Undeniable Cravings

Unconsciously, uncontrollably, I bucked him. The extreme gratification I experienced, the pure relish that accompanied his contact was so very intense. He hesitated for a moment then, perhaps misinterpreting my signals.

“Listen Nicky, this is happening too quickly, for both of us,” he reasoned caringly, unable though to conceal the disappointment and frustration from his clenched tone.

“No you’re wrong, Baby. This is just so right. Please don’t make me beg again,” I added with a cheeky grin and then to both encourage him and hush any further chivalrous though mistimed outbursts, I stroked the small of his back, an erogenous zone for Marco the locale of which had arisen in past discussions.

Now it was his turn to react violently to the varying degrees of pressure I exerted. Involuntarily, he drove his fingers deeply inside of me, rudely and without forewarning me.

My God, it felt foreign. And yet, more than most of me wanted him to dare further, despite my potential pain and discomfort. I longed both for his release and mine, together. I wanted to offer him his pleasure; I coveted it, regardless of the personal cost.

For how long we continued in this vein, I know not. Our dicks tangled (this image refuses to leave me, so exquisitely ravishing it is), his fingers and tongue probing me in tandem, deliberating prying me open ever more expansively, his skin so soft and hairy yet hard and strong. This was like nothing I had ever sampled with a woman. It was wholly different and richly to be savoured.

At some point Marco had the strength to break our kiss, though I resisted him, holding on to his bottom lip as long as was possible. I managed to catch one all-too-fleeting glance of him, beautiful in the moonlight with his penis standing out, wide and throbbing before he tenderly bent me over the hood of the car. From him then came a grunt and no more. I dared to peak and was rewarded with the yummiest sight of him frantically coating his member in pre-cum as if it were some form of poor man’s lubrication whilst simultaneously attempting to line himself with my tight, welcoming, exposed end which he had continued to work over with his ever pliant fingers. It was an exhilarating image and one that I knew would instantly skyrocket to Number One on my fantasy list vying for future masturbational rights.

I had a mini prediction (one may live in hope!) of the two of us sprawled in bed come Sunday morning. I saw myself watching him enraptured as he played with himself and then blissfully, enthusiastically tonguing up his jism in clean up, suckling each of those chubby, solid, shaggy plums in turn. Did he prefer licking or squeezing? I couldn’t wait to get my hands on those mouth-wateringly succulent balls!

With these thoughts it came to my mind that we both seemed to have little time left. Just as he withdrew his hand and, after a small adjustment on my part, I called his attention to me.

“Oh, Lover Boy!” Who amongst us here today has watched that Jennifer Gray / Patrick Swayze movie and NOT fantasized?

I had managed to quickly work about half the sour cream in and around my anus and was offering the balance to M to assist him in lubing up.

Giggling like two school boys, with him alternating between licking my chocolate tunnel (Note to Self; Self, this an activity we definitely want to try again. P.S. Soon), working the cream over the impressive length of his Sebastian and us both kissing delightfully, we steered ourselves towards something of a frenzy.

He came in close and lay atop me, energetically, indefatigably rubbing his shaft into my, by this time, very willing crack asking me for the definitive time if I was sure. Before I could answer, he began nuzzling my ear.

I felt that if I lessened my control over myself in any way, and this included the normally simple (but now testing) task of conversing, I might just erupt again prematurely. Instead of answering him verbally I removed my hand from the heretofore Standard Position I had adopted since bending over (rhythmically squeezing my balls; I find it helps my concentration and allows me to hold on that much longer in times of rigorous duress and yes, this situation more than qualified) and laid them both flat upon the bonnet. I also raised my derriere up as high and as invitingly as I could.

This was my response and no summons, in my opinion, was ever communicated more succinctly.

He pulled my cheeks apart, this time for the grand finale.

“Poppa’s coming home!” he exclaimed lustily just as he began easing that perfectly formed head of his inside of me.

Now this was the absolute BEST part of the whole Greek Style deal. That luscious feeling of his silky smooth mushroom-top probing me was bliss. I wanted it to go on never-ending, just his head popping in and out. I looked down at my own tool and was astonished to see it pulsating, visibly. I cried out, wanting to touch myself, needing to fist my own cock.

However, as much as I did long for him to fill me, some how my body ended up resisting him, closing in on itself and tightening.

“It’s O.K. Honey, I know it hurts. Poppa’s so big and your hole is so compact and small. It’s going to be a tight fit. I can’t stop now Nicky. I want you so much, man. I need you to open up for me. Just relax. Daddy’s not going to hurt you…much. Here I come. Can you feel me? A little deeper every time. Uh, but you’re fine and such a tiny little fuck hole. Oh yeah, that feels good. Tell me you want Poppa to make it bigger. Tell Poppa to stretch you open all the way. C’mon Nicky, Daddy’s got to know you want it. Here’s the magic words; Marco says ‘Open Sesame’,” and in he poked further and further.

He was really just reassuring me that he was going to keep on penetrating s-l-o-w-l-y and that I ought to just relax. Inane, I agree, but what else can one say in this situation?

I was easily able to detect the strain in his voice. It was costing him greatly to move at this stagnated pace yet he sounded determined to do what was best for me. He continued to pressure me gradually as well as maneuvering around to stroke me everywhere that I lusted for him. When he landed on my still tender-balls and mildly ran his finger along the skin just behind them, I found my clincher.

“Oh Marco do it, do it to me now,” I yelled with abandon, flinging both hands around behind to roughly pull my cheeks apart as far as my fast diminishing strength would allow. He did not require telling twice. He plunged in, with me screaming loudly. The pain was severe. This was followed closely by the syrupy swish of his pumping. Marc prefers long, regularly paced thrusts, all the way in and then almost completely out so that each time he entered me again it seemed to be our first time once more, juicy head and all!

The width of his cock almost rent me in two but after eight or nine deep, delving strokes I started to really loosen up. Our match was so tight though!

“We’re a perfect fit, Baby. Oh yeah! Poppa’s found his little man,” continued Marc throughout most of the event. It was a side of him I’d never heard of nor even contemplated before. I liked it, a lot.

“Well come on then, ugh (thrust in) Daddy. Show this naughty boy ugh (thrust in) just how big you REALLY are ugh ugh (two thrusts, quick succession)!” was my squealed response.

In and out, again and again, longer and then faster he rode me. Over and over, now with more speed but still all the way out and then plunging as far as he could within me. It felt to me as though he was a freight train traveling up my back passage when he snaked his hands up under my arm pits and gripped my shoulders, I assumed, for better traction and extreme immersion. His thrusts became ever stronger and seemed to all but puncture my internal organs.

That friction though, my friends; it’s fucking unparalleled. I was a man defined by his genitalia (All right! That and his bruised anus!). Marco was totally in control. He was a steadfast thruster, almost dogged in his determination with forceful, decisive strokes, only faster and harder, like an automaton whose penetration was as deep as physically possible. I gradually became aware of the rapidity of his heartbeat through the contact of his cock up my ass. It seemed as though the air had thickened and I could barely breath. I heard myself distantly chanting his name.

In and out. In. “Marco, oh Marco.” Hands resolutely staunch on my shoulders. And out. ‘Ohhh MARCO.” In again, deeper still. “MarcMarcMarco.” Out. “Daddy Marco!” This is it. His fingertips were squeezing my nipples, twisting and pleasuring me far beyond my previous paltry delights. Inoutinoutinout in o..u..t and fucking in again. “Ahhahahah Mmmmmmmarco…..”

I came myself for the second time and usually for me, my jism was nearly as dense as the first, almost not watery at all. I managed to shoot four times in splatters so hard that they landed underneath my own chin!

His balls rhythmically spanking my own were the last sweet sound I heard before I passed completely out.

When I came to, I was half crouched in the gutter with my pants still down. Marco was behind me, hugging me, rocking me and whispering sweet nothings in my ear. I immediately responded to the feeling of his body surrounding mine, protecting me from the world. The second observance to come to my beleaguered attention was that I could literally feel my bum leaking but yet, just knowing it was M’s somehow made it less of an unpleasant concern. The throbbing, windsock impression was not as easily comforted though. He kissed me then gently, lovingly and I realised it seemed not so bad after all.

He was dressed I noticed and that made me sad. I hadn’t thought myself capable of a third erection on that evening yet I bemoaned the fact I didn’t get to at least slip my dick inside his asshole, even if but for a second, just to experience him.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that, Nicky. I love you, I have loved you for years and I’m not going anywhere,” he informed me with his reliable, gravely voice.

“Me too,” I murmured sleepily. I was exhausted so M helped me up with my trousers and laid me carefully on the back seat. The last thing I unmistakably recall before falling into an exhausted sleep is pouting again reproachfully at him for dressing without me.

And that’s it! Now, I am sitting here at my desk (on a very soft cushion), still at work hours after quitting time, relaying last night’s antics in an concerted effort to regain some semblance of my former reality. I feel too wired to go home and yet by far and away too exhausted and distracted to complete these contracts. I continuously (some might say compulsively) recall his jism dripping from my battered body on the ride home. Whew! – Yep, that one little word sums up the whole situation for me tonight!

I must get up and move (though not too strenuously, Ladies and Germs, steady as she goes, Captain). I ought to start directing my mind back to the everyday, immerse myself back once more in MY life. I mean, who is to say that last night ever really happened at all…right? And if it did, why couldn’t it have been merely an aberration, a one-off, if you will? Yeah, that’s it. I’ve got a date tomorrow evening with a lovely little Scottish lassie. There’s where I ought to be funneling my energies.

It’s just that my nuts are like rocks and refuse to buy into any part of the party line I seem to be so interested in handing out to myself this evening! I have such an appetite for release.

I know! I’ll give a mate a buzz, maybe head out for a few lagers, perhaps a side of wedges. I’ve actually got an undeniable craving for the special seasoned sour cream that they serve down there at the Quay.

I wonder if Marco’s free? After all, if you can’t rely on your best friend for a pint or two and lustful, earth-shattering blowjob or three, who can you put your faith in, eh?

Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, as the saying goes.