At first, I was waiting impatiently for the tell-tale gasp of his orgasm, which would let me know that he'd finished so I could finally go to sleep. I reflected that this must have been how my ex-wife had felt while she'd waited for me to 'expel my seed', as she'd so affectionately put it, as I'd lain in bed next to her tending to the erection I almost invariably developed at bedtime.
Early on in our marriage Linda had seemed to accept that regular sex was necessary for me and had allowed me to have intercourse every night before we slept on the proviso that I would attend to my morning erections while I was showering. But after a while she'd said that such 'nightly rutting' was making her too sore, so she'd agreed to beat me off instead. The first few times she had seemed quite keen on the new arrangement and had worked on me with gusto, using different techniques on my cock to bring me to my much-needed climax. But soon her enthusiasm had waned and she began complaining that she needed to sleep and that she couldn't see why my balls needed to be 'emptied so regularly'. So she'd ended up lying there each night with her back to me, making her displeasure clear, while I'd tried to masturbate as quickly and quietly as I could, feeling embarrassed that my male physiology had given me such an apparently unreasonable sexual appetite. Pretty soon I'd been relegated to the bathroom, and had ended up spending most nights squatting on the tiled floor with my pyjama bottoms around my ankles discharging the day's pent-up semen over a couple of girlie magazines I kept behind the bath panel.
Now, as I lay there in the semi-gloom of my side of the room, I felt a modicum of sympathy towards Linda when she'd been a similar position but I also recognised that Guy had needs like my own and that I had to show more patience towards what his biology was forcing him to do than my ex-wife had towards me.
And so I didn't make sighs and grunts of exasperation to hurry him along, as Linda had in my position, but rather lay there listening to him, focussing with mild interest on the sounds he was making as he tugged his foreskin back and forth underneath his duvet. There was a steady rhythm -- gentle and almost indiscernible from the beating of my own pulse in my ears -- but easily recognisable to me, having made similarly discreet sounds in my own bed on many an occasion so as not to disturb Jake, sleeping in his room. Then there was his breathing, growing steadily faster and shallower as his rhythm quickened and his pleasure intensified. His mattress, too, would occasionally betray him with a few expressive creaks, perhaps when his elbow inadvertently rubbed against it or his hips give a few involuntary thrusts.
As I listened to him rubbing himself, his rhythm gradually intensifying and his breathing gradually quickening into short pants, I felt my own cock starting to lengthen and became aware that these private, sexual sounds from another man were beginning to excite me.
I rolled over onto my back and glanced over at Guy.
Aware that I wasn't asleep and that he had no need to be quiet about what he was doing, he began beating his cock more powerfully, allowing his fist to make a recurring thumping sound against the duvet every time it reached the top of his cock. In time with this was a wet clicking sound like somebody chewing gum. I realised it must be his foreskin making moist smacking noises every time it swept across the head of his cock, wettened by the ooze of liquid weeping from the slit.
My cock continued to stiffen through the fly of my boxer shorts as I heard a second rhythm to Guy's exertions: a rapid slapping sound which could have been his wrist beating against his hip or -- and the idea of this made me reach down and wrap my fingers around my own stiffening member -- his large pair of nuts thumping against his thighs.
Guy must have noticed the mound of my hand, touching myself beneath the duvet, because he called out, breathlessly, "Yeah! Come on, mate -- wank with me!"
My inhibitions lowered by the whisky, I acceded to Guy's command and started to beat myself under the duvet, my wrist making a gentle beating noise against it in time with Guy's more powerful rhythm.
He called out again, "Yeah! Go for it!" and then I saw him push his duvet away right off his bed so that he could stroke himself in the open air.
With his bedside light directed onto the wall next to him, I saw Guy's outline mostly in silhouette. His body was tense and his chest was heaving. His wrist swept up and down the length of his large, curving cock in a fast, rhythmic motion. The head of it was fat and engorged and the wet clicking noises made by his foreskin against its sticky surface sounded louder and clearer. His balls protruded upwards in a slightly odd way: I then realised he'd tucked the waistband of his briefs underneath them when he'd started masturbating.
I could smell it quite distinctly: the sharp, musky tang wafting from his oozing cock-head as his foreskin swept back and forth across it and the thicker, more acrid, odour from his balls. It was an unmistakably sexual scent, heavy with sweat and testosterone: the unrefined smell of male masturbation.
I found it surprisingly arousing and inhaled it deeply as I lay stroking myself. It was a powerfully masculine odour and yet it was strangely exciting to me. I increased my rhythm on my cock, pumping myself more quickly and more firmly as I sniffed at the sharp bite of Guy's cock in the air.
He turned to look at me and called out, between gasping breaths, "Push your bedding off! Show me it!"
At first I was reluctant to do so, but my excitement overcame me and after a minute or so I revealed myself to him. Pushing my duvet away, I let him see me jerking my cock through the fly of my boxers in the half-light on my side of the room.
He peered over at me in obvious surprise. He must have assumed my reluctance to flash myself at him at every occasion, as he had with me, arose from my shortcomings in the trouser department.
The fact is, though, that I am very well-endowed, both in terms of the length and girth of my penis and the distended size of my testicles; so much so that I've always been self-conscious about exposing myself. My mother had told me when I was growing up that large genitals were something to be ashamed of and so for many years I had tried to hide my size and had felt awkward when I was circumstances dictated that I had to be naked among other people. It was bad enough to have been an early developer and to put up with my classmates' staring between my legs in the school showers in fascination each week watching my testicles grow steadily to the size of plums and my scrotum sprout a forest of dark, wiry hair while their pea-sized equivalents remained practically hairless. For a while my nickname became 'Furballs' -- a crude corruption of my surname 'Furlong' -- much to my discomfort. But once my development had really taken off a year or so later, it was mortifying to have them point and giggle at my lengthening penis which looked more and more like an elephant's trunk hanging between my legs during each weekly shower while theirs barely made a bump in their underwear. Within a short time my name had been further corrupted into 'Footlong', a jibe which had me blushing and hiding my face whether it be hurled at me on the sports pitch or across the maths classroom.
These days, while I wasn't so embarrassed of being well-built and knew that many people appreciated a large manhood, the hangover of shame from my youth still made me very reticent about revealing my genitals to anyone, both male and female.
Guy laughed and called out, still beating himself, "You're a dark horse, aren't you, Rob? You hid that pretty well!"
His reaction gave me confidence and I smiled back at him.
He went on, "It's always the quiet ones who have pythons stuffed down their trousers!"
I'd never had it called a python and I liked the analogy. I changed position slightly so that he could better see it, and more fully admire its length and thickness. I hoped, too, that he might enjoy the distinctive odour of my cock as I masturbated it just as I was appreciating the strongly male scent that his was exuding.
He sniffed a couple of times, though whether it was to savour the waft of pheromones from my cock as I stroked it or whether he was becoming breathless from his own exertions, I don't know.
I, for one, was relishing the intensifying stink that was gathering in the room. I'd always enjoyed the strongly sexual smell of my own masturbation and now, with two of us in the room exposing our erections and rubbing them vigorously together, our collective odour was twice as intoxicating. I could feel the thickened shaft of mine hardening to full stiffness, lengthening to its full enormity, in the building excitement I was experiencing.
My only concern -- and it was a very distant one -- was that one of our sons might, for whatever reason, come tapping at our door. The sharp reek of our cocks would make it unmistakable to another male what the two of us had been doing: I would hate for Jake or Simon to wince at their dads' masturbatory stink; to grimace, knowing that the cloying odour in our room came from two men who had been pleasuring themselves together.
