Yes, I texted back. When can you be here?
Give me twenty minutes, the Bulldog texted back.
It was his code, he’d explained earlier in the morning. The code he used with men who were attached, out of discretion. To my surprise, he’d shown up at the house in a pickup truck wearing a utility shirt, tight-fitting over his enormous chest. gutters.com, read an embroidered nametag on his chest.
Either he actually did gutter work for a living, or he knew how to carry a charade to its logical extreme.
I wrote about the Bulldog back in April, when I’d first met him at a hotel gangbang while I was fucking the designated bottom:
The black guy came out of the bathroom naked and hard and sporting a metal cockring. He was a good looking brute with a carefully-trimmed three-day growth of beard, a barrel chest, enormous arms, and a tattoo of the Jesus Christ Superstar logo on one bicep. He didn’t so much push Mikey out of the way as take his place when Mikey stepped aside. Next thing I know, the black stud was reaching between my legs and yanking on my nuts. His thumb plunged up my ass, like a cork.
The abrupt sensation could’ve done two things. It might have pulled me out of my fuck trance altogether, or it could have pushed me over the edge. I’d been fucking long enough that it did the latter. I squirted immediately while everyone urged me on in whispers. When I pulled out, the big bulldog dropped to his knees and immediately began cleaning me off.
That afternoon I’d been turned on by the Bulldog so much that I actually thought there was more chemistry between him and me than there’d been between me and the bottom. My casual inquiries into the Bulldog’s identity went ignored, though, so I figured I’d never see him again save by random chance. He tracked me down on Manhunt, however, by going profile by profile through my entire suburban city until he happened upon my face; then he wrote me and told me we should get together.
I was flattered, of course, that anyone would go to that much trouble to find me. “We’re both tops,” I said, trying not to sound as if I was pooh-poohing the notion. The dude was hot. Of course I wanted to get together with him. “What’re we going to do?”
“I’m going to suck your dick,” he wrote back. “And you’re going to gag on mine.”
When he unbuttoned his jeans yesterday, he exposed a pair of turquoise briefs. Papi, read the waistband. I looked up at him from my position on the wood floor of my bedroom, while he gazed steadily down at me. The fucker was handsome as he had been at the hotel, only now I wasn’t having to share him. He still had the light growth of beard, the tightly-cropped hair that was little more than a sprinkling of stubble over his skull, the tight-slitted eyes, the aggressive, cocky stance. When he plopped his dick in my face, it was soft and smelled of soap. At the base was an enormous, heavy chrome cock ring. “You like?” he asked, pulling it to the side to display it. I nodded. “I wore it for you.”
I didn’t give a fuck what he’d worn, frankly. It was how fast I wanted to get his pants off that was all I could think about. I leaned forward and breathed on his dick with my mouth, stirring it to life, before my tongue flicked out to lift it up and suck it in. There’s something almost sacred about those first few moments when a dick hardens; you can feel the meat, soft and spongey, growing and separating your lips. Then you feel the flange swell and harden; the complete shaft follows as the entire dick roars into readiness. The Bulldog went from flaccid to engorged in no time flat. When I looked up at him, he was staring steadily down at me. He rang his fingers through my hair, which was overdue for cutting, and tipped my head back. “You suck good,” he told me. “Did you suck me at the hotel?” I shook my head. “Did you want to?” I nodded. I’d wanted to very badly.
On the bed, he propped himself atop both pillows and lay back with his hands over his head. All I’d done was unzip so that I could play with myself while I’d sucked him in the kneeling position; he tucked the ball of his heel against my shaft and pressed his foot against my meat while I curled on my side on the bed and began servicing him.
I may be a top guy, but I love to suck dick. The Bulldog’s meat was enormous. I mean, not merely huge, but fucking huge. The photo I’d seen of it in his profile made it look like a dark, shiny weapon. Up close, and between my lips, it seemed more like a blunt instrument. I couldn’t take more than three-quarters of it down my throat. Not on my own initiative, anyway. Then I felt his hands seize the back of my head, pull down as he thrust up, and grind. My furry chin grazed across his nuts; I felt my lips brush against the bristly coils of his pubic hair.
He didn’t say anything as he face-fucked me. I could’ve been a sex toy to him, for all the attention he gave me. To be honest, I was fine with that. I wanted my mouth used. I loved the sensation of his shaft as it thrust in and out, mashing my lips until it felt as if my teeth had made a permanent and painful groove in their back. He was thick—far thicker than I. So thick that after ten minutes, my jaw felt as if it would give out. Tears sprang to my eyes as he continued relentlessly to fuck my mouth.
As if he sensed my pain, the Bulldog withdrew abruptly. Not to have that enormous dick in my mouth was almost more excruciating. I wasn’t without it long, though. Without a word, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me down onto my back, so that my head was hanging over the bed’s edge. His feet thudded as they hit the bedroom floor. My jaw opened. Almost immediately I was rewarded with more dick, sliding in and out of my throat as deep as he could stab it.
He was in complete control now. He set the pace with a quick, even thrusting, not seeming to care that I was sometimes gasping for breath when he’d pause at the base and make me choke on his meat. My nostrils were covered by his sack; the blood in my head was making me giddy. The only noises he made were little sighs of contentment and grunts of pleasure. I, on the other hand, was reduced to strangulated whimpers that only seemed to increase his girth. My jaw had ached before from being stretched so wide, but now the pain was so intense that I felt it could never stop. I didn’t complain, though. I’d asked for this. I’d wanted it from him. I could only imagine what a hole would feel like, under assault from such a weapon.
After long minutes he withdrew. His dick curved down to meet my face, and a long, sticky rope of my saliva connected it to my lips. He picked me up like a doll and threw me onto my back so that my head just missed the pillows. The Bulldog stared at me for a moment, and then went down between my legs.
He sucked even more aggressively than I had, taking my dick to the root. His thumb probed for my hole, but he didn’t do more than graze the outside—he tickled it tenderly. His other fingers toyed with my nuts. “Oh, fuck,” I moaned. My legs shuddered, and my back arched. Part of me couldn’t believe I was being rewarded this way.
His sucking didn’t last long. The next thing I knew, he was straddling me, holding himself over me with one fist on either side of my shoulders. His narrow, slitted eyes stared into mine, but he didn’t say anything. When I looked down, I could see his rock-hard dick pointing directly at me; my own cock leapt up to meet it, butting briefly against the head. His right hand left the mattress and traveled over my head. My forehead first, where he brushed away the lanky strands covering it. Then my scalp, where his fingers gently, sweetly ran his fingers through my hair. Without warning, he tilted his head to the side, and covered my mouth with his own.
The Bulldog hadn’t kissed me at the hotel—he hadn’t kissed anyone. He’d not made any move to bring our mouths together when I’d greeted him at the door a few minutes before, or anytime since. I’d mentally decided he was one of those men who never kissed, in fact. But oh, he knew how. His hand cupped my jaw as I responded by pulling him down onto me so that I could feel the full weight of his body upon mine. My legs opened and wrapped around him; I could feel his brick-hard cock butting up against my pelvis and seemingly piercing the flesh above the bone. His hand moved to the back of my head, mashing me harder against his lips, pulling me into him until my lips felt bruised and red. His tongue invaded my mouth, making me lose control of my body. I clung to him like a baby, not wanting to let go.
He showed no signs of wanting to stop, either. It was as if that first kiss loosed a flood of passion he’d left unexpressed for far too long. He let it drench me, and I gladly drowned in it. The kissing erased any pain left in my jaw from nearly a half hour of being brutally face-fucked. I felt renewed. Repaired. Ageless.
When the kissing ended, he said nothing, but stared into my eyes again. The corners of his mouth curled into the slightest of smiles. He planted his lips in the center of my forehead and left there a soft impression, and then put my head on the pillows and straddled my chest. I knew what was coming.
With his fingers he pulled down my jaw. That enormous, meaty cock of his pushed in between my lips and tunneled down my throat. He held it there, as if emphasizing his complete dominion over me. Finally he spoke. “You want my nut?”
I gulped. It was all I could do.
I looked up at him and nodded.
During that final assault, I kept my hand wrapped around his shaft. “Wet it up,” he kept saying. “Wet it up, baby.” My fingers kept a tight hold on his dick as he pistoned in and out. He lifted his hands above his head and gave me the perfect shot from below of his muscular torso. His head lifted once to the ceiling as he gave in to the sensations he was feeling, and then his eyes locked with mine.
I know how long the home stretch lasted by the clock—a good twelve minutes. It seemed like an eternity to me, in the best of ways. I lost all sense of self. I was only a mouth. A thing of utility. A brainless hole, having the living shit pounded out of it. All the aches, the little pains, the uncomfortableness vanished in the sexual heat, and I was happy to be taken out of myself.
When he came, he flooded my mouth with shot after shot of cum. It was bitter, and tasted of metal, but I didn’t care. It was his, and I wanted it. He waited until I’d swallowed it all to withdraw, and then to lay beside me. I couldn’t move. Nor did I want to. His hand moved to my head again, gently stroking my hair.
“So who plays the piano?” he asked, breaking the silence after five minutes.
“I do.” My throat croaked into use, and I realized how stretched and battered it really was.
“You play for church, or what?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Mostly for myself. Sometimes for some of the local schools, when they need an accompanist.”
“What kind of music?”
I was flattered at his interest. “Classical, mostly,” I told him. My jaw ached dully, as if I hadn’t used it for talking in years. He clearly wanted more of an answer, though. “I like Beethoven. Schumann is a favorite. And for the kids—well, it’s the kind of shit that kids sing in school. You know.”
“Well, someone has to play the itsy-bitsy spider song to them, right?”
He laughed at that, and cupped the very top of my head with his palm like a basketball. “Rocking chair, rocking chair,” he sang to me, in a surprisingly pleasant tenor. “You know that one?” I shook my head and grinned. “My first grade teacher. She taught it to us. Nobody ever heard it, though. Rocking chair, rocking chair, I like to sit in my rocking chair.” He curled his body around mine and lay on his side, so that his mouth was near my ear. Softly, he continued singing. “Back and forth, counting sheep, until my rocking chair puts me to sleep.”
I hadn’t shot during our sex together, but the hum in my ear vibrated through my body, leaving me abuzz with pleasure. It was better than any orgasm. I closed my eyes and relaxed into the sound of his voice.
If I had to endure nearly an hour of brutal mouth-fucking to have the Bulldog tenderly serenade me a childhood ditty about a rocking chair, it was but a small price to pay.