Hi, guys. Before you read this tale, please note that due to previously arranged commitments, there may be a delay in providing more tales during the forthcoming summer months. I will do everything I can to minimise delays but some breaks in transmission will be inevitable, particularly in May and June. Meanwhile, don't forget to keep up your subs to Nifty and I'll "see" you all soon. Have barrels of fun and as much rough, hard `n' dirty sex this summer as you can take. Take care of yourselves and don't do anything I wouldn't – that leaves you plenty of guys in Speedos to get horny over!
YOU CAN ALMOST set Big Ben as well as your watch by the sod. Twice a day, every day at ten-thirty and three-thirty you can see him. And every day, twice a day, he brings my cock up hard, just by looking at him. I'm certain I can have him whenever I want but I'm not sure me dick and balls would be able to hang out long enough to be able to do him justice! As it turned out, I had just cause to be worried about that, as you will see for yourself in a bit.
I knew he was called Ross because Angie Dixon, one of the tarts from Customer Services, had tried chatting him up once or twice (anything in trousers she's after, the little slut. It was known all over South London she always had a new pack of three in her handbag!) I also knew from Freddie next door that Ross worked in the office block just across the street from the gaff where I work. I'm the Assistant Office Manager on the second floor and the very first time I saw him was from my office window. He was taking a fag break, standing around outside the main entrance to his block, looking sexy and tacky all at the same time.
Ross is a skinhead in his early twenties with his hair cut so short you could hardly see any at all and might think he was as bald as a peeled onion. He was wearing a cheap grey polyester business suit from Len's stall down the Saturday market. It was so tight fitting it clung to his wiry frame like he was wrapped up in cling film. A skinhead in tight trousers is always a turn-on for me but with Ross it seemed extra attractive because he looked so awkward in it. He made it bloody obvious by his attitude that he'd rather be in black leather and faded worn denim with an Adidas or Umbro top and that he was being forced into a uniform he didn't like because it made him look sexually immature and stupid.
His white shirt and black tie looked awkward on him too and the way the shirt collar only half-hid the tattoos on either side of his neck only made him look hornier than ever – at least to me they did. He had a hard look about his gaunt young face and as I watched him draw deeply on his fag he looked callous and dangerous, the sort of brutal young guy who would bash your face in as soon as look at you, if he was so minded. But there was more than that to attract my attention.
At first I simply watched him with a kind of depraved "none-of-my-business-but-I'm-being-nosey" curiosity. That is, until I saw the dark patches on the trousers of his suit, near the top of his thighs and down into his crotch, looking as if they could be damp sweat patches. My dick was also curious and stirred into life at the sight. Ross turned and leant against the barrier, laughing with some of his mates who had joined him for a fag. Turning his back on me, he bent over to retie one of his shoe laces and the seat of his taut stretched trousers revealed the lines of his underwear and his fit young arse. I could tell that he'd done this deliberately. If those dark patches really were sweat induced, then the briefs he was wearing must be sticking to his dick and balls, burrowing intimately into his arse crack, filled with filthy smells and humid heat, as well as covering his wiry pubes with body moisture. My dick was solid, throbbing hard inside my boxers, leaving a wet sticky patch around the fly. Just looking at him from the height of my office window was making me weak at the knees and my head was spinning. Shit! That's the fucking phone again, better answer it. While I was taking earache from some irritating shithead who was claiming we'd sent him the wrong stuff, a mug of tea appeared on my desk. Susie Wong, as we call her, from Credit Control wanted to stop and chat, and then when I checked the window again he was gone, his fag break over.
He was in my thoughts for the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon until, around three o'clock and quite by chance I swear, I glanced out of the window and there he was, same as always, taking a fag break, leaning against the barrier. He must have seen me standing in my window watching him, because his free hand now and then would pull on the fabric of his crotch close to where his cock ought to be. Sometimes he would reach further between his legs and tug at his balls and absent mindedly scratch at the inside of his left thigh. I do believe his sexy arse was straining the seat of his trousers almost to ripping point. After a couple of drags he was gone and I watched him enter his building. In that short time I clocked how tight and round and fuckable his arse was, how much his sizeable packet distended the tight fabric of his trousers, and just how much the damp patches had darkened since the morning.
When he'd left the scene, I just had to go to the Gents and beat off after that display, wild thoughts of me burying my face in his damp stinking underwear and tonguing that tight young arse brought me to shooting point in double quick time. Ooh, yeah! Excuse me, guys, I'll be back in a jiffy. Got to go and take myself in hand, so to speak ... whew, that's better!
The next two weeks saw Ross take his twice daily fag break with monotonous regularity, cum rain or cum shine. Sometimes, the grey business suit gave way to a navy blue one, presumably while the grey was being dry-cleaned. This alternative suit looked a heap better on him but at first didn't display any stains in interesting areas, which was a damned pity and a major disappointment. However, it was not long before I noticed dark patches beginning to form around his crotch area, and usually by the time he took his afternoon fag break it looked for all the world as if he'd pissed his pants.
It was Angie from Customer Services who first caught me eyeing him up mid-way through the second week. Remember, she was the one who had told me his name; she had also told me that I stood no chance with him: "Fuck it, Alec, he's too red blooded to be bothered with an old poofter like you." The fucking cheek of her! That `old' hurt me: twenty-eight ain't old. Is it? Maybe she was just fucking jealous, like a lot of these tarty cows are when I kop off with some young-and-hung slice of beefcake they've got the hots for!
Up to this point, I had been a youngish and relatively sensible, clean living bloke, taking care of myself in the gym and on the running track at the local Leisure Centre. I'd been off smokes and excessive amounts of booze so long I could not recall the last time I'd had a puff – or a poof, come to that. However, as the third week dawned, I decided to take up smoking again, but strictly cigarillos only this time. The only reason I can give for taking this backward step is that it gave me the opportunity to take a mid-afternoon fag break of my own and get down to street level to observe him from a closer standpoint.
I found it strange at first, smoking again out in the open air, with some of the females from Admin and Angie Dixon's rather tasty teenage brother Kevin. He was a good looking youngster who was aiming eventually for management. He seemed to have developed a bit of an infatuation for me. Heaven knows why that should happen but I had a feeling he'd go a trick or two if I played my cards right, but as his senior I'd have to be fucking careful if I did try it on with him. If anything does develop in that area I'll try and let you all know about it. Anyway, right then my full attention was focussed on Ross.
He was standing there, as arrogant as fuck, with just the width of the road between us, in the bright Spring sunshine, taking his first drag of the afternoon. I just couldn't take my eyes off him: his handsomely saturnine looks, dark eyes, thin cruel mouth, the sunlight glinting off a silver ring in each ear, his bulging crotch and cute arse, not to mention those damnable damp patches that rose from his thighs and framed his package. Twice he caught me looking at him, my gaze fixed on that part of his anatomy where it should not have been but I looked away the instant he spotted me. The third time he caught me looking, he gave me a boyish grin and winked. The fourth time I held on to his gaze. He never batted an eyelid. Those penetrating eyes locked on to mine and never once blinked as he pulled hard on his fag, letting clouds of blue smoke drift slowly skywards. From that moment I savvied that Angie was destined to be going home with dry knickers and a big disappointment while brother Kevin might be in with a chance (after me, of course.) That unflinching stare told me that Ross was as gay as I was. Straight guys never, ever hold on to eyeball-to-eyeball contact with another bloke like that; they are conditioned to look away fast, molto rapido. Gay men, on the other hand, can hold on to another bloke's gawking all fucking day. Particularly if they've got the hots for each other!
The next two days saw this carry-on repeated both morning and afternoon. We were deliberately cruising each other from across the street and I just had that feeling you get when you know for sure you're gonna have it away with the guy. The only question I could not answer right then was: when and where?
On the fourth day of my new career as a recidivist smoker (that's a fucking big word for this early in the morning, ain't it? That's what my boss calls me when he's annoyed at something I've said or done.) As I was going to say, on the fourth day I spent the period from the end of the morning fag break to well after the afternoon break bruising my brain trying to work out when would be a good time to make my strike. As so often happens, Fate or something got pissed off with me taking so long to make a move and made the decision on my behalf. Around four o'clock the phone danced on my desk. Shit, I thought, bet that old fart's back with another problem, less than an hour before quitting time!
"Good afternoon. Assistant Office Manager speaking. How may I help you?" Costs nowt to be polite, even though you hate the old fart's guts.
I nearly crapped myself when a gritty half-educated voice, heavy wiv Sahf Lun'un speech, came through the earpiece. Half-educated it may have been but there was something compelling and slightly sinister about it, which had me all of a tremble like Dolly Daydream.
"I ain't sure, me ol' cock sparrer," came the voice, sounding as if it was forcing its way through a load of coarse gravel, "but I certainly `ope so. It's me, Ross, the skin'ead from acrorst the way, the one yer nearly creamed yer skivvies fer the uvver day, puttin' it crudely. Nah, do wot I say, me ol' fruit, an' bring yer phone over to yer windah and look acrorst at our place."
I followed his instructions and looking across I saw him directly opposite me, standing in an office on the top floor of the smaller building where he worked, in line with my `executive' (ha! ha!) second floor office. I almost fell through the plate glass window when I saw he was bollock naked, standing there with a raging hard-on.
"Good. I can see yer and yer don't look alf bad, me ol' cock sparrer." He waved. "Bet yer've gotta big un and like pushin' it where the sun don't shine, eh?" He chuckled, evilly. For one moment I was nonplussed, then sheepishly returned his salutation. I could not help furtively looking round to see if anyone had witnessed the exchange and seen what I'd just seen, but I was safe. This time.
"Bugger me, man, yer jumpier than a moggie on an ot tin roof! If anyone comes in, tell em to fuck orf. I fink yer a dirty ol' queen wot wants to get is ands inside me knickers an' is cock up me jacksie...." His calm, dangerously quiet voice trailed off, but not before I had noticed the use of that word old' again. Somebody up there trying to tell me something?
"OK, if yer too fuckin' shy to make the move, I guess I'd better do it. If yer so desperate for a good fuck, meet me ahtside yer gaff at six and we'll see wot gives an' take it from there. Right, mister?" I nodded, slowly, too dry mouthed to risk speaking. Then as I saw him about to replace his receiver, I found my voice.
"Hey, Ross, I bet your knickers are warm and wet, bet they taste good, too." I was rapidly drowning in a flood of lust – and I knew he knew it, too.
"That's fer me to know and you to find aht. Mebbe." I was left holding on to a dead phone and a very stiff, very much alive cock.
It was still stiff when I gazed into those cold, heartlessly lupine grey eyes at six o'clock precisely. He looked harder, more menacing the closer I stood near him. His body was leaner, more sinewy, his grey suit tighter than ever, the damp areas more pronounced. He did not smile, merely gazed at me and spoke without any trace of feeling whatsoever. A gust of chilly, early Spring evening breeze made me shiver. He smiled a wintry smile.
"If yer wanna get inside me knickers, me ol' fart, we'll `ave ter find a quiet bog somewheres. The one dahn the railway station is a fave place of mine. You game for it, arse bandit?"
Without being given a chance to respond, I found myself following after him as he marched towards the railway station, all well-ordered efficiency, not wasting breath in idle chatter but silently striding down the road busy with homeward bound crowds of office workers and shop assistants. I had the greatest difficulty in keeping Percy Pecker subdued as I walked a few steps behind him. His arse cheeks oscillated sensuously and athletically with every step. I was still not certain about this situation but I was compelled by the itch in my balls to trail along helplessly, a dog on a leash.
He was right about the station bogs. They were the most private place we could have found at short notice and he must have used them for his depraved purposes many times before. I had not had any action in them since I was a randy, sex-obsessed teenage schoolboy who could never get enough cock, but that was the last thing on my mind right then.
Those toilets must be amongst the last of their kind anywhere in London. Down two steep flights of stone steps into a subterranean Edwardian `gentlemen's convenience', which turned out to be a cathedral dedicated to taking the piss (literally) with white porcelain urinals surrounded by floor to ceiling chocolate and cream tiling, offset with gleaming copper and brass fittings. Each of the eight cubicles was large enough to comfortably accommodate two men of average build for whatever purposes they had in mind. The cubicles were isolated from each other by six-inch-thick tiled walls, the doors were of some kind of heavy wood. You could take a piss or have a crap in reasonable comfort. The only thing that bothered me was the fact there was only one way in – and only the same way out. If things turned nasty with the skinhead... .
Two men standing suspiciously close to each other in the urinals half turned and watched as we both went straight into one of the cubicles, locking the door behind us. Ross instantly leant against the wall beside the WC, his legs spread apart, his package thrust forwards, his thumbs hooked inside his waistband and the damp areas of his groin and thighs pushed towards me.
I gripped his hips, squatted down and shoved my face into his polyester shrouded groin, sucking at the warm fabric. My hands slipped behind him and clutched at his arse cheeks, squeezing hard, with my mouth and nose rummaging in the area around his balls. Even without undressing him, I knew I had me a healthy, fully equipped young stallion straining at the bit, raring to go. Two minutes later, his open fly exposed his cotton briefs to my lascivious gaze. I slid his trousers down to his knees and pressed my face into the warm moistness of the damp material. His tumescent dick instantly solidified and pulled at the obstruction, trying to break free. I was well turned on as I licked, sucked and nibbled at the smelly piss stained underwear straining over his balls and thick, heavy cock. The pouch of his briefs was overflowing with the flavours of a debauched lecherous young man. The heat from his rigid manhood seemed to boost the intoxicating, odorous scent of his genitals, filling the back of my throat with a rancid after-taste that had my dick throbbing and pulsating, dripping salty-sweet pre-cum into my boxers. I was determined I was going to extract every nuance of flavour and odour from this guy's underwear.
He gripped my head in his strong hands and forced my mouth on to his balls, rubbing my nose hard into the soiled pouch, dragging my lips upwards along the hard length of his shaft. He forced me to bite and suck on his knob end and lick the damp patch where his pre-cum was leaking like a burst water main. He pushed his bony hand inside his pants, manoeuvred his cock out of the fly and pointed it straight at my face. I was no longer under any misconception that he was anything but a filthy minded bastard, encouraging me with a couple of whips of his rigid staff across my face and half-whispered dirty talk. I say `half-whispered' but it was audible enough to echo around the tiled cubicle and could be heard by anyone at the urinals, leaving them in no doubt as to what was going on inside.
Again he swiped me across the face, from left to right and right to left, with all seven inches of hard, thick cut meat. Slightly dark in colour, his cock was delineated by pulsing veins and capped with a swollen, shiny purplish-red helmet dripping pre-cum. It pushed itself against my lips, coating them and burning me, before he dragged my face on to it, sliding it hard and throbbing into my mouth, over my wet tongue and down my throat. The stinking dampness of his briefs rubbed against my nose, my lips grazed the hemmed fly opening. I haven't got the words to tell you how amazing it was to have his dick driving in and out of my mouth, fucking my face, each stroke harder and deeper than the one before. My grip on his butt cheeks tightened as I anchored myself, trying all I could to make him cum. He quickly made it clear, however, that he had other ideas!
After five minutes or so of fucking my face so hard he brought tears to my eyes, he stopped. I looked up at him through watery eyes. His cock was still buried deep in my throat. Thinking I might give him extra stimulation, I gulped a couple of times to give his dick a massage with my throat muscles; all I received for my efforts was a stinging blow to the side of my face from his scrawny hand. His gravelly voice snarled, "'Nuf of that, poofter. I ain't ready to dump my load yet." I prayed silently that no-one was listening outside!
He roughly pulled his throbbing cock out of my mouth, causing me to cough and splutter. His thick shaft, wet and steely hard, jigged with every pulse beat in front of me. Holding my gaze with his cold grey eyes, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a sachet of KY and a heavy duty condom. He held them out to me and growled, "Put it on me and lube me up, queer boy." His voice was glacial.
I fumbled a bit getting the condom out of the packaging and that earned me two more stinging blows to my head. I almost dropped the blasted rubber but succeeded in keeping it from hitting the deck. I managed to get my shaking hands to slide it carefully over the thick shaft. It was only as my thumb and forefinger encircled the sheath and began applying half of the lube to it, that I was struck dumb by a thunderbolt. This fucking bastard was about to fuck me – and meant to fuck me rotten.
I had fantasised for days about diving head-first into his unwashed, stained and reeking underwear, but it had never entered my puny brain that he might want to fuck me. Suddenly, I realised my behaviour and body language had sent him all the wrong messages. I am one of those queens who has to prepare in advance if I'm going to be fucked, otherwise the answer is a firm "Nothing doing!" However, I had met my Nemesis, my Waterloo. There was no escape. Nothing I could do or say would prevent him from taking me. Besides, he didn't give me time to ruminate on my fate.
Grabbing the lapels of my jacket in both hands, he pulled me roughly to my feet. With a shove between my shoulders and a swift boot up the arse he had me standing by the toilet bowl. In seconds, he had my trousers down around my knees. One hand worked on my silky boxers, stroking and pulling at my aching cock, whilst his condom covered dick pushed up inside one silk leg and into my arse crack. I had only used half the lube on him but it was too late for me to think of using what was left on myself to grease up my hole. He was already pushing himself into me, hard and fast. His unoccupied hand was clamped over my mouth cutting off any squeals and yelps. His muscular, wiry thighs pushed against mine, spreading them wide.
I shot my load almost immediately, pumping hot spunk into my silk boxers. My ring-piece clamped on to his invading dick but that did not prevent him driving forcefully up into my rectum, aiming for my stomach. He grunted and gave three deep thrusts as he fired off his salvo into the rubber filling my tube. He kept on cumming while my dick was still spewing spunk, my body trembling with lubricious delight. I had really been used by a real hard and dirty rough fucker.
As I finished I stumbled forward, putting out a hand to steady myself against the rear wall. I felt him pull out of me and heard him mutter something about "...teaching these bloody stuck up queers what it's like to be fucked senseless by a real man." I heard the cubicle door open and close behind me as he left. The feel of his solid ejaculating cock was still throbbing inside me.
Next day, at afternoon fag break, the two of us cruised across the street once more. Eventually, before he returned to his building, Ross wandered over and handed me a small soft package wrapped in brown paper. He didn't speak but just gave me a sexy wink.
Fifteen minutes later, at my desk in the privacy of my `executive' office, I opened the package to find his white briefs which he had worn the day before. The front was stained with piss and dried cum and a delicious aroma rose into my nostrils. There was also a note which simply read, "How about Friday for some more fun?" I rewrapped the package and headed off to the Gents, taking it with me. Would I dare to resist the invitation? Like fuck I would! I didn't and haven't resisted any of Ross's trips to the railway station since. On the last excursion, he whispered in my ear that the fiery young Kevin from Customer Services had asked him to have a word with me. Didn't I tell you so, guys?
Laurie Page.