When he meets with clients, or works with the big three for the auto show, he’s known as Aaron. When he contacts me, he calls himself Cunt.
I’ve seen him in action as Aaron, the salt-and-pepper-haired daddy who commands respect as he organizes the biggest displays for the manufacturers. He wears tight dress slacks that show off his beefy butt, roped tight by an flawless black leather belt. His tailored shirts hug his body; his neckties are expensive and pristine. More often though, I’ve seen him as Cunt. Those times, he’s ass-up, hungry, and aching for my dick.
I’ve fucked Cunt for a good twelve years at this point, I’m guessing. It was shortly after I’d moved into my current home that he came over the first time. He wasn’t Cunt, then. He was a top who was relatively new to bottoming—and not very good or relaxed at it, either. Two years later he’d accepted his desires and learned how to please cock with his ass, and we settled into a more or less unvarying routine to which we stick, every time we meet.
Here are the things Cunt won’t do: kiss, suck, or use his mouth for anything but occasional replies to my commands. Here’s what he does very well: pussy up for a big dick. We don’t make love. We fuck. When I visit him, as I did Friday at dinnertime, I park in front of his exquisitely-maintained bungalow that’s only a ten-minute drive from my own home. I stroll up the manicured sidewalk, open the storm door, and find the front entrance ajar. No matter what the season, the inside of his home always smells like the ashes of fire logs, and of the oil he uses to keep shiny the leather of his living room sofas. If it’s winter, I’ll shuck my coat and my boots. Otherwise, I’ll head up the stairs and turn left, where the master bedroom door will be open.
And there he’ll be, kneeling on the bed. Ass-up, waiting, in the same position he assumed the moment I messaged to tell him I was on my way. Hole exposed and vulnerable. Cunt.
Cunt’s moved his bed to the center of the bedroom. A television rests on a ledge close by. Below the bed’s head is a bookcase, and a small stand where rests the latest issue of The New Yorker, open so that he can read while he waits for me in the position. On the bed corner rests a stack of small hand towels and a cylinder of lube.
Friday evening, when I strolled into the room and saw that familiar ass, I whistled as I kicked off my sandals. Off went my cargo shorts. I hadn’t bothered to wear underwear—just the shiny gold-colored cock ring that the Astrologist had accidentally left behind the week before. “Nice,” I said. Without any preliminaries, I knelt down on the hardwood floor and buried my face between his cheeks.
He grunted slightly as I licked at his hole. I’d asked him specifically not to pre-lube. Since the Cunt doesn’t suck or make out, I need a way to get hard, and diving into an ass with my mouth is the surest way. Cunt doesn’t have a tight little hole. There’s nothing little about that well-used chute at this point. The lips of his ass began to pucker and bulge the more I sucked at it; there came a point when I could actually seize those lips with my teeth and chew on them. It was then that I got a real reaction. Cunt began to buck and grind his hips in the air, and to drive his butt backward so that I’d have no choice but to munch on them with even more vigor.
That’s when I stood up and backed away. Cunt doesn’t get to have an opinion or a say in what happens. Cunt’s just a cunt.
I snapped open the lube bottle and, using my middle two fingers, roughly shoved a dollop of it up the hole, and then slapped some on my dick. My entry into his ass was rough; I shoved half my dick in there without warning, and then waited while he hissed and contracted around it. Once he’d calmed down a little, I shoved the rest in. I didn’t say a word as I began to stroke, very slowly, in and out.
Cunt’s ass is round and meaty. In slacks it gives the appearance of being a muscle bubble butt because of the laws of compression. Surrendered to a top, it’s revealed to be very soft and pillowy, like a woman’s ample rear. I like that. It means that when I pound hard, the ass cushions my blows. His flesh quivers and rolls every time I slam against him—the perfect physics demonstration of the properties of waves. I slapped his ass hard enough to leave big red handprints, and all Cunt did was grunt. He likes to be plowed rough. It makes him feel as if he’s of use.
“Make it tight,” I commanded. They were the first words I’d said since the one I’d let drop on my entry. Immediately Cunt attempted to tighten his hole’s muscles to grip my dick. He did a good job. It wasn’t a vise-grip hold by any means, but my dick appreciated the extra pressure. It responded by letting loose a glob of pre-cum. “Good cunt,” I whispered.
It’s only a word. It’s a word that many gay men don’t like, but to Cunt, the word holds so much power that every time I utter it, it renders him helpless. He buried his forehead in the crook of his forearm and let out a sound that was more animal than human. I reached down and scritched my nails against his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
Cunt and I only fuck in one position. He doesn’t like to lie on his back and lift his legs in the air, or to roll on his side and spoon. He’d have to show his face, to do so. He’s a handsome man by any standard, but when I’m pants-down in his bedroom, he doesn’t want to be admired, or wooed. He shuns compliments and small talk. He wants my dick, and he wants it as deep, and rough, and hard as I can give it. For several long minutes I obliged. Gradually I built the tempo, increasing the frenzy of my fucking until I felt as if I was leaving bruises on his backside. I know my pelvis was sore.
Then again, without warning, I yanked my dick out. It glistened in the early evening sun. When he whimpered, I ignored it. “I could zip up and walk out right now,” I announced. He didn’t answer, so I said it again. “I could zip up and walk the hell out right now. And then what would your hole do for dick?”
When he replied—and I knew he would—his answer was small and shamed. “Don’t.”
“”Don’t what?” I said loudly. He muttered something. “I can’t hear you, cunt.”
Again, the word had power for him. His back arched; he lifted his ass higher in the air, trying to find my dick in unseen space. “Don’t leave,” he said. I knew the words cost him. “Breed me.”
When I nudged the tip of my dick against his hole, he tried to lunge back against it. I didn’t let him. “Why should I?”
“Because I need your dick,” he said. “Because I need your dick. I’m empty without your dick. Please, sir. Give me your dick. Give me your seed. Please give me your big dick.”
It was good enough to end my bluff. I shoved my meat back inside its warm home. The little interchange had brought me closer to orgasm than even the roughest part of the fucking. I rammed home so hard that the bed began to bounce forward and lodge into the little stand at its head; the New Yorker slid from its place onto the floor. His chest thrummed as he clutched at the sheets and growled out, in his loudest and most bestial voice, “Fuckin’ breed me.”
It’s the only command I ever follow from Cunt. I unloaded in him with several sharp thrusts. The bedroom was air conditioned, but I was sweating like a pig anyway; beads of perspiration fell from my forehead and the long lanks of my hair onto his back. One more sharp jolt, and a shudder, and then I was done. I stood still for a minute and let the sparks clear from my eyes. Then I withdrew.
My dick slopped out. A glob of my cum followed. It splatted onto the floorboards with an audible plop. I followed. My knees hit the wood and my face went back into his butt. Using both hands, I parted his cheeks so that I could get at his well-fucked ass lips, which were glistening with lube and the white streaks of my load. I’ve always loved the taste of my own cum. I especially like eating it from a hole I know is guaranteed to be clean, after I’ve delivered it.
When I stood up again, my face was as wet as his ass. My beard smelled of the fuck. It wouldn’t be the first time I left Cunt’s home reeking of sex and sweat. “More?” he asked.
“Gotta go.” I stepped into my sandals and then began hauling up my cargo shorts.
“More?” he asked again.
“Gotta go,” I said, meaning it. That’s when he flipped over on his back. His dick—a big, thick knob nearly as big as mine—was rock hard and an angry red. He scooped some of the mingled fluids from his hole and rubbed them into his engorged flesh. His eyes stared into mine as he began to stroke. I paused at the sight of his big, strong forearms working so hard over his meat. His pecs bounced as he jerked. My own shorts hung just below my balls; my half-erect dick began to stiffen again.
With my right hand, I stroked it fully into hardness. I hadn’t intended to stay, but I liked showing off while he watched. I knew he was looking at my dick, and imagining it inside him. The thought made me swell. My left hand still hooked the belt loops of my shorts so that they snugly held up my balls. There was enough cum and lube on my dick that as I ran my fist back and forth over it, the sound of slickness filled the bedroom.
I stood there, and he lay, while we stroked for each other. His eyes closed. Then, wordlessly, he convulsed. I watched as a geyser of sperm flew from the tip of his dick, two feet into the air. It splattered down onto his chest and face. He made no effort to wipe it away. He shook and shuddered with his silent orgasm. I simply stroked while I watched him.
Then his eyes opened. “More?” he said, just as hungrily as he had before he’d unloaded. He flipped onto his front, then pulled in his knees and sidled to the bed’s edge. Cunt was hungry.
I paused for only a moment before replying. “Yeah,” I said, dropping my shorts on the floor with a thud, and then stepping forward. “I can do that.”