Failed Connections

I was having trouble picking him out on the field. He'd sent me photos—if they had really been of him—so I had an idea what he looked like, although, to tell the truth, it wasn't his face that surfaced in my mind from those last photos he sent. I knew he had dark, curly hair and he was six feet and built like a god. But from the stands here in the Denver Dynamites' Castle Rock indoor soccer field, I couldn't tell the players apart very well. He was a forward, he'd said, but I didn't know soccer very well. I couldn't tell where the players stood on the field, although I assumed that meant he was out in front, down the field, positioned into Denver's playing field. So, I concentrated on the players there. Any and all of them looked good to me from this distance.

Buddy Wright had taken good care of getting me this seat in the stadium. I'm sure it was a good one. It just didn't put me close enough to the field to pick out the players' faces. I knew from his photo that he had a scar line running across his cheek from his left ear to the corner of his mouth, which looked dashing and intriguing to me, but I couldn't see their faces. He knew I was here in the stands. When I had entered and had shown the usher my ticket, he'd addressed me by name, handed me a copy of the thick, glossy program of the Denver Dynamites--Baltimore Blasts' pro indoor soccer league game here, south of Denver, and said it was compliments of Buddy Wright. The usher treated me as royalty, treating me like a friend of Wright's even though I hadn't met him yet. I was pleased to see that Wright's entry in the program, which he'd dogeared and had his action photo circled, checked out with the physical attributes he'd given me on the Internet—although of course the program didn't say or show how hung he had been promised to be in the photos.

I didn't go to the Internet dating sites very often, but when I'd done so this time, I was looking for something unusual. I had been stuck in a succession of local men who proved to be mostly interested in me for my money and for access to the ski resorts I owned at Breckenridge and Vail. None of them had mentioned my slim body and somewhat androgynous looks and how that affected their interest in me. As our e-mail exchanges had deepened, Buddy had done that. At the beginning he'd talked about sports and his interest in bow hunting, most of which went over my head. I was a nearly forty-year-old urban dweller focused on ski lodges.

When we got down to exchanges on sex—what we liked to do; what we wanted to do—he'd commented on my photos and how I turned him on. He commented favorably on the boyishness of my equipment and the slimness of my hips and mentioned how tight I must be, whereas the men I'd gone with before avoided talking about that. He even asked me for my hip measurements, and noted surprise and pleasure that my hips were only two more inches than my thirty-two-inch waist. He was particularly complimentary about photos of me in silky slips and black stockings. He told me how much he needed sex, how he needed to dominate and exhaust his partner sexually to stay in tiptop shape to play his sport.

He had asked me if I had any trouble taking a big cock with such narrow hips. I answered that, yes, I had a little trouble sheathing a big cock but always had managed and that it excited me to do so. I initially thought this might turn him off, but it seemed to arouse his interest even more. I had no idea what he considered a big cock other than I knew he had one from the photos he sent. Primarily, it kept my interest in exchanging e-mails with him that he wanted to talk sex with me this baldly. I stroked off nicely just from the e-mail exchanges.

The messages of others, once my status had been revealed, didn't get beyond talking of skiing and ski lift tickets and hotel space and of the parties I had access to up in the mountains. And then when I did hook up with them and took them to the parties, they cruised beyond me.

Of course, much of that might be because I had gone for the much younger, beefcake guys who would, in fact, be impressed by my ski resort properties. It might also be that the image of an avid skier didn't go with a slim, androgynous look with lingerie and black stockings. I was pushing forty. The blond boyishness was getting to be more bizarre than attracting, I suppose. It was becoming more obvious that I'd had some cosmetic surgery done.

Buddy had been distinctive in the dating service offerings not only because his Internet exchanges dwelt on sex more than others did and because it was intriguing that he was a pro soccer player but also because his body—in height and weight—weren't overwhelming. His body was beautiful, of course, but I'd researched after the first hookup and found that soccer players were rarely over six feet and they weren't heavyweights. They were built for speed and dexterity if they wanted to be a success. It was only an added benefit to find, after we'd gotten more direct in our texts, that he was hung like a bull. And I couldn't complain about his dexterity and flexibility.

Most of the men I'd gone with, the more hung ones, had complained about my boyishness, how tight I was, and how difficult it always was to get inside me. The feel of being stretched to the limit turned me on, though. It always had, and when a guy was covering me and complaining at the effort it required, I was luxuriating in being stretched and filled. Buddy was the only guy I'd had exchanges with in the online service who spoke of looking for anything like that in a partner. He certainly hadn't given me anything but compliments on the photos I'd sent him.

There didn't seem to be many guys who would compliment another guy on the slimness and deep hollows of a guy's hips in pelvis photos or of his slight breast enhancements—or who asked how it felt to be stretched to the limit by a hard cock.

We hadn't discussed much further than that, but I was looking forward to it. I had made clear that I was free to travel and could afford it and had mentioned that I'd never been to Baltimore but had checked out the hotels and attractions there—and gotten an idea where the Baltimore Blast's played soccer. It was east of the downtown area, not far from the Chesapeake Bay. I'd noted that I would like to take a cruise on the bay with him. He hadn't responded to that then, but I was taking him to dinner after his game here in Colorado and before taking him to my apartment in Brook Towers in downtown Denver, so we'd have something to discuss before getting down to it.

I picked out a player I hoped was him. He was moving with special grace, was obviously one of the better players on the Baltimore team, and seemed to be playing in what would be the forward position. Beyond thinking of him and how hung he was and how interesting his face was—showing he'd once been quite handsome but had been knocked around a good bit, bringing out the sense of power and adventure—I couldn't really get into the game that was being played.

I did, though, like the idea of having a sexual relationship with a professional athlete. I told myself that an athlete must have unusual stamina. I liked being fucked at great length—by coming before my partner did. I had gone to the online sex dating services in search of being well fucked, not having an escort to a ball, and it wasn't a pretty face I was after but a man with a sizable hard dick who knew what to do with it and could keep doing it for a long time.

Having a long-distance relationship appealed to me too. I could afford to travel as I liked. But I was looking for more than a one-night stand. I'd searched his exchanges via the dating site and I think I discerned under everything that he was looking for that too. I'm just not sure he realized that. That's what I'd have to work on pulling out of him—when I wasn't concentrating on sheathing him, risking being split by him, but waiting to go up to that limit with him.

Near the end of the game, an usher came to where I was seated and told me that he'd show me to the visitor's locker room, where I could pick up Buddy Wright. It wasn't just to the door into the locker room where I was taken to wait for him, it was all the way into the locker room, and I was able to watch the players strip down and shower—Buddy had come to the door to greet me when I'd entered the locker room. He leaned into me for a brief kiss and his hands went to encasing my hips, the fingers of both hands spread out toward each other, nearly being able to touch. I felt him shudder and knew he was checking out the hips he'd discussed in detail when we were exchanging e-mails and that he was pleased with what he now found.

He positioned me where I could see all the way into the showers and the locker where he changed. He was, indeed, the player I had picked out on the field and fantasized about, and when he'd stripped off his uniform, while he standing in front of a urinal, cock in hand, pissing; while he was showering; and while he was dressing in expensive slacks and a white silk shirt, open down on his sternum, he made sure that I saw that his photo hadn't lied—he was hung like a bull. He even cupped his balls and bounced his cock at the urinal for me to see and savor.

I did some looking at the other players on the team. All of them were built like the pro athletes they were—trim and muscular, built for soccer—but I admit that my eyes kept going back to Buddy. He was the sexiest of the lot, I thought, in a knocked-about, thuggish sort of way. But, of course, much of my arousal for him was probably couched in the knowledge that we were hooking up.

I drove him to a five-star steakhouse, The Broker, on 17th Street, which had the male ambience of being in an old bank building and which wasn't far from my apartment at Brook Tower on 15th Street. I drove him in my Tesla, which I only pulled out of the garage when I wanted to impress. He didn't mention it and when I did, asking him if he'd ridden in a Tesla before, he simply said "yes" and that he drove an old Mustang. I appreciated his straightforward honesty and lack of vanity.

"I like something classic, classy, streamlined, and functional," he said. When he added, in a low tone, "like you," I shivered.

We didn't do much talking as we drove back into the city and he answered some questions in a monosyllable and fended off the personal ones. That didn't stop him from being forward, though. He didn't just grope me as I drove. He unbuttoned my shirt and ran a hand up to cup one of my augmented breasts—not built up so large that they were noticeable under a men's shirt but more of a handful that most men would have. He thumbed my nipple to hear me moan. Then he unzipped me and directly handled my dick and balls, not showing any disappointment that I was small in that department. I hadn't lied about that in our exchanges, though. He left the definite impression that the sex was going to be the main event of our evening.

"It is a nice handful," he said, which made me shiver again. In the restaurant's parking garage, he made me park in the shadows at the rear of the garage and lay back in the seat while he beat me off and leaned over me, looking into my eyes before moving his mouth down to suck on my nipples. He deftly took my ejaculate in a handkerchief. We had had sex almost right away, demonstrating that we both knew the goal of this date.

After that first flash of heat, he became reticent and, which continued through dinner. He ate ravenously and had no qualms about me paying for everything. He did answer questions, when they didn't get into the personal or the possibilities for us beyond this evening.

"I noticed that the Blast's stadium is pretty close to the shoreline of the Chesapeake," I asked. "You know of any charter boat operations out of there?"

"I don't know. I don't go out on the water much."

"What's the best hotel near your Baltimore stadium?" I asked.

"I have a house in Annapolis. I don't go into Baltimore much. I hear the best hotels are down on the Baltimore Harbor waterfront."

"A house in Annapolis? That's on the water isn't it? Is yours on the water? A big one? Do you live alone?"

"You going to eat that last piece of bread?" he asked.

He was more animated on questions of sex.

"I was happy that you look like your photos show," I said.

"You mean the big dick?"

"Yes, part of it. But I like the rugged look about you. You're really in great—"

"You've seen me now. You going to be able to take me?" he asked, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth. Looking directly at me for maybe the first time. "You certainly are slim hipped, just like you said you were. I like that. I like that a lot. You do it much? Stayed tight for your age? I like a tight fit—between slim hips. I like the exotic look of a woman, but not what she usually wants. I'm an anal guy. That's why I like guys like you. I like to have a firm, close grip on a guy's hips while I fuck him."

I gave him straightforward answers, including that I didn't indulge in this often so I should be tight enough for him. I said I thought, from his size, that most anyone would be a tight fit for him. He seemed satisfied with the answers, but I had trouble getting him to say more than a short sentence on any topic that I was comfortable talking about in a restaurant. He continually brought the conversation around to sex and again said how much he liked a tight fit. Luckily, the ambient noise level was pretty high in The Broker.

When the check came, he made no effort to pick it up, but, rather, turned the first real smile I'd seen him flash at the waiter, a young blond guy with very slim hips and his hair in a bun, who sashayed here and there. The smile was returned, and I wanted to cry out, "He's mine; I paid for him," but I didn't. It was at the moment that I realized who Buddy reminded me of that was sending shivers down my spine. The look he gave the waiter put the name "James Bond" into my mind—not the suave, elegantly dressed James Bond of the Sean Connery movies, but the slightly thuggish, elegantly dressed James Bond of the Daniel Craig movies. I was going to be fucked by the demanding cock of the thuggish Daniel Craig James Bond. I shivered again in anticipation. It would be well worth the effort and expense.

It was only a four-block drive to my apartment on the 39th floor of Brook Towers, which faced the Rockies to the west of the city through a floor-to-ceiling expanse of glass in the living and dining area. I'd paid an extra million dollars for the view of the mountains. I wound up driving around the block multiple times, though, because Buddy unzipped me again when I was pulling away from the restaurant, and this time he went under my balls and entered my ass with a finger. I rolled my pelvis up for him and spread my legs as much as I could to still be driving in evening traffic at dusk in downtown Denver. I wasn't put off or angry. I was aroused at him forcing a finger inside me and went hard—as hard as I normally did.

"Satisfied?" I asked in a breathy voice.

"Yes, tight," he said, and my legs went to jelly as he reached my prostate with the tip of his finger. I barely had time to pull into the parking garage under the apartment house and park beside my BMW before I lost all control of my legs and pressed back into my seat in a whimper. He put his free arm across the back of my seat, cupped my head with his hand, and turned my face to him for a kiss, and he didn't draw away when I touched his cheek and traced his scar with a finger. This was going to be something special, I was sure. The kiss lasted long enough for me to grab my cock and explode in the palm of my hand while he finger fucked me.

I'd come twice already and his cock hadn't been inside me yet. This date was going to be well worth the effort it took to set it up.

He pulled away from the kiss, and I moved to put my head in his lap, unzip him and suck him off, but in one fluid movement, he'd opened the passenger door of the Tesla and stepped out of the car.

He did remark on the view of the sun setting behind the Rockies when we got to my apartment, but he lost no time in unbuckling and unzipping himself, pulling his trousers and briefs off his legs, and plopping down in the center of a sofa facing the view.

"I'll be just a few moments. Make yourself comfortable," I said, and wafted off to my bedroom. When I returned, I was in red lace panties, a red satin slip, black stockings, a garter belt, and red heels. He had taken his full erection in his hand and pumped it up while I had been dressing.

He looked at me and muttered, "Kneel to me. Give me head now. Take your time."

I knelt in front of him and worshipped his cock with my hands and mouth, raising myself up to heaven at the sounds of his moans as he lay back into the sofa and let me work him. I gave him my best head, doing everything I could to take him all in my throat. There was no way that was going to happen, the concentration with which I went for it—the knowledge that it was going to be inside me, that thuggish James Bond was going to be fucking me—sent me right up the register. I didn't notice, though, that he was just lying there, waiting until he was at full throb. When he was, he pushed me off him and said, "You got any beer here? And while you're up, maybe you should get a rubber and some lube. We're gonna go downtown with this. No more buildup. Want you tight when I fuck you."

So, I got up and went for his beer, a condom, and a bottle of lube.

I stood in front him as he sat on the sofa. He drank his beer with one hand and felt me up with the other, running his hand up my stocking-clad legs and under the hem of the slip, all the way up to my breasts. After running his hand over my basket and along the waist and leg hems of the panties, he brushed the hem of the slip up above my belly and applied his lips to my navel as his hand snaked around to my buttocks and his fingers worked up from a leg hole of the panties and entered my ass. I rocked on him as he kissed my belly and fingered my ass. I gasped and moaned after stepping out of my panties as he slipped them down and off my legs. He ran a finger back in my passage and took my cock in his mouth and gave me suck, as I held his head in my hands, rocked, and came in in this throat.

"How about another beer," he said, when he came up for air, "And come back naked," he called out.

I did it all, returning only in the garter belt, stockings and heels and then he did it all, but not quite how I had dreamed it would be. He took a swig of the beer, put it down on the cocktail table in front of the sofa, grabbed me, and bent me over the arm of the sofa. He wrapped one arm around me, holding me close to him as he bent over me. The fingers of his free hand somehow got lubed and he attacked my hole with his fingers as I writhed under him, panting hard, groaning deep.

"Open but keep it tight," he kept growling in my ear.

I had no idea how to do that, but it didn't seem to matter. He didn't really care what I was doing as long as I didn't suddenly telescope open.

"Keep it tight; keep it tight." I did nothing. He did it all. It wasn't about me. It was about stuffing himself in me, which he did after I slit open a condom packet, crowned him, and lubed us both. When he was deep inside me, he reached around and grabbed my breasts in his hands and worked them while he began fucking me in the ass. Not long into the fuck, he moved his hands to clutching my hips and spreading his fingers over me until their tips almost met. He murmured about how nice that he could almost touch fingers in this grip. From there on out he maintained this hip grip while he fucked me. I had no trouble recognizing that this was his fetish.

After he'd done me in a doggie for a while, he turned me on his shaft, to where we were in a missionary, with my ass on the arm of the sofa, with my heaving, traumatized, but traumatized in heaven, torso streaming back onto the sofa, with my ankles on his shoulders, and with him still deep inside me.