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The Brotherhood of the Traveling Fucks

I’ve been traveling a lot. And it doesn’t look like it will let up anytime soon. And I’ve been fucking lucky.

Literally.

The ass in each city ends up being hot, hot, hot.

If I tried to write about every ass and each encounter, you’d all love it — I know. But I don’t have time. I’m just that busy.

Allow me to summarize some of the highlights.

Mid-Atlantic Tropical Hot Ass

I usually advertise my arrival in advance of my arrival. My ads usually announce that a top blogger is coming to town, looking for some bottom inspiration. I require some basic information from those who want to learn about the blog, since a vast majority of people just want the jerk off material.

I don’t mind. But I want to get a glimpse of who’s going to see it.

Occasionally, some people know who it is. Or they figure it out quickly. These are my fan fuck plans. Some people can be dedicated fans, who read up on me in great details. Others are just the guys who read me when it’s time to jerk off.

This young, very tan man hits me up and begins begging.

Now you have to understand. The younger the bottom, the less reliable. Young men in their twenties are notorious unreliable. I’ve made plans with hem in cities only to end up with a dry dick in hand.

This one really seemed genuine.

And not to bore you with details, he worked out well considering that this time, I ended up running late. He arrived after I finally got into my hotel room. Without hesitation, he worked into an embrace and kiss.

A good kiss.

His sucking worked at getting me hard. But when I finally got into his hairy ass, the fucking tight ass proved to be phenomenal.

Too phenomenal.

It’s been a while since I’ve bred someone three times in a row. But this little fucker kept me hard through all three. I never really slowed down. Of course, I’d been saving up a little. His exotic mixture of Latin and native tropics. A little hair on his chest and these juicy nipples.

His ass never truly loosened up.

If I ever slipped out, this bottom would let out an exasperated plea to put it back in.

I never went soft. His talent seemed unending to keep me hard. He’d read about where to touch me, how to keep me interested and what to do to arouse me.

He is someone who will be fucked again.

University City Slut

It’s summertime, so most of the college kids are at home, screwing around there and not at school. Just my luck I get to go to the midwest and a town that’s pretty much nothing but a university-supported town.

There’s a small contingency of college kids around — too many of them catfish (fakes who claim to want fucking). I’d just about given up.

I’d messaged a guy on BarebackRT.com before my arrival and, well, he pops back online. I invite him over and, 30 minutes later, this thirtysomething is sucking my cock on my hotel room bed.

We went into fuck mode and his neg hole is just begging me to squirt my load inside him a coat his insides fulls of my DNA.

I do.

All you have to do is beg. And this bottom does.

It’s after all the fucking, with us winded on such an intense session, that he admits to having known who I was, loving my blog and basically wanting to find out if he could really feel it “blast inside.”

(Yes, he could feel it.)

He’d gone to dinner with friends and ditched them between the restaurant and the club to swing by and get fucked by me. But we’d promised for a more extensive session next time.

My Boyfriend Doesn’t Know I’m a Slutty Bottom

Occasionally, one of those 20-year-old guys with an impossibly smooth body e-mails me. I figure the photo has been Photoshopped until there’s not a freckle, not a blemish and no stray hairs.

I’m in Texas and on BarebackRT.com when this little fucker e-mails me, volunteering to come take my load. I tell him the hotel. He asks the room. I give it. He says 15 minutes.

And in 17 minutes, there’s a knock at my door. A gorgeous boy walks in, lithe, tall, Latin and beautiful. His shirt is coming off as he steps into the room. He isn’t hesitating.

His chest is perfect. Just barely definition but no imperfections. Anywhere.

The lights are down low because I fucking hate the harsh lighting of hotels. He flips an end-table light on, its florescent yellow blinking into cold existence. But this boy’s skin is still perfect, reflecting the seamless skin with just a peach fuzz of hair that tingles as I run my fingers over it.

He’s naked now and grabbing for my pants.

He sucks me. I was already hard. He slobbers all over my cock. He thumbs his huge uncut cock a little as he comes up and kisses me with the perfect thick lips and then turns around and lines up my cock with his perfect little pucker.

And he pushes.

I’m inside him.

This insatiable boy just begins to ride. But I can’t be a passive top. I move him into a few positions and I pummel him.

He begs for my cum. He says he wants it bad. Please give it to him. I do. I load him up deep.

I lay in the glow afterward, letting my fingertips run over this perfect boy’s skin.

As we talk, it turns out I’m the fourth load in him tonight, although he’d cleaned out for me — I jokingly scold him for doing that. He assures me I’m the first of many loads as he leaves me for a few more.

His boyfriend is working tonight. He’s out for as many loads as possible. And he takes all loads. Doesn’t matter. Oh, he’s a little picky. Hard cocks only.

Never heard of my blog. Couldn’t care less. He just wanted my cum. He just wanted me to blast inside.

Straight Boy and Gay Bottom

In a southern city, I’ve chosen a ginger to fuck. He finally arrives. When he walks in, I recognize him immediately.

He’s straight. He’s a straight bottom. (Yes, they exist.)

He walks in and basically gets to sucking me. Nothing nice about it. He’s not very good, but it’s enough to harden me up. I step behind him and slick my cock up when he mentioned he has a condom.

I don’t protest. I put it on. At least, that’s what he sees. He lines it up with his hole, feeling the condom on it but after it goes in his hole, I pull it out and pull off the condom in a single motion and slide back inside. As soon as I’m in him bare I feel it.

His asshole is throbbing.

Damn inexperienced bottoms.

He’s shooting his load all over my bed.

Pisses me off a little, but I’ve been inside him raw and he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and that’s why he shot off so quick.

He liked it raw.

He’s out the door and I’m on the prowl again. I don’t find another taker until the next day… this a gay guy who just had this terrific body. I didn’t see a face. I get a little concerned when I don’t see a face at all.

He walks in an angel, with these stunning eyes.

We get to the act quickly, although I wanted to take my time. And we fuck for longer than I intended because I want to give him the best I can.

He enjoys it.

We finally kiss as he leaves a load lighter and a load heavier.

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Like a Virgin

My incredibly clear recollections of him and how he started the molestation end somewhere in a blur, as I wrote. I cannot count how many times it happened, but flashes of memories showing this place and that place — a bathroom, the woods, a basement, the shed. I smell the musty mix of his balls and his pipe, but I never really remember his face. I just see his cock, hard and huge, hanging there relaxed and in front of my face as I knelt down to suck it.

The post-ejaculation depression always brought on the verbal abuse of my descent into hell along with the crippling guilt. I can still feel that guilt, deep in my guts, but it’s a pin-prick compared to the all-consuming self-loathing that filled my hours after succumbing to my lust.

What happens next surprised even me and helped set my course toward some form of normalcy.

* * *

I met Vince as a freshman in high school. Tall and lanky like myself with the same bowl haircut, similar struggles with zits. But his extroverted, I-don’t-give-a-fuck personality proved to be the yang to my yin. We ran track together, something I attempted to fit into the normalcy of high school. We both sucked and our consistent position in the back of the pack led us to strike up a friendship.

Of course, beginning to feel close to someone led me to other feeling, especially since he was indeed a real male. He even had some chest hair to prove it.

As school kinds would, our conversations eventually turned to sex — and liking “girls.” He tried very hard to pin me down on who I liked. We would play a 20 questions like game where I thought I could be at least a little honest. The last conversation of this collection would be the one I can recall to this day.

I’d hinted that “she” rides his bus. He began naming girls, to each I’d respond, “No.” Then, at some point, he tried to determined whether “she” disembarked before or after him. Of course, I was in a corner because “she” got off the bus at the same stop as him.

There was a long pause.

“Is it me?” he asked.

“What?” I stammered. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. My stomach lurched forward. I thought I was going to throw up.

“Do you like me?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer. My eyes blurred with tears and fear gripped me. I couldn’t find an answer.

“Are you telling me you’re gay?”

That word. Oh that word. That I could answer, “No. I don’t think so.” But then I needed to say something. “Maybe I’m bi, but I don’t know.”

“But you like me?” he persisted.

The word, “Yes” popped out of my mouth before I could swallow it.

From somewhere downstairs, my mom began calling me for dinner. At that moment. Now? Really mom? The calls became more persistent.

“COMING!” I yelled. “Listen, I got to go. My mom is calling me.”

“Cool,” he said. “You know what I’m going to do?”

“No, what?” I said, thinking that he’d actually begin calling what few friends I had to tell them I was a “homo.”

“I’m going to jerk off,” he responded.

I lost my voice again.

“I think it’s really hot you’re into me,” he said. “And I got a stiffy to prove it. Let’s talk later.”

Click.

We did talk later. And often. Vince was actually the first guy with whom I ever had phone sex. I would talk about what the girls would do to him and he would hump his bed on the other end of the line. And he’d try to give me some fantasy about men, but it wasn’t a fulfilling as listening to his voice.

At some point, though, I told Vince about the man next door. I don’t recall how it came up or what really transpired. But for all of my fucked-up sense of who I was and my after-life destination, Vince turned out to be the catalyst to turn it all around.

“Dude, you’ve got to stop it and report him to the police,” Vince said.

“But Vince, people would then find out and everybody would think I was a fag!”

“Yea, you’re right,” he said. “But maybe there’s something else we can do.”

Our discussions regarding what to do about him were few since we focused mostly on our own libidos. Our relationship grew over the phone, but physically meeting and actually touching never happened much, until one summer afternoon when Vince called me and invited me over for a sleepover.

I don’t think my cock ever deflated throughout that day and early evening until we were able to finally retire to the basement.

Despite what the man took from me, I count Vince as my first. And technically, he was.

During the evening and early morning, Vince got off seven times. I shot three. Vince was a machine. His cock — similar in size, girth and hardness to mine — never went soft. Oh, and it pointed at his hairy belly button, just like mine. So I wasn’t deformed.

I sucked Vince off twice and licked his balls while he jerked off. At this point, I’d avoided cumming for fear of the painful results that would happen with such a release. Then, Vince requested the act I was probably most curious about.

“You want to fuck me?” he asked. Vince, being as “straight” as he was, refused to suck me. He would touch my cock, but only for short periods. It weirded him out. But he could endure my mouth and hand. Somehow, in his world, sticking my cock into his ass wasn’t as invasive as his mouth.

We found suntan lotion as lube and I rolled on top of him. He felt the usual pain, but for us, it was a new sensation. I pulled out as soon as I’d entered, from the awkward position of two lanky teenage boys, one lying on top of the other.

The next attempt proved more successful and Vince accepted me. If you’ve ever heard of the old show, “Love American Style,” the sex act was always represented by fireworks. Well, my memory of those few moments is so closely related. I saw fireworks, only that the sky was completely filled with these hot colors and none of the black could be seen. Dizzy and hopeful, my hard cock plunged into his virgin hole. I don’t know if we fucked for one minute or twenty. I lost all track of time and place. The pleasure overwhelmed all my senses. Even shooting my load deep into the bowels of this straight boy left me spent but incredibly dazed. I rolled off, smelling a mixture of cocoa butter, shit and our sweat.

“My turn!” Vince said.

Soon he was on top of me in the same awkward position and shoving his cock into my bare hole.

Where the man failed, Vince succeeded. His cock went in. The explosive joy and pleasure I’d experienced just moments before were replaced by sharp, gut-wrenching pain. I could only see red spikes and I begged for Vince to take it out, let it end.

“Just a minute more!” His breath was hot on my neck and he whispered for me to wait just a little bit longer.

He shot in my ass, but I didn’t care. I just wanted him off me. I wanted it to end.

* * *

That night turned out to be a little much for us both. Vince and I never really reconnected and, when school started back up, he avoided me as much as possible. However, Vince did do more for me than he will ever really know.

Truth is, I wanted to share that with Vince. With the 20-year high school reunion upon us, I watched for Vince to RSVP to the online tool and update his profile. Then one day, I logged on to find Vince missing from the roster completely. I sent the organizer a note.

Her e-mail response was abrupt.

“Oh, we moved him to the ‘in memoriam’ section,” she wrote. “He was killed while serving in the Navy shortly after high school. I think it was a car accident.”

I could never share with Vince how his little tryst with me started me on a path of self-worth, where I could value myself and actually enjoy the sex acts I knew I lusted after. In my universe, Vince would never grow old. He would always be the 15-year-old boy who opened me up to the potential.

 

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