The Gypsy

“Sorry I’m late.” The Gypsy darkened my front doorway when he stepped over the threshold, Sunday morning. Not because of his mood, but because he’s a big hulking slab of man. He hovers at about six and a half feet, has big, broad shoulders, and tattooed, muscular arms. Everything about him is big, big, big. His head gives the impression of being the size of a watermelon. His feet are size sixteen sailboats. His hands are entire Virginia hams. He’s handsome and masculine and supersized like a McDonald’s double Big Mac and the largest side of fries. “There was flooding on the freeway, and I tried to. . . .” The Gypsy is the only man for whom I actually have to stand on tiptoe to kiss—all six-foot-three of me. When my lips touched his, his words drifted away.

I never really did find out what he tried to do on the freeway.

I call him the Gypsy because he’s the the direct descendant of generations of Romanian Gypsy blood. It shows in his hair, which grows into thick, dark curly tresses when he lets it get long, but more so in his eyes. His dark, liquid, black eyes that seem to take up the best portion of his face. They’re big, wide, and deep as wells.

He’s as gentle as a lamb, the Gypsy is. When I led him upstairs to my bed and lay down, he settled on top of me as softly as a feather, and almost as weightless. I wanted to be crushed, to feel all two hundred and fifty pounds of that enormous man’s body pushing me into the mattress. Instead, when he rested on me, he felt like a breathing, furry coverlet. “How long has it been, fucker?” he asked, when we came up for air while making out.

“God.” I thought back. The Gypsy and I used to see each other regularly, but it had to have been since at least March since I’d seen him last. I couldn’t remember writing about him in my blog, anyway. “Way too fucking long.”

He accepted that answer. When my mouth reached for his earlobe, he sighed and turned over onto his back. I rolled with him and ended up on top. He was wearing a sleeveless denim shirt that showed off his meaty shoulders, unfastened almost to his navel. I popped off the last two buttons and exposed his chest. Without hesitation I dove for his left nipple. My teeth clinked against the metal ring piercing it and lifting it up and out; he gasped and moaned and began to grind his hips against mine. I could feel his cock harden against my hips. My teeth tweaked and teased at his nipple for a little longer than he seemed willing to endure before I moved to the other.

His dick was rock-hard now. My fingers scrambled for his belt, yanking it loose and fumbling at the button of his shorts. Once they were open, I found that he wore no underwear. His cock was stiff and wet; he’d frosted his belly with precum. Instead of gulping down his dick, I pushed his legs up and back and licked his hole. His entire body shuddered.

I ate his hole for a long time, first on his back, and then while he twitched and ground his hips against the mattress on his belly. There’s a certain sense of power you feel as a top, when you’ve got a guy who could easily turn you into pulp under your complete control. Anything I did to him got a reaction. When I let my fingers trail down his back, he’d gasp. If I hauled off and slapped his cheeks, he’d grunt and ask for more. If I removed my mouth and tongue from his hole and blew a column of cool air on the spit-slick surface, he would let out a sudden moan and claw at the sheets. When I moved around to the bed’s side and stuff his mouth full of my dick, he wasn’t a big bruiser at all, but just like any other cock pig—submissive, obedient, and hungry.

Once I was slick and hard, I spread his legs with my knees and pushed my cock against his hole. “Let me sit on it,” he begged. “You’re too big to go in like that.”

“Sshhh,” I assured him. I uncapped my lube bottle, spread a little on his hole, and then spread it on my dick.

“Go slow.” I ignored him. I was already going slow. For a few seconds I let just the very tip of my dick probe his hole, back and forth, back and forth. Then the head slipped in. Like a rabbit, I made very speedy, small thrusts until he seemed ready for more. And then his hole parted and I slipped all the way in.

He groaned. It was a deep, chest-thrumming sound that shook the entire bed. When I began gliding back and forth, he said, “Would you do something for me?”

“What?” I asked.

“Bite me.” His voice was full of need. “Bite the back of my neck. Make me feel it. Leave marks.”

It wasn’t the request I’d been expecting. But I am, if anything, eager to please. His back arched when my lips met his neck. I let my teeth seize entire mouthfuls of flesh before I raked them over the skin. “You want a love bite?” I growled, even as I did it. “I’ll give you love bites.” I licked, bit, and sucked his neck and shoulders until I’d left little half-moon marks all over them. He, in turn, nearly wrenched the headboard from the bed, from clutching at it so hard.

My first load came while I fucked him like that, driving in while pushing his enormous body into the bed, my mouth on his shoulders and my hand shoving his face in the pillow. He grunted like a pig, waited until my body’s spasms had subsided, and then rolled me off him and cleaned my dick with his mouth. Then he sat on me.

The Gypsy has amazingly good control over his ass. I want to add, ‘for a guy his size,’ though logically I can’t pinpoint why I’d expect a guy of mammoth proportions to be less skillful with his butt muscles than anyone else. For over a half hour he was in control. His massive paws wrapped around my wrists to pin them to the bed, he raised and lowered himself on my dick as he squatted. “You like it when I rape your dick, don’t you?” he said.

I nearly came right then. One of my few unfulfilled fantasies has to do with being restrained and blindfolded and having a bottom ‘rape’ my dick how he pleases. Being pinned down roughly and ridden was a decent substitute. “Yes,” I hissed. “Please.”

“Just lie back and take it then, fucker.” For such a gentle man, the Gypsy knows how to torture a dick. He’d take me to the edge again and again, only to pull back before I came. He’d wait until my breathing calmed and my eyes would uncloud, then do it again. Finally, long minutes later, when my brow was furrowed with the stress of needing to unload, he began picking up the pace. “You can do it now,” he promised. “Do it, baby. Do it.”

This time, I came outside his ass, when on one of his up strokes I fell out of him with an audible, wet plop. My dick gushed its load on his cheeks, then almost immediately found its path back inside.

I fucked him on his back after that, while he played with his soft tool. Only after I’d shot for a third time in two hours did he get fully hard and come, and that was when I squatted over his face and bobbed my ass up and down on his mouth. His dick swelled and precum oozed from the head again. Within thirty seconds his nipples were hardening and his breathing began to hasten; thirty seconds later he shot straight up into the air a good six inches. A cascade of semen fell back down on his dick and balls as his body relaxed and quivered.

“Did you enjoy?” I asked him, when I’d mopped him off and we were lying down next to each other.

“Oh fuck,” he said, chuckling to himself. “You make me feel tiny, every time we fuck. Like I’m just a small guy. It’s great.”

I mulled over that one again—the fantasy of a giant to feel tiny and totally in someone else’s control. It didn’t take long for me to decide that having that power to transform was a gift of sorts indeed.