Plumbered

He sat there, looking at me, until after the drinks had arrived. The barman had remembered what each of us had been drinking. He gave me a knowing little smile as he set the drinks down and then was gone. I had a forearm lying on the table top, and, turning his chair toward me and putting a foot on the rung of my chair, Bud reached out and ran a finger lightly along the arm, brushing up the hairs and sending a chill up my spine. I ached for him to be inside me. Now that we were up close, I could see that his company shirt was open almost down to the navel and that he had the swirl of a tattoo covering his left pectoral under a light matting of curly black hair. That was sexy.

"Patrick," he said. I turned my face toward his and he came in for a kiss. We kept contact on that for a good twenty seconds, long enough for me to insert my hand under the shirt and palm the pec with the tattoo. Coming off the kiss, he pulled away and gave me a quizzical look.

"I was surprised to see you in here . . . and back there, in the hallway. I thought you were flirting with me at your house the other day, but then I was confused. I didn't know you were a player."

"Yes, I was flirting with you," I said. "Why were you confused, though?" I'd figured out what the problem had been already. But I needed him to say it to make sure it wasn't something else. I'd prepared an answer; I wasn't ready to tell him the truth, though.

"Everything was fine going into the house. I thought we'd be getting into it right there. And then we got into the house and there was your wife on a ladder."

I laughed. I'd prepared this. "That wasn't my wife. I don't have a wife. I like guys. That was my stepmother. She's trying to impress my dad by helping to get me settled. I could have gotten rid of her while you were fixing the kitchen faucet. I was hoping we could get it on that day too. While you were looking at Claire, I was looking longingly at the dining room table."

"You wanted me to lay you on the dining room table?" That question was accompanied by a snort.

"Yes," I said, showing him my serious face. "I would have opened my legs to you right then."

"What you were doing with the dude in the hallway back there . . . that isn't all that you wanted, all you wanted from him? More than just giving him a blow job? You didn't just want to taste cock and make him melt like he did?"

"I wanted it all."

"I give it all," he whispered.

"Good to hear."

He leaned over and kissed me again. This time I opened my mouth to his tongue. I moved my hand inside his shirt again and rubbed his nipple with my thumb. He gave a little shudder for me.

"I want it all," I repeated as we came out of the kiss.

"They're playing a slow song," he said when we came out of the kiss. "Dance with me."

We danced close for a few minutes, with him palming my ass with both hands and making sure that I could tell he was hard—and big. We kissed again on the dance floor, just standing, plastered to each other. I purposely relaxed in his arms, letting my torso dip back a bit, and he hovered over me, his pelvis rocking against mine. Big man controlling little guy. I turned my legs out, thrusting my pelvis forward, into his. I'll be completely submissive for you, I was telling him with my stance. Take whatever you want. If we'd been naked, he'd be fucking me there on the dance floor. I wanted him to know he could if that was what he wanted.

When we went back to the table, he sat close to me and put a hand on my thigh. Leaning in to me, he murmured, "I want to fuck you."

"I hope so. Do it. That's what I want too," I answered.

"I demand total control. You have to let me have whatever I want."

"Take it all," I said. "You want to strip me and fuck me here on this table, do it." I started unbuttoning my shirt. He laughed and put his hand on mine, stopping me. "If you want to take me back out on the dance floor and fuck me, do it," I said. "Do whatever you want."

"I want a blow job like that guy got."

"You fuck me afterward and you got it."

"Where will we go? I'm not a fan of the rooms in back here. I want to take my time."

"Do you have a car here?"

"My truck, yes."

"I have my car. You know where I live. We can go to my house. I promise that my stepmother won't be there. She's in Chicago this weekend anyway."

"Let's do this," Bud said, as he stood up from the table.

* * * *

"I'll get us something to drink. There's a video ready there if you want something to set the mood." I had a DVD ready to go on the screen above the fireplace, facing the sofa, just in case. It was of Austin Wolf doing Justin Owen. The one spliced onto the back of it was a favorite of mine, Colby Keller doing Dale Cooper in "A Thing of Beauty." The fuck in that was frenzied and total, just the way I wanted it. I'd been thinking of Bud when selecting both the Wolf and Keller films, as they gave me the same vibe he did. And the sofa used in the Wolf film was the same gray one I had in my living room.

I stripped down to my briefs while I was getting a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and two glasses. When I returned to the living room, I found that Bud had stripped all the way down and had flipped on the film. His body was everything I had imagined. With his shirt off, the swirling tattoo on his pec in blue ink showed through his black curls more distinctly. The design was something mysterious, maybe some sort of Oriental symbol. I didn't ask. There was another one, a blue sunburst centered on his navel. He was in erection. So was I. His was longer than mine by a good bit, but not as thick as Trevor's had been. Four condom packets and a tube of lube were laying on the cocktail table in front of the sofa.

I looked at them and at him and said, "You're planning quite an evening, aren't you?"

"You bet," he answered, adding, "And maybe a night, if you treat me right."

He grabbed me by the wrists after I'd put the bottle and glasses on an end table and went right to it, pulling me down on the sofa, lying across it, my head at the other end from the end table. He lay on top of me, holding me close. We kissed and fondled each other intimately. He held our cocks together, his so much longer and thicker than mine, and frotted them, both of us rocking our pelvises against the other. He moved down my body, kissing as he descended. He bent and pressed my knees into my chest, rolled my hips up, and went for my hole with his tongue.

"Yes, fuck me," I whispered. This came out involuntarily. He wasn't talking much, so other than my moans and groans, I was trying to keep quiet too. He was concentrating on the fuck, and I was concentrating on being fucked.

"In good time," he said. I found out what that meant. He wanted a blow job first.

He came off the sofa and moved around to the end behind me, grasped me under the arms, and pulled me over the arm of the sofa, my head arched back. Justin Owen was sucking Colby Keller's dick on the gray sofa on the film. Bud cradled my cheeks between his hands, presented the cap of his cock to my lips, and when I opened to the shaft, he moved it in, deep. This I knew how to do well—taking cock deep in my throat. I'd had considerable practice and I'd mastered taking a long one without gagging. I was a slut. I'd probably deep-throated a hundred cocks over the last seven years. I slid my teeth along the shaft as he buried it, and he groaned.

He was unusually long, but not overly thick, and I managed him—all the way in—without trouble. Sensing that, perhaps, and perhaps getting more pleasure from it than he had thought he would, he spent some time standing over me, moving the shaft in and out. He appeared to be mesmerized by the ability to see where his cock was moving in my mouth and throat.

He pulled nearly all the way out and moaned and panted, as I sucked on the bulb, pressing the tip of my tongue into his piss slit and flicking it.

He went deep again, and I slid my teeth down the shaft. He massaged my throat with one of his hands as I deep-throated the cock and he face fucked me for well over ten minutes, while head was being given on the TV as well. His hands moved down to my pecs, and he played with the silver bars I had in my nipples. He told me he was going to come, but he didn't withdraw to do it.

"Let me come inside," he hissed, and I held him inside me, my teeth pressing into the root of the shaft, as he tensed, cried out, "Oh, shit!" and released. I lifted my teeth and opened more as he dragged the cock out of my mouth, releasing again halfway and then again at my lips, his cum dribbling down my chin. I gagged slightly as cum bubbled in my mouth and dribbled out. Men didn't often come in my throat, but I had trained to this. He pulled out, leaned over, took my lips with his, and shared his cum with me.

"Shit, that was something else," he murmured. "Fuck, that's great head."

We couldn't get more intimate in giving head sex than that.

"You've taken twice; your turn to give," he then said, coming around the front of the sofa, picking me up, sitting down on the sofa, and then putting me on his lap, my legs bent with my toes pressed into the crack between sofa back and seat on either side of his butt, and my back streaming out from his body and lying on his thighs. I went into every position he wanted me without struggle. He'd told me off the top that was what he wanted. My body was streaming out from his. I gasped and arched my back as he grasped my cock and began to stroke me off. Fingers of his other hand played with the rim of my hole, opening me until one, and then two, and eventually three of them fit inside me.

I was open and ready for him, my heard arched over between his knees, his legs propped up on the coffee table. As he worked me, I watched Colby Keller being worked on the TV screen by Dale Cooper. I was groaning at the relentless stroking of my cock and moving toward an ejaculation, but what I really wanted was his cock inside me. I wanted him to fuck me. Complying, he hardened and extracted his fingers. Pulling me into position while continuing to jack me off, he entered me with his sheathed cock. He pulled me back onto the cock, whispered, "Relax and open to it," which I tried to do, and then, rather than concentrate on pumping me, he concentrated on stroking me off, not stopping until I had come for him. He wasn't full hard when he first penetrated me, having come in my mouth just a few minutes earlier, but he was hard enough to get in and he hardened up more as he jacked my cock.

After that, it was time to get athletic. He put me in a position I knew of as the Wheelbarrow, him on his knees on the sofa, and me suspended out from the sofa, on his cock, him holding my legs bent and up like they were the handles of a wheelbarrow. I was stiff-arming the top of the cocktail table, face down. He was fucking me in the ass. He was thick and long and stretched me out good. I panted and sobbed for him, consumed by the pain-pleasure that I longed for and that he was giving me.

When he got bored with that, he turned me to where I was lying across the sofa, on my side, and he was behind and on top of me. My right leg was bent across my body, and my ass was in the position where he could pump me with his shaft. I was fully open to him, all of my senses focused on the cock churning inside me. From here it was another variation of the Wheelbarrow, with me on my stomach, and him riding my ass and holding my legs bent and raised on either side of his hips. I came again in this position. That's what I liked about fucking like this, moving through complicated positions while being manhandled by a muscular stud. I came frequently. I wanted to be drained dry.

He finished in a close-embrace missionary, me on my back on the sofa and Bud on top of me, between my thighs, my knees rubbing against his hips, while he moved in and out, in and out, deep, in long, slow slides. I sucked on his nipples and moved my hands from clutching his biceps to grasping his butt cheeks to holding him close against me as he fucked me. He picked up speed and intensity and was breathing harder. I arched my back, head arcing over the arm of the sofa again, my eyes wilding picking out whatever the pattern was on the living room wall that I planned to rip off as soon as I could get to it, and whimpered, "Yes, yes, yes." He tensed and jerked and came, repeatedly, as I pressed into his shoulder blades with my fingernails to the rhythm of his thrusts. I came again then too, a draining dribble, but the sensation of a release nonetheless. We held here, both focused on him going flaccid inside me, both panting lightly.

I collapsed under him. "Oh, fuck, yes," I murmured.

His cheek was on mine, we were both looking at the TV, which was into the second film. Colby Keller was fucking Dale Cooper with abandon, who lay under him, submissive and wiped out. To my mind, he wasn't doing it any better than Bud had done me.

In thirty minutes, a third of the time with his cock in my throat, Bud had put me through the paces, from suck to fuck.

OK, that was nice, very, very nice, and it was what I needed—all that I dreamed I could get from this hunky plumber. We hadn't gotten into the scotch yet. Should I suggest we drink and watch another film, or say he was welcome to shower? Should I offer to feed him something? Should I say I didn't want him to get off me until he'd gone hard again and resumed fucking me? That didn't seem to be the polite thing to do, but it was what I wanted. I felt I had to say something, though.

"Did I . . . is this what—?"

"Did you say the master bedroom was upstairs?" he asked. "Can we go up there next?"

Oh shit, yes. It wasn't going to be just twenty minutes.

On the bed upstairs, I understood what he wanted to experience a second time, and I performed for him again the most intimate of blow jobs, my head arching over the side of the bed, my throat open to the straight-passage, deep probe of his long cock, my arms over my head, one hand clutching at the back of one of his thighs, the other laced through his balls, rolling, squeezing, and distending them, coaxing the cum out of them, as he massaged my throat, being able to feel the curve of his cock there, leaned over, tweaking the bars in my nipples with his thumbs, until, leaning fully over, he was sucking my cock and I was deep-throating his, and he came in my mouth and I came in his. As intimate and trusting a connection as we could have in the giving and receiving of head.

And then, after a brief rest, during which he continued to work my body with his hands and part my legs and feast on my hole until I begged for the cock again, he began the athletic fucking, taking me completely, taking me to heaven. The first time he'd opened me up with his mouth and tongue, on the sofa downstairs, he'd found the silver ring piercing in my choke but had been too intent on getting to a main event to play with it then. This time he played with it, tonguing and teething it, pulling on it until, not being able to take it anymore, I cried out, "Now! Fuck me again Now!"

"I'm going to fuck you to exhaustion," Bud said, and then he did. I didn't object. It was fine with me for this to be all main events.

For starters, he pulled me off the bed, draped me in front of him as, standing, he crouched slightly, putting my arms into a controlling full Nelson and with my legs wrapped around his thighs, thrust his cock up into my passage, and fucked me in a standing Bully position. Being significantly taller, heavier, and stronger than I was, he easily controlled me in this position. Then, falling back onto the bed with me on top to him, both of us looking at the ceiling, still immobilizing my arms with the full Nelson, he fucked me in a Crab position. My legs were bent and my feet were flat on the mattress beside his thighs, as, using the leverage of my feet, I rose and fell on his cock. He released the chokehold on me with one hand, which he brought around to grasp my cock, and he stroked me to my last, dribbling, achingly draining, but fully satisfying ejaculation, before I collapsed on top of him. He held me closely still, though, taking over the fucking, only his hips moving as he pumped up inside of me, until I heard him exhale deeply, tense and jerk, and begin his flow into the blub of the condom deep inside me.

I was done—totally wiped out, burbling and purring—but Bud wasn't. Thank god he wasn't. I had sex often, but it wasn't often that I was lifted up to the heavens and totally fucked by a stud in command. Bud was a stud in command. I was his rag doll, letting him do whatever he wanted, wondering what he possibly could do next, and melting when he did it.

I just lay, stretched out on my belly, on the bed, while Bud rode my ass from all angles, our heads in the same direction, sideways, and, at last, in reverse, him facing my feet, leaning back and grasping my shoulder blades, and rising and falling on my passage until he shuddered and came for the last time—his last time.

He pulled out me, slapped me on butt hard and growled, "You do take it good."

I had been ridden over to the side of the bed, and I lay there, moaning, my right arm dangling off the bed, my chin on the edge, moaning and groaning the pain-pleasure of having been royally fucked. I watched Bud roll off the bed and go into the en suite bathroom. He left the door open and I watched him piss a strong arc into the toilet. Then I lost sight of him and heard the shower running. When he came out of the bathroom, he was drying himself off with a towel. It was the first time I'd seen him naked without an erection. If he'd been erect and had come back to the bed, I think I would have died. Regardless, my thoughts went to how masterful his cock was in the fuck—how he managed to make contact with, rub, and make love to every surface of my passage and how his shaft caused the muscles of my passage walls to ripple over the hard phallus, pull it in deeper, and milk it. If he'd come back to the bed, I would have moaned, but I would have rolled onto my back and opened my legs to him.

"That shower's a piece of shit," he said. "We're going to have to replace everything—the whole works."

"Fine," I answered, not being sure whether I was approving a complete rehab project in the bathroom or commenting on the beauty of his body or the quality of his fucking. Probably all three.

He dressed, with me still lying there, wiped out, unable to move, and watching him. And then he was gone. It was 3:30 a.m. I closed my eyes and didn't open them again until almost noon. It was Sunday. I hadn't changed position. My channel and my balls ached like hell. I started humming then and didn't stop until that evening, when I went to the airport to pick up, Claire, who had flown to Chicago for the weekend.

When I went downstairs and hobbled over to turn off the TV, which was still showing the Colby Keller and Austin Wolf sex scenes in revolving succession, I saw that we'd never gotten around to drinking the Johnnie Walker Red scotch. The clean glasses and the unopened bottle were still on the end table next to the sofa. I leaned down and picked up two spent condoms. There had been two more upstairs next to the bed. Victory trophies as much for me as they were for Bud. He was a straightforward, no-nonsense fucker of great technique and finesse. God, he had shown me a good time. Four rubbers for him and more jack offs for me—I was sure of that, although I hadn't kept count. That was the way I liked it, and so rarely got it. I had a lot to give. Bud took it all from me, and then some, leaving me in dry heaves of ejaculations that were painful but satisfying—just exactly what I wanted from a man.

I picked Claire up that evening at the Philadelphia airport and took her back to her house, next door to mine. We sat, drinking off the bottle of scotch I hadn't needed the previous night, while I gave her a blow-by-blow monologue of what Bud had done with me, to me, and then had done again. We were sitting close together on the sofa and Claire, bigger than I was, one who was used to controlling and dominating, put an arm around me. As I talked about the most intimate of acts Bud performed on me, she was panting. She took my hand and guided it under the hem of her skirt and up to her crotch.