He was a hunk and a half—Tall, muscular in a sinewy way, with curly black hair that extended down his face in a tightly clipped beard and mustache and then swirling out of his company shirt, with its top two buttons undone. Bulging pecs and biceps, flat belly, and tight buns. He was maybe early thirties, his open assessment of me told me at a glance what his orientation was, and he looked like he would be highly capable in bed—like he had the experience to get what he wanted and to give the other guy a good time in the process, as long as the other guy liked being controlled and getting it rough. I was in the front yard of the North Wilmington, Delaware, bungalow I’d just bought and was beating back the jungle, wearing just athletic shorts, a jock, and sneakers. I’d picked up the house in distress sale with the intent of fixing it up and flipping it in a couple of years.
And, yes, I am a slut for it.
The initial look he gave my twenty-six-year-old well-gymed body when he rolled out of his truck told me what I needed to know. His eyes went from my face down to the silver bars in the nipples of my trim torso and then back up into my eyes, giving me a knowing smile. He could eat me up. My returning smile told him that, why, yes, he could. He quickly went into serviceman neutral mode, but I’d seen those first looks, so I knew. He knew that I knew.
“Are you Mr. Lewis?” he asked, walking over to stand near me, where I’d been taking a machete to the foliage. “You called Brandywine Plumbing needing a plumber?”
“That’s me,” I said, flexing and posing for him on the excuse of working my knotted muscles out now that I’d stopped chopping. I’m sure he understood why I was doing it, and it emboldened him. The look he gave me was quite baldly sexual.
“Just bought the place,” I said. “Probably a month’s worth of plumbing needs here. You up for a total rehab job?”
“I’m up for lots of things,” he said, returning to the “eat you up” mode. Somewhere between his truck and five feet in front of me, where he stood a good five inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than me, he’d assessed that I went with men and that he was the kind of man I’d be happy going with. I don’t know how he did that other than the piercings in my nipples and the looks I gave him that I couldn’t hold back. It wasn’t too obvious, I told myself. My going hard wasn’t showing, and I didn’t have my tongue hanging out or anything. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. In any event, when he’d said that, he’d reached out and touched my arm lightly. I think he did that to see if I’d wince or shy away. I didn’t, so like that we’d established something. A serviceman reaching out and touching a client was not something normally expected when just meeting like this before any work was done.
“What needs it the most?” he asked. “Where should I start in assessing what needs done?”
I need it the most, I wanted to say. I hadn’t gotten it from a stud like him since before moving in here. I had a good job in banking in the city, Wilmington being a tax haven for banks, but the job took a lot of time and this dump I was determined to make into a showplace was taking almost every other waking moment—with maybe just a bit of side action. And you can start by taking me to the picnic table out back, laying me on top of it, and fucking my brains out.
The looks he gave me suggested he was thinking the same thing. But he was on his company clock now.
I had developed a certain type of guy to gravitate to who was likely to meet my needs and wants best, who would take me higher into the pain-pleasure zone, both of which I needed to feel alive sexually. Many videos aside, I’d found that pain went with the bottoming but, strangely, that the pain mixed in with pleasure to get me going and get me off took me to higher satisfaction. I could jack multiple times, get drained dry, with the right kind of guy working me, and that was my form of Nirvana. I wanted to be drained dry. I wanted a take-charge, controlling guy who knew and used the more athletic, taxing positions beyond straightforward missionary, doggie, and cowboy, and who could use them. Thus, I found the guy who usually could deliver with exhibited confidence and control; had a slight look of danger in his eyes; was past thirty, to have accumulated the experience of positions; and was more runner athletic than football player athletic was, by far, the best cocksman. I had seen almost immediately that this plumber fit those specifications. And he was signaling interest. He certainly had the self-confidence and assertiveness going for him.
“I guess the kitchen needs it first,” I answered. “The faucet there is constantly running and I can’t get it turned off. I’m afraid to work on it myself because everything is so rusted that it might come apart in my hand and become a runaway fountain.”
“Well, then, lead on and we’ll see what we see about that.”
When I turned to take him up onto the deep front porch, one of the features I really liked about the place, he actually touched me on the butt. It was the sort of touch that could be taken two ways by the receiver—just an accidental brush of a wayward hand as we were turning and moving to the house or a declaration, one gay man to another. I took it as the latter, and turning my head and giving him a slight smile told him which way I took it. I meant for him to know.
The bungalow was one of those “keeps going on back” houses, deeper than it was wide. You entered directly into the living room. Off to the right was a room that could once have been one of the bedrooms, but it was going to be a library in my redo. This would be a living room for me. What was originally the living room would be more of a reception room, since I wasn’t wild about the front door leading directly into where most of my living would be done. I liked having an entry foyer. Mine now would just be bigger than the norm.
Behind the living room was a dining room of the same dimensions, with a bay window to the side overlooking the chipped concrete driveway that went back to the detached two-car garage and the house next door. Behind that, in a line with the living and dining room was the kitchen, again with a wide window out onto the driveway and the house next door. It wasn’t as wide as the dining room. In that space was a hall that went a bit off to the left, with a bath straight head and a bedroom on either side. On the right side of that hall was a staircase that went upstairs to what had been an attic and now was quite a large room, with another bath. This I was making into the master bedroom. The mud room-laundry-pantry was on the back of the house beyond the kitchen. This had a door to the outside that opened onto a small deck, with steps down to the driveway. Most of the time we’d be entering by that door, having parked in the garage, if it could be saved before it fell down.
This layout was important to know at this point, because, in order to get to the kitchen and the dripping faucet, we had to go through the living room and the dining room. The problem, one I didn’t figure on, was that Claire was on a ladder in the dining room fitting curtains in the bay window.
After touching my butt out in the yard and not encountering any resistance, the plumber, whose name was Bud and I’d already told him to call me Patrick, had put his hand back on my butt at the top of the stairs up to the front porch, supposedly because I almost slipped on the stairs, and, if anything, the pressure increased as we walked through the living room. With luck, he’d hump me on the dining room table, I was thinking. It came right off when we entered the dining room, though. The man suddenly went cold and became all plumbing business. I didn’t figure until later what had cooled him off. It was seeing Claire up on that ladder.
This wasn’t the arrangement that Bud had been figuring on—or at least he thought so. He got the leak turned off at least temporarily, suggesting strongly that I need not stay around and watch him work, although I dearly would have loved to know if he had the standard plumber’s “butt crack show” when he was working in the cabinet under the sink. When he called me back, we discussed what was needed in the kitchen, which, as I had surmised, was everything replaced with new, right down to the piping going out of the house. I approved his ideas and he said he’d be back to install it all when parts were in and he could fit the job in.
I asked him if he wanted to see the bathrooms too to figure out what was needed there, noting that the one upstairs was off the master bedroom. He said he’d look at those after finishing in the kitchen. Later, after realizing that it had been the presence of Claire that had cooled him down, I decided that, given how hot for it he was out in the front yard, if I’d been alone in the house, I could have been power fucked by a hunk on the dining room table then and again on my bed that afternoon.
I was more than kind of bummed out that didn’t happen. I hadn’t been stud fucked good for longer than I liked—three days was longer than I liked, but it had been longer than that.
* * * *
I didn’t often go cruising, but plumber Bud had made me horny, and two days after he’d temporarily fixed the kitchen faucet but hadn’t fixed me, on a Saturday evening, I went cruising, with the intent of winding up getting fucked. I had just moved to this house in an old working-class section, Bellefonte, north of Wilmington, that was close enough into the city center to be in the process of upscaling, but I’d lived not far from there, in Brookhaven, Pennsylvania, south of Philadelphia, before that. I worked in Wilmington, but until now, I’d gone into Philly for my kicks. I did know about what little gay nightlife there was in Wilmington, though. There was a gay-friendly watering hole and restaurant, usually called just the Club, at 814 Shipley Street downtown. It sometimes was called the 814 Club too. What the truly active gays knew, though, was that it had an outlier bar, much more gay active, just up the street, the 816. That’s where I went, to the 816.
The guy’s name was Trevor. He looked like a possibility, although he appeared a bit more polished than I liked. I usually went with blue color rather than white collar, even though I was white color, because men in servicing tended to be rougher. They also tended to have fewer hang-ups, nor did they insist on talking about the ones they had. He saddled up to the bar next to me and offered me a drink. The place was crowded. I had been surprised to see that Bud was there, sitting over by the band. He was at a table with a group of other guys, a couple of them with “Brandywine Plumbing” on their shirts, as he did, and they were paying attention to the band. I didn’t know whether Bud had seen me too, but I decided to stay at 816 until either he did and we had a chance to connect, or I hooked up otherwise. I thought I’d figured out why he had backed away at the house, and I could fix that.
I hooked up otherwise for beginners. Trevor was in banking too, but not my bank, and not in my area of the city. If there had been closer connections, I wouldn’t have accepted the drink. Accepting a drink in a bar like this was a holder, at least, necessitating checking out and comparisons of intentions and wants before clicking or clicking off. Trevor looked good, if a little soft for what I was interested in. He was tall and slim but had good musculature. He was past thirty, maybe even almost forty, with sandy-red hair and a florid complexion. But he was good-looking. There certainly was no doubt he was the “in command” type to the point of arrogant, as he put his hands on me as soon as I had accepted a drink from him, and I didn’t think he was going to let me go easily.
We exchanged backgrounds in a general way, giving our education up front. I was Duke; he was Yale. He was a VP of something or other, and I was too young for that and said so, and he said that my being young—and good-looking, small of stature, and built—were what had attracted him to me. I’d already learned that the tall, muscular guys, tended to like doing smaller guys. Trevor wasn’t muscled up, but close enough for now, as my need was immediate.
As long as I had a title at my bank, he was good for mingling with me. He used that word, “mingling,” and I had visions of us sharing body fluids. That actually made me more interested in him and I leaned into him at the bar when our second drinks—on his twenty dollars—arrived. Taking a second drink was as good as a “yes.” He put an arm around me and his hand was on the small of my back. No one around us seemed to notice. I looked across the room and I couldn’t tell whether Bud had seen us either. The bar was crowded and most others were either putting a make on someone or having it put on them.
Trevor rather deftly quizzed me on whether I was a rent-boy and I assured him, deftly, I hoped, that I wasn’t—that I was in it for the pleasure of it. He wanted to know if I found him attractive. I did. What was my preference? Receiver. Was I active? When I could be. His hand went possessively to my buttocks. I left it there. He squeezed a cheek and I gave him a little smile.
Trevor leaned over and kissed me on the ear and whispered, “So, do you give good head?”
“The best,” I answered. “I take cock too.” Did I do safe sex. Yes. Let’s move this along, I was thinking. If it was going to be, let’s get to it. If not, I still had shopping to do. And there always was a chance of hooking up with Bud, since he was here.
“First things first,” he said. He took one of my hands and moved it to his crotch, giving me a feel. I suppose he wanted me to be impressed, but I didn’t get much of a readout on length.
After I’d had a good feel, he said, “Are we going to do this?”
“That’s fine with me,” I responded.
“Come with me. They have rooms in back.” He had his wallet out and was flipping bills out on the bar top. While he had his wallet out, he made sure that I saw he had a couple of condom disks in there. He took my hand and led me to the back of the room. I went docilely. That was the role I wanted to take—the absolute submissive. I looked over to the stage area and saw that Bud was looking at me now and followed us with his eyes as we got to a doorway covered by a beaded curtain. Trevor held the curtain open and ushered me through.
We entered a shadowed hall that went straight back to a glass door to the rear parking lot. There were doorways on either side of the hall, four on each side, across from each other. The first two were the bathrooms, across from each other. The next two rooms on either side were where Trevor was presumably planning to take me, but there were windows in the doors, and each was occupied with a couple fucking on a vinyl cube. I went with him submissively as we moved further down the hallway. He was taking control as I liked, and I had a need. I wanted to be fucked.
Our luck gave out when we got to the last doors across from each other. No windows in the doors and they were locked.
“So, I guess right here, now,” Trevor said. He backed himself up to the hallway wall by the glass door to the parking lot, put his hands on my shoulders, pressed down, and growled, “Get on your knees here. Give me good head.”
I don’t give just good head; I give great head.
I went down on my knees as he was unbuckling and unzipping himself and flaring his trousers open. The waistband of his briefs went under his balls and a thick, but not long cock popped out. He was at least in semierection. The cock was one that would be described as either a beer can or fireplug cock. The mushroom cap was enormous. He slapped the shaft on my cheeks a couple of times and then forced it between my lips, causing my jaw to pop as I was made to take the cock into the root. He leaned over me, grabbed my hands and held them tight, forearm over forearm, wrists fisted, at my back so I couldn’t do anything with them. I gave him the blow job he obviously wanted, all the time hoping that this would lead to one of the rooms being freed or him finding someplace else to ass fuck me.
I took it all in, to the root, and held there for him to melt, which he did, murmuring “Oh, shit; oh, fuck” in almost a whine. He dropped my hands and slid his back down the wall, jutting his pelvis out and widening his stance, his hands going to the tips of my shoulders to help hold him in place, whispering, “Oh, fuck; oh, fuck,” knowing this was going to be a blow job to remember.
“Big enough for you, baby?” Trevor murmured. “You want all of that inside you, baby?”
“Umm, mum,” I responded, my mouth full and busy.
“I’m going to put all of that inside you, baby.”
“Umm, mum.” It already was all inside me. I scraped my teeth on the base of his cock and he gasped and groaned, beyond being able to talk now. Sliding my mouth up the cock a couple of times, still with my jaw hinged open to take it all in, I took it up to his mushroom cap, sucked hard on that for a bit, flicking the tip of my tongue in his piss slit, and he moaned deeply, gripping my head with his hands and swaying gently against my face. No more talking now.
I looked up and saw that his eyes were closed tight, his mouth slack and open in a low, guttural moan. Trevor was somewhere up in the clouds, lost to my attentions. I went back to the root, scraped the root with my teeth again, and held. My left hand, the one toward the barroom gripped the back of his thigh to give him support for what was going to be long-haul head, and my right hand went to his balls, rolling and teasing and pulling them down, as he moaned load enough to reverberate up the hallway. He let his arms dangle at his side and was panting heavily when I pulled half-way back on the throbbing cock and opened my jaw as much as it would go, signaling that it was time for him to stroke the cock in my mouth, which he did, rocking his pelvis forward and back, moving the cock in and out, panting hard, and murmuring, “Oh, fuck; oh, fuck; oh, fuck.”
Trevor was in heaven. I was doing all right too, enjoying the effect I had on him.
Well into the suck, I turned my head enough to see back to the doorway with the beaded curtain, which was pulled aside and Bud was leaning into the doorframe there, watching me suck Trevor off.
Trevor told me he was coming in a low, tremulous tone, pulled out of my mouth, and ejaculated on my cheek, as I worked his balls with my right hand, squeezing him dry. As he did so, he saw Bud too at the head of the hall. Bud started walking toward us; Trevor slid back up the wall; I went back on my haunches, pulling a handkerchief out of my pocket to wipe the cum off my face; and Trevor took that moment to zip himself up and escape, hobbling, out of the glass door to the parking lot.
“Well look at you,” Bud said as he reached me. He extended his hand, I took it, and he pulled me up onto my feet. “That was hot.”
“What was hot?” I asked.
“Watching you give that guy head. Let’s go back to the barroom and talk,” he said.
I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I could have easily given a second blow job there in the shadowed hallway. But I was a submissive and Bud had given me directions. I followed him into the increased light and noise of the barroom.
* * * *
“Can I buy you a drink?” Bud asked as we moved through the beaded curtain and back into the barroom and headed for an empty table with two chairs rather than to the larger table where Bud’s friends were. He guided me with a hand palming my butt.
“That blow job was smokin’,” he whispered in my ear as we walked. “You’re a player.”
Why, yes, I am.
I found the offer of a drink an encouraging start by the rules of “you accept drinks, I own your ass” rules of such bars. Letting him put his hand on my ass already was telling him he owned it if he wanted it. I wasn’t embarrassed he’d seen me on my knees with a cock in my mouth. It cut a lot of corners on him knowing what I’d do for a man. “A drink would be nice, thanks,” I said. He signaled to the barman while I settled at the table.
He sat there, looking at me, until after the drinks had arrived. The barman had remembered what each of us had been drinking. He gave me a knowing little smile as he set the drinks down and then was gone. I had a forearm lying on the table top, and, turning his chair toward me and putting a foot on the rung of my chair, Bud reached out and ran a finger lightly along the arm, brushing up the hairs and sending a chill up my spine. I ached for him to be inside me. Now that we were up close, I could see that his company shirt was open almost down to the navel and that he had the swirl of a tattoo covering his left pectoral under a light matting of curly black hair. That was sexy.
“Patrick,” he said. I turned my face toward his and he came in for a kiss. We kept contact on that for a good twenty seconds, long enough for me to insert my hand under the shirt and palm the pec with the tattoo. Coming off the kiss, he pulled away and gave me a quizzical look.
“I was surprised to see you in here . . . and back there, in the hallway. I thought you were flirting with me at your house the other day, but then I was confused. I didn’t know you were a player.”
“Yes, I was flirting with you,” I said. “Why were you confused, though?” I’d figured out what the problem had been already. But I needed him to say it to make sure it wasn’t something else. I’d prepared an answer; I wasn’t ready to tell him the truth, though.
“Everything was fine going into the house. I thought we’d be getting into it right there. And then we got into the house and there was your wife on a ladder.”
I laughed. I’d prepared this. “That wasn’t my wife. I don’t have a wife. I like guys. That was my stepmother. She’s trying to impress my dad by helping to get me settled. I could have gotten rid of her while you were fixing the kitchen faucet. I was hoping we could get it on that day too. While you were looking at Claire, I was looking longingly at the dining room table.”
“You wanted me to lay you on the dining room table?” That question was accompanied by a snort.
“Yes,” I said, showing him my serious face. “I would have opened my legs to you right then.”
“What you were doing with the dude in the hallway back there . . . that isn’t all that you wanted, all you wanted from him? More than just giving him a blow job? You didn’t just want to taste cock and make him melt like he did?”
“I wanted it all.”
“I give it all,” he whispered.
“Good to hear.”
He leaned over and kissed me again. This time I opened my mouth to his tongue. I moved my hand inside his shirt again and rubbed his nipple with my thumb. He gave a little shudder for me.
“I want it all,” I repeated as we came out of the kiss.
“They’re playing a slow song,” he said when we came out of the kiss. “Dance with me.”
We danced close for a few minutes, with him palming my ass with both hands and making sure that I could tell he was hard—and big. We kissed again on the dance floor, just standing, plastered to each other. I purposely relaxed in his arms, letting my torso dip back a bit, and he hovered over me, his pelvis rocking against mine. Big man controlling little guy. I turned my legs out, thrusting my pelvis forward, into his. I’ll be completely submissive for you, I was telling him with my stance. Take whatever you want. If we’d been naked, he’d be fucking me there on the dance floor. I wanted him to know he could if that was what he wanted.
When we went back to the table, he sat close to me and put a hand on my thigh. Leaning in to me, he murmured, “I want to fuck you.”
“I hope so. Do it. That’s what I want too,” I answered.
“I demand total control. You have to let me have whatever I want.”
“Take it all,” I said. “You want to strip me and fuck me here on this table, do it.” I started unbuttoning my shirt. He laughed and put his hand on mine, stopping me. “If you want to take me back out on the dance floor and fuck me, do it,” I said. “Do whatever you want.”
“I want a blow job like that guy got.”
“You fuck me afterward and you got it.”
“Where will we go? I’m not a fan of the rooms in back here. I want to take my time.”
“Do you have a car here?”
“My truck, yes.”
“I have my car. You know where I live. We can go to my house. I promise that my stepmother won’t be there. She’s in Chicago this weekend anyway.”
“Let’s do this,” Bud said, as he stood up from the table.
* * * *
“I’ll get us something to drink. There’s a video ready there if you want something to set the mood.” I had a DVD ready to go on the screen above the fireplace, facing the sofa, just in case. It was of Austin Wolf doing Justin Owen. The one spliced onto the back of it was a favorite of mine, Colby Keller doing Dale Cooper in “A Thing of Beauty.” The fuck in that was frenzied and total, just the way I wanted it. I’d been thinking of Bud when selecting both the Wolf and Keller films, as they gave me the same vibe he did. And the sofa used in the Wolf film was the same gray one I had in my living room.
I stripped down to my briefs while I was getting a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and two glasses. When I returned to the living room, I found that Bud had stripped all the way down and had flipped on the film. His body was everything I had imagined. With his shirt off, the swirling tattoo on his pec in blue ink showed through his black curls more distinctly. The design was something mysterious, maybe some sort of Oriental symbol. I didn’t ask. There was another one, a blue sunburst centered on his navel. He was in erection. So was I. His was longer than mine by a good bit, but not as thick as Trevor’s had been. Four condom packets and a tube of lube were laying on the cocktail table in front of the sofa.
I looked at them and at him and said, “You’re planning quite an evening, aren’t you?”
“You bet,” he answered, adding, “And maybe a night, if you treat me right.”
He grabbed me by the wrists after I’d put the bottle and glasses on an end table and went right to it, pulling me down on the sofa, lying across it, my head at the other end from the end table. He lay on top of me, holding me close. We kissed and fondled each other intimately. He held our cocks together, his so much longer and thicker than mine, and frotted them, both of us rocking our pelvises against the other. He moved down my body, kissing as he descended. He bent and pressed my knees into my chest, rolled my hips up, and went for my hole with his tongue.
“Yes, fuck me,” I whispered. This came out involuntarily. He wasn’t talking much, so other than my moans and groans, I was trying to keep quiet too. He was concentrating on the fuck, and I was concentrating on being fucked.
“In good time,” he said. I found out what that meant. He wanted a blow job first.
He came off the sofa and moved around to the end behind me, grasped me under the arms, and pulled me over the arm of the sofa, my head arched back. Justin Owen was sucking Colby Keller’s dick on the gray sofa on the film. Bud cradled my cheeks between his hands, presented the cap of his cock to my lips, and when I opened to the shaft, he moved it in, deep. This I knew how to do well—taking cock deep in my throat. I’d had considerable practice and I’d mastered taking a long one without gagging. I was a slut. I’d probably deep-throated a hundred cocks over the last seven years. I slid my teeth along the shaft as he buried it, and he groaned.
He was unusually long, but not overly thick, and I managed him—all the way in—without trouble. Sensing that, perhaps, and perhaps getting more pleasure from it than he had thought he would, he spent some time standing over me, moving the shaft in and out. He appeared to be mesmerized by the ability to see where his cock was moving in my mouth and throat.
He pulled nearly all the way out and moaned and panted, as I sucked on the bulb, pressing the tip of my tongue into his piss slit and flicking it.
He went deep again, and I slid my teeth down the shaft. He massaged my throat with one of his hands as I deep-throated the cock and he face fucked me for well over ten minutes, while head was being given on the TV as well. His hands moved down to my pecs, and he played with the silver bars I had in my nipples. He told me he was going to come, but he didn’t withdraw to do it.
“Let me come inside,” he hissed, and I held him inside me, my teeth pressing into the root of the shaft, as he tensed, cried out, “Oh, shit!” and released. I lifted my teeth and opened more as he dragged the cock out of my mouth, releasing again halfway and then again at my lips, his cum dribbling down my chin. I gagged slightly as cum bubbled in my mouth and dribbled out. Men didn’t often come in my throat, but I had trained to this. He pulled out, leaned over, took my lips with his, and shared his cum with me.
“Shit, that was something else,” he murmured. “Fuck, that’s great head.”
We couldn’t get more intimate in giving head sex than that.
“You’ve taken twice; your turn to give,” he then said, coming around the front of the sofa, picking me up, sitting down on the sofa, and then putting me on his lap, my legs bent with my toes pressed into the crack between sofa back and seat on either side of his butt, and my back streaming out from his body and lying on his thighs. I went into every position he wanted me without struggle. He’d told me off the top that was what he wanted. My body was streaming out from his. I gasped and arched my back as he grasped my cock and began to stroke me off. Fingers of his other hand played with the rim of my hole, opening me until one, and then two, and eventually three of them fit inside me.
I was open and ready for him, my heard arched over between his knees, his legs propped up on the coffee table. As he worked me, I watched Colby Keller being worked on the TV screen by Dale Cooper. I was groaning at the relentless stroking of my cock and moving toward an ejaculation, but what I really wanted was his cock inside me. I wanted him to fuck me. Complying, he hardened and extracted his fingers. Pulling me into position while continuing to jack me off, he entered me with his sheathed cock. He pulled me back onto the cock, whispered, “Relax and open to it,” which I tried to do, and then, rather than concentrate on pumping me, he concentrated on stroking me off, not stopping until I had come for him. He wasn’t full hard when he first penetrated me, having come in my mouth just a few minutes earlier, but he was hard enough to get in and he hardened up more as he jacked my cock.
After that, it was time to get athletic. He put me in a position I knew of as the Wheelbarrow, him on his knees on the sofa, and me suspended out from the sofa, on his cock, him holding my legs bent and up like they were the handles of a wheelbarrow. I was stiff-arming the top of the cocktail table, face down. He was fucking me in the ass. He was thick and long and stretched me out good. I panted and sobbed for him, consumed by the pain-pleasure that I longed for and that he was giving me.
When he got bored with that, he turned me to where I was lying across the sofa, on my side, and he was behind and on top of me. My right leg was bent across my body, and my ass was in the position where he could pump me with his shaft. I was fully open to him, all of my senses focused on the cock churning inside me. From here it was another variation of the Wheelbarrow, with me on my stomach, and him riding my ass and holding my legs bent and raised on either side of his hips. I came again in this position. That’s what I liked about fucking like this, moving through complicated positions while being manhandled by a muscular stud. I came frequently. I wanted to be drained dry.
He finished in a close-embrace missionary, me on my back on the sofa and Bud on top of me, between my thighs, my knees rubbing against his hips, while he moved in and out, in and out, deep, in long, slow slides. I sucked on his nipples and moved my hands from clutching his biceps to grasping his butt cheeks to holding him close against me as he fucked me. He picked up speed and intensity and was breathing harder. I arched my back, head arcing over the arm of the sofa again, my eyes wilding picking out whatever the pattern was on the living room wall that I planned to rip off as soon as I could get to it, and whimpered, “Yes, yes, yes.” He tensed and jerked and came, repeatedly, as I pressed into his shoulder blades with my fingernails to the rhythm of his thrusts. I came again then too, a draining dribble, but the sensation of a release nonetheless. We held here, both focused on him going flaccid inside me, both panting lightly.
I collapsed under him. “Oh, fuck, yes,” I murmured.
His cheek was on mine, we were both looking at the TV, which was into the second film. Colby Keller was fucking Dale Cooper with abandon, who lay under him, submissive and wiped out. To my mind, he wasn’t doing it any better than Bud had done me.
In thirty minutes, a third of the time with his cock in my throat, Bud had put me through the paces, from suck to fuck.
OK, that was nice, very, very nice, and it was what I needed—all that I dreamed I could get from this hunky plumber. We hadn’t gotten into the scotch yet. Should I suggest we drink and watch another film, or say he was welcome to shower? Should I offer to feed him something? Should I say I didn’t want him to get off me until he’d gone hard again and resumed fucking me? That didn’t seem to be the polite thing to do, but it was what I wanted. I felt I had to say something, though.
“Did I . . . is this what—?”
“Did you say the master bedroom was upstairs?” he asked. “Can we go up there next?”
Oh shit, yes. It wasn’t going to be just twenty minutes.
On the bed upstairs, I understood what he wanted to experience a second time, and I performed for him again the most intimate of blow jobs, my head arching over the side of the bed, my throat open to the straight-passage, deep probe of his long cock, my arms over my head, one hand clutching at the back of one of his thighs, the other laced through his balls, rolling, squeezing, and distending them, coaxing the cum out of them, as he massaged my throat, being able to feel the curve of his cock there, leaned over, tweaking the bars in my nipples with his thumbs, until, leaning fully over, he was sucking my cock and I was deep-throating his, and he came in my mouth and I came in his. As intimate and trusting a connection as we could have in the giving and receiving of head.
And then, after a brief rest, during which he continued to work my body with his hands and part my legs and feast on my hole until I begged for the cock again, he began the athletic fucking, taking me completely, taking me to heaven. The first time he’d opened me up with his mouth and tongue, on the sofa downstairs, he’d found the silver ring piercing in my choke but had been too intent on getting to a main event to play with it then. This time he played with it, tonguing and teething it, pulling on it until, not being able to take it anymore, I cried out, “Now! Fuck me again Now!”
“I’m going to fuck you to exhaustion,” Bud said, and then he did. I didn’t object. It was fine with me for this to be all main events.
For starters, he pulled me off the bed, draped me in front of him as, standing, he crouched slightly, putting my arms into a controlling full Nelson and with my legs wrapped around his thighs, thrust his cock up into my passage, and fucked me in a standing Bully position. Being significantly taller, heavier, and stronger than I was, he easily controlled me in this position. Then, falling back onto the bed with me on top to him, both of us looking at the ceiling, still immobilizing my arms with the full Nelson, he fucked me in a Crab position. My legs were bent and my feet were flat on the mattress beside his thighs, as, using the leverage of my feet, I rose and fell on his cock. He released the chokehold on me with one hand, which he brought around to grasp my cock, and he stroked me to my last, dribbling, achingly draining, but fully satisfying ejaculation, before I collapsed on top of him. He held me closely still, though, taking over the fucking, only his hips moving as he pumped up inside of me, until I heard him exhale deeply, tense and jerk, and begin his flow into the blub of the condom deep inside me.
I was done—totally wiped out, burbling and purring—but Bud wasn’t. Thank god he wasn’t. I had sex often, but it wasn’t often that I was lifted up to the heavens and totally fucked by a stud in command. Bud was a stud in command. I was his rag doll, letting him do whatever he wanted, wondering what he possibly could do next, and melting when he did it.
I just lay, stretched out on my belly, on the bed, while Bud rode my ass from all angles, our heads in the same direction, sideways, and, at last, in reverse, him facing my feet, leaning back and grasping my shoulder blades, and rising and falling on my passage until he shuddered and came for the last time—his last time.
He pulled out me, slapped me on butt hard and growled, “You do take it good.”
I had been ridden over to the side of the bed, and I lay there, moaning, my right arm dangling off the bed, my chin on the edge, moaning and groaning the pain-pleasure of having been royally fucked. I watched Bud roll off the bed and go into the en suite bathroom. He left the door open and I watched him piss a strong arc into the toilet. Then I lost sight of him and heard the shower running. When he came out of the bathroom, he was drying himself off with a towel. It was the first time I’d seen him naked without an erection. If he’d been erect and had come back to the bed, I think I would have died. Regardless, my thoughts went to how masterful his cock was in the fuck—how he managed to make contact with, rub, and make love to every surface of my passage and how his shaft caused the muscles of my passage walls to ripple over the hard phallus, pull it in deeper, and milk it. If he’d come back to the bed, I would have moaned, but I would have rolled onto my back and opened my legs to him.
“That shower’s a piece of shit,” he said. “We’re going to have to replace everything—the whole works.”
“Fine,” I answered, not being sure whether I was approving a complete rehab project in the bathroom or commenting on the beauty of his body or the quality of his fucking. Probably all three.
He dressed, with me still lying there, wiped out, unable to move, and watching him. And then he was gone. It was 3:30 a.m. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until almost noon. It was Sunday. I hadn’t changed position. My channel and my balls ached like hell. I started humming then and didn’t stop until that evening, when I went to the airport to pick up, Claire, who had flown to Chicago for the weekend.
When I went downstairs and hobbled over to turn off the TV, which was still showing the Colby Keller and Austin Wolf sex scenes in revolving succession, I saw that we’d never gotten around to drinking the Johnnie Walker Red scotch. The clean glasses and the unopened bottle were still on the end table next to the sofa. I leaned down and picked up two spent condoms. There had been two more upstairs next to the bed. Victory trophies as much for me as they were for Bud. He was a straightforward, no-nonsense fucker of great technique and finesse. God, he had shown me a good time. Four rubbers for him and more jack offs for me—I was sure of that, although I hadn’t kept count. That was the way I liked it, and so rarely got it. I had a lot to give. Bud took it all from me, and then some, leaving me in dry heaves of ejaculations that were painful but satisfying—just exactly what I wanted from a man.
I picked Claire up that evening at the Philadelphia airport and took her back to her house, next door to mine. We sat, drinking off the bottle of scotch I hadn’t needed the previous night, while I gave her a blow-by-blow monologue of what Bud had done with me, to me, and then had done again. We were sitting close together on the sofa and Claire, bigger than I was, one who was used to controlling and dominating, put an arm around me. As I talked about the most intimate of acts Bud performed on me, she was panting. She took my hand and guided it under the hem of her skirt and up to her crotch.
“Honey, you got me all hot and bothered with this talk,” she said in a husky voice. “You know what you gotta do now.”
I did know and when she turned and moved me down on my knees between her thighs, we both knew where this was going. I hiked her skirt up around her waist, stripped off her silken panties, took her cock in my mouth, and Claire lay back into the sofa cushion and hummed while I gave her head until she was fully erect. And when this transvestite was fully erect, she was something to behold. She was thicker than Trevor and longer than Bud was. I moved up into her lap, facing her, skewered my passage on her cock, and, while she grasped and squeezed and separated my butt cheeks, I rode her very nice shaft.
For an encore, she bent me over the arm of the sofa, when a strong hand pressing my neck down, my cheek plastered to the sofa cushion, while she took her time entering me with that monster cock of hers. When she was in and setting up a rhythm, she whistled, “Shit, baby, you been practicing. That plumber has been plumbing you great and giving you religious instruction.” I had set the muscles of my passage walls to undulate over her ramrod hard shaft. As usual, she was barebacking me. She had plenty of cum to give, and I coaxed it all out of her as she pumped me hard and deep. Claire didn’t have the exotic, athletic positions that Bud had, but she fucked the shit out of me in a Bulldog doggy.
I had lied to Bud about who Claire was and what she was to me—I had met her in a Philly bar and moved here because she’d told me about the fixer upper in an upscaling market next door to her. I had no idea what a plumber would think about sharing me with a transvestite.
* * * *
I was mellow through Monday, and both moaning and purring, thanks to Bud and Claire, but by Tuesday, I was beginning to get antsy again. I was such a slut; having gotten gloriously plowed only keyed me up for more. Claire would have calmed that down if I asked her too, but my body craved what Bud gave. By Wednesday, I found myself racing to the front porch as soon as I heard the truck pull into the driveway. A secretary from Brandywine Plumbers had called early in the morning to tell me that the parts for the kitchen faucet replacement were in and was that afternoon OK for a service call? Indeed, it was, I told her, not specifying that I was looking forward to two service calls in one. Maybe it was time to be laid on the dining room table.
It, indeed, was a Brandywine Plumbing truck that pulled into the driveway, but it wasn’t Bud who got out of the truck. It was an old, fat guy going by the name of Sam.
“Yeah, I’m the guy who will be working on your plumbing upgrade now,” he said.
Not a chance you’re working on all the plumbing needs I have, I thought. I need work on my pipes, but not by you. But what I said was, “I thought it was a guy named Bud who was doing the upgrade.”
“He begged off. Said he didn’t want to be bogged down on one job needing the servicing so bad.”
Were those Bud’s exact words, I wondered. If so, it was a slap in the face. He didn’t want me. He thought I was too needy. He’d taken what he wanted and didn’t think I was worth the second fuck session. I was crushed. I thought I’d found exactly what I needed and wanted here in Wilmington.
I went to work slashing away at the overgrowth in the front yard to take out my frustration while Sam whistled while he worked in my kitchen.
I went over to Claire’s for solace, dinner, and maybe a good late-evening fuck. After dinner I was standing at her kitchen window, looking at my front yard and contemplating what I needed to whack there next when a Brandywine Plumbers truck pulled up in my driveway and Bud got out of the truck. Lickety-split I was out of Claire’s back door, climbing the fence between our back yards, and coming back around to the front of my house—thankfully in time to reach the front porch while Bud was still ringing the doorbell.
“Bud,” I said.
“Patrick,” he answered. The inflection of our voices said it all. We needed no more than that for me to realize that everything was right and glowing in the world.
An hour later, when he was taking a break from fucking me on my sofa, I spoke for the first time about anything other than where to put what and how fast and deep to do it.
“You didn’t come to do the plumbing,” I said. “From the way the other plumber said it, you didn’t want to come.”
“I don’t want to do your plumbing, no,” he answered, his fingers working my hole, working on opening me even more for the next insertion. “I don’t want to be working jobs for anyone I’m also fucking. It don’t work well to mix business and pleasure like that.”
“So, you’re going to be regularly fucking me?” I asked.
“What do you call this,” he asked, with a laughed. He’d rolled on top of me and inserted Tab A in Slot B again. “After this let’s do it on the dining room table.”
I managed a laugh of my own and a response through my moan. “Is it going to be regular?”
“Every Wednesday and Saturday if you can take it.”
“Absolutely, I can take it,” I answered. It wasn’t enough. I couldn’t get enough of him inside me. But it was a start. I arched my back and raised my pelvis to him as he grasped my ankles, raised and spread my legs, thrust up into me, and started to pump in earnest.
Later, I lay on my back on the dining room table, my head arched over the side, and he stood on the floor leaning over me, his fists pressed into the surface of the table on either side of my torso, and my hands clutching him below his armpits, my thumbs pressed into his nipples as he moaned low in his chest and I gave him what he liked best with me, taking his shaft deep inside as he slow-fucked my throat. Giving Bud what he wanted most pleased me the most.