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All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Selena Kitt
Intensity © 2009 habu
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Intensity
by habu
Table of Contents
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
H Ring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Next . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Ten Slash Two . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Stills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Substitute . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
Licorice-Centered Milk Chocolate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Beyond the Beaded Curtain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
Swing Set . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
In Absentia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
A Gift? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Blauenaugen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Creamy Thighs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Honey Hollow Swimming Hole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
Prisoner’s Prisoner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
So You Had a Bad Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
Pen Pal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
Norwegian Stallion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
The Cure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
TRTrade.com . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
Bulled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
Distant Planets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
Iced Flip Side . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
Bearded No More . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
Painted Laddie for Mr. R. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210
We Danced . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
Uncertain Arrival . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220
Perpetual Motion Machine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
On the Afternoon Breeze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
That One Exception . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
Young Man’s Gift . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250
Preface
Choosing the gay male lifestyle is, in itself, an emotionally charged rocket ride from the heights to the depths. It is a life of intensity if for no other reason than greater society has made it so, whether from threatened animosity, from ridicule, from patronizing ambivalence, or from that slight grimace of discomfort and confusion that can’t be hidden. Regardless, the gay male always lives in the spotlight—and is always directly in tune with that very next breath, that very next encounter. It is this ever-present atmosphere of intensity that the thirty stories offered in this anthology explore, agonize over, and, yes, celebrate man coupling with man. For intensity—intensity of physical emotion and relationship, in both the dance of choosing and joining together and in the frequent loss—is one of those sweet, albeit sometime bittersweet, emotions that make life worth living. Some of what can be found here are fully developed stories, but some are also breathtakingly short vignettes of male loving male at the very tip of intensity—and reaching to catch the very essence of that emotion.
H Ring
I was laying there in his arms, nearly exhausted from his fucking, and he leaned over me with a grin. He had a silicone rubber ring in his hand—much wider in girth than required by any finger—holding it for me to see. He turned it over and showed me there was a silicone nub on the side—in the form of an H. He stroked my belly lightly with his fingers while he told me he had had it especially made using my initial—and that he wanted me to brand him as mine.
I was sighing as he stroked my belly, and my cock was rising—I wanted him to fuck me again. He leaned over and kissed me, and while he was doing so, he was pulling the ring down over my dick head. It went down over the bulb and lodged just under the rim of the glans. He held his hand there, over the cock ring, and encircling my hardening cock. He held me closely embraced to him with his arm. I trembled in his arms. My hips started to move, slowly churning, as he loosened his grip on my cock and began stroking me up and down in his hand, rubbing that H across his cream-slathered fingers. He lowered his lips to my nipple and closed his teeth over it, and I arched my back and groaned. And then he was kissing me on the lips again, deeply. I felt the weight of his body shifting, and he was swinging his leg over my body, encasing my pelvis between his thighs. Positioning his channel on my cock bulb.
He had never given himself to me before; it had always been him mastering me. He had told me he loved me and I had laughed. But he had told me that he would show me that he was mine.
He was sliding down my pole, shuddering, the H of the cock ring rubbing his channel walls, branding him from the inside as mine—forever. He was riding me hard, arching his back, crying out “Oh Godddd!” Fucking himself on the H ring.
Next
I couldn’t be there. I couldn’t stay there. I didn’t know what came next. I hadn’t looked at the script. I just knew I couldn’t be there.
I tripped down the stairs of brownstone and out onto the sidewalk of Richmond’s Fan District. It was dark already. I instinctively turned left, toward the downtown area, and shuffled along with my hands in the pockets of my jacket. At least I had my jeans jacket. The weather had turned nippy. It had been much warmer just a few minutes earlier, when I’d gotten back. I just had on a T and my jeans, though, having pulled them on quickly at his command. It wasn’t cold when he’d sent me out. But I was cold now. I was shivering. I don’t know if that was from the cold, though.
Nick had sent me out for cigarettes. I didn’t even notice until I got back that he had almost a full pack right there on the nightstand.
He’d sent me away so I wouldn’t see.
Where was I heading. I didn’t know. But, yes I did. I was so keyed up, there was only one place for me to go when I was in this state. Nick had denied himself to me for so long. It was driving me crazy. I’d never gone this long without it before. He was so controlling. And to come home, after a fool’s errand, and to find him . . . .
I had to let off steam before whatever came next. There was only one place. Davey’s Locker. I hadn’t been in there for ages, and I’d heard it had gotten a lot rougher. And it was Saturday night. High party night. But for how I felt, the release I needed, it was the only place I could walk to. And my body already knew that, because that’s where it was leading me. Right out of the Fan District and into the seedy tenderloin underbelly of Richmond’s downtown.
Davey’s Locker was right there where I’d last seen it. Even more run down than before, but it was a Saturday night, and it had a good crowd and a noisy band giving off a frenetic, insistent, intoxicating beat. There were guys stripping down already and dancing on the bar—although it was a little hard to see them through the smoke clouding the room. The floor was littered with used condoms. It was going to be one of those nights.
I found a place at the bar in the wake of a Hispanic postal service delivery guy, still in his brown uniform, being guided toward the back by a big black dude.
I plopped down on the barstool, ordered a bottle of beer, and swiveled around to face the room. A blond college guy was dancing just to the left of me on top of the bar. He still had his briefs on, but a clutch of construction workers were zeroed in close to him, stuffing bills in his waistband and making offers, so I doubted he’d be up there very much longer. He seemed spaced out. Well, he shouldn’t have come in here if he wasn’t able to take care of himself.
I was beginning to feel better already. Fuck Nick, I thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck. To go and do that to me. Well, I’d show him. All these months. I had time to make up for. When I wasn’t so keyed up . . . when I’d taken care of that . . . then I’d figure out what came next.
I watched a couple of well-muscled shirtless black guys dancing real close together right at the edge of the dance floor. Practically making sex with each other right there in the middle of the crowd. But not like they were the only ones. And they were making me forget already. My eyes were slitted, watching them, and I was running my hand down my sides and felt myself hardening up inside my tight jeans. I took a couple of quick swigs of the beer to cool down. But that didn’t make me feel cooler.
The black dancers were pelvis to pelvis and were undulating suggestively against each other to the rhythm of the music. The taller, thinner one, was moving a big hand, with long, sensuous fingers around the waist of the other one, and I saw it disappear below the waistband of the other dancer’s low-slung jeans right where I could see his butt cheeks parted in the middle, and I saw the hand dig lower and lower. I could tell when the guy’s fingers had found the other dude’s rim, because the other dude went up on his toes and took the taller guy’s face in his hands and went into a deep kiss.
Then something, a big bulky something, with heavily muscled arms and blue, red, and green tattooing spilling out of the arm and neck holes of his white T, was standing between me and the two black guys.
“Hey,” he said. Another construction worker. One that I’m sure the others didn’t mess with, though. Solidly built. Some sort of mixed breed. Maybe Caucasian and Vietnamese. Or Hawaiian. But something built like a Mack truck. Black hair in a pony tail; it probably came down to his shoulders when he let it down. Square jaw, a serious body builder; barrel chest, tiny waist, a six-pack to moan for. Low-slung faded jeans with construction dust on them. Construction dust on the boots too. But he’d pulled on a clean white T before coming in here. I gave him extra points for that. Slit arm holes; silky black pit hair. My cock told me I was interested. Was he next?
“Hey,” I said back. I took another swig of the beer. I was probably drinking it to fast. But with what I’d just seen at Nick’s, I’d be doing a lot more drinking tonight.
“Mind? You’re clogging the scenery,” I then said. He didn’t move. He just stood there, swaying with the music a bit, giving me a sloppy grin. That’s when I realized I had my hand on my piece. He seemed to enjoy the sight. If he wasn’t next, I will have done something really stupid. But I wasn’t in a hurry.
“I know you, don’t I?” he asked, not moving—or at least not moving out of the way. He had actually moved in closer to me, jostled there by the slow swirling bodies of man meat on the make within the cloud of smoke.
I barely heard him. The band seemed to have gotten louder and to have put more of a thumping beat into the bass notes.
“What was that?” I nearly shouted.
“I said I think I know you,” he repeated in a louder voice than before. “You used to come in here a lot. But then I heard you’d become Nick Jordan’s punch. Nick Jordan, the movie star.”
“Yeah, was. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore what?” He shot back.
“Not Nick Jordan’s punch anymore. Looking for what’s next, I guess.” I gave him an “are you next?” smile.
He said something, but I didn’t catch it, because I’d been thrown off balance. The blond college guy had lost his briefs and was being pulled off the bar by the construction workers. They brushed against me as he came off in their arms, and I almost lost the beer bottle. I chugged what was left and turned and plunked the bottle down on the bar top. The replacement was already there, and I took a long pull from that before I turned back to the room. The tank was still there, even closer to me, and still with that sloppy grin on his face.
“Next up!” yelled the barkeep. “Who’s next up?”
“You were wondering what’s next,” the big guy said to me through his big grin. “That could be you. I’d like to see that.”
This wasn’t like me. But I’d come here to be plastered and plowed into oblivion, so why the hell not?
Another swig on the beer. Then I peeled my T off and finished the beer in one long pull. I handled the bottle to the grinning tank and hopped up on top of the bar. I was greeted with whistles and catcalls all across the room. They wanted me.
The barkeep handed another bottle of beer to me as I kicked off my shoes—I wasn’t wearing socks—and balanced on the top of the cold bar on the balls of my feet. I took a drag on the bottle and then began melding to the beat of the music, letting my body go with the flow of the rhythm. The whistles and catcalls increased in volume, and I heard several voices trying to cut through the din in the room, trying to tell me something, to give me instructions. But I couldn’t pick out what they were saying, and I’d never needed instructions on how to dance for the men. It wasn’t just the noise in the room; the booze was beginning to get to me. That was exactly what I wanted to happen. It had been too long. I had to punish Nick somehow. I took another pull on the beer and began to sway my torso to the flow of the music. I was running my free hand over my chest and belly . . . and lower. The hunky construction worker who had encouraged me to dance was still there right in front of me, closer to me, leaning into the stool. He had his crotch perched on the barstool and I could see that he had quite a package on him. And it was hard.
His was the first bill in my waistband. A twenty. Soon there were others; nothing less than a ten spot.
The barkeep was keeping a close watch, and when I’d topped $100 in bills, he yelled. Jeans! Jeans next! Lose the jeans.
I was a little reluctant to do that so soon, so I just moved the dance up a notch. I pushed the jeans down on my hips, but I got more expressive in my dance.
What I could see from my vantage point was helping me perform, was loosening me up and giving me incentive. The pair of black dancers were still there, but their positioning had changed. The taller one was now behind the other guy, very close behind. He was leaning against one of the tables and his partner had his butt wedged into his lap and was doing something of a lap dance for him. The taller guy had one hand cupping one of his partner’s pecs and the other fanned out on his belly. If they hadn’t both still had their jeans on, they’d be fucking—still to the rhythm of the band music.
The construction workers who had taken the blond college guy off the bar top weren’t nearly as subtle. They had the college guy’s belly laid on top of one of the tables and his legs spread, and they were standing in line, rolling on condoms, handling their meat, ready to take turns in fucking him. The first of the construction workers was already plowing away and well on his journey to paradise. The blond was laying there with a silly grin on his face, his mouth bubbling, obviously either very drunk or drugged out.
More money was being jammed into the waistband of my jeans, and the barkeep was yelling for me to get on to the next step.
A roar went up from the crowd, “Next! Next! Next!”
My own personal encourager leaned in to me and unbuttoned my fly and started peeling the jeans down off my legs. A roar of approval went up in the room. I’d been holding off because there were no briefs to display for the next phase.
The tank encased my cock in his hand and I continued dancing to the beat. He held his hand loose, so that I was fucking into it as I swayed with the music.
The first construction worker was finished with the blond college guy and drifted over to join the crowd gathering in front of me while the second worker in line thrust himself inside the blond. The blond gripped the edges of the table top, and I could tell he was moaning and groaning, but I couldn’t hear him over the crowd and band noise.
The tank’s hand was replace with his mouth, and he was giving me head while I danced to the band. Money was piling up on top of my crumpled jeans. I downed the beer, and the barkeep sent up another bottle. I was feeling a little hazy, which was exactly what I wanted to be feeling, and it was getting a little blurry at the edges of my eyes.
I heard a cheer in the room as the third construction worker finished inside the blond college guy with a shout, and this caused me to shoot my load, which led to an even louder cheer—and more bills.
I wasn’t sure exactly when the tank lost his clothes and moved up behind me on the bar, but about the time my beer was renewed, I felt his big, hard cock throbbing against the small of my back, and he was swaying with me to the rhythm of the band, which had added an even louder thumping of the low bass.
I turned my eyes on the black dancing couple. They had lost their jeans and the tall guy, without a doubt, had his cock deep inside his partner’s channel, as they performed a writhing lap dance.
I had my eyes plastered on them and the rhythm of their fuck, timed perfectly to the beat of the music, as the tank split me from the rear. He took me down on my knees, and the crowd surged toward us so as not to miss a single stroke. He had his arms wrapped around me and I dully looked down at the undulating tattoos on his bulging forearms as he moved my body to him and away from him, holding his cock steady inside me and letting his manipulation of my body create the friction of the fuck. He was filling me and stretching me. Nick hadn’t done this much, hadn’t possessed me so fully and deeply. I was trembling and moaning, and gulping in smoke-laced air in heavy gasps. I was completely fucked.
The construction workers were finished with the college student now, turning their bulging eyes to me and the tank, and he was gingerly pulling himself off the table top and hobbling over to collapse in a nearby chair. He had his arms akimbo and his head lolled back and he didn’t even seem to notice when another guy came over and fed a fat cock into his gaping mouth.
The black dancers were watching me watch them, and the rest of the room disappeared for me and for them for several moments as we became one rhythmic fucking movement. The four of us as one, perfectly syncopated group fuck. A ballet of plowing. The tall black guy and my own personal tank ejaculated at almost the same moment with a long, harmonious sigh that seemed to echo all over the room, experienced by a whole crowd of men lost in the incredible sexual experience.
There seemed to be a long interval of near silence, as the ringing in my ears pushed the sound of the crowd and the band into the background. If everything had been a blur before it was twice as murky now.
I felt the hollow, cacophonous noise of the crowd and band music reasserting itself and the strong hands of the construction workers pulling me off the bar top and carrying me over to the table, where they had gangfucked the blond.
The barkeep was yelling, “Next! Next up!” and the crowd was beginning to take up the chant of “Next! Next! Next!” I took no notice of who replaced me on the bar top.
I was pushed flat on my belly on the tabletop, and the first in line of the construction workers was spreading my legs wide and pushing his cock at my hole. The rest of the gang was standing around me, licking their chops, tearing open condoms packets, and pulling on their meat. I looked wildly around for the black dancer pair I had briefly united with, but they were nowhere to be seen. I groaned and moaned as the construction worker split me and began to stroke inside me, holding me down roughly to the surface of the table with a fist in the small of my back. I wasn’t going to complain. This is what I’d come for.
When I awoke, at least enough to take stock, I was on a double bed in a room not much larger than the surface of the bed itself. I was on my side, naked, looking up at a window almost touching my nose. The panes hadn’t been washed in a decade, a hole—maybe a bullet hole?—had been covered with a criss-cross of masking tape. Not much of a view. The side of a dingy red-brick building that went up higher than the window would let me see. Gauzy mismatched curtains hung limping off a white plastic rod at the sides of the window. Not long enough to reach the sill or wide enough to cover the window if closed. Paint was peeling off the walls, and there were cracks in the plaster.
Nothing like Nick Jordan’s bedroom, with its mottled-paint burgundy walls and the king-sized four-poster bed in the center of the room, with silk drapes and satin sheets. French doors on one side of the room overlooking a terrace and lap pool and two silk-draped windows on the opposite wall overlooking the tops of Japanese maples planted out on the curb of the avenue running down the center spine of the Fan District.
Gentle snoring brought me back to the present. A beefy tattooed arm was slung over my side, and a thumb and forefinger were stroking one of my nipples gently. My back was wedged into the firm muscles of the tank’s chest and flat belly, and my butt was firmly skewered into his crotch by a tumescent, but still deeply digging cock up my channel. I could feel the strong heartbeat against my shoulder blades and he had his lips implanted in the hollow of my neck. His sighing, even in half sleep, told me that whatever we’d done here was certainly good for him and that he planned to do it again and again before I would be let off the bed.
Was this my next?
Or should what I do next be to gingerly retreat from him without awakening him and return to the brownstone in the Fan District and call 911 and have them come attend to the AIDS-ravished body of Nick Jordan, the movie star. The man who had not let me touch him in months, even though we’d been oh so careful. The lover who had left me when he said he would never do that—who had sent me out for cigarettes when he didn’t need them because he didn’t want me to see him die. The life’s companion who had sent me stumbling into the street to try to cover my grief and pain in an orgy of forgetting.
Next. What was next?
Ten Slash Two
I had been jittery and conflicted for the entire two weeks since I’d seen that big black topping a guy at a pool party in Bangkok. I had been bottoming for a Swede in a nearby patio lounge when I looked over and saw this monster cock jackhammering in out of the other guy—who clearly was in seventh heaven—and I almost melted on the spot. I was conflict, though. Obsessed with desire because the cock, even more distinctive because it was almost jet black and was attached to a bulky—but ripped bulky—milk-chocolate body, looked so desirable. But threatened because the sheer size of it filled me with fear and uncertainty. I’d only been doing this for a short time. Was it even possible to take something like that in?
I couldn’t get it out of mind, and a couple of days later I had the opportunity to ask the host of the party, Ben, who the guy was.
“Ah, we call him 10/2,” was the answer. “He’s an army captain at JUSMAG. Luscious, isn’t he?”
“10/2?” I asked, somewhat bewildered.
“Yeah,” the host said, with a little snicker. “That’s like in inches, both ways.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Biggest combined stats we have in service here, as far as I know. Interested?” the host asked, not showing the least amount of jealously, even though he had fucked me at the party himself—and must have enjoyed that, because he had just finished fucking me again on the rattan-carpeted teak floor of his Bangkok mansion when I asked him this question.
“Just curious,” I said, nibbling at one of my host’s nipples to give him reassurances.
“Well, if it’s more than that, forget going after him,” Ben replied. “He does the picking. If he wants you, you’ll get an invitation.”
I don’t know if Ben had passed on my interest or if the big black had seen me at that pool party and liked what he saw, but not long after that I got the invitation.
Although I wasn’t military, my SR71 supersonic jet unit was under military cover, and so I usually fell in with whatever the U.S. military establishment in Thailand had going. Thus, only about a week after that, I was invited to a change of command ceremony for the chief of JUSMAG, the Joint U.S. Military Assistance Group in Thailand. The speeches were still droning on, with all of us standing, if not exactly at attention, when I felt this big hand cup one of my butt cheeks. I didn’t dare look around, and it could have been one of several guys I had been meeting at Ben’s Bangkok mansion. In fact, I had assumed it was Ben, because he was a JUSMAG lieutenant himself, and I knew he was attending this ceremony. But, the voice that whispered in my ear in a deep melodious tone clearly was not Ben’s.
“I’ve heard you’ve been asking about me.” the voice whispered.
I turned and looked up, which was humbly in itself, because I wasn’t short, and found myself staring into the glittering eyes of 10/2. I felt overwhelmed by his muscled bulk as he stood very close behind me. I was speechless. The hand on my butt cheek applied pressure, as he continued.
“I saw you at the party at Ben’s a couple of weeks ago.”
A weak and breathy “Oh” was all I cold manage to squeak out. There would be no fooling him, then.
“I’d like to have you for lunch today . . . at my place . . . unless you have other plans. My car’s here. I could drop you back here if you’ve driven or take you home after . . . lunch . . . if you don’t have wheels.”
What could I say—assuming that I could catch my breath to say anything at all, that is. I just nodded dumbly, wearing, I’m sure, the sloppiest of grins.
By the time we’d reached his Thai-style elevated teak house, hidden in a lush tropical garden beside a klong, one of those waterways lacing through the city that made Bangkok the Venice of the East, I was trembling all over from fear and anticipation and could hardly make my way from the car and up the stairs into his nearly wall-less platform house under my own steam.
There was, of course, no lunch waiting for us, and, indeed, I had not had any illusions what was going to be fed into me on this excursion. The black army captain motioned with one hand, sending servants scurrying for the stairway and out to the corners of the compound, I’m sure, to afford us total privacy, while he guided me straight to his bedroom with the other hand.
Centered in this room was a gigantic, mosquito net-draped four-poster bed, set on a teak-board floor. The three exterior walls were actually wooden louvered folding doors running between circular tree-trunk columns. The doors could be shut at night for privacy, but they were all open now, and the foliage of the deep green jungle trees, laced with wild orchids, pressed in at us from all three exterior sides. A ceiling fan revolved lazily overhead. The air was heavily with humidity. I felt the jungle closing in on me, and I was immobilized by trepidation. I couldn’t get that ten-inch long, two-inch thick ebony cock out of my mind.
And very soon thereafter, it no longer was in my mind, but was there before me. I stood dumbly beside the bed, as the big black stripped my clothes off me and placed them neatly on a side chair. He held me at arms length, and then drew me to him and kissed me deeply on the mouth. He let me virtual fall into a sitting position on the end of the bed, as my knees gave out and then stood and stripped before me, revealing that monster that soon would be splitting me asunder.
He came to me, pushing me down on my back on the bed, opening my legs with knees that knelt on the edge of the bed, taking my wrists in his big hands and spreading my arms wide across the bedspread, and then dipped his head, first down to mine for searching kisses on the lips, and then traveled his lips down to my nipples. After an eternity of attention here, he followed the thin trail of hair from my pecs down and around my navel and into my pubic region, his knees now down on the floor and his barrel chest between my spread legs.
I was sighing and moaning and giving little mewing sounds—and quite frankly was beginning to hyperventilate, my mind obsessed with what he was packing between his legs—both longer and thicker than anything I’d attempted thus far.
His lips, tongue, and teeth were at the rim of my asshole and then invading me, loosening me up—or at least trying to. I think that, rather, I was tightening up the longer I thought of his equipment and what it might do to me.
He obviously felt me tighten up, because he stood up then, between my legs, giving me quite a good view of his now-hardened cock, the sight of which, of course, wasn’t helping dispel my gathering fear.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You are tightening. Don’t you want it?”
“Yes, of course, I want it, but I’m afraid of your size. Can’t you feel me trembling?”
“Ah,” he said. “I saw you with the Swede. I’m just a bit longer and thicker than he was. I’m sure you can take me. But, I’ll tell you what. Unless you want to just stop—and you’ll trust me—we can try something that’s worked on others. Do you want to try?”
“Yes,” I answered in a tiny voice. I was dying to take that cock. I’d try anything that might work.
“Have you fucked with mild bondage?” He asked.
“Once or twice,” I admitted.
“And how did that make you feel? Did you tense up more or did you relax, no longer having the responsibility for what was happening?”
“I guess I relaxed at bit,” I admitted.
In no time at all, I was on my chest on the bed, my wrists loosely tied with leather strips to the slats of the headboard, up on my knees, and with my butt in the air. The big black worked my ass at length with his tongue and lips, with a lubricant, and, eventually with an increasing number of fingers.
No longer having any responsibility at all, I did find myself loosening to his attention, which included hands flowing all over my body, exploring all of my curves and crevices, making intimate love to me.
The finger fucking became progressively more painful as more fingers were added and they went deeper, until a certain peak was achieved and then the pleasure flooded in. The fingers probed deeper and deeper, and I widened my stance as much as I could, trying mightily to take them all it. Deeper, deeper. Impossibly deeper.
“I had no idea your fingers were so long and thick,” I managed to speak between moans and pants.
“Those aren’t fingers, Sport.” 10/2 whispered with a little laugh. “I’ve been cocking you for several minutes now. I’m in. And now that you know I’m in, I’ll run it to the end and start stroking you. You’re doing fine. You’ve got a sweet ass. You’re doing fine.”
He stroked me and stroked me and stroked me, until he came deep inside me, and then he stayed in me, still filling me to the limit as he became tumescent, and reached under and stroked my cock until I came. We lay, his beefy black body covering mine, my knees now collapsed and my body stretched out under his on the top of the bed, as we both recovered, reloaded, rearoused.
Then he released my imprisoned hands, turned me over on my back, and pulled me back to the foot of the bed.
The fear was over. I had accommodated him, and I had loved being fucked by him. I now couldn’t get enough of his ripped body and that vigorous ten- by two-inch muscle at his center. He was standing on the floor between my widespread legs now, hunched a bit over me, his gigantic manhood and huge balls swaying below his flat belly. My heart was racing and I was moaning, overcome with anticipation, as his milk chocolate, beefy-fingered hands glided over the creamy white skin of my thighs, belly, and chest. I groaned as rough-padded fingers rubbed, and twitched, and pinched my tender nipples.
I arched my chest up from bed, wanting to see as much of his stud-muscled body as I could as he worked my arousal zones. I cried out as his full lips found my nipples and his mouth opened around aureoles, closed tight, and gave suck. I melting to his teeth sliding across my engorged nipples. I opened my mouth wide to gasp at the hint of a bite on a nipple, only to have his heavy lips crush mine and his thick tongue push in. I Opened my eyes to his, very close now, filled with desire, determination, insistence.
I easing my back down on the bed, as he rose up below me. Breathlessly, I watch giant hands gliding across my body, slowly working their way to my center. Milk chocolate hands on soft, creamy white belly and thighs, nudging. Mesmerized, I opened my legs to him. Purring sounds involuntarily escaped my lips as hands glide around silky inner thighs.
The body of hulking black army officer sank toward the floor between my opened legs, and his grinning face dipped out of sight. I arched my back and gasped again, as his thick tongue once again rimmed, flicked in, and then invaded my ass canal. Grasping the close-cropped kinky black hair of the head bobbing at my crotch, my immediate impulse was to push the invader away, but this was quickly replaced with desire to hold the swaying orb in closer to my center. I began twitching and trembling to the dancing of the tongue, but this no longer was a sign of fear and dreaded anticipation, but of ecstasy.
Big, thick fingers snaked in, thicker than some men’s cocks, exploring, searching. An agony of mixed pain, pleasure, and expectation flooded me in the brief seconds it took him to center. I writhed against his possessing hand as it found the prostate, tweaking it, rubbing it, and quickening the flow of precum from my aching cock.
I panted and moaned for him and shouted the intensity of my burning desire and pleasure to the giant rustling leaves of jungle trees pressing in on us beyond the teak columns. A bolt of electricity rushed through my body and sparks flew, as my cock’s trigger snapped and my cum flew.
I heard a low, satisfied, hoarse laugh from between my trembling legs.
The muscle-bound milk chocolate army officer, with his jet-black 10/2 monster cock and plump balls stood in possessing triumph between my spread legs now. His massive chest and arm muscles bulged and undulated, glistening in the heavy atmosphere and the strobing of light through the waving leaves and the languidly moving blades of the overhead fan. A big grin on his square-cut face, he captured and placed my hands so I could feel the awesome length and thickness (and the bulbous, purple-black cap and popped-out blue-on-black veins) of his hardened cock. My fearful fingers trembled at the measure of the beast, all the more imposing in its blackness against his otherwise milk chocolate, while he told me quite clearly and graphically—and breathtakingly—what he was going to do with all that manhood and how much pleasure he was getting—and expected to continue to get—out of me and expected me still to get out of his cock—to the point of making me tremble in anticipation. He told me that I never again would be fucked this completely and fulfilled to this extent—and he was right, and I suspected, even then, that he would be right, because I could not imagine any higher ecstasy that he now was giving me.
I went up on my elbows, my legs splayed up and out, my ankles held in his big hands, and watched him first, slap that monster cock against my butt cheeks, and then rub it up and down and around there, and then stroke it up and down in my crack, across my puckered asshole, teasing me, dry fucking me, driving me wild, making me beg for him to ram in back inside me. He rotated that purple-black cap around and just inside the rim, entirely with the control he had over his hips and his hardened cock—no help with his hands. And then slowly, almost magically, he made the pillar of power and strength follow its bulbous head and disappear inside me, me arching my back, trying to stretch to accommodate him and involuntarily giving him deep moans and groans of being stuffed.
“No, no; yes, yes, y-e-s. It’s too big; it’s the size I’ve always dreamed of. It’s splitting me; it’s stretching and filling me to perfection. I can’t take this; I can’t get enough of this. Yesssssss!”
Bringing his mouth down to my nipples as he plowed me, he suck and bit me lightly there.
I felt the veins of his thick pole sliding against my ass walls as his cock journeyed in to the quick. Then he rose back on the balls of his feet again, hunched over me, and repeatedly pulled his glistening jet-black cock out slowly to where I could again see the rim of the purple-black cap, and then glided it back in to the root until he eventually lost control in his own trip to nirvana and started pumping me wildly (showing that he panted for me as much as I did for him). At the height of his passion, he dipped his mouth to mine and brutalized my lips with his. His hands grabbed my hips and moved my pelvis in and out, up and down, revolving around to meet and enhance his thrusts. He cried out. Again he was flooding the inside me with fountains of cum, so strong and full that it oozed out of me and bathed those black balls of his.
All of that was still throbbing inside me, hard for me, wanting to be inside me, and filling me repeatedly—followed by my insides being creamed again and again with his semen and him holding for a few minutes, young, virile, powerful, quick loading. and then doing it all again. And my being able to take it, each time more slippery than the last because of the accumulation and mingling of juices—and then he turned me on his cock until he was close in behind me, capable of going even deeper inside me, and then fucking me again, holding my wrists with his hands, dominating me. Him shooting off every fifteen minutes or so for what seems like forever—me climaxing repeatedly, encasing that jet-black 10/2 hunk and being encased by that milk chocolate rippling network of perfect muscle.