Silk

Today I blew a giant load all over, and a little bit in, a tall, slender, rather pretty Latino. This is not my usual type although I am increasingly into very thin, tight guys. I hate to think I'm becoming a cliche by becoming an old man with twinkish taste. But mostly I like fucking these guys because I love the feel of that taut, slender waist in my hands while I slide by big fat slab of meat in and out of them-- I only look more hung when my prong is in the hole of a willowy creature than when it's up against my rather stocky body. So that is a beautiful sight and makes me feel a little studly. There is an appeal in contrasts: bulky versus slim, hairy versus smooth, homely versus pretty. I drove over to him-- he lives on a very quaint little street in Clinton Hill whose brownstones are undergoing furious renovation and there were construction workers everywhere. He met me in a dark foyer behind the basement entrance of one of them, and it was very dark. I could see enough to tell it was him, but he dove right in to me for the kiss and I was a little taken aback; these kinds of meetings usually creep me out cuz I feel like it's going to be some kind of diseased crypt keeper instead of the healthy pretty thing I saw online. But his little hard body felt so good in my hands, and he kissed very sensually, so I let it go a bit. Then I asked whether we were going to do this in the hall, and he led me upstairs to his art studio, where sumptuous beauty awaited.

The first thing I was struck by was a bunch of giant paintings covering every wall; portraits of handsome women and very good-looking men in classical poses, clothed in luminous silk cloths painted in a style a lot like Ingres, though the brushwork was a lot looser and fuzzier. From a distance they resolved into very crisp portraits, close to photographic. They were nowhere near as cheesy as they could have been, which sounds like a dig but is not; they were fantastic. He kept going on about how cold the room was, smoked a bowl of pot really quick, and asked if I wanted any (I did not, thank you). Though the complaining about the cold made me think maybe he was tweaking. If he was, he was acting unusually normal. We made out some more and then he sank down onto a daybed loaded with pillows and covers and pulled out my meat and sucked on it with that languid hunger than stoned guys have, and which I love. For a while I stood with just my dick exposed, watching him enjoy me, and then I pulled down my pants and he popped open my shirt and I sank down into the daybed with him. We pulled off his clothes and he curled around me and kept slowly sucking down my meat while I equally slowly ran my hands all over his tight, long curves. He was in pothead heaven, I could tell, with the way I was touching and feeding him. And maybe he *was* tweaking as well, since his dick stayed soft and felt rather cold, like his ears. But he was treating me just right and seemed to be having an awfully good time. Go try to understand a bottom.


He turned around and hunched down on all fours, to expose a long back swaying down towards his ass. His legs were very thin but he had that amazing waist and V-shape that make my nuts tingle. I put my big hairy body behind his, and let my hard-on angle up between his cheeks and slide up between his balls; just that movement made him gasp and reach up to press his hand against my bone, and press it up against that ultrasensitive skin between his legs. While he gently cradled my battering ram like this, I held my hairy torso against his smooth back and ran my hands up and down the front of his body, feeling his elegant shape from firm pecs down to trimmed pubes against a hard belly. His head lolled against my neck and he moaned and moaned. I pushed him forward a bit and slid back to eat his ass, which was actually disappointingly scrawny; it was not much to feast on. But it made him hungry for my tool; as I pushed my face into him from behind, he reached far back to stroke the head of my dick. I took this to mean he needed me inside him now. So I leaned back a bit, slicked up with a little spit, tapped against his hole, and barely pushed, signaling that it was time to fuck, but he was to take me inside him himself, at his own rate. He got my meaning instantly and complied, leaning back almost imperceptively so that my prick sank into him millimeter by millimeter. The outside of his hole was squeaky and dry from being cleaned out, and I thought, oh no. I saw a bottle of lube on the edge of the daybed. Handy... but not needed. Once I felt the fat ridge of my dickhead slide past his tight ring, I felt a blooming wet silkiness deeper inside him. My shaft began to slide with no effort at all, and I felt my dick grow warmer and warmer as it snaked its way inside him. By the time my balls were hanging on the hairy skin behind his balls, I felt that my dick was in a paradise of heat and silk. It almost tugged at the cum in my balls like the moon tugs on the sea; I would not have been surprised if I did not come in a salty, involuntary tide just from the pleasure of being so beautifully sheathed in his body. But I didn't.

We both exclaimed at how good that felt. "Still not all the way in, still not all of your dick in me," he said, and I pushed my hips into him hard, pulling his shoulders back, and straining the muscle between my legs to make my dick probe as deeply into him as my flesh would allow. He gasped and turned back to look at me. And I slowly bucked my hips to make every inch of my bone slide in and out of him, in fluid, unrushed movements. On the out stroke I pulled out far enough to feel his hole close around the bulbous flesh just at then end of my dickhead, his asshole just kissing my cumhole with warmth and slickness. And then I would push it back in.

He wanted to see me. He managed to turn over, with those long legs nimbly pushing him around, keeping my dick inside him the whole way. And once he was on his back, I held his legs to either side, and kissed him, and pushed into him deep again. And we fucked and fucked, the steady, hot gaze of his yellow-green eyes never closing or wavering from my face even once. He watched me fuck him long and deep as time slipped away. Whether I hiked up his ass from below, or put all my weight on his shoulders and plowed, or hooked his legs over my elbows to drill up against his gland, or humped against him furiously, each time he just said "Use me however you want," or "Put my body however makes you feel best," or "Do whatever you want to feel good in me." And so I did.

And it felt so good that I felt myself cum in him a little bit. But I just rested and recovered and it only made my strokes more liquid and smooth. Which only made me want to cum more. We'd only talked about him swallowing my cum. I try not to cum in guys unless they explicitly ask for it. But I was having trouble controlling myself. Another small ooze went into him; I felt it clearly. So I pulled all the way out, and slid back in, and more fucking, all the way out, all the way in.

And then it was not just gonna be an ooze, it was gonna be a rush. My body suddenly felt high. It was an intense orgasm. I pulled out and splatted huge jets of cum against his wide, thin chest. He exclaimed at the load, and pulled his legs back, exposing his hole. "Back inside?"  I managed to somehow grunt out as my head was spinning in manly bliss. He stared at me with naked hunger, and I gripped my tool, braced for the scream of oversensitivity I knew was coming, and pushed in. It was too much sensation until I again had all my inches in that warm space, and then it was melting bliss, and I fucked the rest of my orgasm out... and kept ramming because he felt so beautiful inside. "This is just like in the movies!" he was saying rather inanely. "I think... can cum again..." I muttered, equally inanely, and pounded and pounded myself into him until I felt myself fall over another little precipice of pleasure and spurt out a few more drops of my fuckjuice.

We stared at each other as I slowly moved my wet dick around inside him. "So good! So good!" he said. I pulled out slowly and ran my finger around his hole. "What a mess!" he said with wonder, and ran his own finger around it. "Just like in those movies!"

I stroked his legs and body some more while asking about his paintings. He was not very eloquent-- could have been the pot, or could have been just his artist's nonverbal head. But I told him I liked the style and the choice of models. I took a shower and he led me downstairs, still naked but no longer slathered with my wad. He told me to keep in touch. I might consider fucking him again and planting my goo inside him deep next time since he doesn't seem shy about that after all. And I'll have to try to last longer. We had barely been at it 40 minutes; a hole like that was made for marathon fucking.

I feel so good now. His body was so beautifully silky inside, and he gave it to me so freely and openly. It's good to be a top.