Friday, January 31, 2014

Three Scenes from an Orgy


“Shoes go here.” I’m still radiating cold from the outdoors, standing there in my heavy winter coat and boots. The guy who’s come down to answer the door, though, is completely naked. He’s got a shaved head and a chest full of fur, and stands there with his hands on his hips. The fact he’s got a juicy erection bobbing between his legs leaves him completely unabashed.

I haven’t even gotten my hat or gloves off, but it’s obvious he’s expecting me to hurry it up. I unzip my boots on the sides and kick them off.

He’s heading up the stairs now, his bare feet making a soft noise in the carpet. He tugs me by the sleeve into a bedroom. It’s large. Living-room sized, really. There’s a sofa and a TV occupying one corner, a computer desk in another. There’s an empty double bed in the corner. “Leave your clothes here,” says the naked man. He shrugs to tell me that’s it. “See you in a couple.”

I wait until he’s left the bedroom before I start removing my clothing. I stack it all into a neat pile, one of many similar stacks atop and around the sofa. It’s not a fancy apartment, this, but the inhabitant obviously has a lot of taste. He’s decorated the surfaces with Arts and Crafts pottery, with expensive blown glass and books on antiques. If I’d come here for a cocktail party or an afterglow following a show, I’d be studying the decor and the photographs and the diploma on the wall for cues for my light conversation.

But I’m not here for the conversation.

I don’t anticipate knowing anyone here. I don’t expect to go home with any new names in my phone’s contact list. I’m here to fuck, pretty basically.

When I move into the other bedroom—the room with the big, king-sized bed and the darkened shades—the scene is like some fundamentalist’s vision of Hell, or an Italian avant-garde film. Bodies writhe all around me. On the floor are couples slithering between each other’s legs. Against the wall a trio slides up and down as they suck face and cock in turn. The bed is a seething mass of moving flesh, male on male, cock to cock, ass to mouth, dick to hole.

I don’t even hesitate. I step over the fornicating pair and plunge into this nightmare of sex and desire straight out of Hieronymous Bosch. Hands clutch at me immediately, pulling me into the vortex, pulling me under. I’m gasping for air beneath all that weight and mass, but I’m the happiest drowning man ever.


There’s mouth on my right nipple. There’s a mouth on my dick. I haven’t even bothered to look down to see whose. All my attention is on the man kissing me.

He’s the host—a retired professor from a prestigious New England university. His cock’s not much to look at. I’m not even sure it gets hard. His looks are past their prime, I think it’s safe to say. But he’s still attractive in a handsome-daddy kind of way. He’s got piercing blue eyes and a barrel of a chest spiked with prominent, eraser-shaped nipples. And holy crap, his kissing is amazing.

We’ve been making out for a good ten to fifteen minutes while mouth replaces invisible mouth on my cock. Sometimes there’s an addition tongue licking my nuts, or attempting to slip down between my legs to my ass. Every time someone dives for my hole, though, their host pushes them away. “That’s mine,” he even barks to one guy.

I’m fine with that. I’m good to my hosts.

“You’ve got beautiful blue eyes,” he growls at me. He’s nuzzling my ear, then pushing my head to the side so he can attack my with his open mouth. Then he’s back to holding my face to his and plunging his thick tongue into my mouth, as far back as he can, while he rams two of his fingers up my ass. It’s only a day after my time with the Haiku Writer who stretched my hole wide open with his massive uncut meat, so I’m still tender down there.

On the up side, I’m pretty much still wide open, too.

“I am going to molest you good,” he promises.

I fucking melt at his words. “Please, sir,” I whimper. It only makes him jam those fingers inside me deeper, up to the third knuckle. As I squirm and groan, he clutches me harder to his chest. Connected to each other, and to the men surrounding us, we sink into the maelstrom.


“You’re. . . .” He’s grasping for a name. “. . . Rob? Is that it?”

I’m slightly insulted in theory. One familiar face has surfaced in the crowd. He’s a piece of sexy bald muscle that I’ve fucked at the hotel group for married men. I fucked him in my bed at home, too, after that. Just for not remembering, I shove my dick up his guts so hard that he sucks in lungfuls of air and winces. “That’s right.”

He looks back over his shoulder again, as he braces himself against the mattress. “I remember that cock.”

“You oughta,” I mutter.

This whore’s been over every dick at the party, and I love him for it. The only reason I’m not really insulted by his sex-fueled memory loss is that moments before, when he’d crawled off some older guy’s meat still dripping with lube and semen, he told me that he’d have to leave soon and that he’d saved the best for last.

A little sop to my ego goes a long way, in my book.

He’s got one of those worked-out asses that’s absolute perfection. Round as the globes in my middle-school library, hard as cement, sheltering a tight little pucker that’s easy to open and soft and wet to slide into. He’s definitely not thinking about the wife and kiddies as he backs up onto my cock, not worrying about work when he’s twisting and grinding on my meat and trying to take it even more deeply than it already goes.

Eyes are on me as I bang this little bitch. He might be all muscle, but he’s no taller than five-five, lighter than I am. I make a show of working the hole, of pulling out all the way so that those cunt lips drag over the girth of my meat, then shoving all the way in. Every thrust makes the little fucker gasp.

I feel someone behind me. There’s a pair of lips on my neck, a hand on my shoulder and another on my hip. When I look around, I can tell it’s a tattooed guy who’s been circulating around the group from the time I’ve been there. His skin is a dark tan that shows off his blond military cut. Half his tattoos are military in nature as well. The one on his chest proclaiming his love for God and Country and the U.S. Army could be used on a recruiting poster. His other passion is the Yankees, apparently. He’s got the logo on his calf, on the inside of his hip bone, and squarely between his shoulder blades.

That hip bone digs into my ass. The little bald guy is kneeling on the edge of the mattress and I’m standing on the floor. There’s so little room between my back and the wall that the tattooed guy has to press close in. I can feel his cock jumping as it brushes my crack.

He kisses me over my shoulder. His breath’s a little sour, but the guy’s a good kisser. He’s yanking my head around aggressively to get more of my mouth while his hips move with mine as I continue fucking my bald little muscle. “Rape that hole,” he growls at me.

I obey. I pick up the pace and make the muscle grunt. Then I hear the snap of a plastic top and feel the cold wetness of lube dripping down my rear. The head of his cock separates my ass and hones in for the hole.

I was just fucked the day before. My hole is still sore. But it looks like I’m about to be fucked again.
“Christ,” I spit out when the Army guy’s cock shoves home. He’s not large. Maybe about five and a half inches. Big head, though. My eyes pop wide open as it slides relentlessly home.

I’m overwhelmed in sensation again. It’s almost too much, this feeling of my hole being opened wide while I’m already balls-deep in a slippery hole. Every nerve in my body is overloaded; the electricity in my nether parts makes me jangle like discordant bells. I can hear men cheering us on, both me and the Army guy who’s shoved himself inside. But the cries are distant, drowned out by the pounding of my heart, the rush of my blood, and the insistent shrill of my muscles as they quiver and convulse.

I feel more wetness on my backside. Warm, this time. The tattooed guy’s cock slides out and shoots its load as it does, so that half of it glazes my butt. The rest slops out of the hole. I’m so aroused that the wet sensation pushes me over the edge. I shove inside the muscle guy so hard that he loses his balance and collapses onto the mattress. I follow, shooting pulse after pulse of seed deep inside.

“Hot ass,” says the Army dude with a pat to my ass, as he walks away. “That hole is real tight.”

I’m not so sure it is, any more.

Monday, January 27, 2014


Behind my bed, eight to ten inches higher than the mattress, is a shelf. It’s the center section of the large, ancient built-in bookshelves that line one end of the bedroom, left over from the days when the two-flat house used to be a one-family home, and this room acted as someone’s study. We keep a couple of clock radios on that shelf. A lamp with a metal base. My eyeglasses, for when I’m not wearing contact lenses. The TV’s remote control. And a bottle of lotion I have handy for late-night itchy skin.

Right now, in the sleepy false twilight of the drawn shades, I’m kneeling at the head of the bed, facing that shelf with my palms flat against its surface. I’m shaking. Every muscle in my body is vibrating so strongly that the clocks are shuddering across the paint. The lamp dances up and down, teetering forward then rocking back again. The remote bounces off the edge, hits the pillow next to my right knee, and clatters down behind the platform. The lotion tips over. The shelf rattles so loudly with the thrum of my body that it sounds like an old airplane being battered midair by high turbulence.

The crown of my head bangs against the plaster wall. It’s hard as fuck, and every time I strike, I’m seeing stars. I don’t care. I just want this man’s monster cock deeper inside me.

I feel his beard tickling my shoulders as from behind me he whispers, “Arch your spine.”

I obey, pressing down with my abdomen so that my buttocks open wider. My face is mashed against the semi-gloss paint, now. I don’t even notice his thrusts. My own body is shaking like a mountain set to erupt at any moment. “Fuck me,” I pant out.

I feel his hands stroking my sides. His palms pass over my ribcage, down to my hips, across the ass splayed open over his thick meat. “I’m not just fucking you,” he reminds me, in the softest voice possible. “I’m inside you. Filling you with myself.”

I started talking to this guy months ago online. We’d made a date to meet back in the autumn, but I’d had to cancel because I was just starting to come down with the illness that laid me low for much of October and November. By the time I was feeling better, he’d been stricken with flu. But he thought I was attractive, and told me so in mysterious prose. The photos I saw of him were of a scruffy geek fifteen years my junior, a neo-hippie with a big dick. Oh my god, that dick. It was one of those dicks that makes mine look toy-sized. It easily had to be a good nine and a half inches of hooded uncut meat. It was so thick and fat that even when soft, my hole could identify it as a deadly weapon. In the photos in which it was hard, I’d stare at that fat and meaty thing was a little bit like I was watching some IMAX footage of deep-sea marine life. You might know it exists, but you’ve sure as hell never seen anything like it up close.

Sometimes—rarely—you see a guy and you know—just know—that it’s going to be good. I knew it with this one. There was something about his quiet confidence, the glint of humor in his eye, those laid-back good looks and the lean and muscular body, that told me we were going to hit it off. Even with three months of delays from the first canceled appointment I’d made with him, I knew it wasn’t so much a question of if we were going to reschedule, but when. Finally the opportunity arose last week, and we both penned it in our calendars.

After that, it was simply a question of waiting for the day. And then, though I hesitate to admit it, there was the question of exactly what we were going to do with each other, when we finally got naked. Because to be totally honest, when we exchanged emails and texts, I never, ever completely understood anything the guy wrote.

I’d ask a straightforward question, like, So, what kinds of things do you enjoy in bed?

As a reply, I’d get something like, We are two such birds chirping from the same nest, spreading our wings to take first flights.

I’m just curious about what two tops can do with each other, I’d say, pushing a little harder.

And I’d get back something like, Tomorrow we will share the light of day and the sweetness of first dark as we swim in each other.

It was all rather sweet, but a little bit like receiving obscene come-ons from a writer of coy haiku. Honestly, I just wanted to know whether or not I needed to douche. Are you a poet?

I am no poet but my aim is to inspire. Tomorrow I will inspire you with my life force injection.

Hot damn. Now we were talking. I thought. Maybe. I mean, when guys talk about injection they mean . . . right? I spent the afternoon with some warm water and the enema bulb. Just in case.

When he shows up, he carries a dozen roses in his arm. They now lay on the dresser next to the bed where he’s been inside me for the last half hour. It’s been a year since I was fucked last. The Russian was big; this guy is bigger. And thicker. My god, that dick is a marvel. Up close, it’s one of the seven wonders; it’s enormous enough to have its own zip code. It deserves worship, and I give it to him. I suck it, I chew on the foreskin. I prise the rigid head from the tight covering and allow him to spear it so deeply in my throat that I can still feel the ache of it. I can still taste the pre-cum he dripped directly down my gullet. Then, staring into my eyes, he spits in his hand, lowers it between my legs, and spreads it all over my hole.

We try a number of different positions. He places a pillow under my hips, turns me on my stomach, and inserts himself from behind. I place my legs over his shoulders while he fucks me on my back. “You are so tight,” he huffs, as he tries to slide inside.

It’s painful. He’s big. Oh god, is he big. But it’s not that awful, wish-I-would-die pain that I associate with fucking. It’s more like an endurable ache, something I’m not exactly enjoying, but that I could put up with for the sake of his pleasure. Maybe, I’m thinking to myself, that’s the most I can ever expect from my hole.

Then he puts me on my back again. He tips me up. My ankles are over my head, hanging over the shelf behind me. My knees are pressed tightly to my shoulders. He slides his sloppy cock into me. And something begins to stir. “Oh,” I breathe, in surprise. He looks at me with his blue eyes, and smiles. It’s not a cocky smile, the smile of the conqueror. It’s sweet and sincere, like a boy unwrapping the present he craved on Christmas morning. Even he can tell the difference this position is making. He’s sliding into me with barely any resistance until he’s got that entire fat hog inside. I feel like I’m compressed into a tight little ball beneath his weight, but damn. He’s starting to feel good.

Then he puts me on my knees. I’ve got my arms bracing me on the shelf over the bed. My ass is out. I’m almost upright, but not quite. He’s sitting behind me on his haunches, his knees on the outsides of my ankles. Then he whispers, “Arch your spine,” and pulls me down onto his waiting dick.
It’s like a switch has flipped. I squat straight down on his cock and take it to the base. There’s no pain. No urge to resist, to back off. He hits a spot deep inside me and I’m not even thinking about the years I went without this, or the old worries I’ve always had about bottoming. I’m not remembering the bad stuff. All I’m thinking about is how much deeper I can get that monster into me, and how fucking hard I want it. Then the all-over shaking begins.

Everything on that shelf is rattling and jumping from that hard, inexorable convulsing of my entire body as I raise and lower myself onto him. I’m coming apart. My invisible seams must be showing; they’re bursting and stretching as I shake loose my stitching. My skin is on fire. Fuck, my hole is on fire. All I can think about is how amazing he feels inside me. I start to clutch onto him with my ass muscles.

“You are going to make me come,” he warns, as he sits there. I’m torn. I want this sensation to last forever, but at the same time, I’m absurdly proud. He’s just sitting there, letting my hole pleasure him; I’m bringing him so close simply by impaling myself on that enormous penis. My pride in performance and my curiosity win out; I reach up and grab hold of the window sill, then greedily slam down on his cock, over and over again.

He gasps, then closes his eyes. His jaw drops. His big hands grab my hips and yank them down onto him; he holds me there while his dick pulses and throbs. He’s so quiet that I only know he’s shooting when the stuff starts to drip down out of my hole and paint the skin that connects us.

It’s not the only load we exchange, as the light of day fades into the sweetness of first dark. I eat him out and enter him slowly, and fuck him very softly while I cradle my his head in my arms. Then I go down and suck him off, where I’m rewarded with him grabbing my neck and shoving me down on his meat while he lets loose a spray of semen in my throat.

But afterward, even now, that first fuck is all I can think about—the pleasure of it, the fullness I felt inside. Mostly though, I think about the shaking, and of how my body reacted to his expert penetration, as he overloaded every nerve ending by forcing me to love the way his dick felt in me as he fucked me. No, not fucked. Worked inside me, to fill me with himself.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014


“Damn, it’s cold out!” My entrance into the twenty-fifth-story apartment is as vigorous as the blustery wind outside. “Hey dad,” I say, giving the older man standing there a quick hug. I shut the door and toss my backpack onto the dining room chair nearby. I use the tips of my toes to pry loose the heels, then kick my sneakers off so that they fly up in the air and land in a haphazard mess in the middle of the hallway. “Man, it’s good to see you. How’s mom?”

The man stares at me as I make myself right at home. I’ve never been there before, but it’s easy enough to find the kitchen. “She’s good, son,” he says to my back.

I’ve been bending over in the fridge, and emerge with a bottle of beer. I don’t like beer. I don’t intend to drink much of it. But I pop the top and take a chug, for show. “Awesome.” I’m taking another chug as I walk to the living room. I’ve got on a sweater, but it comes off before I put the beer down on the coffee table. I use a coaster. I’m not a savage.

The man has followed me over, somewhat dazed at the way I’ve treated his apartment as my own. He’s a good looking man—probably quite a looker when he was younger. He’s in his sixties now, though. Still distinguished. Still has a head of gray hair that’s cut expensively and styled well. At the moment he’s wearing a tank top that reveals a thatch of chest hair, dark at the edges and silver in the middle, and a pair of designer jeans.

I look him dead in the eyes. “Fuck,” I say in a low voice. “It sure is good to see you, dad.” Then I lean down, entwine my fingers in his hair, and pull his face to mine. My lips surround his in a deep, wet kiss. It’s not the kind of kiss most sons have for their dads.

I pull away, and smile at him. He’s breathing heavily. Beneath that expensive denim, he’s rock hard.
Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.

I flop down on the sofa, legs wide apart. Then I take another swig from the beer—my last, because that’s about as much of the stuff as I can stand. I wriggle my toes. “So what’s my dad up to tonight?”

He’s staring at me, entranced. The heel of his hand rubs against the front of his trousers. “I’m here for you, son,” he says, his voice husky.

“I’m here for you,” I softly correct him.

He falls to one knee, then the other, in front of me. His throat is still choked with emotion as he says, “Let me give you a foot rub, son.”

I let my calf rest on the coffee table. “Oh man, that’d be great, dad. It’s been a long time since you gave me one of your foot rubs.”

Slowly, reverently, he takes my foot into his hands. I feel the warmth of his flesh against its top and its sole. He leans forward, close enough that I can feel heat from his breath on my toes. Then he places them against his cheek, and holds them tight.

I lean back, smile, and allow him the liberty. I’m a good boy to my dad.

He’s a client. I’ve never seen this guy in the flesh before, never been in his apartment. He reached out to me online just the night before to say that if I was willing to indulge him in a very specific fantasy, he’d be more than willing to pay for a couple of hours of my time. He’s a married man, with a ‘secret apartment’ in one of the city’s more desirable neighborhoods. I don’t know how anyone manages to have a ‘secret apartment’ in this day and age, but hey. More power to him.

It’s a nice apartment—not large, but gracious. Elaborate moldings. High ceilings. A modern, renovated kitchen. The furniture is clean and tasteful without being fussy. I look around and take in the books, the CDs, the collection of porn DVDs near the flatscreen. All the while, he continues to worship and rub my feet. He’s removed the socks. Sometimes he kisses them as well.

“I shouldn’t have drunk that beer,” I say in a murmur. “Maybe I better lie down a little bit.” Without waiting for permission, I rise and make my way to the bedroom.

The bed is neatly made. I flop down on it. “Let me make you more comfortable, son,” he says, as he unbuttons my shirt. Then his hands fumble with my pants. I allow him to undress me as if I’m his child, until he’s down to my shorts. I stick my hands inside, and rub my cock. “Wow,” he says, looking at me. “Wow, son.”

“You’re so good to me, dad,” I tell him. I reach around to the back of his neck, and pull him down to me again. Our bodies press together as we kiss. He’s a good kisser. I could make out with him for as long as he wanted. He presses into the hardness between my legs. I make it swell, so he can feel it against his flesh.

“Please let me suck your cock,” he begs, when he comes up for air. “Let me suck my boy’s cock.”

I look at him with wide eyes, “Fuck, dad, really?” Then, more conspiratorially, “I don’t know what my girlfriend would say. Would it be just between us?”

I pull down my shorts so he can see the goods. His eyes are even bigger than mine. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“It’ll be just between you and me, right? Right, dad? No one else has to know?”

I’m pushing every single one of his buttons. No. I’m mashing those buttons with the heels of both hands and my jack-booted foot, hard. He’s breathing so hard I’m actually almost worried about a heart attack. “Just between a dad and his boy,” he rasps.

“Well . . . okay, I guess. . . .” As if there were any doubt.

He’s completely lost in the fantasy as he lies between my legs and lets his mouth travel up and down on my meat. The sounds of enjoyment I make are completely genuine. He’s good at what he does. I’m enjoying the fuck out of this guy, and his excitement feeds mine. When I reach between his legs, his cock is dripping wet. I thought I pumped out the precut—I’m a dry spigot compared to Dad.

He starts to moan when I rub his hole. “Have you ever been fucked, dad?” I ask, in the softest of whisper.

“Yes, son,” he says, looking up at me from beneath my rigid erection. “Your dad loves to be fucked.”

“Wow,” I say. “You mean, my own dad lets guys fuck his ass like pussy?”

He moans and his eyes half-close. I’m stomping on those buttons again.

“Can I try?” At my question, he looks at me helplessly. “Is that okay? Can I put it in you, dad?”

“Please,” he begs. “Please, son. Please fuck me.”

I’m already reaching for the bottle of lube by the bedside. It’s on plain display. I’m rubbing some into my meat and some onto his hole. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you, dad. I bet it’s sweet. I bet it’s soft and warm and—fuck.” I’ve navigated behind him, and gently positioned him onto his knees. He’s groaning and moaning loudly and rubbing his forehead against the pillow. “Fuck, it’s just like pussy, dad. Just like pussy.”

He does feel good. Easy to penetrate, slick and warm. I’m as hard as cement as I start to fuck his hole. “I need this so badly,” he confesses to me. “I needed my son inside me.”

“I told you I was here for you tonight,” I sat to him, right into his ear.

And I am there for him. For the next hour I fuck him in every position. From behind, where I plunge in and out the entire length of my cock. On his back, where I kiss him sweetly and grind in deep. On his side, so I can hold him tight and tell him how proud I am to have him as my dad. I even get him to slide head-first off the bed, so I can fuck his hole as he props his butt in the air against the mattress. He loves every fucking minute of it. Whenever he opens his eyes wide enough to meet mine, they’re flooded with adoration.

This is for him. Completely for him, just between a dad and a son.

“You’re making me so fucking hot, sir,” I tell him, as I get too close to turn back. “Tell me where to cum.”

He wrestles with the decision for a moment. “Pull out and cum on my dick and nuts,” he says.

I’m fucking him on his back again at that point. I pull out, shuffle back on my knees, stand at the bed’s foot, and yank him down. My hips are jutting forward as I use the lube and juice I’ve already been pumping out to slick up my cock. Obscenely I masturbate for him, making as much noise with my fist as possible. “You are so fucking hot, Dad,” I whisper. “Maybe sometime you’d let me cum inside you.”

“Yes,” he says, playing with his own dick. “Please, son. Please cum inside me next time.”

“Yeah?” I ask. “You want your son’s sperm in you? Fuck, that’d be hot. I want it, dad. Next time I’m breeding your hole. Breeding my dad’s hot hole.” I’m pushing myself over the edge now. Cum sprays out of my dick and paints his junk. After he feels the first jet, he’s rubbing it into his skin. I shoot more liquid over his cock. Immediately he uses it as lube, and jacks himself into a frenzy. I let the head of my throbbing, still-hard cock nudge against his hole. Rub it around. Let it dip in and out as he continues to jack. Then he’s climaxing. His body contracts and writhes as his short, fat cock unleashes an even bigger load than I’ve produced. It seems to go on for minutes. He gasps and chokes for air, then shudders once, twice, three times, four times, as the sensations wrack his body.

I collapse on the bed beside him. “Thank you, sir,” I say, as he rests his cheek on my chest.

It’s a couple of minutes later when his head is clear and he comes to. He looks at the clock. “You still have a few minutes left,” he says. “Please let me wash you off.”

“I’d like that a lot,” I say, as I kiss his forehead.

He warms up the shower for me, and joins me inside it. Once we’re both under the prickly jets he uses his hands to wipe the semen from my body. He soaps me all over, and rinses me off. I let him do what he wants, as I enjoy the sensations of skin and soap and slippery flesh.

Then we’re back to the living room, where he helps me dress as tenderly as he undressed me. I’m putting on my own shoes when he grabs my wallet out of my pants. I don’t mind that he checks out my drivers’ license. He already knows my name and age. “Looking a little empty here,” he murmurs, which is accurate, since besides my license the only thing I’m carrying is a Visa and a MetroCard. “Let me make sure you have some spending money,” he says, as he slips several large bills inside.

I don’t even count to see that it’s the amount we agreed upon for the two hours I’ve been there. I know he’s good for it. “Don’t take the subway back to the Terminal,” he says, slipping a twenty into my jeans pocket. “It’s late and rough out there. Dad wants you to take a cab.”

“Yes sir,” I say. I let him zip up my jacket before I lean in for a final kiss.

He puts his hand on top of mine, stopping me before I go. “I’m going to want you to come back again,” he says in a whisper.

I nod, then take my leave. I’ll be back again all right, to that secret apartment high in the city, where everything that happens is just between my dad and myself.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Sunday Morning Questions: Troll Doll Edition

I don’t know if it’s just me, or whether it’s a phenomenon a lot of tops experience . . . or whether it’s so general that anyone with the minimal thimbleful of good looks that I’ve managed to cobble together gets hit on in the same way. But I get a lot of offers for ‘free massages’ from guys on the internet.

Free massages!, you’re saying to yourselves. Wow! That sounds great! What could be better? Well, my friends, if that’s your reaction, I’ve got a Nigerian associate—he’s just a prince fleeing from the cruel armed forces who have taken over his homeland—who would like to deposit $500,000 to your bank account. Eventually. After you send him a few checks to prove your seriousness.

I’ve always assumed these ‘free massages’ come with strings attached. Specifically, I always envisioned that the guys who offered them are the trolliest of the old trolls, the kind of moss and slime-covered creatures who emerge from under bridges only in the dark of night to disembowel billy goats gruff and eat small children. I picture them as the unattractive men who lurk in the shadows of adult bookstores and cruising areas, hoping to get some action by sheer proximity, and desperate to get a free touch of something they’d ordinarily never score.

Actually, there used to be a man at one of the baths I frequented back in Michigan. He had Ben Franklin hair—long and wispy on the sides, non-existent on top. He had the general silhouette of a much-used upholstered armchair, with a shelf of a forty-five-inch waist where the seat would be. Even in the parts of the bathhouse were other people were shivering from the air conditioning, he perspired like he’d just run a marathon. To top it off, the man’s face was covered in warts. Not just one or two well-placed bumps. Big, honkin’, full-fledged Witchiepoo warts. Dozens of them. He was the living incarnation of troll-like behavior as well. If two men were playing with each other, he’d step right up and attempt to insert himself between them. If he spied someone he liked, he’d follow them around from room to room. If they said no, politely (as I did, many a time), he’d attempt to wheedle and ingratiate himself in. As with a forest fire in a national park, you could basically tell he was on his way when the bathhouse fauna started stampeding, en masse and clutching their towels, in your direction.

Whenever I’ve gotten an offer for a ‘free massage’ from some schmoe without photos, I’ve pictured the warty bathhouse guy and politely declined.

Last summer, though, I had an offer for a free massage from a fellow on one of the sex sites who actually had photos that were pretty recent. He was a professional massage therapist. He liked my body, for some reason. He thought I was attractive, and offered to give me a rubdown if I’d only drive to his place in the back country. I was alone that week and he was difficult to resist; I ended up making the trip and getting the most amazing deep tissue massage from the guy. He made the experience special—candles, scented oils. For approximately three hours I was putty in his hands as he worked every muscle, every joint, and every inch of my body from the soles of my feet to the very top of my scalp. Sure, he got to play with my hard cock and my hole from time to time—but he could’ve had almost any cock he wanted. The guy was pretty fucking amazing.

So when this week another local offered me the services of his hands, gratis, I hesitated before chucking the note in the trash bin. Sure, his profile was indistinct enough that it could’ve been anyone’s. Yeah, he didn’t have a face pic. But he offered to get on camera and show himself, and although he didn’t have enough light to really give me a distinct sense of what he looked like, he didn’t seem too bad. So I invited him over.

Readers. Do not make the same mistake as I.

While it’s true that the free massage guy who trotted into my home at eleven-thirty at night did not have actual warts covering his face, he was not an attractive man. He was quite obviously older than he was claiming by a good twenty years; the hair that had been tidy on cam had somehow blown out to all points of the compass and made him resemble a troll doll; he was five feet and maybe two inches, instead of the six feet he’d claimed; and he talked and giggled and hiccuped like Liza Minnelli at her most intoxicated and hyper.

It was not attractive.

Now ordinarily I would have zero problem gently telling someone that they weren’t quite what I expected, and suggesting that nothing’s going to happen. There’s kind of a point at which doing so is nearly impossible, however. And that point, for future reference, is at the threshold. Like vampires, if you don’t want the troll to stay, don’t let them over the threshold.

But the troll doll flounced by and let himself in my front door while I stood there with my jaw scraping the ground, and after I finished blinking, I shrugged and grinned to myself and figured that at least I’d have a story to tell. So I went through with the ‘massage’ for the sake of my readers. YOU ARE WELCOME, READERS.

Friends, did you ever see that episode of Friends in which for some reason Ross was pretending to be a massage therapist with one of Phoebe’s clients? I think he was so afraid of touching a hairy back that he massaged the guy with wooden spoons. Something like that. Let’s just say that was probably still more pleasurable than the ‘massage’ I received from troll doll. He dabbed here. He dabbed there. He ran a finger down my shoulder blade. He poked a little bit at my sacroiliac. He giggled and gulped like Liza talking about Mama and asked me if I was feeling relaxed. I lay there and tried not to snicker audibly and made the occasional grunt.

Then, after a few minutes of what felt like being prodded at with a pair of chopsticks, he started to kiss my shoulders. “It’s almost midnight,” he said in what I think was supposed to be an alluring tone.
“YEP. SORRY YOU HAVE TO GO. BYE!” I yelled, as I hustled him the hell out.

The things I do for you guys.

Let’s get to some questions from readers.

Some time ago (10.23.10), replying to a comment of Anonymous, you wrote: “Point me in the direction of an aggressive top man who isn't fond of attention! I've never seen such a beast”. Do you have any thought about why these two traits (being an aggressive top and “an attention whore”) tend to coincide in the same person?

Let me state first that I do not think think that aggressive tops are always attention whores. When I talked about tops being fond of attention, I meant in a sexual sense. Tops like to have their dicks stimulated. They enjoy a man servicing them. They like the sensations of fucking. That’s the kind of attention I meant.

Some tops are proud of their equipment. I certainly like showing off mine. Hell, I write an entire blog about what I do with it. I’m an exhibitionist. I know I didn't earn my dick in any way except through the luck of genetics. Still, I like the heads it turns, the desire it arouses, and the opportunities it gets me.

At the same time, I wouldn't call myself an 'attention whore,’ even in bed. I give as much as I get. And in public situations, I'm not the loudest or most outgoing. Quite the opposite.

However, I’ve encountered many men I would label as greedy for any kind of attention, yet who have no intention of returning any of it—both in and out of bed. In fact, it seems to me that of those men, there's a lot of excessive machismo bravado going on in their personalities to cover up some flaw they perceive in themselves. They might have been told they weren’t 'real men' by their mommies and daddies, or they were so afraid of being found out as gay, growing up, that they learned to overcompensate with loudness and brusqueness. Or they might have formed their entire concept of how men interact with each other during sex from porn, where tops are supposed to be mean and masculine and never to say thank you.

Imitating that kind of personality doesn't appeal to me. I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not, as a top. I've got my own style, and I haven't heard any complaints about it.

It seems to me that there are a lot of men out there who are hurting very deeply, and who use sex as a way to erase past or present hurts, to fill voids, or to fix what's broken in their lives. Men want sex, but fear it, and tremble before its pull. If I flatter myself to have any kind of sexual talent at all, it’s been to sometimes intuit what an individual man really needs, and through sex, to give them the permission and the freedom to express what often he can’t put into mere words. It doesn’t make me less aggressive, or less fond of sexual attention. It just exempts me—sometimes—from being a total asshole.

I only recently started playing with guys in earnest. I've fucked three guys now, all bareback. Now I am getting worried and even panicked. Worried about disease and bringing it home to my significant other. I'm also worried that I'm not living an honest, admirable life. What do I do? It will not be easy for me to deny my attraction to men, but I feel like I'm living two lives. If there's any advice you can give me, I'd appreciate it.

I always advise guys that it's best to have some quiet moments and think about where you draw the line when it comes to risk—whether it's risking your marriage or relationship by fucking around, or whether you're risking an STD by fucking bareback.

You know yourself better than anyone; if you're the kind of guy who has sex and then feels like beating himself up for a week after you've had it because you’ve played outside your relationship, or because you fucked raw, then you probably shouldn't be doing either. Do only the stuff for which you're willing to accept the consequences. If you know your partner would leave you because of fucking around, then don't be shocked and surprised when something happens and he or she abandons you. If you're fucking raw, do so knowing that you risk picking up HIV or other STDs, and that you'll have to do the big boy thing and accept responsibility for it.

If those prospects scare you too much, stick to less risky activities. Get guys to suck you off, which is lower-risk than anal. Fuck guys with a rubber. If the idea itself of cheating throws you into a panic, masturbate at home and don't fool around with other men—or work with your partner so that sex outside the relationship is acceptable and therefore not ‘cheating.’ You've got to live with the choices you make.

I want you to be happy. Sex adds to your personal quality of life (and in my case, makes me an all-around nicer mate to have at home). However, being miserable and scared and freaked out all the time will diminish your quality of life far more than the few minutes of sex will add to it. Decide what acts and limits do not exceed your level of comfort, then stick to them.

The old Formspring site has changed its format in a way I don’t like, so that non-registered members can’t leave anonymous questions any longer. So let’s do this: if you have questions for me, please email them to the address on the sidebar. I will keep your identity anonymous, of course, and add them to the queue to address in future Sunday morning editions.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Old Man

The Runt is shooting like a fucking geyser today. Like Old Faithful, he’s spouting off at regular intervals. Big huge jets of the stuff. Every time, spouts erupt out of his rigid dick as his body shakes and quivers. He’s spunked all over the blanket, baptized the pillows and headboard, smacked me in the chest and face with his essence.

Every time, he looks at me afterward in panic and near distress. I can’t fathom what frightens him. He could be afraid I’ll assume he’s done, and cease the relentless grinding of my cock into his puffy red hole. Maybe he thinks his cries are loud enough to be heard by the neighbor upstairs. But I think secretly he fears he’s showing too much. The Runt plays his emotional cards close to his chest. Around his friends, his family, he’s pretending—pretending to be normal, pretending not to be gay, pretending to be a good and obedient boy who marches lockstep with the plans others have made for him.

The only time he’s anything close to being himself is when he’s naked and with me. In the dark, when I’m holding him so tightly by his trim waist that I’m leaving red marks on that smooth skin, when I’m shoving my obscenely enlarged fuckmeat into his soft, sweet guts, he’s free. He’s getting what he needs. He’s living the life about which he can only fantasize in the harsh light of day. I think that realization takes him aback. He’s unused to expressing the liberty he feels when he’s astride a man’s cock.

So when he comes, it’s loudly. Not like when he’s at home after the lights are out, fumbling himself under the covers. His narrow chest billows and dwindles, his breathing quickens and becomes harsh, his little dime-sized nipples shrink and pucker. His ass cheeks dimple and contract around my dick as he straddles it and rides. His lids open as if they’re revealing the world around him, and not merely hiding his beautiful brown eyes. He shudders and yells and then, right on schedule, his dick jerks back and forth. At each apex, it unleashes a stream of gooey white sperm. The first launch smacks me on the shoulder and flies off and over the bottom of the bed. The second lands at the bed’s foot. The third puddles on the blanket and begins to seep in.

His hair covers his forehead, falls in his eyes. It’s a wavy mess. Kids these days, right? His body rises and falls with every thrust of my hips. The Runt comes whenever I force my dick inside him. It’s the first penetration that triggers his spastic response, so I’ve been fucking him, left his hole rest and close, and then forcing it back inside. I’m cruel that way. Yeah, I’m a real bastard, all right, giving him climax after climax and then stretching his hole with my monster cock while he’s trying to recuperate. Sadistic fucker.

So I’m lying there sneering and being cocky about my prowess, and I don’t even notice at first he’s lowered himself on his hands. He’s looking at me. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

I rest my hips. I don’t tense up, exactly, but I’m on edge. The Runt doesn’t ask me things. We don’t talk. We pass comments back and forth sometimes. The last talk we had was when he broke down to tell me his dad had called him a worthless faggot. Even when I’ve asked how things are at home, since then, the most communicative he’s been has been to shrug his shoulders and pretend he hasn’t heard. “Anything,” I say, wondering if I can communicate supportiveness, neutrality, and encouragement all in one word.

My dick’s still hard and inside him. He settles down on it, as if to sit for a while. His mouth works with difficulty. I breathe in and out, but don’t prod. I wait for his words to come. At last he says, “You’ve got a birthday coming up.”

I’m surprised he remembers. The only time we’d discussed it was when I’d asked about his, months ago. “I do indeed.”

“It’s a big one.”

I don’t really need to be reminded of this fact. I’ve already got my dad saying Hey, you’re going to be really really OLD! I woke up the other morning and realized how OLD you’ve gotten and I was thinking to myself, ‘how do I have a son who’s that OLD?’ every time I talk to him on the phone. But you know, to someone with the Runt’s youth, I’m sure I seem like a creaky old antiquity. “It is.”

The Runt has sleepy eyes. They’re big baby-doll eyes—round and fringed by thick eyelashes. They’ll be devastating when he learns how deliberately to use them on a guy. His lids are heavy again now, though. He gazes at me as if he’s afraid of being hurt. “Can I be the last?”

I haven’t the faintest clue what he’s talking about.

The bemusement must be plain on my face. “I want to be the last one you fuck. In your forties,” he explains. His voice is soft. “Would that be all right?”

Oh. My lips part, as I consider his words. It’s not the actual offer of sex that pleases me. I know he’s exposing a vulnerable side of himself. And that, coming from anyone, is a gift in itself. Much better than anything wrapped in paper.

“You don’t have to.”

“It would be very all right,” I say, not letting him take the offer back. “But why?”

Those heavy lids close again. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be kind of cool, is all.”

That’s not what he thought at all. I just hoped you think I’m special enough, is what he’s telling me. I hope you remember me. He doesn’t need to speak the words. “I’d love it if you were the last fuck of my forties,” I say to him. Then, formally, holding his hands, I make him look at me. “Will you, Runt, be the last ass I fuck in my forties?”

Now I’ve made him shy. “Come on,” he says, urging me to stop.

“No, seriously.” I shake his hands a little. “Say you will. I’d not considered it at all until now. But will you?”

His lips work a little into one of his rare smiles. His eyes rest on mine for a second, then flit away. “Okay.”

I’ve pleased him. It makes my heart warm, and my dick swell. “What about me?” I ask. He flips away the hair from his eyes with a quick bob of his head. “Do I get to be the last man of your teens?” That milestone is approaching quickly.

He chuckles. His hands lift to the leather dog collar around his skinny neck. “How many dudes do you think I see?”

“How about the first man of your twenties?” I say. “Would you remember that?”

He nods. “I would definitely remember that. Both those.”

He looks over at the clock. It’s a nervous tic for him. He’s so used to having his schedule regulated by the needs of others that he’s unused to having any for himself. “Do we have to go?” I ask him. He shakes his head. “Then get your ass off my cock and get your mouth on it, son,” I whisper. “Make this old man feel good.”

I’ll let him gnaw on my bone for a bit. Then, when his ass muscles are relaxed, I’ll split him open again and force out another of his copious loads. Old Geyser’s gotta blow, after all. The Runt rearranges himself between my legs. He looks up at me and dutifully says,“You’re not old.”

He could give my dad some lessons in tact.

Friday, January 10, 2014

I Know What You Want

“‘Sup,” is all he says as he pours himself into my car’s front passenger seat. That’s all. ‘Sup. Our eyes connect for a moment. His flick away. They’re black and shiny, like obsidian. Then he stares at the road ahead and bobs his neck back and forth, as if listening to beats from an invisible source.

I nod and make a U-turn. ‘Sup, indeed. I can see right through him. He’s all swagger and defenses, this one. He’s a little Latin boy wearing a baseball cap, big baggy sweats, and a hoodie two sizes too large. Beneath all that excess of jersey I can discern the outline of his shoulders—narrow and lean, like the hips that barely keep those jeans from falling to the floor. His knees are thin poles making his pant legs into tents. He’s looking out the window like all’s cool with the world, but those knees are scissoring together, then apart. He might be living in his first rented room after flying out of his mommy’s nest. He might like thinking of himself as bad. He might try to appear tough and impervious. But I know he’s a nervous little boy of twenty, behind that slick facade.

The drive to my place is short. He doesn’t speak again until I’ve pulled up in front of my home. “This is it, huh,” he comments. He oozes out of the car and tugs at the imaginary lapels of his hoodie like he’s casing the joint. I lead him up the porch and inside.

He’s silent as he follows me to the bedroom. I’ve already turned on the light. Before he plunges his hands in his pockets, he takes time to adjust that oversized Yankees cap he’s wearing. It’s set at a forty-five degree angle between forehead and ear, and another forty-five degrees up from the horizontal plane. It’s such a specific angle that I suspect he’s spent hours and hours testing it in the mirror. “So what now, boss?” he asks, when I stand in front of him. He chuckles at himself, as if he’s a regular wit.

I haven’t said a word this entire time. There’s no need for me to compensate for his tough-guy act. I’m not trying to impress the little shit. I’m not trying to get a second date. I know exactly what I want from him. I’m pretty confident I’ll get it. My lips part to say, “Strip.”

Then I fold my arms, and wait.

He pauses for a moment like he’s caught in the headlights. I watch him make the choice to brazen it out. “Aiiiight,” he says, his heavy lids hooding his eyes. He’s a handsome kid, I’ll give him that. He’s got beautiful eyes, a pretty face. There’s a tiny little fringe of hair at the very base of his lip that’s supposed to pass for a mustache, and a similar trace of the stuff around his jaw. It’s cute. But it’s a boy’s facial hair.

He shimmies out of the hoodie and the aqua tank top he’s wearing underneath. His nipples are brown candies, round and tiny. There’s a tiny trace of fur leading from his navel down the flatness of his stomach, to the waistband of his sweats. He tugs at the elastic and pulls them down to his ankles. He’s wearing basketball shorts beneath, and beneath those, briefs of neon yellow mesh. His uncut dick flops around, mostly hard, as he steps out of the three layers.

He stands before me almost defiantly, hat still on. I study his body, with the skin the cover of creamy coffee. It’s flat in all the right places, firm in others. Save for the thatch of dark pubes above his swinging meat, he’s almost totally smooth. “Now you,” he says. His jaw grinds with challenge.

I shake my head.

“No?” he says, surprised. “You ain’t gonna get naked?”

“I’ll get naked,” I tell him, keeping my tone level, “when I get naked. Get on the bed.”

Those black eyes regard me with something approaching hostility. “You act like you’re the boss or something.”

At least the kid is picking up on that fact. I let my eyebrows rise, incline my head toward him. “Listen,” I say in a low voice. “I know what you want.”

“You do, huh.”

“I know what you want.”

He stares at me. Then I see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “What do I want?” His voice is husky.

“Get on the damn bed,” I repeat.

Our eyes are locked for a moment. Then his break away. I’ve won the battle. Slowly he climbs onto my mattress. For a moment I think he’s going to argue with me some more. Then I watch as he spreads those bony knees across the mattress, puts his head down, and lifts his ass in the air.

Good boy. He’s learning.

I strip behind him, making sure he hears the sound of my belt buckle and my jeans hitting the floor. I’m naked when I slither between his legs with my body, and put my mouth on that hole. He hisses when I make contact. “Oh yesssss.”

He’s got a beautiful butt, this boy. Round, worked out, smooth as a baby’s skin. Just as I knew he would, he responds passionately to my rimming. He’s moaning, and clutching his hands into fists as he grabs at the sheets and tries to hang onto them for dear life. I chew at the hole with my teeth, rake it with my beard. I slap his cheeks and grab his balls and tug, just to get the reactions I want.

He’s not so tough now, this kid. That carefully-constructed front has tumbled as suddenly as if I’d blown all the trumpets of Jericho. He’s rolling his head on his neck and banging his forehead against the shelf over my pillows. That damned Yankees cap has fallen off his close-shorn head and onto the floor. He’s all reaction, now, that artificial personality drowned by tides of pleasure.

Like I said, I’m not romancing this kid. He’s just here to be fucked. I’ve got a thumb up his hole before he realizes what’s happening. But once he recognizes the sensation, he lifts himself to his hands and knees and looks back over his shoulder in my direction. Those black eyes are glazed and wet and angry. It’s the anger of someone who hates that someone sees right through him. I stare back, my face impassive as I squeeze a dollop of clear gel into my hands. I cover my dick with the stuff, then shove some up his little fuckhole. His mouth twitches. He’s trying to be tough again.

When I force two fingers inside him, though, he gives up and hangs his head. He nods when I shove my wet, red cock head up against his pucker. When I shove in, he pushes back. He yells as it slides home. When I’m all the way in, he pants. Resists—like it isn’t too late, now. Then gives in.

We sink together to the mattress. My weight is on him as I start to thrust in and out.

“This is what you want,” I tell him.

“Yes,” he agrees. His face is twisted in pain. I’m a big boy.

“Say it.”

He follows my order without challenge. “This is what I want.”

“You love it.”

“I do love it. Oh god, I love it. I love it, I love it.” I’m fucking him harder now, enjoying the sight of my cock stretching his brown hole. “Thank you, daddy,” he murmurs into the pillow. It’s probably the first sincere thing he’s said since we met.

“You’re welcome,” I reply. I was raised to be polite.

When I shoot, he’s on his back and I’m pounding the shit out of him. His eyes are still half-hooded like a snake’s, but they’re regarding me in a happy daze. He’s the kid who got everything he wanted for Christmas morning. “I need it so bad, daddy,” he’s begging. “Please knock up my pussy. Please.” Now he’s whining. There’s a thin edge to the plea that’s raw and cutting. “Please give me your babies, sir. Please.”

We kiss for the first time when I shoot inside him. His mouth is open wide and hungry, taking my lips in his. His mouth is as open as his hole, at this point, and I’m in both of them, filling them. My load slides from my nuts to his insides, spraying his colon with my juice. His own cock is sticky against my belly. I push his hands away as he tries to jack it, while my thrusting subsides to a slight rotation of my hips.

Maybe I’ll let him cum after my second fuck. If I decide he wants it, that is.

One the ride back he sits low in the passenger seat, the Yankees cap brim pulled low over his eyes. There’s not a trace of his cockiness left when I pull in front of his house. After I shift into park, he sits there for a moment. Then he turns his head. “Thank you, daddy,” he says quietly. Then he pulls himself out, shuts the car, and shuffles to the side door.

I guess he was raised to be polite, too.

Monday, January 6, 2014

Got to Be Taught

The small of his back rests on my thigh, just above my knee. His head compresses the pillows. When I twist my fingers inside him—index and middle, plunged into his hole as deep as they can go—his shoulders dig into the mattress. He lets out a wail that’s half animal, half supernatural.

But he’s not in pain. There’s a world of difference between agony and what this man is feeling. I stare him in the face as he writhes and moans and bucks his hips. He can’t see me. His face is screwed up too tight, his eyes clamped shut as he loses himself in the sensations my greased and twisted digits arouse. Once more I twist in the other direction. Like he’s pedaling some invisible bicycle, his hairy legs bend and paw toward the ceiling. “Am I hurting you?” I ask.

He takes a moment to answer. “What? No.” He sighs the words so that they arrive with the scent of his breath, still faintly smelling of the cinnamon gum he’d chewed after dinner. “Please don’t stop.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” I tell him. Truer words have never been spoken. I made a promise to this man, and I intend to keep it.

I see tears in his eyes as he looks at me. He has to wipe them away with a free hand. Simultaneously, he starts to laugh at himself, as he pictures how he must look to me. “It doesn’t hurt,” he assures me. “I just didn’t know it could feel so good.”

I receive the compliment with a curt nod. No words. But I take my ring finger and, when I withdraw the other two, add it to his hole. The extra girth causes him to squeeze shut his eyes again. His head presses back against the headboard, and his whole body shudders.

“I know it feels good,” I tell him. “I know it’s all new and scary to you. But you wrote me for a reason. Remember?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

“What reason is that?”

I can only see the bottom of his chin, his neck is extended so far back. “Because I want you.”

“And why do you want me?”

He’s struggling to make his higher functions work, when his body is wracked with thrill. “Because you’re hot.”

“No.” Not it at all. “Because you trust—“

Now he remembers. “Because I trust you—“

“—to do it right. That’s what you said.”

“Yes.” He nods his head. “Because I trust you to do it right. I want you because I know you’ll do it right.” He’s panting like he’s run a two hundred-meter race.

“That’s right,” I say with approval. Gently I remove my knee from beneath him, and let him settle into the mattress. I shift myself so that I’m between his legs. My cock is rigid. If he looked down, he’d see how red and angry it is as I continue to deny it what it so badly wants.

This isn’t about me, though. It’s about him. When a handsome man has read my blog for two years and gotten up the nerve not only to contact me, but to fly from the west coast to east specifically to visit me, I take my time with him. When he’s booked that long flight and a hotel room in the city for the night and has escorted me to dinner to prove himself a gentleman, he gets everything he wants.
When he’s offering me his anal virginity, I don’t poke at him and go. I set the pace. I maximize his pleasure and erase his doubts and fears. I do it right. I aim to make him remember me. Like I tell guys, I want to fuck him so well that afterward he regrets any cock that’s not mine.

What is he? I can’t remember from his profile. Thirty or thirty-one. Something like that. A professional man. Cool and confident on the exterior, but I know he’s been worried all night about this moment. “Now, I am going to hold your legs up,” I tell him, while still I manipulate the soft, wet flesh with my hand. I’ve spent the last hour and a half making love to this hole…touching it, kissing it, licking and eating and fucking it with my fingers. He’s ready for cock. He might not know it, and he might not believe it, but he’s ready. I know. “And you are going to look into my eyes . . . and you are going to relax . . . and you are going. . . .”

“I’m going to get fucked.” His square-cut jaw trembles slightly.

“You’re going to get fucked,” I agree, in a low and breathy voice. I’ve withdrawn my fingers. I’m pleased to see his hole retaining the gape. I position my cock head at the space I’ve left behind.

“Oh god,” he whispers. His legs start to jerk when I push in. I hold them immobile.

He’s whimpering the entire time my head stretches his hole. “You want this,” I remind him.

“I do,” he says, suddenly worried I might change my mind. “Oh, I do. I do want this.”

“You’ve got to be taught,” I say, “what your hole is for.”

He repeats the words like a hypnotist’s subject. “I’ve got to be taught,” he says. He winces and breathes in a hiss, as I slide a little further in.

“Tell me you want it,” I instruct him.

“I want it so much. Please.”

“You flew a long way for this,” I say. “You picked me out for this moment.”

“I want it,” he says, still in a trance. “I want it to be you.”

I keep him focused on the need. “Look at me,” I instruct. “Look at me.” He opens his eyes and stares into mine. Our faces aren’t too distant. I could lean forward and kiss him, if I wanted. “You feel good. Do you know how good you feel?” He shakes his head. “I am having to do everything in my power to keep from raping your tight little hole right now, because that’s how good it feels. I bet you didn’t know you were a hot little fuck.”

When I crack a smile, he can’t help but return one in kind. “Really?” he asks, struck shy.

“Really,” I tell him. “You are a hot . . . little . . . fuck.” I’ve been sliding in the entire time. My head nudges against something familiar. I’m in. “Now, did that hurt?” I ask him.

“No,” he whispers. He’s in awe, like prophet receiving a revelation. “How . . . how much more is there?”

I don’t answer him directly. Instead, I take his hand and pull it around his hips so that he can feel for himself.

“Oh my god.” His eyes widen as he realizes. “You’re all the way in.” I nod, very slowly. I’m breathing through my mouth, heavy and slow. My heart is pounding like a timpani. “You’re all the way in,” he says, as his hole clamps down on me.

“Sssssh,” I tell him, with a gentle kiss on his lips. “Relax.”

“Am I doing okay? Do I feel all right? I want to be okay for—“

I shake my head. Kiss away the question. “You are wonderful,” I tell him. I burst into a little bit of laughter. “You really don’t know how wonderful you are at this, do you?” My words make him unclench again, enough that I can rock back and forth. I’m not thrusting—not yet. But I’m letting him feel the ebb and flow of my hips, getting him used to the rhythm that will build and grow and sweep us away as I take him to the place he wants to go.

His eyes are very serious as first. Then, as he realizes he can trust me, he exhales a breathy little chuckle. His lips curl into a smile. I nod. Now that I’ve given him permission, he settles into the pillows. He relaxes—really relaxes. My cock can feel the difference. “I want this,” he tells me, meaning it.

I nod with approval once more. “You want this.”

“I’m being fucked,” he whispers. I can see the joy in his expression, when he realizes that the long-held fantasy has finally been made real. “I’m being fucked.”

“Oh, you are definitely being fucked,” I say, rocking my hips in a longer arc.

“It’s. . . .” As my rocking turns into small thrusts, and as the small thrusts broaden into my inches sliding in and out of his slick, hot chute, he struggles to find words. At last he sighs and regards me with the infatuation of the deeply happy. “Amazing.”

I accept the compliment with a slight smile. “You’re a very, very good learner,” I tell him, as I lean in for a deep kiss. I slide my wet rod so deeply in his hole that his hips lift off the bed. He grunts and rises to meet me, as our tongues entwine.

He doesn’t know it yet, but the man is in for a long night. I promised to teach him what his hole is for. And I’ve a lot of lessons to get through.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Good Boy

His neighborhood is dark—almost pitch black, in fact. The closest streetlight was at the intersection where I’d turned my car behind his, a full block behind me. He turns off his car’s lights, and I turn off mine. When he steps out and into the driveway of his house, he’s a shadow against shadows through my windshield.

My dick is hard, though. My pulse quickens as I pocket my keys and follow him across concrete and brick to the front door of his split level. There’s no light above the door. No lamps aglow within. There’s just us, the cloudy night sky, and the streetlight obscured by trees, far away.

“Do you know where you are?” he asks, pausing before he inserts the key.

“No,” I tell him.

“You mean, you don’t know where on the map you are?”

I can’t see his expression. “No, not really,” I say. The route we’d taken when I’d followed his car hadn’t been long—no more than ten minutes of driving, really. But once off the main routes and onto residential side roads I’d never seen before, I’d quickly lost my bearings. I’d kept focused on the tail lights of his dark truck.

“How will you find your way home if you’re lost?”

“I’ll manage,” I tell him.

Then while I’m standing there, I remembered something from college. It was one of the first weeks of the acting class I took, the first semester of my freshman year. We’d gone through several afternoons in which we’d laid on the floor and relaxed ourself into a boneless stupor, and exercises in which we’d pretended to be fish out of water, or seeds bursting into life, or animals in a zoo. Before we could be trusted with actual scripts by real playwrights, however, the professor gave us sheets of paper a two-person exchange of identical lines, for an in-class task. The lines were fairly mundane—something along the lines of “Hi.” “Hello.” “Nice weather, isn’t it?” “I hadn’t noticed.” Our assignment, however, was to pair off and present the script to the class while enacting one of several secret scenarios the professor had given us. The class would watch while we’d speak the lines and mime a little, and try to guess the subtext behind the words.

I remember my partner and I were supposed to be a man and a woman in an elevator. I was supposed to be interested in her; she was supposed to react as if she thought I was hitting on her. Her Hi was neutral and cautious; mine was knowing. Her inquiry about the weather she made while stepping to the far end of the imaginary elevator; I said I hadn’t noticed while I tilted my head and stared at her backside as if I was too busy looking at her ass to notice anything else. I spoke one of my follow-up lines while reaching across her to push a floor button and moving too close; she replied with another of the bland sentences by flattening herself against an imaginary elevator wall. The class guessed what we were trying to convey almost immediately.

Some of the other scenes were of young lovers enjoying a picnic, or of a student trying to butter up a professor, or of a young person caring for an elderly grandparent. We all had the exact same dialogue to work with, but what the professor aimed to show us was that even when given the same material and even with the same scenery and props (which is to say, none at all), we could convey an infinite variety of scenarios in a recognizable way.

I’d met this guy only minutes before at the northbound cruisy car lot off the freeway, where after dark men looking for sex pull into empty parking spaces and wait for each other. The cold was biting, and I’d made a bargain with myself that if nothing happened within a half hour, I’d leave and warm myself at the nearest coffee shop. For twenty of those thirty minutes I’d sat fruitlessly in my driver’s seat, rubbing an erection through my jeans, while a bear in a pickup truck looked at his smartphone and snuck furtive looks my way. I’d given up on him and driven to the southbound lot, certain that he was just waiting to pick up a carpooling spouse, but he’d followed me there and then driven away almost instantly. With five minutes to go, I’d driven back to the northbound lot to see if he was there. He wasn’t.

Then the black truck had pulled up next to me. I could see the man driving—an older guy with a military cut. He was easily in his sixties or maybe even more, but he was very plainly taking care of himself. Even on this cold night he was wearing a short-sleeved T that displayed his brawny, muscular forearms. His face was handsome. He nodded at me, and I nodded back. He rolled down the passenger side window. I turned off my car, stepped out onto the gravel, leaned into the window, and nodded. “You’re hot,” he said, in a deep and masculine voice.

“So are you,” I replied.

“Follow me home?”

I didn’t need a second invitation. But then I stood there on his front stoop, while he asked if I knew where we were. And those memories of that college acting exercise surfaced. It struck me that the innocuous exchange could be interpreted in any number of ways. How will you find your way home if you’re lost?—the question of a man concerned about his guest. Or, How will you find your way home . . . if you’re lost?—the question of an axe murderer.

Read as a script, or narrated in a flat tone, it would be more than possible to find sinister overtones to the words he’d said. It would be equally possible to hear in mine the naive last words of a lamb led to slaughter. Or, as I’d assumed to that minute, he might just be that guy who didn’t want his trick banging at his door at midnight, complaining of not being able to find his way out of the cul-de-sac.

The moment’s doubt gives me pause, however. When he pushes open the door and the warmth from within rushed out, I hesitate. There are some genuinely bad people out there. I could end up in the bottom of a home-dug pit, rubbing lotion on its skin.

“Are you coming in, or what?” he says from the other side of the threshold. When I don’t answer right away, he reaches up with a hand, cups the back of my head, and pulls my mouth down to his.

Our lips pressed tight together, with our tongues exploring the back recesses of each other’s mouths, I manage to stumble inside. He holds my head tight between his palms, as if afraid I’ll try to push him away. I don’t. I need those kisses too much, and he does it so well. He smells like the shaving soap they used to use at old barber shops—the kind of vanished storefront with a rotating red and white pole in front. “Get up to the bedroom,” he growls in my ear.

I scamper up the stairs. From behind he guides me into the first door. There’s a large brass bed in the room’s center, a bedside table where a lamp burns low, and some drawn blinds. I can see now that the man is shorter than I could tell while he sat in his truck; he’s no more than five-four or five. He’s assertive enough, however, that when he shoves me back onto the mattress, I stay there. He regards me with glittering eyes as he steps back, puffs out his muscular chest, and removes his belt.

I swallow as he pushes down his jeans. He’s wearing a worn-out jock with a full pouch. Already there’s a wet spot formed on the front. I can see the outline of his hard cock beneath the gray fabric. With both arms, he shimmies out of his T-shirt. He’s a robust old man beneath that cotton. He’s in better shape than most guys half his age, and his eraser-sized nipples are already as erect as his cock. “You want to suck it?” he asks.

I look up into his face. He really is a handsome fucker, is all I can think. The man reminds me of a drill sergeant from an old army movie, all bark and needing to bite. “Oh yeah,” I tell him. I really want to suck it.

He yanks me to my feet. Pushes off my jacket. Pulls off my shirt and undoes my pants like they’re the fly-away clothing strippers yank off with a single tug. I’m wearing nothing more than a pair of white sweat socks when he pushes me down to my knees, bashes his cock against my face, and shoves the fat monster between my hungry lips.

He tastes good. Clean. Soapy, as if he’s rinsed off only a few minutes before hitting the car park. At first he holds my head still as he pistons in and out of my wet and sloppy mouth. Long, slow strokes, from tip to base. He’s only about six and a half fat inches, which isn’t that much to handle. But he’s determined to get deep in there, and he drives so far in that he’s hitting spots guys with more inches than him rarely touch. “I need this so bad, son,” he murmurs, as he strokes the underside of my beard.

Being called son by a handsome older guy hits all my buttons. My cock is fully erect, but I don’t touch it. I can feel it leap and beg for release, but still I keep my hands off. I look up at him with adoration as he fucks my mouth and throat. I’d do anything for this man, after that.

And he knows it. “You like it rough?” he asks. I nod, quick and hungry. “Nice,” he says, speculation making him drawl. “I wonder how rough you can take it.”

“Whatever you want,” I say, when he gives me a chance.

Before I know what’s happening, he’s manhandling me—a five-foot-four guy with twenty pounds and twenty years on me throwing my six-foot-three frame onto the bed. He grabs a couple of the pillows and shoves them beneath my neck and head, then straddles my shoulders. Then his dick is thrusting at my face.

I know what to do. I open up and let him have the access his dick needs. “Good boy,” he whispers. When I look up, he’s playing with his nipples. I try to reach up to do that for him, but he stops me. “Let daddy do all the work,” he growls. “You just take that dick like you’re supposed to.”

I want to be a good boy for him. I need to be a good boy. At this moment, I want nothing more than to be this stranger’s good boy, to give him exactly what he wants and needs. His meat seems to grow thicker in my gullet with every thrust. He’s pounding the back of my throat so savagely that it’s aching. I breathe when I can, trying to gasp in air in those brief fractions of seconds when he’s pulled out and before he rams back in.

“Nice,” he keeps saying, over and over again. “Good boy. Take it. Take all of it.”

My eyes begin to water. Tears are streaming down the sides of my face from the battering he’s giving me. I’m sure I’ve turned a deep red from both the cramped position I’ve had to maintain beneath his body, and from my lack of oxygen. He doesn’t seem to care, though. My mouth is just fuckmeat to him. He’s using a stranger to get his nut; he doesn’t really care about my comfort. He cares about how wet and warm my mouth is around his rigid dick, and that’s it. He cares about the tightness, the pliability. How willing I am.

And I am one hundred percent fucking willing, for him.

I can tell he’s close when he starts to grunt. His belly and chest curl around the top of my head; I can feel his arms cradling the back of my neck as he starts pumping even harder. I can’t breath at all, but I endure my airlessness for a half-minute while he finishes off with a series of animal noises. Like a feral beast, he drives to the back of my throat. He’s nearly crushing my skull. I don’t care. I want the load.

When it comes, it gushes almost directly down my throat. I can feel the heat of it, taste a little of it when I start to gag. Though his grip lessens a little, he holds me down on his dick until I’ve taken care of every drop of that semen. Then, gradually, he releases his hold. When he finally straightens upright, cracks his knuckles, and stretches, I’m still nursing on his softening dick.

He pulls it out with a plop. “Good boy,” he tells me.

“Thank you,” I say to him. I’ve never been so grateful for dick as I am at that moment. “Thank you,” I say again, as I plant several soft kisses on his pubes.

He’s done. He hands me my clothes. Dresses himself. Waits until I’m completely together before escorting me down to the front door. “So you really don’t know how to get home?” he asks.

“I’ll manage,” I tell him.

He nods. “Turn left at the light,” he growls, as he rubs my butt. “Take the road to the light after that. You’ll see where you are.” I thank him, and wave before he shuts the door. Sure enough, when I follow his directions I find myself on a section of the Post Road I’ve traveled many times before.

Turns out he was the concerned partner and not the axe murderer, after all. But damn, I loved the way he used his weapon.