Avid followers of this rabbit’s travails will recall with some interest my past shenanigans with Drew. For those who aren’t and don’t, the short story is he’s a world traveling executive who lives in another city than me and who has, from time to time over the years, dominated me. Drew is a sadistic top and I’m a pain slut bottom and we clicked.
Things started out well but as time went on our friendship grew to such an extent that Drew, who identifies as switch and subs to his husband, shared those non-Dom parts of his life with me. Not just the family and work stuff that everyone has and needs friends to tell. Talking about chastity and bottoming and all the stuff associated with being a sub. And, for me, shifting between Dom Drew and sub Drew was hard. Too hard. I found I couldn’t take a Dom seriously who wanted to show me his new chastity device and tell me about the growing confidence of his newly dominant husband. So as Drew found new kinky friends and outlets for his interests and spent more and more time out of the country, things just…drifted off.
Recently, though, we’ve rekindled our dynamic. I call it a dynamic as a punt. It’s a relationship, of a sort, but not one built on romantic love. It’s built almost entirely on power exchange. On him having it and me not. It’s built on the alchemy of how pain can be transformed to pleasure, for both the person inflicting it and the person enduring it. It’s built on his willingness to help me explore my desires to bottom and push myself in that area. And, like any relationship, it’s built on mutual respect.
So, it’s back on. And he’s not going to show me the other side of his swtichiness. Just the Dom aspects. And I’m intentionally not looking for information about that part of him on his blog or elsewhere. Perhaps it’s a sign of my shallowness, but I need him to be Dom Drew and only Dom Drew. And it appears to be working for both of us.
For example. The primary way Drew expresses his domination over me is by telling me what to put in ass and when. That’s usually one of the three metal butt plugs I have, though there are other things, too. For the past three days, I’ve had the largest of these plugs (8″ in circumference) in my ass for hours and hours at a time. Something like 14 hours on Thursday and about 13 hours yesterday. It’s inside me again today and, except for an 11 day trip Belle and I are about to go on, I’m sure it’d be in there into next week.
In consideration of his being unable to direct what my ass does during the time I’m traveling, he’s imposed a cost. I will owe him two hours of plug carrying for every day I’m empty. In addition, he’s requiring 20 minutes of my nipples being banded by elastrators for each of those non-carry days. This will mean a minimum of 22 hours plugged and nearly four hours banded, though he’s willing to break that up over two or three days. So considerate.
So, if you been following along on Twitter and wondering WTF was up with all this Drew talk again, that’s the score.
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.
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.
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 remember the first time I tasted piss. I was in my mid-twenties and living in Boston. I was shacked-up with my future wife and had just started growing more comfortable with my bisexuality (thanks to her not rejecting me as other women had), though I had no idea I was submissive and was in the middle of a long battle against wanting things in my ass. The web wasn’t a thing then so my exposure to porn was rediculously limited compared to a person of that age today.
I had never seen anyone drink piss. I have never heard of anyone doing it. I didn’t know it was done. All I knew was that I had started craving it one day. The idea just came into my head. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to drink it. I wanted a man’s cock in my mouth to pour it down my throat, hot and fresh from the source. It got so bad, I was tossing and turning in bed thinking about it. I was obsessed.
In retrospect, it was the first real inkling that — bisexual or not, married to a woman or not — I was a faggot.
I remember debating with myself. Telling myself it was dirty. That I could get sick. That normal people didn’t drink piss, for godssake. Why would anyone want to!? But the more I thought about it, the harder I argued against it with myself, the more I knew it was certain to happen. I slipped out of bed, went into the kitchen to get a glass, and then went into the bathroom.
My heart was pounding. I looked at myself. My eyes looked into themselves and the deal was sealed. This was going to happen. It had to happen. I placed the end of my turgid penis over the lip of the glass and loosened my bladder. A yellow stream started to fill it. I remember being surprised at how hot it felt though the glass. But of course, it would be the same 98.6º I was. The glass became more and more full. The amount of piss was starting to look formidable.
Finally, I tapped out. A few little flexes at the end dribbled the last of it. I lifted the glass. Looked at it and myself in the mirror once again. Saw the knowledge that after this was done, it was done. Nothing would be the same. That something profound about myself would be exposed. I could feel the pounding of my heart in my throat. The penis started to become legitimately hard.
I brought the glass to my lips. Smelled it. Pungent, but not rancidly “pissy” like a men’s room. It wasn’t bad. Just different. I dipped my tongue in it. Warm. Slightly bitter. I recall it was fairly clear. Not too yellow. But dipping my tongue didn’t make me die, so I took a sip. For the first time, piss coated my tongue. Went down my throat. I was breathing hard and told myself to stop fucking around.
I brought the glass back to my mouth and tipped it up. I started to gulp down my piss. Mouthfuls went down into my stomach. I thought it tasted kind of good, actually. Like a strong tea. I still think that. Even at it’s most potent, I don’t think I’ve ever disliked the flavor. I drank more and more, breathing though my nose. I wanted it gone in one go thinking if I stopped I’d never finish it. I had to finish it. I had to put it all back inside me.
Once it was gone, I put the glass down on the edge of the sink. I wiped the excess from my mouth with the back of my hand. I could taste it in my mouth. Smell it on my breath. I looked into my eyes. I saw the faggot inside me look back, though I didn’t know what it was at the time. I went back to bed and finally fell asleep.
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.
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.
You’re asking yourself that. Like, I already have a blog. It’s been going for more than a decade. Then there were all those Tumblr things with panties and guy’s armpits and cuckold fantasies before Tumblr up and immolated itself (and, it turns out, took a bunch of my written content with it). And, of course, there’s Twitter and Instagram. I have those, too. So what’s this blog about? Glad you asked.
The Submissive Rabbit 