Removals Lad Cum #3: A Protein-Enriched Lunch

It didn’t take long to load everything else into the truck. Big Bessie made me smile when she traipsed into the living room to say there was ‘a mess’ in the sink in the bathroom, looking at me as she said it.

With her boyfriend’s spunk still on my breath and her boyfriend’s crotch sweat still on my face, I told her I simply couldn’t imagine what it might be.

Darren just smiled mischievously.

Not soon after, with everything loaded in the van and my car, we set off.

After around an hour, we were finally out of London and making good time down the motorway. I’d intended to pass them and make my own way there – but before I could do so, they pulled off at the first service station.

Thinking there might be something wrong with the vehicle carrying all my worldly possessions (with the exception of the suitcase and two plant pots in my own car), I followed.

I need not of feared. Being British working class men, of course, it was now lunch time.

An hour of lunch time.

I was at a bit of a loss. I wasn’t especially hungry.

But then I remembered; of course! This is the one day where I need never be bored, and where I should always be hungry.

I had my rutting little goat to keep me company.

I found the four of them sitting around a table in a large cafeteria. As I approached, Darren stood to put the remains of his lunch into the garbage disposal, like a good boy, and I pounced.

“The men’s toilets, right now.”

For the first time, he appeared reluctant. “Man, come on…”

“If you’re about to say that it’s your lunch break or that you’re with your girlfriend, then you’ve lost our little competition.”

He looked at the floor, and sighed theatrically. “Alright. Fine. But I ain’t got all fuckin’ day. Uncle Brian wants to move in ten minutes.”

“Well gee, Darren, that kinda sounds like your problem, not mine. I mean, if Uncle Brian wants to go and I’m still busy draining his nephew’s balls, then he’ll just have to wait, won’t he?”

“Just…just shut up, man. I don’t want anyone hearing you. Ok fine, let’s go.”

I dragged the stroppy 19 year old with me to the toilets so I could help myself to more of his addictive nut sauce.

Once we were in the toilets, I motioned him into the obligatory disabled stall at the end.

For a toilet stall, it was nice and roomy, and pretty clean.

With the door to the men’s opening and closing and soft voices chatting idly on the other side of the cubicle door, I sat on the toilet before him and once more slid the teenager’s sweatpants down to his knees.

Knowing we wouldn’t have much time, I got straight to it, and pulled his boxers down revealing a (finally) soft chunky piece of cocksteak nestling between a pair of large, slack balls.

The head remained completely sheathed by his loose foreskin.

As I inspected him for the third time, he idly stood there, looking straight ahead through bright, half-lidded eyes.

He remained equally impassive as I took his floppy cock betwixt thumb and forefinger, lifted it, and gently slipped one of his overactive, overeager testicles into my sloppy mouth.

His only response was to shuffle his legs slightly; as if he had momentarily lost his balance.

Whether intended or not, his gentle sloping thighs had parted a little, giving my face - still feasting on his baby-makers - more freedom-of-manoeuvre between his hard little legs.

I took it.

Letting his lengthening prick slip from my fingers and drape itself across my face, my tongue remained salving the prickly, fragrant skin of his fat distended cum sack, only stopping to clamp my lips around each spunky nut to give it a right go seeing to.

After an hour and a half fermenting in his boxers, his prick was battered in dried boy-batter, complementing the thick, heady smell of cum and sex. I relished it as I sucked all the darkly musky collected flavourings from his day of heavy lifting and heavy cumming, right out of the skin.

The lad’s rubbery fuckpipe lengthened quite literally across my field of vision, his remotivated slimy purple tip emerging from the sweaty confines of his foreskin, leaving a delicate oily trail of lad-joy across my hairline as it did so.

With my left hand, I once more cupped that delightful rump of his, the phalanx of inquisitive digits descending into the murky recesses of his crack, where they remained otherwise inactive…for the moment. My other hand soothingly rubbed along the length of his back thigh, running my fingers along the baby smooth, manfully solid musculature I found there.

And I sat like that for a good minute, wallowing in the lad’s ever potent stink, emanating from his productive bollocks and resplendent cock, with the both of having a bloody good time.

When his prick had regained its length and girth, my hand slid from his back leg, wrapped around the shaft still adorning my face, and squeezed, as if I were squeezing a water bottle.

And like squeezing a water bottle – albeit, a near empty one – I delighted in the thin, oily trickle of youthful sex-juice gobbed up from the well of his nuts, now running down the side of my cheek.

I lifted the prick from my face now, and held it gently as my tongue purposefully slid up along the length to the tip, where my thumb and its stiff attendant nail gently diddled the apex of the increasingly tired and forlorn crown.

He looked unresponsive, but then, he always did. I thought, ‘fuck it, I ain’t gonna see this kid after today anyway’.

So as my tongue gently lapped at the gamey deposits left in the deep well of his gaping piss lips, like a cat lapping at a bowl of musky, laddish cream, my blunt left middle finger swathed through the nest of sweaty crack hair to swipe against his straight little hole.

His butt cheeks clenched protectively around my fingers. But nothing was said. He kept looking straight ahead, face unchanged. I mean, where’s the harm? His girlfriend probably does this all the time…doesn’t mean anything, right? And when you gotta cum, you gotta cum…

As my teeth gently nibbled on his soft, sensitive glans, the steady, slight, frothy profusion of juice slowly trickling onto my assiduous tongue, my middle finger - now slick with the ass sweat which had over the course of the work day turned his crack into a moist trench, pierced him.

 “See Arsenal last night?” someone asked on the other side of the door.

“Nah. Had to help Phil with his homework,” the other responded.

A healthy spurt of juice burped up from his nuts, which I dutifully hoovered up off the purple dome of my angry little billy goat, looking up as I gulped down his tasty excitement.

His wide eyes were still staring straight ahead. His arse nearly dislocated my fingers, but it was too late.

I withdrew my mouth from his cock, and motioned him to turn around.

Whether he thought I was intending to remove my finger, I couldn’t say – neither of us felt comfortable chatting about it. But I told him to turn, and he did.

I took a moment to look at him – his short, compact, fit legs emerging from the grey sweatpants he’d worn all day, now around his ankles, and his designer boxers, now around his knees.

Socks and trainers still on his feet with his fantastic round arse frame by his tight poloshirt, still with the collar turned up.

And my middle finger, right where the action is, the tip wedged up in the entrance to the tight straight fundament.

As he stared at the door, the rigid, sharp nails of my right hand raked down the back of his right thigh.

Hard.

When his arse slackened ever so slightly in surprise, I took my chance, knowing I wouldn’t have another.

Standing and stepping forward, I slid my finger up into his untouched, unprotected insides. To the hilt. “Ughmmhhmm,” he moaned, more loudly then he would’ve liked, the loud ‘bang’ reverberating through the populated toilet as he smacked his head against the door.

Standing right behind him now, I quickly gripped his stiff pecker with my other hand, rubbing another unexpected spurt of juice into the sensitive flesh of his purple glans.

His legs spread as far as his waistbands would allow, his fingers curled over the top of the door, the poor little lad was all but screaming for me to give him the milking he no doubt felt he’d earned, enduring successive humiliation after humiliation – all in the cause of spewing yet more smelly baby-sauce in a public location.

Even though this was his third cum in five hours, he certainly seemed up to it.

So wordlessly, silently, secretly, I slowly jacked the hot little removals lad in the toilets of a busy Little Chef, not far outside London. With his Dad and girlfriend finishing their lunch outside, he did his very best to keep quiet, my finger slowly sawing in, and then out, of his scorching bowels, curling this way and that as it did so.

He would thrust forward with each push of my finger. So as I slowly jacked him, I would occasionally – only occasionally, mind –slide the delicate, sloppy glans of his cock against the cool unyielding polished wood of the door. “Hmmm,” he groaned, from deep in his wide, expansive chest.

Knowing I had the fucker, I slobbered over his neck for a minute, like I was some drunk geezer making out with a bird at the end of a night down the pub, before I whispered in his ear, “let’s just stop pissing around, shall we? We both know what’s goin’ on. We both know that I’m takin charge of your bod for the day. And we both know that you fuckin’ like it.”

He shook his head at that.

“Shush shush, baby, we both know, and that’s all that matters. You don’t have to admit it, because we both know it. And you know, mate, I’ve been so taken with you – you’re easy-going personality, your boyish charm, you’re tight little body and manly big cock – that I reckon I’ve been going a little easy on you.”

More head shaking. I ignored him this time.

“But that changes now, mate. Now, I’m taking personal charge of my little billy goat, and I don’t fuckin’ care how mad it makes him. Because it’s like we agreed! See? I’m just livin’ up to my end of the deal. And being as I’m in charge, I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna go down, from here on out. First, I’m gonna make you spew your load, like a little bitch.”

A murmur of descent.

“Shush, sweetie. Someone might hear, remember? Now, I’m gonna do this, for your own good. Because you wanna win that money, don’t you? Of course you do. But the thing is, you ain’t gonna win if you restrict yourself to plain old vanilla. To win – to keep shootin’ big – you need to start doing the things that REALLY gets you goin’. And that includes the things that get you goin’ which you don’t know about! Like this, mate.”

“I mean, this is probably your fuckin’ dream, right? The happy, simple life of a goat, down on the farm; unthinking , bleating at the passing cows, getting milked by the farmer in charge whenever he needs it. And you do need it, don’t you Darren? Course you do. There’s still lots of syrupy straight milk in those big old nuts of yours, and if I didn’t expel it for you, you might have trouble thinkin’ straight, mightn’t you? I’m doin’ you a fuckin’ public service, mate.”

“Course I am. That’s why, after we’re done here, I think you and I will make our own way to the house. Together. Get you away from that cow and her henchmen. So we can get some alone time. You’d like that, won’t you? A bit of alone time from the girlfriend, so you can get your rocks off in peace? Course you will. How’d that sound, mate?”

This time, silence. I looked over his shoulder, drinking in the scent of lad and sex emanating from his body, as I directed his stiff hose across the now wet door, rivulets of junk-juice running down the sodden polished wood.

“What the fuck is going on?!”

Uncle Brian. Thankfully, on the other side of the door. “Where are you, you lazy little shit?” he demanded.

A few moments later, Darren found his voice and spoke, in a gargled, conflicted voice.

“Imma…in ‘ere.”

“What are you fuckin’ up to? We were supposed to move ten minutes ago!”

“S-sorry.”

Feeling sorry for the lad, I stopped wiping his cock on the door.

I just jacked him with my finger up his ass.

“Well hurry the fuck up.”

Uncle Brian sounded more distant now; like he was leaving.

“And if you see that queer on your way out, tell him to get to the car park. I can’t find him, either.”

“Yep.” Darren had both hands resting against the door now, along with his forehead, gently banging against the door; a sign of his ever-present sexual frustration.

From the door, I heard Brian say, “and be careful. Don’t turn your back on him, or he’ll be up your arse quick as a flash!”

“Hah!” Darren squealed, trying to sound like a laugh, but only sounding like the anguished cry it really was.

The roiling corkscrew I had delivered to his unprotected, unrestrained cockhead was perhaps a little severe considering he was chatting to his Uncle at the time.

But he must of enjoyed it: a moment later, seed was once again spitting from his cock. Less than on previous occasions, and a lot thinner, the first couple of shots leapt a few inches into the air before splatting against the door, the rest pulsing out of his cock and sliding down onto my hand.

“Fancy a taste?” I held my hand up to his mouth, and he stepped backward in horror, walking into me. I put my hand down onto the flank of his T-Shirt, to steady him.

“Hold on, mate,” I said cheerily, “I’ve still got my finger up your arse. Gimme a second.”

A delicious second was all it took, but a took a couple more, just so I could delight in the straight lad standing there, still looking at the door, arms now by his side as I slowly eased my finger out of his rectum.

After pulling his boxer-shorts and sweats back up for him, I opened the door and stepped out.

Stepping up to the sinks, I said “ah, sorry…” pointing to his polo shirt and where my hand had been – the cotton now covered in a white spermy hand-print.

“Thanks,” he said, unamused.

“Don’t worry,” I replied, “mum’ll know how to get that out.”

He didn’t say anything else, but followed me out of the bathroom, and to the car park.

“You found him, then,” said Uncle Brian.

I replied, “no, I found him actually.”

“Listen, I’ll probably arrive at the house before you, and I’ll need a bit of help unloading the car – does anyone mind if I steal Darren for a couple of hours?”

The three looked on impassively for a moment before Uncle Brian replied, “well, if Darren’s ok with it.”

Before Darren could speak I continued, “Darren’s absolutely fine with it. We talked about it before. Didn’t we?”

He looked at me, and then his Uncle. “Yeah.”

And that was that. I opened the door, and I left the removals van behind, with the removals lad at my side.

12.45pm: Darren the straight removals lad had been milked of his lunchtime load.