For All The Fundoshi Fans!

 

 

 

 

It is blazing hot today.  I'm standing, naked except for a snug white gauze fundoshi, in a white-hot patch of liquid sun.  The perspiration is pearling on my skin, and running down my sides, chest and legs in crooked rivers.  I've taken a spray bottle of cold water and am spritzing myself in front of a fan -- it's so incredibly hot that it seems to me like some of the spray is turning to steam before it hits my skin.  I soak my fundoshi with the spray bottle, which feels deliciously cool in the draft from the fan.  It also renders the fundoshi translucent -- almost transparent.  My cock, coiled at rest in the wet pouch, stirs.  I'm shivering in the blinding heat, as the breeze from the fan hits the droplets of water on my flesh and the waterlogged fundoshi.  The water makes the cloth swell up a bit, drawing the loincloth tighter just as my growing erection reduces the amount of available space in the pouch drastically.

The fundoshi is drawn tight as a bowstring over my freshly oak-hard erection.  An almost imperceptible droplet of clear pre-cum pops through the soaked fabric.  I touch the slippery droplet with a fingertip, toying with my cockhead through the slightly slickened cloth, before bringing the fingertip to my lips to taste my own salty milk.  Now the fingers on my other hand are toying lightly with my balls and perineal mound through the cloth.  I roll my soft stones in my fingers, the shivers mingling and blurring with tremors from my fiercely hungry arousal.  My cock tip presses against the tightened fabric, a small puddle of pink skin inside a wet white prison.  I glide my hand up my shaft, taking hold of my cock through the soaking wet pouch and moving the rock-stiff rod back and forth against the cool damp skin of my belly.  I can feel tiny, growing pulses in my cock, welling up from the roots of my body and my tightened ball sack.  The fan can't cool this kind of heat down, it feels volcanic -- pushing up from deep inside me like my erection pushes against the tight wet fundoshi.

Amazingly, I ejaculate right through the cloth, the hot milk shooting through the fabric's water-dilated weave.  The second gush of semen isn't quite as powerful, but it wells up and runs down the wet pouch, dribbling to the floor.  The third, fourth, and fifth don't make it through the cloth, but add to the slick mess inside my fundoshi.  I keep stroking my shaft, urging out every last droplet of cum, pushing the foreskin up to the collar of my glans and head and willing the pulsating orgasm to drain my tight balls.  After what seems like a dozen or more diminishing pumps of hot juice, I lower to my knees in front of the fan; shivering, quivering, trembling and gloriously spent.

I unwind my soaked fundoshi with shaky fingers and drop the stained clotted fabric into the pool of sunshine on the floor.  My naked, fragrant body cools in the wind from the fan.  I close my eyes and replay it all, again and again all afternoon long.