[Author’s note: In this story, lines of consent are blurry at best.]
Some guys just bring it out in me, I can’t really explain it. An out-of-the-blue, animalistic urge to fuck. I’m not gay — I don’t think — I’m married, to a woman, two teenage kids, family man and all that, living in San Diego. But over the years, and more frequently as I’ve gotten older, there are instances when I see a guy and something clicks. When I say “click”, I mean an almost tangible click in my head and in my body, a metabolic switch. Maybe something like the “hitch” that alcoholics talk about when a critical mass of booze hits their bloodstream.
Despite what you might think, reading this, I don’t go around looking for sex. I do notice and appreciate male attention, though, probably more than most “straight” guys. I’m a big guy, 45 years old. Ex-military. Given my height and bulk, I get checked out a lot. I like catching men in the act of checking me out. I enjoy turning a guy’s head, noticing when his gaze snags on my crotch. Sometimes I’ll even give him a wink. But that kind of thing hardly ever leads to sex.
The guys that provoke this response in me, the men I fuck, don’t fit a predictable form. I suppose what I’m saying is, I don’t have a “type”. Slim builds, thick builds, tall, short, older guys, younger guys, skin, hair, or eye color; none of these variables correlate with who triggers me.
When I feel the click, it’s a signal sent from an individual. Someone, I think, in desperate need of what I have to give him. A direct wire to my lizard brain, communicating his primal need to be penetrated, violated, bred.
These men I fuck, it’s like a dream. They don’t pertain to my real life. I meet a guy, he trips my wire, we fuck, then go our separate ways. At least, that’s how it has always happened. With Devon it was different. I’m not sure how it was different, but it was. I’m still thinking about him, almost a year later. Maybe it’s why I’m writing this, to help figure it out.
It happened last summer when I was in Toronto for work. I was staying at a sprawling convention center/hotel complex. I had finished two exhausting weeks of consulting. 14-hour days, endless meetings. It was my last night in town. I decided to grab a drink at the hotel bar to unwind. It was late afternoon, and the bar was starting to get crowded. The hotel was packed with conference attendees, academic types, wearing name badges on lanyards around their necks. I had seen multiple rounds of them come through since I’d been there.
I ordered a drink and wandered back into the lobby to find an isolated table. I called my wife, let her know what time my flight was scheduled the next day, heard about the kids’ games that weekend, etc. I was eager to get home.
As I was talking to her, I watched conference-goers trickle into the lobby, walking in twos and threes toward the bar. In one trio, my eye was immediately drawn to a younger man, mid-20s probably, 5’8″-ish. There was something about his gait, the set of his shoulders, the way he moved his arms. He was speaking animatedly with his friends. As he passed me, we briefly made eye contact. I felt a weight drop into my chest and felt it, the click, the distinct shift of gears in my body. The moment was mutual, as it always is. I saw him sort of miss a step, caught mid-sentence by the electricity of our connection. He stumbled slightly before steadying himself. He hurriedly looked away, and disappeared into the bar with his friends.
“Yeah, I’m still here.” I said into the phone. “Yeah, sorry. No, I just realized there’s something I need to do before I leave. No, I’ll be able to do it tonight. OK, sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you too.”
I pocketed my phone. My exhaustion had been replaced with what felt like the slow burn of a coal fire. I returned to the bar and ordered another drink. I looked around and located my quarry. He was at a table with six or seven other people. His back was to me. Thick mop of black hair. He was slightly chubby, his denim shirt a bit too tight, pinching his torso awkwardly under his arms. He had dark features against pale olive skin. He was perhaps Greek, or Slavic. Adriatic-looking. I had ancestors from that area of the world. I wondered if our distant relatives had ever met, maybe on opposite sides of swords and shields on a battlefield. Or, in the steamy corridors of some ancient Roman bath.
I stood at the bar, nursing my drink, waiting patiently, intermittently watching my mark and gazing up at the T.V. screens above the bar. I enjoyed the building anticipation, savoring the unknown of what was coming. I let the moment ripple across my body. As the animal energy took over, I felt the higher levels of my cognition being dismantled, folded and put away.
I descended into my senses. My hearing became hyperacute to the conversations around me. My olfaction seemed to pick apart each unique element of my drink, the layered smells around me in the bar, the faint musk of my own Mersin Escort body radiating up from from my chest, armpits, and beard. After about 20 minutes, I saw my target get up, leaving his bag at the table. He made his way to the rear of the bar and out into the lobby. A minute or so later, I followed, tracking him across the lobby to the men’s room.
I entered. He was at a urinal, humming softly to himself. Nobody else was in the room. I walked to the sink and ran the water. He looked over at me. I saw the stiffening of his sudden recognition, the same jolt of surprise as before. I smiled at him and began to wash my hands. I heard a flush and then fast footsteps as he came to the long row of sinks, taking the one furthest from me. I looked at him in the mirror. He studiously avoided my gaze.
Up close, he was chubbier than I had previously appreciated. His shirt and his pants, dark blue jeans, were both at least a size too small. There was a belly poking out over his belt. I saw that his ass was really packed into his jeans. I thought about what it would look like, freed from captivity. I glanced at his name badge, reversed in the mirror.
“Hello, Devon.” I said.
He looked up at me in the mirror, stammered. “H-Hi, do I know you?”
“No.” I smiled. “I just read your badge.”
“Oh, right.” He rolled his eyes and awkwardly grabbed at his name badge with a soapy hand, flinging suds onto his shirt. “Oh, whoops, haha.” He flushed red, flustered. He stood for a second, seemed not to know what to do. Then he reached back into the sink to finish rinsing his hands. “Are you, um, here for the conference?”
“In town for business.” I replied, removing a paper towel from a stack on the counter. I dried my hands. I took another towel and walked over to him. I reached out and carefully wiped up the spots of soap suds on his shirt. He stood, frozen, his ears burning red. I felt the soft pliability of his flesh under his shirt and felt blood surge into my hardening cock. Next to him, the difference in our sizes was grossly apparent. He was plump, but his frame was diminutive compared to mine. His head was level with my chest.
“Um, thanks.” He said, as he finished washing. He grabbed a towel and dried his hands, which were shaking a little.
“You’re welcome, Devon. It’s not everyday I get to meet…” I looked at his tag again. “A microbiologist.”
“Haha, yeah.” He looked me in the eye. I saw him churn with evident consternation, anxiety, desire. “Well it was, um. Nice to meet you… sir. I should get back.” He nodded his head toward the door, and moved to walk around me. I stepped to block his path. He stopped just short of crashing into me, stumbled backward.
“Devon.” I said. I grabbed his arm to steady him. He flinched in my grasp.
“What… what are you doing?” He looked at me, then, with a glint of real fear in his eyes.
“Devon.” I said, and I pinned him then, roughly, against the wall, pressing my bulk into him. I felt the soft padding of his body compress against me. He let out a frightened yelp.
“Shh, Devon. It’s OK.” I pressed my bearded cheek and chin hard into his neck. I inhaled and smelled a mix of perspiration, liquor, and the hotel’s shampoo on his skin and hair. I felt blood rushing in his carotid artery, pulsing in time with the pounding of his heart.
“I think you know… that I am going to fuck you, Devon.” I said. He exhaled hard. “And I know… that you want me to fuck you.” I moved my head back, looked him dead in the eyes. His eyes shone back at me, terrified. “Room 1047.”
I moved his hand to my crotch, pressed it against my cock, rigid under the thin fabric of my dress pants. I felt him shudder. I held him like that for a beat, then let go and quickly left the bathroom, walked to the elevators.
Back in my room, I took my time. I knew that he wouldn’t come right away. I pictured him taking a few minutes to collect himself in the bathroom, then return to his friends at the bar, ambling quickly in his disjoint, fat-boy gait back across the lobby. He would stay with his friends at the bar for a while, breathing hard, drinking, laughing too eagerly and making distracted conversation, as the seed I planted in him slowly germinated.
I stripped off my clothes and ran water for a shower. My eyes ranged over my body in the mirror. I saw that I had put on a few pounds recently. I was carrying more weight around my midsection than usual. I’d always been thickset, bulky in the shoulders, pecs, back, and upper arms. Hairy. Powerful thighs and large, defined calves. “Built like a draft horse”, my dad used to say. In between my legs, well, a draft horse’s cock. It stood fully upright, now, hard with the memory of being pressed against Devon’s soft body in the men’s room.
What is this? I thought, looking at myself. What the fuck is going on? In this state, it felt like my brain and body occupied some alternate, parallel reality. There was an unusual luster in my eyes. I didn’t recognize Escort Mersin this person, this creature who wouldn’t be sated until his cock was buried deep in Devon’s assflesh. I found the man in the mirror intimidating. I can only imagine what it did to Devon in that men’s room. I stepped into the shower, feeling the coal fire build and build.
It took Devon about an hour to knock on my door. I greeted him wearing only a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants. Devon stood in the doorway, unsteadily. Clearly he’d had a few more drinks at the bar. He was wearing his same clothes and carried his bag. He looked like he was sweating. His eyes went immediately to my hairy chest and belly, then to the bulge in my pants. He breathed deeply.
“Hi Devon.” I said. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Uh, I wanted to say thank you for the offer, but, um…” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him into the room. “Hey!” He wrenched himself away from me, moving across the entry hallway of my suite. “I just came to say that no, I don’t want to hook up with you.”
“Oh no?” I said. I shut the door. Turned the lock.
“No.” He said. I moved toward him, herding him further into the room. “Actually, I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh.” I said. “You have a boyfriend.” I reached up, slowly, undid the top button of his shirt. “What’s your boyfriend’s name, Devon?”
“Hey… you need to stop… mister.” He said, haltingly, reaching for my hands.
I brushed his hands away and undid another button, revealing a light dusting of hair on his chest. “What’s your boyfriend’s name, Devon?”
“Well…” He moved away from me again, retreating further into the room. “His name is, um, Kevin. And, and, he’s amazing, and…” I followed him as he stumbled backward. “And I would never… um…”
I caught up with him as he rounded the corner into the suite’s kitchen. I boxed him in against the countertop. Reached up and undid another button. “Mister… n-no. Please.” I bent and licked the exposed V of his chest, tasted the saltiness of his skin. He sighed.
I grabbed his face, then, and kissed his mouth, hard. The salt on my tongue mixed with the taste of whisky, oranges, and ginger in his mouth. I broke the kiss, looked into his eyes.
“Devon and Kevin?” I said, arching an eyebrow.
“Haha, yeah.” He half-laughed, staring at me. His eyes were deep brown, pupils dilated. Then he kissed me back. Hungrily, desperately jawing at my lips and face. I grabbed him by the shoulders and guided him to the bed, pushed him down on his back. “Oh, god.” He moaned as I unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, exposing his pudgy, fuzzy torso, his hard pink nipples perched atop fleshy pecs. His pot belly quivered as he lay there breathing hard. I sat him up, pulled his shirt off. He fumbled to put his hands into the hair of my chest, feeling my body. I grabbed his wrists and pinned his arms back on the bed. “Oh, fuck.” He said. “Fuck.”
I was over him then, positioning him, using my thighs to hook his legs up over mine, bringing the angle of my hard cock directly in line with his hole, make him feel it there, through the intervening layers of fabric.
“Oh god.” He was moaning. I kissed him in measured progression from his neck to his collarbone, his armpit, his tit. Despite the heat radiating off us both, goosebumps pimpled his flesh as I made my way down his body with my mouth. His nipples were small and rigid as my lips closed around his right tit. In my hand, I rolled his left nipple, pinching it firmly, palpating its stiffened mass between my thumb and forefinger. He grabbed my wrist, arched his back, squirming in discomfort at this, grunting in protest.
“Devon and Kevin…” I said, through my clenched teeth, biting down firmly on his nipple. “Devon and Kevin.” He moaned, louder, tried in vain to push my head and hand away from his chest.
I rolled him, then, straddled him from the side, reached around to cover his mouth with my hand, my other arm still wrapped around his chubby torso. I squared my hips with his and continued to press my cock against his ass. I inserted the middle digit of my hand into his mouth. I felt the slightly rough pad of his tongue, the velvety inside of his cheek, his back molars. I stroked the roof of his mouth and his soft palate with my finger, eliciting a slight gag.
At this point we both felt the fuck coming on like a freight train, sensing its distant rumble. I was not in a rush. I wanted him to have plenty of time to contemplate what was about to happen. As I ground into him, I murmured softly into his ear.
“Your body belongs to me now, Devon. I own your mouth… your throat… your lips. Your perky little tits.” I pinched his nipple again, making him groan. “Your fat thighs, your big ass.”
I squeezed him harder. “And your hole. I’m going to stretch out your tight little asshole, Devon. I’m going to pound you. I’m going to fuck you raw, I’m going to cum in your ass. Do you want that, Devon?”
“Ungghh”. He gagged, a stream of spit spilling Mersin Bayan Escort out of his mouth from under my hand.
“Do you want my cock in your ass, you fat little fuck?” Devon at this point was moaning, straining in my grasp, tears flowing out of his eyes even as he nodded his assent.
In that moment, I am fully the animal. I know that his mind is racing. Exhilarated and afraid about what is coming. Wrapped in my arms, I want him to worry about it, stew in his anxiety. To contemplate what is about to happen to him, to his body. How he’ll mutter “holy shit” under his breath when he first sees my cock, when I press it into his face, when he truly grasps the dimensions of it. How the fleshy knob of my cock head will feel as it pushes into his mouth. The smell of it, the slickness and taste of my pre-cum on his reddened lips. The force with which I’ll penetrate his mouth, the feel of my fists, full of his hair as I push his head down onto my cock. The ache of his jaw, the struggle to accommodate my girth, the pressure on the back of his throat.
How his arms will flail, he’ll try to push me away. How difficult it will be for him to catch his breath. The powerful thrusts I’ll use to fuck his throat. The ropy mix of saliva, stomach acid, and mucous that will stream from his mouth when I pull out. And his eagerness to take me back in again, the gradual loosening of his jaw muscles, his hunger at the sight of my dick, dripping in his fluids. How much it will turn him on, how much he’ll want me to keep fucking his face.
I want him to think how about how the coarseness of my beard will feel against his skin, his ass, the heat of my tongue on his hole. How my thumb, slick with his own spit, will push into him. How his asshole will contract, an instinctive reflex to keep me out, frantic to remain unviolated. That with soft words of encouragement, I’ll coax him to relax the vice grip of his pelvis, as I slip one, then two fingers into his loosening ring, widening him in preparation for my cock. I want him to think about how hard his own cock will be, pressed against the bed, his body prone, while I massage his asshole with my fingers, my lips, my tongue, and then, insistently, with the head of my cock.
How, when I first push the tip of my cock into his ass, he’ll balk, startled by the sharp pain. How he’ll kick and writhe beneath me. That I’ll lay on him, then, with my full weight, restraining his limbs, breathing reassurances into his neck, keeping my cock firmly wedged in his hole until he slowly acclimates to the sensation. How he’ll gradually calm himself as the pain dulls. How, once I feel his body relax, I’ll slowly coax my cock further and further up into him. How he’ll whimper as his asshole stretches wider and wider. Eventually, I’ll whisper to him. “You did it Devon, it’s all the way in. Shh, you did it. Good boy.”
I want him to think about how my sweet reassurances will stop, how the mood will darken, as I start to fuck. How he’ll feel the heat and friction of my shaft in his hole, distending his insides as I begin to stroke in and out of him. How the tempo will increase, tick by tick. That upon a certain inflection point, he’ll start to reel from the mounting sensations in his ass. That he’ll start to panic as these sensations build uncontrollably. That he’ll reach back to try to slow me down, stop me from fucking him. That I’ll pin his arms behind his back, push his head down into the bed as I increase the frequency and strength of my thrusts.
I want him to envision himself completely helpless. Being fucked by a huge beast of a man he doesn’t know, his face down, being hammered relentlessly. I want him to think about how the pale, ivory flesh of his ample butt will turn red under the grip of my thick fingers as I destroy his tight ass ring. That I will push down, arms locked, onto his lower back, forcing his body into a crescent so that I can watch his blubbery ass clap and recoil as I pound his hole. That I will grab his hair and yank his head back, breathe heavy spit-laced vulgarities into his ear while I impale his hog body.
That I’ll flip him over, savagely (too savagely, it turns out) onto his back, revealing his own rigid cock. His short, thick bottom’s cock, leaking and twitching. That I’ll press his hard stub into his fat little belly, feeling it pulse under my callused palm, sending shivers through him. That I’ll reach under him to ratchet his ass into position, fold him, legs drawn up under my thickly muscled arms, and piston my cock into his guts, pressing my massive, hairy chest into his face. That my sweat will drip down onto him, from my shoulders, neck, and beard. That he won’t be able to breathe, folded up like this, that his brain will struggle to send accurate messages amidst the crosscurrents of pain and pleasure that I am fucking into him.
That the pace of my strokes will increase as I near my climax, that his boy-cock will explode with a gush of cum as I pummel him, that the spasm and jerk of his orgasm will trigger my own. That when I start to come, I will momentarily lose control of my body, the muscles of my thighs, ass, and back will convulse, that I’ll grab blindly at his body, seize fistfuls of his soft flesh as I unload deep inside him.