Erotic gay story of hot seduction by shopkeeper: 1
Erotic gay story: It was an ordinary August’s day, without the incessant rains and gloomy skies, and Gibran was making the best of it out in his little balcony, repotting some of his plants. The roses, especially, needed to be moved to bigger containers and needed some pruning – they had grown and spread wildly the past two months.
Gibran brought out his gardening tools and got to work on the roses. Even with all the thorns, he managed to come out unscathed. Guess today was a lucky day. He picked up the bunch of the well-bloomed roses he’d cut and went back inside to arrange them in a flower pot.
He would also have to quickly run by the market and pick up some bags of soil – the roses had turned out to be real size queens. Not that he ever had an issue with size. He smirked at his own inside joke as he finished arranging the flowers.
He quickly washed his hands, towel dabbed his sweaty face and pits, and dug out a pair of old briefs, cotton running shorts, and a t-shirt for his trip to the market.
Old clothes could really be funny, while the t-shirt clung to his body a little too much, both the briefs and the shorts hung loose – a little too comfortable to be out and about among prying eyes, but it would just be for a while.
Plus, he wasn’t about to put on a good pair of clothes on his dirty body, so he’d just have to make do.
Gibran picked up his phone, mask, and wallet, checking the time as he did – 11:30 am – he’d barely make it. This phased out opening of stores was a real pain, as of now, non-essential stores would only be open until 12:00 pm on weekends.
It was absolutely impractical! Most folks spent their week working shut in a room, unable to do much else thanks to the boundless work hours when working from home, and the two days that they do get to move out were restricted!
Frustrated as he was, he understood the necessity for it. He checked the time again; he had 15 more minutes to get to the shop; he’d make it.
As he made the last left turn into the market, he began to notice a lot of stares from people. Normally, Gibran was used to people staring at him. He didn’t have a model body, but he had a handsome face and a fashion sense that most men envied.
But today, he was in raggedy clothes and he felt conscious. Is there a hole in his t-shirt he didn’t notice? Perhaps, some of the dirt was still on his face or hands? But no, the people were looking below his waist. Fuck! Did he have a boner? No.
Last he checked, he knew what boners felt like.
He focused on his cock as he walked and that’s when he noticed it. He was too comfortable! Both the shorts and his briefs were a little too loose, allowing his cock and balls to freely, and lewdly dangle as he walked.
Now, that he was aware of it, he felt even more lingering eyes on him. The exhibitionist in him enjoyed it and he felt his cock perk up a little in interest.
The man in him was embarrassed and managed to keep the blood flow under control. Who knew a trip to the market could be so fucking tedious! Fuck his roses!
He was so focused on keeping his cock from swinging straight to erection and hoping that he could find a shop soon that he almost missed one when he did – pots in the display; they’d have soil! He walked back the few steps and entered the small establishment.
It was a home-cum business establishment. The top shelves were lined with neatly carved-out pottery, there was a ladder like staircase that led up to a room, and then lower shelves, which had an array of artistically-painted ceramics. It was really impressive stuff!
He was perusing the shelves as he waited to be greeted by the owner, when he came across a rather voluptuous-looking pot. Fuck! It looked like it was shaped around a nice pert little arse – the mounds were expertly shaped and dipped into the most erotic cleft.
It was as if the potter had placed a mound of clay and invited John Abraham, or at least the way he was in that pseudo-gay movie, to have a seat. Who knows? Maybe he does private showings and modelling? One can only dream.
He refocused on the pot. A little around the base was a dent. At first glance, it looked like a defect, but the more he thought about it, he realized that the dent was meant to represent the arsehole. He couldn’t believe his eyes or his thoughts.
He must really be sex starved, because all he could think of was the potter, spinning that mound of clay on his wheel, terribly horny, much like he was now, and unwittingly shaping the mound of clay into the two most erotic mounds, modelled after his own tight little arse, finding himself so turned on by his creation that he had to stop and tease in a little hole with his fingers to complete it all.
He thought of how the cool clay-moulded pussy would have felt around the potter’s fingers as his other set of fingers found themselves buried in his own arse, stretching and teasing his warm boy pussy, trying to replicate the feeling of being fucked by another, wishing it was his pussy being fingered, his arse being fucked.
“Kuch madat karoon aapki?” Gibran was yanked out of his short trip to fantasyland by a young and eager voice. He followed it and found a boy, no older than 20. His maskless face showed off bratty, knowing smile – heh; probably happy that he would be closing his shop to some business.
Gibran pulled out his mask (breathing was getting a little too difficult, thank to that fucking pot and his traitorous cock) and smiled, saying “Haan, do bori mitti dena.”
“Mitti? Abhi lata hoon,” he turned around and went back in “Mujhe laga aapko woh madka chahiye tha. Aap usme kaafi interested lag rahe the.”
His voice faded out a little. Gibran couldn’t help the little blush that crept up his cheeks. Of course, he’d think he was interested in that sexy little arse, who knows how long he’d been drooling at it.
Speaking of drooling, he quickly glanced down at his cock; he knew it was hard, but he was hoping he wasn’t leaking any precum, he didn’t trust these raggedy shorts to keep that contained. He was horrified to find that his briefs did very little to hide his erection.
It was very clear that he had a boner Aap usme kaafi interested lag rahe the. Fuck! The boy had noticed! Of course he had noticed, no wonder he had that stupid smile on his face!
The boy came back, with one sack of soil, that stupid smile still plastered on his face, his eyes undoubtedly on Gibran’s poorly concealed boner.
He placed the sack near him, a little too near him to be honest, and turned around to bring the other one. Gibran tried to pat down his boner unsuccessfully.
“Arey yaar!” Gibran panicked and looked up guiltily, but the boy was not looking at him, his back was still turned. Breathing a sigh of relief, Gibran asked, “Kya hua?”
“Bori shayad fati hui thi, mitti bahar aa rahi hain. Sab saaf karna padega.” He grabbed a nearby broom and squatted down to sweep. Gibran couldn’t believe his eyes.
It was there, the arse from the pot, right in front of him, only this time it was not cold and grey, it looked plump and soft, clad in a thin cotton material.
Gibran couldn’t take his eyes off the boy’s arse; it was like he was in a trance. The thin cotton material left little to the imagination, and he watched every flex of those mounds and even the slight opening of the cleft as the boy swept off the soil.
He wished he could see the dip of his pussy, like he could in the pot, but there was no such luck. Unknowingly, he began palming his erection through his pants, perving on the boy’s arse, imagining his own hand squeezing and shaping and fingering his hole, much like the potter had done with that obscene pot.
It clenched and rose. The boy was standing up. Gibran quickly pulled his hands off his crotch, choosing to hide what he was doing, rather than keep his hands in front of it, covering his now raging hard-on.
The boy turned around and apologized, “Sorry sahab, main aapko doosri wali deta hoon.” He had somehow managed to soil the front of his shirt and pants, the dirt clearly visible on their white fabric.
“Tumhare safed kapde kharaab ho gaye. Sambhal ke saaf karna tha.” Panicked, the boy glanced down at his shirt. He tried to dust it off, but his dirty hands just made it worse. He gave up, exasperated.
“Koi baat nahi. Waise bhi abhi dukaan band hi karna hain na?” Gibran said trying to make him feel better.
“Dukaan band? Kyun? Abhi toh sirf 12 baje hain. Permit toh 4 tak ki mili hain.” He sounded a little confused.
“Haan, lekin aaj Saturday hain na,” The boy smiled, a genuine one this time and pointed Gibran to the newspaper nearby.
It was true. Guess spending all your morning gardening doesn’t keep you up to date with the news. Gibran cringed a little internally as he thought of all the people he gave a peep show to his dangling cock and balls in his hurry to get here in time.
That could have been avoided. But being an unapologetic exhibitionist, he forgave himself. He had a nice cock after all.
Gibran turned around to apologise to the boy, but he was gone and so was the faulty sack of soil – probably went to bring him another one. Once again, he tried to pat down his stubborn erection, but it only made him wince in pleasure.
Ar ahem rr
He felt the air leave his body at the sound. He glanced up and saw the boy standing in front of him, the broom in one hand, eyes glued to Gibran’s cock as he saw what could only appear as a very lewd act.
He met Gibran’s eyes, surprised. Then came that stupid smile again. “Mujhe maloom tha aapko uss madke main interest tha.”
“Ar – woh main – um” Gibran stuttered, clearly embarrassed at being caught in the act not once but twice. “Chinta mat kijiye. Aap pehele aadmi nahi ho jisko madka pasand aya hain. Lekin woh bikau nahi hain.”
Noticing that the boy was oddly comfortable with his reaction, Gibran let his own exhibitionist mind take control and gave himself one more tug before putting on a confident smile. “Haan. Usko dekh ke gande gande khayal ate hain. Kisne banayi hain?”
The boy walked away without answering and took a little while to come back, sacks in hand. He placed them near Gibran and said “Kaafi badi hain na, toh thoda time lag gaya,” glancing down at Gibran’s shameless display of erection as he said this.
Gibran was shocked at his blatant flirting. Before Gibran could even reply, he continued. “Aap thodi der yahaan rukenge main dukan band nahi karna chahta, lekin mujhe kapde badalne hain.”
After just witnessing this cocky boy’s flirting, Gibran was almost tempted to tell him to change right there is front of him. But flirting is no big deal. He flirts all the time; it doesn’t mean that he wants to fuck all of them, so he agreed.
The boy thanked him and Gibran watched as he took the steps he had seen earlier up to what was probably his house. He watched as the boy took one step at a time, entranced by how his left cheek clenched and then his right, showing off two perfect dimples in both his arse cheeks.
It was as if the boy was purposely taking the stairs slowly to entice him. Even the boy’s traitorous shirt was riding up at the perfect time to tease the dip at the top of his arse.
He imagined grabbing the boy’s sweet mounds, placing his thumbs in the two dimples to hold him in place as he pushed his arousal into him mercilessly, then, moving his hands slowly to his hips and slowing down his thrusts as he pressed down on that delicious bend at his tailbone.
Everything about this boy’s arse screamed “fuck me!”
As his arse slowly disappeared out of sight, Gibran walked a little further to catch the last few glimpses of it, hand on his crotch, praying that he doesn’t cum from all the teasing from this boy and his own hands.
He was surprised to find that he could look directly into the room from where he is standing. He couldn’t see the boy’s face anymore, but from waist-down, he was visible.
He watched with bated breath, and tried not to get too excited at something that may not happen. For a while, nothing happened. The boy just stood there, occasionally shifting his weight from one foot to the other, making his arse stick out as he did.
Gibran almost gave up, but then he saw the white fabric of the boy’s shirt fall down. He had taken off his shirt. Probably took a while to wipe off the dirt and sweat on his body as he did.
By now, Gibran had put his hands into his shorts and was palming his bare erection. It was deliciously slippery with all the precum.
He continued to watch and continued to pleasure himself as he saw the boy’s hands fidget with the strings of his pants and then let them slip down. He winced as he squeezed too hard, at the sight of the boy’s bare mounds in front of him, hurting his balls.
He was wearing what could only be described as a langot. His arse was bare, save for a thin string of fabric running down his cleft and around his waist.
This was too much. He took his cock out of his pants and began to wank in earnest, teasing himself as the boy teased him, slow, deliberate strokes, from tip to end.
He was so hard and wet. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this turned on, his cock this desperate for a rough fuck.
Now the boy was wiping the length of his legs with his pants, getting every last drop of sweat, and it was the most sensual thing Gibran had seen in a while. Or so he thought, until the boy squatted, spreading his arse out and leaving little to imagination about his tight little entrance.
The boy just continued to wipe his inner thighs and his calves, blissfully unaware of the state he was putting Gibran in. This was too much for Gibran. If he didn’t get a hold of himself, he was going to cum right here on the floor the boy had so earnestly cleaned.
He tried to get control of his emotions and looked around and saw that the door was still open. He was so engrossed in pleasuring himself that he hadn’t even realized anyone could have walked right in! He was an exhibitionist but this was taking it too far.
He made the mistake of looking up at the boy and saw as him diligently wiping his left arsecheek with his pants, and unwittingly pulling at the cheek, letting his tight, dark hole peek out of the thin string. The hole twitched as the string rubbed unforgivingly against it, almost calling out, begging for cock.
Erotic gay story of wild fun with a horny shopkeeper
Gibran decided to fuck what the boy said and closed the door shut, a little louder than he meant to, and stepped aside. The boy called out. “Aap nikal gaye kya?”
Gibran didn’t answer. He heard a shuffling and saw as the langot-clad arse greeted him from the top of the stairs. He knew the boy wouldn’t waste time putting on his pants if he thought Gibran had left – he was yet to pay after all.
The boy descended the stairs, pants in hand.
When he reached the final step, Gibran stepped forward and placed one hand on the boy’s neck and one on his pert little arse, holding him in place. The boy tried to say something, but Gibran interrupted him.
“Madka toh bikau nahi hain. Iska kya daam hain?” squeezing the boy’s arse as he whispered the question in his ear, voice dripping with lust.
To be continued…
Hi Guys!
I am here with a new story. Hope you like the premise. I went to the potter’s the other day and the boy there had the most beautiful ass I have ever seen. This story is fictional and is inspired from my fantasies about that boy. Hope you’re enjoying it so far. Let me know what you think at [email protected]. The next part will be up soon. Keep an eye out for it.
