The Blind Date

Marcus took him hard, deep, swiftly, and at great length, while Devin moaned and whimpered, his begging for mercy turning into declarations of how totally he was being taken until it all subsided into gurgles and soft whimpering.

When Marcus filled out the bulb of his condom—Devin had long since come a second time—he remained plastered on Devin's back, running his hands over Devin's body and whispering what a cute little trick he was. About the time Devin thought that was all there was going to be to the assault, though, Marcus pulled away from him, slung Devin over his shoulder, and headed for the bedroom.

He put Devin on all fours on the bed, mounted him, and fucked him hard and fast to the music of his gyrating dreadlock clips to another ejaculation. As he felt the hard curve of the PA at his hole, reamed now to fit Marcus' requirements, Devin lowered his chest and cheek to the bedspread, presented his tail for a straight shot, widened the spread of his legs, stretched one arm out to grab a fistful of material to steady himself, reached under his belly with his other hand to fist his own cock, and, with a whimper, surrendered all to his master. Gripping Devin's hips between strong hands, Marcus pounded, pounded, pounded away inside his young blond prey, rightfully claiming victory. Meeting no resistance; taking no prisoners.

"Ah, yeah, good, a perfect fit now," Marcus muttered as he pumped. "That gets it now, doesn't it?" He could—and no doubt did—take Devin's low, drawn-out moaning as agreement.

Devin was so worn out by the second fucking that he just collapsed on the bed, softly moaning. His head and an arm hung over one side of the bed where the thrustings of the black giant's cock had moved his battered body. As Marcus rose off him, the black bull slapped him hard on the rump and cheerily exclaimed, "That was a good workout. Good date. A sweet, tight ass. Great little body. Takes a little work, but the hole opens up enough. Andre told me you were a good lay; he sure was right about that." After that favorable and cheerful assessment of the evening's work, he sauntered off to the adjoining bathroom to help himself to a shower.

"Not tight anymore," Devin murmured, with a deep groan.

After he'd dressed, once more becoming the Virginia gentlemen, Marcus briefly visited the bedroom, leaning over Devin's prone and still-trembling body, ruffled Devin's curly blond locks affectionately, and gave him a tender, lingering kiss on the back of the neck. This time, when Marcus rubbed a thumb lightly over Devin's lower lip, Devin pulled the thumb into his mouth and sucked it for a few seconds. To the victor go the spoils.

Devin waited to hear the front door to the apartment click shut before he dragged his bruised body off the bed, struggled over to his desk, turned on the computer, and started to work the keys.

* * * *

"It's you," Devin said, as, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes the next morning, he answered the door. "I thought you still had a key."

"I do," Lionel said. "But I didn't think we were on that ground of familiarity anymore."

There was something in his voice, something smug, that had Devin look sharply at him before he turned and padded toward the coffee pot in the kitchen. Lionel entered the apartment and shut the door behind him. He looked around for evidence of what he expected to see. Yes, the sofa looked like it had done battle and lost. He could see through the door to the bedroom that there'd been a frantic skirmish in there too. Devin was a neatnic, definitely neater than this, when left to himself.

"So, you said you wanted to date other guys. How is that working for you?" He sat on the sofa and gave a good sniff. Yep, smelled like sweat, musk, and lust. He smiled a little smile.

Devin came out of the kitchen carrying two cups of coffee. Looking around at him, Lionel saw the two wine glasses on the dining table—and the liquid spill. He smiled into his cup as he lifted it to his mouth.

He also saw that Devin grimaced as he moved and wasn't walking straight. Andre had told him about Marcus Black and how he dated—that he was hung like a horse and had a powerhouse thrust. Lionel almost felt sorry for Devin, but not really. The little prick had dumped him. Well, the little prick had found out how rough it could get out in the dating world.

"I'm doing just fine," Devin said, giving Lionel a level stare. He'd worked it out in the middle of the night. Marcus' connection to Andre. Andre's connect to Lionel. Lionel's pettiness—which was a big reason Devin left him—leaving him for that and because Lionel was a vanilla fucker. No excitement or testing with Lionel. Never had been. Never the feel of a breathtaking date. They might as well have been . . . married.

"In fact I had a date last night with a big black football player one and a half times my size and with a cock twice the size of yours. We had a great date and then he came home with me and fucked the stuffing out of me. I've been up for hours writing black bruiser on white twink fuck stories for an anthology for my publisher. I think he's going to love them."

"You're shitting me," Lionel said, setting his coffee cup down on the coffee table lest he spill it in his consternation. "You got banged hard by a black bull last night, and you aren't curled up in a fetal ball this morning?"

"Nope. Marcus is coming back to scout the Nighthawks' game next Saturday. We have a date to do it all over again. He agreed to stay the night this time and do me on the hour. He fucked me just the way I've been aching to be fucked. He really knows how to date a man."

It had been worth it—his little speech—to see the expression on Lionel's face. The most rewarding part was that it all was true. Marcus had called him on his cell from the Solstice fifteen minutes after he'd left, asking Devin for a follow-up date, and Devin had been quick as he could be to say yes.