I don’t have many guest writers on the blog, but in recent years, I was glad to publish Jake’s point of view each time my cock and hands found their way into him. Jake, some will remember, is the man I have known the longest—with whom I am still playing.
Almost a year ago, he sent me a write up about when we first met. I saved it, as back then I was always behind in getting my adventures typed up. But I found it again recently and this seems like a great time to publish it.
The bathhouse in which we met was the one nearest my home—and the second bathhouse I visited. I was very new to the kink I knew I wanted and couldn’t get with my vanilla partner. I had fisted maybe two men at this point, both telling me I was a natural FF Top.
So here it is…How Jake Met FelchingPisser…
It was in our local bathhouse, a cavernous and shabby building that once housed a local dairy operation. I was a newbie fister in those long ago days. Head over heels, or I guess, heels over head about it. I was learning that each man fists you in a different way depending on his experience or lack of it, and just as importantly, his own sexual personality. Some men, usually first time tops, were positively giddy about it, once their fist was sucked into my hungry hole. Others wanted it to be intense and painful at least to a point; a master sadist knows when he's pushed you just far enough to make it worth his while and yours.
A lot of the bathhouse clientele were not into anything much by way of kink, however, and many visits were washouts for me. But one night a new man strode into the sling area, where I was waiting, cleaned out and ready. He soon took command of my ass, and I was suddenly taken up to a higher level. He first probed my ass to see if it met his standards.
"Clean as a whistle!" he said with a smile. Moments later he was thrusting his remarkably long and shapely hand into my ass, slowly but firmly, as announcement that he a lot to give, and I would soon be taking it all. And I did...
Who was this man? Under the circumstances, it was be fisted first, and ask questions later. FelchingPisser loomed over me as a tall man built like a perfect phallus, arrow straight, with slightly rounded shoulders surmounted by a small well shaped head, balding, bearded, with straight nose and large intelligent eyes. His default expression is calm serious intensity.
In his street clothes, FP is unremarkable. But I met him in a state of undress, or rather, dressed for things better done off the street. His feet were shod in leather boots and heavy socks, providing something like pair of leather-clad balls to serve as the right base for the phallic man looming upwards from them. His hips are as wide as his shoulders, and he is spare and lean and firm up and down. The hips are cinched by the dirtiest old-time jock strap I ever saw. The jock barely contains the big hairy balls and massive cock, all bolted securely into place by a cold steel ring. Shoved into the band of the jock, in a hollow of his belly by a hip bone, is a bottle of whatever poppers he favors at the moment, and maybe a condom or two. He may be wearing a harness or not as he pleases, and at other times a leather vest and chaps to wrap his long straight legs.
In other words, he is out for serious extreme sex. He'd stand out in any crowd of naked men. In fact when he walks in, you can't see anyone else. And you want him.
Best of all for me, FP wanted my ass. His hand slid in like a key sliding into a lock. He fisted me like no one else before or since.
It was the first of many meetings, all too infrequent, and never quite long enough. Twenty years later, the sex is great, and I can't wait to climb into his sling again.