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|"No way, man! Are you out of your freakin' head.? Topping is
the only way to go. Being a bottom sucks, big time!"
So sayeth my highly opinionated and sometimes narrow-minded lifting partner, Eddie. We've been partners for, oh, going on five years now, but we've never messed around together - Eddie had found his true love before we met and neither of them has played the field ever since. Saves on condoms, anyway, I suppose. But Eddie seems pretty happy; he's a big guy - bigger than me, and a bit of a control freak, which means that his lover - as you might have guessed, is somewhat smaller - on the average side, so Eddie rules the roost in all ways, as his personality demands -- their time in bed included.
Since Eddie's sexual needs are well taken care of at home, we rarely ever discuss sex; he doesn't even much look at other guys whereas that's pretty much my life these days. However on this day we'd gotten into a quietly restrained, yet heated discussion over the very important topic of, "Which is better, being a Top (with a capital 'T', in Eddie's book), or being a bottom (with a very small 'b')? Now, the nice thing about questions like this is that there IS no right answer - except for each and every individual - so that it's always a great question for getting a conversation going when the party gets dull.
Where was I? Oh, yeah.., It all got started because I was doing 'leg day,' or perhaps I should really say, 'glute day,' which for me meant squats and lunges: bodybuilder squats, wide-stance power-lifting squats, lunges to the front, the side, and somewhere in between, and even the seldom performed leg abductors - all the moves that seem to attack one part of my butt or another. Eddie had been going heavy on his back, and we'd been pushing each other a quite a bit harder than usual, and by now we were both pretty well fagged (excuse the expression..), so that after an hour's hard work we decided to take a little break before finishing up.
So there we were, walking around, stretching, chatting, sipping water, and out of the blue Eddie says to me--, he says, "I guess you need to keep that pretty butt of yours in good shape - otherwise you'd probably never be able to find yourself a real man, huh?"
Where the fuck! did that come from? I mean - Eddie's known I'm a bottom for years, and he's never really made any reference to it before now; - guess he's been hiding his feelings all this time. So why now? Maybe, I thought--, maybe it's time for a new lifting partner; maybe he's getting tired of spotting me on squats, which wouldn't surprise me - I mean, I do them all the time, it seems like. The truth is - I DO like to keep my butt in good shape. In fact.,
- a confession: when it comes to my ass, I do go a bit overboard. Every five or six days, for better or for worse, I'm hitting my butt. It all started, I expect, because my first few encounters of the sexual kind involved pretty beefy guys - well, compared to my slim, bony, fourteen-year old body, anyway. They were only a couple years older than me, and none of them were careful, or thoughtful, and not one of them thought about me as they parried and thrust - they were interested only in getting their rocks off and I was just their means to an end, until it happened: I began thinking ---, and the most important thought I had was that although (and I certainly can't deny this! .), although the sensations I'd been experiencing were totally incredible (please note that even though my early "mentors" were thoughtless, shabby pricks, I DID go back for more.., and more.., and more -- I quickly got hooked on this sex thing), and although it felt so good having those man-sized dicks inside of me, there was still a problem. Because of the superior, egotistical attitude of those jackasses who were so joyously pounding my ass, I felt like little more than a handy receptacle for their dicks.,
- and so I thought some more, and my next interesting thought was: Hmmmmm, receptacles are totally 'passive' objects; if I want to be more, maybe I need to be 'active'. So I dared to experiment. With my ass. And, Wonder of Wonders!! - everything changed! Those turkeys on top started reacting to ME! They started responding to what I was doing, and it wasn't so very long before I, in my subtle, very unobtrusive way was dictating the tempo. I now had some say in the proceedings, and those dick-otistical know-nothings on top didn't have a clue. Admittedly, I really shouldn't knock those guys for putting so little thought into their work - they didn't have to. They didn't need to work very hard for their pleasures. I did.
But it was Grr-r-r-r-r-e-a-t! I was in control!
- for all of oh-h-h-h., maybe five minutes. I had no endurance. After that, pfffft! -same old, same old. That's when I, out of desperation, took up weight training, and I've stuck with it ever since. Working my butt has become my life's passion, and has it ever paid off! Five years later, and it is now fact - not ego - that allows me to say that I own the "Mother of All Butts!" I am the prototypical Tight-Ass! And proud of it. And yes----, it does attract good company. If you like 'em big, and meaty, and hard, and strong enough to inflict serious pain (if you're into that sort of thing..), look me up -- I've got just what you're looking for.
Here's what I mean. Once I'd been a few days without., well, you know. Then I had this big, kinda arrogant, top-dude who felt so-o-o-o-o very, very good inside that I didn't want the feeling to stop, but for some reason, he kept pulling out, whistling a few bars of Dixie, and then re-inserting. Fuck that, I decided - it was time for the ole Clamp'eroooo. The next time he tried to leave - I held on. He pulled harder - still stuck. He grew irritated: "Wha'd'ya think y'er doin', y'little fuck?"
I tried to be nice. "Hey, man - I'd just like for you to stick around for awhile," I said - heh, heh, heh. "Damn you - let me out!" I didn't. He started pounding on my back. No luck - I just sucked him in farther. It was so S_W_E_E_T!! I was in my element! All those years of training had really paid off. He finally saw things my way and stayed in until I (with a Capital 'I' ) was ready to blow. I had managed to prolong the affair into a forty-five minute session, and for most of the time I was the one directing the action. I was in heaven. Sure --he was bigger than me, and stronger than me, and even after he'd stopped pulling his dick out he kept trying to sound like he was driving the boat; but., who was really in control?
Oh, shit - there I go again, running off at the., now what was I..., umm-m-m, oh yeah - this was all about Eddie and my 'pretty butt.' I was pissed and got defensive. "So I like to keep in shape - what's wrong with that? So do you!"
"Yeah, but I don't spend all my time working just my ass."
Well, he did have a point, but that didn't soothe me any. It was time to hit him where it hurt the most. "Maybe you should. Then your legs might look big enough to hold up the rest of you." He flinched and gave me a severe scowl. But, shit - he deserved it - the guy was born a fuckin' endomorph; it was easy for him to get big. I had to work for what I got, and while his upper body was great, he looked top heavy because he hardly ever worked the bottom half - guess he's not so tough, I figured; he just couldn't take the pain. I had three inches on him in the leg department, and he hated that. It was time for him to get back on his chosen topic.
"Sure, you've got a great butt, but so what? All you do is hold onto the bed and take what you get. That sucks. Me -- I like being the one in control."
What a Jack-Ass! The guy didn't have a clue. I'm remembering now why we never talked about sex. I began to wonder what had kept Eddie and his little friend together for so many years. To each, his own, I guess -- none of my business, anyway. I had this urge to satisfy my vanity by seducing him and showing him what control was all about but decided it just wasn't worth it, and clearly further discussion was pointless. I let it slide. "Come on -- let's finish up."
We were about ready to head out when in walks Zack. As luck would have it, he was heading for the far end of the gym, meaning that he was walking away from me, so that I could stare. Hard. And enjoy the view. And drool a little, and give my pecker free reign to misbehave. My towel was handy, just in case anyone looked. Zack was pretty much my fantasy -- and the reason why I paid an annual membership fee to this gym and just the daily admission fees everywhere else in town. Given my choice, I'll always go for big and lean, and six-foot three-inch Zack Bignuts (well, that was my name for him. The 'Zack' part was right, at least.) fit the specs. Over the last few years, I'd watched him put on fat and muscle over the winter - though I doubt he ever got over eleven or twelve percent bodyfat, and then lean up come springtime. A couple weeks ago I saw him come in looking leaner than ever and head for the scales, so I nonchalantly (I hoped) followed him over. It looked like I was just waiting my turn, but managed, of course, to read off the '245' before he stepped off as he gave me a polite nod.
Today he was very close to being truly "ripped," and I watched him intently as he moved through the gym. Vaguely I heard, "Houston to Jackie-boy; Houston to Jackie-boy. Do you copy? Over."
My head snapped back to Eddie. "Huh? --- Oh. Yeah."
"Give it up; he's out of your league. Let's go."
On this, at least, I had no choice but to agree with Eddie. Zack had first appeared about three years, two inches, and fifty pounds ago. He was seventeen at the time and lean and strong, and developing rapidly. By now he had turned into easily the biggest muscular guy I'd ever seen in person -- and I wanted him. At first he always came with a smaller, good-looking lifting partner, and they appeared to be really close friends. I wondered just how close when suddenly his buddy disappeared. For the next couple of months, he came alone. "Hm-m-m-," I wondered. On a certain Friday, after not a little planning, I was ready to make my first subtle move on him. Crazily enough, I had just taken two steps in his direction when.. - of all things -- his friggin' girl-friend shows up! Talk about stopping d-e-a-d in your tracks! It was a sad day in Mudville, I gotta tell you.
And while I'm tellin' you stuff, I've gotta tell you something else: another confession, really. I've got another fetish --besides being a control-freak in bed, I mean. It's not so much that I care about 'my guys' being big -- it's being strong that really matters, but since the two usually go together, well.. And why is being strong so important, you ask? O.K. -- that brings me to my second fetish: yeah, I like to do my share of leading the action once things get serious, but before that, during the preliminaries, up until my other half gets plugged in, I like being pushed around. All right, all right.., I admit it -- I really like being pushed around. Go ahead -- call me a "pussy" if you want -- I don't give a f___! That's what I like. In fact, in my ideal fantasy, my partner would have to literally force himself on and into me.. Aww, fuck, man -- just talkin' about it is makin' my butt twitch and my cock jump; it makes me want to jump in the car and head to the gym to see who I can..awww, shit -- now where was I --Oh yeah --- I want to be forced into battle, so to speak. But once we get hooked up my butt does what it does best and I start to shine.
So you can see my predicament: thanks to five years of serious gym work, I'm fairly strong, and so I need to find someone who is very strong so he's able to force himself on me. Not an easy thing to do, so I keep hooking up with big guys and hoping for the best. The problem is that, in spite of numerous sensationalized news stories that might suggest otherwise, most guys, not even the big, tough-looking ones, are much into rape, and if you've just met someone and agreed upon an evening of fun and games, you can't just say, "Hey, if I struggle real hard and put up a fight, would you still fuck me?" It just doesn't work -- trust me -- I tried it once. Just once. Don't ask. I was getting desperate; what can I say..
So here's what I do. We start off all normal-like, just the usual touchy-feely stuff, but then when it gets to be time to get down to it, I act all contrary and shit -- I even act pissed when he tries to get in position to insert. But it's just that -- an act, hoping the Big Guy will get just a little bit ticked off..(but not a lot ticked off: a lot ticked off and either he leaves, or else leaves me battered and bruised, neither of which is to my advantage) -- so anyway, he would get just a little bit ticked off, and then go into Super-Macho mode and force me -- literally f-o-r-c-e me into submission. If I get this far -- and my percentage is getting pretty high these days, I keep up my act as he starts to drill me, making him think that he's got me exactly where HE wants me, loading him up with all this B.S. like, "Oooooo, you're so bi-i-ig," and, "No one's ever filled me up like you.," and all that other shit (it's easy to do - I just pretend I'm a woman trying to make her undersized boyfriend feel like a real man), and then slowly, carefully, but inexorably, my ass takes over, and before long, he's the one saying stuff like, "Holy Fuck! -- How do you do that?!" Only it's not an act now -- his reaction is real.
See what I mean -- who's really in control?
Now you know where I'm coming from.
* * * * *
I didn't see Eddie for a while after that, and for the next few weeks I flew solo, doing easy workouts. After three weeks of being lazy, I headed to the gym intent on a "balls-out" session; I picked a busy time, figuring I'd be able to get someone to spot me now and again. As luck would have it, Thad, one of the very big, serious regulars was there -- alone, so we hooked up for the day. He was a nice guy and we'd talked now and again in the past. He was straight but he was also cool -- didn't give a damn what anybody else did in bed. He was also horny and on the lookout for a bedmate, as was I, of course, so the conversation easily and frequently turned to sex as he scanned the gals while I did the guys. Unfortunately, it was so nice to be able to talk to a straight guy so freely about both his and my sex lives, and we were having such a good time joking around in between really tough work sets that a) I was paying no attention whatsoever to anyone else in the gym, and b) I got to talking a good bit louder than my usual, very restrained public voice, and as a result..
Thad was on the bench, trying to knock out a baker's dozen reps with four plates (that's 405# for you non-lifters out there.. I told you he was big). I was on the platform, spotting him, and this was right after I'd finished bragging (a bit too loudly) about my talented ass. I gave him a lift-off; Thad lowered it to just below his nipples (which I tried not to look at even as they pushed hard through his slightly tight tank top) with a perfectly controlled three-count, held it briefly, and pushed it steadily, securely, and powerfully upward at the perfect angle, slightly off the vertical, ending up over his shoulders, exactly as he should, crunching the pecs hard at the top..
And that's the last thing I can remember, because that's when HE chose to walk past me just to my right. If Zack was my fantasy, this guy was my fantasy squared! Where the Hell did he come from? New guy in town? I didn't know men could be that muscular - he had to be at least six-foot six, and as for his weight? Not a clue, but he made Thad look like a muscle-man wannabe by comparison. He must have grown up on Iowa corn and Kansas beef -- lots of it! - and had it all turn into pure muscle.
As I was taking him all in, a horrible realization struck me -- well, two horrible realizations, really. Number one was that my subconscious had been aware of -- and was only now letting me see, that "Mr. Really Big" had been working on the T-Bar right behind us, and, number two - he could have easily heard me yapping away about my ass. Of course, that wouldn't matter if he didn't catch me staring drop-jawed at him, which I was doing right now and couldn't stop. (Please don't look this way; please don't...) I was totally fixated on this man and, much to my surprise, I was especially fixated on his butt, which is not me at all, as you might guess, but this guy didn't mind showing off what he had, and what he had just now was a snugly-fitting pair of spandex gym-shorts making the hard, rippling glute muscles, and the depth of the cleavage in between, only too obvious as he wove carefully among the benches and weight stacks towards his goal across the gym. Was he advertising?
My mind was enshrouded in fog; the gym had totally disappeared except for this God among men who had so easily ensnared my mind. Then, emanating from somewhere within the fog was a strange, fuzzy sound, which became a loud, strident voice. Was someone calling for me..?
Oh, Shit! There was Thad, the four-hundred pound bar slowly approaching the base of his neck, his arms barely keeping it from crushing down onto his wind-pipe. I never could have lifted the bar by myself, but luckily he had enough strength left to help some and we got the bar to safety. I won't describe the scene that followed except to say that it was loud and nasty. It started with a well deserved, "Where the Fuck were you, you stupid Bastard!" and went downhill from there. At some point in the harangue, I looked up towards You-Know-Who, only to find him standing with thick, bulging arms folded across his impressively broad chest staring straight back at yours truly. I got trapped by his eyes and stared back, daydreaming about having somebody like HIM fuck me hard enough to shove me off the bed.., and I knew I was in deep trouble. Oh fuck -- stop looking at him. Just turn your head--go on! You can do it..., but I couldn't. Nothing moved -- except my dick, and all too obviously. Jesus, fuck -- don't look down.don't look. - Shit! Too late. His eyes dropped down, and I knew he saw. The smart thing to do at this point would have been to turn around and focus on Thad. Instead I followed His lead -- and looked down at Him. Hey - I never did claim to be very bright, and anyway it wasn't my brain that was in control at that moment---- Holy, Mother of God -- it can't be. My cerebral cortex was doing a quick comparative study -- putting the thick tube of man-flesh so beautifully outlined by the wonders of spandex up against things like cans of Foster's and very big cucumbers. The dick compared admirably. I let my eyes flash quickly back up, hoping he hadn't noticed that I'd.Shit! -- too late again. OK - so I'm fucked. All of this finally scared me enough that I was able to break eye contact and face the music still being issued by my very angry partner, who had in fact just then spun me around by the shoulders to face him so he could finish up while looking me straight in the eye.
What had started out as a really good day had suddenly gone about as sour as any day could. It was all I could take. I let the tirade blow itself out, apologized ignominiously, excused myself and split for the showers. I let myself soak in self-pity, lots of soap, and fairly hot water for a while, hoping, I suppose, to wash away all the memories. Eventually I stopped, dried off and dressed, and was zipping up my gym bag when who should walk in but the newly-renamed Mr. HugeCock!
Our eyes locked briefly; he offered me a little smile, and said, "Hey."
I stood there, staring, without a clue what to say. "He was smiling!?!," I thought through the haze.
"What's your name?"
That's an easy question -- I can handle that., I thought. What I said was, "Wha--? Oh! Yeah., u-m-mm.," Way to go, Shithead -- real smooth, you are.. "Uh, that is..,, Jack. Name's Jack."
"Uh, huh. Tough question, was it?" He said it with a big smile on his face.
I can't believe he's still talking to me. I tried to cover up with a chuckle. "Uh-h, sorry -- guess my mind was elsewhere." Sure was -- deep in his crotch, that's where.
He gave a little grunt of acknowledgment. "That was some pretty strong stuff you were saying in there."
"????" I knew exactly what he was talking about, but I didn't want him to know that I knew. I tried to act stupid. It wasn't difficult.
"About your ass, I mean."
Uh, oh-h-h-h.. Not knowing what to say, or what he'd actually heard, all I came up with was a very uncertain, questioning, "Uh huh.?"
"Was that just empty talk, or was it for real?"
He was still smiling, though now with a touch of seriousness there. His voice contained real interest, and he had what I judged to be an expectant look on his face. A glimmer of hope! A ray of sunshine! And so it was that, with a good bit more confidence and pride in my voice, I answered: "It was for real, man."
He studied me quietly for what seemed like forever, his eyes intently searching mine, looking for what? I wondered. I guess he found what he wanted, because his next words were, "My place. Tonight. Please come. Any time after six." He handed me a folded piece of paper containing directions to his home. Does he always come prepared, I wondered to myself? Probably, I answered myself. I expected that he rarely got a rejection.
I didn't respond. I couldn't remember how to speak.
"Unless you're busy, of course."
I couldn't believe this guy: here I'd been caught shamelessly scoping him out in the gym, making an ass of myself as a spotter, and now I was having trouble putting two intelligible words together and yet---, and yet he was smiling so invitingly at me, and being so. Nice! And at the same time he was self-assured and confident -- and a fucking muscle-god -- and still he was - Nice! I mean - he'd actually said, "Please!" Not even a hint of arrogance about him. How could I be so fucking lucky? Of course I'll go, I screamed! Silence. Wait a minute -- he's not saying anything.. Oh shit - I've got to say it out loud! But when I tried..,
"Uh-h-h-h., no., I mean.., yeah., I mean., what I mean is 'No, I'm not busy.' Oh yeah - that's a lot better you Dork! Real swift! I didn't know if I'd go out with me just then! "Tonight, that is. I'm not busy tonight, so sure., yeah. I'll be there."
He watched me for a few more seconds, nodded his head to seal the appointment, and then headed straight for the showers. I left before he had time to change his mind.
The afternoon passed in a blur -- I was on such a HIGH! I needed to plan my attack carefully for tonight. I didn't really know anything about this guy - not even his name, for Christ's sake! He seemed like an even-tempered sort who wouldn't normally try to force himself on someone, which of course was exactly what I intended to make him do -- but how to go about it? I mean the guy is huge! I was quite sure he could pound me to dust without breaking a sweat. The trick was going to be to tease him into a state of high arousal and then play hard-to-get just enough to raise his dander a bit -- just a teensy bit in his case, to the point where he decides to take control and force the inevitable. But if I overdo I, and he suddenly gets real pissed, I'm toast. Burned toast, at that.
So I spent the afternoon thinking about what to do. Normally, this is a five-minute job for me -- I did say I'd gotten good at this-- but it's tough to think clearly while in a state of near euphoria as I was -- anticipating an evening with the Man of My Dreams -- Hell! -- better than the Man of My Dreams! I spent most of the day skipping around the house with a big shit-eating-grin on my face, picturing myself twisting both of his huge, hard nipples while my face was buried in the cleavage between those boulderous pec muscles, licking clean the valley floor, and then turning him over and burying my face in his other cleavage and licking clean that valley floor - and trying very hard NOT to touch my dick for fear of you-know-what. Even so, I nearly came a couple of times imagining the feel of his ample cock inside of me and the driving power of those huge thighs!
Eventually, I got it worked out. Sure, he acted mild-mannered, but still, anybody that big has to be used to having things his way. I'd have to be subtle, but I was confident. Therefore I walked up his sidewalk at 6:10 PM (I didn't want to show up at exactly six - I didn't want to look like I was too eager.), with visions of lying comfortably on my back on a large, massive bed, my ass up in the air with my legs drooped lazily over his massive arms, watching a bright sheen spread over every thick, rounded muscle as he worked hard to keep me in the best position to satisfy his lust. I warmed my heart as I imagined watching the changing expressions of pleasant surprise and gratification cross his face as I expertly -- sometimes roughly (I was certain he'd like that! - Oh yeah!) massaged his hard, powerfully thrusting dick. I couldn't help chuckling out loud as I walked, wondering how long it would be before he realized just who was steering the ship tonight. I rang the bell and put on my most confident face. The game was on.
I don't know what I expected -- hadn't really given it much thought -- I suppose I expected that he'd be dressed -- a bit. And he was -- just a bit. Ever seen those thin cotton bikini shorts - kinda like baggy posers? Not much more than a long string, really, except that there's a lot of space in the pouch, allowing the genitals hang loosely within the folds of material so that when the guy is standing still you can't really see anything down there, but when he walks, you can easily see the dick swaying sideways with each step. That's what he had on, but on him it looked different: because of his overall bodily thickness, and his lean, hard, yet ample butt, the bikini was stretched tightly enough to appear to be almost pasted on him, so it was impossible NOT to see what I guessed to be over five inches of relaxed but thick man-meat just begging to get into action, along with two full-looking fuel tanks down below. I took all this in rather quickly, and it was but a moment after the door was opened that I heard a deep growling voice.
"Well, uh-h-h., you said -"
"In!" He waved me in, closed the door, and headed down the hallway. "This way."
This didn't sound like the same guy I'd met in the gym just a few hours earlier.
Kinda short in social skills, I thought. Well, fuck - who cares - that's not what I'm here for. Master bedroom, here I come.
Home gym - not huge, but with a power rack, a couple benches, and a large assortment of dumbbells, including some really, really, big ones. Holy fuck! - this guy's even stronger than he looks. My dick twitched at the same time that my mind questioned my decision to show up. Too late for that. I'd been standing still taking in my surroundings - for all of seven seconds or so, but that was enough to make my host impatient, apparently.
A deep, gruff voice close behind me was saying, "Your clothes are still on."
Surprised, I spun around. I glanced downward -- his weren't. What the fuck is going on, I thought? And so I asked him: "What the fuck is going on?"
"What?" Already I was confused.
He raised one arm up and flexed it a few times - hard. Thick, rounded bulges popped up in all the right places. I gawked; my estimates began at twenty-three inches. I hadn't quite realized...
"I want to really blast 'em today; I can work harder if I'm having sex at the same time."
Still confused, I began to ask, "How-"
"You're still not naked."
"Maybe you could use a little help." I was wearing a loose fitting tee; he reached down and began to pull it up. "Hey, wait a-"
He wasn't about to wait. The shirt was off. I was still recovering (it was mostly my pride that was trying to recover) when I heard, "Next comes your-"
I jumped back quickly. Normally I wouldn't complain if a good-looking, super-hunk was trying to strip me, but not like this. This wasn't seduction; it wasn't foreplay; it was more like, "Hurry up and fuck!" I was more than just a little annoyed. In a somewhat angry voice I yelled, "Hold on! I can do it myself, thanks." Christ! I sound like a whining little kid -- even to me: 'Mother, please - I can do it myself.' Shit! I was feeling my status slip here. It was time to re-establish my position. If he brought me here hoping to get his cock worked over by an expert - and that was my working theory - I figured he wanted to keep me happy - after all, disgruntled workers don't give it their all, now do they? So I stripped quickly and then glared crossly at him - up at him (Dammit! - sometimes I really wished I were a few inches taller!)- and, in a voice rippling with irritation, said, "Satisfied?"
He stared down at me from atop the bulging mountain of muscle that was him - (Jesus, he was big!) - and just grunted. I took that as a 'yes.'
"Good!" - still with lots of justified irritation. "What next..," and, with a lot of sarcasm, "- Sir?" I saw him crack a small smile as he turned around. I wondered what it meant.
"Over here." He led me to the spotter's end of a bench; it already had a fully loaded bar in place. The odd thing was that the spotter's platform was flanked by vertical racks of dumbbells - one on each side, a step or two back from the platform. The lightest, on top, was marked '75.' The others, noticeably heavier, had no markings that I could see, but they were obviously weights I'd never be able to use; seventy-five was close to my max, for reps, on flat presses. Still bewildered about what to do next, I looked back - and up - at him, and with raised eyebrows and a strong voice full of confidence and long-suffering irritation asked, ".a-a-a-and?"
His eyes suddenly became piercingly intent as his eyebrows migrated together and down towards the point right above the bridge of his nose. In his deep, but uncharacteristically harsh and commanding voice he said, "Get me ready, Cunt!"
Wait a sec - where'd that come from? He's suddenly ordering me what to do? This wasn't what I'd expected; on the other hand, isn't this exactly what I wanted? Sorta? Not precisely according to plan, but, Hey! - it looked as though in this situation his nature was to be forcible, after all, so why argue? And I didn't even have to provoke it. Boy - this was gonna be great! I'll go along for a bit, then resist just a bit. my sphincter was having spasms back there.. And so..
"Yes, Sir!" All this time, in my confusion, I'd been looking only at his eyes. Now I looked down, expecting to take his nice, soft, dangling tube of meat into my now salivating mouth and show off my expertise at getting a roaring fire going. ---Whoa! -Not necessary! I found myself looking straight down his cum chute. This fella was r-e-a-d-y! O.K., well, the least I can do is lather him up. So I did - for longer than necessary, though he didn't object any. Finally satisfied, I pulled off, stood up and looked at him expectantly.
He says, "What about you?"
"What about me, what?" says smart-ass me, with a trace of irritation in my voice.
He blessed me with an exasperated sound and then a Man-Are-You-Stupid-Or-What look before adding, "..about greasing your hole, Dipwad (then he grabbed his thick eight-incher with one hand and pointed it at me as he finished), or are you man enough to take all this 'as-is'?"
Those who sought my services in the past had generally been a bit more courteous about this, so it was with some surprise in my voice that I reacted automatically with, "Aren't you gonna-"
"Hell, no!" he interrupted, "I'm not sticking my fingers up anybody's shit hole - do it yourself." He pointed to a nearby shelf holding a couple of dildos, Vaseline, and a tube of KY.
Normally I wouldn't be too happy about this treatment, but I had to admit that his Master-like attitude was definitely a turn-on for me. This was my first experience as a 'slave,' if that's really what was going on here, and I wasn't really sure that I wanted to be here, but if ever I was to purposely hook up with a Master, I'd want him to look just like this guy, so---, what the hell, this seemed like a good time to try it out. Evidently I was thinking too much and not moving fast enough.
"C'mon, come on - we haven't got all day!"
Well, shit - I figured we had all night, at least - what was the rush? I moved toward the shelf as I grumbled sourly, "Hey - keep your shirt on, will ya?"
Not so smart. In a flash, thick, muscular fingers were gripping my neck hard, threatening to choke off my breath as I was all but lifted off of the ground by one frighteningly strong arm. In spite of my gasping and wheezing, I heard a low growl wrapped around four distinct, well-separated words: "What. Did. You. Say?"
"Uh-h-h, (wheeze) I meant, uh-h (gasp), Yes, Sir!"
The pressure eased instantly. "Better."
Damn - I'd better learn this routine real fast. I grabbed my tools and got the job done a.s.a.p. With what minimal reserves of confidence I had left, I turned to my Master and said, with what I hoped would be a well-received mixture of obedience, lightness and anticipation, "Mission accomplished, Sir. Now what?"
He didn't look amused. He just stared down at me, arms crossed on top of his jutting chest, all squinty-eyed, giving me the decided impression that I should be doing something. I glanced down at him; he was still hard, but by now pretty dry. Maybe that was it? Two quick steps, a little squirt, and I had lube all over my palms. I kneeled in front of him, and then one hand at a time, slowly but thoroughly greased his magnificently sturdy pole, taking a firm grip and sliding downward, only downward, one hand after another. With each of my strokes, he stretched himself upward slightly, as I expected he would, his already rigid tool getting more taut and tight-skinned with every stroke of my hands Oh, God - Why doesn't my dick ever get this hard, I wondered/day-dreamed at the same time? After four or five trips down his rod I grabbed firmly with both hands, slid down just a bit and then gradually increased the pressure.a little more, and then more, and then. I was sure I heard a groan of pleasure, though he tried to hide it. I released him, made a couple more gentle passes until he shined from tip to base. Still on my knees, I looked up, expecting to get his approval, but he just kept glaring exasperatedly at me. Apparently not. I stood up, looked him straight in the eyes, and with evident frustration on my face and in my voice said - almost yelled, really., "Wha-a-a-t!"
He paused before answering, "Are you sure you've ever done this before?"
That did it! It was one cut too many. A little rough handling I could accept, but this repeated humiliation I didn't deserve or need. Fuck him - he didn't deserve me. I turned and headed for my clothes. In a voice that said I've got a right to be angry, I turned back to him and all but shouted, "That's it! I've had it with your insults. The contract's null and void - I'm outta here!" I neared my pile of clothes. "You can take all your freakin' muscles and find yourself some dimwitted dork you can step all over to satisfy your ego, if that's what you want, but as for me, I am not -"
One moment I was bending over to pick up my shorts; the next, I was sailing through the air, propelled by two large hands grasping me tightly enough to give me a wasp waist as air was expelled from my lungs. I thrashed about a good deal, but it didn't matter - the two arms attached to those hands were in total control, my fairly solid 195 lbs notwithstanding. The hands delivered me easily to the spotter's platform facing the bar.
"You're not going anywhere, Little Man." As he spoke, a monster forearm wrapped itself across my middle and crushed me against the solid mass of muscle behind me. He took a moment to be sure I was fully aware of his hard, eager cock, which was pulsing rhythmically while pressed between my backside and his wall of abs muscle. The broadly flared head was nestled snuggly in the small of my back, and I could feel the warm fluid emanating from it slide down my spine. He released the pressure from his arm, placed his hands back on my waist to hold me still as he began crouching down. I could feel his hardness sliding over my tail bone and through my crack, the combined lubrication of the KY jelly and his own precum allowing it to slide along smoothly and easily. The downward passage was complete. For brief moment, I couldn't feel him and then, "Nnnh!" - I found my portal starting to spread as his cockhead expertly found the magic point and applied some upward pressure. He put his mouth up to my ear and said, in a measured, quiet voice, with a tone one might use when trying to explain a difficult concept to a four-year-old: "Do you think you could grab that bar all by yourself, or would you like Daddy's help?"
"Fuck you!" I said, but did as instructed; I figured that this wasn't a good time to argue.
"Oh, Man! - You've even got that backwards!" I heard him grunt as he proceeded to 'Thrust!' into me.
"OWWWW!" The head was in. My "Owww" was beginning to recede when.
A second big push: "Nnnngh!" He was in, and was he ever - farther in than anyone before. The power of his thrust made my feet momentarily leave the floor when his groin slammed into my butt. Just after the explosive thrust, he once again threw an arm across my middle and pulled me away from the bar and back up against his body. He rocked his pelvis back, thus letting me down, although not all the way; my feet were back on the platform, but just barely; he was holding me loosely with his arm, so that most of my weight was being supported by his groin -- and his dick, which had stretched my insides almost beyond capacity. It felt to me as if I were gripping his cock really hard when in reality, it was the girth of his cock pressing against my ass muscles that I felt. I wasn't doing anything so far. The pain was beginning to die down when I heard him chuckle, "Nice fit - heh, heh, heh." I really wanted to throw in another, "Fuck you," but I was still catching my breath, and a "s-s-s-s-s-s." was all I could muster.
He put his hands on my hips, and by using his arms to guide me up and down a couple of inches and rolling his hips back and forth a little bit, he demonstrated what we'd be doing in a way that even my feeble mind, as he apparently saw it, could comprehend. As he held me firmly in place and pumped me with an assured, controlled stroke, he says, in a voice rough with dominance, "Ya got it figured out by now?"
This time I couldn't hold it in. "Fuck you," I repeated.
Instantly he pulled out all but the head and slammed back in - harder than before, throwing me a few inches into the air. He'd made his point; I was beginning to regret this - in a way., and yet I had to admit that the novelty of the situation was an incredible turn-on for me, and I wondered if my dick had ever been this taut, this sensitive, and so very- "Uhnn-n-n," I said, involuntarily. That hurt. What was that all about? He was starting to squeeze my hips between his large, strong, meaty hands as if he wanted me to do something. Oh! I guess he wanted to hear that I'd finally figured it out, so I told him. "Yeah, I got it," I said, though it was obviously a concession made under duress. In fact, it sounded like a mild form of "Fuck you." He noticed --and immediately responded with another quick pull-out and a return "SLAM!"
I corrected myself: "YES, SIR!"
"Better," he said.
Apparently satisfied at my response, he released me and pointed to the bar; I leaned over, grabbed hold and looked around. I noticed that my "buddy" was standing on a low wooden box a couple inches below where I stood. We were both now fully relaxed, and given his greater height and our anatomical structures, my butt stopped slightly above the base of his cock, so I felt no upward pressure beyond the fact that I was more or less filled up with him, and quietly enjoyed the feeling more than I was willing to let on.
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