Poison Pen

It’s one of those ugly blots on a Monday morning, waking up to find hate comments on my blog. Everything readers submit gets shunted into a folder to await my review. Most I can approve immediately. The obvious spam, I flag and delete. Then there are those special, occasional missives that fall into their own special category: nuggets of poison intended to put me in my place. They’re dispatches straight from the black center of the sender's personal misery, lobbed in my direction, the correspondent's self-loathing barely camouflaged.

I know you and everyone else think you’re hot shit (LOL), reads this one. I haven’t even had my breakfast yet, and already my stomach hurts. But you’re nothing but a fucking old creeper that chases after young tail so you can shove that nasty probably diseased senior citizen dick up inside it as fast as you can. It’s fucking pathetic and sure I bet some of the ugly boys are desperate enough to give in to you chasing them constantly but the rest of them know how disgusting you really are. Act your age already and give it up, creeper!!

I don’t recommend it as a start to your productive day.

But it’s not enough to deter me from meeting someone new, that afternoon. In fact, maybe it's the reason I give in. All I know is that several hours later, I'm nudging my dick’s knob against the puckering indentation of a boy a third my age, who's just moved into his dorm room. The long fingers of my one hand clasp both his ankles and pull his upstretched legs slightly to one side. They’re skinny, those legs, and covered with a thick dark fur utterly absent from the rest of his skinny body, save for perhaps a fringe on the perimeter of his hole, where I’m rubbing the ooze of my precum. Little monkey legs, I think, every time I notice how hairy they are. Mine were that furry in my teens, before years of office attire socks abraded them smooth.

The boy is craning his neck to look at what’s happening down below. His own cock is smallish, but thick. It points at an angle to his mini-fridge, where rests his phone and a pair of over-the-ear headphones. The phone has been lighting up and vibrating this last half-hour as friends message him, but he hasn’t once been tempted to check the incoming texts. “You’re so fucking big, sir,” he whispers.

I look him in the eyes, and nod. “That’s what you want, though.” He’s a good-looking kid. In a couple of years, when the angles of his face find themselves and take shape, he’ll be outright handsome. For now, he’s a slender little snack with a thick head of curly dark hair he must constantly brush from his face, a dandelion pouf of waves that, when stuffed beneath a baseball cap, make him look like a skateboarder or a wanna-be surfer. There's a row of those baseball caps on his dorm desk. Though there are two beds and two desks in the little room, only my boy's side of the room is so far occupied. “Correct? You want dad’s big dick.”

“Yes sir.” He nods, then bites his lip. “I want it real bad. But it’s so big.”

I release his ankles and let his trembling stems plant themselves bad onto the mattress. “How about you let me chew a little more at that hole, then,” I suggest. His dick leaps at the suggestion. I don’t miss the cue. “You liked the feel of my beard against it, didn’t you?”

He’s all eagerness, as if I’ve suggested a trip to Dairy Queen for his favorite flavor Blizzard. “Can I sit on your face this time?”

“You may.”

His suggestion is no hardship. The confines of his dormitory twin bed aren’t easy to navigate, but with some squeaking of the box springs we manage to switch positions. I now lie on my back. His pillow cups my head; his hairless testicles drape themselves on either side of my nose as he settles himself down. My tongue darts up into his smooth crack as his pearly cheeks separate; his little monkey legs dig themselves beneath my shoulders. I can taste my own essence, still fresh on his tight little butt. At last he lowers himself to perch on my jaw, leaving no distance between his hole and my hungry lips.

The boy loves when I scrape my teeth over the tender flesh, never biting, but scouring. He clutches the headboard as if for dear life as he begins to buck and grind his hips. I’m happy to help, seizing his stiff little dick like a handle, and with my face pushing back against his gyrations as hard as I can. He begins to curse aloud; one obscenity is barely distinguishable from the next as they stream from his pouty little lips. My free hand helps to separate his cheeks, so I can gnaw at the prize blossoming and winking from between them. If I wanted to protest at the savaging of my mouth by his hole, I couldn’t; I’m nearly smothered by the spread of his buttocks, by the canopy of his sac, the insistent pressure of his need.

But I don’t protest. I just want this boy to have the time of his life.

After a few minutes, he wrangles himself into a more daring contortion. His hands still cling onto the top of his wooden headboard. He's barely unpacked, but he's already hung posters for video game shooters on the wall above. He unhooks his feet from beneath me, though, and plants them flat onto the board, so that it supports his entire weight. It’s not something I’d allow him to do on my own bed, skinny as he might be. Somehow the laminated wood manages to support his weight without falling apart or separating itself from the bed frame. The athletic position make him look even more like a monkey clinging to a tree trunk, but it gives him the freedom to slam his greedy hole onto my mouth with even more force, his cheeks even more widely open than before. His hair hangs heavily from his dropped head. His groans become feral.

He can do this as long as he needs. I fucking love it. I’m no hurry, despite what my poison pen correspondent of the morning suggests, to get my dick inside the kid. Don’t get my wrong. My dick wants in. It’s so aroused by the boy’s assault that it points to the ceiling, dripping sticky threads that descend, slower than a drip of molasses, to my stomach. This kid can use my face as long as he cares to, or until my jaw erodes from the repeated onslaught, whichever comes first.

The end comes both too soon and not quickly enough. With care, he detaches himself from the headboard and, with wobbly legs, straddles my body. “Let me sit on it,” he suggests. “Do you like that?”

I like that very much. I spit on my fingers and add to the slickness of my dick. He sets one furry knee to my ribcage, then the other. On impulse, he leans down to kiss me, while his fist rapidly churns around his cock. He’s breathing heavily; his eyes gaze into mine with unadulterated desire. “You sure you’re ready, son?”

I already know the answer. He nods with vigor, closing his eyes when my fingers deliver another load of spit onto his hole. “I need that big dick in me, sir. I need it so bad.” He shifts his weight, calculating the angle at which he’ll attack his goal. “I need it so bad,” he repeats, whispering this time. Thick hair falls around his face as he settles back. “Fuck!” He winces as my cock pushes in.

“Go slow,” I tell him.

But he has other ideas. Grunting, he takes the girth in three swift stages—the head, the midsection, then a quick slam all the way down to the base. I feel the walls of his ass clench down on my inches as they seize up, after the invasion. He relaxes once he realizes there’s no more to swallow. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck,” he curses. “You’re so big.”

“And you love it,” I say. I’m giving him permission to love the hurt.

He nods, panting. “I love it. Fuck. You are so hot. Thank you.”

This is what my poison pen fails to understand about me: I don’t think I’m hot shit. I know exactly what I am: a man traveling through his sixth decade, a man of modest attractions who’s never once advertised himself as hot or VGL, who doesn’t spend his free time in the gym, who has a belly. I’ve never been a man who chases after young tail. Young tail chases me. This boy with the thick mop of hair and the tight little hole recognized me as his prize and went after me relentlessly—not the other way around. 

I’ve never hounded after anyone, especially young guys. My entire sexual career has been based upon letting others see me as I am, allowing them to make me their choice...and then rewarding them for their good taste.

Never in my life have I had to rely upon the charity of the sexually desperate. I’m no Adonis, but that's never a prerequisite for a good and giving lover. What I lack isn’t enough to stop me from making love like a sex god. I haven’t allowed the doubts of my decades to convince me I’m undeserving of pleasure, or that I shouldn’t share a student twin bed with a beautiful young man. One poison pen comment isn't going to change my convictions. I know exactly what I am: a diviner of the erotic who, with every whispered query, with every touch and gesture, dowses to find the hidden reservoir of another man’s sexual energies beneath the surface, ready to tap into the wellspring.

This boy bobbing atop my dowsing rod—this kid could have any stud he wanted. He’s chosen me. I might not be hot shit, but right now, today, for him, the look in his eyes tells me I’m the shit he needs more badly than anyone else in the world. I’m the shit his world revolves around, this very moment. I’m the shit that makes him pant and sweat and shudder. I don’t intend to let him down.

“You feel amazing.” My words of encouragement open his brown eyes. The moment’s lust has dilated his pupils. “You are so incredibly handsome, son.”

When my hand strokes his cheek, he leans into it like a young feline bunting his territory. “Not like you,” he tells me, planting his palms onto my chest. “Nothing like you.”

Now he’s found his center of gravity. I grunt wordlessly as he begins to buck on my hard cock. He settles on a motion I find irresistible, his hips sliding in a horizontal plane back and forth, causing my prick to swell as rapidly it slides in and out of his chute. He can tell I’m enjoying it. With a sadist’s zest, he ups the intensity of his attack. I’m the victim of his sweet friction, helpless to resist as he cruelly savages me with his rectum. My ramping excitement is a mere byproduct—it means nothing to him. He’s doing this for his pleasure, for his hole, for the sensations he can wring from every curve and vein and ridge in my cock. I can tell by his closed eyes and the expression of intent concentration on his face that he’s lost in his own raptures. “I’m going to shoot if you keep doing that, son,” I warn.

His lids open; his eyes focus once again. Staring at me from above, his jaw juts to the side with mockery. He grins. And he keeps on doing what he’s doing—and doing it even more vigorously.

The kid is toying with me by the time I approach orgasm, arching and thrusting to get me close, then halting to frustrate me. I recognize the fiendish pleasure he’s taking in bringing me to the edge. All it takes to thwart him is to grab his hips and thrust mine upward, deep into the warmth of his insides. We grin at each other as I take my turn to punish his tight hole. When he leans down, my open mouth engulfs his lips in a kiss. I stab inside him with a final brutal thrust that takes me over the edge.

“Is that your cum?” His lips are a mere inch from mine. He seems astonished as my dick swells and throbs, as deep as it can reach. “Fuck. I can actually feel your cum!” He reaches behind to make sure he’s got as much of me as he can take. “Oh, fuck!”

I don’t get much warning as he unknots me from his hole. My still-shooting dick falls onto my belly with a wet smack and a last gush of seed. He scoops it up with his fingers, collects more from his gaping ass, and slaps it onto his own cock. Then, with my assistance, back he sits on my dick and sinks to the bottom. Balanced on the flats of his feet and using my erection as his seat, he spreads the mixture of spit and cum over his own cock and balls.

He comes quickly, shooting as far as my nipples. I enjoy watching him thrash and quake while electricity sets his every nerve ajangle. I’m surprised, though, by how silent he remains as it happens. His lips work, as if praying; his breath intensifies, his chest heaves. But all I hear as he gushes his load over my stomach is the slightest of sighs. He’s in the habit of hiding his climaxes at home, I realize, and hasn’t shed it yet in his new digs.

I want to remember this moment forever. His pale skin, and the little pink nipples that have contracted to miniature pencil erasers. The awning of his hair above me. The traces of stickiness he leaves in it, while pushing it away from his face with cum-covered fingers. He way he rubs his nose with the back of his wrist, as he comes back to himself after his orgasm. The alarm in his eyes when I stir. “Don’t go,” he begs, pressing down on my chest.

“You want me to stay?”

For answer he lifts himself up. On the mattress’ cramped confines, he becomes little spoon to my big. His freshly-used ass presses insistently against the erection that’s only just beginning to fade. “Stay and fuck me again,” he whispers, happy for the moment to be in my embrace, but far from sated.

To this kid, I'm hot shit. That's all I need, for now.