Piggy Needs to Be Fed

“Piggy needs to be fed,” Spencer said yesterday, around seven in the evening. His hands slapped his stomach. And by ‘stomach,’ I mean that flat section of his body between muscular chest and thin waist where he tucks enormous quantities of food without displaying so much as a ripple.

I gaped at him in amazement. “You’re kidding me, right?”

We’d spent most of the snowy day together. He’d come over shortly after noon and we’d slowly driven through unplowed side streets to an Indian restaurant he’d recommended that had a large lunch buffet. We were the only non-Indian diners there; the entire time of our visit, the staff and cooks kept stopping by our table and treating Spencer as if he were some sort of local celebrity. Apparently he’s a regular there. They asked about his performances, and his health, and inquired after his parents and friends, remembering them by name. The owner was particularly solicitous. Though he quite capably shoveled two big plates of rice and curries into his mouth on his own, she kept bringing over special little tidbits she thought he’d particularly enjoy—a mango/yogurt drink to cool the spices, little fried honey cakes to counter the chickpea stew, seasoned naans they’d made in the kitchens just for him. The food was fantastic, but I was quite full by the time we finished off with lumps of milky, sweet dessert cheese, and knew I wouldn’t be eating again for the rest of the day.

We went to the movies, where we held hands in a crowded theater and where I cringed behind him whenever something gruesome happened involving ballerinas slamming their mothers’ hands in doors or ripping off bloody toenails. And then we went back to my place, where we promptly hopped between the sheets, naked and erect, and went at each other’s bodies like horny teen boys desperate for release. He came before me, his hole clutching and gripping my dick, then relaxing for me to finish pounding him.

We’d watched an hour of an old X-Files episode when he patted his belly. “You can’t be hungry,” I protested.

“It was five hours ago that we ate!” he countered.

“Five hours ago that we ate a fucking enormous meal.”

“I’ll go out and get myself something. You don’t have to go.” It was a gallant offer, considering that a dense, icy snow had been falling all day.

“No,” I told him. “We’ll go out. I’ll just watch you eat. That’s all.”

We ended up at a Chinese restaurant up the street, where I watched him consume a bowl of stir-fry while I toyed with a single scant spring roll. Then it was back to my house again, where we watched another couple of hours of television together, cuddled on the sofa with his legs draped across my lap and his hands warming on the skin beneath my shirt.

At ten, he stood up. “I guess I should get going.”

“You need your sleep,” I agreed.

We stood close. Spencer is nearly as tall as I. I don’t have to bend over in order to meet his mouth. We kissed, sweetly, gently. Our lips connected and intertwined, then softly pulled away from each other, over and over again. His hands pulled my hips against his. I could feel his dick hardening down the right leg of his pants. Spencer never wears underwear. It’s perfectly possible at any given time to spy the outline of his cock head through the khakis he favors. When he’s hard, his big dick fills them out. My nails scratched the ridge through the fabric, making him catch his breath.

My lips traveled over his brow, his cheeks, his neck, the lobe of his ear. He rested his head on my shoulder, still holding me tight. It was obvious he didn’t want to go. I was hard myself—it’s difficult not to be hard around Spencer. We stood there in my brightly-lit den off the back of the house, windows open and the sliding double-doors open to the (admittedly empty) house behind mine, grinding and leaving soft pecks on each other’s faces.

Then I stuck my hand down the back of his pants.

His hips began to grind even harder. My hand probed his crack, questing for the hole I now know so well. The hole was surprisingly slick. My index finger slipped right inside, up to the second knuckle. “You’re still so wet,” I marveled.

He lifted his head then. His eyebrows were raised. His eyes were full of need, and a single question.

I answered it by unbuckling his belt, and turning him away from me.

His pants and then mine hit the floor with soft thuds. Spencer knelt down into the den sofa. He turned his head so that it could rest atop the sofa’s pillowy back. I spit on the head of my dick and went back inside. It had been several hours since I’d loaded him up, but he was still so wet and full of my juice that I didn’t even need the little bit of lube I’d added. I could smell myself mingled with him as I slid inside.

“Oh god,” he said into the cushions. “Oh, god.”

“Your hole is made for my dick,” I said softly, as I slid back and forth in long, deep strokes.

“Yes,” he replied in a deep groan that rattled his rib cage. “I was made for you. Made for you to use. Your dick is perfect for me.”

“And you are so hungry for it,” I commented. He jerked and twitched. “Piggy needs to be fed.”

He let out a short huff of delight at that, but it was quickly consumed by the fire raging through his body. His legs spread as far as his trousers would allow them, and he pushed his ass high into the air. My hands traveled the length of his arched spine, and lingered over the round globes of his butt. It seemed so wrong, fucking like dogs in a bright room when someone from the street behind mine could have walked or driven by and seen it, but I wasn’t really thinking about that. The only thing on my mind was the rhythm of my thrusting, the squelchy wetness of his hole, and the increasing tension in my dick. I hiked his shirt and sweater up so that I could grab underneath him at his nipples, then his stomach, and his dick and bouncing balls. Every tweak and pinch made him groan and clamp down on me.

I shot noisily, pounding so hard that the throw pillows fell onto the floor and the afghan on the sofa’s back slid off as he grasped and buckled and tried to resist me banging his head against the wall. His hole clamped down, trying to get every last drop of sperm. Then I slopped out, and he stood up with a sheepish look.

I sat down on the easy chair opposite, legs spread, hands dangling between them. Then I nodded that he should come over.

I slipped his dick into my mouth. His hands ran through my long hair as he fucked my mouth. I suspect that Spencer would make a wicked top, if his tastes ever ran that way. He likes to control the mouth he’s in when he gets sucked. He held the back of my skull and eased all the way in, penetrating my throat and making me see stars. I gasped for air when he pulled back out again, then prepared myself for the assault I knew would follow.

He fucked my mouth hard as I kept my jaw open and my lips wrapped around my upper teeth. My right hand gently stroked his hairy balls as he pistoned in and out. It didn’t take him long; finally he ripped his meat from my lips and jacked furiously to a conclusion. Semen sprayed from the tip, baptizing my face, my head, and the shoulder of my sweater.

He backed off, seeming shocked at what he’d done. Then, seeing me covered with his load, he laughed a little. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be,” I told him.

I’d liked it. It had been the perfect conclusion to a long and full day.