Sunday Morning Questions: Mental Vacation Edition

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Competitive Top

When a real sex hound enters a room full of men fucking, he looks around to discover one thing.

He’s not looking first for the best looking guys, the way a kid might. A real pig is seasoned and experienced enough not to need the cheap and needy kind of validation that comes from fucking around with a guy one or two grades higher on the scale than himself. Nor is he searching out the man with the best underwear, or the hottest chest, or the most worked-out body in the group. Some guys think those are the things that get a guy laid. They’re not.

No, what a real sex hound does when he enters a room full of men fucking is to study the action for a moment and size up who are the likely tops and the bottoms. Then he works from there. If he’s looking to be plugged with cock, he’ll insinuate himself down on his knees in front of one of the men who appear to be taking a more active role. If he’s looking to top, he’ll approach a guy with his cock in his hand, ready for service.

When this particular guy strode into the bedroom at The Professor’s home, one weekday morning, I could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. There some something about the cocky way he held himself—furry, muscular chest puffed out, shoulders back, hips askew—that told me he was used to being the center of attention. The guy was built like a barrel: stocky, solid, gym-shaped to withstand a lot of use. I saw his eyes alight on the pair of men sixty-nining on the carpeted floor, then on the trio swapping kisses and fondling each other’s dicks in the corner. Then he looked at the low-slung queen-sized bed where I and four other men cavorted. He stood for a long time, his short fat dick sticking straight out in front of him, hands on hips, watching us there.

Watching me, I should say. I was the focus of the other men’s sexual energy. I had one sexy daddy straddling my chest as he made out with me. My cock was wedged into his ass crack, where it thrust up and down, made slippery by the mouth of the sexy bald muscle man I always fuck once or twice at this particular party. The bald guy was crouched on all fours licking my stick and my balls, hungrily gobbling the head whenever it emerged. One older man knelt at the bottom of the bed, sucking on my toes; it’s what he likes to do while other men are pleasuring me. I can’t say I objected. The feeling of a warm mouth on my feet just amplifies whatever sensations other mouths and hands create. Finally I had an Asian boy trying to insert himself between me and the man on my chest. He grabbed kisses when he could, and chewed on my nipples when he couldn’t.

The furry muscle dude looked at my cock, red and wet and big and much in demand, and looked at me, and looked at the guys competing for my attention. When his lips worked a little, silently, I knew exactly what kind of guy he was: a competitive top.

I’m not judging competitive tops, mind you. I’m a highly-competitive top myself. Are there any true tops who aren’t competitive at heart? We want our cocks to be the biggest, the thickest, the hardest—the best. We want our fucks to be the most memorable. We want to be, more than the prettiest or the biggest or the strongest, the most desired in the room. At my cockiest and my most son-of-a-bitchiest, I get it.

This guy had swagger, though. I had to give him that. After he sized me up and (correctly) determined that I was his biggest competition in the room, he made his way to the bed and hauled the bald muscle guy off my dick. The bald guy didn’t care about the rough treatment; he’s used to being manhandled. He’s got a built frame, but he’s pocket-sized and easily manhandled. His mouth was still in an O-shape from sucking me when he landed on his knees in front of the furry dude. The furry top roughly shoved him down on his dick, gave the back of the bald skull a push, and started getting the rest of the blow job I’d been enjoying myself. Then the furry muscle top looked at me without expression.

I got the hot one now, he seemed to be saying.

I wasn’t flustered. I don’t get threatened so easily. Besides, I’d already had my dick inside that hole he was currently fucking. I raised my hands up. Used them to cradle the back of my head. The daddy who’d been straddling my chest moved down to my dick and started to suck. The Asian kid took his place, eagerly thrusting his dripping cock into my stomach as he greedily made out with me. Meanwhile, the guy working my feet continued to do my thing. I didn’t look back in the furry dude’s direction, but I could tell he was watching.

He decided to escalate it. He turned his little bald bottom around and shoved him forward so that the guy started edging me off the bed. Then he pried apart the bald guy’s ass, spat in his palm, rubbed it around, and shoved his cock in. I know how to fuck Junior Mr. Clean; I’ve been dicking him for over a year. Just stabbing it into him isn’t going to do it. My bald buddy’s face was screwed up not in that sweet mix of anguish and pleasure that lets me know I’m doing my job right, but in outright pain. He was pro enough, though, to bite his lower lip, close his eyes, and power on through. Then the furry top decided to poach another of my men—the daddy on my dick. He pulled his skull off my rod and pushed the daddy’s face against his broad pec.

I found the move a little sleazy, to be honest. I’m not the kind of guy who asserts himself by showing up others. In a group situation, there’s plenty of fun to be found; when I’m on the playground, I don’t feel the need to snatch other boys’ toys just so I can climb to the top of the jungle gym. At the same time, I wasn’t going to let the guy see that he was irritating me. So I got up on my knees, turned the Asian kid around, and slowly started to lube his ass.

I squeezed out a dollop of the stuff and rubbed it in. Another clump of the cold goo went from my palm to my dick. Then I pressed the head against that hairless hole and rubbed the tip around the dark fringe of hair before I started to slip it in. I went in slow, inch by inch. The kid rested on his palms and panted and groaned. The muscle bottom stared him in the eye.

I wasn’t in a hurry. While the furry top kept humping away with little rabbit thrusts, I slid the length of my meat in and out of that tight hole. I was putting on a show. I just didn’t acknowledge the audience. The other top might have been making the bed jiggle more; he might have been making more of a ruckus and making his bottom hiss with pain, but my bottom was hitting low baritone notes of pure pleasure.

I hadn’t seen the Asian kid before; he hadn’t attended any previous parties. He was a handsome boy, though, with a faint trace of a mustache and a lean body. His butt, though . . . fucking perfection. Round, smooth, blemish-free. And he fucked like a dream. I pulled him up so that his torso reclined against mine. “You love this dick, don’t you,” I breathed in his ear.

“Yes, fuck yes,” he replied, his eyes slitted.

That’s all the validation I needed.

The other guys attending started to crowd around the bed to watch the double fucks. The daddy wrenched himself away from the other top’s nipple to kneel down and lick at my hole as best he could, while I fucked. I tweaked the kid’s nipples fiercely while I ground into him. They were as hard as pencil erasers between my fingers. The muscle bottom had reached out to jack at the kid’s uncut dick. “Crap,” I heard him say. “Oh crap.”

Cum spewed from his dick in the way a carbonated soda erupts from a bottle after a vigorous shaking. It splattered the face of the muscle bottom, landed on the pillows, hit the cabinets behind the bed. The kid yelled as he shot, shuddering in my arms.

I waited until he subsided, and fell forward, totally spent. Then I pulled out of him. My cock was wet, the skin flushed and slick from the fuck. I just let it hang there, unsatisfied. I liked the look.

So did my blade friend. Even though the furry top was still jackrabbiting away at his ass, my muscle bottom buddy had had enough. He detached himself from the top’s dick, winked at me, and then lay on his back with his legs in the air. I grabbed his ankles and slipped right in.

I don’t grab guys away from other tops. I don’t play that way. I let the bottoms do the choosing.
It didn’t take long for my bald friend to shoot. My dick reaches his prostate perfectly, and I know him well enough by now to push that button perfectly. I slammed it again and again; he lifted his butt higher for me until he was holding his own legs for support. This is how an alpha top fucks. No bad sportsmanship. No poaching. Just good old-fashioned banging until the bottom is pushed beyond the point of no return. The bald guy let loose with a small load on his stomach, panting like a dog the entire time.

I waited for him to recuperate, then slowly snake out. My dick was still wet. Still slick. Still red. Still hard. Still unsatisfied. The daddy tried to grab at it, and the Asian kid wanted to suck it, but I gently wrested myself away. I’d been at the center of the crowd for a while. I took myself to the edges, and let someone else occupy the vacuum I created.

I’m not surprised when the furry top joined me on the sidelines after a moment. He looked down at my dick.

“You know how to fuck,” he said in a low voice. He had a Long Island accent.

“Thanks man,” I said, casually leaning against the wall. My dick was still a stiff length poking out in front of me.

He licked his lips. His next question was more tentative. “Maybe you want to fuck me a little.”

I let him wait long enough to wonder if I’d heard the question, before I reply. “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be hot.”

“Not here, though,” he said. I understood. He’s got his pride.

I jerked my head. There’s another bedroom downstairs that The Professor lets me use when I want a little privacy.

I don’t grandstand. I don’t poach. I stick to my own style. I let the bottoms do the choosing. I’m a competitive top, and today was the day I won.

Face Down. Butt Up.

Face down. Butt up. A grown man is lying across my lap, naked, like a little boy waiting for a spanking. His ass is round and furry, his thighs spread. I can feel his erection pressing against my balls. The wetness from his tip seeps down to slick my flesh.

We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it.

I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute.

His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.”

I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right.

He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations.

I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet.

“Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs.

I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening.

“Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet.

My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck.

I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise.

I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him.

“Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.”

My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.”
It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him.

“I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress.

Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep.