One Week, One Hour a Day

I was sharing a story with a friend online this week, when it struck me I'd never mentioned it here.

Some of my longer-term readers will remember the fellow I called Cunt, from my Michigan days. We were fuck buddies for a good twelve years. When I first met him he was newly gay—or newly out, relatively late in life—and still pretending to be a top.

Now, over the years I got to see Cunt stick his dick in boys' holes, but that still never made him, in my eyes, a top. It wasn't primarily how he got his jollies. His great joy in life was thrusting his ass up in the air and taking dick without even seeing it, and by the time I started writing this blog, that's exactly what we did together. Our transactions were efficient and economical. Unzip. Unload. Zip. Leave.

There was a period, though, where I played some more complicated mind games with him.

One week, three or four years back, I was talking to Cunt on the computer via instant messenger. Own me, he begged. I want you to fucking own me.

There's nothing more arousing to me than being offered that kind of control, that most essential kind of power. On a practical level, though, owning a man full-time isn't in my best interests. Where do I fit him in my already-full house, exactly? The hall closet's already full of lacrosse racquets and winter coats. If I were going to own a hole, I told him, it'd be yours.

Own me for a week, he begged. Own me for an hour a day. I just want to be owned.

Those were the words that triggered the plan.

After thinking it out in my head, I told Cunt that I was willing to own him for a week, for an hour a day. He was to be cleaned out and ready at seven in the evening, from a particular Monday night until the Sunday following. He was to be on his knees, assuming the position, at the edge of his bed precisely at seven, and was to remain there until eight. And if I chose, I would show up and fuck him.

I can't emphasize enough the notion of my choice. I made very clear to him that I had little intention of showing up nightly, though I could take advantage of all seven nights if I wanted. The point was that regardless of whether I was there or not, he was still supposed to leave the door unlocked, assume the position, and wait for me.

The first week, I showed up on Monday. I parked outside, slipped into his quiet house, found him upstairs at precisely seven on the nose, and fucked him until eight. I skipped Tuesday and Wednesday, deliberately. Thursday I returned to find him hole up and ready. Friday I skipped. Saturday and Sunday, he got more of me.

We didn't exchange a single word the entire time I was there. It was simply one man presenting himself for the other's approval and use. At the end of the week, when it was over, he emailed me with such a paroxysm of appreciation that it seemed cruel not to give it another shot. So a few weeks later, we set it up again. One week, one appointed hour a day.

Several times we enjoyed the exercise, in fact. I enjoyed mixing it up for him. One week I kept him busy by showing up every appointment but one. Another I very deliberately didn't meet any of them at all—though I did show up on the last evening to make sure he was in position, and then without a word I walked right out again.

Once in a while I'd show up with a buddy—a couple of times it was tops I knew, sometimes some guy off the internet I'd never met before—to whom I'd present Cunt as my property, and invite to use as he wished. Once I walked in with a stranger, told Cunt to take care of him, and walked out again.

The details didn't matter to Cunt. He never begged me to bring other men, or chided me for not showing, or thanked me when I did. He just basked in that freedom of being owned, for one hour of every day in a week. He floated on that freedom of knowing he didn't have to make decisions for himself during that short time, of knowing that he would be taken care of, if I so chose.

It was a lot of work for me, calculating to a hair's breadth exactly the degree of sadism involved in skipping either two or three days in a row, or dreaming up ways to keep it fresh. For him, though, it was liberating, and fulfilling in ways that in my bottom years I once could have comprehended, but were increasingly foreign to me. He loved being of use, and loved having the structure our arrangement gave him. When he heard my footsteps entering his bedroom, I could see him respond with a thrill greater than those afforded by our regular encounters.

I miss having a Cunt. I need one here.

More

I’ve said before that there are things the guy I think of as Cunt won’t do. He doesn’t suck. He doesn’t kiss. He won’t jack me off.

What he does do—and does very well—is stick his ass up in the air and wait for me to plow it. On the whole, that’s all I really need from the guy.

He’s had a proposal in mind lately that he keeps running by me. He did so again on Monday morning, messaging me with, You know what I think about? Me giving you like, a week of my life. I’ll be ready for you at a specific time every day, like seven o’clock in the evening, or right at noon. You pick. Whatever time it is I’ll be ass up on my bed or just shoving my cunt up at the front door from the stairs. If you care to take advantage, fine, I get your loads. If you don’t, I just wait for twenty minutes or so and then call it a day. What do you think?

What did I think? I thought I’d overthink it, is what I thought. On the one hand, the exercise sounded like it could be fun. Guaranteed sex for a week isn’t something I’d sniff at, and it’d be fun to blog about. (I’m always thinking of you guys—I’m a giver.) On the other, I usually like a little more variety in my sexual diet. There’s also the fact that I know Cunt is a scrupulous cleaner who starts to douche himself out two hours before every fuck. If I knew he was investing that kind of time in keeping his chute sparkling for me over the course of a week, I’d feel more or less guilted into showing up for at least half the time. And I don’t like having guilt sex. It’s not good for either party, in the end.

Plus I could already predict I’d be overanalyzing what days to show up. If we went from a Monday to a Sunday, I’d show up on the first day, of course, to start things off with a bang. But would I then have a hiatus of two days and show up Thursday, just to make sure he was still waiting for me? Or would I go Monday/Tuesday, then take a one-day break to interrupt the rhythm, then maybe bang him on Thursday/Friday/Sunday?

Anyway. It was too much to contemplate on a Monday morning. I wrote him back with a compromise. How about I just nail you now?

Yessir, he wrote. Cunt will be ready at 10.

I showed up at the Cunt’s door at ten on the dot, and let myself in. Dried oak leaves lay on the floor just inside the mat; they’d blown in during the few minutes the door had been cracked open, waiting for my arrival. I kicked them outside with my sneaker and let the door shut behind me. Up the stairs I went, making certain he could hear my every step.

I’ve seen Cunt’s face before. I know what it looks like; I could pick him out with only moderate effort from a group photo. It’s his ass I could recognize immediately in a photo of a thousand men bent over, though. I’ve fucked that ass so often over the last dozen years that I know exactly how it’s going to look, lifted up and over the bed’s edge as he kneels in position for me when I enter. His head rested on the pillows; Cunt’s long arms reached to the sides and clutched the mattress’ edges with curved, rigid knuckles. I didn’t say a thing. I shucked my jacket and let it fall on the floor, and then I kicked off my shoes. My pants slipped down to my ankles. I kicked them off. When I was left wearing only a T-shirt and my socks, I stepped up behind him and knelt down.

And then I rimmed. Cunt has such a clean ass that he’s a pleasure to eat. I like to carry the smell of him, pink and sweet, on my beard for the rest of the day, after we’ve fucked. He has a tendency to grunt, rather than moan and groan; he sounds like a pig at the trough, feeding, when I’m the one eating away. “You know I love that cunt of yours,” I said, standing up and slapping his butt.

That word has so much power for him. I can tell it sends him to a headspace in which, unlike me, he can’t overthink anything. He can’t even think. He’s transported, transformed into a receptacle, a vessel for an other’s man’s pleasure. Other men abhor the word. They can’t stand the thought of any portion of them feminized. This man doesn’t give a shit. He wants to be made something he isn’t. When he’s having sex, he’s not considering what’s masculine or feminine. He’s just craving dick. He wants to be the object of use and derision. I recognize the impulse from my own, distant bottoming days. Just when one thinks one can’t be taken any lower, degraded any more, there’ll be a touch, or a hair-pull, or a slap, that’ll do the job. Or a word. One single word.

“Cunt,” I repeat, driving in.

The bed shakes and begins to shudder across the wooden bedroom floor, pushing at the little table beyond with its nightstand boasting a copy of The Economist spread open upon it. It slid onto the floor. I don’t bother to fuck the Cunt sweetly—it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to woo it to get in. I don’t have to sweet-talk it or put it at ease. I can just fuck like an animal, banging away. I just pound, and fuck, and thrust, and do what my hips tell me to do, listening to nothing but the sounds of Cunt’s grunting and the slap of my pelvis against his expansive ass, until the first orgasm strikes.

“Feed the cunt,” he growls, greedily pushing back against me. He repeats the words over and over in a steady decrescendo as I shoot. Then, after a moment, he demand, “More. More!”

He’s insatiable, the Audrey II of the Little Shop of Whores.

I gave him more. I fucked him slowly for a while, letting the stiffness return to my road. The additional slipperiness of my cum usually does the trick for a second round; I love the slickness and the sticky sounds as I pivot in and out. The second orgasm took a good ten minutes to arrive. When it did, it was the product of sheer friction, of a fast, jackrabbit thrusting. No one would have been able to hold out long under that kind of stimulation. I had no choice but to juice him deeply. He was too insistent at getting me in deep to unload anywhere else. “More!” he growled, almost immediately.

I had already withdrawn, and fallen down on my knees to press my lips against his hole. I could taste the sweetness of the lube I’d used on the first round, mingled with the salty, slightly chlorinated taste of my semen leaking out of his hole. I sucked at his ass lips, enjoying the warm moisture of them, while he clenched and shook and tried fruitlessly to buck me off. He wanted every drop for himself.

“More?” he asked, this time as a plea.

I had one more. I fucked him slowly the last time. The first and second time were to get my nut. The third time was sheerly for the pleasure of it—to feel the warmth of his hole around my meat, to listen to the sounds with my eyes closed, and to smell the sweat and sperm. I fucked like that for long minutes. He didn’t complain—he was still getting dick, after all. Once I’d recuperated from the shock of the first two loads, the third began to build. When I let loose with it, though, it was far from explosive. It gushed, and it made me shake with the intensity of it, but it seemed to spill from me rather than blast, smooth and on schedule, and completely welcome.

“More?” he wanted to know, after a long moment in which I had to rest my chest on his back until I got my wind again.

“I’m spent.” I pushed off, flopped out, and wiped my dick on one of the towels he keeps on the bed. “You got three loads, dude.” I yanked back on my jeans, then sat down on the floor to pull on my sneakers. Cunt remained on the bed, head turned away from me. His feet were on the floor now, resting there, while his body remained splayed over the bed.

Once I was in my jacket, I did the customary phone-keys-wallet check, and slapped him on the ass again. “You got what you wanted, cunt,” I told him, and headed for the hallway.

I’d reached the top of the stairs when I heard his faint reply. “But I want more.”

Cunt

When he meets with clients, or works with the big three for the auto show, he’s known as Aaron. When he contacts me, he calls himself Cunt.

I’ve seen him in action as Aaron, the salt-and-pepper-haired daddy who commands respect as he organizes the biggest displays for the manufacturers. He wears tight dress slacks that show off his beefy butt, roped tight by an flawless black leather belt. His tailored shirts hug his body; his neckties are expensive and pristine. More often though, I’ve seen him as Cunt. Those times, he’s ass-up, hungry, and aching for my dick.

I’ve fucked Cunt for a good twelve years at this point, I’m guessing. It was shortly after I’d moved into my current home that he came over the first time. He wasn’t Cunt, then. He was a top who was relatively new to bottoming—and not very good or relaxed at it, either. Two years later he’d accepted his desires and learned how to please cock with his ass, and we settled into a more or less unvarying routine to which we stick, every time we meet.

Here are the things Cunt won’t do: kiss, suck, or use his mouth for anything but occasional replies to my commands. Here’s what he does very well: pussy up for a big dick. We don’t make love. We fuck. When I visit him, as I did Friday at dinnertime, I park in front of his exquisitely-maintained bungalow that’s only a ten-minute drive from my own home. I stroll up the manicured sidewalk, open the storm door, and find the front entrance ajar. No matter what the season, the inside of his home always smells like the ashes of fire logs, and of the oil he uses to keep shiny the leather of his living room sofas. If it’s winter, I’ll shuck my coat and my boots. Otherwise, I’ll head up the stairs and turn left, where the master bedroom door will be open.

And there he’ll be, kneeling on the bed. Ass-up, waiting, in the same position he assumed the moment I messaged to tell him I was on my way. Hole exposed and vulnerable. Cunt.

Cunt’s moved his bed to the center of the bedroom. A television rests on a ledge close by. Below the bed’s head is a bookcase, and a small stand where rests the latest issue of The New Yorker, open so that he can read while he waits for me in the position. On the bed corner rests a stack of small hand towels and a cylinder of lube.

Friday evening, when I strolled into the room and saw that familiar ass, I whistled as I kicked off my sandals. Off went my cargo shorts. I hadn’t bothered to wear underwear—just the shiny gold-colored cock ring that the Astrologist had accidentally left behind the week before. “Nice,” I said. Without any preliminaries, I knelt down on the hardwood floor and buried my face between his cheeks.

He grunted slightly as I licked at his hole. I’d asked him specifically not to pre-lube. Since the Cunt doesn’t suck or make out, I need a way to get hard, and diving into an ass with my mouth is the surest way. Cunt doesn’t have a tight little hole. There’s nothing little about that well-used chute at this point. The lips of his ass began to pucker and bulge the more I sucked at it; there came a point when I could actually seize those lips with my teeth and chew on them. It was then that I got a real reaction. Cunt began to buck and grind his hips in the air, and to drive his butt backward so that I’d have no choice but to munch on them with even more vigor.

That’s when I stood up and backed away. Cunt doesn’t get to have an opinion or a say in what happens. Cunt’s just a cunt.

I snapped open the lube bottle and, using my middle two fingers, roughly shoved a dollop of it up the hole, and then slapped some on my dick. My entry into his ass was rough; I shoved half my dick in there without warning, and then waited while he hissed and contracted around it. Once he’d calmed down a little, I shoved the rest in. I didn’t say a word as I began to stroke, very slowly, in and out.

Cunt’s ass is round and meaty. In slacks it gives the appearance of being a muscle bubble butt because of the laws of compression. Surrendered to a top, it’s revealed to be very soft and pillowy, like a woman’s ample rear. I like that. It means that when I pound hard, the ass cushions my blows. His flesh quivers and rolls every time I slam against him—the perfect physics demonstration of the properties of waves. I slapped his ass hard enough to leave big red handprints, and all Cunt did was grunt. He likes to be plowed rough. It makes him feel as if he’s of use.

“Make it tight,” I commanded. They were the first words I’d said since the one I’d let drop on my entry. Immediately Cunt attempted to tighten his hole’s muscles to grip my dick. He did a good job. It wasn’t a vise-grip hold by any means, but my dick appreciated the extra pressure. It responded by letting loose a glob of pre-cum. “Good cunt,” I whispered.

It’s only a word. It’s a word that many gay men don’t like, but to Cunt, the word holds so much power that every time I utter it, it renders him helpless. He buried his forehead in the crook of his forearm and let out a sound that was more animal than human. I reached down and scritched my nails against his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

Cunt and I only fuck in one position. He doesn’t like to lie on his back and lift his legs in the air, or to roll on his side and spoon. He’d have to show his face, to do so. He’s a handsome man by any standard, but when I’m pants-down in his bedroom, he doesn’t want to be admired, or wooed. He shuns compliments and small talk. He wants my dick, and he wants it as deep, and rough, and hard as I can give it. For several long minutes I obliged. Gradually I built the tempo, increasing the frenzy of my fucking until I felt as if I was leaving bruises on his backside. I know my pelvis was sore.

Then again, without warning, I yanked my dick out. It glistened in the early evening sun. When he whimpered, I ignored it. “I could zip up and walk out right now,” I announced. He didn’t answer, so I said it again. “I could zip up and walk the hell out right now. And then what would your hole do for dick?”

When he replied—and I knew he would—his answer was small and shamed. “Don’t.”

“”Don’t what?” I said loudly. He muttered something. “I can’t hear you, cunt.”

Again, the word had power for him. His back arched; he lifted his ass higher in the air, trying to find my dick in unseen space. “Don’t leave,” he said. I knew the words cost him. “Breed me.”

When I nudged the tip of my dick against his hole, he tried to lunge back against it. I didn’t let him. “Why should I?”

“Because I need your dick,” he said. “Because I need your dick. I’m empty without your dick. Please, sir. Give me your dick. Give me your seed. Please give me your big dick.”

It was good enough to end my bluff. I shoved my meat back inside its warm home. The little interchange had brought me closer to orgasm than even the roughest part of the fucking. I rammed home so hard that the bed began to bounce forward and lodge into the little stand at its head; the New Yorker slid from its place onto the floor. His chest thrummed as he clutched at the sheets and growled out, in his loudest and most bestial voice, “Fuckin’ breed me.”

It’s the only command I ever follow from Cunt. I unloaded in him with several sharp thrusts. The bedroom was air conditioned, but I was sweating like a pig anyway; beads of perspiration fell from my forehead and the long lanks of my hair onto his back. One more sharp jolt, and a shudder, and then I was done. I stood still for a minute and let the sparks clear from my eyes. Then I withdrew.

My dick slopped out. A glob of my cum followed. It splatted onto the floorboards with an audible plop. I followed. My knees hit the wood and my face went back into his butt. Using both hands, I parted his cheeks so that I could get at his well-fucked ass lips, which were glistening with lube and the white streaks of my load. I’ve always loved the taste of my own cum. I especially like eating it from a hole I know is guaranteed to be clean, after I’ve delivered it.

When I stood up again, my face was as wet as his ass. My beard smelled of the fuck. It wouldn’t be the first time I left Cunt’s home reeking of sex and sweat. “More?” he asked.

“Gotta go.” I stepped into my sandals and then began hauling up my cargo shorts.

“More?” he asked again.

“Gotta go,” I said, meaning it. That’s when he flipped over on his back. His dick—a big, thick knob nearly as big as mine—was rock hard and an angry red. He scooped some of the mingled fluids from his hole and rubbed them into his engorged flesh. His eyes stared into mine as he began to stroke. I paused at the sight of his big, strong forearms working so hard over his meat. His pecs bounced as he jerked. My own shorts hung just below my balls; my half-erect dick began to stiffen again.

With my right hand, I stroked it fully into hardness. I hadn’t intended to stay, but I liked showing off while he watched. I knew he was looking at my dick, and imagining it inside him. The thought made me swell. My left hand still hooked the belt loops of my shorts so that they snugly held up my balls. There was enough cum and lube on my dick that as I ran my fist back and forth over it, the sound of slickness filled the bedroom.

I stood there, and he lay, while we stroked for each other. His eyes closed. Then, wordlessly, he convulsed. I watched as a geyser of sperm flew from the tip of his dick, two feet into the air. It splattered down onto his chest and face. He made no effort to wipe it away. He shook and shuddered with his silent orgasm. I simply stroked while I watched him.

Then his eyes opened. “More?” he said, just as hungrily as he had before he’d unloaded. He flipped onto his front, then pulled in his knees and sidled to the bed’s edge. Cunt was hungry.

I paused for only a moment before replying. “Yeah,” I said, dropping my shorts on the floor with a thud, and then stepping forward. “I can do that.”