tagGay MaleMy Fantasies Ch. 05

My Fantasies Ch. 05

bybjmichaels©

My upper body begins to shake...softly, at first, but the longer I do not respond the more violent the shaking becomes...my first thought is always the same-oh no, are we having an earthquake?

When my eyes finally open I see nothing but darkness, and in that split-second between deep-sleep and alert consciousness, I imagine terrible things and my body begins to tremble with fear...but then I recognize his touch.

I am laying on my left side and the heat from his body feels good on my back. His hand is stroking my chest; he squeezes my breasts and lightly pinches my nipples. He runs his hand down my right thigh then it is caressing my buttocks - I flinch because they are still swollen and bruised from last night's spanking.

When he tries to force his hand thru my thighs, I lift my right leg to allow his hand access to my genitals. He completely cups my penis and scrotum in his hand and gently squeezes then his hand retreats, and before removing it from me, I feel a finger rubbing my anus - he gently, but persistently pushes his middle finger inside me to the first knuckle...he is taking the 'morning inventory' of my body to make sure I wasn't damaged during last night's lovemaking...that is what I have named this every day ritual...he himself has never explained or even uttered a single word while he surveys my body, it is just something he does every morning that I do not protest or question.

I am now fully awake but feel incredibly tired...it can't be 4am already, can it? It seems as though we just fell asleep...heck, the large wet spot on my side of the bed is still damp...no time to think - he rolls me onto my back and I automatically spread my legs wide when he climbs on top of me. His weight grinds my bruised buttocks into the mattress and I grimace in the darkness but say nothing.

He captures both my wrists in one hand and holds them above my head. His manly body pins me to the mattress - I am helpless - I cannot move a muscle - a rush of blood goes to my penis and he can feel it rise against his belly. He chuckles at the arousal I always experience when he totally dominates me.

He kisses me; I kiss him back and when he pulls away I am gasping for air.

When I am finally able to speak I say "Good morning, Darling!" and after he kisses me again I say "I love you, Darling!"

He takes me in his arms and rolls onto his back. I am now on top of him. It is now my turn to rain kisses on his lips. For such a big and awkward man, the tenderness of his kisses, and the soft touches of his calloused hands continue to surprise me.

My lips press his; our open mouths meshed together as I lap at his wet, and slithering tongue. I love this time of the day. This is when I feel closest to him. Our mouths locked in an unending kiss; his hands stroking my back and shoulders; our pricks rising to full erections together. I eagerly await the signal.

For a man of his age, his virility both amazes and thrills me. I have lived with him over three-years, and his sexual appetite seems to grow, not decrease. At fifty-nine, he is thirty-seven years older than me, but you'd never know it by the number of orgasms I am required to give him every day.

I feel his hands apply gentle pressure to my shoulders and I lower my body until I am kneeling between between his open thighs. I would love to kiss my way down his manly chest, but he is not interested in shows of affection once his cock his fully hard.

I grasp the base of his shaft with my left-hand, and stroke it up and down. I cradle his scrotum with my right. I wet my lips then immediately slide them over his cockhead; my tongue begins its non-stop licking of his warm, and soft cockflesh as my head rapidly bobs up-and-down; I time my stroking motion with my sucking.

This is the time of day I feel most like a whore. He never says a word; he has me fully trained and lays back greedily accepting the pleasure I give him. He never touches me in the morning; there is no intimacy. He never even turns on the light to watch me perform.

Early-on in our relationship, when he'd convinced me to move in with him, I learned quickly what to expect-and what not to...and mornings were, and are, strictly meant for his pleasure.

He gave it a name that I hated from the start, but considering his age and background, was perfectly understandable. At least back then he would talk to me in the morning. Once he'd awakened me, and our fervent kissing made both of us excited and aroused, he would say with an odd, nervous laugh, "It's time to perform your wifely duty." Now he just pushes at my shoulders until I am on my knees between his legs.

"Wifely duty"...that phrase bothered me because I was neither a woman, nor his wife. Yes, he is the dominant male in our relationship, but that doesn't make me a woman.

I Googled that phrase and its meaning. From my reading, I learned in the olden days, more often than not, many marriages were arranged thru family contacts, not love. Father's offered their daughters to men in exchange for material goods, or because the man was important in the community. Females rarely had a choice in the matter.

A vital aspect in arranged marriages was the husband's 'right' to demand sex from his wife whether she wanted it or not. It was even believed that women were not interested in sex, that they grudgingly opened their legs because it was a 'wifely duty' to obey her husband and provide for his sexual needs.

He quit using that phrase when one morning after he'd said "It's time to perform your wifely duty" I gushed "Oh, Darling, does this mean we are getting married?"

I feel his heavy balls swell in my hand. I increase my tempo and furiously bob my head up-and-down. When his balls rise, I plant my tongue over his slit, and wait for the deluge to begin. He is still able to fill my mouth with four full loads before his discharge weakens.

I have become, thru necessity, expert at swallowing everything he gives me. He taught me early-on, if I missed even a single drop, there would be hell to pay.

He would force me to lay across his lap and explain to me in painstaking detail why I deserved the spanking he was about to give me.

"D-Darling, I'm so sorry!" I say to him. "Yes, I deserve to be punished for disrespecting you - I'm sorry I didn't swallow all of your cum [or whatever infraction I am guilty of]...I promise it won't happen again!"

To be fair, he has never given me a spanking I didn't deserve, but that doesn't make it any less painful...by the time he thinks 'I've learned my lesson' I am bawling like a schoolgirl.

He was born and raised on a farm in rural Iowa, and lives by a very strict standard of morality. There is 'Right' and there is 'Wrong' and nothing in-between. The head of the family, the 'Man' is to be obeyed at all times - no questions asked - no dissent allowed.

I often wonder about his upbringing, but know better than to ask about it. Everything I know about him I have learned in bits and pieces. When the mood strikes him, he will talk about his 'past life' as though it happened to someone else. And like many gay men his age, he is so deep in the closet, he will never see the light of day.

Once he's caught his breath, he will say, "Sweetheart, that was very nice," or "Oh, yes, what a great way to start a new day!" then he will climb out of bed and go to the master bathroom. Of course, I am expected to follow him.

By this time, I have to pee like a race horse, but he stands before the toilet first, and with me on his left-side, I snake my right-hand down his buttocks and between his slightly parted legs, and cradle his balls in my hand. I then take hold of his flaccid penis with my left-hand and aim at the bowl.

Every morning is the same: the pressure inside me builds to where I have to do a silent dance to hold in my own urine while his seemingly endless stream of piss splashes into the bowl. Only after I shake the remaining drops from his penis will he allow me to lower the toilet seat and sit down to do my business.

Yes, I have to sit down to pee. In fact, when we're at home, he expects me - no, demands I act more like a girl than a guy.

I do all the cooking, cleaning and laundry, and every article of clothing I am permitted to wear around the house is feminine. Bra's, panties, slips, short skirts, blouses, and in the evenings, nighties, garter belts and nylon stockings.

I haven't had a hair cut in years. My blonde hair cascades down well past my shoulders.

At home, he insists I wear it in twin pigtails - out in public, a ponytail... and in bed at night, he likes it loose and flowing which gets very annoying when my face is over his erection - I am constantly brushing the hair to the sides while I am sucking him. He has trained me in this fashion since we met.

Originally, I simply thought it was a kinky, sexual thing - I am well aware men have peculiar sexual tastes and fantasies...but after awhile, I began to understand the true nature of his obsession: he uses my forced feminization as a coping mechanism for his homosexuality...if he thinks of me more as a girl than a guy, in his mind he's not really having gay sex.

Another rationalization he uses to prove to himself he's not gay is he is proud of the fact he has never sucked a cock, or taken one in his ass - "only queers do those things," he says with disdain.

Don't get me wrong - he has never called me names, or treated me badly...I know he loves me, and he knows I love him...he simply cannot bring himself to accept who he is...oh well, where's the harm if it makes him feel better about himself?

Back in the bedroom he has laid out a red, silk slip for me to wear. I slide it over my head and smooth it in place. I have to admit I have grown to love the feel of soft and frilly things on my bare flesh, and there are times...well, I do indeed feel more like a woman than a man.

We can smell the coffee as we walk to the kitchen. I set the timer before bedtime so it will be ready in the mornings. One time I set it wrong and the coffee wasn't ready - he gave me such a spanking I couldn't sit for three-days.

I turn the kitchen television onto CNN so he can get his morning news. I pour two cups of coffee and bring him his mug. I then go about my business of fixing us breakfast.

Not long ago, I fixed large and greasy breakfasts...you know, a platter of eggs, sausages, bacon, hash brown potatoes, toast with real butter...then came the scare from his heart doctor and he finally caved-in to my nagging about eating healthier.

Now, when I bring him his cereal and fruit tray, he scowls at me and says, "My father would turn in his grave if he saw me eating like this!"

And I say: "Your father wouldn't be in a grave if he had eaten like this!"

We eat in silence while watching the news. Every so often a story upsets him and he flies into a rage. I smile inwardly listening to his rant. I know him so well now, I can predict which stories will send him over the edge.

When we finish, I clear the table but leave the dishes in the sink until later. He has a strict routine, and after breakfast we immediately go back to the bedroom. I remove the slip, and he takes off his robe and his ratty old slippers.

In the bathroom, he shaves while I climb into the tub and run the water to the temperature he likes. When he's ready, he gets into the tub, lifts the lever and the warm water cascades from the shower-head.

I waste no time daubing shampoo on his thinning hair and massage it into his scalp. I rinse the shampoo from his head then he lifts one arm, and I soap and rinse his armpit - he has me sniff at it to make sure it is clean before I am allowed to proceed to the other underarm.

Every morning before I wash his pits, he will playfully grab my head and force my nose into his underarm hairs and tell me to take a deep breath. It may sound kind of crude, but in all honesty, there is something about his manly aroma I like, and he laughs when my prick stiffens.

I run the soap over his back and chest. He's still in good shape and it thrills me to feel his muscles react to my hands. Once I rinse him, it is time to drop to my knees to complete his washing.

I wash each leg and foot, and then he turns around and presents his buttocks to my face. I soap the cheeks then press the bar soap between them and rub his perineum and anus. I rinse-off the soap, and literally kiss his ass.

He will then lean slightly forward and move his legs farther apart. I pry open his cheeks and burrow my face between them. Holding his asscheeks open with my hands, I press my mouth to his anus and begin kissing and licking. I force my face as tightly against him as possible, then push my tongue inside his asshole. I lick the sandpaper-like walls, then tongue-fuck his hole until I hear his order for me to stop...it's not so much an order, but rather a grunt and a groan and he immediately turns around and presents his hard penis to my mouth and hands.

I soap his cock and scrotum...I take my time - he is no longer in a hurry. By the time I put away the soap and rinse him clean, his cock his throbbing, and I can hear his labored breathing. I eagerly await his next command. We have never finished a shower together without him requiring me to bring him to a climax

Naturally, he has two options on how to use me...and I wait with hopeful anticipation to hear what I want to hear.

"Get up and bend over, Sweetheart - I want to use your pussy this morning!" he says and my heart, and prick, leap with joy.

I scramble to my feet then place my hands on the far edge of the tub and bend over. I widen my legs as far as the tub allows. He takes the tube of cream we keep in the shower squirts a dollop on my anus.

I shiver when I feel him rubbing the cream on my crack and anus...and then his finger...his oiled finger pushes inside me coating the walls of my 'pussy' with the cream...then more cream, and his finger goes all the way inside me.

When I am properly oiled, I feel the bulbous head of his cock pressing on my opening. I hold my breath and wait for him to enter me.

I wonder what it will be this morning: A sharp, quick jab then a fast impalement on his wonderful cock, or will he take his time, and force-feed me his cock slowly, making me feel every ridge and vein until I am completely filled with his hot and hard manhood.

His strong hands grip my hips; he exerts effort and my hole opens and accepts his cockhead; when he pauses I know how he is going to take me - I brace myself for his pounding then he rams his hips forward shoving his cock all the way inside me until it bumps my prostate causing me to loudly proclaim "OH YES!"

He chuckles and waits a few seconds to allow my hole to get accustomed to his length and girth. He suddenly pulls his cock out to the tip then slams it back inside me.

I love it when he uses me roughly...his every thrust and lunge takes my breath away.

This is one of those rare times when I truly feel like a woman...a woman bending over to give her man pleasure...a woman who takes her own pleasure with each and every violent thrust of his manly cock...I push my hips back to greedily swallow every inch of his wonderful cock.

We find our rhythm and I delight in the delicious sensations of his cock filling my pussy.

Each time his cockhead slams into my prostate, I cry out "UNGHHH..."

He suddenly wraps his right arm around my lower belly pulling me backwards onto his cock. His left hand releases my hip and takes hold of my throbbing prick and strokes me in time with our fucking.

I no longer think about the contradiction between his words and actions. He's not gay because he doesn't suck cock, or take it in the ass...but apparently, stroking my hard prick with his hand and masturbating me to orgasm isn't gay...okay, whatever - all that matters is I love the feel of his hand on my erection while he slides his beautiful cock in-and-out of my pussy.

I rotate my buttocks and push backwards to meet his growing urgency. He has fucked me so many times I know the rhythm and timing of his thrusts, and in perfect harmony, I push back as he lunges forward and buries his manhood to the hilt once again bumping my prostate.

"UNGHHH," I cry out.

No words are ever spoken...our grunts and groans become louder and more frequent.

We are less than a minute away from our orgasms - what I call 'the point of no return' - we couldn't stop now if our lives depended on it...hell, we couldn't even tell you our names.

This is when humans are reduced to their most primitive, biological-imperative beings...at this moment, we are no different from our neanderthal ancestors - grunting like animals - mindlessly straining to achieve climax and release the seed from our swollen testicles.

He suddenly pulls me back onto his expanding cock so hard his glans smacks my prostate sending a shower of stars dancing before my eyes...for every action there is a reaction, and my balls explode sending cannon-shots of sperm and semen squirting from my prick flying through mid-air.

He howls like a banshee and unloads his warm jism inside my pussy...once - twice - three times I feel hot blasts of cum soothing the dull, aching sensation in my boy-cunt...I remain bent over with my hands on the tub supporting my weight until, like a satiated mongrel, he pulls back and his deflating penis makes a slight popping sound as it abruptly escapes my boy-hole.

"Good one, boy," he says.

That is the highest praise I ever get from him.

He stands under the showerhead waiting for me to perform "my wifely duty" and clean his cock for him. I soap him well, then use a washcloth on his dangling penis. I meticulously wash and rinse it thoroughly - I know I will have it in my mouth in the not-too-distant future.

As usual, he abruptly steps out of the tub leaving me alone to finish my shower. I love the hot water cascading down my body.

I go through my mental checklist: did I lay out his socks and underwear? Yes. His golf shirt? Yes. The shorts he likes to wear on Wednesdays? Yes.

I can only relax when I reassure myself I performed "my wifely duties" to his satisfaction.

When I dry myself, I wrap my long hair in a towel, go into the bedroom and slip on the soft, silk robe I love wearing. I step into the pink slippers he recently bought for me and go into the kitchen for one more cup of coffee.

He is busy replenishing his supply of golf balls and tees. I sit in silence watching his every move. He is still agile and limber for a man of his size and age. He looks so cute in his golf 'outfit' I smile to myself.

He kisses me on the cheek and says, "Pot Roast for dinner" then he is out the door.

I think to myself, "I hope we can stay in this city longer than the last one - I like it here!"

This is our fourth city in three-years. The pattern is always the same:

He makes friends at a golf course, plays regularily with them; then when he thinks his golfing buddies suspects he is queer, we move to a another city. I tell him it's all in his mind, but he never listens to me.

We rarely go out in public together. I've never met any of his golfing buddies in any city.

When asked, he tells people I'm his "long-haired, deadbeat son, who thinks he's a hippy!" When we do go out, I must call him "Dad."

Every day when he leaves the house is the same. I drink two cups of coffee and try to figure out why I stay with him.

Sure, he has money, but I hope I'm not that shallow.

He treats me very well, except of course, when he spanks me...but to be honest, he's never given me a spanking I didn't deserve.

What bothers me most is his silence. He is definitely not a 'talker,' and he doesn't want to hear me blathering on-and-on like some nagging wife...no, our communication is mainly non-verbal.

I know him so well I understand his every movement; his facial expressions; his every grunt and eye-roll. I know the little things that please him, and what he disapproves of.

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