I was close to red-lining and if I didn’t fill Jean’s mouth with my hot jizz soon, I was going to blow a fuse. Jean was sucking my cock head and fist-pumping my shaft to beat the band, I was twisting and pulling my screaming nipples and Roy was running his passionate tongue around my lips. Thirty seconds before my impending blast, Roy removed his tongue from my mouth and transferred the tip to my left ear. This allowed me to pant unfettered. My balls began to retract, signaling I was seconds away from nirvana. Just as I closed my eyes and stopped breathing, Roy whispered, “Jean wants you to fuck me.”
I heaved my pelvis forward, no doubt abusing Jean’s talented mouth, and grunted like a Neanderthal, “I’m cumming, Baby.”
I released my nipples. I grabbed Roy’s face with both hands, planting a kiss on his inviting lips, forcing my tongue between his teeth momentarily. I pulled my tongue out of Roy’s hungry mouth and retracted my dripping cock from Jean’s mouth simultaneously. I simply could not handle any additional stimulation.
My legs were rubbery to the point I needed to place my left hand onto Roy’s right shoulder for support. As I looked at Jean, she was in the process of grasping my right hand and moving it toward her face. She rubbed my index and long fingertips over her cum covered chin and then directed them across her lips and into her mouth. In the process, there was no loss of eye contact with me. She slowly sucked on my soiled digits, moving them in and out, as if I had resumed face-fucking her.
Unbeknownst to me, Roy had returned to jerking his own cock. As he was leaning in toward Jean’s face, he grabbed my hand, lubed the palm with the precum from his dripping meat, and replaced his fist with mine. I was all in. I pointed Roy’s dick at my fingers that were still violating Jean’s lips. Just as I was roughly jacking out Roy’s jizz, Jean pulled out my fingers and opened her mouth. With perfect timing, she took Roy’s entire load: effectively added his seed to my spunk.
Once again, Jean wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She arose from the Wally World chair and sweetly leaned in and gave us each a peck on the cheek. In hindsight, I was glad for just the peck. I was simply not prepared for a tongue covered in my own spewy, let alone Roy’s.
If all this wasn’t weird enough, the craziness then began in earnest. Jean asked for my cell phone. At first, I hesitated, thinking I’m a love ‘em and leave ‘em kinda guy, most comfortable just sticking my salami through a hole in a plywood panel. Here’s a lady, no - a lady and her husband, wanting to get all personal.
She again read my mind. “We won’t stalk you. We just want to invite you to our house for drinks.”
Against my better judgement, I forked over my cell and Jean pecked in earnest. She handed the phone back, smiled and looked at Roy. I took that as a sign to hit the road.
As I exited the arcade, all eyes turned toward me. One of the butt-plug shoppers smiled and gave the thumbs-up sign. I guess Jean, Roy, and I had been a tad too vocal.
The rest of the weekend was pretty much a blur. When I wasn’t sleeping, I was either working in the yard or figuring out what to do with two dozen eggs and a bushel basket of fresh vegetables. Donna had forgotten to cancel our co-op delivery before heading out of town. When I looked at the eggs, I thought of Bubba: fried eggs, poached eggs, scrambled eggs, eggs Benedict, egg salad, green eggs and ham, hard-boiled eggs, and deviled eggs. You’ve got the idea. I could eat all these eggs by midweek; but what about kale, turnips, summer squash, asparagus, and parsnips? The answer was pretty easy: just take it all downtown to the homeless shelter.
Given that it was Sunday afternoon and four-thirty, traffic was pretty light heading downtown to the soup kitchen. I dropped off the veggies, declined a tax write-off receipt, and got back in the truck. I wasn’t really ready to head home; but what to do? Off in the near distance, I spied the stadium. There were a half dozen sports bars within walking distance of the venue and parking wouldn’t be an issue with the game out of town. I headed over and sure enough, there was an open spot between O’Malley’s and The Dive.
I headed into The Dive and grabbed one of the two open stools at the bar. The barkeep was facing the bottles, but I could tell she had one fine ass. Getting beyond her white Tecovas, she was wearing denim cutoffs, cut so short that not only her rear pockets, but also her rear itself were visible. I wasn’t disappointed when she turned around: maybe 5’5” out of her boots, 125# and bolt-on knockers the size of Casaba melons. When I was able to raise my gaze from those miracles of modern medicine, I was greeted by a laugh and the question: “Do you see anything you’d like?” She pointed toward the bottles, but the joke was obvious.
I ordered my go-to: a shot of Jack and a bottle of Miller High Life.
The game was pretty close to the point that it was actually interesting. I was starting to get the munchies, so I ordered a second Miller and some onion rings. Halfway through the basket of rings, nature called. I asked the location of the john. Sheila (she had volunteered her name when she exchanged my spent bottle for a new one) pointed around the bar and kitchen, then down the hall.
A followed the yellow brick road to the end of a dark hallway. There were three doors: the left had a silhouette of a cowgirl, the right a cowboy, and the central door was a rear exit. Standing in the doorway sideways, with one Chuck Taylor-clad foot up against the jamb and a cig in his mouth was an aproned employee. As I was pushing on the cowboy door he queried: “What’s up?” I just nodded and already was lowering my zipper, since my bladder was sending the distress signal of a true peemergency. I’m guessing Mr. What’s Up took this as a “want some of this” signal, as he followed me in like a faithful bird dog. We stood nearly shoulder to shoulder at the urinals; me peeing like a racehorse and from the sound of it, he did nothing. He leaned over the divider and without further ado suggested I had “some kinda nice meat” and he wanted to suck it. He flushed the urinal (even though he hadn’t peed a drop) and headed into the handicapped stall.
I had a little difficulty emptying out the last several ounces of pee, because I had sprung a semi-boner. Once I was sure I had finished; I gave Old Dan a flick or two, let him dangle to air dry and pushed open the unlocked stall door. The employee was presumably cock sure (no pun intended) of his wooing or salesmanship skills, as he was already kneeling on the filthy floor (Note to self: don’t finish the onion rings). My cock was already dangling out of my drawers and semi-hard, so there wasn’t much work for him to do. I just sidled up to him, grabbed my meat and fed it into his open mouth. He must have been on a short smoke break, because he wasted no time sucking in half of my full eight inches and jacking the rest with his right hand, He grabbed my right ass cheek with his left hand, seemingly not so much to keep me from pulling out; but to balance himself on the wet floor. We developed a rhythm like old lovers, slow at first, then progressively faster. I gotta give him credit. He truly was an above-average cock sucker. In fact, he got me so hot, I spewed within two minutes flat. I thanked him, wiped my cock head on his shirt collar and went back to the bar.
When I returned to my stool, Sheila smiled and suggested she thought I had fallen in. I just laughed, pushed the half-full basket of uneaten rings toward her and asked for the tab.
I climbed up into the F150 and took a minute to be sure I wasn’t buzzed. Yeah, I know. Buzzed after only two Millers? I must be a short hitter, right? Anyway, I was in no hurry to head home and got to thinking about Roy and Jean: not the “Jean wants you to fuck me part”; but instead, the invitation. I pulled out my cell and checked my contacts. Sure enough, there was the entry: “Jean & Roy.” I clicked it open and surveyed the entries. Both of their cell numbers were listed, plus an address. In addition to a street name and number was the notation: “gate code 8742.” What the heck is that?
I decided the only way to find out would be a dry run, of sorts. I copied their street and number (#5 Applewood Lane) into Google Maps and set a GPS course.
I truly did need directions, because I was headed to the other side of the tracks, so to speak. I headed out North Main past the Galleria and then took the right fork at York Road, a two-lane street that initially passed through small higher-end strip centers on the left and a Whole Foods on the right. The farther from Main I drove, the fewer filling stations and stores were present. Finally, at the cross street Honey Creek Lane, there were four red stop signs and nothing else. Was I lost? The GPS had me taking a right. I followed Honey Creek for two miles until it seemingly dead-ended into Balmoral County Club. Again, was I lost? There was next to zero chance I was going to drive through those massive limestone stone pillars in an old Ford. I rechecked Google Maps and sure enough, #5 Applewood Lane was only half a mile ahead.
I timidly pressed the accelerator and forged ahead until I spied a junior version of the stone entry gate. Arrows pointed to the left and right. Thankfully residential streets were in the opposite direction from the clubhouse, golf course, tennis courts, and pool. As it turned out Honey Creek did not dead-end at the club, both rather at a cul de sac, another mile down the road.
To say I was in an alternative universe, would be an understatement. Honey Creek Lane quickly became narrow and dark: squeezed in by antebellum stone walls and aged oak trees. It was quiet to the point of creepiness. Applewood Lane was up ahead. There was no way to see #5, as there was a ten-foot ivy-covered wall obscuring my view and an imposing wrought iron gate of similar height. Ah, the gate code!
I figured a community like this must have private security, so I didn’t stop and gawk or try a three-pointer. I just drove on down Honey Creek and turned around at the cul de sac. As I drove back toward the exit, I noted two more gated streets to the west and fairways to the east. I really was in high cotton.
As I retraced my route to downtown and then out to my side of the tracks, I got to thinking about Jean and Roy’s invitation. I’m anything but naive, so I presumed any visit to their home would involve sex: likely kinky. Even though I had shot a load not more than forty-five minutes before, I was already getting hard and dripping precum. I vowed to text Jean and accept her invitation as soon as I got home.
