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.