Speed Fuck

what time can you be here tonight? read the text.

Ordinarily the abruptness of such a message would have had me composing imaginary replies in my head along the lines of Well hello to you, too, fuckwad, but when I saw it had come from the Decorator, I softened a little. I like the Decorator. Whenever I see the Decorator, I always walk away sated, happy, and feeling as if I’ve gorged at a buffet of all my favorite foods.

The only problem was, this was last Monday night, and I’d banged Scruffy three times the night before, and had fed a load to the Mechanic in the park a few hours before at lunchtime. Additionally, the Mechanic had left me so buzzed and excited that I’d jacked off after I’d gotten home. I had a momentary doubt that I’d have enough jizz left for the Decorator, if I were to meet him that night.

But I dismissed those doubts almost immediately. It was right at half-past-six when he texted. I can be there at 7:30, I told him.

Damn have to be somewhere at 8, he sent back. I could be naked and bed by 7.

It’d be tight, but I wanted to see him. See you at 7 then, I tapped back. Then I dashed for the shower.

The Decorator lives only five minutes from me. I arrived at his place a good ten minutes early, but since he sent me a message saying he was in bed and ready right as I got there, it worked out well. I parked my car in his driveway, admired the tasteful mix of Halloween and autumn harvest accessories adorning his front porch, and let myself in the front door. Once I’d locked it behind me and made my way upstairs, I stopped in the bedroom doorway and let my eyes adjust.

The Decorator had set several candles at strategic places around the room. They smelled of vanilla, and citrus. It took me a moment to figure out where he was, in the dim and flickering light. Usually he lies in the middle of the bed, waiting for me with his face toward the bureau and his ass propped up by pillows. This time, however, he seemed to be lying beneath the covers. Or more accurately, I could see as I drew closer, he had wrapped himself from the waist down in some kind of blanket. When I knelt down at the bed’s side and began to pull it off of him, I found that it was made of some kind of luxurious fabric, soft and sleek to the touch—the sort of thing a pampered rich boy would want to feel next to his naked skin.

As always, he appeared to be sleeping. But when I slipped off the blanket and folded it into a neat square that I placed at the bed’s corner, he shifted slightly, rolling the muscles of his ass from one side to another in a fashion I couldn’t help but find inviting. I kicked off my sneakers; I shucked down my jeans and pulled off my shirt. If I’d had any doubts about being able to manage a stiff dick after Scruffy and the Mechanic in the preceding few hours, they vanished the moment my knees hit the floor and my hands separated his ass cheeks. I was rock hard by the time my tongue dipped into the valley of flesh and began teasing at his hole.

I love the taste of the Decorator’s pucker. It’s peculiarly metallic, perhaps because of the coppery color of his hair. Whatever it is, I couldn’t get enough of it. I knew I had to act fast, but on the ass-eating I didn’t cut corners. While he shifted and groaned and let out little soft sighs, I munched away at that hole, pausing occasionally to run my teeth over his butt and let my close-cropped beard rasp across his skin. I blew columns of cold air against it to make him raise his head. Then I’d dive back in until he squirmed.

The clock read ten minutes after seven when I rubbed spit over my dick and began to slide into him. He came up on his forearms as I entered, curving back his head. If someone had come into the room right then, it would have looked almost as if he were doing a push-up, and as if I were trying to push him right back down again. His head dropped; his forehead hit the mattress as my nuts pressed up against the base of his hole. I began to fuck him, softly for a few strokes, and then harder, quickly.

Usually my time with the Decorator falls more into the category of lovemaking than outright fucking. Due to his time constraints, however, I made the decision to fuck the hell out of him. Once I was sliding in and out of his hole nicely, I grabbed him by the hips and slammed him, letting my pelvis collide into the soft mounds of his ass. Then I’d withdraw and plunge right back in, over and over again, until every thrust seemed to draw out him a small noise. Sometimes a grunt, sometimes a yelp, sometimes the smallest of whimpers. He wasn’t producing them like a porn star might, making a show of every little noise. They were involuntary, and probably unconscious. His body simply couldn’t help it.

“You know I love breeding you,” I whispered in the vicinity of his ear as the first load came pouring out a few moments later. I could tell it wasn’t the largest load I’d ever delivered into him, but it was enough. I felt the warmth and slipperiness of it spread around my dick as I continued to fuck away at him. When I reached down and under, between his legs, his cock was not only rock hard, but coated with his own pre-cum. At first I thought my load had dripped out and managed to reach his meat, but no—a steady flow gushed from the tip of his dick. Like a faucet, it was. I dipped my forefinger into it and brought it to his mouth. He gobbled it down hungrily, and took the rest of my fingers into his mouth as well.

Together we rolled onto our right sides. I held him in my arms as we continued to fuck, and moved his left hand down until it touched his dick. He took the cue and began to stroke himself while I ground away at his hole. Save for the one sentence I’d whispered before I’d shot, we hadn’t spoken at all. The Decorator loves for me to play with his nipples as we fuck, though, and when I grabbed onto them and squeezed, hard, he exclaimed, “Fuck yes.”

I squeezed his nips as if I was milking them. I yanked and pinched and twisted them cruelly. Every new sensation made his ass clamp down on my still-stiff dick. The stickiness flowing from his own meat connected us as the tip flicked against the back of my wrist, over and over. His own gyrations gradually grew more vigorous. After a few minutes, he was fucking his own hole on my stick, drawing me in more deeply as he pleasured himself. I could tell he was getting closer to his orgasm when his breathing began to shorten. His body elongated. His arm reached around to the back of my head, pulling me close to him. When our lips met, he began to shake and quiver and spew semen all over the sheets.

The Decorator’s excitement spilled back to me. I came a few moments later, hanging onto him around his waist as though I were afraid he’d try to get away. Then we lay there for a moment, quiet.

It was 7:35. I had to go, I knew, if he were going to get to his event on time. Reluctantly, I withdrew. He didn’t move. I used the hand towel nearby to wipe the juices from his legs, and then parted his ass to get a good look at his hole. In the candlelight it was difficult to see, but he seemed red, and puffy, and well-used.

I couldn’t help myself. I knelt down at the bed’s edge and buried my face in his ass once again, licking at that hole and savoring the tastes of his metallic ring, the tang of my cum, and the lingering remains of my own saliva. He moaned and pushed back. A few more droplets of my sperm fell onto my waiting tongue.

After I’d rimmed him until I couldn’t taste any more of the loads I’d left inside, I sat up. “Thank you,” I said in hushed tones, as if I’d entered a cathedral and was determined to remain prayerful. “I really needed that.”

He said nothing, but rose to his knees and hovered over me like a painted angel by an Old Master. His kisses descended onto my ear, my shoulder . . . and then the back of my neck. My neck, the most sensitive place of my entire body, and the spot that craves attention it almost never gets.

“I need to go,” I protested. “You need to get ready. . . .”

He was having none of it. Just as I’d held him down moments before and rimmed his sore and used hole, he refused to let me get up from the bed. His mouth kissed my neck. His tongue licked at it. Together they worked in tandem to make me lean forward in surrender. I groaned, and buried my face in my hands. “God,” I whispered. “Oh god. Oh god.” Over and over I repeated the words as his mouth worked over those few square inches and sent shivers throughout my entire body.

It’s such a simple pleasure. Yet I could have sat there all night, hunched over with my hair spilling down around my face, letting him lick and chew over and around my nape. A few times I tried to protest, but he was having none of it.

It was 7:50 when he finished. “I need to go,” I repeated. When I stood up, though, I could barely keep on my feet. I stumbled, and grabbed for my shoes next to the place where they actually sat. Somehow, though, I managed to get my clothes back on. Without knowing really how I got there, I found myself sitting in my car five minutes later.

It’s not what a dedicated top man should admit—that he enjoyed ten minutes of having his neck munched even more than the forty minutes of fucking and felching that preceded it.

But there it is.