based on a fictional account from the deep depths of my imagination
“This is it? This is where…where he lives?”
I nod my head, ‘yes’.
We are driving down from Tampa on the Tamiami Trail, early this Saturday morning. This is where this man, this high-strung reporter, seated next to me, stirs restlessly, in the passenger side of my car, waiting impatiently and fidgety as we travel to our appointed destination.
I see the etchings of doubt, laced, on his youthful face. When I told him I could give him a spectacular story, he didn’t believe me, he laughed, quite loudly over the phone, over what I had for him. Of course, his doubt didn’t stifle his inherent curiosity, his investigative streak or his eventual arrival at my house. He was intrigued, just as I was when I first saw the man, whose home we are on our way to.
“Yep,” I answer him as we pass by the tilting, bullet-laden city limit sign that leads us into the town of Gibsonton, Florida on US 41.
“There are bullet holes riddled on that sign,” the reporter says to me with a startled look on his young face, as he looks back, anxiously through the rear window of my car.
I smile, awkwardly, I know those holes, unnerve him. They do so to me too.
“So this is where ‘the Grabber’ lives?”
He asks me, again.
“Yep, he prefers, ‘the GibTown Grabber, though,” I say.
“GibTown?” he asks.
“GibTown, “I say, “You know, for Gibsonton.”
“OH! It looks like a damned redneck backwater shithole, that you hear so much about that dot the South,” he says, with a winched detestable expression on his haggard looking face, “Are you sure this guy is for real?”
I nod my head, ‘yes’.
The man is real. I can assure him but he must see so for himself, I cannot convince him without his own eyes locking their gaze on the man, we are to see.
US 41 or more precisely, Gibsonton, has strings of ragtag buildings, closed businesses, and houses in need of much-needed repair and many, many neglected and tumbling, ramshackle rusted trailers with falling down porches and discarded vehicles up on cinder blocks in their front yards. The failing economy has hit this backwater, south of the metropolitan Tampa area, hard.
“This is the carny town, I told you about. This town has a unique situation when you called me wanting to do a feature story on something particular and special…odd,” I tell him.
“Is it true?” he asks, “what you told me, is it really true?”
I nod my head again, hearing him doubt the authenticity of my story.
“Yes, it’s true,” I answer him.
“This is where that sideshow performer was murdered, too, wasn’t it?”
Yeah, The Lobster Boy murder, this is where that happened back in the 1990’s,” I tell him.
“Oh?” he says, puzzled.
I had told him of this on one of our many phone conversations.
“So this town is filled with those labeled as ‘freaks’?”
I nod my head, repeatedly. This guy appears to have a remembrance issue, I have told him that too. I have told him, all of this. How can you call yourself a newspaperman and have a problem remembering the simple facts.
We turn down Phillips Avenue and grow closer to our appointed task.
“I hope we do not have far much further to go, I am melting in this Florida heat,” the reporter says as he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.
The man’s button-down shirt is opened to the fourth button revealing a muscular defined and hairy chest, a man ripe into his youthful masculinity.
I told him to dress-down, dress comfortable, as it gets quite humid down here, he insisted on wearing long khaki’s and a button-down shirt, minus a tie. He is drenched in his own perspiration but I warned him. He did not listen. He had never been to Florida before and did not understand the humidity in such a tropical climate.
“We’re here,” I say as I pull into an empty lot, located next to a chain link fence, covered by rough-hewn lattes of pine, with the bark still on the hand-sawed planks attached by wire to the fence.
“OH SHIT!”
The reporter says, rather loudly, when he sees the white trash way the fence is concealed.
He looks over at me.
I am sure the bullet-riddled sign and the dilapidated state of disrepair of the town as we passed through it and into it, is the reason for his obvious leeriness.
“Is this safe?” he asks me, with noticeable air of caution in his cracking voice.
“It is safe, “I say, “Once we get behind the fence, you will better, awright.”
“Okay, I trust you,” the reporter says but I do not believe him, his face shows his obvious hesitance.
As we both get out of the car, he, the green-horned reporter, sees the sign, hanging loosely from a rope looped through one of the pine tree lattes of the rickety fence.
It reads:
NO CLOTHING BEYOND THIS POINT
“OH SHIT,” the young man says as his eyes grapple with the intent of the message on the sign.
He looks at me, with noticeable stress on his face, more obvious than the previous one he had in the car.
“This isn’t serious, I hope,” the kid-reporter says as he adjusts his packaged cock in his khaki’s.
“I’m afraid, it is,” I tell him.
“He’s going to expect me to strip down to my underwear?” he asks.
“NO! You will be completely naked,” I say, “It is a rule for all men who to call on him, for whatever reason.”
I get another leering stare from him, as he rolls my words around in his scholarly head.
“He will not tell you his story unless you are naked,” I say, “…but I figured if I told you that, you wouldn’t have come. Would you?”
He does not answer me, he just goes over me with one of those ‘fine-toothed comb’ looks.
“Let’s go get this interview,” he says.
I go around him and hit the buzzer, located at the gate on this side of the fence.
“Marty, it’s me with that reporter-kid I told you about,” I talk into the intercom.
The gate buzzes and we usher ourselves into the private residence. We step from the dirt of the empty lot to a homemade sidewalk, which leads directly to a front screened-in porch on a large doublewide mobile home.
“A trailer, why am I not surprised?” the youthful reporter says as we take a couple of steps on the roughly fashioned cement walk, “at least it’s neat.”
“Yep,” I answer back.
“I AM AROUND BACK,” a shout comes loudly from the back of the mobile home, “COME BACK HERE.”
I look back at the kid.
“Follow me, kid. I hope you are ready for this?” I say.
He looks at me with an awed, stunned expression on his virginal-looking face or maybe it’s ‘the deer in his headlights’ look, anyway, he is anxious.
We step from the concrete to the soft lush green grass of the yard, dodging a birdbath, a large enamel-claw foot tub, filled with daisies and other assorted plants.
The young man shakes his shaggy longhaired head, his locks whip around, fanning in a clean sweep, as he surveys the decorated yard of what I am sure, he thinks he is an uneducated hick. The man would be wrong but he will find out for himself.
He lugs his side-strapped bag over his shoulder. It holds his equipment to hold this interview, to gather what he needs to pen his feature story.
The young man’s khaki pants are wet, the crack of his ass, has a damp trail from the small of his back to the underside of his solid brown pants. The kid is sweating up a storm. I told him it was humid-hot and to dress cool.
We come to the back of the trailer and Marty is sitting on a wooden latticed patio-porch, around a table with several chairs, he is naked above the waist with a large colorful beach towel draped over his slim waist, concealing his midsection, although a noticeably hairy treasure trail leads from his bellybutton to the top of the towel. His cock is unseen. There is a longneck bottle of beer on the table, sweating and releasing its moisture to the hot Florida air. In addition, there on the table, are two plush beach towels, neatly folded. I can guess they are for the kid-reporter and me.
“This, the kid, who wants to talk to me,” Marty says as he sees the young reporter and me.
“Yeah, I am,” the reporter, answers him. Fully aware of the attitude directed at him by the partially covered man, acting as if he is not here. He extends his hand to shake the seated man’s hand but then pulls back and tucks it against his leg.
“You know the drill,” Marty says, “get naked or no interview.”
The kid looks over at me as I slowly pull the tee I am wearing over my head, while my baseball cap falls to the grass-covered earth.
“Leave it there, Mark,” Marty says, “don’t pick it up.”
Marty leers at the young reporter before he harshly speaks to the kid.
“Whatcha waitin’ for, boy, get your damned ass, naked, or you get NO interview,” Marty’s words sound of disgust and anger but they are come-by, rightfully, he is angry, justifiably. His anger comes from the many years of deference that been directed at him because of his unique circumstance.
The kid brings his side-bag from over his weighted down shoulder, placing it on the corner of the patio, leaning it up against the leg of the table.
I drop my shorts and I am naked. I am underwear-less, since I do not possess any.
The warm air feels good on my naked flesh as I stand under the bright sunshine of the Florida clear-blue sky. I reach and fondle my cock and massage my balls. I like being naked. I run my hand across my moderately hairy chest, feeling my nipples react to the harsh summer heat.
The kid looks at me as he unbuttons his green plaid shirt, the buttons are unfurled slowly before he yanks the shirt from his youthful masculine hairy body. He is muscular, in his prime, our conveyance of chest hair is almost virtually identical. He squints under the light of the summer Florida sun as the light bounces off the side of Marty’s two-toned blue and white painted doublewide.
“STOP!” Marty yells at the kid.
“WHAT?” the kid shocked by the verbose order, stops his undressing as he unbuckles his belt from his pants, letting it part his unsnapped slacks, revealing the underwear underneath, a pair of red bikini, snuggly packed, briefs.
“You undress him, Mark, take the pants off the kid,” Marty looks at me, as he demands I do his bidding.
“HEY! I can undress myself,” the kid responds, further adding to the hesitation that is already apparently welled-up in the lad.
“If you want this interview, you will let Mark finish up with your disrobing,” Marty smiles as he knows the kid will do it. He runs his hand through his sweat-soaked matted hair, tweaking his nipples with his fingertips of his right hand. They stiffen among his caressing touch.
Marty is accustomed to getting what he wants.
I walk to him, feeling my cock hit either side of my thighs. With each ricocheting action, I feel my cock; begin to stiffen in its resolve.
“What’s your name, kid?” Marty asks as I grab either side of the kid’s pants, yanking them and his underwear down in one swift motion.
“My name is Pete, Pete Reynolds,” the reporter says as his freed cock, nearly hits me in the face once it’s let loose from its sweaty packaged bikini’s.
“Pete has a nice peter, I thought so, when you walked up,” Marty says as his hand, casually drops to the strategically placed towel that covers his hidden mid-section, and rest on his covered cock, “your bulge was quite pronounced.”
Pete smiles at the middle-aged man that seats leering at the both of us while we pander to his wishes.
“You get much, pussy, Pete?” Marty says, toying with the young green reporter’s male ego, “I am sure they like that cock of yours.”
“I do alright,” Pete says, “I fucked a girl from the bar I went to near Tampa International, last night, she had no qualms with my skill.”
“Your cocky,” Marty says, “I like that, but you are packing quite a piece, yourself, so I can see your arrogance is well-founded.”
Marty shifts in his seat. The towel falls, somewhat, from around his waist, revealing a whisper of dense hairy brunette pubes, peek from the ‘V’ shaped configuration of his overlapping towel, as it seats in his place.
“Touch yourself, Pete,” Marty says, “let me see you jack that wonderful tool of yours, boy, for me. Stroke that rod.”
“Maybe another time,” Pete says.
“Maybe I will reconsider this little interview, then, after all, “Marty says, “good day to you, son, you too, Mark. I am sorry you wasted your time coming all the way here and you, boy, coming from Chicago.”
Pete brings his hand to his thickly haired cock, letting his fingers, tickle, his immense cockhead, watching it amass the much-needed blood in its tiny vessels that fill his manhood and bring it to spontaneous erection.
My cock twitches as the young man, strokes his member from dormancy to sustaining life, teasing Marty with his skill and prowess.
“Am I goin’ to get my interview, if I do this? If I stroke myself, for you?” Pete asks as he complies with the, uhmm, request.
My own cock grows without any added stimulation, as I stand from my stooped stance from the act of lowering Pete’s trousers. As I stand, my cock, rears itself to life, spearing through the open space between Pete and me, glistening in its nearing hardness.
“YES! You will get your interview,” Marty says, “…and I will get my little display, ahh, show from you, laddie.”
Pete moves his hands, both of them, slowly up, then, down the length of his member, letting it reach its full eventual potential.
“Good boy,” Marty says as the jack-off by Pete commences on his inflating cock.
“So how was that girl’s pussy, last night?” Marty says, “Did she milk you of that boy-seed I know fills those low-hangers, dangling between those legs of yours?”
“Yeah, I shot my load,” Pete says.
“In her pussy?” Marty inquires further.
“Yes,” he answers swiftly back, “I shot deep within her manicured little tight twat, I shot so much, the cream ran out because it was so much.”
“How many times did you fuck her, boy?” Marty says as he fondles his beach towel covered cock. His cock moves under the large beach towel, like a giant boa constrictor coming to life, hidden in the dense thick foliaged bushes.
“I fucked her three times, last night,” Pete says, “…and one time before Mark picked me up this morning.”
Pete says as he looks over at me. My own cock grows fiercely stiff as Pete relates his liaison with the paid whore from his rendezvous last night.
Pete moans, loudly, as his cock has reared to life, showing the full glory between his youthful legs.
“How old are you, boy?” Marty asks as he lingers longingly at the stroking cocked man in front of him.
“Twenty-seven, I am twenty-seven,” Pete, answers.
“You married?”
“HELL NO! I AM NOT MARRIED!” Pete exclaims quite loudly, “I am not sure I will ever get married. I have no interest in being tied down.”
“You ready for your interview, Pete?” Marty asks.
“Yeah, I just need to set-up my recorder, so I get your answers, correctly,” Pete says.
“Get your equipment set up, grab a towel and sit down so we can start,” Marty says, as he places his hand on the towel in his lap, massaging his cock, and the mount created by it,”…just keep that dick of yours hard, Pete, you too, Mark, you stay hard, too.”
Pete and I say, “Sure,” simultaneously.
I am so horned up, I am not sure I am going to be able to keep from shooting my load. It has been days since I busted a nut, I think to myself.
“You have a nice cock, too, Mark,” Marty says, “…but I have seen it, how many times now?”
“I am not sure,” I say, “…but you have seen it a lot.”
As I answer Marty, Pete looks at me, I wonder what he is thinking.
“So you two, do know each other?” Pete says as he looks at me, while a lone single drop of pre-cum forms and leaks from his hard cock, “more than what you have lead me to believe, Mark.”
I feel my cock twitch when I notice Pete’s excretion of seminal fluid from his throbbin’ erect cock.
Pete looks at me. I do not answer him.
“You do. You do know each other,” Pete says, “…that is why you called me, isn’t it?”
I do not answer him, I go about arranging the ‘stage’ for this interview.
To speed things up, I place a towel on the open, one of the available two chairs where Marty is seated, with his towel, still covering his crotch area.
Pete places his recording device on the glass top patio table, when he turns, his cock bounces from the side of his thighs, flapping like a flesh-flashlight on each side of his leg. The pre-cum whips, carelessly, from his piss-slit, leaving a string-like clear thick discharge in its wake. Pete does not do anything, not even acknowledging what his still-somewhat hard cock is actively releasing from deep down bowels in his balls.
Marty leans and arranges the chair, so that Pete can be near him. As he does this, more pubes are revealed and the hilt of his covered cock, exposed, somewhat. Seeing that the towel has fallen, Marty pulls it back into place, concealing the root of his penis.
“Sit here,” Marty says, as he readjusts his butt back in his seat after leaning forward,”…before you sit down, give your cock, another stroke, for me, first.”
Pete does, he glides his hand, casually up, then down the length of cock, another gob of pre-man-cream is expelled. He smears this discharge on his engorged cockhead, making sure it is coated thoroughly with his pre-semen. His cockhead flares bright red, filled with life-giving, life-sustaining blood, it throbs with his stroking.
“I am ready, now,” Marty says, “have a seat.”
Marty taps the arm of the metal-lattice armed chair, covered in the brightly colored beach towel, which awaits the young firm ass of the greenhorn reporter.
Pete sits his ripe ass, in the chair, his cock, flops with these motions, further releasing more of his essence for Marty and I to see. As he sits, like most men, he man-spreads his legs, giving his balls, room to move and relax. His cock, points skyward toward the warm Florida sun, as if it is being drawn upward, magnetized by the light and sexual tension in the air.
“Can I ask my questions, now? Pete asks, his words, sharp, exasperated. The game, obviously, irritating him. He feels he is being played, some pawn in a game he wasn’t aware of, until now.
“Sure,” Marty responds, just a short, just as sharp, “Ask away, stud. I know you have questions, questions, only I can answer.”
“When did you realize, you were different, that you weren’t like everyone else?” Pete asks, as he spreads his legs wider, once he finds a comfortable place in his chair, and another dripple of pre-cum leaks from his towering erect cock between his hairy thighs.
“I was in the fifth grade, “Marty says, “I was changing in the locker room. It was then, I realized, I was different.”
“Special? That you were special?” Pete interjects.
“No, not special. Different,” Marty reiterates.
“What happened, then?” Pete says.
I am seated in the third chair, opposite from them, as they sit, face-to-face, hearing Marty relate his tale again and seeing the stunned looked on the kid’s face as he answers questions I have heard before, asked under very different circumstances, but the reaction is still the same.
I fondle my own cock, it’s hard, too, like Pete’s, it leaks, pre-cum, like Pete’s.
My hands stay on my genitals, one on my cock, the other one, cups my balls, massaging them as I leer at Pete’s visible erection that continues to produce more liquid from his manhood.
Pete looks toward me, as I engage in my ongoing activity with my man-toy. He does not seem deterred by my personal interaction with my schlong; it is mine, after all, my own personal play toy. It is why I was fortunate enough to be blessed with it between my legs.
“So what happened?” Pete asks again.
“It was closer examined,” Marty replies.
“…and?” Pete says, as he slides to the edge of his chair, rapt with intrigue, his towel sliding underneath him as he moves closer to Marty, wanting not to miss a word said.
“It surpassed others my age, then,” Marty says.
“…and, now, too,” Pete interjects.
Pete looks to Marty’s covered waist, the towels jumps as it responds to the poignant questions. His, Pete’s cock, jumps, too, giving-up another gob of juice, he does not spread his cum over the cock, he lets it drip, drip like a fountain as he, too, reacts to the question, he posed to the towel clad naked man in front of him.
“Is it difficult? You know, being different?” Pete asks as he unconsciously brings his right hand, once again to his cock, travelling the length of it, milking his balls, as another drop seeps from his wide piss-slit. He smears his cum over his extremely hard cock and that same hand to his lips, tasting his cum.
“I cannot do that,” Marty says, “it takes to long.”
Pete looks to his waist. He shifts in his seat, his hard throbbin’ cock makes it uncomfortable for him to sit, still.
“I need to stand,” I say, “my cock is leaking a lot.”
Pete and Marty, both, look to me, in unison, while Marty looks to Pete’s erect cock.
“You do have such a nice cock, Pete,” Marty says, “I like seeing it throb as you release little drops of cum.”
“Thanks,” Pete says.
“Mark, does too, doncha think, Pete?” Marty says.
“Yeah, he does,” Pete says as I see his eyes follow my right hand as I glide my delicate fingers up and down my shaft as I push myself to even harder limits.
Pete brings his hand to go in time with my rhythmic stroking of my cock, matching me with my ‘frustrations.’
Pete’s cock is in a furry nest, the hair creeps from the crack of his ass, making it way in a blustering patch of thick pubes, in his loins, a real man’s spectacular show of masculinity. I guess him to be about nine, maybe 10 inches, he is girthy, full, some would say, beer-can-like. It is a small tower, located in his nether region, an alluring symbol of pride, for him, and all those fortunate enough to see it.
In the distance, I hear a siren. The police, I surmise, as it makes it way on US 41. It momentarily distracts the three of us, bringing us back to a harsh reality, and the close proximity we are to the rest of the world, as we all sit naked, in the backyard of Marty’s property, behind his doublewide trailer I lean on the wall, next to where we sit and stroke my cock, as Pete asks another question.
“So when was the first time, you did it?” Pete asks.
“Did what?” Marty asks.
“It?” Pete says, “…that you did, IT?”
Marty pauses, removes his hands from his towel-draped waist and places both of them on the armrest of his lounge chair. As he moves his arms to the chair sides, he wiggles in his seat, as the cock, covered by the extra large beach towel, moves, noticeably with his gyrations.
“The first time I did ‘IT’ was a few weeks after I was seen in that locker room,” Marty says, he is not smiling, he slinks his head down.
“You were not even a teenager, then, just a boy but a boy unlike other boys your age, mind you,” Pete interrupts, totally disbelief crosses his face at the realization of the incident, “how’d you know what to do?”
“A neighbor arranged it with an 18-year old prostitute,” Marty says, “it was a slow process, but it happened. Of course, I was not a big as you are NOW but I was close, mighty close. He watched me and joined in. I did not know what went where but her face showed amazement when she saw what a big piece of equipment I had from someone so young.”
Pete strokes his cock. The cum manifest more from deep within his balls, coalescing in more visible drops.
I stroke my cock as I see more expelled from the young reporter’s swelled member.
Marty is leering, his eyes, bugging out, licking his lips, at me, where I stand, leaning, against the side of the trailer. Then, he looks at Pete.
“Why doncha lick Mark’s cock, “Marty says, “Show me your oral skills.”
“I’m not gay, Marty, I like pussy,” Pete says, without hesitation.
“Can I taste yours, Pete?” I say before Marty makes the suggestion, I know it would be his next comment.
Pete looks at me, then down at his over-indulged prominently displayed erect cock with the constant drips of cum continuing to be emptied from it.
“Sure. Okay,” Pete says, matter-a-fact, with a stoic look on his face.
I leave my resting place against the wall and make my way to Pete, standing in front of him, where he sits in the chair. My cock, within a foot of his face, throbbing and exerting its own influence in our shared presence as our dripping cocks continue with their outward fountain of man-cream from both of our members.
“Put this in your ass, Mark,” Marty says as he pulls a 10-inch battery-operated dildo from underneath his beach towel. The color of the dildo is bright blue, primary-hued, it shines bright against the pale flesh of the hand that is holding it.
Marty twists the end of the sex toy, it whirs to life, a slight buzz fills the air, as Marty swallows the toy down to its black base, taking all of it into his esophagus. The wetness of his saliva soaks down the toy, lubing its entirety.
The wet toy, in its vibratory actions, vibrates in his hand as I grasp the shaking toy from his grip. I feel my cock, twitch, expelling another dollop of cum from my stiff cock. It drips from cock, hitting the stained boards, the evenly spaced latts, that form the outdoor patio/porch.
“Stand up, Pete,” Marty orders and Pete complies, without hesitation.
Pete stands, his cock, forms a ‘V’ from his abdomen, a mini-triangle from his thick matt of pubes. The angle is tight, as his balls, hanging low, pull up the tight muscles in his ‘other’ muscle between his legs.
I plant the base of the dildo, between the cracks of the boards, forming the patio in Marty’s backyard. It fits tightly between the spaced latts of the outdoor porch. It does not budge from the position where I place it.
The lube spit makes the dildo, ease smoothly and unimpeded into my ass, as I slide down on its length, lowering my body upon it, filling me.
As I glide down the blue toy, I extend my tongue and grab, his cock, bending ‘that’ muscle into my mouth, its erectness, harder than I thought possible a man could sustain in such a state of arousal.
“OHHH! OHHH!”
Pete moans as I work his tool.
Regaining, limited composure, Pete resumes his questions as I continue my stimulation of his engorged glan.
“Did you like it? Was it fun? What you did when you were with the prostitute?” Pete asks a moan is withheld, as he finishes his question.
His cock pulses in my mouth as he finishes his question.
“I wasn’t even thirteen, yet, a teenager,” Marty says, “it felt good, so, yeah, I enjoyed it.”
“Did you? Did you, release?” Pete asks as I feel a large gob of pre-cum, not cum into my mouth.
“Yes. Yes, I did,” Marty says, “It was the first time, I had ever done so.”
As I pivot up and down on the vibrating dildo that fills my hole as I take swallow after swallow on Pete’s high-strung prick, he releases gobs of pre-cum into my mouth, his salty-sweet taste savors my taste buds as I suck and suction harder more from his balls.
Marty leans forward, grabbing and reaching for Pete’s exposed nipples.
Pete leans down and draws closer to Marty, making access easier for stimulation.
The sighs emanate from Pete as he is tweaked by the forty-something man he is suppose to be interviewing.
“Is this why you are called ‘the Grabber’?” Pete asks as he sighs from the dual stimulation of his person.
“It’s one reason,” Marty says, “…and this.”
Marty grabs his concealed cock after releasing his tight squeeze of Pete’s hairy-circled nipples. He roughly grabs his concealed and covered cock, working it furiously with his hand over the beach towel draped appropriately hiding his equipment.
“OHHH! OHHH!” Pete squeals as a small dripple of pre-cum exits his cock, sending shocks waves through his body as he nears climax.
I feel the ooze slither down my throat.
“He cummin’ more, Mark?” Marty says, as he grabs my head, forcing me down, forcibly, tighter, onto the cock that fills my gullet.
I nod my head, while I continue to ride the vibrating dildo that rams, under my own machinations into my tight ass.
“OHHH! OHHH! OHHH!”
Another outburst from Pete as I feel the head of his cock, hit the back of my throat.
Like a cobra rising from the basket, Marty’s cock, appears from the clutched concealment of the overlapping towel, revealing what lay underneath.
The towel is parted, showing what has been hidden since the interview commenced.
As the secret is uncovered, Pete, in extreme agitation, pulls from my mouth, turning to see Marty’s prize. The reaction caused by this exposure and awe of the penile fascination, Pete blasts his load from his cock, coating the chest, pubes and portions of Marty’s face with his thick goo, it streams down the muscles of the middle-aged man, rivulets run through the hairs covering the endowed man, still seated.
“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Pete screams as his wad is expunged, released its totality from his pent-up, drawn-up balls.
His breathing slows from its fast pace, as his heart resumes its proper beats.
“I have one last question, “Pete says as he grips and squeezes his slowly flaccid tweaking cock of the last drops of his juice.
“Yes,” Marty says, as he runs his hands along his lengthy member, stroking it, as best he can, regardless of it hearty length.
“How big is it?” Pete asks.
“I am 14-inches,” Marty says, “I was 8-inches back in the fourth grade. It made me different but posed other instances too.”
“I can imagine,” Pete says, still breathing heavy as the last drops fall from his spent cock.
“AHHH! AHHH!” I hear myself near climax as the two have ignored me and continued with the visual fascination between the pair.
“Give me that load, Marky!”
I rise, hearing the dildo fall from my spread hairy ass-cheeks hitting the wooden boards as I spray my bountiful wonder white man-seed upon the exposed man, towel undraped, with The World’s Biggest Penis, or so I have been told.
Like the mighty boa constrictor, and near as thick, his glorious manliness protrudes through the hairy forest of his deep brunette pubes, it dangles vicariously and is not easily concealed in a pair of shorts, slacks or jeans.
“So why do you make the people who visit you, go naked?” Pete asks as his hand travels the length of his deflating cock.
“Because with a cock like this,” Marty says as he squeezes and grabs his cock, so hard,”…that I cannot get it in a pair of pants or shorts without being stared at, besides I like looking at cock, myself, even though NO ONE measures up to me.”
Pete nods his head, in agreement.
“Ready to finish this interview, Marty?” Pete asks.
“Sure,” Marty says, “Maybe another load can be coaxed out of that cock of yours again.”
Pete smiles, as do I, as I feel my own cock, begin to grow hard, again.
THE END