Big-dick Bottom Pt. 06

Author's note: This series contains (occasional) descriptions of rough and forced sex, some of which crosses the boundaries of consent. If this is not up your alley, please click elsewhere! All sexual contact described occurs between adults aged eighteen years and older.

Part 6

After the incident at Gio's, Mario went out of his way to be nice. Over the next week, he was even more affectionate than usual with me at the restaurant--hugging me, massaging my shoulders, patting my ass as I trotted by on my way out of the door with a delivery. I could tell that he felt really guilty about what had happened. There was a pained, almost yearning look in his big blue eyes when looked at me.

"What's with him?" Stacy asked, at one point, after she watched Mario grab my hat and run around the kitchen with it, hooting.

I shrugged. "Who the fuck knows, 'eh?" I said, miming Mario's voice and characteristic hand wave.

Stacy grinned, but I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was suspicious.

Deliveries were pretty heavy all week long. I was putting away good money and my body was starting to feel back to normal after what had happened at Zach's the week before. Disturbingly, though, after the shock of the incident faded, I started to feel the beginning of something again, a low burning somewhere deep inside me. The itch, I started to think of it. An itch that would make itself known during idle moments, as I waited for a customer to rummage through their purse or when stopped at a red light. It wasn't persistent enough to make me truly uncomfortable, just persistent enough to make itself known around the periphery of my consciousness. I did my best to ignore it as I hustled through my days. Distract myself from what I knew it meant.

Maybe because of the itch, I tried to make the most of my regulars that week. Dicks in my mouth, knees hitting the floor, cum pulsing into my throat. All of the things I hoped would bring the growing flame into abeyance--or at least a calamine numbness to block the awareness of what was building within.

~

It was Friday night. I'd hit Beercan and the sad dad already, earlier in the day. As usual, I had to change my shirt after visiting Beercan. I'd started carrying an extra shirt in my truck for just this purpose. I don't know how the guy did it--produce such an egregious volume of cum, every time. Today, he'd been in his black pants and shirt from the landscaping store when he answered the door. Poor Beercan. The guy didn't seem to have too much going on in his life, it seemed, aside from landscaping and special deliveries from Pizza Hut. He always looked embarrassed after he hosed my face and always tried to help me wipe up the cum. Truth be told, I'd begun to feel a little, well, icky when I saw his address on my list. But, hey. Five bucks was five bucks. And that fat cock, God damn.

Sad dad was getting to be more my speed--after the dazed confusion of our first encounter, he started going at me harder and rougher. He was always in a hurry, in the garage where he'd meet me to "pay". He probably needed to get back inside before his wife came looking for him. But today, the minivan was gone and he seemed to be alone in the house. When I rang the doorbell, he opened the door and hauled me inside, pushing me down on my knees right in the foyer.

He must have just gone for a run or something because he was sweaty, wearing shorts and a snug fitting tank top over a slight paunch of belly and love handles. He pulled my head into his crotch and I yanked at his shorts to find his cock hardening in the pouch of a yellowed, well-used jock. He ground his dick against my face. I inhaled the sweaty, musky smell of his crotch as I wrapped my hand around his shaft and stroked him.

"Gonna fuck you," the dad said, through clenched teeth. He reached down and cupped his fingers into my ass through my khaki shorts. My body shuddered in response to his words and his rough groping of my hole. Fuck yes. The itch surged inside me. I realized, suddenly, that I needed desperately to get fucked, and roughly--it had been almost a week since the incident with Zach and the ginger.

In the end, though, he didn't fuck me. He lasted only about thirty seconds in my mouth after I pulled his dick out of the jock. I must have been too eager. I must have jerked him too hard with my hand, been too excited in anticipation of feeling his thick, kinked shaft ram into my hole.

"Fucking hell," he grunted as he shot cum up past my lips and into my hair. "God fucking damn it."

I sat back on the floor as he squeezed his cock in his hand, shuddering with the force of his orgasm. He looked at me with angry disappointment, shook his head, and wiped his cum-stained hand onto his tank top, which had ridden up over his furry belly. Fuck. He was so hot. The itch roared inside me.

"Sorry," I said, pushing myself up to my feet.

Still shaking his head, he picked up his wallet and held out a few bills at me with his thumb and pinkie finger, keeping his cummy fingers away from the money.

"Here," he said. He'd regained his sad, mopey look.

In the truck, I counted out the money. He'd given me less than a dollar tip. Sonofabitch. Well, at least tomorrow was Saturday. Maybe I'd get lucky with the cowboy.

There was one other delivery of note that evening, around nine. I had trouble finding the apartment, because the listed address took me to what looked like an old junkyard with a large, wooden gate bearing a rusty chain and padlock. Carrying the hotbag, I jogged over to an adjacent house that was blasting country music. A greasy-looking guy wearing a dirty wifebeater told me to drive around the other side of the block and look for a gravel driveway. I found it and drove slowly into a wide lot, past heaps of rusted scrap and the carcasses of several old cars. There was an old, two-story wooden house with a lopsided porch jutting out in front of it, where a young, shirtless man was sitting in an old Laz-E-Boy recliner.

Tentatively, I stepped out of my truck, which I left running, and yelled to him.

"Did you order a pizza?" I called out to the guy, who was looking out over the lot, not particularly in my direction.

He turned to look at me and then stood up. As he rose, a bottle of liquor fell out of the chair and onto the ground.

He stooped to right the tipped bottle, muttering to himself. Then he staggered toward me, down the steps of the porch.

I handed him the pizza. Sweet Jesus, the guy was smashed. His eyes were glassy and I could tell there wasn't a lot of coherent thought going on in his head. He was having trouble keeping his balance. He tossed the pizza onto the floor of the porch and then pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and pressed them against my chest.

"Here," he said.

I took the money and saw that he had given me way too much, almost fifty dollars. I looked at him but he had walked a few steps away.

"Hold on," I said, and I began to make change from my money belt. But when I turned to give it to him I saw that he had pulled his dick out of his pants with his free hand and had started pissing into the dirt.

I stood with his change, awkwardly, trying not to stare at his long, floppy dick as he pissed. He had a good amount of muscle on him and it looked like he had probably been pretty built at one point. His chest, belly, arms, and back were covered in ink--tattoos that looked like they had been added in haphazard fashion to random parts of his body.

He looked over at me, still pissing. He must have seen me looking at his penis, because he grinned and swiveled and shook it at me, streaking the legs of my khakis with piss.

"Hey!" I cried, jumping back, out of his range.

"You like that?" he said, still grinning at me. He was shaking his dick, dribbling the last of his piss out of it.

Angrily, I held the money out at him. "Your change," I said.

The guy narrowed his eyes at me, then lunged forward to grab my hand, squeezing it painfully in his. He was Even his knuckles had tattoos.

"Got somethin' to say, faggot?" he asked me. He wasn't swaying anymore.

"Let go," I said, feeling a jolt of fear.

He reached up with his other hand and gave my cheek a gentle slap. His hand was wet and I flinched, realizing it was wet from his piss. He pried the money from my hand and then let go. All the while he was looking straight into my eyes. I could see a deep malevolence there, through the drunkenness.

I walked backward toward my truck. He followed. His dick was still hanging out of his pants, and it was bigger now, thicker. He spat in his hand and then reached down to grab his cock, started rubbing it.

Knees wobbling, I fumbled with the door to the truck and got in as fast as I could. I slammed the lock down as he came up to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. I heard a knocking against the metal of the door--the action of his fist on his cock, pumping as he pressed himself against the truck. He stuck his tongue out and licked the glass, leaving a streak of spit across the dusty window.

I put the gear in reverse and hit the gas. He spun across the side of the Blazer and then fell onto his back in the driveway. In the illumination from my headlights, I saw he was just lying there, jerking himself off.

~

I got a shiver as I high-tailed it back to the restaurant. I pulled my shirt up over my head and used it to wipe my face. I could smell the guy's piss on my pants and I used the shirt to try to mop up as much of it as I could. I couldn't get the look of the guy's eyes out of my head. I knew that look. That absence. Despite the fear I had felt, there was something else that I tried to push away. The itch. It had surged up as he'd stared into my eyes. I shuddered again, trying to put it out of my mind.

~

When I got back to the Hut, I realized that after Beercan and the drunk tattooed guy, I'd gone through both of my clean shirts. And I still had another hour of work. The thought of putting on either the cum- or piss-soaked shirts was revolting, so I just braced myself and carried the empty hotbags from my truck back into the restaurant, shirtless.

Of course, Mario was in the kitchen, chatting up Amanda when I walked in. When he saw me, he whistled loudly and called out, "Oooh, everybody look, it's Paulie the naked delivery boy!"

Derek and Jason hooted at me and Amanda laughed. I think my whole torso flushed red, but I shot back, "Fuck off, Mario."

I threw the hotbags onto the floor and stormed into the office. More whistles and catcalls followed me as I looked around for a clean shirt. I found one and put it on. Anger and irritation and sadness shot through me. The humiliation of being seen shirtless and also, well, the way that Mario had been standing there with Amanda. The body language of both of them, the way he looked at her. The way his hands had probably stroked her hair, her back, the erect nipples budding from her barely concealed breasts.

I blinked the thoughts away and went back out and grabbed the next list of deliveries from Amanda, trying not to make eye contact with either her or Mario.

"What are we, made of shirts over here?" Mario said, still guffawing at me.

I ignored him and made my way to the rack of deliveries waiting to go out. I grabbed two bags and started to go load my truck. Mario grabbed the rest of my load and followed me out the door.

"Paulie, I gotta say, you are the most accident-prone delivery boy we've ever had," he said.

It was dark now--the last light from the late mid-summer sun had faded from the sky. The parking lot was mostly empty at this hour, almost ten. Insects buzzed around the tall yellowish sodium lights overhead. Angrily, I shoved the hotbags into my truck.

"Hey... hey, P," Mario said as I started to get into the car, finally noticing that I was angry, "hey, P, I was just breaking your balls, kiddo, you know that. Don't be mad, huh, P?"

He had draped himself across the open door of my truck, preventing me from leaving. I inhaled with irritation and looked at him. He put his hand on my thigh and gave me a gentle squeeze.

"P?" he said, and then he leaned in and kissed me. It took me by surprise, the feeling of his soft lips and rough, five-o'clock skin against my mouth. When I didn't resist, he leaned further in and pushed himself against me more urgently. His tongue went into my mouth and his hand was on my crotch, groping, squeezing insistently. I tasted the liquor on him and also the spiky mint flavor of a Pizza Hut breath saver. I felt the stiffness leave my body and I relaxed into him--his warm, soft touch.

He pulled back and looked at me with the hangdog, sad puppy look he'd been giving me all week.

"Come over," he said, softly.

"Um," I said, still reeling from the kiss.

"Just come, OK, P? After work."

I didn't answer him, but he turned and jogged back to the door of the restaurant, with a spring in his step.

I shut the truck door and flicked on the overhead light. I scanned the list of addresses. Below, my cock was completely hard and bulging obscenely across my leg. I calculated my route and flicked off the light, then drove off.

~

I waited until after midnight. Part of me was skeptical that Mario was even going to be there. For sure he would have forgotten about me. Forgotten about kissing me, inviting me over. Surely he would have rounded everyone up to go to Gio's, with Amanda. It was Friday, after all.

I was parked down the street a ways from his house. I didn't see any lights on. I felt stupid, suddenly, and I was about to drive off, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the combination of everything that had happened today, the roller coaster of men and cocks and piss and shame--and then the rough-soft-liquor kiss in my truck. And there, too, was the itch. Throbbing at the periphery of my vision, threatening to overtake me.

I got out of my truck and walked up to his porch and then, instinctively, reached for the handle of the front door. It turned effortlessly in my hand and the door swung open with a soft creak.

"P, is that you?" I heard him call from somewhere inside.

I didn't answer, just shut the door behind me and walked through the darkened hallway toward the kitchen. There was a light on there, a dim yellow light over the stove top. From the kitchen I looked and saw him in the living room, sitting on the couch with a glass in his hand.

He stood up and came to where I was standing in the kitchen. He wasn't wearing a shirt--it was a hot night, and when he came to stand in front of me, bare-chested, I saw again how everything about him was big and thick. He put his glass down on the counter top and put his hands on my shoulders.

"You came," he said, and the whiskey on his breath washed over me. There was inebriation and lust in his eyes, and when he pulled my shirt up over my head his mouth went to my neck and his hands went to my chest. He was kissing me, stroking me, feeling my skin. His hands moved on me urgently, as if he wanted to feel as much of me as possible, touching all the parts of my chest, arms, and back. His lips found mine and then he was kissing my mouth, heavily, pushing me back toward the counter of his kitchen.

"Whoa whoa," I said, pulling my mouth away from his and pushing my hands into his furry chest. His intensity was a little too much to take, all at once. "Take it easy," I said, catching my breath.

"Paulie, my guy, my main dude," he said, breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against mine and his hands were at my crotch and my belt, undoing it, squeezing my hard dick through my pants.

I groped at his arms, trying to slow him down, but he was so much bigger and stronger than me, I'm not sure he even registered what I was doing. He had pinned me against a counter and was pushing down my pants and my underwear and then his hand was on my cock, and I felt the slickness there, my own precum lubricating the stroking motion of his fist.

"Paulie, Paulie," Mario whispered and then he was down, on the floor, his palms pushing against my hip bones and his mouth was on the shaft of my cock. He was licking the length of it and then pressing his face into the crevice between my balls and my leg, and then reversing to run his cheek and mouth back along the length of my cock to the tip. He was moaning, softly, and stroking the bony ridges of my pelvis with his thumbs.

It was mesmerizing, watching him lick my cock. His long, slow motions. Then, with his hand, he started to stroke the base of it while he tried to get the head of it into his mouth. He managed to get it partially into his mouth but I flinched when I felt his teeth scrape across the delicate skin along the bottom. He pulled off and looked up at me, concerned he had hurt me, and then maintained eye contact with me as he licked along the underside of my shaft.

I shuddered, feeling warm pleasure radiate through me. Mario reached down to pull off my shoes and pull my feet out of my pants and underwear. Then he reached between my legs and lifted me up, resting his hands on the counter, which left me suspended in the air, slung between his arms, my legs splayed to either side of his bulky shoulders.

And then, his tongue was on my asshole. He had nosed his way around my balls and found my hole with his mouth. I squirmed, surprised and a little dismayed by the sensation of his tongue probing my hole. But after a few seconds, my body seized with a wave of pleasure so intense that I almost orgasmed. I grasped at his arms and hung on, my socked feet curling and contorting as they swung in the air. Holy fuck. I'd never felt anything like this. I hadn't even known anything... like this... what the fuck?... I hadn't even known this was a thing. How did he know about this, how to do this?

My cock was pulsing, leaking onto me as Mario plowed his face into my ass. I heard a sound and realized it was my own whimpering. I was about to come.

"Stop, stop," I said, feeling my asshole contract against the pressure of Mario's tongue.

Mario stopped, and carefully put me down to stand again. He stood up to his full height, and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. I could see that his pants were straining with his erection. I walked a few steps away from him, trying to control my breathing and come back from the edge of orgasm.

He came after me and grabbed my shoulders from behind, rubbing them, stroking my shoulder blades. He bent to kiss my cheek and stroke the hair of my head.

"I wanna fuck you, P," he whispered into my ear. I shivered as the effect of his words rippled down my body.

"P," he said, "I wanna fuck you. Do you want that? Is that OK?"

"Wait," I said, shaking my head. I couldn't get my thoughts straight.

He was pressing himself against me, grinding the protuberance of his crotch against my ass. He wrapped his arms around me.

"P," he said. "P, let me fuck you."

"Hold on," I said, but my spine went to jelly in his arms and he picked me up and carried me into the living room. He lay me down on the couch. Kneeling on the threadbare cushions, I watched him, lighted from behind by the dim light of the kitchen, unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. He shimmied his pants down and when his cock sprung out, he took it in his hand and stroked it as he looked down on me.

I was on my back, wearing just my socks. He reached a hand out and I felt his thick fingers press against the ring of my asshole, still wet with his saliva. I put my hands up against his chest to slow him down, but he pressed a finger into me and I felt my hole give to his touch, letting him enter me. My hole contracted around his finger and I felt a surge of heat pulse through me. He pulled his finger out and took a deep breath and leaned between my legs, trying to position his cock to my hole. His bulk was pushing down on me, now, and his furry belly was against me, and as he breathed I felt my cock press against the warm weight of him.