Uptown Train

This dude wedged up against me? He has three hats.

I’ve just squeezed onto an uptown train. It’s eight-thirty at night, but the express leaving from Union Square is packed. Wall-to-wall, every seat filled, every pole a totem of clenched fists. Grand Central is only one stop away, I think to myself, but even though the doors have closed, the train hasn’t yet left the station. This sardine-like excursion is going to take a good ten minutes. And the dude mere inches away is wearing three hats at once.

I know this because two of the three brims are in my face. I’m having to angle my jaw up and to the right, just to avoid them. I look at his short, muscular body, covered by a frayed old skin-tight t-shirt. Through the maze of backpacks and bodies I can see his expensive high-top sneakers, his tight sweatpants with the ankle elastic pulled up to his knees to expose bull calves. Tough little punk. He’s a tough little Latin shit with a beard . . . and three baseball caps, over which he’s got a pair of Beats over-the-ears headphones.

Are three caps a statement? Has every wanna-be street thug been wearing three caps and I just haven’t noticed? Okay, in the grand scheme of things, three baseball caps is probably less asinine than one polo shirt worn atop another polo shirt, both with the collars popped, which was a preppy thing I might have done once or twice as a college kid. But its a close race.

The dude is having problems getting the Beats to sit properly, even extended all the way. When he reaches up with both hands to adjust them, the movement causes a ripple effect among the people in my immediate vicinity; everyone has to shift and move to accommodate his elbows. I’ve got my neck bent so far to the side it probably looks like I’m resting it on the businessman’s shoulder, next to me. One of the hats is going to have to go, he seems to realize.

He takes off the top one, flat-brimmed with a Yankees logo, to reveal a shiny black leather baseball cap underneath. Multiple murmurs of annoyance arise as he again tries to fix the headphones. The first cap still in his hand, he pulls off the leather hat and stuffs the pair into the waistband of his sweats. Then, lifting the Beats, he moves the brim of the final cap from the back of his head to the front, and settles the headphones squarely on his ears. The train jolts and moves; we’re finally, slowly, on our way.

I look at the guy’s final headwear. I recognize the brand logo immediately. Nasty Pig. There’s even a silver adhesive sticker still on the flat brim to verify: Official Nasty Pig Gear, it reads.

From his streetwear I’d mentally categorized this guy as a would-be thug. Now I know he’s a cocksucking thug. I smirk. That’s when the dude’s eyes catch mine. No, that’s when the dude’s eyes, so dark and so deep that it's tough to tell where the brown ends and the iris begins, lock onto mine.

I feel a spark of electricity at the base of my spine. People don’t really look at each other on the New York subway. We stand in our places, pretending it’s totally natural to be as close to each other as we are. We avoid eye contact to maintain the pretense of our personal space. But even though my eyes reflexively dance away for a moment, they shoot back just as quickly. He’s still staring. His glance travels down my body, then back to my face. This short little Latin bull and I are cruising each other from the distance of eight inches away. On a fucking subway. With a hundred people crushed around us.

Nasty Pig does a thing with his upper teeth, where they bite into his pillowy bottom lip at one far corner. It’s a sexy move that makes my pants stir. My dick is coming to life. Now he’s hooking his headphones cord around his index finger and sucking it into his mouth. He’s still staring at me, but now he’s gone beyond merely checking me out; he’s staring with intent.

I feel a tingle along the underside of my dick. When I peek down, I can see his pinky finger crooked, tracing up and down the denim of my jeans along the outline of my bulge. Naturally, that just makes me stiffer. When I look back up, he’s still sucking on that cord and giving me most provocative look I’ve had in months. This boy is not only wearing a Nasty Pig hat, he’s determined to live up to the brand.

The train is moving at full speed now; we’re whizzing past 34th. The next stop is mine. He must see me lowering my head to glance at the station sign as we speed by, because now the dude is bending over from the waist, reaching over the little backpack-wearing Asian college student chattering to a friend, extending an arm in the direction of the subway map behind plexiglass next to the door. He’s doing it as casually as anyone could, in a jam-packed train; the point of the exercise, it dawns on me when I see him pointing to the white circle ringed in black next to 125th Street along the green vertical line, is to show me his stop. He straightens up once he’s ascertained I’ve seen his destination, and raises his eyebrows. I pause. My own stop is approaching. But then I make a decision, and nod in response. The train screeches and brakes to a stop. We’ve reached Grand Central.

It’s been a long day, and fifteen minutes ago I’d been itching to go home. Now, though? I guess I’m going to Harlem.

A slew of people exit at Grand Central; another slew gets on. The Latin dude in the Nasty Pig baseball cap and I remain at our spots on the pole, pressed against each other, the crush of bodies shelter his relentless stroking of my dick through its denim prison. The train clears out somewhat at 59th; we separate by a couple of feet. I hold my backpack so that it blocks any public view of my raging erection. The concealment elicits a smirk of his own. His eyes bore into mine. The things I’m gonna do to you, that look says.

Harlem. We emerge from the depths onto the street. Neither of us speaks. I let him take the lead. The smell of hot spiced lamb and of onions and peppers from a food cart follows us around a corner, and then to a numbered street nearby. He uses a key to unlatch a iron gate in front of a small apartment building. With a gentlemanly gesture, he holds it open for me. I push it shut when I’m on the other side. Another key for the front door, then, once we’ve climbed one flight of stairs, a third for his apartment. Inside, the air is stale and still. There’s a faint scent of Lysol, and of cooking grease.

The two hats that covered the Nasty Pig revelation have been jutting out of the dude’s sweatpants pocket all during our walk. He yanks them out and tosses them on a chair. As I stand there, waiting to see what he might do, my heart flops about like a wild bird desperate to escape its cage; I’m a little breathless both at this stranger’s provocation and at my nerve. Nasty Pig is fucking fine. It’s clear he spends his days lifting, probably admiring his growing muscles in the gym mirrors while he works them. How old is he? Twenty-six? Twenty-eight?

I open my lips to say something, to break the ice. But before I speak, he clears his throat, then lifts up his arms. One hand grabs the brim of his baseball cap. The other grabs the rear. He turns it around on his head. And then he kneels. My lips stay open, but all that comes out is a breath. Oh fuck, my lips work. No sound emerges.

He’s got his cheek against my still-hard dick, rubbing it through the jeans as his hands tug at my belt and then at my zipper. My pants fall to the ground; he yanks at the elastic of my trunks. They tumble into the well of denim around my ankles. I feel his strong hand gripping my dick, squeezing it tight, maintaining an expert pressure on the extreme of pleasure, just below the threshold of pain. His lips are pursed; he’s breathing heavily through them as he gazes at my meat. Studying it. Admiring the fuck out of it. He glances up, watching me watch him. Then he’s twisting my shaft around, looking at it from another vantage. Then he opens his mouth wide.

I feel a cyclone of heat as his mouth surrounds my flesh. Then wetness, and the sloppy sensation of his lips dragging themselves down my shaft toward my balls. My head jerks back. I let out a groan.

The walls of the hallway where he’s blowing me are narrow; my left hand braces itself against cold plaster while my right gropes at a leather jacket hanging from a peg. He’s on his knees, hungrily gobbling the dick he’d been teasing for a hundred and ten blocks; one of his hands encloses my nuts in his grasp.

For five minutes while he greedily sucks me, we don’t make it more than a yard past his apartment door. Without announcement, though, he lunges to his feet. With my dick in his hand like a dog’s leash, he pushes off one of his kicks with his toes, then the other. He leads me down the hallway, padding in black-socked feet and me shuffling behind, past a tiny living area and an even tinier kitchen toward a room in the back. Only when we’ve reached the room with a mattress on the floor does he let go of my dick—but his fingers still tickle the underside, beckoning me to the makeshift bed on the floor. There’s a stack of boxes by the head that’s acting as a kind of nightstand, and a full-length mirror on a stand in one corner. I manage to wrestle my feet out of their shoes and the tangle of pants simultaneously; my hoodie comes off. He pulls off my t-shirt himself, then steps back. Off comes the Nasty Pig cap, tossed on the floor without ceremony. He skims off his own top using that crossed-hand move guys use to strip in movies, that I never can quite manage to grasp. Then his sweatpants drop. He stares at me the whole time.

The dude’s got a beautiful body. He’s a little bull, solid and shapely. A Nasty Pig dream model. He grabs a bottle of poppers from his makeshift nightstand, shakes it. Then he twists off the cap and inhales deeply. One nostril. Then the other. He offers me the bottle, but I shake my head.

Then he’s down on the dirty mattress. This little Latin piece of ass is on all fours for a stranger his dad’s age, his butt up in the air, his feet spread, his head down. He needs me inside him. It’d be cruel to deny the kid. Right?

Charitable humanitarian that I am, I kneel down behind the boy. My cock’s head nudges against his surprisingly furry little hole. He moans a little bit, and pushes back against me. Still greedy. I savor his need while I take my time spitting into my hand and getting my dick slick. Only once my shaft is glistening to I start to push in.

I intend to go slowly, but Nasty Pig doesn’t have the patience. He thrusts his hips back, engulfing my meat in a single push. Almost immediately he regrets it. I don’t know if he’s unused to dicks my size, or whether he’s just imitating porn to turn me on, but his face contorts. He bucks and yells at the sensations. His hand halts my hips, trying to stop me from thrusting just yet. Still hissing and breathing heavily, his face gradually goes back to normal. I take that as my cue.

With my hands parting the meaty globes of his butt, I slide my inches in and out. He nods, then grunts, then starts making noises of approval. Neither of us have spoken a word so far—why break the ice now? I press down on the small of his back with my hand’s heel, bring up one knees so that I can get some more momentum going. He grabs for the poppers again as I plow deep.

I’m not going to last long, I know; I’ve got a three-day load in my nuts and I know exactly where it’s going to end up. Nasty Pig is clutching his pillow now, high from the vapors and accepting the rough fuck as if he knows he deserves it. One of his hands covers mine. Our fingers intertwine as we both pull wide his butt cheek.

I need more traction. My dick makes an audible squelch as I pull out of his raw hole and coerce the boy to his feet. He braces himself against the wall as I shove myself back in. Partly I’m doing this for him; I know he’s getting off on the sight of us in that full-length mirror of his. Mostly, though, I’m doing it for me. Standing up, I can admire the sight of my slick shaft as it slides into his guts. Standing up, I can hold him by the hips and fuck him like the nasty little bitch he clearly wants to be. His back arches; his fat uncut dick is short enough that it can slap against his belly to match the sound of my thrusts.

When I shoot, it’s loud. I bark out my pleasure and the concussion reverberates around the room. His eyes open; he watches the reflection of my hips jutting forward as my cock buries itself as deep inside his hole as it can go. Those dark eyes flash; there’s a serious look on his face as I shoot my sperm inside. A serious look for serious business, it seems. I’m still inside his hole, recuperating, when he starts whacking that fat pinga of his. A few strokes, a grunt, and his seed spatters out. There’s a bucket of it, splattering on the bedclothes, the wall, the floor. A moment of silence and stillness. Then he shifts forward. My dick slops out. More seed falls onto the bedclothes. This time it’s mine.

The baseball cap is the first thing he dons. He sits down on his mattress wearing nothing but the hat and his black sock, legs spread, dick flopping down low between his legs. I start to grab my clothes. I dress while he checks his messages. He’s still silently poking at the glass of his phone as I don my shoes and hoodie. I know my cue to exit.

We still haven’t spoken a word. I raise my hand in farewell.

He’s up on his feet, suddenly. Unexpectedly, he pulls down my head to his own. Our lips lock in a kiss. His mouth still tastes of my precum. I feel his wet dick against my wrist.

I’m on the street a moment later. After the closeness of the apartment, the night air is cool on my sweaty face. I can pick up my commuter train from the Harlem stop as if nothing at all brought me so far out of my way—though I know that getting on at Harlem, I’m unlikely to find a seat.

Actually, it’s the first time I’m thinking that a crowded train isn’t so bad an experience after all.

Pink

When I slip inside the back door of the fuck’s townhouse, I’m greeted by the scent of cumin. It’s strong enough to tickle both my nostrils and the back of my throat. Washed coffee cups and plates line a rack of blue plastic by the sink. The counter is cluttered with opened boxes of crackers and kids’ cereal; a basket of ripening bananas hangs by the window. I close the door behind me and stride to the doorway beyond which the linoleum gives way to carpet. Stairs leads me to my destination: the bedroom at their summit.

He’s sprawled there on his mattress, hands cradling the back of his head. His knees are drawn in opposite directions to point at the bedposts. If his mission is to draw my eyes to that shadowed, furry crack he’s exposing for me, he’s doing a good job. His eyes are half-closed, gauging my reaction as he nods his head in welcome. He’s a sexy Latin man with skin the color of parchment. His beard is meticulous trimmed to a fine, dark layer. He’s wearing a backwards trucker cap to look tough. He looks almost exactly like the photos he sent me—beefy, muscled, super-masculine, bristling with dark hair in all the right places. The dude is the kind of trade most that gay men would do a double-take over before they muttered to themselves an admiring, damn!

It’s what I say now. “Damn!” The corners of his lips curl upward at the syllable. He likes hearing that. “You look good.”

The praise stirs his dick. It’s not long—a snub-nosed, uncut five-and-a-half inches or so. But it’s fat. It plumps out rather than lengthens, creating a heavier indentation on his hairy thigh where it rests. His eyes still dart up and down the length of my body, taking me in. Finally, they lock on mine. “Thank you, papi,” he says in a lightly-accented baritone.

He hasn’t moved since I stepped into the bedroom. I kick off my sandals, hook my thumbs under the elastic of my sweat shorts, and let them drop to my ankles. I’m wearing some black underwear that display my bulge; my dick is filling them out in a pronounced diagonal to the left side. He licks his fat lips. “What do you want?” I ask.

“Your pretty white dick,” is his prompt reply.

“Yeah? Huh.” I say the words as if the thought had never occurred to me. This time my thumbs slide under the band of my shorts, pulling them down far enough to expose the top of my pubes. “Where do you want it, then?”

His gaze is fixated on the protrusion beneath the black cotton. “Down my throat,” he says, swallowing hard. “And up my spic pussy.”

“I might be able to arrange that.” I keep my tone droll, but neutral. “You worth it?”

“Yeah.” When I raise my eyebrows, he changes his tone. “Yes, papi. I’m worth it.”

“You can say that all you want,” I tell him. “But the words are fucking worthless. You’ve got to prove it.”

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” he says, uncoiling from his position and turning over. He sidles on his belly to the bed’s bottom and leans on his elbows until his face is level with my crotch. I can see the full circumference of his ass now. Honest to god, it’s fucking perfect. Just the sight of it is like all my birthday and Christmas presents shoved into tight, round package. “Let me have that fat white dick, daddy. I’ll take good care of it.”

I pause a moment as if considering my options. He waits expectantly, not daring to reach out and grab it until I give the go-ahead. At last, slowly, I nod. My fingers pull down the fabric. My meat springs out, unleashed at last. Immediately it finds a new home in his mouth. My trunks fall to the floor.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” I order, when it’s clear he’s going to try to hoover it down. At once he desists from the rough treatment. His mouth travels back and forth over the shaft, slowly, slickly. I can feel his tongue sliding over the surface, savoring the sweet precum already flowing from the tip. It tickles the sensitive area just below the head, lengthens to slip outside his wet lips to tickle my balls. “You like that white dick, don’t you.”

It’s never a question. Not with these guys. I know they all like it. He surfaces from the blowjob long enough to hiss, “Yessssssss.”

I nod again. I didn’t need his acknowledgment.

It’s not long before the base around my shaft is drenched and dripping with his saliva. My pubic hair is matted down in wet, curled tendrils when he comes up for air again. “I need it up my pussy, daddy,” he begs.

“Huh,” I reply, managing to sound again surprised at the notion. “Can that little Mexican cunt of yours handle this?”

“Puerto Rican,” he corrects. I knew that, too. It was a deliberate mistake. He sees my eyebrows raised, correctly judges the expression on my face to read, Do I look like I give a fuck? “Yes,” he replies, humbled. “This Mexican pussy can take all you got.”

“Show me,” I say, removing my t-shirt. It falls into a puddle of bleached-out red cotton on the floor beside my underwear and my shorts.

Instantly he flops onto his back and lifts his muscled legs into the air. His crack is hairy, but not so much that I can’t see his hole now. Though the flats of his feet are parallel with the ceiling, he doesn’t need to hold his calves in order to keep them up there. They’re rock steady. His hands are too occupied spreading open his cheeks for my inspection, anyway. He’s no amateur; he’s not starting with a single pinkie teasing the lips. He’s using one hand to pull back the muscle and the other to open up those flaps. He’s shoved three fingers, four, up that hole, and doesn’t show any sign of discomfort.

“This is your boy’s pussy, papi.” The hat’s brim has caught against the mattress behind him, and fallen off. Beneath, his head is shaved, covered by only a slight black shadow. I see now that there’s a faint outline of a crudely-worked tattoo on the side of his neck. “This pussy cunt is all yours to rape. I need it hard and deep in my pussy, papi. Real hard.”

My cock’s enraged. Red. Angry. It’s demanding entry. But I play diffident, and reach down to test the hole with my own fingers. They slip in immediately; this fucking slab of beef has wet it up with oil-based lube so that it’s greased and ready. It’s soft and pliant; I could probably slide my whole fist up there with no resistance. “Fuck,” I say, almost involuntarily. “It really does feel like pussy.”

“You need to rape me, daddy,” he begs. “You need to stick it up there and rape this spic bitch.”

I’m still manipulating the soft flesh. “If I stick my dick up that hole, it won’t be ass any more,” I promise. “It’ll be one hundred percent cunt. You want to get cunted, son?”

“Yes, papi,” he pleads. “Cunt this bitch. I want your babies. I want—!“ His jaw goes slack as, without any more than a quick coating of the residual lube from his hole, I shove myself inside. He’s just was soft and warm around my meat as I expect.

“What do you want?” I command him to share.

“I want it all, papi. I want—I want—!“ His mouth works, though he’s having difficulty forcing out words. Instead, he’s vibrating with a great moan that emanates from somewhere deep within. His eyes roll back in his head. His head lolls to the side. And still that moan keeps resonating, almost making the cage of his chest sound like a hollow echo chamber.

“You gotta tell me what you want, son,” I said, torturing his prostate as I drive in deep. “I can’t give your pussy what it wants if you don’t say the words. You want me to pull out?”

“No no no!” he cries, summoning the strength to plead. As if I’d really ever pull out. “I want your babies. I need you to rape this bitch hole and plant your seed deep up my cunt. I gotta have the seeds from that beautiful white dick dripping from my pussy lips, papi. I just gotta.”

“Say it,” I tell him, giving him the full fuck treatment. His legs, high in the air, haven’t moved an inch, especially now that he’s supporting the backs of his thighs with his hands. Even when he moves them down to pull apart his ass so I can shove in deeper, they stay rock solid. “Say the fucking words, faggot.”

“I need that cum,” he whimpers. “You gotta wreck that pussy with your dick, baby. I need it turned into total cunt forever by you. You gotta own this bitch’s spic cunt, papi, pump it full of your seeds. Knock me the fuck up and keep me pregnant!”

“All right,” I say, my tone still level and determined. “If that’s what you want, you little shit.”

I’ve worked myself into a climax pretty quickly with this beefwad, anyway. If he needs the breeding that bad, he’ll get the breeding. My sperm jets out into his hole; I shove it deeper with a savage thrust that makes him yell. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” he shouts. “You’re cumming in that pussy cunt! Fuck, you’re doing it, papi, you’re really knocking up this little spic bitch!”

I don’t need to comment. I hold onto his ankles to stay upright until the waves of pleasure recede. When I open my eyes, he’s grabbing onto that fat hog that’s been slapping against his belly. It only takes a few strokes to push him over the edge. Then and only then does his hole clamp down hard on my meat, squeezing the very last drops from the shaft.

I’ve got no plans to linger. It’s not that kind of encounter. If he wants to talk to me later, he knows where to contact me. I scoop up my tee and let it slip down my arms onto my torso. My underwear and sweat shorts are easy to step into, and all I have to do is slide my feet into my sandals and I’m ready to go. “See ya,” I tell him. Another satisfied client, I’m thinking as I’m fancying myself the McDonald’s of breeding, with millions of customers served.

“Wait up,” he says, as I’m walking out of the bedroom.

I turn, waiting for the inevitable compliments, the entreaty for me to return soon.

Instead, I get, “Why’d you wear that t-shirt, man?”

It’s not the question I was expecting. “Huh?”

“That t-shirt. You can’t be coming to my crib wearing that shit, man.”

I take a second to look down at myself. Is the tee dirty? Did I get some unsightly food stain on it? But no, it’s just a plain old t-shirt. Not even a logo or a screened print on it. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

“It’s pink.”

I blink, and think about it a minute. “Well, it’s kind of a faded red, really. . . .”

“What kind of shit are people gonna think if they see you coming all in my back door with a pink shirt on?”

I raise my eyebrows. Seriously? “Maybe, if someone asked,” I say, weighing my words carefully, “you could tell them that it was really faded red. And none of their business?”

He’s picked up that cheap black trucker’s cap again and nestled it on his skull, brim toward the front this time. I can see he’s a Yankees fan. He pulls it down so that it shades his eyes. Tries to look tough. “That shirt is pink, dude.”

My gut twitches in an involuntary laugh. I stand there looking at this stocky little shit lying back on his bed, trying his best to look cocky and virile while my just-fucked warm sperm is leaking out of his ass. I’m thinking about all things I could be saying—should be saying—about how if he was really that worried about his masculinity, maybe he shouldn’t have his windows open while he’s begging a strange white man to rape his pussy cunt. I’m considering icily informing him that if he doesn’t want his neighbors to think he was in the slightest way anything less than the macho, butch brute that he apparently aspires to be, perhaps he shouldn’t be knocking the color of my tee, but thinking more about the wisdom of going legs-up and begging guys off some sex app to ‘knock up this little spic bitch.’

All I do, though, is shrug and say, “Well, okay. I don’t have to come back. Later, dude.” Then I’m out the door.

“No, no, don’t take it like that, papi,” he’s calling down the stairs. I hear him stomp around as he clambers to his feet and attempts to follow. But I’m already through the cumin-scented kitchen and out the back door toward the parking lot. He’s not going to get his clothes on quickly enough to follow me.

Maybe later I’ll accept his multiple apologies through the app that brought me to him. For now, though, I’ve already made up my mind: there’re plenty more bitches to knock up. So I take my ass—and my pink shirt—back home.

Revenge

When the late-night commuter trains out of Grand Central pulls into the last stop at the New York border, all the dumb white overprivileged Connecticut kids shout out derogatory comments. This stop is . . . Mexican Town!, they’ll giggle, like it’s the funniest shit in the world. This stop is . . . Little Puerto Rico! The village has a heavy concentration of Latin neighborhoods, though, and as I’m driving through the landmarks of one just outside the little downtown area, late one night on my way to a fuck, I’m suddenly struck by a thought. This street seems awfully familiar.

A couple of years back I had some spectacularly awful sex with a Brazilian guy who lived just off this street. His photos had been hot, but the reality of him had been less than attractive. I’d let him climb on top of me and wiggle around and attempt to kiss me despite the fact his breath was rank. Finally he’d shot prematurely and I’d wasted absolutely zero time standing up and fleeing from his apartment with my pants barely buttoned. When he kept nagging and nagging me to come back, I finally had to block him on every sex site.

The guy I’m supposed to be seeing isn’t that guy, I’m wondering, as I start to panic a little. Oh, fuck. What if it is? The photo this guy had sent was of a handsome Latin thirty-year-old wearing big sunglasses. I’d seen his muscular body and photos of his jocked, worked-out ass. I hadn’t seen his actual face. The Brazilian had decent photos too. Oh, fuck.

Then the GPS directs me down a street that is definitely not the Brazilian’s, and my fears subside a little.

He’s sitting on the front step of his boarding house when I approach. In the lamp light of the front porch I can tell he’s not the Brazilian. So that’s all right. What I discover is that he’s more handsome than I expected. In his clinging sport shorts and tank top, the dude looks like a muscular soccer god. “Hey,” he says, looking me over. Then he stands, and offers me his hand. His clasp is firm. Then he looks over his shoulder. “Come inside,” he whispers.

The place where he lives is one of those old turn-of-the-century houses that’s been updated and expanded and retrofitted with a dozen or more apartments. The hallways are like warrens. He takes me through a maze of them before leading me down one staircase and up another to the back of the old structure. Finally he opens the door to his apartment, and the muggy summer night’s air gives away to the coolness of a dark, air-conditioned interior.

It’s a small apartment. There’s just the living room, a kitchenette, and the bed. He stands there with his hands on his hips, like he might break into jumping-jacks or something, staring at me. I decide to break the ice. “You’re a sexy man,” I say.

The words are barely out of my mouth when he lunges at me. His mouth covers mine with a hungry kiss. The breathing through his nostrils is already feral; I feel the heat of him all over me as his hands grope and rub every part of my body. “I need you inside me so bad,” he whispers, as he strips naked.
Jesus. The man is built. The photos he’d sent me were of himself lying by a pool. He’d been muscular in that, but in front of me—crap. He looks like the cover of a fitness magazine. His cock is an uncut monster, about six and a half around and seven and growing. I suck in my lips, shake my head, and breathe out in surprise. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

“Then fuck me,” he whispers, hopping up on his mattress. It creaks under the athletic bounce. “Get that dick inside me, daddy. You like me? Fuck me.”

Daddy likes. I slip out of my sneakers and my jeans, slide out of my T-shirt, drop my shorts. My cock is hard and point out straight in front of me. Immediately he dives to the bed’s side and lets his head hang off the mattress to suck it. In and out of his mouth I slide, hardening with every stroke.

Then he’s on his back again, rubbing lube in his butt and lifting his feet to the ceiling. I take my place at his ass and position the head at his hole. He grinds, and grins, and urges me in. The head disappears, then an inch of me. His face contorts with pain and pleasure both as he draws me deep inside. “Fuck me, papi,” he whispers, looking me square in the eye. “Make babies in me, daddy.”

Daddy starts to fuck. His hole is unbelievably hot around my dick. There are holes that are simply receptacles, and then there are holes that live to be filled. His is the latter. He’s not content with lying there, with being fucked. He wants to prove himself worthy of my cock. He pulls me down to kiss him, and grips my arms and shoulders tight with his muscles. His hole clutches at me just as eagerly, inviting me to sink deeper, fuck hard, shoot more.

And it’s not long before I’m dumping a load inside him. The whole situation has pushed me over the edge more quickly than usual. I’m shooting and I’m shooting hard, bucking and straining against him as his large brown hands hold me deep inside him with a vise-like grip. “Give me your sperm, daddy,” he says. “Give it all to your boy. Yeah.”

“Christ,” I say, as the last of my deep dribbles into his guts. There’s almost a milky film before my eyes, I’m so fuck-blind. I blink it away, and topple back as the blood drains from my head. Almost solicitously he catches me and lays me down on the mattress, so that he’s kneeling between my legs.

“That was so good,” he says, reaching for his hole. His hand comes away with a streak of my load across it. He uses it to lube up his cock. “So good, daddy.” Again he reaches behind himself, draws out more of my fluid with his fingers. This time he rubs it on my hole. Almost involuntarily my legs part, rise a little. He notices. “You like to get fucked, huh? Daddy like to get fucked too?”

“I—“ My head’s still spinning. He’s driving a finger in there. Two.

“You want me to fuck you? You want it raw, baby?”

“I—“ I try again. “It’s been a real long time.” He’s got that enormous uncut cock pointing straight at my hole, slicked up with sperm and lube. Like a pro he grabs the underside of my thighs and pulls me into position. “You’d have to be really, really gent—“

Too late. He’s already driven that fat pinga up to the nuts by the time I’m halfway through my warning. And you know what? The fucking thing feels good. No pain. No fear. Just fuck. He didn’t meet with any resistance at all. “Yeah daddy,” he’s already saying, as he starts pumping. He’s mirroring the same grinding motion I used on him, getting it in deep, letting his fat head mash and crush my prostate.

I’d just shot moments before, but the sensation is driving me crazy. My dick’s rock hard again. I take it in my hand and let its cum-covered skin slide up and down in my fist. “Let me cum in your ass, daddy,” he’s growling. “Let me fill up that ass for you, papi, please.”

I shoot again. I don’t even feel it coming. One minute I’ve just got that sweet fat cock pounding away at that button deep inside, and the next I’ve got a molten load spilling onto my stomach. The sight of it drives him crazy. He’s got me bent nearly double as he lifts himself up to a semi-standing position on the mattress to drive himself in. His hips buck. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s growling, and baring his teeth at me like he wants to rip into my very flesh. Then he shudders. Ceases his pistoning. Brings my ass gently down to the mattress, and lays it down. Then his cock flops out.

From under the bed he produces a towel that he uses first to wipe my stomach, then his hands and cock. “Thanks,” I say. “That was a hell of an unexpected thing.” I’m not kidding, either. My ass is both twitching and stinging from the rough treatment.

“You single?” he asks. He’s sitting on the bedside and pulling up his shorts. I shake my head. I’d told him that before I’d come over. “Oh yeah. Married, right?”

I nod. “How about you?”

“I have a boyfriend,” he says. “But.” Then he shrugs. Chuckles a little.

“But?” If anything, I feel like I’m butting in. He’s the one who brought it up, though.

“But he fucking cheated on me.” He watches as I pull on my tee, drag on my shorts leg by leg. “So you’re what I’m doing to get back, I guess.”

“I’m a revenge fuck, huh?” I say the words slowly, kind of relishing them.

He nods. “Yeah. I guess so. Huh. You mind?”

I shrug. “It was good revenge. What’s to mind?”

“Yeah,” he says, laughing to himself. “I guess it was real good revenge for me too. Let me see you out.”

I’m probably not going to see this kid again, I realize. He’ll think about the encounter and masturbate to it for months, but now that he’s gotten the fuck out of his system, he’ll be a contrite boyfriend again.

“Thanks,” I say at the door.

“Hey,” he says, before he lets me crack open the entrance to his apartment. Then he grabs the back of my head, pulls me to him, and kisses me deeply. I have to blink away the haze when he finally finishes, again. “Maybe we can revenge again some other time, huh? You wanna, daddy?”

Daddy wanna. Maybe this kid’s not the contrite type, after all.

I Know What You Want

“‘Sup,” is all he says as he pours himself into my car’s front passenger seat. That’s all. ‘Sup. Our eyes connect for a moment. His flick away. They’re black and shiny, like obsidian. Then he stares at the road ahead and bobs his neck back and forth, as if listening to beats from an invisible source.

I nod and make a U-turn. ‘Sup, indeed. I can see right through him. He’s all swagger and defenses, this one. He’s a little Latin boy wearing a baseball cap, big baggy sweats, and a hoodie two sizes too large. Beneath all that excess of jersey I can discern the outline of his shoulders—narrow and lean, like the hips that barely keep those jeans from falling to the floor. His knees are thin poles making his pant legs into tents. He’s looking out the window like all’s cool with the world, but those knees are scissoring together, then apart. He might be living in his first rented room after flying out of his mommy’s nest. He might like thinking of himself as bad. He might try to appear tough and impervious. But I know he’s a nervous little boy of twenty, behind that slick facade.

The drive to my place is short. He doesn’t speak again until I’ve pulled up in front of my home. “This is it, huh,” he comments. He oozes out of the car and tugs at the imaginary lapels of his hoodie like he’s casing the joint. I lead him up the porch and inside.

He’s silent as he follows me to the bedroom. I’ve already turned on the light. Before he plunges his hands in his pockets, he takes time to adjust that oversized Yankees cap he’s wearing. It’s set at a forty-five degree angle between forehead and ear, and another forty-five degrees up from the horizontal plane. It’s such a specific angle that I suspect he’s spent hours and hours testing it in the mirror. “So what now, boss?” he asks, when I stand in front of him. He chuckles at himself, as if he’s a regular wit.

I haven’t said a word this entire time. There’s no need for me to compensate for his tough-guy act. I’m not trying to impress the little shit. I’m not trying to get a second date. I know exactly what I want from him. I’m pretty confident I’ll get it. My lips part to say, “Strip.”

Then I fold my arms, and wait.

He pauses for a moment like he’s caught in the headlights. I watch him make the choice to brazen it out. “Aiiiight,” he says, his heavy lids hooding his eyes. He’s a handsome kid, I’ll give him that. He’s got beautiful eyes, a pretty face. There’s a tiny little fringe of hair at the very base of his lip that’s supposed to pass for a mustache, and a similar trace of the stuff around his jaw. It’s cute. But it’s a boy’s facial hair.

He shimmies out of the hoodie and the aqua tank top he’s wearing underneath. His nipples are brown candies, round and tiny. There’s a tiny trace of fur leading from his navel down the flatness of his stomach, to the waistband of his sweats. He tugs at the elastic and pulls them down to his ankles. He’s wearing basketball shorts beneath, and beneath those, briefs of neon yellow mesh. His uncut dick flops around, mostly hard, as he steps out of the three layers.

He stands before me almost defiantly, hat still on. I study his body, with the skin the cover of creamy coffee. It’s flat in all the right places, firm in others. Save for the thatch of dark pubes above his swinging meat, he’s almost totally smooth. “Now you,” he says. His jaw grinds with challenge.

I shake my head.

“No?” he says, surprised. “You ain’t gonna get naked?”

“I’ll get naked,” I tell him, keeping my tone level, “when I get naked. Get on the bed.”

Those black eyes regard me with something approaching hostility. “You act like you’re the boss or something.”

At least the kid is picking up on that fact. I let my eyebrows rise, incline my head toward him. “Listen,” I say in a low voice. “I know what you want.”

“You do, huh.”

“I know what you want.”

He stares at me. Then I see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “What do I want?” His voice is husky.

“Get on the damn bed,” I repeat.

Our eyes are locked for a moment. Then his break away. I’ve won the battle. Slowly he climbs onto my mattress. For a moment I think he’s going to argue with me some more. Then I watch as he spreads those bony knees across the mattress, puts his head down, and lifts his ass in the air.

Good boy. He’s learning.

I strip behind him, making sure he hears the sound of my belt buckle and my jeans hitting the floor. I’m naked when I slither between his legs with my body, and put my mouth on that hole. He hisses when I make contact. “Oh yesssss.”

He’s got a beautiful butt, this boy. Round, worked out, smooth as a baby’s skin. Just as I knew he would, he responds passionately to my rimming. He’s moaning, and clutching his hands into fists as he grabs at the sheets and tries to hang onto them for dear life. I chew at the hole with my teeth, rake it with my beard. I slap his cheeks and grab his balls and tug, just to get the reactions I want.

He’s not so tough now, this kid. That carefully-constructed front has tumbled as suddenly as if I’d blown all the trumpets of Jericho. He’s rolling his head on his neck and banging his forehead against the shelf over my pillows. That damned Yankees cap has fallen off his close-shorn head and onto the floor. He’s all reaction, now, that artificial personality drowned by tides of pleasure.

Like I said, I’m not romancing this kid. He’s just here to be fucked. I’ve got a thumb up his hole before he realizes what’s happening. But once he recognizes the sensation, he lifts himself to his hands and knees and looks back over his shoulder in my direction. Those black eyes are glazed and wet and angry. It’s the anger of someone who hates that someone sees right through him. I stare back, my face impassive as I squeeze a dollop of clear gel into my hands. I cover my dick with the stuff, then shove some up his little fuckhole. His mouth twitches. He’s trying to be tough again.

When I force two fingers inside him, though, he gives up and hangs his head. He nods when I shove my wet, red cock head up against his pucker. When I shove in, he pushes back. He yells as it slides home. When I’m all the way in, he pants. Resists—like it isn’t too late, now. Then gives in.

We sink together to the mattress. My weight is on him as I start to thrust in and out.

“This is what you want,” I tell him.

“Yes,” he agrees. His face is twisted in pain. I’m a big boy.

“Say it.”

He follows my order without challenge. “This is what I want.”

“You love it.”

“I do love it. Oh god, I love it. I love it, I love it.” I’m fucking him harder now, enjoying the sight of my cock stretching his brown hole. “Thank you, daddy,” he murmurs into the pillow. It’s probably the first sincere thing he’s said since we met.

“You’re welcome,” I reply. I was raised to be polite.

When I shoot, he’s on his back and I’m pounding the shit out of him. His eyes are still half-hooded like a snake’s, but they’re regarding me in a happy daze. He’s the kid who got everything he wanted for Christmas morning. “I need it so bad, daddy,” he’s begging. “Please knock up my pussy. Please.” Now he’s whining. There’s a thin edge to the plea that’s raw and cutting. “Please give me your babies, sir. Please.”

We kiss for the first time when I shoot inside him. His mouth is open wide and hungry, taking my lips in his. His mouth is as open as his hole, at this point, and I’m in both of them, filling them. My load slides from my nuts to his insides, spraying his colon with my juice. His own cock is sticky against my belly. I push his hands away as he tries to jack it, while my thrusting subsides to a slight rotation of my hips.

Maybe I’ll let him cum after my second fuck. If I decide he wants it, that is.

One the ride back he sits low in the passenger seat, the Yankees cap brim pulled low over his eyes. There’s not a trace of his cockiness left when I pull in front of his house. After I shift into park, he sits there for a moment. Then he turns his head. “Thank you, daddy,” he says quietly. Then he pulls himself out, shuts the car, and shuffles to the side door.

I guess he was raised to be polite, too.