Monorchid

This will be a 'slow burn'... Stick with me here... “Hey, Mr. Smith!” I turned from loading my van to see Dan, the neighbour lad from 2 doors down. He’d evidently been working out in their garage and was now shirtless in the garden, showing off his defined torso. Dan is recently turned 18, and although I know his parents well enough their strongly religious lifestyle inevitably led to a cordial distance between us. I’d noticed over the past year or so, and especially since his birthday party earlier this month, Dan increasingly showing off his developing body. Last summer he’d exercised in the garden wearing only shorts, and now it was spring he was doing his warm-up and cool-down outside similarly dressed. It was impossible not to notice – the fences are low and my home office has a view of all the close-by gardens. I have to admit, I’d watched a few times last summer, even though he was definitely Forbidden Fruit. He’s about 5’9” and rapidly losing his puppy-fat to muscle. His short, curly strawberry-blond hair and ice-blue eyes gave away his parent’s Nordic origins. “Hi, Dan! You’ve been working out again, I see.” “Yeah, gotta keep it up if I’m going to get on the gym team at college.” “Well, looks like you’re doing well.” As much as I wanted to leap the fences and ravish this innocent beauty, I needed to get on before the dump closed. “Good luck with getting on the team.” I turned back to my task at hand, but a few moments later Dan appeared at the back gate, “Do you need a hand with that?” Thankfully, he’d put a t-shirt on. “Erm… Won’t your parents be worried?” It was a gambit – he and his younger brother and sister were cosseted by their parents, especially the mother, and I genuinely worried about their reaction to him talking to me like this. Across two garden fences is one thing, but face to face…? “They’ve taken Tom and Sarah to our grandparents’.” He picked up a box and loaded in into the van where I was stood. I stowed it, and we finished the job in double time. Dan was looking a bit edgy on the way back from the dump. The atmosphere in the cab, filled with sweat and musk, was a getting tensely electric. “Erm… Mr Smith…” “I think you can call me ‘John’ now. Or do you want me to call you ‘Mr. Olsen’?” I looked at him and raised my brows. “OK… John… Can I ask you something?” “Anything… But I might not answer.” I winked at him and he smiled. “Your tattoos… Didn’t they hurt?” Maybe I should explain – I’m heavily inked. In fact, the only part of me not tattooed is my face. “Not really. And anyway, it only lasts a few hours at a time.” “Oh… How many do you have?” “Well,” we’d got back at my garden and I hopped out to open the gates, “that depends how you count them, I suppose. I’d say one, but it wasn’t all done at the same time.” He took a while to think that through while I parked up in the garden. “Can I have a closer look?” “Well, I suppose so. Do you want to come in for a drink? To say ‘thanks’ for your help.” We headed in and I grabbed some cans of coke before leading him to the den. “There’s just one thing…” I regretted saying that immediately, “but I suppose we can overlook that… Make yourself at home.” He flopped onto the large, leather covered bean bag and hauled his t-shirt off. I say across from him on the low sofa and started hauling my boots off. “What thing?” he asked. “Well, usually this is a naked house.” He looked at me quizzically, so I elaborated, “Most of the time, I don’t wear any clothes at home.” “Oh, that’s cool.” He proceeded to kick off his running shoes and strip the tight shorts off. I hesitated, but stripped myself – after all, he wanted to see ALL my tattoos. I couldn’t help but notice when his semi-hard cock bobbed out of his shorts. He had a well proportioned, uncut piece – it would probably rival my own uncut, fat 8-1/2”-er. After a few moments, we were sat again facing each other, only a few feet apart. He was trying (without much success) to hide his manhood. I pulled a joint out of a box on the side table, then thought, “You don’t mind?” I wiggled to spliff. “It’s your house, Mr. Smith.” “So it it, Mr. Olsen.” I gave him a pouty smile and lit the smoke. “Sorry… John. Er… So how long did all those take?” He was staring, wide eyed, but having difficulty avoiding my cock which was, unsurprisingly, slowly waking up. “From the start? Twenty years. But since I decided to get fully covered… I’ve been going every few weeks for the last year and a half. There’s some details left to fill in but I’m almost finished.” “Wow… Can… Can I feel one?” “Of course.” He was clearly conflicted, but the twitch in his cock when he asked, and again when I agreed gave him away. When he didn’t move, I moved forward and knelt in front of him, taking his hand (the one not trying to cover his growing erection) and moving it to my chest. He pulled away briefly when he made contact, then raised his hand again and traced over some the lines. “I thought they’d be like… I dunno… Scars…?” he stroked more of my chest until his hand was flat against my skin. “Well, I’ve got a couple like that, but it’s a different technique. They cut the design into your skin and rub the pigment in. That DOES hurt. But mostly it’s needles which don’t really hurt at all.” I turned to show him the two welted designs on my shoulder blades, and he ran his fingers over them. Both hands, this time. When I turned back to him, he carried on feeling my chest and arms with both hands and I could clearly see his almost fully hard cock standing proud. There was a glistening pool of precum in the well made by his foreskin. For my part, I was losing the fight with my own hard-on as his hands traced the tattoos down my belly. “Shit! You’ve got tattoos on your willy… And what’s that…?” he was staring at the metal ball visible where my foreskin opened. I was wearing my PA-keeper – a short curved bar with a ball just on the slit and one still hidden by my foreskin where the piercing came out next to my frenum. “It’s a piercing called a Prince Albert.” You can touch it, if you want. He stared for a while before slowly reaching with an index finger. My cock twitched when he finally touched the metal and he flinched away, sitting back hard on the beanbag. I thought for a moment, then said, “Can I touch you?” He looked at me askance so I continued, “You’ve been feeling my chest… Do you mind if I feel yours? You’ve been working so hard on your muscle definition.” That definitely seemed to shift his thoughts and he relaxed, smiling and nodding at me. I reached out with one hand and stroked his developing pectorals and abdominals, ignoring the fact his cock brushed on the back of my hand. “Keep your routine up and you’re going to have a great body.” I withdrew and sat back, but still on the floor in front of him. I reached behind and relit the joint from the ashtray, taking a deep draw and idly letting the exhaled smoke drift in his direction. “Mum would go through the roof if she knew I was here.” “Well, I’m not going to tell her. Look, anything you say or do here is just between us. I don’t judge, or tell people how to act. Be yourself, or who you want to be, I don’t care.” I drained my coke and dropped the spliff in the ashtray before heading to the kitchen. When I returned with two cans of beer, Dan was gingerly puffing on the smoke, coughing a little but not too much and as soon as he saw me, he threw it in the ashtray. I offered him the beer saying with a smile, “I won’t tell if you don’t.” We sat in silence while I finished the spliff and he sipped slowly at his beer. He’d either forgotten about his erection, or simply given up trying to hide. I never make an effort to hide mine, and he could hardly keep his eyes off it. “What is the tattoo on your willy?” I couldn’t help laughing, and he coloured almost beetroot. “Sorry… I haven’t heard it called a willy since I was a kid.” “Wha… What should I call it?” “Whatever you like. I say ‘cock’ or ‘dick’, or any number of other names. But why don’t you take a closer look and see what the design is for yourself…” The pool of precum overflowed his foreskin as he leant forward. The little bit of spliff and beer had clearly softened his inhibitions as he reached out and ran a finger along my shaft. “Are they tadpoles?” I grinned at that – there’s a stream of tattooed sperm flowing over my scrotum and up the length of my cock. “Well, not really. They’re sperm, but they look similar in a tattoo.” He had his fingers around my shaft so I figured I could touch him and reached down to scoop up the leaking precum. He didn’t seem to notice, he was fixated on my cock and its tattoos. He suddenly looked up at me, pinning my gaze with those eyes of his, “I… Errmm… I never touched another man’s willy… Uh... Cock… Before… I only touch mine to wee… But sometimes I wake up all wet…” He looked seriously worried and embarrassed and it seemed like he was crying when he dropped his head. I lifted his head and drew him close into a hug. He threw his arms around me and held tight, shaking as he sobbed into my shoulder. I just held him – he was having some kind of revelation, and I reckon I knew exactly what it was.

In my late teens/early twenties I was well known among my friends and their friends (and others) as a greedy cocksucker. Every party I went to (and I got invited to lots - I wonder why 🤔) every party, at least one straight guy - friend, acquaintance, stranger - would approach me for some oral service. Many just the once, but enough came back for more. There were a few guys who I knew would be taking me to the toilets/bushes/back alley whenever they bumped into me at a pub or party. One of them would regularly take me to his flat and eventually started fucking me until he finally got a full time girl friend...

You've got options for getting your tongue under the hood, some guys like 'lip nibbling' (and some, light teeth) on their 'skin. You can also fill the hood with spit/breath/(pre-)cum... Uncut cocks are often more sensitive on the head... The main thing as the others have said is to chat with / read your man and tailor your cocksucking to his likes.

Great start... Looking forward to the next part

Peter - I knew a guy who would cum buckets 3 or 4 times in a session, although that was down to him permanently edging.

My partner always takes my 2 week old sweaty t-shirt when he goes away

[Sorry it's been a while, life gets in the way... Please remember this is set in the 1970s, as there's a character who talks in the vernacular of the time which is not really acceptable now...] We sat with them and chatted over a beer and spliff for a while, Boots in just bleachers with his braces down, me naked between his legs using them like an armchair. It seemed the most natural place to be, the feeling of his bulge against the back of my neck when I leaned back to look at him. Finally, the spliff was done and we’d finished our beers, “Well, I’m taking this one to bed,” Boots kissed the top of my head, squeezed me between his legs, then nudged his bulge into me from behind as he stood up. I scrambled to my feet and we left with a chorus of goodnights and have funs. I sat on the bed, helping Boots peel off his bleachers and pulling his balls and cock through his Y-fronts. There was a pool of liquid in his foreskin, “Have you cum already?” “Fuck, no! That’s just dick tears.” I leant in to taste, but he put his hand in the way and shook his head. He pushed me back to lie on the bed then lifted my legs to his shoulders. When he lined up to my hole and pulled his foreskin back, I felt his dick tears flow over me and he started pushing slowly in to me. I groaned at the slight burning pain, and he rocked back and forth. Just the head, rolling his foreskin back and forth. Each time some more tears and a little deeper and harder. The pain was ebbing away as he began to drive full length, still taking slow easy strokes. “Ohh, Rabbit…” He jabbed right in to me and I reached up to pull him close while he gyrated inside me. Slowly, we shuffled up onto the bed and I started massaging his cock with my arse muscles. I found I could ripple them along his shaft and he definitely seemed to like it. “Just … keep … doing … that,” he panted, staring down and spearing me with his eyes. I rocked as much as I could on his cock and carried on massaging. He dropped his head to my neck and started licking and kissing, his panting getting ragged, “Aww… Fu… Aahhh…” He pulsed inside me when he came and moaned into my neck. It was several minutes before he pushed up onto his elbows and stared down at me, “Where the fuck did you learn that?” I grinned up at him, “Just now.” He leaned down and kissed me hard and deep, pulling us up to the pillows and throwing the blankets over us. Soon, we were spooning, him behind, still hard inside me, until sleep came. Saturday, I went to halls to get my books and stuff after Boots said I could stay all week. I got back just after lunch and there was a queue out the door of the shop. After dumping my bags in Boots’ room, I went back to the shop, “Can I do anything?” Boots thought for a second, “Er, yeah… Take the customer’s ticket and if the tag on the shoes is green they can take them, anything else I’ll sort out.” I got to work, and we managed to clear the queue in time to shut up early. When Boots had locked up, I told him I could definitely use the buffing machine and key cutter, “I worked Saturdays and holidays in my dad’s engineering factory. I’ve run much more complicated machines than these.” He had me buff the rough boots I’d been polishing, then gave me two keys to cut, “They’ll be your keys for the club and the back door.” He gave a half smile, but when I went to kiss him he pulled away, giving a stern head-shake and nodding to the window, “Don’t want everyone knowing what goes on here.” “Shit, sorry. I didn’t think.” After an hour or so sorting out the club, Boots and I spent the rest of the night finishing off my bleachers and boots. We were already in bed, me milking another load from him, when we heard the others go upstairs. After breakfast, I spent Sunday working in the old workshop – it was the room above Rat’s shop. There was a large work table in the middle and several old, floor-standing sewing machines along two walls. I’d got a plan for my essay sorted by the time Boots came to get me for lunch. John followed me down after we ate and I was a little nervous when he followed me into the workshop. “Don’t worry, Rabbit. Just wanted to look at the machines.” “Er… OK.” I got back to my work while he looked over the equipment. John came over and looked at my work, “You’re at the university? What are you studying?” “Yeah, I’d doing Engineering Control. But it’s a bit boring if you’re not in to it…” “I work there in the computer lab.” My stomach fell and I must have gawped at him ’cos he laughed at me. “Not going to say anything, mate – apart from anything else, I’d lose my job.” He leant over my work and thumbed through the pages, “Hmmm…. Jacquard, eh? You know we program the computers with cards developed from his system…” We spent the afternoon talking about punched cards and control systems and all sorts of stuff none of the others would be interested in until Boots came to get us. “Come find me in the lab next week and I’ll show you some books.” John winked at me as he left. Boots took me in his arms and squeezed me hard, “Hope you weren’t talking his ears off,” he smiled. “Nah, he’s OK.” “Right, you ready for tonight?” he squeezed my arse a little and kissed me deep. “Will be soon,” I grinned at him as I headed off to sort myself out. I arrived down in the club wearing my new bleachers and the cleaned up rough boots and found boots sitting at a makeshift shoe-shine booth polishing a guy’s boots. There was a barber station next to him where Clipper was giving a Rudeboy a trim. I grabbed a couple of beers from the bar and went to sit by boots. When he finished the guy’s boots, he turned and kissed me. I looked confused at him, “It’s fine down here – nobody cares. It’s not people in the street, eh?” “Sure, no…” Another guy had sat at the shoe-shine and Boots nudged me, “You want a go?” “Er. Yeah.” I swapped placed with him and he showed me where the different cloths, brushes and polishes were. “It’s 50p for a basic shine, a quid for a lick and polish, two quid for the full works.” He looked up at the guy in the chair, “What’s it to be?” He looked down at me, “Lick polish, I think.” He shifted on the seat and put a boot on the footrest. Boots talked me through it, “So, give the toecap a lick … That’s it … Now polish on and brush off … And another lick before buffing off … Great, I’ll let you get on with the other one. I need to piss.” Boots came back as I was finishing off and the guy pushed a pound note through the slot in the money box. “Good job, boy,” he said, stroking my head as he hopped down. The Rudeboy Clipper had been barbering hopped up on the chair, planting his right boot on the footrest, “Full works, bwoy,” he said in a heavy Jamaican accent. I took in his scuffed Dms then looked up at him – short, maybe 5’4”, tight trousers with a clear ridge down this left leg, white shirt, black tie, jacket and pork-pie hat. He was clean shaven with very short hair under the hat and his ebony skin almost glinted in the club’s dim lights. Boots whispered, “That’s a full bootlicking to start…” I looked at him briefly before leaning forward to lick over all of this guy’s boot, lifting his trousers as far as I could to get up the boot sleeve. When I’d thoroughly wetted as much as I could, I put the polish on and brushed off before repeating the thorough licking and finally buffing it off. Boots and the guy, whose name I gathered was Leroy, chatted while I worked, and when I’d finished both boots, Leroy pushed a folded up five pound note into the money slot. “It’s only two quid.” I said, but Boots nudged me, “It’s a tip.” “Ah…” Leroy leaned down to me, “So, honky, you suck nigger dick?” I looked at Boots, but he just shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Not yet,” I said as Leroy got down from the chair. He stuck his hand out for shaking, but when I took it he pulled me close and bent down, “Find you later to sort that out, bwoy.” And he let go and strode off. “Fuck, Rabbit, I hope you know what you’re doing.” Then he grinned and we laughed. Nobody was waiting for bootshine so we headed off to the booth for a beer with Loz Rat and John. “Rabbit’s going to suck Leroy’s dick,” Boots announced as soon as we sat down. There was much leaning over of the table and slapping of my back and shoulders. “You’re fucking honoured.” Laughed Loz, “Leroy doesn’t let just anyone…” Boots and I went off to the shoe-shine a couple of times before the music started ramping down, and eventually most of the punters had left. We were waiting for the stragglers when Leroy came over, stood at the end of the booth next to me and grabbed his cock through his trousers. “You suck my dick now, bwoy.” It wasn’t a question. I leant forward to press my face against him and he grabbed the back of my polo shirt, pulling me up and then pushing me into the other part of the club. He sat in one of the easy chairs there with his legs spread and his arms on the arms of the chair, “C’mon honky bwoy, know you want some nigger dick.” I dropped to my knees and pushed my face into his groin, moving around to rub his balls and the shaft I could feel against my cheek. I reached up to open his belt but he slapped my hand away, “No touching, bwoy.” I carried up rubbing my face against him and stroking his thighs, which he didn’t object to, but avoided touching his dick. He smelt different to Boots and the others somehow, more earthy, but the musky sweat odour had the same effect. After a few minutes, he pushed my head aside and opened his fly – he didn’t wear underwear and hauled his dick out in one swift motion until it slapped my face. When he leant back, I started licking the length of him. He was about 10 inches, and when I got to tip I wasn’t sure I could open wide enough to take him comfortably in my mouth. When I looked up at him, he had his head back, eyes closed, with a small smile on his lips. I started licking over his head and sucking under his foreskin, gradually taking him further and further into my mouth. The first time I choked on him, he sat upright, “No bwoy!” I relaxed and started licking and sucking over his knob end and shaft. I’d been working him over for about 20 minutes before he became vocal again, “Yeah, bwoy, that’s it… Gonna feed you my nigger spunk…” He kept up the vocals, I was his biatch, a batty-bwoy cocksucker, I loved it. With every insult, his cock got harder in my mouth until finally he growled and thick cum pumped from his cock. “Eat my nigger cum, bwoy.” And I did, every last drop. He abruptly stood up and stuffed himself away. I looked up at him, “Do you fuck honkys, too?” He slapped me hard on the side of my head, “Me ’int no batty man.” And off he went, slamming the exit door behind him.

Welcome back Assmunch! So good to read you again

To me, the blanket banning of words is the most crass censorship. Don't get me wrong, I understand why you do it, but there are stories and experiences which cannot be discussed as a result. I myself have abandoned a story I have been writing because to fully express it would need the use of a (potentially) 'banned word'. Here, very much, context is very important. Speech patterns and usage are very different across time and place and simply saying 'you can't use that word' stifles debate, creativity and development/education. A system where a post containing a contentious word was moderated, with input from the poster via private message and some kind of explicit context ('this is a story from 1970s England and this character would self describe as this',) would be far better, in my opinion. And there must be a list, you simply choose not to make it available, meaning we cannot avoid using them unless we notice the automatic censorship in time.

I always suck my partner clean after he's fucked me. It's especially good when he reminds me what he just did, "Suck the cock I fuck you with, Queerboi."

I got the meaning of your screen name straight away - I've played with blind and deaf guys several times and found them to be very sensual. I've learnt plenty from them.

Mine is a literal description... I have one testicle... Not that it affects my sex life at all 😜

Your basic premise is over-simplified. Active-passive, sub-dom and top-bottom are three, different, intersecting continua - it's quite possible for someone to be Active-Bottom-Dominant or Passive-Top-Submissive, for example. For me, I'm mostly bottom, fairly active and hover around the neutral of sub-dom. With my partner, I can be a dominant active bottom, or a submissive active bottom depending on our mood. I'm never a passive submissive bottom - that would seem to make me no more than a sex toy, which isn't what we're up for (although I appreciate others go for that...) Overall, the situation is more complicated than your original question implies.

Yes and no... I'll suck any (clean) cock and he can fuck me after, too. Part of what I get off on is making him feel good and receiving his cum. But I need a certain size if I'm going to really get off, and give him my best. Long enough to choke on and thick enough to feel him fuck. I've taken over 10" (once) and given my best to 4" too, more than once.

There's a special sore throat I get from taking cock in my throat, which I really like - the slightly hoarse voice and tickley cough... Anyone else get this and enjoy the reminder of what you are?

I definitely like it when my partner goes at me hard, especially when he's wearing a larger PA. The sore throat and arse the next day (or two) is always a nice reminder, too. As for marks and bruises - I love them too... I have a bite-mark tattoo taken from a real bite and the next tattoo is likely to be based on the scratches and bruises I get from my partner fucking me.

I went to meet a guy and he didn't look away from his phone from the moment I arrived. After about 2 minutes sucking his limp cock I said "sorry mate, you're obviously not interested" and left. When I got out of the Tube there were a pile of messages - starting with sorries and ending with insults. Needless to say he got blocked.

Sehr richtig!

Not viable as a business any more...

These are the boots I bought from the sale (one as is, the other after one polish) - they're going to have been hanging from the ceiling for 20+ years...

The Backstreet, London’s last remaining gay fetish club worth the name, closed its doors for the last time in the early hours of Sunday 17th July 2022. I first went in 1998 when I came to London as a mature student. It was a regular Friday night with my new friends, and I was enjoying exploring the kinkier side of my nature. I’d come from a Conservative (Big-C) city where the scene, such as it was, was pedestrian at best. We sat by the DJ console, chatting with the other guys in the club. It was always social, much more so than other similar London clubs. Yes, you could suck cock at the bar – get fucked there, even – but that was never the prime focus of The Backstreet. The venue had an identity beyond its existence as a fetish club – it had a personality of its own and gave a place for communities to develop. That friends group drifted apart and I got involved with SM-Gays, so I started going to the more heavily fetish oriented clubs in Vauxhall and Bow for a few years, then dropped out of the scene completely for a while. I’d started preferring saunas – the same social atmosphere in the small independent places, and I found I liked being naked. I met a new group of friends – a gay nudist group who met at a sauna on Fridays and went to the Wednesday night Boots Only sessions at The Backstreet. This was yet another community The Backstreet was supporting – a diverse group of guys, all shapes, sizes, ages, disabilities and social positions. It could only exist in such a non-judgemental place. The owner and staff always supported and looked after their customers, and their regular customers were (still are) fiercely loyal. I went to the closing sale – I’ve got a boot fetish, and anyone who knows the place will understand I had to have a pair of boots from The Backstreet (the ceiling was hung with boots of all types.) I had hoped I’d find a pair (or even one) I could make into something suitable – a doorstop, maybe – but I found a pair which fit me and I’ve started restoring them. Every time I wear them, I’ll remember that time I got fucked over the bar while ordering a drink, or the discussion of jam making while sitting naked out the back smoking cigars, or any of countless other memories. I was so glad to be able to personally thank the owner and manager. The Backstreet will be missed.