What eating pussy taught me about sucking cock

I admit, the title of this post is perhaps too cheeky by half. And it probably does need to be qualified by adding as a locked man to it. But it is something I thought of right after (one of the times) blowing Frodo last weekend.

There are a lot of things that make locked men better at sex than they were before they were locked. And, mind you, I like to think I was really good at sex back when I had a functioning penis. But what you learn pretty quick when there’s only one orgasm between you to look forward to is that their journey is your journey, too. All the pleasure of sex you’re going to get is when they’re receiving their pleasure because once they shoot their load (regardless of what gender they are), it’s likely the sex is going to stop and all you’ll have to enjoy is a tight tube and achy balls (and I like tight tubes, but not so much the achy balls).

The thing I discovered as a locked man while eating pussy is how to pay attention to Belle’s reactions and what she’s like as she progresses from being turned on, to stimulated, to about to come, to actually coming. And that, in my experience, women cannot be rushed. Sometimes, with a cock, you can go faster and squeeze harder to get there faster, but pussies don’t work that way. They need to take exactly the amount of time they’re going to take. And so, I tend to let her pleasure and how she reacts to it lead me up to the point where she comes. And why not? Like I said, her journey is my journey. Her pleasure is my pleasure. Why the fuck would I want to rush that? I’d camp out for a day between her legs and eat her pussy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if that’s what it took and I’d be very happy to do so.

Same with Frodo. He said something to me after feeding me his load about being patient. About not rushing him, letting him get there on his own. Something like that. And I thought, yes! That’s what having sex with a locked man should be like. Back when I was unlocked (and even now on those rare occasions when Belle lets me out for sex), I can start to think about “my turn” too much. To that part where I get to stick it in/get it wet and that can make me try and rush her through her turn.

I suppose if one’s sexual dynamic is one of equals that that might be kinda hot. Seeing him so turned on to fuck you that he’s rushed and impatient. But when you get used to having sex with someone like me, that throws the cadence off. Belle will call me on it in real time. Frodo, never being with me in that condition, only gets to enjoy the benefits of my (from his perspective) permanent condition.

So, I’ve learned two things. One, pay attention to and learn as well as your own your partner’s progression towards orgasm. Two, follow their path patiently and don’t try to find any shortcuts. All that wrapped up in the submissive POV that sex should be about them first and always should lead to them having a really good time.

And I think Frodo had a really good time.

Double denied

In retrospect, I should have taken into account the number of loads he’d already put in or on me in the 50-some hours we had been together. At least one on my face, one in my ass, a couple down my throat. Yet here we were again, going for another.

His hands were on both sides of my head holding it in place while his big cock pistoned in and out of my mouth. All I could hear was the wet slurpy sounds of his thick tool pulling spit out of me and shoving it and some air back in. The kind of attention one in his position gives to a willing hole ready to receive his release. Not me. Not his friend of nearly 40 years. We’d both been reduced to just a hot wet hole and a big thick cock and millions of years of evolutionary imperative to deposit seed.

And I was ready for it. Craved it. Hungered.

But it wasn’t coming. No matter how hard and fast he skull-fucked me. We were going to the well one too many times. He let go of my head and pulled his cock out of it. I gulped air in its absence and stretched my aching jaw as he pulled me up and laid me next to him in the bed. We were ourselves again. The evolutionary fire had receded.

He suggested he needed to rest. I wondered. He had been asleep for hours already. Would a few more minutes make a difference? But we laid there, he embracing me, my head under his chin, my hand on his wide, flat, hair-covered chest. Soon I was dozing. Flitting in and out of early, ephemeral dreams. Then a brief snorting little snore woke me. His, not mine.

I laid there, motionless. Not wanting to disturb him, but also now wide awake. And thinking about his cock. And wanting to grab it. But not grabbing it because he didn’t say I could and I didn’t want to wake him up. But the more I laid there the more I thought about how perfectly I was arranged to stroke him and that caused the persistent snugness inside my metal tube to transition into insistent tightness.

So I laid there. And waited.

Eventually, he woke up. He said something about seeking coffee and breakfast. I don’t know for sure because I had a mission.

“There’s that bottle of lube right over there,” I said as I caressed his stiff nipple. “I could…Pausing as if this was a sudden idea and not the thing taking up all my imagination for the last 15 minutes “…jack you off.”

“Mmm,” he said. “You could.” And he lifted the covers off his thickness. He’s a shower and a grower.

I whipped to the nightstand and squeezed some of the silicone lube into my hand. Then a bit more. No such thing as too much lube when jacking off. I left it in my hand for a bit to warm up, not wanting to shock him. By the time I wrapped my hand around his cock, it had already come back from its slumber.

Jesus Christ. Jeeesus Christ. It felt so good. So natural in my hand. I stroked it the way I knew…remembered…felt good. At once a familiar feeling, but also not. His was so much thicker than I had been. The stroke was longer, too, because he was. And so, so hard. Figurative steel opposed to my literal.

Jesus. A man’s cock. In my hand. My lubed-up hand. And I was stroking it like I used to stroke mine. Back when I had one. If that’s what you could call it, even then. Compared to this?

I pressed the length of my body into his. My left arm behind his shoulders, my right leg over his, my incredibly tight tube pressing into his hip. He was moaning. I was moaning.

“Sounds like you’re stroking yourself,” commented.

All I could do was grunt and whimper into his neck.

I was persistent in my attention, but not overbearing. Not letting my pent up denial cause me to lose my cool.

The pace of his breathing picked up. My breathing picked up. He was flexing his hips sympathetically into my stokes. My hips were grinding into his at the same pace. He was making sounds like he was going to come. I could feel my own orgasm building.

My mind grew fuzzy. I was confused. Overcome by hormones. I wanted to feel his cock flex and pump in my hand. Not wanted. NEEDED. As if my life depended on it. When he came, there was a real chance I would, too. I could feel it right…there. But…is that allowed? I’m not supposed to come unless she gives me permission. And she had not done so. But I couldn’t stop now! Not here. Not with him. I was trapped in the swirling gravity well of his impending orgasm. What would happen? I felt no option but to find out. I was in a barrel riding over his falls, come what (or who) may.

And then…nothing. Nothing at all. He sounded like he was coming. A little. Tricked me for a second as I waited to feel the inevitable surging of his iron-hard tool. Then to see what would happen in my tube. But it didn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. The well was still dry.

The moan I made came from the depth of my being. It was there! Right there!

“Sorry,” he said.

Sorry! AHHHHRRGH.

“It’s OK,” I replied (of course), “It’s been…what? Four times? Five? That’s a lot in such a short period.” Meanwhile, the meat in my tube was pounding and pinching and as tight as it could possibly get. Not an atom between meat and metal. A shiny second skin.

“And zero for you,” he said. “None for Thumper. Not now. Not ever.”

I melted.

“Denied your own orgasm,” he continued, “And now denied mine.”

I died. This is me, writing from the Great Beyond. Dead.

An unexpected interlude with Frodo

Frodo, who happened to be in my state for a week but not in town, sent me a text.

I’d like to see you. It would be great to have some alone time. But I’d also be happy to just hang out.

I don’t often (ever) get booty call texts so I wasn’t sure if this was one of those. I said back…

Are we talking just having drinks and snacks or are you going to let me suck you off or what?

He replied…

I want you to suck me off. Or I’ll fuck you. Either way, I have a five day load for you.

Booty call it was! He asked his husband and I asked my wife and then it was set. We would meet at a hotel about a mile and half from my house. It was an 90 minute drive for him and a six minute drive for me.

As I was checking in, the person behind the plexiglass asked cheerfully, “What brings you to town?”

“Well, you see, the man I’m in a polyamorous relationship with and to whom I have ceded exclusive use of my ass is on his way over to make me beg to suck his cock before he fucks my ass,” I did not say. Instead I said I was only there for the night since my floors were just refinished (true enough) and the house was full of chemical smells (totally false).

“Oh, we get a lot of that here,” she replied which, I assume, could have applied to the answer I gave her and the one I didn’t.

My heart was thumping hard as I texted Frodo the room number. Then I walked in and realized I had been in it before. At least, I had been in a room with the identical layout in the same hotel and had totally forgotten until I saw it. It was the same as the room I met Drew at the second time he fucked me.

What a slut you are, I thought, getting fucked by two guys in basically the same hotel room. And…OK, yeah.

Frodo had texted back. He was on his way up. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I placed the bottle of lube he requested on the nightstand but didn’t know if I should be standing or sitting, naked or not. So I froze and stood there and waited.

Then he knocked and I let him in and he said “hi” and we kissed like we were both dying of not kissing. He was definitely leading which is something I’m not used to and I found myself trying to let him and not fight him. Be receptive without being excessively passive.

I remember when I was of the age of having kissed both boys and girls how different they were. How boys tended to be more manic and pushy and girls tended to be more submissive and yielding. And how boys’ spit was thicker while girls’ was not. I remember wondering what it was like to kiss me because I honestly preferred kissing girls and hoped I tasted like them to both the boys and girls I was kissing back.

But in this moment, I was trying to get out of his way. Not to try and drive it. I started to peel my clothes off as his kissed me. He sent me down to my knees and opened his pants. Didn’t make me wait so long like in New York before going down on him.

Fuuuuucking hell, I love sucking that cock.

His hands were all over me. Squeezing my muscles, my shoulders, my chest. He reached down behind me and fingered my ass. I moaned into his cock. Eventually, he sat down on the couch and I kept blowing him. Got down low between his legs and sucked his balls into my mouth the way I know he loves. One then the other. Kept gentle suction while rolling them around with my tongue. His moaning was my reward.

I buried my nose into the thick hair at the base of his cock and inhaled deeply. Whatever pheromones were there lit up all the receptors in my brain. Sent me into a kind of lustful delirium. After several deep, deep inhalations, I came back up to suck his nipples and grabbed him hard. Hard like someone who fucks someone else. But I don’t and needed to pull myself together. I wasn’t in control of this. This wasn’t for me. Losing my grip on that simple fact wouldn’t lead anywhere productive.

I asked if he’d fuck my throat. Me, on the bed on my back, him standing over me shoving his cock in my face. I fantasize about that position. I love seeing that point between his legs behind his balls where all the hairy parts come together. I love how masculine that part of him is. Love having my nose buried in that part of him where all his most potent pheromones emanate.

To be honest, my performance as a fuckable face was less than I had hoped. I loved it. Loved feeling him shove his cock while I laid there. But my gag reflex wasn’t as defeated as I had hoped. But it was still fun and he seemed to like it. Later, he commended me for telling him what I wanted from him.

But it was time to fuck. He was on his back and I put the lube on his beautiful cock and rubbed it in my crack. I lined his head up with my hole and slowly dropped down on it. I actually had a wince of pain from the intrusion but didn’t let it stop me. I needed him inside me. To feel him make my hole his.

In New York, the last time we met, he had kept me in a jock strap the whole time and didn’t even know which device I was wearing. He never even saw it. This time, I forgot and was wearing conventional (for me) underwear which, of course, had to come off for me to get fucked. So as I straddled his cock and rocked my hips back and forth, the Steelheart was front and center for him to see. Had I been a “normal” boy, he might have jacked me a little while I fucked him that way, but I’m not so he didn’t. He gripped my hips and strong thighs and felt my muscles there flex and strain as I rode him. Thanks to my running, the muscles in my legs get very hard. I hoped he appreciate them.

After that was a flurry of different positions. He let me fuck him from on top for a bit but then flipped me around and took me from behind. Then he had me on my side and fucked me that way. He was a machine. He fucked me like a man fucks a hole. I was the hole. He was the man. It was glorious.

The best I could do was keep my leg out of the way and say “Fuck…me…fuck…me…” over and over to the beat of his pelvis slapping my ass with each thrust. I know every bottom knows the feeling. When his cock pounding in and out becomes the center of your universe and you know — know — that it’s your reason for being. To feel a man own and use you without abandon.

Then it happened. He touched it. The Steelheart and my balls. Literally, the first time that’s ever happened. He didn’t really seem to know what to do with any of it. Kind of cupped it at first before lightly flicking my balls with his finger. Just way too lightly to be even remotely like impact play, but I was just stunned. But I will admit how good the contact felt. His hands on my balls.

Then he flipped me on my back and brought my legs way up and put them on his shoulders. The position that always means he’s fucking serious now. I’m going to get plowed and he’s going to come and it’s all about that. It was a punishing fuck. Like he was mad at my hole and was punishing it. I was bent in half and felt like the fuck doll I was. My hands were on his shoulders and back and around his neck and every bit of him was covered in sweat from the effort to own me.

He came with a grunt and a moan and then a giggle. He’s always laughed when he came and I’ve never understood it, really. I don’t know that I’ve ever thought of laughing in that situation but he’s done it since he was a teenager.

We laid next to one another, my head on his chest, as his heart rate came down. I reached around and felt the slick looseness of my hole and it struck me again how much like it feels like a little pussy when he’s done with it. I slipped the tip of a finger in and swirled it around and realized…oh, Jesus, I’m not done with his cock. He will fuck me again.

Frodo and I work so well in bed because there’s just the one cock between us. If I was there with a penis it’d want attention and I’d become too focused on it and eventually I’d come and that could ruin everything. It was always the point in our past when my bisexual wiring would fry out. Not just him. Every guy I’ve been with. But I’m not the same person now I was then so I can’t know it’d be the case today that my orgasm would change how I felt about being with him, but I do know that there’s no reason at all for me to come. It wouldn’t improve the event for me in any way and he didn’t seem to be missing it. So I’m incredibly thankful that Belle requires I be locked up whenever I have sex with anyone else. And of course with Frodo for not seeming to care about the contents and if and when I orgasm.

I brought my hand back around and slowly traced with the same come-slicked finger the length of his soft yet still chubby cock. Ran it across and over the flare of its head. I did want it back in me but I also wanted to admire it. I love how a recently satiated cock looks. Like a sleepy lion.

It started to get hard again. I mean, it hadn’t been five minutes. And he was already getting hard.

Next thing I knew, he was totally hard and had me up on all fours and was back in my ass. Our little hotel room had a mirror right in front of us so he could see on my face how his cock felt inside me. Could see the Steelheart swinging and swaying between my legs. Could see the definition of my shoulders as I struggled to hold my place in the bed as he pounded the hell out me. I could see on his face the pleasure he was taking from me. Could see his hairy chest hovering over my back. Could see his arms flex as he held onto my hips and pulled them into his.

And then he came. Like an animal. So unexpectedly and so quickly and so much.

And I’m telling you. I am telling you. It was the best fuck of my life. The first part was awesome. The exclamation point of his taking me a second time? All-time fuck.

Jesus, I’m tight as hell thinking about it. I wish I was back there with him right now. I wish I was feeling him inside me again.

Frodo and me in NYC, part one

I think the most enduring memory of my weekend in NYC with Frodo will be seeing his big, thick, hard cock bobbing and weaving inches from my face, heavy with his desire. I reached for it with my watering mouth.

“Not yet,” he said. “Wait until I say you can.”

This cock, which I love dearly — the first man’s cock I ever sucked — loomed before me. I knelt on the ground as he instructed, naked except for the jock strap he told me would be my uniform this weekend and the red and black leather collar he put around my neck. And right there in front of me, the cock. I could already taste it and feel it in my mouth. I am intimately familiar with it. Clear, shimmering precum was oozing from its tip. Its sweetness dripping, wasted, to the floor. I moved to try and catch it.

“NOT. Until. I. Say.”

I made a sound like a five year old with a plate of ice cream put in front of him who’s been told he can’t have any until everyone else has theirs. I was whining and fidgeting and wanted it so bad.

It had been two years, one month, and 23 days since the last time that cock was in my mouth. Two years, one month, and 23 days since any cock had been in my mouth. The memories of that cock had fueled my fantasies for that entire time. Its thick shaft, slightly curving up. The wide head. The sea of dark, tangled pubes at its root.

I whimpered.

He brought it closer to my face. Just a bit. It filled my vision. Became my world. Driiiiiip.

UNF.

Closer still. Not an inch away. I looked up, mouth open. Oh, PLEASE I said with my eyes.

And then he placed the tip of it inside my mouth. Right on my tongue. I lapped up the ooze and closed my lips over its head and moaned into it.

“Good boy,” and slid more of it into my mouth. I opened my throat to get as much as I could inside. “Yeah. Suck that cock, boy.”

His cock filled all my senses. How it felt as it pushed down my throat and moved over my tongue, the way it tasted leaking more into my mouth, the way his pubes smelled as they brushed my nose.

He flexed his hips back and forth and I reciprocally bobbed my head and curled my lips over my teeth like a good cocksucker. My lust wasn’t so overwhelming that I’d forget cocksucking 101. And after all, this was for him, not me.

Frodo decided to refrain from orgasming for the week before we met. He normally comes once a day, sometimes more, so going seven whole days is kind of a big deal. I haven’t been denied so long that I can’t remember what it was like at the beginning trying to stay good, especially without a device to keep me honest. I suspect that week of self-denial may have been the longest he’s gone without coming since he was a kid just figuring his cock out.

So not only was his production of precum prolific, the orgasm he eventually had in my mouth was tremendous. Pulse after pulse of ejaculate spraying onto the back of my throat so hard some of it went up my nose. Frodo loves to come in my mouth and for me to swallow it, so I concentrated on making room — opening my throat — for the flood of his pent up lust.

It seemed like he was coming for half a minute before he was done and I felt like I had a cup of his seed in my mouth. I savored it a bit, not having tasted a man for so, so long, letting it mix up and over and under my tongue before taking a huge gulp…which still wasn’t enough to get it all down.

We laid there together, my head on his chest, his beautiful cock laying thickly in that wonderful fat, shiny post orgasmic way real cocks do.


Later, we were walking. Walking because it was Manhattan and that’s what you do there. Exploring and absorbing the New Yorkness of it all. Maybe he knew where he was going, but I was just tagging along and following him and didn’t really care where we were gong as long as I was with him. So I was surprised to find us in front of the Stonewall Inn.

We decided to sit on their patio (trying to stay outdoors as much as possible for the obvious reasons) and have a drink. It was great being there with him. Being seen with him. Having people think I was with him as we watched the amazing Village street life pass by.

I should say before going on that I am not a big drinker. If I have more than one beer in an evening, that’s a lot for me. And I have one beer maybe once or twice a month. I’m a fucking lightweight. I have always been like that and Frodo has always been the opposite. For as long as we’ve known one another.

So anyway, we were at the Stonewall which is called an inn but it’s a bar and as we absorbed the amazing street, I absorbed a couple frozen piña coladas. Frozen rum drinks are a weakness of mine and piña coladas are, in particular, my catnip. I don’t think I would have had two, if I’m honest, because the first one was pretty strong and went right to my head but the Stonewall has a two drink minimum so a second one it was. Which led to this tweet.

I should have stopped there. Really. But if you drink, you may know about that golden moment right after you’ve become pleasantly drunk and just before you become seriously drunk where your ability to make that reasonable call about continuing to drink is defeated by the drink. So once we decided to leave the Stonewall and find food, I was quite prepared to continue to drink.

We found ourselves at a restaurant with outdoor seating. I can’t say more than that about it except for what its bathroom looked like because I was in it a few times to pee. And one time a nice person in line let me go ahead of them which I though may have been some kind of pass at me when it happened but in retrospect was kinda weird. What can I say. I was drunk.

I ate some food. I don’t recall what kind. And I had one more cocktail. It was minty. Maybe some form of mojito. There were two waiters, a gay who was, I think, flirting with us and one not gay who was definitely not. I liked the gay one better. He was funny and I totally would have sucked his dick. I remember thinking the food was good. Then we left and started walking back to the hotel.

But we stopped once again! At some other restaurant with a bar. Italian? I dunno. I had some sparkling wine. I should not have had the sparkling wine. But I was unable to make reasonable decisions on the matter. We drank and watched the Olympics on TV. Women’s volleyball, I think.

Then I remember walking again through the crowds and the all the outdoor dining and me not really being able to feel my feet and there was a drag bar with a big queen calling us in and I was kind of tempted but I was following not leading and we passed her by. I was talking a lot then we were back at the hotel and in the bed and I was naked except for the jock strap I had to wear and I think the collar went back on but maybe not. Then Frodo’s cock was in my mouth and he was insistently fucking my face with it and telling me to watch out for the teeth and the bed was spinning and I asked to take a short break. And then I passed out.

More role, less play

I was texting with Frodo yesterday. The chat quickly turned to how much he missed me calling him Sir as I had sort of let that wane. Not that it was intentional. We haven’t had a lot of contact lately and most of it has been via text and…well, whatever. It’s all my fault, obviously.

I mentioned on a post over on the other blog that at some point in the chat he described our D/s dynamic as “role play.” And I guess, depending on how you want to define that term, what we do is role play but my ears put the emphasis on the play part, not on the role part and it left me nonplussed. My submission isn’t play.

He didn’t mean anything by it, of course. He wasn’t trying to offend. Just using the words he has. And in the context of the discussion, he was actually opening up about how much he values our D/s dynamic. He likes how my submission makes him feel. How it gives him permission to feel more masculine. More like a man. He described how he has tended to push away masculinity because so much of it in our culture and his personal experience with it has been toxic but being placed in a position of sexual dominance over someone who’s consensually submitting to him has allowed him a chance to see it all differently. To feel it differently.

This is fascinating to me because Frodo has never displayed stereotypically gay affectations. Not for as long as I’ve known him (and that’s been a long time now). I, the straight-presenting bisexual man, has many more stereotypically gay affectations than he does. I’ve never really spent much time thinking about it, but now I wonder if his lack of affectation is just who he is or if it’s a byproduct of being teased and bullied for being gay from a young age. Or a bit of both.

Regardless, he says he’s struggled with embracing his masculinity. But I find him to be so wonderfully and effortlessly masculine. In a way that really resonates with me. In a way that makes me sit here and absentmindedly recall burying my face in his thick, dark, pungent post-marathon pubes and nuzzle into his thickening cock and take his hairy balls into my mouth. Because somehow in my fevered little mind, a lack of pubic grooming is just about the most masculine thing I can imagine. Which is in itself interesting, I guess.

Of course, I don’t need masculinity to trigger my submission. I need receptive, appreciative dominance. And it was my assumption that he was more or less humoring me with the D/s thing. It was more play than role. But I was wrong. He made me understand yesterday that he really needs my submission and that it makes him feel better and more in touch with who he is. And that, my dear reader, was like a thunderbolt.

I think a lot of the time dominants aren’t given permission to be vulnerable. That’s a shame. Frodo was vulnerable with me yesterday and rather than puncturing my submissive instincts towards him, it inflated them. Made me so much more dedicated to being his sub. He said, “I can take care to tell you what I need and when I need it. You’re good at giving me what I need when I ask for it.”

OMG…swoon.

In all, it was barely a fifteen minute exchange. But it was so important to me. Because by opening up to the value he got from my submission and how much he even needed it, it made it all so much more real.

Roles without playing.

More than never ever wanting to play at submission, I don’t want anyone to play at dominating me. To humor me. And now I know, he’s not doing that. At all.

Jesus fuck, I miss him.

I miss him

We’re getting dangerously close to it being a year since I last saw Frodo. That was in June and May is just a shake of a rabbit’s tail away. He and I FaceTimed last week. It hurts me how much I miss him. How much I crave him.

In January, we were supposed to go diving in Florida. I got super sick (tested positive for influenza A) and couldn’t go. We were supposed to reschedule. We haven’t because we can’t. Who knows when things will be normal enough for that again.

It’s always been the case that Frodo is supremely easy for me to talk to. No matter how long it’s been, we just fall back into it. We know each other so well. He’s my oldest friend.

Have I mentioned how much I miss him? So much.

Sometimes, when I should be sleeping, I’m thinking instead about his cock. His cock in my throat. His orgasm in my mouth. Him using me. Even now, just writing that, causes intense compression inside the steel. If I’m honest, he’s always had that affect on me. Since freshman year of high school. Almost 40 years. I’m just…smitten.

God I miss him.

I’ve written here and over on the other blog the truth of the situation. I just don’t want him to use me and fuck me and take his pleasure from me. I love him. But we don’t say it to one another. He knows how I feel. He knows because he’s read what I’ve written about him. He knows because I can’t hide it. And I know because of how much pain it causes me to be away from him this long. This isn’t just lust.

I miss him. And I love him.

I wish I could see him now. To be held by him. Pushed gently onto my knees by him. Press my face against the growing hardness inside his jeans. Smell him though the fabric. Moaning. Yearning. Craving.

I miss him. I love him. I need him.

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