Naked, except for a small powder-blue t-shirt, Trent found himself sitting on a lush white couch – the musk of his undercarriage marking it. It had been a few days since his last bath, but whoever had fucked him last night wasn’t put off by the fact. Trent didn’t remember anything from the previous night, or how he came to be on this couch. He did know for sure that he’d been fucked. Sitting there in silence, Trent could feel a familiar throbbing sensation in his anus – a sensation which told him he’d bottomed. His head was throbbing too.
A half-empty beer sat on a glass coffee table before him. Trent turned the bottle up, emptying it’s contents into himself. He looked around, acknowledging an amazing residence. It was apparent, whoever picked him up was wealthy.
He quickly grabbed his backpack, which was sitting by two large oak double front doors, and found a pair of jeans inside. The shorts he’d been wearing last night, perhaps located in one of the many bedrooms here, would have to be left behind – as would his Vans sneakers. Underneath the jeans, Trent located his flip-flops. Pulling the jeans up over his hanging cock, Trent felt the stranger’s seed leaking from his cunt. Just then, he heard running water through pipes – coming from somewhere in the house. He refocused and closed up the backpack. Throwing it over one shoulder, while sliding into the sandles, he opened the door and stepped out.
With the front door closed behind him, Trent noticed he was standing on a large marble crescent with with two large stone lions to each side. A black Maserati and a Range Rover adorned the cobblestone expanse before him. He skipped down the long stone steps, and while keeping with his momentum, kicked a sideview mirror off the Maserati. By the time the mirror stopped rolling and bouncing, wires tumbling with it, Trent was already toward the end of the driveway. He felt alive.
He was hungover, and needed a ride and a drink. But where was he? Large homes and manicured yards all around. Trent knew, except for the cock who enjoyed him last evening, this neighborhood wouldn’t yield the things he needed right now – namely a buzz and an orgasm.
Trent started quick-steeping through the maze of streets. He figured he was in Brentwood, but as of now, couldn’t be certain. He had to piss. Scanning the area, Trent spyed a green porta-potty on a residential worksite – another mansion going up.
As he approached, he looked around, and then stepped up into it, locking the plastic spring-loaded door behind him. Being this early in the morning, the work crew hadn’t arrived yet. Trent was fucking horny, and he knew he’d have all the time he needed in this shitbox. To most people, these enclosures represented nothing more than a last-resort-place to discard urine and excrement. To Trent, being a horny, homeless twenty year-old, these outhouses represented a private thirty-two square-feet for him to orgasm.
Trent set his backpack on the floor, off to the side of his legs. He’d made peace with this practice a long time ago. He used to leave it outside, until that time some fucker ran off with it in MacArther Park. Cock in his grip, he was already entering climax, when he saw the backpack disappear – from a crack at the bottom of the plastic porta-potty door. Sometimes, he’d stand and jerk-off into the urine-collection-funnel, and sometimes he’d sit on the toilet seat. This time, Trent was sitting. He’d already shit, so his asshole was still hot and yet to be wiped, and now, hot jets of semen were exploding out of his fuckstick. No chance to catch the thieving fuck.
Sitting here though, his new backpack was safe inside – with him. He unbuttoned his jeans, and let them fall on his shoes. Trent sat down and spread his legs. Even over the smell of other people’s shit, Trent could smell the sex from the previous night – wafting up to his nostrils. His cock started to fill.
Trent was what power-tops would call “fun size.” Five-foot three, one hundred thirty-one pounds. Bulls could throw him around with ease, and fuck him in every way. His manhood was anything but fun size. He pulled out his root during a van-trip once, and everyone gasped. They couldn’t believe what they were looking at. Blushed smiling, hands-over-mouths, and giggles followed.
As his cock was reaching full erection, Trent leaned over to his backpack and pulled a Sharpie from the side pocket. As he leaned over, Trent paused, with his cock between his chest and thigh. He wanted to feel the heat and thumping of his tool. As he sat back up, he noticed a perfect bead of precum exit his pisshole. With his fingers, he pushed down on his balls and the base of his shaft, forcing a large flow of clear nectar to spill out – and down the flank. It quickly flooded over his fingers and under his scrotum, only to drip into the sewage receptacle below.
Sitting with the shiny bulbous cockhead poking up and out of his young thighs, Trent went to work with the Sharpie, drawing on the shithouse wall – drawing the same thing he’s drawn at least a thousand times.
He started by drawing an asshole – a gaping asshole. He framed it with two asscheeks, and then added a heart-shape underneath for the balls. Trent then drew two long lines to the gaping hole with two balls at the end of the lines. Finally, he added veins to the cock.
Looking at this exact piece of art got him off every time. It was his most-favorite image.
Please comment and follow. Many thanks! – Lawrence