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Hands on Delivery!

Posted by: SoloTouchArchive Author: admin Posted on: 26 Mar 1999 1 comments
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by tarbaby54@yahoo.com The really great thing about living in a foreign country and being out is that when you're not "at home," you're forced to deal with the situations and the culture that you are in. We take our freedom for granted a lot of time, but living in Eastern Europe, one has to be ready to take advantage of any opportunity that might present itself at any time. Most of the guys are married (whether they're gay or not) and for some reason, they are horny as hell a lot of the time. For example, a lot of grocery stores here have a little "bar" area where you can get a cup of coffee and a shot if you want. Grocery stores open at 8 am as a rule, but I never go to the one in my neighborhood until after 10 am or so on weekends. That's when they deliver the fresh bread. There's this guy by the name of Ihor, who works in my neighborhood store as someone who's responsible for unloading trucks when they deliver. Just how ready he was/is to "unload" I found out last week. I've known Ihor ever since I moved into this neighborhood six months ago. One of those big bear types, with strong hands and short grimy nails bitten to the quick, big biceps, tattooed forearms, big round bubble butt, wide crooked smile and those light blue eyes that twinkle like they're looking for trouble. Mostly everybody in the neighborhood knew that something was unusual with me when I moved in. Leather jacket, earrings, "guinea" T-shirt showing the rings in my nipples--all the stuff that these guys see on German MTV....but would never do themselves. One day I was in the store and this guy Ihor just walks right up to me and said, "Hey, American. You have to buy me a shot. It's a tradition." I said, "At 10 am! You're crazy!" Looking like the school yard bully he responded, "Yep." So, we had a shot. The bar area has no seats just lots of those little round tables that you have to stand up at, with a little shelf for your packages or umbrella or whatever. We went over to one of them and he started to grill me about my life....if I was married.....what I did for fun. I answered more or less honestly, "No I am not married and I never have any intention of being married." Leering at me he says, "What do you do for sex?" I quipped, "I got no problem in that department. " He comes back, "Yeah, you foreigners get all the girls." I said, "I am no competition for you, buddy. You can have all the girls you want. I don't want any." Well, he sort of played that off, but I knew that he got the message.Every other time I came into the store I had two impressions 1) all the guys that worked there knew I was queer and 2) Ihor wanted to do something with me. How did I know? Just intuition and vague impressions like his big wide smile when I came in (I never had the feeling that he was laughing at me) and the fact that we began a Sunday morning ritual....a couple of shots in the "bar" and a little conversation about, well you know, guy talk: soccer, politics NEVER about women. I thought that was strange. After a couple of shots my eyes get a distinct bedroom quality to them, and sometimes we would lean close and ...well, you get the picture. Guy intimacy: with an unacknowledged sexual undertone. I like it. Yesterday was somehow different. Ihor was angry at someone when I came in. He made a bee-line to me and said, "My turn today, but I'm not drinking vodka, I want cognac." I queried, "Celebrating?" "Yeah, I'm getting out of this fuckin' country. Goin' to Canada," he said. I continued, "Congratulations." This was certainly good news. The opportunity to live without super/hyper inflation! So, he ordered a bottle and coffee and we moved to a table in the corner next to the curtained window. We did our usual, but his questions were slanted in the area of lifestyle, sexual freedom and all that. He, being married, fancies the West as sort a sexual wonderland. After about three shots, he motioned me to come closer, that he wanted to whisper something in my ear. He whispered, "You can fuck anyone you want and no one says anything, right?" "Yes," I answered, "mostly right, depending on your community." "You," he said. "every get any shit for being, you know, for being a faggot." I said, "used to, not any more." "Women don't know how to suck dick, "he said. "My wife hates it. I like it though." During this exchange we were still standing pretty close together, our backs to the room at large. Ihor was wearing one of those denim lab coat garments and it was covered with flour and other powdery stains. He started squirming around like something was itching him and I imagined that our conversation was getting him a little turned on and being the dangerous combination of shameless and fearless I said, "Well, it's too bad you're working, because I'd show you a thing or two." He challenged with a wry sly grin, "Like what? What would you do?" "C'mon, Ihor," I protested, "you don't wanna hear that." "Sure I do, tell me," he said. So I said, "Well, one of the things that turns me on is the fact that you are uncut. Before I even took your dick into my mouth, I would play with your cheesy dickhead and skin, getting it all wet and slimy, sticking my finger into your piss hole licking the pre cum off my finger. Then I probably would play with your balls because I know that you wife ignores them." He said, "Well, show me." Astonished, I said, "I can't. You're working and besides, you can't leave here." He winked and then looked down. Following his eyes I noticed that he had opened the buttons on his work pants and that his dick was sticking out. No one could see because of his work coat and our turned backs, but as the aroma began to waft to my nostrils, I got afraid that someone might get hip to the smell. He saw me hesitate and said, "Think nothing of it. Pretend you're in America." and he gave me that shit eating grin and let his eyelids close to half mast. So, I pretended that I was getting something out of my plastic shopping bag on the shelf below the table, and I put my hand on his cock. I couldn't see it, but it was about 6 fat uncut inches, one of those beer can dicks. It was already leaking lube juice. We couldn't move around a whole lot, so I did more or less what I told him I would do: stuck my finger under his skin and felt the creamy slime and the hotter slicker pre cum oozing out. He breathed out rather noisily and sort of eased forward and his skin slid back and his shaft slid along my palm on the trail of pre cum his cock was leaking. I did not close my hand around his disk, but left it loose all all except for my thumb, which was pressed rather firmly along the veined top surface of his cock. "UUUnnnnnnhhhhh," he moaned and his breath came out of his clenched teeth like a hiss. I just had to taste him, so I let go and slipped my wet fingers into my mouth and licked my palm. "Like that?" he asked. "You bet," I said. "Why did you stop. I want to cum," he said. "Here?" amazed, I asked. He explained that his wife has been punishing him for something by withholding sex and I thought to myself, "Stupid, sad woman." So, I put my hand around his dick again, but we absolutely couldn't get up the kind of friction and/or movements that would bring him to an orgasm...or so I thought. Trying not to be too obvious (we were already standing very close together and the people around us thought that we were just getting a little high), he kept pouring shots and we kept toasting one another and all the time I kept a slow steady pressure and slight movement on that beer can he calls a dick, moving that slippery skin around and alternately capping and uncapping his dickhead. He kept leaking so much pre cum! It was like someone spit a big clam in the palm of my hand and I used it to keep his dick wet and slippery. I was a little upset that I couldn't lick my fingers with gusto but I contented myself with holing on to that treasure and looking at his crooked mischievous smile. Amazingly enough, his dick continued to get hard and as it did, it took on a shape like a square wedge. So I made a small "o" with my thumb and forefinger and let him ease into and back out of it with almost invisible to the public fucking movements. Once in a while he would sort of flutter and forget himself and plunge into my fist but after a quick look from me, he calmed down once again. I had an idea. I said, "Ihor, why don't you flex your dick like a muscle, like you want to take a piss." So, he did a few times and spewed out so much pre cum that i was able to slip the tip of my forefinger in his piss hole. His eyes crossed and he licked his lips. Keeping the tip of my finger in his piss hole, I held my thumb at that soft area just behind his cockhead on the underside. The pre cum was oozing onto my thumb and I used it to lubricate my slow circular movements. He sort of slid down as though his knees were about to give way and I wanted to stop, but I saw that we, he and I, were both too far gone, even if he wasn't close to cumming. He seemed to master himself and mustering up some control (he really thought that he was in control of the situation), he put his shoulders back and drew a deep breath in and said, "Let's do another shot." "Sure," I said, but as he began to pour, I began to scrape my fingertips all over the underside of his blood engorged wedge-shaped fuck pole. "Oh, God!" he gasped, and the bottle got slammed on the top of the table. I think that it was the combination of the tenseness of the situation and the constant small ministrations made by my hand and fingers on his dick because all at once his dick seemed to become petrified and it pulsed and spasmed and jerked and he just stopped moving and looked at me dead in the eye. I felt what seemed like 2 cupfuls of hot Elmer's glue spill out on my hand, shoot up to my wrist and I heard some splat on the floor. His face got real read and he sort of grunted...once. I just held on and after about a minute began smearing his dick with his sperm. He said, "Stop! Stop! Stop!" I stopped eased m and away and as discretely as I could, Lapped up his now cooling cum with my tongue. I pulled the sleeve of my leather jacket down over the mess on my wrist thinking that I would save its savory delights for later. We had another drink, thanked each other, and then I went home. You know what guys, it would never have happened in your local Safe-way!