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Unequal Exchange

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The 1992 Plymouth Voyager’s brakes give a high-pitched whine as I pull into the strip mall parking spot. They do that sometimes when it’s been raining; I should probably get them looked at. Then again, it’s my senior year of undergrad. Between tuition, rent, and party supplies, who has the cash left for vehicle maintenance? Trust fund kids, maybe. But there’s a reason I’m driving a nineteen-year-old minivan to this joint in this first place.

Speaking of. I lean over the dashboard to take a skeptical glance up at the dark sign above the store. “Rushdie Family Groceries,” I can just barely read by the light of the headlamps. I pull out my flip phone, check the note I made hours earlier before making the drive from Rutgers Camden across central Jersey.

Yup, this is the address all right. He must’ve forgotten to mention it was a business. Maybe he wants to meet somewhere public before driving elsewhere, make sure I’m not a creep? Not that there’s anything particularly “public” about a closed convenience store in rural Jersey at 2 in the morning. The front glass door and windows are completely covered over with sale signage, ads for soda and bottled water.

I rest my hands on the steering wheel and let out a long breath. Do I really want to go through with this? I could just pretend I got lost, apologize that I never found the place. Everything about this screams sketch as fuck…but it’s way too late to make backup plans, and the thought of driving an hour home this horny sounds like some kind of small torture.

that u out front? His text lights up my still-open phone. ur late. Welp, so much for faking my way out of this.

yeah! I type fast with one thumb, years of T9 practice producing the rest of the message in seconds. sorry. wasn’t sure this was the place. is the door unlocked or…?

come around the back, comes his blunt reply. Right down to business, this guy. I sigh and turn pull the key out of the ignition. The store’s in the middle of the strip, so it takes me a good couple minutes to walk down the far end and make my way around back past the rancid dumpsters. Nothing says late-night romance like the smell of day-old fast food and expired vegetables.

I find what I think is the right back door—they all look the same on the mall’s rear side—and try the fire handle. Nothing. I’m about to try the one next door when I hear the sound of a lock unlatching inside. When the door swings outward, it’s so dark inside I can hardly see the outline of the guy holding it open. He’s taller than my 5’11 by a good couple inches, which is both a fun surprise and a little intimidating. I’m pretty jacked these days, though, thanks to wrestling team and all that “free” college gym time. So I’m maybe a little less worried about these offline encounters than I ought to be.

“You coming in?” he asks, or kind of mumbles, and I jolt to realize I’ve just been standing here trying to get a good look at him. I nod and follow him into the darkness of the loading bay. “It’s this way.” He pulls out what looks like a proper smart phone—expensive, a new iPhone 4 from the look of it—and uses its massive touchscreen to illuminate the floor like a flash light.

What’s this way? I want to ask, though I’m already following. I try to get a sense of what he looks like in the occasional phone flashes. He wears a red t-shirt and navy blue basketball shorts, that much I can tell in the dimness. He walks through the loaded aisles like a straight guy—wide-stanced and flat-footed—yet his ass is big enough to sway with each lumbering step anyway. I like it.

“This is it,” he says as we reach the front of the store before the glass case of the sole checkout counter. He turns to face me and puts his phone away. “You’re jungblood1990, yes? Just like your Manhunt pictures.”

There’s a little moonlight coming through the windows up high where they’re not blocked by ads and posters. Enough that I can make out his face and figure.

“Call me Jacob,” I reply, trying my best to sound a seasoned casual. “And you’re ElectrikFall0ut3000?”

“Arjay, yes.” He nods, looking very little like his pictures. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s aged five or six years since he took them, and put on at least thirty pounds. Maybe forty. His deep brown face and neck are much fuller, and his red shirt tents a little over what’s long surpassed an undergrad beer gut. I can tell he still has some of that football muscle from his headless full-body photo, though it’s softened somewhat under the fresh layer of fat. That’s okay with me, frankly. Just means there’s more man to grab hold of.

“This is my father’s store,” he states with a flat affect, as though I couldn’t have figured that out from the context.

“Got it.” I look around for anything resembling furniture or a surface that would make sex remotely comfortable—at least the way I’m used to having sex on campus. The tchotchke-covered checkout counter hardly looks ideal space-wise, setting aside how unhygienic that surface might be. “Are we, uh, going somewhere else?” My voice rises a little at the end, hopeful.

“I live with my parents,” he says, again flatly, though I take his meaning. “Not that I couldn’t afford to move out,” he hastily adds. “I’m doing very well at my company. But I would rather spend money on things I like than on rent. Cars and traveling. Restaurants. I’m not married.”

“Good to know.” And it genuinely is, because as oddly as this night is going I don’t know that I could handle a waiting wife in the mix. Closet case is one thing; a family and potentially even kids are another. I’m suddenly keenly aware of how much older than me this guy is. I just celebrated my twenty-first, and he looks like he could be pushing thirty. Or past it. “I’m not either.”

He smirks as though I’ve made a joke. “So, are you going to do it?”

“Do what?” I ask aloud this time. Does he want me initiate? Maybe he’s wondering if I’ve gotten cold feet? Is this just how guys talk at these online hookups? I shift my feet a bit, awkwardly.

It,” he repeats, and makes a gesture towards his mouth with his fist. 

“Oh,” I reply, eyeing the bulge in his shorts. “Uh, sure.” Not the most romantic invitation, but whatever. That’s for you, I remind myself, however strange it feels to skip the kissing. I take a step forward and start to crouch before him on the floor.

“No no,” he stops me, grabbing my arm with a meaty grip. “Yours. I want to try yours.”

“Oh,” I say again, sounding like one of my mom’s broken records. “Okay. I guess.” I unzip my jeans and hesitate just a second before pulling my cock free of my boxer briefs. It hangs there, half-mast at best, still long and thick in its soft state. I’m insecure about a lot of things in life, but since hitting puberty my cock hasn’t been one of them.

Arjay kneels down on the linoleum, head pretty much level with my crotch. He waits there a moment, staring. Then he takes my soft cock in one palm and lifts it up as though examining it. He strokes it gently with the other—less like he’s jacking it than he’s trying to get a feel for its contours. He runs a finger around the cut head—courtesy of religious parents—and I feel my glans swelling, its soft ashen color turning slightly purple.

“Lovely,” he says, and he attacks my cock with his mouth like a starving man going down on a hot dog. It’s not particularly sexy. Instead of working his way up, he starts at top speed, slobbering all over it with tongue and lips rather than pushing it back towards his throat. I feel teeth brush my tip a couple times, then wince as they press abrasively against sensitive cock skin.

“Wait,” I say, and repeat myself when he shows no sign of slowing. “Stop, hold up a second.” I touch his head, briefly feel the wavy hair, and he swats my hand away. He doesn’t slow. “Okay, fine, just…just be careful with the teeth there, will you?” My dick isn’t getting any harder; just the opposite. “I can’t really keep it up if you go like that.”

That doesn’t seem to deter him. He keeps going, eventually does start taking it down his throat, though awkwardly and arrhythmically. Just when I think I’m about to go flaccid, he thrusts a hand through my fly and grabs my balls. Now, I fucking love ball play, the feel of fingers stroking at my tight sac…so this motion is enough to get my cock flowing again. But Arjay’s grip is so tight, I wince and suck wind through my teeth when he pulls them out of there, like he’s yanking one of those old-timey doorbells.

“Ow ow ow! Dude!

Instead of slowing, he just grabs my belt buckle, undoes it and yanks my jeans down in one quick motion. I’m standing there, ass exposed in the front of a grocery store, and I find myself thankful for all that signage covering up the front windows.

“Mmape your firt off,” he mumbles through half a mouthful of cock.

“What? I can’t—”

“Pft.” He turns to spit out a black pubic hair, then stares straight up into my eyes. His full lips mouth the words slowly, firmly: “Take your shirt off.” His big, intense eyes hold a strange command to them, even given his kneeling position and the taste of my cock all over his tongue. I can’t think of any reason not to be obey, except my modesty. And it’s a little late for that now, isn’t it? There’s just something about doing it in this store that makes me feel…oddly vulnerable.

I comply, lifting my arms up over my head to remove my shirt and navy pullover without stretching them. I’m careful to arch my back and let my arms flex—subtly, but noticeably, showing off my obvious biceps. I do the same for my well-toned chest as the top comes off. I knew I wanted to get laid tonight, so I’ve barely eaten anything, and my abs have that perfect washboard look which drives so many guys so crazy. I toss my clothes over on the counter, making a mental note to wash that sweater before re-wearing it. God alone knows how many hands and credit cards have crossed that counter since its last deep cleaning.

“Beautiful.” Arjay runs his fingers up my tan Finnish-Korean skin, a little too light and ticklish on my stomach. He cups my chest in each hand as though they’re a woman’s breasts, runs his fingers over my hardening nipples. “Perfect.” Very little about this night has been as sexy as I’d have liked, but I can’t deny being worshipped is a turn-on.

Arjay abruptly returns his mouth to my cock, going at it more frantically than ever, now that it’s hard again. His technique doesn’t improve, exactly, yet the more he goes the more I start to appreciate the enthusiasm of it. The less I mind the awkward rhythm and teeth incursions.

Then he starts to suck. Not like, “suck my cock,” in the way he’s already doing, working the shaft up and down his palate. He starts to suck, like his throat is somehow pulling me in, siphoning at my cock like a vacuum. I gasp. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but it feels incredible.

“Holy shit, you gotta stop,” I caution, feeling my balls pull back tight against my groin. This is happening way too quickly. “Arjay, you have to slow down. Jesus, I’m gonna-AAAaaaah!

I try to pull out, to stop it before it happens, but it’s too late. Arjay grabs my bare ass with both hands and pulls me in. He takes my cock all the way back and it’s like his whole throat is caressing me, sucking me off all the way down within him. I gasp as the first wave of orgasm hits me and cum shouts down Arjay’s throat. He swallows, still clutching my cock with his throat. He pulls me in as wave after wave of ejaculate bursts out of me. I’ve never come so hard or so many times in my life, sweet Christ it’s incredible. Finally the waves cease, and I shudder.

Arjay’s throat releases my cock, which slides from his lips as he slowly stands to face me. My cock quivers, still fully hard and somehow hungry for more, despite that there can’t be a drop of cum left inside me. His eyes meet mine again, this time from a few inches above. His lips are wet with saliva and what might be my ejaculate.

“Sorry,” I apologize again, feeling this is my fault somehow. “That never usually happens to me.” I gesture weakly towards his crotch. “Do you want me to—”

He grabs my wrist before my hand gets close. I’m confused; I can see his own cock straining against his gym shorts beneath his belly, short and stubby yet possibly even fatter than mine. His balls, I realize, must be huge. Their outline pushes against his shorts even more prominently than the cock above them. Surely he wants to me to help him with those, after…all that.

Before I can suggest this or ask why he won’t let me touch him, he’s grabbed me by the back of my scalp. He pulls my face in and shoves his lips into mine. It’s every bit as aggressive and awkward a kiss as his blowjob began. He rams his tongue against the roof of my mouth so hard I think he’s trying to shove it down my throat. I taste the taste of my own cum on his breath, though it’s mingled with the scent and flavor of something else. Something sweet.

Then he pulls back and shoves me down where I’d just tried to go anyway. I’m not resisting. The taste of his kiss, however awkward, however forcefully strange, has left me hungry for more of him. My cock hasn’t softened even a little since the orgasm. It itches eager to be pleased again.

I pull down the elastic band of his shorts, see he’s not wearing anything beneath them. His dick pops out—a real cute chode of a dick, no question. Maybe not long enough for effective topping, but fat enough to look a fun mouth-toy. It stands to short, hard-as-rock attention above the biggest and roundest pair of balls I have ever seen. Darker than mine, they bulge full to bursting against the wrinkle-tight skin of his scrotum, which tapers down in a surprisingly shaved hairless trail towards his taint. The hair above his dick is well-trimmed too, a soft carpet on the crotch fat which presses up against his shaft. Can’t say I expected manscaping from a guy with this much post-prime frat boy vibe going for him.

He presses against the back of my head to push me into it, but there’s no need. I’m already leaning in to taste. I tease the sides of his chode first, though admittedly there’s not much surface length between the fat of his crotch and the dick’s head. I kiss my lips around its wideness before working my tongue’s tip around the edges of his uncut head. I long to peel back that foreskin with my fingers and lips, taste the precum already pooling at the tip. But I pace myself, moving down from his dick to taste those gargantuan testicles.

I bring my fingers to work here too. Tips caress the smoothness of those beautiful balls, so soft yet so firm beneath my touch. My other hand works its way towards his dick above. I run my tongue down his perineal ridge, and it’s that motion which finally gets a reaction out of him: he moans.

It’s a low throaty sound, a reluctant sound. Quiet, as though he’s ashamed of it. I don’t care. I take the hint to continue. I push my face between his husky legs, work my mouth and tongue along his smooth taint while my left hand—well, two fingers of it—works the base of his dick. My right hand I slide behind him to caress his ass.

God, that ass. I can feel the size of it beneath my palm, the roundedness of those cheeks full of muscle and padding. My fingers brush the little patch of hair at the small of his back, then work their way gently down along his smooth crack. He tenses at this, so I move my mouth back up to his dick to relax him. With both hands I explore his ass and taint now, half-massaging, half-gripping. I probe with one finger into the crack towards my target.

The second my fingertip brushes the edge of his asshole, he yanks my head back by the hair on my scalp and it fucking hurts. His other hand grips my right wrist and jerks my hand away from his hole.

I look up angry, frustrated, annoyed...only to soften when I see the look of fear in his big eyes. It’s the first emotion I’ve been able to read there. And there’s barely more than a flash of it before his expression again hardens. If I wasn’t sure this guy was a closet case before, I am now. Normally that’s a deal-breaker; I just don’t have the time for all that nonsense. But I feel sorry for him and, right now, I still want him. If that means ass play is off the table, whatever, so be it.

I nod up at him, forgiving the pain in my scalp he just inflicted. Though again it’s irrelevant, because he shoves my face back where it was. He puts his other hand on my cheek, makes his instruction clear now: he wants my mouth around his dick right this second. I close my eyes and oblige.

Taking the chode all at once is no problem, really. It’s hardly long enough to reach my soft palate even as I force my lips down to the base of it. It tastes musky, sweaty, a little sour and rank at first. I gather he’s played some basketball or something since his last shower. But there’s also a sweetness there, dripping from the tip. His precum tastes surprisingly like mine, that same nutty flavor I was reminded of when he kissed me. It’s even sweeter, though, almost like it’s tinged with honey. There’s the vague taste of something fruity there, something delicious. I wrap my tongue around his shaft, such as it is, and set about milking more from him. I work my mouth up and down with firm lips, wishing he could penetrate my throat farther than that stubby chode is capable of.

Then he does.

My eyes bulge wide at the surprise of the sensation. His dick fills my throat, seemingly twice as long and as wide again. My lips stretch out with the sudden girth of it. A second later I’m choking on it, trying and failing to grasp for air around it. I try to push myself back from his crotch with my hands against his thighs, but his hands grip my wrists like toothpicks and toss my arms aside effortlessly. I open my eyes to see even more of the shaft emerging from the folds before me. His stomach seems to loom so much larger above. I look up to see his face again with a new expression: he’s grinning. His smile looks impossibly large and yet so far away for some reason.

“Take it,” he says, his voice at once growling and booming—so loud I worry someone else outside the store might hear, however unlikely. Yet I obey. I close my eyes and do my best to accept the size of him I underestimated. I relax and let my throat fill with all of it.

I start to work my mouth up and down again, though it must not be fast enough for his liking. Again he grips my head with both huge meaty hands and shoves my head further down on his chode—no, his cock. His massive fucking cock. I’m powerless to resist when he starts thrusting. Balls slap against my chest—wait, my chest?—fatter and heavier than I could have imagined. I take more and more of his cock until I can’t take another inch of it. My neck feels like it might rip open around his girth. But it’s not enough for him. He rams his way even father down, filling the entirety of my bulging throat with his thickness.

I scream a cock-muffled scream of pain. Then it’s pleasure. Arjay moans, a deep rumble, and the next thing I know my mouth almost seems to explode with flavor. He thrusts in and out, filling my mouth and throat with a rush of ejaculate. He comes in waves, shivering. Then he presses me tight, and the waves intensify. Hot and sticky fluid pumps its way down my throat to my stomach, a balloon filled by a running garden hose. The more he comes in me, the sweeter I taste it, and the more I want of it. It’s so good, so ecstatically good I stop struggling and let him fill me. And he does. Sweet Christ, he does.

When he’s finally done, and the stream runs down, the first thing I feel is a hunger for more. “Don’t stop,” I whisper as he pulls his cock away, and with it the taste of that sweetness. That was better than the blowjob, I almost add, though it feels too strange a thing to say, even to think about. Strange, and insufficient; there’s no comparing the two experiences.

I open my eyes from my kneeling position to see the chode again a few inches from my face, looking shriveled and small. It’s hard to imagine why I perceived it or him as so much bigger than they were, in that prior moment. He’s bigger than me, sure, but not that much bigger. Even his massive balls look smaller and more ordinary now.

The mind plays strange tricks when it’s horny, I guess. Yet I’m somehow still very much horny.

He smiles at me—sort of, a lop-sided smile that might be more of a knowing leer. “I got what I needed,” he says, and turns away. “So did you, Jacob. You can leave out the front, once you’re dressed. It locks behind you.”

I kneel there naked on the linoleum, cock throbbing as I watch him walk back down the aisle towards the store room. I stand unsteadily and look down to see my stomach—washboard flat just a few minutes earlier—so bloated with the sweet cum it’s distended, sticking out far enough that my innie belly button is halfway popped to an outie. I rub my hand over my belly’s tightness experimentally. I’ve never felt so full and yet so hungry in my life.

When I hear the back door click shut, I grab my cock again and start furiously pumping. I stroke and stroke and think of Arjay’s throat again wrapped around my cock, hugging it, sucking it in. I imagine my lips again around that great girth of his, my throat filled with the impossible length of him as I perceived it. But no matter how long I stroke and how close I feel to coming, nothing happens. It’s like I’m stuck there right on the edge no matter how hard I try. My balls throb and tighten and ache to come, but they’re empty, there’s nothing left to give.

So I slowly, uncomfortably pull my pants back over my throbbing, raw-rubbed cock and aching balls. The size medium t-shirt barely fits back over my head with the sweater, my stomach’s so bloated. What a fucking night.

With awkward, stomach-sloshing steps, keeping my legs wide so as not to let my sensitive crotch rub against my thighs, I stumble my way back out to the waiting minivan.


To be continued...

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