Removals Lad Cum #2: The Mid-Morning Load

After about an hour, we’d moved most of the easy stuff out, and began moving the heavier bits and pieces.

I delighted in watching Darren, Brian, Gary and, yes, even Jen (aka Big Bessie) strain and groan as they moved the clapped out old refrigerator my Dad had bought out to the gargantuan removals van parked on the road, followed by a sofa, armchair and an oaken bookcase.

With Darren glowing from the perspiration of his exertions, I could no longer resist.

“Darren, there’s a few bits in the back garden I want to load into my car. Come and give us a hand, will you?”

He looked at me, grinning knowingly. “Sure,” he replied quietly after a few seconds, bounding after me as I walked down a side ally, through a gate and into the back garden.

I locked the gate, and the two of us quietly walked to the grotty old shed at the bottom of the grassy, non-descript garden.

I opened the door, and stood to one side to allow him to enter before me. “In here, is it? What you need lifting?” he asked, that lopsided shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

I returned his smile. “Yeah…realised I had the shed to empty; thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, get my little billy goat onto the case after he’s had his milking. How’d that suit you?”

“Hah...you’re a cheeky fucker, aren’t ya’?”

I chuckled. “Nope. Just got a good eye. Now get in.”

“Oh Yesth Sthir,” he said in a campy, lispy voice, mincing past me.

I said nothing, entering the shed and turning the rusty key to lock it.

About the size of a small bathroom, the shed smelt of wood and rust. It consisted of a rough wooden table running along one wall, the upper section of which contained a weathered pexiglass window dusted with mildew and moss, about the size of an A4 piece of paper.

This was the only source of light.

All around us were rusted, unusual garden implements; spades, hoes, shovels, shears, that sort of thing.

There wasn’t much room as I silently moved around the lad to the table, he watching me as I did so, moving the large crusty plant and paint pots from the table to make a space.

Methodically turning to the boy, I grabbed each of his shoulders manfully and directed him around me, so his back was to the table.

I slid my hands down the cottoned planes of his pecs as I bent the knee, so to speak.

Once before his groin, my hands slid round to cup his ass cheeks through his sweats as my face descended on his funky crotch.

He audibly breathed in as my nose rooted around his flavoursome groin, my teeth reverentially chewing on the dulled shapes and growing protrusions contained within the loose grey fabric.

Having an appreciation for such things, I think he’d been hard pretty much the whole time since the first milking; since he’d realised this was real, and actually happening.

So unsurprisingly, he was pretty stiff when I started my ministrations, and after what seemed like a few short seconds, I felt like I was a dog gnawing on a tasty tubular bone: except this bone was covered in a layer of soft grey fabric. And it palpitated in time with his heart.

I wondered if he was jettisoning a steady trickle of dew, like before.

I hoped he was, and that his horniness would embarrass him again. That he’d feel obliged to apologise for needing to get off; for holding so much gravy in his bollocks; for spraying it all over the place whenever he cock moved suddenly.

Heheh, yeah, I’d get a real kick if he made that apology, all shy and retiring-like.

I unceremoniously yanked the sweats down to his knees, and pushed him back onto the table.

As he sat, his dick tenting out his multi-coloured shorts and the head leaving yet another dark stain of excitement just above that which he’d left earlier, he muttered, “mind my boxers, man. They’re new.”

“Your mum buy ‘em?” I asked, smiling.

“Fuck off,” he replied, genuinely offended.

But he smiled when my head descended one more, to lick and suckle on the stiff cock through the clammy cotton covering the sweaty sex organs of my well-exercised little goat.

I spent longer than I intended down there, with my nose snortin’ and rootin’ around between the dank depths of his thighs, my tongue licking along his finely muscled legs and my nose prodding each of his fat nuts, breathing in the smell of a lad hard at work (a rare thing) infused with the smell of his last load.

I realised that Darren had been a dirty little boy when he’d hastily shoved his cock into his pants after his first milking. What would his mum say? But I wasn’t about to complain. If I could’ve bottled it, I would’ve.

He broke me out of my reverie when he said, “Christ, you fuckin’ love cock, don’cha?”

Withdrawing my face from the perspiring lad’s stuffy adolescent crotch, I reached through the vertical slit in his shorts, grasping him mid-shaft, and gently eased his organ out into the fusty atmosphere of the shed.

I did so with a great, big smile on my face.

The boy leaned back, his head resting between the dusty window on one side, a pair of yellow-handled gardening shears on the other. With just his upper body resting on the wall, his spine curved and joined the slouching backside planted on the wooden table, the tight black polo shirt riding up to reveal his hard, lilly-white tummy.

His legs, restrained only by the tangle of sweatpants and brightly coloured trainers at his feet, swung excitedly like those of a little boy whose mum is about to buy him a treat from the cakeshop.

But the pink appendage protruding from his tight designer boxer-briefs made clear that this was not in any sense a little boy.

Eyeing for a moment the seven, and oh-so-important, one half inches of dick, topped off by an equally peachy bulging head from which the tip of a red crown spilled over the top, I was reminded that this was a bigboy: a big boy smiling down proudly as I took his big toy into my cool hand.

I fully slid back the slimy head of his organ, my nose delighting in the tart scent of his damp purple glans.

The tip of my other hand’s index finger briefly dabbed the deep well of the teen’s piss slit, coaxing out more of the boy’s own slick Vaseline, delighting in seeing how high I could extend my string of straight-boy dew before it fellow away, to be moisterurised back into the lad’s eager round dome.

“Urghmmm,” he rumbled from deep in his stomach.

I smiled.

I stopped stroking him for a second, so I could force his hard cock down between his thighs, and let the fat fucker swing back to upright, jettisoning drops of spew as it did so, one of which left a small, snail-like deposit on the collar of my shirt.

H didn’t apologise though.

My other hand was rubbing up and down the back of his calf as I nurtured his teen-joint slowly, but purposefully. But I did this just for a couple of seconds; I could resist no longer and just had to slip the chipper removal lad’s fleshy, overactive spigot into my warm, wet mouth.

There is nothing quite like that first taste, either for the person receiving or the person tasting; and it felt like a jolt of electricity passed between me and the horny straight teenager sat before me when the wet, oblong pad of my tongue first slithered down his respectably sized, stickily aromatic length.

I could feel the sticky wetness emanating from his glans at the back of my throat as my nose ever so gently mashed into the warm cotton of his shorts, poking at the curly thatch of hairs I knew lay beneath.

With both hands free, I moved to take charge of the little boy’s big body.

My head was now firmly locked into his groin with my tongue swiping against the flesh of the pulsing hot poker stuffed into my gullet. So without knowing precisely what I was doing, my left hand curled up and around the lad’s outer thigh, to keep him locked to the table.

My other hand, still on his lightly furred right calf, slid up to the table.

Once there it located, and slid into, the heavy-duty, thick rigger gloves I’d spied earlier.

They were horrible things; about ten years old, stiffer than most, and with dried, ossified mud caked onto the suede palm.

My gloved hand snaked under the boy’s tight polo-shirt, where it rubbed across the wide expanse of his tummy and the defined pectoral muscles above.

As I quietly suckled on his leaky pipe, the blunt, coarse gloved fingers of my hand would circle and then snip at the crinkly nipples.

Surprised at this unexpected molestation, the lad’s lean thighs squeezed deliciously against my head and his breath shortened ever so slightly when I first took his right nip between bristly thumb and forefinger: twisting the tiny, penny-sized bastards around a good ninty degrees before letting go.

With the mission of my curious little fingers to wake up the horny fucker’s tight little nipples perched on his pecs now complete, the gloved tip of my index finger now raked across one nip, and then the other, as my vacuuming mouth slid up and down the boys shaft.

I looked up at one point; the boy was still lying back, his eyes closed, his face completely unresponsive.

Only his head, banging with increased regularity against the wooden panelling of the shed, told me that this whole ‘sex’ thing was beginning to get to him.

That, and the constant drizzle of sauce produced by his cock. Honestly, it was like sucking on a bottle of maple syrup.

With my tongue now flickering along the complete length of him, the stuff wasn’t just flowing directly into my stomach; it was flowing across my tongue, into my saliva, and basting the entirety of his cock with loutish seasoning.

When his right hand (which like his left had previously just been at his side) moved to my shoulder, I knew he was close.

Removing my mouth from his prick, I sat back as he looked down at me in consternation; his organ throbbed helplessly in the fresh air.

His eyes grew wide when my gloved hand descended from his irate nipples, whilst my other hand left his clammy outer thigh to push firmly on his chest, pushing him back against the musty old wood of the shed.

He looked on as my gloved hand firmly gripped his prick and yanked it once, twice, a third time, ending proceedings with a horrifically sweet corkscrew, whilst my tongue crept forward and gently, almost reverentially, lapped at the glassy purple glans at his tip.

With his legs swinging enthusiastically under the table as he did so, he erupted - good and fucking hard.

“ARGHHHHH, fucker, yes, YES, FUCKER YES,” he shouted at the top of his voice as he jetted two ribbons of lad snot over my face before my lips gracefully enveloped the tip of his glans, where I remained as if I were delicately suckling from a mother’s teat.

Once my lips latched onto the tip and my gloved hand lovingly held (and sneakily squeezed) him at the base, I could account for the quaking of each successive release, each flung into my suddenly parched gob with intense ferocity.

I just sat there, like a priest kneeling before an idol; meekly, slovenly, greedily gulping down his spicy pulp like I was addicted to the stuff.

Three, four, five…his prick stopped pulsing at offering number six.

As his flavourings swilled around my mouth, I delighted in the hot-fresh tastiness of his teen-paste, tasting of salt, sweat, babies and stinky, unwashed lad. It wasn’t quite as thick as the first load, but the quantity remained consistent.

Even so, when his glans, now sleepy and once more seeking the comforting blanket of his foreskin slipped from my mouth, I felt like I’d swallowed a bottle of glue.

I fell back onto my heels, watching him gingerly get off the table and once again thrust his wet soft prick into his shorts, before quickly pulling up his sweatpants.

“How’d ya’ feel?” he asked.

“Oh, you know,” I replied, scraping his spunk off my face with my ‘good’ hand and hungrily sucking it off my fingers, “pretty good, all in all.”

I continued, “how about you? Feeling tuckered out yet?”

He grinned. “Me? Nah mate. You know me.” He chuckled. “You might wanna wash or something mate. You’ve got…it…all over your face still.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “you’re a messy little goat when you’re getting milked. Noisy, too. Your girlfriend probably heard you bleating from the house.”

He laughed. “You’ve got a thing for goats, ain’t ya?”

It was my turn to laugh. “Not really, no. It’s just what you are, Darren. Basically, I’ve paid you to be a goat. And you agreed. And now, here we are, with you fulfilling your role perfectly.”

“I’m not an actual goat, though…”

I smiled. “No. You’re not covered in fur…or at least, not as much as you would expect to find on a goat…and you speak English…or at least, you speak it a bit better than the average goat. But…the only way you can win this little competition we’ve got going is to play the part. To stand there and take you’re milking, whenever I want.”

I stepped closer, and grabbed his flaccid cock through his sweats. “And really, Darren – really, I’m glad you’ve still got your strength up. Because it ain’t gonna get any easier, kiddo. It ain’t all gonna be handjobs and blowjobs.” As I squeezed, I felt a few blobs or jizz seep out of his prick, into his boxers. “You should get yourself ready. This is gonna be a life-changing day for you, mate, whether you win or not.”

I opened the gate, and stepped out of the dank, sexed-up air of the shed, into the cool refreshing air of the outdoors.

11.15am: Darren the straight removals lad had been milked of his mid-morning load.​