Control panel

by BRK

Darryl and Jonas’s cute, up-to-date new home has a unique bit of climate-control technology—as in, what’s being controlled is the climate in their pants.

2,364 words Added Jun 2023 2,965 views 4.5 stars (4 votes)

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My fiancé is rakishly handsome, effortlessly charismatic, and most of all impishly mischievous. His roguish wink and devious grin kind of heightens your adrenaline and draws you in at the same time. (It’s how I was hooked—but his courting and conquest of this boring corporate comptroller is another story altogether). Suffice to say, Darryl is always up to something, and the way he lights up and fills with energy when a plan starts to form in his noggin is all kinds of sexy.

We’ve been together long enough that I usually have an inkling of whatever playful spark of inspiration has hit him. When we finally moved house to our new-built vivid-pastel dream bungalow in the trendy, palm-tree-wafting, sun-soaked suburban gayborhood of San Sebastián and quickly learned our new adobe abode was (a) perfect for parties and (b) pre-equipped with a certain brand of smart-house tech that was notorious for inducing, under certain circumstances, a low-but-significant level of male arousal, I immediately knew to turn to him in time to see that glint in his gold-green eyes and that patented, slow-spreading wicked smile. Before we were even fully moved in he was digging into the specs and secret forums on his phone with one hand and noodling on the fussy-looking control panel screen in the kitchen with the other, eager to unlock this accidental, deprecated, totally debunked “feature” so he could spring it on a houseful of happy, humpy himbos—starting with the housewarming party he’d already set for two nights ahead and sent out a scad of evites to. Honestly, I was so turned on just watching him work, all excited and irrepressible, that as soon as the movers were done and gone I yanked him back to the bedroom and our bare king-sized mattress, threw him down, and drilled his laughing ass with considerable gusto.

After that we worked late, unearthing the short-term necessities and getting the major furniture and a few objets-d’art just so. When we finally fell into our favorite dark blue sheets, the house’s climate control cooled to exactly the right level of comfort on a warm summer’s night, we were ready for a long night of cozy, cuddly conked-out-ness.

The next morning, I woke up to things being… not quite right. For one thing, I was humping Darryl’s ass-crack with my curved, adamantium-hard prick—not a normal thing for me. I was not a sex in the morning kind of guy, being more prone to playful, insistent afternoon fucking and slow, sultry sunset lovemaking—but today I wasn’t just randy, I was desperate for it, my precum-slick dick sawing at Darryl’s butt-cleavage like that was how you got off in this universe. My skin was hot despite the air conditioning and a night of supposed torpor. Tiny beads of sweat were forming on my shoulders and slipping down my spine into the sheets. Worst of all, I could barely think straight, my mental processes shrouded in a heavy haze of intense lust and arousal. I was fixated on the beautiful, well-built example of masculinity asleep in my arms and mad with the pleasure of simple contact of arms and torsos, toes and heels, and especially rigid dick and deep, inviting glute-crack.

“Duuude, wake up,” I groaned in his ear. My humping was starting to feel disturbingly automatic and autonomous. “Duuude.”

“Mmm?” Darryl hummed. He was always slower to wake than I was.

“Duuude,” I repeated. It finally registered that his skin felt hot, too. “What did you do? Are you horny? I’m so horny.”

He shuffled around under the covers to face me, and it was clear from the raging, leaky stiffness of his ten-inch club that he was, indeed, feeling the same effects I was. Without invitation or permission, our cocks started frotting energetically. Darryl smiled against my lips. “Feels nice,” he murmured.

“Dude,” I moaned, my cock sawing against his. I fumbled for words, the miasma of hot, urgent arousal drowning everything else in my mind. “What did you do with the… the… boner controls? Did you, like, turn it up to ten and leave it on all night?”

Darryl’s smile widened. “I didn’t mean to,” he said playfully. He didn’t sound like he minded, drawing me in closer so our cocks were now pushing against our damp, precum-smeared lower abs.

I looked into his gold-green eyes. Even this close I could see they were dark with arousal. “You always mean to,” I said, my lips brushing against his as we ground together.

He kissed me, just a little tease of a kiss, and even this pleasure was magnified, sending shivers through me. “Not this time, honest,” he said, though he smiled as he said it. “Must be a glitch.”

“Duuude,” I repeated. I couldn’t process much with my brain in the state that it was in, except that my body kept telling me this feverish need felt solid, steady, and alarmingly insatiable, as though the product of constant external stimulation. A flush of heat spread through me, maybe at the idea of not being fully in control of my lust. I gave him a tease-kiss of my own and slid my lips to his ear. “Dude, does it—” I panted. “—wear off, or—?” Another pant against his ear, eliciting a soft moan from the man holding me and humping me hard. I gasped. “I got stuff today…”

“I thought you were off until Tuesday,” Darryl purred.

“I am, except... I got a video meeting with the CFO at 11,” I breathed. He licked my ear, my back arched with what felt almost like a mini-orgasm—a down-payment on what was to come. “Dude, I can’t do it… like… this!”

I was already close, and when Darryl answered softly against my ear a saucy “Let’s see if cumming helps,” I immediately had pull my mouth right back onto his while the pistoning of our cocks went into overdrive. Within a handful of pounding heartbeats we were cumming hard and messy all over our chests and bellies as we tried to gasp in breaths and kiss feverishly at the same time. When we came down from the climax, we were huffing at each other, red-faced and sweating and still impossibly, implacably hard, sex-hazed, and hungry for the euphoric release we’d literally just experienced.

“Fuck,” we breathed—only Darryl was grinning as he said it, the imp.

We found our way to the shower, which quickly threatened to devolve into more time-consuming pleasure and pleasuring, especially given the way our spacious new shower produced a fine misty flow that, combined with our mental states in and the soft shade of green the tiles were in, made us feel like primal men deep in the jungle at the dawn of time. With some assertion of will-power I freed myself of Darryl’s eddy-like pull long enough to dry off, pull on jeans (which my relentless, protruding erection converted into a mockery of decorum), and insist my future husband call the repair guy for the stiffy-inducing home system.

“I can fix it myself,” Darryl said from the shower where he was still languidly soaping himself under the soft antediluvian spray.

But I had his number. The way things went for my man, even a bona fide attempt would more likely lead to magnification of the catastrophe rather than resolution. “Call the repair guy,” I insisted fondly. I was trying to be firm, which Darryl liked generally. I think my sex-stern tone mostly just turned him on more, judging from the downward movement of the soap behind the frosted glass.

Darryl called the repair guy. It would be hours before he came—lots of trouble in smart-home-land, apparently. I got through me meeting, though I don’t know how exactly as my chief memory of it was just barely remembering to put on a shirt seconds before it started, and the odd looks I was getting during the run-time presentations from some of the participants in their little windows. Oh, and Josh from the Atlanta office was sitting just far enough back from the camera to more than hint at the extent to which he knew his way around a bench press. Other than that, the only take-away from the meeting that stayed with me was that yes, even after eight years a lover can still induce a kind of lush, low-key terror into your daily life, given a man who, say, liked to wear red, Swiss-flag Speedos when he was stuck with a massive, stone-hard all-day erection thanks to a equipment function causing a heightened, unstoppable libido and who was known to jimmy the occasional locked door meant to shield one’s video conference call with the stodgy financial executives from any flamboyant Speedo-boner shenanigans.

We tried to go on with our day while we waited, but our urgent preoccupation with sex and our own constant state of dripping arousal ruthlessly subordinated all attempts at activity and normalcy. Our complementary demeanors, him playful and me serious, seemed only to magnify the effect. After my meeting we tried eating lunch, but that quickly turned in to me sitting on Darryl’s lap, licking peanut butter from the roof of his mouth. Doing laundry together seemed like a viable distraction, but in the state we were in our plain little laundry room felt like a sultry concrete mini-bunker excluded from reality, exempting us from all cares and responsibilities (of which there were none in this lemon-walled post-apocalyptic cell), and soon Darryl was sitting on the rumbling dryer while I tried to feel its vibrations through him with my tongue.

We were in the living room and just about at the point where we’d give into the need to fuck for real, even if we never stopped, when the doorbell finally rang. It was Craig, our sandy-haired, porn-’stached service rep. We must have been quite a sight greeting him at the front door, both of us not only visibly erect (I was back down to jeans only seconds after my meeting, and Darryl was still sporting a red banana hammock that was not designed to accommodate his present condition) but no doubt acting like we were under the influence of… something. Which were were, I guess, and he was there to fix it.

Nonetheless, despite that being his job, Craig paused before entering our new home, temporarily a den of iniquity, and eyed us with a smirk and a cocked brow. “You fellas sure you want me to come in?” he asked.

We looked him over. He was good looking in a stock-photo ordinary guy kind of way—medium height, nice smile, trim and nicely proportioned, not that his blue company uniform was doing him many favors. I was weirdly certain that if he were to do a 360 right now we’d have confirmation he had a very nice butt. “We’re sure,” Darryl said in unison, and Craig chuckled as he followed us in.

The presence of another man in the house only set us off more, though because we couldn’t actually fuck (which would be rude) but couldn’t climb down from our soaring, pressing state of arousal or clear our minds to think at all cogently, we found ourselves in a sort of limbo of hungrily making out in the dining room while trying feebly to ignore our screaming, butt-hungry dicks and the hot, and evidently game, blue-collar porn cliché working on our equipment in the kitchen.

It was only after a full hour of this erotic purgatory than Craig emerged from the kitchen, a very obvious pipe-shaped bulge distorting his blue work pants along the hip, “So your effect, which my company in no way acknowledges or accepts liability for…” he began, pausing wryly the make sure we understood. We nodded. “…your accidental, entirely disavowed effect is, I’m sorry to say, stuck on max. Now that is fixable, but it involves altering your system slightly.”

We came together in a little circle, standing probably a little closer than most people did with their in-home service techs. “How so?” Darryl and I asked.

“We need to install what you call a diverter,” he said. “It’s basically an A/B switch that governs whether the effect is off… or on.”

Darryl and I looked at each other. This was both unexpected and almost ridiculously ideal. “That’s great,” Darryl told him.

“Is there a ‘but’?” I suggested. Of course, that got me and my boner thinking about the repair guy’s very cute butt, the confirmation of which had been achieved mere seconds into his visit.

“There is a ‘but’,” Craig said, giving me a knowing look. He added, “The part you need… is temporarily out of stock. It’ll be a good week before I’ll be able to, er, stick it in there.”

I turned to look at Darryl, and fuck if his eyes weren’t glinting again. “Maybe we should call off—” I started to say, but he cut me off.

“Hell no,” Darryl said, grinning. That housewarming party was going to happen, malfunctioning erection inducers be damned. And… maybe it was the nonstop boner rays, maybe it was my love for my prank-loving fiancé, but I was kind of into this idea myself. We had to be good gaybors, right?

We were standing closer to Craig than I thought, our heavy, relentless hard-ons almost brushing. Some memory of hospitality made me think it would be crude to turn this handsome fellow out of our home without a bit of hospitality. I met Darryl’s dark, gold-green gaze, and he was definitely thinking just as much about friendliness and the proper forms as I was.

I turned to smile at our guest. “So, Craig, can I offer you an… iced tea or anything?” I said.

Craig’s smile grow wide and saucy. “Absofuckinglutely,” he said.

2,364 words Added Jun 2023 2,965 views 4.5 stars (4 votes)

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