Drunk & Disorderly

In those days, I had a walk-up apartment on the first floor. I had moved there after I split with my partner of 12 years and I was in no mood for another relationship right now; I was quite content to live alone. The apartment above me was occupied by a couple with two kids; the girl was about 12 or 13 but it was the lad I was interested in – he was in his late teens, fairly short and lightly built, with neat hair and a complexion unusually clear and smooth for a young man of his age. His name, I had established a while back, was David and he was gorgeous.

I was on good terms with his Mum & Dad and they had obviously considered me “decent sort”, as they had invited me to dinner with the family upstairs not long after I moved in, a rather uncommon act of neighbourliness on their part these days, I thought at the time. We often used to pass in the car park or on the stairs and pass the time of day but because of David’s age, I always took care to avoid situations that might put us alone together, although he had once or twice loitered with me on the landing, as if he hoped I would ask him in. He seemed to like me and he was a nice, well-behaved and studious chap but apart from adoring his cute face and his young trim body, I was old enough to be his father and I felt a bit sorry for him because his mother did seem to constantly fuss over him while his dad was, in my opinion, excessively strict and rather intolerant. Goodness knows what they thought of me! I didn’t exactly tell them I was gay and I’m not generally considered “camp” in appearance or behaviour but anyone with reasonable powers of deduction should have been able to work it out from some of the things I said in my conversations with them. Whatever, it didn’t seem to alter our essentially amiable co-existence in the same building.

One night, I was watching TV on my own, as usual. It was gone midnight when the doorbell rang and as I went to the door, I could hear giggling and scuffling going on outside. When I looked through the peep-hole, I saw two young guys, somewhat dishevelled and a bit the worse for alcohol by the look of things. However, they had between them, supported in their arms, a distinctly bedraggled and flushed David. I opened the door.

Before I had a chance to say anything, the two guys straightened-up and attempted to look very serious, while one of them simply said,

“Um…sorry Mr. Edwards, but we believe this belongs to you.” And proceeded to attempt to pass David to me through the doorway.

Now, my surname isn’t Edwards, but David’s is, so I realised at once that they thought I was his father and that this was David’s apartment. But before I was able to correct them and protest, they turned on their heels and disappeared down the stairs. Meanwhile, David had slumped at my feet in a heap!

Then I remembered. He had been getting uptight about doing so many exams at school recently and had said the other day that the last one was this week and that it was also his birthday this week-end. That’s what this was; it was his 18th Birthday and he had got drunk celebrating the end of exams with his mates. Heaven knows where he got the booze but as the legal drinking age in the UK is 18, I figured that technically it was above board. And besides, young guys can be highly resourceful when they set their mind to it!

What was I to do? There he was, propped against my doorframe, dressed in slim black trousers and a white shirt, sleeves fashionably half-rolled up and his collar and top buttons undone, revealing a hairless chest. But his skin was all blotchy and his hair, which was usually neat and gelled, was all tousled and squashed. He was, frankly, a mess and he was drooling down himself and mumbling. I knelt down to listen and all he kept mumbling was,

“Dad’ll kill me. Just let me crash with you. He’ll kill me if he sees me like this.”

I realised that, while he was obviously drunk, he had been sufficiently aware to tell his mates to deliver him to the wrong apartment on purpose. Knowing how much of a disciplinarian his father was, I figured the lad needed a break, so I decided to drag him inside and let him sleep it off.

I struggled as best I could, lifting him to his feet and staggering inside, bumping into things and trying not to make a noise, while he cut an almost hilarious figure as the classic drunk, weaving all over the place, dribbling and muttering all the time. This was the first time I had laid hands on him and I was already aroused by the warmth of his body, albeit sweaty and smelling of booze! I slung his arm over my neck to support him and I secured it by holding his hand on that side, while my other arm was firmly around his waist. My heart meanwhile, was going nineteen to the dozen!

We staggered down the hallway, with him muttering some kind of apology. He just kept saying, “Sorry – I’m so sorry.” Then, quite suddenly, he groaned and uttered those fateful words,

“I’m going to be sick!”

And before I could do anything, he clasped his hand to his mouth and began to vomit. As quick as I could, I pushed him into the bathroom, where we both fell on the floor in front of the lavatory. In that instant, he retched and threw-up into the toilet; well, all over it actually! God, what a mess! And the smell was enough to make me want to vomit too! But I managed to keep hold of him, kneeling upright in front of the toilet, with his head half down the pan, retching his whole insides up and moaning in-between.
Most of us have been in that situation at one time or another in our lives and I knew only too well how the poor guy must be feeling right now, as he heaved and retched with all the energy his body could muster, evacuating from his insides, every morsel of food and every drop of fluid he had consumed in the last 4-5 hours.

After he had more-or-less emptied his insides into my toilet pan, or over it, I flushed it and held him there for a minute or two, my arm still around his lovely waist and my other hand now stroking his hair and aching head to comfort him. He was nearly falling asleep now, he was so exhausted from all the retching, so I cleaned his face with toilet tissue, washed his hands and made him blow his nose – just like a little boy. God, it gave me hard-on something rotten!

I made the decision to flop him on the bed rather than on the sofa in the living room. I only had one bedroom but I figured he might be easier to handle that way and he would be nearer the bathroom, just in case. Mind you, I’m sure my subconscious desire for him influenced my choice at the time! I had just about managed to get him back to his feet but I virtually had to carry him next door to the bedroom, he was so exhausted and limp. As we got to the bed, I brought his arm up over my head and he fell forwards, flat onto the bed, with his legs half-on and half-off the bed. He groaned and lay there, muttering,

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I feel terrible.”

“Yes, well, I’m not surprised.” I said, as I looked at him and tried to decide what to do next.

I needed to clean up in the bathroom, so I grabbed a towel and put it under his dribbling face and put a bowl beside the bed, while I went off to tidy up the mess. When I came back into the bedroom with a glass of water for him to drink, he must have shuffled forwards on the top of the bed, because his legs were no longer sticking out over the edge, as I had left him. He was still laying face down, head to one side and mouth open, but now he was snoring gently. The top part of me melted at the sight of him there, while the bit near the middle part of me immediately went rock-hard again! There was something extremely arousing about having a gorgeous young guy, entirely alone, passed out and helpless in front of me.

But then there was the smell; that clinging, penetrating odour of stale vomit and I realized that, somehow, I was going to have to clean him up before sending him home.

“Well,” I sighed to myself, “someone has to do this,” and I proceeded to take his shoes and socks off!

His bare feet were soft and unblemished and his toes were like those of a boy, all beautifully formed and hardly walked-on – unlike my much older, rather worn specimens!

I rolled him over onto his back and confirmed what I expected; his shirt and trousers were stained with sick and dribble. If I was to help him escape the wrath of his father, I was going to have to wash them and I wondered if his trousers were washable – “too bad”, I thought, they’ll have to be!

I climbed onto the bed and knelt next him while I unbuttoned his shirt. Then I sat him up.
“Come-on,” I said, “I’ve got to get this shirt off and in the wash,”

With no help at all from David, I managed to get his shirt off. He was half-awake again now, propped-up against me, so I made him drink the glass of water I had brought back from the bathroom before I let him flop back down again, bare-chested now. His nipples were soft and delicate and there was a little “treasure-trail” of wispy, blond hairs leading down from his belly-button to the waist of his trousers.

I unbuckled his belt, pulled it free and then undid his top buttons, trying not to look too closely. He murmured something I didn’t catch.

Getting off the bed now, I positioned myself at the end of the bed and grabbed the legs of his trousers and pulled. Not a lot happened.

“Give me some help here,” I chastised him, “I need to get these trousers in the wash too.”

I didn’t expect a respose and I didn’t get one. He seemed to have passed out again. Then I realised that I hadn’t undone his flies, so I climbed back onto the bed again and as my hands approached his flies, I hesitated. He had such a beautifully formed crotch, clasped in the black material of his trousers, with just the top buttons undone, revealing the white waist-band of his underpants. My hands were shaking and my heart was racing as I grasped the tongue of his zip and, as I slid it all the way down, I felt it following the rounded form of the bulge in his underpants.

Climbing back off the bed, I returned to grabbing the legs of his trousers. I pulled again and this time, his trousers came off more easily. Now he was laying there, naked but for his underpants – mostly black but with a white waist-band and piping which accentuated the shape of his bulge. Rather smart, I thought. And rather full too, I puzzled. If nothing else, he surely must have a semi in those underpants to be so….

“I suppose you’re going to take advantage of me now, aren’t you,” I suddenly heard him murmur.

Shaken from my reverie and realizing he was awake again, I replied,

“I might – if you don’t behave yourself.”

He was drowsy and seemed only half with-it but he muttered in reply,

“Don’t let me stop you.” And then he added, “You know you want to.”

If there was any doubt in my mind as to the reason he was in my apartment, that remark assured me he knew what was likely to happen. He probably wanted it to but was too shy to engineer it without being drunk! How many other young men, doubtful as to their sexuality, have done the same?

His body was simply beautiful to behold. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had a gorgeous 18 year-old virtually naked on my bed and evidently in no mood to put up a struggle! Nevertheless, practicalities still ruled my head. I had the shirt and trousers to deal with, so I took them through to the kitchen and examined the labels in his trousers; size 28 waist, 30 inside leg, “easicrease”, machine wash 40 degrees – Good! I went through his pockets and removed his wallet, phone and keys and then slung the trousers in the washing machine and set it going. The white shirt would have to be done separately, so I filled the sink with hot water and soap powder, and left it to soak.

I returned to the bedroom and found him still lying on his back in his stylish black underpants (the ones with the white waist-band and piping!), now fast asleep with his mouth open. I just stood there admiring his beauty and wrestling with my conscience. Could I really take advantage of him? Indeed, would I be, or isn’t that what he wanted?

I know you’ll all think me a heel but I couldn’t resist. I gently climbed onto the bed beside him and looked at the bulge in his underpants. I gently stroked it. It was surprisingly firm. Surely, even an 18 year-old doesn’t get a hard-on while drunk and asleep – does he? I clasped his bulge in one hand and gently squeezed. His organ was bunched tightly over the front of his balls but it was definitely at least partially engorged. As I did this, I heard him stir slightly, breathing-in heavily and then out again, accompanied by a long groan. Then silence.

Spreading his legs a little, I moved over in-between them and leant forward to put my face next to his bulge. I inhaled his most intimate scents; a musky sweatiness, mingled with talcum powder and just a hint of pee! My face was pressing against the soft flesh of his groin and I was in heaven. Then I noticed the wet patch. It wasn’t a pee-stain; it was actually wet – and sticky. And it coincided precisely with the engorged head of his penis, up to now still hidden from me by his underpants. Not for long, I decided
.
I took hold of the waist-band of his underpants on either side of him and gently lowered them at the front, over his bulging penis, until it neatly flipped upwards in a nice straight line across his tummy towards his belly-button. He stirred again in his sleep and shifted slightly on his buttocks, enabling me to free his pants a bit from under his bum. But I decided not to remove them completely, as I intended to return him his dignity in a little while.

I gently lifted his penis forwards; if it had been semi-engorged before, it was getting fully hard now. He was not particularly well-endowed, just average, but it was perfect in every beautifully uncut proportion! His balls were covered in tiny pale brown hairs and he had a neat little bush of hair below his tummy. His ball-sack, though, was tight and rounded, his balls clutched together, hard against the base of his tool. He was highly aroused, that’s for sure, and I began to wonder if he was only pretending to be asleep. No matter, I thought. It served my fantasy that he was asleep, and if that was his way of letting me do this, it was fine by me!

As I held his penis in my hands, I gently pulled the foreskin down to expose its pink bulging tip. I spotted a tiny drop of pre-cum at the open slit and, as I squeezed his tool, I heard him sigh and groan as a large blob of juice oozed from the end and ran into my fingers. I slowly moistened the end of his tool with his own juice and I heard him moaning again. I looked up at his face but it seemed passive and emotionless, and his eyes were still closed.

I leaned forward and placed my lips around the slippery and delicious head of his organ. My tongue had just begun to taste him and I was about to enjoy the next part of my exploration when I realised that he was shaking all over. I pulled back to see that the whole top of his chest and neck were flushed and before I knew what was happening, I heard him let out a kind of a mournful cry and with a groan, he exploded up across his belly and his chest. The first jet shot right up beyond his nipple, then the second into the middle of his chest and the third across his belly, as my hand felt his cum coursing up through his tool – 4, 5, 6, times he pumped, gobs of creamy cum now running down his tool into his bush of pubic hair.

He writhed about in a mixture of agony and ecstasy, seemingly unaware in his alcohol-induced stupor. His head flipped violently back and forth from side to side, as his face flushed and he gasped in his sleep. And then he lay still, his insides now completely drained of all fluids. God, he was going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow!

I cleaned him up with tissues as best I could for the second time, pulling his underpants back up under his bum and gently replacing his now softening organ into their somewhat damp and sweaty front pouch. I sat there for minutes, just drinking-in his beautiful, innocent form and what had just happened. As I sat there, he stirred in his sleep, groaned and then rolled over onto his front. Now, clad in those black underpants (the ones with the white waistband and piping!) the beautifully rounded shape of his bum was laying beside me.

The temptation to do more to him was enormous but I was already feeling a bit guilty for what I had already done, although I kept telling myself, he had offered himself to me quite freely. I leaned over and put my nose between his lovely ass-cheeks and inhaled the musky sweatiness of a young man.

Then, sighing to myself in resignation, I softly kissed his ass cheeks in turn and gently folded one side of the duvet over him and left him sleeping, while I went back to the kitchen to finish the washing and ironing! Well, there was no way I was going to be getting much sleep tonight after that!

Next morning, I awoke from a doze on my sofa at about 6am and immediately went to look in on young David. He had obviously been writhing about in the night, because the duvet was all over the place and he was now in the foetal position, only partly covered and half hanging off the edge of the bed. I roused him with two paracetamol and another glass of water and he blearily came too, looking at me and then around the room.
“Where am I?” he asked, as he emerged from the remains of the duvet and sat up.

“You’re in my bedroom and you’re on my bed,” I replied, “and you need to get up and go home. You were somewhat the worse for your celebrating last night and I had to wash your shirt and trousers. They’re in the bathroom.”

As I sat next to him, the mixture of aromas that arose from beneath the duvet, reminded me of alcohol, stale vomit and slightly damp cum. He just looked at me. He was so sweet and innocent; he seemed quite unaware of what had happened last night and he just kept saying “Thank you” and “I’m really sorry”.

When he came out of the bathroom, having had a shower and got dressed, I thought, to myself,

“I wonder, if he wonders, why there are cum-stains inside his underpants.” And I briefly began thinking about them, and what lay inside them, underneath the freshly pressed black trousers he was again wearing.

“Please, please don’t say anything to my parents,” he pleaded, as I let him out the front door.

“Of course I won’t say anything. Look, I know how stressed you’ve been lately, what with your exams and your Dad ‘n all, but if you ever want to just talk anytime, you know where to find me.”
He smiled, looked directly into my eyes (that always does it!) and said,

“Thanks, I will.”

And he did too – quite a number of times in the months that followed!

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