Gay Erotic Stories

I've set up a little web page with all of my stories. I wanted to have the address be M1KE HUNT, but that name made the server get wet and it became unstable. You understand. So I've had to open up yet a THIRD address. It's MrM1KE@aol.com. I asked one of the tech support people at AOL why it wouldn't work at the M1KE HUNT name, and while she was eating lunch she told me "Gruumpg xopplwv tuupixxt flmp HTML." And then she said "Wiomghfflup htwelng asdfghjkl ersmpo AOL." So now I understand. The website is . Actually it's not a website because it's not on the web. Jeez, I'm already lying and I haven't even started the story yet! No "www" in the address, notice? AOL must be trying to save on electrons. Anyway, MrM1KE is the address, and it's my new e-mail address, too. I need to get some of the old addresses back, especially since I bought that new "Nationwide Pizza by E-mail" franchise. Only $2500! Maybe you've heard of them? I hadn't until I got their e-mail. At first I thought it was just spam, but I read it and it sure looks like a winner to me. Hey! Spam pizzas! I just thought of it! Anyhow, the company has a special deal with FedEx to get 'em to you quick. And they'll let me buy a special oven from them for only another $2000. The program is actually quite involved. And they're very big on hygiene. I have to wash my hands every time I leave the bathroom! Sheesh. I'll keep the other addresses open for a while, but if you're going to write, use the MrM1KE address, would you? Yes, the 2nd character in "M1KE" is still a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). Thanks. I guess the "Mister" part sounds a little formal, but a successful businessman, like I am about to be, needs to present a certain dignity to the community, don't you think? Oh, and check out the website, or whatever you call it when it's not on the web. I'm trying to get the pizzas to dance, but they're not cooperating yet. It has something to do with "rehmmilmpf gualomit frempling sahtpoxl Java" or something. At least that's what she told me. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- People under age 7 can't read this. Can't read anything, actually. People under age 12 shouldn't read this; they won't understand it. People under age 18 mustn't read this; it's illegal. If you're 18 or over, put your dick in your hand and LET'S GO! (Ladies are encouraged to substitute a clitoris for the aforementioned dick.) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Wet T-Shirt Contest - by MIKE HUNT -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I didn't belong on stage, at least not on this one. I was on Spring Break along with about four jillion other college kids and was just farting around at one of two hundred beaches in Florida when I won a contest. It wasn't exactly a competition to be proud of, not one I'd tell my grandkids about probably. I chugged a liter of beer faster than ten other guys and won. And I didn't even puke afterwards. Luckily I was comfortable in front of people. I'd been in the Drama Club in high school, and had even had a couple of small parts in some of the college plays. So being in front of an audience was no big deal. I mean, how hard could this assignment be? I didn't have to act. I was supposed to pour water on about 20 girls in a wet T-shirt contest. I figured I could handle it. Little did I know. First, there's a technique I had to master, as the guy actually running the show told me. "Listen," he said. "You think you're just going to splash water on them, but there's more to it than that. You have to make sure to pour just at the top of their tits. Watch out for their hair, don't get it wet, cause they'll go nuts. Make sure you try to keep the water in the tub, I don't want somebody slipping and falling off the stage. After you're done with each girl, get a new pitcher for the next one; I don't want you wandering around when it's time to get the next girl started. Be careful. The pitchers are glass..." He kept droning. Like if I'd known it was this complicated, I would have applied for my union card. Tit-Waterers of America, Team 304, you know? I went backstage to the dressing room. There were more than 20 girls in various stages of undress. Some instinctively clasped their arms in front of themselves as I poked my head through the door. "Weird," I thought. "They're about to prance around in front of 300 guys in a wet, low cut muscle shirt." "Ten minutes," I called out. The action in the room became frantic. Men's cotton undershirts started flying everywhere. Bathing suit bottoms were donned; a few of the girls were already dressed for the event and spent their remaining minutes touching up their eye makeup or their hair. I couldn't really see any of them. I felt like a Gulf War fighter pilot on the road to Kuwait: Too many targets of opportunity. I couldn't single out any of them. The crowd was getting restless. Of course. 300 guys in a bar, waiting for women to come out and take off their clothes. This was not exactly a refined Symphony Hall audience. They hooted and jeered. A few whistled. The emcee stepped on stage. I took my position next to a kids' plastic swim tub. I picked up a pitcher and held it over my head. The crowd went wild. The emcee grinned. I guess I did good. He waved his arms to hush the crowd. When the noise had quieted a little he began his spiel. "Hey Guys, Welcome to the Happy Lizard Lounge!" A big cheer. He waved his arms again. "And welcome to the Friday night wet T-shirt contest!" A bigger cheer. He quieted the crowd again. "Tonight we have 24 beautiful girls in the back just waiting to come out and let you see what you shouldn't see!" Another cheer. "Here are the rules:" A few boos. Guys are so juvenile, you know? "First, no booing." More boos. "Anyone booing will be thrown off the premises, face first." Silence. "These girls are working hard up here..." A few snickers ..."and we don't want ANYONE embarrassed. Understood?" A few hands clapped. "Second, we'll judge by your applause. General noise, whistles, hands clapping, whatever. It all counts. So make yourselves heard if you like the girl. Third, we'll narrow the field to a final five, then have a run-off competition. Fourth, I'm the final judge. Period. OK, that's it." He paused. He looked over the crowd, now milling about in anticipation. "OK, let's PARTY!" he screamed. The crowd erupted. Music blared from the huge speakers on both sides of the stage. The noise lasted at least a full minute, maybe two. He made no effort to quiet the audience. When the decibels began to decline, he pulled the microphone back to his mouth and said, "Let's welcome Sissy!" The crowd roared. Sissy stepped forward, and he held her hand as though they were doing a minuet. She walked in a circle around him. He led her to me. I motioned for her to step into the plastic tub. I picked up a pitcher of water. It was cold, I knew. The beaker actually had a few ice cubes floating in the top, I guessed to bring the girls nipples up quickly. I threw the pitcher of water at her front and it splashed wildly. It soaked her shirt, of course, but much of the water flew outside the tub onto the stage. I guess the emcee was right; I'd have to be more careful. He glared at me. I shrugged my shoulders. Sissy stepped forward on to the stage. She had a nice figure, with medium sized breasts, topped by pointy nipples that showed easily through the man's thin cotton work shirt that was the girls' approved uniform. She danced and bounced through a three minute song and the guys loved it. When the music faded, the emcee pointed to the crowd and said "Let's hear it for Sissy." A big cheer went up. He was judging. "OK guys," he said. "Let's welcome our next contestant for tonight's big $500 prize. Here comes Michelle." Michelle walked out from the wings and paraded across the stage. The emcee waved her over to me, and I got ready. She stepped into my tub, and stuck her chest way out. I poured the water carefully across her chest, watching as the cloth soaked it up, then clung to her every contour. The emcee looked at me and smiled. I was learning. Michelle stepped out of the tub and walked to the apron of the stage. The music started, a heavy percussion number that lent itself to a violent dance. Michelle didn't disappoint. She bumped and bounced, her heavy tits bobbling under the wet undershirt. About half way through the number she crossed her arms in front of herself, picked up the bottom of the shirt and began to take it off. As it reached the level of her breasts the crowd went wild, and she paused before she continued. She had a big smile on her face. She was having a good time. Michelle got a great round of applause when it was over, and the emcee charged straight ahead. "Time for contestant #3. From Phoenix, Arizona, welcome Francis!" I expected an 80 year old. Instead a cute blonde girl came forward. She was only about 5' 2", but had an amazing hourglass figure. She wore a hip-cut bathing suit bottom and the standard issue man's white cotton undershirt. On her it was huge, but nobody seemed to mind. I did my duty. I wasn't tired of this job yet; maybe by the year 2525 I would be, you know? As I raised the pitcher, she leaned over but pulled the top of the neck forward. She wanted me to pour the water on the inside of the shirt. As she stretched the material forward, I had a splendid view of her magnificent real estate. She bent over to give me a better look. I looked, and looked, and looked, until I heard the emcee on the PA system saying "Let's get Mike going, or the rest of us won't ever see Francis." A roar from the crowd snapped my reverie, and I poured. I grabbed a second pitcher. She didn't really need it, but if she was going to stand there and pull her shirt open for me, I was going to take advantage of it. Francis leapt out of the tub and began her dance. Instead of lifting the bottom of her shirt, however, she tugged down at the neckline and bent forward, allowing the audience first a flash of one breast, then another. She yanked at the neckline harder, and the cloth began to give way. It ripped about halfway down her chest, which apparently satisfied her for the moment. She put her hands on each side of the tear and began to tug it apart. She had just finished completely ripping the shirt as the music ended, and the crowd went nuts. Francis had perfect tits. She'd be a finalist, for sure. The emcee announced Sheryl. She came over to me and said "Just pour the water down the sides of my breasts. Leave the middle part dry." I had completed my apprenticeship in tit-watering, I guess, and was moving on to the more complicated aspects of the job. I did as she asked. The undershirt clung to the sides of her breasts, and the nipples were clearly outlined, but the center section wasn't wet at all. It was a different effect, and like all displays involving tits and water, a nice one. She danced to the center of the stage, where she jiggled and bounced for the audience. But their enthusiasm was restrained, especially after seeing Francis. With about a minute to go in her song, Sheryl ran back to my area, grabbed a pitcher of water, and ran back to the front of the stage. She let it fly against herself in one huge motion, the giant "Splat" of water ricocheting off her chest and breasts and dousing the first two rows of the audience. The emcee looked at me. I shrugged as if to say "Not my fault, mon." Sheryl's finish got a good reaction from the crowd but I didn't know if she'd make the finals or not. Next came Lucy (cute), then Roberta (tasty), then Leigh (hard). The emcee made a joke out of her name. "Is it pronounced 'Lee' or 'Lay'", he leered. Like she'd never heard it before. She grabbed the microphone and said "It's 'Lee', like in 'Is it ree-LEE all the way in, yet?' Even the emcee was flustered. The crowd erupted. She could have been wearing a rubber raincoat; I knew she'd make the finals. She did a good dance, cementing her position. The crowd loved her. So did I. And I don't usually like 'hard.' Leigh was a good horse, 'well-rode' as they say. We went through another half-dozen in quick succession. All lovely. All curvaceous. All ended up with the shirt on the stage instead of on their body. Then came Maxine. She knew what to do without coaxing. She walked the length of the stage, approached me, and stuck out her tits. I watered her as I had the others. I was getting good at this. Her music started. She ripped off her shirt within the first 30 seconds. I couldn't wait to see what she was going to do next. She walked to the front of the stage, turned around and bent over. She wiggled her ass at the audience, and the guys hooted and hollered. She stayed bent over, with her hands on her ankles. She slowly slid them up her legs until she reached the bottom of her suit. Then in one quick motion, she grabbed the edge of the triangle of cloth and yanked it to the side, revealing her cunt to the entire audience. The screams were incredible, and drowned out the emcee who was bellowing on the PA system trying to restore order. He waved at the DJ to cut the audio, but the music guy was as entranced as I was in the performance on stage and didn't see the signal. The emcee fairly ran to the sound booth and killed the CD. The song stopped, leaving only the noise from the cheering crowd. A few boos were heard. "Sorry guys. Sorry. Can't do that. Don't want to lose our liquor license." Maxine remained bent over for the audience's viewing pleasure. "Maxine," he called. "MAXINE," he called again. She bent her neck to look up at him. "I'm sorry, you're disqualified." More boos from the audience. "No, ah, below the belt shots. Didn't they explain that to you in the dressing room?" She nodded; she knew but didn't care. The crowd ate it up. "Sorry. You're disqualified," he repeated. "Try again another night, OK?" She finally straightened up. The crowd cheered her off the stage with one of the loudest ovations of the evening. We went through another series of girls. Tall and short, blonde and brunette, big chested and small. Some with fabulous legs, some with terrific tits, all with a great attitude. Every girl had something to commend herself, and I was just happy to play my little part in helping. It's the kind of guy I am. By the time the last contestant came on stage, I was a pro. Perfectly pouring my water first across their nipples, then higher up on the slopes of the breasts, finally all the way across their chest. Unless they had special instructions for me, which they rarely did. I knew who the winners were. Everybody did. Oh maybe there could have been six or seven finalists instead of five, but it was clear who belonged on stage for the second and final round. The emcee brought his five favorites all back at the same time and had them dance to a song. I was surprised. I thought they'd all do an individual number again. I guess he was tired or something. Or maybe it was 1:00 in the morning and the bar wasn't doing its earlier business. Anyway, the five girls danced, and then he held his hand over each of their heads and asked for applause. It came down to two, Francis and Leigh, two of the early contestants of the night. I thought they had a little unfair advantage, because once the first 10 girls or so had danced it was really hard to break out of the pack. The award could have gone either way, from the crowd noise. But the emcee picked Leigh as the $500 winner, and gave Francis the $100 runner-up prize. It was a popular choice, judging from the crowd reaction. I'd've flipped 'em, myself. My moment in the spotlight had ended. I didn't care. I'd had an erection for two hours and I needed some relief. Any relief. I'd've even happily used Lefty, if you know what I mean. Which, of course, is exactly how my evening ended. You're surprised? It could happen, even in a dirty story. Lefty's helped me a lot. We're pals. The next day I hit the beach, refreshed and relaxed. Actually it was about 2PM before I got any part of my body into truly functional mode, but I was on vacation and I thought that was pretty good, considering. After watching the girls in their bikinis on the beach and the good looking guys and smooth talkers work their magic on them, I looked at Lefty and said, "Probably you and me again tonight, kid." That's the trouble with Spring Break: Lots of promise, not enough delivery, at least for me. I suppose everybody thinks that. Except for Jerry Valentine, of course. Quarterback on the football team. Handsome as the day is long. Smooth around girls. Maybe I'll write a torture story about him someday. I had just finished dinner, chili and a beer, and was headed back up to the room to change. The hotel was severely elevator challenged, to use the popular vernacular. Three lifts for 10 floors, probably 40 rooms to a floor. At dinnertime it was a madhouse. Somebody told me it was the same at breakfast. I wouldn't know. About 15 of us crowded into the car that arrived after a wait of several minutes. Which was pretty good, because the capacity of the car was 12, I think. So we weren't seriously overloaded. Thank goodness! I was one of the first ones aboard; I ended up against the back wall. We were on our way up, albeit slowly, when I realized that one of my T-shirt contestants was standing directly in front of me in the elevator. I remembered her because she was one of the final two, the one who had lost. I scanned my somewhat disabled memory banks and pulled up her name. "Francis," I said. "I thought you should have won." She twisted her head and looked up into my face. It took her a few moments to recognize me. At least I think that's what that blinking of her eyes meant. "M1KE HUNT," I said. "I was the water pourer. You should have won. Could have gone either way, I guess, but I thought you were better." I was speaking in a lower than average voice and with the gibberish of the other conversations in the elevator, nobody heard except her. People may be quiet in most elevators, but not at Spring Break, not at this hotel, and especially not when people are getting ready to go out and party. She smiled a killer smile. "Thanks," she said without a trace of embarrassment. "I would have liked to. Not only for the ego. The 500-bucks would have been nice, too." "Yeah, well, I didn't get a vote. But you were terrific. You LOOK fabulous." "Thanks," she said, as the elevator reached the fourth floor. Somebody had punched "6"; we were about to stop for a departure. It might even have been her. I was just about to ask if she wanted to go out for a drink when suddenly the elevator lurched. We heard the sound of metal rubbing against metal, and the box holding us stopped dead. The overhead fluorescent went out, and an emergency battery light came on dimly. The battery was on its last legs. Silence. Then sudden pandemonium. Voices were screaming, people were shouting instructions to others who weren't listening. After 30 seconds of madness the noise began to subside. Somebody told the people up by the front to search for an emergency phone. The elevator quieted as someone went about the task. "Got it!" a voice said. "Pick it up," another voice called out. "Duh," the first voice replied. Suddenly there was a loud thud, and a scream. "Oh shit," said one voice. "Oh shit," said another. "What? What happened?" a chorus of voices from the back including mine wanted to know. "Somebody fainted," came the reply. "Get back. Give her air." We were already nose to nipple. But everybody pushed back to give the faintee some room. Which had the effect of pushing Francis directly into me. Her back pressed firmly into my chest, my groin made a pointed statement at her rear. "Sorry," I whispered. "This is not the best impression I could be making..." "I like the impression just fine," she said, twisting her head slightly and looking me in the eye. She wiggled her fanny. Well. In the Boy Scouts they had taught us to be prepared. They never said for what. Now I knew. I was prepared to take advantage of this magnificent opportunity that fate had presented me. I leaned down to whisper in her ear, but that had the effect of hunching me over and stopping the contact between my boner and her butt. I talked quickly. "How about dinner, later?" I said. "Can't," she said. "I have a date." "How about tomorrow?" I countered. "Leaving on a 10 AM flight. Sorry." I clearly had a crisis to deal with. What to do, what to do... I stood back up straight and pushed my hardening dick into her rear. She wiggled. I took one of her hands and brought it around back and placed it on top of my bathing suit. She squeezed. I used my other hand to free my cock from the webbing that held it inside the suit, and let it escape down one of the pant legs. She grasped it. I couldn't believe it. Skin to skin contact. Epidermal ecstasy. In a crowded elevator. With a gorgeous girl, who I had only been introduced to, sort of, the night before. Her hand kept a tight hold on me, as she squeezed and massaged my engorged penis. Now it was time for my hands to go to work. I slipped a hand up under her windbreaker, and my fingers fluttered across her bare stomach. I made contact with the lower edge of her bikini top and continued my march upwards. I cupped her breast through the suit. In spite of its small size the material was heavy; there was some kind of backing inside to provide support and I could barely feel the breast flesh that I longed to touch. I grappled with the bottom edge of the suit, and she tried to help. She shimmied her torso as I slipped the top up and over her breast. It must have scraped as it released, but I couldn't help it. Then I held her naked tit in my hand and was rewarded with the feel of a hard nipple dancing against my fingertips. She continued her massage on my dick as I pumped her jug with my hand; we stayed like that for a minute, possibly more. I felt guilty. Here were people in the front of the elevator dealing with an emergency, one person down, someone else trying to get medical help, others banging on the electrical panel trying to get the car restarted. Perhaps I should join in and try to help? NAAAAHHHHH! I brought my other hand around Francis, and let it dive into her bathing suit bottom. The emergency battery light got dimmer still. I shoved my hand down her pants, tickling her pubic hair, now finding her clitoris, finally her cunt lips. I twiddled my fingers; I felt her clit against the butt of my hand. She flexed her knees as best she could in the cramped space. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted a blow job. I knew it was impossible. There was no way, no room, no how to make it happen. I resigned myself to the current situation. The sacrifices I make sometimes... I played with her pussy, and felt her lubrication on my fingers. I diddled her clit as I squeezed her tit, and she played with my dick with the arm she had twisted behind her. It couldn't have been more than another minute when I felt myself getting ready to explode. I was on the power glide of passion; I was peaking; I was climbing the upswing of orgasm when... The lights came on and the elevator started moving. A cheer arose from the crowd. A noise gurgled from my throat. I came, drizzling my spunk on her hand and down my leg and hers. One spasm, then another, then another. I had barely finished when the car lurched to a halt and the doors opened. I took my hands out of her clothes and leaned down, whispering in her ear, "Thank you. Dear God, thank you." She turned to me and smiled. She said "I wish you had been the judge. I would have liked to win." "Absolutely," I said. It was all I could think of. She walked off the car, wiping her hands together, undoubtedly looking for someplace to wash them. I watched the back of her head through the crowd, and she turned and gave me a "bye-bye" wave with her wet hand. The elevator doors closed. The rest of the week was uneventful. No more hand jobs in elevators. None anyplace, really, except the privacy of my room. And Lefty won't tell. We have a deal. The next few days back at school were uneventful as well. Such was the life of a dork (me) during college. About a week later I was feeling especially aroused. There wasn't anything in particular that caused the condition, it was also just part of the normal everyday life of a dork during that period. Happened a lot, now that I think about it. Still does, actually. I picked up the phone and dialed the area code down south to call information. "The number for the Happy Lizard Lounge, please." She mumbled the number. This was back in the days when actual humans worked at the phone company. Computers took over about ten years ago, I think. Haven't talked to an operator since. Now it costs $3.99 a minute to get a woman on the phone! Hey, I wonder if they're the same ladies? They must be doing something to make a living! I dialed the number for the Happy Lizard Lounge. An obviously bored guy answered. "This is Manuel." "Can I talk to the manager, please?" I said. "Hold on," he said. Another voice appeared. "Yeah?" he said. "Hi," I began. "I'm MIKE HUNT. I was at your place a week ago Friday for the wet T-shirt contest. Actually I helped. I poured the water." "Yeah?" he said again. Big vocabulary on this brute, I thought. "Well, I'm trying to track down one of the girls who was in the contest. I wonder if you have their addresses and phone numbers?" "Yes we do. But you can't have them." His voice was firm. "Well, uh, one of the girls took a ring off her finger and gave it to me when I watered her. She said it was too big and she didn't want to lose it..." Silence. "And I slipped it in my pocket, you know, to hold for her, and then in all the excitement I guess we both just forgot about it. Anyway, I found it yesterday when I was doing my laundry and took it to a jewelry store and they said it's quite valuable. I thought I should send it to her." More silence. He was thinking. "Well, the girls do have to sign a release, so we could track her down. Why don't you send it to us, and we'll send it to her." "I don't think so," I said. "You're busy, you're likely to forget. It'll sit around for weeks, maybe." 'Maybe you'll steal it,' I thought to myself. Then I remembered: there was no ring anyway. This was just a bunch of bullshit I was spinning to get her number. "She probably hasn't called because she doesn't even remember the name of the club. It was wild, you know? Her name was Francis," I continued. "She was from Arizona. Phoenix, I think." I paused. "I'm calling from Boston. I'm not likely to go visit her, you know?" He thought another moment. "Hold on," he said as he put the handset down roughly. He came back on the line a couple minutes later. "Yeah, Francis Walton on Perkmire Road. There's no phone number." "Thanks," I said. "I'm sure she'll be grateful." I called Phoenix information and got a phone number. I dialed it with trembling fingers. I heard a voice. "Hello?" It was her, no doubt. "Hello, is this Francis Walton?" "Yes, who is this?" "This is MIKE HUNT." Silence. No apparent recognition. "I'm with the wet T-shirt division of the Attorney General's office." Absolute silence. "We're investigating a rigged contest that apparently you should have won, but didn't..." She got it. She laughed out loud. "Oh, it's you! How did you get my number?" "I told you. I work for the government. We know everything." She giggled. "Actually, I'm at school up in Boston, and I was thinking of you, and I did something crazy, and, uh, well, here I am." "So here you are," she said. "Now what?" "I dunno," I said. "I just wanted to hear your voice." "Well, it's me, in the flesh." She giggled again. "Perhaps I should rephrase that." "Oh no, I like your flesh. A lot. All of it. And I've had a fair amount of it to judge, you know?" "Thanks, sailor," she replied. "But you really shouldn't call me. I live with my boyfriend, and I don't think he'd appreciate the calls, you know?" "Oh, sorry. Should I hang up?" I asked. "It's OK this time," she said. "He's out playing basketball with some friends tonight. But you really can't call back." "OK," I said. "I promise." There was a moment of silence on the line. A lull, I think. "So what should we talk about?" she asked. "Well, we have a lot in common," I said. "You're a girl. I'm a guy." "That's not in common," she interjected. "I know. I was just getting to the point." I answered. "I remember the point," she said, a smile evident in her tone. "Yes, that's the point. I mean, I saw you practically naked up on the stage, you know, with the water all over you, and everything..." She interrupted. "Did you like my dance? Bouncing around in that big undershirt?" I saw Lefty's silent appearance at the end of my arm. Why hadn't I noticed him before? He quietly asked if I wanted some help. I nodded. Lefty went to work. "I especially liked the fact that you pulled it down from the top, instead of up from the bottom like most of the girls." "Really? Why?" she asked. She seemed genuinely curious. "Because it's more fun to look down a girl's blouse. It's a tease. And you were pulling it open so far that the whole audience could see, practically." "Well, I gave you a special little show when you were pouring the water, do you remember?" she asked. "Do I remember? Shit. I could hardly stand up straight for the rest of the night. I mean, I was standing up straight for the rest of the night, aw, shit, you know what I mean..." She laughed out loud. "Yes, I know what you mean," she said. "It's too bad you're so far away right now. I would like to borrow your fingers for a few minutes." "Sorry, they're currently occupied. Righty is holding the phone. And Lefty is, uh, holding the bone." "Oh," she said. "You're ahead of me. Hold on." I did, for dear life. "Ah, that's better. I took off my shorts. I'm much more comfortable now." "What're you doing?" I asked. "Touching myself," she said. "Rubbing and playing. It feels nice. Speaking of nice, you have a nice voice." "So do you." I lobbed the compliment back over the net. "And a nice lot of other things, too." "Well thank you, Mr. Wouldja-pour-some-water-on-my-tits." "I'd be glad to, if I were close enough. Wish I were," I told her. "So do I," she said. "This feels nice. Talking to you, hearing your voice. Touching myself. This is great." I think she really meant it. "Still playing with yourself?" I asked. "You bet," she said. "I'm thinking of the elevator." She chuckled. "I'll bet I really shocked you, huh?" "I'll say," I said. "Say, just out of curiosity, which hand did you, uh, use, you know, to, uh, hold me?" "I'm right handed," she answered. "Why?" "Just curious," I replied. "I could remember the feeling of your hand around me, but I didn't have a good mental picture. Now I do." Mr. Lefty, meet Miss Righty. "I remember having my hand around you, too. And I remember your hands slipping up inside my jacket, grabbing at my tits. That felt so wicked, so naughty. It was great. Then you stuck your hand down into my suit bottom, and I thought I'd lose it right there." "Well, I did lose it right there, if you remember," I said. "I more than remember," she said. "I was wiping my hands for five minutes. You dribbled all down my leg and some even went in my sneakers in between my toes. Gross!" "Sorry," I apologized. "You won't have to worry about that tonight." "Too bad," she said. "I wouldn't mind a lick." She paused. "Speaking of which, I wouldn't mind a lick." "Wish I could," I said. Lefty was working furiously. "Nothing better I'd like than to be on the floor in between your legs with my tongue working. You don't know me well enough, but I'm All American. Tongue, I mean. Made the team on the first try." She giggled. "Oh how I wish I could help you practice." Then she said, "But I don't think it'll be necessary, tonight. I'm getting there just fine on my own." I heard a series of little "oh - oh - ohs" from her lips and I sensed she was getting ready. Lefty was working hard to get me ready as well. I spoke softly into the handset. "I'm gonna cum. I'm thinking of you and I'm gonna cum. I'm remembering putting your hand on my dick. I'm remembering looking down your shirt at your perfect tits. I'm remembering sticking my hand into your pants. I'm remembering the smell of your pussy on my fingers.." "Oh, Oh," I said. I was on the way. "Go, go," I heard her say. "I'm with you." I heard a series of grunts on the phone that told me she had hit her climax just as I hit mine. My jizz erupted from the tiny hole at the end of my penis and spurted out, first a little, then more, then even more. I stupidly hadn't prepared and didn't have a towel or anything handy. I came all over the rug and made a mess. I wasn't going to interrupt to get a napkin. I let my spunk lie in puddles on the carpet. "Oh that was so nice," I said. "Thank you. Twice. I owe you one." "I enjoyed it too," she said. "I've never done this before. It was, well, different." "Yeah. For me too," I said. "Too bad we can't do it again," she said. "Why not?" I asked. "I told you. I'm living with my boyfriend. You can't call back." She could hear the disappointment on my end of the line. We made some small talk for a few minutes and then said our goodbyes and ended the call. I tried calling her the next week. When she answered the phone she immediately recognized my voice. "No, I'm sorry, you must have a wrong number," she said. I heard a male voice say "Who was tha..." as she clicked the receiver. I tried a week later. Again she shut me off. "I'm sorry, I don't take phone solicitations. I'm sure you're a very nice person, but I just can't talk to you," she said. I didn't know if her boyfriend was in the room or not. It was just one of those things. She was in Phoenix. I was in Boston. She had a boyfriend. I had Lefty. We're a good team, Lefty and me. We just need a little practice now and then. Like, right NOW would be good. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I've always wanted to write a story about the lowly hand job. After all, it's probably the most common sexual act on earth. At least it is in my house. *Why-o-why* am I telling you this? I'm sure you couldn't possibly care about the intimate personal details of my life. Incidentally, I use the "stroke and twist" method, rather than the straight stroke. It seems to work better with the Premium Massage Creme (unscented!) I get at my local dirty book store. Oop. There I go again! OK, I'll stop talking about beating off. Even though I do it twice a day like clockwork. Of course I missed one when I was sick on April 24, but I made it up last Tuesday. In the interest of full disclosure, I should let you know that at my place it's actually Righty, not Lefty who does the heavy lifting. But somehow the story worked better using Lefty. This wasn't intended to be a jerk-off story. I wanted to fuck at least four of the girls but the characters just got away from me and I couldn't make them do what I wanted them to. I think maybe Lefty had a hand in it. This piece was supposed to be called "Spring Break" but somebody told me there's a guy over in the picture part of the newsgroups flooding that title with thousands of SPAMS to try to get guys to come to his site. And he doesn't even include any free samples or anything. What an asshole! Everybody would see my "Spring Break" and think it was him and think I'm an asshole and I'm not an asshole. Well not a really big asshole anyway. OK, sometimes I'm a really big asshole, but not always. In a way I suppose I should thank him. I didn't even know these newsgroups *had* a picture department! Wow! Naked girls and everything, I hear. Whew! What if somebody finds out? I better get over there before they close it down. I'll be back in a couple months. If you'd like to read more Almost All True Stories from MIKE HUNT, (usually involving more than one person) send me an e-mail. Or send your very own personal messages to M1ke@hilarious.com . Please note the 2nd character in M1KE is a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). THANK5. Please note the 6th character in THANK5 is a "five" (5) not an "ess" (S). OK, sometimes I'm a stupid asshole. Not so stupid that I can't set up a little home page, tho. If you'd like to get some of my past stories, although I really can't imagine why, visit . Please note there's no "www". This tiny tale is Copyright 1997 M1KE HUNT. You can give it away for free if you want. Wash your hands first.