Men on the Make: True Gay Sex Confessions (4 page)

Why does pain turn me on? And strength in submission? And helplessness? Whether my own or someone else’s
? Questions
you’ve asked yourself innumerable times. It all remains a mystery. An ecstatic, sweaty mystery.

It seems more like two or three hours, not one, before Bob opens the door. He’s naked, stroking his huge dick. Standing over you, he nudges your hip with his foot. “I’ll bet you’re ready to get ass-fucked now. Right?”

“Yuh. Yuh!” Nothing makes your butt feel as good as Bob’s big dick does. “Ahhh yuh!”

Kneeling beside you, he presses his left hand over your mouth, so hard your jaw throbs. “I’m going to take these off now. This is going to hurt a lot worse than having them on. But you know that.”

You heave a moan and close your eyes. Pretty soon you’re bucking, thrashing and howling against his hand as he removes the pins one by one, blood flow returning to your flesh and with it crashing waves of anguish. A few tears leak from your eyes, trickling down your bearded cheeks.

“Done,” Bob says, dropping the last pin into a Glad bag. He unties your ankles and hauls you to your feet. “Get on now, boy,” he growls, roughly pushing you before him. You stagger down the hall and into the bedroom, where Bob shoves you onto the bed. You lie panting, on your belly, palms pressed into the sheets.

“Now I’m going to plow your redneck ass,” Bob says, voice grim and triumphant. “I’m going to dump a big load up your hole.” He spreads your thighs, kneels between them, lubes you up, and pushes a finger into your eager butt.

What can you do but nod, lift your rear and groan? Bob lies on top of you, pinning you to the bed, prodding your cleft with his raring cock. In a couple of minutes, the initial pain of his entrance has shifted into rapture, his thick nine-incher’s shoved up inside you, hammering away, and you’re counting your
blessings, moaning, “Thank you, Sir! Ram me harder, Sir!” happy as hell to be one well-tied, well-fucked Daddybear.

II

“Choose,” says Bob, his hands hidden behind his back.

The luck of the draw. Dwayne, Bob’s burly butch-bottom boyfriend, picks the white butt plug shaped like Baby Jesus. You pick the more conventional one shaped like a black missile.

“You two have five minutes to get ready. Just five. Get to it.”

In the hall bathroom, you hurriedly douche your butt, lube your asshole, and work the plug in. In the other bathroom just down the hall, Dwayne is doing the same.

“Time’s up. Ready?”

“Yes, Sir!” you shout. Sometimes the black plug’s hard rubber angles hurt, but tonight it feels good, it fits you just right.

“Yep. I’m ready,” echoes Dwayne, his voice deep and resonant, as Southern as yours.

Both plugged now, and naked, you and Dwayne pad down the hall to the bedroom. Bob’s standing by the bed in low lamplight, a hank of camo-colored rope in his hand. Leather gear is scattered over the top of the dresser.

“Hog-tie him,” Bob says, handing you the rope.

“Hands behind your back,” you order Dwayne. You love Dwayne’s stocky body, black beard, thick chest hair and curvaceous pecs, belly and butt as much you love Bob’s stern but loving domination and hefty cock. To bind a man so brawny and masculine is one of the most delicious dreams you’ve ever fulfilled.

In a few minutes, you’ve finished the last knot. Mouthwateringly vulnerable, Dwayne lies bound on the bed. “Looks good,” says Bob. With a forefinger, he nudges the plug-end, barely
visible between Dwayne’s furry asscheeks.

Dwayne shudders and bucks. “Oh, man, that feels great,” he sighs, dark eyes bliss-glazed.

“Gag him,” Bob orders. More roughly than necessary, you strap a bit-gag in Dwayne’s mouth, relishing the boy’s grunts of protest, then stand back to admire him. Goddamn, he looks beautiful, sprawled there on his side, all hot and hairy and helpless, beard so full and dark, white teeth champing the bit.

“Your turn, big man,” says Bob, grasping your arm. A few minutes more, and you’re Bob’s happy captive as well, expertly hog-tied beside Dwayne, a ball-gag buckled in your mouth.

“The muscle-cub and the Daddybear!” says Bob, double-checking knots. “Now I’ve got
two
mountain-man hostages.” Bob slaps Dwayne’s ass, then yours, evoking muted yelps, then works your plugs till both of you are whimpering with horned-up delight.

“You two keep each other company for a while. I’ve got some computer catch-up to do.” With a broad smile, Bob leaves, closing the door behind him.

You and Dwayne lie on your sides, facing each other. It’s like gazing into a mirror. You’re both hairy, bearded, chunky men from southern Appalachia. Sure, there are differences: you’re considerably taller, over twenty years older, and extensively tattooed. Your beard is age grizzled, Dwayne’s still ink black. Still, he’s a younger version of you, and that’s part of the attraction you share.

For a while, both of you try halfheartedly to get loose, though the scene is so hot that you want it to last as long as possible. Struggling just intensifies the heat: to bite down on your gag and moan, to tug futilely at the ropes that restrain you and, even more arousing, to watch Dwayne do the same. His brow furrows; his teeth gnash the rubber bit; his broad
shoulders heave; he rolls and thrashes, panting with frustration. That combination—beautiful man, tight bondage—is as erotic a sight as you’ve ever witnessed.

Soon enough you’re both weary from struggling, both drooling around your gags. Dwayne blinks at you—wide brown eyes, long lashes—heaves another moan, and squirms closer. With cramped effort you do the same. Now your hairy torsos are pressed together, and now your gagged mouths. You kiss as best you can, despite the rubber rod wedged between his teeth and the rubber ball stuffing your mouth. Beards brush, saliva wells and lips graze. You rub your erection against his; you nuzzle his close-cropped hair, his wet chin. Scooting lower, you rub your cheek against the black fur pelting his chest, savoring its soft density, and try to lick a nipple.

This trammeled make-out session goes on for a long time before you both tire. Dwayne rests his head on your shoulder, whimpers and slumps. Panting, you nestle helplessly together, cocks stiff and quivering. You clinch your ass-ring against the plug filling you, relish your fellow captive’s hirsute warmth and wait for your well-hung Top to return.

Wind soughs outside the window. The heating system kicks on, kick off, kicks on. The clock on the dresser ticks. At last the bedroom door opens.

“Damn, you two look hot,” Bob says, striding over to the bed. He’s naked, thick cock erect and swaying. “You two hog-tied hillbillies ready to get fucked?”

Simultaneously, you and Dwayne grin around your gags, mumble husky affirmatives and nod.

“I thought so.” Chuckling, Bob unbinds Dwayne’s feet, then does the same for you.

“You first, Dwayne,” Bob says, climbing onto the bed. “On your belly. Show me that hungry ass.”

Dwayne obeys, presenting his plump, fur-coated butt. Bob kneads his lover’s asscheeks, then works out the plug, inspiring in Dwayne bereft grunts.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be filled up again soon enough,” says Bob, adding lube to Dwayne’s hole, then greasing his own cock up. “You boys kiss for a while. I love to see you two kiss.”

You gladly oblige, edging over toward Dwayne. Again the frustrating, hot-as-hell attempts to kiss, gag-moist mouths mashed together, drool-sodden beards brushing.

“Fuck, that’s beautiful. Keep that up,” Bob commands, spreading Dwayne’s thighs. Positioning his cock between Dwayne’s buttcheeks, he grips his partner’s hips.

“You want it hard, don’t you, Dwayne?”

“Uh-huh. Uh-huhh!” Dwayne moans.

“Comfort him, Daddy. Getting rammed always hurts him at first.”

With that, Bob pushes into him. Dwayne gives a pained grunt. His eyes squint shut. His white teeth gnash the black bit. You press your face to his, nuzzling his whiskered cheeks and chin. How you love his expression, the way it transforms, that handsome countenance crumpled first with discomfort, then flushing with pleasure, dark eyes glazed and dreamy as Bob drives into him. To see a guy as desirable as Dwayne bound and gagged is sheer splendor, but to see him roughly fucked as well, that’s paradise.

“Harder?” Bob pants, in between thrusts.

“Ahhh, yehh!” Dwayne sighs, bucking back onto Bob’s cock. “Yehhh!”

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” Bob says, reaching over to stroke your swollen prick before picking up his pace. “You’re next.”

III

You wake to curtains bright with autumn sunlight. Rolling over, you kiss Dwayne’s fur-dusted shoulder and pull the smaller man closer till his back’s pressed against your chest. Your hole’s a little sore today, the hurt a sweet souvenir of Bob’s recent rigid-pricked attentions.

Yesterday, after work, after pizza and gin, you spent some time as Bob’s roped-up, ball-gagged footstool while he watched TV. Pretty soon, he was fooling with your super-sensitive nipples. Next he fucked you on the carpet, on your belly, on your side. When Dwayne got home, they dragged you into the bedroom, removed your gag, and spit-roasted you, Dwayne’s prick pumping your mouth, Bob’s prick pumping your ass. “Redneck cum-dump,” Bob said, as they unloaded inside you.

Unbound, you drifted off, a Daddybear sandwich, your arms around your boys, Bob’s head on your right shoulder, Dwayne’s on your left. Before morning you woke, to find Bob working your nips in that expert way of his, one hand over your mouth, his cock nudging your butt. No one knows as well as he how tit-play stokes your submission, makes you ache to get plowed. While Dwayne snored on, Bob used one bandana to knot your hands before you, another to gag your mouth. He took you on your elbows and knees, a slow, deep, loving fuck that intensified into the screw-me-cross-eyed/split-me-in-half pounding you’ve learned to cherish, the brutal butt-battering you were never able to endure before you met Bob, before he broke you in.

Now Bob’s headed off to work. You and Dwayne curl together, drowse, rouse at last to cuddle and kiss. How you love to squeeze his dense shoulders and biceps, to rest your face in his glossy black chest and belly hair. At his request, you finger-fuck
him and suck him off. Gripping your shaved head, he comes in your mouth, bittersweet custard you roll around on your tongue before swallowing.

No rush today; neither of you needs to be anywhere till midafternoon. You take turns in the shower. The two of you share a big breakfast at Waffle House—coffee, eggs, sausage, waffles, hash browns and grits—your treat, because at this age you make a good living and you enjoy spoiling your boys. At Dwayne’s suggestion, you indulge in one of your favorite country-boy pastimes: an aimless road trip down mountain back roads. Dwayne drives down the long wooded ridge to McCoy, then along the New River Gorge, where gray water pours over stony rapids, then up to Eggleston with its wide views of blue-gray Giles County hills, then over the Eastern Continental Divide and back into town.

As the countryside of southwest Virginia streams by, the two of you share long talks, about love, about career, about books, music, and family. It’s damned fine to know a young man so smart and handsome, a fellow Appalachian with whom you have so much in common, a muscle-cub who’s willing to share his amazingly tasty body with you in whichever kinky configurations you crave.

Back at the apartment, Dwayne brews more coffee. The two of you cuddle on the couch, watch a few hysterical animal videos he brings up on YouTube and get to kissing again.

“Will you, uh, will you eat my butt?” Dwayne mutters, shy eyes downcast.

“Hell, yes. As long as I can fuck you afterward.” While Bob has always brought out the submissive in you, Dwayne—so hairy and muscular, so much shorter and younger than you are—has always inspired in you a ferocious desire to dominate. “That all right with you, buddy?”

“You bet,” replies Dwayne, squeezing your hard-on through your jeans. “I’d love that.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Grinning, you strip, then help Dwayne get naked.

“God, I love all this fur,” you sigh, stroking his torso. “And god, I love your ass,” you say, massaging his fuzzy ass-mounds, running a finger along the cleft between.

You turn Dwayne around, then push him to his knees. “Bend forward, over the seat of the couch. Yep, yep, good boy. Wait here.”

Dwayne nods, all acquiescence. You hurriedly fetch gear and lube from the bedroom, then return. He’s exactly as you left him, bent over, face and torso pressed into the couch fabric, pale light gleaming across his wide back, chunky butt on display.

“Spread your asscheeks.”

Dwayne obeys, reaching back with both hands, clasping his buttocks, spreading them apart.

You think of natural wonders you’ve seen, God’s fine handiwork: Yosemite, the Alps, the volcano of Kilauea, the rocky coast of Maine, the Muir Woods, your own beloved Appalachians. Here’s another, this naked muscle-cub bowing submissively before you, ready to be used. You drop to your knees behind him and stroke his asshole, a wrinkly pink-purple ring half obscured by his crack’s black hair.

“Spread ’em wider,” you say, nipping one cheek. When he obeys, you press your face into the furry cleft and begin to feast. You tug at the hairs around his hole with your teeth, lick the inner curves of his buttocks, run your tongue up and down his crack. You flick your tongue over his puckered hole, then burrow into him, savoring the musk, until he’s whimpering, pushing his butt back against your beard, wanting more.