Sex On A Stick

So it’s Sunday afternoon. I need a new hard drive for my MacBook. Everything is getting slow and I decide to take the plunge and go to my local tech store and face the bored looking fat boys with their grubby beards and saliva speckled glasses. Only in that environment can somebody so average-looking be so superior.

As usual everybody manages to appear busy and lazy at the same time. It is a rare art form honed by shop assistants everywhere who secretly feel that they are made for better things than attending to customers who know less than they do about technology. The highlight of their tech-saturated lives is to make fun of old guys like me who ask stupid questions that savants like themselves can answer in their sleep since they came out of their mother’s womb with repetitive strain injury of the thumb.

At last I spot a character that is lurking in an aisle and doesn’t pick up a nearby phone and speak intensely about shop matters when I approach. He wears a purple T Shirt and is facing away from me, so I can’t be sure he’s not just a random hunky teenager waiting for his dad to finish in the next aisle. Yeah, he’s hunky, so that makes me suspect the latter.

“Hey man, do you work here?” I ask, tentatively, knowing that I have made that mistake so many times only to be frowned upon from a dizzy height for daring to think that somebody looks like a shop assistant.

His smile is dazzling in his handsome Indian face.

“Yes, man, I do, but strictly speaking only with my own product,” he answers, gesturing at the logo on his (broad, muscly, purple T-Shirt-clad) chest which indicates that there is something called a “New Republic” that would have something to do with stuff you might hope to find in a tech store.

I’m about to turn (regretfully) away from him and brave one of his ugly brethren but he stops me.

“Maybe I can help you anyway. What is it you are looking for?” He steps closer and then it hits me. A wave of B.O. washes off him and assaults my nostrils like a palpable, olfactoric wall of sex. One man’s stink is another man’s pheromone heaven. I feel my head swim and my vision blur as all the blood in my body rushes to my dick and I can feel my infallible divining rod sniff in his direction.

“Thanks man, that would be great. It look like everybody else is busy with something. I’m looking for a 1Tb hard drive, 2.5” ” I manage as my lips barely make it before my face freezes as all my cognitive functions, save those between my legs, shut down.

“The hard drives are just in the next aisle,” he says and walks towards me. I am befuddled as my nose sends signals to my brain that conflict with the visual queues it is receiving. My eyes say “Stand to one side” and my nose says “Advance towards the sex on a stick before you.” He stops in front of me and his puzzlement is masked by his smile as I stand and look at him in confusion, my feet refusing to obey my command to get out of his way. He puts his hand out and lays it gently on my bicep.

“Will you follow me,” he asks with a charming smile.

“To the fucking ends of the earth,” I think, and my mouth just glazes over in an idiotic grin.

We walk an aisle or two down to a place I had just recently visited when I’d unsuccessfully tried to locate what I was looking for.

“The hard drives are here. What is it you need?”

“I don’t think you are ready for what I need,” I mumble in my mouth and I can see he didn’t quite catch that. Just as well.

I explain to him what it is that has brought me here. As he faces me and I look into his dark brown eyes I can feel myself losing focus. The smell rolling off him is fucking with my ability to think. I can feel myself sniffing like a dog at the oozing twat of a bitch in heat and there’s nothing I can do about it. All I can picture is me shoving him up against the nearest vertical surface, pinning his arms above his head with my one hand and rooting in his fragrant armpits like a pig searching for truffles.

My serpent brain takes over. I point at something on the lowest shelf.

“I think that might be it,” is the best I can manage. His eyebrows hike up and he turns around to see where my hand is pointing.

“Can you check for me please? My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” I’m 55 and wear glasses. I think he managed to figure that out all on his own but the boy is aiming to please so…

“Ok, sure,” he mumbles doubtfully and turns around. He bends over and suddenly my devious brain experiences everything in slo-mo. As his head descends to the level of the indicated merchandise, his T-Shirt pulls out of the top of his shorts and his hairy lower back is exposed. As he bends forward, his succulent buns thrust out and take up the slack in his shorts and pull the waistband down so that the colourful band of his underpants is exposed. I step forward and allow my chubbed up dick to casually connect with the rounding of his ass. He looks around and up at me and his eyebrows imitate a couple of fluttering starlings above the exposed whites of his surprised eyes. He straightens up and involuntarily backs up against the glass of the display cabinet. I decide to go for broke and put my hand forward and cup his balls through his shorts. I can hear him swallow as his dick betrays him and calls a lusty “hello” to my welcoming palm.

“Did you see what I need?” I ask and I can hear him swallow again. I contract my hand around his balls one more time and let go. The fog of B.O. that was the initial culprit seems to have intensified. It rolls off him in waves of befuddling stink, speaking of testosterone and spunk.

“I...I think so,” he says and turns around, his chest against the glass of the display cabinet.

“Take another look,” I command softly and I know he can feel my breath in the nape of his neck.

He leans forward and his ass thrusts against my crotch. I allow my hand to cup his ass and force my finger in the crack between his buns, the material enticing me to imagine what the damp warmth of his anus would feel like.

I stroke my palm up and down his rounded glutes and feel him thrust back into me involuntarily. I trail my palm upwards and find the ridge of the waist of his shorts.

“Stand up,” I command and he obeys. I reach around him and find the button of his shorts and undo it with my right hand while I maintain contact between my rapidly-hardening dick and his firm, yet yielding buns.

“Now bend over,” I command softly, all the while keeping an eye out for intruders. Lucky all the nerds are too busy pretending to be busy so nobody approaches us. We are more or less guaranteed privacy by the innate laziness which characterises the breed.

He complies and I slide my hand in the waist of his underpants and down the curve of his warm, furry ass. I separate the buns with the two fingers on either side of my middle finger and the latter sniffs out the moist furry field of his boyhole. I drag it across what I know to be the fragrant pulsing anemone of his boypussy and pull my hand out. Maintaining my thrust forward with my hips, pinning his face up against the display cabinet, I take a deep appreciative whiff of the pheromone-laden scent of his ripe asshole. He is clean but sweaty and I momentarily feel weak at the knees. I reach around his head with my hand and force my still moist finger into his mouth. He suckles like a hungry baby and I can feel the suction of this greedy mouth slurp at my questing digit. 

I pull out and once again slide my finger down his cleft, avoiding touching anything that will allow the drooling saliva to be wiped off. Once again I find his asshole and this time I rub my finger around the perimeter, distributing the spit around the folds and hair. He is mewling like a kitten and I reach around with my other hand and clasp his mouth to silence him. His ass is ravenous and opens to welcome my finger into its warm depths. I curl my finger in and root around in there, teasing him and making him want more. I hook it in and lift him off the floor, using only my embedded finger as leverage. The violation in his hind parts seems to ignite a spark in him and he pushes back to ensure even more effective penetration of his fuckchute.

Then I decide to go for broke. I pull my hand out, shove his shorts down far enough to expose his furry Indian buttocks, and with my other hand undo the drawstring of my sweats. I hitch my underpants under my balls and put both my hands on his hips to center him. With no warning I shove my nail hard dick into his moist innards and immediately start to fuck him with short, sharp thrusts. I have not done more than six when I can feel his asshole spasm around my pole and I know that my boy is cumming against the glass display case. My own orgasm ambushes me and I hold my hips against his firm buttocks as I shoot my sperm into his grateful pussy. His face is mashed against the glass and his breath steams up around his mouth and nose. 

I pull out and rapidly turn him around. I sink to my knees in front of him and take his still drooling dick in my mouth and clean him off good. I lick under his foreskin and slide it back with my lips to taste his sweet teen sperm on my tongue. I slide it down my throat and swallow it and hear him sharply gasp. Then I lick his balls and pubic hair and the boy stink is still overwhelming. I stand up and pull the taller boy’s head down to mine and kiss his lips. His eyes are dazed, still in a funk of post orgasmic befuddlement. 

I take my card out of my wallet and reach around to stick it between his cum-dripping cheeks.

“Call me.”

 He nods as he pulls his shorts over his wet dick and fastens the button of his shorts. He licks the cum off my card. 

“I've never done this before,” he assures me, redundantly.

I decide I don’t need a hard drive today after all.

“Call me when you get off today.”

“I will,” he says. 

“I know.” 

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