“I may not be able to keep from shooting, if you keep that up,” I warned him.
In a flash, David slithered past me, and he was now down on his knees in front of me—sucking me off. My thighs hammered against his glowing face. I thought I was going to come, but once again I forced myself to hold off, and with a loud gasp I pushed his face away from my groin. David stood up again, panting.
I went down on him, in return, and licked his balls as they dangled below his generous length of stiff prickshaft. While I blew him, I inhaled his crotch aroma—a pungent, intoxicating mixture of the bathhouse’s cheap soap, sweat, and urine dribble. It was a really macho locker-room smell, which seemed to go perfectly well with our surroundings.
Still blowing him, I reached around behind him and grasped his buttocks in my hands. I shoved his pelvis back and forth in order to force the whole length of his erection into my open mouth and down my throat.
He kept shivering and moaning while I worked on him, running his fingers through my damp, disheveled hair, pressing them against my scalp to hold my mouth down on his hot, horny, and very swollen dick.
“My ass is on fire,” David reported. “Do you still want to fuck me?” he asked, his throat tight with excitement. He held my cheeks back with his hands, let his cockhead dribble semen against my lips, and stared down at my cocksucker’s face—which no doubt betrayed my own intense arousal.
“Yeah.” I stood up, facing him. “Do you have any grease handy, or is this going to be a dry fuck?”
David looked around, and he spotted a tube of K-Y which somebody had left lying on one of the sinks. It was almost squeezed dry, but he retrieved it, came back into the toilet stall with me, and managed to crush the tube between his fingers until a last ribbon of the lubricant emerged onto his palm. He smeared the K-Y over my big, thick, upright cock, rubbing it into my flesh.
We were both quivering with anticipation. He worked the K-Y that remained in his hand into his ass crack, and then he turned his back to me.
“Go in slowly at first,” he pleaded, as he bent over from the waist. Holding onto the porcelain toilet bowl with both hands, he pushed his ass back at me in mute, lewd invitation. “But then fuck me hard!” he added.
That was all the encouragement I needed, as worked up as I was by then. I placed my hands on his slender hips and brushed his ass crack with the tip of my cock. David started to breathe heavily, bracing himself for my penetration. I pressed my index finger against his asshole and I spread his cheeks with my other fingers.
He sucked in his breath sharply when I inserted my cockhead into the tight pucker of his sphincter.
“Oh, you’re hung so goddamn big,” he exclaimed, as his anal rim began to stretch itself, like a thick rubber band, around the shaft of my cock.
I went in an inch at a time, pulling back and pressing forward again, slowly—like he had told me—until I was halfway inside him.
“You may be too big for me to take all the way,” he whimpered, tensing up all over and trying to shit my dick out of his anus.
I’d heard that one before, and I wasn’t buying it. The guys who complained the most about how painful the initial insertion was, were invariably the ones who begged the loudest to be fucked once they had me all the way in them. They had delusions about their ability to recover their anal virginity after each time they got fucked—delusions which I was already cynical enough to be happy to shatter.
“Relax.” Wild with lust, I shoved myself the rest of the way into him. David let out a howl of pain and his back arched up—but not before I’d managed to grab him by the waist with both my arms. I held my cock inside him for a moment, not thrusting, until I could feel his anal muscles relaxing a little around my throbbing bulk.
“It’s too big, I just don’t think I can take it,” he whined. But his protest didn’t convince me. I could tell that he was already getting off on being violated by my big, hard cock.
“Relax, man,” I once again urged him. “It’s going to feel good in a second.” I massaged his prick back up into erection. We were leaning over the toilet bowl, and David could look down and see his reflection in the water. His belly was coated with fine, soft hairs, and I caressed it with the palm of my other hand. Then, keeping my dick in his ass, I ran my hand upward, to his chest, to pinch the nipples which crowned his pecs.
His body finally relaxed against mine, and he bent over farther. I interpreted this slump, which pressed his buttocks snugly against my crotch, as a sign of submission, and I started pumping my prick gently but insistently in and out of his butthole. His breathing kept rhythm with my increasingly forceful fucking motions.
“Kneel down, man,” I told him, after a few moments of steady humping.
“What?” He seemed not to understand that I wanted to try fucking him doggy-style on the toilet floor.
I pulled him back from the toilet bowl and I pushed his back down with my free left hand. My cock, of course, stayed jammed all the way up his ass.
“Go on, kneel down!” I barked.
I suspected that David was a little bit of a masochist, although hardly in Mario’s league. In any event, when I got more aggressive with him, he obeyed me like a well-trained dog. He knelt down in the puddles of piss on the bathroom floor. His head was now over the toilet bowl, as though he was getting ready to puke into it. I raised my head and looked down, to get a good look at his muscles while I fucked him.
I started out by licking his back, tracing the indentation of his spine with the tip of my tongue. This threw him into a state of sheer ecstasy, and he wiggled and writhed and moaned hysterically. Next, I bit into his shoulder muscle to arouse his masochism a little more, and at the same time to remind him that I was in charge of this nasty toilet fuck of ours.
Following this, with a certain amount of cool, objective deliberation, I reached up along his back, grabbed him by the shoulders, and plowed my dick all the way up into his anal furrow. I pulled back only to thrust upward again, reaming out his rectum with brutal, hammering strokes which made his body shake against mine from the impact as I held him down on my cock with my hands.
His head bobbed up and down over the rim of the toilet bowl, as though he was bobbing for apples. His cockshaft slapped noisily against the damp outside of the bowl.
“Fuck me!” he shouted. “Oh, hell, man, please fuck me! Fuck me hard! Oh, hurt me with your big, hard cock. Make it hurt, Keith! Please!”
I made damned sure it would hurt. I wrapped my arms around his waist, rose up on the balls of my feet, and pulled his ass high in the air. In that position, I began to fuck him as hard and as fast and as unsparingly as I could, until my cockshaft actually hurt from the friction.
He took the abuse, gloatingly, and his loud cries of pleasure, the way his body trembled from my thrusts, only made me want to fuck him even more ruthlessly—to punish him with my prick.
He kept letting out hoarse grunts and muffled squeals of pain, his voice echoing weirdly off the bathroom walls. His left hand jerked spasmodically on his cock rubbing it against the cold white rim of the toilet bowl. I was getting close to a climax. My legs straddled his thighs, and I suddenly felt my jism searing its way through my cockshaft and flying deep into his waiting, clenching asshole.
I couldn’t believe I was ejaculating yet again, after all the sex I’d already indulged in that afternoon. Something about the whole bathhouse experience had made me insatiable. The more sex I had, the more I wanted. And, incredibly, my body, far from failing me, seemed to be rising to the challenge—repeatedly!
“Take it, you hot-assed son of a bitch!” I bellowed, as my guts ripped loose with their first hot, wet volley of sperm. “God damn it—take my fucking cum up your ass! I’m coming! I’m coming in your horny ass, man!”
David shot off simultaneously with me, blasting his semen into the toilet bowl. I could hear it plopping into the water like so many heavy drops of rain falling onto the surface of a pond.
“I’m coming, too, you bi
g-dicked motherfucker,” he gasped. Sucking in his breath, he then let it out again, in a loud and long and shrill cry, as he jettisoned his load of sperm in thick, slimy wads which clouded the water like so many egg whites being dumped into a bowl of water by a chef.
Breathless, I let go of his waist, which was slippery with our mingled sweat. David feel forward and landed on his hands and knees, his spurting cock spraying its last few wads up into the air. While I poured my final torrents of cum into his asshole, he leaned over the rim of the toilet bowl and salivated onto the reflection of his own face in the water which filled the soiled, stained fixture.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. I pulled out of him. A final thick ooze of sperm escaped from my cockhead and ran down the small of his back and over the curve of his left buttock, like a snail’s silvery trail. I got to my feet, trembling from the force of my orgasm.
While I staggered over to the washbasins and gave my cock a quick rinse, David struggled to his feet and pissed long and hard into the toilet, which he then flushed.
He turned and grinned at me, his cock swinging in front of him, still semi-erect.
“You’re something else! That was some fuck, buddy,” he said. “I’m not going to forget it for a long time.” He laughed. “My sore ass won’t let me forget it!”
“Yeah, that was hot,” I agreed.
“I’ll see you in class.” David gave me a sly grin. “If I don’t run into you again in here, first!”
I gave him a goodbye kiss and grope, and we went our separate ways. I showered yet again, but for the last time, down in the basement, went back to my room, and slowly got dressed. I rubbed my hair dry with my damp towel as best as I could, and I went back down to the reception area. I handed the stud bodybuilder receptionist the elastic wristband with my key. In return, he handed me the box with my things.
As I slipped my wristwatch on, I glanced at the time. It was a little past four PM. I had plenty of time to get home and rest up before Paul arrived.
Chapter Twelve: Caught After the Act
I was startled—to say the least—to find Paul already in the apartment, when I got home from my excursion to the baths.
“You’re back early,” I said, brightly, trying to conceal my nervousness. “How did the recording session go?”
“We finished early.” There was a curt, ominous tone in Paul’s voice, as he looked me up and down. My hair was still damp, and I was sure that I looked every bit as guilty, as fucked out, as I felt. I could almost smell the lingering sex scent on my body, the erotic residue of all the guys I’d made it with at the tubs.
“Where have you been, Keith?” Paul asked, too casually to be quite convincing.
“Studying.”
“You liar!” he exploded.
I just looked at him, my mouth open, dazed by his sudden, totally uncharacteristic display of violent emotion.
“Liar,” he repeated, but in a low, cold whisper this time. “Guess who I happened to run into on the street, on my way home from the recording studio?” he went on, with a bitter, mocking laugh. His eyes glared at me. “Mario! Remember him?”
I was literally speechless, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, as though by a thick impasto of fresh cum.
“Of course you remember him,” Paul said, gloatingly. “And you sure made an impression on him, today. All he could talk about was what a hot little stud you are, and how great it was to hook up with you in the baths, and how good the sex was.”
His voice was now raised to a full, if hoarse, shout. He was pursuing me across the living room as I instinctively backed away from him, afraid he might hit me. Being gay was one thing. Becoming a victim of same-sex domestic violence was quite another, and I had no intention of experiencing that.
“Okay,” I said, trying to calm him down. “So I went to the baths and I got laid. So what? I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d be jealous.”
“No, you didn’t want to tell me, because you planned to come home and fuck around with me, too, pretending that nothing else happened. You thought you could play me for a fool.”
“I think you’re overreacting—”
“You’re nothing but a fucking little whore, that’s what you are! All you ever think about is sucking dick and getting your ass fucked, you slut!”
I wasn’t about to take that lying down, if you’ll pardon the expression, and the upshot was that Paul and I had our first real fight—a real verbal slugging match, which ended with both of us yelling at the top of our lungs.
“You can pack up your shit first thing in the morning and get out of here,” Paul thundered at me, at last. “Get out of here, and get out of my life!”
I was so mad at him that I refused to sleep with him that night, of course. Instead, I bedded down in the living room, while he sulked in the bedroom. By then, we weren’t talking to each other at all.
In the middle of the night, though, I woke up from a restless light sleep and went into the bathroom to take a leak. On my way back to bed, I couldn’t help peeking into Paul’s bedroom. The heat was on and he was lying nude on the mattress, with just a single sheet pulled up to his chest.
I slipped into the bed beside him and cuddled up next to him. He stirred, seemed to half wake up, and then he muttered something which I couldn’t catch, as he put his heavy arm across me and hugged me close to him. He fell asleep again, soon snoring away loudly. We slept like that, our battle over for the time being, although I, for one, wasn’t exactly looking forward to confronting Paul again in the cold light of day.
In the morning I woke up first and tried to sneak out of the bedroom without rousing him, intending to get dressed and leave the apartment so that Paul could let off some more steam for a few hours. Then, I hoped, we would be able to talk about it.
Before I could escape from the warm bedroom, however, Paul stirred in the bed. He rolled toward me, yawned, and suddenly he was awake, blinking.
He glanced up and his sleepy, sexy eyes focused on my naked body posed in the doorway. The sheet had slipped down to below his waist, and his naked torso was outlined clearly against the mattress. His hair was slightly tousled from sleep, and he’d worn his earring to bed. It caught the faint morning light and gleamed against the pillow.
“So—that wasn’t just a wet dream I had last night, after all,” he mumbled, with a hint of his usual good humor. “That really was you … crawling back into my bed, begging me to forgive you.”
I didn’t recall doing any begging. But I was smart enough not to say anything—and certainly not to contradict him.
“Don’t go, Keith.” He raised his bare arms, put his hands behind his head, and yawned. “I think we’ve got some unfinished business to take care of, buddy.” The sheet fell away from the tent pole of his stiff prick, which stood up nakedly from his groin, big and erect, showing all of the classic signs of a morning piss hard-on.
“I want to fuck you, Keith.” He reached down, took his cock in his hand, and waved it energetically at me. His smile displayed that perfect set of gleaming white teeth, which always got to me. Right now, though, his grin was almost predatory in its intensity.
He kept doing all of the talking.
“I want to fuck you,” he repeated. He grinned again, even more salaciously this time, and he waved his free hand toward my naked body and bare ass. “I want to stick this boner of mine right up your hot, tight, whorey little stud ass.” He made a gesture of fucking with the fist which he now had wrapped around his cock, pumping it up and down the inflexible bulk of his full erection.
I finally found my voice. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” I dared to suggest. “Maybe we ought to talk about a few things, first.”
The smirk vanished from Paul’s face. He sat up quickly on the edge of the bed, and he swung those beefy, hairy legs of his over its side.
“Talk? We can do that later,” he said. “Right now, I need to get my rocks off. I’m going to fuck you!” It was a statement of fact this time
, without any hint of question, suggestion, or request in it. I turned toward the bedroom door, intending to end the argument by retreating into the living room, or the kitchen.
A firm hand caught me by the arm, and I was swung around just in time to collide with Paul’s sturdy, six-foot one-inch, nude body. His rock-solid prick slammed painfully into my belly.
“What the hell! Where do you think you’re going? I said I’m going to fuck you, you little shit, and that means you’re about to get fucked,” Paul spat out, furiously, with sexual hatred blazing up in his eyes. His arms locked around my much more slender frame. He literally picked me up bodily, carried me back to the bed, and threw me down in the middle of the mattress, which rocked under the impact of my crash landing.
He knelt on the bed, tossed my legs up over his shoulders, and unceremoniously rammed his big, meaty prickshaft right up my ass—dry. Without so much as a drop of sweat or spit for lubrication!
I struggled for a moment, but a smart slap on my face ended my resistance. I lay back passively and let myself get a hard-on. I suppose I was being raped. But, as Politically Incorrect as it may be for me to say so, I was enjoying being raped. Every minute of it!
Paul’s usual tenderness in bed with me was a thing of the past, at least for the duration of this rough, almost sadomasochistic, fuck! I was reduced to squirming under him in real anal discomfort, jerking myself off, while he rammed his dick in and out of me, pushing my knees all the way back over my head and into the pillows. Grunting, Paul looked down between our bodies, at his thick cock as it plunged in and out of my asshole. He was using my hole to bring himself off. My own hard-on, my own orgasm, was obviously going to be my problem, to take care of myself.
I couldn’t say I blamed him. Not after my whorish behavior of the day before. I supposed I was lucky he still cared enough for me to get a hard-on for me, to want to screw me, to stick his cock in there where so many other men had recently deposited their sperm.
“Oh, Christ,” I heard myself moaning, as my fist flailed away on my dick and my asshole seemed to dissolve into molten jelly around the pounding pestle of Paul’s prick. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Jazz Baby Page 10
