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.