This will be my last installment on the pig party from last Saturday. I was there for so long, and the evening had several moods. It was difficult to roll them all into one entry.
There was a moment before the sex started, though, when all of us were down in the basement and outside of the dungeon door, removing our clothes. I was talking to Chaz, whom I’d very much enjoyed at the first of Hardy’s pig parties. When we weren’t fucking that first night, we’d spent a lot of time on Hardy’s sofa, talking about concerts we’d both attended and musical groups we admired. We were kind of catching up, Saturday night, as we removed our clothing at the bottom of the stairs, when out of the blue he asked, “So does Mike ever come with you to these things?”
“Mmmmike?” I repeated, not really understanding. Hardy’s friend, out-of-town Mike, was standing across the room. “He’s from Ohio. He’s Hardy’s friend, not mine.”
“Not that Mike,” said Chaz, gesturing with his head to the guy near us. “Your Mike. Mikey.”
I blinked several times, and realized exactly who he was talking about. I also realized that Chaz was letting me in on the fact he knew what Mikey was to me. “Oh. Mike. Well, I’m sure he would, but he and Hardy don’t know each other.”
Hardy was walking down the stairs, carrying bowls with the snacks I’d brought. “Who is this?” he asked, overhearing.
I opened my mouth to speak, though I didn’t know exactly what I planned to say. Chaz stepped in and smoothly announced, “One of his friends.” There was a certain flatness to the word ‘friends’ that let me know, if I’d had any lingering doubts, that Chaz had talked to Mikey at some point.
It wasn’t until later in the evening, after I’d fucked everybody there and fisted both out-of-town Mike and Hardy, that Chaz and I got a chance to talk again. We sat on the sofa, naked. Our limbs were intertwined together. He reached up and rubbed the back of my neck, hard, making me purr like a kitten. Hardy had laid down a towel on the cushions on my other side, and was leaning against me. “So I’m the only person who didn’t get to be in a sling tonight,” I said, after a moment.
The Silver Fox and out-of-town Mike were still playing with each other across the room. We watched them idly. “Did you want to be in a sling?” asked Chaz.
I kind of did, actually. If someone had offered to give me a really good rim job in one, I would’ve hopped right up. I would’ve tried the deceptively simple wrist restraints, and put my feet in the straps. No one asked, though, and I worried slightly about what would have happened after that, so I kept my mouth shut on the topic. “I got in my first sling at the age of fifteen,” I told them.
“No way,” said Chaz.
“Get out,” said Hardy. I nodded. It was the truth. “How old were you when you started messing around with guys?”
“Twelve,” I told them. “Started getting fucked at twelve, started whoring at fourteen, first sling at fifteen.”
They seemed both delighted and appalled by the confession. “I had a friend who put himself through school with money he made whoring himself,” he said. “He got me into it for two weeks because he told me it was easy cash. I didn’t like it, though. I wasn’t cut out for it.”
I grinned. “In my mid-twenties I actually made the down-payment on my first house with money I earned from selling myself in my teens.”
“Oh my god. You.” Hardy hopped to his feet, cracked his knuckles, and wandered off. I could tell he didn’t know whether to believe me or not.
Chaz ruffled my hair. “Was Mikey your first sling?”
I laughed. “No. Hardly.” Since we were alone, I decided to ask. “You know that Mike’s more than my friend, right?”
“He told me. We talked.” His hand reached down to my dick and began to stroke. After about four hours of non-stop action I was a little worn down, but I had enough oomph in me to get hard again.
“Okay. As long as you aren’t freaked by it?”
“I was surprised, but not really surprised,” he admitted. “My brother and I were active with each other when we were kids.”
“Younger or older?”
“He was older. So you and I are both younger brothers. Cool. Yeah, we played around for about four years, then he went totally straight. He’s married now, two kids. I try talking to him, but there’s always something left unsaid between us. I know he’s got to think about it. We just never talk in that direction.” When I let my hand drift down to between his legs, I discovered that Chaz was rock hard again as well. “So when Mike told me that you two . . . well, I kind of gathered you still do stuff.” I inclined my head to agree. “It’s hot.”
“Guys either find it totally hot, or totally repellant,” I admitted.
“I think my brother worries, when he looks at me. When he looks at me. . . .”
“. . . You think he’s worrying that he made you what you are? I think Mikey worries about that a lot.”
I’d spoken too soon, and wrongly. “No, I think he worries I might come on to him,” said Chaz. He thought about it a minute. “Maybe I should. Maybe I should just grab him and bone him. Bone the shit out of him.”
His voice was kidding, but his dick was not. “Mikey tends to be very competitive with me. We . . . compare notes,” I said. “Talk about things. Guys. After I tell him I’ve been with a man, three days later I’ll find out he’s sweet-talked his way there too.”
“Hilarious,” said Chaz, squeezing me. He kissed me. “And hot.”
“Mark my words. By Tuesday you’ll be writing me an email to say he’s been over to your place. It’ll happen.”
Hardy wandered back then with a drink, so we changed the topic to other, more general things. The Fox and out-of-town Mike finished up their fuck, and collapsed on the floor near us. The party was due to break up soon. We all could sense it, but we sat there for a few minutes and shot the shit until our heads had cleared enough to dress and go on our ways. “Say hi to Mike for me,” said Chaz as we parted.
“Who’s this other Mike person you guys keep talking about?” Hardy asked.
This time, both Chaz and I spoke simultaneously. “A friend.”
“Three days,” I told him, as I waved goodbye and walked off down the dark suburban street where I’d parked my car. “Mark my words.”
I got an email from Chaz, Monday night. It only took two, he wrote.
Showing posts with label hardy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hardy. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Happy Hole
I do it because I like to hear the man’s body speak.
When people look at one of my online profiles and see I’m into fisting, a lot of them automatically assume, or fear, that I’m one of those cigar-chompin’, leather-wearin’, shit-talkin’ top men who doesn’t take guff and prefers to be called ‘sir’ even in my downtime. Those who’ve never experienced fist-fucking tend to assume it’s one of the nastiest extremes of sex, an invasive and degrading procedure that forever renders a guy submissive and unable to control his bowel movements. Some of them assume, and state right up front, that I’m going to turn every encounter into a handballing session. (“I’m not into that if it’s a requirement!”)
A lot of the fisting porn that’s out there doesn’t really erase any of the impression that it’s a sexual variation performed by anyone other than the most hardened, muscular, and depraved of homosexuals. I have a friend from college who, I found out many years later, started making fisting films. All the descriptions from the video company talk about his scenes with a language that’s extreme and provocative. He doesn’t merely get fisted in the movies he’s made. He bends over like a bitch! And has his boypussy turned into gaping manflaps! By big, brutal meaty paws! That hole-punch him to a whimpering, wide-open man-whore!
Yeah, I’d be running away from fisters too, if I thought my hole was going to be reduced to gaping manflaps. Jesus. I’m not hardened, or outstandingly muscular. Depraved, maybe. But fisting’s not like that at all. At least, it doesn’t have to be.
Take Hardy, for example. The guy takes major things up his ass. The shelving unit of toys he keeps in his basement has a bin full of giant dildos, buttplugs the general size of traffic cones, and one of those life-sized latex arms that I suspect most stores stock only as a novelty item. He loves to be fisted. And he loves the way I fist him.
For me, fisting is less about invasive hole-punching and more about creative, sensual, hand-and-ass play. It’s slow, and quiet. It’s intimate and reflective. Meditative, even.
When Hardy hopped up into his leather hammock the other night and let his feet rest in the stirrups, I put a towel on the chair at the sling’s base and made myself comfortable. Hardy had already laid a bowl of shortening at arm’s reach. Next to it sat a rubber squeeze-bulb of a thick, clear lubricant with an eight-inch long, thin neck. Once we were both settled, I reached into the shortening, scooped up three fingers of it, and started rubbing it onto and in Hardy’s hole.
Two fingers. That’s all I insert inside him to begin. He receives them easily. I’d just finished fucking him only moments before, so he’s still open and sticky. I ease in as much of the white, fluffy goop as possible, turning my fingers around and around. He sighs, and I know I can move on.
Three fingers. My thumb and pinkie act as a natural base as I ease my fingers in and out. I like keeping my face close to the hole, when I’m opening it slowly. It’s not that I have to be close to hear the sounds of Hardy’s gentle moaning, or to smell the Crisco, but I like being near to him, when I’m doing this. The sling’s a fine place to give me easy access to a hole, but I’ve fisted most men in their beds, and I hold them in the same way; I like to be as close to them as possible, so that this is an experience we’re sharing. Not an operation. Not something I’m performing on them.
I like laying a hand upon my partner’s stomach as I move in and out, sometimes. I can feel his body speak to me this way. When he’s tense, before he’s ready for more, his stomach will be tight and distended. As he relaxes, his breathing becomes deeper and more regular, and that’s when I know it’s all right to proceed.
Four fingers. When my pinkie joins the others, I scoop up more shortening from the bowl with my free, left hand. With my index and middle finger, I smooth more of around my knuckles, and push it deeper into Hardy’s widening hole. Only my thumb is on the outside, now. He can feel immediately the difference, and his stomach distends again. I hear him take a deep breath as my fingers compress into a column and move in and out, in and out, in a slow and deliberate motion. The girth of my four longest fingers is really no more than of my dick. Any resistance he has at this point is sheerly mental, as he envisions how my hand must look as it disappears into him. I rest my head upon the inside of his thigh, closing my eyes and enjoying the sensation of his flesh around my skin.
Five fingers. Again I slather on more of the Crisco with my free hand, then wipe it on a towel. My thumb takes its place with my other fingers, nestling in the hollow they’ve created for it. The shortening that I add all around the circumference of my hand now reaches almost to my wrist. My knuckles gently nudge against his hole, causing his breathing to become more shallow. He shifts uneasily, knowing what comes next.
With my left hand, I pick up the rubber squeeze bottle. My thumb eases out, and the long neck replaces it. I ease the black nozzle into his ass and give the bulb a squeeze until I can feel a puddle of cool liquid around my fingertips. When the bottle’s on the floor once more, my thumb again takes its place. My left hand returns to his stomach, feeling its rise and fall. Hardy’s fingers entwine around mine as he holds on—though I don’t know whether for comfort, or support, or simply because he wants us to be as close as possible at that moment. This part is the most difficult, here at the widest part of my hand. Yet it’s not that difficult at all. He trusts me enough to relax. We’ve been down this route before together, and he knows I won’t hurt him. I compress my knuckles and fingers to make them as narrow as possible, and rub my forehead against his thigh to remind him I’m there. Then I slide in to the wrist.
I can’t imagine what he feels on his end. I’ve never bottomed for a hand. I’ve been curious, yes, but I can barely take a finger without regretting it. He’s clearly enjoying himself, though. Without seeing I can tell that his neck has arched and carried his head back. He groans with pleasure, and his skin comes alive with gooseflesh. No, I don’t know what he feels, but I know that this is the truly pleasurable part for me. It’s an unfortunate analogy, but once I’m in to the wrist, fisting is a lot like playing in mudpies. Not because of the color of what normally comes out of that orifice, but because the sensation is much like plunging my hand into something soft, and wet, and warmed by the sun. It’s a sheerly tactile pleasure that has nothing to do with my dick, which I can endlessly enjoy for its own sake.
Once I’m this far into Hardy, I like to vary the sensations he’s feeling. He’s fond of my twisting my hand the most; I rotate it as far as I can without going much deeper. Each pass of my knuckles causes him to shiver and moan. When I’m this close to him, this deep inside, I can feel the pulse of his heart; I can hear when it quickens or when it settles back into its steady rhythm. Though I quicken the pace of my turning wrist, I never speed up to the point that it’s outright fast. This experience we’re sharing is not one intended to be speedy. It’s quiet, and slow, and deliberate, and as intimate as two men can be.
I keep my eyes closed as I penetrate further into him. There’s no need to look at what I’m doing, save for the moments when I apply more grease to my arm or side the rubber nozzle back inside him to douche his hole with a dose of the cool and viscous lube. All I need to know I can learn from the sounds he’s making, the pace of his breathing, and the motion of his body. He’s grinding his hips slightly as I twist and slowly push my way in, accepting more flesh at his own pace. From time to him his fingers still grasp at mine, or he’ll pull my free hand to his lips and kiss the fingertips. Once in a while I’ll rub my beard over the skin of his leg, or kiss the inside of his thigh, just to remind him I’m still present.
It’s not a necessary reminder, though. He knows I’m there. It’s hard to miss me. He’s relaxed enough now that there’s no issue in sliding in and out. I’ve been in holes where it’s been difficult to find that natural passage inside, but Hardy’s never given me a problem. The mere fact that I can find my way deeper inside him without having to search merely heightens the intimacy between us. When I withdraw my arm to the wrist, the dungeon’s cool air creates a chill on my skin. It feels a little bit like leaving the depths of my hot tub on a chilly winter’s night, so I move back inside, to be warm again. This is not an invasion. It’s a completeness between us. A slow and steady exploration of trust.
“How far are you in me?” he asks at last. It sounds as if he’s drowsy, or has woken from a deep sleep to ask his lover a simple question. “Show me,” he says, guiding my fingers to his own arm.
Without looking, I feel up past his fingers and wrist. An inch below the crook of his elbow, I stop. I make a circle with my left thumb and forefinger there.
“Oh, wow. Amazing,” he says. Then, a little bit after, as if he’s drifting back off, “Happy hole. Happy . . . hole.”
My motion now is constant and steady, but still slow. I twist slip in and feel him part for me, warm and wet. I slip out, and feel the circulating air on my skin and the pull of his hole, beckoning me back in. On and on it goes, for long minutes. Just the quiet, and the warmth, and the wetness.
I’m perhaps halfway inside when I can feel his ass pushing me back out. His body is telling him he’s had enough, and I honor it. He wants to expel me all at once, but that’s not a good thing; I exert a steady pressure to keep him from pushing too hard and too fast, and withdraw slowly and deliberately. My arm emerges inch by inch, and then my wrist. My knuckles. My fingers. Their tips. His hole contracts, then widens, then contracts again, and I smooth my fingers over it. He sighs. It’s done.
Saturday night I spent perhaps almost an hour on Hardy’s hole, while the others played and watched. When it was done and I’d wiped him free of the grease with a hand towel, I walked out of the dungeon and went to wash my forearm in the warm water of the laundry tub. The water was hotter in temperature than Hardy’s ass, but the warmth didn’t sustain itself. It vanished too quickly, as I dried off.
When I returned to the dungeon area to settle down and relax for a while, Hardy was padding around with big smile. He came up to me from behind and gave me a hug, then kissed me. “Happy hole,” he said, as satisfied as a little boy on Christmas. “Thank you so much.”
“No. Thank you,” I said, meaning it. “You know I love that with you.”
I watched him bounce off to get a snack with a lightness in his step. “Happy hole,” he repeated, over and over again, as he hugged himself.
When people look at one of my online profiles and see I’m into fisting, a lot of them automatically assume, or fear, that I’m one of those cigar-chompin’, leather-wearin’, shit-talkin’ top men who doesn’t take guff and prefers to be called ‘sir’ even in my downtime. Those who’ve never experienced fist-fucking tend to assume it’s one of the nastiest extremes of sex, an invasive and degrading procedure that forever renders a guy submissive and unable to control his bowel movements. Some of them assume, and state right up front, that I’m going to turn every encounter into a handballing session. (“I’m not into that if it’s a requirement!”)
A lot of the fisting porn that’s out there doesn’t really erase any of the impression that it’s a sexual variation performed by anyone other than the most hardened, muscular, and depraved of homosexuals. I have a friend from college who, I found out many years later, started making fisting films. All the descriptions from the video company talk about his scenes with a language that’s extreme and provocative. He doesn’t merely get fisted in the movies he’s made. He bends over like a bitch! And has his boypussy turned into gaping manflaps! By big, brutal meaty paws! That hole-punch him to a whimpering, wide-open man-whore!
Yeah, I’d be running away from fisters too, if I thought my hole was going to be reduced to gaping manflaps. Jesus. I’m not hardened, or outstandingly muscular. Depraved, maybe. But fisting’s not like that at all. At least, it doesn’t have to be.
Take Hardy, for example. The guy takes major things up his ass. The shelving unit of toys he keeps in his basement has a bin full of giant dildos, buttplugs the general size of traffic cones, and one of those life-sized latex arms that I suspect most stores stock only as a novelty item. He loves to be fisted. And he loves the way I fist him.
For me, fisting is less about invasive hole-punching and more about creative, sensual, hand-and-ass play. It’s slow, and quiet. It’s intimate and reflective. Meditative, even.
When Hardy hopped up into his leather hammock the other night and let his feet rest in the stirrups, I put a towel on the chair at the sling’s base and made myself comfortable. Hardy had already laid a bowl of shortening at arm’s reach. Next to it sat a rubber squeeze-bulb of a thick, clear lubricant with an eight-inch long, thin neck. Once we were both settled, I reached into the shortening, scooped up three fingers of it, and started rubbing it onto and in Hardy’s hole.
Two fingers. That’s all I insert inside him to begin. He receives them easily. I’d just finished fucking him only moments before, so he’s still open and sticky. I ease in as much of the white, fluffy goop as possible, turning my fingers around and around. He sighs, and I know I can move on.
Three fingers. My thumb and pinkie act as a natural base as I ease my fingers in and out. I like keeping my face close to the hole, when I’m opening it slowly. It’s not that I have to be close to hear the sounds of Hardy’s gentle moaning, or to smell the Crisco, but I like being near to him, when I’m doing this. The sling’s a fine place to give me easy access to a hole, but I’ve fisted most men in their beds, and I hold them in the same way; I like to be as close to them as possible, so that this is an experience we’re sharing. Not an operation. Not something I’m performing on them.
I like laying a hand upon my partner’s stomach as I move in and out, sometimes. I can feel his body speak to me this way. When he’s tense, before he’s ready for more, his stomach will be tight and distended. As he relaxes, his breathing becomes deeper and more regular, and that’s when I know it’s all right to proceed.
Four fingers. When my pinkie joins the others, I scoop up more shortening from the bowl with my free, left hand. With my index and middle finger, I smooth more of around my knuckles, and push it deeper into Hardy’s widening hole. Only my thumb is on the outside, now. He can feel immediately the difference, and his stomach distends again. I hear him take a deep breath as my fingers compress into a column and move in and out, in and out, in a slow and deliberate motion. The girth of my four longest fingers is really no more than of my dick. Any resistance he has at this point is sheerly mental, as he envisions how my hand must look as it disappears into him. I rest my head upon the inside of his thigh, closing my eyes and enjoying the sensation of his flesh around my skin.
Five fingers. Again I slather on more of the Crisco with my free hand, then wipe it on a towel. My thumb takes its place with my other fingers, nestling in the hollow they’ve created for it. The shortening that I add all around the circumference of my hand now reaches almost to my wrist. My knuckles gently nudge against his hole, causing his breathing to become more shallow. He shifts uneasily, knowing what comes next.
With my left hand, I pick up the rubber squeeze bottle. My thumb eases out, and the long neck replaces it. I ease the black nozzle into his ass and give the bulb a squeeze until I can feel a puddle of cool liquid around my fingertips. When the bottle’s on the floor once more, my thumb again takes its place. My left hand returns to his stomach, feeling its rise and fall. Hardy’s fingers entwine around mine as he holds on—though I don’t know whether for comfort, or support, or simply because he wants us to be as close as possible at that moment. This part is the most difficult, here at the widest part of my hand. Yet it’s not that difficult at all. He trusts me enough to relax. We’ve been down this route before together, and he knows I won’t hurt him. I compress my knuckles and fingers to make them as narrow as possible, and rub my forehead against his thigh to remind him I’m there. Then I slide in to the wrist.
I can’t imagine what he feels on his end. I’ve never bottomed for a hand. I’ve been curious, yes, but I can barely take a finger without regretting it. He’s clearly enjoying himself, though. Without seeing I can tell that his neck has arched and carried his head back. He groans with pleasure, and his skin comes alive with gooseflesh. No, I don’t know what he feels, but I know that this is the truly pleasurable part for me. It’s an unfortunate analogy, but once I’m in to the wrist, fisting is a lot like playing in mudpies. Not because of the color of what normally comes out of that orifice, but because the sensation is much like plunging my hand into something soft, and wet, and warmed by the sun. It’s a sheerly tactile pleasure that has nothing to do with my dick, which I can endlessly enjoy for its own sake.
Once I’m this far into Hardy, I like to vary the sensations he’s feeling. He’s fond of my twisting my hand the most; I rotate it as far as I can without going much deeper. Each pass of my knuckles causes him to shiver and moan. When I’m this close to him, this deep inside, I can feel the pulse of his heart; I can hear when it quickens or when it settles back into its steady rhythm. Though I quicken the pace of my turning wrist, I never speed up to the point that it’s outright fast. This experience we’re sharing is not one intended to be speedy. It’s quiet, and slow, and deliberate, and as intimate as two men can be.
I keep my eyes closed as I penetrate further into him. There’s no need to look at what I’m doing, save for the moments when I apply more grease to my arm or side the rubber nozzle back inside him to douche his hole with a dose of the cool and viscous lube. All I need to know I can learn from the sounds he’s making, the pace of his breathing, and the motion of his body. He’s grinding his hips slightly as I twist and slowly push my way in, accepting more flesh at his own pace. From time to him his fingers still grasp at mine, or he’ll pull my free hand to his lips and kiss the fingertips. Once in a while I’ll rub my beard over the skin of his leg, or kiss the inside of his thigh, just to remind him I’m still present.
It’s not a necessary reminder, though. He knows I’m there. It’s hard to miss me. He’s relaxed enough now that there’s no issue in sliding in and out. I’ve been in holes where it’s been difficult to find that natural passage inside, but Hardy’s never given me a problem. The mere fact that I can find my way deeper inside him without having to search merely heightens the intimacy between us. When I withdraw my arm to the wrist, the dungeon’s cool air creates a chill on my skin. It feels a little bit like leaving the depths of my hot tub on a chilly winter’s night, so I move back inside, to be warm again. This is not an invasion. It’s a completeness between us. A slow and steady exploration of trust.
“How far are you in me?” he asks at last. It sounds as if he’s drowsy, or has woken from a deep sleep to ask his lover a simple question. “Show me,” he says, guiding my fingers to his own arm.
Without looking, I feel up past his fingers and wrist. An inch below the crook of his elbow, I stop. I make a circle with my left thumb and forefinger there.
“Oh, wow. Amazing,” he says. Then, a little bit after, as if he’s drifting back off, “Happy hole. Happy . . . hole.”
My motion now is constant and steady, but still slow. I twist slip in and feel him part for me, warm and wet. I slip out, and feel the circulating air on my skin and the pull of his hole, beckoning me back in. On and on it goes, for long minutes. Just the quiet, and the warmth, and the wetness.
I’m perhaps halfway inside when I can feel his ass pushing me back out. His body is telling him he’s had enough, and I honor it. He wants to expel me all at once, but that’s not a good thing; I exert a steady pressure to keep him from pushing too hard and too fast, and withdraw slowly and deliberately. My arm emerges inch by inch, and then my wrist. My knuckles. My fingers. Their tips. His hole contracts, then widens, then contracts again, and I smooth my fingers over it. He sighs. It’s done.
Saturday night I spent perhaps almost an hour on Hardy’s hole, while the others played and watched. When it was done and I’d wiped him free of the grease with a hand towel, I walked out of the dungeon and went to wash my forearm in the warm water of the laundry tub. The water was hotter in temperature than Hardy’s ass, but the warmth didn’t sustain itself. It vanished too quickly, as I dried off.
When I returned to the dungeon area to settle down and relax for a while, Hardy was padding around with big smile. He came up to me from behind and gave me a hug, then kissed me. “Happy hole,” he said, as satisfied as a little boy on Christmas. “Thank you so much.”
“No. Thank you,” I said, meaning it. “You know I love that with you.”
I watched him bounce off to get a snack with a lightness in his step. “Happy hole,” he repeated, over and over again, as he hugged himself.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Pig Party
When I blogged about the Silver Fox the other day, I off-handedly mentioned a fist-and-fuck party at which we’d teamed up, a few months ago. The host was a guy named Hardy, a very pleasant, educated fellow with a handsome face and an intense pair of dark eyes who’d ridden my dick and hand several times before. I respect Hardy a lot for being a pig when the clothes come off and a decent, humorous guy all the time, but I think I really did tick him off a little bit at that gathering, last fall.
He’d gone to a lot of trouble to assemble a group of about ten guys that he’d personally met and thought would hit it off well. It wasn’t until about three-thirty in the morning, that night, that everyone was finally drained and relaxing and he said, “Yeah, I thought this would be a good group. I’d gone to a lot of trouble to invite an equal number of total tops and total bottoms and no versatiles. But I guess there was only one total top.” Then he’d glared at me.
At least the four other tops I’d bent over and fucked had the decency to look abashed.
I thought that perhaps I’d be banned from Hardy’s parties for life, but scarcely had I posted the Silver Fox entry the other day than he sent me an email inviting me to a party on Saturday night. The Fox also sent me a message, telling me he’d be there and that he wanted me to come. So of course I said yes.
The group was smaller, this time—just five of us. The Fox was there, looking handsome and sexy in a pair of leather pants and a trim leather vest that showed off his biceps. Another guy I’d met and really liked from the first party, Chaz, arrived at the same time as I. The three of us were the so-called tops (though I’d fucked both Chaz and the Fox several times at the last get-together). Hardy and an out-of-town friend, Mike, were the two dedicated bottoms, in Hardy’s scheme.
So naturally, the first thing I did when the clothes came off was to tag the two tops. No, I’m not kidding. But it wasn’t intentional, honest.
Hardy has one of the most elaborate fuck dungeons I’ve ever seen. It’s a closed-off, finished room in his basement that contains its own heater. Carpeting covers the floor, keeping it warm and soft for any guys topping at the three slings. Yes, three slings. One’s a traditional leather hammock, another’s a padded flat bench with a pillow, suspended by chains. There’s also a leather harness hanging at the dungeon’s other end. Hardy’s additionally installed a padded fisting bench, and set a futon and a comfortable sofa in corners for those who like somewhere more traditional to fuck.
No less than five mirrors hang suspended from chains around the room’s edge; they can be angled with hooks to reflect anything. There are mirrors over each of the three slings. Outside the room’s entrance are two tall metal shelving units that accommodate a hospital’s worth of white towels and washcloths, jars of every lube imaginable, and tins of generic vegetable shortening. Inside the room are another couple of shelving units that contain plastic bins of dildos, butt plugs, and vibrators. It’s quite an elaborate set-up. Hardy doesn’t cut corners when it comes to his anal pleasures.
Which is why I guess I’m surprised he buys the generic vegetable shortening, I idly mused Saturday night once everyone was in the dungeon and naked. I sat on the corner of the futon watching Hardy bring in towels and tubs of faux-Crisco, when Chaz stood in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of gray socks. I and opened my mouth while I gazed meaningfully up at him. He immediately slid his dick between my lips. Chaz and I are built similarly, with narrow shoulders and trim hips and big dicks and beards, though his is more auburn while mine’s a perpetual dirty blond. I submitted to his meat as he slid it in and out, managing not to gag when he’d push it in to the base. He held onto the back of my head and ground his hips as if my mouth were an ass. I was at rock hard attention from being treated that way.
The Fox moved over and stood in front of me as well. He’d stripped down to a black T-shirt, his vest, his weighty black boots, and another of his many jock straps. While I sucked Chaz, the Fox moved the bulge of his jock lasciviously back and forth over my left cheek. Once he’d hardened, he pulled out his heavy dick and began beating my face with it. When I switched from Chaz’s dick to the Fox’s, Chaz dropped to all fours and began to suck me.
Once I’d gotten the Fox’s dick slick, he moved behind Chaz. Without much in the way of preliminaries, he started working into Chaz’s hole. The intensity made Chaz swallow my own cock to the base and leave it there, while he groaned and struggled to accommodate the Fox’s girth. Soon, though, he was moving back and forth between us, setting his own rhythm. Like we had only a few days before, the Fox and I stared in each other’s eyes and grinned, enjoying the connection we had as a single man serviced us both. There’s something about flipping a top that makes my meat more rigid and my nuts pull in tighter; it’s an expression of power and of dominance. Watching a masculine, attractive top give up both holes to me and to one of my favorite buddies . . . well, that’s priceless. My dick swelled harder than concrete as I slipped in and out of Chaz’s mouth.
Hardy split us up. That didn’t surprise me. I almost expected him to be a little jealous that his three invited tops had split off and started their own mini-orgy. What did surprise me, however, is how he lifted a dazed and blinking Chaz to his stockinged feet, guided him over to the harness sling, and pushed him back into it. Expertly he arranged the straps so that Chaz’s feet rested in them, and then slipped twin leather nooses around his wrists. “They’re deceptively simple,” he told us. Chaz tugged with his arms and found quickly that the leather slip knots around his wrist tightened immediately. When he attempted to create slack, they remained just as tight. “He won’t be getting out of that. Fuck him,” said Hardy, looking right in my eyes. That part did surprise me. “I know you want to. I like watching you fuck his ass,” he said. From one of the shelving units he grabbed a pristine bottle of lube. He broke the seal, squirted out a generous handful, and walked around to where I stood at the sling’s base. His hand wrapped around my dick, slathering it with the cold goo. “Fuck him like you did last time,” he said. “Breed his hole.”
I didn’t need any further invitation. I stepped forward and started working my dick into Chaz’s pucker. It was already wet from the Fox’s spit. The lube mixed with what was already there so that I slid right in. Just like he had been last time we met, Chaz was warm and tight inside. At my invasion he grappled helplessly with his arms, trying to struggle away or to reach out. It was impossible to tell what he was trying to do, because the straps restrained his movement to arcs in the air. I grabbed onto the chains next to his calves and stood there, letting the pendulum-like motion from the sling do the fuck-work for me.
I like to start with more of a grinding motion than outright slamming. The sling wasn’t adjusted very well for my height; I had to stand on tiptoe to stay in his hole, and I was by far the tallest man there. I was enjoying myself too much to ask Hardy to change the hooks, however, and frankly I thought that standing on the balls of my feet was a small price to pay for an ass that fine. Chaz’s eyes were mere slits, glinting from time to time in the dim dungeon light. Hardy’s fingers kept darting out to touch the root of my cock as I slipped in and out. The Fox, in the meantime, ran his hands over Chaz’s chest. Gradually my strokes became faster and longer. The sling began to bounce back and forth, its metal and leather making slight protests with every thrust. Hardy brought out a pair of wooden clothespins. One at a time he placed them over Chaz’s nipples. Chaz didn’t even notice the first one being applied; when he felt something cutting through the pleasure the second time, he opened his eyes to find not one, but both of his nipples being chewed on by the wooden pegs.
It wasn’t so much the sensations that excited him as the surprise of it. His ass clamped down immediately. The pressure made my dick explode almost unexpectedly. I’d been building up to orgasm little by little, but the extra sensation pushed me over the edge. I heard all four men grunting in appreciation as I unloaded with shudders. The Fox stood behind me and held me while the lights came back in my eyes; I felt Hardy drop to his knees and clean my dick off.
I don’t get invited to sex parties because I arrive wearing hot costumes, or because I bring snack. I don’t get invited for my good looks, which are modest. I get invited for four reasons. I show up when I say I will. I arrive on time. I have a big tool. And most importantly, I shoot multiple loads and stay hard between them. Barely had Hardy sucked the cum and lube from my cock than the Silver Fox was on his knees, grabbing the back of the sofa and putting his butt in the air. “I didn’t get any of that dick a few days ago,” he said. “But I’m gettin’ it now.”
I glanced at Hardy to see if his face was annoyed by the fact that within the space of a half hour, I would have already fucked two of his so-called tops, but he was just fascinated by the fucklust of it all. Chaz had helped out-of-town Mike onto the bench sling and was rubbing his hole with shortening, but Hardy started rubbing his hands all over the Fox’s body, spreading his cheeks and inviting me inside. I spat on my hand, rubbed it over the Fox’s hole, and slid in.
There’s not much of a challenge to get in the Fox’s ass; it’s been well-worked over the years, top or not. He bucked and groaned as I entered him inch by inch, but once he felt my nuts against his, he sunk into the sofa’s upholstery and sighed. Hardy drizzled more lube onto my dick as I pulled it out. He seemed to be enjoying watching. From angle to angle he moved while I screwed, as I put on a show for him. I’d pull my dick all the way out, pause, and then plunge it back inside, causing the Fox to groan with every sudden invasion. Hardy seemed to enjoy it in the way he’d enjoy a particularly good porn film, only in 3-D with exceptional sound and the ability to inhale the clinical lube smell. Stoking his cock, he got on his knees and from underneath watched my dick slide in and out, stroke by long stroke.
Eventually the Fox started to fuck back. He planted a leg on the ground, left one foot on the sofa, and started to meet my thrusts. My balls knocked against his like some kind of childrens’ toy; the dungeon was filled with the soft and steady sound of my hips slapping against his butt cheeks. This wasn’t gentle lovemaking by any means. This was balls-to-the-wall, ass-slappin’, man-fuckin’. The two of us sustained a most excellent rhythm. In and out I slammed, while he bucked and grunted like a bronco. It was when Hardy reached up, grabbed my balls, and started to twist them that I lunged forward, growled like an animal, and planted my second load in the Fox’s ass. He collapsed forward, hitting the wall with a thud. I was already shaky on my pins, post-orgasm. He carried me with him. For a moment we were both stunned, and then we laughed and wiped the sweat from our faces.
The Fox stood up to clean himself off in the laundry room outside, but Hardy stayed on the floor for a couple of minutes, rubbing my feet while my head cleared. We both sat there in silence and watched Chaz go at out-of-town Mike across the room. “Listen,” I said at last, once I had my breath back. “I’m really sorry.”
“For what?” Hardy wanted to know.
I gestured in Chaz’s direction and then at the closed door, beyond which the Fox was making splashing noises. “For loading up your tops, first thing.”
“You had fun, right?” I nodded. He reached out and played with my dick, which was still hard and resting on my thigh. “And I know you’re able to go again.”
“Sure.” I found myself being taken by both hands and hauled to my feet. Hardy led me across the dungeon to the traditional sling next to the bench, which was rocking back and forth with Chaz and out-of-town-Mike. He didn’t let go of my hands until he’d propped his butt against the leather and needed his own to grab hold of the chains. He hauled himself up and back so that his legs were spread and his hole was at the perfect height for fucking.
“Well then,” he said, as if he were explaining something simple to a child. “I know how you work. Get the first two out of the way, and then your third fuck lasts and lasts.” I had to crack a grin at his smug little smirk. “They might get you first, but I get you longest.”
Smart man. He was right about that.
He’d gone to a lot of trouble to assemble a group of about ten guys that he’d personally met and thought would hit it off well. It wasn’t until about three-thirty in the morning, that night, that everyone was finally drained and relaxing and he said, “Yeah, I thought this would be a good group. I’d gone to a lot of trouble to invite an equal number of total tops and total bottoms and no versatiles. But I guess there was only one total top.” Then he’d glared at me.
At least the four other tops I’d bent over and fucked had the decency to look abashed.
I thought that perhaps I’d be banned from Hardy’s parties for life, but scarcely had I posted the Silver Fox entry the other day than he sent me an email inviting me to a party on Saturday night. The Fox also sent me a message, telling me he’d be there and that he wanted me to come. So of course I said yes.
The group was smaller, this time—just five of us. The Fox was there, looking handsome and sexy in a pair of leather pants and a trim leather vest that showed off his biceps. Another guy I’d met and really liked from the first party, Chaz, arrived at the same time as I. The three of us were the so-called tops (though I’d fucked both Chaz and the Fox several times at the last get-together). Hardy and an out-of-town friend, Mike, were the two dedicated bottoms, in Hardy’s scheme.
So naturally, the first thing I did when the clothes came off was to tag the two tops. No, I’m not kidding. But it wasn’t intentional, honest.
Hardy has one of the most elaborate fuck dungeons I’ve ever seen. It’s a closed-off, finished room in his basement that contains its own heater. Carpeting covers the floor, keeping it warm and soft for any guys topping at the three slings. Yes, three slings. One’s a traditional leather hammock, another’s a padded flat bench with a pillow, suspended by chains. There’s also a leather harness hanging at the dungeon’s other end. Hardy’s additionally installed a padded fisting bench, and set a futon and a comfortable sofa in corners for those who like somewhere more traditional to fuck.
No less than five mirrors hang suspended from chains around the room’s edge; they can be angled with hooks to reflect anything. There are mirrors over each of the three slings. Outside the room’s entrance are two tall metal shelving units that accommodate a hospital’s worth of white towels and washcloths, jars of every lube imaginable, and tins of generic vegetable shortening. Inside the room are another couple of shelving units that contain plastic bins of dildos, butt plugs, and vibrators. It’s quite an elaborate set-up. Hardy doesn’t cut corners when it comes to his anal pleasures.
Which is why I guess I’m surprised he buys the generic vegetable shortening, I idly mused Saturday night once everyone was in the dungeon and naked. I sat on the corner of the futon watching Hardy bring in towels and tubs of faux-Crisco, when Chaz stood in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of gray socks. I and opened my mouth while I gazed meaningfully up at him. He immediately slid his dick between my lips. Chaz and I are built similarly, with narrow shoulders and trim hips and big dicks and beards, though his is more auburn while mine’s a perpetual dirty blond. I submitted to his meat as he slid it in and out, managing not to gag when he’d push it in to the base. He held onto the back of my head and ground his hips as if my mouth were an ass. I was at rock hard attention from being treated that way.
The Fox moved over and stood in front of me as well. He’d stripped down to a black T-shirt, his vest, his weighty black boots, and another of his many jock straps. While I sucked Chaz, the Fox moved the bulge of his jock lasciviously back and forth over my left cheek. Once he’d hardened, he pulled out his heavy dick and began beating my face with it. When I switched from Chaz’s dick to the Fox’s, Chaz dropped to all fours and began to suck me.
Once I’d gotten the Fox’s dick slick, he moved behind Chaz. Without much in the way of preliminaries, he started working into Chaz’s hole. The intensity made Chaz swallow my own cock to the base and leave it there, while he groaned and struggled to accommodate the Fox’s girth. Soon, though, he was moving back and forth between us, setting his own rhythm. Like we had only a few days before, the Fox and I stared in each other’s eyes and grinned, enjoying the connection we had as a single man serviced us both. There’s something about flipping a top that makes my meat more rigid and my nuts pull in tighter; it’s an expression of power and of dominance. Watching a masculine, attractive top give up both holes to me and to one of my favorite buddies . . . well, that’s priceless. My dick swelled harder than concrete as I slipped in and out of Chaz’s mouth.
Hardy split us up. That didn’t surprise me. I almost expected him to be a little jealous that his three invited tops had split off and started their own mini-orgy. What did surprise me, however, is how he lifted a dazed and blinking Chaz to his stockinged feet, guided him over to the harness sling, and pushed him back into it. Expertly he arranged the straps so that Chaz’s feet rested in them, and then slipped twin leather nooses around his wrists. “They’re deceptively simple,” he told us. Chaz tugged with his arms and found quickly that the leather slip knots around his wrist tightened immediately. When he attempted to create slack, they remained just as tight. “He won’t be getting out of that. Fuck him,” said Hardy, looking right in my eyes. That part did surprise me. “I know you want to. I like watching you fuck his ass,” he said. From one of the shelving units he grabbed a pristine bottle of lube. He broke the seal, squirted out a generous handful, and walked around to where I stood at the sling’s base. His hand wrapped around my dick, slathering it with the cold goo. “Fuck him like you did last time,” he said. “Breed his hole.”
I didn’t need any further invitation. I stepped forward and started working my dick into Chaz’s pucker. It was already wet from the Fox’s spit. The lube mixed with what was already there so that I slid right in. Just like he had been last time we met, Chaz was warm and tight inside. At my invasion he grappled helplessly with his arms, trying to struggle away or to reach out. It was impossible to tell what he was trying to do, because the straps restrained his movement to arcs in the air. I grabbed onto the chains next to his calves and stood there, letting the pendulum-like motion from the sling do the fuck-work for me.
I like to start with more of a grinding motion than outright slamming. The sling wasn’t adjusted very well for my height; I had to stand on tiptoe to stay in his hole, and I was by far the tallest man there. I was enjoying myself too much to ask Hardy to change the hooks, however, and frankly I thought that standing on the balls of my feet was a small price to pay for an ass that fine. Chaz’s eyes were mere slits, glinting from time to time in the dim dungeon light. Hardy’s fingers kept darting out to touch the root of my cock as I slipped in and out. The Fox, in the meantime, ran his hands over Chaz’s chest. Gradually my strokes became faster and longer. The sling began to bounce back and forth, its metal and leather making slight protests with every thrust. Hardy brought out a pair of wooden clothespins. One at a time he placed them over Chaz’s nipples. Chaz didn’t even notice the first one being applied; when he felt something cutting through the pleasure the second time, he opened his eyes to find not one, but both of his nipples being chewed on by the wooden pegs.
It wasn’t so much the sensations that excited him as the surprise of it. His ass clamped down immediately. The pressure made my dick explode almost unexpectedly. I’d been building up to orgasm little by little, but the extra sensation pushed me over the edge. I heard all four men grunting in appreciation as I unloaded with shudders. The Fox stood behind me and held me while the lights came back in my eyes; I felt Hardy drop to his knees and clean my dick off.
I don’t get invited to sex parties because I arrive wearing hot costumes, or because I bring snack. I don’t get invited for my good looks, which are modest. I get invited for four reasons. I show up when I say I will. I arrive on time. I have a big tool. And most importantly, I shoot multiple loads and stay hard between them. Barely had Hardy sucked the cum and lube from my cock than the Silver Fox was on his knees, grabbing the back of the sofa and putting his butt in the air. “I didn’t get any of that dick a few days ago,” he said. “But I’m gettin’ it now.”
I glanced at Hardy to see if his face was annoyed by the fact that within the space of a half hour, I would have already fucked two of his so-called tops, but he was just fascinated by the fucklust of it all. Chaz had helped out-of-town Mike onto the bench sling and was rubbing his hole with shortening, but Hardy started rubbing his hands all over the Fox’s body, spreading his cheeks and inviting me inside. I spat on my hand, rubbed it over the Fox’s hole, and slid in.
There’s not much of a challenge to get in the Fox’s ass; it’s been well-worked over the years, top or not. He bucked and groaned as I entered him inch by inch, but once he felt my nuts against his, he sunk into the sofa’s upholstery and sighed. Hardy drizzled more lube onto my dick as I pulled it out. He seemed to be enjoying watching. From angle to angle he moved while I screwed, as I put on a show for him. I’d pull my dick all the way out, pause, and then plunge it back inside, causing the Fox to groan with every sudden invasion. Hardy seemed to enjoy it in the way he’d enjoy a particularly good porn film, only in 3-D with exceptional sound and the ability to inhale the clinical lube smell. Stoking his cock, he got on his knees and from underneath watched my dick slide in and out, stroke by long stroke.
Eventually the Fox started to fuck back. He planted a leg on the ground, left one foot on the sofa, and started to meet my thrusts. My balls knocked against his like some kind of childrens’ toy; the dungeon was filled with the soft and steady sound of my hips slapping against his butt cheeks. This wasn’t gentle lovemaking by any means. This was balls-to-the-wall, ass-slappin’, man-fuckin’. The two of us sustained a most excellent rhythm. In and out I slammed, while he bucked and grunted like a bronco. It was when Hardy reached up, grabbed my balls, and started to twist them that I lunged forward, growled like an animal, and planted my second load in the Fox’s ass. He collapsed forward, hitting the wall with a thud. I was already shaky on my pins, post-orgasm. He carried me with him. For a moment we were both stunned, and then we laughed and wiped the sweat from our faces.
The Fox stood up to clean himself off in the laundry room outside, but Hardy stayed on the floor for a couple of minutes, rubbing my feet while my head cleared. We both sat there in silence and watched Chaz go at out-of-town Mike across the room. “Listen,” I said at last, once I had my breath back. “I’m really sorry.”
“For what?” Hardy wanted to know.
I gestured in Chaz’s direction and then at the closed door, beyond which the Fox was making splashing noises. “For loading up your tops, first thing.”
“You had fun, right?” I nodded. He reached out and played with my dick, which was still hard and resting on my thigh. “And I know you’re able to go again.”
“Sure.” I found myself being taken by both hands and hauled to my feet. Hardy led me across the dungeon to the traditional sling next to the bench, which was rocking back and forth with Chaz and out-of-town-Mike. He didn’t let go of my hands until he’d propped his butt against the leather and needed his own to grab hold of the chains. He hauled himself up and back so that his legs were spread and his hole was at the perfect height for fucking.
“Well then,” he said, as if he were explaining something simple to a child. “I know how you work. Get the first two out of the way, and then your third fuck lasts and lasts.” I had to crack a grin at his smug little smirk. “They might get you first, but I get you longest.”
Smart man. He was right about that.
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