A bunch of guys have fun with a “special” friend

The dancer – part 1

Forced milking, humiliation

The dancer – Part 1

Let me make something clear; I know that the word “retard” is not politically correct nowadays, especially as an insult; it’s “problematic” to use the modern term. If you’re offended by my use of the word, then I’m sorry, but it’s how we spoke. Back in the early 1980s, times were different. Movies about teenaged boys spying on naked girls, and fucking grown women were common, and the world didn’t lose its mind about “cultural appropriation” if someone put on a foreign accent. I don’t know if people were less sensitive about such things, or we were just inconsiderate assholes, but Raoul was the neighbourhood retard. We meant no insult by the term; it was just a description of the facts, and we never used it to his face. By today’s standards, he had an IQ somewhere south of 40 points – just smart enough to get dressed and make his breakfast in the morning, wipe his own ass, and find his way home.

He was 20; a few years older than the rest of us, but for some reason he’d latched onto our small group, and his family seemed happy that we didn’t push him away. They were immigrants, and still had accents, and they seemed glad that their son found a group of friends who accepted him.

He was actually pretty funny; sometimes intentionally, and sometimes by accident. He had an honesty to him that was appealing, and a way of speaking that made it clear the lights were not fully switched on upstairs. His voice was kind of deep and he had a slight drawl that revealed the connection between his brain and his mouth was running slow.

But he was also a good person to have around. He was always willing to go along with the group; he never complained, and he would do whatever we asked.

Until that day, we never really abused that personality trait; at least not in any kind of nasty way. Yeah, we made sure he was the first to jump into a cold pond, or to try new food, but there was nothing mean-spirited about it. Even now, I don’t think we truly meant anything truly horrible about it, although I could imagine getting our asses whooped by his big brothers if they found out. It was lucky that he didn’t have any big brothers, I guess.

Although that was something else about Raoul; he sure could keep a secret. He wasn’t smart but if we told him not tell anyone, you could pretty much guarantee that he’d go to his grave with that secret.

“So, what happened?” I hear you ask.

Well, the day was much like any other. It was a Saturday, and we were out in the woods, hanging out, goofing off. Jay had brought a boom box; that’s what we called portable tape players back then. It was not one of the huge ones you see in breakdance movies, but it was big enough to provide some ambience, even if it did burn through batteries like a motherfucker.

We were lounging around in a small clearing we’d discovered in the woods. It was deep enough not to be bothered by passing hikers, but not so deep that we needed to pack a compass and survival gear to reach it. There was actually a pathway cut through the woods and our clearing. Stevie said it was an old logging access path, but there hadn’t been logging in the area since before our parents were born, so we were not bothered about being disturbed.

Jay put the boom box on the ground and turned it on. A driving beat started up Not rock; not techno; not electronic, but somehow a mix of all three.

“What’s this shit?” Phil asked.

“I dunno; a mix tape I bought. I liked the chick on the cover.”

The music was really not all that good, but it apparently spoke to Raoul. He stood up and was dancing to it, and I use the term “dancing” charitably. I mean, my idea of dancing was standing and rhythmically jiggling my arms, so I’m no-one to judge, but damn, Raoul made me look like John Travolta by comparison.

He was enthusiastically jumping and twisting and stomping his feet as though the beat was completely incidental to what he was doing. It was a side of him we’d never seen before, but he was clearly having a great time. We smiled as we watched him.

“Go on Raoul!” Jay shouted, and spurred on, by the encouragement, Raoul danced even more enthusiastically.

We watched for a few minutes, then Stevie made a suggestion. I don’t know where he got the idea, or why. I don’t think he was queer, but it sure was a queer thing to suggest, but we were at the age when the lines between straight and queer were often blurred behind lines of crude guy play. I don’t think any of us would have balked at the idea of jacking off together, and though we never did, I don’t think it would have threatened our sense of masculinity if hands had strayed onto each other’s dicks while we did so either. It never happened that way, but if it was going to, that was the day that it was most likely to.

“Hey I dare you to take your clothes off. Dance in the buff.”

“In the buff?” Phil asked. “What are you, like 70 years old? Who says “In the buff?””

Stevie laughed.

“I was just trying to keep it clean; you know; for Raoul!”

“Raoul knows what naked means don’t you Raoul?”

Raoul nodded grinning.

“Hey Raoul, bet you know how to curse too don’t you?”

Raoul was still dancing frenetically.

“Fuck, shit, bum, cunt!” he said as he moved.

“Bum?” I questioned.

It was out of place with the other words and we all laughed. Raoul grinned happily.

“So, Raoul, you gonna take your clothes off. Dance naked?” Stevie persisted.

Without hesitation, Raoul stripped down to the bare skin, throwing his clothes in a heap, socks and underwear included. Then he continued dancing. Everyone was smiling and laughing at him but there was no malice, and he sensed it.

He had the same naked innocence as a little kid at the beach, and it didn’t seem to bother him at all that he was now completely naked. Not that he had anything to feel bad about. He had a lean, body, and he could undoubtedly have whooped any of us in a fight, but he was especially gifted down below. His dick was soft, flopping about as he span and bounced, and even flaccid, he had a good five inches of meat, and that was circumcised. I was uncut, and I was glad of the snout of skin that I could add to my length when measuring, even to reach three and a half inches, but Raoul needed no such assistance. He was not cut brutally like a lot of guys are nowadays, with the cut skin missing halfway down their dicks, constantly pulling tight, like the surgeon had a grudge.

With Raoul, the skin was missing just over his helmet, but loose wrinkles circled the rear of his dome. And it wasn’t just long; he was thick too. Not unnaturally so. Not deformed or ugly, but the guy definitely had a salami swinging around between his legs!

I’d never much been a connoisseur of dicks up until that point. After all, I was confidently, comfortably heterosexual. Yes, of course, I took an interest in the dicks of my peers, strictly for research if you like, but I’d never felt even the slightest stirring in my own dick looking at another guy’s meat.

But I have to be honest, this was the most impressive cock I’d ever seen in the flesh, and it’s been pretty much my benchmark for a manly dick ever since.

And his nuts were no less impressive. Again, they were not freakishly large; not so big that he couldn’t wear jeans for fear of crushing them, nor did they hang so low that they were like pendulums in constant contradiction to the direction of his movement. But there was a real… well, a real aesthetic appeal to them. They were plump, in a soft loose bag. They looked like they would make a nice handful if you gripped them. They were the kind of nuts that earned respect, and made it clear that Raoul was a breeder.

I didn’t consciously think any of that at the time. I just knew that despite his goofy dancing, Raoul was packing the kind of junk that we all wished we had. But none of us articulated our admiration. Instead, we cheered and whooped, and encouraged, Raoul danced harder, occasionally jumping in the air, and performing a 180-degree rotation before he landed again. But mostly, he continued his energetic stomping, and pounding, his junk whipping back and forth, and bouncing as he moved.

I’m certain that on one level, Raoul was aware of the fact that his dancing was showing off his dick. It seemed to thicken; not quite lifting its head into a semi, but becoming more substantial. Raoul beamed at us, in response to our cheers, and redoubled his efforts.

I noticed the bulge in Jay’s jeans. There was not exactly the outline of a boner; maybe it was scrunched up inside, but he was clearly packing now. Phil was more obvious. His hand was stroking the obvious line of his bone, toying with the head through the denim. He caught me looking and I grinned. He stopped, momentarily embarrassed, then with a “What the fuck” expression, he continued stroking himself.

“Hey Raoul, do you know how to beat off?” Stevie asked.

Raoul’s grin widened and he took his dick in his fist, and continued dancing. Occasionally, he supplemented the dancing with a single pump; out and in, before continuing. Then he started intermittently fucking his fist with theatrically large strokes as well, smiling like a kid showing off at a family barbecue.

“I bet you can’t cum,” Stevie said.

Raoul started pumping more earnestly, smiling as his fist moved up and down his cock. It filled with blood, rapidly becoming harder. He was a shower not a grower. It barely increased in length at all; maybe six inches; seven at most but it sure got thicker, and a lot harder, with a bulbous, straining head. I was impressed by how fucking potent it looked. I could just imagine him banging a hot bitch with it, and her screaming with a mixture of ecstasy and pain every time he drove it into her.

For a while, he continued dancing, his movements becoming even less coordinated, hard though that is to imagine. But the more excited he became, the less interested he was in dancing. Eventually, he stopped dancing entirely, and focussed his whole attention on his dick.

He had an interesting jacking style. He held his dick between straight fingers and his thumb. I wondered if his dick was too wide to wrap his fist around, but I’m sure it wasn’t THAT thick. He pumped fast and light, like he was afraid it was going to break.

He kept grinning, putting on a show for us.

In no time at all, he blew his load, blasting a huge wad onto the dirt. His hand moved faster, extracting the maximum pleasure from his orgasm. It was just a blur, whipping up and down his cock until long after his nuts had stopped pumping.

Then, when he was finally done, he came to a panting stop, and looked at us, grinning proudly, like a baby that just did its first unaided potty. We cheered and whooped, rewarding him with our approval. Truth was, he might not have the highest IQ, but he was way more of a man physically than any of us would ever be, and his huge load was enough to make us all jealous.

“Don’t stop,” Jay said, winking at me. “Bet you can’t cum again.”

Raoul looked at him for a moment.

“Bet I can!”

That was the thing about Raoul; he was so easy to manipulate. We never really took advantage of him in a mean-spirited way, but he was dangerously suggestible, and if you gave him a challenge, he never, ever backed down. In retrospect, I suppose he was desperate to fit in, or prove himself worthy to be one of us, but to us, it was just one of his quirks.

He started beating it again, although “beating it” makes it sounds more aggressive than it was. Stroking it; tickling it; lightly brushing it, were all more accurate descriptions. I don’t know how he ever brought himself off with such a light touch.

When I used to jerk off, I liked a firm grip at the very least, and sometimes I took a death grip. Depending how horny I was, sometimes it was like I was trying to beat my dick into submission, especially when I really wanted to cum, but I couldn’t quite cross the line.

Anyway, Raoul went at it fast and light. His grip changed now, wrapping his fingers around the shaft; not quite in a fist, but a loose clasp. I assume he was unconsciously trying to bring more friction to bear because he was finding it harder to get his sap to rise a second time. He looked at us with a variety of expressions now. I detected effort, and a what the fuck expression that I had never seen before, but also a strain as he worked hard to raise his libido. He’d never lost his boner, and it was still rock solid, but I could tell he was not feeling that nut-churning sensation that accompanied a pleasurable wank.

I’ve just realised, after all these years, he jacked off left-handed, even though he was right-handed. Maybe that explains his weird grip. His right arm was straight down by his side, almost as though he was a soldier standing to attention. Except the muscles were straining, and his wrist was bent backwards, his hand forming a weird kung fu bear palm shape. I guess that was his unconscious way of showing the effort that went into his second wank.

He was still going at it ten minutes later, and give him his due, he never slowed the pace. Eventually, he was rewarded with the second orgasm he was chasing. It didn’t arrive easy, but when he reached it, he blasted off again; nowhere near as much as the first time, but still a half dozen reasonable blasts that sputtered from his bloated helmet. He stopped almost immediately, breathing heavily, and he looked at Jay with a grin.

“See, huh, huh,” he panted, “told you I could do it!”

Jay grinned at him.

“Yeah Raoul, you bet your fucking ass you did!”

Raoul looked incredibly proud to receive such fulsome praise from Jay. Jay rewarded him with a pat across his bare shoulders, and Raoul looked so happy that he almost wanted to hug Jay. But he didn’t. He knew that guys didn’t really do that, so he stood, his fat salami with its even fatter head, still sticking out at 90 degrees from his groin.

And that was when I did something mean.

“Bet you can’t cum again.”

Raoul looked at me and his smile evaporated.

“Again?!”

“Yeah.”

“But I just squirted twice!”

“Yeah, but a real man could do three.”

I’d never cum three times in one session in my life, but I was appealing to his sense of masculinity.

“You can do three can’t you Phil?”

“Uh, yeah course, all the time,” Phil replied, playing along.

“What about you Jay?”

“Easy,” Jay lied.

Raoul looked crestfallen.

“I don’t think… I’m kind of worn out, and my dick’s aching.”

“We can all do three. You’re not the only one who can’t are you?” I asked.

Raoul swallowed hard.

“Noooo… I guess not.”

“Tell you what, if you do it, I’ll give you ten bucks as a prize.”

“Prize?”

I smiled and nodded.

He gripped his dick again, and started pumping. It was still hard, but it was clear that he wasn’t feeling it at all. He grimaced, but kept going. At first, he kept glancing at us, but then he started staring off into space. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to raise a sex fantasy, or he was simply in another place entirely. I’d never seen him like this before. Pained micro-expressions flickered across his face, then they were not so micro. He was chewing gum, and he looked distracted. Every so often he would pump his fist as fast as he could possibly manage, maintaining the frantic pace for 30 seconds to a minute until exhaustion slowed him. It was as though trying to force a third orgasm by sheer effort alone, but it was not enough. I was tempted to let him off, telling him he didn’t need to complete the bet, but the others were cheering him on. Sweat was running off his forehead. He moved to the edge of the clearing and collapsed to the grass as weariness stole his strength.

He propped himself up on one arm, and continued working on himself. He switched back to his original light stroking action, and I guessed his dick was sore. The more I looked at it, the thicker it seemed.

His balls had risen up tight to the base of his dick, clustered like a pair of coconuts beneath the fronds of a palm tree. I couldn’t resist it; they looked so virile and potent. I knelt beside him and rested my palm on them.

“Come on Raoul, you can do it.”

I rubbed my palm rapidly across his balls, jiggling them. I felt as though I was kneading the very essence of his manhood. He squirmed under my touch did not push my hand away. He grimaced up at me.

“I can’t… concentrate… if you… do that…”

I grinned and moved away. He looked towards the ground and moved his hand faster – a real trooper.

He grimaced and strained, then looked up at us, as though begging to be let off.

Finally, the moment he had expended so much effort to achieve, arrived. A single small bead of cum fired off past his hip to disappear into the grass, followed by two more dribbled drops which fell onto his body; one on the crease where his thigh met his torso, and the other on his black pubes, where it shone brightly against the black hair. He gave a few more pumps, but he had nothing left give. We cheered but this time there was no celebration on his behalf, just total exhaustion. He looked at us with a shell-shocked expression before collapsing on his back onto the grass, knees splayed wide apart, pole standing tall. He slept deeply for an hour before finally stirring…