Bate and Switch

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Common Language

They live in the poorest section of the city. In a wealthy community, though, this area of modest income is nothing like the poverty-stricken slums of Detroit. There, every day I drove through areas that looked like they’d been bombed out. Areas so bankrupt that I couldn’t imagine anyone living in the homes without roofs, or windows, or even much more than the rotted and weathered bare timber fingers projecting skeletally to the winter skies. But people did live in those monstrosities. Whole families, or groups of men and women would hole themselves up beneath fallen plaster walls or boarded-up fireplaces, hiding in the shadows and waiting for a change in fortune that never comes.

Here, poverty looks a lot like Detroit’s lower middle-class neighborhoods of slightly shabby older homes, tightly spaced to conserve land. None of them have seen updates or coats of paint in years, but none of them are rotted out, or abandoned, or unlivable. If the people in my neighborhood are afraid to drive through here after dark, it’s only because at night there are actual people roaming the street, rather than the deserted sidewalks and empty driveways of suburbia. There are nightclubs in old commercial buildings, and food trucks serving spicy food through their back windows, on the perimeter of the little city park. There’s a bodega bustling with activity on the corner, and a lunchtime rush of cars along Route 1 half a block away. This might not be the pristine and manicured showcase of a street that’s typical of this part of my state, but compared to where I lived for twenty-five years, it’s just a bustling neighborhood of working class people.

One of them is waiting in front for me as I park my car. He stubs out a cigarette a nods. It’s the first time I’ve seen his face—the profile of this couple merely shows a couple of dicks (good-looking dicks, admittedly) and a vague silhouette of two Latin men standing arm-in-arm, muscular shadows without faces against a sunny doorway. But this guy’s quite handsome. He’s a full half-foot shorter than I, and twice as broad in the shoulders and chest. His black hair is full and thick; there’s a trace of a mustache across his upper lip.

As I approach, he extends his hand. Nods. Jerks his head. We walk down the house’s driveway and around the back. When he leads me down a half-flight of cellar stairs to an exterior door there, I understand where we’re going. There are a lot of houses like these, in this neighborhood—old large family homes that have been divided into as many possible rentable rooms and apartments as possible. Even some of the most windowless basement enclosures have been laid with linoleum and crudely drywalled and transformed into miniature dwellings.

That’s where he leads me—into a two-room basement apartment where the ceiling is so low that I can’t stand up straight. He and his boyfriend are both short enough that neither of them have much problem maneuvering around. As I stalk through to the bedroom, doubled over, I feel like Alice, after ill-advisedly munching the cake that says EAT ME, or Gulliver among the Lilliputians.

The other man is less muscular than his boyfriend. He’s softer, slightly more effeminate. Younger, too. He’s not unattractive, but he doesn’t have that rough trade quality the older guy has. He’s sitting at the computer when I enter, prowling through Manhunt profiles. At the sight of me he rises, smiles, shakes my head. They speak to each other in rapid Spanish, then simultaneously gesture me in the direction of their bed.

It’s a king-sized bed wedged into a pint-sized room. I’m grateful to lie down simply to give my craned neck relief. The moment my ass hits the mattress, the two of them silently remove their clothes. Then they go to work on removing mine. The older guy lifts up my shoulders and pulls off my sweater and shirt; the younger removes my sneakers and unbuttons my jeans and pulls them off. We’re all wearing nothing but our socks when they’re done.

The top lies beside me on the bed. He can’t keep his eyes off my cock. I’m twice his size, easily, but his uncut inches are nothing to sniff at. He lets me take it in my hand, squeeze it. His boyfriend is down between my legs, licking at my balls and sucking my dick to hardness. The top reaches down and shoves on his skull roughly, making his mouth take more of me.

Yeah. I can deal with this.

This is one of those situations where I’ve come in not really knowing what to expect. I think it’s the top who’s been communicating with me on Manhunt, but the only word of English in his vocabulary seems to be lookin? In person, they talk to each other in Spanish from time to time. The top barks out sharp commands I don’t understand. The bottom grunts and obeys, sucking on my nuts, or spreading my legs to get at my asshole for a lick, at his partner’s voice. Finally the top says something to me that my vanished high school Spanish classes didn’t cover. When the bottom slithers from the mattress and bends over it with his legs spread, head submissively down, and his ass in the air, though, I’m pretty sure I can figure out what he wants.

The top takes over my vacated spot in the center of the bed. He throws me a bottle of lube. The bottom guy’s hole is already slick, though. There’s no telling how many guys have been in there already, and I have no way to ask. I rub a little bit of the cheap lubricant on my dick and push in. My head pops through immediately with no resistance, and the rest of me glides inside. He’s warm, and juicy. There’s a load in there already—I can tell by the slick sensation and the faintly chlorine smell coming from his hole. The top is stroking himself as he watches me fuck. Our eyes meet and lock. He lifts up his head a little bit, acknowledging the work I’m doing. He’s enjoying the sight of it.

The bottom doesn’t make any noise. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let me know his pleasure. He just stands there with his ass up, taking my dick. The top looks at me, stops stroking for a moment. He turns his hands palm-up to the ceiling, curls them into fists. Clenching hard enough to make veins pop on on the undersides of his forearms, he draws his fists in.

He wants me to fuck harder.

So I fuck hard. I bang away. I draw up a foot and place it on the foot of the bed so that I can get some leverage going. The bottom lets out a little gasp, then a grunt. If anything, the rough fucking makes him more submissive. His hips relax and push up; his legs spread even farther apart. His hole seems to deepen, to suck me in with every thrust. The boyfriend has his jaw jutted out and his lips pressed together. This is what he likes to watch, apparently. He likes to see his boyfriend roughed up.

I slap the bottom’s ass. He sighs and groans. The top starts whacking again. Our gazes are locked. Our focus is not on the hole, but on each other. I start fucking hard enough that the bed’s headboard begins banging against the wall. I don’t care who might be in the house to hear it. The frame’s newel post knock against the drywall over and over again, creating a steady tattoo of noise. Then the top leaps up and stands and my side. Again he draws his clenched fists in and makes a tough face. More, he’s telling me. More.

I’m plunging all the way in and out by the time I shoot. The top is whispering obscenities to me in Spanish. I don’t understand the words, but I know exactly what he means. He wants me to use his boyfriend, to slam it into him. When I shoot, it’s balls-deep. The bottom is groaning and clutching the cheap bedspread.

I’ve scarcely released my nut when the top is pushing me aside and shoving his own dick into my sticky load. I climb onto the mattress and kneel there, forcing the bottom to clean his juices off my dick. The top fucks even more roughly than I do; the bed is jumping up and down with each of his invasive thrusts. We’ve each got a dick in his boyfriend’s holes. When the top realizes how completely his boyfriend is filled, he grabs the back of my head and pulls me forward. Our mouths lock in a kiss that tastes of coffee and cigarettes.

This is how we’re all connected when the boyfriend comes with a loud grunt—our dicks in the front and back of his partner, our mouths and tongues grappling to get in the other even more deeply than they already are. His body spasms. Our mouths drift apart, our cheeks graze. Then we’re left standing and kneeling while we stare at each other, completely spent.

They’re anxious for me to leave. I don’t mind. I pull on my clothes, kick back on my shoes, and shake their hands. Then with my head cocked sideways, I make my way out of their makeshift apartment and back out into the busy neighborhood.

We haven’t really exchanged a word. Somehow in the space of a few minutes, though, we found a common language.

The Rule

In a three-way, you always enjoy one of the guys more than the other.

It’s a rule.

I met Chase in the driveway of the hotel. I’m about to head up to your room, I was texting him, as I made the cold trek from the car to the warmth of the building.

I’m in the parking lot heading in, he texted back almost immediately. I had to go to the drugstore.
He caught up with me thirty seconds later. I looked him over in the warm glow of the lobby’s lights as they spilled out onto the portico. A handsome man in his fifties. Silver hair. Short, athletic frame. He licked his lips when he saw me. “Your photos don’t do you justice,” were his gallant opening words.

I liked him already.

We made small talk in the elevator on the way up to his room. His friend was in the shower when we reached our destination. “Well,” said Chase, shutting the door behind us. “Aren’t you handsome.” He removed my coat, then knelt down on the floor to unlace my boots. I allowed him to slip them from my feet, and was rewarded by the warmth and strength of his hands gripping the undersides of my arches. His fingers snaked beneath my pants cuffs, and deeply rubbed the calves of my legs. “I’m going to enjoy serving you,” he murmured, as he looked right into my eyes.

I knew right then he was going to be the one I liked more.

We kissed. His touch was gentle on my neck as he held my mouth to his. Then we looked into each other’s eyes again, blue against blue. He pressed with the heel of his hand against my hard dick, splayed sideways in my pants. My fingers sought out the hard nubs of his nipples beneath his shirt. His eyes squinted with pleasure as I squeezed them. They could take abuse, I could tell by their density. I squeezed harder, and made him moan.

This was definitely the one. I could tell. The buddy would be an anticlimax.

Chase retired into the bathroom to slip into the shower. I heard him talking to his buddy—lover? Boyfriend? Husband? I didn’t know—through the door. A moment later and another man padded out, wearing nothing but a hotel robe. He was tall—as tall as I, perhaps a little more. Handsome, in that way well-heeled urban men often are, when they reach their fifties. Well-groomed, with short silver hair and an Alex Trebek mustache. He was broad and long where Chase was short and athletic, but he was none the less attractive for it. “Hi,” I greeted him, from where I sat on the bed.

He stared at me as if hypnotized, but didn’t say a word. I beckoned him over.

My hand gently undid the tie of his robe. I watched as it swung and brushed the floor. His hands remained at his side. When his robe fell open, his cock twitched and hardened as if either the room’s air or my gaze made it erect. He was hung. Very hung. He looked larger than I, and thicker, though the general proportions were about the same. I reached out and took his hardening pole in my mouth.
While I moved my lips slowly up and down its length, he finally reached out and ran his fingers through my hair, along the back of my neck, under my chin. He ended by cupping my jaw in his palm, removing his cock from my mouth, and tilting my head up so that I was staring in his eyes.

“Do you like to kiss?” he asked, in a soft voice.

I showed him how much I liked to kiss. I pulled him down to me so that he was kneeling between my legs on the mattress, and joined my mouth to his. He almost collapsed on me, he was so aroused; his hands reached beneath my clothed body and pulled me to him. Our hips connected. He ground into me, hard. “I’m Art,” he growled into my ear.

“Hi Art,” I replied in a whisper, sinking deep into the soft hotel pillows as he unfastened my shirt one slow button at a time. I gave him my name.

When my shirt was open, he stared at me. There was almost a look of unabashed love in his eyes. “You’re not an asshole after all,” he said.

“Thanks?” was my puzzled reply. It was tough to hold anything against him, though, because he scooped me up into another passionate kiss. If this was what he did to people he thought were assholes, I couldn’t wait to see how he treated the guys he liked.

“I told Chase when he messaged you online that you wouldn’t agree to come up here,” he finally said, his face only inches from mine. “Then when you did, I told him you wouldn’t show. Then when you showed, I decided you wouldn’t look like your pics. When you looked like your pics, I figured you’d turn out to be an asshole who wouldn’t be into me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be into you?” I questioned. The man was handsome. He had a big dick. Anyone with a head screwed on right would be into him.

He shrugged. “Because you’re so . . .” His tongue searched for words.

“So are you.” My tongue had better things to do, after that simple reassurance. I pushed him down and engulfed his cock, slurping down to the root and pushing whatever he’d been about to say clean out of his head. He gasped, and pushed me down, aggressively spearing my throat with his meat.

No, I thought to myself. This was the one. This was going to be the one I ended up more.

Chase found us like that when he came out of the bathroom, trailing a cloud of vapor and sweet-smelling steam behind him. “My two beautiful men,” he whispered, watching us. Then he joined us on the mattress. He pulled me off Art’s cock and settled me back into the pillows. I looked up at the two faces hovering over me. Chase was handsome, gentle, smiling at what he saw. Art was no less attractive, aggressive, and his eyes were full of lust. “Suck me,” I pleaded with them.

Together they pulled down my pants. Art opened his mouth and took my cock inside; Chase pulled my legs into the air, positioned himself down between them, and began very softly and quietly to lick out my hole. Almost immediately I was overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations they created between them—Chase’s insistent, soft tongue and lips nibbling on my ass, and Chase’s rock-solid hold on my meat with his throat muscles and lips, not to mention the relentless raking of his bristle-brush mustache against my shaved nuts. I cried out, and tried to make them stop, but they pushed me back into the pillows and made me take it. Made me endure the treatment they’d decided I needed . . . and deserved. I twitched and jerked and moaned like a madman, lost and overwhelmed as my nerves overloaded with sensation.

“Do his nipples,” Chase suggested, when Art came up for air. They eyed each other, then rearranged themselves so that I had one of them on either side, both of them reaching for my nipples with their lips. Art bit down and made me gasp, and made my dick swell even harder; Chase licked out and put his soft lips around the little mound of flesh in such a sweet way that I wanted to cry.

“Just relax, son,” Chase told me.

“The two of us are in no hurry,” said Art. They both smiled at me and, as if they’d choreographed it, went back to chewing and licking on my nipples at the same moment.

Awash in pleasure, I looked from one man to the other, unable to focus clearly on either, and definitely unable to choose a superior.

In a three-way, you always enjoy one of the guys more than the other. It’s a rule.

But sometimes rules are made to be broken.

Dangerous to Know

Like so many of the couples I meet, the top guy is the older. He’s in his late twenties, vaguely scruffy, wears a pair of thick-framed glasses that lend him an air of nerdiness until he takes them off along with the rest of his clothes to reveal a pair of metal blue eyes and a dick of steel. He’s Clark god-damned Kent.

The bottom guy is younger. He’s lean, and pale, and sandy-haired. Smooth. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter their studio apartment on the upper west side, wearing nothing but briefs. His leg is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer, from nervousness.

They’ve never been with a third before. I’m the guy they asked to get the job done.

Most couples, when they decide to bring in another man to join them, have a strict agenda in mind. They set up their limits; they decide with what they’re comfortable. Some have long discussions about expectations beforehand. Some of them just have a driving partner who drags the less aggressive into it. Many have a very long list of what they will and won’t do with with the third. Some of them come up with safe words, for chrissakes.

But when they pick me, they don’t do it to play safe. They approach me because they know on some deep level that I’m dangerous. That I’ll push them past their limits and into new territory. It’s an unspoken contract, and I’ve rarely been wrong.

These two, for example. They think they’ve worked it out. Sweet and playful fun is the catchphrase they’ve decided on. We just want to have sweet and playful fun with a big-dicked guy! Definitely no anal! Making out. Licking. Sucking. Smooching and giggling.

Let’s be honest . . . there are dozens and dozens of men they could’ve chosen with much more vanilla intent. Yet they’ve decided upon me, and have gone to the trouble to invite me to their place. They picked me from my profile, with its photos of my big dick shown off to best advantage, my broad list of likes, my narrow list of dislikes. They don’t look at the photo of my erect cock and think, Gosh, he must be nice.

They’ve picked me, and let’s be frank, because I play hard and I know what the fuck I’m doing. It might be sweet and playful to begin, but by the time I’m done, we’ve had my kind of fun. They know it, deep down. But they might not admit it, not even to themselves.

We exchange introductions and nervous greetings. I sit on the bed’s edge, joining them. “He’s pretty,” I tell the top, running my fingers through the bottom’s hair. He’s got blue eyes, too. Nervous as he is about a strange top in their apartment, I can tell he likes to be admired. Some bottoms thrive on that. “Very pretty,” I said. With my hand cupping his chin, I lift up his face. His lips purse slightly to reach for my own. When they meet, the kiss qualifies as sweet. He’s eager to try another man than the one he sees day in and day out. He’s anxious to taste me. I rub my hands over his scrawny body, his rib cage, the little cold pencil erasers that are his nipples. He’s hard as a rock through the cotton of his briefs. He’s not just bulging, he’s got a tentpole down there.

My eyes remain open enough to see his partner rubbing his back, letting him know he’s there, encouraging him to give in to me. While we make out, my mouth completely surrounding the bottom’s, the older guy strips down. He’s got a sexy enough body beneath the baggy clothing, and a patch of sparse hair in the middle of his chest. Like his lover, his dick is probably the stiffest it’s ever been.

I pull away from the kiss and look into the boy’s eyes. “Undress me,” I tell him.

Obediently he drops down to unbutton my jeans, remove my sneakers, and pull down the denim until it tangles around my ankles for him to tug off. He stares at my dick, breathless at the sight. I’m only three-quarters hard and it’s already much bigger than the boyfriend’s. The boyfriend is looking at me too, while he absently runs his fingers up and down the length of his shaft.

The bottom’s taking too long. I kick off my socks, pull off my shirt. “Let me see that little butt,” I tell him, as I sit back down again.

It’s perfect. Round. Smooth. The palest white I’ve ever seen. I pull down the elastic of his waistband to expose it. Where I breathe over his skin, goosepimples rise. He and his lover and looking at each other. There’s an unspoken question in the bottom’s face. The older man nods back in reply. Yes, he’s saying to his partner. Yes. This is okay.

What they really want is someone else to do the dirty work. Someone else to insist on the things they can’t ask of each other out of politeness, out of familiarity. I’m not supposed to be touching this ass so openly. It’s not sweet. It’s not fun. It wasn’t on the approved curriculum. But here I am, running the flat of my hand over it, and the bottom is responding by bending forward and letting out a low exhalation. The top isn’t even protesting. “You need to get up on my lap,” I tell the bottom boy. “Lie over it,” I correct, when he thinks he’s going to sit on my knees. “Face down.”

He obeys, reluctantly. It’s a humiliating position. He’s like a little kid about to be punished. I’ve got his briefs pulled down and his butt exposed. “Is he a good boy or a bad boy?” I ask his partner.
The man’s got a rasp in his voice when he replies. There’s the tiniest ball of precum at the tip of his dick. “Bad boy,” he grunts.

“Bad boy, huh?” Without warning, I raise my hand and smack the bottom’s right buttock. Loud. Hard. It resounds through the sex-charged silence, and it’s followed by a loud bellow of protest from the bottom. This isn’t nice. This isn’t sweet. That spank had to sting like crazy. But the bottom’s not in charge here. I raise my hand again.

The top’s eyes are locked with mine. “Yeah,” he says. It’s not the voice I’d heard over the phone, friendly and approachable. It’s not even the voice that greeted me minutes before. It’s a voice made deeper by the scarlet emotions coursing through his mind, by the hormones causing his heart to race. It’s ragged with need. His hand is clenching his meat now, so tight the head’s purple. “He’s a real bad boy.”

My hand comes down again. I’m not being playful. This hurts. The bottom’s got tears in his voice when he protests. His lover reaches down, lifts his head. “Keep it down,” he says. My hand comes down again. Another howl. “Shut the fuck up.” Another slap on the rear. The skin there is reddening painfully. This time, there’s only a whimper and a clamped-down sob.

“Yeah,” says the top, as I continue to spank. “Bad boy. You don’t know what a fuckin’ bad boy I got.”
I smile to myself. I’ve only been there what, ten minutes? Already I’ve breached the fortress. Fuck sweet.

Couples like this bring in men like me because they want someone to take charge and take from them what he wants—without either of them having to take responsibility. If an outsider goes beyond their timid prearranged limits, everything that happens is his fault. He’s the bad one, not the innocent couple.

Fault, right. The pair might both walk away with their wildest fantasies put to rest for a while. Neither of them have to speak up and confess to their partner how dirty they like it. Neither of them has to lose face in front of the other. But everyone gets what he wants.

And what I want is the hole.

It’s an hour later, and the top and I have been sitting next to each other at the head of the bed for a while. Our knees are lifted, our legs are spread. The bottom’s been moving back and forth between our dicks, sucking them, while the top and I have been talking and making out. The talk’s been pretty perfunctory. Shit like, Your boy’s got a great mouth, or You like the way he sucks, huh? Nothing deep. But then I say, “You mind if I look at his ass again?”

The bottom lifts his head, alert, almost frightened of another spanking.

I can feel the top’s dick harden and flex against my thigh. “Do it,” he says.

So I’ve got the bottom with his face in the pillow. My mouth’s all over that hole, slobbering it up, making him gasp and moan. It’s muffled by a thick layer of goose down, but it’s still loud. The top’s on his hands and knees watching up close, like I’m some kind of live porn star with a hole he wants so see used. I pay him no nevermind while I haul the bottom’s ass into the air and chew on his hole.

There’s a gasp of a different kind as I push my thumb in there. I’m looking at the top. He doesn’t protest. I’m spreading the bottom’s cheeks with my hands, exposing the hole. I don’t know whether the bottom’s really prepared for this happening, and I really don’t care. He’s clean. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d done some extra cleaning down there in the hope that I’d be doing exactly this to him. “Quite a sight, huh?” I say, pulling myself to my knees. I make it look like I’m just repositioning myself, but really it to get my dick up there, next to the ass.

The guy grunts.

“You’ve really got a pretty boyfriend,” I tell him. “Great ass.” I pause. “Beautiful ass.”

I pull apart the cheeks even further. Then I let my dick rest on the cheek. The top is mesmerized. I move back and forth. My dick slides up and down, flesh on flesh. It naturally glides along the crack. I pause when the head’s pointed at the little pucker.

“Whaddaya think?” I ask.

There’s a pregnant pause. The bottom looks around wildly. He's not saying now, but he doesn’t want to be the one to say yes. The top grinds his jaw. He doesn’t want to say it aloud, the words of permission and encouragement. I rub my precum around the head of my meat, add a little spit to it. I nudge it against the hole.

Then I look at the top. After a moment, he nods.

Then I push. There’s a lot of resistance, but I get in there. There’s a hell of a lot of noise, but none of it is No.

This is what they want. Both of them. It’s not sweet. It’s not playful. It’s nasty and raw and they both knew it was going to happen all along. That’s why they picked me, instead of some nice guy who’d play along with what they said they wanted. Their real desire was this, right here—the sight of big dick stretching a tight hole, of a dicking-down neither would confess to the other he wanted to happen.

They wanted someone willing to be dangerous, and that’s exactly what they got.

I.O.U.

My buddy in Richmond lives on a street near my old middle and high schools. I know the neighborhood well; it used to be occupied primarily by an aging, low-income retirees. When I’d walk home from school in the afternoons, I’d always hear the sounds of The Secret Storm playing from old black-and-white TV sets, or hymns being picked out on on geriatric pianos. The tiny houses and cramped but quaint apartments comprised a genteel neighborhood that was, pretty basically, waiting to expire, and to be replaced by lower-middle-class single parents, students, and unmarried urban workers who wanted to live on the city’s outskirts.

I like visiting the neighborhood better now, knowing I’ll come away a few loads lighter.

The door’s open when I get there; he gestures at me through the screen to follow. I’ve slipped away from my dad’s place kind of late in the evening, on the pretext of meeting an old school friend for a drink. Most of the houses on the tiny plots here have their lights out for the evening. The only light shining in my buddy’s house is a naked bulb shining in a coat closet just within the door.

He’s wearing a baggy pair of sweatpants that hang almost off his round, muscular ass. They’re hanging so low he might as well not be wearing them at all; the waistband hugs his nuts and the backside where butt meets thigh. But he’s made a gesture toward respectability by allowing seven inches of his black-and-gray-checked boxers to cover what the sweatpants aren’t. His torso is taut, and heavily muscled, and completely bare. His skin is so black that it’s almost indigo in the bulb’s light.

“You stayin’ the night?” he asks, slugging back the dregs of a beer when I close the door behind me. “You can. Fuck all night. Sleep if you want, but I know that ain’t why you’re here.” He laughs at his joke. I’ve stayed overnight before, either on my way into or out of town. But I tell him I’m not, not this time. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal either way. “You want a beer?” he asks.

I shake my head. “So what’s been going on?” I ask him.

“You know how it is,” he says, taking another beer from the refrigerator just inside the pint-sized kitchen. “Just the usual.” Which for him means a steady stream of men, mostly from out of town, stopping in on the weekends to visit him and his younger lover. As he pops open the drink, he nods his head and gestures for me to follow him into the living room. His computer’s in there, and his desk, and we take a couple of minutes to look through a folder he keeps of men who’ve hooked up with the two of them, from the various sites they frequent, since I’ve seen him last. Almost all of them are white—he has a fetish for white guys. Most of these dudes are far more muscly than I, far better looking. My buddy is a hot, hot man; he can afford to pick and choose his partners.

But this isn’t one of those times I’ll wonder why I’ve been picked and chosen. I was the first white man who got invited into their bed when my buddy decided to open up their relationship, and I’ve been welcome back ever since. I ask about the boyfriend. He’s in school still, so I hear about that, while I scroll down the impressive photos of men who’ve been inside him—or inside my buddy, or inside the both of them—in the last six months. I stop at one, a tatted and ripped guy from Atlanta. He looks like a porn star, and has a dick to match. “He’s fucking enormous,” I say. “And your boyfriend took him?”

“He got real good pictures,” says my buddy. He moves in close, and sticks his hand down my shirt. HIs fingers know where to go to seek out my nipples. “In real life he ain’t as big as you.” He turns his swivel chair around so that I face him. My legs are spread, my dick hard in my shorts. “I think you want to fuck a little,” he says. I don’t deny it. “What’re you going to give me if you do?”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Maybe I want your ass tonight,” he says.

I shrug as if that’s no big deal. I’m not cleaned out, but honestly? I sincerely doubt it’ll be happening. The first couple of times I made visits to this guy—three or four years ago at this point—I told him I was game to be fucked if that got me into bed with the two of them. And I gave it a whirl. I lay there and let him shove his fat knob against my hole. For such a short and light guy, he’s enormous. He claims to be eleven inches, and though I’ve not measured it, I don’t see any reason to disbelieve the estimate. Fucking me with that thing is like trying to thread a very tiny darning needle with a baseball bat—you can push one against the other all you want, but it’s just one of those things that’s not going to happen.

“Maybe I want your mouth,” he says. I nod slowly. That’s more of a possibility. “You owe me,” he says. Then again, with emphasis, “You owe me.”

“Okay,” I agree. I can tell he wants to hear me say the words. “I owe you. Whatever you want. When you want it.”

After looking at a few more photos we go upstairs to the bedroom, where his boyfriend has been snoozing naked in bed for a couple of hours. I don’t know whether the boyfriend’s been told whether not I was coming, but I like his reaction at the sight of me when I pull back the blanket. When his sleepy eyes open and he sees me standing over him, his dick hardens instantly, and he smiles.

It’s all the invitation I need to remove my clothes, slowly and deliberately. My buddy settles back in an armchair near the side of the bed, pulls down his sweatpants—they don’t really have far to drop—and watches me go to work.

The fucks are good. The fucks are always the best, here. I com quickly the first time, and a few minutes later for the second. The third load is taking its own sweet time, and that’s fine with me. I’ve got as much of my dick as the boyfriend can take. The only thing the pair have in common, physically, is the dark hue of their skin. Otherwise, they’re complete opposites. The older one is hairy in his pits and on his legs, and he’s muscled to the point of looking like a cartoon character; the boyfriend is lanky, and skinny, and prefers to keep smooth. My buddy has a tree log between his legs; the boyfriend is almost tiny. This thing between them has been going on for over a decade though, and it works. My buddy likes the contrasts—just as he must like the contrast of his boyfriend’s black hole struggling to wrap even more of itself around my big white dick, or my furry mouth pressed against his boyfriend’s smooth and tender skin.

Watching my buddy’s pleasure is a good portion of my pleasure today, though. He’s held off through my orgasms, content to stroke himself while he watches another man use and soil his goods. The head of his dick is shiny and rock-solid, like black onyx, slick and wet from the precum he’s pumping out like a leaky bottle of lube. Our eyes are locked. Never mind that his boyfriend is lying on his back, his feet in my hands as I shove in and out, his forearms beating against the mattress with hollow thuds as he flails in pleasure or pain, or perhaps both. My attention on my buddy, and his is on mine. Our stare doesn’t break for the longest time. I see everything in his eyes. There’s lust, and appreciation at my ability to deliver and get the job done. There’s humor there, and irony of a sort that most men wouldn’t expect of him. And there’s a degree of jealousy. I’ve fucked my buddy in exactly the same position before, and he loved every inch of my white dick.

I hear a gasp. The boyfriend is coming. This is new to me. He’s never come just from me fucking him before. His hands are grasping the sheets and pulling his fistfuls into wrinkled balls. His face is twisted and wracked. He lets out a yell so sudden that spittle flies from his lips and lands on his already-wet face. And then he’s climaxing. His body jerks and twitches; his dick flies up and down, unhindered and untouched. I’ve seen him come many times before, when one of us has sucked him off, or when he’s stroked himself to completion. It’s just never happened when I’ve fucked him, until that night.

My buddy is sitting forward in his chair. Apparently he’s never seen this before, either. “Damn,” he keeps saying. “Damn!”

I let the boyfriend relax from his climax for a brief moment. Then I shove myself in again. I haven’t come again—not yet, anyway.

Then I watch my buddy climb onto the bed and stand on it. He’s so short that his head doesn’t even come close to hitting the ceiling. His dick was rock-hard before. Now it’s angry, alive. It’s raging out of control from what he’s witnessed, and it’s so close to my face and radiating such heat that it reddens my skin.

“You owe me,” he says as a reminder. The large club that is his dick strikes my face. He could knock a man out with that thing.

I told him earlier I owed him. So I open wide, and let that obscene member invade my mouth. Inch by inch, it stretches my jaw while I continue to fuck the younger guy.

He smells like a day’s work, and sweat, and fabric softening. My face hurts. The guy is so fucking thick that I feel as if my jawbone is going to crack. My mouth and throat are full—and I can take a lot of cock in my gullet, thanks—but it feels as if I’m only getting the first three inches in there. There’s a whole regular dick and a half of black meat hanging outside my distended lips.

But I’m liking the rough treatment he’s giving me. I owe him. He’s taking out his price on my mouth. He’s got my skull in a tight hold with both his hands, and I can tell he doesn’t intend to let go. My mouth is just a hole to him, a sex toy, and he’s hammering away at my face like it’s disposable and he doesn’t care what shape it’s in when he’s done.

I’m gagging a little, and trying very hard not to choke. Breathing isn’t easy. But my own dick swells and suddenly feels as thick as his. I grunt, and slobber, and I drool like a lunatic. But I do my best not to gag or complain. It’s simple. I owe him, and I know it. Pain is his price, this time.

I cum first. The third orgasm is stronger than either the first or second. It feels like I’m shooting long dollops of hot lava from my dick, deep into the boyfriend’s swollen hole. I don’t pull out, though. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. My buddy has my head in a lock. The back of his strong hand is on my neck, and he’s pistoning in and out with purpose. I hear him swearing, and growling. Then, not soon enough and just before I’m afraid my endurance is going to give way, I see stars. With a thrust that should by rights leave a hole in the back of my skull, he shoves as much meat as I can handle into my mouth. He shoots there, so deeply that my tongue misses the taste of his sperm completely. I’m left with only the vaguest traces in my mouth when he withdraws, and the slick throat of one who’s recently had a load dumped there.

My jaw and lips won’t fully recuperate for another three days.

My buddy flops down on the bed beside his spent boyfriend, and as an afterthought, gives the younger guy’s soft dick a long lick. “There,” he says. “Now that’s the goddamned circle of life.” I’m inclined to agree with him.

But then, I’ll agree to anything, to keep getting invited back.

A Teaser

I’m not sure if what we’re watching is rugby or soccer, to be honest. There’s a field, and there’s a ball, and there’s a bunch of guys running around in shorts. It’s a cold Saturday morning; whenever I breathe, tendrils of vapor curl from my nostrils. My toes are frozen inside my boots, and I’m chilly in my jeans and thick sweater and scarf.

The players don’t seem at all chilly, though. They run around like it’s a May afternoon, chasing after the ball and filling the borrowed high school field with their laughter and high-pitched shouts. Beyond them, the sun catches the shapes of cars as they speed by on the freeway. I’ve driven into Westchester to meet the guy on the bench beside me. He’s a hulking shape because of the puffy vest he’s wearing. Bright orange, the color of danger and hazards. A Yankees cap hangs low on his forehead, just above a thick black pair of eyebrows flecked with gray. He’s got his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sweatpants. We've talked online before, a few times. Cammed once. But this is our first meeting in the flesh, to check each other out. “So,” he says. “You like what you see?”

He’s not talking about himself—though if he had been, my answer would’ve been in the affirmative. He’s got the stocky, masculine build that a lot of the Latin men in the area have. I’d definitely be interested in him. But it’s his younger boyfriend he means. One of the players on the field, a latte-skinned youth, lean, who stops from time to time to lift up his striped shirt to mop off his face and short, spiky hair. He’s got lanky legs with a light coat of fur, and a grin that rarely flags, even when he’s concentrating. He’s made for this game.

He’s hardly ever not been in motion, since I’ve arrived. Those legs fly in the air every time he sprints after the other players, and seem to flex to impossible angles whenever he suddenly changes direction. His hips are narrow, his stomach flat. He’s got dark eyebrows like his older boyfriend, though they point upward in the middle, giving him a look of perpetual astonishment. I haven’t spoken to him, haven’t seen him close up. Still, over the previous few silent minutes, I’ve seen enough of him to know that I found him attractive. “Yeah,” I say. “I like a lot.”

The man seems satisfied at that. “Practice’ll be over soon. Thought I’d go inside and piss,” he said. “Want to come? Check stuff out?”

“You know it.”

We walk across the bleachers together, just two guys taking a break from watching a long morning’s practice (soccer or rugby, I still didn’t know which). He descends to the ground with an ungainly hop; I follow, a little more gracefully. I don’t realize exactly how chilly it is outside until I’m indoors and my nose is running. He seems to know where we’re going, along the back corridor of the high school. There’s a boy’s room not too far from the door. No one’s inside.

We stand close to each other at the urinals. He doesn’t have to piss. He pulls down the elastic band of his sweatpants beneath a pair of heavy balls. His dick is fat and uncut, and rock hard. He’s been hard a while, it seems. Precum oozes from the tip in a glistening bead. Dried trails of its predecessor frost the top of his head and foreskin.

When I pull mine out, he instantly reaches for it. “Damn, it’s big,” he tells me. “As advertised, huh?” He’s making a joke, but I’m not laughing. I reach for his meat; it throbs when I get it in my hand. “You want to fuck him?”

He means his boyfriend. That’s why he wants to meet me. He’s been looking for his first three-way with the younger guy, and he’s thinking I might suit them both. “Yeah,” I said. My voice was husky and congested. “I really want to fuck him. You want to see me in him?”

He’s staring at my dick. “Fuck yeah. Fuck.” For a second he drops to a knee and takes me in his mouth. It’s unexpected. I hadn’t known he was going to attempt it. “Can barely get my own mouth around it,” he says, pulling off. Then he opens and belies his words by taking it almost to the root. He’s up on his feet again, and pulling up his sweatpants before anyone comes in. “That’ll look good in him.”

“He likes getting fucked?”

He looks me dead in the eye. “Oh yeah. Fuck yeah! Loves his hole played with. That thing though.” He shakes his head as I put it away. “That’ll do some damage.”

I don’t tell him the thought that image brought to mind. Namely, that I certainly hoped so.

At his invitation we go outside again. The practice is nearly over. A couple of the players are already straggling off the field. Men and women spectating from the bleachers join them one by one. “Wait here,” the man instructs, pointing vaguely at the area between field and parking lot. I take a seat on the bleachers as he heads toward his car. I stay there as the players jog off the field in pairs and singles, scratching their heads and collecting their bags from the ground. I sit there in the sun and the chill and watch the boyfriend say goodbye to his buddies and sally out into the lot, looking for his car.

Just about everyone’s gone when, near the gate, an older-model SUV pulls up and stops. The window rolls down. “Get in the back,” says the man, nodding me over.

I don’t wait for another invitation.

The boyfriend’s in the back, knees spread wide, his lean legs seeming to go on forever. He nods at me as I join him in the back seat. I start to pull on my seatbelt, but the man says, “You don’t need that, buddy.” He drives us to a spot at the back, close to the freeway, where no other cars are lurking. Then he shuts off the ignition.

There’s the briefest of introductions. First names only. “This is the man who’s gonna fuck you,” says the older of the two.

The boyfriend looks me up and down. He’s cute. Damned cute. His hair is wet from sweat and exercise, but other than that, he looks like he’s barely broken stride that morning. His legs scissor in and out. Then he cracks a grin, and those eyebrows go up. “Cool,” he says.

From the front seat, the man says, “Why don’t you show him what you’ve got, hon?”

The younger guy doesn’t need another invitation, either. He thrusts his hips in the air and shucks down his shorts. His legs spread as he shows me his dick. It’s and long, and narrow, and uncut, and grows from soft to rock hard before my eyes. He grabs it in his right hand and plays with it, a little self-consciously. He’s staring at me the entire time.

“Just a little taste,” says the man in the front seat. “A teaser. Just to show you what he’s got.”

“I can see what he’s got,” I say, drily.

“Make out with him a little,” says the man to his boyfriend.

The younger guy’s got gum in his mouth, but he considerately removes it before he slides forward on the back seat. My mouth covers his; he thrusts his mint-flavored tongue forward, and mumbles a little bit when I replace my hand on his dick with my own. He’s a hungry kisser, one of the kind who’s almost too eager for it to be good. There’s a lot of pressure from his upper teeth against my own, through our lips. When my fingers travel from his dick down between his legs, into the warm, moist area between them, the man in the front seat grunts out his approval. I let my thumb press against the younger guy’s butthole. He exhales heavily and sweetly, and obediently spread his legs farther apart.

I’ve got my thumb in there, with almost no more lube than a quick lick. He’s tight. Real tight. A little twist, and he’s moaning. A turn in the other direction, a crook of my thumb joint, and he’s acting like he’s getting close. His dick is like fire against my forearm.

“Just a teaser,” says the man again. “Not too much.”

I take the warning for what it is. We’re in a parking lot on a bright morning. Even with a lookout like the older guy, it’s a risky proposition to take to the next level. The younger guy looks at me with heavy, lidded eyes when I remove my digit from his hole. He doesn’t want it to stop. “Pack it away,” the man tells him. The younger guy takes a moment to collect his thoughts before slowly reaching down to the car floor to pull his shorts back onto his legs, and then up the length of them to cover that rock-hard dick and those narrow hips and thighs.

“I think this can work,” I tell the man.

“Might be difficult to connect before Christmas at this point,” he says. “We don’t do this real often, but I want to see you fuck him real good.”

The younger guy and I are staring at each other now. He’s grinning at me. He doesn’t have to say much. I can tell he wants it too. “I will,” I promise.

Then I’m out the door, and walking back across the lot to my own car, legs wobbly and my thumb smelling like the younger guy’s hole. He waves at me from the back seat as they drive from the school lot, and over the dust of their passing the two of us study each other for a last time before that day comes when I meet him naked, and prepped, and ready to be drilled.