Friday, August 1, 2014

Meanwhile, Back at the Lab.oratory...

[As always, comments and questions welcome. Don't feed the bears... put feed the pig bear's ego.]

Sorry, readers, for the lag between installments. I hadn't mentioned that I'd gotten ill in Germany; a couple of days of high fever and some intestinal issues, then it all settled down and a sinus infection persisted. I saw my doctor when I got home, and he treated the sinus infection, while taking rapid tests for some of the other candidates so, as he put it, "I could get my sex-club 'all-clear.'" I love my doctor.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, it was all back -- spiked fever, gut issues -- but this time I went to the ER, and they checked me into the hospital for a couple of days. It turned out to be a bacterial infection that can be transmitted through some sexually... but working the dates out, wasn't. Five days of antibiotics, and I'm open for business. Tell your friends. Tell strangers. And for heaven's sake, wash your hands!

Anyway, back at Lab. Our friends from Milan were just disengaging from their last plaything, and as I walked up, the making out began. It's hard to remember whose tongue was in my mouth first -- the hot, hairy dark-haired one, or the tanned, perfectly tribal-inked blond -- but things moved around quickly, coupling and recouping, then our mouths all together.

And the hands. Six hands, three cocks, three hot butts. I had one big, thick, hardening cock in each hand. Then, on my knees, one in hand, one down my throat. Making it clear when they were ready for me to switch. All the while, getting harder. The skullfucking boy from earlier in the night had my throat open good, and these two were definitely reaping the benefits. As they got harder, my thick spit covered their cocks, preparing for breeding. And my hole was already lubed with the first load of the night, and hungry.

The blond patted the cushioned fuck platform a couple of times. "On your back. Move forward." Legs up, hungry hole in position. Somehow, I'm tight. He takes care of that with a good probing and stretching, one finger, two. I'm moaning like a pig in heat, because, well, I am. Then he pulls the fingers out, and his dick slides in. And he rides. And rides. Not as hard or insistent in his strokes than others, but he's got a rhythm, and he owns my hole with it. He's kissing and making out with the boyfriend, then leaning over to do the same with me, then the boyfriend kisses me too. "Feels good, eh?" He knows. He's been in this position, with this hard, hot cock breeding him.

"Not yet." He pulls out slowly, helps me to my feet. We kiss again, all three of us, hands all over our now-sweatier bodies. "Taste." The blond pushes me to my knees. The only thing better -- so far -- than the taste of his cock is the taste of his cock fresh from my hole. The dark-haired one drops to his knees too, and we make out over his partner's cock, sharing it in and between our mouths, in my mouth with his tongue running down it, then in his with my tongue. Again, we stand, feel each other, kiss more.

As we go at it, another guy -- a hot kid, early 20s, got that Aryan Youth thing going -- comes by, gets down, first going from one cock to another, then -- he's been watching -- to my hole, now loose and slick. His tongue works in, and he eats it like it's his first meal in a week after crossing the desert. (And as far as holes to eat go, this is hardly the desert.) After a few minutes of his tongue in my hole, he gets to his feet, kisses each of us, and crosses the room to another guy who could be his just-older brother, then turns him around and over the platform, buries his face in Big Bro's hole, and strokes his dick hard. I know where it will be in a minute or two.

Tap, tap on the platform again. And I am quickly on my back again, legs open again, his cock in my hole again. This time, the dark-haired one is next to me, playing with my cock. As his boyfriend fucks again, he starts jacking on my dick. A few times, I slow him down -- not wanting to finish before the blond does. After a few more minutes, he leans over, kisses me, says, "Long day." Then he pulls out, puts two fingers in me again, and the dark-haired one sucks and jacks me until he gets the biggest load I've shot in a while.

And, of course, I stand, we all kiss, share my load. Because that's how we roll here in International Pig-Land.

We pull ourselves together -- which is mostly a rearranging of jocks and harnesses -- and make our way to the bar. It's two-for-one drinks night, so that's two rounds of two beers each for them, two rounds of two bottled waters each for me. We exchange names -- finally. Let's say the blond is Bernhard, the dark-haired one Felix. I thank them for not telling me their names sooner -- this way we could at least say the sex was anonymous. They laugh.

We talk about family -- one of them is that rare sort of guy who not only came out after he was married and his kid was mostly grown -- we know lots of those -- but who truly didn't figure out his story until then. Since I knew my story by the time I was 12 or 13, I say, I totally believe it, but can't imagine it. He says, that's OK, I couldn't imagine a lot of what we just did then, either.

Then we exchange contact information. And they say, if you're ever in Milan, you and your husband have a place to stay. As long as you like. We'll entertain you.

Yeah, they will.

And besides, he owes me a load. Or I owe him taking it. Or both -- everybody wins.

Saturday, June 28, 2014

@LAB.oratory: Worth the Wait

Face down bent over a padded platform, a hot leather daddy, big dick in me, slick with the thick throat-slime made by his pounding my throat for the previous few minutes. It's slick enough, my hole hungry enough, and his heat high enough that he slams in, in a single thrust, almost all the way. Another couple of thrusts each went an inch deeper till he hits bottom. Nothing subtle about this, the faux leather of the mattress sticking to my face, the pounding hard and fast. Every once in a while, he reaches around my waist to be sure I'm riding it as deep as it goes.

Fifteen minutes, tops, after I got in the door. And that includes clothes check. This is the way every night should be at a sexclub, I think. And this is Berlin's biggest, hottest one. 

There are dress code nights, with pretty strict rules on how much leather or rubber or sports gear or military uniform of skinhead gear one must wear - a friend said it was hard for him to adjust to the idea that a polo shirt might be sex gear, but add bleachers, braces, Rangers, and a 0-crop, and there you are - but this is not one of those nights. This is no-code Friday. In fact, no-code 2-for-1-drinks Friday. So I'm a little worried it'll be very pretty, with some hot boys going at it, and the rest of them standing around and snubbing the rest of us.

So I ask friends on Facebook about reasons to go or to not go. And the responses come:
  • One friend says "story opportunities." The things to which I submit for you, dear readers.
  • Another old fuckbud who now lives in Amsterdam says, "Yes, always."
  • One guy says, "In Berlin. U should always go." I don't add, yes, but you're a hot and notorious bareback pornstar/escort. I love my friends.
  • And the best response: "There are no good reasons (not to go) short of genital castration. Even then I might go to watch." (The friend from Amsterdam added, "Well, they are German so it's just another kink....")
So, Über from the hotel -- and the hundred-plus guys with whom we're touring -- to the club. There are two lines out front -- there are two clubs in the building, one a mixed bar/dance-club that runs all night and more, in the manner of the clubs of my pre-HIV-era youth, the other, the sexclub. One line is tiny and moves quickly. The other is very long, and is full of men and newly-men. Yes, the no-code 2-for-1 night has drawn lots of pretty twinks, but they're not the whole line by any means. The gaggle of boys standing in front of me is talking in rapid-fire, giggly German, so I just assume it's the right line.

Doors close at midnight, officially. And I arrive at 11:25. Just after I arrive, a couple steps behind me. They look a little bewildered. "Do you speak English," they ask, in accented English. "Yes, but if you're going to ask if this is the line for Lab, I don't know, but I'm assuming so till I see otherwise." We get to talking. They're from Milan. One dark, the other blond, more German looking. We chat as we walk.

We hit what looks like the front of the line at 11:52. And... the line bends to the left.

11:58. The line bends again to the right, along the left side of the building. It heads toward a door. I say I hope the door doesn't close in our faces.

We don't reach end enter the door till 12:06. And... it opens on a courtyard that goes to another door. We inch forward, four or five guys at a time, eventually, we're let in. It's 12:35. But still, the skinhead bull at the door is happy to let us in, the guy at the counter to take our reasonably eight euros. He hands me a little laminated square with a number in the 900s on it. That bodes well. The place is huge. I go down the hall, following the signs to the clothes check. Wait in a (much shorter line), hand him my number tag, he grabs a clear plastic garbage bag, writes the number on the bag and my upper arm with a marker, hands the tag back. "Put clothes in and bring back." So I do, and on into the club.

Multiple rooms, multiple bars. A few lofts, outdoor space, lots of platforms, a couple of slings. Everything but one of the slings is at least partly occupied. Some of the twins are drinking, some are fucking each other, others are having sex outside the tribe. A good sign.

Several rooms on. It's got the feel of huge sex mazes I've loved before, but more social in spots, without getting in the way of the sex. In fact, it's a lot like the Mineshaft would have been had it been many times its size and all on one level. 

Hand on my jock-strap-framed butt, from behind. Hand moves to the crack, fingers brushing my hole, and it wakes to the attention. Wakes hungry. He turns me around. Shorter (though a little taller than I), shaven-headed, bearded hot leather dad. His thick uncut dick is out and twitching to hardness. Not a word spoken - and the music is too loud and thump in the room for conversation, as it should be. Pushes down on my shoulder. I drop to my knees, mouth open wide, tongue out, and take his dick in without touching it. As deep as I can, for the first stroke. Let him know the sort of hungry cocksucker I am. On the second or third, balls deep again, but this time, my lips sliding his foreskin back.

About a full minute of runs of deep strokes mixed with medium, working the shaft, and a few concentrated near the dickhead. He likes it - not always true with sensitive uncut cock. I know he does because of the moan that rumbles through him - I don't hear it, I feel it. 

He gets serious about either getting off or going to part two - hand on the top of my head like a palmed basketball, deep skullfuck thrusts. The spit thickens and pools in my throat. He goes at it for twenty seconds or so, then takes his hand off, and I continue skullfucking myself on his cock. He's going for lube. He pulls my mouth off, and lots of slick stuff from my throat is covering it, still stranded from my throat. Bends down, grabs me by the jock waistband, turns me around again, bends me over the platform. Reaches around, puts a couple of fingers in my still-spit-slick mouth, pulls them out slippers, thrusts them both in my hole deep, moves them around, spreads them apart. Pulls them out, slams his dick in. I wince, only a tiny bit and silently, and think: this is why I'm here.

So the thrusts come: one after the other, rapidly, bam! bam! bam! My hole is being used to get him off. It's clear that whether I'm into it really hasn't crossed his mind much - entry is consent. And after minutes of this, he pulls out all the way, and slams in. Again. Again. (I'm pretty sure the spit has long dried up and any lube is being made by my hungry hole.) Then he pulls out again, and pokes into my hole only a couple of inches. And once more. He wants the dickhead worked. So I use my hole as much as I can to make it feel good. That goes on for a minute, and he slams in again till he hits bottom. 

Now he's going for the load. And so am I: still working my hole, giving him full free movement, but a bit of resistance to stroke him to cum. No damn tight hole nonsense - I hate that whether I'm fucking it or being fucked - just a smart one.

The rhythm changes, more insistent but a little slower. And I feel his dick throbbing, throbbing, and delivering a big load. I'm still face-down on the platform and bent over. When he finishes, he pats me on the butt three times, and walks away without a word.

As I raise my head off the platform, I see a hot hairy-chested twenty-something has been sitting on the platform, back toward the wall, dick out and hard. In fact, erect in that twenty-something curving-upward sort of way. His dick is about the same length, foreskin longer and pointier. He slides down so his booted legs are on either side of me, grabs my chin, pulls it toward his cock. I open my mouth for it, and he grabs the back of my neck, holds me down on it, then pushes it deeper into my throat. Holds me there, laughs a little. I look up at him. He knows he's got me. 

He lets up, moves his hand back, but just far enough for me to still have the tip of his cock in my mouth. I ride it as if he were fucking my throat, he's getting hotter and harder. I look up again, and he's looking into the distance. Not into space - he has someone's eye. He grabs my head again, fucks harder and harder. Silently gives me a huge, sweet load. Picks my face up by the chin. Touches my lips. A model-cute blond comes over, gets down, starts cleaning it off. I'll pass then in a few minutes, with dark boy's hard-again cock buried deep in the fuckhole of the model-blond. As pretty as the boy is, he looks so much better with his face twisted in fuck-pain-pleasure.

Time for a drink. I grab one and pay for it with the notes in my sock, and enter a long social corridor. A bear-and-otter couple form the center of a constellation, with a few other couples orbiting. The big bear is holding court, his partner, damn cute, alternately listening, teasing, chatting, and making out with one or both of the members of the other couples.

"Where are you from?"
"Wow, really? I have a brother who lives in Seattle." I hold back from the "you live in a place with 700,000 people - do you know XXX?" meme.
And "blah blah Ru Paul blah blah Drag Race - do you know Jinkx Monsoon?" 
"Yes, as Jinkx and as Jerick, friend of friends..."
And blah blah Ru blah blah t-word controversy... "On the list of topics I don't discuss is the appropriateness of the t-word. Especially here and now."
"But my brother in Seattle is trans, and..."
Oh, bother. Trans. German. Improves the odds. Might as well.
"OK, so who's your brother?"
And, yeah, he's a friend of mine.

Over the next half hour or so, my mood moves from cordial to I'd-chew-my-arm-off-if-I-have-to-to-get-out-of-this. Not because they weren't fine... but I can have bar talk anywhere.

So I excuse my self to do what you go to a sexclub to do. Enter the next room. And find the couple from Milan. A third has just stood up from sucking the blond's cock - he kisses them both, walks away. They pull me in. And the main event of the evening begins.

...Which will follow shortly. It'll be worth the wait. (I know this may shock you, but I'm not even an exclusive bottom in the next chapter...)

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Blue Monday

[As always, comments welcome below.]

(Because it's Monday. And we'll call him Blue.)

"I'm working on tearing down this building. It's half-wrecked inside. Drive to the corner of <X> and <Y>. Park where you can. Call me and I'll get you." And I do. And he does, showing up smoking the cigar I expect. As we walk, he stops, grabs my head, and forces his tongue in my mouth. (Not exactly resisted.) 

Another quarter block. Then stop, he holds my face, and exhales his smoke in it. I breath in all I could. 

Another half block. "Stop." He spits his sweet cigar spit in my face. Running down, and I catch some of it in my mouth. That's totally one of the ways for guys to hook me -- making me go around with their spit all over my face.

Another quarter block. "Stop. Feel this." I grab his crotch, there on the street. He grabs my butt. "It's ready to go there." A few more steps, and we're at the mid-century industrial building.

"If anyone talks to you, don't answer unless I tell you to. I'll take us to a room where I've cleared some space. Blanket on the floor. That's all you need. And when you hear the door lock behind us, be on your knees."

We've been trying to hook up for a long time, since I first saw his profile on one of the kinkier hookup sites. His profile said he was 100% active -- no "versa" this or that. And he said he was looking for bottoms -- again, no equivocation. And just the right amount of objectification. 

In his pictures, no full leather, but -- a septum piercing here, a harness there -- lots of the right signals. A man who knows what he wants. And lots of pictures of the bottoms he wants, doing what they could for him. On their knees, his cock in their mouths, or his finger in their mouths.

It's been a really long time. We started talking over two years ago, in fact. Life intervened -- travel, a minor surgery. But my hunger for him never diminished. My first response to pictures of some of the bottoms was, "Those are some lucky pigs." 

"Damn skippy."

"Getting me all jealous now..."

More missed connections: "I'm fuckin' a pig-bottom trucker here in Tacoma. Wanna watch on my web-cam? <grin>" Didn't see it till the next day.

A year ago, after my foot surgery: "You healthy enough to eat dick and get fucked yet?"

"Getting there, real close."

And finally, last week, I took it up a few notches.

"Been far too long in this holding pattern. I need to be used by you and be a hole for your cock and cum."

"Damned right." 

"As for 'needs discussion': you're going to breed me raw, right?"

"Fucker, I wasn't asking. I was going to cum in your ass whether you let me or not."

And then we got down to logistics. Which brought us to Monday, and the wreck of a building.

Click. The door locks. And by the time he could turn, I'm on my knees, mouth open, tongue out. He opens his belt and lets his cock and balls escape. And I'm on his cock. Nice size, hardening even more in my mouth. And I suck, balls deep, feeling it in the back of my throat. 

"Five minutes of this, then on your back, legs up, and it's going up your hole."

And, pretty much, five minutes of heavy-duty cocksucker action. It's what I do. I can remember the feel and the taste of the first one. I can remember my teens and the subway t-rooms of the just-post-Stonewall days. I can remember my college art center stalls. And lots more along the way. This cock is every cock. It's the one in my mouth now. It's my world now.

He's smoking some more. "Shirt off." I pull off long enough to take off and toss my shirt, then back on his cock. He smokes some more. He flicks his ash on my back. He laughs a little. "Yeah."

"Get up here." His arm up, I bury my face in his sweaty armpit. It's a great, hot working sweat scent. I cover my face with it, lick his pit out completely. He switches arms, and so do I.

"Reason number 11 I can tell you're a real bottom." And he pulls me to his lips, fills my mouth with his smoke. And I breathe it in. And let it go.

Then knees again. Dick again. Sucking in a near-hypnotic rhythm. 

Then, after maybe five minutes, maybe seven: "On your back. Hold your ankles. Open." We grope for a position and find one. "You're pushing me out." I work on relaxing. Usually it takes a little, but when it happens, it really happens. "You ready for the last two inches?"

"Yes, Sir." And so he hits bottom. And he keeps pounding.  But it's taking a while to open up all the way.

"OK, down here. Work on my dick some more. Get it good and wet. That's your lube." So I start working on it more, as he smokes, plays with my head in his hand. "Look up at me as you suck it." I look, and see him, hot man, getting the service he deserves, I need to give. And I'm working it good and deep in the back of my throat, working to get the thick gag-slime going. It's one of the best lubes for me -- only the last load makes a better lube for the next load. It's starting to come, good and thick, coating his cock, running out of my mouth.

"On your belly. Legs apart. Hold your butt open. Don't let go till I tell you." He climbs on. And he slams it in, all the way. And this time, it just goes, where it belongs, in the hole that needs it. And I keep it spread wide, hungry, with my hands. And he keeps pounding, pounding. His stokes get a little slower but harder and more serious. More and more. Then an unsteadiness, a shaking, a low roar. "Fucker." And I feel him hardening, shooting his load in me. It takes a while. It's a good, big one. And my hole knows why it exists.

"Reason number 27 I can tell you're a real bottom."

We stand after a minute or two. He relights the cigar, hits on it a few times, offers me one. I take it gladly and proudly. We're kissing. He sticks his fingers in my hole, works them around. "I can feel my load. It's good and wet with my cum." He pulls his fingers out, feeds them to me. I lick and suck it from his fingers. He puts them in again -- no resistance at all. He pulls them out, and says, "Share it with me." We make out around his fingers covered with more of his cum from my hole.

Then his fingers go back in. "Your cum feels so good in my cunt, Daddy."

"Reason number 43, pig. So many guys whine at me..." Mocking little-bitch noises. "'I'm a MAN. It's not a cunt. It's not a pussy.'" He sneers.

"It's a cunt when it's got your cock in it, Sir. It's your cunt when it's got your loads in it. I hope you'll give it lots more, Sir."

"You don't have to ride all the rides the same day, boy, when the park is good."

Saturday, May 31, 2014

If U # Us TruvadaWhores... Wear it with pride!

As you can probably tell from the t-shirt I'm wearing in my profile picture, I'm on PrEP, or pre-exposure prophylaxis -- using Truvada, a combination anti-viral, as a prevention strategy against HIV.

An awesome activist named Adam Zeboski has started a campaign to dispel disinformation about PrEP and to support The 474 Castro Project, the new gay men's health and wellness center at 474 Castro St. in San Francisco.

He's done two t-shirts to support the effort: the one in my profile pic, which says "#TruvadaWhore," and the one I'm asking you friends and strangers of the top persuasion to support:
(Worn here by the lovely and talented Blue Bailey.)

The shirt proclaims "I#TruvadaWhores" -- that's read as "pound," by the way. So if you do, please buy one now -- I know this is short notice, but if three more aren't sold in the next two hours, 27 of us won't get ours. (Hey, versatile here.)

And if you're willing to buy and wear the shirt, comment below -- we may have more to discuss...

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Hey, Buddy, Hold My... Place...

More coming soon, I promise. I'm in the research phase. :)

Meanwhile, comments on the last post are welcome. Let it out.

Monday, May 19, 2014


Since this is the first post, I could dither around with setting the stage, giving some personal history, and fleshing out the situation. So to speak. But the title of the blog, and the site's name, should provide enough info to hit the ground running. And then there's no better place to start than earlier tonight.

"Earlier tonight" started weeks ago. I spotted an obviously hot guy on BBRTS and Recon -- a perfect combination of interests for me. (His BBRTS profile lists the full menu of a balanced perv diet, in concert with the Recon one.)

Looking at his profile, I really like his style: kinda laid-back, matter-of-fact about his interests, nice build. And a definite top connecting with the definite bottom I need to be in this case. "Versatile top," yes, his profile says, but not this time. No need for versatility.

So I reach out. And we start talking... and talking hot and nasty... and start making plans. But my free time is oddly reduced as summer comes on, and on top of that, a family situation makes things defer. And we tried for last week, and misconnected.

But finally, over the weekend, we hit on tonight. So after work, I did a costume change -- off with the work clothes, on with the football shirt and, most important, the jock. Everything I'm bringing to the game is exposed, everything irrelevant out of reach. As it should be.

I drive there. His door is open, the screen door locked. He opens the door, lets me in with a smile and a look of expectation. He's a full head taller than me, his hair and beard as red as the pictures, the retainer in his septum piercing adding to the picture. He's wearing comfortable shorts. I step close, we kiss just a little, he pulls me close, starts kissing and biting. I lick, sniff, then move my head toward his armpit to make it clear I want his scent on me. He obliges, lifts his arm, pulls me into it. I pig out on his sweat and scent, slowly, deeply, throughly. The low grunts start coming out of me, unconsciously -- I'm in non-verbal mode. I can feel that he recognizes he has a hungry pig in his hands.

More grappling, biting (him), pit-service (me). "Let's go." And off to the bedroom.

It's homey but rough, leather jacket and sports gear, lots of caps. Sling hung up close to the ceiling, out of the way, but with promise. We strip down, he quickly -- he's just wearing shorts -- and me a little more awkwardly -- football shirt, jeans, gym shoes, socks -- why the hell did I wear socks? We're both in jocks, but it's obvious that the pouch of his won't be occupied for long. We make out a little more -- going for a second coat of pit sweat on my face -- and I work my hand over his jock, feel him hardening. I drop to my knees, put my mouth around it through the jock, and now it's his turn for the moaning. A half groan, half "Yeaaaaah..."

I take his cock out. Nice size, cut -- not sure why I'm a little surprised. That rosy color that nothing in the world has but ginger dick. I let him know I'm there for his cock, by taking it all the way down, to the root, and letting it swell some more in my mouth. Then I go for it, full, pig-hungry strokes. Like the only thing in my world is his cock. Because it's pretty much true. After a little bit of this, he goes through some of the ways of controlling and owning the suck and the cocksucker: both hands holding the sides of my head and thrusting; his big hand palming the top of my head and working it up and down at his pace.

"Turn around." He sits in his chair. He looks down. I drop to my knees, and once again, his cock goes deep in my mouth, down my throat. He controls the strokes in the same ways, and some new ones: thrusting upward into my downward-facing mouth and deeper into my throat, then palming the back of my head like a basketball, then grabbing my nipples and using them, holding tightly enough to control but not tightly enough to move my focus to my tits. Then one that promises a different sort of time: he holds my head with his fingers on my carotid, head control meeting breath control. That gets a moan out of me and a deeper throating of his cock -- I file away the possibility of more breath control in serious, but today it's only a small part of the total package.

I'm at that perfect, totally submitting, edge-of-gagging moment, where the thick throat slime is starting to flow, the tiniest of tears are forming, and while I could spend the rest of my life sucking this cock, I know there's more coming.

"On the bed." Me still in my jock. Finally, naturally, not touching the pouch at all. My dick is hard but irrelevant. Face down, butt up, shoulders and head down. He pushes my legs open, spits on my hole. Licks it just a little, wets his finger, works it in. My hole protested a little earlier when I was cleaning, but now, it knows why it's there. His finger slides right in. It's smooth enough that I worry I'm dirty, but in fact, it's just that I'm a hole and I know it. I'm his hole and he knows it.

His dick is still wet with the slime from my throat. There's no other lube. He has poppers -- he took a few hits when he was in the chair and I was in a world consisting of his dick -- and holds them now, but offers me none. I brought some too, haven't had a chance to take them from my jeans pocket, and don't care.

He puts his dick in. He doesn't quite go balls-deep in a single thrust, but there's nothing tentative about it, and my hole doesn't even consider offering any resistance. More moans. "Yeah." More moans. More "yeah." Then I say it.

"Breed me."

He says, "Yeah, I will. I'm gonna breed you."

And the fucking starts. In that position, then flat on my belly, then further onto the bed and with my butt higher. It's there to be fucked. He's there to fuck it. Insistent strokes, then an arm around my waist and some jackhammer thrusts. He's sweating, and it's dropping from his head and chest slowly onto my back. A low moan, a change in pace, some insistent thrusts. And through it, I can feel his cock throbbing, pulsing in my hole. Confirming, once again, what I've always known in my hole: you can feel it. Especially bare, you can feel it.

He lay there, still in me. We leaned over, almost lost the penetration but didn't, till he was part on his side, part on his back, and I was in front of him. It felt like that hot comfort sex thing where you're spooning but the dick is still inside. But, somehow, not. It was comfortable, yes, but it wasn't "after." And he wasn't pulling out.

So I haven't touched my dick yet. It's still in the jock, put away where nobody needs it. And that's almost the best reminder a bottom needs that he's a hole.


Because he decided to get me off. But it was still in his control.

He took it out, jacked it at his own pace, making it clear to me without saying a thing that it wasn't mine to touch, the stroke was his to set, and it was my job to shoot a load for him. Not for me. And he got me close to the point, higher, higher, not quite there... not deliberately edging, but just finding it. And I knew he might give up, and I wanted to cum. Not for me, but for his work. And I was reminded that the absolute best way to cum when I'm in pig bottom fuckhole mindspace is with a hard dick in my hole, fucking away. Had I mentioned that he was hard again -- still -- and was fucking that load out of me as much as he was jacking it?

And, finally, it builds, and it builds, and it happens. I didn't look or touch it, but it's far to say it's probably the biggest load I've shot in months.

And he's still in my hole. And he hasn't stopped thrusting. And then, he pushes me over, dick still in my hole, till I'm face down. And he's on top, and he's still thrusting.

If not touching my dick at all, cumming only when I get home and jack it thinking about it, running five-senses porn through my head... if that's almost the best reminder that I'm a hole... then this is the best: shooting my load and still needing to take it, to get him off in my somewhat tender fuckhole, where it belongs. Now my dick is not only irrelevant, but the impulse is to say, "Done."

But that's not what a real bottom hole is there for.

My hole was there for one reason: to make his cock feel good and to get that next load from him. If it took minutes, if it took hours, it doesn't matter: the hole is there for his cock.

If I thought I was relaxed before, now I am so loose and slippery and sloppy that I once again fear I'm dirty. But -- sniffing --  I'm not. I'm just a hole the way a real fucker likes it. (Even when I'm on top, I don't get the "tight hole" mystique. I can make it hotter for a top fucking me -- but being painfully tight isn't the way to do it. Anyway.)

He's jamming now. And I'm feeling it, yes, as thrusting, but also, as my hole getting what it needs. If there really are anal orgasms for queerboy fuckholes, this is it. The sweat is pouring off him now, onto my back. And he is riding it, thrusting it, plowing ito me until -- "Yeah. Yeah." and I feel the throbbing again. And if you can actually feel the cum hit, I'm feeling it, and if you can't, I'm wishing it.

We do a few more minutes of that lying-around-after bit. We start to get up. We find my clothes -- most of them, then the runaway second sock -- why did I wear socks? We make small talk about needing to go get dinner. But just a little, and then I say I definitely want to do it again, any time. And he agrees. And I'm out the door, and in my car.

And I feel FUCKED. Yeah, really fucked, used, like my hole was here for. I can feel that throbbing, that sweet pain of the used fuckhole that can go away slow by resting it. Or it can go away fast by putting out the fire with the next fuck. Slow is what's going to happen, I suspect. But... If...

[[Get the comments rolling. I want to know what's on your minds.]]