From Bad, Good: Part 2

My first session with Mel happened on a dark night, when he managed to get away from his family at home to come to my house. I can't say I remember it as particularly exciting. I can't say, in fact, that I really remember it at all; I don't seem to have written about it anywhere. It wasn't bad, however. We made promises to do it again—promises that fell through. He was free mostly in the evenings. Back then, my availability was primarily in the daytime.

Last week, though, he messaged me on BBRT when I was prowling around. He'd cleaned out hihs hole for another man who hadn't shown. Did I by any chance happen to be free? It was one of the evenings of the week on which I wasn't expecting Spencer to come by, so I urged Mel to hop in his car and come over.

When he showed up, he was carrying a huge backpack. "Are you going mountain-climbing?" I asked with a single raised eyebrow.

He laughed. "I never know what supplies the other guy might or might not have," he explained. "So I bring toys, lube, towels, leather gear, boots...." He paused to think. "Cock rings, wet wipes. Crisco."

"I bet you were a Boy Scout," I said, at the exact same time he concluded, "What can I say? I was a Boy Scout."

"The only thing I wanna climb tonight is that cock of yours," he said in a low voice, as he dropped the bag onto the floor. My arm slipped around his back, and our lips grazed. He kissed well. Not deeply, or with much pressure, but his kisses seemed sweet, as he leaned forward with closed eyes and applied each one with considered care. Then, without warning, his hand reached around my neck and pulled my head down to his, so we could indulge in the taste of each other more passionately.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested, after a minute or two.

We took a few moments to remove our clothing in the dark bedroom. He had flung his backpack onto the floor when we entered; he took a moment to pull out a weathered white jockstrap and pull the elastic band over his meaty butt before he joined me on the bed. “Now, if memory serves me right,” he said as we kissed again, “I recall you really like to be ridden.”

“Well yeah,” I said. There aren’t any positions I really don’t like, so long as they’re not throwing out my back or causing me to lose sensation in my legs or something along those lines. “Sure.”

“All right then,” he chuckled to himself. He leaned over the side of the bed and produced a monster tub of a cream-based lubricant, which he liberally slathered over both my hard dick and his hole. “Let’s do it.”

He positioned his hips over mine, where I lay on my back on the mattress. Facing away from me, he lowered himself down, one hand pulling an ass cheek to the side, the other gripping my shaft. I felt the head pop through the first ring of resistance, to be rewarded by a wet, warm channel that felt almost as if it were on fire; groaning, he lowered himself down onto the shaft.

Mel was right. I like it when a guy rides me. The talented ones make me shoot that way. Most guys, however, simply let themselves rest on my pelvis and bounce up and down a little bit. It’s pleasurable, sure, but I walk away feeling as if I’m going to be sporting a giant, ass-shaped bruise with my dick at the very center. Once he got started, though, Mel took a very different approach. He leaned forward, lifted up his lips, and concentrated the very tightest portion of his hole on my dick’s top half. Whether he was on his knees or squatting on his feet I can’t remember, because I was overcome by such an intense pleasure that all I could really do was ball up the sheets in a tight grip and hang on for dear life.

“Yeah,” he grunted, his voice sounding more like a pig at the trough than anything civilized. “That’s the dick I remember. Fuck, yeah.”

“What the fuck are you . . . doing?” I managed to gasp out. I swear, in my thirty-five year sexual career, I’d never felt the like. It felt as if almost every other hole I’d had before had come at my dick clumsily and with brute force, while his had been the only one to approach it with a sexual precision that could be measured in microns. Over and over he drew his hole over the most sensitive portion of my dick, right below the flare of my mushroom head. It was crazy, how that attention made me feel. It was as if a much worthier opponent had thrown me flat onto my back with a single, long, pleasurable blow.

After what felt like forever, in which electrical sparks danced through my body like out of the climax of some science fiction feature, I managed to lift my head and croak out, “Are you good down there?” I’d never known a guy who didn’t begin to give out after riding me for that length of time.

“I can go as long as you need it,” Mel grunted. His own dick was hard and encaged in the jockstrap, but from his voice I could tell he was enjoying the fuck almost as much as I.

I needed it. So I let him go.

The fuck went on for a half hour or more, in which all I had to do was lie there, clutch the bedsheets or the bedposts, and let him do his work. After he’d made me twitch and gasp and cry out for long, long minutes, he at last began to offer me release. His motions grew broader. He engulfed more of my dick in his hole and took longer and deeper strokes; his hips moved with more vigor and purpose. I let out a terrible cry, and banged my head back so hard it cracked against the headboard. Whether the stars that I saw were from the blow or from my climax, I couldn’t tell. The orgasm overtook me with such force that I felt swept away, breathless and helpless to resist. I let the waves crest over my head, and the cold shock of it dragged me down and under. I drowned in it, breathless from bliss.

My dick was tingling from the treatment all that night, and for a couple of days after. I’ve never had anything quite like it before.

Three times we fucked that night—once in a more standard, doggy-style coupling, and once again with him gratefully riding me. When we were done, he turned me over onto my front, sat on my thighs with his jock-strapped bulge pressing against my butt, and gave me an hour-long gentle back massage while we talked.

Athletic fucking and a back rub? Yes, please, and thank you. Like I said, bliss.

For as much talking as we did until he finally gathered his backpack and left, it was surprising that the topic of our mutual acquaintance didn’t come up until he was heading out the door. Before he was gone completely, I said, “You know, considering on what rocky ground we were when I first talked to you. . . .”

“Well,” he replied, nodding. He stroked his beard. “Sometimes it takes a lot of shit to grow a nice flower bed.”

And that really about summed it up.