Friday, August 16, 2013


There’s a long and twisting flight of stairs to take to Rock Star’s wing in the house where he lives. As softly as I try to tread, my rubber soles against the shiny varnish on the wooden steps echoes like gunfire, every time I creep up to his room.

Every time I open the door at the summit, I never know what’s going to lie behind. I’ve swung it back to find him dozing beneath the sheets, his long hair spilling over the ivory comforter like an inky river. I’ve stepped through to find him on all fours wearing nothing but a jock, head in the pillows, hole begging for attention. I’ve been pulled by a wet and slippery hand from the threshold into the bathroom adjoining, to entwine with his soaked limbs beneath the steamy waterfall of the shower head. I never know what to expect. It’s like opening the door on an old Mystery Date board game—only there’s never a dud.

The air in the stairwell is as hot as still as the summer weather outdoors. When I step through the doorway, I’m almost directly in front of his window air conditioner. Rock Star is nowhere to be seen. There’s no sound of running water from the bathroom. He’s not arrayed on the mattress for my pleasure. Then my senses kick into overdrive as I sense someone behind me; the shock of knowing someone’s over my shoulder is colder than the air conditioner’s blast.

It’s Rock Star, my brain tells my body. Don’t worry. But it’s too late. My skin has erupted into gooseflesh; the microscopic hairs on the back of my neck are standing straight up. My heart starts to race from the unexpected surprise of having him sneak up on me. Then it pounds simply because I feel his hands on my shoulders, his breath beneath my hairline.

I start to turn, to take him into my arms. “Ssshh,” he says, arresting my twisting motion. “Close your eyes.”

“What?” I laugh.

“Just ssshh. Keep your eyes closed.” When he whispers, it stirs the already-alert hairs on my nape. They tingle and send chills down my arms, along my spin, around my sides and down to my cock. It stirs in my shorts. I feel the brush of something against my face. When I open my lids, I see him lowering one of his bandanas over my face. I smile, and close my eyes again. He tightens the makeshift blindfold, and knots it in the back. “Can you see?” he says, moving from one ear to the other.

When I peek again, I can. The bandana is light in color and hangs over my nose. I can look down the bridge and see him steering me in the direction of the bed. “No,” I tell him, closing my eyes again. “I can’t see.”

“Good,” he tells me, stopping me short of the mattress. I feel it press against my shins. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

His voice is soft. He holds me on my biceps; his hands are warm on my arms. I relax. I trust him. I let him do what he wants.

I feel his hands undo the buttons of my shirt. I let him pull it from my arms. His palms run up and down my rib cage, warm where the air conditioner cools my skin. I feel him unbuckle my belt, tug on my shorts. They’re too big for me as it is; he doesn’t even have to unbutton the fly to make them fall to my ankles. One after the other he lifts my feet, removes my shoes and socks. I’m naked save for the blindfold.

For a few moments his hands seem to brush over all the parts of my body. My buttocks, between my thighs, my belly, my chest. His fingers trace circles over my shoulders; I feel his kiss against my cheek. “I love you, and want to make you feel good,” he says, as I feel his mouth on my nipple, my abdomen, at the crease of my pelvis. “I have to give back a small portion of what you’ve given me.”

“Sweetheart,” I say helplessly. We’ve had this conversation before. “You give me so—ah.” I lose the train of my thought as I feel his mouth nuzzle my balls. I try to resist reaching out to guide his head. He wants to be firmly in command here. “You always—“ I sigh as I feel him part my legs, run his hand down my taint to my hole, then back to a sensitive spot at the very back of my balls. “You always—fuck.”

He’s got my member in his mouth, now. In one rotation of his tongue it grows from half-mast to fully erect. “I love this cock,” he tells me. “It’s the perfect cock.”


“Shut up,” he says.

I shut up. Very gently he turns me around, only to push me so that I land on the bed. I feel his hands on my thighs. Roughly he parts them, and goes back to his sucking. Rock Star’s mouth is sweet, and soft, and warm; it’s an ideal combination for oral sex. When I try to lift my hands and stroke his hair, he pushes them back down again.

“My cock,” he says, letting my dick drop with a wet slap onto my abdomen. “Fuck whatever you want with it, but it’s my cock. Belongs to me,” he growls. I can tell by his tone of voice that he’s seriously aroused. It’s the tone of a man in serious heat, who can’t think of anything but flesh and pleasure. “Whose is it?”

“Yours,” I say, weakly. I know that if I looked at my dick, it would be raging and red. In his clutch it strains. I like the sensation.

Mine,” he agrees.

I whimper, and sink back into the pillows.

I hear the lube before I feel it, when the plastic bottle clatters against his nightstand. His weight shifts, and suddenly he’s slapping on cold fluid and warming it with his hand. My dick points to the ceiling; I feel him position first his feet, and then his knees on either side of my hips. I feel the pressure of him as his ass seeks to locate my tip. His large hand wraps around my shaft to hold it steady. Then he’s lowering himself onto me, and I groan. “Please,” I beg, when he stops halfway.

He’s teasing me. Squeezing with his hole, moving up and down in the most minuscule increments possible. Making me want more, but denying it. “Whose dick?” he asks again.

“Yours,” I say, in more strangled tones. I try to reach up to him, but he shoves away my hands. As punishment, he pivots up and off my dick. I make sounds of frustration in the back of my throat. But then I hear him applying lube to himself. He’s back on my dick, sliding this time all the way down to the bottom.

“I’ve been thinking about this dick all week,” he grunts out as he begins riding up and down. “I’ve been wanting this dick all week. And you’ve been keeping it from me.” He’s rocking his hips up and down at the base of me, grinding my dick like it’s some kind of toy. He’s tight. He’s always been tight. But today he’s latching down on me with a firmness I didn’t expect. He’s implanted on my dick, and plainly isn’t coming off until he’s done.

I don’t care what he says. This fuck isn’t for my pleasure—though let’s be honest, I’m getting a lot of pleasure out of it. It’s all for him. He’s treating me like his plaything, and it’s turning me the fuck on to be used like that. I can tell he’s slicked up his own meat and is beating at it furiously. When I take a little peek down my nose and under the kerchief, I can see his hand flying up and down over his dick.

“Asshole,” he says, shoving me by the forehead backward. “Cheater. Stop trying to look.” Before I can apologize or protest, his mouth is on mine. His kisses are hard and relentless. I want to grit my teeth and punish him; I want to flip him over and pound the fuck out of him just to show him who’s boss. But part of the sweetness of this scenario is that he’s the boss, here. He’s the one who has the power—the power to excite, the power to consummate.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You better bet you’re sorry.” He’s back to riding me in smooth, sinuous movements. His hips slide, snake-like, back and forth. “Fuck. Maybe I won’t let you juice me.”

“Please,” I say. My throat is already parched; my lips feel cracked and dry. “Please let me.”

“No,” he says, like a querulous child.

“Please.” I’m begging.

“No. Not yet.” He’s going faster and faster, seated on the stiff locus of pleasure that’s my dick. When I get too close, though, he clamps down; he stops. He takes me to the edge, again and again, but never steps over.

Then he shoots. I don’t know it’s happening until I hear his gasps, hear the sound of him crying out and feel his nuts bouncing up and down on my midsection. Then I feel hot splashes of liquid as he covers me in his seed. He’s making sounds I’ve never heard from him before—hoarse and guttural, from deep within his core.

The rocking subsides. He’s still astride me, but he’s leaning on my chest, breathing heavily. Recovering. I’m almost afraid to break the hush, to speak and interrupt the patterns of his breathing. So I lie there, waiting for him to tell me what’s next.

“My cock,” he finally says, giving me a vise-like squeeze with his ass muscles. Then I feel his mouth cover mine, and his chest press against my own. The seed he’s spilled glues the two of us tightly together. “All mine.”

I’m happy to let him have the last word on that topic.


  1. Now I have that Mystery Date TV ad jingle in my head.

  2. I started reading you blog a few months ago and I became hooked. You write so well, your observations are so acute, and, most importantly, many of your stories are truly moving. A few weeks ago it dawned on me that there were hundreds of previous entries that I hadn't read. As a result, I have embarked on a literary odyssey, starting with the the first entry in February of 2010 and working my way forward. (I'm up to March, 2011.) I'm glad I did. Your stuff is just amazing, both the content and the style in which it is presented. I noticed, however, that the blogs have been somewhat less frequent this year. I hope you are not running out of steam or getting bored with the project. No matter, I still look forward to reading your latest entries.

    1. It's no secret that I haven't been posting as much as I used to.

      A lot of it has to do with the fact that writing regular blog entries takes a lot of time, and I'm in a period in which I have many interesting things to do and a limited amount of time to do it in. I've made a pact with myself that I'll keep writing here as long as it is enjoyable and doesn't feel like a chore. If that means only one or two entries a week instead of five, I'm fine with that.

      However—and I've written about this in my blog before, and not all that far back—there've been several factors that have cut down on my enjoyment in writing here. The lack of reader feedback is one of them, as sometimes I'll spend a couple of hours working on something only to get a whopping one or two reader comments out of it. (This despite a thousand followers through Google, and several thousand unregistered unique readers on a daily basis.)

      Continuing snide and derogatory (and even lunatic) comments from anonymous commenters is another factor. The attempts of those who use my blog as whack-off material and then leave nasty comments to compensate for their enjoyment have eroded my enthusiasm steadily. Additionally, the scary encroachments of readers who have become stalkers—both of the cyber and the real-life variety—have made me extremely reluctant to share anything too personal.

      I'm glad you're enjoying reading. I'm grateful for your kind comments. I wish more of my readers would take the time on occasion to let me know they're still out there.

  3. Helluva post! Your description puts me right there in the room with you. Extraordinary and sexy. Well done.

  4. This one rates right up there with some of my old favorites from years past. Even if you have slowed down in posting, your quality never ceases to amaze. Shame on me and on the rest of us for not taking the time to comment more.

    1. There's no shame on you, JFBreak. It's not your sole responsibility to comment here.

      If the shame's on anyone, it's on me, for committing the cardinal blog writer sin of crabbing about the lack of reader comments.

  5. I enjoy your writings. I fail to comment often. I wonder what happens with you and several of your connectons, as the tales were so good. Scruffy, the senior hs actor, Rock Star are a few. And, of course, I so wish I were close. Thanks, and sorry for the bad apples.

    1. Scruffy was in Michigan, and I haven't lived there in two and a half years. And this one is about Rock Star.

      The bad apples come in bunches. It's pretty much a guarantee that when I'm having a good day and everything's going along swimmingly, I'll open up my mail program and discover that three or four of them have fallen off the tree and rolled my way!

  6. Another amazing piece of writing about what seems to have been a fantastic session.

  7. Http://
    Love your blog and I wish I had met you when you lived in Michigan.