Creamed #4
JJ paused with his boxers halfway down his thighs, his back still turned—ass pushed out like he was flaunting that now, too, just as shamelessly as he’d flaunted his erection—and glanced over his shoulder.
Ollie didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Didn't move.
He just watched—and waited to see what JJ would do next.
Ollie couldn't tell if JJ was trying to seduce him or humiliate him. The line between those two things had been blurring all afternoon, and now, with JJ standing two feet away and tugging his ruined boxers lower and lower, the line had disappeared entirely.
"Thanks for spilling the pies everywhere, asshole," JJ said over his shoulder, his voice irritatingly casual for a guy who looked dangerously close to stripping naked in a food truck. "Now I have to wash my boxers in the sink."
Ollie watched as JJ yanked the boxers down his hips, past his knees, and finally to his feet. He stepped out of them, bending slightly and poking his ass out as he kicked them away—and the angle gave Ollie a view that hit him like a fist to the chest.
Between JJ’s thick, spread thighs, Ollie could see the heavy weight of his balls hanging low and full, swinging slightly as the hockey stud braced himself on the slippery floor.
Above it, a hint of his asshole and taint were on full display—all of it shiny with the remnants of pie cream that clung to his skin in thin, milky streaks.
Ollie's knees went soft. His mouth went dry. His brain went somewhere it had no business going, and every thought that arrived was filthier than the last. He couldn’t believe JJ was actually standing there naked in front of him, showing off his shiny, cream-covered ass in all its toned, taut glory.
JJ then walked the few steps to the big steel sink beside the serving counter, his naked body moving with the same unhurried confidence he brought to everything—broad back, narrow waist, the round, hard cheeks of his ass flexing with each step.
He tossed his boxers into the basin and turned on the water like this was the most normal thing in the world.
Ollie stood rooted to the spot, still in his cream-soaked boxer-briefs, his hard dick straining against the ruined fabric, watching the naked jock wash his underwear in a food truck and trying to remember how breathing worked.
JJ looked back over his shoulder. "You going to help clean up, or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass like you wanna eat it?"
The grin on his face was the worst part. It was smug and knowing and just ambiguous enough to leave Ollie with no idea whether JJ was joking, flirting, or testing him.
"Fuck you," Ollie managed.
"That's what I thought." JJ turned back to the sink, scrubbing at his boxers with one hand. "Too pussy to even get out of your underwear. I get it—you're a virgin, bro. I'll be done in a minute and give you some privacy, princess."
The word landed like a slap. Something hardened behind Ollie's eyes.
"Fuck you. I'm just waiting for your big ass to move out of the way,” Ollie snapped.
Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs and tugged them down in one clumsy, reckless motion, the wet fabric clinging stubbornly to his skin.
As he did it, his dick swung free—all six inches of it, fully-stiff and pointed slightly upward. It was gleaming with a slick coat of sugary cream that made the pink shaft shine in the late-afternoon light filtering through the serving window.
He was circumcised and perfectly proportioned, with a smooth, rosy head tapering to a sculpted ridge. His balls were tighter than JJ’s, coated in white filling that clung to the scrunched, bald-shaved skin.
He looked down at himself and the reality of the situation crashed over him: he was fully naked, fully hard, and standing three feet behind a naked JJ. If JJ turned around right now, he'd see everything.
Ollie's first instinct was to cover himself.
But something deeper—something reckless and hungry and tired of pretending—overrode it.
He didn't want to hide. He wanted JJ to see him. He wanted JJ to look at his hard dick and know that Ollie wasn't the bashful little swimmer JJ thought he was.
He couldn't explain why. He didn't try.
JJ was still facing the sink, but his posture had shifted—his back arched slightly, his hips canted backward in a way that could have been coincidence or could have been the most deliberate thing Ollie had ever seen.
Either way, the stance pushed JJ's muscular ass out toward Ollie, and the visual was so distracting that Ollie felt his dick throb with a sharp, involuntary pulse.
He needed to move. He needed to stop staring at this guy’s body before the wanting ate him alive—or at least made him do something impulsive and reckless.
So he did the only thing he could think of: he bent over to pick up his boxer-briefs from the floor, timing it so that his own bare ass was on full display—his cheeks spread just enough from the bend to show JJ exactly as much as JJ had shown him: A smooth, tight, cream-slicked ass with nothing hidden.
After a moment, Ollie straightened and turned, and he caught it.
JJ's head was turned, his eyes mid-sweep of the exact spot Ollie's ass had just been. Their gazes collided, and for one loaded second, neither of them pretended they hadn't been looking.
Then Ollie stepped up to the sink and shoved JJ sideways with his shoulder.
"Come on. Move. You’ve been here for a while, now," he grumbled.
JJ shoved back, and suddenly they were fighting for position in front of the basin—wet skin sliding against wet skin, shoulders bumping, hips knocking together.
It was the same competitive bullshit they’d been doing all week. The same rough, stupid wrestling they’d been doing for the past half hour.
Except now they weren’t just hard and covered in cream.
They were naked.
And the shoving didn’t feel like anger anymore. It felt like flirting. Like lust. Like both of them knew exactly where this was going and were still pretending they didn’t.
"Wait your turn, asshole,” JJ shoved back.
"Fuck you—you've been hogging it,” Ollie returned.
They grinned at each other—real grins, sharp and electric, the kind that came from the edge of something dangerous—and Ollie felt JJ's hip press against his own, their bare skin sticking together with the residue of pie filling.
Ollie's heart was slamming so hard he could feel it in his teeth when he leaned in and said, "Come on, bro. I know you're just standing here because you don't want me to see how hard you are. Admit it."
JJ’s grin didn’t waver. He simply turned around, more than happy to disprove Ollie’s theory.
Ollie's brain short-circuited.
JJ's cock was enormous.
Eight inches of thick, veined shaft standing at full attention, curving slightly downward from a dense thatch of dark-blond hair.
The skin was flushed a deep, angry pink, and a network of powerful veins climbed the underside like vines on a pillar, pulsing visibly with each heavy beat of JJ's heart.
The head was prominent and perfectly shaped—a wide, sculpted dome with a pronounced ridge and a glistening slit that was already beaded with a pearl of pre-cum.
Below the shaft, his balls hung low and heavy between his thick thighs, swinging gently as he shifted his weight—two full, round globes stretching a sack that was flushed and covered in a sticky film of pie cream.
The whole thing was obscene. And beautiful. And impossible for Ollie to look away from.
As Ollie stared, he didn't mean to lick his lips, but he did—a slow, unconscious pass of his tongue across his lower lip that JJ absolutely caught.
"You going to clean my dick and balls off for me?" JJ asked, his voice low and thick with something that wasn't quite a joke.
Ollie's eyes snapped up. "Wh—fuck you, bro. Just let me at the sink, already."
JJ didn't move. He stood there, hips forward, that massive cock pointing toward Ollie like a challenge and a gift at once, his grin widening into something that was no longer ambiguous at all.
Then JJ said it. "Suck my dick, dude.”
The words landed in the space between them like a grenade.
Something inside Ollie—the last, thin wall of resistance he'd been propping up all afternoon with insults and denial and the frantic mantra of I'm straight, I'm straight, I'm straight—collapsed.
He dropped to his knees. He didn’t even know why—not yet. His body moved before his mind could catch up.
The steel floor was cold and slick with cream beneath his bare skin.
JJ's cock loomed in front of his face, enormous and gleaming, close enough for Ollie to feel the heat radiating off the shaft. Close enough to smell him—the salt and musk of a man's body, layered with the cloying sweetness of vanilla cream.
Ollie then reached up and wrapped his fingers around JJ's cock.
He was almost surprised at his own hand. I’m just going to fuck with him—finally rattle him for a change, he told himself as he did it.
JJ’s shaft was fat and hot in his grip, harder than he'd expected, the skin velvety smooth over a core of rigid steel. He felt the pulse of JJ's heartbeat throbbing against his palm, and the sensation sent a jolt through his own body that made his untouched dick twitch between his skinny thighs.
JJ looked down at him, and for the first time all afternoon, the smug grin was gone.
In its place was something rawer—surprise, and hunger, and a desperate, barely contained want that told Ollie everything he needed to know.
JJ hadn't been joking. He hadn't been teasing. He'd been waiting for this—maybe without even knowing it—just as long as Ollie had.
And now, with JJ's beautiful, heavy cock pulsing in his fist, Ollie was done pretending he hadn't been waiting, too.
Ollie stroked JJ's cock once. Twice. Three times—slow, deliberate pumps of his fist around the thick, cream-slicked shaft, each one drawing a bead of pre-cum to the slit.
He still expected JJ to flinch. To shove him off, bark out a laugh, tell him he'd crossed a line. To finally feel fazed by something in his life.