Fucking Ken
An obsession becomes all-consuming.
Written by CountDickula
Ken peered over his reading glasses and around the edge of the plywood easel for another look at Hank’s buttocks. The young man’s golden hairs glinted in the summer light from the nearby window giving a softness to the hard, tanned mounds they grassed. Fortuitously, the angle of Ken’s position relative to the pose Hank had struck, his legs spread wide over the fake fur throw, gave him a clear view of his anus too. The tender pink pucker occasionally flexed and winked back at him. Ken looked back at his A3 paper and sighed quietly to himself. How could he even begin to capture this hot, fleshy beauty on flat, cool paper. Hank’s body was a thing of movement, of sport, dancing through air, heating the world around him as he went. Hank couldn’t be flattened onto cartridge paper with dry chalk.
Another sigh. He had started taking this class to feel better about his own body, the idea of being naked in a room with six other amateur artists felt a little liberating but safe enough. He hoped it might feel a bit sexy and transgressive, but right now he felt stupid. Stupid and talentless.
To subdue his pain, Ken imagined his hands on Hank’s meaty cakes, parting them open further so he might lean in and sample the subtle, deep scent of this fit twenty-two year old’s butt crack and perhaps nuzzle his nose into that furry crevice, to gently kiss at his pink rosebud. Hank shifted again. He wasn’t a great model. He looked great but he was a fidget. Still, it gave the assembled voyeurs a thrill to see his gluteus medius contract and settle again, making those fascinating hollows in the side of his arse that were so deeply appreciated by admirers of the male form.
“Just five more minutes guys”, said the facilitator Gary. His words pierced the calm silence, causing a frantic flurry of chalk or charcoal pencil application to paper around the room as the drawers roughed in the couch, pot plant, throw or other props in the scene they had hitherto completely ignored, distracted by the boy’s allure. Ken didn’t see what more he could add to his daub. It wasn’t his best work and labouring over his effort just made it more clear, he didn’t want to just observe and draw Hank's body... He wanted to touch it, hold it, feel that body pressed against his own. And yet, he knew that to Hank, he was invisible. Just a blank late middle aged face paying him his fee and his attention. To Hank this was a gig, not something he had looked forward to all week like Ken had. Hank was probably next heading off to some other opportunity for youthful, sexual freedom. A threeway with two of his many casual lovers. A naked barbeque on a roof terrace to which he would coyly arrive at with a token pot of hummus, but be forgiven for his paltry offering by the older male hosts on account of his exceptional beauty and dazzling smile and that both would elevate their party to a pleasing new level of sexual frisson among their guests. Or perhaps a nude sunbathing session at the Marshes surrounded by many other supple Hackney sluts, where he could give his well developed muscles the sunshine they needed to look so appetising. All these scenarios Ken had invented celebrated Hank’s ease of being publicly undressed in broad daylight. Not something Ken found easy.
The time was up and he packed away his apparatus, thanking Gary for hosting the event. In the bedroom was a sort of shelving unit with square cubbyholes where the guests could store their bags and clothing once they had disrobed. It was as he was irritably doing up his shirt for the second time (the first time he had mismatched the buttons and holes), he noticed the neat little pile of Hank’s clothes. It was a hot day and Hank had arrived in a tight white vest, some even tighter shorts and an intriguing raspberry pink thong, the back of which had ridden up over the shorts waistband. But now, that thong was eye-level with Ken. That thong that had been wedged into the lush valley of Hank’s sweaty crack as he travelled to Ken’s class on this hot day was so near his nose, it felt like fate intervening.
There was no one else in the bedroom with him, the others were chatting in the front room. Ken glanced over his shoulder to check and then looked back at this stringy offering, red as a flare, that had caught his attention. Feeling like a naughty schoolboy in a sweet shop, he gingerly took the precious item from the shelf and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply. It smelt clean but still scented by an essence of maleness. The aroma varied from the front pouch to the rear string which had spliced heaven only ninety minutes earlier. Then Ken did something quite reckless. He put it in his pocket. Almost immediately, he heard footsteps and scrambled to get all of it in before Gary put his head around the doorway.
“We’re thinking July 12th, for the next meet?”
“Ah ok… Sounds good. I’ll double check my diary” Ken slightly gagged on his reply. Did he look guilty? Did he sound guilty? If Gary found out what he had done, Ken wouldn’t ever be coming back here anyway.
Ken hurriedly gathered his effects and left swiftly with a lame “Bye everyone!” over his shoulder. Once back home, he went straight to the bedroom. He shucked off his clothes, took his prize from his trouser pocket and lay back naked on his bed. He placed the silky smooth thong cup over his face and breathed deeply and slowly. He gave a few tugs on his ball sack with one hand, as was his habit, while the other caressed the top edge of his cock till it started to grow. It was already leaking pre cum from his foreskin. Ken caught some on his thumb and smeared it over his lips like a balm. As he masturbated himself, he found his wank was enhanced by sticking his tongue out and winding it around in the air and imagining that he was probing the pinkness between Hank’s furry cheeks. He pictured Hank squatting over him on the bed. He saw Hank pulling his hole open for Ken to push in deeper. Hank moaning and bearing down to suffocate Ken’s airways with his wonderfully tangy musk.
Ken’s phone broke his reverie when it pinged on the bed near his head, lighting up the ceiling above. He didn’t bother to look. He knew from the timing it would be Gary.
“Hi guys, really sorry to bother you but just to say an item of Hank’s clothing has gone missing and I just wondered if any of you might have picked it up by accident? Thanks, G.”
He knew those gossips at class would become a bunch of instant fucking Marples working out who had been alone in the bedroom and when, loving the drama of it. Cunts.
Ken tried moving the thong around so that the rear string was under his nose. Somewhere on this twine was the sweet spot, the bit that abraded Hank’s slick anus all the way up the Northern line. He needed to find it.
The phone pinged and lit up again. Shamefully, he imagined the conversation Hank and Gary would be having.
“It’s that fucking Ken. I know it is. He’s such a perv. I’m sick of it. This is typical of him.”
Ken knew this wouldn’t be spoken in the seductive baritone purr Hank used on his Insta posts. In those, Hank spoke so closely to the mic it was as though he was whispering erotica right into his ear. Ken loved to listen to that soft, come-to-bed voice with his Airpods in while pumping on his cock. He imagined stray strands of Hank’s moustache tickling on his lobe. He imagined his spare hand roaming the warm contours of the taut dancer’s back, from nape to nuts, a finger lingering in his crack on route. But no, Ken knew deep down that Hank was in the business of theatre and yet he was happy to watch from a darkened front row seat every night.
Ken returned to his narrative. Where was he? Oh yeah, Hank squatting on his face. Ken wouldn’t have cared if Hank had let rip a long steady fart in his face. Such was the degree of worship he felt on the spectrum of physical attraction. Hank an easy ten, and Ken a pitiful three, in kind lighting. I mean he wasn’t disgusting, just very average. Average cock, average face, body, fitness. Just some greying nobody, whereas Hank… was a god.
The phone pinged and illuminated twice more in quick succession. Ken noticed the crack in the bedroom ceiling. It had been there for at least ten years now. As though the roof above his marital bed was ripping apart. He was supposed to have had it fixed but just hadn’t got around to it.
Next he remembered that it was his birthday next week. Sixty three. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Ken had always hated the odd numbers. They felt untidy. He had never made peace with aging.
The phone started to ring. It was probably Gary calling now, armed with witness accounts, expecting a full confession. He let it go to voicemail.
“Come back to me Hank”, Ken thought. Today wasn’t the first sighting of him. Not by a long way. Ken was fully subscribed to all the places he could find Hank, his Insta, his Twitter, his Bluesky, but most crucially his OnlyFans. Ken downloaded as much as he could with a dodgy app he had found and screenshotted his favourite moments of Hank in ecstasy, usually being penetrated, saving hundreds of stills to his collection in a hidden folder simply named H on his laptop. He had even printed out a few of these images to wank over and sometimes onto. He had watched Hank’s content so often, he knew the script and plot of every scene. Every grunt, groan and goon to camera was memorised to the point of being comfortingly familiar.
Additionally, Ken had a large Ziploc bag of Hank's soiled pants. The airtight seal helped to keep their foetid scent of stale cum in. It was a collection he had purchased over the last couple of years at about fifty to a hundred quid a pop, depending how many loads the fabric held. It had cost him maybe two grand to date. He had also bought Hank this and that from his Amazon wish list, currying favour with him. Mostly underwear, jocks and thongs, which he then bought back at thrice the price once they had been impregnated with Hank’s various juices. He craved some sign that Hank was aware of his accumulating generosity. Something more personalised, more concrete, than his standard “Thanks bud!”.
Ken had attended Hank’s yoga class and even worked out which gym he was a member of. He often went too, trying to synchronise his visits with Hank’s based on his insta posts, looking out for him and he idly worked the machines on a low setting. Ken had had many favourites over the years but Hank was special. Hank was Ken’s ideal and as impossible as it seemed, sometimes he allowed himself to imagine seducing Hank, kissing him softly. If that ever happened, he could die happy.
Ken went back to his flagging, sticky penis. He now shifted Hank’s position to standing above him, his pecs twitching as he masturbated over Ken. His thick, rigid, tanned dick slapping against Ken’s face. His smooth tight shaved balls being dragged over Ken’s grey beard. Ken masturbated harder now and the thong string had fallen from under his nose with his exertion to around his throat and this gave Ken an idea. Something he had not done before. He removed his hand from his cock for a moment to position the thong right around his neck and looped it through itself so it could be pulled tight with one hand. He found that if he pulled firmly on the end of the thong and he simultaneously imagined Hank's hands around his throat he could create a very pleasing sensation. He imagined Hanks’s haunches clenching his chest making his breathing more restricted. The thought of being compressed by Hank’s body weight was exciting. He was only about five foot six but had built up a set of really meaty quads.
It was a little tiring to his arm to have to maintain the tension on the cord so he scooted further up the bed and hooked the loop over the short wooden bed post. That was easier now. He shuffled down the bed a bit to get the tension right. Now, Ken could see Hank’s front delts, biceps and forearms being all bearing down, gripping him, exerting force on his throat. This was thrilling.
Somehow the dark line of the crack in the bedroom ceiling started to blur and become less annoying. He felt a reddening in his face and opening his mouth wide, he saw Hank standing above him spitting down into his mouth. Ken felt only gratitude for having Hank’s full attention. Ken heard a raspy laughter, a chuckling, alternating with a gasping sound. He began to realise it was coming from himself. Chuckling and gasping, alternating. He hadn’t laughed fully for a while.
And as he came and emptied his balls for the very last time, his gloopy spoodge pooling in the fatty crater of his belly button, then dribbling down the convex side of his stomach, he pictured Hank’s spunk jetting into his open mouth. Six, seven, eight, nine powerful ejaculations. Coated in jizz and deliriously happy, Ken choked on the imagined liquid and a kind of relief came over him. A new sensation. The phone pings became quieter, the daylight in the room softened with a ruddy haze and everything became just a little easier.
Follow CountDickula on Bluesky
This story was written as part of a Naked Men Talking Writing Workshop, in response to the prompt "Obsession". Copyright remains with the author - this story cannot be republished or distributed without the consent of the author.
Gareth Johnson