/*********************************************** *By themageinlove.tumblr.com * Originally by dynamicdrive.com and modified by hartxkiie.tumblr.com * Removal of credits shall result to report and suspension of account ***********************************************/
Okay, first of all…and we have said this before, but it bears repeating: WE FUCKING LOVE OUR ANONS. :D You guys = awesomely awesome beyond all words. <3
Secondly…Once we managed to stop laughing our asses off at this question, we finally thought about what the answer would be. Because this is a scenario with the potential for such wonderful detail, we are going to answer in narrative/story form. So, here goes…
Ojai, California. The golf resort is deserted, save for the septet of young men gathered to discuss Head…and also the movie that they are all preparing to work on together.
Night has fallen on the desert. Bob, Bert, and Jack retreat to the enclave of their rooms, exhausted from a long day of getting stoned and rambling nonsense into tape recorders. The four Monkees are still blazing the night away, however, and the conversation soon turns to sex.
"Man, I haven’t been laid in days,” Davy complains, slumping back against his chair.
"Is that a new record for you, Midget?" Peter quips sarcastically, taking a long hit from the pipe between his lips.
"Yeah, really. Some of us are going through longer dry spells than that, thank you!" says Micky, sticking his tongue out at the Englishman.
"All right, guys, cool it," the towering Texan coolly calls from the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
But the young men are restless, and begin to reminisce about past sexual encounters. The effects of the pungent herb they’ve been smoking, combined with the explicit discussion at hand, soon kick in. They are squirming almost simultaneously, each catching on to the rising heat in the room and the faint scent of arousal.
Peter, being the least inhibited of the four even without chemical aid, reaches down to the front of his trousers and cups a hand over his growing hard-on, an almost inaudible moan escaping his mouth. He leans back in his chair, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to rub himself. Forgetting his surroundings, Peter seizes his lip between his teeth, flicking the button on his pants open, freeing his cock from its clothed prison. It is fully erect, and he sighs as the cool air of the room ghosts over the throbbing flesh as it rests against his belly.
The other three Monkees can hardly believe what they’re seeing. Each sucks in a breath almost simultaneously as Peter begin to stroke himself. Micky follows suit next, cautiously unfastening his own pants, eyes darting back and forth between Mike and Davy, nervous yet excited at the prospect of being watched by his friends and bandmates.
Davy soon catches sight of the curly-haired drummer getting a handle on things, his own low moans adding to the chorus of Peter’s, which have steadily gotten louder as he picks up the pace of his stroking. Slightly bleary from the weed and too horny to care, Davy shrugs and pulls out his own erection, joining in the three-Monkee meatfest.
Only Mike remains now, bewildered by the sight in front of him. Yet his legs feel as though they weigh about a thousand pounds each, and he cannot move. His enormous erection is straining against its clothed confines, making Mike’s own pants feel about three sizes too small. The air around him is nearly electric, so saturated with the sounds and smell of sex, enveloping him as if thick tendrils from a creeping plant.
Mike narrows his eyes, prepared to voice the first (and, apparently, only) objection to the goings-on, but is surprised to find his hand inside his pants, seemingly of its own accord. Soon, Mike’s monster member is bared to the group, blood pulsing in his hand as he jerks himself wordlessly, save for a few soft grunts.
And there, on that warm California night deep in the desert, sat all four Monkees, furiously pounding away at things that were not the clock in the sky. Closer and closer to orgasm they progress, and soon four pairs of eyes are wide open, watching, waiting to see who goes over the edge first.
A silent agreement seems to be met as they eye one another warily, not wanting the climactic moment to be tinged with any hint of awkwardness (any more than there might already be, that is). Each Monkee gives a slight nod of the head, acknowledging the tacit plan through darkened eyes and skin flush with a thin layer of sweat.
Peter, having started the hands-on craze, is the first to come. “ANNETTE FUNICELLO!” he groans, his features contorting in ecstasy he spills his seed across his belly.
“Ohhh…URSULA ANDRESS!” Davy yells out, being the next to arrive at the finish line, gasping as his body jerks with the force of his orgasm.
"Yeah…yeah…unghh...TWIGGYYYYY!” Micky cries out, head thrown back against the cushioned chair and back arching as he shoots his load all over his hand.
Keenly aware that the others have now finished, Mike teeters on the brink, eyes glassy and wide as he strokes himself almost raw, his other hand curling under to play with his huge balls. He can feel it building, faster and faster, that sharp drop coming, building like fire in the pit of his stomach. Moments later, he cums, his orgasm slamming into him with the force of a freight train, and yells out in a half-choked groan:
Everything stops suddenly. Mike’s eyes, which were squeezed shut for the duration of his climax, open, and he swallows hard at seeing three confused/curious/amused gazes fixed on him. He feels unwillingly rooted to the spot, boneless for the last few currents of pleasure running up and down his body. Summoning up his ‘leader’ side, Mike manages to straighten up slightly, focusing on the three young men, glaring at them as he speaks:
"PHYLLIS. I said Phyllis. YOU HEARD NOTHING."
And with that, Peter, Davy, and Micky burst into drug-and-post-orgasm fueled giggles, snickers sounding from each of them, until they are doubled over laughing so hard that tears begin to form at the corners of their eyes. Mike sighs, drawing (his other) hand down over his face, and joins in the laughter, finally unable to help himself.
And thus, with a few quick swabs of paper towels and the extinguishing of the old Zippo lighter that had for the last several hours ignited their creative (and physical) passions, the Monkees circle jerk was ended.