Sunday, December 28, 2003

The Machine

When body surfing at the beach--one of my favorite hot weather pasttimes--the rule of thumb is that every seventh wave is a good one. It's uncanny how true this is. Perhaps the same rule applies to internet-originated hookups.

At any rate, today's was a killer wave, that had me riding high all the way in to the beach.

I forget whether I flagged him down or he flagged me down on World Leathermen. His profile was short, sweet, and to the point: he was a Top, and he liked lean, muscular men. (Hey! I'm a lean, muscular man!) Using the telegraphese communication that World Leathermen allows, we made a plan. And today was the day.

I waited until I was just about ready to leave before I took a shower today. I wanted to clean out. I've hooked up my Shower Shot in the bathroom. Ahhh.. my Shower Shot! You may remember the tragedy of shakespearean proportions involving my Shower Shot. Last October, while attending a wedding in Portland, Oregon, my host had a Shower Shot hooked up in his bathroom. While showering one day, I decided to give it a try. Four hours later, when I emerged from the bathroom, I was determined to get me one of those. So amazing! What a blast!

I bought mine from those stand-up guys at the Leatherman on Christopher Street, rushed home, and hooked it up. Ah! Sweet delight! But not for long. In fact, if memory serves, as I was toweling off afterwards, I started to feel really really really bad. While lying supine on my bed, feeling like the hapless guy in Alien, I remembered reading somewhere that the water in Beautiful Downtown Jersey City was barely potable. I had just spent a half an hour shooting pestilential water, teeming with giardia and cryptosporidium, up my asshole into my tender and vulnerable colon.

For the next several months, defecation was pretty dramatic. Explosive, even. I considered purchasing adult diapers.

Thanks, Jersey City!

When contemplating the move back here to Bucolic Bucks County, my eyebrow arched and a smile flitted across my face when I considered the fact that we drink pure, clean well water, drawn from the aquifer some hundred and fifty feet below the earth's surface. Here, I can douche until my heart's content.

Anyway, when the water ran clear, I got dressed, walked the dog, filled up the wood box, said goodbye to my father, and headed south on Route 202 to meet with the Top. On the way, it occurred to me that although I knew this guy was a Top, I had no idea just what he liked to do as a Top. What, exactly, had I signed up for?

(How could this come to pass with an experienced player such as myself? Well... probably has something to do with the fact that in the pics he posts on line, he is one hot man.)

And so, in getting my head together, I conjured openness. Giving myself over. Trust. Possibly a new and heretofore uncontemplated experience. Even if (Angels and Saints Preserve Us!) he was into feet, I would make due.

His directions were excellent. He was better in person than his pics. And the big question mark vanished: he liked to fuck.

Why... what a happy coincidence!

He did some pretty pedestrian bondage, tying me spread eagle on the bed. (The ropes were digging into my ankles pretty quickly and I had to ask for an adjustment, and the wrist restraints were likewise uncomfortable.) And, he insisted on hitting me, hard, with his belt. Yow! No warm up, not even a warning. Just Thwack!.

But oh Man! Can that guy throw a fuck! He has a beautiful dick. Nice and fat. He would drill in there and just start pounding. Really pounding. It didn't even feel like sex. It was more like being a bottom in a punching scene or something. Just takin' the abuse. Yeah, I enjoyed it. But I sure didn't enjoy it because of the sensual pleasure of the experience. There wasn't a lot of that. (Except for a brief and welcome interlude when he lied down on his back and I got to ride that fat dick of his.) The pleasure was in taking it, in rising to the challenge, in being a tough bottom. And thereby earning his respect.

At one point, he asked me, "Where'd you learn to be such a tough guy, boy?" I responded--right off the top of my head, Lord knows where this came from--"At Mennonite Summer Bible Camp, Sir!"

Now that threw him. "Huh," he replied, "I'm a Mennonite."

And then he went back to mercilessly and brutally pounding my ass, just drilling me right into the mattress.

He told me afterwards that he really got off on all the commotion I was putting up. All that grimmacing and grunting and straining and hurting.

And here was a great moment. He was plowing me with me on my belly, and he announced, pretty matter-of-factly, that he was cumming. I turned my head around to see him whip off the condom and shoot his load all over my back. But before I could even say to myself, "Oh man! Thank God that's over!" he said, "Don't think that's the end, boy. I stay hard after I cum."

He put on another condom, and it was more of punishing my poor asshole.


He was like a machine. Just relentless. I have never ever known any man who could fuck like him. And enjoyed himself so thoroughly in doing it.

When I decided that I really and truly had had all--if not more--than I could take (this would be an hour and a half into it, mind you), I started to do my best to tighten up my sphincter. This was only partially successful. He still managed to ram his way in there. But, he couldn't get to the point where he could pull all the way out and plunge all the way in, burying himself to the hilt, as he was wont to do. (And which I love myself when I'm fucking a man.) Because I usually managed to block the re-entry.

After pursuing this regardless for about fifteen minutes, he relented: "Okay boy, I want to fuck some cum out of you." He rolled onto his back (Yahoooo! Yippeeeee! Yeeeeee HA! O Thank God!), and I slid down on his big hard tool. I climaxed pretty quickly.

Now here's an interesting thing. When I came, there was no load. Just about nada. I mean, I wasn't faking it or anything. It felt great! It was one hell of an orgasm. But there was no whatchacall ejaculate.

Huh. If I remember my reproductive biology, ejaculate is mostly comprised of Cowper's fluid from the Cowper's gland, and discharge from the prostate. I wonder if my prostate gland had gone on strike after two hours of relentless pounding?

Gosh. I hope it's not broken.

He was pretty sweet about this oddity. "Is that the best you can do? I don't get to see a load?"

Then, I rolled off of him, and he shot another load.

And still his dick didn't go down. He could have still kept going. I think that he could be going still, not only was he like a machine, he's a perpetual motion machine.

In our post-coital dewey moment, he turned to me and said, "Think I should maybe try some Viagra?"

Then he gave me a massage. It was at about the same order as his bondage skills. I decided to teach by example: "Let me return the favor, Sir." And giving him a full body massage, I sent him right to heaven.

While massaging him, I couldn't help but notice his back. Yowzah! Broad and muscular, and covered with dark brown freckles, like a cloudless night sky with stars. I mean, that back was a whipsman's wet dream! All those dots to connect! All those targets to aim at! And they were all arrayed in the areas where you want to whip. I told him that if he ever had a hankering to be whipped, to please think of me. I would give my pinkie finger up to the knuckle to whip a back like that. But, I don't think he'll be taking me up on the offer any time soon.

After exchanging massages, we took a shower together. He lovingly and tenderly soaped up my body, telling me that I had the kind of body he just loves: lean and muscular.

What a sweetheart!

Seventh time lucky.

So that was a great afternoon, and he is a great guy. Liked him a lot. A whole lot. My asshole is still vibrating and quivering with the memory of the experience. So good. So sweet.

Interesting. I think he's sort of a proto-Sadist. He totally got off on my not enjoying his fucking me. That's what it was all about for him. Instead of using a flogger or a whip or his fist or hot candle wax or whatever, he was using his big, fat dick. And during and certainly afterwards, it didn't feel like having sex. It felt like a scene. And it was a scene.


It's like we were doing something vanilla, but in a way that was very much not vanilla.

Love that.

Anyway, gotta walk Faithful Companion, who seems to be feeling quite his old self again today.

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