“Where do you want it?” I ask, looking down at the boy. Our eyes are locked. Mine are unblinking. Unwavering. His are full of moisture.
His chest rises and falls as he struggles to find his voice. It’s nighttime. The lights are off. Our bodies glow pale and blue in his bedroom’s dimness. “In my hole, dad.” When he’d opened his door and greeted me an hour before, he’d affected a gruff, deep timbre. Now he sounds breathy. Light-headed, even. Vulnerable. “I want your daddy dick in my hole.”
“Which one?”
I watch him thinking. Mere minutes ago he might have affected a shrug, or a diffident shake of the head. Now, though, I’ve got his defenses down. Slowly, he reaches down, lifts his hips. It’s with an almost-shy slowness that he pulls apart the lips sheltering his most private place.
I nod. Correct answer. “You want me to fuck your boycunt.” Like so often in this kind of situation, it’s not a question.
“Please,” he whispers. Then he adds, “Daddy.”
I shove two fingers inside. He’s already wet in there. I feel the folds of his skin conform to my knuckles, softly wrapping themselves around the ridges. “You want me to wreck this boy hole.”
“Oh fuck yes,” he says. Then, aware he’s betrayed himself with his eagerness, he adds, “If you want it, sir.”
I kneeling between the boy’s spread legs. My cock is rigid. “Oh, I want it. On your knees,” I order.
He hesitates, then quickly pulls himself up and turns over. He puts his rump in the air, displaying himself for my pleasure. I let my fingertips play in the soft pleats of skin. He jumps and gasps when they graze the nub that gives him the most pleasure. Then I run my hands over his smooth, pale ass, causing him to moan. Those cheeks are still sore from the beating I’d given him, just minutes before.
He’d wanted to be placed over daddy’s lap, to be spanked for being bad. And not just spanked. Spanked hard. He wants my wedding ring to leave welts on his backside that he’ll feel for days. I’ve gladly obliged—first straight out of his underpants. Then with his ass slicked over with a thin layer of lube, to magnify the pain. “Please,” he says, pushing back and presenting to me, like a bitch in heat, despite the soreness.
My cock has been ready for a long time. I find the correct spot with my fingers. Spread the lips. Slide the length of myself down the ass and under. Then the taut surface of my cock’s head parts those flaps of skin and sinks in, inch by inch. The boy’s head jerks back; his jaw drops. He lets out a soundless gasp until all of me is enfolded by his flesh.
His body shudders, then subsides, until all that’s left is the faintest quiver in his loins. I’m stretching him wide. My right hand rests on the base of his spine, keeping him calm, the way an owner soothes an animal on the vet’s table. My left hand reaches under, between his legs, to rub him where he likes best. The quivering intensifies, ebbs, then grows in fervor once again. “Shit,” he curses to the mattress. “Holy shit. This isn’t fair.”
“What’s not fair?” I ask. I’m not thrusting. Not yet. Just easing back and forth, making a home for myself in that sticky, wet tunnel.
“You can’t just—fuck, dad.” He wrenches his head around to look at me. He’s a beautiful boy. Heavy, dark eyebrows. A masculine chin. My left hand travels from his most sensitive spot to the flat planes of his chest, where I trace the hard ridge that delineates his pectorals. Now he’s shuddering. “You just can’t. It’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair I can walk in and make your holes mine?” He’s upheaval from stem to stern, an earthquake made flesh. When he doesn’t reply, I say, “It’s not fair some stranger knows what you need better than you do?”
I can hear the tears in his voice when he finally replies. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, dad.”
My right hand has been keeping him quiet, but we’re past the need, now. His shaking rattles the bed frame. When I haul off and slap his already-aching butt with my cupped palm, he lets out a yell. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Christ! Yes dad!”
I’m thrusting more of myself in and out of him now. My fingers dance down the flatness of his abdomen, feeling it heave in and out with every breath, to nestle again between his legs. “It’s not fair that I can fuck your boy cunt better than anyone you’ve ever had.”
His forehead is banging against the mattress. “Yes sir!”
“It’s not fair this fuck exceeds your expectations.”
“No!”
“And your expectations are already low to begin with, aren’t they?”
He’s trying to use a vocabulary that’s abating by the second. Even in the dark, even with his face turned away, he can’t hide from me now, though. “I get treated like a . . . like a freak.”
“Instead of the little faggot you want to be.” He grunts. Pushes back. Clinches down on my slippery pole. “Instead of a hot little fuck boy with a sweet pussy.”
“Oh god.” The top half of his body is at a perfect incline, now. His arms are stretched out, his hands clutched into a single fist. He offers up his hole without reserve as I fuck my way in and out of its silky depths. “I don’t even believe in God, but . . . oh god.”
I don’t say a word more. My fingers knead between his legs. My cock slides in and out. I know it’s not going to take long for him to climax. When he does, I pull him up into my arms so that we’re locked together, his back glued to my chest. We’re separated only where his spine arches so he can clamp my cock inside him.
I hold him tightly while his shudders subside. When his head lolls back, my shoulder is there for him. My hands, flat and warm and broad, move up and down his naked torso to smooth the electricity from his skin. The gyration of his hips slows, like a spinning toy top, faltering once, then twice. Then he ceases.
For a long moment I hold him close, and still. He sighs.
But we’re not done. Toy tops are made to be spun more than once. “Don’t stop, daddy.” The whisper cuts through the silence.
“Don’t worry, boy,” I murmur into his ear, and begin the slightest in-and-out motion. “I’m far from done.”
Friday, April 25, 2014
Monday, April 21, 2014
Bookends
1.
God, I remember everything about that night. You came over to my place in the middle of August and the first thing you told me was how handsome I was. When you smiled at me I knew you could have anything you wanted. I remember it just like it was yesterday.
I’m almost charmed at his memory. What was I wearing? I ask.
You were wearing this blue checked shirt and some dark shorts. Dark green or blue, I think. Sandals. I remember thinking I had to get you into my apartment before someone else saw you and lured you away.
I don’t allow myself to be lured away that easily, I tell him. Where did we do it?
I took you by the hand and I led you to my bedroom. We were hardly in the door when you pushed me down onto the mattress and took my face in your hands and started kissing me. I’d lit candle because I knew you were coming over and the room was full of their scent when you started to undress me.
There’s a detail I’m interested in. Candles? What scent?
I don’t remember. I think they were some kind of sage. Why?
Just curious. So, so curious.
You have the perfect dick, and you let me suck it and get it wet for my hole before you slipped it in. Then you opened me wide with your big, bare monster. I still remember how perfectly you fit in me.
Sage candles? I ask. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled sage candles before.
All I know is that it was a perfect night and I want you back here again. Why are you so hung up on the candles?
The reason I’m so hung up on the candles, I want to tell him, is that I’m trying to grasp onto some god-damned detail, some obscurity, some little foothold, that will REMIND ME WHO THE HELL YOU ARE.
I’ll be the first to be upfront about things: I sleep with a lot of people. I mean, I’m always rolling my eyes when I’m watching television and there’s some swinging bachelor character—a Barney Stinson or a Joey Tribbiani or a Don Draper—who’s supposed to be a sure-fire hit with the ladies, and then the show reveals that the character has slept with some impossible number of different chicks in his lifetime . . . like thirty. I’ll sit there and wonder why, when a squadron of writers are brainstorming around the conference table, they’ve settled on thirty on a number so outlandishly impossible that it seems beyond the reach of most normal red-blooded American men. I mean, Christ, there’ve been many times I’ve gone through more than thirty different guys in a single week. Put me in the middle of a bathhouse or a good sex party, and I’ll make you look like a fucking monk, Barney.
But that given, I still have a tendency to remember the guys I’ve been with. I’m bad with names, but the faces and circumstances I remember with great clarity. And I’m nearly one hundred percent certain I’ve never been with this guy. We’ve talked about it, sure. When I first moved out here he told me several times that we should get together and I told him that sure, we should. And now he’s telling me that we did, that I was great and he loved it, and we should do it again.
So that’s why I’m asking for details. A sight. A smell. What was I wearing? A blue checked shirt? It’s true that I have one, but it appears in one of the photos I include in my sex profiles. Has he picked up on that detail from the profile he’s looked at so many times and simply imagined this night into being? It’s baffling me. Flattering as it is that he thinks I’m the greatest lover in the world—I mean, he’s not wrong or anything, mind you—I’m grinding my teeth trying to figure out if somehow I slept with him and forgot (which I didn’t) or whether he’s mistaken me for someone else. Or whether he’s just batshit crazy. Which is an option.
You just kept looking right into my eyes the entire time you fucked me, telling me how beautiful I was, he’s saying. It really was the most perfect night in my life.
My fingers hesitate over the keys. At long last, reluctantly, they type Thank you. But if I’m being honest, what they really wanted to peck out is What did you say your name was again?
2.
WOOF. Yer hot.
Thanks! I tell the guy, and unlock my photos before I go to look at his profile.
I recognize him instantly. Drew, his name is. I remember him well. It’s not long before he sends me a note back that reads, I know I’m up in Boston but we ain’t that far, we should get together so you can rape me, grrrrr.
We’re fucked before, stud, I tell him. I had a good time in your hole before and I’d like to do it again.
He’s positively quizzical in his reply. We did? When?
Valentine’s Day of 2005, I write back. We were at a fucking and fisting party at my friend Chris’s house. If it sounds unlikely that I’d be able to pull a date like that out of my memory bank when most weeks I’m unable to tell you what day of the week it is, let me defend myself. When I take X-rated photos with a guy or guys, I save them in individual folders. I label those folders with the date and the participants. So for Drew, I have a folder marked 050214 Drew/Tom/Bob/Chris. Because there were several guys at that particular party.
I don’t know anyone named Chris, he writes back.
Yeah, you do. He’s a tall guy. Bearded. Glasses. Good looking. You flew in from Boston to Detroit to spend the weekend with Chris, and he put together a fuck party. We had a good time.
He writes back again. Detroit? I’ve never been to Detroit in my life. Why would I go to Detroit?
Well, I don’t really have an answer to that last question. But this is Drew from Boston, I’m sure of it. Are you sure you don’t remember? You don’t remember there was that weird little bald guy there on meth who couldn’t sit still for more than three seconds at a time? Chris has a dungeon in his basement. He dressed me up in some of his leather gear and I fucked you and then I fisted you in his sling. My name is Rob. I was clean-shaven at the time, but I know we fucked.
Hi, Rob, he writes back. You’re a sexy fucker. My name is Drew.
I know your name is Drew, I pound back, managing not to type it in all capitals. We fucked on Valentine’s Day of 2005. I have photos of you in the sling with your face showing and me fisting you. I’ll send them to you if you want.
When he gives me an email address, I send off a few of the old photos. Then I talk to my friend Chris. “Do you have time to look at a profile?” I ask him.
“Sure,” he says. I hear him cross to his computer. “What’s the name?” He clicks some keys. “Oh wow, that’s Drew. That guy who flew in from Boston to spend a weekend with me a few years back.”
“I KNEW IT!” I shout, exultant.
“Didn’t we have that fuck party for him? And that little crackhead was there?”
“That’s what I’ve been telling him. Are you sure it’s him? He swears up and down that he doesn’t know me, doesn’t have a friend named Chris, never spent the weekend with you, and has never been to Detroit.”
“That’s definitely him,” he says. “Some of those photos are nearly 10 years old. They’re the ones he was using back then.”
I thank him and hang up. Thank god. I thought I was going crazy.
My inbox is tagged with a new message. Hopefully Drew has written back to apologize and say it’s all come back to him now.
I don’t recognize you. We haven’t fucked, he says. But we oughta.
Okay, so you don’t recognize me. But that’s you in the photos! Right? Right? I send back.
His reply arrives much, much later. We should get together sometime. Grrrrrrr.
Grrrrrrr is fucking right.
God, I remember everything about that night. You came over to my place in the middle of August and the first thing you told me was how handsome I was. When you smiled at me I knew you could have anything you wanted. I remember it just like it was yesterday.
I’m almost charmed at his memory. What was I wearing? I ask.
You were wearing this blue checked shirt and some dark shorts. Dark green or blue, I think. Sandals. I remember thinking I had to get you into my apartment before someone else saw you and lured you away.
I don’t allow myself to be lured away that easily, I tell him. Where did we do it?
I took you by the hand and I led you to my bedroom. We were hardly in the door when you pushed me down onto the mattress and took my face in your hands and started kissing me. I’d lit candle because I knew you were coming over and the room was full of their scent when you started to undress me.
There’s a detail I’m interested in. Candles? What scent?
I don’t remember. I think they were some kind of sage. Why?
Just curious. So, so curious.
You have the perfect dick, and you let me suck it and get it wet for my hole before you slipped it in. Then you opened me wide with your big, bare monster. I still remember how perfectly you fit in me.
Sage candles? I ask. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled sage candles before.
All I know is that it was a perfect night and I want you back here again. Why are you so hung up on the candles?
The reason I’m so hung up on the candles, I want to tell him, is that I’m trying to grasp onto some god-damned detail, some obscurity, some little foothold, that will REMIND ME WHO THE HELL YOU ARE.
I’ll be the first to be upfront about things: I sleep with a lot of people. I mean, I’m always rolling my eyes when I’m watching television and there’s some swinging bachelor character—a Barney Stinson or a Joey Tribbiani or a Don Draper—who’s supposed to be a sure-fire hit with the ladies, and then the show reveals that the character has slept with some impossible number of different chicks in his lifetime . . . like thirty. I’ll sit there and wonder why, when a squadron of writers are brainstorming around the conference table, they’ve settled on thirty on a number so outlandishly impossible that it seems beyond the reach of most normal red-blooded American men. I mean, Christ, there’ve been many times I’ve gone through more than thirty different guys in a single week. Put me in the middle of a bathhouse or a good sex party, and I’ll make you look like a fucking monk, Barney.
But that given, I still have a tendency to remember the guys I’ve been with. I’m bad with names, but the faces and circumstances I remember with great clarity. And I’m nearly one hundred percent certain I’ve never been with this guy. We’ve talked about it, sure. When I first moved out here he told me several times that we should get together and I told him that sure, we should. And now he’s telling me that we did, that I was great and he loved it, and we should do it again.
So that’s why I’m asking for details. A sight. A smell. What was I wearing? A blue checked shirt? It’s true that I have one, but it appears in one of the photos I include in my sex profiles. Has he picked up on that detail from the profile he’s looked at so many times and simply imagined this night into being? It’s baffling me. Flattering as it is that he thinks I’m the greatest lover in the world—I mean, he’s not wrong or anything, mind you—I’m grinding my teeth trying to figure out if somehow I slept with him and forgot (which I didn’t) or whether he’s mistaken me for someone else. Or whether he’s just batshit crazy. Which is an option.
You just kept looking right into my eyes the entire time you fucked me, telling me how beautiful I was, he’s saying. It really was the most perfect night in my life.
My fingers hesitate over the keys. At long last, reluctantly, they type Thank you. But if I’m being honest, what they really wanted to peck out is What did you say your name was again?
2.
WOOF. Yer hot.
Thanks! I tell the guy, and unlock my photos before I go to look at his profile.
I recognize him instantly. Drew, his name is. I remember him well. It’s not long before he sends me a note back that reads, I know I’m up in Boston but we ain’t that far, we should get together so you can rape me, grrrrr.
We’re fucked before, stud, I tell him. I had a good time in your hole before and I’d like to do it again.
He’s positively quizzical in his reply. We did? When?
Valentine’s Day of 2005, I write back. We were at a fucking and fisting party at my friend Chris’s house. If it sounds unlikely that I’d be able to pull a date like that out of my memory bank when most weeks I’m unable to tell you what day of the week it is, let me defend myself. When I take X-rated photos with a guy or guys, I save them in individual folders. I label those folders with the date and the participants. So for Drew, I have a folder marked 050214 Drew/Tom/Bob/Chris. Because there were several guys at that particular party.
I don’t know anyone named Chris, he writes back.
Yeah, you do. He’s a tall guy. Bearded. Glasses. Good looking. You flew in from Boston to Detroit to spend the weekend with Chris, and he put together a fuck party. We had a good time.
He writes back again. Detroit? I’ve never been to Detroit in my life. Why would I go to Detroit?
Well, I don’t really have an answer to that last question. But this is Drew from Boston, I’m sure of it. Are you sure you don’t remember? You don’t remember there was that weird little bald guy there on meth who couldn’t sit still for more than three seconds at a time? Chris has a dungeon in his basement. He dressed me up in some of his leather gear and I fucked you and then I fisted you in his sling. My name is Rob. I was clean-shaven at the time, but I know we fucked.
Hi, Rob, he writes back. You’re a sexy fucker. My name is Drew.
I know your name is Drew, I pound back, managing not to type it in all capitals. We fucked on Valentine’s Day of 2005. I have photos of you in the sling with your face showing and me fisting you. I’ll send them to you if you want.
When he gives me an email address, I send off a few of the old photos. Then I talk to my friend Chris. “Do you have time to look at a profile?” I ask him.
“Sure,” he says. I hear him cross to his computer. “What’s the name?” He clicks some keys. “Oh wow, that’s Drew. That guy who flew in from Boston to spend a weekend with me a few years back.”
“I KNEW IT!” I shout, exultant.
“Didn’t we have that fuck party for him? And that little crackhead was there?”
“That’s what I’ve been telling him. Are you sure it’s him? He swears up and down that he doesn’t know me, doesn’t have a friend named Chris, never spent the weekend with you, and has never been to Detroit.”
“That’s definitely him,” he says. “Some of those photos are nearly 10 years old. They’re the ones he was using back then.”
I thank him and hang up. Thank god. I thought I was going crazy.
My inbox is tagged with a new message. Hopefully Drew has written back to apologize and say it’s all come back to him now.
I don’t recognize you. We haven’t fucked, he says. But we oughta.
Okay, so you don’t recognize me. But that’s you in the photos! Right? Right? I send back.
His reply arrives much, much later. We should get together sometime. Grrrrrrr.
Grrrrrrr is fucking right.
Friday, April 18, 2014
The Other Woman
I think I’ve mentioned before in these pages that during my college career I managed to have sex with the entire faculty of the French department. Not too impressive a feat, really, since there were only three of them at my little college.
The first of my conquests was the well-hung older professeur who would find me on campus, graciously ask if I cared to take a walk with him, and then escort me either to his office or to the nearest quiet men’s room so that I could go down on his enormous cock. The third of them was a scrawny little bearded queen who picked me up in Williamsburg’s one and only cruisy park, which was more a tablecloth-sized yard of grass that technically was only a park by the fact that it had a bench and the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation hadn’t yet paved it over to make way for a Olde Tyme Ice Creame Shoppe.
It’s the second of the three that I’m thinking about today. In one of those strange coincidences, the two of us met in one of the cruisy restrooms at the university where my parents were teachers, a good sixty-five miles away from where he taught and where I went to school. During the spring break of my freshman year I was whoring around in the library on my parents’ campus; the second-floor men’s room was one of several hot spots on campus. I’d already sucked off a couple of guys when the outer door creaked open and someone strode across the room and occupied the stall next to mine. The guy had enormous feet. I wear size eleven, which is already boat-like enough. These had to be at least size sixteens. When the foot closest to mine began tapping, I anxiously dropped my hand and let my fingers dangle invitingly at the bottom of the metal divider.
As I’d hoped, he knelt down and thrust his already-hard cock under the stall. It was long—about eight and a half inches. Skinny—no where near as thick as mine. The knob at the end was a fierce red and was uncut, which in Virginia in the nineteen-eighties was something of a novelty. I knelt down, grabbed his balls in my hands, and gobbled him down.
I didn’t get much time on his cock because someone interrupted us. One of those trolls who wouldn’t go away. Neither one of us wanted to play with this guy lurking just outside the stall doors, so we passed some notes on toilet paper back and forth, negotiating what we should do. For some reason I kept the notes until about a decade ago, when I discovered that they’d more or less disintegrated into the pulp from which they came. I remember his dark and angular handwriting still, though, in which he begged me to go somewhere else with him on campus where he could fuck me.
He didn’t really have to twist my arm. We met in front of the library. He seemed to like the looks of me, though his appearance came as something of a startlement. Beale was a tall and angular man with a head of thick and fiery red hair that he kept in an unfortunate variation of the infamous bowl cut. It looked as if someone had taken a copper kettle and shoved it over the top of his skull. Also noteworthy were the glasses he had to wear for his poor eyesight. Those lenses had to be about an inch thick, and they were stuck in some of the ugliest horn-rimmed frames I’ve ever seen. From about the bridge of his nose to his large feet, Beale was an attractive and well-dressed man. It was just the top six inches it was difficult to look at.
Those weren’t the inches that had caught my interest, though. I decided to overlook Beale’s physical flaws and took him to the basement of a nearby classroom building. There we fucked uninterrupted. It was afterward, when I was pulling up my pants and preparing to make a quick getaway that he told me he was from out of town. He taught at the college down I-64, but he came to Richmond some weekends and maybe next time he did, he could give me a call and we could fuck again? I was charmed (and still horny) enough that I confessed I went to the very same college down the road.
This exchange started my mostly amicable and casual relationship with Beale. Unlike the big-dicked French professor who would only fuck me in his office or in a restroom, and unlike the prissy French professor who fucked me in the park, Beale actually preferred to have me over to his place when we had sex. Usually he’d pick me up on a Saturday morning. I’d stuff my backpack full of my homework and a change of clothes and he’d swing by the dorm. I’d get a little thrill from the risk that maybe someone I knew might see me getting into the car of an older man; he’d get a boy twenty-five years his junior in his front seat and in his bed.
Beale lived in the second-floor flat of an old farmhouse outside of town. For much of our Saturdays we’d sit quietly on his sofa, sometimes back to back, sometimes legs or feet touching. He’d grade his students’ homework. I’d do my reading. In the afternoon we’d retire to his bed and suck and fuck. Then he’d make dinner for me, and we’d watch television and screw some more in the evening, when he’d take me home. Once in a while he’d invite me to stay over. I usually agreed.
I never thought of Beale as my significant other in any sense of the word. He was a little startling enough in appearance—at least from the nose up—that I didn’t particularly want to be seen as his arm candy. With those Coke-bottle glasses off, though, and the straight bangs of his red hair brushed off his face, he wasn’t quite as horrifying. Just kind of cross-eyed. So no, we weren’t lovers, exactly. But I did like his company, and I looked forward to the Saturdays when he’d call and ask if I wanted to spend the weekend with him.
Then it all came crashing down, early in my junior year. I was walking across campus when Beale accosted me out in front of his department’s building, right as I was about to cross the Sunken Garden that’s an architectural feature of the campus. “I have to talk to you,” he said in a hushed voice. “I have crabs.”
Innocent that I was, I thought he meant I have crabs as in I’m going to make some delicious crab cakes fried in butter tonight. Want some? So I just stared at him blankly. “Crabs,” he repeated. “They’re a kind of sexually-transmitted lice. Did you give me crabs? No, of course you didn’t.”
Damn right of course I didn’t. I’d never had lice in my life. Sexually-transmitted lice sounded horrible, like something he’d made up in an attempt to scare me. I continued to stare at him blankly.
“It’s just that my boyfriend came down with crabs and he blamed me, and then I checked myself and I have them all over.” He was still keeping his voice down so that passing students and faculty and tourists wouldn’t hear. “Then he said that maybe that little whore I was cheating around with gave them to me. He meant you.”
Now, maybe over time I’ve boiled down in my memory his speech so that is sounds a lot more unpleasant than it really was. But of three things I was pretty immediately sure. One, he’d just told me I could have some kind of monster pubic lice. Two, he had a BOYFRIEND that I’d never known about. Three, that BOYFRIEND had just called me a whore.
So after I spent a little time processing all this information, I loftily intoned, “Please inform your boyfriend that I did not give you lice,” and stalked off. Then I never saw Beale again. (I saw him around campus. We just didn’t fuck.)
I was still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened to me as I crossed the Sunken Garden. It’s a wide-open space that on that day was just filled with sunshine. So I had good light when I looked down on my arm and saw something very small and insect-like crawling there. I flicked it off, and fled to the nearest men’s room.
When I had my pants down in the stall, I examined my crotch as best I could. To my dismay, I could spy several small blotches among the blond hairs. I had crabs. Not a lot of them—in retrospect I know now that if Beale and his boyfriend had them all over, it was infinitely more likely that he’d given them to me.
And this was in the days before the internet. I had absolutely zero resources to deal with the infestation. I was too mortified to go hunting in the library for information. I couldn’t call my parents and say “Hey do you know any remedies for crab lice? Oh no reason. Just wondering.” I didn’t have friends who’d know. I didn’t have a doctor and didn’t want to go to the campus clinic with anything so embarrassing.
But somehow I managed to figure it out on my own. I scraped off the full-grown lice that had burrowed into my skin. I noticed that there were adhesive little globes on some of my pubic hairs that probably were eggs; those either I detached with my fingernails, or plucked out the pube entirely and disposed of it in the toilet. Three times a day under a strong light I examined my crotch and thighs and scraped and pulled and felt like a dirty, dirty whore. I swore a vow—a sacred vow, witnessed by God himself—that I’d never have sex again. I felt grim and polluted.
My infestation was so light, though, that I’d pretty much rid myself of it completely in about four days. I kept my legs together and my pants up for another week while I nervously watched for more signs of the pesky little critters, paranoid at every itch. By the end of the month, though, I was so horny that I was once again throwing caution to the winds and putting out for anyone who stepped up behind me in the park at night. So much for that sacred vow, right?
My first time being The Other Woman in someone’s sordid affair came complete with my first STD and a sense of shame so complete I wanted to hide my head beneath the blankets for an entire month. Hey thanks, Beale!
The first of my conquests was the well-hung older professeur who would find me on campus, graciously ask if I cared to take a walk with him, and then escort me either to his office or to the nearest quiet men’s room so that I could go down on his enormous cock. The third of them was a scrawny little bearded queen who picked me up in Williamsburg’s one and only cruisy park, which was more a tablecloth-sized yard of grass that technically was only a park by the fact that it had a bench and the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation hadn’t yet paved it over to make way for a Olde Tyme Ice Creame Shoppe.
It’s the second of the three that I’m thinking about today. In one of those strange coincidences, the two of us met in one of the cruisy restrooms at the university where my parents were teachers, a good sixty-five miles away from where he taught and where I went to school. During the spring break of my freshman year I was whoring around in the library on my parents’ campus; the second-floor men’s room was one of several hot spots on campus. I’d already sucked off a couple of guys when the outer door creaked open and someone strode across the room and occupied the stall next to mine. The guy had enormous feet. I wear size eleven, which is already boat-like enough. These had to be at least size sixteens. When the foot closest to mine began tapping, I anxiously dropped my hand and let my fingers dangle invitingly at the bottom of the metal divider.
As I’d hoped, he knelt down and thrust his already-hard cock under the stall. It was long—about eight and a half inches. Skinny—no where near as thick as mine. The knob at the end was a fierce red and was uncut, which in Virginia in the nineteen-eighties was something of a novelty. I knelt down, grabbed his balls in my hands, and gobbled him down.
I didn’t get much time on his cock because someone interrupted us. One of those trolls who wouldn’t go away. Neither one of us wanted to play with this guy lurking just outside the stall doors, so we passed some notes on toilet paper back and forth, negotiating what we should do. For some reason I kept the notes until about a decade ago, when I discovered that they’d more or less disintegrated into the pulp from which they came. I remember his dark and angular handwriting still, though, in which he begged me to go somewhere else with him on campus where he could fuck me.
He didn’t really have to twist my arm. We met in front of the library. He seemed to like the looks of me, though his appearance came as something of a startlement. Beale was a tall and angular man with a head of thick and fiery red hair that he kept in an unfortunate variation of the infamous bowl cut. It looked as if someone had taken a copper kettle and shoved it over the top of his skull. Also noteworthy were the glasses he had to wear for his poor eyesight. Those lenses had to be about an inch thick, and they were stuck in some of the ugliest horn-rimmed frames I’ve ever seen. From about the bridge of his nose to his large feet, Beale was an attractive and well-dressed man. It was just the top six inches it was difficult to look at.
Those weren’t the inches that had caught my interest, though. I decided to overlook Beale’s physical flaws and took him to the basement of a nearby classroom building. There we fucked uninterrupted. It was afterward, when I was pulling up my pants and preparing to make a quick getaway that he told me he was from out of town. He taught at the college down I-64, but he came to Richmond some weekends and maybe next time he did, he could give me a call and we could fuck again? I was charmed (and still horny) enough that I confessed I went to the very same college down the road.
This exchange started my mostly amicable and casual relationship with Beale. Unlike the big-dicked French professor who would only fuck me in his office or in a restroom, and unlike the prissy French professor who fucked me in the park, Beale actually preferred to have me over to his place when we had sex. Usually he’d pick me up on a Saturday morning. I’d stuff my backpack full of my homework and a change of clothes and he’d swing by the dorm. I’d get a little thrill from the risk that maybe someone I knew might see me getting into the car of an older man; he’d get a boy twenty-five years his junior in his front seat and in his bed.
Beale lived in the second-floor flat of an old farmhouse outside of town. For much of our Saturdays we’d sit quietly on his sofa, sometimes back to back, sometimes legs or feet touching. He’d grade his students’ homework. I’d do my reading. In the afternoon we’d retire to his bed and suck and fuck. Then he’d make dinner for me, and we’d watch television and screw some more in the evening, when he’d take me home. Once in a while he’d invite me to stay over. I usually agreed.
I never thought of Beale as my significant other in any sense of the word. He was a little startling enough in appearance—at least from the nose up—that I didn’t particularly want to be seen as his arm candy. With those Coke-bottle glasses off, though, and the straight bangs of his red hair brushed off his face, he wasn’t quite as horrifying. Just kind of cross-eyed. So no, we weren’t lovers, exactly. But I did like his company, and I looked forward to the Saturdays when he’d call and ask if I wanted to spend the weekend with him.
Then it all came crashing down, early in my junior year. I was walking across campus when Beale accosted me out in front of his department’s building, right as I was about to cross the Sunken Garden that’s an architectural feature of the campus. “I have to talk to you,” he said in a hushed voice. “I have crabs.”
Innocent that I was, I thought he meant I have crabs as in I’m going to make some delicious crab cakes fried in butter tonight. Want some? So I just stared at him blankly. “Crabs,” he repeated. “They’re a kind of sexually-transmitted lice. Did you give me crabs? No, of course you didn’t.”
Damn right of course I didn’t. I’d never had lice in my life. Sexually-transmitted lice sounded horrible, like something he’d made up in an attempt to scare me. I continued to stare at him blankly.
“It’s just that my boyfriend came down with crabs and he blamed me, and then I checked myself and I have them all over.” He was still keeping his voice down so that passing students and faculty and tourists wouldn’t hear. “Then he said that maybe that little whore I was cheating around with gave them to me. He meant you.”
Now, maybe over time I’ve boiled down in my memory his speech so that is sounds a lot more unpleasant than it really was. But of three things I was pretty immediately sure. One, he’d just told me I could have some kind of monster pubic lice. Two, he had a BOYFRIEND that I’d never known about. Three, that BOYFRIEND had just called me a whore.
So after I spent a little time processing all this information, I loftily intoned, “Please inform your boyfriend that I did not give you lice,” and stalked off. Then I never saw Beale again. (I saw him around campus. We just didn’t fuck.)
I was still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened to me as I crossed the Sunken Garden. It’s a wide-open space that on that day was just filled with sunshine. So I had good light when I looked down on my arm and saw something very small and insect-like crawling there. I flicked it off, and fled to the nearest men’s room.
When I had my pants down in the stall, I examined my crotch as best I could. To my dismay, I could spy several small blotches among the blond hairs. I had crabs. Not a lot of them—in retrospect I know now that if Beale and his boyfriend had them all over, it was infinitely more likely that he’d given them to me.
And this was in the days before the internet. I had absolutely zero resources to deal with the infestation. I was too mortified to go hunting in the library for information. I couldn’t call my parents and say “Hey do you know any remedies for crab lice? Oh no reason. Just wondering.” I didn’t have friends who’d know. I didn’t have a doctor and didn’t want to go to the campus clinic with anything so embarrassing.
But somehow I managed to figure it out on my own. I scraped off the full-grown lice that had burrowed into my skin. I noticed that there were adhesive little globes on some of my pubic hairs that probably were eggs; those either I detached with my fingernails, or plucked out the pube entirely and disposed of it in the toilet. Three times a day under a strong light I examined my crotch and thighs and scraped and pulled and felt like a dirty, dirty whore. I swore a vow—a sacred vow, witnessed by God himself—that I’d never have sex again. I felt grim and polluted.
My infestation was so light, though, that I’d pretty much rid myself of it completely in about four days. I kept my legs together and my pants up for another week while I nervously watched for more signs of the pesky little critters, paranoid at every itch. By the end of the month, though, I was so horny that I was once again throwing caution to the winds and putting out for anyone who stepped up behind me in the park at night. So much for that sacred vow, right?
My first time being The Other Woman in someone’s sordid affair came complete with my first STD and a sense of shame so complete I wanted to hide my head beneath the blankets for an entire month. Hey thanks, Beale!
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Sunday Morning Questions: Big Dick Edition
I’m going to hop right to some reader questions today, because I have a suspicion my answers to a couple of them might be on the longer side.
Since formspring.me has been decidedly unfriendly to anonymous questions of late, I’m grateful that a few of you of late have been sending in questions via email. You can still always ask me questions on formspring, if you’re a member there—but if not, just send me an email to the address in the sidebar, put the word ‘questions’ in the subject, and I’ll get around to them in one of my Sunday columns.
The advantage of writing me directly, of course, is that you can get around a website’s built-in limitation to the length of a question. But the real advantage is that I just love the email from you guys and gals.
When did you become aware of the fact that you've got a big dick? You don't really mention much about your dick in your descriptions of your teenage escapades. Was it at the time that The Fulcrum turned you from bottom to top?
A lot of the guys I tricked with when I was in my early and mid teens didn’t know my name. I might’ve been with them dozens of times, either sucking them off in the cruisy toilet stalls around town or getting splinters in my back from lying on old picnic tables with my legs in the air in the park, but we weren’t making much small talk, much less exchanging names. Just as I thought of them as Old guy in the mint green Cadillac or That hot guy with the mustache, they referred to me That skinny blond kid with the big dick.
I was always the tallest kid in my classes. I have old grammar school photos in which you’ll see a couple of dozen smiling little munchkins and then me, Lurch, at the rear. By middle school I was taller than most of my teachers. I was about 14 when I hit my full foot size (elevens, for those of you who are interested). I was six feet tall by fifteen, and added another three inches before the end of the year.
What most people couldn’t see is that my dick was growing in proportion as well. I started measuring it when my parents gave me their copy of Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), around the age of ten. The doctor who’d written that book said the average penis was six inches in length. Naturally I wanted to compare. When I placed a metal ruler on the top of my erect dick, I discovered that I was a little below normal. By the time I was twelve, that metal ruler said that I was seven inches. And by the time I was 14, it read eight.
What took a few years to catch up, however, was the thickness. It never really occurred to me to measure my girth back then. But I do know I had a remarkably skinny dick until I was about eighteen, when it began filling out. It matched my remarkably skinny body—although I was six-foot-three, until I was twenty-one I never weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds.
So a long and skinny dick on a long and skinny kid makes quite an impression on guys; I probably looked a lot larger than I really was. I heard comments about my dick all the time—how lucky I was, how I was going to make some woman happy when I grew up, how huge I was for a boy. But other than masturbating constantly, I wasn’t really dick-centric back then. Guys sucked me occasionally, but usually I was seeking to service, rather than to receive it.
I was truly most aware of how large I was compared to other boys and even to most men when I sucked myself for others to watch. Sometimes I’d do it for groups of guys at my mentor Earl’s place; usually I did it for cash for solo men. I was limber and hung enough back then that I could strip down, lie on my back, lift up my hips from the floor as if I were doing a shoulder stand, and then lower my dick into my mouth. I could easily get two or three inches in there, and more if I really strained. It wasn’t all that pleasurable to me—with all that back and neck strain, it’s not remotely like getting a blow job from someone else. It wasn’t something I would normally do on my own. But usually I could get off easily enough by sucking and jacking myself, and then I’d shoot my own seed down into my waiting mouth for the guy to watch. (That part I liked.)
Yeah, I knew I was hung then, because auto-fellatio was not exactly something that anyone else I knew was able to do back then. I was probably a cocky little shit about it, too.
It wasn’t until the fuck I detailed in The Fulcrum, however, that I learned that having a big dick meant I could satisfy others by topping. After that point, I became a cocky big shit.
When you aren't feeling particularly in a sexy mood, or your mojo is down, how do you get yourself sexually worked up again?
I look at my foxy self in the mirror, baby! How could I fail to turned on by that sexy sight?
No, I’m being facetious. (Really.)
I think it’s totally natural for your mojo to ebb and wane. I know that my horniness flares in the late spring and early summer, for example; I want to bang everything in sight, then. Anything vaguely dick-receptive sounds good, then. I start looking at the holes in Krispy Kreme donuts in an entirely different light.
But I also know there are times I don’t feel particularly attractive or fuckable, either. It might be after the holiday season when it seems my diet has entirely consisted of Christmas cookies and zero fiber for a month. It might be around the time of the anniversary of my mom’s death, when I tend to get a little down and mopey. It’s not only one hundred percent okay for you to feel the exact opposite of horny at times, but it’s normal.
I can really only speak for myself, of course, but I’ve found there are also times when I’ll talk myself out of feeling horny by trying to convince myself I’m an unattractive bastard whom no one would want to touch. Usually there are a lot of circumstances contributing to that conviction. Things might not be going swimmingly at home. My work might be in a stagnant place. Maybe my checking account is a little lower than I would wish. It might even be that I haven’t been able to get myself any, and as a result I’ve settled on the backward conclusion that I’m unattractive and a sexual leper.
It takes some self-honesty and some rigorous mental sorting out to get to the bottom of things when you’re in one of those moods. I find it’s usually helpful to dip your toes in the waters by being a little self-centric, sexually then. Pick one or two activities you really enjoy during the best of times and focus on those. Don’t expect or demand that it blossom into full-blown sex, but don’t deny it if it does, either.
Last autumn when I was deathly ill, it took me a very long time to bounce back, for example. There was a period in which, after medical care, I was physically better, but still feeling like a troglodyte. I didn’t just see myself as unfuckworthy, but I didn’t understand why anyone had ever at any point in my life wanted to fuck with me, and I was convinced that no one would ever want to fuck me again.
I had my friend Rock Star anxious to see me, though. So I told him that hey, I needed to re-enter the sex thing slowly. Could we please just meet up after our long hiatus and, as corny as it sounded, hold each other and maybe make out a little? That was what I needed more than a full-blown fuck.
He was sweet enough to agree. And that’s exactly what happened. We met, we lay on his bed clothed (shoes off, though!) and made out gently. I didn’t feel like fucking, but I felt less subhuman. We met again and made out some more. That time we got naked, and my erection started to reassure me that maybe I was getting back to normal.
The time after that, I was back in his hungry hole.
My point here is that it’s perfectly okay to request activities that might convince you and your mojo specifically to come back to life. You deserve to be enjoying yourself. We all do.
Have you written any stories of your MF or MMF hook ups?
In my personal journal, I’ve written those, just as I write about my guy-on-guy hookups. I don’t usually reproduce them in my blog, however.
I know that a portion of my audience would be receptive to hearing about MFM encounters in particular. Back in the days when I discovered how popular I could be in the strange little subculture of cuckolding, I fucked a lot of women that would make the jaws drop of one hundred percent straight dudes, and fucked a lot of hot straight guys straight out of many gay mens’ fantasies.
While I know that there would be a lot of (silently) appreciative readers who’d enjoy hearing about those times, there are also a handful of very vocal readers who would complain loudly if I went in that direction. The couple of times I’ve come close to including scary vaginas in my life story, the screeching and caterwauling has been deafening. And the amount of abusive email I’ve endured about it has made me lose my temper.
Most of my encounters these days are with guys. By far. But I feel stymied about talking about other aspects of my sexuality, past and present, because of the outrage with which I have to put up afterward. I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be cowed that way. But after four years of writing here I’ve learned that nothing makes me enjoy it less than waking up in the morning to a box of nasty email.
Since formspring.me has been decidedly unfriendly to anonymous questions of late, I’m grateful that a few of you of late have been sending in questions via email. You can still always ask me questions on formspring, if you’re a member there—but if not, just send me an email to the address in the sidebar, put the word ‘questions’ in the subject, and I’ll get around to them in one of my Sunday columns.
The advantage of writing me directly, of course, is that you can get around a website’s built-in limitation to the length of a question. But the real advantage is that I just love the email from you guys and gals.
When did you become aware of the fact that you've got a big dick? You don't really mention much about your dick in your descriptions of your teenage escapades. Was it at the time that The Fulcrum turned you from bottom to top?
A lot of the guys I tricked with when I was in my early and mid teens didn’t know my name. I might’ve been with them dozens of times, either sucking them off in the cruisy toilet stalls around town or getting splinters in my back from lying on old picnic tables with my legs in the air in the park, but we weren’t making much small talk, much less exchanging names. Just as I thought of them as Old guy in the mint green Cadillac or That hot guy with the mustache, they referred to me That skinny blond kid with the big dick.
I was always the tallest kid in my classes. I have old grammar school photos in which you’ll see a couple of dozen smiling little munchkins and then me, Lurch, at the rear. By middle school I was taller than most of my teachers. I was about 14 when I hit my full foot size (elevens, for those of you who are interested). I was six feet tall by fifteen, and added another three inches before the end of the year.
What most people couldn’t see is that my dick was growing in proportion as well. I started measuring it when my parents gave me their copy of Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), around the age of ten. The doctor who’d written that book said the average penis was six inches in length. Naturally I wanted to compare. When I placed a metal ruler on the top of my erect dick, I discovered that I was a little below normal. By the time I was twelve, that metal ruler said that I was seven inches. And by the time I was 14, it read eight.
What took a few years to catch up, however, was the thickness. It never really occurred to me to measure my girth back then. But I do know I had a remarkably skinny dick until I was about eighteen, when it began filling out. It matched my remarkably skinny body—although I was six-foot-three, until I was twenty-one I never weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds.
So a long and skinny dick on a long and skinny kid makes quite an impression on guys; I probably looked a lot larger than I really was. I heard comments about my dick all the time—how lucky I was, how I was going to make some woman happy when I grew up, how huge I was for a boy. But other than masturbating constantly, I wasn’t really dick-centric back then. Guys sucked me occasionally, but usually I was seeking to service, rather than to receive it.
I was truly most aware of how large I was compared to other boys and even to most men when I sucked myself for others to watch. Sometimes I’d do it for groups of guys at my mentor Earl’s place; usually I did it for cash for solo men. I was limber and hung enough back then that I could strip down, lie on my back, lift up my hips from the floor as if I were doing a shoulder stand, and then lower my dick into my mouth. I could easily get two or three inches in there, and more if I really strained. It wasn’t all that pleasurable to me—with all that back and neck strain, it’s not remotely like getting a blow job from someone else. It wasn’t something I would normally do on my own. But usually I could get off easily enough by sucking and jacking myself, and then I’d shoot my own seed down into my waiting mouth for the guy to watch. (That part I liked.)
Yeah, I knew I was hung then, because auto-fellatio was not exactly something that anyone else I knew was able to do back then. I was probably a cocky little shit about it, too.
It wasn’t until the fuck I detailed in The Fulcrum, however, that I learned that having a big dick meant I could satisfy others by topping. After that point, I became a cocky big shit.
When you aren't feeling particularly in a sexy mood, or your mojo is down, how do you get yourself sexually worked up again?
I look at my foxy self in the mirror, baby! How could I fail to turned on by that sexy sight?
No, I’m being facetious. (Really.)
I think it’s totally natural for your mojo to ebb and wane. I know that my horniness flares in the late spring and early summer, for example; I want to bang everything in sight, then. Anything vaguely dick-receptive sounds good, then. I start looking at the holes in Krispy Kreme donuts in an entirely different light.
But I also know there are times I don’t feel particularly attractive or fuckable, either. It might be after the holiday season when it seems my diet has entirely consisted of Christmas cookies and zero fiber for a month. It might be around the time of the anniversary of my mom’s death, when I tend to get a little down and mopey. It’s not only one hundred percent okay for you to feel the exact opposite of horny at times, but it’s normal.
I can really only speak for myself, of course, but I’ve found there are also times when I’ll talk myself out of feeling horny by trying to convince myself I’m an unattractive bastard whom no one would want to touch. Usually there are a lot of circumstances contributing to that conviction. Things might not be going swimmingly at home. My work might be in a stagnant place. Maybe my checking account is a little lower than I would wish. It might even be that I haven’t been able to get myself any, and as a result I’ve settled on the backward conclusion that I’m unattractive and a sexual leper.
It takes some self-honesty and some rigorous mental sorting out to get to the bottom of things when you’re in one of those moods. I find it’s usually helpful to dip your toes in the waters by being a little self-centric, sexually then. Pick one or two activities you really enjoy during the best of times and focus on those. Don’t expect or demand that it blossom into full-blown sex, but don’t deny it if it does, either.
Last autumn when I was deathly ill, it took me a very long time to bounce back, for example. There was a period in which, after medical care, I was physically better, but still feeling like a troglodyte. I didn’t just see myself as unfuckworthy, but I didn’t understand why anyone had ever at any point in my life wanted to fuck with me, and I was convinced that no one would ever want to fuck me again.
I had my friend Rock Star anxious to see me, though. So I told him that hey, I needed to re-enter the sex thing slowly. Could we please just meet up after our long hiatus and, as corny as it sounded, hold each other and maybe make out a little? That was what I needed more than a full-blown fuck.
He was sweet enough to agree. And that’s exactly what happened. We met, we lay on his bed clothed (shoes off, though!) and made out gently. I didn’t feel like fucking, but I felt less subhuman. We met again and made out some more. That time we got naked, and my erection started to reassure me that maybe I was getting back to normal.
The time after that, I was back in his hungry hole.
My point here is that it’s perfectly okay to request activities that might convince you and your mojo specifically to come back to life. You deserve to be enjoying yourself. We all do.
Have you written any stories of your MF or MMF hook ups?
In my personal journal, I’ve written those, just as I write about my guy-on-guy hookups. I don’t usually reproduce them in my blog, however.
I know that a portion of my audience would be receptive to hearing about MFM encounters in particular. Back in the days when I discovered how popular I could be in the strange little subculture of cuckolding, I fucked a lot of women that would make the jaws drop of one hundred percent straight dudes, and fucked a lot of hot straight guys straight out of many gay mens’ fantasies.
While I know that there would be a lot of (silently) appreciative readers who’d enjoy hearing about those times, there are also a handful of very vocal readers who would complain loudly if I went in that direction. The couple of times I’ve come close to including scary vaginas in my life story, the screeching and caterwauling has been deafening. And the amount of abusive email I’ve endured about it has made me lose my temper.
Most of my encounters these days are with guys. By far. But I feel stymied about talking about other aspects of my sexuality, past and present, because of the outrage with which I have to put up afterward. I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be cowed that way. But after four years of writing here I’ve learned that nothing makes me enjoy it less than waking up in the morning to a box of nasty email.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Tim
“Put it in me,” he whispers. My arms are underneath his armpits; I’ve got myself propped up on my palms. My cock’s head is nudging against his hole. His chute is already wet and sloppy from the half-hour’s worth of eating I’ve already given it. I could shove it in right now, but I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. Fifteen stories below, down in the streets there’s the sound of a siren blaring. He breaks the silence with a needy whine. “Please. Put it in me. I want to see if it feels like I remember. Please.”
“Tell me what you were thinking the first time I fucked you,” I say to him. My head probes and teases him. Through what light there is in the dusky room I look down. I’m dripping slime from the tip. The strand of gooey fluid connects us for a moment, then bows and snaps.
“All those years ago?”
I nod.
“I—I was scared,” he says. My head throbs at the news, and I reward him by pushing it a little inside his ass lips. Instinctively his back arches, and his legs rise. “I didn’t know you. I hadn’t seen you before. You just . . . showed up.”
“I was invited.”
He nods rapidly. “I know. But you showed up and knew what you were going to do to me. You knew what you wanted. And you were so. . . .” His neck makes a small circle. “So big. Probably the biggest I’d had at that point.”
“Tell me what you were thinking when I went in. Do you remember?”
He nods. “I remember. I just kept worrying if I could take it all.”
His talk is exciting me. I rub the pre-cum into his lips and start burying the shaft. He’s soft, and wet, and so warm that it nearly takes me by surprise. He gasps. His lungs take in breath so quickly that his abdomen swells.
“Oh god,” he whimpers. “It still feels so good.”
1997. I met them in a chat room I frequented then, long extinct now. I was driving from Michigan to Chicago the following week; they were in Indiana. I agreed to drive an extra hour out of my way to hook up with them for a few hours.
The place was a little roadside motel, perhaps once respectable but gone seedy in the years since. The old pool had been emptied and covered over. The interiors still had the original wallpaper, a hideous pattern of baby-puke brown slashed with mid-century teal, pink, and lime stripes. The bed had a Magic Fingers unit, defunct, attached to the headboard. It had probably stopped accepting quarters decades before.
I met the guy in the parking lot. He was leaning against his truck when I arrived, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his grimy jeans. He looked like his photo. Rough cut. Brawny. Mustached. He was as blunt in person as he had been online. “You ready to fuck it?” were the first words out of his mouth.
He had a younger partner—the ‘it’ of his sentence. When the man led me to the motel room in all its tacky splendor, the guy was naked in bed, face down, butt up, clutching a pillow. He was a slender young man—shorter than his boyfriend, skinnier, slighter. His skin was a pale white that almost glowed in the half-dark of the shoddy room. “So how do you like the little shit?” the man asked, walking over. When he slapped his partner on the ass, his cheeks bounced and quivered, but the young man himself said nothing. “Real fuckable, huh?”
I was already undressing. I was due in Chicago by nightfall. I wasn’t there to make friends, or find a boyfriend. I was there because the older partner had liked my dick, and because he’d wanted to see me fuck his partner. “Nice,” he said as my pants fell to the floor. He grabbed my dick roughly and slapped it around a little, chuckling as it got hard in his hands. “It’s gonna love that.”
“I’m going to eat out that hole first,” I said, moving to the bed.
“Just fuck it. Mount it and fuck it!”
I ignored the man. I didn’t care if it was his boyfriend, and I didn’t care it was because of the older man’s hospitality that I was there that afternoon. When I come to fuck, I do what I want. “I’m going to eat him out, first.”
I didn’t even see the younger partner’s face until I’d chewed on his puffy hole for a good long time. On whim, I turned him over onto his back. His eyes opened. I remember he had long lashes that surprised me; they were curly, like his thick brown hair. I pushed him up so that his head reclined on the pillows, and suspended myself over him, with my cock poised at his hole.
He was so unexpectedly sexy, lying vulnerable and gaping beneath me, that I paused. “What’s your name?” I asked. The boyfriend had never told me. He’d only referred to him as ‘the hole’ or ‘it.’
“Tim,” he whispered.
“Well, Tim,” I asked, very seriously. “Do you want me to fuck your hot little hole?”
The young man and I stared each other in the eyes for what felt like a very long time. Then he cracked a grin and nodded. “Fuck me,” he said. “That’s what I’m made for.”
All right then. I acknowledged his answer with a nod, then drove in with my cock, wiping the smile right off of his lips.
“You were a little whore for it,” I say to him now. I’ve got a steady motion going. My dick is pistoning in and out of his guts, stiff as cement. “You really were made for fucking.”
“That’s what I’m made for,” he says, using the same words he’d used nearly two decades before. He’s still pale. Still skinny. Still unexpectedly handsome, though his curls have been trimmed into a brush cut. He’s got a trace of stubble all over his face that he didn’t have then. It suits him.
“You loved being fucked.”
“I loved it from you,” he said. “I didn’t love it from everyone.”
We haven’t taken our eyes off each other the entire time. It’s the most connected fuck I’ve had in months. “What was your partner’s name?”
“Elliott. He liked being called Butch, though.”
“Butch, right.” We’re making small talk, but I’m still churning his rectum with my rod. “Whatever happened to him?”
He shrugs. “I moved out. Moved on.”
“You still see him?”
“Once in a while.”
“Because he turned you into what you are.”
“A hole,” he says, agreeing.
“A whore.” He nods. There’s a fire burning in his eyes. His legs are still in the air, suspended by themselves. I don’t even have to hold them up. He’s tireless, this one. “So why was I different?”
“You saw me,” he says. I say nothing. I slide in, out. In, out. He relaxes into the long strokes I’m giving him, pushing back and gripping me when I reach the base. “You really saw me. You asked me my name.”
“What, Butch used to line up guys to fuck you and only one of them asked your name?” I’m being facetious, but when I ask the question, I see the truth in his face. How many times have I fucked guys without knowing their names? Without caring? “He didn’t . . . hit you or anything, did he?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. He was an all right guy. When it came to his sex games, though. . . .” I’m tired of talking. I thrust into him hard. He lets out another gasp, and his eyes half-close. “Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Tim.” My voice is deep, and low, little more than a rumble in his right ear.
“Tell me what you were thinking the first time I fucked you,” I say to him. My head probes and teases him. Through what light there is in the dusky room I look down. I’m dripping slime from the tip. The strand of gooey fluid connects us for a moment, then bows and snaps.
“All those years ago?”
I nod.
“I—I was scared,” he says. My head throbs at the news, and I reward him by pushing it a little inside his ass lips. Instinctively his back arches, and his legs rise. “I didn’t know you. I hadn’t seen you before. You just . . . showed up.”
“I was invited.”
He nods rapidly. “I know. But you showed up and knew what you were going to do to me. You knew what you wanted. And you were so. . . .” His neck makes a small circle. “So big. Probably the biggest I’d had at that point.”
“Tell me what you were thinking when I went in. Do you remember?”
He nods. “I remember. I just kept worrying if I could take it all.”
His talk is exciting me. I rub the pre-cum into his lips and start burying the shaft. He’s soft, and wet, and so warm that it nearly takes me by surprise. He gasps. His lungs take in breath so quickly that his abdomen swells.
“Oh god,” he whimpers. “It still feels so good.”
—
The place was a little roadside motel, perhaps once respectable but gone seedy in the years since. The old pool had been emptied and covered over. The interiors still had the original wallpaper, a hideous pattern of baby-puke brown slashed with mid-century teal, pink, and lime stripes. The bed had a Magic Fingers unit, defunct, attached to the headboard. It had probably stopped accepting quarters decades before.
I met the guy in the parking lot. He was leaning against his truck when I arrived, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his grimy jeans. He looked like his photo. Rough cut. Brawny. Mustached. He was as blunt in person as he had been online. “You ready to fuck it?” were the first words out of his mouth.
He had a younger partner—the ‘it’ of his sentence. When the man led me to the motel room in all its tacky splendor, the guy was naked in bed, face down, butt up, clutching a pillow. He was a slender young man—shorter than his boyfriend, skinnier, slighter. His skin was a pale white that almost glowed in the half-dark of the shoddy room. “So how do you like the little shit?” the man asked, walking over. When he slapped his partner on the ass, his cheeks bounced and quivered, but the young man himself said nothing. “Real fuckable, huh?”
I was already undressing. I was due in Chicago by nightfall. I wasn’t there to make friends, or find a boyfriend. I was there because the older partner had liked my dick, and because he’d wanted to see me fuck his partner. “Nice,” he said as my pants fell to the floor. He grabbed my dick roughly and slapped it around a little, chuckling as it got hard in his hands. “It’s gonna love that.”
“I’m going to eat out that hole first,” I said, moving to the bed.
“Just fuck it. Mount it and fuck it!”
I ignored the man. I didn’t care if it was his boyfriend, and I didn’t care it was because of the older man’s hospitality that I was there that afternoon. When I come to fuck, I do what I want. “I’m going to eat him out, first.”
I didn’t even see the younger partner’s face until I’d chewed on his puffy hole for a good long time. On whim, I turned him over onto his back. His eyes opened. I remember he had long lashes that surprised me; they were curly, like his thick brown hair. I pushed him up so that his head reclined on the pillows, and suspended myself over him, with my cock poised at his hole.
He was so unexpectedly sexy, lying vulnerable and gaping beneath me, that I paused. “What’s your name?” I asked. The boyfriend had never told me. He’d only referred to him as ‘the hole’ or ‘it.’
“Tim,” he whispered.
“Well, Tim,” I asked, very seriously. “Do you want me to fuck your hot little hole?”
The young man and I stared each other in the eyes for what felt like a very long time. Then he cracked a grin and nodded. “Fuck me,” he said. “That’s what I’m made for.”
All right then. I acknowledged his answer with a nod, then drove in with my cock, wiping the smile right off of his lips.
—
“You were a little whore for it,” I say to him now. I’ve got a steady motion going. My dick is pistoning in and out of his guts, stiff as cement. “You really were made for fucking.”
“That’s what I’m made for,” he says, using the same words he’d used nearly two decades before. He’s still pale. Still skinny. Still unexpectedly handsome, though his curls have been trimmed into a brush cut. He’s got a trace of stubble all over his face that he didn’t have then. It suits him.
“You loved being fucked.”
“I loved it from you,” he said. “I didn’t love it from everyone.”
We haven’t taken our eyes off each other the entire time. It’s the most connected fuck I’ve had in months. “What was your partner’s name?”
“Elliott. He liked being called Butch, though.”
“Butch, right.” We’re making small talk, but I’m still churning his rectum with my rod. “Whatever happened to him?”
He shrugs. “I moved out. Moved on.”
“You still see him?”
“Once in a while.”
“Because he turned you into what you are.”
“A hole,” he says, agreeing.
“A whore.” He nods. There’s a fire burning in his eyes. His legs are still in the air, suspended by themselves. I don’t even have to hold them up. He’s tireless, this one. “So why was I different?”
“You saw me,” he says. I say nothing. I slide in, out. In, out. He relaxes into the long strokes I’m giving him, pushing back and gripping me when I reach the base. “You really saw me. You asked me my name.”
“What, Butch used to line up guys to fuck you and only one of them asked your name?” I’m being facetious, but when I ask the question, I see the truth in his face. How many times have I fucked guys without knowing their names? Without caring? “He didn’t . . . hit you or anything, did he?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. He was an all right guy. When it came to his sex games, though. . . .” I’m tired of talking. I thrust into him hard. He lets out another gasp, and his eyes half-close. “Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Tim.” My voice is deep, and low, little more than a rumble in his right ear.
He touches the back of my head with a hand and pulls my own ear down to his lips. “I have hoped for this for so long,” he whispers.
Three months prior to that day I’d received a message on BBRT. Do I know you?
I didn’t recognize the profile. It was a guy in Chicago. He was younger than I, pale, handsome. His profile was mostly ass shots, but there were enough of his face that I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him before. I don’t know. Do you?
Did you ever meet up with two guys in a motel in Indiana? He proceeded to describe everything I’d seen that night—the crazy wallpaper, the disused pool outside, the Magic Fingers. His ex had whored him out in that motel to strangers on many a night.
That was me, I told him. I was astonished that he’d been able to bring back so vividly in my head an encounter I’d basically forgotten. I’d fucked the younger partner that night, shot in him, watched while the older partner fucked him, and then fucked again before I’d washed up in the sink and gotten back on the road that night. It was a temporary byway, a hot way to kill a couple of hours and nothing more. I’d forgotten it by the next hole I fucked.
His messages, though, brought me back to that night, and I found myself reliving it as if it had been yesterday and not over fifteen years before. He was coming to New York, in a few months he told me. Maybe we could get together? Relive old times?
I was happy to oblige.
“Did you think about me, after?” he wants to know now. He’s spurring me on to orgasm. Clenching onto my meat tightly. Kissing me. Chewing on my nipples. Anything to get the load.
I hesitate. He wants to hear that I did, of course. It would be easy to fib for him. Somehow, though, I feel I owe him the truth. Or at least a softened version of it. “I fuck a lot of holes,” I say, in apology.
He seems to understand. “I thought about you,” he says. “I always hoped you’d come back through. That’s why—“ I’m turned on by the intimacy of the talk; it adds to the fuck. I’m plowing into him harder, now, trying to wound him with my weapon. “That’s why I took the chance when I saw your profile.”
“I’m surprised you recognized me.”
“You don’t look that different,” he murmurs. His hand reaches up to my face. “Will you remember me after tonight?”
There’s something about the question that sends me over the edge. The vulnerability of it. The way he’s opening his soul to me, the same way he’s opened his hole. I’ve gotten into him deep. My load goes in deep, too. I push into him as hard as I can, and feel him clamping down as my muscle swells and subsides, swells and subsides again. When the haze of it clears, I find him looking at me with wet eyes.
Still inside him, I swivel him around so that we both drop to our sides on the mattress. I pull him close, and put my arms around him. “I will always remember this,” I promise him. “I will always remember you.”
He smiles, happy again.
It’s a pledge I definitely can keep.
—
Three months prior to that day I’d received a message on BBRT. Do I know you?
I didn’t recognize the profile. It was a guy in Chicago. He was younger than I, pale, handsome. His profile was mostly ass shots, but there were enough of his face that I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him before. I don’t know. Do you?
Did you ever meet up with two guys in a motel in Indiana? He proceeded to describe everything I’d seen that night—the crazy wallpaper, the disused pool outside, the Magic Fingers. His ex had whored him out in that motel to strangers on many a night.
That was me, I told him. I was astonished that he’d been able to bring back so vividly in my head an encounter I’d basically forgotten. I’d fucked the younger partner that night, shot in him, watched while the older partner fucked him, and then fucked again before I’d washed up in the sink and gotten back on the road that night. It was a temporary byway, a hot way to kill a couple of hours and nothing more. I’d forgotten it by the next hole I fucked.
His messages, though, brought me back to that night, and I found myself reliving it as if it had been yesterday and not over fifteen years before. He was coming to New York, in a few months he told me. Maybe we could get together? Relive old times?
I was happy to oblige.
—
“Did you think about me, after?” he wants to know now. He’s spurring me on to orgasm. Clenching onto my meat tightly. Kissing me. Chewing on my nipples. Anything to get the load.
I hesitate. He wants to hear that I did, of course. It would be easy to fib for him. Somehow, though, I feel I owe him the truth. Or at least a softened version of it. “I fuck a lot of holes,” I say, in apology.
He seems to understand. “I thought about you,” he says. “I always hoped you’d come back through. That’s why—“ I’m turned on by the intimacy of the talk; it adds to the fuck. I’m plowing into him harder, now, trying to wound him with my weapon. “That’s why I took the chance when I saw your profile.”
“I’m surprised you recognized me.”
“You don’t look that different,” he murmurs. His hand reaches up to my face. “Will you remember me after tonight?”
There’s something about the question that sends me over the edge. The vulnerability of it. The way he’s opening his soul to me, the same way he’s opened his hole. I’ve gotten into him deep. My load goes in deep, too. I push into him as hard as I can, and feel him clamping down as my muscle swells and subsides, swells and subsides again. When the haze of it clears, I find him looking at me with wet eyes.
Still inside him, I swivel him around so that we both drop to our sides on the mattress. I pull him close, and put my arms around him. “I will always remember this,” I promise him. “I will always remember you.”
He smiles, happy again.
It’s a pledge I definitely can keep.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
White Man's Dick
“I don’t usually like white dick,” he says. He’s kneeling down in front of me on the living room carpet. I look at that coal-colored skin against the burgundy wool; the athletic socks he’s left on are tattletale gray. He’s strewn his sweats on the ottoman and pushed the furniture beside him. His round, worked-out ass nudges it when he leans forward. “No offense, but it doesn’t appeal to me a lot,” he says, examining my hardness up close. “But damn.”
I’m sitting in nothing but a T-shirt. My pants have joined his on the ottoman. My elbows rest on sides of the armchair; I’ve got an index finger supporting my forehead. From the waist up I could be listening to someone at any casual get-together in any coffee shop. From the waist down, it’s pure porn set scenery. “Suck it,” I suggest.
For a black man who doesn’t usually like white dick, he’s quick to obey. I feel first the heat of his breath as he open his mouth to accommodate me, then the softness of his lips. My dick takes a slow trip through the warm cavern of his mouth and the tighter, wetter tunnel of his throat. I slide forward on the upholstery a little bit in order to give him full access to my inches.
The man knows how to give head. He does that thing I like the best, when he applies most of the friction on the trip back up to the head, then opens wide to spear his throat on my meat. When he’s at the base, his lips open wider to attempt to encompass my balls. Their soft scraping against the skin plays my spinal cord like a harp. This is turning out better than I expected.
“Very nice,” I murmur, as my fingers rustle across the short coarse hairs of his scalp. He hums to himself softly in reply. He’s not really paying attention to anything but my dick. No matter what the color, he’s lost in the head job he’s giving me. All he cares about is maintaining that rhythmic, gentle, repetitive motion. He’s nursing at it. Suckling it. He’s a baby at his mama’s tit, a calf hungry at the udder. His eyes are closed and his breathing heavy; he’s got his arms lying atop my thighs so he can hold me around the waist. His fingers are tucked between the cushion and my butt.
I’m torn. I intend to fuck this one. He’s got a hot ass that looks like it needs to be plugged. But the head is so good I’m reluctant to stop him. The blow jobs I get are so indifferent or poor or just plain too rough that a good one is rare. I’m dimly aware it’s a dilemma other tops would give their left nut to have.
I let him suck for long minutes, watching him take as much of my inches as he can with every gulp. His own meat stands ignored, stiff, and raging between his thighs. It’s a curved and uncut seven inches, thickly hooded at the enormous head. It jerks and throbs to some internal rhythm, beating his flat stomach like a timpani stick.
He solves the problem for me when finally he disengages from my cock and lets it slap down on my abdomen with a wet splat. “Never had white dick inside my ass either,” he says, looking me in the eye.
“Maybe you want to try it.” Like so many of the other things I say during sex, it’s not a question.
He grunts and gives me a single nod. “Maybe I do.”
“Or maybe I should just put it away,” I say. We both know that won’t happen, but I sure try to make it sound as if it might. “Maybe I should put my big white dick back in my pants so you won’t be tempted by it. Don’t want you taking a white dick if you don’t like it.”
His face has gone hard. He’s not amused by my little game. “I didn’t say I didn’t like that white dick.”
“Do you?” We stare at each other for a long moment. He nods, but I’m not letting that response pass. “Then say it.”
“You want me to say the words, huh.”
“Exactly. I want you to say the words.”
His own cock is still rock hard. It’s standing out in front of him stiff and pointing due north by the compass. He licks his lips, swallows. “I like that white dick. I really like it”
“You want this white dick.”
His dick jumps, betraying his excitement. “I . . . want that . . . big . . . white man’s dick you got there,” he growls. “I want it up in my guts. I want that big white dick making babies up in this cunt.” My meat’s been glistening already from his spit and slobber. His words make precum bead at the tip. I look down at my cock, grab wrap my fist around the bottom few inches, then spread the gooey fluid over the head. The man’s lips part. “Please.” He clears his throat again. “Please, sir.”
“All right.” My voice comes out as a lazy drawl. “You earned it.”
It’s clear I’m not moving. He spits in his hand and rubs it around on his hole, then turns around and bends over. He’s exposing himself for me. Showing it off. I see him spit again. His fingers massage more spit against his shitter. When he cranes his neck around to look at my cock, I hold it out for display.
He backs up. Sits down. Allows me to spread his ass for him while I direct the head at that shiny black pucker. The pinkness of my head contrasts against his dark skin for a moment, then disappears, little by little. His hole swallows the last crescent moon, then slides down on my shaft. I’m in, all the way to the nuts.
I slide down in the armchair. My body is a shelf for him to sit on. He raises himself up and down on my cock, his hands stretching his ass cheeks out so that there’s nothing preventing him from taking me as deeply as possible. “Oh god,” he mutters to himself. “Oh god, yes.”
“How’s white dick feel?” I ask.
“So good.” His response is instantaneous. Genuine. Heartfelt. “So damn good. So damn good, baby.”
“I knew you’d like it.” The horny fucker is doing some fancy shit—swiveling his hips, grinding, clenching with his hole. No matter. As long as he keeps sliding that greasy ass up and down the length of my inches, I’m good. “Keep going,” I tell him. “Be a good boy and you’ll get some white man cum.”
“Please,” he says. “I want that white man cum. I need that white cum up in me. I love that white dick.” He keeps repeating words to himself. I can see his eyes are closed. He’s not talking to me so much as praying. “Please give me that white cum. I’ll do anything you want for that white man cum.”
I don’t have to say a fucking thing. He keeps doing all the talking for me while he bounces up and down on my dick, edging me closer and closer to the inevitable. First white dick or not, he’s experienced enough to know how to get it out of me, too.
When I blow, I hold him down. He practically falls back onto me and reclines on my body like a mattress, but he’s supporting himself on the chair’s arms so I’m not crushed. My seed blasts into his hole, deep. At the same time, the position changes enough that my dick starts to slip out. I try to hold him still so I can finish loading him up before it pops out. Most of it makes it in there. Then my shaft slops out and falls between my legs, where another glob of semen falls onto the carpet.
He’s trembling. “Thank you,” he says. Then he falls once again to his knees, uses his mouth to lift up my slick cock, and swallows it. He spends long moments cleaning it off in a worshipful manner. “Thank you, sir,” he says again, when he’s done.
I cup his chin. “Now you can either put on your clothes and slink out of here with your first white man’s load in your hole,” I tell him. “Or you can collect them, take them into the bedroom, then lie down on that bed and be ready to take some more dick and cum. Your pick.”
He stares at me, then nods and stands up. Slowly he pulls out his sweats and his top from under my jeans.
Then he makes the choice I knew he’d go for, all along.
I’m sitting in nothing but a T-shirt. My pants have joined his on the ottoman. My elbows rest on sides of the armchair; I’ve got an index finger supporting my forehead. From the waist up I could be listening to someone at any casual get-together in any coffee shop. From the waist down, it’s pure porn set scenery. “Suck it,” I suggest.
For a black man who doesn’t usually like white dick, he’s quick to obey. I feel first the heat of his breath as he open his mouth to accommodate me, then the softness of his lips. My dick takes a slow trip through the warm cavern of his mouth and the tighter, wetter tunnel of his throat. I slide forward on the upholstery a little bit in order to give him full access to my inches.
The man knows how to give head. He does that thing I like the best, when he applies most of the friction on the trip back up to the head, then opens wide to spear his throat on my meat. When he’s at the base, his lips open wider to attempt to encompass my balls. Their soft scraping against the skin plays my spinal cord like a harp. This is turning out better than I expected.
“Very nice,” I murmur, as my fingers rustle across the short coarse hairs of his scalp. He hums to himself softly in reply. He’s not really paying attention to anything but my dick. No matter what the color, he’s lost in the head job he’s giving me. All he cares about is maintaining that rhythmic, gentle, repetitive motion. He’s nursing at it. Suckling it. He’s a baby at his mama’s tit, a calf hungry at the udder. His eyes are closed and his breathing heavy; he’s got his arms lying atop my thighs so he can hold me around the waist. His fingers are tucked between the cushion and my butt.
I’m torn. I intend to fuck this one. He’s got a hot ass that looks like it needs to be plugged. But the head is so good I’m reluctant to stop him. The blow jobs I get are so indifferent or poor or just plain too rough that a good one is rare. I’m dimly aware it’s a dilemma other tops would give their left nut to have.
I let him suck for long minutes, watching him take as much of my inches as he can with every gulp. His own meat stands ignored, stiff, and raging between his thighs. It’s a curved and uncut seven inches, thickly hooded at the enormous head. It jerks and throbs to some internal rhythm, beating his flat stomach like a timpani stick.
He solves the problem for me when finally he disengages from my cock and lets it slap down on my abdomen with a wet splat. “Never had white dick inside my ass either,” he says, looking me in the eye.
“Maybe you want to try it.” Like so many of the other things I say during sex, it’s not a question.
He grunts and gives me a single nod. “Maybe I do.”
“Or maybe I should just put it away,” I say. We both know that won’t happen, but I sure try to make it sound as if it might. “Maybe I should put my big white dick back in my pants so you won’t be tempted by it. Don’t want you taking a white dick if you don’t like it.”
His face has gone hard. He’s not amused by my little game. “I didn’t say I didn’t like that white dick.”
“Do you?” We stare at each other for a long moment. He nods, but I’m not letting that response pass. “Then say it.”
“You want me to say the words, huh.”
“Exactly. I want you to say the words.”
His own cock is still rock hard. It’s standing out in front of him stiff and pointing due north by the compass. He licks his lips, swallows. “I like that white dick. I really like it”
“You want this white dick.”
His dick jumps, betraying his excitement. “I . . . want that . . . big . . . white man’s dick you got there,” he growls. “I want it up in my guts. I want that big white dick making babies up in this cunt.” My meat’s been glistening already from his spit and slobber. His words make precum bead at the tip. I look down at my cock, grab wrap my fist around the bottom few inches, then spread the gooey fluid over the head. The man’s lips part. “Please.” He clears his throat again. “Please, sir.”
“All right.” My voice comes out as a lazy drawl. “You earned it.”
It’s clear I’m not moving. He spits in his hand and rubs it around on his hole, then turns around and bends over. He’s exposing himself for me. Showing it off. I see him spit again. His fingers massage more spit against his shitter. When he cranes his neck around to look at my cock, I hold it out for display.
He backs up. Sits down. Allows me to spread his ass for him while I direct the head at that shiny black pucker. The pinkness of my head contrasts against his dark skin for a moment, then disappears, little by little. His hole swallows the last crescent moon, then slides down on my shaft. I’m in, all the way to the nuts.
I slide down in the armchair. My body is a shelf for him to sit on. He raises himself up and down on my cock, his hands stretching his ass cheeks out so that there’s nothing preventing him from taking me as deeply as possible. “Oh god,” he mutters to himself. “Oh god, yes.”
“How’s white dick feel?” I ask.
“So good.” His response is instantaneous. Genuine. Heartfelt. “So damn good. So damn good, baby.”
“I knew you’d like it.” The horny fucker is doing some fancy shit—swiveling his hips, grinding, clenching with his hole. No matter. As long as he keeps sliding that greasy ass up and down the length of my inches, I’m good. “Keep going,” I tell him. “Be a good boy and you’ll get some white man cum.”
“Please,” he says. “I want that white man cum. I need that white cum up in me. I love that white dick.” He keeps repeating words to himself. I can see his eyes are closed. He’s not talking to me so much as praying. “Please give me that white cum. I’ll do anything you want for that white man cum.”
I don’t have to say a fucking thing. He keeps doing all the talking for me while he bounces up and down on my dick, edging me closer and closer to the inevitable. First white dick or not, he’s experienced enough to know how to get it out of me, too.
When I blow, I hold him down. He practically falls back onto me and reclines on my body like a mattress, but he’s supporting himself on the chair’s arms so I’m not crushed. My seed blasts into his hole, deep. At the same time, the position changes enough that my dick starts to slip out. I try to hold him still so I can finish loading him up before it pops out. Most of it makes it in there. Then my shaft slops out and falls between my legs, where another glob of semen falls onto the carpet.
He’s trembling. “Thank you,” he says. Then he falls once again to his knees, uses his mouth to lift up my slick cock, and swallows it. He spends long moments cleaning it off in a worshipful manner. “Thank you, sir,” he says again, when he’s done.
I cup his chin. “Now you can either put on your clothes and slink out of here with your first white man’s load in your hole,” I tell him. “Or you can collect them, take them into the bedroom, then lie down on that bed and be ready to take some more dick and cum. Your pick.”
He stares at me, then nods and stands up. Slowly he pulls out his sweats and his top from under my jeans.
Then he makes the choice I knew he’d go for, all along.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
This Is All I Want
“This is all I want,” are the words he says as he falls to his knees.
His eyes implore me for the permission he knows I’m going to grant. I nod. His fingers race to unbutton my jeans and tug down the zipper. The bedroom is cool. Gooseflesh covers my thighs. Each hair is a miniature flagpole atop its own mound. I clear my throat. “What is it you want?” I ask.
“Your manhood in my mouth,” he pleads. “Just to service you the way you need.”
He’s pretty. Clean-cut, shaved smooth, worked out. He’s arrived in athletic gear, as if he’s expecting a workout. I run my fingers through his chestnut hair. “The way I need?”
“The way you deserve.” My hard cock is still contained in its pouch of cotton. It’s positioned just above his face. All he’d have to do is lean forward an inch to touch it. So far, he hasn’t allowed himself to do so. “You deserve worship. You and that dick deserve a boy who worships you.”
I nod. That’s right. At moments like these I don’t have to indulge in false modesty. He and I both know we’re beyond it. I could deny him. I could pull up my pants and let him dream forever of how close he came to getting what he wanted.
But I don’t. Instead I hook my thumbs into the elastic of my shorts. My cock springs out, free of confinement. I hear the man hiss and sigh at the sight of it. “So beautiful,” he says, with the reverence he knows I crave. His fingers moves up, half-turned, half-open. But his eyes are locked onto mine. He looks like Adam, on the Sistine ceiling, reaching for the hand of God. “Please let me.”
I nod again.
He doesn’t waste a moment. I’m already half-leaning against the foot of my mattress. He pushes me back onto the bed and ingests my cock in one gulp. The length doesn’t even give him pause; I feel his throat open and take me in as if he’d been planning the maneuver for months. Maybe he has.
His eyes are closed. He’s making satisfied noises to himself as might a baby with a pacifier. His hands knead at my thighs as he nurses me like a starving kitten. Slobber is making his chin shiny. He doesn’t care how he appears. All he cares is that I feel good.
His eyelids fly open. He looks at my face as his tight lips slide up and down my meat, watching my reaction, judging his own performance. My own mouth is dropped a little, working from side to side. This guy is good. Really good. He knows exactly how much pressure I like on the head, which parts of the shaft are most sensitive. Where to give that extra little attention. Little smiles are crossing my lips. I give him the slightest of nods to continue. After a long time, I ask him, because I’m curious, “Are you happy?”
“Yes!” he responds with a rush of air to his lungs. “Fuck yes. This is perfect, you are perfect, this cock is just what I wanted.” He takes another slurp to the base, nuzzles my pubes, and comes up for air again. “I bet you get a lot of men wanting this cock.”
I nod. It’s the truth.
“So I’m just another cocksucker to you,” he says. His pupils are dilated with sexual excitement. “Just another hole for your member’s pleasure.”
I know the answer he wants. “Pretty much.”
I can smell his spit on my engorged flesh. He’s positioned beneath it, looking up at me like a supplicant. “I figured.”
“Does that offend you?” I ask. I already know the answer.
“Noooooo,” he breathes. “Fuck no! I am just so fucking lucky to be one of your holes.”
“Damn right,” I tell him.
I drag him up onto the bed, where he lies between my legs. He’s still in his Under Armour top and his sweatpants. I see his round ass shoving roughly into the mattress as he spears himself with my dick, taking it down to the base and pushing to get even more.
“Keep doing that,” I say, scratching his scalp affectionately, “and you’ll be one of my regulars.”
He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He pushes me back against the pillows and lets me sink into them as he, in turn, forces my dick to sink even more deeply inside his gullet. I watch as he loses himself in sucking my cock, loses himself in the raw sensations of my hard shaft sliding in and out between his lips. His pleasure in service is taking him beyond the humdrum of his everyday life, beyond fantasy, beyond all his worldly cares and regrets and worries. My cock is his present, his past, and his future. It’s all he cares about. All he needs. It’s all he wants.
My orgasm starts more as a painful itch than pleasure; it builds to a seething boil, a hot desire to rid myself of it at any cost. I grab the back of the cocksucker’s head and hold him down. His cheeks bulge; he looks up me with rheumy eyes and a red face that darkens the longer he’s deprived of air. My dick pulses and throbs and lets loose my load.
He’s close to choking, but he knows his duty. Not until he’s gulped down every drop does he allow himself to drag air through his nostrils into his starved lungs. Not until my cock subsides and softens slightly does he even allow it to slide out of his throat. Then with respectful lips he cleans my cock, careful of the sensitive bits. When he withdraws his mouth, he’s panting.
“Maybe you’d like to be one of my regular cocksuckers,” I tell this handsome man, as he looks up at me once more with those green eyes.
“Please,” he says, even more aroused at the thought of a repeat performance. “If I did good enough work, sir. Please.”
“You did amazing work,” I’m barely able to whisper. “You’ll be back.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s your cock that’s amazing, sir.”
I nod, and sigh, and relax. He’s not wrong.
His eyes implore me for the permission he knows I’m going to grant. I nod. His fingers race to unbutton my jeans and tug down the zipper. The bedroom is cool. Gooseflesh covers my thighs. Each hair is a miniature flagpole atop its own mound. I clear my throat. “What is it you want?” I ask.
“Your manhood in my mouth,” he pleads. “Just to service you the way you need.”
He’s pretty. Clean-cut, shaved smooth, worked out. He’s arrived in athletic gear, as if he’s expecting a workout. I run my fingers through his chestnut hair. “The way I need?”
“The way you deserve.” My hard cock is still contained in its pouch of cotton. It’s positioned just above his face. All he’d have to do is lean forward an inch to touch it. So far, he hasn’t allowed himself to do so. “You deserve worship. You and that dick deserve a boy who worships you.”
I nod. That’s right. At moments like these I don’t have to indulge in false modesty. He and I both know we’re beyond it. I could deny him. I could pull up my pants and let him dream forever of how close he came to getting what he wanted.
But I don’t. Instead I hook my thumbs into the elastic of my shorts. My cock springs out, free of confinement. I hear the man hiss and sigh at the sight of it. “So beautiful,” he says, with the reverence he knows I crave. His fingers moves up, half-turned, half-open. But his eyes are locked onto mine. He looks like Adam, on the Sistine ceiling, reaching for the hand of God. “Please let me.”
I nod again.
He doesn’t waste a moment. I’m already half-leaning against the foot of my mattress. He pushes me back onto the bed and ingests my cock in one gulp. The length doesn’t even give him pause; I feel his throat open and take me in as if he’d been planning the maneuver for months. Maybe he has.
His eyes are closed. He’s making satisfied noises to himself as might a baby with a pacifier. His hands knead at my thighs as he nurses me like a starving kitten. Slobber is making his chin shiny. He doesn’t care how he appears. All he cares is that I feel good.
His eyelids fly open. He looks at my face as his tight lips slide up and down my meat, watching my reaction, judging his own performance. My own mouth is dropped a little, working from side to side. This guy is good. Really good. He knows exactly how much pressure I like on the head, which parts of the shaft are most sensitive. Where to give that extra little attention. Little smiles are crossing my lips. I give him the slightest of nods to continue. After a long time, I ask him, because I’m curious, “Are you happy?”
“Yes!” he responds with a rush of air to his lungs. “Fuck yes. This is perfect, you are perfect, this cock is just what I wanted.” He takes another slurp to the base, nuzzles my pubes, and comes up for air again. “I bet you get a lot of men wanting this cock.”
I nod. It’s the truth.
“So I’m just another cocksucker to you,” he says. His pupils are dilated with sexual excitement. “Just another hole for your member’s pleasure.”
I know the answer he wants. “Pretty much.”
I can smell his spit on my engorged flesh. He’s positioned beneath it, looking up at me like a supplicant. “I figured.”
“Does that offend you?” I ask. I already know the answer.
“Noooooo,” he breathes. “Fuck no! I am just so fucking lucky to be one of your holes.”
“Damn right,” I tell him.
I drag him up onto the bed, where he lies between my legs. He’s still in his Under Armour top and his sweatpants. I see his round ass shoving roughly into the mattress as he spears himself with my dick, taking it down to the base and pushing to get even more.
“Keep doing that,” I say, scratching his scalp affectionately, “and you’ll be one of my regulars.”
He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He pushes me back against the pillows and lets me sink into them as he, in turn, forces my dick to sink even more deeply inside his gullet. I watch as he loses himself in sucking my cock, loses himself in the raw sensations of my hard shaft sliding in and out between his lips. His pleasure in service is taking him beyond the humdrum of his everyday life, beyond fantasy, beyond all his worldly cares and regrets and worries. My cock is his present, his past, and his future. It’s all he cares about. All he needs. It’s all he wants.
My orgasm starts more as a painful itch than pleasure; it builds to a seething boil, a hot desire to rid myself of it at any cost. I grab the back of the cocksucker’s head and hold him down. His cheeks bulge; he looks up me with rheumy eyes and a red face that darkens the longer he’s deprived of air. My dick pulses and throbs and lets loose my load.
He’s close to choking, but he knows his duty. Not until he’s gulped down every drop does he allow himself to drag air through his nostrils into his starved lungs. Not until my cock subsides and softens slightly does he even allow it to slide out of his throat. Then with respectful lips he cleans my cock, careful of the sensitive bits. When he withdraws his mouth, he’s panting.
“Maybe you’d like to be one of my regular cocksuckers,” I tell this handsome man, as he looks up at me once more with those green eyes.
“Please,” he says, even more aroused at the thought of a repeat performance. “If I did good enough work, sir. Please.”
“You did amazing work,” I’m barely able to whisper. “You’ll be back.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s your cock that’s amazing, sir.”
I nod, and sigh, and relax. He’s not wrong.
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