"You've hardly changed a bit, Joe!"

"You too, Brent!" I replied.

With this reunion, we were now seeing the back of forty years since we graduated. We'd been pretty good friends throughout middle and high school, having signed up for many of the same (somewhat geeky) electives and clubs, but never kept in touch after graduation. I'd always liked his upbeat demeanor, giving everyone a friendly ribbing all the time, but never in an unkind way. Being somewhat less extroverted, I always admired that easy ability to engage with everyone.

Now we'd agreed to meet up for coffee in a couple of weeks, and I was excited to renew our ties.

< = = = = = = = = >

Turns out I'm more excited than I initially expected. When I was young, I mostly suppressed the trickle of occasional sexual thoughts about my male friends. But in my more open-minded middle age, seeing Brent at the reunion has opened the floodgates. Every night in the two weeks since then, I've pictured his goofy face hovering between my legs and fellating me. I've imagined his cries of pleasure as he feeds me his flesh in return and floods my mouth with his sticky semen. I've even dreamed of parting his plump ass and sinking my shaft into it.

But we're more than three times the age when we were in school together, I remind myself after my masturbatory reveries subside. Is he even the same Brent now? He was a great guy then, but adult life has a way of flinging shit up into our paths that changes us. Hardens us, and not in the good, erectile way.

As we finally meet up for that coffee, Brent and I find that even though we have most of each other's adult lives to catch up on, our rapport renews instantly, and it feels almost like picking up where we left off at graduation. Could our renewed friendship actually turn into a re-nude friendship, as I've been fantasizing? I try to tamp down these thoughts, especially the sudden image of Brent nude that goes with them, but remain mildly aroused.

An hour and a half into the discussion, Brent shares that his early marriage had ended twenty-seven years ago when his wife fell in love with one of their friends. A woman.

"Ohhh. Sorry," I empathize. "That's something a lot of people wouldn't see coming."

"I sure didn't. It hurt for a long time. But, if I can level with you, Joe, we were both looking for love in ... um, the wrong places, to quote a song. If she and I had each explored certain things when we were younger, we might both have found more suitable partners. But then again, we wouldn't have raised our wonderful son, so I can't complain. When you get to our age, you learn to accept life's detours and contradictions. Or else you end up bitter."

Disarmed by his emotional honesty, and having picked up some clues as to what he means by "certain things," I feel safe to disclose, "Even if it wouldn't have changed the outcome for me, there were certain things I probably should have explored too."

Brent looks at me appraisingly for a moment, cracks a crooked smile, and challenges, "If you haven't explored them, how do you really know?"

"Um," I gulp, "I suppose I don't, really."

"If we're talking about the same thing."

I nervously venture, "I think we're talking about ... the company of other men."

He nods. "I didn't really know that was my preference until I tried it."

"Well, I'm in the company of a man right now," I lob back, my heart thumping in my chest a little. "And I'm enjoying that."

"So am I," he enthuses. "You still seem to be the Joe I liked in high school. And I really liked that Joe." He leans in, now smirking outright. "Are there certain things you'd like to explore?"

"Yes," I stammer, having broken out in a bit of a sweat.

< = = = = = = = = >

I follow Brent to his townhouse, where he cracks open a couple of beers and we start chatting in the kitchen. I'm ready to tear his pants down, frankly, but he seems to want to talk more. Fine. I've waited forty years for this. I can wait forty minutes. Hopefully less.

"I must say, Joe, back in high school I thought about you a lot, sexually," he confides, eyeing my bulge and taking a swig of his beer. "And I always suspected you thought about me, too."

"Honestly, my high-school mind didn't let me do that." But now I have my doubts. Was my hormonal, youthful mind really as straight in its fantasies as I now remember? Or were my youthful imaginings more vivid, and the memories just faded? This challenge from Brent has made me wonder. "Well, not much. But I am thinking of you that way now."

A provocative grin spreads across his face. "Think back on those times in high school, Joe, when you were lying in bed, whacking your little cock, hoping your parents didn't barge in, just like we all did. Maybe you blocked it out afterward, but as you were reaching your climaxes, did my face ever flash in front of your eyes? Did you ever think about shooting your cum into my mouth, instead of into that tissue?"

"Oh my God," I blurt as long-buried memories resurface. He's right! I did sometimes picture him during my climaxes. "I think that did happen sometimes."

Emboldened, he further taunts, "And can you honestly tell me that when you were fucking Leah from behind, you never once, for at least a fleeting second, imagined it was my hairy ass you were creaming instead of her hairy twat?"

Leah! There's someone I haven't thought of for a long time, though she was my girlfriend for much of senior year. "Oops, I shouldn't have told you how she always liked it from behind. What I didn't tell you is that we tried anal once. It didn't quite work out, but after that, sometimes when I was 'creaming her twat,' as you put it, I imagined I was creaming her ass instead. Or ... sometimes ... yours."

"To quote a song, Joe, I want you to want me. I think you always have. But I have to hear you say it."

Mesmerized, I reply, "Yet, Brent. You're making me realize I've always wanted you. And now I do more than ever."

"You just made a wet spot in my shorts. You hate to waste good precum, don't you, Joe?"

Also true! "Yes, Brent, I hate to waste good precum." I echo, dropping to my knees and looking up at him. I decide to admit to him that I once sucked a guy through a glory hole, thirty-five years ago. "But that's all I've ever done with a guy."

"Oh-ho! Squeaky-clean little Joe Barnes has smoked pole! And I bet the older you get, the more you want to do it again. Don't you?"

"Yes, Brent. I can't stop thinking about sucking dick again. Especially yours."

"Well, yippee-ki-yay, cocksucker. Enjoy your second rodeo."

I lasso my tongue around his cockhead and then engulf most of his dong, while continuing to swirl my tongue around underneath. He makes utterances of approval and encouragement as I flick back and forth across his frenulum, and then bob my lips back and forth across the edge of his glans in short strokes. I relish the slickness of his precum, the velvety softness of his glans, and the delicacy of his sensitive coronal ridge. My nose takes in his musky scent. My eyes take in his veiny erectness. Even though I've spent the last thirty-five years reliving the first time my mouth was full of cock, the reality proves even better than I've remembered.

After I've pleasured him for a while, he says, "You want to make me cum, don't you, Joe?"

"Mmm-hmm," I mumble around his post, looking up into his warm brown eyes.

"You had that sweet, sweet jizz once before," he gasps, "and now you want it again." After a moment, he prompts, "Right?"

I finally understand the prompt-and-response game we're playing. It's his quirky version of consent, in which we only do what I tell him I want. Maybe it's just the power of suggestion as he plants ideas in my head. But to some degree, I think he is watering seeds of desire that have long lain buried within me, and started to sprout two weeks ago. I may never fully sort out which is more true.

Knowing he needs to hear it from me, I dutifully acknowledge, "Yes, Brent. I want you to feed me your hard, manly cock and your sweet, nourishing cum," as I start using one hand to stroke the lower part of his shaft while continuing my suckage of the upper half.

"That's it, that's it. Enjoy the feast, buddy," he growls as he breathes more heavily, trembles lightly, and starts squirting his delectable cream into my mouth. The resulting feeling of power that I am making him cum, reinforced by his grunts of pleasure, is so much better than when I did this through a plywood barrier so many years ago.

Just like my first time, his milk is creamy, and salty, and tangy, and very slightly bitter, leaving my mouth tingling. Is that from the billions of sperm swimming around in there? I have no idea, but I feel my own cock leaking at the dirty thought that after all these years, I am finally swallowing Brent's fucking sperm.

He leads me to the bedroom. "See, I've been down the same path, Joe, and I think I know what you want. But I need you to say it out loud. I'm guessing next, it will be ... oh, something that will make me shut my big old fat mouth for five minutes? Or," he giggles, "maybe two minutes?"

"Brent, since the reunion, all I've been able to think of is you wrapping your juicy lips around my cock and sucking me off. I've got one of my biggest loads ever on deck, and I want you to drink every drop."

It is just as I've been envisioning, since the reunion, as I look down on him climbing between my legs on the bed, locking eyes with me, holding my erection in his hand and kissing the tip gently. Then he licks my tip, a string of thick precum connecting his tongue and my cock for a few seconds, before impaling his head onto my full length. He is masterful with his lips and tongue, having apparently had a good bit of practice. And indeed, it is more like two minutes, and not five, before he starts to bring me off.

He looks up. "Are you sure you want me to drink every drop? As you start to blow, tell me what you really want me to do with your cum."

The suggestion makes me realize that I want something different than I've fantasized. As I spew what might be a record load past his glistening lips, I hiss, "Feed some of it back to me!" through clenched teeth. I hear a gulp or two as my ejaculations diminish, presumably because I've overflowed that big old fat mouth of his, but I can tell he's holding onto some.

As soon as I'm spent, he crawls up and attaches his lips to mine, sloshing my produce back to me. "I knew you'd want that," he says as I swallow. Yes, this is exactly what I really want.

After a couple of blissful, quiet moments, he asks, "You know what you want to do now, Joe?"

Blissfully sated, I'm not quite sure what to select next from the menu of masculine delights. Obviously, Brent has something in mind, but he will have to use his power of suggestion again.

"Joe, you want to set a ringtone for my number on your phone that sounds like a bell ringing." Okay, that's not something I would have thought of as a next step. "And you want to set my Contact photo to the picture of my cock that I'm about to send you. And you don't want to try anything else new tonight. You want to stretch out the discovery, right?"

"Yes, Brent. I want to stretch out the discovery."

"You want to go home, jerk off over and over again the next few days thinking of how much pleasure we've given each other, and wait for that bell to ring when I text you. And when that bell goes ding, you'll remember what we did tonight. And you will want more." He grins as he continues, "You will drool at that bell, just like Pavlov's dog, and you will text back what you want. And then you will come over to my place to carry out your wish."

"Yes, Brent, I will spend the next few days beating off over your delicious body. And when you ring that bell, I will want you even more than I do now. And I will come over to do what I want with you." Even if it is just as much what he wants as what I want. The difference is still unclear.

< = = = = = = = = >

As Brent predicted, I squeeze out what must be a dozen loads over the course of the next week, both reliving our first experience and imagining new Brently pleasures. Still, I back off my jack-offs and start saving up as the weekend approaches. I'm on pins and needles all day Saturday, anticipating his text.

It isn't until ten pm that I finally hear a ding! from my phone. A lurid photo of Brent's cock, dripping with cum, pops up on my phone. And ... well, Goddamned if I don't start drooling!

"You want to spend the night this time, don't you?" reads the text. He's right. I do.

Another text dings, showing a yin/yang symbol. "You want to try 69 with a man, don't you? You want to find out if it's better than with a woman."

That will be an excellent adventure, I think. "Yes. And yes," is all I can type; my thumbs are trembling so hard.

At his place, he once again makes teasing small talk in the kitchen over a beer. As he finally drains his drink, he says, "Tell me again, Joe, what is it you want to do to me tonight?"

"I want to suck your delicious cock again, Brent. But this time, I want you to suck me at the same time. And I want us to explode into each other's mouths at the same time. Then I want us to share our cum with each other."

As quickly as we can strip off our clothes and hop in his bed, I'm on top, pounding his face like I'd done the first night, his lips and tongue doing their best to keep up, while I take long slurps up and down his length, savoring all the sensations. At some point, our movements synchronize, and we begin pleasuring each other in time.

He detects my rising tension and holds onto my hips to slow me down, so that I don't cum first, letting his own orgasm approach before doubling down on me. We pop off within seconds of each other, and then bring our heads together to swap and swirl our cum back and forth before each swallowing our share.

We hang out naked in the bed for a while, talking mostly non-sexually, then he shifts downward and starts licking my weenie again. He works on my cock, and my balls, and even flicks his tongue across my bunghole, then holds up his middle finger.

"Tell me what you want me to do with this finger, Joe."

"Well, that gesture usually means 'Fuck you.' I'd say you read my mind." In truth, finger-fucking hadn't crossed my mind until he held that thing up. But suddenly, yes, I want it in me. "I want you to fuck me with it."

After expertly digging his fat digit into me, he gently works it in and out, the sensitive inner side of my asshole shooting pleasure bolts throughout my body. Fuck, I never knew I could feel anything quite like that from inside, and I think I start moaning involuntarily a little.

And then ... and then. He curls his finger. He finds and traces the contour of my prostate, multiplying the sensations inside my sphincter threefold and making me drizzle warm semen out my urethra. Expecting this outcum, Brent's mouth clamps around my manhood, capturing my essence.

Then he moves up to feed some to me, whispering, "This is when jizz tastes the best, before you've really cum." His free hand replaces his mouth on my now gooey member, using the goo to make firm, juicy, full-length strokes while his other hand's finger continues probing, now focusing again on just inside my hole. Getting simultaneously kissed, stroked and finger-fucked is more intense than anything I've experienced before, and now I'm whining rhythmically with pleasure.

"What do you want now, Joe?"

No hints needed this time! "Make me cum, Brent! I can't take it any longer!"

I think I make a lot of noise as he strokes me to one of the most ecstatic orgasms of my life.

"I'm going to want to do the same thing, again and again."

"I'm betting you will. I'll text you and ring your bell again when it's time."

I spend the night this time, and we suck each other off several more times, including the following morning.

< = = = = = = = = >

The next Saturday morning, my phone dings again. Fuck! I drool again - and, this time, instantly harden - upon hearing it. Brent has me trained.

There are no words to the text, just a picture of our local ballpark. I text back in the form of a question. "I want you to take me out to the ballgame?"

He replies with a thumbs-up emoji.

We have a great time at the game, an entirely enjoyable outing together, and an entirely non-sexual one.

That is, until I...