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.
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.”
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.
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.