Part 2

I don’t know if you remember this, but I told you about BMW Boy and the day he fucked my ass.

“Raped” is probably a more apt description, except I didn’t resist, and actually enjoyed it. So I guess that doesn’t make it a rape. Besides, I came away with a prized possession – a pair of his dirty boxers.

For months I used those boxers to get off. Just the thought of them having wrapped around that meaty ass of his, that plump cock and balls, was enough to get me hard. But the smell! It was a smorgasbord old piss, sweat, a faint whiff of ass crack, but over everything else, the funk of glandular secretions, that musky, earthy scent of a sexually active young military airman.

I would hold those boxers in a wad beneath my nose and breath in the smell as my mind replayed that encounter – him catching me as I tried to steal his shorts from a basket of laundry, then leading me into his kitchen where he instructed me to drop my shorts and bend over. The feel of his fat knob pushing inside me as he used my asshole as his personal Fleshlight. And then the gallons of Air Force sperm he poured into my colon. I had rushed home with it running down my thigh, big pearly gobs of jizz leaking out of my freshly plowed butthole. I had tasted it and savored it, and even wiped some of it on the boxers he had thrown at me so that his aroma would be preserved that much longer.

Many, many nights, BMW Boy and his jizzy boxers had been the source of erotic memories and fantasies, and I had spewed many gallons of cum remembering what had happened.

But I longed for more.

So one fine spring day, when both his roommates appeared to be gone from his townhouse, an inspiration occurred to me, and I acted on it. When I had finished, I was standing at BMW Boy’s door.

He opened it. His expression hardened. “Oh. It’s you,” he said, neither angry nor accusatory. “What do YOU want?”

I held out a gift. “Since I cost you a pair of boxers, I thought it only fair I replace them with these. They’re the same brand, and same size. I hope that’s OK.”

He snatched them from me. A faint sneer had crept into his expression. He looked them over then carelessly tossed them inside. Then he looked at me.

“Get your faggot ass in here,” he said, a tone of disgust in his voice. He pushed me past the entrance to the kitchen, a fact that registered in my conscience with a faint note of regret, and into the smallish living room. He sauntered past me, his butt cheeks clenching and unclenching in a way only somebody like me would have noticed.

“I should have called the police on your faggot ass,” he said, heading for the couch. “Instead, I used you for a cumdump.”

He plopped down on the couch, spread his legs and propped his feet on the coffee table in front of him. The fabric of his basketball shorts settled suggestively into his crotch, revealing a sizeable basket. I already knew what was inside.

“I want you to know something, you fucking faggot,” he sneered. “That session in the kitchen meant nothing to me. It was no different than a handjob. I just used you and then tossed your ass out, like the paper towel I used to wipe off my dick, then tossed in the trash.”

I couldn’t help staring at his crotch. The bulge there was growing noticeably as that shortish but fat cock filled itself with blood. I think his dirty talk was having more of an effect on him than me.

“Look at you,” he declared in disgust, registering my stare. “You can’t get enough. You’re addicted to my cock.”

He yanked his shorts down, revealing an extremely hairy ass to go along with that thick nest of peculiarly straight pubic hair surrounding his fat dick and balls.

“Get your faggot ass over here and suck me off.”

I did NOT need to be told twice. I rounded the coffee table and tried to position myself between me and it, but there wasn’t room.

“Move the fucking coffee table, faggot!” he commanded. I pulled the coffee table out of the way as he pulled off his shorts and spread his legs wide. An intense wave of odor rolled out of his crotch, thick and musky and superheated with pheromones. I swallowed a mouthful of spit before it could leak from the corners of my mouth, then dropped to my knees and plunged my face into that hairy, meaty, smelly man crotch.

His cock was sticky with both sweat and secretions. I rubbed it against my face as my tongue lapped at his equally sticky balls, running over the pubes that sprouted from his scrotum. He flesh tended to glue itself to my face – he was that sticky. And the aroma of him – a kind of flavorful meat smell, not quite that but the correct words escape me.