The Professor

The room attendants for the little hotel by the freeway’s side were busy when I stepped out of the elevator onto the second floor. Carts laden with towels and toilet paper and little disposable bottles of shampoo blocked the hallways at regular intervals. I passed by several rooms in which the doors and blind were wide open, and where maids in uniform wrestled to lay bedsheets flat against the mattresses.

The door to room 222, however, was cracked, its security bar holding it open. I took the knob in my hand and pushed. For the briefest of moments I saw the fellow I’d come to meet, framed by the doorway’s light. He was stocky and broad, a muscular English bulldog of a man. He was naked, and sitting on the corner of the bed, legs spread, exposing himself.

I shut the door. The two of us were blanketed by almost complete darkness. He stood up and approached me as I kicked off my sneakers. When his arms went around mine, I placed my hands on his chest, and our lips met. I could tell from the start that he was a very, very good kisser. “Hi,” he said, sounding shy.

I said nothing, and instead kissed him more deeply, and harder.

When I think about it for any length of time, I’m always a little bit astounded that my foray into the world of sex blogging hasn’t resulted in more actual action. I get offers and attention from a lot of readers, to be sure, but they all seem to be out of the state, or else they haven’t yet followed through with their promises of doing all kinds of unholy things to my dick. After months of blogging, I’ve only met two readers who were so turned on by my more-or-less daily entries that they’ve made arrangements with me to meet—my good friend in Kentucky, and a local reader who sucked me off in a mall restroom a couple of months ago.

About six weeks ago, I’d gotten an email from someone who said he was a reader of mine, and who wanted to offer me something unusual. He was the chair of the history department at a prestigious southern university; since he had to visit the Detroit area in order to consult with the Henry Ford Museum for one of their exhibits, he asked if I might like to go along with him so that he could give me a private tour of the displays there. I was so charmed by the off-the-wall offer and found it flattering to both my libido and my brain cells that I began swapping emails with the fellow. Quite quickly we got down to his admission that he really wanted me to fuck his brains out, but that the museum tour would still be on the table if I wanted. Interested as I might have been, I was definitely up more for the fucking. We arranged a day to meet, the following week, when he was due in down.

The day of his arrival, though, he left me a panicked phone message. He’d missed his plane, he said, and he’d have to reschedule. I’d talked to the guy on the phone a couple of times and never got the impression he was any kind of player, so I took the postponement at face value. At the same time, though, a little part of me in the back of my head kept wondering, who misses a plane? Because I’m anal about that kind of thing. Was I being suckered?

I didn’t worry about it overmuch, though—and good thing, because my academic got in touch with me week before last and told me he’d rescheduled his museum visit. We agreed to meet Wednesday morning, when I knew I’d have several uninterrupted hours to play. And when he sent me his location and room number, and was sitting naked on his bed just as I’d told him, I knew that he was going to be the third of my readers to get bred by the Breeder’s dick.

We didn’t really come up for air until we were both on the bed, making out like teenagers at a party in somebody’s mom’s basement. “Well hey there, professor,” I said to him.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, looking at me with something akin to marvel. “You’re so handsome, too.” From time to time he would regard me as if I were some kind of legend sprung to life, a figure of myth or a religious icon that had stripped down in his room and decided to get dirty with him. The sensation of awe was palpable, and a little unsettling at times. “I want to give you so much pleasure today. It’s all about you today. If you let me,” he said, sounding hopeful and tentative all at the same time.

Of course, if being regarded with a little bit of awe resulted in that kind of offer, I was down with it.

The professor did give me pleasure—immense amounts of it. Wave upon wave of it, in fact, as he settled my naked body back against a bank of pillows and sucked my dick. I didn’t protest or feel guilty about the attention. It was what I’d come for. Sometimes he’d break contact with my meat and reach up to kiss me, still hungry for my mouth. I’d hold his face with my hands and we’d kiss more, which would only make me harder for him. He turned me over and ate my ass for what seemed like hours, without me having to betray my anxiety about asking for it; he nibbled at my nuts and chewed at my nipples in just the right amount. After an hour of being showered with attention, though, I couldn’t take any more. “I have to fuck you,” I told him. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He gulped audibly. “Good god yes.”

The professor didn’t protest at all when I flipped him onto his stomach and began licking at his ass. He groaned, and quivered, and began thrusting his hips into the mattress with very tiny motions, as if impatient for me to enter. I positioned my dick against his hole and stretched up so that I could whisper in his ear. At the same time, I spat in my hand and worked it onto my knob for lube. “You came to town just to have this dick,” I growled. He whimpered, agreeing. “Are you ready for it?”

“I want it so bad,” he said, clutching the pillows. “Please.”

I swear, I hadn’t meant to enter him right away. I’d only wanted to tease his underused hole with the tip of my dick and to get him yearning for it. When I pushed forward a little to find the hole’s edge, though, I found myself sliding in, and not meeting any resistance whatsoever. Just warmth, and a slight moisture, and the depths of his hole. The guy was wide open for me. “Oh my god,” I said, marveling at how easily I’d slipped all the way in. “When was the last time you were fucked?”

“To be totally honest, the last time was the day after Christmas, last year,” said the professor, chuckling nervously. Ruefully, he added, “Boxing day.” I wouldn’t have been able to tell it had been ten months, to be honest. “But I’ve been practicing with my Jeff Stryker dildo, to be ready for you.”

“I’m no Jeff Stryker,” I told him.

“No. You’re more handsome. And you’re bigger.”

Well, there was no way to respond to that one save for with a kiss to shush his nonsense.

I haven’t shot so much cum lately as I did last Wednesday afternoon. Load number one I shot directly into his hole after fucking him slowly and in a number of positions; number two arrived quickly afterwards, when I was still dicking him in my own load and getting a little overexcited at the sensations. “Are you going to write about me?” he asked, while we were relaxing a little after that.

“Of course” I said. “I write about just about all the sex I have.”

“Be kind,” he joked. I make a noise expressing derision of that. “You have no idea how I love reading about your adventures. You’re like a Quixotic, picaresque hero of an eighteenth-century novel. I picture you in a broad-rimmed hat, and knee-high leather boots, and a poofy shirt, with a saber at your side, bedding your way across the western world in a series of comic and erotic scenarios.” I rather liked that vision of myself, and told him so. “You’re so accessible, though,” he said as a follow-up. “I love your Byronic hair.” Which I took to mean messy, and floppy, and mostly in his mouth. “I kind of find it amazing that an A-Lister like yourself would even have sex with a B-Lister like m—”

I stopped that train of discussion immediately. “For someone so highly educated,” I told him sternly, “you couldn’t say anything dumber.” I am on nobody’s A List, truth be told. And if someone does have an A List, they’re likely not the sort of person I’m interested in meeting or hanging around. I’m ready to like the people I meet, period. No matter what their size or shape or length or girth, they either all bring something to the table, in which case I glow about them, or they bring little to nothing at all, in which case I walk away disappointed.

With the professor, there was no chance of disappointment. I went back in him for a third load, and then to my surprise, pumped a fourth in his hole. There was something about the way his ass felt against my hips and thighs that made penetration very pleasurable in a way that the guys who are all hipbone and skin don’t manage. When he wheedled, “Can I feel you in me one more time?” when I was getting ready to go, I couldn’t help myself. Nothing against you twinky guys—you know I love you to death, too. But often nothing’s better a hot, beefy man with a little meat of his bones. There ain’t nothing B-List about that.

And that’s how the professor was the first person I’ve been with in over a year got five loads out of me in less than three hours, all of them deep into his hungry hole.

Who’s stepping up to be reader number four?