The man is huge.
I know his stats from his profile. He’s 6’5”. Forty-two. Two hundred and forty pounds of muscle. Body fat that puts the percentage of my breakfast cereal milk to shame. But neither the raw numbers nor the pics in his profile prepare me for the sight of him. I’m sitting on the steps of my front porch, where I’ve been waiting for him for a few minutes. Whatever greeting I’ve been intending to make dies on my lips, unspoken, when I watch him unfolding that mammoth body from the interior of his car.
He’s wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of shimmering track pants. His feet are size fifteen. His athletic shoes look like small watercraft. As large as his body is, his enormous hands seems disproportional to everything else. They’re like clubs, or pendulous blunt weapons hanging from his arms. They’re like cured hams, hanging from a rafter. His face is carved with the broadest and craggiest of features. It’s handsome—everything about him is handsome—but it’s tough, and masculine.
He’s a brute. The man looks like a walking Tom of Finland illustration. Every feature is exaggerated to its most masculine proportion. His shoulders, his chest, his butt, the tree trunks of his legs. He looks like a cartoon character. Bluto from the Popeye comics. Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. When finally I do collect my senses and greet him, I’m not surprised when his voice is a deep, rumbling bass.
Yet he’s not there to chat. We shake hands and exchange polite hellos. I lead him into my place. He glances around, looks at me, and without prelude hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his track pants. They slide down to the floor in a silky, synthetic puddle. He’s wearing a jock underneath. Its bulge is considerable.
I’m usually pretty confident in my skin. I look like my online photos. I don’t overpromise and underdeliver. I’m also usually taller and larger than most of the men I meet, though. Next to this brute, I’m a 98-pound weakling.
But I don’t let it show. “Take off the shirt,” I order. He obeys immediately, pulling the tank over his head and letting it fall onto the coffee table. He’s wearing nothing but those enormous size fifteen beat-up shoes and his jock, now. His chest is sculpted, the muscles taut. “Turn around,” I say. Obediently, he does. His ass is fucking beautiful. The elastic straps of his jock perfectly frame the cheeks. My glance glides upwards from those round globes to the narrowness of his waist, the perfection of his back, the broad shoulders. His arms hang by his side. He waits more orders.
“Come with me,” I tell him. “We’re going to the bedroom.”
My shorts hit the ground by the bed. I hop up onto the mattress, lift my knees, and spread my legs. He lowers that hulk of a body between them until I feel his breath on my groin. I’m soft when he starts to suck me—perhaps I’m more intimidated by the brute than I care to admit, even to myself. It’s mere seconds, though, before I harden and fill his mouth and throat with cock.
He sucks with vigor. He sucks not because he only wants the load, but as though he relishes the feel of my meat sliding in and out of his lips. He likes that piehole opened and stuffed with dick. He’s not anxious to bring me off. His throat collapses and expands around my shaft; when he reaches the bottom, he makes little grunting noises. But he’s unaware of them; he’s lost in his pleasure. His hips grind and thrust against my mattress. His hands reach up beneath my shirt to play with my nipples.
“You like that?” I ask in a low voice. “Is that what you wanted? That cock?”
His lidded eyes open, lift in my direction. There’s adoration in that look.
“Tell me,” I order.
“Yes. I love your cock,” he says, barely comprehensible with my inches in his gullet.
“Yes, Sir. I love your cock. Sir,” he says.
“Show me yours.”
He lifts himself to his knees and pulls down his jock. His own meat, hard and dripping, outclasses mine by a mile. It has to be a thick nine inches, and it’s at full attention. His balls are enormous. When I reach out and hold that shaft in the palm of hand, it’s hot as a fever. He’s on fire. Inwardly, I curse whatever gods gave him all the physical goods.
He’s not there to have his own dick serviced, though. It might as well be a puny pinky finger’s worth, for all he cares. He wants me, and he wants me inside him. When I push his face into my pillow and part his cheeks, he groans like a man in agony. When I lick and suck his hole, he pushes back with need. He reaches behind and holds his ass wide apart to give me access. He buckles and moans. His hips fly up, while his shoulders and middle arch into the mattress. He’s ready.
It doesn’t take much for me to slide in. His hole is juicy and primed by my spit. “Oh yes,” he whispers as I go in. “Oh yes.” My reward for every inch I deliver is another small plea, another whimper, another cry of need and delight.
I’ve got him at the mattress edge, muscular thighs spread like an inverted V. All he’s wearing are his shoes. For some reason, they make him look more exposed and vulnerable than if he’d been nude. His hole stretches around my meat. The flesh is soft, pliant. Accommodating. When I thrust in, his head lifts and he lets out animal sounds from his throat. When I pull out, all but the head, his chute withdraws with me so that there’s a rosebud around my dick. He loves the long strokes; he begs for more. “This is what I needed,” he tells me, over and over. “You’re what I need.”
I know. I know that big and masculine as he is, all he wants is for someone like me to make him his bitch. This brute needs to submit to dick like this, to be made a man’s cumhole. “You like being my cunt?” I ask.
The brute grunts in reply. The word makes him open further to my cock.
“You like me opening up that pussy like that? You like me fucking you like the whore you are?”
The questions are rhetorical. I know the answers.
His body is covered in gooseflesh. He’s shuddering with the impact of every hard, deep thrust. I’m not even trying to keep down my load. The man is hot to be loaded that I’m finding it impossible to hold it back. When I shoot, it comes not as a burst or an eruption, but ever-increasing waves of pleasure. My cries become just as inhuman as his; we both sink into the moment, clutching to the mattress, to his hips, to the pillows. Like drowning men at life preservers, we cling to whatever’s at hand and at each other, to keep from losing ourselves entirely. His hole snatches desperately at my cock, trying to keep it in there, to drain every drop of the semen flowing from me to him. I stay still, and let him grind and squeeze, as I shudder.
“I’m taking this home with me.” As my shaft pulses and lengthens inside him, vows in a whisper, “I’m taking your seed home inside me and I’m not letting it out.”
I have to let my head clear. It takes a moment. “Do you want to cum?” I ask, when I’m more myself.
He shakes his head. “I got what I want.”
Together we disengage. His hands hold his ass tight, right around the hole, as I pull out. He’s desperate not to let any of the sperm go to waste. Without a word, he pulls on his jock and walks tight-legged out of the room to collect his other clothing. It takes me a minute before I’m dressed and join him. When I do, his hand’s already on the doorknob.
“Thanks dude,” he says. Then he’s gone—without a handshake or a peck on the cheek, the brute.
He’s thinking of me all afternoon, though. You’re still in me, he texts, an hour later. Then an hour later, I still feel you in there. I get bulletins all through the day.
Brute he might be, but the brute’s got a soft spot.