So here I am, in my hotel room in Virginia, alone in the dark once more. Naked. Almost naked, anyway—I’ve got a baseball cap on, brim turned to the back. By request, I’m also wearing a pair of black athletic socks and my sneakers. There’s a rubber ring around my cock and balls. Otherwise, I’m completely bare, alone, and shivering in the gloom, kneeling with my forearms planted on the mattress, my knees spread, my ass in the air.
Once again I’ve left the door propped open by the latch. Thankfully, I don’t have long to wait in this submissive position. When the door opens to admit the harsh light from the hallway, I lower my head to hide it in shadow, and arch my back. I’ve walked into enough hotel rooms where bottoms are presenting their holes to know how to make it look good.
The man’s deep voice sends a shiver up my spine. “Damn, top,” he says. I hear the soft sound of him slipping off his shoes, followed by the metallic tinkle of his belt being unbuckled. I swallow hard. “You look so good.”
The touch of his hand on my ass startles me; I hadn’t realized he was so close. Another hand, on the other cheek. He pulls my ass apart to expose the hole to the air-conditioned cool, and I hear the weight of his belted jeans hit the floor. Although he keeps his hands on my butt, I feel motion—then the warmth of his breath mere inches away from my flesh.
“You look so fine. So fuckable,” he murmurs, as his meaty hands massage my ass. “Mister . . . Top.” My legs twitch. There’s mockery in his voice, but his tone isn’t malicious. “You’re my bottom tonight. You know that, right?”
“Yes sir,” I murmur. His hands are all over me now. I feel the flats of his palms pulled down my spine, over my ass, down my thighs. His hands tug at my hanging balls. He wraps his fingers around my rock-hard cock.
“Mister Top,” he says again. “Ass up for some big black dick tonight.”
“Yes sir,” I whisper to the mattress.
He’d hit me up online several days before I’d even arrived in Virginia. A handsome guy—big warm eyes, cocoa skin, trim beard, lightly muscular body. In his photos, his narrow waist led down to a huge uncut dick. Nine inches, at the very least. My eyes bulged at the sight of it, after he messaged me with a polite hello.
Maybe we can get together while you’re in town, he’d messaged, if you’d be interested.
I’d blinked a couple of times, reading the words. Yeah, who wouldn’t want to get together with such a good looking man? But at the same time, he’d branded himself as dominant in his profile. Top was listed as his preferred position. Not versatile top—top. Every single one of his photos, save for the exception that was only his smiling bearded face, made sure to put his enormous dick on display. His profile even read that he was looking for deep holes that could accommodate him.
Though his invitation to get together surprised me a little bit, given the uber-top impression he was projecting, I figured I knew what he wanted. I get invitations from tops all the time who want a little walk on the wild side—especially when I travel. They need to lap up a little what they’ve been dishing out, especially from someone who’s not going to stick around long enough to brag about it. Fuck, I’ve even had professional porn actors who were exclusively and infamously all top in their videos come to me for a little anal relief. I like flipping tops. This guy was going to be just like every breeder I’ve known who’s needed some dick in his hole.
Well sure, I said, playing it cool. But what would you get into with another top man like me?
His answer surprised me. You’re sexy as hell, and I was kind of hoping I could convince you to bottom.
Interesting.
I hadn’t bottomed in years. Fucking years. Periodically I get the urge to have a man inside me, sure—but those urges don’t come around very often, and when they do, I find that no one is exactly offering. This guy, well. He was offering.
But did I have that urge?
I looked at his photos again. It was a big dick. The previous guy to fuck me was the Russian some years ago, who boasted similar equipment. A fat nine. The last time I stumbled out of the Russian’s midtown apartment, I felt like my prolapsed hole was dragging along behind me on the concrete sidewalk. Why couldn’t I find a nice dude with a starter dick to take care of my need when it swung around, like Halley’s comet? Why is it that only tops with monster dicks wanted my hole?
First-world top problems, right?
But yeah. Something stirred inside me as I looked at those photos. It wasn’t longing. Not yet desire. But curiosity.
I’m really not much of a bottom, I warned him. It’s been a really long time. I’m not even sure I could take that monster.
He writes back with the same expert assurance I would give a novice bottom. You can take it. I’ll relax your hole and make good love to you and make you want it…then I’ll go in nice and easy. You look like you’d be hot to fuck. No pressure. We both would love it. Just think about it.
Oh, I thought about it. I thought about it while he kept hammering my phone with photos of his big dick, and of his big dick inside wide-open mouths, and of his big fucking dick inside other mens’ gaping holes. Every dick shot tickled the flames of my curiosity higher and higher; every reassurance that I would love his enormous meat inside my tight hole simply fanned the fire higher. If I hadn’t been in a mood to bottom when he’d first approached me, within twenty-four hours I was a hole in heat.
Let’s do it, I finally told him. We made a date for Tuesday, my second night in Richmond.
You won’t regret it, he replied.
I was visiting town to help my dad get to some medical appointments. The state mercifully revoked his driver’s license a few months ago. Although he is perfectly capable of using Uber to get places, it’s peace of mind for me to be there for more knotty scheduling. Tuesday was a complicated rush of early-morning doctors’ offices followed by a supermarket sweep before the hurricane projected to sweep up the coast later that week, and then a late afternoon run to his periodontist. After dinner with the old man, I’d made an excuse to head back to the hotel early.
I had cleaning to do. I’d brought my large enema bulb with me, and I got to work. Luckily I don’t have to rush—he planned to be at a movie with friends until after nine. By the time he’d be done, I would be clean inside and out, toweled dry, wearing the gear he requested, and on my knees.
I’ve got to admit. This guy is smooth. “You are gonna feel so sweet wrapped around my big dick, baby,” he’s telling me, as he kneels on the floor.
Pulling my hips down to this face, he spreads my cheeks again. “Oh, fuck,” I grunt, as I feel his big broad tongue lapping at my ass.
“That’s right. Mister Top is gonna get his ass fucked tonight.” His lips press against my pucker as he begins a long, unhurried make-out session with my hole.
I buck. I squirm. Sounds are issuing from my mouth that I haven’t heard from myself in years. Damn, he’s making me feel good. I’d sensed a confidence in him when we’d been exchanging texts the week before—the kind of confidence I suspect I normally exude, that puts nervous bottoms at ease and makes them desire to be opened. One finger at a time is slipping in and out of my spit-slick chute. I’m not resisting in the least. It’s true that I’d been warming up with the inflexible nozzle of the enema bulb for more than an hour, but even so, I’ve shown much less resistance to the invasion than with other guys who’ve tried to top me in the past.
My butt is high in the air, my knees spread to their widest, the side of my face planted to the bedspread, where drool is probably puddling around the corner of my open mouth. Want, want, want, my brain beats like a drum. I want this dude inside me. I want his dick. I want it all, now.
Next thing I know, he’s flipping me over onto my back, shoving a pillow beneath my hips. My legs are up in the air and he’s on top of me, his muscular body pressed against mine, his hips between my raised thighs. When his dick swings forward and collides with my ass, it feels like a heavyweight punching bag knocking against my hole. “You gonna give it to me tonight, Mister Top?” he murmurs into my ear. A shiver begins spreading from the top of my skull down my spine. “You gonna give me that sweet hole?”
“Yes,” I whimper. “Fuck yes.”
“I’m gonna get so deep in you your eyes will pop,” he swears. His mouth covers mine, and my whole body responds: my legs wrap around his hips, my arms around his shoulders. My spine arches. My skin feels as if it’s aflame. His kisses are deep, rough. He grunts slightly the harder we press our mouths against the other’s. Finally, he pulls away and looks me directly in the eye for the first time since he came into the room. “How do you want me, baby?”
“You tell me,” I say. I’d do anything for him at this point. “Any way that gets in deep.”
“Get on your knees.” He slithers down the bed to its bottom and stands. Pats its edge. “Show me that ass.”
I reposition myself face-down once more, my knees digging into the corner of the mattress. He helps himself liberally to the lube I’ve left on the hotel desk behind him, and works the cold gel against my hole. His fingers dig in the pucker, spreading the goo inside. I don’t think I’ve ever been so receptive to a man playing with my hole, before—tonight is going to be fucking special. I can just sense it.
“Are you ready for the fuck of your life, Mister Top?” he asks in the low, sexy voice of an overnight DJ at a Smooth Jazz format station.
“Please,” I whimper. “I want it.”
There’s a pause before he answers; I feel some fumbling at my ass as warm flesh presses against it. And presses against it. And presses against it some more. “Oh, I know you want it. . . .” he says at last.
I hear the lube bottle being squeezed again, followed by its plastic clatter on the desk. He uses his sticky hands to adjust my positioning slightly. Then there’s more activity in the vicinity of my hole.
I’m stuck in my downward doggie style position, and can’t really tell what’s happening back there. “I want it so bad,” I tell him.
“Oh, you are gonna get it.” He shifts around some more. Fingers my hole. I feel the head of his dick tickling against my point of entry. Then some fingering. Then more pressure. And now I’m beginning to wonder—because this isn’t some kind of erotic foreplay that’s going on back there. Can’t he find my hole in the dark? Is he unable to get inside me? Am I not as open as I think I am?
I reach behind and pull apart my cheeks for him. Maybe that’ll help. Again I feel his dick as it bounces across my fingers and lands in the vicinity of my hole. There’s some pressure, but nothing’s going in. Am I doing something wrong?
Finally, after what seems like long minutes of fumbling, he sighs. “Sorry.”
“What’s the matter?”
“My ding-a-ling just isn’t cooperating tonight.” I hear the sound of him wiping himself with the hand towel I’ve left on the desk chair, and stepping into his clothing. “You deserve better.” I clumsily roll over onto my butt.
“Wait—wait. . . .” I say. “You don’t have to go.” He’s still pulling on his pants, thrusting his arms into a white tee. “Do you want to make out some more? Let me suck it.” He’d seemed hard, or at least mostly hard, when we’d been kissing.
“It’s me. When it gets like this, I takes too long to get over it.” He’s putting on his shoes, now. “I’m real sorry to disappoint you, Mister Top.”
A million calculations are going through my head. I’m studying every word for candor. Is he just being kind in making excuses to get away? Was my ass so repulsive that I made him go limp? He seems genuinely embarrassed, though—and he’d been so amorous and sincere when he’d been eating me out and then kissing me. If I’d been that unattractive to him, would he have gone to the trouble of all that? Would I, in a similar spot?
On the two occasions in my life when I’d lost my erection, I felt so cornered, so immediately caged by fear and embarrassment that no matter how gentle and loving my partner’s ministrations might have been, I probably wouldn’t have recuperated. Nine years ago, when my lover Spencer had attempted to pick a fight with me and it ended with him deriding my alleged ‘toy-sized dick’ during sex, I not only lost my erection, but I couldn’t get hard for a full subsequent two or three weeks—and with Spencer, never again.
Yet I wasn’t getting a read of insincerity from this man. He made me genuinely sense he was ashamed his equipment wasn’t functioning as intended. Decades of fear, though—all arising from being sexually assaulted in my twenties—make me feel like the guilty party. I’d dared to ask for anal attention—something I never do, something that makes me feel vulnerable and often a little frightened. The second it hadn’t worked out, I was retreating to that fearful corner and worrying about what I’d done wrong…rightfully or not.
He gave me a quick kiss on the lips before he left. “Sorry, Mister Top,” he said. Then he was gone.
And I was in my Virginia hotel room with a rarely-hungry hole, alone in the dark once more.
Showing posts with label bottoming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bottoming. Show all posts
Monday, September 23, 2019
Monday, February 22, 2016
The Great Communicator
I’m lying in a stupor in the Puppy’s single bed. Outside it’s a frosty day—the sort of morning in which grass crunches underfoot and people thrust bare hands deep inside their pockets, to keep them warm. I’ve already spent most of the morning keeping a certain part of myself warm by thrusting it deep within the kid’s hairy pucker.
He’s got my DNA inside him already; I’ve pounded him down with his face in the pillows until he whimpered, I’ve fucked him standing up, my mouth on his neck and my hands around his fur-covered chest as I’ve repeatedly sodomized his hole. I’ve laid back and made him ride me until he shot a thick load over my chest and onto my face. Then I’ve started the whole thing over again.
But now it’s two hours and two of my loads up his chute later. He’s sweaty and exhausted. I’m hot and in a fuck daze, sprawled there on my narrow half of the single bed, imaginary animated birdies circling my head like a Warner Brothers toon who’s been conked on the head with a sex anvil.
I’m still seeing the little tweety birds when he speaks. “I haven’t paid any attention to your hole.”
“Ungh,” I manage to grunt out. I’m naked, my body pale against his dark, dampened sheets. I’m taking up more than my share of the little bed, just because I’m a giant compared to his short, athletic frame.
“I mean it,” he says. “I haven’t rimmed you. Ever.”
Through my comfortable stupefaction, his words finally penetrate to what thinking processes haven’t been dulled by the vigorous fucking we’ve enjoyed all morning. It’s been a long time since I was rimmed. I mean, a long time. I blink to clear my eyes, and look into his face. It’s a face I adore. I love those wide-open green eyes, the dark eyebrows like bold underlines on a page. I love the little smile that’s curling the corner of his mouth, and the way he looks at me like a young hound dog pretending to be docile and quiet, but who secretly hopes I’ll clap my hands and toss a ball for him to chase.
“Come on,” he wheedles quietly, his head on my chest. “Let me rim you a little. It’ll feel good.”
Yeah. I want that. I need to feel good. I nod, and roll over.
I tuck one of his pillows beneath my hips. He pushes my legs apart, keeping his hands on my legs, just below the ass. I feel first his shoulders between my knees, then the tickle of his thick beard as it brushes my thighs. When he pulls apart my cheeks, I sigh. My eyes close. My forehead lowers to the mattress. One of his pillows slides into the curl between my neck and chin, a perfect fit. I feel the heat of his breath. The flick of his tongue. He begins to lick.
I thought I was dazed before. That was nothing. When he works my hole with his mouth and face fur, I find my muscles relaxing as surely and steadily as if he had found some tension spring deep within me and started to loosen the screw. “Jesus,” I murmur to nobody in particular.
His voice sounds matter-of-fact as he starts talking. “I really like the taste of your ass!” he enthuses. “It’s really, really good!”
He could be shilling M&Ms or promoting the whitening power of some name brand toothpaste, from the tone. “Christ,” I mutter, as he goes at it some more.
“Are you all right?”
I’m fine. The wires from brain’s speech functions to my tongue have gone crossed and haywire, but hey. I’m not complaining, and it’s not simply because I’m unable. “Uh-huh!” I grunt out, pushing back onto his face.
He’s in there, now, lapping at my hole, opening it up. Every time he abrades my sensitive tissue with the flat of his tongue, I shiver; for someone who’s never before eaten my ass before, he instantly knows how to work it. The Puppy can read me, too; he waits for each crest of cascading sensation to ebb before he burrows in and elicits another wave. “This is great!”
How can he be so articulate and perky when I’m barely able to string two words together? It’s a little infuriating. “Fuck,” I manage to spit out.
I’m not any more lucid when he hikes himself up and over the mounds of my ass to press his chest against my back. “Are you all right with this?” he asks. “Are you doing okay?”
I nod. I’m doing more than all right. He’s driving me crazy with his cock. It’s stiff. Wet. Hard against my ass. What I want more than anything right now . . . what I want is . . . what I want. . . .
He draws himself up on his arms. His cock glides up my crack. I feel his balls press where my hole is. As if reading my mind, he asks, “What do you want?”
What I want. Fuck. Even my brain won’t let me think the complete thought. What I want is for him to know what I want, and for him to give it to me. I love being the aggressor with the Puppy. It’s just right now, parts of me are already screaming out what I want. My skin is vibrating at such a high frequency that I should be ringing like a tuning fork. Even through heavy lids, as I stare over my shoulder at him, my eyes are trying to command him to take what he wants, if he wants it. My hole is hollering for it. Fuck, my hole is yodeling for it, like some crazy Alpine goat herder. Folks in Westchester County next door should be able to hear.
In fact, every component of my body is telling him at top volume what I want. What he should do next. Where he should take this. Except my mouth, that is. I part my lips to speak, but nothing comes out. Just say it, my brain commands. Still, nothing.
Look, I trust the Puppy. I love the Puppy. There’s no one in the world that I feel more comfortable with. Deep in my head, though, there’s just some vestigial particle of what?—fear? anxiety?—from the sexual assault I endured almost thirty years ago. The maddening remnant prevents me from actually saying the god damned words: fuck me please. I can’t ask for anal attention. I keep thinking I should be able to. I open my mouth every day and all kinds of ridiculous thoughts tumble out. Why should asking for anal sex be any different?
In a spot like this, when my body is aflame with sensation, when the nudge of his thick cock’s tip at my hole causes me to arch my spine and thrust back against him, I should be able to say the simple words.
And I can’t. I open my mouth. Just say it, my brain repeats. Nothing.
I’m grateful when he solves the dilemma for me. I feel his weight shift; he reaches for the lube. His fingers are cold as he rubs the goop directly onto my hole. “Let me just put the head in,” he suggests. “Let’s see how it goes.”
I nod. Yes. This is what I want. Then, struck by the words, my lips suddenly start working again. “Hey,” I complain. “That’s usually my line.”
He silences me by sliding in slightly. There’s a slight pressure, the dual sensation of warm flesh and still-cool lube, then the heat and friction of his furry chest against my smooth back. “It feels good,” he whispers. Already he’s starting to ease in and out, just a fraction of an inch. “It feels really good. Are you okay?”
I nod, very quickly. There’s a flush that seems to be blooming from my temples, spreading behind my ears and across my shoulders like a mantle of hot needles. It slips down my back, vanishes toward my toes. I want the feeling to continue forever. I’m very okay.
Already all that fear, all that wearying thought, is ebbing from my brain. My hands slip in the gap between the box springs and his mattress; my arms hug the bed as if I’m clinging to a life raft. I float away, down the current, adrift in sensation. I’m vaguely conscious that from one corner of my mouth, I’m drooling.
His beard tickles my ear. “Does it hurt?” I shake my head. “Can I go deeper?” Now I nod.
The Puppy doesn’t need more permission than that. He’s so sweet; so protective of me. I really barely resist as he slides in. The sensation is so smooth and masterfully done that I’m moved to speak. “Oh my god,” I moan.
I want to say, in a succinct few words, how wonderful this is for me—how awe-inspiring it is that he’s managed to open me up so easily and quickly, how amazing he’s making me feel. My brain flails around for the right verbiage to communicate this most holy and intimate of experiences. I’m the one who’s good with words. Communicating complex thoughts is right up my alley.
What comes out, however, is this: “Are you in me?”
He pauses, Separates from me slightly. Then, in a voice of mildest complaint, he replies, “Listen. I know I’m not as big as some people, but yes, I am in you.”
“No, no!” I say, having to suck drool back into my mouth. “That’s not what I meant!”
Then he laughs, because he knows. I can’t help but laugh, too. For a long, long minute we lie glued to each other, little boys giggling at some corny joke.
I love that we can tease and celebrate like this during sex. It’s a luxury of intimacy that makes me want him more. “Fuck me,” I say, once the snickers have subsided. “Just fuck it.”
He requires no more encouragement. Next thing I know, he’s pounding at my ass. I get fucked so rarely that I don’t feel much mastery at many positions. Lying face down and just taking it from behind happens to be the one I’m best at. The Puppy doesn’t seem to care. He’s got a single thing on his mind, and our agendas happen to be one and the same.
“Fuck it,” I growl, lifting my butt to meet his violent thrusts. “Fuck that hole. Fuck it hard.” The obscenities pour out of my mouth as I clutch the mattress more tightly. He’s not holding back. He’s not even being particularly gentle at this point. I’m glad for that. “You’re going to breed it,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says, his pants coming rapidly. “I am.”
“You’re going to breed me like I breed you. Complete that circuit of cum.”
“Yeah, dad,” he breathes.
I know the Puppy has had difficulty shooting in the past with other guys, especially when bottoming. With me, that hasn’t been a problem. He produces more semen than a fifteen-year-old boy with his first copy of Penthouse. Will he be able to cum while topping, though? I’m betting he will. The question’s academic at best, because mostly what I’m able to process are only the passions of the moment. The head of his cock piercing me, again and again. The sound of his whuffing as he pistons away. The thud of his heartbeat, drum=like, through his rib cage onto my back. He could fuck me forever like this without shooting, if he wanted.
But yeah. He can cum. I hear him gulp; he thrusts hard, deep into my guts, one final time. His meat swells, stretches me wide, wider, then subsides. It swells again, then again, a little less each time, while he squirts one of his fire hose loads into me. The sweat from his body cements his skin to mine as he dumps the last of his semen in my hole.
Circuit completed.
“Don’t pull out,” I beg. I lie there, savoring the sensation of it all, wearing the slight and unaccustomed soreness of my hole as some kind of badge. He obeys, and presses his weight on me. It’s comfortable, this. I could lie this way forever.
Then, “Are you in me,” he says with scorn.
I erupt into breathless chuckles again. He echoes them. Then together, interlocked as one, we start giggling helplessly, unable to stop.
I have never been happier to be shamed for something I’ve said.
He’s got my DNA inside him already; I’ve pounded him down with his face in the pillows until he whimpered, I’ve fucked him standing up, my mouth on his neck and my hands around his fur-covered chest as I’ve repeatedly sodomized his hole. I’ve laid back and made him ride me until he shot a thick load over my chest and onto my face. Then I’ve started the whole thing over again.
But now it’s two hours and two of my loads up his chute later. He’s sweaty and exhausted. I’m hot and in a fuck daze, sprawled there on my narrow half of the single bed, imaginary animated birdies circling my head like a Warner Brothers toon who’s been conked on the head with a sex anvil.
I’m still seeing the little tweety birds when he speaks. “I haven’t paid any attention to your hole.”
“Ungh,” I manage to grunt out. I’m naked, my body pale against his dark, dampened sheets. I’m taking up more than my share of the little bed, just because I’m a giant compared to his short, athletic frame.
“I mean it,” he says. “I haven’t rimmed you. Ever.”
Through my comfortable stupefaction, his words finally penetrate to what thinking processes haven’t been dulled by the vigorous fucking we’ve enjoyed all morning. It’s been a long time since I was rimmed. I mean, a long time. I blink to clear my eyes, and look into his face. It’s a face I adore. I love those wide-open green eyes, the dark eyebrows like bold underlines on a page. I love the little smile that’s curling the corner of his mouth, and the way he looks at me like a young hound dog pretending to be docile and quiet, but who secretly hopes I’ll clap my hands and toss a ball for him to chase.
“Come on,” he wheedles quietly, his head on my chest. “Let me rim you a little. It’ll feel good.”
Yeah. I want that. I need to feel good. I nod, and roll over.
I tuck one of his pillows beneath my hips. He pushes my legs apart, keeping his hands on my legs, just below the ass. I feel first his shoulders between my knees, then the tickle of his thick beard as it brushes my thighs. When he pulls apart my cheeks, I sigh. My eyes close. My forehead lowers to the mattress. One of his pillows slides into the curl between my neck and chin, a perfect fit. I feel the heat of his breath. The flick of his tongue. He begins to lick.
I thought I was dazed before. That was nothing. When he works my hole with his mouth and face fur, I find my muscles relaxing as surely and steadily as if he had found some tension spring deep within me and started to loosen the screw. “Jesus,” I murmur to nobody in particular.
His voice sounds matter-of-fact as he starts talking. “I really like the taste of your ass!” he enthuses. “It’s really, really good!”
He could be shilling M&Ms or promoting the whitening power of some name brand toothpaste, from the tone. “Christ,” I mutter, as he goes at it some more.
“Are you all right?”
I’m fine. The wires from brain’s speech functions to my tongue have gone crossed and haywire, but hey. I’m not complaining, and it’s not simply because I’m unable. “Uh-huh!” I grunt out, pushing back onto his face.
He’s in there, now, lapping at my hole, opening it up. Every time he abrades my sensitive tissue with the flat of his tongue, I shiver; for someone who’s never before eaten my ass before, he instantly knows how to work it. The Puppy can read me, too; he waits for each crest of cascading sensation to ebb before he burrows in and elicits another wave. “This is great!”
How can he be so articulate and perky when I’m barely able to string two words together? It’s a little infuriating. “Fuck,” I manage to spit out.
I’m not any more lucid when he hikes himself up and over the mounds of my ass to press his chest against my back. “Are you all right with this?” he asks. “Are you doing okay?”
I nod. I’m doing more than all right. He’s driving me crazy with his cock. It’s stiff. Wet. Hard against my ass. What I want more than anything right now . . . what I want is . . . what I want. . . .
He draws himself up on his arms. His cock glides up my crack. I feel his balls press where my hole is. As if reading my mind, he asks, “What do you want?”
What I want. Fuck. Even my brain won’t let me think the complete thought. What I want is for him to know what I want, and for him to give it to me. I love being the aggressor with the Puppy. It’s just right now, parts of me are already screaming out what I want. My skin is vibrating at such a high frequency that I should be ringing like a tuning fork. Even through heavy lids, as I stare over my shoulder at him, my eyes are trying to command him to take what he wants, if he wants it. My hole is hollering for it. Fuck, my hole is yodeling for it, like some crazy Alpine goat herder. Folks in Westchester County next door should be able to hear.
In fact, every component of my body is telling him at top volume what I want. What he should do next. Where he should take this. Except my mouth, that is. I part my lips to speak, but nothing comes out. Just say it, my brain commands. Still, nothing.
Look, I trust the Puppy. I love the Puppy. There’s no one in the world that I feel more comfortable with. Deep in my head, though, there’s just some vestigial particle of what?—fear? anxiety?—from the sexual assault I endured almost thirty years ago. The maddening remnant prevents me from actually saying the god damned words: fuck me please. I can’t ask for anal attention. I keep thinking I should be able to. I open my mouth every day and all kinds of ridiculous thoughts tumble out. Why should asking for anal sex be any different?
In a spot like this, when my body is aflame with sensation, when the nudge of his thick cock’s tip at my hole causes me to arch my spine and thrust back against him, I should be able to say the simple words.
And I can’t. I open my mouth. Just say it, my brain repeats. Nothing.
I’m grateful when he solves the dilemma for me. I feel his weight shift; he reaches for the lube. His fingers are cold as he rubs the goop directly onto my hole. “Let me just put the head in,” he suggests. “Let’s see how it goes.”
I nod. Yes. This is what I want. Then, struck by the words, my lips suddenly start working again. “Hey,” I complain. “That’s usually my line.”
He silences me by sliding in slightly. There’s a slight pressure, the dual sensation of warm flesh and still-cool lube, then the heat and friction of his furry chest against my smooth back. “It feels good,” he whispers. Already he’s starting to ease in and out, just a fraction of an inch. “It feels really good. Are you okay?”
I nod, very quickly. There’s a flush that seems to be blooming from my temples, spreading behind my ears and across my shoulders like a mantle of hot needles. It slips down my back, vanishes toward my toes. I want the feeling to continue forever. I’m very okay.
Already all that fear, all that wearying thought, is ebbing from my brain. My hands slip in the gap between the box springs and his mattress; my arms hug the bed as if I’m clinging to a life raft. I float away, down the current, adrift in sensation. I’m vaguely conscious that from one corner of my mouth, I’m drooling.
His beard tickles my ear. “Does it hurt?” I shake my head. “Can I go deeper?” Now I nod.
The Puppy doesn’t need more permission than that. He’s so sweet; so protective of me. I really barely resist as he slides in. The sensation is so smooth and masterfully done that I’m moved to speak. “Oh my god,” I moan.
I want to say, in a succinct few words, how wonderful this is for me—how awe-inspiring it is that he’s managed to open me up so easily and quickly, how amazing he’s making me feel. My brain flails around for the right verbiage to communicate this most holy and intimate of experiences. I’m the one who’s good with words. Communicating complex thoughts is right up my alley.
What comes out, however, is this: “Are you in me?”
He pauses, Separates from me slightly. Then, in a voice of mildest complaint, he replies, “Listen. I know I’m not as big as some people, but yes, I am in you.”
“No, no!” I say, having to suck drool back into my mouth. “That’s not what I meant!”
Then he laughs, because he knows. I can’t help but laugh, too. For a long, long minute we lie glued to each other, little boys giggling at some corny joke.
I love that we can tease and celebrate like this during sex. It’s a luxury of intimacy that makes me want him more. “Fuck me,” I say, once the snickers have subsided. “Just fuck it.”
He requires no more encouragement. Next thing I know, he’s pounding at my ass. I get fucked so rarely that I don’t feel much mastery at many positions. Lying face down and just taking it from behind happens to be the one I’m best at. The Puppy doesn’t seem to care. He’s got a single thing on his mind, and our agendas happen to be one and the same.
“Fuck it,” I growl, lifting my butt to meet his violent thrusts. “Fuck that hole. Fuck it hard.” The obscenities pour out of my mouth as I clutch the mattress more tightly. He’s not holding back. He’s not even being particularly gentle at this point. I’m glad for that. “You’re going to breed it,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says, his pants coming rapidly. “I am.”
“You’re going to breed me like I breed you. Complete that circuit of cum.”
“Yeah, dad,” he breathes.
I know the Puppy has had difficulty shooting in the past with other guys, especially when bottoming. With me, that hasn’t been a problem. He produces more semen than a fifteen-year-old boy with his first copy of Penthouse. Will he be able to cum while topping, though? I’m betting he will. The question’s academic at best, because mostly what I’m able to process are only the passions of the moment. The head of his cock piercing me, again and again. The sound of his whuffing as he pistons away. The thud of his heartbeat, drum=like, through his rib cage onto my back. He could fuck me forever like this without shooting, if he wanted.
But yeah. He can cum. I hear him gulp; he thrusts hard, deep into my guts, one final time. His meat swells, stretches me wide, wider, then subsides. It swells again, then again, a little less each time, while he squirts one of his fire hose loads into me. The sweat from his body cements his skin to mine as he dumps the last of his semen in my hole.
Circuit completed.
“Don’t pull out,” I beg. I lie there, savoring the sensation of it all, wearing the slight and unaccustomed soreness of my hole as some kind of badge. He obeys, and presses his weight on me. It’s comfortable, this. I could lie this way forever.
Then, “Are you in me,” he says with scorn.
I erupt into breathless chuckles again. He echoes them. Then together, interlocked as one, we start giggling helplessly, unable to stop.
I have never been happier to be shamed for something I’ve said.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Dick Dock 2015: Get It Done
So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.
It’s just a little much on my nerves.
I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.
Get.
It.
Done.
So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.
There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.
Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.
There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.
A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.
I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.
I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.
I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.
They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.
As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”
“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.
Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.
I just nod. I expect him to get it done.
Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.
Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.
The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.
The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”
I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.
It’s just a little much on my nerves.
I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.
Get.
It.
Done.
So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.
There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.
Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.
There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.
A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.
I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.
I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.
I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.
They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.
As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”
“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.
Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.
I just nod. I expect him to get it done.
Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.
Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.
The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.
The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”
I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Three Scenes from an Orgy
1.
“Shoes go here.” I’m still radiating cold from the outdoors, standing there in my heavy winter coat and boots. The guy who’s come down to answer the door, though, is completely naked. He’s got a shaved head and a chest full of fur, and stands there with his hands on his hips. The fact he’s got a juicy erection bobbing between his legs leaves him completely unabashed.
I haven’t even gotten my hat or gloves off, but it’s obvious he’s expecting me to hurry it up. I unzip my boots on the sides and kick them off.
He’s heading up the stairs now, his bare feet making a soft noise in the carpet. He tugs me by the sleeve into a bedroom. It’s large. Living-room sized, really. There’s a sofa and a TV occupying one corner, a computer desk in another. There’s an empty double bed in the corner. “Leave your clothes here,” says the naked man. He shrugs to tell me that’s it. “See you in a couple.”
I wait until he’s left the bedroom before I start removing my clothing. I stack it all into a neat pile, one of many similar stacks atop and around the sofa. It’s not a fancy apartment, this, but the inhabitant obviously has a lot of taste. He’s decorated the surfaces with Arts and Crafts pottery, with expensive blown glass and books on antiques. If I’d come here for a cocktail party or an afterglow following a show, I’d be studying the decor and the photographs and the diploma on the wall for cues for my light conversation.
But I’m not here for the conversation.
I don’t anticipate knowing anyone here. I don’t expect to go home with any new names in my phone’s contact list. I’m here to fuck, pretty basically.
When I move into the other bedroom—the room with the big, king-sized bed and the darkened shades—the scene is like some fundamentalist’s vision of Hell, or an Italian avant-garde film. Bodies writhe all around me. On the floor are couples slithering between each other’s legs. Against the wall a trio slides up and down as they suck face and cock in turn. The bed is a seething mass of moving flesh, male on male, cock to cock, ass to mouth, dick to hole.
I don’t even hesitate. I step over the fornicating pair and plunge into this nightmare of sex and desire straight out of Hieronymous Bosch. Hands clutch at me immediately, pulling me into the vortex, pulling me under. I’m gasping for air beneath all that weight and mass, but I’m the happiest drowning man ever.
2.
There’s mouth on my right nipple. There’s a mouth on my dick. I haven’t even bothered to look down to see whose. All my attention is on the man kissing me.
He’s the host—a retired professor from a prestigious New England university. His cock’s not much to look at. I’m not even sure it gets hard. His looks are past their prime, I think it’s safe to say. But he’s still attractive in a handsome-daddy kind of way. He’s got piercing blue eyes and a barrel of a chest spiked with prominent, eraser-shaped nipples. And holy crap, his kissing is amazing.
We’ve been making out for a good ten to fifteen minutes while mouth replaces invisible mouth on my cock. Sometimes there’s an addition tongue licking my nuts, or attempting to slip down between my legs to my ass. Every time someone dives for my hole, though, their host pushes them away. “That’s mine,” he even barks to one guy.
I’m fine with that. I’m good to my hosts.
“You’ve got beautiful blue eyes,” he growls at me. He’s nuzzling my ear, then pushing my head to the side so he can attack my with his open mouth. Then he’s back to holding my face to his and plunging his thick tongue into my mouth, as far back as he can, while he rams two of his fingers up my ass. It’s only a day after my time with the Haiku Writer who stretched my hole wide open with his massive uncut meat, so I’m still tender down there.
On the up side, I’m pretty much still wide open, too.
“I am going to molest you good,” he promises.
I fucking melt at his words. “Please, sir,” I whimper. It only makes him jam those fingers inside me deeper, up to the third knuckle. As I squirm and groan, he clutches me harder to his chest. Connected to each other, and to the men surrounding us, we sink into the maelstrom.
3.
“You’re. . . .” He’s grasping for a name. “. . . Rob? Is that it?”
I’m slightly insulted in theory. One familiar face has surfaced in the crowd. He’s a piece of sexy bald muscle that I’ve fucked at the hotel group for married men. I fucked him in my bed at home, too, after that. Just for not remembering, I shove my dick up his guts so hard that he sucks in lungfuls of air and winces. “That’s right.”
He looks back over his shoulder again, as he braces himself against the mattress. “I remember that cock.”
“You oughta,” I mutter.
This whore’s been over every dick at the party, and I love him for it. The only reason I’m not really insulted by his sex-fueled memory loss is that moments before, when he’d crawled off some older guy’s meat still dripping with lube and semen, he told me that he’d have to leave soon and that he’d saved the best for last.
A little sop to my ego goes a long way, in my book.
He’s got one of those worked-out asses that’s absolute perfection. Round as the globes in my middle-school library, hard as cement, sheltering a tight little pucker that’s easy to open and soft and wet to slide into. He’s definitely not thinking about the wife and kiddies as he backs up onto my cock, not worrying about work when he’s twisting and grinding on my meat and trying to take it even more deeply than it already goes.
Eyes are on me as I bang this little bitch. He might be all muscle, but he’s no taller than five-five, lighter than I am. I make a show of working the hole, of pulling out all the way so that those cunt lips drag over the girth of my meat, then shoving all the way in. Every thrust makes the little fucker gasp.
I feel someone behind me. There’s a pair of lips on my neck, a hand on my shoulder and another on my hip. When I look around, I can tell it’s a tattooed guy who’s been circulating around the group from the time I’ve been there. His skin is a dark tan that shows off his blond military cut. Half his tattoos are military in nature as well. The one on his chest proclaiming his love for God and Country and the U.S. Army could be used on a recruiting poster. His other passion is the Yankees, apparently. He’s got the logo on his calf, on the inside of his hip bone, and squarely between his shoulder blades.
That hip bone digs into my ass. The little bald guy is kneeling on the edge of the mattress and I’m standing on the floor. There’s so little room between my back and the wall that the tattooed guy has to press close in. I can feel his cock jumping as it brushes my crack.
He kisses me over my shoulder. His breath’s a little sour, but the guy’s a good kisser. He’s yanking my head around aggressively to get more of my mouth while his hips move with mine as I continue fucking my bald little muscle. “Rape that hole,” he growls at me.
I obey. I pick up the pace and make the muscle grunt. Then I hear the snap of a plastic top and feel the cold wetness of lube dripping down my rear. The head of his cock separates my ass and hones in for the hole.
I was just fucked the day before. My hole is still sore. But it looks like I’m about to be fucked again.
“Christ,” I spit out when the Army guy’s cock shoves home. He’s not large. Maybe about five and a half inches. Big head, though. My eyes pop wide open as it slides relentlessly home.
I’m overwhelmed in sensation again. It’s almost too much, this feeling of my hole being opened wide while I’m already balls-deep in a slippery hole. Every nerve in my body is overloaded; the electricity in my nether parts makes me jangle like discordant bells. I can hear men cheering us on, both me and the Army guy who’s shoved himself inside. But the cries are distant, drowned out by the pounding of my heart, the rush of my blood, and the insistent shrill of my muscles as they quiver and convulse.
I feel more wetness on my backside. Warm, this time. The tattooed guy’s cock slides out and shoots its load as it does, so that half of it glazes my butt. The rest slops out of the hole. I’m so aroused that the wet sensation pushes me over the edge. I shove inside the muscle guy so hard that he loses his balance and collapses onto the mattress. I follow, shooting pulse after pulse of seed deep inside.
“Hot ass,” says the Army dude with a pat to my ass, as he walks away. “That hole is real tight.”
I’m not so sure it is, any more.
“Shoes go here.” I’m still radiating cold from the outdoors, standing there in my heavy winter coat and boots. The guy who’s come down to answer the door, though, is completely naked. He’s got a shaved head and a chest full of fur, and stands there with his hands on his hips. The fact he’s got a juicy erection bobbing between his legs leaves him completely unabashed.
I haven’t even gotten my hat or gloves off, but it’s obvious he’s expecting me to hurry it up. I unzip my boots on the sides and kick them off.
He’s heading up the stairs now, his bare feet making a soft noise in the carpet. He tugs me by the sleeve into a bedroom. It’s large. Living-room sized, really. There’s a sofa and a TV occupying one corner, a computer desk in another. There’s an empty double bed in the corner. “Leave your clothes here,” says the naked man. He shrugs to tell me that’s it. “See you in a couple.”
I wait until he’s left the bedroom before I start removing my clothing. I stack it all into a neat pile, one of many similar stacks atop and around the sofa. It’s not a fancy apartment, this, but the inhabitant obviously has a lot of taste. He’s decorated the surfaces with Arts and Crafts pottery, with expensive blown glass and books on antiques. If I’d come here for a cocktail party or an afterglow following a show, I’d be studying the decor and the photographs and the diploma on the wall for cues for my light conversation.
But I’m not here for the conversation.
I don’t anticipate knowing anyone here. I don’t expect to go home with any new names in my phone’s contact list. I’m here to fuck, pretty basically.
When I move into the other bedroom—the room with the big, king-sized bed and the darkened shades—the scene is like some fundamentalist’s vision of Hell, or an Italian avant-garde film. Bodies writhe all around me. On the floor are couples slithering between each other’s legs. Against the wall a trio slides up and down as they suck face and cock in turn. The bed is a seething mass of moving flesh, male on male, cock to cock, ass to mouth, dick to hole.
I don’t even hesitate. I step over the fornicating pair and plunge into this nightmare of sex and desire straight out of Hieronymous Bosch. Hands clutch at me immediately, pulling me into the vortex, pulling me under. I’m gasping for air beneath all that weight and mass, but I’m the happiest drowning man ever.
2.
There’s mouth on my right nipple. There’s a mouth on my dick. I haven’t even bothered to look down to see whose. All my attention is on the man kissing me.
He’s the host—a retired professor from a prestigious New England university. His cock’s not much to look at. I’m not even sure it gets hard. His looks are past their prime, I think it’s safe to say. But he’s still attractive in a handsome-daddy kind of way. He’s got piercing blue eyes and a barrel of a chest spiked with prominent, eraser-shaped nipples. And holy crap, his kissing is amazing.
We’ve been making out for a good ten to fifteen minutes while mouth replaces invisible mouth on my cock. Sometimes there’s an addition tongue licking my nuts, or attempting to slip down between my legs to my ass. Every time someone dives for my hole, though, their host pushes them away. “That’s mine,” he even barks to one guy.
I’m fine with that. I’m good to my hosts.
“You’ve got beautiful blue eyes,” he growls at me. He’s nuzzling my ear, then pushing my head to the side so he can attack my with his open mouth. Then he’s back to holding my face to his and plunging his thick tongue into my mouth, as far back as he can, while he rams two of his fingers up my ass. It’s only a day after my time with the Haiku Writer who stretched my hole wide open with his massive uncut meat, so I’m still tender down there.
On the up side, I’m pretty much still wide open, too.
“I am going to molest you good,” he promises.
I fucking melt at his words. “Please, sir,” I whimper. It only makes him jam those fingers inside me deeper, up to the third knuckle. As I squirm and groan, he clutches me harder to his chest. Connected to each other, and to the men surrounding us, we sink into the maelstrom.
3.
“You’re. . . .” He’s grasping for a name. “. . . Rob? Is that it?”
I’m slightly insulted in theory. One familiar face has surfaced in the crowd. He’s a piece of sexy bald muscle that I’ve fucked at the hotel group for married men. I fucked him in my bed at home, too, after that. Just for not remembering, I shove my dick up his guts so hard that he sucks in lungfuls of air and winces. “That’s right.”
He looks back over his shoulder again, as he braces himself against the mattress. “I remember that cock.”
“You oughta,” I mutter.
This whore’s been over every dick at the party, and I love him for it. The only reason I’m not really insulted by his sex-fueled memory loss is that moments before, when he’d crawled off some older guy’s meat still dripping with lube and semen, he told me that he’d have to leave soon and that he’d saved the best for last.
A little sop to my ego goes a long way, in my book.
He’s got one of those worked-out asses that’s absolute perfection. Round as the globes in my middle-school library, hard as cement, sheltering a tight little pucker that’s easy to open and soft and wet to slide into. He’s definitely not thinking about the wife and kiddies as he backs up onto my cock, not worrying about work when he’s twisting and grinding on my meat and trying to take it even more deeply than it already goes.
Eyes are on me as I bang this little bitch. He might be all muscle, but he’s no taller than five-five, lighter than I am. I make a show of working the hole, of pulling out all the way so that those cunt lips drag over the girth of my meat, then shoving all the way in. Every thrust makes the little fucker gasp.
I feel someone behind me. There’s a pair of lips on my neck, a hand on my shoulder and another on my hip. When I look around, I can tell it’s a tattooed guy who’s been circulating around the group from the time I’ve been there. His skin is a dark tan that shows off his blond military cut. Half his tattoos are military in nature as well. The one on his chest proclaiming his love for God and Country and the U.S. Army could be used on a recruiting poster. His other passion is the Yankees, apparently. He’s got the logo on his calf, on the inside of his hip bone, and squarely between his shoulder blades.
That hip bone digs into my ass. The little bald guy is kneeling on the edge of the mattress and I’m standing on the floor. There’s so little room between my back and the wall that the tattooed guy has to press close in. I can feel his cock jumping as it brushes my crack.
He kisses me over my shoulder. His breath’s a little sour, but the guy’s a good kisser. He’s yanking my head around aggressively to get more of my mouth while his hips move with mine as I continue fucking my bald little muscle. “Rape that hole,” he growls at me.
I obey. I pick up the pace and make the muscle grunt. Then I hear the snap of a plastic top and feel the cold wetness of lube dripping down my rear. The head of his cock separates my ass and hones in for the hole.
I was just fucked the day before. My hole is still sore. But it looks like I’m about to be fucked again.
“Christ,” I spit out when the Army guy’s cock shoves home. He’s not large. Maybe about five and a half inches. Big head, though. My eyes pop wide open as it slides relentlessly home.
I’m overwhelmed in sensation again. It’s almost too much, this feeling of my hole being opened wide while I’m already balls-deep in a slippery hole. Every nerve in my body is overloaded; the electricity in my nether parts makes me jangle like discordant bells. I can hear men cheering us on, both me and the Army guy who’s shoved himself inside. But the cries are distant, drowned out by the pounding of my heart, the rush of my blood, and the insistent shrill of my muscles as they quiver and convulse.
I feel more wetness on my backside. Warm, this time. The tattooed guy’s cock slides out and shoots its load as it does, so that half of it glazes my butt. The rest slops out of the hole. I’m so aroused that the wet sensation pushes me over the edge. I shove inside the muscle guy so hard that he loses his balance and collapses onto the mattress. I follow, shooting pulse after pulse of seed deep inside.
“Hot ass,” says the Army dude with a pat to my ass, as he walks away. “That hole is real tight.”
I’m not so sure it is, any more.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Shaken
Behind my bed, eight to ten inches higher than the mattress, is a shelf. It’s the center section of the large, ancient built-in bookshelves that line one end of the bedroom, left over from the days when the two-flat house used to be a one-family home, and this room acted as someone’s study. We keep a couple of clock radios on that shelf. A lamp with a metal base. My eyeglasses, for when I’m not wearing contact lenses. The TV’s remote control. And a bottle of lotion I have handy for late-night itchy skin.
Right now, in the sleepy false twilight of the drawn shades, I’m kneeling at the head of the bed, facing that shelf with my palms flat against its surface. I’m shaking. Every muscle in my body is vibrating so strongly that the clocks are shuddering across the paint. The lamp dances up and down, teetering forward then rocking back again. The remote bounces off the edge, hits the pillow next to my right knee, and clatters down behind the platform. The lotion tips over. The shelf rattles so loudly with the thrum of my body that it sounds like an old airplane being battered midair by high turbulence.
The crown of my head bangs against the plaster wall. It’s hard as fuck, and every time I strike, I’m seeing stars. I don’t care. I just want this man’s monster cock deeper inside me.
I feel his beard tickling my shoulders as from behind me he whispers, “Arch your spine.”
I obey, pressing down with my abdomen so that my buttocks open wider. My face is mashed against the semi-gloss paint, now. I don’t even notice his thrusts. My own body is shaking like a mountain set to erupt at any moment. “Fuck me,” I pant out.
I feel his hands stroking my sides. His palms pass over my ribcage, down to my hips, across the ass splayed open over his thick meat. “I’m not just fucking you,” he reminds me, in the softest voice possible. “I’m inside you. Filling you with myself.”
I started talking to this guy months ago online. We’d made a date to meet back in the autumn, but I’d had to cancel because I was just starting to come down with the illness that laid me low for much of October and November. By the time I was feeling better, he’d been stricken with flu. But he thought I was attractive, and told me so in mysterious prose. The photos I saw of him were of a scruffy geek fifteen years my junior, a neo-hippie with a big dick. Oh my god, that dick. It was one of those dicks that makes mine look toy-sized. It easily had to be a good nine and a half inches of hooded uncut meat. It was so thick and fat that even when soft, my hole could identify it as a deadly weapon. In the photos in which it was hard, I’d stare at that fat and meaty thing was a little bit like I was watching some IMAX footage of deep-sea marine life. You might know it exists, but you’ve sure as hell never seen anything like it up close.
Sometimes—rarely—you see a guy and you know—just know—that it’s going to be good. I knew it with this one. There was something about his quiet confidence, the glint of humor in his eye, those laid-back good looks and the lean and muscular body, that told me we were going to hit it off. Even with three months of delays from the first canceled appointment I’d made with him, I knew it wasn’t so much a question of if we were going to reschedule, but when. Finally the opportunity arose last week, and we both penned it in our calendars.
After that, it was simply a question of waiting for the day. And then, though I hesitate to admit it, there was the question of exactly what we were going to do with each other, when we finally got naked. Because to be totally honest, when we exchanged emails and texts, I never, ever completely understood anything the guy wrote.
I’d ask a straightforward question, like, So, what kinds of things do you enjoy in bed?
As a reply, I’d get something like, We are two such birds chirping from the same nest, spreading our wings to take first flights.
I’m just curious about what two tops can do with each other, I’d say, pushing a little harder.
And I’d get back something like, Tomorrow we will share the light of day and the sweetness of first dark as we swim in each other.
It was all rather sweet, but a little bit like receiving obscene come-ons from a writer of coy haiku. Honestly, I just wanted to know whether or not I needed to douche. Are you a poet?
I am no poet but my aim is to inspire. Tomorrow I will inspire you with my life force injection.
Hot damn. Now we were talking. I thought. Maybe. I mean, when guys talk about injection they mean . . . right? I spent the afternoon with some warm water and the enema bulb. Just in case.
When he shows up, he carries a dozen roses in his arm. They now lay on the dresser next to the bed where he’s been inside me for the last half hour. It’s been a year since I was fucked last. The Russian was big; this guy is bigger. And thicker. My god, that dick is a marvel. Up close, it’s one of the seven wonders; it’s enormous enough to have its own zip code. It deserves worship, and I give it to him. I suck it, I chew on the foreskin. I prise the rigid head from the tight covering and allow him to spear it so deeply in my throat that I can still feel the ache of it. I can still taste the pre-cum he dripped directly down my gullet. Then, staring into my eyes, he spits in his hand, lowers it between my legs, and spreads it all over my hole.
We try a number of different positions. He places a pillow under my hips, turns me on my stomach, and inserts himself from behind. I place my legs over his shoulders while he fucks me on my back. “You are so tight,” he huffs, as he tries to slide inside.
It’s painful. He’s big. Oh god, is he big. But it’s not that awful, wish-I-would-die pain that I associate with fucking. It’s more like an endurable ache, something I’m not exactly enjoying, but that I could put up with for the sake of his pleasure. Maybe, I’m thinking to myself, that’s the most I can ever expect from my hole.
Then he puts me on my back again. He tips me up. My ankles are over my head, hanging over the shelf behind me. My knees are pressed tightly to my shoulders. He slides his sloppy cock into me. And something begins to stir. “Oh,” I breathe, in surprise. He looks at me with his blue eyes, and smiles. It’s not a cocky smile, the smile of the conqueror. It’s sweet and sincere, like a boy unwrapping the present he craved on Christmas morning. Even he can tell the difference this position is making. He’s sliding into me with barely any resistance until he’s got that entire fat hog inside. I feel like I’m compressed into a tight little ball beneath his weight, but damn. He’s starting to feel good.
Then he puts me on my knees. I’ve got my arms bracing me on the shelf over the bed. My ass is out. I’m almost upright, but not quite. He’s sitting behind me on his haunches, his knees on the outsides of my ankles. Then he whispers, “Arch your spine,” and pulls me down onto his waiting dick.
It’s like a switch has flipped. I squat straight down on his cock and take it to the base. There’s no pain. No urge to resist, to back off. He hits a spot deep inside me and I’m not even thinking about the years I went without this, or the old worries I’ve always had about bottoming. I’m not remembering the bad stuff. All I’m thinking about is how much deeper I can get that monster into me, and how fucking hard I want it. Then the all-over shaking begins.
Everything on that shelf is rattling and jumping from that hard, inexorable convulsing of my entire body as I raise and lower myself onto him. I’m coming apart. My invisible seams must be showing; they’re bursting and stretching as I shake loose my stitching. My skin is on fire. Fuck, my hole is on fire. All I can think about is how amazing he feels inside me. I start to clutch onto him with my ass muscles.
“You are going to make me come,” he warns, as he sits there. I’m torn. I want this sensation to last forever, but at the same time, I’m absurdly proud. He’s just sitting there, letting my hole pleasure him; I’m bringing him so close simply by impaling myself on that enormous penis. My pride in performance and my curiosity win out; I reach up and grab hold of the window sill, then greedily slam down on his cock, over and over again.
He gasps, then closes his eyes. His jaw drops. His big hands grab my hips and yank them down onto him; he holds me there while his dick pulses and throbs. He’s so quiet that I only know he’s shooting when the stuff starts to drip down out of my hole and paint the skin that connects us.
It’s not the only load we exchange, as the light of day fades into the sweetness of first dark. I eat him out and enter him slowly, and fuck him very softly while I cradle my his head in my arms. Then I go down and suck him off, where I’m rewarded with him grabbing my neck and shoving me down on his meat while he lets loose a spray of semen in my throat.
But afterward, even now, that first fuck is all I can think about—the pleasure of it, the fullness I felt inside. Mostly though, I think about the shaking, and of how my body reacted to his expert penetration, as he overloaded every nerve ending by forcing me to love the way his dick felt in me as he fucked me. No, not fucked. Worked inside me, to fill me with himself.
Right now, in the sleepy false twilight of the drawn shades, I’m kneeling at the head of the bed, facing that shelf with my palms flat against its surface. I’m shaking. Every muscle in my body is vibrating so strongly that the clocks are shuddering across the paint. The lamp dances up and down, teetering forward then rocking back again. The remote bounces off the edge, hits the pillow next to my right knee, and clatters down behind the platform. The lotion tips over. The shelf rattles so loudly with the thrum of my body that it sounds like an old airplane being battered midair by high turbulence.
The crown of my head bangs against the plaster wall. It’s hard as fuck, and every time I strike, I’m seeing stars. I don’t care. I just want this man’s monster cock deeper inside me.
I feel his beard tickling my shoulders as from behind me he whispers, “Arch your spine.”
I obey, pressing down with my abdomen so that my buttocks open wider. My face is mashed against the semi-gloss paint, now. I don’t even notice his thrusts. My own body is shaking like a mountain set to erupt at any moment. “Fuck me,” I pant out.
I feel his hands stroking my sides. His palms pass over my ribcage, down to my hips, across the ass splayed open over his thick meat. “I’m not just fucking you,” he reminds me, in the softest voice possible. “I’m inside you. Filling you with myself.”
I started talking to this guy months ago online. We’d made a date to meet back in the autumn, but I’d had to cancel because I was just starting to come down with the illness that laid me low for much of October and November. By the time I was feeling better, he’d been stricken with flu. But he thought I was attractive, and told me so in mysterious prose. The photos I saw of him were of a scruffy geek fifteen years my junior, a neo-hippie with a big dick. Oh my god, that dick. It was one of those dicks that makes mine look toy-sized. It easily had to be a good nine and a half inches of hooded uncut meat. It was so thick and fat that even when soft, my hole could identify it as a deadly weapon. In the photos in which it was hard, I’d stare at that fat and meaty thing was a little bit like I was watching some IMAX footage of deep-sea marine life. You might know it exists, but you’ve sure as hell never seen anything like it up close.
Sometimes—rarely—you see a guy and you know—just know—that it’s going to be good. I knew it with this one. There was something about his quiet confidence, the glint of humor in his eye, those laid-back good looks and the lean and muscular body, that told me we were going to hit it off. Even with three months of delays from the first canceled appointment I’d made with him, I knew it wasn’t so much a question of if we were going to reschedule, but when. Finally the opportunity arose last week, and we both penned it in our calendars.
After that, it was simply a question of waiting for the day. And then, though I hesitate to admit it, there was the question of exactly what we were going to do with each other, when we finally got naked. Because to be totally honest, when we exchanged emails and texts, I never, ever completely understood anything the guy wrote.
I’d ask a straightforward question, like, So, what kinds of things do you enjoy in bed?
As a reply, I’d get something like, We are two such birds chirping from the same nest, spreading our wings to take first flights.
I’m just curious about what two tops can do with each other, I’d say, pushing a little harder.
And I’d get back something like, Tomorrow we will share the light of day and the sweetness of first dark as we swim in each other.
It was all rather sweet, but a little bit like receiving obscene come-ons from a writer of coy haiku. Honestly, I just wanted to know whether or not I needed to douche. Are you a poet?
I am no poet but my aim is to inspire. Tomorrow I will inspire you with my life force injection.
Hot damn. Now we were talking. I thought. Maybe. I mean, when guys talk about injection they mean . . . right? I spent the afternoon with some warm water and the enema bulb. Just in case.
When he shows up, he carries a dozen roses in his arm. They now lay on the dresser next to the bed where he’s been inside me for the last half hour. It’s been a year since I was fucked last. The Russian was big; this guy is bigger. And thicker. My god, that dick is a marvel. Up close, it’s one of the seven wonders; it’s enormous enough to have its own zip code. It deserves worship, and I give it to him. I suck it, I chew on the foreskin. I prise the rigid head from the tight covering and allow him to spear it so deeply in my throat that I can still feel the ache of it. I can still taste the pre-cum he dripped directly down my gullet. Then, staring into my eyes, he spits in his hand, lowers it between my legs, and spreads it all over my hole.
We try a number of different positions. He places a pillow under my hips, turns me on my stomach, and inserts himself from behind. I place my legs over his shoulders while he fucks me on my back. “You are so tight,” he huffs, as he tries to slide inside.
It’s painful. He’s big. Oh god, is he big. But it’s not that awful, wish-I-would-die pain that I associate with fucking. It’s more like an endurable ache, something I’m not exactly enjoying, but that I could put up with for the sake of his pleasure. Maybe, I’m thinking to myself, that’s the most I can ever expect from my hole.
Then he puts me on my back again. He tips me up. My ankles are over my head, hanging over the shelf behind me. My knees are pressed tightly to my shoulders. He slides his sloppy cock into me. And something begins to stir. “Oh,” I breathe, in surprise. He looks at me with his blue eyes, and smiles. It’s not a cocky smile, the smile of the conqueror. It’s sweet and sincere, like a boy unwrapping the present he craved on Christmas morning. Even he can tell the difference this position is making. He’s sliding into me with barely any resistance until he’s got that entire fat hog inside. I feel like I’m compressed into a tight little ball beneath his weight, but damn. He’s starting to feel good.
Then he puts me on my knees. I’ve got my arms bracing me on the shelf over the bed. My ass is out. I’m almost upright, but not quite. He’s sitting behind me on his haunches, his knees on the outsides of my ankles. Then he whispers, “Arch your spine,” and pulls me down onto his waiting dick.
It’s like a switch has flipped. I squat straight down on his cock and take it to the base. There’s no pain. No urge to resist, to back off. He hits a spot deep inside me and I’m not even thinking about the years I went without this, or the old worries I’ve always had about bottoming. I’m not remembering the bad stuff. All I’m thinking about is how much deeper I can get that monster into me, and how fucking hard I want it. Then the all-over shaking begins.
Everything on that shelf is rattling and jumping from that hard, inexorable convulsing of my entire body as I raise and lower myself onto him. I’m coming apart. My invisible seams must be showing; they’re bursting and stretching as I shake loose my stitching. My skin is on fire. Fuck, my hole is on fire. All I can think about is how amazing he feels inside me. I start to clutch onto him with my ass muscles.
“You are going to make me come,” he warns, as he sits there. I’m torn. I want this sensation to last forever, but at the same time, I’m absurdly proud. He’s just sitting there, letting my hole pleasure him; I’m bringing him so close simply by impaling myself on that enormous penis. My pride in performance and my curiosity win out; I reach up and grab hold of the window sill, then greedily slam down on his cock, over and over again.
He gasps, then closes his eyes. His jaw drops. His big hands grab my hips and yank them down onto him; he holds me there while his dick pulses and throbs. He’s so quiet that I only know he’s shooting when the stuff starts to drip down out of my hole and paint the skin that connects us.
It’s not the only load we exchange, as the light of day fades into the sweetness of first dark. I eat him out and enter him slowly, and fuck him very softly while I cradle my his head in my arms. Then I go down and suck him off, where I’m rewarded with him grabbing my neck and shoving me down on his meat while he lets loose a spray of semen in my throat.
But afterward, even now, that first fuck is all I can think about—the pleasure of it, the fullness I felt inside. Mostly though, I think about the shaking, and of how my body reacted to his expert penetration, as he overloaded every nerve ending by forcing me to love the way his dick felt in me as he fucked me. No, not fucked. Worked inside me, to fill me with himself.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
A Flipped Switch
During my lengthy and delirious illness last month, at least I managed to bring a little comedy into the household. There was the time, for example, that I decided it would be nice for everyone in the immediate vicinity if I took a shower. I got up, blundered into the bathroom, turned on the faucets, and then went back to bed to wait for the water to warm up . . . then I promptly fell asleep for ninety minutes. On the minus side of that, all the walls of my flat were moist for the rest of the evening. On the plus side, no one complained about dry skin for a few days.
I also discovered that an extended illness makes me even more absent-minded than usual—and here we’re already talking about a pretty high baseline in which I’m doddering around mumbling, What was I about to do next? or Where are my pants? or What month is it? I got up one morning determined to be helpful, emptied a can of food onto a plate for the cats, and then left it for some reason on top of a bedroom dresser. (The cats found it, eventually.) I put a DVD box set in the refrigerator, and left a half-full container of ice cream in a cupboard. (The cats found that eventually, too.)
But I think the oddest mistake I made during those long weeks was when I accidentally switched from top to bottom for a couple of weeks. That was interesting.
I think I did it on one of my more feverish days. I logged into a site and saw that for some reason, the little ‘About me’ box still had some travel plans listed in it from, well, 2012. I went to change it. Somehow I managed to do so. But along the way, the same way I ended up putting ice cream next to the spaghetti in a cupboard, I managed to change a menu item from top to bottom.
And I didn’t notice, or even think about it, for a few days. I was feeling decidedly unsexy during my illness. I think it was the first time in my life I’ve gone a month without even so much as an erection. I wasn’t online much. If I was, it was to look at the pretty pictures, not because I was actively cruising. But a couple of days after I think I made my little error, I started to get emails from guys I’d never seen before.
Nice dick, but what’s your ass like? one guy wanted to know.
Damn boy I want to shove this dick up that tiny pink hole, said another.
U pretty. how hard u like 2 b fucked son? read the third. By that time, I was kind of noticing a pattern here. (Actually, I was busy blushing and modestly muttering, “Pretty? Son? Oh, go on,” at the last guy’s mail.) At first I ascribed it to something in the air—some random alignment of the stars that was making all the guys in the area feel more toppish than usual. It took me a full week to figure out I’d been a dumbass who’d accidentally flipped the switch on my profile.
By the time I’d actually clued in to what I’d done, though, I’d come to a couple of conclusions. The first was a gratifying realization that if I ever did decide to pack up my erection and take dick for a living, I at least wouldn’t be coming up totally dry. The second was that my bottomy profile seemed to attract a definite type—namely, uncut men of color.
I mean, some of the dicks on these guys who were messaging me about my little pink fuckhole were massive, meaty slabs of thick dark meat that made me look like a wee little tadpole in comparison. The men themselves were hot and handsome guys for the most part. Muscular. Built. Some in their twenties, some in their fifties, and lots from in between. Most of them were outspokenly aggressive. No white guys. Most were black, but there were a good number of Latin men in there as well.
And I kept looking at those profiles and thinking to myself, Damn, that is really tempting.
I’m not really sure what the attraction was on their part, unless it was the notion that they weren’t going to find a better contrast to their own skin than my lard-white complexion. I was flattered enough not to question it.
Don’t worry, full-time bottoms. I know you’ve got enough competition amongst yourselves without a fever-addled amateur mucking things up. I’m not flipping. If I were, though, at least I’d be consoled by the thought that I’d still be popular in some beds.
I also discovered that an extended illness makes me even more absent-minded than usual—and here we’re already talking about a pretty high baseline in which I’m doddering around mumbling, What was I about to do next? or Where are my pants? or What month is it? I got up one morning determined to be helpful, emptied a can of food onto a plate for the cats, and then left it for some reason on top of a bedroom dresser. (The cats found it, eventually.) I put a DVD box set in the refrigerator, and left a half-full container of ice cream in a cupboard. (The cats found that eventually, too.)
But I think the oddest mistake I made during those long weeks was when I accidentally switched from top to bottom for a couple of weeks. That was interesting.
I think I did it on one of my more feverish days. I logged into a site and saw that for some reason, the little ‘About me’ box still had some travel plans listed in it from, well, 2012. I went to change it. Somehow I managed to do so. But along the way, the same way I ended up putting ice cream next to the spaghetti in a cupboard, I managed to change a menu item from top to bottom.
And I didn’t notice, or even think about it, for a few days. I was feeling decidedly unsexy during my illness. I think it was the first time in my life I’ve gone a month without even so much as an erection. I wasn’t online much. If I was, it was to look at the pretty pictures, not because I was actively cruising. But a couple of days after I think I made my little error, I started to get emails from guys I’d never seen before.
Nice dick, but what’s your ass like? one guy wanted to know.
Damn boy I want to shove this dick up that tiny pink hole, said another.
U pretty. how hard u like 2 b fucked son? read the third. By that time, I was kind of noticing a pattern here. (Actually, I was busy blushing and modestly muttering, “Pretty? Son? Oh, go on,” at the last guy’s mail.) At first I ascribed it to something in the air—some random alignment of the stars that was making all the guys in the area feel more toppish than usual. It took me a full week to figure out I’d been a dumbass who’d accidentally flipped the switch on my profile.
By the time I’d actually clued in to what I’d done, though, I’d come to a couple of conclusions. The first was a gratifying realization that if I ever did decide to pack up my erection and take dick for a living, I at least wouldn’t be coming up totally dry. The second was that my bottomy profile seemed to attract a definite type—namely, uncut men of color.
I mean, some of the dicks on these guys who were messaging me about my little pink fuckhole were massive, meaty slabs of thick dark meat that made me look like a wee little tadpole in comparison. The men themselves were hot and handsome guys for the most part. Muscular. Built. Some in their twenties, some in their fifties, and lots from in between. Most of them were outspokenly aggressive. No white guys. Most were black, but there were a good number of Latin men in there as well.
And I kept looking at those profiles and thinking to myself, Damn, that is really tempting.
I’m not really sure what the attraction was on their part, unless it was the notion that they weren’t going to find a better contrast to their own skin than my lard-white complexion. I was flattered enough not to question it.
Don’t worry, full-time bottoms. I know you’ve got enough competition amongst yourselves without a fever-addled amateur mucking things up. I’m not flipping. If I were, though, at least I’d be consoled by the thought that I’d still be popular in some beds.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Mr. B______, Part 2
“I’m worried,” he tells me. His blue eyes are guileless. When he makes the admission, he sucks on his lower lip.
I’m aware that my load is leaking out of his hole. Tim’s little teen butt is nestled between the bone of my pelvis. Every time he moves, a little more of myself oozes out of him. Since he’s got his cock in his hand and is thrusting back and forth as he stares down at me, he’s moving a lot.
I reach out and remove his hand from his dick. He’s not going to shoot. Not that way. “Why are you worried?”
“I don’t want to turn you off,” he says.
“You’re not going to turn me off.”
“What if I do something wrong?”
“What in the world can you do wrong?” I ask him. I hold his hands as we talk. His fingers twine through mine. I watch as his eyes search the ceiling for an answer. He finds nothing there, and grins a little at himself. “You’re not going to do anything wrong.”
I try to pull him down beside me. This is a conversation best suited for taking place in my arms. He’s a little bit stubborn, though. He remains sitting on my midsection, his knees digging into my rib cage. “What if it hurts?”
“Why in the world—?” Oh, I realize, with a start. He’s not worried about it hurting himself. He’s concerned about me. “Sweetie,” I say. This time, when I pull him down to me, I don’t allow him to put up resistance. My arms surround him. I nuzzle his neck, lay down soft kisses onto his jawline, and stroke the messy curls from his eyes. “I don’t think you’re capable of hurting me. Did it hurt when I fucked you?”
He shakes his head. “Oh hell no,” he says. “I loved it when you fucked me.” Is he trembling at the memory, or from the chill? It was the late afternoon when we slipped out of our clothes and into my bed. It’s past dusk now, and the air cascading down from the window high over the bed makes my skin break out in gooseflesh. With my ankles, I hook the blanket that’s lying crumpled and most of the way onto the floor, and pull it up over us.
We’re in a cozy nest now, cuddled together. A world consisting of us two alone. I continue to stroke his hair with the flat of my hand and look into his eyes. “I just don’t know whether I’ll make a good top for you.”
He’s completely naked for me now. Not just undressed. He’s stripped down, his soul laid bare. We’ve arrived at the unadulterated truth. He’s breathing swiftly and shallowly. Has he ever had to be this nakedly honest before? I doubt it, this early in his sexual career. “You’ve never topped,” I say, laying a palm on his chest. He’s so warm, so vital. So fucking young. “You told me you wanted to try it. Do you still?”
Tim’s afraid to say yes, but he manages to nod.
“Do you want your first time to be with me, still?”
His eyes are filling again. I can see them in the dim of the room, glistening like gems. “Mr. B______, I’ve been jacking off about you for weeks. What if I cum too soon, though?”
I place another hand on him to soothe him, before he becomes too agitated. “Tim,” I say, recalling him to himself. “This isn’t about you being a power top. You’re not being graded here.” He relaxes a little, hoping what I tell him is the truth. “What we’re going to do—if you want to do it, and if you want to do it with me—is about one man and one young man making each other feel very, very good. That’s all that matters. If you enjoy yourself, you’ve succeeded.” I pause to let my words sink in. “So let me make you feel very, very good.”
When I lean forward to kiss him, his neck cranes to meet me. His lips are soft, and slightly puffy. They’re the color of candy. He tastes sweet like candy, too. “Let me be your first,” I urge. “All right?”
“All right,” he says.
When I pull back the sheets, he trembles again. His dick isn’t just hard. It’s hard in that raging, all-encompassing way that teen boys manage at the drop of a hat. I reach for the lube on the bookshelf next to the bed and squirt some in my hand, then cup my fingers around the curve of his cock. He shivers, then bucks at the warmth of my touch contrasted with the lube’s coolness. His lips twitch. His hands dash out to stop me from masturbating him too much. Maybe he is close, like he worried.
“If you feel yourself shooting, just try to go in as deep as you can. It will be fine.” I’m speaking in my dad voice, my teacher voice, the voice of the wise elder imparting both advice and assurance to the young. “Okay?” I ask.
“Okay,” he says, very softly.
Another handful of the lube goes onto and into my hole. I am hardly practiced at lubing myself, but I fake it, shoving two fingers inside myself and getting the cold ointment as deep into me as I can. “Let’s try it this way,” I say, as I roll onto my side. I pull up a leg and leave the other pointing toward the fireplace on the room’s other side. “Just go slow,” I ask him, trying to sound confident and not beg. “It’ll be all right.”
He’s not huge. Maybe six and a half inches. But I’m not the most experienced bottom of late, despite getting my hole stretched by the Russian a couple of times. He’s very sweet about it as he points his cement-hard meat at my hole, though, and nudges it past the hairy outer lips. When he starts fucking the head back and forth just inside my hole, making every micro-movement count, I can tell he was paying attention when I fucked him for the first time a few minutes before.
At least he’s learned from one of the best, right? I’m prepared to have to put up with some pain. I’m expecting to have to bite the pillow and think of England, to have to cover up my discomfort with some acting. But once he’s past the first ring, I’m actually quite comfortable. He’s grunting to himself slightly as he slides in, but he’s got control; he’s opening me like he knows what he’s doing, not like a teen boy topping for the first time. I was never this smooth at his age, that’s for sure.
“You’re good,” I groan out. I really want him in my hole. There’s no endurance here, no covering up my real feelings. England is the last thing on my mind. “Just keep . . . yeah. Like that. Just like that.”
“Is it okay?” he asks. I can hear a little anxiety in his voice, but there’s more urgency than fear.
“Oh god. It’s better than okay.” The deep bass of my guttural voice shocks even me. “Is it okay for you?”
The only answer he makes is his respiration, which is harsh and heavy. My suspicion that he’s all the way in seems to be verified when he starts moving back and forth over me. I turn my head to look. His eyes are closed. He’s got his hands wrapped around his chest, hugging himself like a little boy. His hips have taken over, though. Tim is sliding in and out of me at first tentatively, but then with purpose. His hands drop to my ass, and lightly touch me there. Then he puts his weight onto me, and digs in.
He doesn’t last long. I’m very proud that he actually made it into the hole before he shot, though—a lot of first-timers don’t manage that. He’s in me for about a minute, making my hole hungry for more, when all of a sudden he starts muttering to himself and lunges, sending me sprawling forward a good six inches. “—deep as I can,” I hear him saying to himself.
I realize he’s repeating my advice to him. “Give it to me,” I growl, contorting my leg higher. I want him in there as far as he can go. I need that boy’s cock. He’s setting my hole on fire in a way I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. “Give me all you’ve got.”
My own dick is making a permanent impression in the foam mattress, it’s so rigid. I ignore it, though. This is all about him, and his first time. He sputters when he shoots, showering me with droplets of saliva fine as mist. I can feel his rod jerking and swelling and letting loose inside me. Then, mid-squirt, he slips out.
“Put it back in,” I urge. “Quick.”
He shoves back in, going in at the wrong angle at first, but then shoving his gushing meat all the way back in. I feel like I’ve taken a gallon of his cum; I can feel some of it on the back of my thigh, dripping onto my balls. He’s still jerking and bucking and thrashing, eyes closed, lost in his own little world.
Or so I think. Because he opens his eyes and says in a panic, “What do I do? Pull out?”
“Stay in,” I urge. And I reach up and help him maneuver down to the bed, still in me, until he’s spooning behind me. I tug the blanket over our tangled bodies. His arms reach around and encompass my chest. He squeezes me tightly, and buries his nose against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
I’m so happy, at this moment. So happy. And I hope he is too.
After a moment, I’m sure he’s asleep. But then there’s a rumbling in his chest. “I’ve never held a man like this,” he says, his voice wondering.
Of all the firsts this evening, that’s the most remarkable for him. I fold my hands over his, and let him hold me until he sleeps.
I’m aware that my load is leaking out of his hole. Tim’s little teen butt is nestled between the bone of my pelvis. Every time he moves, a little more of myself oozes out of him. Since he’s got his cock in his hand and is thrusting back and forth as he stares down at me, he’s moving a lot.
I reach out and remove his hand from his dick. He’s not going to shoot. Not that way. “Why are you worried?”
“I don’t want to turn you off,” he says.
“You’re not going to turn me off.”
“What if I do something wrong?”
“What in the world can you do wrong?” I ask him. I hold his hands as we talk. His fingers twine through mine. I watch as his eyes search the ceiling for an answer. He finds nothing there, and grins a little at himself. “You’re not going to do anything wrong.”
I try to pull him down beside me. This is a conversation best suited for taking place in my arms. He’s a little bit stubborn, though. He remains sitting on my midsection, his knees digging into my rib cage. “What if it hurts?”
“Why in the world—?” Oh, I realize, with a start. He’s not worried about it hurting himself. He’s concerned about me. “Sweetie,” I say. This time, when I pull him down to me, I don’t allow him to put up resistance. My arms surround him. I nuzzle his neck, lay down soft kisses onto his jawline, and stroke the messy curls from his eyes. “I don’t think you’re capable of hurting me. Did it hurt when I fucked you?”
He shakes his head. “Oh hell no,” he says. “I loved it when you fucked me.” Is he trembling at the memory, or from the chill? It was the late afternoon when we slipped out of our clothes and into my bed. It’s past dusk now, and the air cascading down from the window high over the bed makes my skin break out in gooseflesh. With my ankles, I hook the blanket that’s lying crumpled and most of the way onto the floor, and pull it up over us.
We’re in a cozy nest now, cuddled together. A world consisting of us two alone. I continue to stroke his hair with the flat of my hand and look into his eyes. “I just don’t know whether I’ll make a good top for you.”
He’s completely naked for me now. Not just undressed. He’s stripped down, his soul laid bare. We’ve arrived at the unadulterated truth. He’s breathing swiftly and shallowly. Has he ever had to be this nakedly honest before? I doubt it, this early in his sexual career. “You’ve never topped,” I say, laying a palm on his chest. He’s so warm, so vital. So fucking young. “You told me you wanted to try it. Do you still?”
Tim’s afraid to say yes, but he manages to nod.
“Do you want your first time to be with me, still?”
His eyes are filling again. I can see them in the dim of the room, glistening like gems. “Mr. B______, I’ve been jacking off about you for weeks. What if I cum too soon, though?”
I place another hand on him to soothe him, before he becomes too agitated. “Tim,” I say, recalling him to himself. “This isn’t about you being a power top. You’re not being graded here.” He relaxes a little, hoping what I tell him is the truth. “What we’re going to do—if you want to do it, and if you want to do it with me—is about one man and one young man making each other feel very, very good. That’s all that matters. If you enjoy yourself, you’ve succeeded.” I pause to let my words sink in. “So let me make you feel very, very good.”
When I lean forward to kiss him, his neck cranes to meet me. His lips are soft, and slightly puffy. They’re the color of candy. He tastes sweet like candy, too. “Let me be your first,” I urge. “All right?”
“All right,” he says.
When I pull back the sheets, he trembles again. His dick isn’t just hard. It’s hard in that raging, all-encompassing way that teen boys manage at the drop of a hat. I reach for the lube on the bookshelf next to the bed and squirt some in my hand, then cup my fingers around the curve of his cock. He shivers, then bucks at the warmth of my touch contrasted with the lube’s coolness. His lips twitch. His hands dash out to stop me from masturbating him too much. Maybe he is close, like he worried.
“If you feel yourself shooting, just try to go in as deep as you can. It will be fine.” I’m speaking in my dad voice, my teacher voice, the voice of the wise elder imparting both advice and assurance to the young. “Okay?” I ask.
“Okay,” he says, very softly.
Another handful of the lube goes onto and into my hole. I am hardly practiced at lubing myself, but I fake it, shoving two fingers inside myself and getting the cold ointment as deep into me as I can. “Let’s try it this way,” I say, as I roll onto my side. I pull up a leg and leave the other pointing toward the fireplace on the room’s other side. “Just go slow,” I ask him, trying to sound confident and not beg. “It’ll be all right.”
He’s not huge. Maybe six and a half inches. But I’m not the most experienced bottom of late, despite getting my hole stretched by the Russian a couple of times. He’s very sweet about it as he points his cement-hard meat at my hole, though, and nudges it past the hairy outer lips. When he starts fucking the head back and forth just inside my hole, making every micro-movement count, I can tell he was paying attention when I fucked him for the first time a few minutes before.
At least he’s learned from one of the best, right? I’m prepared to have to put up with some pain. I’m expecting to have to bite the pillow and think of England, to have to cover up my discomfort with some acting. But once he’s past the first ring, I’m actually quite comfortable. He’s grunting to himself slightly as he slides in, but he’s got control; he’s opening me like he knows what he’s doing, not like a teen boy topping for the first time. I was never this smooth at his age, that’s for sure.
“You’re good,” I groan out. I really want him in my hole. There’s no endurance here, no covering up my real feelings. England is the last thing on my mind. “Just keep . . . yeah. Like that. Just like that.”
“Is it okay?” he asks. I can hear a little anxiety in his voice, but there’s more urgency than fear.
“Oh god. It’s better than okay.” The deep bass of my guttural voice shocks even me. “Is it okay for you?”
The only answer he makes is his respiration, which is harsh and heavy. My suspicion that he’s all the way in seems to be verified when he starts moving back and forth over me. I turn my head to look. His eyes are closed. He’s got his hands wrapped around his chest, hugging himself like a little boy. His hips have taken over, though. Tim is sliding in and out of me at first tentatively, but then with purpose. His hands drop to my ass, and lightly touch me there. Then he puts his weight onto me, and digs in.
He doesn’t last long. I’m very proud that he actually made it into the hole before he shot, though—a lot of first-timers don’t manage that. He’s in me for about a minute, making my hole hungry for more, when all of a sudden he starts muttering to himself and lunges, sending me sprawling forward a good six inches. “—deep as I can,” I hear him saying to himself.
I realize he’s repeating my advice to him. “Give it to me,” I growl, contorting my leg higher. I want him in there as far as he can go. I need that boy’s cock. He’s setting my hole on fire in a way I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. “Give me all you’ve got.”
My own dick is making a permanent impression in the foam mattress, it’s so rigid. I ignore it, though. This is all about him, and his first time. He sputters when he shoots, showering me with droplets of saliva fine as mist. I can feel his rod jerking and swelling and letting loose inside me. Then, mid-squirt, he slips out.
“Put it back in,” I urge. “Quick.”
He shoves back in, going in at the wrong angle at first, but then shoving his gushing meat all the way back in. I feel like I’ve taken a gallon of his cum; I can feel some of it on the back of my thigh, dripping onto my balls. He’s still jerking and bucking and thrashing, eyes closed, lost in his own little world.
Or so I think. Because he opens his eyes and says in a panic, “What do I do? Pull out?”
“Stay in,” I urge. And I reach up and help him maneuver down to the bed, still in me, until he’s spooning behind me. I tug the blanket over our tangled bodies. His arms reach around and encompass my chest. He squeezes me tightly, and buries his nose against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
I’m so happy, at this moment. So happy. And I hope he is too.
After a moment, I’m sure he’s asleep. But then there’s a rumbling in his chest. “I’ve never held a man like this,” he says, his voice wondering.
Of all the firsts this evening, that’s the most remarkable for him. I fold my hands over his, and let him hold me until he sleeps.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Flood
When it slides in, it’s because I push. That impasse where fear and the hole’s muscles conspire pulses, then vanishes. The dick eases in, all at once, disappearing into the lube-slick hole. We both look at each other, wearing identical expressions. Surprise. A trace of amusement. And a whole lot of lust.
“Fuck,” I say, even more astonished than he. I have to drop my head and pick it back up again, I’m so surprised. I repeat, “Fuck!”
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. Then I have to take a breath. Because this time, for the first time in over a decade, it’s my hole that’s been opened. I’m the one with his butt in the air, looking back over his shoulder. I’m the one who pushed back onto the dick that’s in me now, out of hunger, out of desire. Out of a need to be filled. Not filled. Used. In that split second, the animal in me had overtaken the rational being. I just wanted to be fucked.
Realizing what I’ve done makes me clench down for a moment. Instantly I regret it. “Hold still,” I beg him. “Just . . . hold still for me.”
He lowers himself so that his pecs are against my back. His knees spread my legs. His arms surround me. The only thing between us is a carpet of thick black chest fur. “As long as you need.”
The Friday night before, I’d fucked him for the first time in his life. I’d taken his virginity, savaging it twice. I’d teased him that he was my little cock whore, my slut. My cum bucket. The words had inflamed him, had given him the permission to relax, to loosen up, to ride my dick without inhibition or regret. Afterward, he’d flipped me over and rimmed me royally—and then he’d slipped his dick inside. I’d been equally surprised then that I’d been able to accommodate the man’s dick, which was not much shorter than my own. His thrusting had been too much for me, and I’d been paranoid about my hygiene, since we hadn’t discussed that particular variation in advance. I hadn't prepared for it.
I’d spent all weekend thinking about him, though. The warmth of his cock against my hole. His sweet breath against my neck. The words he told me, as his cock entered me. I’d be sitting in front of the television, with a project in my hands, and all I could think of were Chester’s handsome face, his smooth head shining in the hotel lights, his short frame bulging with muscles, his beefy legs tangled with mine. I’d pause in mid-sentence at home, thinking when I’d shoved my nose into his armpit and inhaled deeply, memorizing his own particular perfume.
Then I’d wake from my daze, try to recall what I’d been saying, and move on.
We’d already made a date to meet again before he had to return home to the midwest. Like a teen girl in a mid-century sitcom I’d fretted all Tuesday morning about my trip into the city to meet him again. I’d showered and put myself through the indignity of an enema (bottoms—again, I appreciate the hard work you do!). I made decisions. Did I want my hair to follow its natural center part, or should I push it to the side? Did I want to wear a hint of cologne? What clothes would show me off best? I’d put on a Nasty Pig jock that one of my readers had sent me as a Christmas gift, then removed it, then put it on again beneath a pair of different underwear.
But there we were now, in his hotel room, where we’d holed up after lunch. I have nowhere to be for hours, and hours. I can end this now, or I can make it last. So I think about it a moment—just for a quick moment. I think about the sensation of him inside me. It doesn’t hurt. He’s now moving back and forth, gently, mere millimeters. It’s not even uncomfortable. I’m afraid to move. I’m half on my stomach, half on my left side, with my right leg drawn slightly up. He’s raising himself, balancing his arms around me.
I breathe. I turn my head. I look at him, his head tilted like a curious bird. It’s been a decade since this last happened to me. More than an entire decade. “Do it,” I tell him, making the decision.
“Yeah?” he asks. “You’re sure?”
“You know this is what bottoms worry we tops do when we’re alone together, don’t you,” I gasp out. I’m stalling, though. We both know it. I nod. It’s okay. “Yeah,” I say. “Fuck me.”
I’m usually so facile with words. I like to be the observer in any situation, but it comes at a cost; to be an observer, one has to be at a very slight remove from the experience. One has to be on the outside, looking in. For this experience, though, there’s no remove. There’s no distancing myself. I’m in the middle of it. I am experience, and I can’t regard myself remotely. I can only feel, and not think.
I’ve no sense of time. I feel like I’m flotsam on the ocean, bobbing and floating in a warm tide. I hear his praises, and respond by arching my back and thrusting backward onto him. I hear him tell me he loves me, and that he loves me doing this special thing for him. When he pounds at me, close to orgasm, the sensations are so amazing that I’m not thinking about hurt any more. We’re as far away from hurt as we can be. I think about the warmth I feel spreading from my hole. I think about the sounds of his raspy breathing, his cursing. I shake as he shoots. I beg him not to pull out.
The second time around he calls me names. He calls me boy. I resent it when he calls me faggot, but I resent even more how automatically my body responds with pleasure at the epithet, opening wide to his invading dick and wanting more of his bad treatment. He pinches my nipples, slaps my ass. He fills me again.
My precum has pooled in the jock. He’s pulled it off, inhaled from it deeply, and stuffed it in my mouth, before shoving himself back in again. My dim eyesight fixes onto the clock-radio by the bed. We’d been at it for over ninety minutes, and I haven’t needed a break, I haven’t asked him to stop. I want it never to end.
The moments are tough to distinguish from one another for a very long time. They’re all sensation, raw and immediate. But there comes a moment late in the game of which I’m not especially proud. It’s when he’s close to his fourth orgasm inside me. I’m actually crying. He’s been thanking me over and over again. I’ve been thanking him. I’m trying to tell him something that seems vital, in that moment—that I knew from time to time I’d craved to be treated the way he was treating me, but that I didn’t know until then what I’d been missing.
“You’re a hot fuck. You don’t know how hot this is for me,” he says. And now he’s crying, too. Two top men, sniveling and sniffing while they fucked. “I just want to make it for you the way you made it for me.”
My mouth is dry. My lips are cracked. My throat is raspy. I want to tell him, as he pounds away at my hole, And I just want to be good for you. But what I say is, “And I just want to be good for something.”
He’s yelling outright, filling the room with the noise of another orgasm. I can barely hear it, though. In my head, I’m replaying that sentence, and listening to the raw admission it contains.
And I’m wondering if in that moment of absolute abandon, I’ve mined my way closer to truth than I ever, ever want to admit.
“Fuck,” I say, even more astonished than he. I have to drop my head and pick it back up again, I’m so surprised. I repeat, “Fuck!”
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. Then I have to take a breath. Because this time, for the first time in over a decade, it’s my hole that’s been opened. I’m the one with his butt in the air, looking back over his shoulder. I’m the one who pushed back onto the dick that’s in me now, out of hunger, out of desire. Out of a need to be filled. Not filled. Used. In that split second, the animal in me had overtaken the rational being. I just wanted to be fucked.
Realizing what I’ve done makes me clench down for a moment. Instantly I regret it. “Hold still,” I beg him. “Just . . . hold still for me.”
He lowers himself so that his pecs are against my back. His knees spread my legs. His arms surround me. The only thing between us is a carpet of thick black chest fur. “As long as you need.”
The Friday night before, I’d fucked him for the first time in his life. I’d taken his virginity, savaging it twice. I’d teased him that he was my little cock whore, my slut. My cum bucket. The words had inflamed him, had given him the permission to relax, to loosen up, to ride my dick without inhibition or regret. Afterward, he’d flipped me over and rimmed me royally—and then he’d slipped his dick inside. I’d been equally surprised then that I’d been able to accommodate the man’s dick, which was not much shorter than my own. His thrusting had been too much for me, and I’d been paranoid about my hygiene, since we hadn’t discussed that particular variation in advance. I hadn't prepared for it.
I’d spent all weekend thinking about him, though. The warmth of his cock against my hole. His sweet breath against my neck. The words he told me, as his cock entered me. I’d be sitting in front of the television, with a project in my hands, and all I could think of were Chester’s handsome face, his smooth head shining in the hotel lights, his short frame bulging with muscles, his beefy legs tangled with mine. I’d pause in mid-sentence at home, thinking when I’d shoved my nose into his armpit and inhaled deeply, memorizing his own particular perfume.
Then I’d wake from my daze, try to recall what I’d been saying, and move on.
We’d already made a date to meet again before he had to return home to the midwest. Like a teen girl in a mid-century sitcom I’d fretted all Tuesday morning about my trip into the city to meet him again. I’d showered and put myself through the indignity of an enema (bottoms—again, I appreciate the hard work you do!). I made decisions. Did I want my hair to follow its natural center part, or should I push it to the side? Did I want to wear a hint of cologne? What clothes would show me off best? I’d put on a Nasty Pig jock that one of my readers had sent me as a Christmas gift, then removed it, then put it on again beneath a pair of different underwear.
But there we were now, in his hotel room, where we’d holed up after lunch. I have nowhere to be for hours, and hours. I can end this now, or I can make it last. So I think about it a moment—just for a quick moment. I think about the sensation of him inside me. It doesn’t hurt. He’s now moving back and forth, gently, mere millimeters. It’s not even uncomfortable. I’m afraid to move. I’m half on my stomach, half on my left side, with my right leg drawn slightly up. He’s raising himself, balancing his arms around me.
I breathe. I turn my head. I look at him, his head tilted like a curious bird. It’s been a decade since this last happened to me. More than an entire decade. “Do it,” I tell him, making the decision.
“Yeah?” he asks. “You’re sure?”
“You know this is what bottoms worry we tops do when we’re alone together, don’t you,” I gasp out. I’m stalling, though. We both know it. I nod. It’s okay. “Yeah,” I say. “Fuck me.”
I’m usually so facile with words. I like to be the observer in any situation, but it comes at a cost; to be an observer, one has to be at a very slight remove from the experience. One has to be on the outside, looking in. For this experience, though, there’s no remove. There’s no distancing myself. I’m in the middle of it. I am experience, and I can’t regard myself remotely. I can only feel, and not think.
I’ve no sense of time. I feel like I’m flotsam on the ocean, bobbing and floating in a warm tide. I hear his praises, and respond by arching my back and thrusting backward onto him. I hear him tell me he loves me, and that he loves me doing this special thing for him. When he pounds at me, close to orgasm, the sensations are so amazing that I’m not thinking about hurt any more. We’re as far away from hurt as we can be. I think about the warmth I feel spreading from my hole. I think about the sounds of his raspy breathing, his cursing. I shake as he shoots. I beg him not to pull out.
The second time around he calls me names. He calls me boy. I resent it when he calls me faggot, but I resent even more how automatically my body responds with pleasure at the epithet, opening wide to his invading dick and wanting more of his bad treatment. He pinches my nipples, slaps my ass. He fills me again.
My precum has pooled in the jock. He’s pulled it off, inhaled from it deeply, and stuffed it in my mouth, before shoving himself back in again. My dim eyesight fixes onto the clock-radio by the bed. We’d been at it for over ninety minutes, and I haven’t needed a break, I haven’t asked him to stop. I want it never to end.
The moments are tough to distinguish from one another for a very long time. They’re all sensation, raw and immediate. But there comes a moment late in the game of which I’m not especially proud. It’s when he’s close to his fourth orgasm inside me. I’m actually crying. He’s been thanking me over and over again. I’ve been thanking him. I’m trying to tell him something that seems vital, in that moment—that I knew from time to time I’d craved to be treated the way he was treating me, but that I didn’t know until then what I’d been missing.
“You’re a hot fuck. You don’t know how hot this is for me,” he says. And now he’s crying, too. Two top men, sniveling and sniffing while they fucked. “I just want to make it for you the way you made it for me.”
My mouth is dry. My lips are cracked. My throat is raspy. I want to tell him, as he pounds away at my hole, And I just want to be good for you. But what I say is, “And I just want to be good for something.”
He’s yelling outright, filling the room with the noise of another orgasm. I can barely hear it, though. In my head, I’m replaying that sentence, and listening to the raw admission it contains.
And I’m wondering if in that moment of absolute abandon, I’ve mined my way closer to truth than I ever, ever want to admit.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Return of the Steam Room Bear
When I met the steam room bear at the baths a few weeks ago, we’d spent such an intense few hours making out, fucking, and grinding against each other that there was no chance in hell I wasn’t slipping him my number and email at the conclusion of the afternoon. I give out my number in these situations with absolutely no expectation that the men will call me. They usually don’t. I’m too old and jaded to mope by the phone with my chin on my chubby fist, while Vikki Carr’s “It Must Be Him” plays in the background.
The steam room bear had called, however. He’d sent me a quick text message to confirm the phone number before he’d gotten back to his house an entire state away, that afternoon. Within a few days, we’d exchanged emails to thank each other for a great time together. Then last week we had a flurry of emails when he told me he was making an overnight business trip to Ann Arbor, Saturday.
He had a huge grin on his face when I stepped through his door. He’d trimmed his hair since I’d last seen him; the short cut made him look more professorial and even more handsome than I remembered. He let me know what he thought of me, in the first sentence. “Gawd,” he gushed in his deep voice, as his arms opened for me. “You look just like a teenager. Seriously. I was watching you walk through the parking lot.” Embarrassed and flustered, I gabbled out some kind of denial. “No, seriously, you in no way look forty-seven.”
Nearsighted and burly. That’s how I like ‘em.
Sometimes when I meet a man for the second time, it’s impossible to recreate the chemistry that made the first so memorable. With the steam room bear, that was not an issue. We were at each other immediately in the dark hotel room, stripping off our clothes and attacking each other’s mouths and nipples and necks with our lips and and incisors. Almost immediately I pushed open his tree-trunk legs and lowered myself between them so I could suck on his rock-hard, curved dick. He responded by groaning, grabbing a pillow to support his head, and by running his hand through my hair as he guided me where he most wanted me to work. I licked at his balls and nibbled at the sensitive area just below his crown. At his direction, I ran the flat of my tongue and my beard over the sensitive skin where his leg met his hipbone. He shuddered and jerked when I twisted his nipples from below.
It didn’t take long before I had flipped him over to gobble greedily at his hole. It smelled sweet, like soap and the faintest trace of aftershave. “All I’ve been thinking about is you fucking me,” he said into the pillow, half-muffled and half-dreaming. “How good it felt to have your bare dick in me. I need it.”
“Yeah?” I asked, trying to sound surprised, as if fucking hadn’t really been on my agenda, but that I might possibly somehow be amenable, under the right circumstances. Maybe.
“Yes. Please. Please fuck me.”
“Well. . . .” I drawled, pulling back the flesh of his beefy, sexy ass.
“Ram it in,” he begged. “Just fucking rape it.”
I was already rock-hard just from seeing the guy again, and having spent a good fifteen minutes rimming his hole had caused me to leak a puddle of precum on the hotel bedspread. I didn’t really need to be talked into it. I rubbed a little spit in his already-slick pucker, and slapped more on my dick. Then I teased him with the head right at his entrance. “You sure about this?”
“Pl—!”
He’d planned some spur in his head, I’m sure, but before he’d gotten out the first syllable, I plunged in. He roared. From the way his hole opened, though, I knew it wasn’t from pain. My suspicion was confirmed when the roar turned into a shouted “YES!” that could have rattled the paintings on the hotel walls. “Ohhhh, yes!” he groaned, clutching the pillows and turning them into support for his chest. “Yes, I needed that big dick in me, exactly like that. Fuck yes!”
His hole had opened for me immediately, with no resistance whatsoever. If my entry had been too rough for him, it was the kind of rough he obviously liked. “I want your sperm, buddy,” he begged. “I’ve gotta have your swimmers in me.”
I was fucking steadily, by then. “Not yet,” I breathed. “I’m not shooting yet, stud.”
“I’m ready for it when you do,” he promised. “You don’t know how hot it was, driving home to my boyfriend last time, with your loads sliming up my guts. I had you leaking out of me all night, man. I loved it.” He willingly let me pull him to a kneeling position. “I want more. Fuck. I wish I had a camera so I could see what it looked like with your big fuckin’ dick goin’ in and out of me.”
“Hang on,” I said, and I pulled out of him to grab my jacket. A moment later I had my phone in hand. I snapped a photo for him as I shoved back in, and then threw the phone down on the bed. Its screen illuminated his face. I saw his eyes open wide, then narrow again as I went down to the hilt. “Fuck,” was his only comment.
He looked at the photo until the screen blinked out. I fucked him on his knees, and then on his side, and finally on his back, his big legs on my chest and shoulders as I heaved into him. When I came, our mouths were already enmeshed. He grunted from his chest as my hips pounded against him once, twice, three times, and my dick swelled to release the flood of seed from my nuts. His hands grabbed for my hips and pulled me into him; he squeezed my cheeks so hard that I thought there might be handprints for days.
Then, once my dick stopped throbbing, he turned me over. We clambered into a position in which I was on my back while he straddled me, my dick still plugging him. I loved the sheer weight of him on me, all two hundred and eighty-five pounds of the guy. I loved being crushed by him, of being pressed flat against the strange mattress by so much warm, furry flesh. We lay like that for a long time, kissing and letting need ebb away and consciousness return.
Then he laughed. “I promised you a massage,” he said.
“Oh gosh,” I laughed in return. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he whispered.
He spread body lotion into his palm, warming it there so that it wouldn’t be chilly against my skin. And then he’d rub it into my weary, grateful muscles, pressing them into submission. He was good at what he did, too. I wanted it never to end. Down my torso he went, his hands smoothing over my hips and my thighs, squeezing my calves, slicking up my feet and soothing my heels. He turned me onto my stomach and instructed me to rest my shoulders, face, and arms on a pillow, as he rubbed my upper and lower back. When he reached my butt, his hands squeezed the cheeks, then warmed them with the lotion and the flats of his palms. “So beautiful,” he whispered. Then, “So fuckable.”
I took a little breath. One of the first things he’d emailed me in the weeks before had been: I want to flip you. I dream about flipping you. What do you think about that?
The thought had made me hard, that’s what. I’d written back and said, I would be a liar if I hadn’t thought about it myself. But I just want to warn you that as much as I fantasize about it, I get terrified when it comes to doing it. And I’d left it at that. But before I’d left that evening, I’d taken a shower with an enema bulb, just in case.
His fingers probed my hole, dropping silky lotion just within. “Do you think about getting fucked?”
“Yes,” I breathed, trying not to clench.
“Do you think about me fucking you?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You said you get nervous. What makes you nervous?” he wanted to know.
I don’t think it’s right to saddle a guy with my entire psycho-history. I mean, jeez. Who wants to listen to all that, when the dick is hard and wants a home? So, very briefly, I told him what had happened to make me shut down on bottoming, and that how having to explain and justify my reactions to it simply made not-bottoming easier, thus leading to many years of inactivity.
He listened through it and held me. “It’s not that uncommon, I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
He paused, then said, “Something similar happened to me, once.” He took a few moments to explain. And yes, he did understand. For a few moments after he shared, we held each other very tightly. Then, when it was very quiet, I said, “Fuck me.”
They were still a very difficult two words to say. But I spoke them anyway.
“I don’t want you doing it because you feel you have to,” he started to say.
I put a finger to his mouth. “Put it in me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Fuck me,” I told him.
I heard him fumbling for something in the dark, and heard the sound of tearing metallic wrap, followed by the sound of a condom unfurling. “I think this will make you feel more relaxed about it,” he whispered. When I reached down, I felt his cock covered with latex. He covered it with lube, and then said, “Why don’t you sit on it?”
That was a position I could never manage to enjoy even when I was a total bottom. “Do it from behind,” I asked. It had always been the position in which I took it best.
I turned onto my stomach. Again, the weight of him comforted me. I felt his head against my hole. “This is very special for me,” he whispered into my ear. The pressure against my hole increased and multiplied exponentially. I felt as if I were unravelling, down there, flying apart into pieces. “I hope it is for you.”
“I want it from you,” I said, simply. It was the truth, even though I doubted I could do it.
But it didn’t hurt, as much as I expected. The pressure was intense, yet then came a moment in which the pressure gave way to something more. Every nerve that had been jangling seemed to sing; the strings of some invisible out-of-tune guitar that had been jarring my teeth rang out with a glorious major chord. Then, just as quickly as it had gotten in tune, it stopped.
“My dick’s not cooperating,” he said, pulling out. “I’m going limp. Fuck.”
Without a word, I reached down and yanked off the condom. “Fuck me,” I told him.
He slid back in, hard once more.
It wasn’t glorious. I didn’t experience that high I used to get as a teen, when I had dick after dick stretching me wide. But it didn’t hurt. Much. That is, I didn’t want to push him off me and beg him to stop. I didn’t want to crawl out from under him and run for my car. I liked the warmth of him on me, and atop me. I liked the fullness of it, though it left me gasping. And I loved the grunts and tiny noises of pleasure he made as he pushed in and out. “How much of it is in there?” I wanted to know.
“All of it, baby.” His voice was more a pant, a huff of excitement, than a whisper. “All of it.”
He didn’t last long. That’s not to say he shot quickly. Rather, he ran into erection problems shortly thereafter again, which merely left me confused—am I that lousy a bottom now that guys lose their erections once they’re in me? If I’d been more experienced and able to endure more, I might have felt a little short-changed. But how could I really complain? I hadn’t really been penetrated in almost a decade. Certainly not as deeply as he went. And me made me enjoy it.
I still haven’t been successfully fucked, I guess—that is, a fuck all the way to completion—but I liked it from him. Somehow he made it feel more like a triumph. Afterward, assuring me I hadn’t been dirty or awful, he held me and nursed me back to hardness, then urged me to mount him again. And that’s how we spent the rest of that long evening, with me pumping in more of the loads he craved.
The steam room bear had called, however. He’d sent me a quick text message to confirm the phone number before he’d gotten back to his house an entire state away, that afternoon. Within a few days, we’d exchanged emails to thank each other for a great time together. Then last week we had a flurry of emails when he told me he was making an overnight business trip to Ann Arbor, Saturday.
He had a huge grin on his face when I stepped through his door. He’d trimmed his hair since I’d last seen him; the short cut made him look more professorial and even more handsome than I remembered. He let me know what he thought of me, in the first sentence. “Gawd,” he gushed in his deep voice, as his arms opened for me. “You look just like a teenager. Seriously. I was watching you walk through the parking lot.” Embarrassed and flustered, I gabbled out some kind of denial. “No, seriously, you in no way look forty-seven.”
Nearsighted and burly. That’s how I like ‘em.
Sometimes when I meet a man for the second time, it’s impossible to recreate the chemistry that made the first so memorable. With the steam room bear, that was not an issue. We were at each other immediately in the dark hotel room, stripping off our clothes and attacking each other’s mouths and nipples and necks with our lips and and incisors. Almost immediately I pushed open his tree-trunk legs and lowered myself between them so I could suck on his rock-hard, curved dick. He responded by groaning, grabbing a pillow to support his head, and by running his hand through my hair as he guided me where he most wanted me to work. I licked at his balls and nibbled at the sensitive area just below his crown. At his direction, I ran the flat of my tongue and my beard over the sensitive skin where his leg met his hipbone. He shuddered and jerked when I twisted his nipples from below.
It didn’t take long before I had flipped him over to gobble greedily at his hole. It smelled sweet, like soap and the faintest trace of aftershave. “All I’ve been thinking about is you fucking me,” he said into the pillow, half-muffled and half-dreaming. “How good it felt to have your bare dick in me. I need it.”
“Yeah?” I asked, trying to sound surprised, as if fucking hadn’t really been on my agenda, but that I might possibly somehow be amenable, under the right circumstances. Maybe.
“Yes. Please. Please fuck me.”
“Well. . . .” I drawled, pulling back the flesh of his beefy, sexy ass.
“Ram it in,” he begged. “Just fucking rape it.”
I was already rock-hard just from seeing the guy again, and having spent a good fifteen minutes rimming his hole had caused me to leak a puddle of precum on the hotel bedspread. I didn’t really need to be talked into it. I rubbed a little spit in his already-slick pucker, and slapped more on my dick. Then I teased him with the head right at his entrance. “You sure about this?”
“Pl—!”
He’d planned some spur in his head, I’m sure, but before he’d gotten out the first syllable, I plunged in. He roared. From the way his hole opened, though, I knew it wasn’t from pain. My suspicion was confirmed when the roar turned into a shouted “YES!” that could have rattled the paintings on the hotel walls. “Ohhhh, yes!” he groaned, clutching the pillows and turning them into support for his chest. “Yes, I needed that big dick in me, exactly like that. Fuck yes!”
His hole had opened for me immediately, with no resistance whatsoever. If my entry had been too rough for him, it was the kind of rough he obviously liked. “I want your sperm, buddy,” he begged. “I’ve gotta have your swimmers in me.”
I was fucking steadily, by then. “Not yet,” I breathed. “I’m not shooting yet, stud.”
“I’m ready for it when you do,” he promised. “You don’t know how hot it was, driving home to my boyfriend last time, with your loads sliming up my guts. I had you leaking out of me all night, man. I loved it.” He willingly let me pull him to a kneeling position. “I want more. Fuck. I wish I had a camera so I could see what it looked like with your big fuckin’ dick goin’ in and out of me.”
“Hang on,” I said, and I pulled out of him to grab my jacket. A moment later I had my phone in hand. I snapped a photo for him as I shoved back in, and then threw the phone down on the bed. Its screen illuminated his face. I saw his eyes open wide, then narrow again as I went down to the hilt. “Fuck,” was his only comment.
He looked at the photo until the screen blinked out. I fucked him on his knees, and then on his side, and finally on his back, his big legs on my chest and shoulders as I heaved into him. When I came, our mouths were already enmeshed. He grunted from his chest as my hips pounded against him once, twice, three times, and my dick swelled to release the flood of seed from my nuts. His hands grabbed for my hips and pulled me into him; he squeezed my cheeks so hard that I thought there might be handprints for days.
Then, once my dick stopped throbbing, he turned me over. We clambered into a position in which I was on my back while he straddled me, my dick still plugging him. I loved the sheer weight of him on me, all two hundred and eighty-five pounds of the guy. I loved being crushed by him, of being pressed flat against the strange mattress by so much warm, furry flesh. We lay like that for a long time, kissing and letting need ebb away and consciousness return.
Then he laughed. “I promised you a massage,” he said.
“Oh gosh,” I laughed in return. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he whispered.
He spread body lotion into his palm, warming it there so that it wouldn’t be chilly against my skin. And then he’d rub it into my weary, grateful muscles, pressing them into submission. He was good at what he did, too. I wanted it never to end. Down my torso he went, his hands smoothing over my hips and my thighs, squeezing my calves, slicking up my feet and soothing my heels. He turned me onto my stomach and instructed me to rest my shoulders, face, and arms on a pillow, as he rubbed my upper and lower back. When he reached my butt, his hands squeezed the cheeks, then warmed them with the lotion and the flats of his palms. “So beautiful,” he whispered. Then, “So fuckable.”
I took a little breath. One of the first things he’d emailed me in the weeks before had been: I want to flip you. I dream about flipping you. What do you think about that?
The thought had made me hard, that’s what. I’d written back and said, I would be a liar if I hadn’t thought about it myself. But I just want to warn you that as much as I fantasize about it, I get terrified when it comes to doing it. And I’d left it at that. But before I’d left that evening, I’d taken a shower with an enema bulb, just in case.
His fingers probed my hole, dropping silky lotion just within. “Do you think about getting fucked?”
“Yes,” I breathed, trying not to clench.
“Do you think about me fucking you?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You said you get nervous. What makes you nervous?” he wanted to know.
I don’t think it’s right to saddle a guy with my entire psycho-history. I mean, jeez. Who wants to listen to all that, when the dick is hard and wants a home? So, very briefly, I told him what had happened to make me shut down on bottoming, and that how having to explain and justify my reactions to it simply made not-bottoming easier, thus leading to many years of inactivity.
He listened through it and held me. “It’s not that uncommon, I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
He paused, then said, “Something similar happened to me, once.” He took a few moments to explain. And yes, he did understand. For a few moments after he shared, we held each other very tightly. Then, when it was very quiet, I said, “Fuck me.”
They were still a very difficult two words to say. But I spoke them anyway.
“I don’t want you doing it because you feel you have to,” he started to say.
I put a finger to his mouth. “Put it in me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Fuck me,” I told him.
I heard him fumbling for something in the dark, and heard the sound of tearing metallic wrap, followed by the sound of a condom unfurling. “I think this will make you feel more relaxed about it,” he whispered. When I reached down, I felt his cock covered with latex. He covered it with lube, and then said, “Why don’t you sit on it?”
That was a position I could never manage to enjoy even when I was a total bottom. “Do it from behind,” I asked. It had always been the position in which I took it best.
I turned onto my stomach. Again, the weight of him comforted me. I felt his head against my hole. “This is very special for me,” he whispered into my ear. The pressure against my hole increased and multiplied exponentially. I felt as if I were unravelling, down there, flying apart into pieces. “I hope it is for you.”
“I want it from you,” I said, simply. It was the truth, even though I doubted I could do it.
But it didn’t hurt, as much as I expected. The pressure was intense, yet then came a moment in which the pressure gave way to something more. Every nerve that had been jangling seemed to sing; the strings of some invisible out-of-tune guitar that had been jarring my teeth rang out with a glorious major chord. Then, just as quickly as it had gotten in tune, it stopped.
“My dick’s not cooperating,” he said, pulling out. “I’m going limp. Fuck.”
Without a word, I reached down and yanked off the condom. “Fuck me,” I told him.
He slid back in, hard once more.
It wasn’t glorious. I didn’t experience that high I used to get as a teen, when I had dick after dick stretching me wide. But it didn’t hurt. Much. That is, I didn’t want to push him off me and beg him to stop. I didn’t want to crawl out from under him and run for my car. I liked the warmth of him on me, and atop me. I liked the fullness of it, though it left me gasping. And I loved the grunts and tiny noises of pleasure he made as he pushed in and out. “How much of it is in there?” I wanted to know.
“All of it, baby.” His voice was more a pant, a huff of excitement, than a whisper. “All of it.”
He didn’t last long. That’s not to say he shot quickly. Rather, he ran into erection problems shortly thereafter again, which merely left me confused—am I that lousy a bottom now that guys lose their erections once they’re in me? If I’d been more experienced and able to endure more, I might have felt a little short-changed. But how could I really complain? I hadn’t really been penetrated in almost a decade. Certainly not as deeply as he went. And me made me enjoy it.
I still haven’t been successfully fucked, I guess—that is, a fuck all the way to completion—but I liked it from him. Somehow he made it feel more like a triumph. Afterward, assuring me I hadn’t been dirty or awful, he held me and nursed me back to hardness, then urged me to mount him again. And that’s how we spent the rest of that long evening, with me pumping in more of the loads he craved.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Last Time
I’ve been writing lately a lot about my power-bottom experiences in my teens. There are certain things about those days I remember vividly. My pulse still quickens at the memory of how my heart would pound at the sight of a toe tapping beneath a toilet stall, as if it were trying to escape from my ribcage. My dick twitches when I recall the looks of invitation on men’s faces, or their intense stares as they unzipped and proffered their dicks. I remember the deeds themselves, and a surprising number of the men with whom I performed them.
What I don’t remember much, however, is actually receiving pleasure in the act of being fucked. As I've written about before, my unfortunate run-in with sexual assault more or less erased all that from my memory.
It shocks me to think how long it’s been since I successfully had a dick in my ass. It’ll have been nine years, later this year. Now, lest all my bottom fans run frantically around, frightened that the sky is falling and that I’m wanting make a late-life flip from top to bottom, I’d like to assure you that nothing of the sort will be happening. I’m one of those guys who’s wired to fill hole. Fucking as a top occupies my fantasies. It’s what I assume I’ll be doing when I meet a guy—even when the guy is another top stud.
I’ve always been sexually adventurous, however. If an opportunity for fun presents itself, I’ll rarely pass it up. So a part of me is a little sorry I’m not a bit more versatile, if only in case a hot man somewhere wants to flip-fuck with me. (I’m nothing if not accommodating.) And there is the occasional guy whom, when I see him, makes me want to bend over and offer my hole.
The last man who had me was one of those.
It was almost nine years ago on a cruise ship in Alaska—a gay cruise. I’m honestly not convinced that if one’s going to take a gay cruise, it should be to Alaska. Though it’s fun to be in the company of a huge number of party-hardy gay guys in a floating hotel in which the booze flows freely and there’s a party every night, I actually think it might be best to do so when the destination allows the party boys to remove their clothing. Sure, there were a few shirtless men circulating in the sixty-degree weather and the tepid sunshine as the ship pulled out of Vancouver. A few of them kept up the brave front as we sailed further and further north, appearing in nothing but their trunks out on the decks in the nipple-hardening chill the next morning. After we’d navigated into an endless fog bank that lasted for the rest of the trip, however, out came the hoodies and the puffy parkas and the blankets handed out by the ship’s personnel. For the rest of the trip, all the hot-bodied gay men did nothing but shiver beneath layers and layers of wool while huddled beneath heating vents.
When we landed in a fishing town where the salmon were spawning and struggling to get their egg-bloated bodies upstream, the seagulls were casually swooping down, picking them up with their beaks, and dashing them onto the sidewalks and docks below where the tourists were walking. It was like one of the more bizarre Biblical plagues, visited upon hordes of shrieking and scattering gay guys. Some of us haven’t been able to eat salmon since. (Okay, I’m talking about me.)
Anyway. There were several cruising spots on the ship where men would hook up for sex. One of them was the steam room in the spa—but there were so many men crowding in there to escape the pervasive cold that I never found it very appealing. Another was supposed to be the ship’s nude sunbathing deck—an elevated deck at the back of the ship that wasn’t overlooked by anything, and was supposed to be off-limits to kids during the ship’s regular excursions. The area was pretty much off-limits to anyone who wanted to keep warm during the Alaska trip; at night it was totally dark and fairly deserted, save for the shadows of the men lurking and looking for someone to take back to their rooms.
I met Max there the first night of the cruise. It was difficult not to notice him—at six-foot-six, he was taller than even I. In the inky darkness of the Pacific night he was a long and lanky shadow dressed in denim. In the murk I could only make out a few distinguishing characteristics. He had a furry face. That much I could feel when he pulled me roughly to him, pressed his lips against mine, and thrust his tongue down my throat. His head was bald, I discovered when I pressed my cold palms against it. It was cold and windy and loud up there. When he shouted into my ear, “You’re comin’ back to my room,” I knew from the rich accent that he was Australian.
I wasn’t disappointed when I followed him from the deck into the light below. Max was a handsome fucker. He was at least a good twenty years older from me, tall, muscled, and arrayed with an elaborately-groomed set of mutton chops, a long wild-west mustache, and a biker’s pointed beard. A spike jutted out on both sides of his nasal septum. He was hot.
When we passed guys in the hallway, they’d stare at his imposing figure and their eyes would linger with respect and yes, lust. He was actually so hot, in a sexy-daddy way, that I was slightly afraid he would attempt to ditch me in the labyrinth of hallways on the way to his cabin. He didn’t, though. Once we were alone in his room, he shut the door by shoving me against it and giving me another of his tonsil-exploring kisses. His hands clutched my shoulders, as if he was afraid I might try to squirm away. “Damn, boy,” I remember him saying, after we both emerged from the kiss gasping for air. “I am going to enjoy you.”
He stripped. He wasn’t wearing much—a much-distressed denim jacket, a pair of tight, tight jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. The boots took some maneuvering to remove, but the rest came off in a few fluid motions. He stood before me, naked. That’s when I saw he was inked from his neck to his ankles. There was barely a square inch of skin that didn’t have some tracery of the elaborate, body-encompassing blue-green design upon it. It was tribal in influence, and had elements of snake-inspired art. When I stared at him the first time and took in that mobius strip of a tattoo with no beginning and ending that encircled every limb to the wrists, every hollow and crest of his musculature, he looked almost as if he was standing in front of a projected slide of some conceptual line drawing. Only his head, his hands, his dick, and his feet were white and untouched.
My dick had been hard since we’d kissed up on deck. When he ripped off my clothing and shoved me roughly down onto the bed, I was even harder. The first thing he did was to kneel between my legs and chow down on my dick like a madman. It was some of the most aggressive and hottest head I’ve ever received. I buckled and snorted; he grunted and slobbered on me so determinedly that my nuts were slick and wet from his drool. When at last he backed off me, pinching his own eraser-sized nipples as he stared me down, my dick was swollen and red, and as thick as if it had been in a vacuum pump.
“My turn,” he said, in that accent that had charmed my socks off. He spent the next few minutes giving me a vigorous face-fucking. His dick was uncut and as large as my own. He didn’t waste time trying to let me accommodate it in my throat, or get my lips accustomed to the girth. No, he was in there and in all the way, right from the beginning, choking me, or seemingly trying to. Then I found myself on my knees, ass up in the air, and his face buried between my cheeks. He ate me as vigorously and deeply as he’d sucked me, until I was nearly unconscious from pleasure and whimpering more than I was breathing.
Then I felt cool air on my hole as he stood up, followed by the tickle of his warm cock head against my opening. Normally at this point I protest, but he didn’t give me a chance. “You are so damned fuckable,” he said in that Aussie accent, melting me. “You a top or a bottom, mate? Not that it matters. You’re my bottom tonight.”
Then he went in. There was pressure, and a sharp, hot sliver of pain like a splinter passing through flesh. Then, miraculously, there was nothing but pleasure, and my desire to be filled.
When I masturbate and think about bottoming, I think about that night with Max. I think about how he made me want him inside me without my even knowing I wanted it. I think about how he simply took me at the right moment, and made it work. I even think about how he made me ride him at several points. Even when I was bottoming regularly I hated sitting on a guy’s dick and bouncing up and down on it. The fact that Max made me want to do it, and to like it, is remarkable.
Max fucked three loads into me that night, and I was grateful for each. The last of them he did outside, on the balcony of his stateroom. It was frigid outside and I was naked and hate the cold. I had the metal bar of the glass wall cutting into my chest as he bent me over and pounded me against it, and I dislike the touch of icy things. I was being fucked, which normally I don’t like. My head was out and over the water, from high above, and I’m not fond of heights. On either side of his stateroom balcony were men watching us in the dark, observing as the naked, pierced, tattooed giant held me down and drove his dick into me. And I hate being watched. (Oh, who am I kidding? I love being watched.)
Somehow, though, all those little things I normally don’t like combined into one giant ball of love. It was, in a lot of ways, the best single fuck I’ve received. Especially when, afterward, he bundled me up in a blanket and made out with me on his bed, to warm me up again.
I was Max’s little toy for the rest of the Alaskan trip. I ate at his table. We went on excursions together. Max’s buddies were mostly men into leather who referred to me as ‘his little pup,’ as if I was some teenaged twink Max had hired for the night. Some nights I’d fuck Max. Most nights, Max fucked me.
“You’ll remember me,” he predicted when we parted in Vancouver again. Then he gave me one of his grins, ruffled my hair, and marched off with his backpack.
He was right about that. I certainly do.
What I don’t remember much, however, is actually receiving pleasure in the act of being fucked. As I've written about before, my unfortunate run-in with sexual assault more or less erased all that from my memory.
It shocks me to think how long it’s been since I successfully had a dick in my ass. It’ll have been nine years, later this year. Now, lest all my bottom fans run frantically around, frightened that the sky is falling and that I’m wanting make a late-life flip from top to bottom, I’d like to assure you that nothing of the sort will be happening. I’m one of those guys who’s wired to fill hole. Fucking as a top occupies my fantasies. It’s what I assume I’ll be doing when I meet a guy—even when the guy is another top stud.
I’ve always been sexually adventurous, however. If an opportunity for fun presents itself, I’ll rarely pass it up. So a part of me is a little sorry I’m not a bit more versatile, if only in case a hot man somewhere wants to flip-fuck with me. (I’m nothing if not accommodating.) And there is the occasional guy whom, when I see him, makes me want to bend over and offer my hole.
The last man who had me was one of those.
It was almost nine years ago on a cruise ship in Alaska—a gay cruise. I’m honestly not convinced that if one’s going to take a gay cruise, it should be to Alaska. Though it’s fun to be in the company of a huge number of party-hardy gay guys in a floating hotel in which the booze flows freely and there’s a party every night, I actually think it might be best to do so when the destination allows the party boys to remove their clothing. Sure, there were a few shirtless men circulating in the sixty-degree weather and the tepid sunshine as the ship pulled out of Vancouver. A few of them kept up the brave front as we sailed further and further north, appearing in nothing but their trunks out on the decks in the nipple-hardening chill the next morning. After we’d navigated into an endless fog bank that lasted for the rest of the trip, however, out came the hoodies and the puffy parkas and the blankets handed out by the ship’s personnel. For the rest of the trip, all the hot-bodied gay men did nothing but shiver beneath layers and layers of wool while huddled beneath heating vents.
When we landed in a fishing town where the salmon were spawning and struggling to get their egg-bloated bodies upstream, the seagulls were casually swooping down, picking them up with their beaks, and dashing them onto the sidewalks and docks below where the tourists were walking. It was like one of the more bizarre Biblical plagues, visited upon hordes of shrieking and scattering gay guys. Some of us haven’t been able to eat salmon since. (Okay, I’m talking about me.)
Anyway. There were several cruising spots on the ship where men would hook up for sex. One of them was the steam room in the spa—but there were so many men crowding in there to escape the pervasive cold that I never found it very appealing. Another was supposed to be the ship’s nude sunbathing deck—an elevated deck at the back of the ship that wasn’t overlooked by anything, and was supposed to be off-limits to kids during the ship’s regular excursions. The area was pretty much off-limits to anyone who wanted to keep warm during the Alaska trip; at night it was totally dark and fairly deserted, save for the shadows of the men lurking and looking for someone to take back to their rooms.
I met Max there the first night of the cruise. It was difficult not to notice him—at six-foot-six, he was taller than even I. In the inky darkness of the Pacific night he was a long and lanky shadow dressed in denim. In the murk I could only make out a few distinguishing characteristics. He had a furry face. That much I could feel when he pulled me roughly to him, pressed his lips against mine, and thrust his tongue down my throat. His head was bald, I discovered when I pressed my cold palms against it. It was cold and windy and loud up there. When he shouted into my ear, “You’re comin’ back to my room,” I knew from the rich accent that he was Australian.
I wasn’t disappointed when I followed him from the deck into the light below. Max was a handsome fucker. He was at least a good twenty years older from me, tall, muscled, and arrayed with an elaborately-groomed set of mutton chops, a long wild-west mustache, and a biker’s pointed beard. A spike jutted out on both sides of his nasal septum. He was hot.
When we passed guys in the hallway, they’d stare at his imposing figure and their eyes would linger with respect and yes, lust. He was actually so hot, in a sexy-daddy way, that I was slightly afraid he would attempt to ditch me in the labyrinth of hallways on the way to his cabin. He didn’t, though. Once we were alone in his room, he shut the door by shoving me against it and giving me another of his tonsil-exploring kisses. His hands clutched my shoulders, as if he was afraid I might try to squirm away. “Damn, boy,” I remember him saying, after we both emerged from the kiss gasping for air. “I am going to enjoy you.”
He stripped. He wasn’t wearing much—a much-distressed denim jacket, a pair of tight, tight jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. The boots took some maneuvering to remove, but the rest came off in a few fluid motions. He stood before me, naked. That’s when I saw he was inked from his neck to his ankles. There was barely a square inch of skin that didn’t have some tracery of the elaborate, body-encompassing blue-green design upon it. It was tribal in influence, and had elements of snake-inspired art. When I stared at him the first time and took in that mobius strip of a tattoo with no beginning and ending that encircled every limb to the wrists, every hollow and crest of his musculature, he looked almost as if he was standing in front of a projected slide of some conceptual line drawing. Only his head, his hands, his dick, and his feet were white and untouched.
My dick had been hard since we’d kissed up on deck. When he ripped off my clothing and shoved me roughly down onto the bed, I was even harder. The first thing he did was to kneel between my legs and chow down on my dick like a madman. It was some of the most aggressive and hottest head I’ve ever received. I buckled and snorted; he grunted and slobbered on me so determinedly that my nuts were slick and wet from his drool. When at last he backed off me, pinching his own eraser-sized nipples as he stared me down, my dick was swollen and red, and as thick as if it had been in a vacuum pump.
“My turn,” he said, in that accent that had charmed my socks off. He spent the next few minutes giving me a vigorous face-fucking. His dick was uncut and as large as my own. He didn’t waste time trying to let me accommodate it in my throat, or get my lips accustomed to the girth. No, he was in there and in all the way, right from the beginning, choking me, or seemingly trying to. Then I found myself on my knees, ass up in the air, and his face buried between my cheeks. He ate me as vigorously and deeply as he’d sucked me, until I was nearly unconscious from pleasure and whimpering more than I was breathing.
Then I felt cool air on my hole as he stood up, followed by the tickle of his warm cock head against my opening. Normally at this point I protest, but he didn’t give me a chance. “You are so damned fuckable,” he said in that Aussie accent, melting me. “You a top or a bottom, mate? Not that it matters. You’re my bottom tonight.”
Then he went in. There was pressure, and a sharp, hot sliver of pain like a splinter passing through flesh. Then, miraculously, there was nothing but pleasure, and my desire to be filled.
When I masturbate and think about bottoming, I think about that night with Max. I think about how he made me want him inside me without my even knowing I wanted it. I think about how he simply took me at the right moment, and made it work. I even think about how he made me ride him at several points. Even when I was bottoming regularly I hated sitting on a guy’s dick and bouncing up and down on it. The fact that Max made me want to do it, and to like it, is remarkable.
Max fucked three loads into me that night, and I was grateful for each. The last of them he did outside, on the balcony of his stateroom. It was frigid outside and I was naked and hate the cold. I had the metal bar of the glass wall cutting into my chest as he bent me over and pounded me against it, and I dislike the touch of icy things. I was being fucked, which normally I don’t like. My head was out and over the water, from high above, and I’m not fond of heights. On either side of his stateroom balcony were men watching us in the dark, observing as the naked, pierced, tattooed giant held me down and drove his dick into me. And I hate being watched. (Oh, who am I kidding? I love being watched.)
Somehow, though, all those little things I normally don’t like combined into one giant ball of love. It was, in a lot of ways, the best single fuck I’ve received. Especially when, afterward, he bundled me up in a blanket and made out with me on his bed, to warm me up again.
I was Max’s little toy for the rest of the Alaskan trip. I ate at his table. We went on excursions together. Max’s buddies were mostly men into leather who referred to me as ‘his little pup,’ as if I was some teenaged twink Max had hired for the night. Some nights I’d fuck Max. Most nights, Max fucked me.
“You’ll remember me,” he predicted when we parted in Vancouver again. Then he gave me one of his grins, ruffled my hair, and marched off with his backpack.
He was right about that. I certainly do.
Monday, December 6, 2010
That Sprinkler Guy
In a couple of spectacularly unsuccessful entries a few weeks back I attempted to track the genesis of my acquaintance with Topher, who became my partner in crime at some point later in my adolescence. Talking about Topher was going to be my gateway to addressing my complex and involved relationship with a man named Earl, whose attentions and mentoring shaped pretty much my entire sexual career.
I’d still like to talk about Earl. It’ll take several entries to do it. However, because whenever I write entries about the sex I had thirty or more years ago I have a vocal minority of readers who feel obliged to express their displeasure about the concept of a teen having sex with adult men, I’d like to stress an important point. I’m writing about things that happened a very long time ago. I can’t change my past. Admittedly, I could pretend it didn’t happen, or not write about it and leave it shrouded in silence, to avoid offending tender sensibilities.
I choose not to do that, however. I think some experiences are worth recording and exploring in an honest manner. If you’re going to be one of those people who don’t appreciate that, I advise you to skip these particular entries.
To get to Earl, I need to first to talk about That Sprinkler Guy, who introduced us.
It would have been in 1979 that I met That Sprinkler Guy. It was not very long after the events of my A Very Bad Day entry, when I’d been caught screwing around in the park restroom by the police and taken home in shame to my father. It was still summer, but at least a month after that incident. I remember being so frightened by it all that I’d sworn off whoring around altogether—a resolution that I kept for perhaps all of two weeks. After that, my summer hornies reasserted themselves, and I accommodated them by fooling around first only in my usual restroom haunts in the Richmond public library and on the campus where my parents both taught. The next week I added the park near the carillon into my cruising. Then a couple of weeks after that, I was back to Bryan Park, the scene of my shame, and the closest cruising spot to home.
I was reluctant ever to let myself get cornered again in the restrooms there, though. I might have used them to meet guys, but rarely would I do much in there, where I couldn’t see who might be approaching. I’d ask guys to take me into the woods. Or if it was evening, we’d play in the picnic shelters that hosted all manner of couplings and group sex.
It was a lazy and slow summer morning when I met That Sprinkler Guy. I remember it being one of those gorgeous, sun-drenched Virginia summer days on which the rolling park baked in the glare and haze. It was one of those mornings when the cicadas had already started their unending huzz before breakfast was over, giving warning that by the late afternoon you’d probably hear nothing in most of the quiet Richmond neighborhoods save for the hum of air conditioning condensers and the soft rhythm of sprinklers showering thirsty lawns. I loved the heat, and the sun, though usually it discouraged all but the most hard-core sex seekers from hitting the parks.
I’d been sitting beneath a tree near the road that led to the shelters and restrooms for some time, bike propped against the trunk, as I read a paperback I’d stuck in my pocket. Then I saw a white pick-up truck turn from the neighborhood street flanking the park onto its drive, kicking up clouds of dust with its big wheels as it turned. As the trunk neared, it slowed down. That Sprinkler Guy, commercial lettering announced on its side. Commercial/Residential Sprinkler Installation. A phone number graced the bottom of the ad. I saw the curly-headed driver lean over as he approached and passed to check me out.
I knew I was in business. I let the truck continue up the road, waiting a moment before I stuck my paperback into my pocket, stood, and kicked up the stand of my bike so that I could follow. He was waiting inside, standing at the solitary urinal, a cap somehow pulled atop that head of thick, bristling black curls. That Sprinkler Guy was a stocky bulldog of a man, somewhere in his mid-thirties. The T-shirt he wore with his business’s logo bulged from his beefy arms and shoulders. With his thick lips and pug nose he wasn’t handsome, but he sure as hell was sexy. His dirty jeans hung low beneath a slight belly, unzipped to display a long, thick, slab of hard dick. He didn’t even bother to pretend he was peeing; when I pushed inside the door and looked him over from in front of the sink, he took a step back to display his meat. With a grin on his lips, he showed off how his angled foreskin slipped back and forth over the greasy knob.
I stepped up to feel its warm length in my hand. “Well damn,” he said, his mouth lop-sided and pleased. When I was close, he reached up and ran his fingers through my long blond hair. “You are a cute one, son!”
I was going to suggest we take our activity elsewhere, but he already had the same idea. He stuffed his enormous dick down his pants leg, pulled up the frayed waistband of his white briefs, fastened his pants, and caught my neck in the crook of his arm. Out of the restroom we strolled, instant buddies. My bike was already locked up, so I accepted an invitation to hop in the guy’s truck and take a little ride with him.
In those days Bryan Park was divided roughly into two sections. The back half, accessible through a separate road in the nearby neighborhood, was where cruisers lurked. Rednecks in trucks hung with Confederate flags in their back windows would take the main arched entry into the larger, front half of the park. The two groups rarely mixed. (Though I loved when they did.) That Sprinkler Guy drove from the park’s cruisy side to redneck territory, where even in the morning there were good ol’ boys and their girlfriends listening to Creedence on their radios and drinking from cans of beer wrapped in brown paper. We drove past them to an area deep within the park, closer to where we’d met in the restroom, but inaccessible through the back road. I let him walk me from the truck into the woods, which grew thick and dense upon the rolling hills. After a few minutes on a barely-distinguishable trail, we ended up in a clearing where the sun shone brightly. The park ran alongside I-95, so there was a constant whoosh of traffic as it swept by, but that faint noise was all we could hear, so isolated we were.
“Now’s the part where you strip,” he said, and crossed his arms.
I didn’t know the guy and was aware I was throwing caution to the winds, but I didn’t care. I wanted that dick. I crossed my arms and skimmed off my T-shirt, and dropped my OP shorts to the ground and stepped out of them.
“Kneel,” he said.
I obeyed, planting my knees onto the ground. There I was, nude and exposed, barely able to keep my eyes open from the bright intensity of the sunshine.
“You ever taken a shower before?” he wanted to know, as the logs that were his fingers deftly undid his jeans.
Of course I’d taken a shower before. I took a shower every day. Sometimes two, if I came home from the parks especially cum-covered and stinky. “Sure,” I said.
“Nice. Someone trained you right.” His dick was exposed now. Even soft it was a monster that spilled from the split in his jeans at an impressive angle. Once again he pulled back the foreskin to expose that shiny, thick head. “You ready for it, then?”
Barely had I a chance to nod before a fat stream of urine shot in my direction. I was naive enough not to know what he’d been talking about, when he’d asked if I’d taken a shower. The spray hit me squarely on my closed mouth; I barely had enough time to shut my eyes. I felt the warmth of it cascade down my chin and onto my chest, then drip down my skinny body until it tickled around the base of my dick and balls. He raised his meat so that the arc of liquid baptized the top of my head and trickled down my spine. I was so surprised that I didn’t move.
After a moment, I realized that I didn’t mind that I didn’t mind. Part of me recoiled at the notion he was pissing on me like I was some kind of urinal, true. But at the same time, it felt just like warm water, and the actual physical sensations were pretty pleasant. A twisted part of me deep inside kicked in and liked the degradation of it. This is what I deserved, it felt like; this was what I was made for. I bowed my head and submitted.
The stream of piss seemed endless. That Sprinkler Guy had a bladder like the city reservoir. When he was finally done and the last few drops of pee were dribbling from his dick onto the ground, I knelt in a puddle. Dirt was sticking to my knees and shins; my hair hung in wet strands around my head. Already the heat and the sun was drying the fluid, though, making me skin feel crusted and tight. “And now’s the part where you stand up and bend over, son,” said the man in a gruff voice.
I yelled when he entered me. He lubed, but only just. I would’ve been hard-pressed to take him under normal circumstances, large as he was. I couldn’t even contemplate it these days. The foreskin helped some—I always preferred getting fucked raw by uncut guys in my bottoming days. But it was a fuck I took with my bottom lip firmly between my clenched teeth, as I attempted not to cry and let him know how very close he was to making me cry uncle. Which was a pretty rare thing in those days.
Though honestly, I think he would’ve loved to hear me cry. That Sprinkler Guy was a pounder. When we met for the three years that followed it was always the same routine—the same place, the same procedure, followed by a very long and brutal assault on my hole that would end with him pushing me against the ground or into a tree trunk as he forced an enormous cum load into me.
Every single time I would stumble back down that path in the woods and to his truck, where he would give me a solicitous boost back into the passenger seat so he could drop me back to wherever I’d chained my bike. I’d wash up as best I could either in the park’s restroom or from one of the spigots in the picnic shelter, and let the breezes dry me on my ride home. My dick would always spring to attention when I’d see that battered pickup truck driving into the park, because I knew I was guaranteed to be put into my place.
The clearing, the sun, the piss, and the slamming. I loved them all.
I’d still like to talk about Earl. It’ll take several entries to do it. However, because whenever I write entries about the sex I had thirty or more years ago I have a vocal minority of readers who feel obliged to express their displeasure about the concept of a teen having sex with adult men, I’d like to stress an important point. I’m writing about things that happened a very long time ago. I can’t change my past. Admittedly, I could pretend it didn’t happen, or not write about it and leave it shrouded in silence, to avoid offending tender sensibilities.
I choose not to do that, however. I think some experiences are worth recording and exploring in an honest manner. If you’re going to be one of those people who don’t appreciate that, I advise you to skip these particular entries.
To get to Earl, I need to first to talk about That Sprinkler Guy, who introduced us.
It would have been in 1979 that I met That Sprinkler Guy. It was not very long after the events of my A Very Bad Day entry, when I’d been caught screwing around in the park restroom by the police and taken home in shame to my father. It was still summer, but at least a month after that incident. I remember being so frightened by it all that I’d sworn off whoring around altogether—a resolution that I kept for perhaps all of two weeks. After that, my summer hornies reasserted themselves, and I accommodated them by fooling around first only in my usual restroom haunts in the Richmond public library and on the campus where my parents both taught. The next week I added the park near the carillon into my cruising. Then a couple of weeks after that, I was back to Bryan Park, the scene of my shame, and the closest cruising spot to home.
I was reluctant ever to let myself get cornered again in the restrooms there, though. I might have used them to meet guys, but rarely would I do much in there, where I couldn’t see who might be approaching. I’d ask guys to take me into the woods. Or if it was evening, we’d play in the picnic shelters that hosted all manner of couplings and group sex.
It was a lazy and slow summer morning when I met That Sprinkler Guy. I remember it being one of those gorgeous, sun-drenched Virginia summer days on which the rolling park baked in the glare and haze. It was one of those mornings when the cicadas had already started their unending huzz before breakfast was over, giving warning that by the late afternoon you’d probably hear nothing in most of the quiet Richmond neighborhoods save for the hum of air conditioning condensers and the soft rhythm of sprinklers showering thirsty lawns. I loved the heat, and the sun, though usually it discouraged all but the most hard-core sex seekers from hitting the parks.
I’d been sitting beneath a tree near the road that led to the shelters and restrooms for some time, bike propped against the trunk, as I read a paperback I’d stuck in my pocket. Then I saw a white pick-up truck turn from the neighborhood street flanking the park onto its drive, kicking up clouds of dust with its big wheels as it turned. As the trunk neared, it slowed down. That Sprinkler Guy, commercial lettering announced on its side. Commercial/Residential Sprinkler Installation. A phone number graced the bottom of the ad. I saw the curly-headed driver lean over as he approached and passed to check me out.
I knew I was in business. I let the truck continue up the road, waiting a moment before I stuck my paperback into my pocket, stood, and kicked up the stand of my bike so that I could follow. He was waiting inside, standing at the solitary urinal, a cap somehow pulled atop that head of thick, bristling black curls. That Sprinkler Guy was a stocky bulldog of a man, somewhere in his mid-thirties. The T-shirt he wore with his business’s logo bulged from his beefy arms and shoulders. With his thick lips and pug nose he wasn’t handsome, but he sure as hell was sexy. His dirty jeans hung low beneath a slight belly, unzipped to display a long, thick, slab of hard dick. He didn’t even bother to pretend he was peeing; when I pushed inside the door and looked him over from in front of the sink, he took a step back to display his meat. With a grin on his lips, he showed off how his angled foreskin slipped back and forth over the greasy knob.
I stepped up to feel its warm length in my hand. “Well damn,” he said, his mouth lop-sided and pleased. When I was close, he reached up and ran his fingers through my long blond hair. “You are a cute one, son!”
I was going to suggest we take our activity elsewhere, but he already had the same idea. He stuffed his enormous dick down his pants leg, pulled up the frayed waistband of his white briefs, fastened his pants, and caught my neck in the crook of his arm. Out of the restroom we strolled, instant buddies. My bike was already locked up, so I accepted an invitation to hop in the guy’s truck and take a little ride with him.
In those days Bryan Park was divided roughly into two sections. The back half, accessible through a separate road in the nearby neighborhood, was where cruisers lurked. Rednecks in trucks hung with Confederate flags in their back windows would take the main arched entry into the larger, front half of the park. The two groups rarely mixed. (Though I loved when they did.) That Sprinkler Guy drove from the park’s cruisy side to redneck territory, where even in the morning there were good ol’ boys and their girlfriends listening to Creedence on their radios and drinking from cans of beer wrapped in brown paper. We drove past them to an area deep within the park, closer to where we’d met in the restroom, but inaccessible through the back road. I let him walk me from the truck into the woods, which grew thick and dense upon the rolling hills. After a few minutes on a barely-distinguishable trail, we ended up in a clearing where the sun shone brightly. The park ran alongside I-95, so there was a constant whoosh of traffic as it swept by, but that faint noise was all we could hear, so isolated we were.
“Now’s the part where you strip,” he said, and crossed his arms.
I didn’t know the guy and was aware I was throwing caution to the winds, but I didn’t care. I wanted that dick. I crossed my arms and skimmed off my T-shirt, and dropped my OP shorts to the ground and stepped out of them.
“Kneel,” he said.
I obeyed, planting my knees onto the ground. There I was, nude and exposed, barely able to keep my eyes open from the bright intensity of the sunshine.
“You ever taken a shower before?” he wanted to know, as the logs that were his fingers deftly undid his jeans.
Of course I’d taken a shower before. I took a shower every day. Sometimes two, if I came home from the parks especially cum-covered and stinky. “Sure,” I said.
“Nice. Someone trained you right.” His dick was exposed now. Even soft it was a monster that spilled from the split in his jeans at an impressive angle. Once again he pulled back the foreskin to expose that shiny, thick head. “You ready for it, then?”
Barely had I a chance to nod before a fat stream of urine shot in my direction. I was naive enough not to know what he’d been talking about, when he’d asked if I’d taken a shower. The spray hit me squarely on my closed mouth; I barely had enough time to shut my eyes. I felt the warmth of it cascade down my chin and onto my chest, then drip down my skinny body until it tickled around the base of my dick and balls. He raised his meat so that the arc of liquid baptized the top of my head and trickled down my spine. I was so surprised that I didn’t move.
After a moment, I realized that I didn’t mind that I didn’t mind. Part of me recoiled at the notion he was pissing on me like I was some kind of urinal, true. But at the same time, it felt just like warm water, and the actual physical sensations were pretty pleasant. A twisted part of me deep inside kicked in and liked the degradation of it. This is what I deserved, it felt like; this was what I was made for. I bowed my head and submitted.
The stream of piss seemed endless. That Sprinkler Guy had a bladder like the city reservoir. When he was finally done and the last few drops of pee were dribbling from his dick onto the ground, I knelt in a puddle. Dirt was sticking to my knees and shins; my hair hung in wet strands around my head. Already the heat and the sun was drying the fluid, though, making me skin feel crusted and tight. “And now’s the part where you stand up and bend over, son,” said the man in a gruff voice.
I yelled when he entered me. He lubed, but only just. I would’ve been hard-pressed to take him under normal circumstances, large as he was. I couldn’t even contemplate it these days. The foreskin helped some—I always preferred getting fucked raw by uncut guys in my bottoming days. But it was a fuck I took with my bottom lip firmly between my clenched teeth, as I attempted not to cry and let him know how very close he was to making me cry uncle. Which was a pretty rare thing in those days.
Though honestly, I think he would’ve loved to hear me cry. That Sprinkler Guy was a pounder. When we met for the three years that followed it was always the same routine—the same place, the same procedure, followed by a very long and brutal assault on my hole that would end with him pushing me against the ground or into a tree trunk as he forced an enormous cum load into me.
Every single time I would stumble back down that path in the woods and to his truck, where he would give me a solicitous boost back into the passenger seat so he could drop me back to wherever I’d chained my bike. I’d wash up as best I could either in the park’s restroom or from one of the spigots in the picnic shelter, and let the breezes dry me on my ride home. My dick would always spring to attention when I’d see that battered pickup truck driving into the park, because I knew I was guaranteed to be put into my place.
The clearing, the sun, the piss, and the slamming. I loved them all.
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