Monday, July 14, 2014

The Bulb

My Playroom—March, 2014

I’m thinking of buying a shower shot.

No, I’m not thinking about bottoming any time soon. 

But I think I need to make it easier for the guys I host.  Part of my instructions for inviting guys over to fuck is to make sure they know to arrive cleaned out.  Since for most men it’s a drive to get to me, I always make sure to give them time to do a touch up or a least a spot check before we head upstairs to the playroom.  I have a bulb for their use if they want it.  Most bring their own bulb, bottles, etc.  I have had men arrive with their own hose and a crescent wrench.

Yes—please!!  I love my spotless boys!

I should have known something was up with Ernesto.  He drove three hours to get to our play sessions.  He was a short, bear of a man.  Somewhere from the Mediterranean.  Olive skinned.  Not much definition, but no fat.  And he was hairy.  Everywhere.  That kinked, spiraled type of hair that I like to unwind with my tongue.  He’d said he was younger than I, but I’m pretty sure he was older.  That was fine—as long as he had a talented hole.

We’d talked on Asspig. I told him all the usual things—about the playroom; to prep his ass for me and then do a final rinse or two here; what toys I had; what size my hands were, etc.  He agreed with everything and seemed to like my kinks.  We set the date.

He arrived right on time.  Maybe even early. I showed him to the bathroom for that final rinse.
“No, I am good,” he told me in heavily accented English.

“Really?  I mean three hours…”

“No.  All set.”

Well, he knows his own body best, right?

We go upstairs.  Strip.

Minor cock sucking.

Right to the fuck bench.  The hairiness of his ass is just what I like.  I spend a lot of time rimming.

“Fuck me, please.”   I continue to eat, but lube my dick as I do it.  I stand up and enter him easily.
I fuck.  I spit on my cock and fuck the spittle into him.

I pull out.

Of course.  I don’t have to say it.  I grab the paper towel and hand him the bulb to clean himself.  We troop downstairs—him to the shower and me to the kitchen sink.  I wash and wash. 

And wash again.

Then go up and wait for him, lolling on the bed and idly jerking to the Dick Wadd porn.

He’s back, a little fast, it seems to me.

We fuck.

And it’s a repeat.

Down we go to the bathroom.

“Don’t rush the process,” I tell him.

It happens a third time.  I am on the edge of saying “Go Home.”  But he’s come so far…

I wash and go back upstairs. 

Suddenly he’s there at the door.

“Please, I can’t reach properly.”


“Help me.”

The light bulb goes off.  So that’s what he needs. The next thing I know I have him lying face down on the bathroom tiles.  I am straddling him and wielding the enema bulb.  I squeeze one, two full bulbs into his ass.  I leave the room to let him scramble up and expel it all.  I’ll play Doctor for him, but not to that extent.

We repeat the douche.

And again.

I vow to never do this again.

I get him clean—and we go upstairs. 

But I can’t shake the earlier images. My cock is down for the count and only my gloved hand makes him happy.

“It was great time,” he writes me later.  “When can we do it again?”

My cock shrivels another millimeter.

And I can’t think of a single word to write to him.

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