Boner Bingo
written by:
Naughty Miranda

Boner Bingo.

It's a more popular game than you probably realize. Any place where guys sweat while girls watch (oh, and the bus with books on their lap as well), there'll be a gaggle of ladies with score sheets on their lap, excitedly watching for that tell-tale tenting, and comparing other observations, too. Such as...

"Wow, he's huge!"

Or, "yes but so-and-so told me he stuffs rolled-up socks down there. They fell out after football practice one time."

Things like that.

Don't get me wrong; it was all very innocent. There were a few girls in our group who knew what they were looking at, and knew why as well. But the rest of us went on guess-work, rumor and downright fabrications. Which is why, when Billy sauntered over to ask what we were doing, there was the sudden kerfuffle of our score sheets being stuffed out of sight, a lot of nervous giggling and laughter...

...and one voice, triumphantly calling "Bingo!" from the back, because if there's one thing you can say about a soccer player's uniform, it's that it leaves nothing to the imagination.

Billy looked around and chuckled, a little perplexed but confidently anyway. Made some grand remark about who among us wanted to unwrap their winnings. Poor sap didn't have a clue why we were all laughing even harder now, and when he did see where our eyes were looking, he went redder than his soccer shirt, put one hand down to shield his modesty, and beat a hasty retreat.

"Well, that disproves one theory," said Sharon, the girl who won that round of our game. "They don't like it if we look at it."

"Shame they don't feel the same way about our boobs," Lesley grinned. "Did you see him staring?"

We all nodded. We'd all long since passed that awkward age when we first realized that guys had stopped looking at our faces when they came over to talk, and were gazing upon our boobs instead, and most of us had even passed the point where we'd purposefully dressed to keep them staring. Looking around now, only Precious was wearing a top that even hinted at cleavage and the promises therein. The rest of us... oh, you don't want to hear about the wardrobes of half a dozen eighteen-year-olds, do you. We'll be here all night otherwise....

We returned to the game with renewed enthusiasm. Call it our competitive spirit. Or call it our insatiable curiosity about what really goes on below a boy's waistline. Or above it, in the case of Rick Mason... the sophomore who, in an interstate wrestling match, readjusted himself in mid-match and almost went into the next round with the top two inches of a very fat erection visible above his pants. Only the laughter and screams from the auditorium, and the horrified look on his fight partner's face... "er, dude? You may want to rearrange things a little".. tipped him off. And he fled the ring so fast that he had to forfeit the fight.

And even worse? Most of my crowd missed it, because why would we want to go watch the wrestling?

Okay, I can think of one reason now.

Lesley elbowed me. "There he is," and I didn't even need to look up. Ever since I mentioned that I thought GB was kinda cute, it had become almost a ritual for my friends to point him out at every opportunity, as though the mere sight of the supposedly desired object would reduce me to a puddle of uninhibited love juice.

Which, on a couple of occasions alone at night, it had. And I don't mean alone with him. I mean alone in my room, with a few snatched cellphone photos, and a tentative visit to erotic stories dot com to sustain my imagination. Have you even been to that site? Oh my God. I've never even thought of doing half the things that people write about, and some of them I wouldn't have thought were even physically possible.

But I would like to find out some time.

With GB. Whose name, incidentally, is something like Gary Brown, but we prefer to think of him as Great Bulge. So great that not one of us had ever neglected to include him on our Boner Bingo score sheets. As Katey said one time, "if he's that big when he's soft, hard he'd rip his own pants open." To which Lesley added, "my god, imagine what it'd do to Chrissie, then," and nudged me so hard I almost choked on my soda. Well, that was what I said had happened.

He caught us watching him and waved, then basked in the satisfaction of having half a dozen girls smile and wave back. Oh, if only he knew what we were really saying. I looked around the field for Billy, the boy we'd shamed into running away. There he was, way over on the far side, about as distant from us as it would possible to be without actually leaving the game.

I felt a tiny twinge of sympathy. From everything I'd read, and once you excise instinct and hormones and general teenaged boy-ness from the equation, a guy getting a boner around you is actually something of a compliment. It proves he's into you. Or would like to be, haha. Our laughter was probably even more of a rejection than if we'd just turned our backs and walked away.

There again, it was his own fault for waving it around in front of six of us. If you're going to be a peacock, then pick the girl who will peek at your cock (ooh, I like that line! If I ever write an erotic story of my own, I must remember to use it), and don't walk around thinking we'll fight each other for it. Because you are always going to lose that battle.

Coach walked by and Sharon gave a squeak. "Bingo!"

"Old men don't count," Precious laughed, and when Sharon protested... "but he's only twenty-eight! I looked at his Facebook profile," Lesley waded in. "That's even worse! Ancient men don't count." And while we all waded in to the suddenly imperative topic of what was the age limit in Boner Bingo, the referee blew time and the players trooped off the field, GB running at the head of the pack and not even glancing in our direction... and Billy, still looking a little disconsolate, caught up in the middle. I tried to catch his eye and at least console him with a smile, but I'm not sure he even saw me. I'll tell you who did, though. Marty Beamish. Marty Beamish caught my smile, and he must have thought it was for him. Because he smiled back.

Marty Beamish smiled at me!

Okay, let me tell you about Marty Beamish. (A) He's the cutest guy in the school. (B) His father is the richest man in town. (C) More or less every girl in the place has hit on him, and he's not shown an interest in any of them. (D) He's probably gay. Oh, and (E) I was sitting in study hall that afternoon, killing time before my next class when suddenly he thumped down on the couch alongside me and, with one finger, tilted the book I was reading, so he could see what it was.

"Any good?"

I... I... I don't know. I've forgotten. My mind went as blank as if someone had wiped a box of Swiffers over it, and instinct alone reminded me that he was expecting an answer. "Er... yeah, it's okay."

"I've not even opened it yet." He was in the same lit class as me, of course he was. But I'd forgotten that as well. Just mumbled an awkward "uh-huh," as I fought to regain control of my tongue. Damn, what was wrong with me... I've spoken to him a dozen times. More than that. It's only Marty Beamish....

Bingo?

I could see it outlined against his pants.

See what?

See "it."

I tried to collect my thoughts. I should be taking notes. The others would want to hear all about this later. They would want details. Angles. Measurements. And I don't even have a tape measure! Where did that thought come from?

He was looking at me with half a smile, and probably a degree of concern. Probably thought I was having a stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke it.

I was staring at him like an imbecile, I knew it. And he was staring back, smiling. "I just wanted to ask if you were doing anything tonight?" Suddenly he looked less certain of himself. "I think I'm flunking economics, and..."

Someone told you I'm in the top five percent of the school. So much for having a stroke. Just when I'd remembered where my tape measure was, as well. "Sure." We exchanged numbers; he'd text me later. Maybe I could come to his dorm? His room mate was spending most of his time off campus with a girlfriend. It'd be quiet there. I nodded. Later, Sharon would stare at me with the widest eyes imaginable, as though she thought I was an imbecile too. "Marty Beamish asked you to come to his dorm room, where he was completely alone, and you thought all that you'd do was economics?"

I shrugged. "What can I say? But I found out soon enough...."

...what else he had in mind.

Economics is easy. I've always had a head for figures, but there's so much more to the subject than that, and I found I had a head for that too. Problems that the rest of my class found intractable, academic or real world, it didn't matter, I either solved, or at least projected feasible compromises. The EEC bail outs? Simple. The fiscal deficit? Easy. The collapse of the rouble? Nothing to it. Unzipping Marty's pants after we'd spent forty minutes making out on the pile of bean bags that covered his half of the room?

Impossible.

No, not impossible. I could have just pulled, I guess. But I don't know what goes on down there... I was scared of hurting him. It's not like I couldn't feel every ridge and vein through his pants (and that was a surprise. Did you even know they had ridges and veins?), and the heat he was kicking out, you could have roasted chestnuts on it. Plus, the amount of noise he made when I touched him through the fabric, I wasn't completely sure I wasn't already inflicting untold agonies on the poor boy. Jerking down a harsh metal zip, I might scar him for life....

So he did it for me, the work of a micro-moment, and now I just had his briefs to negotiate. For which I was truly thankful. I certainly wasn't going to tell him... not with his mouth on my breast, and my head full of hunger. But this was the first cock I'd ever seen outside of the occasional tube clip that I might have stumbled across. And I wanted to remember it. Slowly, drawing out the experience, drawing out the unveiling. Holding him through the cloth, quizzically looking at the damp spot that was growing, and feeling my heart leap as he whispered, "do you like pre-cum?"

I made an indeterminate sound that could be construed as a "yes." I'd never even heard of if before tonight.

The thing had a mind of its own. Now I know that's true, but then I'd only heard it rumored. But it bucked in my hand, twitched and flexed, hard as iron, hot as a skillet. And if I wasn't going to pull down his briefs, it was going to do the job for me. One moment I was rubbing cloth and feeling his prick stretching his briefs to almost-breaking point... and the next my fist was curled around flesh, and Marty was moaning even louder, as my hand... I didn't know what I was doing. Even in my dreams, I'd never actually planned this far ahead. But it was stroking him, jerking him... and when I looked and realized I could wrap both fists around the thing, and there'd still be room to spare, I knew I didn't actually need my tape measure.

Two hands, and then some....

Marty was fingering me... roughly, almost painfully, thrusting and stretching as he pushed a second one in. I wanted to tell him to slow down a little, to stroke as well as fuck. But how do you say that without the risk of him stopping?

Plus I liked it, despite the discomfort.

I liked the discomfort.

Was he still growing in my hand? It felt like it. Thicker. I'd swear my fingers were almost touching the tip of my thumb a moment ago, but he'd forced them apart and when I stole a glance down... three hands? His other fist had joined mine down there, enclosing the head of his prick as I jerked him, then breaking away... and it was at my lips now, his fingers thick with the scent of his meat, and the tangy taste too, alive on my lips and pushing them apart, sharp on my tongue...

I looked at him and his eyes were closed. I looked at his cock... two hands and then some. I licked my lips and my mind flashed back to all of the stories I'd read on my iPad, all those nights I'd spent wondering how it would feel, how it would taste, how I would love to just forget all the silly jokes and distasteful faces and exaggerated "yucks" with which most of my friends responded to the subject, and find out why one author in particular seemed to devote every story to how it was the greatest feeling on earth.

I shifted my position, angled my head... I opened my mouth...

I chickened out.

But now I was watching, my hands a blur, his cock head a monster, thick and meaty, just a foot from my face, staring me down through one dripping eye, and I stared back, fascinated and fearful at the same time. The taste on his fingers had been fabulous. But powerful, too. Too powerful? Like it could almost be cloying if you got too much of it.

Cloying enough to make your cunt flood like this? Almost like an absent minded professor suddenly remembering where he'd left the secret formula, my mind flashed on the moments when Marty's fingers were in my mouth, and how my entire lower body had melted around the flavor.

Was that how it would be?

Was that how wonderful it would taste and feel and feel and taste and taste and God, I wanted this so bad... and I leaned forward just a little more...

... and he raised his hips as if to meet me...

... and he blasted a nine inch cock full of cum, and two heavy balls worth of the stuff as well, into my face, over my lips, into my mouth, in my eyes, in my hair, my cheeks, my chin...

...and I could have squealed and I could have been disgusted.

...I could have run to the bathroom, I could have reached for a tissue.

Or I could have been so intent on what I'd set out to do, that I didn't miss a beat (or not that he'd notice). I engulfed his cock in my mouth, feeling still more cum leaking out to mix with the mouthful I'd already received...

...and though he was too hard and fat for me to actually suck, like the stories all seem to say I should, I could certainly suckle, as my tongue danced around him, and as my jaw relaxed and he started to soften; either or neither, I really wasn't keeping score, I felt my pussy tense and tighten around whatever he was doing down there... too soft for a finger, too warm for a toy, too wet for an - oh my god. He was eating me out and I'd been so intent on his dick that I'd not even noticed. Yeah, I won't be telling him that bit. But I'll tell him now in case he hasn't noticed...

"Oh fuck I'm coming!" And he was licking me harder, and sucking me too as I bucked and cried, and then I don't even know where my next words came from.

But I've never meant anything so sincerely in my life.

"Bite my cunt!"

He bit.

I came.

And I'd swear, his cock twitched in my hand as I did so, and another great glob of cum leaked out, for me to swoop on and suck it into my mouth.

We finally uncoupled, and then I had an odd thought. Or not an odd one, but maybe one that wouldn't normally cross your mind at times like this.

See, we'd left our last game of Bingo uncompleted, while we argued over whether Sharon's call for coach should be counted. That was still up in the air, but I'd only been two squares away from a victory myself.

I figured Marty had already let me check one of them off. Now I wondered what it would take for him to check off the final one too?

Only I didn't only want to get a full house. I wanted a full mouth as well.

Two hands? Or one throat....