Yes, these are desperate times. And, by tradition, they call for desperate measures.
Right. College town (small city actually, and no, I am not going to tell you exactly where since there is now a “business model” to protect, and a market share to preserve. I’ll just say that it is the US in northern latitudes, and we had a beastly winter, and the snow started melting about the time the damn lockdown orders took place.)
With the university closing, that left Jared and I alone in our off-campus apartment, our two other apartment mates clearing out but no convenient homes for either of us to resort to, and we had classes to finish in an abysmally unsatisfying online fashion. If I hear the phrase “remote modalities” one more time I will puke.
At least it was our junior year and we didn’t have to undergo the indignity of no graduation, fruitless job searches, all of that the seniors have to endure. We’ll inevitably have it better next year. (He says, with hopeful confidence.) Who knows what next year will be like.
Jared’s girlfriend Camile had retreated home to Chicago, and you can bet I heard a lot about how much he missed her. More precisely, how much he missed certain intimate activities that they indulged in. I am not sure how much he actually missed her actual presence, and the accompanying “extracurricular drama,” as he put it, that accompanied her, to which I can attest.
But he missed her cunt. Her lips. Her “soft, supple hands” on his “throbbing cock.” Makes a guy a little irritated, to tell the truth, to hear long detailed descriptions about pleasure-producing activities especially when the patient listener didn’t have a partner, and in fact hadn’t had a partner in some time.
Back to the desperate measures part.
So, being an inventive and restless soul, I had established a plan to handle some of the current difficulties. Jared made fun of my efforts, but I ran drafts by him anyway. This was a month into lockdown, and the sexual deprivation in the flat had grown insufferable.
Jared and I look enough alike that some folks (not very observant ones) thought we were brothers. Light brown hair for both of us, clean-shaven (mostly, although that had taken a beating as a regular practice lately), he was a little taller at five-foot-ten, I was a little broader in build. Couple of college guys.
We had started by masturbating separately in our lonely rooms, trying for discretion but soon had evolved into public (well, living room anyway) mutual masturbation sessions. I could tell you all sorts of things about his dick, size, arousal levels, how Jared would scrunch up his face when he finally climaxed, all of that, but I am not sure you need to know all those details.
I had even broached the notion, fairly cautiously, of each of us “helping out” the other but this was a no-go for Mr. Moral (spare me) and I didn’t press. And so, on to my urge to systematically mine and leverage that endless pit of depravity, social media, for relief. A first for me.
“Clean, completely disease-free, asymptomatic college male sheltering-in-place, moderately good looking, quite desperate for crotch attention seeks a willing female mouth for lascivious pleasures. Cumside service, I’ll wear a mask, you won’t need to.” I read this to Jared, quite pleased with myself for the “cumside service” line. I had to look up “asymptomatic” to get the spelling right.
“And who the fuck do you think is going to answer this ad?” Jared snorted, his dark eyebrows almost hit the ceiling, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.
He didn’t wait for my answer. “You are going to have a long line of balding guy perverts with bad teeth who are going to want to do the deed.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. It says ‘female’ right in there and I am placing it in an appropriate category.” But I was worried, I had no experience with this sort of thing, and maybe Jared knew more about it all.
Jared sniffed. “If you get any legitimate takers, I will be astonished. Gobsmacked.”
“And jealous as hell,” I shot back. That part would be true at least.
“And just how are you going to handle this ‘Cumside Service’ thing anyway? You’re not going to be able to sneak someone in here.”
We lived in three rooms in a multi-unit, entirely unremarkable apartment complex built sometime in the nineteen-fifties or sixties. And his question was a good one, but I had given it a fair amount of thought. I am not famous for my creative qualities, but in this case I thought my planning to be above average, even verging on the brilliant.
Getting someone inside was indeed a difficulty. The front entrance was enough of a bottleneck that folks were always coming and going, and a fair percentage of the denizens here were those whom I would categorize as “rule nazis,” obsessed about wearing masks and keeping apart. There was one older guy, if we were in the lobby at the same time, would fling his back against the wall, glaring at me with his beady little eyes from above his mask, yelling “six feet!” for having the beşiktaş escort nerve to be coming in the front door at the same time he was leaving. I would need a different mechanism for contact.
The street we faced was a mix of residential and small businesses, hardly private in any sense of the word. If you went out the front door of the complex to the street, there were apartments to the right, and to the left various small shops, including a hair salon just next door, which had had to shut with the state close-down, as getting your hair cut apparently wasn’t an ‘essential’ service.
The salon, “Cut Rate,” and the other shops had metered parking places in front, but the city wasn’t even issuing citations these days, didn’t need to, and the spots were almost always open, the streets eerily deserted, with most students having vacated, the shops closed down.
I had figured I would put a folding card-table we had with a sign on it and have a few dummy paper bags of “merchandise” on the table with fake-invoices stapled to them, like all the other curbside businesses were doing. Most of the bags would be a deke, just a couple with repackaged bread loaves from a local bakery in them at the front of the pile. I had made up a story about selling homemade bread if any of the apartment complex nazis or inquiring street passersby asked about the “business.”
Jared sniffed at all this. “What’s in it for the girl who will be blowing you?” He asked. “You’re not offering money or any compensation, who the hell is going to go for this?”
“I could give them a loaf of bread? As a token of my appreciation?” He snorted.
I spun out a pitch about “public service” and he wryly commented that people who did public service wanted something in return, and the only public service he could see was to my penis and a loaf of bread was hardly an equivalent barter. I retorted that any exchange of money could get me in all manner of difficulties (besides which I didn’t have any to spare) and that the platform I was using prohibited it anyway. Jared shook his head.
“You’re basically asking for a ‘mercy blow.’ On your knees, begging for it. Pathetic.”
“Someone else will be on their knees,” I said with forced confidence.
The next part took more thought, and a need to take advantage of limited options. There was a narrow passageway alongside the hair salon that went to the back of the place. Some shrubbery at the end shielded their back-space where supplies got stored, trash bins were parked before getting hauled out to the street on Tuesdays for pickup, etc.
I had, perhaps a bit illegally, certainly without permission, opened up a section of the shrubbery with some pruning shears, cut out enough room for me to stand, pretty much unobservable from anywhere except the hair salon, which of course was closed, with a little extra room for my “customer,” who I reckoned would be on her knees. That’s where I planned to deliver my “product.” It wasn’t absolutely risk-free, but it was far enough from the street, and away from any viewing angle as to be private enough to work.
I had no idea of the odds of any success. I would meet my “clients” at the table, we would discretely retreat to the back, then on the way out I would give them a “bonus bag” before they left, to preserve appearances.
I posted it Tuesday the last day of March, not daring to post it on April Fool’s Day for obvious reasons. I will not reveal the platform for my endeavour but “# CumSideService” was the ticker. For my table I had carefully prepared a sign that said “C* SIDE SERVICE.” I thought I was very clever. Jared said it would have sounded better if we were actually near an ocean beach, but then he had been critical of every aspect of my endeavor.
And I sat back to wait. And wait.
And got just what Jared predicted. Lots of guys, age usually unspecified, who asked for pics of my cock and described all the lovely, lecherous things they would do to it. I stopped reading the responses to Jared after the third one, as his enjoyment at my resounding failure was, I thought, excessive and unseemly from an apartment-mate.
And my erections were neither going away, the self-induced solutions even less satisfying than before.
By Friday I had almost given up on the deal. Thirty-two responses, all guys. I rewrote the post, including a line that suggested that quarantined females missing their boyfriends, might find a surrogate penis of interest, and at the same time provide a compassionate public service to a lonely college guy, accomplish a good deed, a merciful act of compassion, etc. etc.
Still nothing. Then I thought of an offer one of the local businesses had made when announcing their own curbside service for the first time.
“Free roll of toilet paper for the first five respondents!”
I will not describe to you the magnitude of Jared’s laughter at this addition. “You’re killing me! You’re basically saying your prick is worth a roll of ass-wipe!” His dark curly hair beşyol escort shook as he chortled.
It happened that we were unusually well stocked with toilet paper, quite by accident due to a Target run for supplies we had made in January, long before anything happened and we had furnished ourselves with a semester’s worth of supplies, operating on, not prescience, but just your normal male’s dislike of shopping, to do one big supply run up front rather than smaller more frequent runs as needed later. And of course with just the two of us in the apartment, we weren’t using that much anyway. But for many others, even by late March there was still toilet paper hoarding and virtually no stock in any of the local stores.
On Saturday I got a nibble, expressing some cautious interest, from “Lonely gal.”
I tried not to get too excited. Jared was sure it was from a guy claiming to be a female.
We exchanged a few texts, I described myself, sent a pic, tried to sound as authentic as I could. I did not have to fake the anxious desire in my posts however, that was pretty clear.
I knew the ad wasn’t nearly going to be nearly enough, that it would be the follow-up messages that would have to accomplish my goal. I had to sound safe, real, the “clients” would need to know more about me than I them, and I would have to straddle the fine line between honorably asking for a favor and what Jared had termed “pathetic pleading.”
We went back and forth, and I began to get my hopes up.
She said her boyfriend had left town. It had been six weeks. She missed sex, and physical contact more than she imagined. She called her boyfriend “Arthur.” I had claimed, in a rare moment of inspiration, that I had a “Goldilocks cock,” not for its coloring, but because “it wasn’t too big, wasn’t too small, but just right.” At almost six inches, statistically speaking, I thought that accurate enough.
We set on a time that Saturday night, just around dusk. She sounded a little nervous too, a bit to my relief.
I think I stroked my penis for half an hour before the assigned time. I wanted to be good and ready for relief, but finally had to put my jeans on and head down to the street with supplies.
So I set up my table. I had several bags of dummy stuff, the one with a roll of toilet paper in the back, so it would unlikely for anyone to grab it when left unattended. I had my mask on, trying to look earnest (how do you do that if no one can see your face?) and businesslike.
A blue Honda Fit rolled up, the driver tentatively scanning the street. There were two girls, both in masks. The driver, who appeared to be a tall and handsome blonde, spotted my table, parked in front of the salon. I held my breath.
The passenger got out. She was short, a little chubbier than is my preference, and had fuzzy shoulder length hair and jeans. Obviously I couldn’t gauge her facial features very well. She came up to the table, both of us eyeing each other.
“Lonely gal?” I asked. She nodded.
“Dave. Glad you came.” She looked around, obviously confused.
“Business district in the back here,” I motioned. “You’re plenty safe,” I added.
“Lonely Gal” shot a look to her companion who waved back.
I led her down the narrow path. Hot damn. Was this going to work?
I backed into the shrubbery clearing, and unbuttoned my jeans.
And experienced the first difficulty.
I had been plenty hard in my apartment, but with the setting up and I suppose the anxiety of everything in the meantime, the penis had gone quite limp.
I pulled it out, wishing it was even slightly erect, but it wasn’t.
I waited for “Lonely gal’s” reaction. Still with her mask on, she looked at it, then me.
“I’d feel better if you took your mask off?” she asked, anxious-like. “I just would like to see who you are a bit more? You said you’re safe?”
I nodded and removed the mask. I held my breath again. Would this be the deal-breaker?
She looked a little relieved, then gazed at my floppy-looking penis.
“Looks just about like Arthur’s,” she said, and I felt some relief.
“Do you want me to make it hard for you?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“No, that’s alright. I always liked getting Arthur stiff, it was usually part of the fun.”
I put my hands on my hips, and she knelt in front of me, still keeping her mask on however.
Okay, so anytime a new partner approaches your most intimate bits it is a bit awkward. In the past, this would happen in fairly predictable situations, when everyone was already aroused a bit. The number of girls who had had their hands on my cock was not great, single digits, and the subset of those who had licked me was even smaller in number.
This was totally bizarre, if you have to know the truth.
She played her fingers along my shaft, held my soft cock-head in her fingertips, rolled my balls around. I wish I could tell you I responded, but even after a few minutes not much was happening. beykent escort
I was ready to kick myself up and down the street, panic rising in every fiber. First customer! First failure! Jared would be laughing his ass off the rest of the semester. I would never live it down.
And I wouldn’t even get to enjoy what I wanted most out of the whole thing, the whole point of all this effort. Wasted! Down the tubes! The only variable I hadn’t considered, the power of my own personal erection, had abandoned me. And I had been impossibly horny for a month and a half.
“Gal,” I stammered. “I wonder if you would be kind enough” (I actually said this) “to remove your own mask? I would like to see you too.”
She nodded, and pulled off her mask. She was cute in a familiar, non-exciting way, but it felt much better to know I was dealing with a real girl.
Her fondling still didn’t work the way I would have wished, however. My penis stubbornly remained limp, perhaps fractionally stiffer than when we began, but nowhere close to where it needed to be.
“Could you” I stammered again, “maybe pull your shirt up a bit?” I know I sounded desperate.
She smiled, bless her heart. She pulled her shirt up, and without even me asking, unclipped her bra. Her breasts were small, pointed, and to my eyes, adorable. Tiny little nipples, pink ends, she really didn’t need a bra at all.
But that did the trick.
Her fondlings had me hard in three minutes. I watched, absolutely intoxicated, as my penis went from soft and rubbery, to full and hard.
Her fingers, running from balls to tip, felt like a million dollars. And she looked pleased.
She looked up at me, kept the gaze, and extended her tongue to my prick-head.
The gates of heaven swung open.
She then closed her eyes and went to work on me.
I haven’t inhabited this earth all that long, and am only into sexual maturity (however you figure that) for a half-dozen years, but I have to say that as a male, getting your penis sucked is one of the most supreme events conceivable. I have never, ever, had a bad experience when someone has their lips over my cock, tongue working my prick-head.
Some sucklings are obviously more amazing than others, and it has always been best when my partner was someone who knew me, was familiar with what I liked, and could do, by dint of experience and a certain willingness to please, extraordinary things to the nerve endings attached to my organ and turn me into a whimpering exhausted spent piece of protoplasm after all was over.
This event in front of me, “Lonely gal’s” lips going up and down my shaft, was not in that category, but it was the most purely pleasurable moment of happiness I had had in many, many weeks.
I wish I could tell you it went on for five minutes, but it didn’t. My earlier erection, and excitement, all accumulated, and I felt the familiar pressure in my balls build to crisis levels.
Watching her lips move along my shaft, her tongue doing lovely things to my prick-head, her hair moving while her lips slid up and down my shaft, her own pleasure when she left off to admire my spit-slicked erection, shooting a shy smiling glance up to me again, all of this was too good to be true.
Back to work, I felt the crisis building, my hips tensed and I announced through gritted teeth my impending release. I hadn’t actually thought this part through and only at the last minute figured I ought to give some warning.
But she kept her lips fastened on me and I erupted a good five or six good loads of semen into her mouth.
She licked a little more, and then her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She answered with a text message. All I saw was “all good, be right with you,” and I knew we were done.
She fastened her bra back, her shirt came down and she looked like any college girl I might have met in any of my classes at university.
I made sure to thank her, but she was obviously ready to go, maybe even a little sheepish at what had just transpired. I followed her to the street, handed her paper bag with the “complimentary roll” with great expressions of gratitude. With her mask back on I couldn’t tell, but assumed she was smiling.
Her friend in the car looked relieved as she got in and they drove away with a wave.
My groin was warm and wet, a long missed warmth radiating from my groin.
I was in business! I felt better than I had in weeks. I could live with this!
Over the next weeks I got my penis sucked by a variety of “clients.” One glorious week resulted in four successful sucklings on four successive days.
One time the girl didn’t want to suck me but jerked me off onto her bare tits, lovely soft melon-like orbs that drizzled with my leavings afterward. The image of a little drop of sperm clinging to one nipple as she buttoned her shirt up will not leave me. She even wanted to give me a kiss in thanks, but some part of my self-preservation instincts intervened. How bizarre is that? I’d let people I didn’t know fondle my organ, suck my semen, but not provide a kiss or a hug?
I always took a shower afterward, maintained otherwise careful common-sense caution, wore a mask unless asked to remove it (fairly often this was a request, a couple times I asked permission, always granted.)