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 it felt like his own cock, the same way shaking one’s own hand was not the same as shaking the hand of another.
Not his own head, 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. This place was meant to be a hotbed of higher learning, a bastion of bookishness, a stronghold of the scholarly.
Instead, he had to put up with that lunk-headed braggart called upon to give professional guidance to the boys’ polo team, sharing his unwanted opinions at every turn. He was not there in any official capacity, which was even more frustrating, for that would at least put him under the purview of Ichabod’s rule. No, instead he was treated as an honored guest, regaling slack-jawed teenagers with his boasts of exploits and hijinks, infantile pranks pulled and callow capers enacted, and a very small bit of actual polo discussed.
Ichabod had decided that if he was never again forced to suffer the unbearable presence of Brom Bones again, he would die quite happily. And instead, you got hard spying on him having his cock sucked. A front row view to watch him ejaculate. He was still hard, and needed to quickly leave the area before he was caught out.
He did not possess the height and bulk of his new neighbors, and he more resembled a stretched-out skeleton than a strapping horseman, but he was light on his feet. Ichabod disappeared into another arm of the locker room where his own bag was stowed, foregoing the showers. He would have liked to have taken care of his own throbbing erection, rubbing one out under the hot spray of the showers, but he had no doubt that was where the two dullahans were headed next, to wash clean the evidence of their mutual pleasure.
Best to go home, to take the situation in hand in the privacy of his own room, absent of dullahans and their annoyingly appealing oral abilities. Where there were no polo horsemen, no marauding onlookers, and most importantly — he thought with no small dose of irritation over his throbbing erection and who was responsible for its turgid state — where the deep boom of Brom Bones’s mocking voice could not follow.