Bent Ben

(Note: All characters in this story are at least 21 years of age. Many thanks to the real blogger who inspired this fantasy -- though the man in this story is a fantasy figure and in various key ways does not reflect his "original source.")

It all began because I am a freak for written porn. Nothing makes my dick harder than reading about men having sex with other men. The more perverted the better. Men in toilet stalls, men roaming around rest areas, men kneeling in bathhouses and adult bookstores, men on the down-low with neighbors and buddies, men in airport terminals, men rutting in the back of trucks, men stroking off in their cars, men in locker rooms, men with their daddys, and much, much more. One of my favorite pastimes is to take off my pants, flip on my computer, and start trolling for the real and fictional stories uploaded there by literary sex-junkies like myself. I love to hop back and forth between porn sites, seeking out the newest and hottest tales that I can find of men sucking, fucking, cucking, jacking, kissing, plowing, and molesting each other. I can spend hours reading and edging and gooning out, and I love every minute of it.

So it was that about ten years ago I stumbled across a blog I'd never seen before. It belonged to a stud who called himself "Bent Ben." He was almost exactly my age, married with kids, and perhaps the most active sex-junkie I'd ever come across. Though married to a woman, most of his life he'd also spent a good chunk of his time indulging his slutty gay "player" side. He'd been writing his blog for several years by the time I found him, and he was posting several times a week at that point. The very first story of his that I read gave me an instant boner. He was remembering how he got started as a slut, recalling in vivid detail long afternoons and evenings he'd spent cruising a park in his hometown, getting mouth-fucked in the public toilets and gang-banged on top of a splintery picnic table by a long succession of anonymous men -- most of them middle-aged and married, all hungry for his Hole.

I immediately started to gorge myself on his stories. I raced through the accumulated memories stockpiled on his site, and I started every morning by checking to see if he'd posted any new adventures during the night. All of what he wrote thrilled me: his training as an obedient bottom by a dominant daddy, the years when he whored himself out to a long line of takers, his transition to being a masterful top, his experiences training others, the fucks and sucks he'd had with ongoing partners and/or one-night-playmates along the way. As I read more and more of his work, it became clear what turned him on the most. He loved to role play. He loved to be "in control." He loved to fuck holes. He loved to bend other men to his desires. He loved to figure out what a man really wanted -- and then give it to him in spades.

His stories were all apparently factual, drawn from his real-life daily events. And he was a beautiful writer who knew how to make words dance to his tune. Every story wasn't just a joy to stroke your dick to, it was also a real pleasure to read as a piece of literature. He had insight into himself and the men he was with. He could read between the lines and analyze the psychology of what was happening. His stories all offered insights into the human condition, and they each had a "point" beyond just getting off. They were, quite simply, not only the best porn I'd ever read, but some of the best writing period. I was hooked. I couldn't get enough of him.

And it didn't hurt that he also published lots of photos of himself. Especially of his big dick. It had to be at least 9 inches long and looked like a club as he held it in his hand for the camera. Combined with his long, lean body, his soulful brown eyes, and his long floppy hair, he was truly one hot fucker.

Each of his stories was followed by a "comments" section, where readers (like me) could write to him and offer reactions to each story and/or talk about how it connected to their own lives. So I let him know what a fan I was. At least 3 or 4 times a week I'd respond to his latest postings, making it clear that I deeply appreciated his superb writing skills, his insights into the human psyche -- and his ability to make me cum like a motherfucker as I read about the things he'd done in his life. It soon became clear that he appreciated his readers and enjoyed interacting with us. Almost every time a fan would leave a comment, he would respond to it. Sometimes the response was a simple "thanks." But most of the time it was a thoughtful sentence or two -- and sometimes, quite a bit more than that.

Over the course of time, I noticed that his responses to my comments were getting longer and more thoughtful. Even though we were talking to each other in a public forum, with our words visible to anybody and everybody who wanted to read them, they developed to a level of personal intimacy that I found deeply satisfying. And thrilling. It began to feel like we were revealing our genuine connection to the other fans of the cite. As we reacted to each other's ideas, and drew parallels between the events in our lives, we engaged in an exhibitionistic dance in front of the other readers.

And I was far from his only dance partner. Many other readers came back to the site on a regular basis, left comments, and performed their own strip-teases with Bent Ben. In keeping with the self-descriptions in his stories, it became likewise clear in the Comments section that he was a true emotional and physical slut. Anybody who wanted to fuck with him -- his mind, his emotions, or his body -- was made welcome and allowed access to his personal sexual carnival. He put himself on the line in order to give pleasure -- and in order to receive it.

Ben's blog made it clear that he frequently hooked up with his readers. Admiring fans would reach out to him -- meetings would be arranged -- and another story would appear in his blog detailing the fun he'd had with yet another playmate. I envied each and every one of them. I started to imagine what it would feel like to actually meet this man. How it would feel to wrap my arms around him. To put my hands in his hair. To see his throbbing pole with my own eyes, and take it deep down my own throat or up my own ass.

But meeting in "real life" didn't seem possible. When I first started reading his blog, Ben was living in the Midwest. Exactly where wasn't clear, but definitely a long way away from me. Oh well. Swallowing that mammoth tube of meat was destined to be just another daydream. So it goes. C'est la vie.

And then one Wednesday morning, Ben posted some news that caused my heart to skip a few beats and made my dick start to swell. "Bent Ben" announced that he and his family were relocating, moving to the Northeast -- specifically, a town close to my own family home.

By now, he and I were exchanging private e-mails. So I wrote to him at once, congratulating him on the new job he'd found, and asking for more details about his relocation schedule. The company needed him fast, so he was going to be flying out to his new home in about a week. His kids were in college, and his wife was planning to stay behind for now. She would join him once he'd found a house they could purchase and relocate to. Till that happened, he was going to be staying at a residential hotel chain designed to service people in situations like his. Both the job and the hotel were in a city in New England that I knew well. It wasn't the town I lived in, but I did have family there, and I went there regularly to visit relatives and to attend business meetings. Meeting up with Ben suddenly became very possible. It had to happen.

So I asked him if he was interested in meeting face-to-face once he made it out East. He immediately agreed to the idea, and we started to make plans. He figured that he'd need a few days to settle in a little before it would be possible to connect, stressing that he wanted to make sure we had time to enjoy meeting each other without feeling "rushed." His arrival in New England was scheduled for a Saturday, and we decided that we'd meet in the downtown section of his new city exactly a week later. There was a gay bar in the area that I'd heard a lot about, and it seemed like it would be a comfortable place for a first meeting. We'd be in a public setting, we'd be surrounded by other gay men, and we could relax and chat over drinks for as long as we wanted. In other words, we could get to know more about each other "as people." And then, if the chemistry was right, his hotel would be close by for more "intimate conversation" afterwards.

The day of his flight to the East arrived, and I could feel in my bones (especially in one bone) that the distance between us had shrunk. That whole next week I alternated between gleeful, nervous, hopeful, and tense. I had built up so many fantasies about this whorish stud in my head, and it wasn't going to be long before I'd know which images were real and which were just castles in the air. I can't tell you anything about what I did at work that week, but I'm sure I seemed uniquely distracted to the people whose directions I misheard and whose jobs I flubbed. No matter what my outward eyes were looking at, my inward eyes were seeing the column of his dick throbbing just an arms-length away. No matter what voices were talking at my ears, my eardrums were vibrating only to the imagined sounds of his rutting grunts.

The Saturday of our "date" couldn't come fast enough. Mid-week I made some excuses to my wife, telling her I'd be away for the weekend on yet another business trip. Determined to leave the door open to possibilities, I told her I wasn't sure if the meeting was going to last just one day or all weekend -- it all depended on how "negotiations" developed. I packed an overnight suitcase "just in case," making sure that it contained not only a change of clothes and my dock kit, but also plenty of lube, poppers, and paraphernalia. No condoms, however. Ben liked it bareback, or not at all -- and I couldn't wait to flip-fuck with him, planting loads in each other with abandon.

The weather was clear when I hit the road early Saturday morning, and the traffic was much lighter than I'd expected it to be. The whole way there, I fantasized about what the next few hours -- and the next night -- might bring. While I changed lanes and sped past slower drivers, I imagined how his lips were going to feel when we kissed. How his body was going to feel when we pulled each other close. How his dick was going to taste as it started to leak in my mouth. Most of all, I was obsessed with how his raw cock was going to feel when he planted it in me -- the moment when he would start to sink the iron bar of his throbbingly whorish meat into my tight quivering hole.

The trip flew by. My early start plus my lead foot on my gas pedal ended up putting me outside the bar a full two hours before the time we were scheduled to meet. I grinned at my own anxious need, and enjoyed the feeling of being hungrier for this man than I had been for any other in many years. It felt good to be this high on sexual adrenaline again. It felt great to know that I was about to look directly into the eyes of a certified Sex God and touch his marvelously slutty skin.

I didn't have anywhere else to be, and I didn't see any point in wandering aimlessly around the seedier part of the downtown area. So when I got lucky and saw a parking spot on the street less than a block away from the bar, I decided that the smartest thing to do was to grab it, head into the place no matter how early it was, and just chill out as I waited for Ben. I didn't know if he was a guy who got to appointments early, or just on time, or ridiculously late, but I decided that -- for myself -- being early was the best option. That way, there was no chance he'd arrive, not see me, and decide to ditch the meeting. Better safe than sorry.

The bar was dimly lit, even at this early hour. The windows were covered with translucent shutters that let in a limited amount of light, and the overhead lighting was deliberately low-wattage. It was a place clearly designed to service gay men - one the general public would never come into. I appreciated seeing that the place provided its patrons with privacy, no matter what time of day or night they showed up. And in spite of the fact that it was only 10:30 in the morning, the saloon sure wasn't empty. There were 2 or 3 guys seated at the counter, one table was occupied by four others immersed in a lively conversation, and at least a couple of booths had men in them. The booths especially drew my attention. They were at the back of the room, right near the entrance into the hallway that led down to the restrooms. In the closer booth, two guys were sitting tightly beside each other on the same side of the table, while all I could see in the other one was a single guy reclining backwards, his arms stretched out on either side of him along the top of the back cushion. I went up to the bar to order a drink for myself and scope the room out some more. Yeah, I know, it was awfully early for me to drink down my first Bloody Mary of the day, but my stomach was doing a jitterbug and I figured that a little liquid courage wouldn't hurt. As I waited for the bartender (a hot looking daddy-type wearing a mixture of denim and leather) to mix my drink, I turned my head to the right to get a closer look at the two booths. I couldn't be sure, but it looked like the two guys in the closer booth had their pants open and their dicks out, busily but not-so-subtly fisting each other under the edge of the table. Meanwhile, the guy in the far booth had his eyes closed, his hips thrust forward, and his hand under the table. Either he was stroking off while watching the couple one booth over, or he was being kept busy by a cocksucker of his own, kneeling in the darkness under his table. Either way, I approved.

Drink in hand, I hesitated for a moment, then decided to head toward one of the back booths myself. Granted, it wouldn't be as easy for Ben to see me when he walked in, but I figured I'd spot him coming in the front door speedily enough. Meanwhile, in the (probably) long time I had left to wait, I might as well sit near the action and enjoy the floor show the patrons back by the toilets were providing.

I sat down at an angle that gave me a good line of sight for both of the occupied booths. The first one was indeed providing my voyeuristic eyes with a mutual jack-off show. The guy seated deeper inside the booth was a short slender twink who looked to be just over the legal drinking age he had to prove to get in here. His blonde hair was cut short, and his bright blue eyes glittered even in the low light in the corner. His build was tiny, almost fragile, a porcelain-doll who I immediately wanted to pick up and seat on my lap. His body was turned so that his back was pushed up against the wall, and I could see his right hand pumping up and down as he worked the cock of the brown-haired man sitting beside him. I couldn't see him so well, because he was half-turned away, his body oriented toward that of the blond twink, his attention clearly focused on the blond-stick he was pumping. Even so, I could see enough to tell that he was at least twenty years older than his companion, and totally focused on the beauty of the blond's prick. A trick of the light lit up the pumping hands and the young man's blue eyes while leaving much of the booth in shadow. As I watched them, I could feel my own dick filling up with blood, rising from half-hard to thickly erect. Their show was a perfect prequel for what I wanted. If only they could hold out long enough to make the time pass...

But in spite of how good the show was that they were putting on, the guy in the booth next to them wasn't watching. He was a full-grown bear, at least 50 years old and heavy. His hair was a rich black, and the size of his eyebrows, and the hair visible on the back of his hand and uncovered forearms, made it clear that his voluptuous frame was indeed densely coated with thick dark hair. The hand he had under the table was moving, and as my eyes scanned his corner, I could just discern the outline of a second body crouching beneath the table, its head in the big bear's lap. The bear's lips were moving, and while I couldn't quite hear him over the music blaring through the room, the motion of his lips, repeated over and over, made it clear what he was saying to the faggot kneeling below him: "Suck it. Suck that cock. Suck it, you sweet little bitch. Oh yeah suck that fat cock... "

My eyes started to dart back and forth from booth to booth. First the left, then the right. Sucking. Stroking. Sucking. Jacking. The bear's head thrown back and his lips moving. The blonde doll's eyes wide open as he stares at a cock so big his hand can barely grasp it. More sucking on the left. More jacking on the right. The bear's head rolls against the back cushion of his booth and I can see his hips rising and falling as he pumps himself into the mouth locked onto his groin. The couple in the other booth has their faces pressed together in a deep kiss as their hands continue to pump in each other's laps. The cocksucker's feet poke out from beneath the table. The older man turns his body still further from me as he drops his head to fill his mouth with young meat. The bear is moaning. The blond is throwing his head back against the wall as he loses control and fills his seatmate's mouth with his youthful seed. Sex in public, right before my eyes. Cum filling the mouths of beautiful perverts. Vivid tableaus of sexual joy that fill me to the brim with pleasure.

I continue to sip my drink, and lean back in my seat. The cocksucker is still busy down there between the legs of the bear, diligently lapping and cleaning the hose that has fed him. I still can't see his face, but I can tell that he is happy and content. He is nuzzling his head into the crotch of his bear, and his partner is softly stroking his hair as the cocksucker drains every last drop of milk that his man has to give him. I finish the last bit of my Bloody Mary, and glance down at my watch. Still almost an hour to go. Guess I need another drink.

I carry my empty glass up to the bar, and set it down. But just as I'm about to ask for another, I notice that the blond is now alone in his booth. I look toward the restrooms, and see that his older companion has headed back to the toilets. The blond's eyes are closed now, and he's leaning against the wall, enjoying the after-glow of his climax. But -- wait. What about his buddy? I didn't see him cum. So, is he.... still hard? Did he go to the toilets to get rid of the load blondie didn't take? Is his load... available?

I have time. Plenty of time. And there's no reason that I can think of why I shouldn't meet Ben for the first time with another man's seed in my gut. Heck, I bet he'd like it. I bet he'd fuckin' love it if he could taste another man's juice on my lips when we kiss on meeting. In fact, it's exactly what Ben would do, based on what I know of him.

The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that this is a good idea. Now granted, my thinking may be clouded by the drink I've had, and by the fact that my dick is revved up from peeping on the strangers around me, but still... nothing ventured, nothing gained!

I leave my empty glass on the counter, and tell the barman that I'm going to "go take a leak" before I get a refill. He nods with minimal interest in my change of plans, and turns back to what he was already doing. My heart beating faster in my chest, I head toward the toilets, mentally drooling for the cock that I hope I'll find there.

The men's room door squeaks when I push it open, and I see that there's a small anteroom between it and a second door which opens into the main room. It's the old and perfect system for warning guys that somebody new is about to enter the playroom: the squeak of a door, a few seconds to readjust positions, and then the entrance of a new player.