Monday, June 6, 2016


When I slip inside the back door of the fuck’s townhouse, I’m greeted by the scent of cumin. It’s strong enough to tickle both my nostrils and the back of my throat. Washed coffee cups and plates line a rack of blue plastic by the sink. The counter is cluttered with opened boxes of crackers and kids’ cereal; a basket of ripening bananas hangs by the window. I close the door behind me and stride to the doorway beyond which the linoleum gives way to carpet. Stairs leads me to my destination: the bedroom at their summit.

He’s sprawled there on his mattress, hands cradling the back of his head. His knees are drawn in opposite directions to point at the bedposts. If his mission is to draw my eyes to that shadowed, furry crack he’s exposing for me, he’s doing a good job. His eyes are half-closed, gauging my reaction as he nods his head in welcome. He’s a sexy Latin man with skin the color of parchment. His beard is meticulous trimmed to a fine, dark layer. He’s wearing a backwards trucker cap to look tough. He looks almost exactly like the photos he sent me—beefy, muscled, super-masculine, bristling with dark hair in all the right places. The dude is the kind of trade most that gay men would do a double-take over before they muttered to themselves an admiring, damn!

It’s what I say now. “Damn!” The corners of his lips curl upward at the syllable. He likes hearing that. “You look good.”

The praise stirs his dick. It’s not long—a snub-nosed, uncut five-and-a-half inches or so. But it’s fat. It plumps out rather than lengthens, creating a heavier indentation on his hairy thigh where it rests. His eyes still dart up and down the length of my body, taking me in. Finally, they lock on mine. “Thank you, papi,” he says in a lightly-accented baritone.

He hasn’t moved since I stepped into the bedroom. I kick off my sandals, hook my thumbs under the elastic of my sweat shorts, and let them drop to my ankles. I’m wearing some black underwear that display my bulge; my dick is filling them out in a pronounced diagonal to the left side. He licks his fat lips. “What do you want?” I ask.

“Your pretty white dick,” is his prompt reply.

“Yeah? Huh.” I say the words as if the thought had never occurred to me. This time my thumbs slide under the band of my shorts, pulling them down far enough to expose the top of my pubes. “Where do you want it, then?”

His gaze is fixated on the protrusion beneath the black cotton. “Down my throat,” he says, swallowing hard. “And up my spic pussy.”

“I might be able to arrange that.” I keep my tone droll, but neutral. “You worth it?”

“Yeah.” When I raise my eyebrows, he changes his tone. “Yes, papi. I’m worth it.”

“You can say that all you want,” I tell him. “But the words are fucking worthless. You’ve got to prove it.”

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” he says, uncoiling from his position and turning over. He sidles on his belly to the bed’s bottom and leans on his elbows until his face is level with my crotch. I can see the full circumference of his ass now. Honest to god, it’s fucking perfect. Just the sight of it is like all my birthday and Christmas presents shoved into tight, round package. “Let me have that fat white dick, daddy. I’ll take good care of it.”

I pause a moment as if considering my options. He waits expectantly, not daring to reach out and grab it until I give the go-ahead. At last, slowly, I nod. My fingers pull down the fabric. My meat springs out, unleashed at last. Immediately it finds a new home in his mouth. My trunks fall to the floor.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” I order, when it’s clear he’s going to try to hoover it down. At once he desists from the rough treatment. His mouth travels back and forth over the shaft, slowly, slickly. I can feel his tongue sliding over the surface, savoring the sweet precum already flowing from the tip. It tickles the sensitive area just below the head, lengthens to slip outside his wet lips to tickle my balls. “You like that white dick, don’t you.”

It’s never a question. Not with these guys. I know they all like it. He surfaces from the blowjob long enough to hiss, “Yessssssss.”

I nod again. I didn’t need his acknowledgment.

It’s not long before the base around my shaft is drenched and dripping with his saliva. My pubic hair is matted down in wet, curled tendrils when he comes up for air again. “I need it up my pussy, daddy,” he begs.

“Huh,” I reply, managing to sound again surprised at the notion. “Can that little Mexican cunt of yours handle this?”

“Puerto Rican,” he corrects. I knew that, too. It was a deliberate mistake. He sees my eyebrows raised, correctly judges the expression on my face to read, Do I look like I give a fuck? “Yes,” he replies, humbled. “This Mexican pussy can take all you got.”

“Show me,” I say, removing my t-shirt. It falls into a puddle of bleached-out red cotton on the floor beside my underwear and my shorts.

Instantly he flops onto his back and lifts his muscled legs into the air. His crack is hairy, but not so much that I can’t see his hole now. Though the flats of his feet are parallel with the ceiling, he doesn’t need to hold his calves in order to keep them up there. They’re rock steady. His hands are too occupied spreading open his cheeks for my inspection, anyway. He’s no amateur; he’s not starting with a single pinkie teasing the lips. He’s using one hand to pull back the muscle and the other to open up those flaps. He’s shoved three fingers, four, up that hole, and doesn’t show any sign of discomfort.

“This is your boy’s pussy, papi.” The hat’s brim has caught against the mattress behind him, and fallen off. Beneath, his head is shaved, covered by only a slight black shadow. I see now that there’s a faint outline of a crudely-worked tattoo on the side of his neck. “This pussy cunt is all yours to rape. I need it hard and deep in my pussy, papi. Real hard.”

My cock’s enraged. Red. Angry. It’s demanding entry. But I play diffident, and reach down to test the hole with my own fingers. They slip in immediately; this fucking slab of beef has wet it up with oil-based lube so that it’s greased and ready. It’s soft and pliant; I could probably slide my whole fist up there with no resistance. “Fuck,” I say, almost involuntarily. “It really does feel like pussy.”

“You need to rape me, daddy,” he begs. “You need to stick it up there and rape this spic bitch.”

I’m still manipulating the soft flesh. “If I stick my dick up that hole, it won’t be ass any more,” I promise. “It’ll be one hundred percent cunt. You want to get cunted, son?”

“Yes, papi,” he pleads. “Cunt this bitch. I want your babies. I want—!“ His jaw goes slack as, without any more than a quick coating of the residual lube from his hole, I shove myself inside. He’s just was soft and warm around my meat as I expect.

“What do you want?” I command him to share.

“I want it all, papi. I want—I want—!“ His mouth works, though he’s having difficulty forcing out words. Instead, he’s vibrating with a great moan that emanates from somewhere deep within. His eyes roll back in his head. His head lolls to the side. And still that moan keeps resonating, almost making the cage of his chest sound like a hollow echo chamber.

“You gotta tell me what you want, son,” I said, torturing his prostate as I drive in deep. “I can’t give your pussy what it wants if you don’t say the words. You want me to pull out?”

“No no no!” he cries, summoning the strength to plead. As if I’d really ever pull out. “I want your babies. I need you to rape this bitch hole and plant your seed deep up my cunt. I gotta have the seeds from that beautiful white dick dripping from my pussy lips, papi. I just gotta.”

“Say it,” I tell him, giving him the full fuck treatment. His legs, high in the air, haven’t moved an inch, especially now that he’s supporting the backs of his thighs with his hands. Even when he moves them down to pull apart his ass so I can shove in deeper, they stay rock solid. “Say the fucking words, faggot.”

“I need that cum,” he whimpers. “You gotta wreck that pussy with your dick, baby. I need it turned into total cunt forever by you. You gotta own this bitch’s spic cunt, papi, pump it full of your seeds. Knock me the fuck up and keep me pregnant!”

“All right,” I say, my tone still level and determined. “If that’s what you want, you little shit.”

I’ve worked myself into a climax pretty quickly with this beefwad, anyway. If he needs the breeding that bad, he’ll get the breeding. My sperm jets out into his hole; I shove it deeper with a savage thrust that makes him yell. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” he shouts. “You’re cumming in that pussy cunt! Fuck, you’re doing it, papi, you’re really knocking up this little spic bitch!”

I don’t need to comment. I hold onto his ankles to stay upright until the waves of pleasure recede. When I open my eyes, he’s grabbing onto that fat hog that’s been slapping against his belly. It only takes a few strokes to push him over the edge. Then and only then does his hole clamp down hard on my meat, squeezing the very last drops from the shaft.

I’ve got no plans to linger. It’s not that kind of encounter. If he wants to talk to me later, he knows where to contact me. I scoop up my tee and let it slip down my arms onto my torso. My underwear and sweat shorts are easy to step into, and all I have to do is slide my feet into my sandals and I’m ready to go. “See ya,” I tell him. Another satisfied client, I’m thinking as I’m fancying myself the McDonald’s of breeding, with millions of customers served.

“Wait up,” he says, as I’m walking out of the bedroom.

I turn, waiting for the inevitable compliments, the entreaty for me to return soon.

Instead, I get, “Why’d you wear that t-shirt, man?”

It’s not the question I was expecting. “Huh?”

“That t-shirt. You can’t be coming to my crib wearing that shit, man.”

I take a second to look down at myself. Is the tee dirty? Did I get some unsightly food stain on it? But no, it’s just a plain old t-shirt. Not even a logo or a screened print on it. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

“It’s pink.”

I blink, and think about it a minute. “Well, it’s kind of a faded red, really. . . .”

“What kind of shit are people gonna think if they see you coming all in my back door with a pink shirt on?”

I raise my eyebrows. Seriously? “Maybe, if someone asked,” I say, weighing my words carefully, “you could tell them that it was really faded red. And none of their business?”

He’s picked up that cheap black trucker’s cap again and nestled it on his skull, brim toward the front this time. I can see he’s a Yankees fan. He pulls it down so that it shades his eyes. Tries to look tough. “That shirt is pink, dude.”

My gut twitches in an involuntary laugh. I stand there looking at this stocky little shit lying back on his bed, trying his best to look cocky and virile while my just-fucked warm sperm is leaking out of his ass. I’m thinking about all things I could be saying—should be saying—about how if he was really that worried about his masculinity, maybe he shouldn’t have his windows open while he’s begging a strange white man to rape his pussy cunt. I’m considering icily informing him that if he doesn’t want his neighbors to think he was in the slightest way anything less than the macho, butch brute that he apparently aspires to be, perhaps he shouldn’t be knocking the color of my tee, but thinking more about the wisdom of going legs-up and begging guys off some sex app to ‘knock up this little spic bitch.’

All I do, though, is shrug and say, “Well, okay. I don’t have to come back. Later, dude.” Then I’m out the door.

“No, no, don’t take it like that, papi,” he’s calling down the stairs. I hear him stomp around as he clambers to his feet and attempts to follow. But I’m already through the cumin-scented kitchen and out the back door toward the parking lot. He’s not going to get his clothes on quickly enough to follow me.

Maybe later I’ll accept his multiple apologies through the app that brought me to him. For now, though, I’ve already made up my mind: there’re plenty more bitches to knock up. So I take my ass—and my pink shirt—back home.