When I took my unannounced hiatus a couple of months ago, in large part it was because of a sense of being betrayed personally. I’d had someone cull information about my personal life and attempt to use it against me. The immediate result was to not only to cause me to shut down writing about myself for a while, but to be wary about sharing anything more than I really had to.
That’s why I’ve not done any Sunday Morning Question answering for a while. I’ve had a lot of readers write to tell me they’ve missed the feature—and to be honest, I’ve missed having the opportunity to answer questions that lie outside the scope of what I normally write about for my entries.
So starting today I’m trying to ease back into the old routine. I can’t promise it’ll be weekly at the start, but at the very least it should signal that I’m feeling less beleaguered.
Of course, you can help by submitting some of your own questions to my formspring.me page. The service is still up and running; there was some noise that it was shutting down, but it’s now under new management. Just follow the link above to my page there and ask your question, anonymously or un-. I’ll answer anything that hasn’t been asked about a dozen times before, or that doesn’t invade what personal space I have left.
Let’s get to the questions!
As a top with experience, what advice would you give to someone who wants to get fisted?
As a top with over 25 years of fisting experience, I can recommend a couple of things. Some of my other readers (with more experience on the receiving end) could probably chime in, too.
1. Choose your fisting top carefully. I'm not saying he should be me—though that would be fun!—but make sure it's someone who's going to respect the fact you're a novice and who isn't going to expecting to be punching his fist deep into your gut the moment he's Criscoed up. Being fisted can be an intimate and even loving experience, but it can also being extremely invasive and scary if you don't pick someone who's sensitive to your needs.
At the same time, you want to choose someone who's not going to so over-sensitive that he doesn't give you what you ultimately want. Finding someone who'll back off a little when you need, and yet who will keep pushing your boundaries may be a challenge, but it'll be worth the effort.
2. Manage your own expectations and preconceptions about fisting. You are very likely not going to walk into a guy's play space as a first-timer and end up with his arm inside you all the way to the elbow. You might have seen it happen in a porn video, but you are probably not a porn actor. (A couple of you are.) You might not even get fisted completely (and by completely, I mean at least past the knuckles and down to the wrist) the first time, or the second time, or the third time. When I've worked with fisting novices, we've usually had the best success when we've taken it slowly and in multiple sessions. But we did have success.
3. Clean out. Make sure you clean yourself out thoroughly. Then clean yourself out some more. Even if your top is using rubber gloves, nothing is stinkier than pulling a hand out of a man and having it covered with poop.
Just sayin'.
Since I've started hooking up with guys, it's opened the sexual floodgates and sex with the wife is back to being as good as when we were newlyweds. Q1: Does your mansex enhance sex at home? Q2: Do I have to "come out" to her about my extracurriculars?
I'm not surprised that you find your sex life has blossomed at home now that you've been hooking up outside of the relationship. Good sex has a tendency to beget more good sex. You're probably feeling more desirable, and you're less tense and more happy. The wife is picking up on those things. It's a positive feedback loop. Keep it up.
Now, for your questions.
1. Focusing on being a good lover helps me bring the best experiences to all my partners—at home or elsewhere.
2. This is a question that I can't really answer for you, since I don't know your situation, and I don't know you. No, you don't have to tell your wife you're fucking elsewhere. If you choose not to, however, you're going to have to live with that decision for a long time to come, and it could have extremely negative consequences if you're not good at covering up your tracks, or wrestling with your conscience.
There are relationships, however, that are strong enough that the partners can be open with each other. That is, they can be as honest with each other about wanting and having extra-marital relationships. Honest and open relationships do exist. They take work and talk and kindness and extra effort to pull off. If you want one of these relationships with your wife, you’ll have to address it with her and work out the ground rules first. She may want to know about your affairs, and may even take pride in them and share in your happiness for having them. Or she may be all right with you having your fun in the theoretical sense, while not wanting to hear the details. Only you two can determine which of those options—or some other compromise—it will be.
I think the thing to take away is that your relationship is your relationship. It is whatever you and your wife make it. You don't have to follow a marriage template that you've seen in other couples, or in your parents, or on television. Your marriage is not on a fixed set of tracks beyond your control, like a roller-coaster. It is your marriage. You are helping to steer it. You are half of it, and it is something you can assist in controlling and directing.
So you decide what kind of marriage it's going to be.
As a kid did you ever run away from home & if you did for how long & how long before your parents became worried?
No, I never did, but I fantasized about it often enough.
My rebellion during the teenaged years came in my sexual misdeeds. A lot of the stuff that teenaged kids do to rebel wouldn't have phased my folks in the least. Loud rock music? They listened to that themselves, thanks. Swearing? My sibling's first word was 'shit,' because my parents said it so much. Smoking? My mom did that. Drinking? I tried alcohol and didn't like the taste.
So I fucked around like crazy, and at every opportunity, and inappropriately, and went home with a smile and sweetly did my homework and kept up the appearance of being a perfect child—because when you're a perfect child, you can get away with just about anything you want by flying under the radar.
I didn't need to run away from home. I was getting all the adventure and attention I needed at the end of strange men's dicks.
Have you been to the NYC bathhouses yet?
I have not.
Unless i'm mistaken, NYC has the West Side Club and the East Side Club, and I've heard mixed reviews about both. Someone specifically told me that I'd find them grungy—and while I expect that in a bathhouse to a certain extent, the implication was that I'd find it grungy in a way I'd be actively icked out the entire time I was there. So I've not been.
If someone wants to go along with me to either and show me otherwise, I'm open to invitations.
I don't mean this question in any offensive way, especially given how hot I find your sexual escapades, but aren't you in the slightest worried that your dangerous sexual behavior could lead you to contract AIDS/HIV and what that might mean for your kids?
Look. When you ask the question the way you did—that is, using inflammatory words like 'dangerous' and bringing up the specter of wailing children deprived of their daddy—let's not prevaricate. You're trying to go for the maximum amount of offense possible.
There are two explanations for why you'd frame the question this way.
1) You're butt-ignorant about the transmission of HIV, its treatment, and how it is by no means a swift and certain death sentence, or
2) You're using a 'think of the children!' approach not as persuasive argument—which it isn't—but as what you conceive as an emotional trump card that should reduce all counter-arguments to ash. As rhetoric, it's overblown and transparent.
The risks I take are my risks; I only take the risks with which I've made my peace. I do not advocate or suggest that you or anyone else follow in my footsteps. I have always told my readers that they should only take risks with which they are comfortable and on which they have educated themselves.
I've said this many times in this forum before as well: merely because one of the risks to which I expose myself is sexual in nature does not make it any worse, any more horrifying, or any more 'sinful' than the risks you take to your life on a daily basis—whether that is alcohol, drugs, exceeding the speed limit, living near an electrical sub-station, smoking, high-stress environments, or carrying extra pounds around your waist.
It's quite easy for you to shriek "think of the children!" about a sexually-transmitted virus, but all you're doing is perpetuating an unfortunate stigma that does a grave disservice to many men and women who are HIV-positive. You probably wouldn't whine it out to someone who was crossing the street while texting on his phone—though that behavior can be more immediately and equally deadly than any virus.
In the future I advise examining your own prejudices before asking such a question. You probably think you're well-meaning, but you're really what you profess not to be: offensive.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Friday, May 17, 2013
Open Forum Friday: That Manwhore!
One of the things I love about the area where I live is that no matter what the night, no matter what the hour, there’s always weird shit to do.
Weird is a relative term, of course. I’m not talking about dressing up in rubber and rolling around in butterscotch pudding with someone weird (though I probably could find it with a little hunting), or getting into a hot ’n’ nasty session of popping helium balloons in the nude weird (ditto). But at any given moment, there’s always something entertaining to do that I would never have found in the Midwest, or god knows the South. This calendar year alone I’ve stumbled into odd art gallery openings, movie and TV shoots, impromptu zombie appearances, a kimono fashion show, strange street theater, and a pair of Elmos going at each other with fists flying in Times Square.
Compared to all that, a night at something called Porno Bingo sounds pretty tame. And it actually was. I’ve been to many a Drag Queen Bingo night at some bar or another, all of them of varying quality. Porno Bingo is something of an institution here, though; it’s run by porn actor Will Clark, a handsome grizzly of a guy who keeps things moving through three games.
The porno, in case you’re wondering, is the prize for each winner. Porn is not actually playing during the game itself. And porno not something that takes place when Clark calls O-69. Although it does get a little porny when he starts flirting with me, which is something he’s done the couple of times I’ve been. (Did one of you guys show him a pic of my dick?)
Anyway. A couple of weeks ago I was at Porno Bingo with a handful of friends. It was between games, and during the break a Boylesque performer was sauntering around the bar wearing an awful lot of makeup and an outfit that looked like one of the Kit Kat Club dancers from the Alan Cumming Cabaret. And I mean the female Kit Kat Club dancers. I knew two of the other guys fairly well; the others crowding around our table were more mere acquaintances than anything else. We were drinking and commiserating over not winning any man-on-man DVDs at that point, and watching the Boylesque performer use a very sharp pair of hair shears to cut the elastic bands holding together his skimpy little outfit, when a fellow named Philip walked up.
I’d met Philip once before. Much as I dislike the word, I find it appropriate here—he’s a little bit of a hipster. Scruffy face, bad complexion, hair that looks like it just rolled out of bed independently of the head to which it was attached. He was wearing a hand-knitted scarf of Doctor Who proportions in Kelly green and dirty white, a pair of too-tight jeans, and a ironic T-shirt of some late-nineteen-eighties band. He was slightly sleazy looking, to be honest—not a bad look for someone who admires a little sleaze, like I do, but it wasn’t quite the well-groomed fashion of most of the guys in the bar.
Philip had come not to play bingo, and not to see the Boylesque performer who was down to nothing but his lederhosen and some spangles on his nipples, but to drop off a book to one of the other guys at my table. He was on his way to a party, he explained—and the party had a name, which I now can’t recall. It was something like Splashdown! or Hothouse! or Jetstream!—it definitely had an exclamation mark at the end, and I remember thinking during the moment that the party name sounded like some kind of porn distributor. But he wanted to stop in and drop off the book he’d promised his friend—and then, with a round of handshakes and hugs as appropriate, he was on his way.
“Splashdown!?” I asked (or Hothouse!, or Jetstream!, or whatever it was), once he was out of earshot. “Is that a party at a bar? Or like, a sex party?” Not an unreasonable question, as this city has a lot of regular, weekly sex parties, most of which have their own names for easy publicity.
One fellow that I didn’t know well leaned over and hissed, “I’m sure it’s an orgy, because that one is such a MANWHORE!”
I stared at the guy, blinked, and thought to myself, Man, you really don’t know whom you’re talking to, do you?
I have no idea whether Philip is a manwhore or not. If he is, more power to him, from one manwhore to another. Solidarity, manwhorebro! But I did have my suspicions about why someone else was accusing him of marwhoreialism. “A bigger manwhore than me? Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Oh please. You, a manwhore? As for him, trust me on this one,” said the gossipy queen. “All you have to do is look at him.”
I left it alone after that, and thought to myself how dispiriting it was that someone would assume the guy was the town tramp, just because of looking at him.
When I was much younger, I considered myself afflicted by a wholesome demeanor. I had a sweet, innocent baby face that totally belied the depraved things I was doing for men in parks and restrooms city-side. I learned fairly quickly that no one wanted to corrupt what they assumed was my unsullied innocence until they actually saw me whip out my dick or unzip my pantsand get on my hands and knees. Then they were game. The experience taught me to be a sexual instigator, rather than someone who sits and waits. To this day I’ve used that wholesome, innocent look to get what I want. It’s tough for many guys to imagine that someone with my sweet smile can be as lowdown and dirty. Until they see the X-rated photos, that is.
In other words, I get away with so much simply because I look so innocent. It’s a quality I’ve learned to work to my advantage. I suspect a good four-fifths of what appeal I have is because on the surface I don’t really look like the kind of guy who’d do incredibly dirty stuff. But if I’d been born with hair that was more unruly, or eyes that were beadier, or a complexion that wasn’t as good, if my facial hair grew out in a way that was seedier or if I put myself together differently, maybe people I know would be (rightly) hissing the word manwhore about me, too.
Okay, perhaps I should assume that the people I know who know me well are already using that word to describe me. Maybe the people who’ve just seen me a few times would be hissing it, too.
It applies to sexual roles, too. I’ve known guys who’ve gone far in their sexual adventuring because they look like the strapping, take-charge tops that they really are, and I’ve known bottoms who exude a certain come-hither appeal that lets others know exactly what they want. At the same time, I’ve known quite a few bottoms who become frustrated because the looks with which they were born seem to give off a toppish, butch, or dominant message—they can’t hook up without the other guy trying to go ass-up for them. And I’ve known a couple of tops whom no one takes seriously because they seem so damned bottomy, even before they take off their clothes.
It’s not a new observation that we tend to project our own expectations and desires on others based on how they look. What I’m curious about, in today’s Open Forum, is how my readers have found their own looks affect the snap judgments others make of you.
Have you gotten away with debauched escapades all your life because of your rosy cheeks and winsome dimples? Are your friends whispering things about your sluttiness behind your back because of your louche appearance? Are they dismissing you because you look like the type of person who would never do anything extreme? Are you characterized as one thing when you’re really another? If so, is it something you’ve resented all your life, or have you learned how to capitalize on it?
Post your thoughts in the comments below, and let’s learn something from each other.
Weird is a relative term, of course. I’m not talking about dressing up in rubber and rolling around in butterscotch pudding with someone weird (though I probably could find it with a little hunting), or getting into a hot ’n’ nasty session of popping helium balloons in the nude weird (ditto). But at any given moment, there’s always something entertaining to do that I would never have found in the Midwest, or god knows the South. This calendar year alone I’ve stumbled into odd art gallery openings, movie and TV shoots, impromptu zombie appearances, a kimono fashion show, strange street theater, and a pair of Elmos going at each other with fists flying in Times Square.
Compared to all that, a night at something called Porno Bingo sounds pretty tame. And it actually was. I’ve been to many a Drag Queen Bingo night at some bar or another, all of them of varying quality. Porno Bingo is something of an institution here, though; it’s run by porn actor Will Clark, a handsome grizzly of a guy who keeps things moving through three games.
The porno, in case you’re wondering, is the prize for each winner. Porn is not actually playing during the game itself. And porno not something that takes place when Clark calls O-69. Although it does get a little porny when he starts flirting with me, which is something he’s done the couple of times I’ve been. (Did one of you guys show him a pic of my dick?)
Anyway. A couple of weeks ago I was at Porno Bingo with a handful of friends. It was between games, and during the break a Boylesque performer was sauntering around the bar wearing an awful lot of makeup and an outfit that looked like one of the Kit Kat Club dancers from the Alan Cumming Cabaret. And I mean the female Kit Kat Club dancers. I knew two of the other guys fairly well; the others crowding around our table were more mere acquaintances than anything else. We were drinking and commiserating over not winning any man-on-man DVDs at that point, and watching the Boylesque performer use a very sharp pair of hair shears to cut the elastic bands holding together his skimpy little outfit, when a fellow named Philip walked up.
I’d met Philip once before. Much as I dislike the word, I find it appropriate here—he’s a little bit of a hipster. Scruffy face, bad complexion, hair that looks like it just rolled out of bed independently of the head to which it was attached. He was wearing a hand-knitted scarf of Doctor Who proportions in Kelly green and dirty white, a pair of too-tight jeans, and a ironic T-shirt of some late-nineteen-eighties band. He was slightly sleazy looking, to be honest—not a bad look for someone who admires a little sleaze, like I do, but it wasn’t quite the well-groomed fashion of most of the guys in the bar.
Philip had come not to play bingo, and not to see the Boylesque performer who was down to nothing but his lederhosen and some spangles on his nipples, but to drop off a book to one of the other guys at my table. He was on his way to a party, he explained—and the party had a name, which I now can’t recall. It was something like Splashdown! or Hothouse! or Jetstream!—it definitely had an exclamation mark at the end, and I remember thinking during the moment that the party name sounded like some kind of porn distributor. But he wanted to stop in and drop off the book he’d promised his friend—and then, with a round of handshakes and hugs as appropriate, he was on his way.
“Splashdown!?” I asked (or Hothouse!, or Jetstream!, or whatever it was), once he was out of earshot. “Is that a party at a bar? Or like, a sex party?” Not an unreasonable question, as this city has a lot of regular, weekly sex parties, most of which have their own names for easy publicity.
One fellow that I didn’t know well leaned over and hissed, “I’m sure it’s an orgy, because that one is such a MANWHORE!”
I stared at the guy, blinked, and thought to myself, Man, you really don’t know whom you’re talking to, do you?
I have no idea whether Philip is a manwhore or not. If he is, more power to him, from one manwhore to another. Solidarity, manwhorebro! But I did have my suspicions about why someone else was accusing him of marwhoreialism. “A bigger manwhore than me? Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Oh please. You, a manwhore? As for him, trust me on this one,” said the gossipy queen. “All you have to do is look at him.”
I left it alone after that, and thought to myself how dispiriting it was that someone would assume the guy was the town tramp, just because of looking at him.
When I was much younger, I considered myself afflicted by a wholesome demeanor. I had a sweet, innocent baby face that totally belied the depraved things I was doing for men in parks and restrooms city-side. I learned fairly quickly that no one wanted to corrupt what they assumed was my unsullied innocence until they actually saw me whip out my dick or unzip my pantsand get on my hands and knees. Then they were game. The experience taught me to be a sexual instigator, rather than someone who sits and waits. To this day I’ve used that wholesome, innocent look to get what I want. It’s tough for many guys to imagine that someone with my sweet smile can be as lowdown and dirty. Until they see the X-rated photos, that is.
In other words, I get away with so much simply because I look so innocent. It’s a quality I’ve learned to work to my advantage. I suspect a good four-fifths of what appeal I have is because on the surface I don’t really look like the kind of guy who’d do incredibly dirty stuff. But if I’d been born with hair that was more unruly, or eyes that were beadier, or a complexion that wasn’t as good, if my facial hair grew out in a way that was seedier or if I put myself together differently, maybe people I know would be (rightly) hissing the word manwhore about me, too.
Okay, perhaps I should assume that the people I know who know me well are already using that word to describe me. Maybe the people who’ve just seen me a few times would be hissing it, too.
It applies to sexual roles, too. I’ve known guys who’ve gone far in their sexual adventuring because they look like the strapping, take-charge tops that they really are, and I’ve known bottoms who exude a certain come-hither appeal that lets others know exactly what they want. At the same time, I’ve known quite a few bottoms who become frustrated because the looks with which they were born seem to give off a toppish, butch, or dominant message—they can’t hook up without the other guy trying to go ass-up for them. And I’ve known a couple of tops whom no one takes seriously because they seem so damned bottomy, even before they take off their clothes.
It’s not a new observation that we tend to project our own expectations and desires on others based on how they look. What I’m curious about, in today’s Open Forum, is how my readers have found their own looks affect the snap judgments others make of you.
Have you gotten away with debauched escapades all your life because of your rosy cheeks and winsome dimples? Are your friends whispering things about your sluttiness behind your back because of your louche appearance? Are they dismissing you because you look like the type of person who would never do anything extreme? Are you characterized as one thing when you’re really another? If so, is it something you’ve resented all your life, or have you learned how to capitalize on it?
Post your thoughts in the comments below, and let’s learn something from each other.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Fucked
In early March, the Russian wanted to know why it was taking me so long to see him again. We’d traded fucks one passionate night right before Christmas, but for about two months I’d avoided making a follow-up date.
With typical frankness, I told him why. It’s because you ripped up my hole so badly last time that it’s taken this long to get back into shape.
I will make sexy love to you, he wrote back. I will use tong on your beautiful ass and make love to you with tong until you ready for cock. Then my cock make you feel wonderfull.
Well, it’s hard to resist naive charm like that.
One night a week later, I arrive at his apartment building in the city. Sign in at the front desk and wait for the doorman to call up. Then I take the elevator and walk down the long hallway to the Russian’s apartment, where I knock and wait, while nervously shifting from head to toe.
I’m not going to lie. At this point, I’ve taken more fucks from this guy in three months than I have from all guys in the ten years prior. It’s still not a lot of fucks, though. I don’t consider myself a very confident bottom. If it weren’t for the fact that my hole made him nut three times the last time we got together, I wouldn’t even consider myself a good bottom. (There has to be a basic level of competency there to get him to shoot though, right?)
So yeah, I’m nervous as I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, wondering and worrying at the inevitable fact that I’ll probably get my hole stretched and tortured that night. I’ve done my due diligence, though. I’ve showered and douched and evacuated and douched and repeated the process several times. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen without anyone being embarrassed. My thorough bottom buddies through the year would’ve been proud.
I don’t have to wait long for the door to open. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a pair of white lounge pants with the drawstrings hanging down his legs. My eyes are drawn down his naked torso—beautifully shaped and generously worked out—to the area framed by those swinging drawstrings. There’s a bulge there too large to overlook.
“Oh, baby,” he says, when I step in. “I have missed you.”
Next thing I know, he’s pushing me up against the door. The Russian isn’t a tall man. He’s maybe five-foot-six and weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. But he’s shoving my six-foot-three frame against the foyer wall like I’m some sort of rag doll, and shoving his mouth against mine like he’s the biggest top in the world. His fingers wrestle with my shirt buttons. He’s pulling my button-down over my shoulders and down my arms so quickly I’m sure it’s ripped. His hands dance down into my pants, slipping past the waistband and dipping into my underwear. He grabs my cock with one hand. It’s already hard and slick with pre-cum. His other hand pries at the cleft of my ass. Mouth on my mouth. Left hand squeezing my dick. Right fingers rubbing my hole. He’s like an expert puppeteer, and I’m his sexual marionette. With that approach he could get me to do anything.
He fuckin’ knows it, too.
We bounce down the hallway, his back striking one wall when I shove him there, mine hitting the other when he pushes back. I’ve lost most of my clothes by the time we’re in his living area. My shirt is a rumpled pile by the kitchen, my pants an inside-out mess on the carpet. I flip off my socks with an index finger, without removing my mouth from his. By the time he shoves me down onto his Murphy bed, causing the frame to shudder, I’m only wearing my trunks. But he yanks those off as well. The next thing I know, my face is buried among the masses of pillows at the top of the bed. He’s on me like a horny dog, his cock battering my ass cheeks so hard that I’m sure they’re bruised. “I haff missed you, sweet lover,” he murmurs, over and over again. He’s kissing the sweet spot on the back of my neck, blinding me with sensation. I can’t even open my eyes, the waves of pleasure are so overwhelming.
He’s multitasking on my body—thrusting against my cheeks with his cocks, squeezing my nipples like he’s trying to pop grapes, kissing and licking at the nape of my neck, my earlobes, my shoulders. His teeth are nipping at my skin, his breath is tickling my follicles. He’s pushing me down, pressing me into the mattress with every thrust.
Then he pauses. I hear the click of a container. “I haff missed you so much,” he repeats, as his knees spread apart my thighs. I gasp. He’s shoving lube into me. I don’t know which pains me more, the chilly lubricant or the savage insistence of his fingers.
“I’m not really loosened up. . . .” I try to protest, but only the pillows hear.
“I haff wanted you so much,” he says, in his heavy accent. The words slide directly from his lips into my ear, as if he’s pouring them in. “You shouldn’t deny your loffer what he wants. It makes him crazy for you,” he whispers. I feel him nudge against my hole, then feel the motion of his hand as he slicks up his own dick. “I want to be in you,” he grunts, moving in closer. “Please. . . .”
What pushes against my hole is definitely not his ‘tong.’ I wince, and breathe in air so rapidly that my teeth ache from the rush. “Ssshh,” he whispers, stroking my head. “It will be good.”
It’s not good. Not at first. I find myself drawing in my arms and bowing my head as he shoves himself in. The Russian has a massive cock—it’s easily an inch longer than my own, and equally thick. I can tell by the way I’m opening up, ceding to him, that he’s working in the first four inches. And every fraction of it seems is nothing but pure, sheer pain. I’m protesting beneath him, hugging myself tight with my elbows at the bottom of my ribcage and my clenched fists at my shoulders, as if I’m posing for mummification.
“It hurts!” I grunt out. “Christ, you’re so big! You’re so fucking big. It fucking hurts.”
He knows. I’ve made that amply clear. He wants my hole, though, and as a top who’s sweet-talked his way into many a hole that resisted being opened, I couldn’t blame him for trying. “I will stop if you want,” he assures me, pausing in his relentless drive inside. “Do you want?”
I do want. But I don’t want. Because I know. . . . I don’t know what I know, but I know that if I ask him to pull out, I’ll regret it later. So I can’t say yes, but I don’t say no.
He correctly interprets my silence as assent. I huff breath in and out as he continues to push himself inside me. It’s difficult and painful, and there are moments when I can’t conceive of my ass taking any more of him. I hear him whispering words of comfort and encouragement in my ears, but I don’t understand a word of them. I just know there’s a moment when I feel his hips against my ass, and his bush tickling my hole. I understand that he’s in, and that he’s holding very still and waiting for me to catch up to him in pleasure.
And I will catch up to him, very soon. The pause gives me a moment to stop hyperventilating, to relax. It also something inside me to shift. His dick is a key, and once he’s slid to the base, tumblers inside me rearrange themselves. Once he’s flipped that switch inside me, I’m not feeling pain any longer. Only pleasure—and such overwhelming waves of it that at first I don’t even know how to cope with it all. My dick swells, my balls tighten. What was wrong and painful is now right and amazingly good. “Oh god,” I whisper.
He knows what I’m feeling. He feels my back arch from the sensations, feels my head loll back over his shoulder. He takes an experimental stroke to make sure he’s not hurting me any more. I feel his soft kisses on the back of my head, on my neck, my shoulders. But how could I hurt from that cock? It’s beautiful, and he’s beautiful, and even though I was in agony only seconds before, every ache of it has been erased by the sheer pleasure of his erect meat inside me.
When I eat spicy foods—Thai’s my favorite—one of the things I love is how once they overload my palate after the first few bites, I’m suddenly able to taste subtleties I’d otherwise miss; my mouth is so afire and tingling that I notice little sweetnesses and savoriness. My tastebuds feel elevated. Renewed. Reprogrammed.
It’s like that with his dick in me. He’s not only stretching me wide and opening me deep. He’s reprogramming every nerve in every square inch of skin on my body. I’m feeling things I haven’t felt before. Extremes of hot and cold, at the same time. Extremes of pleasure, rippling in waves that I could almost diagram mathematically, they’re so precise. Everywhere he touches me resonates in a way that wouldn’t ordinarily, from an ordinary brush of the fingertips. Discomforts turn into pleasure; pleasure becomes ecstasy. My entire being, at that moment, revolves around the cock that’s sliding in and out of my hole. There’s no way I would ever ask him to stop. There’s no way I should fear what he’s giving me. Not from him.
The entire time he fucks me, he whispers sweet things into my ear. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me how good I’m making him feel. He whispers to me in Russian, in English, in syllables that could be either but which float by me as I swim without motion through the exquisite sensations his dick is producing. I’m vaguely aware when he tells me he’s close; he tells me he wants to knock up my sweet cunt. All I can do is nod, and beg him to.
I shoot before he does. He’s reached around to play with my dick as he pounds away at me. Helplessly I yell out when he jacks me to climax. For a few seconds I shoot what feels like a bucket of cum into his sheets; then all the bliss of the fuck, all the pleasure, all the rapture of it suddenly drops away. It’s as if I’ve been coasting with a parachute only to have it cut away from my shoulders. I’m free-falling down as once again my body reprograms itself.
He’s shooting inside me, though. I can feel the jets of warm cum hitting my guts. I feel him shove himself deep within, getting the seed inside. My hole hurts and stings from the blasts of warm fluid against my red, puffy flesh. But with his arms around me, I’m not anxious. We drift together back from from heights we’ve achieved down to the mattress, where we remain curled and intertwined. When he pulls out of me, I fear my over-stretched muscles might gush his seed onto the bed. But he pulls me to him and holds his pelvis against my hole. He doesn’t want me to lose his sperm any more than I do.
By the time he puts me into a taxi, four hours later, I’m carrying three of his loads. When I shower the next day, I’m embarrassed to touch my hole. He’s turned me out. He’s fucked me so hard that I feel like a clinical prolapse case. It’s over a week before my colon has reclaimed its own, and it’s another two months before I can even contemplate bottoming again.
I dont like having to wait three months before I can fuck you again lover, he writes me this week.
But damn. That’s about as much as I can take from the guy.
I think I’m ready for more now, though.
With typical frankness, I told him why. It’s because you ripped up my hole so badly last time that it’s taken this long to get back into shape.
I will make sexy love to you, he wrote back. I will use tong on your beautiful ass and make love to you with tong until you ready for cock. Then my cock make you feel wonderfull.
Well, it’s hard to resist naive charm like that.
One night a week later, I arrive at his apartment building in the city. Sign in at the front desk and wait for the doorman to call up. Then I take the elevator and walk down the long hallway to the Russian’s apartment, where I knock and wait, while nervously shifting from head to toe.
I’m not going to lie. At this point, I’ve taken more fucks from this guy in three months than I have from all guys in the ten years prior. It’s still not a lot of fucks, though. I don’t consider myself a very confident bottom. If it weren’t for the fact that my hole made him nut three times the last time we got together, I wouldn’t even consider myself a good bottom. (There has to be a basic level of competency there to get him to shoot though, right?)
So yeah, I’m nervous as I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, wondering and worrying at the inevitable fact that I’ll probably get my hole stretched and tortured that night. I’ve done my due diligence, though. I’ve showered and douched and evacuated and douched and repeated the process several times. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen without anyone being embarrassed. My thorough bottom buddies through the year would’ve been proud.
I don’t have to wait long for the door to open. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a pair of white lounge pants with the drawstrings hanging down his legs. My eyes are drawn down his naked torso—beautifully shaped and generously worked out—to the area framed by those swinging drawstrings. There’s a bulge there too large to overlook.
“Oh, baby,” he says, when I step in. “I have missed you.”
Next thing I know, he’s pushing me up against the door. The Russian isn’t a tall man. He’s maybe five-foot-six and weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. But he’s shoving my six-foot-three frame against the foyer wall like I’m some sort of rag doll, and shoving his mouth against mine like he’s the biggest top in the world. His fingers wrestle with my shirt buttons. He’s pulling my button-down over my shoulders and down my arms so quickly I’m sure it’s ripped. His hands dance down into my pants, slipping past the waistband and dipping into my underwear. He grabs my cock with one hand. It’s already hard and slick with pre-cum. His other hand pries at the cleft of my ass. Mouth on my mouth. Left hand squeezing my dick. Right fingers rubbing my hole. He’s like an expert puppeteer, and I’m his sexual marionette. With that approach he could get me to do anything.
He fuckin’ knows it, too.
We bounce down the hallway, his back striking one wall when I shove him there, mine hitting the other when he pushes back. I’ve lost most of my clothes by the time we’re in his living area. My shirt is a rumpled pile by the kitchen, my pants an inside-out mess on the carpet. I flip off my socks with an index finger, without removing my mouth from his. By the time he shoves me down onto his Murphy bed, causing the frame to shudder, I’m only wearing my trunks. But he yanks those off as well. The next thing I know, my face is buried among the masses of pillows at the top of the bed. He’s on me like a horny dog, his cock battering my ass cheeks so hard that I’m sure they’re bruised. “I haff missed you, sweet lover,” he murmurs, over and over again. He’s kissing the sweet spot on the back of my neck, blinding me with sensation. I can’t even open my eyes, the waves of pleasure are so overwhelming.
He’s multitasking on my body—thrusting against my cheeks with his cocks, squeezing my nipples like he’s trying to pop grapes, kissing and licking at the nape of my neck, my earlobes, my shoulders. His teeth are nipping at my skin, his breath is tickling my follicles. He’s pushing me down, pressing me into the mattress with every thrust.
Then he pauses. I hear the click of a container. “I haff missed you so much,” he repeats, as his knees spread apart my thighs. I gasp. He’s shoving lube into me. I don’t know which pains me more, the chilly lubricant or the savage insistence of his fingers.
“I’m not really loosened up. . . .” I try to protest, but only the pillows hear.
“I haff wanted you so much,” he says, in his heavy accent. The words slide directly from his lips into my ear, as if he’s pouring them in. “You shouldn’t deny your loffer what he wants. It makes him crazy for you,” he whispers. I feel him nudge against my hole, then feel the motion of his hand as he slicks up his own dick. “I want to be in you,” he grunts, moving in closer. “Please. . . .”
What pushes against my hole is definitely not his ‘tong.’ I wince, and breathe in air so rapidly that my teeth ache from the rush. “Ssshh,” he whispers, stroking my head. “It will be good.”
It’s not good. Not at first. I find myself drawing in my arms and bowing my head as he shoves himself in. The Russian has a massive cock—it’s easily an inch longer than my own, and equally thick. I can tell by the way I’m opening up, ceding to him, that he’s working in the first four inches. And every fraction of it seems is nothing but pure, sheer pain. I’m protesting beneath him, hugging myself tight with my elbows at the bottom of my ribcage and my clenched fists at my shoulders, as if I’m posing for mummification.
“It hurts!” I grunt out. “Christ, you’re so big! You’re so fucking big. It fucking hurts.”
He knows. I’ve made that amply clear. He wants my hole, though, and as a top who’s sweet-talked his way into many a hole that resisted being opened, I couldn’t blame him for trying. “I will stop if you want,” he assures me, pausing in his relentless drive inside. “Do you want?”
I do want. But I don’t want. Because I know. . . . I don’t know what I know, but I know that if I ask him to pull out, I’ll regret it later. So I can’t say yes, but I don’t say no.
He correctly interprets my silence as assent. I huff breath in and out as he continues to push himself inside me. It’s difficult and painful, and there are moments when I can’t conceive of my ass taking any more of him. I hear him whispering words of comfort and encouragement in my ears, but I don’t understand a word of them. I just know there’s a moment when I feel his hips against my ass, and his bush tickling my hole. I understand that he’s in, and that he’s holding very still and waiting for me to catch up to him in pleasure.
And I will catch up to him, very soon. The pause gives me a moment to stop hyperventilating, to relax. It also something inside me to shift. His dick is a key, and once he’s slid to the base, tumblers inside me rearrange themselves. Once he’s flipped that switch inside me, I’m not feeling pain any longer. Only pleasure—and such overwhelming waves of it that at first I don’t even know how to cope with it all. My dick swells, my balls tighten. What was wrong and painful is now right and amazingly good. “Oh god,” I whisper.
He knows what I’m feeling. He feels my back arch from the sensations, feels my head loll back over his shoulder. He takes an experimental stroke to make sure he’s not hurting me any more. I feel his soft kisses on the back of my head, on my neck, my shoulders. But how could I hurt from that cock? It’s beautiful, and he’s beautiful, and even though I was in agony only seconds before, every ache of it has been erased by the sheer pleasure of his erect meat inside me.
When I eat spicy foods—Thai’s my favorite—one of the things I love is how once they overload my palate after the first few bites, I’m suddenly able to taste subtleties I’d otherwise miss; my mouth is so afire and tingling that I notice little sweetnesses and savoriness. My tastebuds feel elevated. Renewed. Reprogrammed.
It’s like that with his dick in me. He’s not only stretching me wide and opening me deep. He’s reprogramming every nerve in every square inch of skin on my body. I’m feeling things I haven’t felt before. Extremes of hot and cold, at the same time. Extremes of pleasure, rippling in waves that I could almost diagram mathematically, they’re so precise. Everywhere he touches me resonates in a way that wouldn’t ordinarily, from an ordinary brush of the fingertips. Discomforts turn into pleasure; pleasure becomes ecstasy. My entire being, at that moment, revolves around the cock that’s sliding in and out of my hole. There’s no way I would ever ask him to stop. There’s no way I should fear what he’s giving me. Not from him.
The entire time he fucks me, he whispers sweet things into my ear. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me how good I’m making him feel. He whispers to me in Russian, in English, in syllables that could be either but which float by me as I swim without motion through the exquisite sensations his dick is producing. I’m vaguely aware when he tells me he’s close; he tells me he wants to knock up my sweet cunt. All I can do is nod, and beg him to.
I shoot before he does. He’s reached around to play with my dick as he pounds away at me. Helplessly I yell out when he jacks me to climax. For a few seconds I shoot what feels like a bucket of cum into his sheets; then all the bliss of the fuck, all the pleasure, all the rapture of it suddenly drops away. It’s as if I’ve been coasting with a parachute only to have it cut away from my shoulders. I’m free-falling down as once again my body reprograms itself.
He’s shooting inside me, though. I can feel the jets of warm cum hitting my guts. I feel him shove himself deep within, getting the seed inside. My hole hurts and stings from the blasts of warm fluid against my red, puffy flesh. But with his arms around me, I’m not anxious. We drift together back from from heights we’ve achieved down to the mattress, where we remain curled and intertwined. When he pulls out of me, I fear my over-stretched muscles might gush his seed onto the bed. But he pulls me to him and holds his pelvis against my hole. He doesn’t want me to lose his sperm any more than I do.
By the time he puts me into a taxi, four hours later, I’m carrying three of his loads. When I shower the next day, I’m embarrassed to touch my hole. He’s turned me out. He’s fucked me so hard that I feel like a clinical prolapse case. It’s over a week before my colon has reclaimed its own, and it’s another two months before I can even contemplate bottoming again.
I dont like having to wait three months before I can fuck you again lover, he writes me this week.
But damn. That’s about as much as I can take from the guy.
I think I’m ready for more now, though.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday Park and Ride
When I pull into the park-and-ride lot, it’s nearly full with cars idling, headlights on. Most of the cars are mini-vans, or foreign-made SUVs. Most have women at the wheel. I drive to the lot’s far end and pull into a length where there are a few empty spaces. Almost immediately after I turn off the ignition, I see why there are so many moms waiting in their cars; a short yellow bus pulls into the lot’s mouth, disgorges a dozen middle-school-aged kids, and eases off again. The children run and skip to their respective parents. The cars whirr into motion and disappear in the direction of the parkway.
Save for a few empty cars belonging to city commuters, I’m alone in the lot.
But not for long. A sedan pulls in next to me. He’s about to drive a half-dozen spaces down and park on the opposite side of a pair of parked and empty cars, but he catches sight of me turning to glimpse him. He pulls instead into the space next to mine. The park-and-ride can be a dicey place to pick guys up. I’ve had hot times at it, but the number of trolls and guys I find unattractive is so disproportionately high there to what I find in online spots, or in bars. So I look over cautiously, casually, prepared to let my glance wander past without engaging if the man looks unpleasant.
This guy, though. Handsome. Young. His dark hair is cut meticulously. Even through the two layers of glass that are my window and his, I can tell he’s a looker. And the looker’s looking right at me. I arrest my glance when our eyes meet. They lock, drill into each other. He nods slightly. I nod. He looks around to see if there are any other cars in the vicinity, then looks back at me. He jerks his head toward the lot exit. I nod, and start my car.
I follow him to the smaller commuter lot on the north side of the parkway. The south lot can hold three dozen cars; this one can barely fit nine. I park at a right angle to his car, slip out of my vehicle, and walk over to the sedan’s passenger side. He puts his hand on my leg when I sit down in the leather seat. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I smile back.
He’s even more handsome than I thought. He’s East Indian from one of his parents, white from the other, is my best guess. His hand slides up to my crotch, and rubs my hard dick through the denim. He’s wearing an expensive shirt of an on-trend shade of purple. French cuffs. Gold cuff links with sapphires, or something sapphire-adjacent. Fine wool pants. I’m feeling like a scrub in my hoodie and ratty brown T-shirt, with my Converse sneakers and my tousled hair. At least, when he leans over to unzip me, I can boast I’m wearing a pair of Hugo Boss briefs. But they’re not even mine. The Rock Star lent them to me for the week. “You’re really handsome,” I venture.
“God, so are you,” he whispers back.
I straighten up. Alert, he pulls back. As I zip my jeans, a car backs into the space directly beside us. The driver’s face leers out the window, only a couple of feet away. He’s an older guy, which I don’t find repellant in itself at all. But he’s not really a sexy, daddy-like older guy. He’s more like the jowly predator in a trench coat who lurks at the edges of playgrounds, in parents’ worst imaginations. He looks more whiskery bloodhound than human. He’s not there to park, or ride. He’s there to stare and leer and try to catch a glimpse of the action.
The drive and I wait a moment, hands on each other’s legs. “Is it worth trying to outwait him?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get home.” He wears a wedding ring.
“Do you know anywhere else?” I ask. He shakes his head once more.
It’s a wash. I tell him I hope I’ll see him again, and I return to my car. Then I drive back to the south lot, park again, and wait.
Again, I don’t have to idle for long. A man pulls in next to me in a foreign-made truck, shiny, new, and obviously never used for hauling anything heavier than groceries. He’s an older guy. But this is the kind of older guy for which I easily go weak at the knees—well-groomed, handsome, in good shape. Even from the biceps up I can tell he’s a beefy man who takes care of himself. He’s sitting a couple of feet above me, so when I grab my crotch and squeeze it, he’s got a clear view. I nod at the seat beside me.
He slips out of the cab of his truck and into my car. “Hi,” I say.
He just puts one hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in, and kisses me. He tastes like coffee, but it’s a good taste; I keep my eyes open and my senses alert as he opens my mouth with his probing tongue. Then he lets go of me.
“Fuck,” is my only reply.
He’s also very well dressed. His shirt is white, pressed, and pleated in all the right spots. He flips open a couple of buttons to expose the barrel of his chest. It’s covered with silver fur. His pecs are impressive for a man of any age, but this cat has to be at least in his late sixties. I reach over to his trousers—a caramel-colored herringbone tweed—and find his dick immediately. It’s rock-hard, and jutting to the left. He’s big. My size big.
His hands are on the back of my neck, kneading the muscles there. “Sweet Jesus,” I whisper.
He speaks his first words. “I would give anything to get you naked, son.”
I shiver. “I’d do anything you told me, sir.”
“Yeah?” He asks. He’s obviously turned on by my mode of address. Beneath the herringbone, his dick stirs and becomes even harder. “Anything?”
“What do you want, dad?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He’s got a firm grip on the back of my neck. “I’d tell you to take all your clothes off and get naked for me.” I nod. “Then I’d tell you to stroke yourself while daddy watches.”
“Yes sir,” I whisper.
“Then I’d push you to your knees and make you suck daddy’s dick.”
“I want to suck daddy’s dick,” I say, with an unconscious lick of my lips.
“Then I’d flip you over and explore that hole of yours,” he promises.
I can barely breath, my breath is so raspy. “Would you . . . want to fuck me?” He nods, very slowly, very deliberately. “I don’t get fucked very often.”
“I don’t know why not. You sure are pretty, son.”
“I’d give it up for you, sir.”
“Sweet little boy,” he says. The novelty of being anyone’s little boy at this time of my life is overwhelming. I flush furiously with pleasure as he runs the edge of his hand through my hair. “You’d do as you’re told?”
“I always do what my dad tells me,” I promise.
“You’d be obedient? You want to please daddy?”
“Yes sir,” I say. There’s a slight whine of need in my voice.
“Do you want my dick? Do you want it now?” He’s pushing at the back of my head as he unfastens his tweeds with the other. Fucker has no underwear on. He just whips it out. He’s sitting there with that carpet of silver fur on his chest, shirt open to the waist, pants unzipped, big dick leaking precum. Then he shoves down with his hand.
I know what dad wants. He keeps an eye out while I bend down and suck him. I wrap my mouth around that stiff rod. All the way down I go, only to slide all the way back up, using only my lips and the strength of my embouchure to make my mouth tight around his cock. He keeps a hand on the back of my head the entire time, pushing me down and thrusting up into my mouth in a fast-paced rhythm. It isn’t going to take long, I can tell. He’s already producing even more precum. He’s leaking like a faucet onto my tongue and down the back of my throat.
When he climaxes, it’s swiftly and silently. He holds my head down the entire time. As if I’m tempted to come up for air. I want that fucking load. He sprays it into my mouth, a thin and salty geyser of fluid that I have to swallow twice to consume. I wait for the last glob, then back off.
I sit there, stunned by it all. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in—it just happened so fucking quickly. He zips up, claps his hands on his legs, and stares at me. “You’ve got sperm in your beard,” he says, pointing to the right side of his face, mirroring where it is. I raise my left hand automatically to locate it and wipe it away, but he grabs my wrist, hard. “Leave it,” he orders. “Are you going home now?”
I nod.
“Leave it in your beard all the way home. Don’t touch it. Don’t get rid of it. When you get home, that’s when you can wipe it away. Before anyone else notices.” He releases the tight clutch on my wrist, and brings my hand to his lips in a courtly manner. He kisses the ring on the fourth finger.
“Yes sir,” I promise.
He exits with another ruffle of my hair. I look at my face in the mirror. It’s not just a little sperm. It’s a huge spray of it. I don’t even know how it could’ve gotten there.
But I wear it as my badge of honor on the drive home, proud to have been a good daddy’s boy.
Save for a few empty cars belonging to city commuters, I’m alone in the lot.
But not for long. A sedan pulls in next to me. He’s about to drive a half-dozen spaces down and park on the opposite side of a pair of parked and empty cars, but he catches sight of me turning to glimpse him. He pulls instead into the space next to mine. The park-and-ride can be a dicey place to pick guys up. I’ve had hot times at it, but the number of trolls and guys I find unattractive is so disproportionately high there to what I find in online spots, or in bars. So I look over cautiously, casually, prepared to let my glance wander past without engaging if the man looks unpleasant.
This guy, though. Handsome. Young. His dark hair is cut meticulously. Even through the two layers of glass that are my window and his, I can tell he’s a looker. And the looker’s looking right at me. I arrest my glance when our eyes meet. They lock, drill into each other. He nods slightly. I nod. He looks around to see if there are any other cars in the vicinity, then looks back at me. He jerks his head toward the lot exit. I nod, and start my car.
I follow him to the smaller commuter lot on the north side of the parkway. The south lot can hold three dozen cars; this one can barely fit nine. I park at a right angle to his car, slip out of my vehicle, and walk over to the sedan’s passenger side. He puts his hand on my leg when I sit down in the leather seat. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I smile back.
He’s even more handsome than I thought. He’s East Indian from one of his parents, white from the other, is my best guess. His hand slides up to my crotch, and rubs my hard dick through the denim. He’s wearing an expensive shirt of an on-trend shade of purple. French cuffs. Gold cuff links with sapphires, or something sapphire-adjacent. Fine wool pants. I’m feeling like a scrub in my hoodie and ratty brown T-shirt, with my Converse sneakers and my tousled hair. At least, when he leans over to unzip me, I can boast I’m wearing a pair of Hugo Boss briefs. But they’re not even mine. The Rock Star lent them to me for the week. “You’re really handsome,” I venture.
“God, so are you,” he whispers back.
I straighten up. Alert, he pulls back. As I zip my jeans, a car backs into the space directly beside us. The driver’s face leers out the window, only a couple of feet away. He’s an older guy, which I don’t find repellant in itself at all. But he’s not really a sexy, daddy-like older guy. He’s more like the jowly predator in a trench coat who lurks at the edges of playgrounds, in parents’ worst imaginations. He looks more whiskery bloodhound than human. He’s not there to park, or ride. He’s there to stare and leer and try to catch a glimpse of the action.
The drive and I wait a moment, hands on each other’s legs. “Is it worth trying to outwait him?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get home.” He wears a wedding ring.
“Do you know anywhere else?” I ask. He shakes his head once more.
It’s a wash. I tell him I hope I’ll see him again, and I return to my car. Then I drive back to the south lot, park again, and wait.
Again, I don’t have to idle for long. A man pulls in next to me in a foreign-made truck, shiny, new, and obviously never used for hauling anything heavier than groceries. He’s an older guy. But this is the kind of older guy for which I easily go weak at the knees—well-groomed, handsome, in good shape. Even from the biceps up I can tell he’s a beefy man who takes care of himself. He’s sitting a couple of feet above me, so when I grab my crotch and squeeze it, he’s got a clear view. I nod at the seat beside me.
He slips out of the cab of his truck and into my car. “Hi,” I say.
He just puts one hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in, and kisses me. He tastes like coffee, but it’s a good taste; I keep my eyes open and my senses alert as he opens my mouth with his probing tongue. Then he lets go of me.
“Fuck,” is my only reply.
He’s also very well dressed. His shirt is white, pressed, and pleated in all the right spots. He flips open a couple of buttons to expose the barrel of his chest. It’s covered with silver fur. His pecs are impressive for a man of any age, but this cat has to be at least in his late sixties. I reach over to his trousers—a caramel-colored herringbone tweed—and find his dick immediately. It’s rock-hard, and jutting to the left. He’s big. My size big.
His hands are on the back of my neck, kneading the muscles there. “Sweet Jesus,” I whisper.
He speaks his first words. “I would give anything to get you naked, son.”
I shiver. “I’d do anything you told me, sir.”
“Yeah?” He asks. He’s obviously turned on by my mode of address. Beneath the herringbone, his dick stirs and becomes even harder. “Anything?”
“What do you want, dad?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He’s got a firm grip on the back of my neck. “I’d tell you to take all your clothes off and get naked for me.” I nod. “Then I’d tell you to stroke yourself while daddy watches.”
“Yes sir,” I whisper.
“Then I’d push you to your knees and make you suck daddy’s dick.”
“I want to suck daddy’s dick,” I say, with an unconscious lick of my lips.
“Then I’d flip you over and explore that hole of yours,” he promises.
I can barely breath, my breath is so raspy. “Would you . . . want to fuck me?” He nods, very slowly, very deliberately. “I don’t get fucked very often.”
“I don’t know why not. You sure are pretty, son.”
“I’d give it up for you, sir.”
“Sweet little boy,” he says. The novelty of being anyone’s little boy at this time of my life is overwhelming. I flush furiously with pleasure as he runs the edge of his hand through my hair. “You’d do as you’re told?”
“I always do what my dad tells me,” I promise.
“You’d be obedient? You want to please daddy?”
“Yes sir,” I say. There’s a slight whine of need in my voice.
“Do you want my dick? Do you want it now?” He’s pushing at the back of my head as he unfastens his tweeds with the other. Fucker has no underwear on. He just whips it out. He’s sitting there with that carpet of silver fur on his chest, shirt open to the waist, pants unzipped, big dick leaking precum. Then he shoves down with his hand.
I know what dad wants. He keeps an eye out while I bend down and suck him. I wrap my mouth around that stiff rod. All the way down I go, only to slide all the way back up, using only my lips and the strength of my embouchure to make my mouth tight around his cock. He keeps a hand on the back of my head the entire time, pushing me down and thrusting up into my mouth in a fast-paced rhythm. It isn’t going to take long, I can tell. He’s already producing even more precum. He’s leaking like a faucet onto my tongue and down the back of my throat.
When he climaxes, it’s swiftly and silently. He holds my head down the entire time. As if I’m tempted to come up for air. I want that fucking load. He sprays it into my mouth, a thin and salty geyser of fluid that I have to swallow twice to consume. I wait for the last glob, then back off.
I sit there, stunned by it all. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in—it just happened so fucking quickly. He zips up, claps his hands on his legs, and stares at me. “You’ve got sperm in your beard,” he says, pointing to the right side of his face, mirroring where it is. I raise my left hand automatically to locate it and wipe it away, but he grabs my wrist, hard. “Leave it,” he orders. “Are you going home now?”
I nod.
“Leave it in your beard all the way home. Don’t touch it. Don’t get rid of it. When you get home, that’s when you can wipe it away. Before anyone else notices.” He releases the tight clutch on my wrist, and brings my hand to his lips in a courtly manner. He kisses the ring on the fourth finger.
“Yes sir,” I promise.
He exits with another ruffle of my hair. I look at my face in the mirror. It’s not just a little sperm. It’s a huge spray of it. I don’t even know how it could’ve gotten there.
But I wear it as my badge of honor on the drive home, proud to have been a good daddy’s boy.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Just Like That
“Fucking hotel internet.” He’s leaning over his laptop. It’s no crackerjack of modern technology. The black plastic is all over thumbprints, the screen resolution is lower than an ancient GameBoy. “Is this thing working?” he asks. “Can you hear me?”
“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.
“You see me?”
“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.
The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”
“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”
The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.
“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.
“You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.
“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.
The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.
Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”
Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.
He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.
“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”
Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.
“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”
He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.
“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”
“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.
“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”
“You better make him yell,” she says.
“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.
She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”
The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”
“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”
“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”
“If he worth it. If he earn it.”
I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.
“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”
I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”
I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”
So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.
I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.
“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.
Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.
And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.
Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.
After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.
I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”
“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”
“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.
“You see me?”
“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.
The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”
“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”
The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.
“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.
“You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.
“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.
The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.
Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”
Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.
He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.
“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”
Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.
“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”
He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.
“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”
“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.
“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”
“You better make him yell,” she says.
“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.
She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”
The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”
“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”
“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”
“If he worth it. If he earn it.”
I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.
“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”
I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”
I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”
So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.
I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.
“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.
Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.
And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.
Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.
After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.
I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”
“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”
Monday, April 22, 2013
Open Here
Rock Star. He’s told me that’s what they call him in his line of work. It’s what I call him in my head.
He’s got the long hair of a rock star—an impeccably-conditioned mane that hangs down his shoulders to the middle of his back. Sometimes he ties it into a knot at the top of his head, transforming him into a character from an anime; one moment he looks as if he should be balancing a Stratocaster on the sharp bones of his hip, and the next he looks as if he’s going to transform into a magic-wielding shaman spouting mysterious wisdom and lightning from his fingertips.
He needs his own theme song.
Up close, when we’re kissing, his features are almost too large. His eyes are dark and the size of saucers. I could julienne vegetables with his large, keen-edged nose. His chin is as pointy as the Wicked Witch’s, his cheeks as sharp and dangerous as rocks along the New England coast. Singly, his features might be off-putting. But together, they cohere into near-perfection. I’m afraid to look at him sometimes, when we’re together. He’s almost too beautiful for mortal eyes. Mine start to water when I stare for too long, as if I’ve been gazing directly into the sun. He’s as alluring as he is dangerous.
Rock Star. It describes him perfectly.
His house is old and grand and sits atop one of the rocky hills near my home. To reach his bedroom, I have to work my way through four rooms, four doorways, two hallways, and a twisting old servant’s stair. Morning light streams in through the eastern windows when I turn the knob of his bedroom door. I’m expecting to find him beneath the sheets, sprawled naked and waiting, his hair cascading down his shoulders like a raven waterfall.
My expectations are too low. I see him on the bed—it’s hard to miss the twin highways of his calves running a course to the vanishing point between his wide-spread thighs. But he’s not beneath the covers. His head is hidden beneath a mountain of pillows; his enormous hands are stretched to the mattress’ furthest corners. And he’s not naked. His round bubble butt is encased in a pair of gray designer briefs. There’s a rip in them, strategically placed over the hole. I can see the fur beneath licking out, tempting me.
He’s taken a pen and written on the briefs. OPEN HERE, they read. One word above the hole, the other beneath.
The message isn’t very hard to decipher. I realize that I’ve been standing there staring at him for a long half-minute, afraid to end the perfection of the moment. I haven’t taken a breath. When I open my mouth to inhale, the room’s cool air pierces my lungs painfully. Again, so often as I feel when I’m in the Rock Star’s presence, I feel tears prickle behind the corners of my eyes. Some part of me, deep within, is convinced I don’t deserve this.
Earlier this year I’d been convinced that life was crapping on me endlessly. I’d had a lousy January and an even worse February when someone I trusted turned out to be unstable, even dangerous. I’d withdrawn from everything and was licking my wounds when the Rock Star walked into my life. It only goes to show—just when I was convinced that nothing could ever be good again, the wheel of fortune turned and dropped a little sheer perfection into my life. I’m astonished at the intensity with which this man desires me. I boggle when he texts me photos of himself—some nude, some dressed in my underwear that he keeps and obsessively wears. I melt when he whispers how handsome he finds me.
I’m constantly astonished how good the universe is to me, when I’m with this guy. I’m not much of a believer in traditional denominations, but brought up against this evidence of the universe’s bounty, and confronted by such effortless, unpracticed beauty . . . I’m suddenly the most devout of religious men.
So I kneel. On bended knee I approach the edge of the mattress. My hands scoop beneath his strong, hard thigh. I pull the Rock Star back until his ass meets my face. My left cheek rests on the OP; my hands caress the EN while I breath warm air through the hole, the size of a fifty-cent piece. He smells fresh from the shower. I tickle through the hole with a fingertip. He stirs beneath the pillows, letting out a muffled sigh.
He’s perfection. This situation is perfection; he’s planned it solely for the purpose of arousing me. Of pleasing me. And I’m about to ruin the solemn stillness, this frozen purity.
Because my cock demands it.
I grab the sides of the opening with hooked index and middle fingers. And I rip the fabric. The words disappear. I don’t give a shit. All I want is access to that hole. My fingers pull apart the round globes of his cheeks. My tongue strains for his hole. When the wetness of its surface meets the half-sweet, half-metallic tang he’s hiding deep between those muscles, I close my eyes and relax into him. He groans, and shoves back against my face. I bite his ass. I want to dig in my teeth, to rip into the flesh like a hungry wolf. He inspires my carnivore instincts. I content my urge by chewing on his hole, though. I nip, and rake my teeth against the tender flesh. I suck, and grind my incisors when it puckers out. I mash my beard against the pink flesh just inside the swelling, and hope that it feels like a thousand sharp knifepricks.
He loves the abuse. Over my animal growling I can hear him gasp, and groan. His hips arch. His dick is heavy with blood, and swing down between his legs. His fingers stop clawing at the sheets. They grab his cheeks and pull them apart. Wider, wider, so I can get deep. “Take them off,” I tell him, tugging at the waistband of the ruined shorts. He scrambles to obey. “These are mine,” I tell him. “I’m taking them home.”
“Please,” he whispers, once he’s kicked the ruined cotton to the room’s other side.
“Please what?” I ask.
“Please . . . fuck me. Please. Fuck me, please.”
My dick is swollen and angry. He’s like Spencer, this one. All that beauty makes me want to fucking punish him. All that beauty makes me want to punish him, fucking. There’s a bottle of lube on the bed. I squirt some of the clear fluid onto my fingers and slap them on his hole. He gasps and shudders as I finger it it in. “So you want me to fuck you?” I growl, as I massage more of the goo onto my dick. It’s already pumping out precum. Between my spit on the hole and the wet head of my dick, it hardly needs the lube.
He starts to answer, but I don’t give him a chance. I ram home my inches. He yells—a long, drawn-out cry of resistance and surprise, but it’s tempered by relief. Joy, even. When I first started to fuck the Rock Star, he was tight. So tight I had to sweet-talk my way in. Now though, after weeks of my cock, he’s primed for me. There’s not even any resistance as I sink in to the hilt. I grunt, and feel his prostate nudge my cock head as I hit home.
He’s feeling it too. Again he’s pulling at his butt cheeks, opening them as wide as possible for me. I start fucking him hard. No preliminaries. No buildup. No sweet grinding, no gentle lovemaking. This is a fuck. It’s as close to savage punishment as it gets. Relentless pounding. He’s yelling like a little boy taking a walloping from his daddy after a misdeed. He’s flinching with every stroke, shuddering and trembling like his body’s in shock from the abuse.
The difference between this and assault is that he loves it. “I want you in me,” he pleads, between thrusts. “I want you in me. All of you. All of you in me.”
He doesn’t mean just my cock. He means me, my body, everything. My essence, inside him. I’m about to give him just that. His head is hitting the wall above the bed. He’s going to get more loads from me that morning, but this one’s the one I’m pounding in the deepest. He coerces it from me by thrusting back. His pelvis hits my hipbones so hard that I’m sure I’ll bruise. “Take it,” I tell him, as I push his chest into the mattress. “Fucking take it.”
“Please,” he says. It’s his last coherency. He starts to growl obscenities as I make animal noises. We’re both brutes in heat, beasts with only the goal of mating. When I shoot, it’s at the bottom of a thrust. He knows the noises I make well enough by now to tell when I’m at climax. Greedily his butt clutches at my cock, coaxing the seed into him. He waggles his ass, shaking my dick to grab the last drops. Then he rolls over onto our sides—while I stay inside him—until he’s sprawled over my lap. His hand grabs his dick. One stroke. Two. Three. He shoots a geyser of semen across his chest. It lands on his right shoulder. Another spurt hits his nipple. The third lands on his belly.
Panting, we sink into each other, limbs tangled, chests heaving, his hair covering me like a blanket. We lie there until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. And then his head turns. He looks me in the face, and opens his eyes. I’m overwhelmed once again by his good looks. I’ve known many handsome men in my life, but this kind of sheer beauty is rare. “Don’t forget your shorts,” he murmurs to me, as he leans in for a kiss.
He’s got the long hair of a rock star—an impeccably-conditioned mane that hangs down his shoulders to the middle of his back. Sometimes he ties it into a knot at the top of his head, transforming him into a character from an anime; one moment he looks as if he should be balancing a Stratocaster on the sharp bones of his hip, and the next he looks as if he’s going to transform into a magic-wielding shaman spouting mysterious wisdom and lightning from his fingertips.
He needs his own theme song.
Up close, when we’re kissing, his features are almost too large. His eyes are dark and the size of saucers. I could julienne vegetables with his large, keen-edged nose. His chin is as pointy as the Wicked Witch’s, his cheeks as sharp and dangerous as rocks along the New England coast. Singly, his features might be off-putting. But together, they cohere into near-perfection. I’m afraid to look at him sometimes, when we’re together. He’s almost too beautiful for mortal eyes. Mine start to water when I stare for too long, as if I’ve been gazing directly into the sun. He’s as alluring as he is dangerous.
Rock Star. It describes him perfectly.
His house is old and grand and sits atop one of the rocky hills near my home. To reach his bedroom, I have to work my way through four rooms, four doorways, two hallways, and a twisting old servant’s stair. Morning light streams in through the eastern windows when I turn the knob of his bedroom door. I’m expecting to find him beneath the sheets, sprawled naked and waiting, his hair cascading down his shoulders like a raven waterfall.
My expectations are too low. I see him on the bed—it’s hard to miss the twin highways of his calves running a course to the vanishing point between his wide-spread thighs. But he’s not beneath the covers. His head is hidden beneath a mountain of pillows; his enormous hands are stretched to the mattress’ furthest corners. And he’s not naked. His round bubble butt is encased in a pair of gray designer briefs. There’s a rip in them, strategically placed over the hole. I can see the fur beneath licking out, tempting me.
He’s taken a pen and written on the briefs. OPEN HERE, they read. One word above the hole, the other beneath.
The message isn’t very hard to decipher. I realize that I’ve been standing there staring at him for a long half-minute, afraid to end the perfection of the moment. I haven’t taken a breath. When I open my mouth to inhale, the room’s cool air pierces my lungs painfully. Again, so often as I feel when I’m in the Rock Star’s presence, I feel tears prickle behind the corners of my eyes. Some part of me, deep within, is convinced I don’t deserve this.
Earlier this year I’d been convinced that life was crapping on me endlessly. I’d had a lousy January and an even worse February when someone I trusted turned out to be unstable, even dangerous. I’d withdrawn from everything and was licking my wounds when the Rock Star walked into my life. It only goes to show—just when I was convinced that nothing could ever be good again, the wheel of fortune turned and dropped a little sheer perfection into my life. I’m astonished at the intensity with which this man desires me. I boggle when he texts me photos of himself—some nude, some dressed in my underwear that he keeps and obsessively wears. I melt when he whispers how handsome he finds me.
I’m constantly astonished how good the universe is to me, when I’m with this guy. I’m not much of a believer in traditional denominations, but brought up against this evidence of the universe’s bounty, and confronted by such effortless, unpracticed beauty . . . I’m suddenly the most devout of religious men.
So I kneel. On bended knee I approach the edge of the mattress. My hands scoop beneath his strong, hard thigh. I pull the Rock Star back until his ass meets my face. My left cheek rests on the OP; my hands caress the EN while I breath warm air through the hole, the size of a fifty-cent piece. He smells fresh from the shower. I tickle through the hole with a fingertip. He stirs beneath the pillows, letting out a muffled sigh.
He’s perfection. This situation is perfection; he’s planned it solely for the purpose of arousing me. Of pleasing me. And I’m about to ruin the solemn stillness, this frozen purity.
Because my cock demands it.
I grab the sides of the opening with hooked index and middle fingers. And I rip the fabric. The words disappear. I don’t give a shit. All I want is access to that hole. My fingers pull apart the round globes of his cheeks. My tongue strains for his hole. When the wetness of its surface meets the half-sweet, half-metallic tang he’s hiding deep between those muscles, I close my eyes and relax into him. He groans, and shoves back against my face. I bite his ass. I want to dig in my teeth, to rip into the flesh like a hungry wolf. He inspires my carnivore instincts. I content my urge by chewing on his hole, though. I nip, and rake my teeth against the tender flesh. I suck, and grind my incisors when it puckers out. I mash my beard against the pink flesh just inside the swelling, and hope that it feels like a thousand sharp knifepricks.
He loves the abuse. Over my animal growling I can hear him gasp, and groan. His hips arch. His dick is heavy with blood, and swing down between his legs. His fingers stop clawing at the sheets. They grab his cheeks and pull them apart. Wider, wider, so I can get deep. “Take them off,” I tell him, tugging at the waistband of the ruined shorts. He scrambles to obey. “These are mine,” I tell him. “I’m taking them home.”
“Please,” he whispers, once he’s kicked the ruined cotton to the room’s other side.
“Please what?” I ask.
“Please . . . fuck me. Please. Fuck me, please.”
My dick is swollen and angry. He’s like Spencer, this one. All that beauty makes me want to fucking punish him. All that beauty makes me want to punish him, fucking. There’s a bottle of lube on the bed. I squirt some of the clear fluid onto my fingers and slap them on his hole. He gasps and shudders as I finger it it in. “So you want me to fuck you?” I growl, as I massage more of the goo onto my dick. It’s already pumping out precum. Between my spit on the hole and the wet head of my dick, it hardly needs the lube.
He starts to answer, but I don’t give him a chance. I ram home my inches. He yells—a long, drawn-out cry of resistance and surprise, but it’s tempered by relief. Joy, even. When I first started to fuck the Rock Star, he was tight. So tight I had to sweet-talk my way in. Now though, after weeks of my cock, he’s primed for me. There’s not even any resistance as I sink in to the hilt. I grunt, and feel his prostate nudge my cock head as I hit home.
He’s feeling it too. Again he’s pulling at his butt cheeks, opening them as wide as possible for me. I start fucking him hard. No preliminaries. No buildup. No sweet grinding, no gentle lovemaking. This is a fuck. It’s as close to savage punishment as it gets. Relentless pounding. He’s yelling like a little boy taking a walloping from his daddy after a misdeed. He’s flinching with every stroke, shuddering and trembling like his body’s in shock from the abuse.
The difference between this and assault is that he loves it. “I want you in me,” he pleads, between thrusts. “I want you in me. All of you. All of you in me.”
He doesn’t mean just my cock. He means me, my body, everything. My essence, inside him. I’m about to give him just that. His head is hitting the wall above the bed. He’s going to get more loads from me that morning, but this one’s the one I’m pounding in the deepest. He coerces it from me by thrusting back. His pelvis hits my hipbones so hard that I’m sure I’ll bruise. “Take it,” I tell him, as I push his chest into the mattress. “Fucking take it.”
“Please,” he says. It’s his last coherency. He starts to growl obscenities as I make animal noises. We’re both brutes in heat, beasts with only the goal of mating. When I shoot, it’s at the bottom of a thrust. He knows the noises I make well enough by now to tell when I’m at climax. Greedily his butt clutches at my cock, coaxing the seed into him. He waggles his ass, shaking my dick to grab the last drops. Then he rolls over onto our sides—while I stay inside him—until he’s sprawled over my lap. His hand grabs his dick. One stroke. Two. Three. He shoots a geyser of semen across his chest. It lands on his right shoulder. Another spurt hits his nipple. The third lands on his belly.
Panting, we sink into each other, limbs tangled, chests heaving, his hair covering me like a blanket. We lie there until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. And then his head turns. He looks me in the face, and opens his eyes. I’m overwhelmed once again by his good looks. I’ve known many handsome men in my life, but this kind of sheer beauty is rare. “Don’t forget your shorts,” he murmurs to me, as he leans in for a kiss.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Department of Deflated Erections
So I’m sitting there on cam late one night, last week. My dick’s hard, and I’m double-fisting it for the benefit of guys who are watching. My legs are spread wide. Anyone watching can see me clearly from the nose down to the dark shadow between my butt cheeks.
I’m not the only guy in this chat room showing off on cam. Not by a long shot. There are four, maybe five of us, and a good thirty or forty men watching. I’m getting a lion’s share of the compliments in the public chat room, though. Men are asking giving me the kind of compliments that my voracious ego eats up—telling me they love the look of my dick, telling me my body type strikes their fancy, that my beard and smile are sexy. And of course, my pleasure at the compliments just makes me smile more broadly. Everybody’s happy and horny and sailing briskly on a sexual buzz.
And oh, the private messages. A lot of them were coming my way, that night. Most of them were of the Hot cock!! variety, to which I’d reply thank you!! Conversations as fleeting and short-lived as soap bubbles, for the most part. A few men have turned on their own cams in the private message window for me, so that I can watch and listen to them pleasuring themselves as they stare at me. I’ve got whispered compliments from these men coming from my laptop’s speakers. They overlap each other and form a sexy sound as I edge myself closer and closer to orgasm.
Then I got a private message request from a guy I didn’t know. I checked out his profile. He was a handsome older gentleman, fit and firm, well-groomed, from an expensive suburb of Chicago. I accepted the request and was rewarded with a message that read, You have the most beautiful dick on here.
Well. My ego lapped that one up. Thanks, I typed back, and then moved the head of it closer to my cam for him. I’m glad you like it.
Like it! I love it! said the guy. I remember when my penis used to look like that.
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but I assumed he was saying something about how he used to get so hard in his younger days. Maybe he had erectile dysfunction, now. I didn’t say anything for a while. Then he typed another message. Then I got penile cancer, he said.
Oh, I’m sorry. The sympathy in my message was intended to be genuine, but there’s really only so much I can type when my brain is on sexual overdrive and my fingers are covered with my precum.
I was diagnosed when I was fifty-four, he wrote, and I went through four years of radiation and chemo, but there wasn’t much they could do. So now I’m left with a two-inch stump.
Gentlemen and ladies, I’m here to attest to the fact that nothing will kill a boner more quickly than someone telling you about his two-inch amputated stump. Absolutely, positively nothing. I’m one of those people who, when someone regales me in person with a jolly story about how they broke a finger in a slammed car door, will have to cover his ears and shout “LA LA LA LA LA!” at top volume to avoid fainting outright. Want to tell me about some YouTube video you saw in which a football player splintered his tibia ? You will watch me turn gray and slither into a puddle of moaning near-consciousness beneath my chair. I am a wimp when it comes to hearing about other people’s accidents and medical procedures and vaccinations.
So when this gentleman started going into what I thought was unbecoming detail about his amputation, my dick withered in my hand. All I could do was shudder, minimize his window, and put my softening toys away for the night. Sexy time postponed, at least for that night.
But then it happened again two days later. Same site, same kind of situation. I was stroking off on video and holding an outrageous flirtation with another camming top on the site in the public chat room when I got a private message from a sexy bottom guy who started out with some outrageous flattery along the lines of, OMG, I would pay to fly you out here to fuck me if I thought you’d do it.
I’d consider it, I told him.
That dick is so hot, I’ve got to have it, he told me. I’m serious about flying you out here.
And I was serious when I told him I’d consider it, I told him back.
All we’d have to do is wait until my swelling goes down, he said. I was just in for prostate surgery two weeks ago.
Wincing and already regretting the words as I typed them, I told him I was sorry to hear that.
Oh that’s okay, he said. I’m just lucky to be alive still! Then he proceeded in exquisite detail that wouldn’t have been amiss on an episode of one of the CSI procedurals to outline how he’d been diagnosed as having early onset prostate surgery. I started to go woozy when he began outlining for me the cocktail his anesthetist used to knock him out; by the time he was discussing exactly how much the surgeons carved away, I was so unaroused that my dick had actually retracted eight inches into my pelvis.
Then it happened a third time that same week, when I turned on my cam on another site and some guy immediately said, Wow, that’s a hot hard-on. I hope you know to use it or you’ll lose it, because after I came down with high blood pressure, I was never able to get an erection ever again. And now that I have testicular cancer. . . .
Well. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a fucking conspiracy. I was seriously beginning to wonder if I had a secret archenemy who was enlisting minions to deflate my dick and my puffed-up ego with salvos of medical chat that would attack me directly at boner ground zero. Because it surely was working.
My modest suggestion to viewers of cam shows is to keep the chat light. You know. Focus on sexy talk. Instead of talking about scalpels cutting into soft, diseased flesh, keep your focus on dicks shoving into tight holes. Instead of talking about how miserable are your bandages, talk about how hot you look in bondage. Don’t chat about hospital gowns. Talk about your fucking jockstraps.
As for the use of the word stump? I’m place a moratorium on it. Nobody wants to see me pass out on cam.
I’m not the only guy in this chat room showing off on cam. Not by a long shot. There are four, maybe five of us, and a good thirty or forty men watching. I’m getting a lion’s share of the compliments in the public chat room, though. Men are asking giving me the kind of compliments that my voracious ego eats up—telling me they love the look of my dick, telling me my body type strikes their fancy, that my beard and smile are sexy. And of course, my pleasure at the compliments just makes me smile more broadly. Everybody’s happy and horny and sailing briskly on a sexual buzz.
And oh, the private messages. A lot of them were coming my way, that night. Most of them were of the Hot cock!! variety, to which I’d reply thank you!! Conversations as fleeting and short-lived as soap bubbles, for the most part. A few men have turned on their own cams in the private message window for me, so that I can watch and listen to them pleasuring themselves as they stare at me. I’ve got whispered compliments from these men coming from my laptop’s speakers. They overlap each other and form a sexy sound as I edge myself closer and closer to orgasm.
Then I got a private message request from a guy I didn’t know. I checked out his profile. He was a handsome older gentleman, fit and firm, well-groomed, from an expensive suburb of Chicago. I accepted the request and was rewarded with a message that read, You have the most beautiful dick on here.
Well. My ego lapped that one up. Thanks, I typed back, and then moved the head of it closer to my cam for him. I’m glad you like it.
Like it! I love it! said the guy. I remember when my penis used to look like that.
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but I assumed he was saying something about how he used to get so hard in his younger days. Maybe he had erectile dysfunction, now. I didn’t say anything for a while. Then he typed another message. Then I got penile cancer, he said.
Oh, I’m sorry. The sympathy in my message was intended to be genuine, but there’s really only so much I can type when my brain is on sexual overdrive and my fingers are covered with my precum.
I was diagnosed when I was fifty-four, he wrote, and I went through four years of radiation and chemo, but there wasn’t much they could do. So now I’m left with a two-inch stump.
Gentlemen and ladies, I’m here to attest to the fact that nothing will kill a boner more quickly than someone telling you about his two-inch amputated stump. Absolutely, positively nothing. I’m one of those people who, when someone regales me in person with a jolly story about how they broke a finger in a slammed car door, will have to cover his ears and shout “LA LA LA LA LA!” at top volume to avoid fainting outright. Want to tell me about some YouTube video you saw in which a football player splintered his tibia ? You will watch me turn gray and slither into a puddle of moaning near-consciousness beneath my chair. I am a wimp when it comes to hearing about other people’s accidents and medical procedures and vaccinations.
So when this gentleman started going into what I thought was unbecoming detail about his amputation, my dick withered in my hand. All I could do was shudder, minimize his window, and put my softening toys away for the night. Sexy time postponed, at least for that night.
But then it happened again two days later. Same site, same kind of situation. I was stroking off on video and holding an outrageous flirtation with another camming top on the site in the public chat room when I got a private message from a sexy bottom guy who started out with some outrageous flattery along the lines of, OMG, I would pay to fly you out here to fuck me if I thought you’d do it.
I’d consider it, I told him.
That dick is so hot, I’ve got to have it, he told me. I’m serious about flying you out here.
And I was serious when I told him I’d consider it, I told him back.
All we’d have to do is wait until my swelling goes down, he said. I was just in for prostate surgery two weeks ago.
Wincing and already regretting the words as I typed them, I told him I was sorry to hear that.
Oh that’s okay, he said. I’m just lucky to be alive still! Then he proceeded in exquisite detail that wouldn’t have been amiss on an episode of one of the CSI procedurals to outline how he’d been diagnosed as having early onset prostate surgery. I started to go woozy when he began outlining for me the cocktail his anesthetist used to knock him out; by the time he was discussing exactly how much the surgeons carved away, I was so unaroused that my dick had actually retracted eight inches into my pelvis.
Then it happened a third time that same week, when I turned on my cam on another site and some guy immediately said, Wow, that’s a hot hard-on. I hope you know to use it or you’ll lose it, because after I came down with high blood pressure, I was never able to get an erection ever again. And now that I have testicular cancer. . . .
Well. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a fucking conspiracy. I was seriously beginning to wonder if I had a secret archenemy who was enlisting minions to deflate my dick and my puffed-up ego with salvos of medical chat that would attack me directly at boner ground zero. Because it surely was working.
My modest suggestion to viewers of cam shows is to keep the chat light. You know. Focus on sexy talk. Instead of talking about scalpels cutting into soft, diseased flesh, keep your focus on dicks shoving into tight holes. Instead of talking about how miserable are your bandages, talk about how hot you look in bondage. Don’t chat about hospital gowns. Talk about your fucking jockstraps.
As for the use of the word stump? I’m place a moratorium on it. Nobody wants to see me pass out on cam.
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