Jake’s Christmas Present

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The final part of the ‘Butt Monkey’ series of stories by Robert Furlong



>> I wanted to add a message to this final part of ‘Butt Monkey’ to say, firstly, thanks for reading and following my story (especially if you’ve very kindly messaged me to express your appreciation) and, secondly, to find out if you would like me to write a sequel.

>> ‘Butt Monkey’ started out as a fairly straightforward three-parter called ‘Football Match’ about a divorced guy who finds he enjoys rimming another man and gets into a regular ‘arrangement’ with him. I found that I enjoyed writing the story and liked the characters I’d created so much that I kept adding additional chapters to it and gradually fleshed it out with a more involved plot. By the time I started uploading the story, it had grown to thirty parts.

>> My question to you is whether you’d like me to continue writing Robert’s bum-related adventures or whether I should write something else. I have ideas about what I’d like to do with a possible sequel, but I’d like to know that there is interest to hear more of Robert’s stories before I get started on them.

>> So, please, if you have time, could you let me know if you’d like to hear more from Robert and his enjoyment of the male rear? If you would like a sequel, what did you enjoy about ‘Butt Monkey’ – which parts worked for you and which parts didn’t? Did you prefer his one-off encounters or the ongoing storyline? Did you like the humour and character development or would you rather have more eroticism?

>> Looking forward to hearing from you!


Having dropped Jake off at college, I had the decadent thrill of making the drive back home instead of continuing towards work as I normally would.

I’d kept today appointment-free so I could ‘work from home’ as I had a lot of things in the house I needed to catch up on before the Christmas rush. Apart from anything, I needed to get the Christmas tree out from the shed and decorate it, as Jake had made it abundantly clear in recent years that he had no interest in it. I wasn’t sure why I bothered myself: force of habit, I suppose.

I planned to fire off the odd e-mail during the morning and put together a spreadsheet on the Coventry project mid-afternoon to make it look like I was slaving away at my desk.

Don’t work hard — work smart, management liked to tell us. So that’s what I would be doing today.

When I got home, I fetched the Christmas tree from the shed and all the Tupperware containers full of our various decorations. The cat stared at me as I stacked everything up in the living room, no doubt musing on what an utterly pointless human ritual I was performing. I couldn’t help but agree with him.

As I was starting to assemble the tree from its various parts, I heard my mobile phone beep with a text message.

It must be Jake. Nobody else ever texted me.

“hey dad. srted u out xmas prez this am. hop u like. u owe me. ;)”

I managed to work out that he was telling me that he’d bought me a Christmas present during the morning. I’d thought he was in classes at college. Perhaps he’d been ordering things from Amazon on his phone while the teacher wasn’t watching. He wouldn’t be able to mess around like that next year when he was in lectures at university.

I sent a message back.

“What are you talking about? What present? Dad x”

He always told me off for signing off Dad — “It comes up on the bloody phone automatically!” — but I continued to do it just to irritate him.

I got on with putting the tree up, draping tinsel across its branches and hanging silly baubles on the ends of them, and after a while his reply came in.

“wont spoil sprize. u owe me big tho! ipad big! :P”

I hoped this wasn’t like the time he’d bought me a balloon ride for my fortieth birthday, choosing to forget, in his haste to provide me with a meaningful ‘special’ present, how phobic I am about heights. It had taken me months of pressing buttons and having some computerised answering system keep cutting me off before I got the money back.

As I took the fairy lights out from the container and found that they’d inexplicably managed to tie themselves up in knots since last year, I wondered if Jake had gone and bought me one of those ‘Kindle’ things. He was always telling me that I “needed” one even though I couldn’t see what use I would have for such a contraption. If he had, he would be wasting his money and I wouldn’t be buying him an iPad or anything else for doing something so stupid.

I started hanging the lights around the tree, realising I should have put them on before the tinsel and baubles, and noticed that my neighbour Paul in the house opposite was letting a young guy in through his front door. I wondered if it was the boyfriend of one his daughters: they were both at university and each vacation they would invariably bring home with them the most amazing looking young men imaginable. I so envied Paul in having such handsome lads staying gaziantep escortlar over: to be able to admire their cute bubble butts straining in their underwear each morning while they waited outside the bathroom; to have the chance to rifle through the laundry in their rucksacks while they were out Christmas shopping and enjoy a leisurely sniff of their most secretive scents.

It would amuse me to be in Paul’s place and to pleasure myself with my nose sniffing hungrily at the smell of a part of my daughter’s boyfriend which she herself would have no interest in at all. How delicious it would be to climax at the thought of enjoying intimacy with a part of his body which she would have given barely a second glance.

Paul saw me looking over at him so I smiled and threw him a small wave. In return he threw me a mischievous grin and a thumbs-up, just like had when he’d seen me bringing Bradley home with me. Seeing the way he was behaving with the lad he’d brought back — how physical he was being with him — I began to wonder if, perhaps, we had rather more in common than I’d previously suspected.

He let the lad into the house and followed him in, glancing around as if to see who else was watching him.

I seemed to vaguely remember seeing Paul heading into the park toilets after I’d emerged from them smelling of the cum and bum of the lad who worked at Asda. Perhaps Paul had gone there for similar reasons as I had, and might even have picked up the young lad he was with today from there. I wondered if his wife knew what was going on and where she was when he was getting up to such escapades.

After a couple of minutes, as I was fixing the gold Saint Niklaus star to the top of the tree, I saw Paul in his bedroom. He looked at me again, a knowing smile on his lips, and then hastily drew the curtains.

I chuckled to myself. It’s all been going on, right under my nose, and I had no idea.


Later on, after lunch, when the tree was fully decorated and looking as ridiculous as it always did during its three weeks of being cursorily displayed, there was a heavy knock at the door.

Thinking it might be the postman whose bum can look quite appetising in his Royal Mail trousers, I glanced out of the window.

There was no sign of his red van, though: just a plumber’s van was parked up outside our front garden. I hadn’t phoned for a plumber; he must be at the wrong address.

I went to the front door, expecting to have to give directions to some lost tradesman but when I opened it, there was a familiar face outside.

“Hello, big boy,” a deep voice said with an infectious smirk.

“Guy!” I gasped. He looked amazing with his hair cut short and a day’s stubble on his chin. “Wow! Just… wow!”

He laughed; his teeth looking beautifully white and clean. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Yes, of course,” I stammered, making way for him to pass me.

I closed the door and we grinned at each other. He seemed to have lost a bit of weight — his face looked more angular and chiselled — and he was taller than I remembered.

“I saw your Jake this morning as I was dropping Simon off at college,” he said. “He told me you were skiving off work today.”

Adopting a professional tone, I said, “Actually, I’m working from home. In fact, I’ve had a very productive and enterprising morning putting our Christmas tree up.”

He chortled. “He said you’d be in if I called round and that… well… he thought you’d be pleased to see me.”

Oh, Jake — you wonderful son! What a fabulous idea for a Christmas present — so much better than last year when he’d given me a pack of socks, a copy of Wayne Rooney’s autobiography (for some reason) and an air freshener for the car.

“Do you fancy a drink?” I offered. “Maybe a whiskey… you know… for old time’s sake?”

I couldn’t believe how attractive he looked. He was wearing a plain white shirt, his dark chest hair spilling over the undone top button, and a tight pair of black jeans which showed off his prominent bulge.

“Bit early in the day for me, mate. I wouldn’t say no to a beer, though, if you’ve got one.”

I went to the fridge and he followed me.

“Jake said you’d had some cowboy in checking out your pipework.”

I looked up at him, not catching his drift, while I pulled a can of beer from the bottom of the fridge. Then suddenly I realised what my son had been alluding to and couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah… that’s right… kind of.”

“He said you might appreciate having a second opinion… a more… you know… experienced pair of hands…”

“Did he indeed?” I laughed.

Dear me, Jake. How to make your own dad sound like a tart. Next, you’ll be putting an ad in your college newspaper: Jake Furlong’s dad likes it up him; will take on all-comers; appointments necessary at peak times.

I went to the cupboard and took out a glass. As I was pouring Guy’s beer into it, he asked, “So would you?”

“Would I what?”

I was so excited at Guy being here that I couldn’t remember what the question had been.

“Would you appreciate a second opinion?” he asked.

I turned to him and smiled, and then passed him his drink.

“Very much so.”

He grinned and nodded like he hadn’t seriously expected any other answer.

He walked back into the hallway, to the foot of the stairs, and looked up them towards the bedrooms. “Reckon we might as well get on with it, then… no time like the present, or so they say…”

“Bloody hell, Guy!” I laughed, wondering if the bulge of his crotch signified how horny he was feeling. “Let me at least pour myself a drink first!”

He laughed back. “Well, hurry up, mate. I’ve been waiting for this for ages. I thought you might have phoned, or got a message to me or something.”

I walked back over to the fridge with a wine glass, surprised that Guy had been thinking of me since the night at the hotel. “There was nothing stopping you from calling me.”

“Don’t be a dick, Rob — of course there fucking was!” he laughed. “You were totally freaked out… after we… you know. You said you didn’t want to do anything else like that.”

I grabbed the wine bottle and poured myself a generous helping.

“Well, okay. But I made it pretty clear in the petrol station that I was a bit more willing.”

“Even so,” he said, taking a drink from his beer, “it would have seemed weird if I’d started phoning you up and stuff. I didn’t want to freak you out again.”

I took a drink from my glass. It felt worryingly pleasant to be drinking so early in the day.

“Okay, fair enough,” I agreed. “But I’m not freaked out any more. I’ve kind of… well… moved on a bit, shall we say.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Jake made that pretty obvious. That’s why I thought it’d be okay to turn up like this.”

I smiled, leading the way upstairs. “Feel free to come round any time, Guy.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he chuckled, following me up.

“You can hold me any way you like, mate,” I replied and he laughed more loudly.

When we got to my bedroom, he said in a low voice, “The thing is, Rob: I’m horny as hell. I haven’t had a bird in months. The last time I blew my nut was with you in that hotel, if you can believe it.”

I started taking my shirt off, surprised that he’d held out so long. He’d told me that he wasn’t a fan of solitary masturbation, but even so… three months was pushing it.

“I need a hole to spunk into, mate,” he spelled out, seeing me take my shirt off and starting to follow suit unbuttoning his. “I’m fucking desperate.”

I walked over to the window, intending to pull the curtains, and saw Paul from across the road staring over at us from his bedroom window. From what I could see of him, it looked as if he was naked: he was certainly not wearing anything on his upper half. He smiled over at me revealing my own bare chest for him and I threw him a thumbs-up. He’d be able to see Guy undressing behind me just as I could see his younger companion getting dressed behind him.

He grinned more broadly and threw me a thumbs-up back.

I decided I’d leave the curtains open.

Guy sat down on my bed and started undoing the laces of his black work boots.

“I don’t want to sound pushy, but I’ve just got to have a fuck, mate,” he went on. “I want it bad. You can lick my backside and do whatever the hell it was that turned you on so much that night, but I’ll warn you now that I’m gonna need to bum you this time, Rob. No two ways about it, mate.”

I smiled more broadly at him, amused by his playground use of the word ‘bum’ as a verb.

“I mean, from what your Jake hinted at,” he continued, “I kind of figured you’d be okay with that. But I still want to make it clear: I’m gonna need to use your hole, Rob. Full on, if you know what I mean. If that’s a problem you better tell me now, otherwise I’m pretty much gonna expect you to bend over for me.”

He stared over at me as I pulled my shoes and socks off, his face intently serious with lust and desperation.

I liked him being explicit and virtually begging me for sex and wanted to prolong it a bit longer.

“What is that you’re asking for, Guy?” I asked, suppressing a smirk. “I don’t quite get it. You need to be more direct, mate.”

He pulled off his boots and stood up to yank his socks off. “I want to get my rock hard cock, Rob, and I want to shove it right up your splayed, hairy arse. Is that clear enough?”

I smiled. “Oh, right. And then what?”

He allowed himself to smile back in spite of how sexually tense he clearly was. “I want to slam it in and out of your tight little brown hole until you’re wanking yourself off at how horny it makes you feel, and then I want to shoot my spunk right up into your bowels.”

After laughing at how explicit he was being, I said, “Hmm… how to respond to such a tempting offer?”

He peered over at me, more serious again, undoing his belt and fly.

I hitched the front of my trousers and underwear down so that my hard-on sprang up, aroused to nearly full size by the prospect of its little brother round the back being so roughly penetrated by Guy’s excitement.

I brandished it towards him, pulling my foreskin back across my plump, purple head, and yanked my big, heavy bollocks out so they hung over the front of my trousers, flaunting how fat and how hairy they were.

“Is this response unequivocal enough for you?” I asked.

I realised with only mild surprise that I felt a complete lack of self-consciousness to be exposing my large genitals towards Guy like this; in fact, I was smirking as I paraded myself for him.

He stared at my erection for a second, as if unsure as to me my meaning, before his expression softened and he grinned broadly back at me.

“Yeah?” he asked. “You’re up for it?”

I nodded. “Absolutely. Let’s do it, Guy!”

He looked at my cock again as I pulled my trousers off. “Jesus, Rob. I’d forgotten how fucking hung you are! You hide it too well, mate!”

As he was pulling off his jeans, I told him to leave his underpants on. Like the ones he’d warn in the hotel, they were another cheap pair of briefs from a pack: the washed-out stripy design was being stretched to near breaking point by the thickened rod of his erection and the almost obscenely bloated paired mounds of his balls. His cock was directed diagonally upwards towards his hip, and a patch of the flimsy material was dark and wet from the ooze dribbling out from its gratuitously swollen helmet-shaped head.

“Why do you want me to leave my pants on?” he asked with an innocence which I found charmingly endearing.

“Because I want to sniff the material which has been next to your arsehole all day, Guy,” I explained. “I might even want to lick it.”

“Fucking hell, Rob!” he laughed. “You really have changed. You’d have died with shock if I’d have suggested something like that in the hotel room.”

“I’ve… er… played around a bit since then,” I admitted.

“You’ve had your face stuck into other men’s arses?” he asked.

“Among other things, yes.”

He grinned and rubbed the swollen rod of his cock through his underpants, like he was excited by the idea of me getting intimate with other men. “You’ll be getting me jealous, next, Rob,” he laughed.

I wondered what he meant — whether he was jealous of my experiences or jealous of the other men who I’d had them with — but I let it go.

I pulled off my briefs and had Guy get onto the bed on all fours with his legs wide open and his semen-straining balls making large twin bulges in his stretched underwear between his legs. I went up behind him and knelt on the carpet so that my face was level with the hard round cheeks of his backside. Then I reached forwards and nuzzled my face into the heat of his crack, smelling the day’s sweat from his backside on the damp material of his briefs and drinking in the richer odour lower down, right where his crude, manly hole would be lurking.

The smell was enticingly familiar: just like the proverbial blast from the past. I sniffed at the back of his briefs in short, rapid bursts, feeling like a horny dog as my cock throbbed upwards in its ardent appreciation.

“I didn’t wash back there before I came over, mate,” he warned me. “I kind of figured you’d want to lick my bum again and that you’d prefer it… well… ‘rough and ready’.”

“Too right,” I sighed approvingly, and deeply inhaled his deliciously pungent scent where his briefs had been riding up against his hot, moist ring nestling among the coarse hairiness of his cleft.

It seemed the original bum that I’d rimmed was still by far the best. Guy’s wonderfully rich and carnal scent just had something about it — some unknown earthy musk that he alone produced — that made my nerves crackle with excitement and my cock harden to an almost painful size.

I relished removing his underpants slowly, peeling them down gradually to expose his beautiful smooth buttocks and the alluringly forested valley between them. All the time, I was licking around his slimy hole and sniffing as deeply as I could into his hot, manly arse-crack, afraid even to touch myself in case I might climax so early.

I pulled back from him and removed his briefs completely, telling him as I did so, “This is what it’s like to be rimmed, Guy.”

“Yeah?” he asked stupidly, and I jabbed my tongue as hard as I could into the middle of his clenched anus until it yielded for me with a gasp from its owner and I worked myself up into his obscenely flavoursome rectum.

He called out, “Oh, God, yeah!” as I rimmed his gaping arsehole confidently and hungrily, forcing myself as deeply into him as I could. He pushed his large, muscular buttocks back against my face to meet the urgent thrusts of my eager tongue and I felt waves of pleasure washing over me at being connected again so intimately with this big, horny man.

I reached round to masturbate his pulsating cock while I jabbed my tongue in and out of his hole and he groaned in enjoyment, bucking his hips back and forth to match the rhythm of my tongue and my hand.

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