We’d been texting for a couple of months. Every once in a while, he’d pop up, begging me to come visit him and breed his ass. Just before the Atlanta snow storm, he wanted me to rush over and get stranded at his place so we could fuck through it.
His pics sent — looking back — do him fine, but it was his face and body photo (that I’m not including here) that misses the mark. I’m wondering now if it’s a photo of an older, slimmer brother, cousin or just something he picked up off the Internet that he thought resembled him.
I knew his type. His intense interest would lead to a very intense session that would end abruptly.
His text messages would come in spurts on odd, weeknight evenings, begging me to come over, assuring easy parking, easy access to everything.
Not-so-secretly, I enjoyed his begging, although it did come at odd times. And it would overwhelm my phone. His text messages would just blow it the fuck up.
He also never really answered my questions. No name (not even a fake one) and his stats were never really given. People bashful about those basics always worry me, especially when we’re talking about a 45-minute drive into the unknown. So when it came to getting stranded with him for a snow storm, the answer was a definite no.
After meeting him, I wish I’d said yes.
Fast forward to Wednesday night. So I’ve had a dry spell, partially due to the weather with the other half due to my mood. That and every Craiglist.org post got a combination of flakes and previous fucks not worth a dry hump.
I crawled into the car and pointed it toward Inserection , hoping for a decent night but knowing in general that Wednesdays suck.
Fuck a duck, my instincts were right on.
The parking lot was the first clue, finding plenty of spots. Usually the Doris Day spots are the open ones since everyone there likes to pretend they aren’t there, parking as far away from the door, as close to the dumpster and backing in to pretend like someone is going to go through the lot and record every single license plate. Please. Really who gives a fuck?
So I go and park anyway because I’m here, but begin fiddling with my cell, immediately seeing if there’s anything I can do to improve my odds.
Pay the toll and walk inside to find a few interesting prospects including a Latino I’ve fucked before and rather enjoyed. In fact, within moments, we’re in booths opposite one another and he’s sucking on my cock and then, magically, sitting on it, letting me fuck him. I’m thinking this evening is going to go smoothly and I’m going to pop my nut quickly.
But as soon as he’s on it, he’s off it.
“What’s up?” I whisper through the hole.
“Sorry, Papi,” he says. “No condom.”
“But I’ve already fucked you!” I say, and then just button up and storm out.
My drive is a barrage of texts that overlay the mapping application guiding me to my destination. Promises of what I will see and get. I’m just hopeful it’s better than what I left.
As I approach, he stands kneels silhouetted on the bed, a harsh blue florescent dances to the beat of his cock flopping in front, as he caresses his own body. This display of exhibitionism, just for me, as no one else is in the driveway and can see it. But his constant texts leave me cold, as I just want to get inside and see what I’m going to fuck.
I press forward, opening the door into the small studio and he flicks off the harsh light and deftly flops naked onto the bed, turns and looks at me.
He is beefy, broad shoulders like a football player. But not like someone who says that and then is thick as in fat. On him, the broadness fits, spreading wide in proportion to his entire body. His pecs, each mound rising with hair and huge nipples standing like zeniths on a mountain, then followed by a respectable cascade to his stomach that had a youthful, twentysomething tightness. His trunks of legs held up this meaty mound, bringing him to a very solid five-foot-ten. And his squat oval face screamed Australian rugby player until he opened his mouth and out flowed the most gorgeous and masculine Virginia accent.
If you’re not from the South, you may not be able to tell the subtle differences between each state. In brief conversation later, he would admit to being from a town close to Virginia.
But at this particular moment, his mouth was full of my cock, not that I needed any inspiration to get hard. His body glistened with a fresh shower as I fucked his face, holding his dark brown hair in its short, thick tufts and forcing his manly lips across my hard cock’s ridges.
I was already almost naked and he leaped across the bed, spreading his legs and asking, yet again, if I were sure I was clean (I provided the usual platitudes and promises). He spit on his hand and pushed some into his hole. When I saw this, I couldn’t resist, diving in for a flavor sample all my own. His warm spit hit me first (delicious) followed by the cooler bathwater as my tongue darted into his hole and began to open him up fully.
He groaned, but wouldn’t be denied my cock for long, so I sat up and poised the throbbing knob at the hole and pushed forward a bit. He did the rest, working it down.
It took a moment to push it through but then I felt the ring give and I was inside. He eased down, still having a little trouble until I could really fuck him.
Then it was go time.
No time to waste, go for it. Fuck, fuck, fuck away!
What a delicious hole as we kissed deeply, intensely and he began begging for my cum.
Uh oh. He’s begging for my cum? NOW?
That’s one of my trigger points. I usually ask a bottom if he wants my cum and then we go for giving it up.
So as a good top, wanting this to last a little while, I suggest a change in position where he can sit on it. I love this position, gives me full view of the bottom and both hands to, in this case, stimulate him and slow him up a little.
He pulls off, “Sure.” And begins moving but ends up flat on his stomach. “But let’s try this one first.”
The little fucker chooses my favorite position.
However, for most bottoms, they just lie there and let me piston the hell out of them so that’s why I like this position. It’s a way to get me off. I mount him.
This fucker’s already two steps ahead of me and begins rocking his J-Lo booty for all it’s worth. Within moments, I’m on the brink of dumping my load. I have to pull out to prevent a premature blast, something unusual for me.
We flip over and he rides it, but again with the milking. And begging. And now he’s spied the poppers. The aggressive bottom he is, snorts his own and shoves the bottle underneath my nose.
I give into the temptation. He wants it all slam, bam, thank you, Sam. So be it. He won’t let me set the pace. I can get mean and do it my way or just go with it. Surrender to the bottom.
I snort. And within moments and at his begging, release more than a week’s nut into his ass.
The sensation is like no other. The pressure has been building for a while and now, like the cork being forced out from the inside, I pop with pressure. He’s not slowing down his movement, but had he, I’m sure he would have felt the pressure of the cum slam into his gut walls and then continue to squeeze out.
Once I shot, he asked me to stay inside until I could piss, but alas, that is a gift I’ve never been able to give.
We chatted a bit and I played with his cummy hole, but he didn’t want to get off, admitting that he would jerk off later in phone sex with a friend in Tennessee (ummm… can you say BOYFRIEND?)…
And so I left.
When I got in the car, the time difference was exactly 13 minutes, including all the chat.
I swung back by the bookstore to find nothing much else going on and went on home. Later that night, I posted something again that even Tennessee boy noticed and texted me about, thinking it was hot I was still horny after fucking his booty. I guess he didn’t quite get that, while I found him intensely agreeable in so many ways, a demanding bottom can make the entire fuck less than satisfying by not allowing the top to set the pace.
I was a load lighter, but I left heavy still wanting to fuck.
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