Spit Kisses

The place smelled like tetanus. Blindfolded, naked, and pretty much tied to a pillar, smell was all I had to go on. There were other scents—urine, sweat, dust—but mostly I smelled rust and burnt metal. I figured that meant an abandoned factory. Great. Like there weren't a few dozen of those in this Rust Belt suburb of Chicago. I couldn't hear anything except a distant highway. Then, without warning, footsteps.

I could have been scared. Maybe should have been. But Mr. DeCarlo said I wasn't in any real danger, and generally what Mr. DeCarlo said was what happened. If I had known that a few months ago, I wouldn't be on my knees right now, paying back a generous payday loan with, well, services rendered. The W-word didn't seem appropriate, and the P-word wasn't any better. Callguy? Ah, right, I saw the movie. Hustler. That was a word I didn't flinch at applying to the situation.

He was in front of me, and he was definitely a "he". The smell couldn't've belonged to a woman: an earthy musk, equal parts leather and sweat and Brut aftershave. In spite of myself, I got a little excited. With my eyes covered, as far as I was concerned he could have been perfect: tall, muscled, with a man's hair, a real Brawny Man. He smelled like it. And when he grabbed my hair with calloused hands and pulled my head forward, the first thing I got to lick was his jeans. Of course he was wearing jeans. Old jeans, my tongue found out as he grunted, trying to free from them his rapidly growing cock.

It made it hotter that he didn't say anything, and despite the insanity of the situation I was actually pretty horny. I didn't think that I had any fantasies about submissive, anonymous gay sex, but it was working for me. Just like I was working for Mr. DeCarlo. I licked his jeans, I licked his belt, I licked his hands, I licked everything I could get my tongue to, straining at the zipties holding my wrists together behind me.

Then I got a mouthful. And then some. No preliminary kissing or nibbling at the tip for this mystery man; he went straight to deep-throat, ram-it-in, gag-the-slut mode. I was no stranger to giving a good blowjob, but I was out of practice. I usually dated women, but this is 2012. Everyone's a little bisexual. Out of practice or not, though, he wasn't messing around, and after a few close calls with my gag reflex I managed to get the whole thing down. Without my eyes, I couldn't tell you how long it was—longer than average, surely, and thicker—but in my esophagus it felt as long and thick as my forearm. At the end of every thrust, my nose was buried in his hair, which smelled as sweaty and manly as his dick tasted.

I'm not sure how long that lasted, him grunting and thrusting, me slurping and choking. He pulled back every so often so I could get a gasping breath in, always just a few seconds after I thought I couldn't possibly hold my breath any longer. His hands gripped my hair, maneuvering my head however he wanted. My lips and tongue and jaw were all working overtime, keeping up with him. He reached down once to twist my nipples, and I almost came. He finally said something then, as I moaned in pleasure: "Yeah." Then, again, when his next plunge into my throat elicited a huge gag: "Fuck yeah." Slowly, the taste in my mouth changed, less to one of sweat and masculinity and more to one of salty precum. His cock swelled even larger, and I knew he was about to finish. I wondered if there was room in my throat for both that giant dick and what would obviously be rivers of cum.

And then he was gone, his cock from my mouth and his hands from the side of my head. He had been half-supporting me, because I fell forward, held up only by my wrists. I was as hard as a rock myself. He'd gone around behind me. I heard the flick of a blade and the zipties parted, dumping me on my hands and knees onto the floor. Immediately my wrists began to throb as circulation returned, but I didn't have time to massage some life into them, because he was back, lifting me bodily off the ground and spinning me around to face the pillar.

I knew what he wanted, and I bent at the waist, widening my stance. I wasn't wrong, because he started spitting into my asscrack, using his calloused fingers to rub his saliva up and down the cleft, and then, when I was moaning for it, into my ass. With my eyes covered, I noticed something I never had before—you can hear someone spit before the glob hits you. My last girlfriend had enjoyed turning a dildo on me from time to time, so I was reasonably loose, and on the orders of Mr. DeCarlo, I'd prepared for this today, but I wasn't thinking about any of that. I sank down as much as I could on whichever finger he had inside me. I think I was saying something meaningless in between the moans, urging him to fuck me, but he took his time, spitting on my ass, working a growing number of fingers deeper inside.

Then he was spitting, but not on me, and I felt a hot, wet, large pressure at my asshole. I hadn't heard the tear of a condom packet, but when I opened my mouth to object he slid into me, full and raw, so what I said instead was "Geeughyeah!"

After that I didn't do thinking of any sort. I'd never taken a cock raw before, and the extra warmth spread out from my ass to my entire body, like good scotch spreads across your chest. He'd prepped me well, and despite his girth I took him all in that first slow thrust. He paused then, letting me squirm in pleasure between the building's pillar and his own. When he pulled back, my prostate sang out its particular Hallelujah Chorus.

Compared to earlier, he took a slow pace. I felt every glorious inch, inward and outward. My own dick starting climbing back up to near orgasm without being touched. He steadily pounded in and out, a more thorough fucking than I had ever gotten. Gone was the shame of whoring myself out to repay a debt. He fucked it away. Gone was the fear of getting beaten by a john. He fucked it away. Gone was the fear of unprotected sex. He fucked and fucked and fucked it away.

And as he disassembled me from the inside out with every thrust and plunge, he gradually picked up the pace. As he fucked me faster, his balls started slapping against my skin and my ability to speak dissolved into inchoate whimpers. That's when he found his own voice: "Do you want it?" he asked, as if I could even form a response. He repeated the question a few times, before shouting, "Here it comes!"

He came so hard I felt I should have been able to taste it in my mouth. Cum from my overfilled ass slid down my legs and dripped onto the floor. He kept up a slow thrusting, breeding me deeper and deeper. He pulled out all the way, then slid all the way back in. My response to all this was halfway a grunt and halfway a groan, because I had just begun to cum, untouched. I felt like my entire body was orgasming, as I sprayed my own cum and he continued to grind his up inside me. When he let me go, I fell all the way to the ground. Slowly, I rolled over so that I was sitting against the pillar facing him. Nothing sexual I had ever done felt so good. I wanted to spend the rest of my life getting fucked by him. His cock was magical, that was the only explanation. It was a divine gift. He was the son of Zeus. It was unreal. I wanted more of it.

He grabbed my hair, like he had earlier, and pulled me forward, onto my knees. Then he slid his cock back into my mouth. I had never done anything like this before—I don't even like giving rim jobs—but right then, after that masterful fucking, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to continue pleasuring the cock that had given me so much pleasure. I sucked and licked him clean, savoring his salty cum mixed with my own tastes. "Suck that, boy," he said, but softly—almost tenderly. So I did.

Finally, he began to soften, and he pulled away, turning my head so that I faced upward, toward him. He spit softly, and a large glob of saliva hit me in the forehead, rolling past my blindfold and down my face. After that, all I heard was him walking away.

I think, to him, it was a kiss goodbye.