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.