Work Text:
Experiment 2B: Stanford Pines
by Apricot the Gerbil
Fiddleford picked up the motel phone's receiver, cutting off its monotone chime. "Hello?"
"Fids. There you are," came Stanford's voice from the other end, the lightest slur curving the words.
"Stan?" Fiddleford sat up in bed. "I thought we weren't starting on the project until tomorrow!"
"Oh, you're right. We aren't. But, hey. I was thinking, and... d'you remember when we were up late studying, and we got onto what drove each of us wild? That time you told me you were into... into having someone swear at you?"
Fiddleford turned to squint at the bedside clock. "Stanford, it's two in the morning," he said flatly. "Have you been drinking?"
"Just a swig. Or... four, I think. Liquid courage, am I right?" Stan replied brightly. He took a deep breath, then added just as brightly, "And what are you gonna do about it, you fucking cocksucker?"
The engineer paused at this, gripping the receiver tight. "I... beg your pardon...?" Fiddleford said, stunned.
"Take all those dicks out of your mouth long enough to listen to me, fuckwit. This is the guy who signs your goddamn checks here at the lab, and I've got the most fucking amazing cock you could ever hope to see in your life in my other hand right now," Stan said, audibly licking his lips over the phone. "I've been sitting here beating it to the thought of how great you'd look with it buried up that sweet scrawny ass of yours. What d'you think of that, you godforsaken mewling little dick bandit?"
Nothing but silence, from Fiddleford's end.
"Fids?" Stan's voice called out hurriedly, bluster crumbling to show the nervousness behind his bluff. "Aw, criminy. Fids, I am so sorry. I knew this was a bad idea, and I called anyway..."
The lightest rhythmic huffing came from the other end.
Stanford was still busy apologizing. "Just thought that maybe, y'know, with us getting back together for the project after all this time, you might like..."
"...I've got my hand down my pyjama bottoms," came Fiddleford's small voice. "Around my... my penis. It's plumpin' up so big and hard for you, Stan..." He trailed off, sounding overwhelmed. "Am I doin' this right?"
"Uh. Yeah?" A light cough. "I mean... fucking right you're yanking that rotten lunchmeat you call a prick, cumbreath!"
A choking, overjoyed sound came from Fiddleford's end, over a rhythmic slapping growing louder. "I've never heard you swear before! Not even when you got a B plus in Advanced Calc III!"
"Well. I am from Jersey. It's not like I never heard it all..."
Fiddleford moaned unbidden into the receiver, his free hand jerking away. "Dang it, Stan, you've got me hornier'n a toad in heat right now and I don't even know what to do! I-- I never got one'a these kind'a calls before, is it all right if, if I..." He gulped, whispering, "Ejaculate?"
Muffled chuckling, from the other end. "Of course you can... Seriously, Fids, how did you ever manage to be the one to land a girl?"
"I've told ya before, I went up to the altar, said 'I do'..."
"Let's... not actually talk about that right now," Stan was quick to say, his voice dipping low. "Let's get back to the real issue. My dick. Squeezing all the way up that slutty cum chute called your ass. I've got you bent over my desk, and I'm plowing you good. Just fucking slamming away at your asshole like you could ever get enough."
Fiddleford could only pant as he tugged faster.
A spanking noise, flesh on flesh, echoed through the receiver. "Like that?" Stan asked. "That's my hand slapping the everfucking hell out of your ass cheeks, and you're getting reamed so hard into that desk there's not a damned thing you can do about it but beg for more."
A whimper, from the older man's end.
"You want another?"
"Yes, I-- oh god, Stan, I'm so close, I think I'm..." The quiet fapping noises on his end quickened to a fever pitch. Slowed down. Only to speed up again. "Stanford, I'm gonna--"
"Yeah? Do it. Spill your nasty fucking cum all over yourself. For your new boss!"
It only took another spanking sound, and Fiddleford was curling into the blankets of his motel bed, grunting between his cries as he gave the comforter some new dashes of gooey white.
The other end of the line was silent a moment before Stan spoke up, sounding genuinely proud. "Sounded like it was good for you?"
Fiddleford smiled through his panting. "All that 'n then some," he managed.
"You want more? In person?" Stan lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Well. I guess I mean. Your wife. Does she know?"
A chuckle. "She, uh. She knows I like to... experiment," Fiddleford assured him. "And she knows she can have her fun while I'm out of state, if she wants."
"Gosh," Stan gushed. "Then it'll be just like the old days, huh? What happens in the dorm stays in the dorm..."
The lingering endorphins from his orgasm gave Fiddleford an extra dopey grin as he laid back upon the pillow and sighed, twirling the phone cord around his finger. "You don't even know how I missed those nights we had."
"Well, good. 'Cause I'll be over in the basement lab for the next hour, and if I don't see you, I'm going to bed. So, no pressure." Stan's voice softened. "But I, um. I got you a present, for if you do come. You'll see it when you get here. If you want to, I mean. You don't have to! Strictly under the table, as far as the project goes, I promise. Got it?" The slightest pause. "...Fucktoy?"
"Yessir!" Fiddleford said, hoping that the excited tremble in his words wasn't too obvious.
"And Fids?" Stan beckoned. "You still remember the idea I said I liked, back then, don't you?"
"Wouldn't forget it for anything," said Fiddleford, cracking a knowing smirk.
By the time the phone receiver hit the cradle, he was already out of bed to hunt down the nearest pair of socks.
------
One car trip far over the speed limit later, Fiddleford was fumbling for the front-door knob of the shack his friend called home. His sweater vest was on backwards and his shoes were mismatched, yet he still had a hard-on he could pound nails with, thanks to Stan's words echoing in his mind.
"Hello?" he called to the hall, then shut the door behind him. "Stanford?"
He stepped into the living room, where a lamp on a small table and a glow from the basement doorway were the only lights to be found. Fiddleford stepped closer to what else was on the table, eyeing the bowl and the handwritten note left for him. Adjusting his glasses to better decipher Stan's arching cursive, he read:
Your slutty ass must be sore after getting pounded all night.
Have as much lube as you want.
I'm a generous boss. --S.
Fiddleford regarded the slab of lard in the bowl, melting slightly from the heat of the lamp aimed at it, with a smile. He pulled his pants and briefs down carefully over the sturdy lump of his erection, bringing his pointer and middle fingers over to swipe as thick a dollop of lard as he could hold. Stanford was a big boy; the more lube Fiddleford could pack in ahead of time, the better.
From the wide-open door to the basement, he could hear the lightest scuffing of a chair. The sound set Fiddleford's adrenaline jumping like electricity through a circuit board-- Stan was right down there. Waiting. For him.
Well, no time like the present to get into character for what his friend would be expecting. He made sure to moan as he pushed the first fingerful past his sphincter, loud enough for his host to hear. "No... no, not all at once, ahh! I can't-- oh!~" He huffed faster as a second heaping scoop joined the first. "Oh... hurts so good, all of you...!" He trailed off in what sounded more like barks, bucking his hips into it: "Ah! Hah!! Aaah!!"
...Followed by a quiet "Dadgummit!" as the lard plopped out onto the floor.
It took him a few tries to keep the mass of grease from sliding back out, but at last, his muscles did the trick of holding it in place. That should do it, he thought, leaving his pants and briefs there on the floor with his shoes as he made his way down the stairs-- bowl in hand, just in case.
"Ah! Fids!" he heard from the nearest corner of the basement. "Back from the bars already, eh?"
There sat Stanford, leaned back in his lab chair, a partly-empty whiskey bottle acting as a paperweight for the blueprints on the desk beside him. He was still in the same black shirt and lab coat he was wearing when Fiddleford got into town earlier in the day, obviously up late planning to start with, but with his pants around his ankles by now. A veiny pink erection arched tall to part the fly of his red-hearted boxers.
"So," Stan began, voice thick with a mix of lust and hard liquor. He tugged at what little loose skin was left around the shaft of his cock, then smoothed his palm down over its length, drinking in the look of awe in his assistant's eyes. "How many dicks did you suck tonight?"
Even pantsless and hard as he was, Fiddleford was quick to put on a brilliant flustered act, placing the bowl on the desk and making sure to look everywhere but Stan's crotch as he stammered, "I-I don't know what you're talking about."
"You heard me," Stan said cooly, stroking his prick like a beloved pet. "You may play the straight and narrow act something great, Fids, but I know your secret. Known it since I hired you. The glory holes've never been busier since you came to town. How. Many?"
Fiddleford breathed a sigh of defeat. He covered both hands over his aching crotch; that part certainly wasn't pretend. "I'm embarrassed... to say," he replied, his gaze slinking down to his gartered socks.
"Mm hmm." Stan nodded. He beckoned the older man closer with a finger, then snapped said fingers and pointed to the floor. Fiddleford sank to his knees before his boss's chair without a word. Stanford began rubbing along Fiddleford's shoulder. "See, but you can trust your old buddy Stan. I won't let a soul know how much you love being this town's favorite jizz rag, so long as you keep saving the best for last." He curled a pointer finger under Fiddleford's chin, guiding him to look Stan in the eyes. "Tell me. Was it more than one?"
Fiddleford gave him a guilty chuckle, squinting slightly against the whiskey scent on Stan's breath. "Y..you know me, boss. Once I start suckin', I'm not gonna stop at just one."
"Oh, believe me, I know." Moving from the pillar of his dick, Stan's other hand cupped at the sack bulging tight against his boxers' cotton, giving Fiddleford a perfect view of every bob and wag of his hard-on as he massaged through the fabric with gentle whorls. His words grew tense with urgency. "So, how many other men's knobs did you have down your throat this time? At least three?"
Fiddleford was silent. A tiny nod shook off the trickles of sweat beading upon his forehead.
Stan arched forward in his seat. "Five?"
Another nod.
Stan's hand went back to stroking his cock, faster this time. His words came through gritted teeth. "Fifteen? More?"
High-pitched, nervous giggling. Fiddleford nodded again.
"And you swallowed down every last one of their loads, like I told you to?"
"Of course," said Fiddleford, bowing his head with reverence. "I always follow my boss's orders."
Stan grinned down at him from in his chair. "That's a good cumguzzler. I mean, assistant. I knew I could pick the best," he said proudly, scruffing a hand behind Fiddleford's neck. Drawing him just within reach of his ready, bobbing prick. Pushing him away when Fiddleford's mouth opened obediently for it.
"And before you get your last dick for the night, I need to know..." Stanford straightened his glasses on his nose, quietly relishing Fiddleford's frown of disappointment. "How many did you spread your legs for?" he asked. "How many strangers were rutting into you like the willing little walking cum-bucket you really are?"
Fiddleford's eyes widened behind his glasses at the insult, blushing terribly. His breath came in pants as he blurted, "All of them! Every fella there who'd take me when I bent over." He swallowed hard, thinking quick for the 'memory.' "I tried to count, but there weren't any lights back there by the holes-- I lost track, I swear! I just laid there in the dark, and they kept climbin' on top of me, and comin', and comin'--"
"...And spilling, and spilling..." Stan continued dreamily, picturing the image behind half-lidded eyes. He sat there, taking the opportunity to ogle Fiddleford's body, bare from the waist down-- the slightest pale belly paunch; the brown pubic thatch curled atop a wagging, stiff cock that was no slim pickings itself... He lifted the glasses off Fiddleford's face, setting them aside on the desk nearby, then stroked a hand down his friend's cheek. "Can't blame them. Nobody could turn down a chance to pump their spunk into a dumpster as cute as you. I know I never can."
Another snap of Stan's fingers, and a pointed finger, upwards this time. Fiddleford got to his feet.
With a gasp and an "ah..." from Fiddleford, Stan reached to search between his assistant's bare buttocks, squelching his fingertips inside without a hint of resistance. Stanford hissed inwards in fake surprise at the feel of the lard. "Fids... Oh my god. You've got a whole lagoon of semen in your ass..." he moaned, twisting his fingers deeper against the warm fat. "Ohhh, you fucking slut, I can push right inside you!"
"Wh-what can I say?" said Fiddleford breathily, pressing back against Stan's fingertips. "I know you like being the last in the door, so I made sure you had a good welcome mat."
Fiddleford smiled to himself as Stan was finally the one to start panting. He whimpered in genuine anticipation as Stan spun him to park his cheeks upon that mightily pounding boner. Now came the part that Fiddleford had loved best, back in those few college nights they'd shared together. No endless back-and-forth chatter. Just sweaty, legs-spread-wide, bouncing-on-Stan's-thighs fucking.
"Oh. God. Fids." was all Stanford could bring himself to grunt as Fiddleford worked his boss's dick further inside inch by inch, past each slippery-warm ring of muscle.
"Thass' it. Give it to me. Work them legs, city boy," Fiddleford murmured under his breath. "Gimme the best this town's got, up my poor lil' raw behind. Screw all that stranger cum out of me..."
Stanford grit his teeth in joy at the sloppiness of Fiddleford's exit, grabbing hold of the engineer's hips as he kept pounding inside. His squared frames had all but fallen off his nose, but he paid them no mind; if Fiddleford was trying to talk dirty during sex, that meant he was doing something right.
He lifted his arms to cross them over Fiddleford's chest, palms brushing over where his assistant's nipples had to be, judging by the sudden yowling. "Always so sensitive when there's a dick up your ass, aren't they?" Stan growled.
Fiddleford wriggled against him. "Stan, aah, I can't hardly stand it-- you're so nice 'n big, fillin' me up so good...!" He was still trying to catch his breath through the thrusts, but Stan couldn't wait any longer, losing his load inside him with a flailing buck of his ass and a groan.
Leaning back against him, Fiddleford sighed happily-- then heaved a gasp in surprise, feeling Stan's fist fold around his erection and start to pump. "S-Stan, you don' have t--ohgod, Stanford...!"
Stan's other arm hugged tighter around Fiddleford's chest, not letting go, even after his assistant was clutching against it-- shaking, going rigid-- uttering a small wail, as spurts of cum gobbed out between Stan's many fingers... and Fiddleford went slack, sweating.
They lay there, draped atop each other in the desk chair, until Stan's softening prick finally slunk from Fiddleford's crevice and into a snail's trail puddle of ooze.
"...Fuck," Fiddleford panted.
Stan rested his forehead in the crook of Fiddleford's shoulder, his smile quirking against the front of the backwards sweater vest. "I missed you too, buddy," he smiled.