ABANDONED HOUSE RAUNCH - Part 1
Robert noticed a new billboard up over the old neighborhood. A plumbing supply company. Long, thick tubes against a banana-yellow background. Something oddly friendly about it...almost made him want to do himself again.
"Jeez!" He muttered. "Wasn't all that horny shit supposed to let up when you got older?...Or was that just another of Louise's fucked-up sermons?" Whatever, he saw that some graffiti artist had gotten up there already and sprayed the usual dribbling messages.
But Robert had more on his mind than billboards that July morning on the way to Aunt Louise's.
"No!" he caught himself. "Not Louise's! Not any more, It's mine now!"
It was. He had inherited it two weeks ago (she missed his twenty-eighth birthday by one day) and today was his day to look it over and decide whether to sell it or have it torn down or whatever before serious vandalism set in.
Other things were on his mind. Mainly his ass and his cock. He could almost see the steamy load packing his butt. All that lasagna from the night before, the spices, sauce, pasta, olive oil-chewed, gulped down, processed overnight into a sludge and then slowly compacted onto a long, slick brown column cooking in his ass and straining to slide out into the light of day. And a tight, stretching load of hot piss. Both his butt and his bladder were twitching to relax and open heavy duty in a long, easy session of steamy stink and sweet relief.
No one was around, so he let some of it percolate off by cutting a ripe fart.
A hot one. Carefully. He recognized mozzarella...a grassy radioactive cloud, but no mistaking mozzarella.
He enjoyed the penetrating, intimate burning. Amazing how putrid food could get in such a short time. His own private nuclear disaster, a deadly cloud mushrooming out of his hole into the atmosphere. A few piss drops came out as the fart bazzled out, but: "So who gives a fuck? Just makes a nice stale stink on my dick."
He still had some time, time to plan when, where, and how, knowing pretty soon he'd think of some way to make taking a long shit and spraying out a gallon or so of piss feel like nonstop fucking.
Anyway, guys were on his mind, too, because guys were always on his mind. He knew he was a raging fuckaholic. Always had been. To Robert, eating, sleeping, going to work, or just crossing the street were stupid interruptions of his true destiny: fucking and sucking while getting fucked and sucked. When you got really down to it, all he ever really wanted to do all day long was suck and cum. Total wipeout fucks, his ass clenching tight as he whimpered and sweat and braced against whatever was nearby were like breathing to him, especially when he pictured other hot guys in the scene with him, like a certain two or three he played ball with on Thursdays, pissing and crapping on him as he shot foot-long lasers of molten pearl one after another until he lost count, fucking blindly from one scene to the next, out of control and sweating and cursing.
The house could wait. His shit and piss could wait, a little longer maybe. But guys!! Pissing cocks! Slick, brown male holes! His cock started to stretch and thicken, still hurting to piss, but ready if he wanted to stiffen up for el thirdo since breakfast. He thought of Louise again, how she had called the Puerto Ricans who had started to move into her lily-white neighborhood "gringos." What would the old cunt have said about the new Ortiz Community College less than a block away, next to the mattress factory, the se habla espanol signs in the windows of 'her' stores?
Robert was almost at her door.
No! His door!
Then it hit him. His place, right? The whole place! In a minute he would be inside, alone, out of sight, doing anything, any way, anywhere he wanted. No one could stop him. He could squat and let a steamy, shiny two-footer gristle out in Louise's parlor if he wanted, letting it mound up in soft circles to a little custard-cone curl, letting his dick piss in any direction it wanted, then re-tighten his hole and hold the rest in to feel it in his butt like he's getting cornholed before letting more turd glide out in the front hall. His imagination was giving a whole new meaning to the word shithouse: not just the usual little tiled room off to the side with the commode for flushing away piss and crap and then washing your hands. But a real House Of Shit, a furnished and carpeted home with hallways and clothes and dishes and pictures on the walls, where hot young guys hung out and bullshitted and ate and watched TV and nonchalantly let loose anywhere, on anything they felt like and nobody cared, because everybody just did it whenever and wherever it felt good.
A tight tickling deep in his butt and an ache in his nuts told him that soon he was also very definitely going to fuck. Long arcs of hot cum would be ripping from his pisshole again, even though he fucked a lot. The truth is the more he fucked the more hot to trot to fuck he got. Some guys, even gay guys, maybe had a variety of things on their minds. Not Robert. He was in love with his damn cock and ass. His buddies.
"Damn her," he thought, for making him feel he was so grubby when he was a kid. Her carpets, her china, her air, were too good for him to walk on or eat from or breathe. Thank God for the hundreds of tight cocks and stretched-open holes since then, the rutty, drooling kissing and the laughing three-ways. Guys licking, sniffing, holding, pissing on other guys. On him.
He stepped inside.
As soon as he was sure he was out of anybody's line of sight he grabbed his balls and dick in one hand and reached back and punched the side of his other hand way up onto his crack and twisted and lurched back and forth like a bitch in heat and considered pissing and shitting his pants right on the spot, but decided maybe next time. He pulled the door closed behind him. The house's humid mustiness had a salty reek of stale cooking grease like a mens' room in a public park. The only sound was a few flies.
"Fucking winos1" he shook his head, angrily.
When his eyes got used to the dim light he stepped into the parlor and saw the signs, sure enough: empty beer cans, some raggedy clothes...right..but...no cheap wine bottles. In fact what few bottles were there were very small brown ones...Hey...No sign of food. The rag on the floor turned out to be a pair of denim cutoffs, the inside caked with...yes, shit: dark cracked chocolate brown shading off to gold at the edges. Come to think of it, he had been picking up a tang of smoky, piney-spicey shit all along.
Winos in cutoffs?
Like the piss reek, the sharp shit aroma was just there, in the air. Robert was definitely starting to get hot, but careful, too, not sure just who had been there, what had been going on. He opened his fly anyway and reached in and pulled out his buddy and started to jack, slowly, just enough to get hard. His place, right? Lock stock and barrel. Anybody who might see him pumping dick there could go fuck themselves for all Robert gave a shit.
He looked down. It was already sticking out like a diving board that came to a rounded point, and giving off a fishy stink. He wished he could just bend down and get the whole thing deep into his mouth and suck. He decided he wanted to see his balls too, so he reached in with his free hand and popped them out. The fly felt snug around his cock and balls. Anybody who might look in would get a show now; he really enjoyed showing off his weapon. He strutted around in a Joe Hardon swagger as he jacked, and decided he wanted his ass in the act too. He tugged his denims down in back. His cock and balls disappeared for a second and then popped completely free as he got naked from the waist to just below his ass. His dance now had to be a lurching hop, but he was able to fuck his hole with the middle finger of his other hand in rhythm with his cock action, from time to time pulling it out and up to his nose to sniff the brown stains. The stink was halfway between raw dump and ripe butt.
The drawings and messages scrawled across the stained wallpaper began to catch his eye. No titties or pussies anywhere, but instead ten (or maybe twenty) cocks shooting out cum or streams of piss, and hairy balls. One drawing, in colored chalk, was of two naked guys with jutting asses and industrial-strength cocks standing side-by-side and facing a guy standing a few steps above them and whipping a half-hard cock back and forth. He was grinning at them, and they had their mouths open to slurp and swallow as his yellow stream looped across their faces. The guys had piss-foam at the corners of their mouths. One message said: "Please shit some gay guy's piss into my tight, sucking gay mouth!" and somebody else had scrawled underneath:"Si, baby!" There was an ad with a phone number: "Self-flushing portable toilet. 24 hours." Somebody had spent a lot of time on beautiful, flowery lettering: "Today's menu: piss, cum, shit, and sweat, served hot! Best when spit from mouth to mouth!" And somebody had written recently: "Every afternoon at 2:30-come here and play 'Match-Up.'" Big block letters pointed into Louise's old dining room: "Emergency Fuck Room."
Robert's pants were now down to his knees and his cock was like stone and bigger than he had ever seen it, reddish-purple and curved up. His fuck-you finger was up his hole, feeling the hot load ready to slide: "What a find!! ..And I was thinking of tearing it down! Aunt Louise, you old bitch, I could kiss you!"
He hopped over to lie down on the couch because he suddenly wanted to play yellow fountain, glad now that he had not just wasted the piss by whizzing it into some corner and still had a big load to jet upwards for a while and then, after raising his hips up on to one arm of the old couch, point back toward his mouth and chug his warm, chalky, glistening squirts. He could tell by the way the couch stank that plenty of guys had already had the same idea long before him. He wished some of them would show up right about then.
But at the same time he kept trying to stop imagining what playing 'Match-Up' might mean because he was almost starting to get close. "Don't cum, man, don't cum," he muttered to himself. He got up from the newly-soaked couch and just stood there trying to slow it down and make it last.