So here I am, butt making a dent in my mattress, legs spread with my laptop between them. The tiny dot of a camera in the top bezel is angled squarely at my junk. Just a typical Monday morning, right?
Whenever I get exhibitionistic on some cam site, viewers always ask me, Dude, what’s getting you so hard? Here’s the serious truth: I’m not watching porn. I’m not fixated on anyone else’s broadcast. I’m just admiring the sight of my fist clutching my meat. And right now it is seriously grabbing onto those inches. My fingers are wrapped, vise-like, at the base of the shaft, stretching out my taut, fat nuts below. The top two-thirds of my meat—yeah, not the top half, but the top two-thirds, because I’m big like that—is thick and dark red from my own grip and strain for a hole that’s nowhere near.
What gets me so hard on cam is the sight of my own rock star dick. I’m am one cock-proud, and cocky, motherfucker. This crank of mine is turning on the seventy (and climbing) spectators who are using the chat box to cheer me on and express an admiration that almost equals my own.
Fuck, I love looking at myself on cam. My shaft is slick and glistening from all the lube I’ve been slathering on these past fifteen minutes. Every now and then a bead of my own natural juices will bulge at the tip; I’ll make a show of corkscrewing my finger into it, mashing the head down hard to give the illusion I’m digging deep into the tip to retrieve it. A long spider’s thread of precum connects cock to fingertip as I lift it up and bring it to my mouth. My spectators go fucking nuts when they see the long strand, plainly visible against the background of the black tee I’m wearing specifically for this purpose.
fuck look at that precum, writes someone.
This stud could breed me anytime! messages sexykittenMO.
pvt me? write a few people at once.
I’m not looking to send private messages now, though. I like to respond to my audiences in the chat room, sure. When hungdad4sexybois tells me I look hot, I’ll wipe sticky goo from my fingers and tap back, thanks hungdad. When trucker007253 asks where I live, I’ll reply, NY, trucker. I’ll answer questions about my size and my marital status. Some shit I ignore. When I get asked if I’ve ever been caught jerking off, I refrain from the obvious answer, No, because I have ears that work. When guys ask me to pull up my feet and put them behind my head, I refrain from suggesting that they go find the Ringling Brothers if they’re looking for acrobats. The dumb shit, I just refrain from answering at all.
But damn. I sure love the sight of my image on the computer screen, choking my big fat hog and grinning like a fool while I do it. Seeing how turned on and erect I am just makes me even more turned on and erect; I’m trapped in a pleasurable feedback loop. I’m a perpetual boner machine, watching my fist slide up and down over my gleaming shaft. The bout of ego doesn’t bother me. It’s like my mom always used to say: if you’re gonna be doing some self-loving, best love yourself while you do it.
(Note: my mom never actually said that.)
Show you feet, says m4hotfems in chat.
lift up that shirt dude, says boyfordads.
Someone named torpedo announces, I’m camming too. Check me out, stud.
My enjoyment of cam rooms and sites always takes place in three acts. Act One is the slow-moving scene setter in which I turn on the cam and wait to see who starts watching. Act Two is the bulk of the show, when I have more than a couple of dozen viewers, but less than a hundred. It’s during Act Two that I can chat with the guys and gals viewing me, thank them individually for their compliments, answer their questions, grant a few of their requests, if they strike my fancy. I love Act Two.
Act Three, though, begins when the number of my viewers outstrips my ability to keep up with them. There’s something about the triple digits that pushes the whole experience over a cliff. Onscreen chat happens too fast and frequently; I have to resort to a less personal thanks guys! after a spate of compliments scroll down my screen. I get too many private messages to really keep up—it feels like I’m almost spending more time typing than showing off—and typing is not why I’m here.
Today, Act Three begins about forty-five minutes into my show. My viewership hits the triple digits, dragging me to the top half of the first page of broadcasts. Having more people in my room brings in even more people—and more of them are making demands. More of them are trying to lure my viewers to their own rooms. It’s a little bit of a clusterfuck.
I’m used to this pattern, though. I know it’s coming, the moment that little green dot above my screen blinks on. I’ve been down this road many times before. So I thank my viewers, encourage them to follow me, and sign off. Sure, I didn’t shoot . . . but my cam shows aren’t about the climax.
They’re about the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.
I stand up, stretch my stiff legs. Snap down the lid of the laptop. Time for a shower, anyway. I pad over the bedroom floor and across the hall into the bathroom, where I wash the sticky lube from my dick and let the warm water soothe my aching boner. My dick’s soft, but still hefty, by the time I’m toweling off.
I’m still damp and clutching my towel when I scoop up my phone from the end of the bed where I’d left it. Several notifications from Scruff have filled the front screen; I let my thumb unlock the phone to check them.
There’s a message from a guy less than five miles away. Were you just on cam? he’s asked, naming the site where I’d been publicly masturbating. Hot as hell if you were. Woof.
My first thought is a startled How the fuck . . . ? My Scruff profile uses my face; on the cam site I’d only presented myself from the bottom of my nose down. When I realize I’ve used the same name on both places, though, I relax. Plus, the guy’s fucking hot.
That was me. Enjoy the show?
Fuck yeah, he says. You’re amazing.
Like I said, this fellow is pretty amazing himself. Mid-thirties, body of a muscled bulldog, dark red beard. Rapidly he sends me a few shots of himself—one on the beach, tanned and sweaty, one of his round bubble butt bent over a bare mattress in a dark room. I flipped through those and the others, dick beginning to harden again.
You’re the one who’s looking amazing, I tell him.
I get dressed while I wait for the next message. I don’t have to wait long, though. I really need to give head this morning. Can’t host, though.
Honestly, the offer of head is highly attractive to me. I can’t host, either, though, and tell him so.
Kinda unsure if you’d be into this. But I’ve got a van we could meet in, and I know a place off the parkway we could do this, if you’re up for now. Before I can tap back a reply, he adds, There’s a hundred bucks in it for you.
A hundred bucks? To get blown? I ask. My dick’s now filling out the pouch of my jeans.
Two hundred if you can do it now. Might not be your bag but you’d be worth it.
Tell me where and when, I tell the guy.
I’m grinning like a fool the entire drive up there. Nah, my smile’s not about the validation the transaction implies. I don’t need validation—though it’s pleasant when I get it. I’m just thinking how god-damned funny it is still to be doing this at my fucking age. When I was a twink, sure, I could see guys shelling out their hard-earned bucks for a taste of me. But midway through my fifties? Preposterous, right?
Yet I’ve been doing this for how many decades, now? Not soliciting—never soliciting. But accepting.
And here I am, hopping into yet another suburban minivan in a parking lot with a stranger. He removes his sunglasses. That pic in his profile must’ve been very recent—he’s even wearing the same tee/hoodie combo that’s in his main photo. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he comments, as I slide into the passenger seat and pull his door shut.
“Really?” is my only question.
“Nah. Not really,” he admits. His dark eyes are looking me over. Up. Down. Mostly down, checking for signs of stirring in my crotch. “You seemed like the kind of guy who would step up to the plate. Here you are.”
“Here I am,” I agree. I’ve dressed casually. I’ve made myself easily accessible—in a parked car emergency situation, you don’t want to be fiddling with any more fasteners than you really have to. So I’ve got on a flannel shirt, unbuttoned. The dark V-neck tee I’d been wearing on cam, earlier. Jeans—no belt. I sit there with my hands at my side, letting him see everything. “You want to . . . ?” I rub my thumb over my fingers.
“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. A moment later, I’m pushing folded bills into my own pocket. “Let me see that dick again.”
“Up here?” I ask.
He looks around and rethinks his request. “Back seat. Yeah? Think it’d be better?”
I absolutely thought it would be better. There’s enough room for me to squeeze between the seats; he follows so that we’re sitting in the minivan’s back seat, where the shadows are deeper. He reaches for my groin, rubbing the flat of his hand over the taut denim.
“Fuck,” he says. “You know how many dudes wanted this dick this morning?”
I nod. “I know.”
“Now I’ve got it.”
“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” I tell him. (Honestly, it sounded better in my head.)
“You hard?” I nod again. He licks his lips. “Let me see.”
I unbutton my jeans. Unzip. Immediately my dick flops out. No underwear—like I said, in car sex, the less you have to mess with, the better. My meat is hard. Even though it’s been through a shower, it still feels moist and slightly swollen from the thorough lubing it had during the hour I’d been on cam. Kind of like a sponge swollen from an excess of fluid. And god knows my balls have an excess of fluid today.
“Shiiiiiiiiit,” he whispers, drawing out the word. My dick jumps when he reaches to take it in his hand. “That’s what I’m talkin' about.”
“All yours.”
He urges me to get comfortable. There’s only so much comfort to be had in the back seat of a minivan, but I pull myself sideways so that my back is pressing against the door’s armrest. One of my legs is up on the seat itself, and he’s got a shoulder leaning on my thigh. With my pants pulled down a few inches from my waist, my dick’s pointing at the roof when he finally opens his mouth and engulfs it. One of his hands cups my nuts.
“That what you wanted?” I ask. “That big dick in your mouth?”
His reply is a muffled gulp of pleasure.
“So make it feel good, then.”
He replies to my demand by taking all my inches down his throat. The fur of his red beard tickles against the inside of my thighs. He’s surprisingly good, this bulldog cocksucker. Fucker could have anyone he wanted if he walked into the Eagle. Yet here he is on a weekday morning, sucking off some strange dude in a suburban strip mall parking lot. I’m happy he’s enjoying himself, though—and I can tell he’s really enjoying himself. His eyes are closed as he bobs up and down on my meat. Every time he reaches the base he lets out a contented little grunt. The dude is lost in a sexual fugue, caring about nothing but the sensation of his lips around hard cock, of his throat as my engorged head stretches it. When I let loose with a glob of precum, he lets loose a rumble in his chest, at the salty taste.
The street we’re parked on is sleepy and not much traveled; it’s too early for lunch and no one’s visiting the ramshackle travel agency. The van’s back windows are tinted, and a building blocks the front windscreen, so I’m not much worried about being caught. I let out a few groans to let him know what good work he’s doing. They’re not feigned, not forced. I’m genuinely getting off on this scene. His spit is slopping out of his mouth and down the length of my shaft, drawing wet lines of sensation down my nuts as it puddles on the seat. He wraps his thumb and forefinger down at the base, making me more rigid than I already am.
Eventually he comes up for air. “Do what you did earlier,” he asks, staring directly into my eyes.
“What was that?” Earlier covers a lot of territory, for me.
“Put on a show.” He pulls himself up slightly to rest his weight on his forearms. “Stroke for me. Let me watch. Like this morning.”
There’s something so fucking arousing about the way he’s making his request. I spread my legs a little wider and spit in my hand. Then, like I’m considering the request—casually, you know, the way guys always do when they’re masturbating while thinking over proposals—I reverse my usual jack-off fist and start stroking with my thumb at the bottom, bouncing against my pelvic bone. Usually drives them wild on cam.
He’s no different. I can feel the stiff intake of breath as it stirs the wet patch on my nuts. “Fuck,” is the only word he mutters.
Yeah. I can do this. I’m aware of his intense presence between my legs, mere inches away from my crank. All my attention is focused on my dick, though. This is what he wants to see. Intense, sexual, preoccupation. I make-believe he’s not even there.
One of my hands reaches up and squeezes my own tit. My jaw drops, like I’m loving it. “Fffffffuck,” I spit out.
“Christ, you are hot,” he whispers, watching the show. “Can’t get over how I’m actually right here in front of you, watching you choke that fat dick.”
I pretend not to hear him. I spit again, apply the liquid to my slick meat. It’s red, now. Throbbing. I thwack it into my palm with a wet slap.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. “I didn’t get to see you cum on your cam show.”
“You want me to cum?” My voice is low. Deliberate. When he nods, I look at him directly. “Tell me.”
“Cum for me,” he says, excited. He hasn’t opened his pants the entire time we’ve been together, but now he reaches for his zipper and pulls out a cut five-incher that he begins to beat furiously. “Dude, please cum for me. Shoot it.”
“Yeah. I’ll shoot it.” I pull back into my cock-proud self-regard, staring at my fat prick while I pull on it. “You’d sure like that, wouldn’t you.”
“I’d take all your loads if I was lucky enough to be your boyfriend.” He’s pulled himself on his side, now, so he can whack. He’s beating so audibly that his balls are slapping against the denim of his jeans. “Take all your loads. Mouth and ass. Not a drop would touch the ground. Fuck, if I was your boyfriend, you’d be drained twenty-four/seven.”
I’m digging how deep into the fantasy he is. As he keeps talking about all the things he’d do for me if I were his boyfriend, I pick up the pace to let him now how much he’s turning me on. “I’m getting close,” I warn him.
“Feed me,” he says, abruptly shifting place to position his mouth near my cock head. “Feed your boyfriend. Fucking feed your boyfriend.” While he repeats the words, he starts ejaculating into his own cupped hand. “Fucking feed me, fuck, feed me please, motherfucker.”
“Here it comes,” I tell him. I can tell from the pulse in my nuts that it’s going to be a big one. There’s just something about the sensation of the spit and the close quarters and his insistent boyfriend chatter that’s pushing me over the edge. Obligingly I angle my dick so it’s pointing at him. His mouth opens wide to watch the flying seed. I feel his wet pursed lips close over my meat, hungrily sucking the ejaculate as it spews.
His eyes half-closed, he nurses at my softening meat. I let him. His dime, after all. Finally he wakens from his sexual reverie. “You’re going to let me do that again sometime.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Not a question. You’re definitely going to let me do that again. Soon.”
I shrug, and smile to myself. Who am I to argue? I’m already picturing another time with this guy. I’m picturing the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.
Showing posts with label cam life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cam life. Show all posts
Monday, April 9, 2018
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Just Like That
“Fucking hotel internet.” He’s leaning over his laptop. It’s no crackerjack of modern technology. The black plastic is all over thumbprints, the screen resolution is lower than an ancient GameBoy. “Is this thing working?” he asks. “Can you hear me?”
“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.
“You see me?”
“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.
The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”
“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”
The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.
“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.
“You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.
“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.
The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.
Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”
Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.
He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.
“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”
Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.
“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”
He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.
“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”
“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.
“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”
“You better make him yell,” she says.
“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.
She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”
The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”
“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”
“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”
“If he worth it. If he earn it.”
I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.
“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”
I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”
I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”
So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.
I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.
“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.
Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.
And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.
Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.
After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.
I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”
“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”
“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.
“You see me?”
“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.
The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”
“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”
The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.
“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.
“You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.
“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.
The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.
Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”
Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.
He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.
“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”
Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.
“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”
He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.
“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”
“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.
“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”
“You better make him yell,” she says.
“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.
She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”
The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”
“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”
“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”
“If he worth it. If he earn it.”
I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.
“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”
I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”
I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”
So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.
I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.
“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.
Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.
And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.
Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.
After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.
I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”
“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”
Monday, March 26, 2012
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Fag Tax
Yesterday morning I’d been on cam for about an hour, showing off my goods in a lascivious manner for any and all to see, and I’d amassed over two hundred and sixty viewers—men and women both, enough viewers in total to vault me onto the site’s front page. It was also so many viewers that I’d more or less given up trying to chat in the room associated with each camera, because the messages were flying by too rapidly. I’m about the politest of men who displays his penis and body to strangers on the internet, and I try to respond to everyone who asks a question, and to give my thanks to those who bless me with compliments, so giving up was really a last resort. Then I got a private message from someone: Your dick is fucking amazing, sir.
And because I am the most polite of exhibitionists, I replied. Thank you.
It is truly the superior tool of an alpha male, he messaged back. Other men should bow before you and recognize your superiority.
My natural instinct with this sort of compliment is simply to ignore it as overblown (though, you know, not untrue or anything), but instead, I simply wrote back, Damn right.
May I offer you a tribute to your superiority? he asked. I didn’t know what he meant, so I simply typed back a question mark. I would like to make a deposit to your PayPal account. It was such an oddball request that I didn’t respond right away, so he typed, I get off on offering tributes of money to superior men. I can try to explain if you want.
Explain, I said.
There are others like me who worship superior alpha men such as you, he wrote. (Shut up, those of you who know me. I hear your snickering.) Since I cannot express my admiration and abasement in person the least I can do is give you cash. Please sir. It is even more fulfilling than sex to me to give my tributes.
I’d heard of the concept of cash slaves before—usually internet-only relationships between a submissive type and a dominant involving the exchange of cash for verbal abuse and perhaps some on-camera sex play—but I’d always thought of them as a mythical thing or at least something that would never impinge on my life. I got him to email me his photo, so I could see what I was dealing with. He sent me several shots of himself—a good-looking guy in his mid-twenties. A boy-next-door type. White, attractive, and buttoned-down. So what is this shit? I asked. You want to pay me your fag tax or something?
Oh fuck. Yes sir, he wrote back. Please let me pay. Let me pay my fag tax.
Out of curiosity I asked, How much?
Would $40 be sufficient for sir?
Holy fuck, is that all I’m worth to you? I typed.
I will give you $60, he wrote. Of all the lessons I learned from my teenaged whoring around, though, it’s to recognize a soft negotiating price. $75. Please, sir.
I don’t think so, I typed back. Then I dug my finger into the tip of my penis and withdrew a long, sticky stream of pre-cum that I pulled into the air. On my broadcast screen I could see a silvery, gleaming thread that bowed into an arc before it snapped. My public room chat screen filled with appreciative comments.
Fuck, wrote my would-be cash slave. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Ten minutes later I had a hundred more dollars in my Paypal account. He’d checked off ‘services’ as the reason for payment. The little memo he wrote read, Paying my fag tax.
And because I am the most polite of exhibitionists, I replied. Thank you.
It is truly the superior tool of an alpha male, he messaged back. Other men should bow before you and recognize your superiority.
My natural instinct with this sort of compliment is simply to ignore it as overblown (though, you know, not untrue or anything), but instead, I simply wrote back, Damn right.
May I offer you a tribute to your superiority? he asked. I didn’t know what he meant, so I simply typed back a question mark. I would like to make a deposit to your PayPal account. It was such an oddball request that I didn’t respond right away, so he typed, I get off on offering tributes of money to superior men. I can try to explain if you want.
Explain, I said.
There are others like me who worship superior alpha men such as you, he wrote. (Shut up, those of you who know me. I hear your snickering.) Since I cannot express my admiration and abasement in person the least I can do is give you cash. Please sir. It is even more fulfilling than sex to me to give my tributes.
I’d heard of the concept of cash slaves before—usually internet-only relationships between a submissive type and a dominant involving the exchange of cash for verbal abuse and perhaps some on-camera sex play—but I’d always thought of them as a mythical thing or at least something that would never impinge on my life. I got him to email me his photo, so I could see what I was dealing with. He sent me several shots of himself—a good-looking guy in his mid-twenties. A boy-next-door type. White, attractive, and buttoned-down. So what is this shit? I asked. You want to pay me your fag tax or something?
Oh fuck. Yes sir, he wrote back. Please let me pay. Let me pay my fag tax.
Out of curiosity I asked, How much?
Would $40 be sufficient for sir?
Holy fuck, is that all I’m worth to you? I typed.
I will give you $60, he wrote. Of all the lessons I learned from my teenaged whoring around, though, it’s to recognize a soft negotiating price. $75. Please, sir.
I don’t think so, I typed back. Then I dug my finger into the tip of my penis and withdrew a long, sticky stream of pre-cum that I pulled into the air. On my broadcast screen I could see a silvery, gleaming thread that bowed into an arc before it snapped. My public room chat screen filled with appreciative comments.
Fuck, wrote my would-be cash slave. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Ten minutes later I had a hundred more dollars in my Paypal account. He’d checked off ‘services’ as the reason for payment. The little memo he wrote read, Paying my fag tax.
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