Straight Lads

This story deals with (highly) adult themes, and is really not at all appropriate for children. Copyright me.

This story deals with themes of manipulation and authority. The difference between this happening in a story and this happening in real life is that in a story, nobody who actually exists gets hurt. Anyone seeking to practice this in the real world has serious moral and mental problems that they genuinely need to resolve.

Some of you may know me from my other stories. These include:

Ends, Means and Steve - - - - gay/highschool/ends-means-and-steve [ One Part, Complete] Getting to Know Dan - - - - gay/authoritarian/getting-to-know-dan/ [One Part, Complete] New Direction for One Direction - - - gay/celeb/new-direction-for-one-direction/ [Five Parts, Complete] Straight Lads - - - - - gay/authoritarian/straight-lads/ [Three Parts, active] Straight Liam's Gay Afternoon - - - gay/highschool/straight-liams-gay-afternoon/ [One Part, Complete]

NON-DISCLAIMER MESSAGE BELOW; MIGHT BE QUITE INTERESTING, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD READ IT*

This story is a continuation of my ongoing series, 'Straight Lads'. As I haven't contributed to this series for AGES, this episode is extra long, so to speak. I hope you enjoy it.

I recently established a website at http://www.asstr.org/~Just_Some_Chap/. THIS SITE IS NOW DEFUNCT.

Whilst I am incredibly grateful to ASSTR for providing bandwidth to host my stories, their restrictions on images and a somewhat fiddly interface compel us to part ways.

But this is not the end. Oh no. I have a NEW site, which includes lots more features (and the occasional picture), and which will generally have my stories a few days prior to nifty. It should also be possible to 'follow' the site, so you receive updates, as well as leave feedback on individual stories. Great, eh? What an age we live in; where the publication of pornography just gets easier and easier.

***********CONTACT DETAILS BELOW

So this wonder-site, which I've probably horribly oversold, is located at:

http://mydarkfairytales.blogspot.com/

But of course, I would still love to hear your thoughts via email, and as a general rule I repond to all emails sent to me, and I have even been known to take criticism onboard.

My email is: Just_Some_Chap@hotmail.co.uk.

So with all that out the way...enjoy the story!

(M/t, authoritarian, oral, anal, public, probably a few others too)

Thursday July 20th 2006 -----------------------

Now, I would hate you to think that I'm some sort of serial rapist, warping minds and tearing ligaments in my unflinching pursuit of straight lads. Just as I am adept at applying the uncompromising stick, so too am I capable of plying them with the carrot (not like that, you filthy dogs).

For instance, I am reminded of young Darren, with whom I had a short but intense relationship.

Darren was the youngest of the three removal men who turned up to help me move house, several years ago after I had just secured my first teaching job and needed to move closer to the school.

I was moving out of the now empty student house I'd called home for the past year, and moving into a (rented) house. My old place had five bedrooms; three upstairs, two downstairs, but they were now all empty. Besides that, there was a kitchen, living room and two bathrooms.

Why did I need a removals firm, you might ask? Because the place I was moving to was unfurnished, and my Dad, in his infinite wisdom, bought all the stuff he'd purchased to furnish the new place to my OLD place, a few weeks before I was due to move out, because he and my mother were going on holiday when I actually moved.

It wasn't too big a deal, really; like I said, the other rooms had no people in them, so there was lots of room, and he'd graciously agreed to pay the actual cost of the removal (aren't parents great?!), provided I paid the tip (which I apparently must pay no matter what -- still not entirely sure why, but there you go).

I was immediately attracted to Darren from the moment I saw him, about a week before the move, when he turned up with a flat-pick of outrageously odd-shaped boxes. His hair was black as coal and buzzed short all over his head with a stylish longer strip in the middle. It sat atop a clean-shaven, blue-eyed face which you could tell was normally milky white but, because of the recent heatwave, currently exhibited a slightly darker tint. Not especially my type; but he possessed the Alpha Male countenance combined with the unintentional underlying menace and genuinely well-meaning scowl which seemed peculiarly associated with modern British males, and to which I was hopelessly drawn. This was further cemented whenever he spoke, eyes half-lidded, in the flat, simple-minded accent of leery south London street youf.

He was short in height, but his frame was tight, young and lithe, plated with the muscle you would expect from a young man devoted to arduous physical labour of one sort or another.

As luck would have it, on the day of his visit the weather was hot, and the lad was dressed appropriately: an old, grubby white and red vest which showcased his lean arms and nicely toned pecs. A pair of black gym shorts (which were so small I thought maybe his mum had bought them in celebration of the Beijing Olympic games) were the ideal vehicle for displaying his surprisingly smooth and pleasingly chunky legs, connected to a snazzy pair of cute little feet encased in grey and yellow trainers and black socks.

As you might imagine, I was pleased as punch when he accepted my invitation to a cup of tea before he left, where I could rigorously question him.

Like all well-meaning straight boys, he remained utterly oblivious to my interest. Never ceases to amaze me how many men assume every woman they've ever met must fancy them in some way, but never remotely consider the possibly that a bloke might.

So I was able to find out quite a bit about him whilst he amiably sat in my living room sipping tea, me questioning him like that fat bloke out of NYPD Blue. He looked to be around 18; I later discovered he was 19. He had worked for his Uncle's removals firm since he was expelled from school when he was 16. He'd "had his mind on other things," he said, grinning as he did so. I inquired for more information, but he deflected my questioning sufficiently cack-handedly that it was obvious he didn't want to talk about it.

I quickly ascertained that his life pretty much conformed to that of most other straight lads his age; living at home so as to make enough money to get pissed at the weekend, and a few nights during the week. These drinking sessions were critically important to him: he sees his many mates at such events, and they're the primary means through which he finds something warm to stick his cock into. These are the two social forces driving Darren's life.

During this questioning, I was pretty pleased with how well I was restraining myself; my lust had so far not infected any aspect of my dealings with him.

All that changed when, with him sprawled out on my sofa, I said something funny. He reared back laughing, the fingers of his left hand sliding his T-shirt slightly up and away from his tummy, where I observed his hand lazily scratch the defined packs of muscle located there.

The damn broke. I suddenly found myself hardening, as I imagined silently sinking to my knees between his outstretched spread legs, and spending the rest of the day snuggling against his meaty groin, just wallowing in the robust, uncompromising scent I knew I'd find there.

I pictured myself lying there, him looking down on me with sneering disapproval, as I alternated between reverentially nipping and forcefully tonguing the well-developed organs responsible for producing the odour that reduced me, for all my education, good graces and bearing, to a snivelling -- and snorting - wreck.

"Got a girlfriend?" I blurted.

"Yeah," he grinned lopsidedly. "She helps on the jobs sometimes!"

We both laughed at that.

"Hang on," I said, "I thought you said you were out fucking girls every weekend?"

I watched as he unconsciously gave his weighty tackle a reassuring squeeze through his shorts before replying, "well, yeah. I mean, she don't come out with me at the weekend; she's workin!"

Queue more uproarious laughter.

I was enjoying this. Unlike most of the straight lads I'd met through teacher-training at a school or just through the course of residing in a major city, Darren wasn't a complete and unremitting fucktard.

We were also getting along well. At the time this was going on, I was 24 years old; not much older than he, and I have always been very straight-acting.

So I was just one of the fellas. We were just some bloke sharing fuck stories with one another. Possessing the wonderfully frustrating myopic cognitive perception of boys his age, he didn't notice that he was sharing his fuck stories with me, but not mine with him.

But it was no matter. My questioning delved deeper into his sexual exploits -- and he was fine with it. Unlike maths, history or philosophy, sex was something Darren could talk about for hours, and he was proud (in the boisterous, unthinking way straight boys are) of his sexual trysts, and happy to talk about them.

And in so doing, he'd give me a little show -- unintentional, of course; his fit little leg bouncing up and down with yet-to-be-tapped sexual energy, as he relived encounters; his right hand occasionally curling protectively around his shaft, cradling his nuts, or giving the whole caboodle a swift yank to pull it into line and show it who's boss.

So what if he's tenting out his shorts a little? We're just a couple of blokes, talking.

It's perfectly natural.

"I'm surprised you have any energy left for your girlfriend."

"Mate, I'm basically a living, breathing smoothie machine," I laughed as he continued, "which is crossed with the fuckin' energiser bunny; I just keep goin' and goin'."

My cock aching, I held my hands up in mock surrender, "ok ok, I get the point."

His brow creased in sudden confusion (or was it concern?) "What about you? You got a girlfriend or anything?"

Now, I could've just answered `no', and left it at that. There was no need for me to pronounce my homosexuality.

But by this point in our conversation, the room heady with the sexual tension being exuded from his stiff prick, I had a funny feeling that good things might happen if I was upfront with him.

"No, I'm gay," I said simply.

His smile dropped, and I think even his cock sagged a little.

Maybe this wasn't the boon for our relationship I'd initially envisaged.

"Oh. That's cool. Listen, I didn't mean to offend you earlier when I was talking about my girlfriend and stuff..."

How precious. "You didn't," I stated flatly.

We sat in silence for a few moments; desperate to stop him from saying `I'll be off then' and making this the most awkward house move ever, I said "so does it pay well? The removals business?"

Yes, one of my stupider moments, but fuck-lust makes you do stupid things, as Darren himself was about to confirm.

"Nope, not really. Live off tips, mostly." He smiled amiably, but the easy-flowing conversation of earlier had gone.

The bulbed tip of his organ was still tenting his gym shorts though.

I was watching it watching me through its thin polyester veil as I said, "how's a £200 tip sound, Darren?"

"That'd be fuckin' awesome!" His eyes lit up, and his grin returned to his face as his hand returned to his crotch, giving his dick another rough yank through his shorts -- again, I don't think he realised he'd done it.

Now, when this all took place, I was merely a recently graduated teacher, but even then I had acquired the essential teaching skill of understanding a particular lad's mind and foibles better then he understood them himself. And it was readily apparent that, whilst Darren was a nice, quiet boy whose mum still washed his underpants and was willing make friends with anyone, he was also a very sexual animal.

Emphasis on the animal.

"Well, you'll have to work for it, kiddo."

"What do you mean?"

"Well...let's make a little bet based on what you were claiming earlier, shall we? If by the end of the day when your Uncle collects his money, you're still capable of...performing...you get the bonus, in addition to your cut of whatever I give your Uncle for the job."

He burst out laughing. "Oh my God, you've GOT to be joking."

"Oh, what, were YOU joking earlier? Yeah, I thought you were. I should get a reduced rate; I thought I was hiring three removal MEN; turns out I'm getting two removal men and one removal BOY. I hope it has that sewn on your fucking uniform, because it's true. Lads like you always talk big when they don't have to back up their shit."

He laughed harder as he replied, "mate, first, we don't have no uniforms, and second, THAT ain't the fuckin' problem, it's that-"

"So why don't you make yourself an easy £200 then?"

"-it's that your MOVING HOUSE, man! You're gonna be busy!"

I smiled. "I'll find the time. BUT -- and this is a big but -- when I wanna do it, you have to do it. None of this it's my lunch break now' or I need to talk to me girlfriend for 4 hours' bullshit. You ain't getting the money from just making up a shitload of excuses -- no way. You do that, deal's off. Now, you gonna make yourself an easy £200, or you gonna basically admit that what you said earlier was a load of bollocks, and politely decline."

He slowly shook his head, and then said almost as an afterthought, "No offense, mate, but I ain't...you know, I really ain't gay."

I laughed reassuringly. "Yeah, I kinda noticed."

"So I ain't cool with doing all this gay shit-"

"Whoa whoa, hold on -- `gay shit'? If a bloke gets a handjob from another bloke, it doesn't mean he's gay, it means he likes handjobs -- I'M the one doing the gay shit; you don't have to worry about that."

Still shaking his head, I continued with my point. "Listen. If worst comes to the absolute worst, you get a cut of the bonus I'm gonna give your Uncle after spending the day shooting off a whole load of times. And maybe, if you win, you spend your day cumming and at the end of it, you get given £200! Seriously man, I'm not seeing a downside for you."

When he didn't respond immediately -- when he instead looked up toward my ceiling, dopey lopsided grin on his face, eyes positively misty with the testosterone pumping through his body and clouding his judgement, I knew I had him.

I held out my hand.

After a few moments -- short, ephemeral moments, because I knew how this was going to go down -- he reached out and shook my hand.

"Me mums got ma' tea on, so I should get goin'", he said as he stood up to leave, smirking as he did so.

"Make sure you're prepared," I said, as he ambled down to the front door. He didn't say anything; just held up his two fingers in a `V for Victory' sign.

We hadn't spoken about the deal. But we both knew it was on. He was intending to win: good for him. I was counting on the innate mindless competitiveness of straight lads ensuring I really got my money's worth.

Little did he know that for me, this was the perfect game -- I won no matter what, and I don't think he quite realised what he'd let himself in for. As my more regular readers might know, I can be quite insistent when it comes to lads cocks.

I'd basically been given the right to spend the day of my house move in the esteemed company of my very own straight 19 year old removals lad, with his sweaty boxers round his ankles whilst I twiddled his ever-fidgety cock. Best of all; I had the right to do this whenever I pleased! If he obstructed me in any way, I'd win automatically. And if I didn't play with it enough -- if I was proven incapable of draining those dank balls of his which I had no doubt he intended to fatten up before the day of the move, so they'd be juicy and succulent and heavy with his distinct brand of man cream -- then I had to give him £200.

Well boo fucking hoo. Woe is me. He'd been so ripped off, I almost felt sorry for him.

A quick wank cured me of that.

Cum #1: The Early Morning Load

Friday July 28th 2006 ---------------------

The week leading up to my move dragged, for more reasons than one. Yes, I was busy packing -- but unusually, I was also looking forward to move day!

When the three fellas turned up at 7.30am, Darren was dressed in a loose pair of grubby grey sweatpants and an old, thin, tight black polo shirt, the collar turned up, with the name of his Uncle's company embroidered in gold stitching on the plateau of his sloping left pec.

He complemented this with the trainers he'd worn previously, and a pair of light grey socks.

I was pleased; his clothing would enable quick, easy access to his body, and he looked very fresh.

And more to the point, he looked hot as fuck, without even trying to.

Very laddish.

Something Darren had handily forgotten to mention when we made the wager -- his girlfriend came along; `to help'. She was unexpectedly heavily-set, and looked like she could handle herself very well.

I could now see why Darren was so pleased she worked at the weekend, but I was a little bit scared she'd beat me up if she cottoned on.

After showing them around the place, the first opportunity to milk my little sex-mad goat presented itself very easily.

Brian, the Uncle, asked Jennifer to start moving some of the lighter boxes out of the living room. Brian and Gary, the Dad, would start planning how to move the bigger items in the kitchen, whilst Darren was told to start moving stuff out of my bedroom.

We exchanged a brief, knowing look, with the return of Darren's cockeyed grin telling me he knew the score.

Gary, observing my slight frame and thick glasses, derisively told me to just "take to stay out of the way" and "find something to do". I nodded thinking, `don't worry about that Gary; I've already planned to spend the day entertaining myself with your son's cock'.

As Darren made his way to my bedroom, I yanked him into the small, utilitarian bathroom found along the way.

As soon as the door was locked, he said with a grin, "mate, I hope you've bin to the cashpoint `cos you don't stand a fuckin' chance. I ain't jizzed since Tuesday!" he said proudly, gripping his prominent package through the loose fabric of his sweats.

So focussed was I that I didn't say anything as I batted his hand away and knelt before him.

This was no time for chit-chat or idle foreplay.

Hooking my fingers in the waistband of his grey work-trousers, I effortlessly slid them down his smooth legs, revealing a crisp, tight pair of designer boxer-briefs, decorated in horizontal bands of bright colour like a rainbow, with `DIESEL' printed in light grey on a black waistband.

Looking at him for the briefest of moments, I spied the hard hump of his thick seven and a half inch prick distending the fabric on the left-hand side, with a damp, dark syrupy stain offsetting the bright yellow band where the tip of his knob was located.

I looked up, testily running my index finger along the body of the thick shaft poking out at me as I said, "so I guess you are pretty horny, eh?"

"Jenny was a bitch on the way over. Teasin' me an' shit. She's just pissed cos' I ain't fucked her all week."

Knowing he was presently meant to be working and would be missed, I wasted no time, turning him around so I was face-to-face with his perky tight arse, which I briefly ran my two hands over -- as you would run your hands over a pair of melons at the greengrocers -- before standing up behind the boy.

He now stood before the mirror above my bathroom sink, watching me for a few seconds, before I set my eyes on his own baby-blues. He turned away; instead looking down at my busy hands.

Hands which were reaching around to pull the front of his multi-coloured boxers down. I gingerly anchored them behind the fat, swollen gemstones of his bollocks, which were ensconced within a rounded, crinkled sack.

This lewdly pushed the thick pale cock and furry ballsack to the fore.

In doing this, his chunky cock became momentarily trapped behind the waistband of his pants, the plump bellend acting as a flat hook for the stretched fabric.

His cock bounced back against his stomach like a wound-up catapult, flinging flecks of translucent lad-dew this way and that as it did so, a few drops splatting against the mirror before the two of us.

"Always gets like that when I ain't cum in a while," he said absent-mindedly.

Wrapping my hand firmly around his attention-starved, drippy teen poker, I said reassuringly, "don't worry about it mate. Just means you wanna win, right?"

He chuckled as my fingertips slowly flittered along the shaft, tickling the juicy blue vein that pulsed along it; scratching the dark nest of pubes coating his entire groin.

He looked at the ground, all bashful-like.

"Yeah. I'm getting that two hundred quid man."

He closed his eyes briefly as my hand pulled back on the shaft, the chunky nubbin of his foreskin sliding back to reveal the greasy purple domed head. My other hand rubbed his shoulder. "Good. I want you to want that money, man. `Cos you know something, pal? I want you to fuckin' win. I want to still be here, after we reach the new house, wringing another load out of your nuts. I'll be well pissed off if it comes to half three and you've had enough."

He shook his head, eyes now permanently closed, lost in his own sexual reverie as he replied "ain't gonna happen, mate. I can..." he paused briefly as my hand moved from his shoulder, down his compact, developed flank, before reaching the hem of his shirt and cheekily sliding under it.

My persistent fingers stroked, scratched and otherwise molested the boy's hairless tummy.

Unconciously stretching his delicious form like a cat in response to my scratching, arching his back and flexing the sinews of muscle plating his gut, he continued, "...I can jack off in the mornin', and still fuck all night. You've lost man..."

I sped up the pace of my hand now, rapidly sliding up and down the straight boy's stiff pecker, my own cock tenting my jeans and gently caressing his high boxered bottom as I swayed, this way and that.

"You talk a good game. Mate. But let's see how you're fairing when it comes for yer fourth milking of the day, eh? Oh, yeah, mate...make no mistake. I've got it all planned. I'm gonna spend the whole fuckin' day milking you. I mean, that's our agreement, isn't it? You knew the score, mate, and you agreed to it. You know I get to spend all day milking you dry, like you're a mindless, bleating, horny little billy goat."

At which point, he let lose, staring up at the low ceiling as he croaked in a quiet, husky voice, "Ah...AHH-HA, yes, FUCK yes..."

Pointing the nozzle of his heavy stiff hose into the white porcelain sink, I moved my hand from his flat stomach to lovingly scraping my nails across the hairy pronounced nutsack.

He stood on trainered tiptoes as he shot long, bright-white streams of spunk into my sink, white-knuckled fingers gripping the edge of the sink as he did so.

I kept slowly jacking him as three, four, five strong streams of viscous clotted lad cream were propelled out of his oh-so-proud straight granite love-muscle onto my sink. I chuckled. "Yeah, Darren the fuckin' humpin' goat. You liked that, didn't you? Good lad. I'm very pleased; you're already earning your money, mate."

He kept spurting for another fifteen seconds or so; the dregs of his first load, pulsing out, again again and again, all over my hand, still maintaining the thick white character of his first shot.

Speaking with a little more composure, but still in a voice thick with need, he said, "Christ, mate, I fuckin' needed that. Jesus Christ. Fort my bollocks were gonna pop for a second."

After a brief couple of seconds afterglow, he broke free of my non-committal, but perhaps more intimate then he would like embrace-from-behind, and slid his cock back into his pants as he pulled up his sweats.

He chuckled nervously as he sauntered away from me. "You, err...you've definitely got a way with words, mate."

I stood there, looking at my hand briefly before sliding each finger, heavy with the straight boy's load, into my mouth. Sucking each one dry, revelling in the thick consistency and deeply spiced aroma of heavily concentrated, highly refined lad batter.

He frowned as he watched me, noisily licking up the cream that a few moments before had been desperately trying to evacuate his bursting balls.

"Yeah," I replied, finally. "So I've been told."

"You enjoying that, eh?"

I smiled, replying "you taste very nice, Darren," just to see how he'd react.

I was pleased when he just returned my smile with the classic, "there's more where that came from, sunshine," squeezing his baby-makers as he did so.

Still licking the remnant of his sex explosion from my hand, I said, "you know, Darren, when they make milk on the farm, they keep the animal til it's ready to burst with milk, and then the first bit -- they skim that off and make cream from it. Because it's not like ordinary milk; it's extra thick and extra tasty."

"This," I waved my hand at him for emphasis, white globules shaking free from my fist and smacking him in the eye. `Bullseye' I thought, but continued making my point, "this is my little billy goat's first load of the day, see? After he's been saving it all up in his nuts for days, so he's fit to burst. That means it's unusually tasty."

He stood in silence for a minute, before replying "you've got some funny ideas about spunk and goats, you know."

His cock was again tenting out the front of his sweatpants.

I desperately wanted to get in there once more; to beat the horniness out of his cock right then, right there -- but with his girlfriend in the next room, it was too risky.

We opened the door and went to my bedroom, and began to carry stuff out to the van.

Darren was chatting to me amiably about the Arsenal game he'd watched the night before (he was an Arsenal fan), and about girls he fancied -- as if everything was perfectly above board; as if there was nothing unusual going on at all.

You'd never guess that I'd just escorted him to the bathroom to administer some light relief to his blue balls.

7.45am: Darren the straight removals lad had been milked of his early morning load.

I was enjoying this day already.

Cum #2: The Mid-Morning Load ----------------------------

After about an hour, we'd moved most of the easy stuff out, and began moving the heavier bits and pieces.

I delighted in watching Darren, Brian, Gary and, yes, even Jen (aka Big Bessie) strain and groan as they moved the clapped out old refrigerator my Dad had bought out to the gargantuan removals van parked on the road, followed by a sofa, armchair and an oaken bookcase.

With Darren glowing from the perspiration of his exertions, I could no longer resist.

"Darren, there's a few bits in the back garden I want to load into my car. Come and give us a hand, will you?"

He looked at me, grinning knowingly. "Sure," he replied quietly after a few seconds, bounding after me as I walked down a side ally, through a gate and into the back garden.

I locked the gate, and the two of us quietly walked to the grotty old shed at the bottom of the grassy, non-descript garden.

I opened the door, and stood to one side to allow him to enter before me. "In here, is it? What you need lifting?" he asked, that lopsided shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

I returned his smile. "Yeah...realised I had the shed to empty; thought I'd kill two birds with one stone, get my little billy goat onto the case after he's had his milking. How'd that suit you?"

"Hah...you're a cheeky fucker, aren't ya'?"

I chuckled. "Nope. Just got a good eye. Now get in."

"Oh Yesth Sthir," he said in a campy, lispy voice, mincing past me.

I said nothing, entering the shed and turning the rusty key to lock it.

About the size of a small bathroom, the shed smelt of wood and rust. It consisted of a rough wooden table running along one wall, the upper section of which contained a weathered pexiglass window dusted with mildew and moss, about the size of an A4 piece of paper.

This was the only source of light.

All around us were rusted, unusual garden implements; spades, hoes, shovels, shears, that sort of thing.

There wasn't much room as I silently moved around the lad to the table, he watching me as I did so, moving the large crusty plant and paint pots from the table to make a space.

Methodically turning to the boy, I grabbed each of his shoulders manfully and directed him around me, so his back was to the table.

I slid my hands down the cottoned planes of his pecs as I bent the knee, so to speak.

Once before his groin, my hands slid round to cup his ass cheeks through his sweats as my face descended on his funky crotch.

He audibly breathed in as my nose rooted around his flavoursome groin, my teeth reverentially chewing on the dulled shapes and growing protrusions contained within the loose grey fabric.

Having an appreciation for such things, I think he'd been hard pretty much the whole time since the first milking; since he'd realised this was real, and actually happening.

So unsurprisingly, he was pretty stiff when I started my ministrations, and after what seemed like a few short seconds, I felt like I was a dog gnawing on a tasty tubular bone: except this bone was covered in a layer of soft grey fabric. And it palpitated in time with his heart.

I wondered if he was jettisoning a steady trickle of dew, like before.

I hoped he was, and that his horniness would embarrass him again. That he'd feel obliged to apologise for needing to get off; for holding so much gravy in his bollocks; for spraying it all over the place whenever he cock moved suddenly.

Heheh, yeah, I'd get a real kick if he made that apology, all shy and retiring-like.

I unceremoniously yanked the sweats down to his knees, and pushed him back onto the table.

As he sat, his dick tenting out his multi-coloured shorts and the head leaving yet another dark stain of excitement just above that which he'd left earlier, he muttered, "mind my boxers, man. They're new."

"Your mum buy `em?" I asked, smiling.

"Fuck off," he replied, genuinely offended.

But he smiled when my head descended one more, to lick and suckle on the stiff cock through the clammy cotton covering the sweaty sex organs of my well-exercised little goat.

I spent longer than I intended down there, with my nose snortin' and rootin' around between the dank depths of his thighs, my tongue licking along his finely muscled legs and my nose prodding each of his fat nuts, breathing in the smell of a lad hard at work (a rare thing) infused with the smell of his last load.

I realised that Darren had been a dirty little boy when he'd hastily shoved his cock into his pants after his first milking. What would his mum say? But I wasn't about to complain. If I could've bottled it, I would've.

He broke me out of my reverie when he said, "Christ, you fuckin' love cock, don'cha?"

Withdrawing my face from the perspiring lad's stuffy adolescent crotch, I reached through the vertical slit in his shorts, grasping him mid-shaft, and gently eased his organ out into the fusty atmosphere of the shed.

I did so with a great, big smile on my face.

The boy leaned back, his head resting between the dusty window on one side, a pair of yellow-handled gardening shears on the other. With just his upper body resting on the wall, his spine curved and joined the slouching backside planted on the wooden table, the tight black polo shirt riding up to reveal his hard, lilly-white tummy.

His legs, restrained only by the tangle of sweatpants and brightly coloured trainers at his feet, swung excitedly like those of a little boy whose mum is about to buy him a treat from the cakeshop.

But the pink appendage protruding from his tight designer boxer-briefs made clear that this was not in any sense a little boy.

Eyeing for a moment the seven, and oh-so-important, one half inches of dick, topped off by an equally peachy bulging head from which the tip of a red crown spilled over the top, I was reminded that this was a big boy: a big boy smiling down proudly as I took his big toy into my cool hand.

I fully slid back the slimy head of his organ, my nose delighting in the tart scent of his damp purple glans.

The tip of my other hand's index finger briefly dabbed the deep well of the teen's piss slit, coaxing out more of the boy's own slick Vaseline, delighting in seeing how high I could extend my string of straight-boy dew before it fellow away, to be moisterurised back into the lad's eager round dome.

"Urghmmm," he rumbled from deep in his stomach.

I smiled.

I stopped stroking him for a second, so I could force his hard cock down between his thighs, and let the fat fucker swing back to upright, jettisoning drops of spew as it did so, one of which left a small, snail-like deposit on the collar of my shirt.

H didn't apologise though.

My other hand was rubbing up and down the back of his calf as I nurtured his teen-joint slowly, but purposefully. But I did this just for a couple of seconds; I could resist no longer and just had to slip the chipper removal lad's fleshy, overactive spigot into my warm, wet mouth.

There is nothing quite like that first taste, either for the person receiving or the person tasting; and it felt like a jolt of electricity passed between me and the horny straight teenager sat before me when the wet, oblong pad of my tongue first slithered down his respectably sized, stickily aromatic length.

I could feel the sticky wetness emanating from his glans at the back of my throat as my nose ever so gently mashed into the warm cotton of his shorts, poking at the curly thatch of hairs I knew lay beneath.

With both hands free, I moved to take charge of the little boy's big body.

My head was now firmly locked into his groin with my tongue swiping against the flesh of the pulsing hot poker stuffed into my gullet. So without knowing precisely what I was doing, my left hand curled up and around the lad's outer thigh, to keep him locked to the table.

My other hand, still on his lightly furred right calf, slid up to the table.

Once there it located, and slid into, the heavy-duty, thick rigger gloves I'd spied earlier.

They were horrible things; about ten years old, stiffer than most, and with dried, ossified mud caked onto the suede palm.

My gloved hand snaked under the boy's tight polo-shirt, where it rubbed across the wide expanse of his tummy and the defined pectoral muscles above.

As I quietly suckled on his leaky pipe, the blunt, coarse gloved fingers of my hand would circle and then snip at the crinkly nipples.

Surprised at this unexpected molestation, the lad's lean thighs squeezed deliciously against my head and his breath shortened ever so slightly when I first took his right nip between bristly thumb and forefinger: twisting the tiny, penny-sized bastards around a good ninty degrees before letting go.

With the mission of my curious little fingers to wake up the horny fucker's tight little nipples perched on his pecs now complete, the gloved tip of my index finger now raked across one nip, and then the other, as my vacuuming mouth slid up and down the boys shaft.

I looked up at one point; the boy was still lying back, his eyes closed, his face completely unresponsive.

Only his head, banging with increased regularity against the wooden panelling of the shed, told me that this whole `sex' thing was beginning to get to him.

That, and the constant drizzle of sauce produced by his cock. Honestly, it was like sucking on a bottle of maple syrup.

With my tongue now flickering along the complete length of him, the stuff wasn't just flowing directly into my stomach; it was flowing across my tongue, into my saliva, and basting the entirety of his cock with loutish seasoning.

When his right hand (which like his left had previously just been at his side) moved to my shoulder, I knew he was close.

Removing my mouth from his prick, I sat back as he looked down at me in consternation; his organ throbbed helplessly in the fresh air.

His eyes grew wide when my gloved hand descended from his irate nipples, whilst my other hand left his clammy outer thigh to push firmly on his chest, pushing him back against the musty old wood of the shed.

He looked on as my gloved hand firmly gripped his prick and yanked it once, twice, a third time, ending proceedings with a horrifically sweet corkscrew, whilst my tongue crept forward and gently, almost reverentially, lapped at the glassy purple glans at his tip.

With his legs swinging enthusiastically under the table as he did so, he erupted - good and fucking hard.

"ARGHHHHH, fucker, yes, YES, FUCKER YES," he shouted at the top of his voice as he jetted two ribbons of lad snot over my face before my lips gracefully enveloped the tip of his glans, where I remained as if I were delicately suckling from a mother's teat.

Once my lips latched onto the tip and my gloved hand lovingly held (and sneakily squeezed) him at the base, I could account for the quaking of each successive release, each flung into my suddenly parched gob with intense ferocity.

I just sat there, like a priest kneeling before an idol; meekly, slovenly, greedily gulping down his spicy pulp like I was addicted to the stuff.

Three, four, five...his prick stopped pulsing at offering number six.

As his flavourings swilled around my mouth, I delighted in the hot-fresh tastiness of his teen-paste, tasting of salt, sweat, babies and stinky, unwashed lad. It wasn't quite as thick as the first load, but the quantity remained consistent.

Even so, when his glans, now sleepy and once more seeking the comforting blanket of his foreskin slipped from my mouth, I felt like I'd swallowed a bottle of glue.

I fell back onto my heels, watching him gingerly get off the table and once again thrust his wet soft prick into his shorts, before quickly pulling up his sweatpants.

"How'd ya' feel?" he asked.

"Oh, you know," I replied, scraping his spunk off my face with my `good' hand and hungrily sucking it off my fingers, "pretty good, all in all."

I continued, "how about you? Feeling tuckered out yet?"

He grinned. "Me? Nah mate. You know me." He chuckled. "You might wanna wash or something mate. You've got...it...all over your face still."

"Yeah," I replied, "you're a messy little goat when you're getting milked. Noisy, too. Your girlfriend probably heard you bleating from the house."

He laughed. "You've got a thing for goats, ain't ya?"

It was my turn to laugh. "Not really, no. It's just what you are, Darren. Basically, I've paid you to be a goat. And you agreed. And now, here we are, with you fulfilling your role perfectly."

"I'm not an actual goat, though..."

I smiled. "No. You're not covered in fur...or at least, not as much as you would expect to find on a goat...and you speak English...or at least, you speak it a bit better than the average goat. But...the only way you can win this little competition we've got going is to play the part. To stand there and take you're milking, whenever I want."

I stepped closer, and grabbed his flaccid cock through his sweats. "And really, Darren -- really, I'm glad you've still got your strength up. Because it ain't gonna get any easier, kiddo. It ain't all gonna be handjobs and blowjobs." As I squeezed, I felt a few blobs or jizz seep out of his prick, into his boxers. "You should get yourself ready. This is gonna be a life-changing day for you, mate, whether you win or not."

I opened the gate, and stepped out of the dank, sexed-up air of the shed, into the cool refreshing air of the outdoors.

11.15am: Darren the straight removals lad had been milked of his mid-morning load.

Cum #3: A Protein-Enriched Lunch --------------------------------

It didn't take long to load everything else into the truck. Big Bessie made me smile when she traipsed into the living room to say there was `a mess' in the sink in the bathroom, looking at me as she said it.

With her boyfriend's spunk still on my breath and her boyfriend's crotch sweat still on my face, I told her I simply couldn't imagine what it might be.

Darren just smiled mischievously.

Not soon after, with everything loaded in the van and my car, we set off.

After around an hour, we were finally out of London and making good time down the motorway. I'd intended to pass them and make my own way there -- but before I could do so, they pulled off at the first service station.

Thinking there might be something wrong with the vehicle carrying all my worldly possessions (with the exception of the suitcase and two plant pots in my own car), I followed.

I need not of feared. Being British working class men, of course, it was now lunch time.

An hour of lunch time.

I was at a bit of a loss. I wasn't especially hungry.

But then I remembered; of course! This is the one day where I need never be bored, and where I should always be hungry.

I had my rutting little goat to keep me company.

I found the four of them sitting around a table in a large cafeteria. As I approached, Darren stood to put the remains of his lunch into the garbage disposal, like a good boy, and I pounced.

"The men's toilets, right now."

For the first time, he appeared reluctant. "Man, come on..."

"If you're about to say that it's your lunch break or that you're with your girlfriend, then you've lost our little competition."

He looked at the floor, and sighed theatrically. "Alright. Fine. But I ain't got all fuckin' day. Uncle Brian wants to move in ten minutes."

"Well gee, Darren, that kinda sounds like your problem, not mine. I mean, if Uncle Brian wants to go and I'm still busy draining his nephew's balls, then he'll just have to wait, won't he?"

"Just...just shut up, man. I don't want anyone hearing you. Ok fine, let's go."

I dragged the stroppy 19 year old with me to the toilets so I could help myself to more of his addictive nut sauce.

Once we were in the toilets, I motioned him into the obligatory disabled stall at the end.

For a toilet stall, it was nice and roomy, and pretty clean.

With the door to the men's opening and closing and soft voices chatting idly on the other side of the cubicle door, I sat on the toilet before him and once more slid the teenager's sweatpants down to his knees.

Knowing we wouldn't have much time, I got straight to it, and pulled his boxers down revealing a (finally) soft chunky piece of cocksteak nestling between a pair of large, slack balls.

The head remained completely sheathed by his loose foreskin.

As I inspected him for the third time, he idly stood there, looking straight ahead through bright, half-lidded eyes.

He remained equally impassive as I took his floppy cock betwixt thumb and forefinger, lifted it, and gently slipped one of his overactive, overeager testicles into my sloppy mouth.

His only response was to shuffle his legs slightly; as if he had momentarily lost his balance.

Whether intended or not, his gentle sloping thighs had parted a little, giving my face - still feasting on his baby-makers - more freedom-of-manoeuvre between his hard little legs.

I took it.

Letting his lengthening prick slip from my fingers and drape itself across my face, my tongue remained salving the prickly, fragrant skin of his fat distended cum sack, only stopping to clamp my lips around each spunky nut to give it a right go seeing to.

After an hour and a half fermenting in his boxers, his prick was battered in dried boy-batter, complementing the thick, heady smell of cum and sex. I relished it as I sucked all the darkly musky collected flavourings from his day of heavy lifting and heavy cumming, right out of the skin.

The lad's rubbery fuckpipe lengthened quite literally across my field of vision, his remotivated slimy purple tip emerging from the sweaty confines of his foreskin, leaving a delicate oily trail of lad-joy across my hairline as it did so.

With my left hand, I once more cupped that delightful rump of his, the phalanx of inquisitive digits descending into the murky recesses of his crack, where they remained otherwise inactive...for the moment. My other hand soothingly rubbed along the length of his back thigh, running my fingers along the baby smooth, manfully solid musculature I found there.

And I sat like that for a good minute, wallowing in the lad's ever potent stink, emanating from his productive bollocks and resplendent cock, with the both of having a bloody good time.

When his prick had regained its length and girth, my hand slid from his back leg, wrapped around the shaft still adorning my face, and squeezed, as if I were squeezing a water bottle.

And like squeezing a water bottle -- albeit, a near empty one -- I delighted in the thin, oily trickle of youthful sex-juice gobbed up from the well of his nuts, now running down the side of my cheek.

I lifted the prick from my face now, and held it gently as my tongue purposefully slid up along the length to the tip, where my thumb and its stiff attendant nail gently diddled the apex of the increasingly tired and forlorn crown.

He looked unresponsive, but then, he always did. I thought, `fuck it, I ain't gonna see this kid after today anyway'.

So as my tongue gently lapped at the gamey deposits left in the deep well of his gaping piss lips, like a cat lapping at a bowl of musky, laddish cream, my blunt left middle finger swathed through the nest of sweaty crack hair to swipe against his straight little hole.

His butt cheeks clenched protectively around my fingers. But nothing was said. He kept looking straight ahead, face unchanged. I mean, where's the harm? His girlfriend probably does this all the time...doesn't mean anything, right? And when you gotta cum, you gotta cum...

As my teeth gently nibbled on his soft, sensitive glans, the steady, slight, frothy profusion of juice slowly trickling onto my assiduous tongue, my middle finger - now slick with the ass sweat which had over the course of the work day turned his crack into a moist trench, pierced him.

"See Arsenal last night?" someone asked on the other side of the door.

"Nah. Had to help Phil with his homework," the other responded.

A healthy spurt of juice burped up from his nuts, which I dutifully hoovered up off the purple dome of my angry little billy goat, looking up as I gulped down his tasty excitement.

His wide eyes were still staring straight ahead. His arse nearly dislocated my fingers, but it was too late.

I withdrew my mouth from his cock, and motioned him to turn around.

Whether he thought I was intending to remove my finger, I couldn't say -- neither of us felt comfortable chatting about it. But I told him to turn, and he did.

I took a moment to look at him -- his short, compact, fit legs emerging from the grey sweatpants he'd worn all day, now around his ankles, and his designer boxers, now around his knees.

Socks and trainers still on his feet with his fantastic round arse frame by his tight poloshirt, still with the collar turned up.

And my middle finger, right where the action is, the tip wedged up in the entrance to the tight straight fundament.

As he stared at the door, the rigid, sharp nails of my right hand raked down the back of his right thigh.

Hard.

When his arse slackened ever so slightly in surprise, I took my chance, knowing I wouldn't have another.

Standing and stepping forward, I slid my finger up into his untouched, unprotected insides. To the hilt. "Ughmmhhmm," he moaned, more loudly then he would've liked, the loud `bang' reverberating through the populated toilet as he smacked his head against the door.

Standing right behind him now, I quickly gripped his stiff pecker with my other hand, rubbing another unexpected spurt of juice into the sensitive flesh of his purple glans.

His legs spread as far as his waistbands would allow, his fingers curled over the top of the door, the poor little lad was all but screaming for me to give him the milking he no doubt felt he'd earned, enduring successive humiliation after humiliation -- all in the cause of spewing yet more smelly baby-sauce in a public location.

Even though this was his third cum in five hours, he certainly seemed up to it.

So wordlessly, silently, secretly, I slowly jacked the hot little removals lad in the toilets of a busy Little Chef, not far outside London. With his Dad and girlfriend finishing their lunch outside, he did his very best to keep quiet, my finger slowly sawing in, and then out, of his scorching bowels, curling this way and that as it did so.

He would thrust forward with each push of my finger. So as I slowly jacked him, I would occasionally -- only occasionally, mind --slide the delicate, sloppy glans of his cock against the cool unyielding polished wood of the door. "Hmmm," he groaned, from deep in his wide, expansive chest.

Knowing I had the fucker, I slobbered over his neck for a minute, like I was some drunk geezer making out with a bird at the end of a night down the pub, before I whispered in his ear, "let's just stop pissing around, shall we? We both know what's goin' on. We both know that I'm takin charge of your bod for the day. And we both know that you fuckin' like it."

He shook his head at that.

"Shush shush, baby, we both know, and that's all that matters. You don't have to admit it, because we both know it. And you know, mate, I've been so taken with you -- you're easy-going personality, your boyish charm, you're tight little body and manly big cock -- that I reckon I've been going a little easy on you."

More head shaking. I ignored him this time.

"But that changes now, mate. Now, I'm taking personal charge of my little billy goat, and I don't fuckin' care how mad it makes him. Because it's like we agreed! See? I'm just livin' up to my end of the deal. And being as I'm in charge, I'm gonna tell you how it's gonna go down, from here on out. First, I'm gonna make you spew your load, like a little bitch."

A murmur of descent.

"Shush, sweetie. Someone might hear, remember? Now, I'm gonna do this, for your own good. Because you wanna win that money, don't you? Of course you do. But the thing is, you ain't gonna win if you restrict yourself to plain old vanilla. To win -- to keep shootin' big -- you need to start doing the things that REALLY gets you goin'. And that includes the things that get you goin' which you don't know about! Like this, mate."

"I mean, this is probably your fuckin' dream, right? The happy, simple life of a goat, down on the farm; unthinking , bleating at the passing cows, getting milked by the farmer in charge whenever he needs it. And you do need it, don't you Darren? Course you do. There's still lots of syrupy straight milk in those big old nuts of yours, and if I didn't expel it for you, you might have trouble thinkin' straight, mightn't you? I'm doin' you a fuckin' public service, mate."

"Course I am. That's why, after we're done here, I think you and I will make our own way to the house. Together. Get you away from that cow and her henchmen. So we can get some alone time. You'd like that, won't you? A bit of alone time from the girlfriend, so you can get your rocks off in peace? Course you will. How'd that sound, mate?"

This time, silence. I looked over his shoulder, drinking in the scent of lad and sex emanating from his body, as I directed his stiff hose across the now wet door, rivulets of junk-juice running down the sodden polished wood.

"What the fuck is going on?!"

Uncle Brian. Thankfully, on the other side of the door. "Where are you, you lazy little shit?" he demanded.

A few moments later, Darren found his voice and spoke, in a gargled, conflicted voice.

"Imma...in `ere."

"What are you fuckin' up to? We were supposed to move ten minutes ago!"

"S-sorry."

Feeling sorry for the lad, I stopped wiping his cock on the door.

I just jacked him with my finger up his ass.

"Well hurry the fuck up."

Uncle Brian sounded more distant now; like he was leaving.

"And if you see that queer on your way out, tell him to get to the car park. I can't find him, either."

"Yep." Darren had both hands resting against the door now, along with his forehead, gently banging against the door; a sign of his ever-present sexual frustration.

From the door, I heard Brian say, "and be careful. Don't turn your back on him, or he'll be up your arse quick as a flash!"

"Hah!" Darren squealed, trying to sound like a laugh, but only sounding like the anguished cry it really was.

The roiling corkscrew I had delivered to his unprotected, unrestrained cockhead was perhaps a little severe considering he was chatting to his Uncle at the time.

But he must of enjoyed it: a moment later, seed was once again spitting from his cock. Less than on previous occasions, and a lot thinner, the first couple of shots leapt a few inches into the air before splatting against the door, the rest pulsing out of his cock and sliding down onto my hand.

"Fancy a taste?" I held my hand up to his mouth, and he stepped backward in horror, walking into me. I put my hand down onto the flank of his T-Shirt, to steady him.

"Hold on, mate," I said cheerily, "I've still got my finger up your arse. Gimme a second."

A delicious second was all it took, but a took a couple more, just so I could delight in the straight lad standing there, still looking at the door, arms now by his side as I slowly eased my finger out of his rectum.

After pulling his boxer-shorts and sweats back up for him, I opened the door and stepped out.

Stepping up to the sinks, I said "ah, sorry..." pointing to his polo shirt and where my hand had been -- the cotton now covered in a white spermy hand-print.

"Thanks," he said, unamused.

"Don't worry," I replied, "mum'll know how to get that out."

He didn't say anything else, but followed me out of the bathroom, and to the car park.

"You found him, then," said Uncle Brian.

I replied, "no, I found him actually."

"Listen, I'll probably arrive at the house before you, and I'll need a bit of help unloading the car -- does anyone mind if I steal Darren for a couple of hours?"

The three looked on impassively for a moment before Uncle Brian replied, "well, if Darren's ok with it."

Before Darren could speak I continued, "Darren's absolutely fine with it. We talked about it before. Didn't we?"

He looked at me, and then his Uncle. "Yeah."

And that was that. I opened the door, and I left the removals van behind, with the removals lad at my side.

12.45pm: Darren the straight removals lad had been milked of his lunchtime load.

Cum #4: Afternoon Tea ---------------------

Darren's mood steadily darkened. I guess I could understand why.

No straight lad likes having a finger stuck up his arse.

Or at least, every straight lad feels obliged to act like they don't like a finger stuck up their arse.

We chuntled along the motorway at a merry old pace for around half an hour, before I pulled off at a junction. About ten minutes later, we were speeding down a countrified dual-carriageway, trees lining a grass verge on one side, a blackberry bush leading to a fallow farmer's field on the other. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the heat had returned.

For me, the heat had returned in more ways than one; whilst I wanted my little goat to have a chance to refill his overworked balls, I wanted to play with him again, and there wasn't anything he could do to stop me.

So as I drove, my hand slipped off the gearstick between us, and made the short journey to Darren's lap. I ran my hand over the felted fleshy lump beneath his sweatpants, considering it a sign that my victory might be at hand, given that he no longer became erect within four seconds once so-much as a gentle breeze caressed his groin.

My caressing was getting pretty vigorous, and still nothing. His only comment was after a few minutes of my slow, methodical rummaging around the junction between his legs, when he replied sardonically, "I can see where this is going."

"Just say the word and I'll stop," both us knowing what that would really mean: no money for him.

Instead, he turned to look out the window at the passing trees.

I soon pulled off to the side of the road. "Take your sweats off."

After a theatrical sigh, he complied, pulling his trousers down, revealing his clammy shorts once more.

"I said off."

"What? Fuck's sake."

Slipping his trainers off, he pulled the grey sweatpants off entirely, looking cautiously around on the deserted road as he did so.

I looked at him for a minute.

"Why don't you slip your polo shirt off, too?"

Rolling his eyes, he did so.

I spent another minute appraising him as he sat next to me in the car, trying to look unaffected by this turn of events.

Getting to my knees, I slid over into the tight confines of the well between his naturally domineering splayed legs. Without a word, I again reached for his soft cock.

Reaching through the slit in his colourful, if slightly grubby shorts, I gingerly brought him out into the cool air of the car, at which point my face descended to once more make love to him with my face.

My nostrils flared, overcome by the sensory assault advanced by his guttural stink, which coated his entire groin like an essential oil. His cock felt like a gelatinous, tacky love stick.

Of course, I liked that sort of thing, and merrily slithered my tongue right the way across the seemingly unresponsive shaft.

But whilst his sexual organs were down, they weren't out. When my tongue eventually reached the tired, covered head of his cock, and gently nursed on him as if I were suckling a teat, I felt a flash of life; a beat of a pulse; a flexing of his inner core.

He remained slumped in his seat, eyes closed, but as I continued to provide mouth-to-cock resuscitation, I felt the beat quicken, and stiffen, and harden. Slowly, very slowly, through my sucking I was breathing life back into him.

Whilst one hand forcefully mashed and clawed at his still plump nuts through his aromatic boxers, my other squeezed and screwed each of the stiff little nubbins adorning his chest.

Once his cock was half-hard, Darren's knob, by now an old acquaintance of mine, began to slide out from beyond his foreskin to say hello.

I continued my forceful assault on his body, wrapping my lips around the sour, acrid head, and licking up the congealed, jellified lad-ooze that had collected there since the episode in the Little Chef toilets.

When he was hard, I sat back, and made him lift up slightly so I could slip his boxers down and off his legs. He didn't complain; he just sat back, no doubt settling down for a nice blowjob, and happy I couldn't assault his arsehole this time.

But that wasn't my plan at all.

"Right, get out the car."

"What?"

"Get out the-"

"No fucking way."

"No? Okay then. Shame, `cos I thought you had a pretty good chance of winning that money. But sure, whatever. I'll just get us back on the road."

He threw his hands up into the air. "This isn't fair! Anyone could come along -- we're on a bloody ROAD! You can't make me do this shit, and then if I say no, say I don't get the money -- IT'S NOT FAIR!"

I cocked my head to one side. "Well, Darren. Really, this is the sort of thing you should've brought up in the initial negotiations, isn't it? I mean...yes, you're right. It isn't fair. But that's the deal. You were offered an unfair deal...and you agreed to it. So here we are. Now, you've got one more chance to get out the car, or we can end it here and get on our way. Which is it to be?"

He spent another minute looking around, breathing deeply.

With my hand wrapped around his stiff organ, I kept stroking him, slowly, to keep him hard.

Then he announced, "where's me fuckin' shoes. I ain't going onto the road without me shoes."

I smiled.

Once he was out of the car, he walked over to a treeline, where he stood, shielding his genitals from view.

As I got out of the car behind him, I had an opportunity to look at the lad, now wearing nought but his socks, trainers and a silver necklace; short in stature, but with compact, sinewy muscles and a nice, big, dangly cock, still erect and the head of which was now poking out from behind his protective wrist.

Splendid.

"So you ready to start fucking, then?"

"You ain't fucking me," he replied defensively.

"No, I'm not," I said calmly.

"And I ain't fucking you, either."

"Ah. Well, you see..."

"I ain't!"

I walked over so I was standing in front of him. "Darren. Listen. You are. Ok? You're gonna do it, because if you don't, you don't get the money."

"THIS WAS NOT IN THE AGREEMENT."

"It didn't need to be. Now, why don't you be a peach and take off my trousers for me, `k?"

He looked down, his eyes becoming fixated on my crotch.

I ruffled his short, stylish hair. "Don't worry kiddo, you'll see it soon enough. Now come on, your Dad'll be expecting us to get to the house before he does."

I think the shame I sparked when invoking his father's name sealed it for him. He leaned down, reaching for my zipper as he did so.

"You have to take my trousers right off, Darren...probably easier if you get down on your knees?"

Closing his eyes, he fell to his knees before me. I took a couple of steps forward, so he was about six inches from my crotch.

His dick was hard, but it looked like the endless well of pre-sap had finally run dry, with just the faintest dribble anointing the glans now.

I chuckled as his hands, moving blindly, slowly reached for my zipper, but veered off course, with his fingers delving into the supple skin of my hidden ballsack.

When he realised, his hand flew back as if electrocuted, and in so doing smacked himself in the mouth.

"Silly sausage. Consider this a bit of advice from an outrageous homosexual: if you really want to avoid the bits of my anatomy contained with my trousers, you should really have your eyes open when sticking your hand into my trousers. Ok?"

He opened his eyes, gulped, and gripped the metal clasp of my zip delicately.

He lowered it, his little fingers unintentionally applying delicious pressure as he traversed over the hump of my erect cock. Without instruction from me, he reached for the clasp, and my loose trousers slid down my legs.

"There we go, that wasn't so hard, now was it? Now just take off my boxers, there's a good lad."

Grabbing the waistband on either side of my hips, he quickly yanked down my shorts, my unrelenting, unabated hardon thwacking against my shirt as he did so.

He sat there, looking at my dick for a minute as I gave it a few playful tugs to get it in the mood.

"You can get up now Darren," I finally said, breaking him from his reverie.

"Over to the car then," I continued, directing him back to the road.

"Mate, please..."

"Just fucking do it. The sooner you get over there, the sooner it's done."

With his hands shielding his privates, he walked out from beyond the treeline, and over to my white, clapped out (but loyally reliable) Renault Clio.

As he moved, I slid my jeans and boxers off my feet, so I could again move properly. Looking over, I saw that he now stood to the side of my car, in an effort to further shield his body from the road.

I had to put a stop to that.

"Come on, over here," I directed, pulling him by the arm to the front of the car, where I made him sit on the bonnet; his feet still on the ground, his elbows propping him up so he could still keep an eye on me.

He watched as I momentarily returned to the glove box of my car, where I retrieved a condom, and returned to him.

Kneeling between his thighs, he watched as I took the lad's poor flagging cock in hand, and started to manfully tug and jack him, whilst my other hand cradled and gently yanked down on the slack, silky ballsack hanging between his slightly spread thighs.

Knowing what a horny little fucker he was, I knew it wouldn't take me five minutes to pump him back up.

Sure enough, after five minutes of industrious wanking, where I carefully utilised each little dribble of sap to further slicken his irritated cock, he was leaning back, looking up at the blue sky, sunlight glinting off the shiny purple glans adorning the tip of his erect cock.

With the straight boy tired of resting on his elbows and looking down at the gay guy going at his dick again for the fourth time that day, he leaned fully back against the bonnet of the car, leaving me to it.

I think he knew by now that he was in good hands, so to speak.

Opening the packet, I carefully slid the condom down his stiff, sweaty pole, with him openly groaning as I did so.

With the condom now securely ensconced over his towering organ, I nibbled and suckled for a few more minutes on the prodigious nut sack hanging beneath, thoroughly washing the dank bollock sweat and spicy lad juice from the rippled skin, and adding yet another saliva glaze to those I'd applied previously.

With his cock now pulsing beneath the latex wrapping, my face departed from the sweaty little crux of his sweaty little thighs. With him still lying back on the car, I vaulted onto the bonnet, standing above him.

Looking down at him looking up at my erect cock, I remarked, "let's hope no Japanese tourist buses pass right about now, eh?"

"You ain't fucking me," he mumbled incoherently.

I just frowned, and fell to my knees.

Reaching behind, I gripped his wand and tentatively directed the fat fucker to my puckered asshole.

Felling the squishy warm head impact against my right cheek, I corrected and lined him up.

And then, I just did what came naturally, and fell back.

I was not particularly used to getting fucked. And I have to say, as I sat there trying to force this solid scimitar up past the thick ring of muscle of my rectum, I was beginning to wonder why people thought it was so great.

The head squeezed past the initial ring of muscle, resulting in the pair of us groaning in thanks. Letting go of him now, I remained with my two hands planted firmly on the bonnet of the car, as I intended to gently slide down backwards, so I could get acclimatised.

Well, that was the plan. But then my right hand slipped on the car bonnet, and about four inches of his cock slid into my bowels before I could find something to leverage myself against.

"ARGHHHHHH," I screamed, whilst Darren grinned like a moron.

"That," he began, "is karma. That's what you get for sticking your finger up my arse earlier."

I replied between my pained breathing, "yes Darren, except you're forgetting one thing -- as a gay, I don't really mind having your dick up me. Whereas I think you probably had a bit of a problem with my finger wriggling around your insides."

He kept on smiling. "Mate, to look at you right now, I'd say you mind having a dick up you."

At which point he gripped my right hip, and thrust himself up off the car, adding another couple of inches to my discomfort.

"AGHH, you fucking fat fucker," I replied, with genuine anger.

But I continued to slide down Darren's big old cock, deciding if I was in for a penny, then I'd be in for a pound. And speaking of pounds; it wasn't long until I had every pound of Darren's lad-cock lodged firmly up my warm middle-class arse.

Now impaled, I placed one hand on his firm, rippled chest, running my hand across the hairless defined muscle, before latching on to one of his sensitive nips. It was soon joined by my other hand, twisting the other nipple in unison.

He grumbled deeply in response, leading back and closing his eyes.

I used my legs and arms to push myself off his cock, before sliding back down again; down, until I could feel his scratchy, smelly pubes rubbing against my ass-cheeks.

I quickly rose again, and fell again; each time I did so, the next time would be a little faster, a little smoother. Before long, the insistent fucker was jabbing my prostate with each upward swing, and I felt compelled to start jacking my cock as I looked down on his peaceful, straight little face.

Up and down, up and down I went, his tight, muscular little legs bent in supporting the weight of us both as we laid upon the smooth, gently sloping car bonnet. Whilst I was jacking my cock with one hand, the other one remained planted on his chest, moving up and down as his lungs took in deep gulpfuls of air to fuel the blood streaming through his body, servicing each of his own aching muscles -- and none more so than the especially straight aching muscle currently wedged up my eager shitter.

About ten minutes in, I craned my neck around, and observed his fit legs pushing up, straining and flexing as he did so, making the most of each downward swing. Just like I thought, the randy little bugger was starting to get into it.

"You're doing good Darren," I said, "don't be afraid to get into it though. You need to cum, remember, and we have a schedule to keep."

He didn't reply, but a look of pained concentration slowly came to dominate his face as I felt each of his thrusts slowly become less methodical, and more powerful.

I chuckled. "My little billy-goat's doing a super job. We call this proactive milking. Ain't long to go now..."

I'd spoken too soon, clearly. Thirty minutes later, and we were still going at it.

Well, I say `we' -- I'd decided a while ago that Darren was strong enough to keep going on his own, and that fucklust of his had returned in sufficient strength to mean he'd keep going without complaint, like a good little sex-trooper.

With his trainered feet planted firmly on the asphalt, he was thrusting up into me as hard as he could, throwing me this way and that as if I were a bucking bronco. I was jacking myself, but I had to pull myself back from the edge on more than one occasion.

"Are you ready to fucking cum yet?" I demanded.

"I'm...trying..." he replied, through gritted teeth.

"Nearly there," he intoned a couple of minutes later and then immediately after, "AHGHAAAHAHAHA" he screamed, like an extremely animalistic goat, thrusting up into me as far as he could with the condom stuffed up my arse rapidly filling with the latest dregs from the his balls.

His eyes closed in bliss, he was in no fit state to complain as I leant forward, his dick sliding out of me as I did so. I jacked my cock once, twice, thrice, before my hot spunk, after so much teasing and frustration and stimulation throughout the day, literally erupted from my cockhead and made the centimetre or so journey to Darren's puffy pink lips, quite safely.

His eyes blazed open as first one, and then a second jetstream of sperm plastered his fat rosy lips. He opened his mouth to complain, which was obviously a stupid thing to do: I rewarded his stupidity with a third white-hot ribbon, this time fired straight down his throat.

That made him cough, and splutter -- and, more importantly, move his head. The result of this movement was the rest of my load going...well, of course.

Fourth hit his cheek.

Fifth hit his eye.

Sixth hit his hair.

Sliding my head behind his skull to keep him inplace now, I thrusted forward so the syrupy dregs of my load effortlessly flowed out of my cock and safely onto his red-hot little head.

There was enough to spend a quick few seconds rubbing it into his hair, giving his short buzzed hair a healthy glow.

I leaned back, and carefully got off the car. He sat there looking at me, stunned for a minute, before very slowly touching the trail of spunk deposited on his cheek, as if to check it was really there. When his index finger touched the slimy substance, his hand recoiled, as if in shock.

"Well," I began, "I for one feel a LOT better after that. So, thanks."

"What...did...did you just cum on me?"

If I tell him he imagined that, would he believe me?

I slowly nodded. "Now, don't get angry, but at one point I think I may of jizzed into your mouth, too."

His mouth opened in shock.

"Careful, you opening your mouth was what made me do it the last time!" I joked.

There was no laughter, so I stopped smiling. "No, but seriously Darren, it really was entirely your fault that I came down your throat. You went to speak-"

"To tell you to stop cumming on me."

"-right, and that, well, that led us to where we are now, quite honestly."

"So...this is MY fault, because when I went to ask you to stop cumming on me, that meant I had to open my mouth, and you shot spunk down it?"

I thought for a minute. "Now you're making it sound like it's my fault again. Listen, I don't want to go into details -- but, I didn't mean for that to happen, ok? You shouldn't, like, get all offended and shit, because I didn't mean for it to happen -- I didn't mean to debase you, like you do every time you intentionally spunk down your girlfriends gob. Eh? See what I mean? Makes you think, doesn't it? Role reversal and all that. But yeah, it did, and we are where we are. So let's just get in the car, and get on our way, shall we?"

Before he could respond, I sidled up to him, where he was still sat on the bonnet of my car, and delighted in removing the slimy condom from his prick.

"And you've cum too! Good lad!"

He said nothing as we got into the car, put on our clothes, and went on our way.

2.45pm: Darren the straight removals lad had been milked of his afternoon load.

Cum #5: The Final Cum ---------------------

"You know," I said casually as we were pulling up to the house behind his Uncle's removal van, "I reckon we can probably get another load out of you, kiddo."

I turned off the engine before turning to look at him, "you won't have a problem with that, will you?"

Silence.

"Good. Come on, let's get moving."

Since fucking me, Darren had sat slumped in the car beside me, for the most part silent.

Our only brief conversation occurred when we were back on the motorway, and he suddenly shouted out, "I ain't no fucking animal!"

I sat quietly, thinking for a moment, before replying, "now, do you mean `fucking' in its profane sense, or in its descriptive sense? Because if it's the latter, then I quite disagree, Darren...it seems to me you are indeed an animal ideally suited to fucking."

At which point, he just pouted, folded his arms and looked out the window.

And now here we were, at my new house.

The others weren't too happy at being left on the doorstep, unable to do anything. Brian kept pressing me on why we were late...I didn't think it best to explain why.

I slid the key into the front door, turned, and swung the door open.

"I just love that new house smell!" I shouted. Everyone else just mumbled some unpleasant rejoinders and started sidling past me with boxes.

I gripped Darren's wrist and pulled him into the deserted kitchen. "You owe me £200," he said.

"You let me be the judge of that, boy-o. I reckon I can have another go at you."

"No you fuckin' can't! How are you gonna manage that?"

I wasn't surprised that Darren was no longer particularly keen to come up with an excuse to get molested again, and was determined to avoid it. Despite it being in contravention of our little rules, I let it slide.

"You leave that to me. I'll let you know when the right time is."

Thanks to Uncle Brian's overly generous break schedule, it was actually pretty easy to find the opportunity to milk his nephew one last time.

When he promptly sat himself down on my sofa in the living room, having just moved it from the van, he cordially informed me that it was time for `tea'.

I nodded understandingly.

"Well if you don't mind, Brian, I think I'll get on with moving some bits and pieces."

"Do whatever you want," he grumbled as he bit into some sort of manky old sandwich.

Darren plopped himself down next to him.

"And I'll take Darren to help me, I reckon."

Brian's eyes widened. "Oh will you now? Not if he doesn't want to go you bloody won't."

"Oh, he does, don't you Darren?" Before he could respond I continued, "because if he doesn't come," I let that word hang, "then he won't get his tip. Also, Brian -- I made sure he ate something nutritious on the drive down, so he's sorted on that front."

"Oh, eating with strange men are you, Darren," his Dad joked.

We all smiled, some more knowingly then others. "Oh, I didn't give him anything he doesn't give his treasured girlfriend, Gary."

Whilst Gary and Big Bessie frowned, I yanked Darren up by his T-shirt and frog-marched him out to the big van.

Extracting Darren's last load of the day was a fairly methodical, scientific affair.

Was Darren still doing what he was doing for money, or was it because he had become trained to do what I told him?

I really don't know, but he did not object as I took him to the interior of the large van and got him to sit on the dressing table that was next to be brought out of the van.

He didn't object as, with him sitting on the furniture and looking out onto the garage the van had backed onto, I unceremoniously removed his sweat pants and underwear, down and off, over his trainers.

His cock, caked with spunky, crusty white remnants, remained shrivelled and curled up within a nest of pubic hair, the cummy stink of which I could detect even when above him.

He didn't object, or question, as I moved his arms up above his head, and then pulled his polo-shirt up, but not off -- just to obscure his head, blind him, and keep his arms above his head.

He could've easily broken free. But he didn't.

He didn't even object, per se, as I pushed him back so he was lying on the table surface, and took firm grip of his right ankle, and lifted.

Although his head did jerk to one side, as if looking at me through his shirt. As if wordlessly imploring me to stop.

"Oh stop worrying," I remarked breezily, "I ain't gonna fuck you. Besides, you're a big boy, aren't you?"

I positioned him with his legs mid-way in the air, just revealing the pink little hole between his butt-cheeks.

"W-what are you gonna fuckin' do to me?" He asked, his voice trembling with fear. But as ever, the lad's cock gave away his true feelings; it's subtle creeping lengthening down his thigh becoming all the more apparent when the fat fucker swung up and slapped him on the belly, like a pet with a mind of its own, intent on betraying his master.

I whispered, "you wanna stop and go chomp on your sandwich with your girlfriend, you just say, `k? Ain't no skin off my nose, and I would hate -- HATE -- for you to be in anyway uncomfortable with this. Yep, you just say the word, and you can go back to the house, hardon still swingin' between yer legs, and get the monetary equivalent of sweet fuck all."

I looked hungrily at his dick, now half-hard and still lengthening. I wrapped my hand around the sticky lad-joint, and it felt like I was wrapping my hand around a half-sucked sugar cane, all sticky with sweet, dried-on dribble.

"But the thing is, kiddo, I think we both know what's happening, don't we? I think we both know that you've developed a bit of a taste for this sort of thing. For getting milked...having this thing taken out of your hands, so to speak." I started drawing back his foreskin, the air rapidly filling with the fetid stink of his over-ripe knob.

"So, I've got a better idea. I ain't gonna tie you up or nothin', but how about I give you one more cum, ok? Sure, I know it'll be a little bit painful, what with your dick being so tuckered out, but we both know you'll enjoy it, and in a couple of hours, you'll get your money for a hard, hard day's work."

I was gently wanking his stiff half-hard cock, with him grunting and mewling each time my fist slid over the delicately sensitive glans. "Ok? Don't worry, I know it's embarrassing to answer that; so you just shut the fuck up now, and I'll do all the work. We ain't people; this ain't a relationship; this is business. I'm just a farmer, milkin' my livestock one last time."

Leaving his cock, and the boy with his legs still in the air, I rummaged around a little bit through various boxes at the far end of the truck, and quickly prepped my little surprise.

Chuckling as I found what I was looking for, I returned to the boy who still had his head covered. I stood between his upright legs, now bare except for his socks and trainers.

I wrapped my first around his leftward warm socked ankle, and lifted, placing it on my shoulder, before doing the same with the rightward one.

Each foot was now slack, and pointing skyward, just as I wanted.

And thenI took the menacingly large (but mercifully lubed) black dildo I was holding, and punctured the lad's straight arsehole.

Oh, how he howled. Howled like a fucking wolf. A pained howl, filled with primal intensity and reignited need.

Momentarily incapable of maintaining his own body, his right ankle slid from my shoulder, the entire leg slack, and began to fall to the ground -- but clearly this movement had a negative impact on the lattice of muscles deep within his guts. Before it had hit the ground, the errant leg jerked, froze, and then began to slowly return back up into the air, where it remained of its own volition.

With the other foot still on my shoulder, I planted my hand firmly on his ridged pectoral to take control of his core and keep him down on the table, taking the opportunity to yank and twist his right nipple as I did so.

His cock was now filling with blood more urgently. His thighs clenched and his cock throbbed with pained need as I methodically and slowly slid the dildo further into his rectum.

His howling had stopped now, replaced by a constant incoherent babble of disjointed phrases; one minute to take it out, the next to push it harder; one minute crying out for his dad, the next crying out threats that if I told his dad, I'd be dead.

All the while, I slid the device further into him. My hand moved from his chest and down to his tummy, which I briefly scratched and fussed over, before bringing my fingers once more into the richly scented scruffy pubic bush at his centre.

The temptation was to frig him senselessly, but I resisted.

My faithful billy-goat deserved better.

Instead, I just ran my fingers through the oily hair, and when the device bottomed out, I carefully dabbed and scratched the slick surface of his exposed glans, now purple with pressure, and resting atop his sticky stiff prick.

What little moisture the well of his piss-slit contained -- and it was more pissy sweat than anything else -- I carefully, cooly applied to the red domed cone.

I thought this'd be a good time to turn the dildo on.

My hand curled around his left leg to keep it in place on my shoulder and quickly planted itself back on his chest: poor Darren was jumping around on the table as if he was being electrocuted.

Pushing him forcefully down onto the table, I quietly shushed him and smiled as I noticed for the first time that his grey socks had written around the top in pink, `I ? UR MUM', which as you might imagine given our current situation, made me smile something fierce.

Although Darren, still writhing around on the table with a buzzing dildo shoved up his arse, probably wouldn't of appreciated the irony, or found it particularly amusing.

I was pleased to see that the lad's cock, tired and distressed with the heavy cums that had previously been required of it, was once more unrepentantly erect. I wondered how much cream Darren had left in his balls.

Asking the question made my hand leave his chest, and briefly jiggle his nuts in their round sack, my other hand remaining on the base of the device as I began to slowly slide it back out of his guts.

He bravely tried to silence himself, no longer screaming or babbling, but the humming, buzzing and uncoordinated flitting the device caused around his colon as I began to slowly remove it from his fundament.

This clearly had an erotic effect on him.

His cock, harder than I had ever seen it, throbbed in time with his heart-beat and the trainered feet on either side of my head both flexed from a vertical position to a horizontal one, as the muscles in his lithe legs contracted in response to the sweet ecstasy occurring in his bowels.

Ecstasy the poor straight boy had previously been blissfully ignorant about, but which I could imagine him trying to work into his hetrosexual sex-life, with hilarious results.

With just the bulbous head of the plastic organ remaining in his slick hole, I cruelly rammed the entirety of the thick shaft back into him. It was like ramming a dildo through partially melted butter...possible, but not easy, and requiring a certain degree of brutalising strength.

But I knew the little slut loved it, even if he didn't know it himself, so I just kept on keeping on, pushing until the base was once more abutting his muscular, splayed buttocks.

"ARGHHNO!" he screamed urgently; I knew we'd reached that special point when he groaned "AAAGHRAAAAGH" as his cock, untouched by me, pitifully pulsed stiffly in the open air, swaying this way and that -- almost waving to me for help; for the relief of even the slightly reassuring contact; for a comforting, firm yank.

The glans stretched tight across his spike, still stinky and glassy, and I intently watched his peehole as he screamed loudly and breathlessly. Each earth-shattering pulse racked his body like an earthquake, causing the musculature of his chest and stomach to spasm and exhibit themselves delightfully for my perusal.

But only after the third such cataclysm beset him did about half a teaspoon of syrupy spit slowly, tortuously slide out of the mouth of his cock, with great, pained effort, and pool on his stomach.

I carefully scraped up the lad's small sex-deposit, sniffed the raw muskiness of it, before sliding my greasy digit through the gap between buttons on his polo shirt, and into his own mouth.

His head still covered, I felt his tongue dart around the finger, happily consuming whatever gently warmed sauce his pained nuts had seen fit to exorcise a moment before.

The shirt gave him legitimate cover; `he didn't know'; but we both knew he knew what he was guzzling down.

And who was I to say anything? I enjoyed his robust produce, so why shouldn't he also enjoy it?

Even with the rear door of the van open to the world, the van stank of the lad's round arse and domed cockhead, the latter of which had already softened and retreated deep into the folds of his foreskin, as if screaming `no more, no more!'

I shrugged my shoulder, unlatching the boy's foot from my body, and causing it to join the other foot now on the ground. Darren, still breathing heavily, returned his polo-shirt to its previous, proper position, taking the trouble to lift up the collar again.

He propped himself up on his elbows, looking around the van.

I looked at him, but he didn't look at me.

He snorted, and then remarked, "give us hand with those boxes," pointing to some of the boxes near the rear of the van.

I frowned. "Sure. Um...you might wanna put your trousers on though. And lemme put this dildo back..."

He looked outside, at the garage door to which the rear of the truck was facing. "Whatever."

I surreptitiously slid the lad's boxers into my pocket -- before he grabbed my fist, and extracted the shorts from my clenched fingers.

I allowed him his pathetic little victory.

I expected Darren's last cum to take around an hour, maybe longer. But because he was so unused to exploring his own anus, we were done in a little over half an hour.

4.45pm: Darren the straight removals lad had been milked of his afternoon load.

Epilogue --------

Darren earned his money that day. £200. I gave it to him, at the same time I gave his Uncle payment for the job, but the lad still wouldn't look at me.

Oh, he was polite enough. But we both knew he'd been robbed.

Gary asked what the extra money was for; before I could come out with some witty rejoinder which again highlighted the fact I'd spent the day pillaging his son's arse, Darren gruffly said, "let's go."

And off he went. I never saw him again, but I think of him often.

I wonder if he thinks of me?