I.O.U.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?” I ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curtain Call

The man was waiting outside his townhouse the next night, sitting on the stoop where sidewalk met street. His legs were spread wide, protruding from enormous, baggy basketball shorts that hung as twin caverns around them. When I stepped from my car and approached, he just nodded.

"What's up?" I asked. The cicadas overhead were infinitely louder in Virginia than Connecticut. I could barely hear myself talk over their clamor.

He'd been toying with something in his hands. "You want that li'l thug to yourself?" he asked.

My dick twitched at the notion. I'd just been with this pair—the black man and his younger lover—the night before. I'd walked away drained and, at the same time, craving more. When he'd left a message for me asking if I was free again that evening, I'd made my excuses at my dad's and driven the short mile to the man's place once more. "Is that an option?" I asked, keeping my voice steady over the quickening of my heart.

He tossed to me the little object with which he'd been toying, in an arc I could see only by the light of the streetlamp overhead. I opened my hand. It was a key, attached to a ring. "How long you need?" he said, pulling himself up.

"I've only got a couple of hours."

"Go on in there then, white boy," he said gruffly, jerking his head in the direction of the door. "Leave him the way you find him when you done." He started strolling down the street, walking slightly bow-legged, though whether from habit or the previous night's session, I didn't know.

The house was quiet when I entered. I left my shoes at the bottom of the steps, along with the multiple pairs of running and basketball shoes that cluttered the lowest treads. The bottom I found in his bedroom, lying on his full-sized bed. The night before we'd played in the older man's room, in his larger and more comfortable mattress. Though this darkened room contained all the playtoy's things, his books and video games and collectible action figures, it almost seemed more like a guest room than the older man's room, where all the action clearly took place.

The bottom lay as he had the night before, gagged and bound, face-down, on the mattress. I could tell he tried to crane his head and look at me over his shoulder at the sound of my footstep. My dick swelled hard at the sight of him there, barely visible in the dark, ankles and wrists helpless and tied. I could've used him any way I wanted, and his owner wouldn't have known. Or minded, for that matter.

I removed my shirt, and unbuckled my jeans. I took off my underwear and my socks, and sat on the bed's edge. My hand moved up to stroke the young man's head, with its covering of stubbly hair. The rest of his body was perfectly smooth. My palm moved down over his narrow shoulders, the curve of his back where it arched up to his ass, the round perfection of his butt. He stirred beneath my touch, like a sleeper in a dream.

Then I reached up with both hands and untied the gag around his head. The knot was difficult to navigate at first, but I managed at last to withdraw the ends from each other and pull the cloth gently from his mouth. I undid his wrists, setting aside the velcro restraints, and then the ankles. He rolled over onto his back, and pulled himself up to the head of the bed. His big, dark eyes regarded me with an expression somewhere between fear and desire. "Don't worry," I told him, my voice quiet in the dark. "You're still going to get my dick."

He let loose one short, sharp nod as he stared between my legs. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

"Tonight we do it my way, though," I told him. The room was quiet. I could barely hear the raucous huzz of the August cicadas outside. "You cool with that?" He nodded. "Good."

He was light enough that I could pull him close to me easily. My dick slipped naturally between his legs and prodded at his hole as I held the back of his head and pulled his mouth to mine. He was a natural good kisser, but seemed out of practice, as if he didn't get to do it very often. That may have been the reason why he seemed so hungry for it. Within seconds he transformed from passive recipient to aggressive beast, matching me passion for passion. His body pressed against mine. His small dick, erect, uncut, and rigid as building stone, pressed against the bottom of my ribcage.

"Suck me," I begged, after a while. He didn't need to be ordered, or restrained. He dived between my legs and took as much of my dick in his mouth as he could—a considerable amount. The tightness of his lips around my shaft made me hiss with pleasure and grind my hips into the air. My head hung over the mattress' edge; I let the blood rush to my brain as for long minutes he licked and slurped up and down my meat, my balls, and the inside of my thighs. When his tongue lapped at my hole, I couldn't take any more.

Flipping him over was easy; I've had more problem with slices of frying bacon. "You know I love fucking you when you man lets me," I growled in his head. He nodded. My dick head, swollen like a plum, was poised at his ass. It parted the cheeks and nudged the hole. "You like it when I fuck you?"

A hesitation. Then, he nodded again. "I think you like it," I growled. "I just think you don't like admitting it so much."

Another hesitation. Then another nod.

He wasn't so silent as I drove inside him. Though I'd driven lube inside his hole with my fingers, and though I'd applied it liberally to my cock, he still let out a cry as I worked it slowly but firmly in. "Stop that," I warned him, again worried that someone would hear through the townhouse's shared walls. Then, a moment later, when I was most of the way in and giving him a break, I leaned down to whisper in his ear, "Does it hurt?" He nodded. "I can't fucking hear you."

"Yes," he whimpered. "It hurts." I could hear the tears in his voice.

"Do you want me to stop?"

I withdrew a quarter-inch, as if it were a real possibility. "No," he said at last. The syllable was even more desperate than the three that had come before it. I pulled out a little more. "No!" he protested, genuinely distressed that I might withdraw.

When I pushed in the rest of the way, he grabbed the pillow and let loose his cry of ecstatic agony into one of its corners.

I fucked him on his belly for a while until, like the night before, his ass finally stopped resisting me and relaxed completely. When I was sliding in and out without that extra resistance, I pulled us both into a kneeling position. My arms supported him upright, beneath his armpits; his hands clutched at the back of my head, holding on for dear life as I continued to rabbit in and out of his tight, smooth hole.

From time to time his head would loll back onto my shoulder. His lips would abstractedly reach out to touch mine, but he seemed lost, enraptured, caught up in a private ecstasy from which I and the rest of the world had faded. His tiny nipples hardened; the skin beneath my hands quickened into gooseflesh. Then his breath caught, his back arched, and his body began to shake and quiver on and around my hard dick. My traveling fingers grasped his pulsing dick as his body continued to wrack and shake and convulse. Then he bit his lip, laughed a little, and closed his eyes as I continued to fuck him.

I fucked for most of those two hours. Five times I brought him to orgasm. Each time, he jerked and convulsed and became lost in his own private enjoyment, and then relaxed with closed eyes as I continued to drive into him. We kissed; I growled obscenities in his ear and egged him on with every orgasm.

Then I pulled out. "Eat it," I commanded. My dick was slick with lubes and juices, and had seemed to grow by an inch or two from the long, relentless fucking. The youth got on all fours, grabbed my meat with his hand, and took it into his mouth. Almost immediately, at the sight of him on all fours hungrily gobbling me down, I began to shoot. I held the back of his head to ensure he didn't try to evade the load, and listened to him gag and choke on the enormous load spurting directly down his throat. I let him catch his breath. Without prompting, he went back down on the meat, cleaning it off, sucking out every last drop, until at last it softened and we both lay there, in the dark, in the quiet.

I was sitting on the stoop where sidewalk met street when the man returned, smelling of beer. "Left him as I found him," I said, tossing back the keys.

The look on the man's face was satisfied. I could see him imagining what had transpired in his absence. "He give you any trouble?" he asked.

I shook my head. No, he hadn't been any trouble at all.

The Performance

"Damn, this booty missed you." When the man's palms hit his cheeks with a loud slap, it resounds through the small townhouse bedroom like a whipcrack. His ass is a model of perfection, round as a basketball, smooth, and shiny, even in the dim light of the low-watt bulb in the hallway. It jiggles and bounces. The performance has begun.

He's a small man who comes up only to my nipples, but he's strong enough to crack me in half. Small, but powerful. The first time I met him, four years ago, he greeted me at his door shirtless, his chest a blueprint of homebrewed muscles and barely-visible tattoos that sloped down to a flat, flat abdomen punctuated by an outie of a navel. His hips were so narrow that it didn't seem at all affected that the waist of his jeans hung around the bottom of that round, protruding ass, inches below his cheap red checkered boxers. It was as if they could have fallen off when he'd risen to answer the door.

I'd marveled at his body then, even as I marveled at it now. "You gotta visit that daddy of yours more often, baby," he half-whispers, in a seductive pose on the bed. Like girders, his arms are, his biceps sinew and steel. He grinds his hips into the mattress. "'Cause I know when you visit your daddy, this nigga get what he need."

I'm still completely clothed. I make a show of unbuckling my belt, of kicking off my shoes, of slithering out of the denim sheathing my legs. "What do you need?" I ask him, once I'm naked.

"That big hard dick." He reaches out and grabs it. His lips open, his mouth gapes to accommodate my meat. Scarcely has he ingested it than he chokes and backs off. When he looks at me, it's with affront written clearly over his face. "Can't even get that shit in my mouth," he complains.

"Try again," I suggest, nodding at him. He's putting on an act, of course. The fucker knows how to suck me. I visit my dad's home town two or three times a year, and usually see this guy once or twice each visit. By now, his mouth knows its way up and down my inches. His throat has felt the spray of my load against its backmost corners.

But he likes to put on the performance. He likes to pretend it's too big. His eyes bulge and water as he spears me into his throat once more. He sucks, and grunts to himself as he rubs his privates against the bed, humping the corner obscenely. His thrusting only makes his ass cheeks gleam in the light. They part, revealing the dark cleft within. "Yeah," I said, utterly turned on. "Just like that."

"You want this booty," he tells me after a while. He's still putting on a show. "C'mon. Take it. Take what you own."

He's already in position on the bed, his hidden rod pressing hard against the mattress' rounded corner, his ass parted and ready. It smells like a man's sweat, and of his private places. He hisses loudly when I lick it for a few moments. "Put it on in," he begs. His eyes are half-closed, heavily lidded. "Put what you got all up inside."

When I slide in, he playacts again. "Damn!" he yells, so loudly that I worry his neighbors might hear. His hands clutch the bedsheets, creasing them where he tugs and pulls. His eyes are wide open, now, unnaturally white against the dark. He's reacting as if I've shoved a red-hot poker up his fundament. "You tearing me up!" he protests, writhing in mock pain. When he rises to his knees, to lift his ass up, his massive cock swings down onto the bed. He's easily ten inches, maybe eleven. Most of the time, though, it's almost as if his dick's not there. All he really cares about is his hole. He shakes his head as if to clear it of the pain.

Then he turns to the figure lying motionless at the head of the bed. "You gonna yell when it your turn," he warns.

I, too, stare at the bottom as I fuck. It's for that sole audience member we're putting on the show, for the bound figure watching us both. The younger man's wrists and ankles have been restrained with velcro cuffs before I arrived; his mouth is split by a white cloth fastened tightly at the back of his head. The man's playtoy is always there when I arrive, sometimes bound, sometimes simply lying on the bed they've shared for years. He's not new to me—not at all. But every time I roll into town, we play out this scene as if it's new.

"You so big, baby!" cries out the man, gritting his teeth in exaggerated pain. The half-fiction to which we all subscribe is that if my dick's huge enough to make a muscular, strong man like this struggle, it's going to be sheer hell for his younger lover. "You hurt this ass so good. So good," he repeats, drawling out the last word.

I fuck him loud and hard, keeping my eyes steadily on the bound plaything. You're next, says my gaze.

I pull out of his older partner before I shoot. My dick slides out, covered with juice and spit and lube. The man lets out a long groan, as if he couldn't have stood it for another moment. Saying nothing, I stride to the head of the bed and yank at the bottom's arm. He slides across the bed like a sack of potatoes, his head lolling with every jerk. He's already been lubed—fucked, even?—when I finger him. I don't bother with preliminaries. I yank him into position, grab my dick, and aim it at the tight hole.

"You're in for it now, boy," says the man, shaking his head. He's still making a show of recovering from my fuck. He pulls himself onto his side as if he can't stand. "Better you than me. That's what I say. Better you than me!"

When I shove inside, the bottom's eyes fly open, just as his lover's had. "Yeah," says the older man, observing. "Take that big white dick."

The bottom makes a pretense of struggling, just for a moment, as I pass the halfway mark. But then it's in, sinking home, opening him wide. I yank him to his knees. The man thrusts his broad hand between his legs. His fingertips brush against my hard meat as I start to slide in and out of that impossibly tight hole. Impossible, in that his lover's dick should have stretched him sloppy long before now. "Look how hard he is," says the man, as he yanks my hand underneath his playtoy.

The dick there is rock hard. It always is. It responds to entry, to being opened wide. He can't help it. "He likes it," I shrug, as if it's no big deal.

"Oh yeah, he liking it," repeats the older man, staring.

This is the meat of the performance. While the bound bottom grunts and attempts to grapple with my fierce penetrations, his lover grinds his jaw and watches with obvious relish. "You feel that, don't you?" he asks, his face close to his partner's. "I know you feeling that. You can't help but feeling that. You want it? You want him to fuck harder?" He's growling the words in his lover's ear so insistently that the younger man can't do anything but whimper and acquiesce. Through the gag he forces some helpless words, all unintelligible. "Fuck him," says the man. "Do what you want."

What I want is what he wants, roughly. I grapple with the bottom as he tries to squirm away once more. It's for show, at this point. As badly as the older man wants the younger to fear my dick, the younger wants the older to think I'm too much for him. I'm just a bit actor in the drama between them, the strolling actor-for-hire who runs through his part, takes his bow, and leaves. I pry his ass apart, shoving my dick deeper inside. He takes all but the last inch, and I work in the last bit of flesh while the man watches in satisfaction. He clucks when I'm all the way in. His own dick, heavy and log-like, drips with pre-cum. He strokes it laciviously while he watches me.

For long minutes I nail the bottom into the mattress. His grunts are automatic, less a product of will than of physiology. His hole deepens and loosens with every thrust. Sometimes, when I go in at a certain angle, he yelps out through the gag in what sounds like genuine surprise and distress. The occasional cries only heighten the man's arousal. He's next to me, now, stroking his dick over his lover's head, planting small kisses on my neck and twisting my nipples. He's doing what it takes to get me off, and it's working.

I shoot hard. My hips buckle forward, propelling me inside the bottom to his deepest recesses. He attempts to clamber forward on his elbows and knees, but it's too late; my weight pins him down as my dick pulses and swells, over and over. I unload in the tight hole, breathing heavily, my blood rushing so hard in my head that I can barely hear the older man's obscenities as he unloads all over his younger lover.

His cum flies everywhere, covering the bottom with the thick, creamy fluid. "Damn!" he yells. "Damn! Day-um!" He pushes me off the bottom's ass so that my dick slides out with a plop, then roughly shoves his own fingers inside. When he withdraws them, they're coated with my seed. He baptizes himself with the stuff, on his nipples, chest, and then finally on his lips. "Damn!"

I stand up and nod. It’s my bow, my curtain call. But then the man says, "Let me get you some water, so you can do it again."

Then I know there's a second act to come.