During the initial meet-and-greet part of my birthday gangbang, I remember standing around with my clothes on, a drink awkwardly in my hand. A group of four or five of us stood in a tight circle talking about what we did for a living. It’s a conversation I generally tend to dislike. Telling people about my career has about the same impact as if I were simply to announce I’d devoted my life to becoming a professional adult male cheerleader. That is, the reaction I tend to get is one where people say “Ahhh?” in a way that indicates they think there might be people who actually do what I do, somewhere out there, but they’re certainly not making any money at it, are they?
So mostly I was smiling politely and listening to the fellows tell me what they did for a living, while I kept wondering why the party felt so odd. Why I didn’t feel particularly connected with a vast majority of the guys there.
The answer came to me when, in a moment of solemnity devoted to one guy’s oration about how really tough it was to work in Wall Street these days, my buddy Blake reached out with his bare foot and pressed it against mine. Though he was nodding and commiserating with the speaker, it was very plain he had things other than the commodities market on his mind. That fleshy contact make me realize exactly what I’d been missing. I simply wasn’t used to seeing these guys with their clothes on.
I’d checked out the profiles of basically all the attendees before the night of the party. I’d been treated to an assortment of bare chest photos, mostly. Pecs on parade! Lots of muscles, all more or less uniform, with varying degrees of tan and fur. Dicks and asses by the pound. I’d seen the faces of most of these guys in their photos, but they tended to appear peeking over the owner’s shoulder while the guy lay spread-eagled in an inviting position. You know, almost as if the man’s face had photo-bombed his own ass shot. In that context, my focus tended to be elsewhere than on the guy’s mug, no matter how handsome.
Case in point: one of the guys in that little career circle was someone I’d talked to a fair amount in the week before the party, and yet I had no idea until he mentioned that he was visiting from Florida. “Oh!” I said, with sudden recognition. “You’re—!”
And at the same moment, he pointed at me. “I know who you are!” he announced, pleased.
Neither of us said the words, but it was pretty plain what we both meant. If he’d seen me flashing my hard cock, he would’ve had no problems recognizing me. And if I’d seen him with his pretty little round ass in the air, I would’ve cornered him immediately.
Colby is a short man—maybe five-four at most. He’s got hair with the finish and sheen of a local network evening news anchor and the good wholesome looks to match. The night of the party, he had a well-manicured layer of stubble outlining his cheeks and jawline. I don’t really remember what he did for a living, but it should’ve been in front of a television. He was that good-looking. If I’d seen him walking down the street or standing around at a legitimate cocktail party, I certainly would’ve probably never guessed that online he masquerades as bottomless_cumhole.
But that’s what he was, and what he wanted to be with me. When we both finally realized who the other was, I could tell from the hungry looks he kept giving me that he wanted to be on the receiving end of a breeding.
The problem of the night, though, turned out to be getting to him.
At first I found myself cornered by Blake. That was fine. That was good. It got the party started. But once the pair of us started searching out other mouths to kiss, other bodies to touch and asses to rub and handfuls of flesh to fondle, Colby was already kneeling on the edge of the sofa bed in the living area, taking the cock of a grizzled top from the Village while some Jersey lawyer with an open dress shirt and slacks to his knees is taking advantage of that open mouth. I moved on.
Then he was in the bedroom, looking at me under the crook of my host’s arm when my host had me cornered in the armchair there. “I want to watch you fuck,” growled my host in my ear, as he told me what he’d fantasized. “I want to watch you fuck some ass!”
“Okay!” I agreed, and tried to slither out from under the cage he was making by leaning on the chair’s arms and back. But my host didn’t really want to let me go at that point, and I was too polite to press the issue, so some other fucker took advantage of Colby’s primed hole. When I finally got free, my little buddy was already groaning from another six inches sliding in and out of his chute.
I moved on again.
Colby and I encountered each other once more late in the evening, when somehow we ended up lying next to each other back in the living area, on the sofa bed. He had some gruff fucker pounding away at his ass. I had some not-very-attractive but insistent guy pushing me down so that he could ride my cock. I looked to my right, and there was Colby, staring at me.
We kissed. I leaned my head over so my mouth could meet his. I’ll be honest—he was the best kisser of the bunch. His lips were soft and pliant; his tongue didn’t have any strict agenda. For a few passionate moments the two of us simply lost track of the other men using our bodies; we were with each other, not them. When we separated, his eyes were glazed and dreamy. “I want you,” he told me.
“I want you,” I replied.
“No,” he said. “You don’t get it. I want you.” Atop me, my bottom was gyrating on my dick. I was hard, but I wasn’t enjoying it. Colby’s body shook a little with every thrust from his top. He didn’t even seem to notice. He was staring at me. “I want you. All I’ve wanted the entire time at this party is you. Your dick.”
“Have you cum yet?” I shook my head. “Don’t you dare fucking cum. Don’t you dare fucking cum in anyone else but me. I want it.”
My dick was already hard. I’d been fucking for over an hour. Listening to him talk with that grim need in his voice made my meat swell to a rigidity I hadn’t felt since I was a teen. “Excuse me,” I said politely to my bottom. He seemed surprised, but he obliged by getting off of his knees and allowing me up. Then, to the guy topping Colby, I said, “This one’s mine, now.”
He looked as if he might protest. Then he glanced down at my cock—red, swollen, angry, glistening with lube—and pulled out. He stood up and stepped aside without a word. I took over the duty of holding Colby’s ankles in the air. When I fingered his hairy hole, it was already slick with the fluids of other men. It made me want him even more.
“You’ve got the biggest dick here,” Colby said, looking up at me.
“I know.” I did know. I say I don’t care about these things, but I notice them. I’m not going to say I wasn’t proud of the fact. I’d be lying if I did.
Colby lifted his hips from the thin mattress. “Stick it in me. Please.”
I teased his pucker with my slit. “Tell me again. Tell me what you want.”
This time, when he said the words, I could barely hear them. “I want you.”
But I knew he meant it.
I shoved in so hard that he yelled. A few guys had been standing in the kitchen, taking a break. They stopped their conversation and began to gather around. I positioned my hands on the sides of Colby’s biceps and leaned forward, taking his hips with me. I was pounding my dick almost straight down into him from this position. And fuck, the little shit had a great hole. I didn’t care how many guys had been in it before me. That was the kind of hole meant for many men to enjoy. Warm, deep, not at all resisting the invasion I was giving him, but at the same time not so loose and sloppy that it felt like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. With every thrust he met me, clutched at me, dragged his ass lips over the shaft and held onto me as if he never wanted to let go.
“I don’t know if I can take any more,” he gasped, after a good few minutes of my relentless pounding. “It hurts.”
“You’ll take it,” I told him.
“No seriously,” he said, his eyes widening in panic. “You’re big. It hurts.”
I acquired the selective deafness I like to employ during sex, and kept on fucking. He wanted me. He was getting me. Besides, I knew the pain would pass. All he had to do was work through it and he’d emerge on the other side. As I predicted, in mere moments the wince lines around his eyes deepened, then disappeared. He sucked in a chestful of air and then settled into the mattress.
He was through it.
By the time I came, I had his legs straight up in the air. I was standing by the side of the pull-out bed; he was basically on his shoulders in what would’ve looked like an advanced yoga pose, if I hadn’t been manhandling his ankles and ripping into his hole. “Take it,” I told him, while around me I heard several guys cheer me on.
I drove in. Once, twice, three times I shot. It kept coming. Four times, five. My body grew as rigid and unyielding as my dick. I shuddered and grimaced; my face was a rictus of pain and pleasure mingled. When I looked down, he’d spilled a little drizzle of his own semen down his belly. It didn’t touch his skin, but rested on the hairs there like dew on the tips of grass.
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered, when I finally let him go. “Sweet, sweet Jesus.”
I left him to his prayers and went to wipe up.