Chapter 2 | Afternoon

By kuro & S. Q. Neemie
published October 6, 2020
4715 words

John and Chuckie go for coffee, take in a movie, and get some lunch.

The station’s in a nice part of town, filled with adverts for cock pumps and trainers. You brush past them, well familiar with the salesmanship that predictably defines so much of society.

You realise that you’ve completely forgot to check out the SNL sketch as you walk the short distance to Chuckie’s flat – but you can’t be too mad at yourself; you’ve made an exciting new contact, after all. And is it so bad to go into a film raw?

You walk past a couple of sticky, cum-faced twinks as you head to the elevator in Chuckie’s block. They’re laughing, trading swipes of cum as they rhapsodise about the hunk they’ve just blown together, though the man’s nowhere in evidence. Chuckie’s door isn’t locked when you try it – just like him, really; he knew you were coming and unlocked the door so that he wouldn’t have to stop jerking off while you got ready to go off together.

Predictably, he’s splayed across the sofa – in a similar position to what you were doing when you received that ring, earlier: jerking off with a glazed expression. The sight of your slightly jizzed face has his breath hitching – he cries out in mingled pleasure and dismay as he fountains cum over himself, moaning as he wrecks his shirt.

“J-John!” he says, a little sheepishly. “You really surprised me – I wanted to edge for at least another ten minutes…”

Right – Chuckie and his tantric orgasms. But you can’t say that they haven’t paid off; he’s dealing with a 14" leviathan that’s thicker than his wrist. You strongly suspect that he’ll split in the next year – if not the next month. Of course, some dudes never do; that’s part of what makes cocks so fascinating.

“Heya, bro,” I say, leaning over him and giving him a hello-lick across his cheek. He gives me the same as I’m near, then says, “Fuck, that’s not yours, is it? You cheating on me, bro?”

“Ran into a dude on the subway,” I say, sauntering into his kitchen and grabbing a beer from his fridge. “Ten inches, good load. Fucking immaculate cock, dude. Movie star quality.” I pop the brew and take a swig.

“Some guys have all the luck,” complains Chuckie.

“Fuck, tell me about it,” I say. “Dude, did you catch the game last night?”

“You kidding? I had to go out with Chelsea – fucking anniversary, dude.”

“Your loss, man,” I say. “Wolcott’s fucking shorts exploded. He turned to kick and the thing just burst right off them. Fucking hilarious. He was just flapping in the breeze like –” I swing my hips back and forth.

“Shut up,” said Chuckie. “Fuck, I miss everything. I wish girls would let you hang out with bros more often and not be so fucking possessive all the time.”

“Me too, dude, but what can you do?” I say, chugging the beer. I belch and then toss the can. “Let’s get moving, man, we don’t want to be late.”

Fat chance of that – even though you’ve never dated anyone long-term, preferring one-night stands, you’re well familiar with how they get offended if you start blowing them off. Chuckie’s girl is particularly stringent, annoyed whenever he comes back covered in cum… particularly if it’s not his. You can’t see the problem, but –

~ Chuckie’s girlfriend sees him about once a month, but spends most of the time in the country; she doesn’t really give a shit about when he shows up looking like the central actor in a bukkake flick so long as he fucks her and leaves. That’s pretty standard, these days; hetero divorce rates have gone through the roof –

~ Girlfriends are kind of an antiquated concept, these days; sure, people get together to procreate, but marriage and even dating between men and women fell off a cliff in the nineties. Part of the second wave of feminism was a realisation that men were, well, not super interested in women any more – which, fair – and that they were mostly being used.

Communes, both lesbian and otherwise, exploded in popularity; the inner cities are pretty deserted from a female perspective these days. Telecommuting’s allowed the sexes to continue to work together, but… there’s very little reason to interact physically. Women just collectively appeared to decide that they had no reason to want guys, and guys went along with it – keen to hang out with their buddies more often, and not missing the feminine touch.

“Anyway, yeah, it was great,” Chuckie enthuses, as the two of you rhapsodise about Wolcott’s wardrobe malfunction. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Adam, Barclay and Chuckie these days, on reflection… but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I know man, I was there when you tried to recreate it on my couch, dude.” I winked at him. “What Wolcott didn’t have was streams of cum flying through the air.”

“Can’t help it, bro, it’s my chakra,” says Chuckie. I laugh and we head out his door for the movies.

“You wanna walk or take the bus?” asks Chuckie as we hit the pavement.

“Walk,” I say. “It’s only a few blocks, and we can hit the Starbucks.” I could see the coffeehouse with its trademark merman sign from here, noticing the way the stylized dick of the logo pointed down toward the store.

“Can’t do caffeine, dude,” says Chuckie.

“Shut the fuck up, man. It’s not gonna hurt you. You were licking the cum off my face ten minutes ago.”

“That’s more primal, dude,” says Chuckie.

“Whatever man,” I say as we head into the store.

Barclay’s brother Reeve works at this store, and he’s the one who greets us. “Hey, man, long time,” I say. If he weren’t behind a counter we could cock-bump, but since he is I just squeeze my bulge and he does the same. Kid’s in his first year of college, probably doing pretty well for himself, based on the way his pants are stuffed. I wondered if he is as big as Barclay.

“What do you think he’s packing?” I ask Chuckie as Reeve goes to make my drink.

“I dunno,” says Chuckie, stroking his own bulge lightly as he watches Reeve’s crotch. “Eight, nine inches?”

“It’s always so weird when service people are hung,” I say. “I wish employers would help us out and make sure everyone knows just what their employees are working with.”

“Fuck yeah,” laughs Chuckie. “Cockmonsters of the month or something.”

You both have to content yourselves with mere speculation, sadly – though you do have the unexpected pleasure of Reeve delivering your drinks to your table directly, where he bumps crotches with Chuckie when he stands up; they laugh, a subtle spark nascent between them – but he’s working, so nothing will come of it –

~ After protests over cocks being legitimate to display both at home and during travel, employers eventually buckled and caved back in 1995: regulations were relaxed, particularly since there were no women to be horrified at the concept. Nowadays, crotchless trousers or shorts have been increasingly coming into vogue, with certain Olympic sports like swimming being performed entirely naked; numbers and national flags are attached to swimmers with stickers. The argument at the time went that using speedos artificially modified the body’s drag, and so could be considered performance enhancing –

~ There’s a mid-20s guy sitting at the counter who doesn’t look like he’s worn pants or underwear since he hit 18: he’s got a perfectly even tan, cock dangling down between the legs of the stool in an enticing way. You catch Reeve taking a glance as he returns to his station, the “NINE INCHES” on his belt buckle clearly a new achievement – it’s not scuffed or scratched at all.

Whenever you’re in work clothing, those buckles are mandatory – and they’ve filtered out to the rest of society, as it’s seen as rude to not inform someone of your cock size if they’re showing you.

The other half of the equation is directly below the buckle: Reeve’s smart pleated slacks have a ring in the crotch from which his cock hangs like a firehose. His balls are obscured – lots of guys aren’t 100% comfortable with showing them off, though there are obvious exceptions like the guy at the counter – but you can tell that he’s packing some serious cojones from the way his slacks bulge beneath his python.

“Hey, Reeve,” I say, pointing at his monster with my chin, “your game’s going pretty good, huh?”

He blushes. “Thanks, man. My boss says I’m supposed to put it out on the counter now that I hit the nine-incher. Makes the customers more confident.”

“I’m for sure more confident,” says Chuckie, grinning at Reeve’s dangling member.

“Yeah, but you don’t buy anything,” says Reeve.

“Sorry, dude, this body’s a temple,” says Chuckie, rubbing his six-pack under his T-shirt.

“What are you dudes up to today?” asks Reeve.

“Headed to the movies,” I said. “Wish your boss let you off for bro time and you could come with.”

Unfortunately, work remains work – you’re all cogs in the capitalist machine, no matter how much it’s changed in the last fifty years –

~ Reeve’s manager looks up at your mentioning him, and smiles a little. “Reeve can take the time off, don’t worry – he’s been performing exceptionally recently,” he says generously. “Just don’t get too carried away… or do, whatever! Ah, to be young again –”

~ Reeve’s already stripping off his cutaway apron, something he’s been itching to do since you stepped foot inside the shop. Now that you’ve been adequately served, he’s free to spend time with his bros: the government reassessed their economics in the 2000s and found that workers were happier, healthier and more productive when they were able to take spontaneous days off for ‘bro time’.

His place is seamlessly filled by another worker – SEVEN INCHES, apparently – who smiles winsomely at the very tall gentleman who’s next in line (FOURTEEN INCHES, two separate buckles inform you… as do the twin bulges he’s sporting).

Generally, society’s much more positive now that people are put first – the profit motive’s no longer the driving force behind everything, which means that people can afford to be ill, healthy, with friends…

Honestly, it’s pretty great, now that you reflect on it.

“Sweet, dude, let’s jet,” I say, swigging my coffee. The three of us saunter down the street, poking fun at each other as we go. I like Barclay’s baby bro – he hangs out with us sometimes, and he’s a good dude. Chuckie and he are on a real wavelength – pushing each other and laughing like school chums. I grin at the way Reeve’s huge donger bounces as they horseplay.

The cinema is one of those new places with the reclining plush seats. We pay for our tickets and pick up some popcorn from a red-headed ELEVEN INCHES dude at the counter. Fuck, but this city is great. I hear the dicks are even bigger in the country, but I think we do pretty alright.

We settle into our seats and get ready for the alien flick. I’m hoping for some nice starfighting action – a good popcorn flick with plenty of punches.

“They say you can see Tripp Harder cumming under a desk in one of the scenes,” whispers Chuckie as the previews start. “He almost got fired for it, and they edited it out, but there are a few drops you can see.”

“It’s fucking stupid, man,” I complain. “I mean, you can spew all over the subway but there’s a ban on cum showing in major movies. It’s stupid. I wish they’d just get rid of the ban once and for all.”

Unfortunately, you can spot the scene fairly early on in the movie, once the various adverts pass by (Xanthamum Cockrings: Show Yourself is a highlight that has more than a few guys adjusting themselves: Danny Banger makes a convincing pitch when he’s not spending his time singing). There’s some suspicious fluid on his desk after the fact, but the entire orgasm has been sliced from the silver screen. It’s not even an elegant cut –

~ The adverts flick past your disinterested eyes, though you’re excited at the rather risqué advert that heavily implies James Durant is bottling his cum as a high-end scent. It’s not true, but the mere suggestion that you could get a star’s fluids on you is surely going to be enough to get some folks to shell out. In the film itself, Tripp’s cock is slapped across the desk like a hunk of meat as he argues with his Chief of Staff: his decisive point is made as he begins liberally precumming over the Resolute Desk’s leather inset. Still, they cut away to reaction shots for the actual orgasm, which makes you roll your eyes. Everyone knows what’s happening anyway, so why –

~ Tripp’s speech as the aliens make themselves known is stirring, in more ways than one. His cock is strong and fat as it pumps out an entire pint of cum, ensuring that his staff as well as the audience are razor-focused on his figure. He makes a pretty good president, really – you’d vote for him.

The rest of the film is the usual cum-splattered riot, which you all thoroughly enjoy. There’s even a shocking moment when an alien advances on an army guy, looking like he’s about to jerk the dude off – but it cuts away discreetly just before you see anything. Typical.

“Good show, my dudes,” I say after the flick is ended.

“Would have been if the asshat in the row ahead of me could have kept his dick down through it,” grumbles Chuckie loud enough for the guy to hear him. The guy in question is a rough-looking dude with a truly gargantuan cock that’s still at full mast. “I saw, like, half the film.”

“You got a problem with it, pretty boy?” growls the dude, getting up of his seat. His friends are getting up too.

“I got a big problem with your dick when it’s waving in my face,” Chuckie bites back.

“I guess you’d have a hard time focusing on anything else, with a tiny nub like that between your legs,” says the dude.

“C’mon, Chuckie, leave it,” I say, but he jumps up out of his seat like he didn’t hear me. “The fuck did you say?” he growls.

Sighing, I get ready to fight these dudes, wishing there was a way to resolve these testosterone-heavy moments without violence.

Your introspection is interrupted by a fist embedding itself in your face –fuck, did that fucker just break your jaw? You weren’t even saying anything! Why the –

~ The leather-clad belligerent pulls Chuckie’s face close, engaging him in a rough, snarling make out session. They’re already wrestling with each other’s dicks, trying to make the other be the first to cum; some scientific study back in the day determined that testosterone resolved itself through the Fight or Frot response. Scientists proposed a novel hybrid of the two, Fight-Frotting, which led to violent incidents being cut half repeatedly through the years –

~ Chuckie’s eyes soften as the leather-clad dude pulls him close, their words fading as they kiss and make up, you roll your eyes a little. You bet that the guy was just horny and wanted to have a nice snogging session while teasing another person to orgasm, and Chuckie just happened to be the closest warm body.

Still, the fact that people’s impulses now trend significantly towards passion rather than pugilism can only be a good thing; sometimes, all you have to do is start an argument with Adam before he’s rubbing your shaft while you get to touch his. It might be nice not to have that artifice in the first place – some folks pick fights constantly in order to get their rocks off – but it’s way better than the alternative.

“All right, you lovebirds,” I say to Chuckie and the dude. “Everything cool?”

Chuckie pulls from the kiss and blinks. “Yeah, cool,” he says.

“I could still go,” says Reeve hotly beside me.

“C’mon, buddy boy,” I smile, putting my arm around Reeve’s shoulder. That loyalty to Chuckie will get him in trouble someday! “Let’s go grab some dinner or something, yeah? I’m starving.”

After a split second Reeve nods, and Chuckie – after a final kiss with his assailant – joins us, looking a little sheepish.

“So, ah – did you like the movie?” he asks as he wipes the spit from his chin.

I chuckle. “We talked about this, dude. It was pretty good. Tripp Harder was excellent, man. And that scene with the alien! I kinda wish aliens were real, if they were like that.”

“Maybe they are real,” says Reeve.

“Don’t be a dork, Reeve,” I say, smiling at him. “C’mon, let’s go eat.”

You all chuckle, heading over to the diner that’s near the cinema. Fortunately, it’s not a part of it – otherwise you’re sure the prices would be three times as expensive, for some reason – but you can get an extremely juicy burger for a reasonable few dollars –

~ You keep chatting as you wander in, Reeve telling you about ‘panspermia’ – heh, sperm – and some comet that astronomers were still arguing over after it landed on some peninsula not far from the city in the 20th century. Apparently, there are all sorts of conspiracy theories that the reason everything’s so liberal now is because of microbacteria changing people’s brains… and the reason there’s no evidence for it is because they’re either A) ubiquitous or B) too small to see. It’s convenient how these theories change as evidence continues not to emerge for them in any way other than some kind of societal narrative –

~ You all laugh as you take seats, though Reeve seems oddly insistent about his alien theories.

“I’m just saying, man, would you, like… mind if you found out a guy was an alien? And that he had a tentacle for a dick instead of a regular one?”

Chuckie’s eyes instinctively dip down to Reeve’s NINE INCHES, before he raises his eyebrows meaningfully. Reeve flushes.

“I- I mean, what if they could transform, and make their dicks and faces look normal, but… secretly they weren’t!”

Barclay’s brother’s face is stained red with his frustrated blush, as the two of you blink at him.

“Fuck, I’m game,” grins Chuckie. “Imagine going to cock-bump a dude and he has an octopus down there. You get to say hi to your bro and a nice handy. Win-win.”

“Wouldn’t be a handy, dude,” I laugh. “It’d be a dicky. A tentacly. A dicky-tentacly.”

The waiter comes up to take our order, his own dick out and proud. It’s a nice thick dark one. Fuck, it’s good to see. “Dude,” I say to him, “we’re talking aliens. How’d you like a handy everytime you said hello?”

“I’d run out of spunk after the first three tables of the day, man,” he quips, causing the rest of us to laugh. He takes our orders and leaves, with all three of us watching the sway of his dick as he walks.

“Still, it’d be awesome,” I say. “Like, frotting is excellent and whatever but it’d be great if you could jack off your dudes whenever you wanted too. Like, I wouldn’t have been sad if one of you bros had reached over during the movie, but you can’t do that.”

“Fuck, man, it’ll never happen,” says Chuckie. “Society’s just too damn uptight.”

I check out the menu, where a picture of ripped Latino dude is posing with his exposed EIGHTEEN INCHES dick milimeters away from the plate of burgers he’s advertising and sigh. “Too fucking right, dude. Too fucking right.”

It would be great, everyone mournfully agrees – but the idea of sexual contact is still restricted for those in relationships, which are, of course, pretty much exclusively same-sex these days. Still, touching a guy’s prick in public isn’t really done, and anything more sexual than that still violates more than a few public decency laws.

Still, you’ve been pushing the boundaries with your personal cadre of friends – even though you don’t think of yourself as gay, there pretty much aren’t any other options these days. It’s what you’ve been raised to know – and so you’ve been… well, suggesting things like that cinema jack-off fantasies more and more, in recent times.

Bros are bros, and maybe contact that’s a little more than casual momentary cockbumping would do you the power of good –particularly if it doesn’t involve having to start a fight. Jerking people off in order to diffuse anger is cool, and all, but what if anger wasn’t necessary in the first place?

“Huh,” I say. “Check it, dudes – what do you think would happen if I just grabbed the waiter’s dick when he comes back?”

Reeve wrinkled his nose. “Probably he’d frot you to the floor, man. You know how guys are about their dicks.”

“Go for it, dude,” says Chuckie with a grin. “Bout time you got knocked on your ass.”

“Shut it,” I say, cuffing the back of his head playfully. He dodges and laughs. The feel of his wavy chestnut hair slipping past my fingers gives my dick a jump, and I go back to musing about the cock-touching taboo. If dicks can touch, why not dicks and hands, or other things? I punched Chuckie in the thigh and wished I could just go for it and jack off my good dudes under the table as we waited for our burgers.

You stew in subtle want for the time it takes for three medium-rare burgers to arrive, angsting over the fact that your bros dicks are going un-touched for far too long –

~ Your hand rests easily on both Reeve and Chuckie’s dicks, though you don’t make any motions. It’s standard for one guy in a posse to just… keep his bros near, when they’re together; you’ve picked up the role today organically. It also happily means that they’ll be feeding you your burger, though Chuckie’s hippy dippy nature means that some of it might require a bit of diving in order to get –

~ Your hands form a steady, pumping rhythm, jerking off the two of them as Reeve uses a free hand to caress your cock every so often. You’re fed, jacking off some of your best friends… well, a best friend and a brother… and honestly pretty content with your life, for at least a moment.

When the waiter returns, Chuckie grabs a handful of cock and drags him down so he can give a good jerk-off as a tip – which is standard, in most places.

“I love this,” I say to Reeve as we watch Chuckie’s hand pump up and down on the dude’s pecker. For all Chuckie brags about his slow, tantric jack-offs he’s like a piston machine when it’s another dude’s dick in his hand.

“Fuck yeah,” says Reeve, his eyes never leaving Chuckie’s face. Fuck, the kid had it bad for Chuckie. Maybe he was one of those dudes. Not that there was all that much distinction, yeah?

“Used to do this with a buddy back home,” I say, giving Reeve’s smooth monster an expert twist. “We’d get together to watch X-Files and jack each other. Tried to time it so we came during the credits. Fucking good times.” I twist my fingers around the head of Reeve’s dick and he nearly chokes on his hamburger. “You remember that one where Fox Mulder and David Scully had to work their way out of the alien pod by melting it with each others’ jizz?”

“Never saw it, old man,” says Reeve with a cheeky grin.

“I’ll old man you,” I grin back, and give him the right twist of my fist that never fails. Reeve jolts in his seat and goes off, painting the underside of the table with hot white man-cream. The dude wrapped in Chuckie’s fist cums at the same time, wailing as he shoots four ropes across the table.

I scoop a fingerful of Reeve-snot and a fingerful of waiter-snot and stick them both in my mouth. The mixture of cum-flavors is tangy and delicious, but not really enough to get the full taste. “Dudes,” I say to the panting studs in front of me, “fucking choice. More of an appetizer, tho. I wish you could work for bigger and tastier loads the way you can dick-out for bigger cocks. Something that excellent should be a fucking firehose explosion, you feel me?”

“I’ve actually been-” Chuckie’s attempt at a wise explanation is interrupted by you and Reeve rolling your eyes. He’s been trying for years to up his load size, and the evidence of increase is negligible. He huffs, annoyed –

~ “There actually is a way,” Chuckie says in a low voice, making the three of you – including the waiter – lean in a little. Chuckie’s actually kind of exceptional, able to shoot out half a litre of cum on the regular, which even tastes a bit like vanilla. You’ve long wondered about his secret. “If you fondle your balls just right with one hand while dicking out with the other, you can make them bigger, too.” You collectively look at Chuckie’s orange-sized balls in a speculative fashion –

~ Chuckie’s balls are the size of mangos, by this point – they’re probably some of the largest in the world, which makes sense, given that he was the one to make the discovery. There are some guys who pretty much solely fondle their balls who might have even larger ones, but they’re pretty much shut-ins; Chuckie makes sure to make time for friends.

He’s also got the tastiest loads in the world. They’re not quite literally ambrosia, but they’re filling, nutritious, and taste pretty much like vanilla ice cream. The waiter’s actually looking a little disappointed that the famous Chuckie Volt didn’t deign to give him a taste… though if Chuckie started doing that, you’d never hear the end of it from his fans.

“I wish I was a supergusher,” says Reeve, looking glum. “I can’t get the fondling right for the next level.” Barclay has told me that Reeve has had to have his shorts specially tailored to keep his mammoth balls concealed under his dick-window, so he can’t be doing too badly. I squeeze my own balls in my shorts and wonder if it’s time to do the work to bulk my whole tackle up. If I wait much longer, all my bros will be so far ahead of me I won’t be able to catch up.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” says Chuckie, scooting around the table and putting his arm around Reeve, who goes all shades of red. “I’ll give you a training session for free, yeah?”

“Fuck yeah,” grins Reeve through his blush.

Mind control
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