Ouch

So my planned rendez-vous with the little hardbody on Wednesday, which necessitated Tuesday night's submission to a marathon nut-draining from Woody Harrelson, did not happen as planned, of course. But this was my fault-- I woke up that morning with unpleasant pains in my stomach that I spent the whole morning wishing away, but never went. It must have been something I ate, but I felt full of pressure and bloat. By 1pm I gave up, and texted him to say I felt a little sick and extremely unsexy, asking to go for Thursday instead. He wrote back right away expressing disappointment but saying Thursday was fine. Then Thursday he writes *me* and says *he* has a stomach problem. So we agree on Friday. I think, is this gonna turn into one of those things that fizzle out ridiculously because of scheduling issues? My fear was furthered when I hadn't heard from him by 3 on Friday, despite a couple of texts. I know his partner comes home around 6:30 or so, and we'd talked about trying to fuck all afternoon. So this didn't look promising either. I began to look for other possibilities, and found an unusually pretty black kid with a stupendously tight, muscular body, who asked if I ate ass. I said, "Like Chris Christie eats cheeseburgers." But I took too long to reply, and by the time I'd emitted this aperçu, he'd said, "Well this isn't going anywhere, I'm going out for a run. Bye" and signed off. Geesh! Little Hardbody finally wrote back an hour later, saying he was at the dermatologist and hoped it would be quick. Finally he said I could swing by at 5. When I asked how long he could spare, he texted back pithily, "hour." Hm! So much for fucking all afternoon. He couldn't even spend the time to type a two-letter article for his noun into his phone. It's rare I want to get together with a guy over and over like this at all, much less want to fuck him all afternoon on the third get-together, but I really wanted to. So I told him, "With you, I'll take what I can get," which seemed to really please him. And just before 5 I hopped in the car to go the few miles it took to get to him.

Well, I was immediately snarled in traffic, arriving almost 15 minutes late and extremely deflated. We only had forty-five minutes now, and I felt sort of rushed. Worse, when I pulled up to his place, an unfamiliar big black pickup with a license plate reading BIGDADDY or something like that on it was parked in front, halfway on the grass, which seemed rather proprietary behavior. Had his partner come home early, while hardbody was in the shower, and so he couldn't warn me? Little hardbody had told me he would leave the front door open in case he was still in the shower when I got in, so I didn't have to knock. I couldn't just barge in there with BIGDADDY there! My heart kind of pounded a bit and I wondered what to do. Little Hardbody had rather proudly shown off some modeling shots of his partner from the 80s; it was hard to imagine that chiseled mannequin with feathered bangs now going by BIGDADDY, though the more recent picture he'd shown me on his phone looked overcooked and bloated and bald. I really didn't know what to do. I figured I could just ring the doorbell and try my acting skills if BIGDADDY answered the door. So I rang and waited. I was glad I actually remembered Little Hardbody's name, which given my inability to ever remember names was only possible because we had a conversation about it the time before, and how it was a character on Rhoda when I was a kid. 

The door opened slowly and little hardbody was there with his obnoxiously barky old dog. He was dressed but wet from the shower. I said hello and he basically lunged through the door at me, grabbing my waist and shoving his tongue down my throat. I endured this a little, and laughed and pushed him away, asking about the truck. "Oh!" he said, as if he forgot something. He seemed to start to say something, then said, "Oh. Don't worry about that. It's... don't worry about it." And he lunged at me and sucked my face again, taking me rather aback. He pulled me into the living room where the dog alternated his startlingly loud barking and licking my calf muscle. My dick was dead as a doornail in my pants. And the clock was ticking.

I asked if we could go to the bed and get comfortable, and he said ok, so I did. We got in there and I told him to take off his clothes while I stayed dressed, and whispered into his ear, "It's been a stressful day, just let me touch you." And he melted into a little puddle and I stroked his little body all over while he whimpered and called me baby baby baby. Staring at him more discerningly after cumming in him a couple of times, I realized his body was not that great, and had some proportion things I never noticed before, amazingly. I loathe this about myself, but there it is; I am harshly critical sometimes. However, his skin felt amazing in my hands. His reaction to my attentions was mesmerizing to watch; without doing much, I was driving him half out of his mind. He kept lunging for me and kissing me and saying "I want you so bad, I want you so bad." His kisses were fantastic and his hard little body felt as good as ever. So I kept it up and sensed my meat stirring in my pants. Maybe I should just hurry up and stick it in him and cum in him and not worry about losing out on the mythical all-afternoon fuck, I thought. Or maybe I shouldn't fuck him at all, not even CUM at all, just touch him all over and make him senseless with desire for me and then pack away my goods in my pants and pat him on the head and cruelly leave him there in the bed, saving the real sex for a day when we could spare the time. I actually really, really wanted to do this, as soon as I thought of it-- maybe I've been watching too much Don Draper. 

Still unsure of how this would go, I pulled my own clothes off and got on top of him, and we spent at least fifteen minutes intensely curled into each other, while I rammed my boner into his body with my hips. His own dick was harder than I'd ever seen it and I felt its rigid length all along mine with every thrust. The first time we hooked up he had told me, "You almost made me cum just laying on top of me and rubbing your dick on me." I thought about trying this out. How long would I have to fake-plow him till he popped-- or hyperventilated and passed out? He was bright red and almost crying, saying "Baby you feel so good, Baby I want you so bad, Baby I love being with you." I held his face in my hands and stared into his eyes and rammed him into the mattress with all my body weight. He stared back with an absolutely frank expression of need.

I suddenly began to wonder if BIGDADDY was in a closet somewhere watching all this. Was this histrionics for his benefit? It seemed almost a little too much. But then, during a break where I caught my breath, he pushed me back, curled up between my thighs, sucked my bone down into his throat, and worshipped my cock with that same almost embarrassing desire and hunger. His should had completely left his body, it was clear, and left it this mindless animal intent on getting my dick in him as deeply as possible, as much as possible. He was making me feel pretty fine.

I got him back on his back and slid my dick between his legs this time, up between his cheeks, and he moaned and reached down and held it hard it against his body while I bucked into him, feeling the fat fleshy ridge of my dickhead popping over his hole, and the length of my erection sliding past his wet fingers. This is very exciting for him, clearly, and the intense body contact, feeling his thighs on either side of me, his breath in my ear, seeing his reddening neck overrun with engorged veins and cords of muscle, is also very exciting for me. I mock-fucked him harder than I ever fucked him for real. This was very intense.

Too intense. His body is almost completely hairless, except for the short wires on his thighs and the absolute steel wool guarding his anus. We humped and bit at each other so long that this close contact with the top of my glans, or rather the pink band of skin between that and my shaft, started to feel very irritated. I pulled up and put my dick against his and fucked that way instead. But then I knew I had to get inside him. This intensity was too good to waste on this non-penetrative sex. I wanted in. I licked my hand and slicked up my dickhead and pressed. He was tight. I flipped him and ate him. He pressed his feet into my chest hair, legs spread wide, ass shamelessly spread for my face. He somehow grabbed some poppers and I smelled that stink. And I felt his asshole engulf my tongue. This had been pretty ceremonious rimming, but I wanted my dick in him. I stood up, put some lube on it to ensure we could get to this quickly, and sank it in. He yelped and helped and his ass was covered in gooseflesh. I was inside and could fuck him for real.

But that bit of skin under the ridge of my dickhead just STUNG. It was very, very painful to push into him. I only managed four or five thrusts till I had to pull it out and inspect it.

It was very angrily red. I alerted him to the issue, and he sat up to look at it. He said, "That's what you get for using it so much!" And he's right. Sometimes I do fuck so much that my dick is unpleasantly chafed; my skin is sensitive and there have been guys I've plowed literally for hours, rendering my tool unusable for the better part of a week-- which only makes me want to find a guy who will suck the giant resulting load out of it for an hour, and the cycle goes on. This was the worst, though. He gently sucked me, licking the deliciously nerve-rich front of the dickhead and being very careful about the teeth, full of hunger for me, resting his fat engorged dick on my feet. He almost made me cum. I thought of unloading down his throat. But I wanted more of his body. I pushed him on his back and then plowed him till I started cumming, without control. "I'm sorry," I said rather primly, when I felt myself pass that point of no return. And I sat up and immediately he was splattered with jets of my delight. He looked on with awe at my ejaculation, ran his hands through it, ate it, licked it off his fingers, put more on his dick, and made himself cum with the slickness of my sperm, staring into my eyes and shaking his head the whole time. After catching his breath, he said, "THAT... was... *HOT*!" I laughed and didn't say anything. "That was a porn-quality cumshot," he said, still starting at me. "You are so fucking sexy." I demurred. I'm not sexy. But I cum a lot.

We didn't have much time to talk. I had to dress, he had to dress, I had to scram before BIGDADDY came home, or out of the clothes hamper, or wherever he was. "Before I leave, we have to have a loooong..." I said, after making out with him some in his foyer. "I know!" he interrupted me. "I wanted to have a time when we could go and go." We kissed some more and I flitted out, feeling my dickhead throbbing angrily in my pants. 

I almost feel like I never wanna screw again; it was still painful this morning. I spent the entire day today with my mom, driving to little towns out in the country with the top down in today's brilliant, beautiful sunshine. And then, despite using SPF 45 sunscreen, I felt my entire head flaming from too much sun. Now both my heads are red and painful. But what a life! Things are good now. You have some pleasure, you have some pain, you do it all over again. I can't wait till my dick is better so I can fuck somebody again, I can't wait till this sunburn goes away so I can see more places and things. Life is good now.