IchabodCranewasnostranger to the sound of a sloppy blow job.
He heard it as soon as he entered the locker room that day. A wet slurp, a gurgle, and a slight moan. His balls lifted on their own accord, and his cock twitched at the sound, knowing all too well what it was.
One might not think a schoolmaster would be the frequent recipient of such oral favors, but one would be very much mistaken. There was no end to what a certain type of mother would do for her child to gain entry to an exclusive private educational institution, nor any way to quantify the boredom of a suburban housewife whose children had aged out of needing her throughout the day. He had no need to seek them out nor press his advantage — he had a glib tongue and a penchant for gossip, which made him a popular and welcome inclusion in coffee clutch circles and lunchtime social hours, and from there, it was only a matter of time before they began popping up in his office.
While other men primped and preened in preparation for nights on the town, prowling bars and nightclubs and hitting on women half their age, Ichabod knew that the daytime hours were best for seeking out assignations with those girls’ mothers — the randiest women in town. The appetite for cock from a woman whose husband put work and the golf course before her needs was voracious, and he’d been on the receiving end of more than one eager fellating.
It was usually the mothers of numerous children — those who had been married for decades and lived a comfortable upper-middle-class existence, with a husband so ingrained in his routine that any minor upset caused him to lose his footing — who gave head in such a way, in his experience.Thosewomen were past the point of caring about foolishness. They craved attention; they desired being desired, and every one of them seemed to know exactly how good a tonguing on the underside of a cockhead felt. They were the ones who would nibble at his foreskin and suck his balls into their mouths, who took him down their throats and swallowed every drop when he came.
“I’m going to drain your tanks, Dr. Crane,” one of the volunteer mothers had cooed against his groin, the second-to-last day at his previous school, stretching his scrotum until he’d bit back a moan, a moment before she’d deep-throated him easily. She’d sucked him noisily, and had been just as loud when he’d turned her over the desk to pump into her from behind, obliging him to hold his hand over her mouth. True to her word, she’d drained him so well that his balls had felt turned inside-out by the time she’d left his office, an endless ejaculation down her throat as he pinched her nipples, so depleting in its totality that it had left his eyes itchy. He’d dozed in his chair once she’d taken her leave, his emptied testicles defeated and soft against his thigh.
The sounds he heard now were reminiscent of that randy room mother’s rambunctious oral affections. The locker room was the very last place he would have expected to encounter such goings on, but he supposed it was as good a place as any. Secluded and remote, and far enough away from the racquetball court that the aqueous sounds of oral enjoyment would be muted unless one was right there, as he was then. He’d not received such a good sucking since his arrival in Sleepy Hollow, and his cock twitched again.
The club had been nearly empty that afternoon, just as he liked it. Membership to the racquet club was gratis with his position at the school, and while he didn’t fancy himself a gym star, there was a young woman who worked in the office at the academy’s primary school with whom he’d very much like to become better acquainted. Her father was one of the wealthiest men in the area, and a relationship with her would bequitebeneficial to his longevity in town. Unfortunately, there was likely no absence of potential rivals, and he’d decided hitting the gym would do him good.
The residents of Sleepy Hollow all seemed to be possessed of a similar height and bulk, a testament to shared northern forebears and Dutch lineage, one of which he — with his slender, reedy frame — could not boast. Ichabod took solace in the fact that the racquet club was often deserted in the middle of the day, so it was surprising to enter what he had thought was an empty locker room only to hear the unmistakable sound of a cock being enthusiastically sucked. He knew precisely what he was hearing, and knew that he ought to turn out of the locker room and give the lucky recipient the privacy to enjoy their mid-day blow job in peace . . .
Heknewhe ought to leave, but it seemed the interest of the copilot in his pants had been sufficiently piqued. It had been too long since he’d been serviced in such a way, and the wet sucking sounds roused his own member to a position of rigidity, propelling him forward against his will.
The noise increased as he drew deeper into the locker room, holding his breath in an effort to conceal his presence and hear better. Ichabod was shocked when he realized he was able to pick out the timbre of two distinct voices, if one could call the muffled soundsvoices. Two different gurgling groans, two different sucking moans, two different cock-stuffed throats, each sucking with gusto. His own erection practically vibrated with the excitement of it all.
At least, that was until he turned the corner, a perfect vantage point to witness the goings-on around the next pass. The man was tall and broad, pale of skin and thick with muscle, still wearing his polo whites. Ichabod often forgot that this was not merely the racquet club.Sleepy Hollow Racquet and Polo Clubwas more accurate, the polo fields attracting horsemen from a tri-county area. This big brute undoubtedly rode a monster of a horse.
The only thing he was currently riding, though, was the mouth of the head before him, and as he watched, Ichabod saw the man’s hips piston, the round curve of his ass and thick thighs emphasizing the movement as he pumped into the moaning mouth. The stranger’s hands were buried in the dark, wavy hair of the head that sucked him, directing the movement as his hips slowed. The man ground his cock slowly against the mouth, and Ichabod could hear the deep suction; could almostfeelthe tongue that laved over the meat of the brawny recipient’s swollen shaft.
His own stout trouser soldier had grown fully erect by then, desperate to come out and salute any and all passersby, and the only way to keep it from twitching in desperation was to grip it, giving it the friction it required. He didn’t want to be caught diddling himself as he spied on the strangers, and so he rubbed himself through his gym shorts, tugging on his balls, remembering the greedy cavern of that room mother’s throat. He wanted to be serviced that well again, and nearly moved around the corner to place himself in the queue to be next.
The sounds he was hearing gave testament to the delicious sloppiness of the way the lucky stranger’s cock was being sucked — there would be drool running down the giver’s chin, drool and pre-cum. He was able to tell the tongue was continually lashing as the mouth inhaled, slurping at the tip as if it were a delicious bowl of hot soup on a cold winter’s night. The bald-headed general tenting his gym shorts pulsed in jealousy. He did love a wet, messy fellating, after all.
From his vantage point, he watched wide hips draw back, followed by the wet sound of the stranger guzzling on the dripping head once more. That tongue must have felt amazing against the brawny recipient’s frenulum, the suction on his tip like a vacuum, for the tall man’s hips surged forward, fucking the mouth again with the single-minded rhythm of a man ready to blow his load. Ichabod was not able to see his ball sac, but his own had grown tight just watching and listening, and he knew the tall man must be ready to burst.
He could tell exactly when the man’s cock erupted, for his hips surged forward, his jackhammer thrusting replaced with a rolling surge as each spurt of his seed tugged his cock forward. He rocked against the mouth as he came, a wet squelch as he emptied, replacing the stifled moans.
The decreased movement provided a better vantage point for the erupting man’s audience. Ichabod’s eyes followed the curve of the man’s spine, hunched slightly, his broad back giving rise to muscular shoulders, stopping abruptly at the base of where his neck ought to be. It was then that Ichabod realized the head the man gripped, its nose pressed flush against the dark thatch of pubic hair his open polo shorts revealed, was attached to nothing at all.
He had forgotten about the dullahans.
It was a shock every time the end of a contract forced him on to a new town, only to discover that town was inhabited by more than just humans. This part of the country, in particular, was known for the headless dullahans, and he had encountered one on the second night after his arrival, passing the headless stranger on the road as he left a little bistro with his takeout dinner. He’d stopped short, nearly dropping the bag containing his Styrofoam-contained feast, recovering as quickly as he was able. It wouldn’t do any good to have the new schoolmaster accused of being speciest.
Since then, he had come across his headless neighbors a handful of times. He never paid them any mind, and had never given their existence much thought, but the notion that one was right in front of him, sucking his own cock, was a revelation. He wondered how it felt; if itfeltlike his own cock, the same way shaking one’s own hand was not the same as shaking the hand of another.
Not hisownhead, Ichabod realized.
He could still hear the wet, sloppy sound of a cock being swallowed, even as he watched the dullahan before him pull out of the mouth belonging to the disembodied head he gripped, his drained fire hose plopping wetly to his thick thigh, the mouth spitting out a deluge of cum. They must’ve had a towel down, he realized, for there was no messy splash against the locker room tiles.
Just a few footsteps further showed him the second dullahan, just as well-muscled as his companion, with skin like copper and bulging thighs, seated on the locker room bench, thrusting upward into the blonde-haired head he held. Unlike the first, Ichabod had a perfect vantage to see the second man’s scrotum bounce as he thrust, his huge balls swollen and straining. On every backslide, the mouth sucking him tightened its lips, the thick shaft sliding free like some leviathan creature of the deep. The head still gripped by the fellow slumped against the wall moaned deeply, and Ichabod could see the tell-tale lift of his balls when his orgasm was imminent, the throbbing contractions just behind the fat testicles as they emptied. The muscle pulsing just beneath the stranger’s scrotum was mesmerizing, and he fancied he could feel his own cock twitch to the same delicious cadence.
Ichabod wondered how deeply they were able to feel their orgasms, or if it was akin to a phantom twinge, like an amputated limb. The semen that dripped from the filled mouth the second headless stranger pumped into was no fantasy, though. It ran down his thick shaft as it leaked from the lips, pooling at the base of his cock as he came, coming for what felt like an eternity, until he was spent at last. The greedy mouth slurped a final time at the other man’s cocktip as he pulled the head back, sagging to the bench.
“I don’t remember who lost,” a deep voice chuckled, his laughter met by that of his companion.
“I don’t think it matters,” the other horseman sighed lazily, the voice coming from the head belonging to the one still sprawled on the bench, rolling his balls in his palm, as if to determine whether or not he’d emptied them fully. “I haven’t blown a load like that in weeks.”
From his hidden position, Ichabod stiffened. He recognized that voice.Brom Bones.
A bit of professional acclaim on the polo field and bootlickers of every stripe came fawning, at least in these parts, he’d learned. The dullahan had led the New England conference to several trophy cups before retiring from the professional league and moving back to his hometown of Sleepy Hollow, and he had the whole wretched municipality eating out of his hand.
Ichabod was accustomed to the low-brow appreciation of brawn over brains, his erudite sophistication taking a backseat to brute strength amongst most of the small-minded populace, but for some reason, it irritated him doubly here.Thisplace was meant to be a hotbed of higher learning, a bastion of bookishness, a stronghold of the scholarly.
