“Fuck,” I grunted, tipping my head back as I blasted my load into his eager cunt. I didn’t even know his name. But did it matter? He was just another frat boy who came sniffing around for some dick. And I was happy to deliver.
“Don’t forget to call a realtor today,” my wife nagged as she left for work that morning.
“Ugh,” I groaned. “I don’t wanna move. I like this house.”
“You like living on frat row?” she quipped. “I’m sick of the constant noise, the wild parties, and drunk guys puking in our bushes at 3 am.”
“It’s not that bad,” I protested.
“Yes it is,” she insisted, rubbing her swollen, pregnant belly. “And I’m not raising our child next to a frat house.”
We didn’t exactly live next to a frat house, I wanted to point out, but there were about a dozen fraternity house on our street. That was the price for living close to campus. As a young professor, I loved being able to bike to my office and classes. So what if it meant dealing with a few frat parties in the neighborhood? Okay, maybe more than a few.
But the real reason I loved living near all those frat houses was because of how many frat boys were looking to get dicked down by a slightly older guy like me. Don’t get me wrong. Fucking my wife was great. But nothing compares to the savage brutality of shoving your cock up another man’s ass. I should’ve stopped fucking guys when I got married, but it was like asking a junkie to give up his fix.
It didn’t help that scoring a piece of ass in the neighborhood was just too easy. All I had to do was take off my shirt and do just about anything in my front yard—mow the lawn, check the mail, wash the car—and soon some horny frat boy would pass by and chat me up, eager to get in my pants.
That particular afternoon was no different. I was weeding the flowerbeds, shirtless of course, when a twink frat boy passed by on his way back from class, a backpack hanging from one shoulder.
“Nice house,” the frat boy commented. Yet his eyes were on my bulging crotch, sweat dripping down my treasure trail.
“Thanks,” I replied, adjusting my package, the flimsy material of my athletic shorts clinging to my big, sweaty cock. “The house was built in the ‘40s.”
“Wow,” he exclaimed, his eyes traveling up and down my muscular body. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”
“Want to come inside?” I offered. “I could give you a tour . . . of the bedroom.”
Five minutes later, the frat boy twink was on my bed—the one I share with my wife—with his legs spread wide, my big cock up his ass. While destroying his pretty, pink cunt, I noticed my wife’s eyes staring at me from her wedding picture on the bed table, which turned me on even more, making my cock harder. It felt good to be bad.
“You’re so big,” the frat boy squealed in delight, his eyes rolling back in his head as I pummeled his tight hole.
“You like this big cock?” I asked rhetorically. “You like this big cock in your pretty cunt?”
“Uh huh,” he replied, pulling his legs closer to his chest, opening his hole even more for me. “Your big dick feels so fuckin’ good inside me.”
“You gonna let me cum in you?” I demanded, my pace increasing, my balls slapping his ass with each thrust. “You gonna let me shoot my load up your ass?”
“Yes,” he begged. “Fucking seed me.”
I could take my time with a boy like him, make love to him slowly and deliberately like when I have sex with my wife. But the boy was not my wife, and that made all the difference. His pleasure meant shit to me. My only goal was to fuck his ass and shoot my load. Pump and dump. Innately, he knew that. Deep down inside, he just wanted to be used and dominated. It was a symbiotic transaction. And so I gave him what he wanted, what he needed—my cum.
“Fuck,” I grunted, tipping my head back as I blasted my load into his eager cunt, filling him with my seed on the same bed on which I impregnated my wife just a few months prior.
“That was fucking hot,” he exhaled as I pulled out of him, my pearly load clinging to the downy fur ringing his wrecked hole. “Can we—can we maybe do this again sometime?”
“Sure,” I lied, tossing him his clothes, eager for him to get the fuck out of my house now that the deed was done.
In truth, I rarely fuck the same boy twice. On a college campus full of horny young guys, there are far too many fish in the sea for me to want to eat the same catch day after day. Tomorrow will deliver a new frat boy to devour.
“Did you call a realtor?” my wife asked when she got home from work that day. She was oblivious to the clean sheets on our bed, the cum-stained, sweat-soaked sheets in the washing machine. “We need to sell this house.”
“Sorry, babe,” I apologized, wrapping my strong arms around her, my body freshly showered to remove the earthy funk of sweat, sex, and cum. “We’re not moving. I like it here.”
#Gay #sex #fuck #2024
“Don’t forget to call a realtor today,” my wife nagged as she left for work that morning.
“Ugh,” I groaned. “I don’t wanna move. I like this house.”
“You like living on frat row?” she quipped. “I’m sick of the constant noise, the wild parties, and drunk guys puking in our bushes at 3 am.”
“It’s not that bad,” I protested.
“Yes it is,” she insisted, rubbing her swollen, pregnant belly. “And I’m not raising our child next to a frat house.”
We didn’t exactly live next to a frat house, I wanted to point out, but there were about a dozen fraternity house on our street. That was the price for living close to campus. As a young professor, I loved being able to bike to my office and classes. So what if it meant dealing with a few frat parties in the neighborhood? Okay, maybe more than a few.
But the real reason I loved living near all those frat houses was because of how many frat boys were looking to get dicked down by a slightly older guy like me. Don’t get me wrong. Fucking my wife was great. But nothing compares to the savage brutality of shoving your cock up another man’s ass. I should’ve stopped fucking guys when I got married, but it was like asking a junkie to give up his fix.
It didn’t help that scoring a piece of ass in the neighborhood was just too easy. All I had to do was take off my shirt and do just about anything in my front yard—mow the lawn, check the mail, wash the car—and soon some horny frat boy would pass by and chat me up, eager to get in my pants.
That particular afternoon was no different. I was weeding the flowerbeds, shirtless of course, when a twink frat boy passed by on his way back from class, a backpack hanging from one shoulder.
“Nice house,” the frat boy commented. Yet his eyes were on my bulging crotch, sweat dripping down my treasure trail.
“Thanks,” I replied, adjusting my package, the flimsy material of my athletic shorts clinging to my big, sweaty cock. “The house was built in the ‘40s.”
“Wow,” he exclaimed, his eyes traveling up and down my muscular body. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”
“Want to come inside?” I offered. “I could give you a tour . . . of the bedroom.”
Five minutes later, the frat boy twink was on my bed—the one I share with my wife—with his legs spread wide, my big cock up his ass. While destroying his pretty, pink cunt, I noticed my wife’s eyes staring at me from her wedding picture on the bed table, which turned me on even more, making my cock harder. It felt good to be bad.
“You’re so big,” the frat boy squealed in delight, his eyes rolling back in his head as I pummeled his tight hole.
“You like this big cock?” I asked rhetorically. “You like this big cock in your pretty cunt?”
“Uh huh,” he replied, pulling his legs closer to his chest, opening his hole even more for me. “Your big dick feels so fuckin’ good inside me.”
“You gonna let me cum in you?” I demanded, my pace increasing, my balls slapping his ass with each thrust. “You gonna let me shoot my load up your ass?”
“Yes,” he begged. “Fucking seed me.”
I could take my time with a boy like him, make love to him slowly and deliberately like when I have sex with my wife. But the boy was not my wife, and that made all the difference. His pleasure meant shit to me. My only goal was to fuck his ass and shoot my load. Pump and dump. Innately, he knew that. Deep down inside, he just wanted to be used and dominated. It was a symbiotic transaction. And so I gave him what he wanted, what he needed—my cum.
“Fuck,” I grunted, tipping my head back as I blasted my load into his eager cunt, filling him with my seed on the same bed on which I impregnated my wife just a few months prior.
“That was fucking hot,” he exhaled as I pulled out of him, my pearly load clinging to the downy fur ringing his wrecked hole. “Can we—can we maybe do this again sometime?”
“Sure,” I lied, tossing him his clothes, eager for him to get the fuck out of my house now that the deed was done.
In truth, I rarely fuck the same boy twice. On a college campus full of horny young guys, there are far too many fish in the sea for me to want to eat the same catch day after day. Tomorrow will deliver a new frat boy to devour.
“Did you call a realtor?” my wife asked when she got home from work that day. She was oblivious to the clean sheets on our bed, the cum-stained, sweat-soaked sheets in the washing machine. “We need to sell this house.”
“Sorry, babe,” I apologized, wrapping my strong arms around her, my body freshly showered to remove the earthy funk of sweat, sex, and cum. “We’re not moving. I like it here.”
#Gay #sex #fuck #2024
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