He came. He Went. And he took my briefs with him.
I'm sitting here in just my favourite frilly-pink cum-stained panty-briefs decorated in tired ribbon-bows.
Well no, that's not entirely true. They're not my favourite favourite panties. And thereby hangs my tale.
Some years ago now I was driving home on the motorway when I stop to pick up a late-teenage hitchhiker thumbing on the verge. It's hazardous for a vulnerable young guy, you gotta be careful, there's all manner of perverts and weirdos out there ready to prey on youthful flesh.
Naturally, as I drive we get into talking. His name is Brian. He says, quite openly, that he'd left home because his new stepfather was a creep who'd begun making predatory sexual moves on him. He looks casually out the window at the countryside curving away outside, says he's got an address in Liverpool and he wants to make his way as a male model, then he tells me 'although I like cock, I like it on my own terms. If you know what I mean?' I know only too well. Is it true, the story about the stepfather? It's entirely possible. That kind of thing does happen. Or is it just a ploy to get me onside, to get my sympathy, and also open possibilities? Whatever, it works.
Once we get into town I suggest he comes back to my apartment. He's road-gritty, his Hunger Games T-shirt and worn skinny-chinos are dusty, it makes sense that he should grab a shower and a coffee. His smile is angelic. So he showers while I microwave a couple of frozen pizzas for a quick meal. He comes out the shower naked towelling his hair quite nonchalantly. He has a lovely smooth body with sparse blonde hair, and a cute little cock with tight round balls. He notices where my attention is fixed. Which is obviously the whole intention anyway. He sways his hips wistfully so that it jiggles hypnotically and he says 'I wish I was bigger down there.'
I say 'don't worry, it's adorable, it looks simply divine, and very kissable.'
He seems to come over all mock-coy and bashful, 'Gosh, do you really think so?'
So I make good on my words, and kiss it. So deliciously silky to the touch of my lips, and the more I kiss it the more it comes up to meet me, as my lips part slightly around the heat of the heart-shaped bulb, so what else can do? I suck him off as he just stands there, breathing heavily. At first I can take it all into my greedy mouth, clear down to those delectable balls, and I can take both those balls in my mouth at once and swish them in their scrotal sac with my tongue, but his cock does swell and expand impressively in response to my hungry urgency, no sound but moist sucking and quick sharp panting, until the muscles of his stomach begin undulating as he comes off in my mouth, spurt-spurt-spurt, pulse after pulse of such clean milky boy-spunk, as he groans out sweet sounds midway between a grunt and moan.
That evening I take him out to the bright lights of Canal Street which is Manchester's 'Gay Village' where there are bars and trattorias and a Drag Club called the 'Speke-Easy' which is one of my favourite hang-outs. We sip green glasses of Absinthe and I introduce him around to some of my fag friends and cross-dressing acquaintances there as we watch the Divas onstage. He watches it all, drinks it all in, mesmerised by the cabaret. There's Lady Spunkelina & The Spunkettes in gauzy flimsies decorated in little cartoon sperm motifs, but performing intense renditions of Nina Simone and Bessie Smith songs. He's tongue-tied with admiration. 'Who is this sweet boy?' says one Queen decked out in Marie Antoinette wig and full garish make-up. 'Briony' I respond. 'And is he a good boy?' I laugh, 'no better than he should be.' I swear he blushes in such a delightful way, and I'm sure the queen passes him a folded-up note... maybe a phone number? The bearded Tiller Boys trio are onstage next, dancing to an Offenbach Can-Can routine, but when they do the high kick it's obvious they've neglected to put on their underwear, with a pride of cocks and balls tied up in pink ribbons that dance to their own rhythms for our edification. 'That is authentic' says Marie Antoinette with a ludicrous air of authority, 'as they originally used to dance sans-culotte during the decadent days of the Moulin Rouge.
Later, back in my apartment we begin playing, Brian undresses and tries on items from my lingerie closet -- including my favourite favourite very favourite frilly-pink micro-panties which he loves posing in. 'I can shake my little tush on the catwalk' he pouts, his hand on his hip, his genitals making an appetising bulge in the groin. To him, it's just play, he's flaunting his youth and freedom as casually as he wears his cheap cologne, unaware of the effect it has on me, the dryness in my throat, the ache of longing in my gut.
As he bends over to shuck them down and off I come in from behind him, fondling the curves of his bare bottom. He murmurs his appreciation, pressing himself back towards me. I'm unable to resist. We tumble forward onto the bed, he's down on all fours, raising his hips ready for me, his legs slightly parted, inviting me. I have a tube of lube by the bedside which I use as a masturbation aid, and in the eternal hope of an overnight friend. I lube his puckered boy-hole, slip my glans smoothly inside, and fuck his lovely round girly bottom as he purrs like a kitten. It's my intention to take it slow, make it last, but when he squeezes my trapped shaft with his anal sphincter I just lose it and fuck him hard, he's mewling and whimpering meaningless animal noises now, primal, until we collapse into a tangle of contentedly satiated limbs.
In the morning as we wake together he insists on sucking my cock to show his gratitude. He might have the appearance of slightly sullied innocence, but he's a very accomplished young cock-sucker. He's obviously familiar with the sensation of having a cock in his mouth, and knows all the little special techniques to make it feel exquisite. Looking down at his tousled ragamuffin face is a joy, his eyes gleam with supernatural lust as his mouth works flickers of ecstasy up and down the aching shaft of my cock, making me squirm with pleasure, causing me to make little involuntary fucking movements up into his mouth. When I throb, he only throats me deeper. After I've cum he's still not done, he bites down very gently on the messy head of my cock, milking every last drop of my ejaculation onto his magic tongue. And he smiles such a vulgar smile.
I go to work, leaving him in my apartment. I'm half-hoping against hope he'll still be there when I get back. But naturally, when I get home that evening he's gone, he's taken over £100 from my clutch-purse... and worse that than, he's taken my favourite favourite frilly-pink micro-panties!
I still miss those panties...!