Butterfly

I came out of the butterflies flying to the rhythm of the music to find that Kayembe was happily fucking away, my having opened to his satisfaction. He was grunting with pleasure and had set up a steady rhythm of long, deep slides, with my body going with him, assisted by a palm to the small of my back, pulling me into him on the thrusts and releasing on the withdrawal. The thrusts became more thrusts, less slides, more insistent, marching toward a climax.

"Is good. Is very good," he declared.

I let out a long moan of pleasure myself. There was still pain, but now it was overcast with the pleasure of him having pleasure with my body and the knowledge that I was open to managing a huge cock. He dipped his head and took my mouth in a deep kiss, maintaining the primeval, natural beat of the fuck. Coming out of the kiss, he gave a deep sigh and continued with the rhythm, giving us four or five minutes of the full-pleasure fuck he was pursuing.

I had taken the kiss—he was not much into kissing—as a signal that I was giving him what he wanted in the fuck. Knowing this, I relaxed even more and melded with him, and when I did, I found I wasn't just giving him what he wanted, but it was more pleasure for me too—more of what I wanted.

Near the end, I was on my back on the bed, my legs spread and bent, my feet flat on the mattress, and Kayembe was crouched between my thighs, an arm under my waist, holding my pelvis off the mattress, my torso streaming back on the bed, my cheek to the bedspread and my arms stretched out in a sacrificial pose, when arousal built in me and, using the leverage of my feet, I raised my pelvis more and began moving with him again, pulling my hips back when he did and thrusting forward when he did—crying out at the explosive contact at full thrust. We were in the groove of a full-on fuck.

There was a minute of total pleasure for both of us. Involuntarily, I cried out, "Yes, yes, yes! Fucking A, screw the hell out of me!" and, the tension exploding out of me, just let everything drain out of me.

"Good, we're fucking now," Kayembe exclaimed, arching his back, raising his head, babbling in an unrecognized language to the ceiling, and panting hard, as the rhythm of the fuck stepped up. And we were fucking now. It wasn't just the Congolese bull trying to ruin me for his personal pleasure, it was the two of us fucking. I raised my torso, grabbing his shoulder blades with my hands, digging my fingernails in, and pistoning my pelvis against his thrusts in one coordinated dance movement of the FUCK.

We cried out almost simultaneously, ejaculated, and I fell back onto the bed. Kayembe collapsed on top of me momentarily, but only momentarily. Rising off me, he gave me a smile and said, "Good. It was finally good. You gave it to me fully there for a couple of minutes. It isn't often that good."

"And you took it from me, ripped it right out of me," I responded. I couldn't help it; he'd wiped me out, and though I'd gotten what I wanted, to him it was all about his pleasure.

"Yes, yes I did," he said with a grin, completely oblivious to the meaning of what I'd said, tone deaf to the spark of resentment there. And then when I just lay there, panting and moaning and looking at him, he said, "Are you OK?"

"Fine. I'm fine," I said, even though I hadn't done an inventory yet to ensure I hadn't been shredded. I certainly hurt—all over. Internally as well. But this was mixed with the glorious feeling that I'd done it. I'd managed a primeval Congolese black bull. What had he said? That the Congo had the highest rating on cock size? I was sure I'd taken the biggest one on the charts.

All he said then was, "Good." He trotted off to the bathroom, his satisfied shaft swinging against his legs, and I heard him pissing in the toilet. He was fine. I couldn't be angry with him. He was like a big teddy bear. He hadn't misled me about what would happen, what my role in this was. I'd given him what he wanted, even though it had taken time and effort. He'd managed to get his pleasure and he had done so. It was all about his pleasure, but there, for a few minutes, it was sheer pleasure for me as well.

I groaned, rolled over, and sat up on the bed. Was I satisfied? In some ways, yes. I had met and surmounted some barriers in sexual satisfaction. I had moved forward in my experience. I could go now and . . .

But I couldn't go now, not yet. Kayembe was coming out of the bathroom. He was in magnificent erection again. He was smoothing another condom on the erection. He was going to fuck me again.

"Now we can have a better fuck. You're well open now. I will slide right in, deep, and we will have a very good fuck," he said, as he reached the bed, lifted me, put me on all fours at the foot of the bed; mounted and penetrated me; and, holding me close to him, fucked me again.

He was right, though, it was a better fuck, and I stayed right with him. It was a natural-rhythm fuck, me fully open to his size demands and able to share in the pleasure to enough of an extent that I could enjoy it—and, certainly, enjoy knowing he was getting a full measure of pleasure out of it.

After we'd come this time and he'd pulled out of me and I'd collapsed on the bed, he went back to the bathroom and I heard the shower start.

I was moaning but I also was smiling. The second time was everything I could have hoped for in the experience I was seeking. We fit now and moved in one coordinated rhythm from the very beginning to the end—a quicker progression than the first time. Far more pleasure for me and satisfaction than the first time.

Still, I'd had enough. I rolled off the bed, pulled on my clothes and left, clicking the door behind me. I needed a shower, but I'd have to get that at home. I couldn't risk staying here with him anymore. He was an insatiable machine.

I was hobbling and was somewhere between sore and in pain internally. I made it down to the lobby. The receptionist was away from the desk. I could see her in the office, standing at a desk, turned away from the lobby. It was after 10:00 in the evening. Kayembe had fucked me right through dinnertime. It was raining and there was a diner next to the hotel. I was hobbling. I didn't think I'd be able to walk to the subway and endure the trip back to the Cathedral area, where I had a studio apartment.

I went to the diner and ate who knows what? My mind was on butterflies in a meadow, backed by stirring piano music. I went back into the hotel and asked the receptionist at the desk, who hadn't seen me before, if there was a room available. She looked askance at me. I was a bit disheveled and I had no luggage. I did have a well-filled wallet, though, both with cash and credit cards. I was a millionaire, thanks to Clayton Snyder, the Greencastle, Indiana, dentist.

"Sorry, I'm parked not far away and my car won't start," I lied just to get on with this. "I will worry about the car tomorrow."

This placated her. There was a room available. I went to it, ran a hot bath, soaked in it for an hour, and then struggled to the bed and, with a long moan, flopped down on my back and went to sleep.

The next morning, I went to the hotel's complimentary breakfast room. Beno Kayembe was there, with a mammoth breakfast gathered in front of him from the tidbits the hotel served. He saw me enter and his eyes followed me around the room while I picked up a bagel, a couple of packages of cream cheese, and a cup of coffee. I didn't look his way, but I could hear him exhale when I came over to his table and said, "Can I sit with you?"

"Certainly," he said, and I sat. He gave me a tentative smile. "You left last night before saying good-bye."

"It was overwhelming," I said. "I thought we'd both had enough. I checked into another room."

He didn't focus on the "overwhelming" word. It had all been for his pleasure, and he finally had gotten what he wanted. It didn't really mean a shit to him if I had been overwhelmed. But it was natural with him, nothing purposeful in it. He was from a different culture, a patriarchal one, and perhaps one where the man with the biggest dick ruled. He undoubtedly had the biggest dick. I shuddered at the thought of that cock and what it had done inside me. Despite still being sore this morning, it aroused me and I couldn't help think about him fucking me again.

"It was good for me last night," he said. "Especially the second time. You adjusted to it. You checked into the hotel? You spent the night here?"

"Yes, I spent the night here," I said. He completely misunderstood why I had done that.

"Can't get enough of Beno's snake?" he said, with a little laugh. "The third time would be very nice. Would you like to go back upstairs with me?"

That he'd said "would" rather than "will" wasn't lost on me. He didn't have the determination this morning that he'd had last evening. "Would a third time give you pleasure, Beno?" I asked.

He gave me a blank look. I could see the wheels spinning and not resolving. What else was there but his own pleasure? It was natural. I couldn't fault him for that. So that he didn't have to find a response, I continued on. "I don't think you really are interested in a third time, Beno. I'm not either"—that may or may not have been true; I hadn't processed that yet—"I think you are a one and done sort of man, which is fine. Let's leave it like that."

He processed that for a minute or more and finally said, "You were very nice. I like taking my time getting in—as long as I do get in."

"Thank you, Beno."

And then after he'd eaten some more of his breakfast. "Can I ask you something?"

For some reason I pretty much knew what he was going to ask. "Certainly. Ask ahead."

"In the chorus. There was a tenor on the first row. Small, light-haired, blue eyes."

"Ryan. Yes, I know him. Ryan Abrams."

"I think he was looking at me, you know, like . . ."

"Like he wants you to fuck him?"

"Yes, like that."

"I'm sure he does. He likes black men—and big cocks."

"Do you think—?"

"I think he'd love being laid by you," I said.

And obviously, when we attended the next practice of the gay men's chorus, the signaling between Abrams and Kayembe indicated the two of them would be fucking at the Days Inn by Wyndham that night. I hoped Ryan's passage could take that cock more easily than mine had, but Ryan was a little tart, so I trusted he'd be delighted with a Congolese cock.

As I was watching them, Jeff Bender, a handsome, late-thirties lawyer who sang in the bass section, stopped by the piano. We'd been flirting for a couple of weeks. He was a hunk. He also was six-foot-six and was built like a tank—a solid, bodybuilder tank, though, not a pudgy one.

"I've been thinking," Jeff said, "that maybe you'd like to go for a drink with me after the rehearsal."

"Or maybe more," I said, my gaze going to his crotch. There was every reason to believe he was hung. I thought he was hard now, coming to ask me to go out with him. The confidence of the Congolese stud had rubbed off on me. I'd gone to the top. And I'd done it to be more loose when opportunities like this one came along.

He smiled. "More would be nice," he said.

"There's a hotel, a Days Inn by Wyndham up Connecticut Avenue," I said.

"Perfect."

I saw butterflies, a whole field of butterflies, fluttering around in my mind. One thing was certainly. I had left the cocoon.

* * * *

We were on the bed in the hotel room, both naked. He had a magnificent, muscular body. And, yes, he was hung. He'd been sitting at the foot of the bed, and I'd been pressed into his crotch, his hard cock deep inside me, my legs wrapped around his hips, the heels of my feet pressed into his buttocks. My torso was streaming down to the carpet, my arms stretched out in a sacrificial cruciform, "take me, I'm all yours" stance, as he gripped my hips in his hands and pulled me on and off the cock.

"God, you take it well," he murmured.

"I've had practice," I answered. Not a lot, but recent. I wouldn't tell him that, though.

"I've been wanting to do this with you since you arrived as the chorus's accompanist, Ethan," he murmured. "So nice, so sweet, so yielding."

"It's what I've wanted too," I responded. And it was. It was what I was developing toward, to be a free spirit in life, a butterfly.

He reached down and grasped my arms and pulled me up into his chest, wrapping his arms around me and taking my lips in his in a deep kiss. I grasped his buttocks, squeezing them, moving my own hips in coordination with his. As we reached climax, I arched my head back, my torso angled away from his chest, my arms dangling at my side in total surrender and yowled to the ceiling. We came together, one ejaculation after the other.

Butterflies, piano music in the background—satisfaction. I was totally in the groove now.