Wham, Bam, Thank You Crackhead

I'm back in the Big Apple now, trying to calm down a bit from last week's work-and-insomnia-and-suckfest in Lisbon, which was punctuated-- literally the minute I got in line for my flight home, LITERALLY-- by a final disaster due to a change I made days before which only propagated to some automatic system days later-- again, literally the second I was about to be completely unavailable for 8 hours-- making all hell break loose. I got notifications on my phone from the systems that something was wrong, and only had time on my tiny little iPhone to verify that yes, something was sorely amiss, and send frantic instructions to people, some of whom were in the US and would not be up for at least 4 hours, and the new employee I was training in Lisbon who was certainly getting a very warm welcome to the company at 10am on his first Sunday with us. And then I had to get on the plane and shut my phone off and stew for 8 hours, fighting the jet-stream, wondering if there would still be a company when I landed. Of course, there was, and happily, my brand-new colleague handled the situation with flying colors. I was completely fried, myself. Yesterday was a busy day of recovering more fully from the disaster, and today was fairly quiet. So when a hairy, handsome Latin dude up in Hell's Kitchen hit me up on BBRTs right after lunch, I paused. I have been so used to stress and emergencies the past two months, that I felt a reflex to tell him I would love to plow his sweet hairy body and load it up with hot salty fuck-goo, but that I was too busy right then. And then I realized: everyone is done in Portugal for the day. I haven't heard a peep from anyone else. I *would* love to load this guy up with hot salty fuck-goo. Why not just go do it? So I told him I would, and how long it would take to get up there, and he was all "HURRRRRRY I'M SO HORRRRNY" and I told him I'd be there as fast as I could. It does take a while to hike up there, so when I got out of the train he was all "ARE YOU CLOSE ARE YOU CLOSE" and I was. He said, "The door is unlocked, just come in and fuck me," and I said, "Gotta eat that ass out first," and he said, "OH YEAH," and I was at his place in no time. I did let myself in, and I did eat him out, and I did load him up with hot salty fuck-goo, but it all took fifteen minutes, max. I felt ridiculous cumming so quickly, but it also felt fantastic-- like a big fuck-you to all the intense pressure I've had building up since I broke my wrist-- so I laughed and laughed and collapsed on his back. It would take longer to write about the encounter in detail than it took to actually do the loading up with the hot salty fuck-goo, so instead, let me rhapsodize a bit about the way a nicely built dude looks when he is in this position:

Because this is the position I pretty much found him in when I walked in. And his body was actually just about this good-- a bit less muscular, but just as beautifully shaped.

This position is an invitation on a primal level, to a top. There is actually a receptor in my brain that was designed to respond to this-- I can feel it, it is real. In just the way you can't see a face as an assemblage of parts like an eyelash, a nostril, a chin, but you must see a face and you must decide whether it is friendly or hostile, when I see a male body in this position, something deep inside me responds. Look at the cinch at the waist, think about the tight hairy belly below; you can't see it, but I know when I put my arm around the waist, I will feel it, I will be able to flatten my hand against in, pull up, and have his body meet mine as I thrust my cock into the hole hiding there in the dark cleft.

But I am getting ahead of myself. First, you arrive, and you're clothed, and he's like this, and you just take a minute to whistle softly and mutter some words of impressed awe at what is on display. With this guy, I just walked up and put my hand lightly on his right globe, and ran it over the top, feeling the curve of the mound, rising and then falling into the crack, and slowly ran my fingers down into the dark hairy region, just grazing his sensitive hole, and down over his gooch and balls, making him suck in his breath. A simple touch is enough for a top to let a bottom know he will happily worship the ass being offered up before taking it over, mauling it, and finally impregnating it with a flood of semen. But first, the worship.

See how the hips seem just designed to anchor a pair of clasping hands, fingers grazing the hipbone? Perfect leverage to pull the whole assembly back into your bearded face, as you feel all the curves and clefts and bulges slide over your face, your nose, your lips. And when you have made all those areas slick with the saliva from your tongue, let go of the hips, reach under, stroke up along the tight hairy belly, up to the nips that are now quite firm in their fleshy pectoral pads, waiting for simultaneous tugs from your reaching hands while your tongue plunges into his body through the back end. You feel him dilate and accept the wet meaty tentacle an inch or two inside him, because he is a practiced bottom.

"Oh my God, you really know how to treat an ass," he coos, but he knows how to show it off, and be patient with your desires, and let you get your fill of this.

But then look at the curve of that back, how the waist dips down from the round masses of flesh, then the back swells up above it, and to each side. The same waist that invited you to stroke it with your hands invites you to circle it with your arms. His body invites you to assume a similar posture, right behind him, your arms straight and taut at either side of the thin waist, stroking the skin in the cleft where the lats meet the hip bones, where the hip bones meet the swelling pillows of immensely fuckable ass. Your bone is jutting out from your body, hard as fuck from all that ass-eating; pointing thickly away from your body at almost the same angle he is holding his upper body at. It is a symmetry that shows this kind of fucking is no mistake; he was built to accept that fleshy, sensitive part of you, directly inside him. Your prick is slimy and wet from the excitement of having your face in his hindquarters so all it takes is a little aim to position it at his submissive, aching opening, and a small push is all it takes to insert yourself into him, because you have loosened him up and made him want nothing more than this by worshipping what he has to offer. Having worshipped, now you take.

See the thick haunches there, bent just so, masculine expanses of meat, both firm and yielding to the touch? They are there for you to clamp your own thighs against. As your dick burrows deeper and deeper into him, causing him to drop his head low towards the bed in helpless pleasure, your body slides up against him, hard, and your knees press into the flesh just above his, as if he were a kind of horse and you were a kind of jockey. And then the grinding of your own hips, forcing your meat in and out of his fleshy, hungry ass, fills you with an ecstatic pleasure, just the motion itself, and how your arms grow even more rigid holding your body up, clamping against his hips the same way your knees clamp against his thighs, pinning him in the position to take your pounding meat over and over.

See the neck, thick and corded in the male frame, jutting up from the wide shoulders, crowned at the top with curling muscles that rise and fall from neck to shoulder in a graceful curve? That is for you to rest your mouth against as you drill deeper and deeper into the body that is there just for your pleasure. You can bite into the thick muscle that makes up the neck. You can slide one hand up from the hip, along the hairy torso, over the thick pectoral muscle and its still-hard nipple, and bend it up against him, pulling his back to meet your chest, still pinning him on the other side at the hip, still spurring your knees against his thighs as if he could gallop away. But he can't; your whole body weight is on his back and he is impaled on your hard fuckstick and he doesn't want to go anywhere anyway except all the way with you, to the place where he is being flooded with your private fluids.

Which happens way too quickly. You are in a good groove, and you are proud of how excited he is to be penetrated by you, the way he turns his face to the side and begs to be kissed deeply, the way he presses his face against yours, closes his eyes, pouts his lips, and just concentrates on the feeling of taking your bone inside him over and over, the nerves it probes and hammers against. But he's a latin guy, and he smells like he's been getting high on a very artificial, toxic chemical; maybe he is an animal in danger of galloping away after all. His breath smells very strongly of it now, and his temperature is rising, and his body is shaking, and you slow down because you feel you are getting too close, you want to fuck him a lot longer than this, but he's on, he's wired, and he's gonna take what he wants; he shakes his big muscular ass against you, pushing it over and over into your groin, and now you're helpless; your dick is an appliance and he's getting off on it. But he's also getting you off. You make a move to pull out of him to keep your orgasm at bay, but it's too late; he back-fucks the spooge right out of your nuts and sucks it all up into his illicitly insatiable hole. You cry out and he knows the cry, and says "Cum in me, cum in me, I want to feel you cum in me," and then he feels you twitching in there, squirting it all out. All you can do is mount him tightly again, clutch his body to you, ride him hard, pound your dick in there over and over as you shoot, and long after, biting his thick neck, high yourself but naturally so, and you keep fucking him, hearing yourself slop around in your own slimy mess, until your dick gets too soft to fuck it into him any more.

And you laugh and he's making appreciative sounds and it's all over too fast. You get dressed and he's instantly on his phone, looking for more cum, but friendly enough. He used to live in your neighborhood. He wants you to come back and fuck him for "hours" next time. You see a burnt-out glass pipe on his dresser as you steady yourself there, pulling your pants up over your spent wang. Geesh, you hate that crap, but it sure makes the boys horny for you and your big doses of cum.

And you're out of there, but your head is still full of that primal image, the haunches, the taut triceps, the angle of the bent knees, the balls hanging there like a prize. You just want to fuck again. It's never enough.