The Adventures of Boipussy

The morning sun rose late, and Pete blinked his eyes open. "I wish we could stay in this hotel room forever," Pete whispered as he rolled over to face his bedmate. He remembered feeling Carlos's arms wrapped around him as they slept last night, but Carlos had rolled over onto his other side at some point during the evening. Now it was Pete's turn to return the favour: he snaked his limbs around Carlos's waist.

"Mmm," Carlos sighed as he returned to consciousness. His eyelids flickered open for a brief second before closing again. "That feels nice, but we've got a train to catch and a show to play." He breathed out, deep in thought. "How awesome would it be to live in a place like this forever? This bed is amazing, there's room service and a minibar, and a pool, and ..."

Pete introduced facts. "Yeah, but it'd be snowing for like half the year."

Carlos's eyes finally snapped open. "Fuck that shit. Besides, imagine what this place would feel like if we were the only people in it? It'd be like 'The Shining'."

Pete smirked. "Who gets to hold the baseball bat?"

Carlos rolled over to face Pete, reaching his hands down towards his crotch. He gripped Pete's cock with his painted black nails. "It's your bat, but I get to hold it."

Pete moaned as he felt Carlos's hands stroking him hard. "We need to get up," he whispered, "and like you said, we've got a train to catch."

The only sound Carlos heard was Pete's stilted, irregular breath. Pete's eyes closed in bliss as he felt his frontman's fingers work their magic on his dick. One hand stroked his shaft and teased the tip while the other cupped his balls, squeezing them lightly and lovingly, occasionally teasing the opening of his hungry asshole.

"Fuck, Carlos," he moaned.

Carlos picked up the pace. "Better cum soon, Pete, like you said, we've got a train to catch," Carlos cheekily reminded him.

He stuck his middle finger inside Pete's boipussy. Pete arched his back as his balls tightened and drew upwards into his body. He grunted as Carlos found his prostate. He drenched his bedmate's hand.

Carlos ate Pete's load for breakfast. "Muy bien," he said as he licked his fingers clean. He kissed his bedmate on the cheek.

Pete rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling in post-orgasmic bliss, feeling his wet cock begin to deflate. He wanted to live like this forever. As far as today went, he wanted to lie in bed until he fell asleep again, but there was work to be done. With a sigh, he threw the bedclothes back and got up. The bed in their hotel room was so beautifully perfect he wanted to take it home with him.

They dressed, collected their shit and headed downstairs for breakfast before checking out at reception. Carlos ordered the scrambled eggs again, this time asking for some extra chilli. He got it, but it came as a side dish on a separate plate. He frowned in frustration as he chopped the raw chilli into tiny segments with a knife, knowing his eggs were losing temperature fast. The final result was a weak, pale imitation of Mexican scrambled eggs.

Pete brought two strong coffees back from the buffet and landed them on the table. He returned to the buffet to collect his own breakfast: grilled tomatoes, hash browns, and a croissant.

"Last day," Pete said in between mouthfuls.

"Mmm." Even though the eggs weren't up to Carlos's high Mexican standards of cuisine, he was still hungry as fuck. He looked up at Pete and noticed a trace of sadness in his face. He rested his fork on his plate. "This tour has been a fucking blast so far. It's a shame it's gonna end soon. One more show to go."

"Yeah, I know," Pete replied. "But I'm so glad we did this. And if this week has been a taste of the life we want, I want more. I don't want to be a solicitor. I want to be an international rock god."

"A-fuckin'-men to that," Carlos agreed, reaching his feet out to touch Pete's under the table. They shared a meaningful smile before returning to their food and coffees.

They talked about their week in Canada. They loved the people they'd met up north, but the climate sucked.

Pete's knife and fork clattered down onto his empty plate. "OK, dude," he said, "it's time to leave this beautiful castle. Thank you so much for checking us in here, I've had such a great time with you, but we need to get going."

Carlos agreed. He threw back the final mouthful of his coffee before standing up. "I'll check us out at the front desk. Can you get us an uber to the train station? Meet you outside in five minutes."

Pete nodded. His fingertips danced across the screen of his cellphone, and within minutes, a car had been summoned for them. Pete watched the black line on his screen tracing the driver's path to pick them up.

Carlos was still at reception when Pete stepped outside. Snow landed on his head and at his feet. He shivered a little.

Their uber arrived and Pete threw his bag into the trunk. He climbed onto the back seat, mainly to escape the cold. The driver was about to pull away when Pete explained they were waiting on another passenger.

"Cold out, eh?" said the driver.

"Yeah," replied Pete, trying to fight off frostbite. He loved the idea of touring the world, but why did it have to be so cold?

"You're not from Canada, eh?"

"Atlanta, Georgia," Pete replied.

Just as Pete began to dread a conversation where every statement was a question with 'eh?' at the end of it, Carlos charged out of the building and climbed into the back seat, throwing his bag between himself and his drummer.

"This is your other rider, eh?"

"Yeah," said Pete, "he is. We're good to go. Thanks."

Carlos took off his mittens, breathing frost, before buckling his seat belt. The car pulled away into traffic. "Fuck, dude," he asked Pete rhetorically, "why is this place so cold?"

Pete reached across the back seat to hold Carlos's cold hand. "One more night," he said.

Immediately, the mental jukebox buried deep within each of their brains began playing the Phil Collins song of the same name.

A few seconds passed before Carlos spoke. "You thinking of the same song I'm thinking of?"

"Phil Collins?"

"Yeah," Carlos replied. "Right now, I'm hearing a dull drum machine in my head, plus the whiny voice of some bald English cunt."

"And a tenor sax solo that should never have been allowed out of its elevator."

"I fucking hate you for triggering me with this song, Pete."

Pete smiled, and gripped Carlos's hand tighter.

The car sped through the suburbs before traversing an industrial area. They arrived at Gare D'Ottawa around 11am and found the rest of their travelling party. Their roadies had loaded their gear on board, but that was hours ago. They looked like dead men walking, desperate for sleep.

The train was preparing to depart, and they had just enough time to purchase a strong coffee each from a vendor on the concourse. They showed their tickets and boarded their first-class carriage.

Passengers were allocated to berths of two. The roadies were in one berth, and the bass player and other guitarist were in a second. Carlos and Pete shared their own separate berth.

The train pulled out of the station on time.

"How long is the journey, Carlos?"

Carlos checked the tickets. "About four and a half hours."

Pete relaxed in his seat. "Cool. So we should arrive in Toronto around 4 o'clock."

Carlos double-checked his mental math. "Sí. And we're due on stage around eight."

Pete glanced out the window, watching the outskirts of Ottawa slide by. He thought about tonight's final gig. "One more night," he said, cheekily.

Carlos glared at him. "Cunt."

"Yeah, but you still love me, don't you?" Pete grinned. He flopped his long tongue out, like the e-girls do, and crossed his eyes as if to say 'cum on my face'.

Carlos stared like a rabbit caught in headlights. The freckles that adorned Pete's cheeks and nose were hypnotic. He took a mental snapshot of Pete's expression. He'd cum on Pete's sexy ahegao face any day of the week.

The track clacked underneath their carriage as they chugged towards Toronto.

Carlos tried to ignore the tenor sax solo looping through his brain. He got up and headed towards the diner car. Ten minutes later, he returned with lunch. Two salad sandwiches, and two beers.

"Thanks," said Pete, gratefully accepting his half of the spoils.

The sandwiches were better than they expected, and the beers were full-strength.

"I'm still hungry," burped Pete.

"Me too," Carlos replied. "More of the same?"

Pete stood to commence his own trek towards the buffet car. He returned with two more sandwiches and two more beers. He watched Carlos stuff his face as Ontario's scenery slid by.

"Thanks, dude," said Carlos. "I think I'm full now."

"Same," said Pete, burping again and looking at his hands before taking a couple of deep breaths. He looked up. "Hey, you wanna see what the others are up to?"

They stood and knocked on the partition of the berth next door. Ass To Mouth's bass player threw the door open. "What's the password?" he asked.

"Let us in, you fucking prick," Carlos replied.

The bass player grinned as he threw the door open wide, welcoming his frontman and drummer. Their two roadies and the other guitarist crouched around the table in the middle of their berth. A serious game of cards was in progress, and money was at stake. It took Pete a few moments to realise they were playing poker. The monetary stakes were small, but egos were on the table, and tension was riding high. He and Carlos watched on for a few moments.

Neither of them understood what was happening in the game. After a few minutes, Carlos feigned weariness. "I'm gonna go take a nap," he said.

Pete stretched his arms and yawned. "Yeah, me too."

The poker contingent excused them both.

They left the railroad casino and headed back to their berth. Carlos pulled the window blind closed, shutting out the early spring sun. He sat next to Pete. All they could hear were the clacks of the track, and the occasional poker-related banter from the berth next door.

Pete pulled a book out of his bag and tried to read it. He got nowhere. He could feel Carlos's presence like it was a part of him.

"What are you reading?" Carlos inquired.

"The autobiography of Phil Collins," Pete deadpanned. "Want me to read to you?"

That tenor sax solo bounced infuriatingly around Carlos's brain again. He stood up, left their berth, and headed to the diner. He came back with two more beers. "Here," he said. "I got you another beer. Put your book away. I'm more interesting than whatever the hell bullshit you're reading."

Pete placed his bookmark in his novel. His book had absolutely nothing to do with Phil Collins. He arched his eyebrows, accepting the beer. "Is that right? You think you're more important than my book?"

Carlos sat next to Pete and delicately extricated his book from his fingers. He looked deep into Pete's eyes.

Pete smelled the beer on Carlos's breath. "I've got a book to read," he teased, reclaiming his pages from Carlos's grasp.

Carlos grabbed the back of Pete's neck. "No you don't," he said, pulling Pete's beautiful face towards his own. Pete resisted, but only long enough to put his bookmark in place.

Their lips made contact a split second before their tongues met. Their berth was only wide enough for two people to sit. For overnight journeys, the attendants turned the berth into a sleeping compartment for two, folding the seats out into bunks, but this was a day trip.

An armrest lay between the two seats, and it took a few moments for them to find a way to push the obstacle out of the way.

Pete lay on his back, and Carlos climbed on top of him. They were both still fully clothed. They felt their carriage sway as the train negotiated bends.

Pete unbuckled his belt and pulled his denim down to his ankles. Meanwhile, Carlos unzipped his jeans and fished out his fat brown cock.

"Did you pack any lube?" asked Pete.

Carlos paused, his fiery eyes fixated on Pete's beautiful face and pouty lips. "No," he whispered in response. "I mean, fuck, why would I even think of bringing lube onto a train? Nobody ever has sex on a train..."

"Except us," Pete interrupted.

For once, Carlos was the voice of reason. He lay on top of Pete, his mouth mere inches away from his berthmate's. "What'd happen if we got caught having sex on a Canadian train?"

Pete thought for a second. "They'd probably throw us off at the nearest station."

Carlos nodded. "Neither of us wants that to happen, right?"

"No," Pete whispered. "I mean, it'd probably kill tonight's gig."

Carlos understood. "I guess that means we need to be discreet." Even the possibility of being thrown off the train, ruining tonight's final gig, wasn't enough to keep him away from Pete's boipussy.

Space was at a premium; there was no room to move. Carlos spat on his fingers and massaged the moisture into Pete's ass.

"More," said Pete.

Carlos repeated the process. "Is that enough?"

Pete nodded. "Yeah, I think so. But make sure your dick is wet first."

Carlos spat on his hand a third time to lubricate his cock. He thrust slowly into Pete.

Pete looked up at the ceiling of their carriage, his mouth gaped open in bliss.

"I'm gonna go slow," Carlos whispered conspiratorially, "because if someone knocks on our door, I want to be able to jump off you quickly, giving the impression we're just hanging out."

Pete suppressed a chuckle. "You're definitely 'hanging out', dude. You're 'hanging out' so hard you're in my pussy."

Carlos nearly came as he heard Pete refer to his asshole as his pussy. He thought hard about baseball. "Grab your book," he said, "if the door opens, you might need to be pretending to read."

Pete smiled. "Oh, you mean my Phil Collins autobiography?"

Carlos frowned in frustration. "If you want me to lose my erection, just keep talking about that ugly bald prick."

Pete grabbed Carlos's denim-clad ass cheeks and pulled him in deeper, burying his long, fat tongue deep into his bandmate's mouth.

Carlos needed to cum in Pete's cunt so bad that the potential consequences didn't matter anymore. He fucked him hard for about twenty seconds; that's all it took. He moaned silently as he came deep inside his drummer's hole.

The train continued clacking along the track.

"Fuck, dude, I love you so fucking much," Carlos admitted as the dopamine hit flooded his brain.

Pete felt Carlos's weight bear down upon him. "I need to go to the bathroom," he said, and Carlos nodded.

Five minutes later, Pete returned. He kissed Carlos on the cheek, but didn't say anything further.

Carlos felt a note of tenseness.

They tidied themselves up and headed next door to see how the poker game was panning out.

"Good nap?" asked the bass player.

Carlos and Pete looked at each other, sexual guilt written all over their faces. "Yeah," they nodded, before retreating back to their berth. Carlos would've loved another beer to clear his head, but they were only about twenty minutes away from central Toronto, and the buffet car had closed.

Their train pulled into Union Station on time, and the Ass To Mouth party disembarked. The roadies were immediately back at work, negotiating a fast unload of the band's equipment. They carted the heavy equipment off the train and headed to tonight's venue to lug in. Meanwhile, the band made their way to their hotel and checked in. Again, Pete and Carlos shared a room.

"This room isn't up to the exemplary high standards I've come to expect from you, Carlos," Pete tutted as he looked around their perfectly regular hotel room. "I'm not sure if I want to stay here tonight."

"Fuck off, princess," taunted Carlos, and Pete laughed.

Carlos glanced at his phone, checking the time. "We don't have much time tonight," he said. He looked out the window; Canada's early spring sun was already setting. "We need to grab some food and get to the venue."

They changed clothes before heading out in search of dinner. Carlos packed his thigh-high boots and his daisy dukes into his gig bag.

Food was easy; they found a place that served build-it-yourself buffet burgers directly across the road from tonight's venue. There weren't many customers, but the interior lights were bright. Pete built his burger on a toasted bun, with lettuce, tomato, peppers, mayonnaise, and a thick, warm slice of haloumi. Carlos watched and did the same, except adding a fried egg to his. They took their burgers back to their tables, along with a side of fries to share. As soon as Carlos bit into his bun, thick warm yolk dribbled down his fingers. "Fuck," he exclaimed. "I didn't expect that."

"We've learned that Canada is full of surprises, Mexico boi," Pete laughed, biting down hard on his own burger.

Carlos raised a defiant middle finger, but his gesture was diluted by the yolk dribbling down the sides.

"I didn't get an egg for my meal," whispered Pete. "Can I have some of yours?"

Carlos held his yellow stained finger in front of Pete's face. Pete's tongue teased Carlos's middle finger as if it was his cock, licking around his painted black fingernail, before plunging his mouth down to Carlos's knuckle. He sucked hard, making sure to collect all of the stray yolk.

Carlos boned up hard. "Fuck, dude ..."

Pete swallowed the yolk before taking his mouth off Carlos's finger. He took a fresh bite of his burger. "What?" he asked innocently, pretending to be blissfully unaware of what he'd just done to his frontman.

Carlos's brain was scrambled. "Fuck, Pete, you don't know ..."

Pete smiled mischievously before taking another bite. "Yeah, man. I totally know."

"No ... but ... you got me so fucking hard right now, just by licking the egg yolk off my finger."

Pete paused. "Wait, let me finish my meal."

Carlos ate in silence, unsure how to interpret what Pete had just said. He looked around the brightly-lit restaurant.

Silent minutes passed.

Pete took a final bite of his bun and licked his fingers before deliberately throwing a piece of unused cutlery underneath their table. Carlos heard it clatter as it landed on the tiles. "Fuck, dude, I just dropped my fork on the floor. Wait a second, I'm gonna go get it."

Pete shrunk from view as he bobbed beneath the table. Carlos was lost in thought, wondering why anyone at a burger joint would give a shit about a fork, when he felt hungry fingers attacking his zipper.

Pete pulled Carlos's fat Mexican dick out from his jeans and sucked him into his throat. There weren't many customers in the restaurant, but surely the ones who were there could see what was happening. There ain't no way to hide an under-the-table blowjob at a chain fast-food outlet when the lights are so bright you need sunglasses.

Carlos tapped on the tabletop. He felt aroused, but anxious. He felt exposed. "Dude," he seethed.

In response, Pete sucked harder, his fist pistoning up and down Carlos's shaft like lightning. He swallowed hard as his mouth swelled with sperm.

Pete swallowed and returned to his seat, proudly clutching the lost fork. "Here it is," he said, wiping his face and mouth. "Hey, we need to get to the show," he said. "And by the way, thanks for your thick shake."

Carlos looked up at the fluorescent ceiling lights. His head was spinning, he couldn't talk.

"Come on, dude, we gotta go," Pete repeated.

Carlos stood up, unsteadily, still trying to process what had just happened. At least he remembered to zip himself up before standing up. They walked back out into the cold, crossing the road. They stood at the intersection, waiting for the lights to change.

"What the fuck just happened back there?" Carlos asked.

Pete kissed him on the cheek. "We had dinner. You feel full?"

Carlos looked across at his drummer. "My stomach is, but my balls aren't."