This is a work of fiction. It includes group masturbation among teen boys. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended. If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal in your area, leave now. Some of the activities described in this story may cause injury or transmit diseases, including HIV.
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WATCH JOB
Enrique had a knack for this, obviously.
I first saw Enrique at Erna's Diner, the day I happened to sit at the only seat at the counter with a clear view of the kitchen. Enrique was busily washing dishes, and I was caught by the muscles of his arms and chest, tight against a white t-shirt, damp with spray. He saw me admiring him -- it wouldn't have been hard to notice, since my soup spoon hovered in mid-air for at least thirty seconds.
He intercepted me near the back door of the diner after lunch, appearing as if by magic in my path. He was short and muscular, as if a larger man had been compressed, somehow. "Twenty bucks for a watch job, faggot," he sneered.
"A watch?"
Enrique's face radiated contempt for my stupidity. "Twenty bucks to watch me jack off!"
I consulted my wallet and agreed.
Enrique's face transformed from menacing to boyish with little more than a shift of his eyebrows. He led me to a door that opened to some sort of storeroom, pressed me to my knees, and earned his twenty bucks at the rate of perhaps a quarter a second. But I was hooked. We met after lunch Tuesdays and Fridays.
I told him I would love to watch him shoot all over me. He agreed, for forty bucks. "But you gotta be naked. And lie on the floor until I'm gone." I obliged, eagerly. A few sessions later, I admitted that I'd had a fantasy of several boys surrounding me and doing the same, and he agreed to see what he could do.
And he could do! It was a fine summer. Enrique had a gift for staging these encounters, as I said, but one has stayed with me, a masturbation masterpiece, if you will allow. Every detail has remained sharp and clear in my memory. "Strip!" he said, and took my clothes from me and carefully deposited them in a box. "Down!" he ordered, and I lay on my back while he opened the door and ushered in the others.
Reuben's booted left heel was planted behind my left knee. Donnie's booted right heel passed over my face to my right knee, so the two of them were holding my legs apart. Enrique's sneaker slid under my left armpit, Pasqual's pressed against my nose and lips and then moved under my right. I remember the smell, and exactly how the laces felt against my skin. Tremon stood between Enrique and Reuben; the boy they all called Piston stood between Donnie and Pasqual. Chang stood behind my head, his Doc Martins pressed against my cheeks to hold my face still. From the floor, they all looked like giants, even Enrique.
The overhead light worked magic on their bodies. Each movement of Reuben's arm as he massaged his cock was accompanied by a ripple of his pecs. His pale skin almost flickered under his thick body hair. Donnie's all-American boy good looks and well-defined muscles disappeared in shadow and reappeared flesh-bright as his hips pumped his dick in his hands. Powerful muscles rolled under Enrique's tight, maple-brown skin. Pasqual's breath was almost as quick as his hands, a blur of motion that made his shaft look immense. The light gleamed on Tremon's sweat-misted body as if he'd been sculptured in ebony. Piston's cock was long enough to accommodate both of his hands. His hips plunged and drew back while his upper body remained utterly motionless, except for a slight movement of his lips as he breathed. Chang worked his tool almost like a musical instrument, touching it lightly with just his fingertips and spitting on it every few strokes to keep it wet. What missed him splashed on my face.
My own cocked ached. I was not allowed to touch it, once the sessions began. I waited for endless moments until they cried and roared, shouted, swore and laughed, and my body was pummeled by their cream. I watched as they shook their last drops onto me, waited eyes closed while they dressed and Enrique distributed the cash. I lay still until their voices faded and Enrique closed the door behind himself, then finished myself in the cooling cum. What dried on my body teased me with occasional pulls against my skin for the rest of the day.
Enrique never enlisted queers for our sessions. These were contemptuous, self-assured hetero teens, intent on humiliating me, on displaying their superior manhood and their voluminous capacity. And if their attention wandered to the crotches of their companions, if images of exploding cum occasionally appeared in a dream or fantasy, that meant nothing. It was no more than a celebration of manhood.