. “You'll definitely go to a funeral again sometime,“ he said.

He put a pair of black socks on top. With skulls on them. I leave the store whistling.

 

[bas_nl]

Such a great story!! Lovin' it!