Creamed #5
Instead, JJ's eyes fell half-shut, his head tilted back against the edge of the counter, and a deep, guttural moan climbed out of his chest.
"Yeah, bro. Just like that..." JJ sighed softly.
Ollie's eyes went wide. His hand didn't stop moving.
He looked up, his hand still working. "You like getting your dick jerked by a guy? What are you, bro—gay?"
JJ huffed a laugh through his heavy breathing, his hips rocking slowly into Ollie's grip. "Not gay. Just waiting on you to clean my dick and balls with your mouth."
The words should have been a joke. They didn't land like one.
Ollie's pulse was hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears.
His own cock throbbed untouched between his thighs, aching with a desperate, neglected need.
Every rational thought in his head was telling him to stop, stand up, and pretend this had been nothing more than a power play.
But a louder, hungrier part of him—the part that had been staring at JJ's body all day, the part that had gotten hard from wrestling in pie cream, the part that had dropped to his knees without a second thought—wanted to know what JJ tasted like.
"Like this?" Ollie said—and shoved his mouth onto the head of JJ's cock.
The sensation was immediate and overwhelming.
“Fuck,” JJ gasped.
JJ's thick, helmet-shaped cockhead filled Ollie's mouth completely, the wide crest of the ridge pressing against the roof of his mouth as the smooth, hot skin slid across his tongue.
The taste hit him next—sweet vanilla cream layered over something saltier, muskier, unmistakably male. Pre-cum leaked from the slit in a slow, steady pulse, mixing with the sugary pie filling into something that shouldn't have tasted good but did, desperately.
JJ groaned—loud, deep, and unrestrained—and the sound vibrated through Ollie's chest like a bass note.
"Fuck, bro... holy shit,” the hockey jock exhaled.
Ollie had expected this to be where JJ finally broke. Where he'd shove Ollie off, laugh it away, restore the natural order.
Instead, JJ's hand found the back of Ollie's head, his fingers threading into Ollie's dark hair and gripping gently, and Ollie understood with a clarity that left no room for doubt—He’d had confirmation after confirmation, now: JJ wanted this. He'd wanted it all afternoon. Maybe longer.
Something inside Ollie unclenched. Not the arousal—that was only getting worse—but the anxiety, the performance, the desperate need to pretend he was doing this as a joke or a dare or some elaborate act of competitive one-upmanship.
If JJ wanted it, then Ollie could stop pretending he didn't want it, too.
He sucked harder. Deeper. His lips stretched wide around JJ's girth as he tried to take more of the shaft, and the sheer size of it made his jaw ache and his throat clench.
He barely had more than the head and an inch of shaft in his mouth before he felt the first lurch of a gag reflex, and a sudden, begrudging respect for every girl who'd ever given a blowjob washed over him.
This was not easy. JJ's cock was fat and relentless and demanded more space than Ollie's mouth could comfortably offer.
And he loved it.
I'm not gay, he thought, even as his tongue swirled around the underside of JJ's cockhead and his fist pumped what his mouth couldn't reach. What the fuck am I doing? It's the heat. It's got to be the heat.
He didn't believe it. Not even a little.
"Where'd you learn to suck dick like this?" JJ breathed, his fingers tightening in Ollie's hair as his hips rocked forward, pushing another half-inch into Ollie's mouth. "Fuck—that feels so good."
Ollie responded by taking him deeper, his lips sliding farther down the sticky, veined shaft until the head nudged the back of his throat and his eyes watered.
“Yeah…”
He pulled back, gasped, then dove in again, finding a rhythm—sloppy and eager and nothing like the careful, practiced technique he imagined a blowjob was supposed to have.
But JJ didn't seem to care about technique. JJ was gripping the edge of the counter with one hand and Ollie's hair with the other, his chest heaving, his abs clenching, his cock throbbing against Ollie's tongue with an urgency that told Ollie everything.
"I'm gonna cum, bro—" JJ's voice cracked on the last word.
Ollie pulled off just in time, a thick strand of spit connecting his lower lip to the swollen, glistening head.
He ducked lower, pressing his mouth against the heavy sack of JJ's balls, and took one into his mouth—the skin loose and warm and fleshy, stretching over his tongue as he sucked gently, rolling the big, full orb against the inside of his cheek.
JJ shuddered. His hand went to his own cock, stroking it lazily, the shaft shiny and dripping with Ollie's spit. "Fuck... no girl has ever—" He swallowed. "Nobody's ever sucked my balls like that."
The praise hit Ollie like a drug.
He wanted more of it.
He sucked the other ball into his mouth, savoring the weight and the heat and the unexpected intimacy of it, and then his tongue crept lower—past the base of JJ's sack, into the coarse, damp hair behind it, until the tip grazed the puckered ring of JJ's asshole.
JJ gasped.
His whole body went rigid for a half-second before melting into a groan.
"Fuck—get your mouth back on my cock,” JJ begged.
Ollie obeyed, sliding his lips back up over JJ's shaft and taking him deep.
At the same time, his own hand found his dick—slick with pie cream, hard as stone—and he began stroking himself in time with the rhythm of his mouth. His other hand gripped JJ's thigh, his fingers sliding through the sticky cream that coated the thick, hairy muscle.
JJ's breathing went ragged. His hips were thrusting now, short and uncontrolled, and Ollie could feel the cock swelling in his mouth, the shaft pulsing with a pressure that meant JJ was seconds away.
"Gonna cum—fuck—I'm gonna—Ollie!” JJ groaned.
JJ suddenly pulled his cock from Ollie's mouth with a wet pop.
He stood there panting, one hand braced against the counter, the other gripping the base of his massive cock like a tourniquet, his entire body trembling with the close-call.
Ollie looked up from his knees, lips swollen and shining, and waited.
JJ's eyes were dark. Hungry. Decided.
"Bend over the counter," he said. "I wanna try something."
Ollie's stomach dropped, and his pulse spiked. But he stood—his own hard, neglected dick bobbing in front of him—and turned to the serving counter, pressing his palms flat against the steel and leaning forward until his bare chest touched the cool surface and his ass poked out behind him.
He could feel JJ kneel behind him.
Then he felt JJ's hands on his butt cheeks—firm, calloused, spreading him open—and the cool, wet smear of pie cream being scooped from the floor and slathered thickly over his crack and across his asshole.
And then Ollie felt it: JJ's tongue.
The first stroke was broad and flat, dragging from Ollie's taint to the top of his crack in one slow, deliberate lick that left him shaking.
The second was sharper—the tip of JJ's tongue pressing directly against his clenched asshole, circling the tight ring with a pressure that was patient, insistent, and absolutely devastating.
Ollie's mouth fell open.
“Oh… fuck...” Ollie moaned with abandon.
His eyes squeezed shut. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever felt—hot and wet and invasive in a way that should have felt wrong but instead felt like a lock being turned open inside him, a door he hadn't known existed swinging wide.
When JJ pushed the tip of his tongue inside, Ollie felt himself break open around it—a small, yielding give that sent a shockwave of pleasure radiating outward from his core.
“JJ—fuck!”
Ollie opened his eyes and his stomach lurched.
Through the serving window, he could see a couple walking along the gravel path, maybe thirty feet away, laughing about something.
Close enough to hear him if he moaned too loud.
Close enough to glance over and see his flushed face framed in the window of a pie truck, never knowing it was because a sexy, naked hockey player was on his knees just out of sight, savoring his asshole like it was one of the slices of pie they served at the counter.
He bit down on his forearm and tried to look normal. “Mmm…agh…”
JJ's tongue pushed deeper, his broad hands gripping Ollie's hips, and then one hand slid around the front—wrapping around Ollie's stiff dick and beginning to stroke him in slow, firm pulls while his tongue worked his hole in rhythmic, filthy circles.
Ollie's vision blurred. He was being jerked off and eaten out at the same time, and the dual sensation was dismantling him from the inside.
His thighs trembled. His abs clenched. His hard dick pulsed in JJ's fist, so close to the edge that one more stroke might finish him.
"JJ—I'm gonna cum if you keep—" Ollie gasped.
But JJ pulled off in time. And the absence of his tongue was almost painful to the swimmer.
JJ lifted up, and Ollie felt lips against his ear, the scratch of the hockey jock’s beard against his neck, and a harsh whisper that turned his blood to kerosene:
"Want a cream pie?" JJ whispered.
Ollie's breath caught. His whole body went still.
He knew what JJ meant. Not a pastry. Not a joke. The real thing—JJ's cock inside him, JJ's cum pumped inside him, the punchline to every crude joke they'd traded since the first day becoming something neither of them could take back.
He was terrified because he knew what it meant—and because he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything.
Ollie stared straight ahead through the serving window, his hands flat on the steel counter, his heart slamming against his ribs.
Then he nodded.
He looked out at the lake—still and silver in the late-afternoon light, framed by the dark green wall of the hills—and waited to see what JJ would do next.