Piggy-Minded

In his profile he described himself as muscular, piggy-minded, handsome, versatile, and a great attitude. His photos portrayed a well-built guy with a round bubble butt posing in tight underwear, or standing in front of his sling in a casual posed, arms clutching onto the frame in a way that showed off his guns. But photos sometimes lie, you know. Or they might have been true at one point, but when you show up to the guy’s place, you find out he’s aged a good fifteen years and fifty pounds since.

The hotel where I was staying in Toronto this last weekend was a little bit off the beaten track; it was downtown, but not in the direct epicenter of gay nightlife. I was convinced I’d hate the location, but I actually didn’t. A subway stop lay nearby, so all I had to do to get anywhere was step out of the hotel’s leaded-glass front door, walk across the street and a half-block north, and I could get where I needed to be within ten or fifteen minutes. When I walked to the muscle guy’s address from the College station stop, crowds were streaming to and from Church Street, where the Friday night Pride parties had begun. Although the soundstage was several blocks away, the bass pounded my ribcage so loudly that it made me feel a little breathless.

I made it past Church Street and the piano bar to the guy’s high-rise, where he buzzed me in and gave me his apartment number. To my relief, when he answered the door, he was exactly as he’d appeared in his ad. Beefy, handsome, bald, and beaming at the sight of me. “Wow, you’re tall,” were his first words. “Handsome, too.”

My first words, logically, should’ve been man, you’re short! His photos hadn’t given much indication as to his height, but my first Toronto trick was a short little dude. Well-proportioned, certainly, and handsome as well, but he still topped out only at about five-foot-five. I couldn’t believe the muscles on him, though, or the perfect shininess of his bald head. He grabbed my hand in his and gave it a mighty squeeze. “Nice to meet you,” I said. I leaned down, and brought my mouth to his. His lips parted slightly to accommodate mine, and we kissed. It was a good kiss—wet and soft, with enough tongue to make me respond with passion.

He fell back against his hallway wall with a thud, craning his neck to make out with me for a moment. “Wow,” he said softly. Then, “Come on in.”

The apartment was tiny—despite a closed bedroom door, it was barely a step above an efficiency. The view of Church Street directly below couldn’t be rivaled, though. Music and the sounds of the crowd drifted up a dozen stories over his balcony rails and into the dark living room, where my new friend was removing his muscle-T and stripping down to a black jock. Before I’d arrived he’d laid out several towels on his futon. Now he hopped up on top of them and beckoned me over. “Let me see that big dick,” he said.

I obliged. My hands pulled at the denim of my jeans and popped open first the button, and then lowered the zipper. My friend licked his lips a little in anticipation. “Fuck,” he said, when it flopped out. “That’s way bigger than eight.”

I shrugged. I didn’t think so. I’d shaved my nuts and trimmed my pubes before I’d left for Toronto, though, so that might have contributed to the impression. I’m not over-concerned with my size in general. I’m bigger than most, smaller than a lot, and fortunate to have a piece that attracts attention wherever I go. That’s really all the inches I need.

What did matter to me was his mouth, which was wet, warm, and more than willing. He gobbled at my dick like a starving man, slobbering over it, fighting with his own inhibitions and throat to take all of it down. I let my camo shorts fall to my ankles, then stepped out of them while he sucked and slurped. He didn’t notice when I removed my T-shirt and shivered slightly in the breeze of the room fan.

“God.” His eyes were glazed with lust and desire when he looked up at me. “That dick is fucking amazing.”

“It will be,” I promised. I lowered myself onto the sofa on top of him, grinding my meat against his pecs as the two of us made out some more. The man was really a very good kisser. I could have lain atop him and enjoyed the taste of his lips for hours. I had other plans, though, and limited time before the man’s boyfriend arrived home. With my hands I indicated that he should flip over. Without hesitation he presented his ass to me. I ran my palms over the perfect globes. He let out a sigh and rested his forehead against the sofa cushions, anticipating my lips against his hole. I didn’t deny him the pleasure for long. His ass tasted of soap and clean, natural sweat; the light hairs growing around it lingered on my tongue as I sucked on it. Whenever I blew a column of cool air on the wet skin, he gasped and arched his back.

Soon he was ready to fuck. “I’m going to need a lot of lube,” he gasped out. “I’m always very tight—aaaahh.” I’d already lubed him plenty with my mouth. A bit more spit on my dick was all I needed. “Oh fuck . . . fuck . . . yes. Maybe I was wrong about the lube,” he breathed.

I know how to judge when a man needs more lube, and when he doesn’t. I know when he’s ready to be fucked, and when he’s had enough. That’s why I get paid the big bucks. I helped the guy’s tight and muscled body down onto the futon and mounted him with my knees on either side of his, and began to glide in and out.

All through the first fuck he was extremely vocal. “Oh my god,” he kept saying, in a voice of wonder. “Oh my god. I haven’t . . . it's been too long. . . .” Gradually, as my pace and vigor increased, he was reduced to little whimperings. His hands reached for a pillow high above his head. “Please,” he whispered. “Please. Please. Please.”

For a good twenty-five minutes I fucked him. I made him squat on it, so that I could sit upright with him and make out as I ground my dick in his hole while we made out. I perched him at the sofa’s edge and drove in from behind. I even took him out on the balcony and made him clutch the rail while we fucked in the darkness outside. We were on the sofa, fucking doggie-style, when I realized how close I was. I leaned down and nipped at his ear, and then whispered into it, “You know I’m going to breed you.”

“Yes,” he said, his breath catching.

“Ask for it,” I told him.

“Please breed me.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Please. Please breed me.” His voice had been weak and submissive, but suddenly grew steely and demanding. “Mark me,” he commanded.

That was what I needed to hear. My dick unleashed, flooding cum in his guts. I almost accidentally fell out before I was done, and had to shove deep inside to deposit the rest of the load there.

He twitched, and shuddered, just as I did during the last throes of the orgasm. “Oh fuck,” he said, when I pulled out. There was something in the tone of his voice that made me ask what was wrong. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m just rock hard. I never get hard when I’m being fucked. I mean, absolutely never.”

I sat down and pulled one leg beneath me, and settled him so that he was lying down with his head on my chest. I reached down and stroked his dick, which was small, but hard and dripping with precum. “Why not?”

“Because I—I just don’t,” he said. “Most guys with big dicks like yours just pound away but leave me feeling dead. You—fuck.” His eyes were wet with tears. He bit his lip. “Thank you.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, moved by his obvious emotion.

“That was fucking transformative,” he said. “I haven’t had anyone fuck me like that in a long, long time. Seriously. Believe me.”

He was still on the point of tears, and turned his head so that I wouldn’t see his embarrassment. With my hand I turned his handsome bald head back to face mine, and then covered his lips with mine. “It’s okay,” I told him, still squeezing his leaking meat.

“Do you mind if I shoot?” he asked. “When I don’t get hard with other guys. . . .”

“Of course I don’t mind,” I assured him.

And that’s how he shot that night, lying in my arms while I made out with him and squeezed his nipples. His orgasm was violent and noisy, blocking out the sounds of thousands of people and the heaviest of bass beats with his own shouting and buckling and expletives, when finally he shot. Most men stop kissing, once they’ve cum. My little muscle stud grew hungrier, relaxing into me completely as we continued to make out for long, long minutes in the sticky summer night.

“I’ve got one observation, and one question,” he said, when at last our mouths separated.

“What’s that?”

He looked up at me. “Your dick is still hard.” I nodded, and assumed that was the observation. “Do you still have enough left in you to go again?”

If that was the question, it was a question I could answer readily. “Absolutely.”

Then I showed him.