Friday, September 6, 2013

Revenge #2

We’d fucked like dogs in heat two days before. It had been a session in which Rock Star blew an explosive five-day load all over my chest, face, and his pillows. After that, the pressure’s off for the week. Today’s supposed to be a cuddle day—one of those mornings when he and I get together with no particular sexual agenda.

Sometimes on a cuddle day we lay naked in bed beneath a thin blanket, letting the air conditioner roar over our bodies as we talk. Sometimes we drift into a morning nap that lasts until the noon sun breaks through the skylights above.

Sometimes, like this morning, we make out like kids in a split-level basement party after school. Our dicks grow hard as we hold and paw each other. He tries to climb on top of me; I push him down and suck on his long shaft as he studies me with dark eyes covered by even darker hair. Finally, he swings around to lay his head on my thigh. His mouth wraps around my dick. He comes that way, masturbating with my shaft in his throat while I fondle his balls and gently rub on his nipples.

We’re in a tangle afterward. Sweaty. Smelling of each other. The dog’s curled in furry beige lump at the bed’s head, protecting the toy he’s held in his mouth for the last two hours. “You know what I liked?” says Rock Star, from where he’s using my stomach as a pillow.

“What?” I rumble. My eyes are half-closed. It’s a sleepy, lazy, wonderful moment.

“I liked those photos of you sent to me. The ones of you in college.”

“Oh gawrsh,” I chuckle. I was camera-shy for my first four decades. Of the handful of photos I have from my college years, I only have a few digitized. I’d texted Rock Star three, one day, to lift him out of a bad mood after work. One was of me dancing with a female professor at a costume party. Another was of me on the Jamestown ferry, my eighties Paul Young mullet made even more poofy from the wind. The last is of me drenched and glistening and soaking wet from a storm, laughing like crazy from the exhilaration of the driving rain and the wind.

At the time I thought of myself as a hideous creature that should’ve been living under the bridge the Billy Goats Gruff traveled. Now, with time, I see why so many men wanted me. I’m fresh-faced, and sunny, and smooth-skinned. I was beautiful then, and never once gave myself the credit. “You look so . . . you in them,” he tells me.

And I know just what he means. My hair’s less crazy now, my face bearded—but my smile’s the same, as are my eyes. I still laugh in the same half-self-conscious way. Take a high-speed camera and capture shots of a speeding baseball at two points in its trajectory and you’ll see it from different angles; the markings vary, the stitching transform. But it’s still undeniably the same. “Thank you,” I say, feeling shy. Then, in a more assertive tone, I add, “But I was all bottom then. You wouldn’t have been as crazy about me.”

Re-ally,” he says, intrigued. I tell him in brief about what a slut I was in college and before, and how it wasn’t until I’d graduated and begun graduate school that I was introduced to topping. He listens with amusement, as if I’m spinning some unlikely fiction. He sits up in the bed and props himself on my naked chest. “Does that mean you want me to fuck that hole of yours?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, snickering a little. “That’s what it means, all right.”

“You want me to flip you over and show you my sex-ay top moves?”

He’s teasing, but I play right along. “Yes sir,” I tell him. “I want you to show me your sex-ay top moves right now.”

He’s shot only a few moments before; there’s no chance he’ll be hard enough actually to do anything. I’m amused, though, as he roughly grabs me by the shoulders and flips me onto my stomach. He straddles my ass and flops his cock against my crack. It’s not turgid, but it still has enough residual blood in it to make it hefty. It spreads my cheeks as he pushes his weight into me. “Well first,” he says into my ear. “I’d make love to you, all sweet and gentle.” His long, long hair hangs down and tickles my bare back. I feel the heat of his breath on my spine, followed by the wet lick of a tongue. He plants kisses on my shoulders that make me sigh. “And then. . . .”

Rock Star gives one of my buttocks a heavy wallop. He waits for my reaction. It’s been years, but I’ve been spanked and paddled by pros. That spank I barely felt. I look over my shoulder and peer at him with one of my eyes. “Was that it?” I ask.

Without warning he grabs the top of my skull. Shoves my head into the pillows so roughly that I exhale and lose my breath. Begins pounding my ass with his pelvis. He’s giving it a real battering, too. His dick flops around heavily, bludgeoning my ass. “Then I say, Take it, little bitch!” He jackhammers me into the mattress while he wrenches my head back and forth by the hair. The dog looks up mournfully from his pillow.

I can barely breathe, but I start laughing. I can’t stop, either. The hilarity of it hits a chord deep inside, and once struck, it won’t stop jangling. “You are crazy,” I tell him.

“Then I’ll pull out and give you some relief,” he says. He pulls his pelvis away from my body. I feel the tip of his dick dangling just above my hole. The air conditioner pushes coolness over our sticky skins. My laughter has subsided into giggles, but they keep on coming. I know it’s not over.

Sure enough, he starts mock-pounding me again. Every thrust brings stars to my eyes. His hipbones are so pronounced and sharp that they have to be bruising my backside as he slams into me, but can’t stop laughing. Full-force, now. I’ve got tears in my eyes. “Yeah, rippin’ into your daddy ass,” he growls. “Your boy gettin’ his own back. Turning daddy into my bitch, bitch!” His mouth is next to my ear, just as mine is when I plow into him. “Maybe I’ll shove you up against the wall, lift up a leg, make you chew on the plaster to muffle your yells while I pound the shit out of your daddy ass!”

“Okay!” I say amenably.

“It’s going to be a fuckin’ bloodbath!

He pushes himself off and rolls me over. I’m still chuckling, deep from the gut. I can’t tell if I’m breathless from his weight, or from my amusement. “You are a deeply, deeply silly man,” I tell him, trying to sound grave.

“Then I’ll take those sheets, all covered with blood from your daddy hymen, and sell them to a New York art gallery for a buttload of money,” he says. “It’ll be my art installation. I’ll call it. . . .” He pauses to think.

Revenge,” I suggest. “No, Revenge #2.”

Revenge #2,” he agrees. “By Daddyfucker.”

He can’t help himself either. A single snort rips through his rough, tough would-be top’s facade. He collapses next to me on the mattress, and tickles my ribs. We both erupt into renewed giggles.

Our arms entwine around each other. Our lips meet. We kiss, still laughing like little kids, and disappear beneath the blanket to enjoy each other while there’s still time.


  1. 'bloody sheets daddy hymen' is not where I thought this blog was going. I just knew he was going to get hard and plow right in unexpectedly.

    It would be interesting to read a art critic review of that art :-)

  2. Lovely



  3. That brought a big smile to my face this Sunday morning. :)