I drove home, grabbed a Narraganset out of the frig, and hit the shower. As I pulled off my cargo shorts, I saw the large wet spot of cum. Although Tim had done a yeoman’s job of releasing my tension, my balls still needed to drain the residual reservoir of jizz.
I turned on the shower and chugged half the can of ice-cold beer. I developed an immediate brain freeze. It served me right. My mama had always told me to sip my RC Cola or pay the price.
I shampooed my scalp and applied a liberal amount of Dove body wash from head to toe. I started thinking about Tim, my first cock sucker. He was an attractive soccer dad. Did he have a nice cock?
What?
I had never thought about another guy’s meat before. Was I gay or was Tim’s warm mouth just a port in the storm?
The answer came quickly. Without giving it any thought, I closed my eyes and slid my right index and long fingers into my mouth. My respective left digits went first to my cock and balls; then slid across my taint and into my anus.
Keeping my eyes shut and thinking of a naked Tim; I sucked my fingers in and out of my lips. I bucked my hips backward and crammed my long finger against my prostate. I came instantly, shooting three hot ropes of man-milk onto the tile wall.
I woke up Saturday with morning wood. I thought about giving it a quick work-over, but needed to pee like a racehorse. No way could I drain the lizard with a boner or immediately after dropping a load. I opted for a pot of coffee.
I did two batches of laundry and cleaned up the cottage. Cottage, it still drove me nuts that Connie had gotten the house in the divorce. After all, she was the whore who had been sucking cock and banging my best friend.
I had a late brunch of leftover pizza and a cold Narragansett. I decided to mow the small backyard leading down to the lake. I knew I was low on premix and totally out of weedwhacker line; so I hopped into the pickup and headed to Home Depot.
Twenty minutes later, I was leaving the big orange box and sitting at the light on Elm Pike. If I turned right, I’d be headed home. If I turned left, I’d could be at the boat ramp at Prescott Point in seven or eight minutes. Left it was.
Given that it was almost noon on a Saturday, the ramp lot was about three-fourth’s full. Pickups with bass boat trailers filled the double-length parking slots. A few passenger vehicles were scattered along the lot periphery, particularly at the shady south end. A solitary Harley was pulling into the last slot.
I leaned forward and looked toward the hog as I idled by. The rider looked over his left shoulder and simply nodded. I tapped my brakes.
By the time I had circled back to the end of the lot, the biker was nowhere to be seen. I pulled up and parked beside the Harley for a closer look. There was a narrow trail leading into the woods. Approximately fifteen yards into the dense woods, I could just make out his black club vest.