Number Four

The little house lay at the end of a dead-end street curled up next to the freeway, hidden and snug behind the tall wall of brick designed to keep out its droning sounds. Despite the rush-hour traffic on the other side, what I mostly heard was the usual sounds of a quiet neighborhood—the chatter of birds, the whirr of a mower across the street, the faint percussive chatter of someone’s television playing behind an open screen door.

When I approached the address I’d been given, I saw that the front door was open. He stood on the other side, in the shadows of the shaded living room. It’s always something of a relief when they look like their pictures, these online hookups. There were no surprises in store when he opened the storm door and greeted me. I shook the hand of a shorter cub of a man with dark skin and the thinnest of beards on his face. This reader of mine—the fourth I’ve met since I started my online sex blog—said he was a top like me, but I was pretty sure that even barring that, there were plenty of other things we might be able to try.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, giving me a firm shake.

I just moved in for a kiss. His lips were soft and full, and responded to the touch of my own by parting slightly. My tongue slid into his mouth. The guy was a good kisser. Slow. Responsive. Just the right amount of moisture upon his lips and a good amount of suction on my tongue when I thrust it in. While we made out, standing there on the living room mat, his hands moved to my shoulders, down my sides, onto my hips. I grabbed his right hand and forced it against the thickening rod in my pants, rubbing his open palm down the shaft that hung down the left leg of my pants.

He broke away from the kiss. “Fuck,” he said. “That’s big.” He grabbed for my top button, but I was already a step ahead of him. I popped it loose, then unzipped. He got down onto his knees and pulled my jeans and shorts mid-thigh, and began to suck.

Sometimes tops give the best head. This guy had it. His mouth was warm, and wet, and every time he hit bottom I could feel those beautiful lips scraping the tips of my pubes. He went at it softly and slowly, not rushing, the way some overanxious bottoms tend to do. Some men try their hardest to suck me off. This guy, the top, simply respected the dick, and did everything he could to keep me hard and on edge. His goal wasn’t the load. It was my pleasure, and every time he deep-throated my pole so that I could feel the head lodging in his throat, it made my knees buckle.

“You have a bedroom or something?” I said at last.

He did. We made our way to the back of the little house, where he shucked off his athletic shorts and threw a pillow on the floor. I lost my sandals and pants and sunk my inches back into the velvet depths of his mouth. The top’s own cock was a fat number, thick and dripping with juice. He stroked it off and on as he worked on my meat.

“Come up here,” I told him, finally, hauling myself up on the bed.

I lay on my back while he straddled me. Our dicks lay against each other whenever mine sprang up to meet his. “Tell me,” he said, as we played with each other. “Tell me about the butts you’ve fucked.”

The two of us have covered some territory in our area, dipping our poles into many of the same holes. We swapped talk for a little bit, talking about some of the ones we had in common, and a lot about the ones we wanted to share. The talk not in the least romantic or flowery. It was Anglo-Saxon. It was blunt, and dirty. It was the crude language of two men who recognize the need to fuck and to stretch a hole to its widest, and who respect the other for having the same urges.

It was when he was describing what he wanted to do to one of my regulars that I felt a tide rising in my nuts that spread through the shaft and erupted into a short gush of the white stuff. He reached down and grabbed and handful and slopped it onto his dick. A moment later, he shot his load over his own hand, and onto my dick and belly.

It was hot. It was quick. And it was pretty damned explosive, for two top men who didn’t have a hole to fuck.

One more reader down. Only a quarter of a million (minus four) to go!