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Date: Sun, 7 May 2017 18:27:00 +0000 (UTC)
From: Hugh Banton <clover2209@yahoo.com>
Subject: Wouldn't You Really Rather Have ...

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This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.

WOULDN'T YOU REALLY RATHER HAVE ...

By anonymous.a

"Wouldn't you really rather have a Buick?"

The quote was from a commercial jingle. I was watching a YouTube video of
old car commercials from the 1950s and '60s, and that line was sung by a
woman hawking Buicks. Those were the days when American cars ruled the
roads and foreign cars, like Toyotas and Datsuns, were considered junk. The
only foreign car worth a damn was the VW Bug and even that catered to a
narrow demographic -- the weirdo who gave a shit about gas mileage. At 27
cents a gallon nobody else cared how far a car went on a gallon of gas.

That's what the old-timers from that era tell me, anyway. I've got a couple
of them on my morning walk route. Sometimes I stop and listen to their
stories. They love talking about the good old days.

I bring up the Buick TV ad because it reminded me of my latest encounter.

Living in a neighborhood of stand-alone houses and row houses (or
"townhouses" if you prefer), you get a constant mix of people coming and
going. It was from the townhouses that I ran into Bob ("Fucked by the
Non-Com") who has since moved out. We had several close encounters of the
carnal kind, if you catch my drift. The fact that he had a girlfriend
seemed to make no difference in his sexual appetites. She was the main
course, naturally, but I was the dessert.

Seven townhouses down, a new couple moved in. She was an Uber driver and
had a great big Suburban she used to shuttle people to and from the
airport. I guess business was good because her other half, the subject of
this story, did not appear to work for a living. Instead, he spent his days
at the townhouse, occasionally leaving for hours on end but mostly cleaning
and whatnot both inside and outside their unit. He was constantly working
on a fountain with an attached fish pond. When he wasn't doing that he was
cleaning and waxing his car.

Best I can tell it was a 2008 Buick LeCrosse. I never was a fan of GM
products and certainly not Buicks, which seemed to appeal to a much older
crowd. But he had sported up his LeCrosse with a slightly lifted
suspension, special wheels, and aftermarket mirrors. It was painted a
menacing black and the windows were heavily (probably illegally)
tinted. The back window was covered with stickers for surf shops and
skateboards.

He was often outside working on that thing, and that's what drew my
attention, because when he did so he was usually clad in a wife beater and
a pair of cargo shorts that nevertheless hugged his ass. What a fine ass it
was, too, a perky little thing that always seemed to fill out whatever he
was covering it with. He was a small guy, maybe 5-7, with dirty blond
flyaway hair that hung down to his neck, usually held in place by a ball
cap. He had some kind of fringe growing along his jawline, a turn-off for
me, but the ass more than compensated. I'm guessing he was in the 25-28
year old range.

I had taken to spending late afternoons reading on the front porch, which I
found to be a relaxing pastime. Work is stressful and after I escape the
office, I need to decompress. A quiet session with a book does the trick.

Except it doesn't when Jim -- I later learned that was his name -- was
outside working on his Buick. On those days my head was craned, sucking in
every detail of his body as he bent over the hood, wiping it down with a
cloth, or doing something in the engine compartment. That sweet ass looked
fine, stretching against the fabric of his cargos. I imagined all the
stimulating things I could do with it, given the chance.

On the day in question I noticed he was spending a lot more time outside
than usual, dividing it equally between his fish pond and his car. The
front door to his townhouse had squeaky hinges, so every time I heard that
metallic whine I looked up to spy on him. He was tossing objects into the
pond -- I got the impression they were food pellets of some kind -- and
just diddling around with his car.

I went inside to do something, I forget what, and when I came out he had
vanished. So I flopped down in the lawn chair and resumed reading.

A few minutes later I heard the sound of shoes scraping on leaves and
looked up. It was Jim, walking up my driveway. He was carrying a plastic
bag from the nearby dollar store.  "Hey, how are you?" he said as he walked
onto the porch. "I'm Jim; I live across the street over there." He pointed
in the general direction of the Buick. As if I hadn't noticed.

I got up and shook the hand he offered, telling him my name.

We chatted a moment and then he said, "They had this crazy sale at the
dollar store and I ended up buying twice as many of these sugar cookies as
I wanted, so I saw you out here and wondered if you'd like to split them
with me. You don't have to pay me or anything; they only cost a dollar. I
just need to get rid of them."

"Sure," I said. "Come on inside."

We headed for the kitchen. I didn't have any beer so I offered him a
Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, which he turned down. I have this cookie jar
shaped like those eggs from the movie "Alien," which Jim thought was way
cool. He opened the cookie packaging and put half of the sugar cookies
inside.

"Glad to see that thing didn't jump out and grab my face," he laughed.

We chitchatted a few more minutes. He seemed reluctant to leave and kept
trying to prolong the conversation, which to my mind meant he was either
bored shitless sitting over there alone all day, or maybe he wanted
something else. As I replayed events of that afternoon, I became aware of
how he had spent a more-than-significant amount of time doing menial chores
that kept him out front and in my sight. I decided maybe he was fishing for
more than just a brief conversation with a neighbor.

Finally, he said, "I hope you like those cookies. I could eat them all
day. They're my desert island food -- well that and pizza, or a burger
stacked with good stuff. What do you like to eat?"

"Ass," I said bluntly, watching carefully for his reaction. I'm not usually
so blunt in my overtures, but I had pegged this guy as a boy in need of
some stay-at-home TLC, and I was just the man to deliver the goods. He
blushed a little but fetched up a big smile, almost too big, and said, "Oh
yeah? That's a coincidence. My girlfriend won't do that. She's very plain
vanilla in the sex department."

"That sucks for you," I said. "But today is your lucky day. You gifted me
with cookies. I'm going to gift you with my tongue, if you're up for it."

"Wow," he said. "To be honest, I thought you'd never ask."

I was right. The boy was hungry for companionship.

I reached for the waistband of those cargos. I didn't unbutton them or
anything, but just yanked them down. They slid over his hips with no
resistance, pulling down his boxers at the same time. There, between his
legs, was a surprisingly thick cock which was already fattening up as his
excitement pumped it full of blood. It hung from a caveman's crotch of
dark, bristly pubes.

I dropped to my knees and took it into my hand, rubbing it all over my face
as I sucked in a massive lungful of air through my nose, savoring his meaty
smell. His exertions, such as they were, had caused him to sweat in his
crotch and I could smell that, along with a funkier, more pungent odor
suggestive of forbidden secretions.

His balls were low hangers and sagged from that Bigfoot nest of wooly hair,
penduluming as I rubbed his fat dick across my cheeks, up and down my nose
and over my lips. I used my other hand to grip those luscious pecan-sized
testicles and fondle them without squeezing or twisting.

A drop of clear fluid had collected at the piss slit, and I dabbed at it
with my tongue, savoring the sweet nectar of his prostate, rubbing it over
my teeth and the interior of my mouth.

I looked up and he was staring at the ceiling with his eyes closed,
uttering not a sound as I ministered to his penis, not taking it into my
mouth but making sure it was sufficiently handled to give it some bone. My
real prize lay on the other side of his body.

I planted my hands on his hips and slowly rotated him, kissing whatever
flesh he presented to me as he turned. The moon of his ass came into view,
and it was everything I had envisioned it would be.

A moonish white compared to the rest of his tanned skin, and covered with a
light dusting of coarse, dark hair. At his crack the density of hair
thickened. The crack itself was stuffed with curly pubes. If I were going
to get in there I had to have him step out of his shorts, which I did by
lifting his right foot at the ankle and using my left hand to pull the shoe
through the leg of his cargos and boxers.

"OK," I said in a near-husky whisper, my voice constricted by
desire. "Spread your legs and let the fun begin."

He did not need to be asked twice.

He widened his stance, at the same time stepping back from the kitchen
counter he was holding onto for support, and poked his butt out. I moved my
hands to ass cheeks and pulled them apart.

His beautiful ass crack bloomed into view before me.

To say it was heavenly would have been an understatement. It might have
been the finest male butt I had ever seen, muscular cheeks divided by a
canyon of dark hair plastered to the skin by sweat. It led downward to a
perfect hole, one that apparently had never been penetrated. Nowhere did it
show any indication of that -- no tags or weak spots where the muscles had
been stretched. It lay in its nest of hair, pulsing slightly, like a
creature of a coral reef awaiting its next opportunity to feed.

I burrowed into his crack with my face, starting at the bottom where his
asshole resided, and traveled upward, lapping at everything with my
tongue. Jim moaned loudly and pushed against me. The heat and the smell
inside his crack were both ferocious, and my cheeks stuck to his cheeks,
pulling free only when I moved to lick the sides of his anal cleft or to
plant my tongue at the entrance to his love socket.

I curled my tongue into a point and stabbed at his anus, trying to push it
inside, and my efforts elicited more groans of pleasure from Jim, who had
begun to gently rock his ass against my face, never taking it very far from
the ministrations of my mouth. His hands had found that fat sausage of a
cock and he was jacking frantically as he rubbed his butt against me. I
yanked down my own shorts and grabbed my dick, which was like a steel
I-beam between my legs, and started fucking the cup of my right hand.

The rhythm of his jerking speeded up and his moaning had climbed the scale
of octaves until I knew he was about to blow his load. I whirled him around
clumsily and positioned my face directly in front of that rampant dick of
his, which had turned almost purple with sexual tension. The pisshole was
dilated and ready to open fire.

And fire it did. I gaped my mouth and luck of luck, the first big dollop of
cum landed squarely on my tongue. Then my cheeks, forehead and nose were
hosed down with semen as Jim ejaculated all over me. My face was his
cumrag, and he was using me to empty his balls. I took his cock into my
mouth and sucked on it like a straw, drawing out as much ejaculate as I
could. It was like sucking up the dregs of a milkshake.

When his spasms had abated I turned him around and buried my snout in his
ass crack again, lapping up the sweat and funk that had gathered there in
the short time I had tended to his cock. He had a salty taste that was
mixed with some other indefinable flavor, some body secretion produced by
sexual fission.

Jim was gasping loudly. As the timbre of his passion scaled down, I
reluctantly pulled away from him and stood up, yanked a paper towel from
the dispenser and wiped off my face. What a shame to toss all that cum into
the kitchen garbage can. But somehow I had a feeling there would be more
where that came from.

Jim let out a breathy "Wow, that was awesome," and stepped into his shorts,
pulling them up over his hips. I hadn't cum yet, but would save that for
later. I too pulled up my shorts.

As I walked him to the front door I said, "Thank you again for the
cookies." He seemed too spent and emotionally drained to say anything, but
he was smiling and nodding yes.

"Next time you're out polishing that Buick and you need your own knob
polished, drop on by."

"You better damn well believe I will," he said enthusiastically.

And you know what. He did -- and more.

But that's another story.

---

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Email clover2209@yahoo.com