Mister Top

So here I am, in my hotel room in Virginia, alone in the dark once more. Naked. Almost naked, anyway—I’ve got a baseball cap on, brim turned to the back. By request, I’m also wearing a pair of black athletic socks and my sneakers. There’s a rubber ring around my cock and balls. Otherwise, I’m completely bare, alone, and shivering in the gloom, kneeling with my forearms planted on the mattress, my knees spread, my ass in the air.

Once again I’ve left the door propped open by the latch. Thankfully, I don’t have long to wait in this submissive position. When the door opens to admit the harsh light from the hallway, I lower my head to hide it in shadow, and arch my back. I’ve walked into enough hotel rooms where bottoms are presenting their holes to know how to make it look good.

The man’s deep voice sends a shiver up my spine. “Damn, top,” he says. I hear the soft sound of him slipping off his shoes, followed by the metallic tinkle of his belt being unbuckled. I swallow hard. “You look so good.”

The touch of his hand on my ass startles me; I hadn’t realized he was so close. Another hand, on the other cheek. He pulls my ass apart to expose the hole to the air-conditioned cool, and I hear the weight of his belted jeans hit the floor. Although he keeps his hands on my butt, I feel motion—then the warmth of his breath mere inches away from my flesh.

“You look so fine. So fuckable,” he murmurs, as his meaty hands massage my ass. “Mister . . . Top.” My legs twitch. There’s mockery in his voice, but his tone isn’t malicious. “You’re my bottom tonight. You know that, right?”

“Yes sir,” I murmur. His hands are all over me now. I feel the flats of his palms pulled down my spine, over my ass, down my thighs. His hands tug at my hanging balls. He wraps his fingers around my rock-hard cock.

“Mister Top,” he says again. “Ass up for some big black dick tonight.”

“Yes sir,” I whisper to the mattress.



He’d hit me up online several days before I’d even arrived in Virginia. A handsome guy—big warm eyes, cocoa skin, trim beard, lightly muscular body. In his photos, his narrow waist led down to a huge uncut dick. Nine inches, at the very least. My eyes bulged at the sight of it, after he messaged me with a polite hello.

Maybe we can get together while you’re in town, he’d messaged, if you’d be interested.

I’d blinked a couple of times, reading the words. Yeah, who wouldn’t want to get together with such a good looking man? But at the same time, he’d branded himself as dominant in his profile. Top was listed as his preferred position. Not versatile top—top. Every single one of his photos, save for the exception that was only his smiling bearded face, made sure to put his enormous dick on display. His profile even read that he was looking for deep holes that could accommodate him.

Though his invitation to get together surprised me a little bit, given the uber-top impression he was projecting, I figured I knew what he wanted. I get invitations from tops all the time who want a little walk on the wild side—especially when I travel. They need to lap up a little what they’ve been dishing out, especially from someone who’s not going to stick around long enough to brag about it. Fuck, I’ve even had professional porn actors who were exclusively and infamously all top in their videos come to me for a little anal relief. I like flipping tops. This guy was going to be just like every breeder I’ve known who’s needed some dick in his hole.

Well sure, I said, playing it cool. But what would you get into with another top man like me?

His answer surprised me. You’re sexy as hell, and I was kind of hoping I could convince you to bottom.

Interesting.

I hadn’t bottomed in years. Fucking years. Periodically I get the urge to have a man inside me, sure—but those urges don’t come around very often, and when they do, I find that no one is exactly offering. This guy, well. He was offering.

But did I have that urge?

I looked at his photos again. It was a big dick. The previous guy to fuck me was the Russian some years ago, who boasted similar equipment. A fat nine. The last time I stumbled out of the Russian’s midtown apartment, I felt like my prolapsed hole was dragging along behind me on the concrete sidewalk. Why couldn’t I find a nice dude with a starter dick to take care of my need when it swung around, like Halley’s comet? Why is it that only tops with monster dicks wanted my hole?

First-world top problems, right?

But yeah. Something stirred inside me as I looked at those photos. It wasn’t longing. Not yet desire. But curiosity.

I’m really not much of a bottom, I warned him. It’s been a really long time. I’m not even sure I could take that monster.

He writes back with the same expert assurance I would give a novice bottom. You can take it. I’ll relax your hole and make good love to you and make you want it…then I’ll go in nice and easy. You look like you’d be hot to fuck. No pressure. We both would love it. Just think about it.

Oh, I thought about it. I thought about it while he kept hammering my phone with photos of his big dick, and of his big dick inside wide-open mouths, and of his big fucking dick inside other mens’ gaping holes. Every dick shot tickled the flames of my curiosity higher and higher; every reassurance that I would love his enormous meat inside my tight hole simply fanned the fire higher. If I hadn’t been in a mood to bottom when he’d first approached me, within twenty-four hours I was a hole in heat.

Let’s do it, I finally told him. We made a date for Tuesday, my second night in Richmond.

You won’t regret it, he replied.

I was visiting town to help my dad get to some medical appointments. The state mercifully revoked his driver’s license a few months ago. Although he is perfectly capable of using Uber to get places, it’s peace of mind for me to be there for more knotty scheduling. Tuesday was a complicated rush of early-morning doctors’ offices followed by a supermarket sweep before the hurricane projected to sweep up the coast later that week, and then a late afternoon run to his periodontist. After dinner with the old man, I’d made an excuse to head back to the hotel early.

I had cleaning to do. I’d brought my large enema bulb with me, and I got to work. Luckily I don’t have to rush—he planned to be at a movie with friends until after nine. By the time he’d be done, I would be clean inside and out, toweled dry, wearing the gear he requested, and on my knees.



I’ve got to admit. This guy is smooth. “You are gonna feel so sweet wrapped around my big dick, baby,” he’s telling me, as he kneels on the floor.

Pulling my hips down to this face, he spreads my cheeks again. “Oh, fuck,” I grunt, as I feel his big broad tongue lapping at my ass.

“That’s right. Mister Top is gonna get his ass fucked tonight.” His lips press against my pucker as he begins a long, unhurried make-out session with my hole.

I buck. I squirm. Sounds are issuing from my mouth that I haven’t heard from myself in years. Damn, he’s making me feel good. I’d sensed a confidence in him when we’d been exchanging texts the week before—the kind of confidence I suspect I normally exude, that puts nervous bottoms at ease and makes them desire to be opened. One finger at a time is slipping in and out of my spit-slick chute. I’m not resisting in the least. It’s true that I’d been warming up with the inflexible nozzle of the enema bulb for more than an hour, but even so, I’ve shown much less resistance to the invasion than with other guys who’ve tried to top me in the past.

My butt is high in the air, my knees spread to their widest, the side of my face planted to the bedspread, where drool is probably puddling around the corner of my open mouth. Want, want, want, my brain beats like a drum. I want this dude inside me. I want his dick. I want it all, now.

Next thing I know, he’s flipping me over onto my back, shoving a pillow beneath my hips. My legs are up in the air and he’s on top of me, his muscular body pressed against mine, his hips between my raised thighs. When his dick swings forward and collides with my ass, it feels like a heavyweight punching bag knocking against my hole. “You gonna give it to me tonight, Mister Top?” he murmurs into my ear. A shiver begins spreading from the top of my skull down my spine. “You gonna give me that sweet hole?”

“Yes,” I whimper. “Fuck yes.”

“I’m gonna get so deep in you your eyes will pop,” he swears. His mouth covers mine, and my whole body responds: my legs wrap around his hips, my arms around his shoulders. My spine arches. My skin feels as if it’s aflame. His kisses are deep, rough. He grunts slightly the harder we press our mouths against the other’s. Finally, he pulls away and looks me directly in the eye for the first time since he came into the room. “How do you want me, baby?”

“You tell me,” I say. I’d do anything for him at this point. “Any way that gets in deep.”

“Get on your knees.” He slithers down the bed to its bottom and stands. Pats its edge. “Show me that ass.”

I reposition myself face-down once more, my knees digging into the corner of the mattress. He helps himself liberally to the lube I’ve left on the hotel desk behind him, and works the cold gel against my hole. His fingers dig in the pucker, spreading the goo inside. I don’t think I’ve ever been so receptive to a man playing with my hole, before—tonight is going to be fucking special. I can just sense it.

“Are you ready for the fuck of your life, Mister Top?” he asks in the low, sexy voice of an overnight DJ at a Smooth Jazz format station.

“Please,” I whimper. “I want it.”

There’s a pause before he answers; I feel some fumbling at my ass as warm flesh presses against it. And presses against it. And presses against it some more. “Oh, I know you want it. . . .” he says at last.

I hear the lube bottle being squeezed again, followed by its plastic clatter on the desk. He uses his sticky hands to adjust my positioning slightly. Then there’s more activity in the vicinity of my hole.

I’m stuck in my downward doggie style position, and can’t really tell what’s happening back there. “I want it so bad,” I tell him.

“Oh, you are gonna get it.” He shifts around some more. Fingers my hole. I feel the head of his dick tickling against my point of entry. Then some fingering. Then more pressure. And now I’m beginning to wonder—because this isn’t some kind of erotic foreplay that’s going on back there. Can’t he find my hole in the dark? Is he unable to get inside me? Am I not as open as I think I am?

I reach behind and pull apart my cheeks for him. Maybe that’ll help. Again I feel his dick as it bounces across my fingers and lands in the vicinity of my hole. There’s some pressure, but nothing’s going in. Am I doing something wrong?

Finally, after what seems like long minutes of fumbling, he sighs. “Sorry.”

“What’s the matter?”

“My ding-a-ling just isn’t cooperating tonight.” I hear the sound of him wiping himself with the hand towel I’ve left on the desk chair, and stepping into his clothing. “You deserve better.” I clumsily roll over onto my butt.

“Wait—wait. . . .” I say. “You don’t have to go.” He’s still pulling on his pants, thrusting his arms into a white tee. “Do you want to make out some more? Let me suck it.” He’d seemed hard, or at least mostly hard, when we’d been kissing.

“It’s me. When it gets like this, I takes too long to get over it.” He’s putting on his shoes, now. “I’m real sorry to disappoint you, Mister Top.”

A million calculations are going through my head. I’m studying every word for candor. Is he just being kind in making excuses to get away? Was my ass so repulsive that I made him go limp? He seems genuinely embarrassed, though—and he’d been so amorous and sincere when he’d been eating me out and then kissing me. If I’d been that unattractive to him, would he have gone to the trouble of all that? Would I, in a similar spot?

On the two occasions in my life when I’d lost my erection, I felt so cornered, so immediately caged by fear and embarrassment that no matter how gentle and loving my partner’s ministrations might have been, I probably wouldn’t have recuperated. Nine years ago, when my lover Spencer had attempted to pick a fight with me and it ended with him deriding my alleged ‘toy-sized dick’ during sex, I not only lost my erection, but I couldn’t get hard for a full subsequent two or three weeks—and with Spencer, never again.

Yet I wasn’t getting a read of insincerity from this man. He made me genuinely sense he was ashamed his equipment wasn’t functioning as intended. Decades of fear, though—all arising from being sexually assaulted in my twenties—make me feel like the guilty party. I’d dared to ask for anal attention—something I never do, something that makes me feel vulnerable and often a little frightened. The second it hadn’t worked out, I was retreating to that fearful corner and worrying about what I’d done wrong…rightfully or not.

He gave me a quick kiss on the lips before he left. “Sorry, Mister Top,” he said. Then he was gone.

And I was in my Virginia hotel room with a rarely-hungry hole, alone in the dark once more.

Only For You, Sir

Just parked in the lot outside, sir.

I’m lying on the king-sized bed in my hotel room, naked in the dark, when the phone lying on the bedside table lights up with the text, illuminating the popcorn ceiling above. I lift my head, grab the device. My cock comes to life, slowly lolling to one side as it grows heavier and thicker. I’ve already considered how I’m going to reply, so it’s but the work of a moment to thumb out a response.

Dad is taking a nap in room 208, son. Let yourself in and wake him up the way you used to.

After I hit send, I spring to my feet and pad across the carpet. My cock is still stiffening. It bounces and swings with every step. I angle my body so that it’s mostly hidden from the hall when I pull open the door. There’s a latch at the top intended to keep intruders from forcing their way in. I swing it so that it extends over the frame and prevents the door from swinging all the way shut. Then I scamper back to the bed once more, dive under the comforter, and arrange myself into a slumbering position: flat on my back, hands raised above my head, head tilted to one side.

While I wait, I take stock. There’s lube on the bedside table, with a couple of hand towels. The blackout curtain is pulled to maximum, so that despite the bright street sign of the Mexican restaurant next door, the room exists in perpetual twilight. My cock ring is snug against my balls. This position is stupid, though. Who sleeps on his back with his arms over his head like some cheesy porn magazine spread from the eighties? Onto my side I flop, as I tuck one of the many hotel pillows under the crook of my neck and pull the comforter up to my chin. This is how I really sleep.

My room isn’t far down the hallway from the elevator. Though the crack in my door is only a sliver, I can still hear the grind of mechanics as the elevator door slides open and the pad of approaching footsteps gradually grows louder. For a moment the room is bright as the door opens; then dark, as my visitor softly shuts it behind him and flips the latch. I consider closing my eyes to feign sleep—but why deny myself the sight of his shadowed figure kicking off his sneakers, removing his calf-high athletic socks? I watch as the boy drops a baseball cap onto the floor and crosses his arms to seize the hem of his t-shirt. There’s a crackle of static as he pulls it off, then lets it drop where he stands. The shorts and briefs he discards last. He steps out of both in one fluid motion, his back to me. I’d seen his ass in photos, but my first glimpse of it in the flesh—pale, round, and blue in the room’s gloom—takes my breath away. My dick pulses, fully hard.

I finally close my eyes when he turns. I feel a rush of cool air as the bedclothes lift. Quietly, softly, as if he’s actually fearful of waking me, the boy crawls into my bed and slides close to me. I feel a hand groping my midsection. It connects with my hip, slides to my rigid dick. Then a mouth, warm and wet, wraps around my shaft. I allow the boy to suck me for a moment or two before I stir. “Who’s there?” I ask sleepily.

He releases his hold on my meat and slides up until his head is on my pillow. “It’s me, dad. Barry. Your son.”

“Barry?” I ask. “But I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“I know, dad,” he says. There’s an earnest and even innocent yearning in his voice that moves me. It moves my cock, too, so that it butts against his hard stomach. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yeah? How?”

For response, he presses his mouth against mine and wraps his muscular arms around my chest to draw me close. When I slide my tongue through his open lips, I can feel him tremble with excitement. My hands roam up and down his hard body. The shortest of stubble grazes my palms when I slide them across his chest; though the crack of his ass is furry, the skin of the globes is shaved smooth. Even in the dark I can tell he’s handsome. His eyes remained closed as we make out; he sighs and shivers as my hands discover near places to explore.

When I gather spit onto my index and middle finger and spread the slippery stuff over his hairy hole, he rests his chin on my shoulder and lets out a little gasp. “I remember you like that,” I whisper to him.

“I do, dad. Oh god, I do.” He yanks off the comforter and lets it fall at the foot of the bed, admitting the cold to play over my skin. Then, with his big hands, he adjusts a couple of pillows and nestles me onto them, face up. He straddles my thighs. The guy is what—30? 32? I can’t remember from his profile. He’s got the hard, worked-out body of an athlete. I gaze at the broad plains of his pecs, the dark quarter-sized nipples, the flat and rippled valley of his abdomen, his narrow waist, the obliques that lead my gaze down to his erect dick. The glitter in my eyes must be obvious; shyly, he grins and covers himself like a Botticelli virgin, one hand crossed to his shoulder, the other slanted down to his hip.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember, son,” I whisper, as my hands run over his smooth flesh. When I cup his cock between my palms, it leaps from their embrace. “You’re all grown up now.”

I’ve never seen this guy before, of course. This meeting is our first. It hasn’t been at all difficult, however, to intuit the sexual fantasy that excites him the most, even without overt discussion. He’s a boy with daddy fantasies—and I’m a dad who’s happy to indulge him.

Goose flesh ripples out across his skin; I can see his nipples harden into points at my words. “You were my first, dad,” he whispers, his eyes half-closed, as he gives in to the vision.

“I am your best,” I correct.

The boy’s lids lift. Our eyes lock, as he nods. “Dad is always my best.” He lifts the tips of his middle three left fingers to his mouth to moisten them. His back arches as he reaches behind to wet his hole with the spit. “I need you inside me, sir.”

“I need you more, son. It’s been so long since you visited your poor old dad.” Ordinarily my M.O. is to take a little longer to get to this point. I like to finger the hole, get it slick, flip the boy over, eat him until he groans and begs for me to open him up. This hungry faggot has his own agenda, though. Every time I mention our putative relationship, his libido surges. He’s flooded with desire. I feel his fingers grapple to find my cock . . . which isn’t much of a feat, as it’s been standing erect and nudging against the boy’s ass cheek the entire time he’s been straddled over me. He guides me to the vicinity of his hole, lifts his hips. I know what’s coming next.

Or at least, I think I do. I’m anticipating the meeting of tip to hole, followed by the gradual accommodation of a tight chute as my thick hardness stretches its walls. What I get is the last thing I expect. This hungry bottom aligns my shaft to his point of entry, then simply impales himself in one violent motion. There’s no gradual anything, in his haste to engulf my entire eight-plus inches. One second my cock is exposed to the AC’s gentle breeze; the next it’s roughly swallowed by this boy’s hole. He lets out a mighty groan as he slams down on me, so loud that had I not already been blinking and thinking about the consequences of what might’ve happened had I not been so rigid, or aligned so perfectly, that I would’ve been completely taken out of the moment. But my dick’s still intact, and his insides feel warm and wet and in need of fucking . . . so I quickly find myself back in the mood.

“Fuck,” I whisper. He’s bucking and riding, head lolled back, eyes closed, hand on his dick. “You really needed that.”

“I needed to feel my daddy’s cock rip me wide open,” he says. Now he looks down at me. “Was that all right, sir?”

“Oh yes.” I reach up with my right hand to cup his chin and cheek. “It’s very all right.”

As I prop myself up on my elbows, he leans down to kiss me once more. My tongue bores deep into his mouth; my fingers cup the sides of his face. He leans onto the mattress with the heels of his hands and begins bucking wildly. The boy has great ass control. I can tell he’s trying to do some fancy milking of my dick with the considerable muscles of his glutes. The sensations are working for me. Other guys often try to produce the same effect, but it’s nowhere near as compelling as the way his chute clamps and loosens around my meat as his hips gyrate to and fro. I know I’m pumping out precum, because his ass grows more and more slippery as insistently he grinds.

His nipples are sensitive. Sensitive? That’s an understatement. When my thumbs and forefingers reach up to grasp them, his ass becomes a vise, his back arches, he throws his head back so abruptly I worry that he’ll wrench his neck. I twist. His body spasms; his lungs expel a low groan. All I have to do in order to tighten that already-taut hole is give those knobs a yank. It’s like turning the volume from zero to ninety with a simple pinch.

Finally he speaks. “This is exactly what I remember,” he manages to grunt out, syllables arriving in fits and spurts. “You inside me, in my bedroom.”

“After school,” I suggest.

His eyes open and look down into mine, full of love for the suggestion. “After school,” he agrees.

“You used to come home from lacrosse,” I say. I don’t know where the lacrosse came from. My dad played it as a kid, but I hadn’t thought about it in years. “All sweaty. Dragging that lacrosse . . . stick up the stairs. Your hair all tousled.”

Slowly he rocks, slowly milking my dick. “I would always hope you’d follow me, dad.”

“How could I stay downstairs after watching that hot ass walk by? I’m the father of the most beautiful boy in the world,” I say, giving the nipples another tug.

He clenches, moans, and begins to pick up the pace. “Did you really used to think that?”

“I still do.”

Our eyes lock. I hope he can read the truth in them—even if it’s our own truth we’re creating.

“You know most dads don’t have a relationship with their boys like we do.”

He nods. “You always said it was our secret.”

“Oh yes. Definitely our secret,” I reply.

“You said I shouldn’t tell anyone that my daddy shoves his massive cock up my butthole.”

I shake my head. “No, you definitely shouldn’t mention to anyone that your dad loves stretching that beautiful little butt.”

“Good boys keep secrets.”

“Like you always kept ours, son.”

Spinning this fantasy together, detail by detail, noticeably excites him. My boy is leaking from the tip of his cock onto my abdomen. As up and down he bobs on my dick, the spiderweb strands of precum stretch and slacken, glistening in what little light there is. “I just wanted my dad to keep pumping his seed in me forever.”

“Greedy.” When I say the word, he clenches down on my meat, as if attempting to wrench it from my body and forever keep it for his own.

“Only for you,” he whispers. “Sir.”

“Yeah?” I’m still toying with his nipples as if I’m maniacally twisting the dials on an old cathode-ray television with poor reception, but although his body is twitching and convulsing with every new sensation, our eyes remain open and locked upon each other. “You don’t say those pretty words to other daddies?”

“Only,” he reiterates, then pauses as he draws his ass up to just below the crown of my dick, and then slamming back down as roughly as he had upon first taking me, “for you, sir.”

“How about those sweet kisses, son?”

“Those,” he breathes, as he leans down and plants one on my lips, “are only for you.”

Our mouths devour each other. It may be a fantasy we’re weaving, but we’re spinning it mutually, in the moment. We’re fashioning something demonstrably false: a tissue of lies based upon nothing but desire and longing. Yet right then, with every word, with every thrust, with every kiss and fumble and groan, we’re creating something more than the mere two of us. Our own truths. Our own reality, contained entirely in the dark of that hotel room The sweet perfume of our mutual fancy smells like sweat, and testosterone, and the salty prickle of precum.

He is a greedy boy. Up and down his hole slams on my cock. He knows what he wants. He’s determined to get it. When it arrives, my semen jets into him, erupting almost painfully as if it’s molten. “I can feel it, dad,” he grunts, as I buck and struggle beneath him. He holds me down, keeps me from moving, as he shifts his determined grinding to a shorter, swifter rhythm. “I can feel you shooting. Just like you used to.”

I gargle out something that makes no sense. I’m lost in my orgasm. Shuddering. Shaking. Struggling to catch my breath. My boy’s cock is flopping up and down and striking my belly like a mallet attacks the tight skin of a timpani. And then, on one of its pendulous thuds as my own waves of pleasure subside, it erupts. His seed jets out, splatting onto my face, marking the pillows, covering my chest, then finally, slowly, oozing out onto my belly.

We’re both breathing heavily. Trying to reorient ourselves. Moistening our lips, wiping the sweat from our eyes. Is this going to be the moment when the fantasy dissipates, when dad and son become two perfect strangers and their exchanges become small talk? Or will we continue creating our own world together?

At long last, I clear my throat and speak. “I don’t think I’m done with you yet, son.”

He nods. “I hope you never will be . . . dad.” Then slowly, relentlessly, he begins grinding those hips once more.