Drew comes to town

“Is he going to tie you up?”

I texted Frodo that I was going to see Drew and this is what he texted back.

“I dunno,” I replied. I wasn’t exactly sure what would happen. All I knew is Drew was going to be in town and we were going to hang out.

“I might like that,” I added. “We’ll, I know I’d like that.”

“I’d like to see pictures,” Frodo replied.

Well, that’s that then. TIE ME UP.

“Would you let me suck his cock in exchange for the pictures? He may ask.”

It was true he may have asked that, but in reality it was far more the truth that I wanted to suck cock very much since I haven’t had one in my mouth for…Jesus, like two years now. Fucking Covid.

“Yes, that will be fine. So long as I get what I want.”

“Of course.”

“In fact, I want you to tee it up with him that way.”

“I will.”

“Good. That turns me on.”

Me: Heart emoji.

“I’m very tight thinking about being tied up and serving Drew so you can have pictures.”

“Good.”

[texting with Drew]

“Drew would also like to spank me. Is that OK?”

“Of course. He can hurt you all he wants.”


Drew’s rules for me whenever I see him is that I need to be naked in his presence. It’s just how things should be and, honestly, how I like them. Being naked while he’s clothed reaffirms my position and makes me feel more comfortable and authentic. So, when I arrived at his room, I immediately started to strip off all the way down to the Steelheart, even as we chatted amiably about my drive over, the room, the weather, whatever. I had to get on a Zoom call with a client in a few hours but that was no excuse to wear clothing in the mean time.

“The Steelheart is so you,” he said. And, of course, it is. Completely. The tile on the floor was cold on my feet.

As I recall, he had me get on my knees. I was feeling myself slide slowly into submission. Like slipping into a warm tub. Familiar, comforting, needed. Drew is a stickler for the observation of my submission.

I thought about the chain of custody over me that put me there. Belle to Frodo, Frodo to Drew. I could do this free of any guilt or internal conflict. Three people who know me, accept me, allow me to seek what I need and provide those things to me. I am a lucky bunny.

What was to come has made the exact series of events kind of blur. Drew had told me to get some prervertables from Home Depot before I got there. Some Husky Velcro hanging straps with carabiners and a pack of zip ties. He bound me up using those and, I think, my belt.

I sat on the edge of the table, made mostly immobile and unable to sit up straight. Then he came over to me with a hanger from the hotel closet. Maybe the only place you can still find hangers with little clips to hold suit pants.

This item is very pervertable. It has some weight, especially the nice ones made of wood, and little clips that slide back and forth on a rod and grip hard but also have little rubber nubbins on the clips.

He put the first clip on my left nipple and the other on my right nipple then dropped the hanger and let if flop down. OUCH. The spring loaded jaws bit hard and the first shot of pain seared through me and made me jump which just caused me to pull against my restraints. The hanger hurt in a hurty way but the tube contents swole against its confinement.

He left me that way for a while. To contemplate. This was the first time in so long that I had to endure pain being inflicted upon me. Pain I could not control. I find the best way to do that is to lean into it. To let it flow over and through me. I burrow into it and let its hot fire burn away my resistance.

In that way, my nervous system somehow converts it to pleasure. I can feel the moment it happens. Not all at once. Gradually. Like someone turning up a light on a dimmer ever so slowly. The hard edge turns and softens and the jangly energy smooths out.

I don’t know how long he left me like that. Not too long before he flipped me over and hogtied me. Tried to spank me, but the bindings got in the way and he seemed to prefer me tied up to having a glowing red ass so bound I stayed.

But I was already feeling the ground under me start to open in that way where my desire for being hurt becomes unsatisfiable. I wanted him to whip my ass. But I held my tongue. Mostly because it was still early but also because it’s hard for me to say what I want to my dominants. Because even though I was the subject of his attention, it wasn’t about me and what I wanted. I know, intellectually, it’s important to communicate and I try to do that when I’m not in a scene, but once the sub juices get flowing, I just can’t get the words out. I mean, lol, that’s why I have blogs.

In any event, I had to get on that Zoom. Drew had me take it wearing only a shirt and with my ankles bound to the chair I was sitting in. It was fine, if rather distracting. I did it while my tender nips nagged at me for more torture.

Once off the call, Drew freed my ankles and my bare ass peeled off the chair’s vinyl seat. He sat on the couch while I removed my shirt and knelt again before him. I placed my head between his legs and he felt my shoulders and back and neck. I wrapped my arms around his thick, solid thighs and squeezed hard. It’s a thing I know he likes. I wanted to give him what he liked because at this point I was focused intently on the knowledge his cock was near and I wanted it in my mouth. I wanted to feel him shove it roughly down my throat.

In my place with my nose millimeters from spot on his jeans where the transverse seams crossed, I could smell Drew. A mixture of his detergent and the subtle man smell of this closest, warmest, most intimate place on his body. Right in front of me. Right there. But so far away still. He let me soak in it for a long time. He knew what was happening. How being allowed to absorb his essence in that way in that position was pulling me back down to where I belonged and needed to be.

But he never got his cock out. I never saw it. Later, he told me he was preparing me for my weekend with Frodo (the weekend I’m en route to as I type). He teased me with his cock to leave me wanting Frodo’s all the more.

But he wasn’t done with the rest of me yet. I was placed on the table and bound again with the straps and zip ties. The hanger was reattached and attached vie the ties to the Steelheart. If I tried to sit up, the clips would pull harder.

Again, I have no idea how long I was on the table with those evil little jaws biting at me. I mean…it was a long time. More than half an hour. Much more. It was long enough for him to change my position a few times, unattaching and reattaching my extremities, but never unclipping my nipples. The pain was intense and everywhere but that infinitely deep crack had opened to a chasm and I found myself flexing my chest and arching my back and doing all the things necessary to make the clips pull harder. And harder. And just when I was thinking they’d never come off, it was time.

If you’ve ever had something like those clips on your nipples for a long time, you know about this moment. The one where you may think you can’t take it anymore but you certainly can’t take what it feels like when they come off. When the blood comes rushing back and the intense little fires of pain flare into a binary star system collapsing into a black hole of painful ferocity. The only time I really made noise. God, it was so hard.

The nipples were cruelty dented from the clips. They looked bruised (but weren’t) and held the clipped shape as if phantom metal jaws were still attached. They were too tender to even faintly brush against. Drew sat back down on the couch and had me kneel again with my head in his lap and my face in his crotch and I literally chewed at the denim while he held me down. Held me down so I could come down.

But I wasn’t coming down. I was in too deep then. The realization came to me that what I needed even more than his cock in my mouth was his strong, hard fingers on my nipples. Direct infliction of the most intense pain as only Drew could give me. But I has to ask for it. He wasn’t going to give it to me.

The words were in my mouth but wouldn’t come out. I couldn’t get myself to say them. My internal conflicting motivations wrestled in my head. Finally, I blurted out, “Would you hurt my nipples some more?”

I felt a measure of shame for asking. But he laughed. And, of course, he agreed. He gave them little flicks first which was terrible and wonderful. Then he really went to work on them. Pinching and twisting and all I could feel and see was the hot white fire that burned like a cross over my body, from nipple to nipple, up to my brain, and down to the straining contents. I made growling noises and pressed into him hard.

MORE. I needed more. I needed every bit of it. I could never, ever get enough.

Eventually, it was over of course. He stopped. I laid back and felt totally stoned on the endorphins or whatever chemicals where being spurted into my system. Just drunk on the stuff. Dopey. It was hard to focus my eyes. It was hard to focus my thoughts.

“I can’t believe you enjoy doing that to me half as much as I enjoy having it done,” I said to him.

He assured me he did. And that turned me on. I would have kept going. Would have been happy to have him torture me in all kinds of ways. But it was getting late and we were both hungry and clearly he was ready to move along.

So I got up and got dressed and we went to dinner at a restaurant and talked about TV shows and life. My nipples didn’t hurt as much as I thought they would the next day. They showed no outward signs of their suffering. Amazing little things, really.

I can’t wait for Drew to come to town again.

Always needing more

Earlier today, I posted this to Twitter.

And in reply, was asked this…

And…I couldn’t reply there. Needed more characters and words. So, here we are.

First, when I’m penetrating myself with a dildo, I like to watch. Usually using a hand mirror or my phone. And therefore, I am constantly reminded (because it’s always in the way) that there’s a locked and useless penis on me. It’s not any part of the action and, while getting fucked, I have little to zero interest in it. Never really have. I was always the kind of guy who, when I had an available penis, went totally soft while being fucked — I don’t really understand how guys can be hard or jack off while getting plowed (honestly, I should have known what a bottom I was all along). But now, it’s impossible not to juxtapose the prominent and substantial thing penetrating me against the locked and inconsequential object being kept out of sight that it’s meant to mimic.

So, “Does riding it drive home how small yours is kept?” Well, yes. But it’s not just a size thing. It’s a position thing. It’s about my natural role. The locked penis can’t compete with the dildo at all, but the reason is it’s like comparing a Lamborghini to a cuttlefish. They’re meant for different purposes. The penis’ purpose is to inhabit a tight constraint. That’s it. Which is to say, it has no purpose. Other than when Belle wants me to use it on her.

Regarding the “might be as good as it feels for Belle” part, I have pondered this aspect of nature we share. We both like penetration. We both want to be fucked. I can get fucked by what I need any time I can finagle the time and privacy. For her, we need Joe. Because the penis is inadequate to the task and wearing her strap-on gives me the confidence I need to perform and pleasure her. I get the need to be fucked in a way a lot of husbands (most husbands) just wouldn’t.

And that need has been building all through this quarantine period. I don’t always want to be fucked but when I do get the urge I get it bad. And I’ve had it bad for about a week now. Woke up after a second fitful night of sleep filled with horny thoughts and continued to feel the urge even after my morning run. So, even though I’m at home with my wife and kid, I decided I had to get a big cock inside me.

I waited for Belle to finish in the bathroom and get on her first Zoom call of the day. It was an opportune moment when she was distracted and the kid was still asleep. I grabbed my “medium-sized” dong from its drawer and snuck it into the bathroom. “Snuck” because I really didn’t want Belle to know or have to think about her husband riding a big fat cock while she was trying to work twenty feet away.

Before going to town on it, I trimmed the hair around my hole. I find it interferes with the lubrication and ease of insertion and I had let it go for too long. Seeing myself pucker and flex as I trimmed and shaved around it made me even more horny for a fuck.

The dildo I chose is the perfect balance between challenging and pleasurable. It’s not nearly the biggest one I have but I also knew I didn’t have all the time in the world. I lubed all 8″ of its length (and 7.25″ of circumference) and squatted down, lining it up with my hole, then pushed. The big head popped in and, without stopping to catch my breath, I kept going. It felt so good. It was what I needed. So badly.

I worked it in and out letting my ass get used to it. I fucked myself with it with its balls forward, as if taking it from behind, then rotated it inside me so its balls face backward, as if I was on my back. Each angle feels distinctively pleasurable it pushed into different parts of me. I shivered as its flared head popped back and forth over my prostate.

After several minutes, and just as I was getting good and loose and getting it inside me up to its balls, my phone rang. The vet. The dogs had just been in for their annuals and there had been tests and results and as I spoke to her, I kept the dildo inside me. Gently moving my hips and flexing my thighs as if being slowly fucked by a lover while listening, trying to not sound as if what was happening was actually happening.

At some point, I just sat on it. Letting it get buried as deeply into my guts as possible. My hole twitched as it opened as far as the fattest end of the dildo required. I could see and feel leakage from the end of the Steelheart. Could smell my ejaculate that would forever remain a noun, never a verb. The somewhat sad remnants of the parts I was physically if not emotionally equipped with.

Finally, the consult was over. I thanked the vet and looked at the time. Too late to use the dildo any longer, I let it slip heavily out of me. And immediately replaced it with with a metal butt plug. The one still inside me as I write this. The one I feel as I grind my ass into this chair.

Unf. Fucked but still needing more. Story of my life.

The hole thing

Drew related to me today that someone on Recon asked him, “Why does Thumper need something up his ass?” Which is…an odd question. Why does anyone need anything they like? Why do they like it? What’s the meaning of life? Why is the sky blue?

There’s the obvious physiological explanation. The prostate gland is highly sensitive and a lot of men find its stimulation to be pleasurable. For a denied man, the prostate is made even more sensitive because it’s typically swollen with frustration. There are also a lot of nerves all over that region (the opening of the anus is not unlike the opening of the mouth in terms of sensitivity) and some of us are wired and/or trained to find pleasure from sensations there. Carrying a plug is nothing like being fucked, though. Someone who likes the feeling of a plug in their ass finds that pressure and weight to be pleasurable. Why? I dunno.

Some guys can’t find a way to enjoy ass play. In fact, not even all gay men like ass play. Some have zero interest in it and never integrate their holes into sex. I think that’s probably psychological, but I suspect some men may also have differently wired nerve endings. We’re all special snowflakes, etc.

Some guys are into depth play. Being fucked deeply. There are toys specifically designed to penetrate a long way. Other guys (like me) are more about girth and stretch. I get off on the feeling of being opened up and I’m more into that aspect than how deeply something goes inside me. Depth for me is more a function of girth in that toys tend to get thicker towards their base.

But again, plugs are different. And I like the WMCBP in particular because they’re big, heavy, and yet relatively really easy to leave in for a long time because they have very thin “necks.” The XXXL plug, for example, is 8″ around. That’s almost as big as a Coke can. It weight more than two pounds. There are days when that feels like it’s going to split me but there are also days when I wish it was bigger and heavier. That’s what I like and appreciate. It’s a weighty load. But it barely holds my hole open because of the thin tube that connects to the plug’s base.

Beyond all that, my submissive nature needs to be taken into account as well. I have a need to be dominated and controlled. And one way that plays out is Drew’s current control over my ass. This morning, for example, I wasn’t inclined to carry. I just didn’t feel like it. I was almost out of the house with an empty ass when Drew asked me what I was carrying today. He expects I’m carrying every day. So while I didn’t really feel like it, I put the WMCBP Rattler in anyway. It was one he specifcally said he wanted me to carry this week so it’s in now.

So another reason I “need” something up my ass is I crave domination and being forced to put something there is a way that can manifest. You either get that (Dom/sub dynamics, etc.) or you don’t. You either understand how comforting it can feel being locked in front and plugged in back or you don’t.

So…yeah. Because I like it. Because I need it. I crave the expectation. Physical, emotional, mental. A big, complicated ball of reasons. That’s why.

Weekend by the lake, Part 4

I think what woke me the next morning was the sound of his piss. It’s a sound I’ve really grown to appreciate. A man’s heavy stream of urine, forcefully expelled from his body and striking the surface of the water in a toilet bowl. That’s not me anymore. It’s not a thing I can do. I can’t make that sound.

Whatever the case, the grogginess left me quickly. This was our last morning and we didn’t get him off the night before. There was unfinished business. These holes weren’t going to fuck themselves.

It didn’t take long. He was on me again, cock back inside. Some bottoms just know when they’re ready. I felt that I was and I was. There wasn’t any getting used to his big dick that morning. Just shoved it right back in there and started to pump. He tried me on my stomach with a pillow under my hips for a bit but eventually flipped me over on my back and took me from the front.

His fucking wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t doing it for me. He was doing if for him. It was selfish. And the more he did it, the more he bent my body. The harder he drove into me. Eventually, my feet were up by his ears and I was bent almost all the way over but that’s the position he really wanted and all I wanted was exactly what he wanted and to keep feeling his cock fuck me ragged.

Oh, Jesus, he went to town. He POUN. DED. MY. ASS. SO. GOOD. And my whimpers and moans mixed with his grunts and panting and I was very aware the window to our room was open and I could hear the sounds of fellow travelers outside.

Again, he was covered in sweat. I was so open and entirely his. But again, it wasn’t going to happen. Not like that. He was still spent. Still recovering. He fucked me beautifully and selfishly and he left me a simpering puddle, but it wasn’t a puddle of his seed.

He got up to get ready to leave. I watched him move around the room. His lean figure, olive complexion, and all that hair. Not a bit of it cut or trimmed below his neck. Total man. While I freak out if my pubes grow longer than a third of an inch and even shaved my hole nice and smooth for him, he doesn’t seem to think anything of being exactly who and what he is. I said before he reminds me of a 70’s man and he does. Like from a cigarette ad, but not one of those outdoorsy types. More a city man. Erudite and refined, but but without artifice.

We showered and dressed. I was in my typical fussy and fancy underwear (I think it was the sheer green camo pair with the neon green trim) while he was putting on some maroon pair of Hanes or some shit like that he got from Target. I don’t say that to be critical. It’s so perfectly in keeping with who he is. Why wear that stupid expensive stuff I have when his come in a three pack and work just as well? Men like him — real men — don’t think about such silly things. His sexiness comes from somewhere else, not underwear. It’s incredibly endearing and just thinking about those ugly maroon briefs makes my chest swell with an aching need to see him again.

We had just about finished packing and getting ready. I had even removed and packed the Steelheart in anticipation of air travel (of course, not so he could see anything — and he showed little interest) when he showed me his cock again.

“Want to kiss it goodbye?”

[Homer drool face]

“Then get on your knees and kiss it.”

I dropped instantly and inhaled his still-soft meat. I adore the feeling of flaccid cock in my mouth. The way it stiffens and lengthens and grows so it won’t fit anymore. Soon, I was giving Frodo another energetic blow job. He once again sat down on the chair and pulled my shirt off, feeling my shoulders and back, though my pants had to stay on since the penis was free. I knelt before him, cock in mouth, worshipful.

I mean, how many ways can I write about blowing him? How many ways can I express the feeling of purpose and joy giving him that pleasure brings me? My place in life is right where I was. On my knees. Giving pleasure. Taking only what reflects off the focus of my attention. And my attention at that moment consisted entirely of Frodo’s cock of my dreams.

And suddenly, that “innocent” kiss had turned into a surging cock filling my throat again with hot ejaculate. That’s what Frodo wanted all along, apparently. A mouth willing to accept his gift. To swallow it whole. To make that part of him part of me.

I didn’t want it to end. All that morning, at breakfast, in the car, driving. I didn’t want it to end. It was magical.

I wrote over on my other blog about how grateful I am. Grateful to Frodo. Grateful to Belle. Grateful to a universe that allows these two people to exist and appreciate me for who I am. I said,

There is no limit to love. It is not a finite resource. It’s renewable. It’s bottomless. Our capacity for love is only contained by our lack of imagination and our petty jealousies and insecurities. I am the luckiest fucking rabbit in the world to find myself in this place and there isn’t a moment I don’t realize that.

I don’t know when I’ll see Frodo again. We’ve sketched out some plans, but they’re not firm. Until that time comes, I’ll have to be content re-reading these words about that weekend by the lake.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Weekend by the lake, Part 3

We whiled away the afternoon partaking in the adorable little town’s amenities. It was, to be sure, quaint as fuck. But this isn’t a travelogue and you’re all like blah blah blah cute town whatever so I’ll cut to the chase.

We arrived back in the room after dinner and Frodo, quite understandably, was tuckered out. We stripped and got into bed and…watched the Food Network. I was doing my best to be good and follow the “sex is not for me” mantra, but he’s so yummy. He announced he was turning in and it seemed like that was going to be that.

But that was not that. What it was was some nice kissing (though, at this point, his stubble was really ripping my face up). I could have left it at a peck. But I might have leaned in a bit. The nice kissing led to him kneading and groping my muscles and that led to me climbing up on top of him and that led to him getting a raging boner. Oh, and did I mention how terribly I wanted a fuck?

Frodo was rubbing the head of his cock up and around my ass crack. I was writhing like the slutty bitch I am. But I was also nervous in that very special way only a committed bottom can be.

“I want to fuck you, Thumper.” Husky, breathy, and lustful.

“Mmmm, I want you to fuck me, Frodo. So badly,” I whined and nibbled at him.

It’s just a fact that having your ass fucked is not as straightforward as all the porno leads one to believe. And it had been several hours since I prepared myself. As much as I wanted to let nature take its course, sometimes its course is awful so I had to put the breaks on for a quick check.

“I’ll be right back…” and I sprung off him, grabbed my kit, and closed myself in the bathroom. Luckily, everything was still in fighting shape and I was back on top of him only a few minutes later, this time with a bottle of silicone lube.

I gave him the lube. He squirted a bit on his hand and rubbed it on his cock. Then he ran his lubed fingers up my crack. They were rough, both in texture and action. I shivered. There was no reason for this to be gentle. He knew it. And I needed this. Deep in my soul was a Frodo’s cock-sized void. It has been there for three and half decades. He knew that, too.

Still on top, I lined his shaft up with my hole and leaned back. I pushed to open my sphincter and slid all the way down as his cock pushed inside me. I am quite positive I moaned or deeply sighed or something but all I remember is thinking, WHY DOES HE HAVE TO LIVE SO FAR AWAY!?

I worked up and down his pole, feeling it slide in and out and force me open. I had very deliberately left my ass alone for more than a week before this trip so it’d be as tight as possible. So he could make it solely his. Imprinted to his shape. I arched my back as far as I could and leaned away from him to bury his manhood as far into me as possible.

Oh. My. God.

There’s that scene in Young Frankenstein. I’m sure we’ve discussed it before. The one where the Monster takes Madeline Kahn in the forest for the first time and she belts out, “Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you…” Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.

I think Frodo was letting me drive in order to grow used to him inside me, but once that was done, he took over. Up on my hands and knees first, pumping hard. Then with my face in the mattress and my ass in the air, his firm hands on my back pushing me down and getting the angle of invasion just right. Every thrust of his hips was just that much harder as he built his head of steam.

When he wanted a new position, he moved me around like the fuck toy I am and I willingly obeyed his every direction, even the unspoken ones. I could sense and feel his needs though my hole and my ass as he shifted his weight for better penetration and how he gripped my shoulders or my neck. Before long, he was pounding me freely, covered in a sheen of sweat as my breath was torn from me and the weight between my legs rocked back and forth.

But he was very tired. And it was late. And no pliant positioning of my ass could find the path for him to come again. He pulled his dick out of me and kneeled between my legs. His hands were back on my ass, feeling it. Perhaps admiring it. His fingers pushed inside me. One, then two. He twisted them, feeling the slick looseness he created. I whimpered and purred. Then he fell back, exhausted.

My entire body was electrified. I had never been more awake in my life. All the nerves in all the tingly places were firing and my balls felt tight and engorged. I wanted to take him back in my mouth right then and suck him off until the sun burned out. But he was done. I had to be content with spooning into him, inert steel pressed into his ass.

And then we talked. For a long time, he humored me. We talked about our lives, from long before and ever since. Our families. Our careers. And that’s when it hit me. I didn’t just love getting fucked by Frodo. I didn’t just love his cock. I loved him. Romantically. And I always had.

Finally, he could keep himself awake no longer. I realized my side of the conversation was dominating and he was down to replying “mmm-hmm” and “yeah” and I may have been a horned up jackrabbit wanting more dick, but I’m not an idiot. I let him go. He was asleep almost instantly.

I was definitely not. Denial can make sleep hard to begin with. “Just got fucked” denial is the worst. I laid there and looked at my phone then put it down and closed my eyes and then looked at the phone again. Eventually, I don’t even know how much later, I did drift off to a fitful sleep. Every time I turned in bed, the heft between my legs would shift and wake me up. I was intensely aware of being locked. Of feeling the residual lube in my ass. Of that freshly fucked feeling.

Literally everything was distracting.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 4

Weekend by the lake, Part 2

The next day, Frodo ran a long ways. Long for me, anyway. I style myself as a runner (when not injured from running) but I’m nothing compared to him. He runs long distances and at speeds my frame has never been able to match for more than a few minutes at best. The excuse for us being in the nearly terminally quaint town was a half marathon event he signed up for that weekend so, the next day, that’s what he did.

While he was running, I went back to the room to prepare myself for what I hoped would be a really great fucking. The day before had just been the blowjob in the afternoon and then he had to get to sleep for the run, so we didn’t do anything else. I really really wanted him to fuck me so I was going to make sure that as soon as he wanted to fuck me, there would be nothing to stop or even minimally slow it down. Ablutions, shower, etc.

At the finish line, I waited for him. The festive environment made me want to run more again and see if I could get myself up to half-marathon distance, even if it would be at least 50% slower than Frodo. He finished with a time he was very happy with and after milling about the area and cheering a few other runners as they crossed the line, I drove him back to the room.

I had been looking forward to burrowing into his sweaty post-race manliness. His scent the day before from nothing more than a long, sunny car ride was intoxicating to me and that amplified by 13.1 miles of sweat and effort was everything I hoped for. Deeply musky and animal, but not foul. One hundred precent living, healthy masculinity and I wanted it spread all over my body and for his marking to be obvious to all who looked at me.

Alas, what he wanted was more cock sucking. Of course, that’s not a complaint. It’s just…fucking hell, did my ass want his cock. But I’m wired to be whatever he needed me to be right then so I relaxed my jaw the best I could and ignored the raw soreness in the back of my throat from the previous day’s abuse and swallowed as much of his wonderful tool as humanly possible.

Sucking his balls was an opportunity to get more of his pheromones deep into my lungs. To breath in his masculinity and let it work its magic. I rubbed my nose up and down the crack between his cock and his thigh and down under his sack to absorb as much as possible before his inevitable orgasm.

The orgasm, though, was not cooperating though he said I was “a magnificent cocksucker” (*bunny purrs*). He flipped me over on my back and straddled my face with his crotch to lick everywhere under his cock I could get to while he jacked off over me. Assisting masturbation might seem like a let down, but I live to serve sexually and my partner’s pleasure and satisfaction is paramount. It was no insult to me at all that he needed to get himself there. To the contrary, it only made me work harder at whatever task he put to me. In this case, worshiping his balls.

With him on his knees over my face, clutching the headboard, I was left with nothing to do with my hands. I reached down and grabbed and squeezed my balls, feeling the heaviness of the attempted engorgement inside the steel. In all the times Frodo and I have been together like this, he has never paid the slightest bit of attention to my balls or the device or its contents. Barely any incidental contact, he never even mentions or asks about them.

His pointedly intentional lack of attention says that my only sexual use to him is as a mouth, hole, and male body for him to fill and feel. I might as well be a Ken doll between my legs for all it seems to matter to him. So as soon as I grabbed myself and pulled on those things he ignored, it felt…wrong. Too much like I was attempting to pleasure myself that way. In a way he had decided was irrelevant. If he wouldn’t cross that line, what right did I have to? I removed my hands and instead wrapped them up and around his thighs, grabbing his lean runner’s legs and feeling his muscles work beneath his hairy skin. The only thing I’d feel between my legs the whole rest of the trip would be the weight of the steel pulling on me or the strain of the contents pushing against its confinement. And that felt perfectly right. I am to serve sexually and service to Frodo in no way includes that part of my body.

While I was busy figuring out my place in the sexual hierarchy (always last, BTW), Frodo was bringing himself closer and closer to climax, pumping his beautiful cock just above my head. At the critical moment, he lifted his balls out of my face and abruptly stuck the head of his cock in their place and unloaded. Like the time before, shot after shot travelled down his shaft, past my grasping lips, and slammed the back of my throat. I struggled to contain all his seed and for one horrifying second thought I’d choke or gag and possibly waste some of his gift, but I got myself under control and let him fill me. Also like the time before, his moment of climax caused the Steelheart’s contents to strain their hardest.

When he was finished, he withdrew and I swallowed his whole load with one large gulp, savoring the slick consistency and salty, earthy essence he left in my mouth. As his lust subsided, I was left to struggle with the containment of mine. As if his deposit had supercharged my desire. Now that he was done using me, I needed it ten times more. I wanted that hard cock back. I wanted it in my face and in my ass and in my mouth and EVERY. FUCKING. WHERE. Simultaneously. His cock, the center of my universe.

But I was a good rabbit. I didn’t jump him. I kept my place and let him bask. We cleaned up and set off to explore the cute little town together. As we walked across the small parking lot, I wanted everyone who saw us to know the man I was with had just made me his bitch. Again. Me, not them. I was his whore. His, not theirs.

I felt good.

Part 1
Part 3
Part 4

Weekend by the lake, Part 1

He pulled up at the terminal wearing a sharp blue suit in his candy apple red European convertible, closely cropped hair finally given over to mostly gray, blacked-out sunglasses over stubbly face. Dreamy. Distinguished. Devastating.

I had not expected this. Frodo told me, but I subsequently forgot, he bought that car for his 50th birthday and the suit and freshly short hair were not part of my mental picture of him. Honestly, seeing him in that ensemble made me a little weak in the knees. He’s so handsome to me. Has been since the day I met him in high school German class in our freshman year. He sat in front of me. Besides Belle, I have no closer friend in the world.

After the pick up, we went to a cider tasting. It was pre-planned and we were to go with his husband but his husband begged off at the last minute so he took just me. I looked passably cute but was very obviously more casual than Frodo. We stood in the hot and crowded space, Pride flags and rainbow balloons festooning the room, and I reveled in the possibility that strangers would think I was with him. Like, with him. Which, in a way, I was. I was there to spend the weekend with him. To cheer him on in a half-marathon. For him to use me in whatever way he wanted.

But not that night. We went and had pizza after our glass of cider and talked about family, the past, and the future. Then he dropped me in my hotel room. He lingered. He seemed to be considering his options, but I think he was tired so it was a simple kiss and a hug. Good lord, I thought, his stubble was going to rip my face up over the next few days.

He came to get me the next morning. No suit, but same car and sunglasses. Also, shorts. As we were getting underway, passing through the twisty and nonsensical city streets of New England, I was feeling a bit of nervousness. Just butterflies. Excitement. I had been looking forward to this weekend for some time. And now it was officially underway. Last I was with him, Frodo was just learning how to be with a sub the likes of me. One who wants to be sexually used. What would happen this time? And when would it happen!?

And then, he did this.

It was so simple. His hand on my knee as he drove. Not stroking. Not moving. Just…laying there. Ever so slightly gripping.

Mine.

It was one of the most meaningful acts of dominance I’ve experienced. So simple yet so clear. He did it on purpose. I don’t know if he sensed my nerves or just wanted to make a statement, but it both calmed and excited me. By the end of the many hours we spent in the car together, I would wrap my hand around his arm from underneath. Stroke the soft skin under his wrist or play with his arm hair. My way of accepting his dominance over me and submissively reciprocating. Appreciating it. Thanking him for it. Good GOD it made me horny as fuck. Hornier, I should say.

It was a lovely day for a long drive through the wilds of New England and New York. The top was down, the sun was shining. We stopped at an adorable diner next to a small river and had lunch. Back in the car, we talked some about D/s. What submission means to me. How a lot of people confuse consensual exchange of power as abuse. He related that since our last time together, he had evolved into a more top-oriented role. He told me about a boy he met on an app who was a remarkably able bottom who only wanted Frodo to fuck him and of course I became intensely jealous and made an oath then and there that I’d outdo this other bottom, whatever it took. No way was I going to let some other bitch be Frodo’s top bottom.

As we got closer to our destination, my desire for him grew. I placed my hand on his inner thigh and stroked his skin slowly. He said he liked it so it became my mission. Slowly, I meandered up his leg. Under the fabric of his shorts. I could feel the seam of his underwear with my pinky, but nothing else. It was maddening. At one point he had to reach in and adjust his growing hard-on and I took the opportunity to directly feel it.

I have to stop here and give some history. Frodo and I started having sex about 36 years ago. While he wasn’t the first boy I had sex with, he was the first to have a man’s cock. His is my ur-cock. The progenitor of all others. The one all others compete with and are compared to. The one I fantasize about. It’s not about size, though it’s perfectly proportioned and above average. It’s just…perfect. A full, fat head and a lovely upward curve. Thick. Meaty. Just writing these words makes me a little weak and unfocused. I’m dreamily remembering what it felt like inside me.

I’ve known that cock more than half my life. I can’t get enough of it.

And, there it was. I could feel it. So, so hard. So thick. So close, but impossible to get too. I began to stroke the outline of it. Feel it’s curve. Rub it under its head which I could clearly feel through the fabric. I tweeted…

I knew he was leaking under that fabric. I could taste the saltiness of it in my mouth already. I was practically drooling in anticipation.

Finally, FINALLY, we got to the hotel. A nicely updated drive-up motor inn that was probably built in the Fifties. It was beautifully situated on the side of a lake and was quaint and picturesque but I didn’t give a fuck about any of that. I wanted in that goddamned room. I wanted in his pants. I wanted my clothes off. Every nerve in my body vibrated with desire for him.

We played it cool though. Bantering with the desk clerk. Heard about the special discounts and offers in the area. Sauntered back for our bags. Calmly entered the room and gently closed the door. Then, all I remember is our faces slamming together so hard I don’t know how we weren’t injured. His face was so rough. It tore at mine. His thick, manly breath mixed with mine, his tongue forcing its way in. I rubbed the explicit curving bulge in his pants and begged to be able to set if free.

“Get on your knees. Worship that cock. Show me how much you want it.”

FUCK. YES.

Oh my good heavens. Worship is the best word for it. I swallowed it down as far as it could go. Farther. I wanted it in every part of me. I was ravenous for it. He moved me to the nearby chair and sat down while removing my shirt.

“Worship my balls.”

I move immediately to his balls. Licking and lapping and sucking one, then both, into my mouth. Massaging them with tongue. Running it all around his sack. Letting his cock be pushing left and right by my nose, smacking me in the forehead. That cock is my god. I felt it throughout my being. I needed to genuflect before it. Allow it and its owner to see how completely they owned me.

Frodo doesn’t fuck around with manscaping. His bush is full and forested. Deep and musky. No need to cut the hedges back. The potency of his shaft was evident enough. He reeks of an old-school, almost Seventies kind of masculinity. The kinds of cock and pubes from the first years of Playgirl. No artifice or affectation. A man’s cock, even now. Especially now. My face was buried in his essence. I got high from it.

He made me stop while we moved to the bed. He kicked off the rest of his clothing and stripped me of mine. He ran his hands across my body, appreciating the results of my strength training. Told me how good I felt. How strong and hard. Yet still totally under his control. The body and all I’d done to build was at his command. I purred at his compliments but ached to be used.

Take it. All of it. It’s yours.

What he required at that point was for me to continue to worship his cock. So I did. I fought to get it completely inside my mouth. Suckled it. Everything. Again, I was told to go down and lick his balls. So, of course, I did. I would do anything he wanted. After several minutes of ministering to his testicles, I glanced up and saw he was on his phone.

On. His. Phone.

But instead of being annoyed, it turned me on even more. It was a total power move. As if to say, Suck my cock, boy. I have business to attend to. And honestly, it only made me work harder. To make it impossible for him to keep focused on the phone. To lose his ability to think about anything else than my mouth on his cock and balls. And yeah, I succeeded.

The phone was down and off and his head was arched back and his breathing and the noises he was making told me what I needed to know. Time was short.

“Oh, fuck. I’m going to come, Thumper. I’m going to come in your mouth. Do you want that?”

I let my actions speak for me. I wanted literally nothing else in the universe at that moment in time but to have him shoot his load down my throat. It was my personal mission to ensure every tiny bit of it would end up being consumed by me.

Then it happened. He placed his hands on my head and held tight. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. Then his cock erupted and the steel between my legs became tight. Surge after surge of hot ejaculate filled my mouth. Three, six, nine pulses. I lost count. More than I could manage or imagine. Then he was done. I slid his rapidly deflating meat from my mouth, being carful not to spill. Then swallowed it all with a large gulp.

Uuuuuuuunf.

He pulled me up to his mouth for a kiss.

“I can taste my come on your lips.” He kissed me roughly, burning me with his stubble. “Your face smells like cock.”

I wanted more, of course. I vibrated with need and lust. But he was spent and it was getting late and he was hungry. So we dressed and went to dinner. And I accepted my place. None of this was for me. It was all for him.

Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

Always a bottom

This post was salvaged from my Tumblr site…

I have had bottom-like tendencies since I was a little kid. There was another boy, older than me by a few years (though he seemed practically an adult), who lived on the corner when I was maybe six or seven and he was the first person to teach me I liked having things put in my ass. Me and my best friend from across the street would go to his house and he’d basically experiment on us. Lubing up pencils and straws and magic markers and the like with his spit before shoving them up our hairless pink puckered holes as far as we could take. He would praise us for new depth records. He’d fiddle with insertion angles, making us bend over more or less (I can remember his hand on my back guiding me), to get them as far as they’d go. I recall how he got an entire plastic straw inside me once and how that made me feel behind my bellybutton. I liked it. It was exciting. He was proud.

I experimented with all kinds of pervertables as I got older (mostly personal hygiene bottles and vegetables) until I moved out and could buy a proper dildo. Then I got plugs. Then they got bigger. Not ridiculous, but bigger than the average hard cock. Problem was, I would never play with these toys for very long before I ‘d make myself come and then the idea of them repulsed me. Post-orgamsic Thumper is not a bottom at all. I started to avoid any contact with the penis while fucking myself specifically so I could extend the sessions. So I could work up to the “big” ones (that, honestly, are quite modest compared to what I can take today without warming up). Then the barest stroke would cause me to shoot everywhere and the toys were stowed away until the next time I had that particular itch to scratch.

I say all this to emphasize that chastity and long-term orgasm denial didn’t make me a bottom. I have always been one to an extent. But losing access to the penis and having no natural stopping point to those times when I fuck myself other than my own physical stamina (or scheduled appointments) has supercharged my bottomness. 

Today, as I rode the third-fattest dildo I own, I thought about how I’ve changed. How craving each stroke of a hard shaft rubbing my prostate has totally replaced the urge to grip and stroke the penis. For me, now, the only form of masturbation I can do is fucking a dildo or carrying a plug. I can’t have a mind-blowing orgasm after building up to it for an hour. I can’t have a quick squirt, for that matter. I can have nothing like that. The best I can muster is leaking pre from the tube or cage enclosing the meat. To shove something huge in my hole and push out a slug of milky liquid up front. 

Sometimes I feel like my primary sex organ is no longer the penis. That I’ve been reprogrammed to accept my hole in that role. I’m far more likely to fantasize about getting fucked than I am to think about fucking or jerking off or having an orgasm of my own. I want to be filled and plowed and used. I want to feel the hard, surging cock of a real man punching into me as hard and as fast as he needs to get maximum pleasure. 

I felt that way this morning. The penis in its cage looking small and sheepish and my full balls dangling and in the way of the main action behind. As I pushed the fatter-than-any-cock-shaft in and out, deeper and wider. Everything was the hole. The penis could be replaced with a smooth featureless mound and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Were I living in a relationship where I was never unlocked and never allowed or expected to fuck, I don’t know that I’d miss it at all. No, chastity didn’t make me a bottom, but I feel that it was through chastity that I achieved a more authentic state of bottomness. Chasity has led me to greater depths (figuratively and literally, I suppose) and knowledge and desire.

In the past, images or videos of guys taking huge dildos or fists (or two) up their stretched out, gaping asses would horrify me. Now I’m jealous. Now I want to see and feel that for myself. To reach down and simultaneously feel a thick wrist and my own hole with the same fingers. To reach down and feel my hole slick and stretched and open and used. It almost feels like my destiny. That not only am I more a bottom than before, I can see runway ahead of me leading to my true potential.