Tramp Stamp

My Playroom—October, 2012

 I was planning on taking the day off from sex.  October had been a great month for me.  I’d had all sorts of sex with a lot of men.  But then BBRT started blinking, just as I was about to log off and pick up my book.  He was young.  He was up from a big gay city in the deep South. He was visiting family—who were driving him crazy.  He was away from his estranged boyfriend.  “I need some seed,” he wrote.  He opened his pics.  He had an ass that begged to be eaten and fucked.

He could be at my house in 35 minutes.

He arrived, five minutes late.  Breathless.  He didn’t have the time he thought he would.  “Can we make this a little shorter than what we said?”

I nodded, and took him upstairs and told him to strip.  He was out of his clothes in no time, keeping on only a pair of red briefs.    I took my time stripping out of my 501’s while looking at him:  late 20’s, 5’ 8” or so, lithe and wiry, a small patch of hair on his chest but incredibly hairy legs.  And a tattoo on the small of his back.  A Celtic design of some sort…

 

He falls to his knees.  “Oh, I need that cock.”

I’m hardening just looking at him.  His mouth is all over me.  He’s excellent.  No teeth at all.  And taking me to the root.  I grab his ears and hold him still—then begin to fuck his face.  He groans around my cock.  I plunge it down his throat, grinding my pubes into his nose.  Then retreat, letting him breathe again.  And back.  I hold it for a couple of seconds longer.  When I pull out, he’s gasping for breath.

I push him rough down on the bed.  “All fours.”  I strip off his briefs.  His ass is gloriously full for one so lean.  And hairy.  I dive in.  He still smells of soap from his shower.  I eat him out until I can taste nothing but him.  I stand.  I push just the head of my cock in.  He flowers open and takes it with nothing but spit.  I pull out.  “Taste your hole.”  No hesitation.  He cleans my cock head, delighting in his juices and my saliva.  I look back down at his ass.  And the tattoo.  It hits me.  It’s Celtic alright.  Now.  But it was a bio-hazard tat he thought better of and had the artist augment it into the new design. 

I say nothing.  I just stick my cock in his ass.  All of it.  To the hilt.  “Fuck,” he yelps.

“That’s what I’m doing.”  My balls slap on his tight balls.  I fuck—giving him all of my cock on each stroke.

“Please.  Can I get off my knees?”

I help him up and into the sling.  I eat his ass again.  With his legs in the stirrups and after my punishing fuck, he’s wide open.  My tongue goes far deeper into his hot, moist channel.  He is groaning and bucking and beating his meat.

I rise and stick my cock back in.  “Oh, God….he grunts through clenched teeth.  His hand catches my wrist.  He pulls me down on top of him.  My face is right on his—his mouth to my ear.  “Call me names.  Please.”

I stand back up.  Just looking at him.  My cock still buried, but not moving.

“Please, Sir.  You know what I am…”

I can do this for him.  I feel the sneer move across my face.

“Sure, faggot.”  The tempo of his jerking picks up.  “I know just what you are.”  My thrusting is beginning.  “I know just what kind of whore you’ve become.”  My body is bashing against him now.  “Fucking cheater.  You only care about some big cock in you.  Right?  C’mon, whore---answer me.  I saw what you are…”  I am pummeling his upturned ass now with my hips.  His hand is a blur as he jerks his cock.  “You’re nothing but an AIDS whore.”

“ARGHH!!”  He shoots.  His ass contracts and I shoot.  I spasm and fall onto his sticky chest.  We’re still connected—cock to ass.

“Thanks,” he gasps. “That was perfect…”