The guy couldn’t move much, he was at my mercy. I could drop my balls into his mouth for a suckle. Rub my cock-head all over his face, cheeks, belly. Frot him ever so lightly with the underside of my penis.
Then I remembered my secret weapon, forgotten in the excitement.
I’d found a wing feather from an owl on a hike in the forest a couple months before. It had the softest end fringes, and I’d placed it in a tackle box stored at the back of the van.
After retrieving it, I used it to torment my bud.
His eyes opened suddenly when I grazed his balls with the feather, then his prick. Ran it along his inner thighs. Touching his prick with just the lightest of caresses got him squirming in the most pathetic and endearing way.
He’d try to push his cock into closer contact with the feather and yet I would pull it away.
In no time, he was in absolute agony. I had great fun with the tease. I never thought I would ever see Roger get to the pleading stage in any of our explorations, but he had arrived.
Feather under his balls, along his shaft, tickling his cock-head, now red with desire, and almost menacing.
“Finish me off Clay. I’m dying here!”
Prick standing up, proud as a new father, seeping, waving like a steel rod. I could flick it with a finger and it would pendulum back and forth.
So I gave him a good final suck, first licking his prick from top to bottom, suckling those beautiful balls of his, then taking his cock in my mouth, the taut, anxious head feeling so wonderful against my tongue. I felt him getting close, so I squirmed a saliva-slicked finger up his anus.
He responded by heaving a mighty sperm load into me, five strong pulses from his twitching cock. I could feel his anus clench on my finger with each twitch of his prick. It took two deep swallows to gather it all in, keeping suction on him throughout and working my tongue along his frenulum. God it felt good to have him erupt—the pulse, pulse, pulse was intoxicating, making my own prick quiver in sympathetic enjoyment.
I nursed at his quickly dwindling tool until he could take no more, then sat back to watch it retreat fully, all slobbery wet and spent, until it lolled limp on his left leg.
Roger kept his eyes closed for a long time, finally looking up and giving me a hard stare.
“Felt like a metric ton of sperm you got out of me, pal.”
I undid him and we took a short break before he carefully knotted my own limbs into place.
The inside of the bus smelled like sweat and sperm.
Well, “my turn” ended up, amusingly enough, nowhere near as protracted as his. My own erection had been so close to the tipping point the whole time, that Roger, despite his attempts to proceed slowly, couldn’t keep me at the precipice for very long. I’d been balancing at knife edge the whole time just by attending to him.
It felt entirely surreal to have wrists and ankles secured. It made me want, the next time we did this, to have me the one to go first, so I could get the enjoyment of seeing Roger’s erection in place while he worked me over. Instead his cock was limp, his balls dangling, but he did lovely things to me. I daresay he wasn’t as imaginative as I, but it didn’t matter.