For your Thursday enjoyment, I've uploaded to XTube some footage of me fucking Scruffy. That would be him you hear there, moaning and groaning.
I'm mystified, by the way, why XTube somehow rotates my movies whenever I upload them, in some random fashion. This video was shot horizontally on my phone, appeared horizontally on my computer, and yet on XTube . . . vertical.
Enjoy!
Showing posts with label scruffy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scruffy. Show all posts
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
A Visit from Scruffy
“No one else makes me feel the way you do.” Scruffy looked up at me from only inches away as I drove my dick deeper inside him. The sensation of my hardness parting his hole and popping open the next ring made his neck drop. He stared through the slats of the blinds for a moment, jaw slack, the legs hooked over my shoulders the only thing separating our chests. Then he raised his head again and, with great effort, looked me in the eyes. “I’ve never had anyone in my life fuck me as good as you.”
It’s the kind of thing every top wants to hear. Hell, it’s the kind of thing any man wants to hear, as he’s slamming his third load into a quivering, helpless hole.
I’d heard from Scruffy earlier in the week. It’s been almost four months since I saw the kid last; we’d had a brief exchange of text messages around Christmas and the new year, but the trip never materialized that he’d planned to my area from middle of the state, where he’s currently living with his mom. He told me Wednesday that he was planning to visit his ex in my city while he checked out a couple of job opportunities. My Saturday was his, I’d told him.
He showed up around five, after a day of visiting with the ex and driving to various potential employers. Scarcely was he in the side door when he bolted into my arms. Our mouths devoured each other. His teeth raked against my lips, my jaw, my chin, as he tried to inhale me all at once. I shoved him against the stairwell wall, causing his breath to huff out in a rush. For long, long minutes we made out in the dusk without saying a word.
“I missed you,” he finally said. “Fuck, did I miss you.”
“I did too, kid,” I replied. His face was clean-shaven. Without the layer of scruff and fuzz he normally wears, he looked like an all-American kid—curly-haired and blond, freckled, and blue-eyed, the kind of boy every suburban moms dreams her son will grow up to be.
We kissed some more until he pushed me away and gasped for air. Those Delft-blue eyes bored into mine. “Am I still your boy?” he wanted to know.
“Yes,” I answered. “Of course. You’re still my boy.”
He responded by melting into my arms.
Once we were upstairs, we rolled around on the bed for long minutes, kissing and grinding our denimed crotches against each other. He didn’t want to talk much. He didn’t want to catchup, or tell me about his job hunt. He wanted my mouth on his, my beard on his neck, my hot breath on his ears. He wanted me pushing my hardness into his own, and my hands down his pants with my fingers teasing and probing at his hole.
When I pushed him against the pillows and yanked up his shirt to rake my face against his tender, white skin, he smelled of soap and body spray. I knew he’d sprayed himself with that stuff because he’d known I’d smell it it on him, and tell him how nicely scented he was. He flushed with pleasure when I did, and I had a sudden mental picture of him in his ex’s bathroom, showering for me, washing his most private places. Spraying himself with Axe where he knew my face and lips would travel. Primping in the mirror. Selecting his clothing, knowing that I’d remove every piece. The care he’d taken flattered me.
I repaid it by undressing him. He obediently lifted his hands over his head while I removed his shirt like I was undressing a little boy, then raised his hips for me when I unfastened and slowly pulled off his jeans and shorts. He murmured with pleasure when I laid my clothed body atop him, roughing up his soft, pale skin with my denim and my stubble. My nails raked across his nipples, causing him to gasp. And then I sucked him, slowly and carefully, savoring every drop of pre-cum that began to ooze from the tip of his thick meat.
Scruffy managed to gather enough force of will to roll out from under me. I allowed him to unbutton my jeans and to pull them off. On his knees, he removed my socks and rolled them together. Then he settled back onto the mattress and took my dick in his mouth. “Did you miss that dick?” I wanted to know.
“So much,” he gasped, releasing it momentarily. “Fuck. I needed this dick. It was made for me. Your dick was made for my holes.”
“Good boy,” I whispered, and placed my hand gently on the back of his neck. Over the year and more we’ve known each other, Scruffy has learned how to suck me—long, slurping strokes with a minimum of teeth and just the right amount of pressure. He’s had me close to coming many times, with his blow jobs. That’s more than most men can say.
Saturday he was doing something different from before, however. Like most guys, Scruffy can get most my dick in his mouth, but the last two inches are a little bit of a challenge. Saturday he decided to try out some newly-acquired deep-throating skills. He would take as much of my dick in his mouth as possible, then push down onto my fuckspear to impale his own throat. Every time he did it, I’d feel the effort it would take him. Then I’d feel the delicious tightness of his deepest muscles around the head of my dick, and the feeling of his lips around the lowermost base of my shaft. For a moment, he’d struggle to control his choking. Then he’d back off, breath in heavily through his nose, and try it again.
I let him deep-throat me for a long, intense few minutes, and then I pulled him off my dick. He stared at me with what I could only interpret as adoration. Tears were streaming from both eyes; his face was streaked, wet, and red. “You okay, boy?” I asked him.
“I want to make you feel good,” he rasped out.
“You are.” I cupped his chin in my hand. “But are you okay?”
“Yes.”
My dick couldn’t have been harder if it had been carved from diamond. There was great need in his expression. I released his chin and let him go back to deep-throating me.
“Show me your ass,” I said a few minutes later. He let my rigid tool drop from between his lips. If his face had been red before, it was now bright scarlet from exertion. The tears he’d cried had made him look like a beautiful mess. I slapped his butt once he’d knelt on the mattress and turned around. The impact made him shout, then groan. I could see the vaguest of imprints from the impact on his white skin, darkening where I’d struck. When I parted his cheeks and let the tip of my tongue flick out, his gasped; his back arched, and his dick stiffened and pointed toward the wall. I ate his hole like a starving dog, gnawing at the cheeks and leaving behind reddened flesh and bite marks. I didn’t care.
When at last I had him ready, I lubed my meat and drove in the first two inches. I wanted to shove it all inside, but I paused, and instead threw back the question he’d asked me upon greeting. “Are you still my boy?”
He whispered in the half-dark, “I’m always your boy.”
“How bad do you want this dick?”
“I love your big dick,” he whimpered into the pillow. “I’ll do anything for your dick. Please. Please, just give me your dick, sir.”
He sounded sincere. I drove it home, causing him to yell, to grasp at the pillows, and to clench his teeth and hiss with pleasure.
We fucked for a long hour or more. I topped him slowly and deliberately, humping on top of him with long and slow strokes while he craned his neck over his shoulder so that our lips might meet. He received my first load with thanks and tears. My second load I pounded in from behind again, but had him kneel on the bed’s edge as he shoved his butt in the air. And the third load, long in coming, arrived as I fucked him face to face, with his knees hooked atop my shoulders. It was in that position that he made his astonishing confession. “I’ve never had anyone in my life fuck me as good as you.”
I stopped for a moment. “Do you mean that?” I asked. It’s the kind of thing guys say in the heat of the moment, to keep the action hot, to make the moment seem more real and romantic than it might really be.
The tears on his face might have been left over from the deep-throating he’d attempted an hour before, but I suspected they weren’t. “You know, the first time I came over here, my legs were shaking so bad that I could barely walk to the door, I was so excited about getting you. You give me exactly what I need,” he whispered in a rush. “Nobody else does that.”
Again, he was sincere. “Thank you,” I told him. I stared into his eyes. I’ve known Scruffy a long time. I can’t say I know him well. He doesn’t open up to me in the same way Spencer has. We don’t have a lot of long, in-depth conversations about his thoughts, his hopes, or his likes and dislikes. What I do know about him is very little, outside of what we do in bed. But when we are in bed, and when we are connected dick to hole, I know he’s giving his all. He’s right there in the moment with me. And that’s rare. “Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s true,” he said, his beautiful eyes open and wide. “I wish it could go on forever.”
My hand brushed the hair from his eyes. “And I wish I could make everything bad go away from your life.” He stared at me, then blinked. His mouth raised to offer me the sweetness of his red lips.
My hips took over. I couldn’t help myself. That moment of perfect intimacy swelled my desire, and I fucked him hard and without restraint. When I came, it was almost painful—as if I slammed into a wall of sensation with such force that it wracked my entire body with sensation.
We weren’t done, though. Not by a long shot. While Scruffy played with himself, I positioned him so that his head hung over the bottom of the mattress. Then, my forearms resting on the bedroom dresser, I squatted over his mouth with my ass, and lowered it up and down on his face. I talked dirty to him and told him to eat his daddy’s hole while he gulped and grunted and groaned. When he came, I was basically wiping my ass crack over his face, moving back and forth to as my dick and balls dragged over the kid’s forehead and nose.
His orgasm was noisy, and explosive, and seemed to last for long minutes. Then he subsided, and on trembling legs I lowered myself to the bed beside him. We lay curled up next to each other for several minutes, not talking, but holding and touching each other as the last of the sunlight faded.
Then he stumbled to his feet and we both dressed in the dark.
“Sorry I’ve gotta go,” he told me, as he pulled on his shoes at the back door. “I’m supposed to go out to dinner with a couple of friends and the ex.”
“Where does he think you are?” I wanted to know. Scruffy always stays with his ex while he’s in town; they seem to have a good relationship as friends, though no longer as lovers.
“Oh, he knows where I am,” Scruffy laughed. “I’ve shown him your photos.”
My eyebrows raised. “Really!”
“Oh hells yeah.” Impulsively, Scruffy pulled my face down to his. “No way I’m not going to brag about getting you. Are you shitting me?”
When he left, I had the biggest grin on my face. He’d flattered and surprised me yet again.
It’s the kind of thing every top wants to hear. Hell, it’s the kind of thing any man wants to hear, as he’s slamming his third load into a quivering, helpless hole.
I’d heard from Scruffy earlier in the week. It’s been almost four months since I saw the kid last; we’d had a brief exchange of text messages around Christmas and the new year, but the trip never materialized that he’d planned to my area from middle of the state, where he’s currently living with his mom. He told me Wednesday that he was planning to visit his ex in my city while he checked out a couple of job opportunities. My Saturday was his, I’d told him.
He showed up around five, after a day of visiting with the ex and driving to various potential employers. Scarcely was he in the side door when he bolted into my arms. Our mouths devoured each other. His teeth raked against my lips, my jaw, my chin, as he tried to inhale me all at once. I shoved him against the stairwell wall, causing his breath to huff out in a rush. For long, long minutes we made out in the dusk without saying a word.
“I missed you,” he finally said. “Fuck, did I miss you.”
“I did too, kid,” I replied. His face was clean-shaven. Without the layer of scruff and fuzz he normally wears, he looked like an all-American kid—curly-haired and blond, freckled, and blue-eyed, the kind of boy every suburban moms dreams her son will grow up to be.
We kissed some more until he pushed me away and gasped for air. Those Delft-blue eyes bored into mine. “Am I still your boy?” he wanted to know.
“Yes,” I answered. “Of course. You’re still my boy.”
He responded by melting into my arms.
Once we were upstairs, we rolled around on the bed for long minutes, kissing and grinding our denimed crotches against each other. He didn’t want to talk much. He didn’t want to catchup, or tell me about his job hunt. He wanted my mouth on his, my beard on his neck, my hot breath on his ears. He wanted me pushing my hardness into his own, and my hands down his pants with my fingers teasing and probing at his hole.
When I pushed him against the pillows and yanked up his shirt to rake my face against his tender, white skin, he smelled of soap and body spray. I knew he’d sprayed himself with that stuff because he’d known I’d smell it it on him, and tell him how nicely scented he was. He flushed with pleasure when I did, and I had a sudden mental picture of him in his ex’s bathroom, showering for me, washing his most private places. Spraying himself with Axe where he knew my face and lips would travel. Primping in the mirror. Selecting his clothing, knowing that I’d remove every piece. The care he’d taken flattered me.
I repaid it by undressing him. He obediently lifted his hands over his head while I removed his shirt like I was undressing a little boy, then raised his hips for me when I unfastened and slowly pulled off his jeans and shorts. He murmured with pleasure when I laid my clothed body atop him, roughing up his soft, pale skin with my denim and my stubble. My nails raked across his nipples, causing him to gasp. And then I sucked him, slowly and carefully, savoring every drop of pre-cum that began to ooze from the tip of his thick meat.
Scruffy managed to gather enough force of will to roll out from under me. I allowed him to unbutton my jeans and to pull them off. On his knees, he removed my socks and rolled them together. Then he settled back onto the mattress and took my dick in his mouth. “Did you miss that dick?” I wanted to know.
“So much,” he gasped, releasing it momentarily. “Fuck. I needed this dick. It was made for me. Your dick was made for my holes.”
“Good boy,” I whispered, and placed my hand gently on the back of his neck. Over the year and more we’ve known each other, Scruffy has learned how to suck me—long, slurping strokes with a minimum of teeth and just the right amount of pressure. He’s had me close to coming many times, with his blow jobs. That’s more than most men can say.
Saturday he was doing something different from before, however. Like most guys, Scruffy can get most my dick in his mouth, but the last two inches are a little bit of a challenge. Saturday he decided to try out some newly-acquired deep-throating skills. He would take as much of my dick in his mouth as possible, then push down onto my fuckspear to impale his own throat. Every time he did it, I’d feel the effort it would take him. Then I’d feel the delicious tightness of his deepest muscles around the head of my dick, and the feeling of his lips around the lowermost base of my shaft. For a moment, he’d struggle to control his choking. Then he’d back off, breath in heavily through his nose, and try it again.
I let him deep-throat me for a long, intense few minutes, and then I pulled him off my dick. He stared at me with what I could only interpret as adoration. Tears were streaming from both eyes; his face was streaked, wet, and red. “You okay, boy?” I asked him.
“I want to make you feel good,” he rasped out.
“You are.” I cupped his chin in my hand. “But are you okay?”
“Yes.”
My dick couldn’t have been harder if it had been carved from diamond. There was great need in his expression. I released his chin and let him go back to deep-throating me.
“Show me your ass,” I said a few minutes later. He let my rigid tool drop from between his lips. If his face had been red before, it was now bright scarlet from exertion. The tears he’d cried had made him look like a beautiful mess. I slapped his butt once he’d knelt on the mattress and turned around. The impact made him shout, then groan. I could see the vaguest of imprints from the impact on his white skin, darkening where I’d struck. When I parted his cheeks and let the tip of my tongue flick out, his gasped; his back arched, and his dick stiffened and pointed toward the wall. I ate his hole like a starving dog, gnawing at the cheeks and leaving behind reddened flesh and bite marks. I didn’t care.
When at last I had him ready, I lubed my meat and drove in the first two inches. I wanted to shove it all inside, but I paused, and instead threw back the question he’d asked me upon greeting. “Are you still my boy?”
He whispered in the half-dark, “I’m always your boy.”
“How bad do you want this dick?”
“I love your big dick,” he whimpered into the pillow. “I’ll do anything for your dick. Please. Please, just give me your dick, sir.”
He sounded sincere. I drove it home, causing him to yell, to grasp at the pillows, and to clench his teeth and hiss with pleasure.
We fucked for a long hour or more. I topped him slowly and deliberately, humping on top of him with long and slow strokes while he craned his neck over his shoulder so that our lips might meet. He received my first load with thanks and tears. My second load I pounded in from behind again, but had him kneel on the bed’s edge as he shoved his butt in the air. And the third load, long in coming, arrived as I fucked him face to face, with his knees hooked atop my shoulders. It was in that position that he made his astonishing confession. “I’ve never had anyone in my life fuck me as good as you.”
I stopped for a moment. “Do you mean that?” I asked. It’s the kind of thing guys say in the heat of the moment, to keep the action hot, to make the moment seem more real and romantic than it might really be.
The tears on his face might have been left over from the deep-throating he’d attempted an hour before, but I suspected they weren’t. “You know, the first time I came over here, my legs were shaking so bad that I could barely walk to the door, I was so excited about getting you. You give me exactly what I need,” he whispered in a rush. “Nobody else does that.”
Again, he was sincere. “Thank you,” I told him. I stared into his eyes. I’ve known Scruffy a long time. I can’t say I know him well. He doesn’t open up to me in the same way Spencer has. We don’t have a lot of long, in-depth conversations about his thoughts, his hopes, or his likes and dislikes. What I do know about him is very little, outside of what we do in bed. But when we are in bed, and when we are connected dick to hole, I know he’s giving his all. He’s right there in the moment with me. And that’s rare. “Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s true,” he said, his beautiful eyes open and wide. “I wish it could go on forever.”
My hand brushed the hair from his eyes. “And I wish I could make everything bad go away from your life.” He stared at me, then blinked. His mouth raised to offer me the sweetness of his red lips.
My hips took over. I couldn’t help myself. That moment of perfect intimacy swelled my desire, and I fucked him hard and without restraint. When I came, it was almost painful—as if I slammed into a wall of sensation with such force that it wracked my entire body with sensation.
We weren’t done, though. Not by a long shot. While Scruffy played with himself, I positioned him so that his head hung over the bottom of the mattress. Then, my forearms resting on the bedroom dresser, I squatted over his mouth with my ass, and lowered it up and down on his face. I talked dirty to him and told him to eat his daddy’s hole while he gulped and grunted and groaned. When he came, I was basically wiping my ass crack over his face, moving back and forth to as my dick and balls dragged over the kid’s forehead and nose.
His orgasm was noisy, and explosive, and seemed to last for long minutes. Then he subsided, and on trembling legs I lowered myself to the bed beside him. We lay curled up next to each other for several minutes, not talking, but holding and touching each other as the last of the sunlight faded.
Then he stumbled to his feet and we both dressed in the dark.
“Sorry I’ve gotta go,” he told me, as he pulled on his shoes at the back door. “I’m supposed to go out to dinner with a couple of friends and the ex.”
“Where does he think you are?” I wanted to know. Scruffy always stays with his ex while he’s in town; they seem to have a good relationship as friends, though no longer as lovers.
“Oh, he knows where I am,” Scruffy laughed. “I’ve shown him your photos.”
My eyebrows raised. “Really!”
“Oh hells yeah.” Impulsively, Scruffy pulled my face down to his. “No way I’m not going to brag about getting you. Are you shitting me?”
When he left, I had the biggest grin on my face. He’d flattered and surprised me yet again.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Scruffy's Return
What I like about Scruffy is—no, that’s no way to begin. There’s too much I like about Scruffy to narrow it down. I like his boyish looks. His blond hair, so thick and shaggy. I like the snub at the end of his nose, which gives him the innocence of a freckled youngster. I like the slope of his shoulders as he walks, as if he’s not confident enough yet to stand straight and face the world head-on. I like the way his breath eases from his body and develops into a moan as I drive into him.
I like . . . no, I love . . . the way he kisses. His lips purse as he stares into my eyes, then they clasp softly over mine, pulling at them as gently and sweetly as a baby grasping with its tiny fingers. I love the deep, plush pillows of them as we connect. I love his ass, which is round and full and tastes of soap with the tang of fresh-cut grass, somehow.
But what I found I liked most about Scruffy Sunday night, when he came by for a couple of hours, was how thoroughly he forgot about me and indulged himself. Oh, he didn’t forget about me completely. It was my dick he nursed on for a long half-hour the moment he’d parked his car in my garage and made his way into the house. I was certainly there, legs spread, running my hands through his hair. I was the one gasping for air and clutching at the blanket when he’d run his teeth lightly over my engorged cock head, or when he’d suck cool air up and around the shaft.
But Scruffy was the one who completely lost himself in the moment. My dick was the world to him. It was the only thing going through his head as he licked and sucked with a hunger that I’d never seen in him before. When he’d switch to my nuts, doing that thing with them that only he and no one else has ever done, in which he somehow makes them into a rigid column and fellates them as he would a cock until they’re quivering and ready to shoot, he wasn’t doing it for my pleasure. It was solely for his.
The fact that his hunger and my pleasure coincided nicely was only a plus.
I fucked him three times, Sunday night. First on his stomach, with my feet straddling his butt as I pistoned in and out, cowboy-style. The second time he rode me, his feet on either side of my waist, returning the favor. The third time, we came together as I fucked him on his back, standing by the bed’s side as he wrapped his long, furry legs around me and refused to let me go.
When I collapsed on the bed beside him—and I do mean collapsed, in a heavy, huffing heap—I found the entire bed covered with his load. He’d sprayed semen everywhere. The pillows, the sheets, the bed’s far side. “Holy fuck,” I laughed, coming away cold and sticky wherever I touched. “Did you have a quart of cum in you, or what?”
He sounded sheepish in the dark. “I haven’t had sex since July.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded, and snuggled under my outstretched arm. While we’d been making love, right after I’d slowly entered him, I’d whispered into Scruffy’s ear. I know I’m just some guy you fuck around with once in a while, I’d told him, hoping the truth of what I was telling him might sink in. But I want you to know that being with you means something important to me.
You’re not some guy, he’d whispered back to me. You’re the only guy I’ve seen.
When he told me he hadn’t had sex since July, I thought back to the last time I’d seen him. It was at the very, very end of that month, only three days before I’d learned that I was going to be moving. I’d thought he was being abstract and metaphorical, saying I was the only guy he’s seen. Apparently he meant it just as sincerely. “You haven’t had sex since the last time I saw you?” He shook his head. It seemed as if he was close to tears. “Baby. Why not?”
I lay there in the dark as he talked to me, his arms around my chest and his head resting upon it, rising and falling with my breathing. I knew he’d had to move back with his mom at the end of the school year last spring. I hadn’t known that he’d lost his job right after the last time I saw him, and that he’d fallen into despondency for several weeks after. I didn’t know about one of his siblings’ problems with the law, or his mother’s inability to find employment. It was all those reasons that had kept him ninety miles away without seeing me for three months, while all the time I’d worried that the declarations we’d exchanged last July had scared him off.
With night as our blanket we lay together, arms around each other like little boys, best friends. He talked. I listened, and spoke when it seemed right.
And at the end, he left with a handful of Dum Dums and halloween candy, and the biggest smile upon his face.
I texted him Monday evening to thank him for seeing me. You really made my week, I told him.
He texted back only moments later. No, thank you. You made my year. You’re always so good to me.
I thought about it a moment, then texted back, You make being good a pleasure.
Because that’s what it should be all about in the end, right? Two people in the dark, being good to each other, and reaping the mutual benefit.
I think so, anyway.
I like . . . no, I love . . . the way he kisses. His lips purse as he stares into my eyes, then they clasp softly over mine, pulling at them as gently and sweetly as a baby grasping with its tiny fingers. I love the deep, plush pillows of them as we connect. I love his ass, which is round and full and tastes of soap with the tang of fresh-cut grass, somehow.
But what I found I liked most about Scruffy Sunday night, when he came by for a couple of hours, was how thoroughly he forgot about me and indulged himself. Oh, he didn’t forget about me completely. It was my dick he nursed on for a long half-hour the moment he’d parked his car in my garage and made his way into the house. I was certainly there, legs spread, running my hands through his hair. I was the one gasping for air and clutching at the blanket when he’d run his teeth lightly over my engorged cock head, or when he’d suck cool air up and around the shaft.
But Scruffy was the one who completely lost himself in the moment. My dick was the world to him. It was the only thing going through his head as he licked and sucked with a hunger that I’d never seen in him before. When he’d switch to my nuts, doing that thing with them that only he and no one else has ever done, in which he somehow makes them into a rigid column and fellates them as he would a cock until they’re quivering and ready to shoot, he wasn’t doing it for my pleasure. It was solely for his.
The fact that his hunger and my pleasure coincided nicely was only a plus.
I fucked him three times, Sunday night. First on his stomach, with my feet straddling his butt as I pistoned in and out, cowboy-style. The second time he rode me, his feet on either side of my waist, returning the favor. The third time, we came together as I fucked him on his back, standing by the bed’s side as he wrapped his long, furry legs around me and refused to let me go.
When I collapsed on the bed beside him—and I do mean collapsed, in a heavy, huffing heap—I found the entire bed covered with his load. He’d sprayed semen everywhere. The pillows, the sheets, the bed’s far side. “Holy fuck,” I laughed, coming away cold and sticky wherever I touched. “Did you have a quart of cum in you, or what?”
He sounded sheepish in the dark. “I haven’t had sex since July.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded, and snuggled under my outstretched arm. While we’d been making love, right after I’d slowly entered him, I’d whispered into Scruffy’s ear. I know I’m just some guy you fuck around with once in a while, I’d told him, hoping the truth of what I was telling him might sink in. But I want you to know that being with you means something important to me.
You’re not some guy, he’d whispered back to me. You’re the only guy I’ve seen.
When he told me he hadn’t had sex since July, I thought back to the last time I’d seen him. It was at the very, very end of that month, only three days before I’d learned that I was going to be moving. I’d thought he was being abstract and metaphorical, saying I was the only guy he’s seen. Apparently he meant it just as sincerely. “You haven’t had sex since the last time I saw you?” He shook his head. It seemed as if he was close to tears. “Baby. Why not?”
I lay there in the dark as he talked to me, his arms around my chest and his head resting upon it, rising and falling with my breathing. I knew he’d had to move back with his mom at the end of the school year last spring. I hadn’t known that he’d lost his job right after the last time I saw him, and that he’d fallen into despondency for several weeks after. I didn’t know about one of his siblings’ problems with the law, or his mother’s inability to find employment. It was all those reasons that had kept him ninety miles away without seeing me for three months, while all the time I’d worried that the declarations we’d exchanged last July had scared him off.
With night as our blanket we lay together, arms around each other like little boys, best friends. He talked. I listened, and spoke when it seemed right.
And at the end, he left with a handful of Dum Dums and halloween candy, and the biggest smile upon his face.
I texted him Monday evening to thank him for seeing me. You really made my week, I told him.
He texted back only moments later. No, thank you. You made my year. You’re always so good to me.
I thought about it a moment, then texted back, You make being good a pleasure.
Because that’s what it should be all about in the end, right? Two people in the dark, being good to each other, and reaping the mutual benefit.
I think so, anyway.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Red
Red is the color of his cheeks, just below the dirty-white waistband of his jock.
Not red. There has to be some more precise shade than that word, to describe the deep flush that spreads across his buttocks. Perhaps it’s the color of roses, pinkening at their edges. Maybe it’s crimson, deep as the blush that spreads across the boy’s face when I whisper dirty words into his ears. It could be more orange than either, like an astringent persimmon dripping with juice. Or raspberry—like him, a sweet morsel to be consumed. Lava red, hot and ceaselessly writhing. Fire engine, the color of urgency and heat. Scarlet, the color of sin.
Perhaps the rainbow of reds spreading across his butt are all those colors, or some wondrous shades of their own creation. My hand cups again and rises into the air, and pauses momentarily. Hesitating. Then it descends without remorse to collide with the left buttock. The boy gasps, and shudders, and jerks in my lap; his round, meaty ass quivers like gelatin from the aftershock.
Where I’ve struck flesh, more colors appear, deeper and redder than before.
I raise my hand again, slowly. Deliberately. Scruffy has had his face buried in the pillow; his pelvis weighs down my lap. The pillows muffles his gasps and his whimpers. Wearing a T-shirt and with his jeans still tangled around his ankles, he looks like a little boy poised over my knees for a retributive spanking. Only he’s no little boy, and most kids aren’t rock-hard and grinding into me, getting their bare-assed hand-paddling while they’re wearing a jock.
I know what he’s experiencing. In my youth, when I received similar spankings, I was told the experience arrived in stages. First the blush, then the budding pain, and finally the blossoming. The blush of color arrives after the first few slaps to the ass, when the sensation is still novel. The buds of pain arrive shortly after that, when each additional blow brings the boy closer to tears. It’s the worst stage, but also the shortest. Because after the boy pushes through the pain, the blossom begins. The cheeks take on a deep color, and the tingle blooms—a sensation of prickling and fire that spreads from the point of impact to the base of the spine, and tickles the body throughout. Every short moment of pain is worth the delicious prickle that follows.
From then, the hard edges of the spanking disappear. Nothing matters save the blossom as it reddens the cheeks and spreads and prickles across the skin. A boy will do anything to have that sensation continue, and only more slaps and spanks will suffice. It’s pain that brings a pleasure that lingers, and lingers.
Scruffy says something that’s inaudible into the pillows. I ask him to repeat it, more clearly. “Please don’t stop,” he manages to say. There’s moisture at the corners of his eyes, but he’s obviously, deliriously, happy.
I smile to myself. Those aren’t the words he’d uttered only a few moments before, before the bloom of pleasure began. So I raise my hand, bring it sharply down onto his ass, and listen to the sound of my flesh striking his. It’s followed by a gasp, and then a groan as he relaxes and enjoys the sensations.
And as I run the flat of my palm over his skin to soothe him, I watch the colors of red that blossom underneath. Carnelian. Flame. Maroon. Ruby. Apple-red, and vermillion. A hundred shades with and without names, for a pleasure my boy never knew he wanted.
Not red. There has to be some more precise shade than that word, to describe the deep flush that spreads across his buttocks. Perhaps it’s the color of roses, pinkening at their edges. Maybe it’s crimson, deep as the blush that spreads across the boy’s face when I whisper dirty words into his ears. It could be more orange than either, like an astringent persimmon dripping with juice. Or raspberry—like him, a sweet morsel to be consumed. Lava red, hot and ceaselessly writhing. Fire engine, the color of urgency and heat. Scarlet, the color of sin.
Perhaps the rainbow of reds spreading across his butt are all those colors, or some wondrous shades of their own creation. My hand cups again and rises into the air, and pauses momentarily. Hesitating. Then it descends without remorse to collide with the left buttock. The boy gasps, and shudders, and jerks in my lap; his round, meaty ass quivers like gelatin from the aftershock.
Where I’ve struck flesh, more colors appear, deeper and redder than before.
I raise my hand again, slowly. Deliberately. Scruffy has had his face buried in the pillow; his pelvis weighs down my lap. The pillows muffles his gasps and his whimpers. Wearing a T-shirt and with his jeans still tangled around his ankles, he looks like a little boy poised over my knees for a retributive spanking. Only he’s no little boy, and most kids aren’t rock-hard and grinding into me, getting their bare-assed hand-paddling while they’re wearing a jock.
I know what he’s experiencing. In my youth, when I received similar spankings, I was told the experience arrived in stages. First the blush, then the budding pain, and finally the blossoming. The blush of color arrives after the first few slaps to the ass, when the sensation is still novel. The buds of pain arrive shortly after that, when each additional blow brings the boy closer to tears. It’s the worst stage, but also the shortest. Because after the boy pushes through the pain, the blossom begins. The cheeks take on a deep color, and the tingle blooms—a sensation of prickling and fire that spreads from the point of impact to the base of the spine, and tickles the body throughout. Every short moment of pain is worth the delicious prickle that follows.
From then, the hard edges of the spanking disappear. Nothing matters save the blossom as it reddens the cheeks and spreads and prickles across the skin. A boy will do anything to have that sensation continue, and only more slaps and spanks will suffice. It’s pain that brings a pleasure that lingers, and lingers.
Scruffy says something that’s inaudible into the pillows. I ask him to repeat it, more clearly. “Please don’t stop,” he manages to say. There’s moisture at the corners of his eyes, but he’s obviously, deliriously, happy.
I smile to myself. Those aren’t the words he’d uttered only a few moments before, before the bloom of pleasure began. So I raise my hand, bring it sharply down onto his ass, and listen to the sound of my flesh striking his. It’s followed by a gasp, and then a groan as he relaxes and enjoys the sensations.
And as I run the flat of my palm over his skin to soothe him, I watch the colors of red that blossom underneath. Carnelian. Flame. Maroon. Ruby. Apple-red, and vermillion. A hundred shades with and without names, for a pleasure my boy never knew he wanted.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Ounce by Ounce
“I don’t care what you do when you’re out there on your own,” I whispered into Scruffy’s ear. “I don’t care who you talk to or what you do with them. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re mine. All mine. Have you got it?”
Scruffy lay on my bed last Wednesday, face down, mouth in the sheets. I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. Now that it’s summer, he’s back to living at his folks’ place near the state capital, and it’s not quite as easy for him to come over when he needs me. Nor is it as easy for me to text him to see what he’s up to. His hands were above his head, grasping onto the wooden slats of my headboard. Scruffy wore nothing but a jock. Its pouch was printed in a camouflage pattern. When he’d undressed himself for me, moments before, ripping off his T-shirt and then lowering his pants like a shy boy, he’d waited for my reaction.
“Did you wear that just for me?” I’d asked.
He had let loose one of those sideways, crooked-jaw grins that lights up my day. “Do you like it?” I’d nodded, very slowly, as my dick had stiffened in my pants. “I got it at Pride. I wanted to make you want me.”
Oh, I’d wanted him. I’d wanted him just where I had him with my dick was three inches inside him and aching to go deeper, as I growled the words into his ears. Though the air conditioning was on, a thin layer of sweat glued our bodies together. “So whose boy are you?” I asked.
“Yours,” he whispered.
“Whose?” I repeated, raising my voice.
“Yours!” He let out a muffled sob as I stabbed the rest of my inches into him. “Fuck. I’m yours, I’m yours, all yours,” he cried out. “You boy. Always your boy.”
“Say it like you mean it.” I was fucking him steadily, now, sliding in and out. Scruffy’s outermost ring is always tight, and when he clenches down on my meat, it feels like he’s taken his thumb and forefinger and squeezed as hard as he possibly could. Inside him, though, is always warm, wet, and loose. I let his hole clamp down on my swollen base while the rest of my dick enjoyed the soft, pillowy heat of his insides.
“I do!” he protested. “Don’t you know I mean it? Every time you have me, I’m more yours. Every load you shoot into me makes me want more of you. Every ounce. Fuck. If you don’t know that. . . .”
I didn’t say anything. I knew he meant the words. Instead, I pushed down on the back of his neck and raised myself so that I was in more of a mounted position, and began to piston back and forth, very slowly, letting him feel the length and girth of me.
“I’m totally yours,” he murmured, almost as though he were falling asleep. “I love having you in me. I love carrying your seed. I love. . . .” I raised my eyebrows and waited, but he had fallen too far into the fuck. He was all sensation now. His skin prickled with gooseflesh where I kissed his moist back. When I looked down at his hole, it was pinkening. His ass jiggled with every thrust.
“You know I feel the same way,” I whispered to him. His hand clawed for mine. I let him squeeze my left fingers tightly.
“Please come in me,” he said, very quietly. “Come in me so I can have you inside me all today. You don’t know how good I feel when I can carry you inside me.”
“You know,” I said to him, very softly, just above his head. “My favorite part about rimming you is that I carry your scent in my beard for the rest of the day. I can smell you whenever I want.”
“Oh fuck,” he said. My thrusting was faster, now. “I love smelling you too. I love doing what you want. I love thinking about the next time we can meet, and what I’m going to wear to make you smile.” His eyes were closed as he spoke. Every one of my thrusts he met with his ass, taking my dick to the root and massaging it instinctively. “I love it when you make me your boy.”
“You are my boy.”
“I am your boy,” he repeated, agreeing. “I don’t care how old I get or how old you get, I will always be your boy. For life. I love being your boy.”
I yanked at his hips and pulled him so that I could thrust harder. Like a limp ragdoll, he complied. Over and over he repeated the words as he let me use him. When I began to shoot, he came to life again. His eyes opened. “I feel it,” he whispered. “That’s you, inside me.” I held still, gasping and choking until the orgasm began to ebb, and then we sank onto the mattress together. “Now I’m more your boy than I was before. Every single time, more your boy.”
“My boy,” I whispered, shushing him. My left hand traced down the side of his body, tickling his underarm, his nipples, the curve below his ribcage. Finally it wrapped around the length of his big, wet dick and began to stroke. His back arched, but he pushed his hole down around my still-hard cock to keep it in him, as I began pleasuring him.
Maybe every load I give Scruffy does make him, ounce by ounce, more my own. I like the thought of him absorbing me in installments.
What I suspect he doesn’t realize is that ounce by ounce, he’s taken away my interest in lesser fucks as well.
Scruffy lay on my bed last Wednesday, face down, mouth in the sheets. I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. Now that it’s summer, he’s back to living at his folks’ place near the state capital, and it’s not quite as easy for him to come over when he needs me. Nor is it as easy for me to text him to see what he’s up to. His hands were above his head, grasping onto the wooden slats of my headboard. Scruffy wore nothing but a jock. Its pouch was printed in a camouflage pattern. When he’d undressed himself for me, moments before, ripping off his T-shirt and then lowering his pants like a shy boy, he’d waited for my reaction.
“Did you wear that just for me?” I’d asked.
He had let loose one of those sideways, crooked-jaw grins that lights up my day. “Do you like it?” I’d nodded, very slowly, as my dick had stiffened in my pants. “I got it at Pride. I wanted to make you want me.”
Oh, I’d wanted him. I’d wanted him just where I had him with my dick was three inches inside him and aching to go deeper, as I growled the words into his ears. Though the air conditioning was on, a thin layer of sweat glued our bodies together. “So whose boy are you?” I asked.
“Yours,” he whispered.
“Whose?” I repeated, raising my voice.
“Yours!” He let out a muffled sob as I stabbed the rest of my inches into him. “Fuck. I’m yours, I’m yours, all yours,” he cried out. “You boy. Always your boy.”
“Say it like you mean it.” I was fucking him steadily, now, sliding in and out. Scruffy’s outermost ring is always tight, and when he clenches down on my meat, it feels like he’s taken his thumb and forefinger and squeezed as hard as he possibly could. Inside him, though, is always warm, wet, and loose. I let his hole clamp down on my swollen base while the rest of my dick enjoyed the soft, pillowy heat of his insides.
“I do!” he protested. “Don’t you know I mean it? Every time you have me, I’m more yours. Every load you shoot into me makes me want more of you. Every ounce. Fuck. If you don’t know that. . . .”
I didn’t say anything. I knew he meant the words. Instead, I pushed down on the back of his neck and raised myself so that I was in more of a mounted position, and began to piston back and forth, very slowly, letting him feel the length and girth of me.
“I’m totally yours,” he murmured, almost as though he were falling asleep. “I love having you in me. I love carrying your seed. I love. . . .” I raised my eyebrows and waited, but he had fallen too far into the fuck. He was all sensation now. His skin prickled with gooseflesh where I kissed his moist back. When I looked down at his hole, it was pinkening. His ass jiggled with every thrust.
“You know I feel the same way,” I whispered to him. His hand clawed for mine. I let him squeeze my left fingers tightly.
“Please come in me,” he said, very quietly. “Come in me so I can have you inside me all today. You don’t know how good I feel when I can carry you inside me.”
“You know,” I said to him, very softly, just above his head. “My favorite part about rimming you is that I carry your scent in my beard for the rest of the day. I can smell you whenever I want.”
“Oh fuck,” he said. My thrusting was faster, now. “I love smelling you too. I love doing what you want. I love thinking about the next time we can meet, and what I’m going to wear to make you smile.” His eyes were closed as he spoke. Every one of my thrusts he met with his ass, taking my dick to the root and massaging it instinctively. “I love it when you make me your boy.”
“You are my boy.”
“I am your boy,” he repeated, agreeing. “I don’t care how old I get or how old you get, I will always be your boy. For life. I love being your boy.”
I yanked at his hips and pulled him so that I could thrust harder. Like a limp ragdoll, he complied. Over and over he repeated the words as he let me use him. When I began to shoot, he came to life again. His eyes opened. “I feel it,” he whispered. “That’s you, inside me.” I held still, gasping and choking until the orgasm began to ebb, and then we sank onto the mattress together. “Now I’m more your boy than I was before. Every single time, more your boy.”
“My boy,” I whispered, shushing him. My left hand traced down the side of his body, tickling his underarm, his nipples, the curve below his ribcage. Finally it wrapped around the length of his big, wet dick and began to stroke. His back arched, but he pushed his hole down around my still-hard cock to keep it in him, as I began pleasuring him.
Maybe every load I give Scruffy does make him, ounce by ounce, more my own. I like the thought of him absorbing me in installments.
What I suspect he doesn’t realize is that ounce by ounce, he’s taken away my interest in lesser fucks as well.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Memorial Day Questions: Scruffy vs. Mikey Smackdown Edition
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Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Return of Scruffy
When Scruffy bounced through my back door Monday afternoon, he sported a short beard like mine. “Well hel-lo!” I said, looking him up and down. “You look adorable.”
He flushed, and his hands immediately went to his face. “I haven’t shaved in a while.”
“I like it a lot. It suits you.” I pushed him against the wall, and grabbed his T-shirt with both fists. The legend written on it, If I throw this stick will you run away?, crumpled between my fingers as his back hit the plaster with a thud. “I’ve missed seeing you.”
“I missed you too,” he said, with his lids half-closed. Then I pressed my lips to his, and for long moments we kissed. “I’ve missed you so much.”
I took him upstairs, and laid him on the bed, and made out with him some more. I love the way Scruffy kisses. His eyes close, his head thrusts forward, and his lips grab hungrily for whatever they can—my lips, my tongue, the hair on my chin. It’s as if he wants to devour me, one greedy slurp at a time.
My mouth can be hungry too. “I am going to make you feel so good,” I whispered into his ear. I kissed down the line of his furry jaw, across his neck, and down to his nipples, poking out from beneath his upraised shirt. Like the rest of him, they’re pink and sensitive, so when I nipped at them with my front teeth, he would hiss and groan. Once I had his body writhing, I dragged my own hairy jaw down the inside of his rib cage to his soft stomach, his navel, his hip bone.
“Was there a memo?” I asked, as I pulled down his camouflage cargo shorts. I was wearing a similar pair. And like me, he wore black underwear and a green T-shirt. He laughed, but didn’t respond, because my nose nudged his pretty pink dick and his smooth, shaved nuts. I sucked him to hardness while he propped himself on his elbows and watched. A smirk covered his lips. Off came the shorts, and then the briefs. I forced him onto his back when I pushed his legs into the air to expose his pretty boy butthole.
I’d seen a slick move in a Dan Fisk movie in which my favorite top had grabbed his bottom around the middle, stood up straight, and rimmed the boy in a standing position while the kid hung suspended upside down and propped on his shoulders. This seemed just as good a place as any to try it; Scruffy yelped when I hauled him up and into the air and buried my mouth between his cheeks. He stared up at me as I watched him, over the top of his hanging sac and stiff dick. With every slurp or bite he twitched and thrashed around. I’d been at it for about five minutes when at last he gasped out, “I can’t—my neck.”
That was fine. I could make him jerk and shudder the old-fashioned way, too. Once he was face-down and in the pillows, I stretched his butt cheeks apart as far as they’d go, slapping them until they turned a bright cherry red while I continued munching on and spitting in his hole. I held his fat cock in my hand and milked it while I worked. Eventually he couldn’t take it any longer.
“Your turn,” he said, and flipped me onto my back. I hadn’t taken off a stitch of clothing at that point, so he undid my cargo shorts and pulled off my trunks and threw them across the room. Then he did that thing he does to my nuts.
I don’t know how to describe the technique he uses on my balls. He lies down between my legs and takes them both into his mouth at the same time. Then he fellates them. Back and forth his mouth goes, in and out, in almost the same manner as if he was working up and down my cock’s shaft. He never lets my balls pop out, but the sensation of his tongue and lips and teeth around them, and the rhythmic stretching of my sac always drives me nuts. It feels like edging during masturbation; there’s a low-level feeling of ecstasy that plays around the base of my spine that widens and narrows, and the softest of tickles at the back of my neck. I feel as if I’m close to orgasm, or even having it, but it’s the most gentle and sweet of orgasms ever, and lasts for so much longer. Whenever Scruffy goes for my balls and nuzzles them in his mouth, I know I’m in for a good fifteen or twenty minutes of grabbing at the the headboard and hanging on for dear life.
“I don’t know how the hell you do that,” I told him, once he was done. I was actually sweating, despite the ceiling fan. I’d shut the windows before he’d come over.
“I like making you feel good,” he said. “Now fuck me.”
I obliged.
I’ve never shot less than three times on any of Scruffy’s visits. He always milks out the first load expertly, demanding that I shoot in him to juice him up. Then, once my first set of shudders and quiverings subside, he’s relentlessly squeezing and nursing my dick with his hole to keep me hard and interested. “I love your cum,” he told me yesterday, while I was working up load number two. He reached down to the point where we connected, which was slick with my first sperm deposit. His fingers swiped some of the excess from his hole, and he sucked it off. “Whenever you’re in me, it feels like home.”
“You feel so good,” I whispered into his ear. We were lying on our sides, and I had my arms around him while I swiveled and ground my hips.
“I want to be home for you, too, daddy,” he said. Scruffy is a sensual boy. He responds to every stroke of my fingertips, every lick, every swipe of my beard. When I ran the flat of my palm down his side, his skin shivered and erupted in gooseflesh.
“You are home,” I assured him. “You are a beautiful boy, and every time I’m inside you, I am home.”
“I want to keep doing this forever and ever,” he said. His hand was working over his dick, which was wet with precum and the juices he kept slapping on from our fucking. “Please say you’ll keep seeing me.”
“Of course I will!” I said, surprised that he’d even say such a thing. “I love seeing you. You know that!”
“I just worry you’ll find another boy you like better. I want to be your boy.”
I couldn’t answer that one, right away. At last I said, quite honestly, “I’m here. I’m in you. It’s just you and me, and every time I shoot inside you, you’re more and more my boy.”
“Yes,” he said, groaning. I was saying exactly what he wanted to hear.
“Every time you take my sperm, you’re more and more clearly marked as mine. All mine.”
“Daddy’s boy,” he whispered.
“Daddy’s boy,” I agreed.
When he came, it was softly and almost as if he didn’t realize it was happening. Sperm gushed from the slit of his dick and spread over his abdomen and dripped onto the bed. The warm gush of it covered the back of my hand and turned me on so much that I followed shortly after, shooting a second load deep inside.
For my third time I fucked him on his back. “I wish I had pictures of this,” he said. “Or a video. Just so I could see what it looked like.”
Though I didn’t stop fucking, I held up a finger. “Just a second.” I leaned back and grabbed my phone from the table nearby, without pulling out. While I continued stroking in and out, I turned on the video capture, let it run for a minute, and then replayed it. “Too dark,” I said, handing the phone over so he could see the results.
“Still hot,” he murmured, licking his fingers and then reaching down to his swollen hole.
I pulled on the ceiling fan light and tried again. This time, the video was more cooperative. You could see my wet dick going in and out, and my red cock head pausing right before every thrust. I filmed for a while, then handed over the video again.
“Oh god,” he groaned. The sight of his own hole being fucked made him tighten up and clench at me. His excitement contributed to my excitement. Soon I was pumping load number three deep into his guts. “Every time,” he yelled at top volume, thrashing around even as my own orgasm subsided. This is why I’d closed the windows before he’d arrived. When he’s excited, Scruffy is a loud, loud boy. “You do this every god-damned time! How do you fuck out so many loads? I’ve gotta—!”
What he had to do was throw me down onto the bed, where he buried his face between my butt cheeks. Scruffy likes to eat my ass as he shoots. It didn’t take him long before he was grunting and buckling. He shoved me down onto the bed and brought his cock to my mouth just as it started to explode. I reached forward with my lips and greedily sucked down the cum, every drop.
“So good,” he said, lying back afterward, panting. Then he started laughing. Outright laughter, deep belly rumbles, as if he’d just heard the funniest fart joke in the world.
I sat upright. “What?” I asked, genuinely curious. I couldn’t help but laugh too, though I didn’t feel like I knew why.
“Just—I’m just so happy right this minute,” he said. “Laughing seems like the right thing to do.”
He was right. Laughing seemed perfect for that moment. So I lay there with him and laughed, just happy to be well and alive and enjoying his company.
He flushed, and his hands immediately went to his face. “I haven’t shaved in a while.”
“I like it a lot. It suits you.” I pushed him against the wall, and grabbed his T-shirt with both fists. The legend written on it, If I throw this stick will you run away?, crumpled between my fingers as his back hit the plaster with a thud. “I’ve missed seeing you.”
“I missed you too,” he said, with his lids half-closed. Then I pressed my lips to his, and for long moments we kissed. “I’ve missed you so much.”
I took him upstairs, and laid him on the bed, and made out with him some more. I love the way Scruffy kisses. His eyes close, his head thrusts forward, and his lips grab hungrily for whatever they can—my lips, my tongue, the hair on my chin. It’s as if he wants to devour me, one greedy slurp at a time.
My mouth can be hungry too. “I am going to make you feel so good,” I whispered into his ear. I kissed down the line of his furry jaw, across his neck, and down to his nipples, poking out from beneath his upraised shirt. Like the rest of him, they’re pink and sensitive, so when I nipped at them with my front teeth, he would hiss and groan. Once I had his body writhing, I dragged my own hairy jaw down the inside of his rib cage to his soft stomach, his navel, his hip bone.
“Was there a memo?” I asked, as I pulled down his camouflage cargo shorts. I was wearing a similar pair. And like me, he wore black underwear and a green T-shirt. He laughed, but didn’t respond, because my nose nudged his pretty pink dick and his smooth, shaved nuts. I sucked him to hardness while he propped himself on his elbows and watched. A smirk covered his lips. Off came the shorts, and then the briefs. I forced him onto his back when I pushed his legs into the air to expose his pretty boy butthole.
I’d seen a slick move in a Dan Fisk movie in which my favorite top had grabbed his bottom around the middle, stood up straight, and rimmed the boy in a standing position while the kid hung suspended upside down and propped on his shoulders. This seemed just as good a place as any to try it; Scruffy yelped when I hauled him up and into the air and buried my mouth between his cheeks. He stared up at me as I watched him, over the top of his hanging sac and stiff dick. With every slurp or bite he twitched and thrashed around. I’d been at it for about five minutes when at last he gasped out, “I can’t—my neck.”
That was fine. I could make him jerk and shudder the old-fashioned way, too. Once he was face-down and in the pillows, I stretched his butt cheeks apart as far as they’d go, slapping them until they turned a bright cherry red while I continued munching on and spitting in his hole. I held his fat cock in my hand and milked it while I worked. Eventually he couldn’t take it any longer.
“Your turn,” he said, and flipped me onto my back. I hadn’t taken off a stitch of clothing at that point, so he undid my cargo shorts and pulled off my trunks and threw them across the room. Then he did that thing he does to my nuts.
I don’t know how to describe the technique he uses on my balls. He lies down between my legs and takes them both into his mouth at the same time. Then he fellates them. Back and forth his mouth goes, in and out, in almost the same manner as if he was working up and down my cock’s shaft. He never lets my balls pop out, but the sensation of his tongue and lips and teeth around them, and the rhythmic stretching of my sac always drives me nuts. It feels like edging during masturbation; there’s a low-level feeling of ecstasy that plays around the base of my spine that widens and narrows, and the softest of tickles at the back of my neck. I feel as if I’m close to orgasm, or even having it, but it’s the most gentle and sweet of orgasms ever, and lasts for so much longer. Whenever Scruffy goes for my balls and nuzzles them in his mouth, I know I’m in for a good fifteen or twenty minutes of grabbing at the the headboard and hanging on for dear life.
“I don’t know how the hell you do that,” I told him, once he was done. I was actually sweating, despite the ceiling fan. I’d shut the windows before he’d come over.
“I like making you feel good,” he said. “Now fuck me.”
I obliged.
I’ve never shot less than three times on any of Scruffy’s visits. He always milks out the first load expertly, demanding that I shoot in him to juice him up. Then, once my first set of shudders and quiverings subside, he’s relentlessly squeezing and nursing my dick with his hole to keep me hard and interested. “I love your cum,” he told me yesterday, while I was working up load number two. He reached down to the point where we connected, which was slick with my first sperm deposit. His fingers swiped some of the excess from his hole, and he sucked it off. “Whenever you’re in me, it feels like home.”
“You feel so good,” I whispered into his ear. We were lying on our sides, and I had my arms around him while I swiveled and ground my hips.
“I want to be home for you, too, daddy,” he said. Scruffy is a sensual boy. He responds to every stroke of my fingertips, every lick, every swipe of my beard. When I ran the flat of my palm down his side, his skin shivered and erupted in gooseflesh.
“You are home,” I assured him. “You are a beautiful boy, and every time I’m inside you, I am home.”
“I want to keep doing this forever and ever,” he said. His hand was working over his dick, which was wet with precum and the juices he kept slapping on from our fucking. “Please say you’ll keep seeing me.”
“Of course I will!” I said, surprised that he’d even say such a thing. “I love seeing you. You know that!”
“I just worry you’ll find another boy you like better. I want to be your boy.”
I couldn’t answer that one, right away. At last I said, quite honestly, “I’m here. I’m in you. It’s just you and me, and every time I shoot inside you, you’re more and more my boy.”
“Yes,” he said, groaning. I was saying exactly what he wanted to hear.
“Every time you take my sperm, you’re more and more clearly marked as mine. All mine.”
“Daddy’s boy,” he whispered.
“Daddy’s boy,” I agreed.
When he came, it was softly and almost as if he didn’t realize it was happening. Sperm gushed from the slit of his dick and spread over his abdomen and dripped onto the bed. The warm gush of it covered the back of my hand and turned me on so much that I followed shortly after, shooting a second load deep inside.
For my third time I fucked him on his back. “I wish I had pictures of this,” he said. “Or a video. Just so I could see what it looked like.”
Though I didn’t stop fucking, I held up a finger. “Just a second.” I leaned back and grabbed my phone from the table nearby, without pulling out. While I continued stroking in and out, I turned on the video capture, let it run for a minute, and then replayed it. “Too dark,” I said, handing the phone over so he could see the results.
“Still hot,” he murmured, licking his fingers and then reaching down to his swollen hole.
I pulled on the ceiling fan light and tried again. This time, the video was more cooperative. You could see my wet dick going in and out, and my red cock head pausing right before every thrust. I filmed for a while, then handed over the video again.
“Oh god,” he groaned. The sight of his own hole being fucked made him tighten up and clench at me. His excitement contributed to my excitement. Soon I was pumping load number three deep into his guts. “Every time,” he yelled at top volume, thrashing around even as my own orgasm subsided. This is why I’d closed the windows before he’d arrived. When he’s excited, Scruffy is a loud, loud boy. “You do this every god-damned time! How do you fuck out so many loads? I’ve gotta—!”
What he had to do was throw me down onto the bed, where he buried his face between my butt cheeks. Scruffy likes to eat my ass as he shoots. It didn’t take him long before he was grunting and buckling. He shoved me down onto the bed and brought his cock to my mouth just as it started to explode. I reached forward with my lips and greedily sucked down the cum, every drop.
“So good,” he said, lying back afterward, panting. Then he started laughing. Outright laughter, deep belly rumbles, as if he’d just heard the funniest fart joke in the world.
I sat upright. “What?” I asked, genuinely curious. I couldn’t help but laugh too, though I didn’t feel like I knew why.
“Just—I’m just so happy right this minute,” he said. “Laughing seems like the right thing to do.”
He was right. Laughing seemed perfect for that moment. So I lay there with him and laughed, just happy to be well and alive and enjoying his company.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
My Boy Scruffy
I got a text message from Scruffy, Wednesday morning. What are you up to today, handsome? I was in the middle of something and couldn’t get right back to him. A couple of minutes later he sent another: I’ve really missed you and hope you’re free to get together. Text me? My dick was hard in my jeans when I punched out a message back: My bed is yours. Come over.
I hadn’t seen Scruffy in too long. He was last here two weeks ago exactly. I’d invited him to come spend the next night while the spouse was out of town, but he came down with food poisoning or something at the last minute and had to cancel. It’s unusual that we’ve gone so long without seeing each other—for the last three months or so, it’s been at least once or twice a week, minimum, that he’s been naked and in my bed. Often it’s been more than that.
I met Scruffy on Manhunt when one January morning he opened his photos for me without comment. The photos showed him as a tousle-headed, fair-skinned blond boy with an shy grin and a chin covered with a growth of bristly fuzz. The kid was completely adorable to me, though he resembled no one else more closely than Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoons. I wrote and told him he was extremely cute; he was naked and at my place in less than twenty minutes. If only all online hookups were as quick and simple.
Wednesday I met Scruffy at my side door and let him in. Once the door was shut, I leaned down from the upper stair where I stood and took his face between his hands. His mouth pushed out to meet mine; I felt his teeth rake against my lower lip as he sucked it in. “God, I’ve missed you,” I said, pulling him into me.
He rested his head against my shoulder. “I missed you too. So much.”
We made out by the door for a little while longer before I took him by the hand and guided him through my kitchen and living room to the stairs leading up to my bedroom. Once we were inside, he shoved me down onto the bed, straddled my waist, and grinned. My hand shot up to stroke his adorable face once more. “You are so damned pretty,” I told him.
He always flushes when I praise his looks. He doesn’t believe me, I think, because he doesn’t yet believe it can be true. Part of Scruffy’s charm is that he doesn’t know how truly attractive he is; I think he looks in the mirror and sees a tall, awkward dork barely out of adolescence, an overgrown kid in dirty jeans and a Cereal Killers T-shirt. I look at him and see a handsome young man. Uncertain, perhaps. Undecided about what direction to steer his life, yes. But I see the prettiness and the sweetness of his face, and the sweet white skin of his body, and I can’t help but sigh with admiration, every damned time. “You’re the good looking one,” he said.
I wouldn’t let him shrug off the praise. “Don’t make it sound like I’m fishing for compliments. You’re beautiful. Seriously. Own it.” We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then he swooped down and devoured my mouth. His lips traveled down my jawline to my neck, to my ear, around the back of my head, to all the places he knew I liked. His hands reached for mine, and our fingers curled together. Then he forced them up and over my head until he had me pinned. Hungrily we kissed. Our tongues darted in and out of each other’s mouths. Then, with a fluid and beautiful motion that would have done a gymnast proud, he arched backward and raised his hands into the air. “Watch your fingers,” I said, warning him to avoid the ceiling fan overhead. He ignored me, crossed his hands at the back of his neck, and pulled off the Cereal Killers T-shirt and discarded it on the floor. Then he sat there and waited, watching me look at him. I took in his long, pale torso, with its pink little nipples and the trim waist. I looked at the little puffs of hair beneath his armpits, and the natural muscles beneath his arms, and the scuff on his elbow, and said, “You really are beautiful.”
Scruffy’s grin is crooked, and bashful, and I’m always glad to see it.
It was my turn to take control. I pulled him down to the mattress and held him in my arms, letting my fingertips dance up and down his stretched-out stomach as we continued to make out. Then my lips began to follow them, moving up and down his torso. I licked at his nipples and bit them gently to elicit his shivers. I ran my furry chin up and down his sides, and dug it into his ribcage, so that my beard could give him goosebumps. With his eyes closed he lay on the bed and sighed, and groaned, and writhed like a fish needing water as I kissed his soft, sweet stomach. My left hand expertly tugged at his belt and undid it, then unfastened the button of his jeans before I pulled down the zipper.
Beneath the jeans he wore a pair of blue briefs. His cock was almost popping from the elastic band. I put my mouth on his hardness and exhaled. He gasped at the sudden feel of the warmth blooming around his dick, and tried to sit up. I wouldn’t let him; instead I pushed him back down, softly, quietly, and stood on the floor by the bed’s edge. My fingers hooked beneath the band of his briefs and prompted him to lift his hips. As if I were undressing a boy for bedtime, I pulled down his pants until they had cleared his waist. Then I tugged at the hem of his right leg, then his left, and gently removed his pants.
Whether he believed it or not, Scruffy was beautiful just then. His right hand lay on his stomach as if he was abashed of his nakedness, with me still in my jeans and T-shirt. His dick lay in curve, looking like a thick, pink comma. His balls, shaved and smooth, hung low between his legs. I took his dick in my hand and squeezed. Immediately it began to harden and swell. His hips thrust in the air, involuntarily. He wanted to be sucked. I gripped the shaft right at the base and hooked my little finger around his nuts, pulling them up so they brushed my chin as I opened my mouth and worked my way down the shaft. Scruffy’s cock is almost as large as mine, though he prefers to bottom. It always hits me at the back of the throat an inch before I’ve swallowed it all, but I always manage to get it all in. He grunted when my lips touched bottom. To add to the sensations, I reached between his legs and tickled his hole.
For a long time I sucked and played with his tackle, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to eat his ass. I pushed Scruffy over so that he was lying face down. The kid has a beautiful, round, slappable butt, and he likes it treated roughly. I let my hand land on the right cheek with a loud smack that made him shudder and whimper. Then the left, leaving a red mark behind. Once more on the right, and then the left, and then I alternated between them with deliberate hand slaps that made more noise than caused any pain. Each time he jumped, and clutched the blanket.
When his cheeks were blushing, I pushed them apart with my hands and dove in. I love to rim. I tell guys that I can rim for a long, long time, and they never believe me; I licked and sucked at Scruffy’s hole for over a half hour and I still wanted more. I’d dig my tongue in as far as it could go until I reached the slightly metallic-tasting inside of his hole. I spit in the hole and blew cool air in it to drive him crazy. I bit and nibbled at the cheeks just so I could listen to him yelp and moan. Then I’d bury my face in between those beautiful buttocks and lick and munch and gnaw and rub my beard over his skin while he breathed pleas and filthy obscenities. My own cock was rock hard while I worked him over. I could feel a puddle of my own precum in my shorts where I lay. When he tried to struggle free, I switched position and sat on his shoulders and continued rimming him from the other direction, just so he couldn’t escape.
When I came up for air, he was begging. “Please,” he said. “Please let me see your dick. Let me taste it.”
I didn’t say anything. I merely undid the top button of my jeans, then yanked open the other buttons of the fly. He was shaky as he sat up. “I really dig your underwear,” he said, burying his face between the denim flaps. I was wearing a pair of cheap Gap trunks with horizontal stripes in different shades of military tans and greens. “Can I have ‘em?”
“Maybe,” I said. “If you do a good job.”
He proceeded to do a very good job. I let him ease down my jeans and remove my socks. Then he proceeded to suck me. I’ve said before that I find it difficult to shoot from getting a blowjob, but with Scruffy I have been getting increasingly closer and closer to losing it in his mouth; I think he’s due to get a gullet full any time now. He also does this thing—words fail me at trying to describe it—with his mouth on my nuts. He’ll take my entire sac in his mouth and suck and suck and somehow manipulate it with his lips and tongue so that I end up squirming. He won’t touch my dick at all while he does it, but it still feels like those cum-churning last moments before I start to lose my load. For long minutes he kept me on edge until at last he very gently spat out my balls and said, “I want to eat your beautiful hole.”
“Really?” I said, hopefully.
“Fuck yes.” Without any ado he pushed my legs up in the air so that my ass met his mouth. "I love your hole!" Then he proceeded to rim me twice as vigorously as I’d done him. I don’t remember much about it. I just remember it felt very, very good. At some point he flipped me onto my stomach and ate me from behind, but then I found myself lying on my back and rimming him while he licked me out.
Both of us were harder than cement and dripping all over each other by the time I lowered him onto his stomach. I sat beside him and played with his wet, open hole. “You know what I’m going to do.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“You know I’m going to leave my seed in you.”
“I know,” he said. “I want it.”
“What do you want?”
“I want your seed in me.”
“What?” I said, feigning temporary deafness. “I didn’t hear you.”
Louder and more clearly, he enunciated. “I want your fucking seed in me.”
I didn’t have to lube him. I spread spit on the head of my dick, swung my legs over his, and began sliding in. “Go slow,” he said. “I haven’t been fucked since the last time we. . . .” I didn’t have to go slow. After a tiny bit of initial resistance, his hole opened wide and welcomed me. He let out a guttural noise that was more animal than verbal, and sank deep into the mattress. He pulled the pillow close and hugged it; I thrust my fingers beneath his armpits, guided them under the pillow, and ended up clutching his hands with mine as I began slowly to grind my hips.
“You feel good,” I whispered.
His voice was near tears. “I love sex with you. I love it so much.”
"You need it, don't you?"
His head nodded. "I need it bad. I need you. It's like your cock was made for my ass. Ever since the first day."
I continued fucking while I whispered low and close into his ear. “I know you’ve got your own life. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re my boy. I own you here.”
“Yes,” he said back, nodding. I honestly thought he might cry.
“Who are you when you’re here?”
“Your boy,” he said. “Always and forever. Your boy. Oh god. I want it to keep on going and never stop. Don’t let it . . . stop . . . .”
Still holding his hands, I fucked him sweetly. I used my knees to push his legs together and moved in and out. Scruffy excites me. He overexcites me, actually. I hadn’t been in him any longer than ten minutes than I began feeling the old familiar sensation, dragged up from the soles of my feet, that made my balls thrum like a speeding freight train. He knew by my increased breathing and the vigor with which I fucked him that I was getting close. “Breed me,” he said. “Please breed me. Please let me have your cum.” He kept begging for my sperm. When it finally came, I was silent—too busy trying to catch breath to make noise. I exploded in him with four or five gushes. “I can feel it,” he said, laughing and delighted. “I can feel it in me. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I was still rock hard when I rolled over with him onto our left sides. My arms held his chest. He tugged at his own dick maybe six times, and then contracted. His own orgasm was not quiet. In fact, my first panicked reaction was to remember that I’d neglected to close the windows, and that the whole neighborhood could probably hear. But I didn’t care. When he was finished yelling, he shivered all over, and lay very still and quiet in my arms.
It was maybe four minutes later when he finally said, “I shot all over your pillow.” He rolled to show me the globs of semen that had soaked into the navy blue sheets. I didn’t care about that, either.
I stayed in him, still inserting myself and withdrawing very slowly, until he began to move his ass in time with mine. It didn’t take him long. It never does. Spooning we lay there as I kissed the back of his neck. “You’re so wet,” I said. I took his hand and made him reach to feel where my dick was sliding in and out of his distended hole. “You feel that?”
“Fuck yes,” he said. Over and over the said the words, sounding as if he spoke from the depths of a very good dream. “I love it. I love being with you. I’ve never had sex like this.”
“You are so beautiful,” I told him again. I hoped he believed it.
He twisted his neck so that we could kiss over his shoulder. I continued to fuck him until I came again. My second orgasms tend to arrive quickly. The sensation of my dick sliding in and out of my own wet, warm cum always excites me. I love the slippery sensuality of it. When I shot this time, he reached around and pulled at my ass, trying to drive me deeper inside him.
“I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy,” he said, when I wiped him down with a towel.
“I’m not busy." To prove it, I held the back of his head and pulled him to me.
We intertwined and made out. Scruffy is one of those boys who doesn’t turn off once he’s shot. I love that about him. The kissing after we’d both come was as intense and passionate as it had been the moment he’d walked through the door. “I love being yours,” he whispered to me at last. “I like being your boy when I’m here. I think about it all the time.”
“You are mine,” I told him, as I stroked his cheek.
“Your hole,” he said. “Your cum dump.”
He knows the words to say to arouse me. Within a few moments he was straddling me and sitting on my still-hard cock while jacking furiously at his own. “I wish you’d been the one who’d cunted me,” he said. “I wish you’d been in me first.”
I held onto the wooden slats of the headboard, helpless. “I'm in you now.”
“Yeah, I’ve got you, and you don’t get to go anywhere until I’ve got another load.” I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d have a third in me, but when he really started to buck and slam his butt against my hipbones, I suspected I might. “I’m going to fucking take you captive until you give me what I want. I'll fucking rope you to the bed if I have to. Your boy wants another fucking load.”
“My beautiful boy,” I echoed.
“Your goddamned hungry boy.” He pulled his feet forward and lay them flat on either side of me, then squatted over my dick so that he could bounce his ass up and down over it. The bed creaked in protest. “Your owned boy who wants another fucking load out of you.” I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the sensations he was milking out of me, but he was too pretty to block out. Our eyes locked. “Give it to me!” he demanded.
I usually dislike bottoms or cocksuckers who demand a load on a schedule, but I fucking love Scruffy. He does stuff to me few others can. I nodded, then grunted. A third load oozed out of my dick and into his hole. He felt my dick contracting and expanding and slammed down, greedily gobbling up every drop. I could feel his muscles trying to suck it in. “I’m going to keep it in there,” he said, beating himself wildly “I’m going to keep your hot sperm in me all day, the way I do every time we meet. Because that’s where it belongs. If I can’t have your dick in me all day, I want your nut in there.”
“Promise me,” I said.
“I promise you,” he said, loud and fervent. “I am never, ever going to push any of your sperm out of me.”
“Why not?” I asked.
We’d been through this catechism before. “Because I’m your boy,” he said. “You own me. Your boy.”
He begged me to sit on his face while he jacked himself off. I lowered myself down on top of him while he continued to thrash his own meat in his fist. By the time he came a second time, he’d managed to make my hole feel as if it was having its own mini-orgasm. I was actually sorry it had come to an end when he panted, and heaved, and went limp, like a rag doll.
We lay and talked for several minutes before he had to get up and leave. “Whose boy are you?” I asked before I let him out.
He kissed me deep. “Yours,” he said. “For always.”
My upper lip smelled of Scruffy all afternoon and evening. From time to time, whenever I had a private moment, I’d curl it up and breath deeply, and think about my beautiful, beautiful boy.
I hadn’t seen Scruffy in too long. He was last here two weeks ago exactly. I’d invited him to come spend the next night while the spouse was out of town, but he came down with food poisoning or something at the last minute and had to cancel. It’s unusual that we’ve gone so long without seeing each other—for the last three months or so, it’s been at least once or twice a week, minimum, that he’s been naked and in my bed. Often it’s been more than that.
I met Scruffy on Manhunt when one January morning he opened his photos for me without comment. The photos showed him as a tousle-headed, fair-skinned blond boy with an shy grin and a chin covered with a growth of bristly fuzz. The kid was completely adorable to me, though he resembled no one else more closely than Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoons. I wrote and told him he was extremely cute; he was naked and at my place in less than twenty minutes. If only all online hookups were as quick and simple.
Wednesday I met Scruffy at my side door and let him in. Once the door was shut, I leaned down from the upper stair where I stood and took his face between his hands. His mouth pushed out to meet mine; I felt his teeth rake against my lower lip as he sucked it in. “God, I’ve missed you,” I said, pulling him into me.
He rested his head against my shoulder. “I missed you too. So much.”
We made out by the door for a little while longer before I took him by the hand and guided him through my kitchen and living room to the stairs leading up to my bedroom. Once we were inside, he shoved me down onto the bed, straddled my waist, and grinned. My hand shot up to stroke his adorable face once more. “You are so damned pretty,” I told him.
He always flushes when I praise his looks. He doesn’t believe me, I think, because he doesn’t yet believe it can be true. Part of Scruffy’s charm is that he doesn’t know how truly attractive he is; I think he looks in the mirror and sees a tall, awkward dork barely out of adolescence, an overgrown kid in dirty jeans and a Cereal Killers T-shirt. I look at him and see a handsome young man. Uncertain, perhaps. Undecided about what direction to steer his life, yes. But I see the prettiness and the sweetness of his face, and the sweet white skin of his body, and I can’t help but sigh with admiration, every damned time. “You’re the good looking one,” he said.
I wouldn’t let him shrug off the praise. “Don’t make it sound like I’m fishing for compliments. You’re beautiful. Seriously. Own it.” We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then he swooped down and devoured my mouth. His lips traveled down my jawline to my neck, to my ear, around the back of my head, to all the places he knew I liked. His hands reached for mine, and our fingers curled together. Then he forced them up and over my head until he had me pinned. Hungrily we kissed. Our tongues darted in and out of each other’s mouths. Then, with a fluid and beautiful motion that would have done a gymnast proud, he arched backward and raised his hands into the air. “Watch your fingers,” I said, warning him to avoid the ceiling fan overhead. He ignored me, crossed his hands at the back of his neck, and pulled off the Cereal Killers T-shirt and discarded it on the floor. Then he sat there and waited, watching me look at him. I took in his long, pale torso, with its pink little nipples and the trim waist. I looked at the little puffs of hair beneath his armpits, and the natural muscles beneath his arms, and the scuff on his elbow, and said, “You really are beautiful.”
Scruffy’s grin is crooked, and bashful, and I’m always glad to see it.
It was my turn to take control. I pulled him down to the mattress and held him in my arms, letting my fingertips dance up and down his stretched-out stomach as we continued to make out. Then my lips began to follow them, moving up and down his torso. I licked at his nipples and bit them gently to elicit his shivers. I ran my furry chin up and down his sides, and dug it into his ribcage, so that my beard could give him goosebumps. With his eyes closed he lay on the bed and sighed, and groaned, and writhed like a fish needing water as I kissed his soft, sweet stomach. My left hand expertly tugged at his belt and undid it, then unfastened the button of his jeans before I pulled down the zipper.
Beneath the jeans he wore a pair of blue briefs. His cock was almost popping from the elastic band. I put my mouth on his hardness and exhaled. He gasped at the sudden feel of the warmth blooming around his dick, and tried to sit up. I wouldn’t let him; instead I pushed him back down, softly, quietly, and stood on the floor by the bed’s edge. My fingers hooked beneath the band of his briefs and prompted him to lift his hips. As if I were undressing a boy for bedtime, I pulled down his pants until they had cleared his waist. Then I tugged at the hem of his right leg, then his left, and gently removed his pants.
Whether he believed it or not, Scruffy was beautiful just then. His right hand lay on his stomach as if he was abashed of his nakedness, with me still in my jeans and T-shirt. His dick lay in curve, looking like a thick, pink comma. His balls, shaved and smooth, hung low between his legs. I took his dick in my hand and squeezed. Immediately it began to harden and swell. His hips thrust in the air, involuntarily. He wanted to be sucked. I gripped the shaft right at the base and hooked my little finger around his nuts, pulling them up so they brushed my chin as I opened my mouth and worked my way down the shaft. Scruffy’s cock is almost as large as mine, though he prefers to bottom. It always hits me at the back of the throat an inch before I’ve swallowed it all, but I always manage to get it all in. He grunted when my lips touched bottom. To add to the sensations, I reached between his legs and tickled his hole.
For a long time I sucked and played with his tackle, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to eat his ass. I pushed Scruffy over so that he was lying face down. The kid has a beautiful, round, slappable butt, and he likes it treated roughly. I let my hand land on the right cheek with a loud smack that made him shudder and whimper. Then the left, leaving a red mark behind. Once more on the right, and then the left, and then I alternated between them with deliberate hand slaps that made more noise than caused any pain. Each time he jumped, and clutched the blanket.
When his cheeks were blushing, I pushed them apart with my hands and dove in. I love to rim. I tell guys that I can rim for a long, long time, and they never believe me; I licked and sucked at Scruffy’s hole for over a half hour and I still wanted more. I’d dig my tongue in as far as it could go until I reached the slightly metallic-tasting inside of his hole. I spit in the hole and blew cool air in it to drive him crazy. I bit and nibbled at the cheeks just so I could listen to him yelp and moan. Then I’d bury my face in between those beautiful buttocks and lick and munch and gnaw and rub my beard over his skin while he breathed pleas and filthy obscenities. My own cock was rock hard while I worked him over. I could feel a puddle of my own precum in my shorts where I lay. When he tried to struggle free, I switched position and sat on his shoulders and continued rimming him from the other direction, just so he couldn’t escape.
When I came up for air, he was begging. “Please,” he said. “Please let me see your dick. Let me taste it.”
I didn’t say anything. I merely undid the top button of my jeans, then yanked open the other buttons of the fly. He was shaky as he sat up. “I really dig your underwear,” he said, burying his face between the denim flaps. I was wearing a pair of cheap Gap trunks with horizontal stripes in different shades of military tans and greens. “Can I have ‘em?”
“Maybe,” I said. “If you do a good job.”
He proceeded to do a very good job. I let him ease down my jeans and remove my socks. Then he proceeded to suck me. I’ve said before that I find it difficult to shoot from getting a blowjob, but with Scruffy I have been getting increasingly closer and closer to losing it in his mouth; I think he’s due to get a gullet full any time now. He also does this thing—words fail me at trying to describe it—with his mouth on my nuts. He’ll take my entire sac in his mouth and suck and suck and somehow manipulate it with his lips and tongue so that I end up squirming. He won’t touch my dick at all while he does it, but it still feels like those cum-churning last moments before I start to lose my load. For long minutes he kept me on edge until at last he very gently spat out my balls and said, “I want to eat your beautiful hole.”
“Really?” I said, hopefully.
“Fuck yes.” Without any ado he pushed my legs up in the air so that my ass met his mouth. "I love your hole!" Then he proceeded to rim me twice as vigorously as I’d done him. I don’t remember much about it. I just remember it felt very, very good. At some point he flipped me onto my stomach and ate me from behind, but then I found myself lying on my back and rimming him while he licked me out.
Both of us were harder than cement and dripping all over each other by the time I lowered him onto his stomach. I sat beside him and played with his wet, open hole. “You know what I’m going to do.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“You know I’m going to leave my seed in you.”
“I know,” he said. “I want it.”
“What do you want?”
“I want your seed in me.”
“What?” I said, feigning temporary deafness. “I didn’t hear you.”
Louder and more clearly, he enunciated. “I want your fucking seed in me.”
I didn’t have to lube him. I spread spit on the head of my dick, swung my legs over his, and began sliding in. “Go slow,” he said. “I haven’t been fucked since the last time we. . . .” I didn’t have to go slow. After a tiny bit of initial resistance, his hole opened wide and welcomed me. He let out a guttural noise that was more animal than verbal, and sank deep into the mattress. He pulled the pillow close and hugged it; I thrust my fingers beneath his armpits, guided them under the pillow, and ended up clutching his hands with mine as I began slowly to grind my hips.
“You feel good,” I whispered.
His voice was near tears. “I love sex with you. I love it so much.”
"You need it, don't you?"
His head nodded. "I need it bad. I need you. It's like your cock was made for my ass. Ever since the first day."
I continued fucking while I whispered low and close into his ear. “I know you’ve got your own life. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re my boy. I own you here.”
“Yes,” he said back, nodding. I honestly thought he might cry.
“Who are you when you’re here?”
“Your boy,” he said. “Always and forever. Your boy. Oh god. I want it to keep on going and never stop. Don’t let it . . . stop . . . .”
Still holding his hands, I fucked him sweetly. I used my knees to push his legs together and moved in and out. Scruffy excites me. He overexcites me, actually. I hadn’t been in him any longer than ten minutes than I began feeling the old familiar sensation, dragged up from the soles of my feet, that made my balls thrum like a speeding freight train. He knew by my increased breathing and the vigor with which I fucked him that I was getting close. “Breed me,” he said. “Please breed me. Please let me have your cum.” He kept begging for my sperm. When it finally came, I was silent—too busy trying to catch breath to make noise. I exploded in him with four or five gushes. “I can feel it,” he said, laughing and delighted. “I can feel it in me. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I was still rock hard when I rolled over with him onto our left sides. My arms held his chest. He tugged at his own dick maybe six times, and then contracted. His own orgasm was not quiet. In fact, my first panicked reaction was to remember that I’d neglected to close the windows, and that the whole neighborhood could probably hear. But I didn’t care. When he was finished yelling, he shivered all over, and lay very still and quiet in my arms.
It was maybe four minutes later when he finally said, “I shot all over your pillow.” He rolled to show me the globs of semen that had soaked into the navy blue sheets. I didn’t care about that, either.
I stayed in him, still inserting myself and withdrawing very slowly, until he began to move his ass in time with mine. It didn’t take him long. It never does. Spooning we lay there as I kissed the back of his neck. “You’re so wet,” I said. I took his hand and made him reach to feel where my dick was sliding in and out of his distended hole. “You feel that?”
“Fuck yes,” he said. Over and over the said the words, sounding as if he spoke from the depths of a very good dream. “I love it. I love being with you. I’ve never had sex like this.”
“You are so beautiful,” I told him again. I hoped he believed it.
He twisted his neck so that we could kiss over his shoulder. I continued to fuck him until I came again. My second orgasms tend to arrive quickly. The sensation of my dick sliding in and out of my own wet, warm cum always excites me. I love the slippery sensuality of it. When I shot this time, he reached around and pulled at my ass, trying to drive me deeper inside him.
“I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy,” he said, when I wiped him down with a towel.
“I’m not busy." To prove it, I held the back of his head and pulled him to me.
We intertwined and made out. Scruffy is one of those boys who doesn’t turn off once he’s shot. I love that about him. The kissing after we’d both come was as intense and passionate as it had been the moment he’d walked through the door. “I love being yours,” he whispered to me at last. “I like being your boy when I’m here. I think about it all the time.”
“You are mine,” I told him, as I stroked his cheek.
“Your hole,” he said. “Your cum dump.”
He knows the words to say to arouse me. Within a few moments he was straddling me and sitting on my still-hard cock while jacking furiously at his own. “I wish you’d been the one who’d cunted me,” he said. “I wish you’d been in me first.”
I held onto the wooden slats of the headboard, helpless. “I'm in you now.”
“Yeah, I’ve got you, and you don’t get to go anywhere until I’ve got another load.” I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d have a third in me, but when he really started to buck and slam his butt against my hipbones, I suspected I might. “I’m going to fucking take you captive until you give me what I want. I'll fucking rope you to the bed if I have to. Your boy wants another fucking load.”
“My beautiful boy,” I echoed.
“Your goddamned hungry boy.” He pulled his feet forward and lay them flat on either side of me, then squatted over my dick so that he could bounce his ass up and down over it. The bed creaked in protest. “Your owned boy who wants another fucking load out of you.” I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the sensations he was milking out of me, but he was too pretty to block out. Our eyes locked. “Give it to me!” he demanded.
I usually dislike bottoms or cocksuckers who demand a load on a schedule, but I fucking love Scruffy. He does stuff to me few others can. I nodded, then grunted. A third load oozed out of my dick and into his hole. He felt my dick contracting and expanding and slammed down, greedily gobbling up every drop. I could feel his muscles trying to suck it in. “I’m going to keep it in there,” he said, beating himself wildly “I’m going to keep your hot sperm in me all day, the way I do every time we meet. Because that’s where it belongs. If I can’t have your dick in me all day, I want your nut in there.”
“Promise me,” I said.
“I promise you,” he said, loud and fervent. “I am never, ever going to push any of your sperm out of me.”
“Why not?” I asked.
We’d been through this catechism before. “Because I’m your boy,” he said. “You own me. Your boy.”
He begged me to sit on his face while he jacked himself off. I lowered myself down on top of him while he continued to thrash his own meat in his fist. By the time he came a second time, he’d managed to make my hole feel as if it was having its own mini-orgasm. I was actually sorry it had come to an end when he panted, and heaved, and went limp, like a rag doll.
We lay and talked for several minutes before he had to get up and leave. “Whose boy are you?” I asked before I let him out.
He kissed me deep. “Yours,” he said. “For always.”
My upper lip smelled of Scruffy all afternoon and evening. From time to time, whenever I had a private moment, I’d curl it up and breath deeply, and think about my beautiful, beautiful boy.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Gun Oil
Scruffy stood me up last night. We’d made plans earlier in the day that he’d come to my place between eight-thirty and nine. It was somewhere between then that he texted me to say that he wasn’t feeling well and that he was going to lie down. I didn’t hear from him again. It’s okay—I’ve been fucking the kid for three months now, twice a week or more, and every single time he’s been courteous and polite and shown up exactly when he’s said he would. I mean, I just dicked him yesterday.
I just like the kid, that’s all, and I’d ignored all the guys hitting me up via email all day, sniffing around with the spouse gone. I’d had that abortive rest stop sex in the morning that left me horny all day. So when Scruffy called off our planned fuck, I fired up the web browser and began seeing what I could get.
Finally I got one of my regulars from barebackrt.com to invite me to his place. Dennis lives about a mile south of me. He’s thirty-eight, a sandy blond shorty who goes to lengths to show off his little jock body. He wears shirts with deep cuts that show off his biceps, the curves of his pecs, and down to his cut abs; in all his profile photos (the ones with clothes, anyway) he’s wearing a baseball cap, beat-up sneakers, and shorts that show off his muscular legs. The fucks with Dennis are always the same. I give him a heads-up when I leave my house, and five minutes later he props open the door to his apartment building. I park, walk in the building, let myself into his unlocked apartment, and make my way to the back bedroom, where he’s got the blinds drawn and the TV playing porn. Tonight it was some Treasure Island movie I didn’t recognize. He was lying on the bed, poppered up and rubbing gun oil in his hole.
“Wife must be gone,” he said while I kicked off my shoes and removed my hoodie. He watched as the pants came off. I wasn’t wearing trunks underneath—just the thickest of my chrome cockrings. I was mostly hard already. The sight of all those furry muscles stretched over Dennis’ tiny frame has a tendency to do that to me. “When did you fuck her last?”
“Do you really care?” I asked him.
“No,” he admitted.
“Put your ass up.”
“I’m all greased up already,” he said, though he turned over.
“Don’t care.” I shoved him down on the bed and put my face against his hole until my mouth and beard were covered with the sweet-smelling gun oil. His pucker blossomed out against my tongue, and he grunted as I sucked at it. Then, after a few minutes of that, I got up on the bed and flipped him over, my hand still working at his butt. We made out some, but he was weird. Distracted. Usually Dennis is a deep kisser who goes helpless when I’ve got my mouth over his. Last night he tongue kept darting in and out like a cuckoo clock. When I lifted his legs and got my cockhead in, he started giggling to himself.
But I was wound up enough that I didn’t care if he’d been tweaking. When I finally drove all the way in he gasped and his toes curled tight around my ears. Then he relaxed and accepted it. I’d been at a simmer all day, so I knew I wasn’t going to last long, my first load. When I told him so, he said, “I don’t care . . . just get off on you . . . getting off. I was thinking . . . nah, you don’t care, just . . . stuff going through my head, doesn’t really . . . have to do with you.”
He had been tweaking, or something. The bed was covered with his shit. The giant pump bottle of gun oil was banging between our legs while I fucked him. He kept losing his popper bottle and having to roll around to retrieve it. Towels were everywhere, and the two remotes for the DVD player and the TV were digging into my back when I finally flipped us both onto our sides. He’s so tiny that fucking him with my arms around him always gets me off; I pulled him down hard on my dick while it spat its first load into his guts.
“God, you’re still hard,” he said, after a minute.
“Yup.”
“I got the impression it was a big load.”
“Your impression is right,” I said.
Then I grabbed his hand and put it at the base of my dick, where his hole was stretched around me. When he held it up and looked at it in the television’s light, it was slick with sperm. “Fuck,” he said, slathering it onto his own dick and rubbing furiously.
I fucked him again right after, ignoring the fact that he was talking to himself most of the time. By the time I bred him a second time, he was telling me all about how he’d comparison-shopped for his television and thought it was supposed to be among the best, but he hated how the porn looked on it. I didn’t really give a shit what kind of substance-addled rant he was on; I’d just wanted his hole for an hour. I pulled on my clothes and shoes, got the hell out, and went home to sleep in my empty bed.
I would’ve much rather have been with Scruffy. At least he’s present when I fuck him. Then again, I’ve never known Dennis to be anything less than horned up and eager for it—maybe it’s just an off day for everyone.
I just like the kid, that’s all, and I’d ignored all the guys hitting me up via email all day, sniffing around with the spouse gone. I’d had that abortive rest stop sex in the morning that left me horny all day. So when Scruffy called off our planned fuck, I fired up the web browser and began seeing what I could get.
Finally I got one of my regulars from barebackrt.com to invite me to his place. Dennis lives about a mile south of me. He’s thirty-eight, a sandy blond shorty who goes to lengths to show off his little jock body. He wears shirts with deep cuts that show off his biceps, the curves of his pecs, and down to his cut abs; in all his profile photos (the ones with clothes, anyway) he’s wearing a baseball cap, beat-up sneakers, and shorts that show off his muscular legs. The fucks with Dennis are always the same. I give him a heads-up when I leave my house, and five minutes later he props open the door to his apartment building. I park, walk in the building, let myself into his unlocked apartment, and make my way to the back bedroom, where he’s got the blinds drawn and the TV playing porn. Tonight it was some Treasure Island movie I didn’t recognize. He was lying on the bed, poppered up and rubbing gun oil in his hole.
“Wife must be gone,” he said while I kicked off my shoes and removed my hoodie. He watched as the pants came off. I wasn’t wearing trunks underneath—just the thickest of my chrome cockrings. I was mostly hard already. The sight of all those furry muscles stretched over Dennis’ tiny frame has a tendency to do that to me. “When did you fuck her last?”
“Do you really care?” I asked him.
“No,” he admitted.
“Put your ass up.”
“I’m all greased up already,” he said, though he turned over.
“Don’t care.” I shoved him down on the bed and put my face against his hole until my mouth and beard were covered with the sweet-smelling gun oil. His pucker blossomed out against my tongue, and he grunted as I sucked at it. Then, after a few minutes of that, I got up on the bed and flipped him over, my hand still working at his butt. We made out some, but he was weird. Distracted. Usually Dennis is a deep kisser who goes helpless when I’ve got my mouth over his. Last night he tongue kept darting in and out like a cuckoo clock. When I lifted his legs and got my cockhead in, he started giggling to himself.
But I was wound up enough that I didn’t care if he’d been tweaking. When I finally drove all the way in he gasped and his toes curled tight around my ears. Then he relaxed and accepted it. I’d been at a simmer all day, so I knew I wasn’t going to last long, my first load. When I told him so, he said, “I don’t care . . . just get off on you . . . getting off. I was thinking . . . nah, you don’t care, just . . . stuff going through my head, doesn’t really . . . have to do with you.”
He had been tweaking, or something. The bed was covered with his shit. The giant pump bottle of gun oil was banging between our legs while I fucked him. He kept losing his popper bottle and having to roll around to retrieve it. Towels were everywhere, and the two remotes for the DVD player and the TV were digging into my back when I finally flipped us both onto our sides. He’s so tiny that fucking him with my arms around him always gets me off; I pulled him down hard on my dick while it spat its first load into his guts.
“God, you’re still hard,” he said, after a minute.
“Yup.”
“I got the impression it was a big load.”
“Your impression is right,” I said.
Then I grabbed his hand and put it at the base of my dick, where his hole was stretched around me. When he held it up and looked at it in the television’s light, it was slick with sperm. “Fuck,” he said, slathering it onto his own dick and rubbing furiously.
I fucked him again right after, ignoring the fact that he was talking to himself most of the time. By the time I bred him a second time, he was telling me all about how he’d comparison-shopped for his television and thought it was supposed to be among the best, but he hated how the porn looked on it. I didn’t really give a shit what kind of substance-addled rant he was on; I’d just wanted his hole for an hour. I pulled on my clothes and shoes, got the hell out, and went home to sleep in my empty bed.
I would’ve much rather have been with Scruffy. At least he’s present when I fuck him. Then again, I’ve never known Dennis to be anything less than horned up and eager for it—maybe it’s just an off day for everyone.
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