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Saturday, December 02, 2006

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures in Barebacking, Part 5: Collar & Leash, Dawg's Tale (Part 1)

From: dawgpound
Subject: Re: How are you tonight?
Date: Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:14 AM

> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:14 AM, Buckob wrote
> >What’s up?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:16 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> im tired, just starting to unwind now....and you?
> --------------------------------------------------
On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:16 AM, Buckob wrote:
> I'm kinda beat
> A friend and I were up all night
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:18 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> all night last night?//
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:21 AM, Buckob wrote:
> We ended up cuddling like kittens. We were up til 7
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:22 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> you crazy kids! so why arent you fast asleep now?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:23 AM, Buckob wrote:
> Wired on nervous energy. I worked ten hours today
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:25 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> sounds like you need to release some of that energy
> --------------------------------------------------

> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:25 AM, Buckob wrote:
> Indeed I do
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:26 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> any ideas? any way i can help?
> --------------------------------------------------
On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:28 AM, Buckob wrote:
> You can always help. Wanna come over?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 01:31 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> sure....ill be over shortly
> -------------------------------------------------

Much more quickly than expected, Dawg was knocking at my door. Gone was any pretense of the servile toy solider I’d met a few weeks previously. In his place was an aggressive kid who attacked me as I opened the door, grabbing me and lifting me up nearly a foot off the ground. His lips pulled at my mouth, his tongue licking at my teeth.

Pulling my head back to breathe, I apologized for not having yet showered. “I must stink of cigarettes.”
“Don’t be silly. You smell great. Hold on…”
With a steady gait he plodded slowly on his heavy boots down the hall and set me down on my bed, our mouths interlocked the entire time. Bending over me, he tore at my shorts with frantic hands.

But my subconscious reacted with a slight grip of panic at my loss of control; his hands found me soft and limp. Trying to right myself and sit up, he pushed me down with heavily muscled arms.
“Relax and enjoy this.”
I lay back as he took hold of my tits with his hands and milked my soft cock in his mouth. Closing my eyes, I tried to summon mental images of the beautiful man servicing me, but came up blank. There was no urgency at all in my feelings, and subsequently found nothing stimulating in his actions. After a few minutes of this futile effort, I sat up, smiling a wan smile.
“Take your clothes off.”
“You OK?”
“Yeah, just taken a bit off guard,” a broader grin opening up my face. “Here…stand up.”
I sat on the edge of the mattress and peeled first his shirt then T-shirt from his torso, scanning the tattoos on his chest and navel. His hardon was pushing the front of his Levis and I massaged it through the stiff fabric before undoing his belt. Opening the fly, I found his white underwear stained with deep yellow patches. He smelled as if he hadn’t showered in days, that not entirely unpleasant aroma of balls filling my nose, followed by a pungent whiff of pit perfume. Yanking the pants down to his knees, I unlaced his heavy boots and removed them as quickly as possible. When I went for the socks, Dawg asked that I leave them on him. Without spending more than a moment wondering why, I left his white socks alone, stained brown from the boots and who knows what else. Foot odor added to the pheromones thick in the bedroom air

Standing straight out, red and fierce, his small cut dick was pulsing but dry, I devoured it with an easy gulp, my nose deep in his untrimmed, auburn bush. Pulling his hands to my tits, I reached around and kneaded his round, pliable ass. Knowing that I’d find it in something of a deplorable state, I avoided the hole, content to merely giving the cheeks a couple of slaps. The urgency I’d found so lacking while in a passive role returned immediately, and I was soon drooling precum down my leg.

Standing up quickly, I opened the cabinet to my nightstand and withdrew the can of Crisco inside. With a quick wank, I was lubed and ready for the assault. Seizing his hip with my left hand, the right guided me between his fleshy cheeks and, with a groan I roughly entered him in one thrust. Breathing deeply, I used the weight of my body to move him face-down onto my bed, a Crisco-greasy hand print reflecting the light off a tribal tattoo in the small of his neck. Glancing into the mirrored closet door on the other side of the bed, I saw his face was screwed into a contortion of emotion and sensation, mine staring and intense, already wet with sweat. Lifting my left leg, I began a sawing motion, fucking as deeply as the position allowed.

Eventually the combination of a leg cramp, dissatisfaction with the shallow penetration and lack of titplay caused me to pull out and roll him on his back. Coming up to his face, I lifted his legs and re-penetrated, kissing him deeply. Feeling no need to edge or control myself, I let go after a few minutes of this and came quickly, yelling his name staring deeply into his big brown eyes, which were oddly blank in return.

Rolling me on my back, Dawg got up and lumbered to the bathroom. Hearing his stream hit the basin of my toilet, I shouted out an offer of water, which he gladly accepted. Finding my feet, I made my way to the fridge and pulled out a couple of bottles. Walking into the bathroom, I came up from behind and hugged his waist, passing an unopened bottle around. Twisting his head, Dawg gave me a kiss, shaking the last drops from his now-soft cock.

“What” he asked, “is the deal with this house?”
“Whaddaya mean…deal?”
“Is it always empty?”
I recounted him the story of the blow-hard coke fiend who’d just recently abandoned the property back to the landlord, taking only his dog and clothes, leaving the rented furniture to be collected later. Describing the space in general terms of layout and size, I asked why he wanted to know.
“I’m gonna need to move soon. I was thinking that this is a nice place.”
“Yeah,” I replied slowly, “It’s very nice.” Thinking of too many variables, positive and negative, to be unreservedly enthusiastic to the idea of Dawg’s living next door; I paused and asked “How would you afford it by yourself? They want quite a bit for it.”
“I have a buddy who’d be sharing it with me… just a friend.” I think he sensed the reticence in my tone, because he quickly added: “If you think it would be all right.”
“Yeah”, I inhaled sharply. “It’s a nice place.”
“Will you give me the number for the landlord?”

Following me into the bedroom, we threw on our clothes and I gave him a tour of the darkened yard, which he found perfect for his two dogs, an older Yorkie and mixed Pitbull/Jack Russell puppy. As the blinds were closed and we could not see into the house, I paced out the rough parameters of the various rooms from the outside, all of which he found suitable for his situation. Flipping open his phone to call a cab, he said he’d discuss it with his buddy and get the number from me later.

Walking back to the front of the house, he glanced at the hulking ‘92 Firebird in my parking spot. He looked at me quizzically for a moment before asking if that wasn’t my car.
“No” I replied, shaking my head and looking up at nothing. “That thing belongs to my ex, but something has happened to it and I’m not at all sure how I’m gonna get it back to Wilton Manors. It revs really high…serves him right, he never put a penny of maintenance into it.”
“Looks nice…”
“It’s a piece of shit, I’m sorry I didn’t leave it at his place when he took off.”
“He took off?”
My face screwed into a grimace. “He was hospitalized for a bad case of meth withdrawal last month and took off to his sister’s in Texas as soon as he could. “
“When’s he coming back?”
“Supposedly in a few days. I’ll figure something out, but I really don’t want to see him again. He may be Tina’s bitch, but I’m not his.”
Dawg chuckled “Tina’s bitch…”
“He’s a fucking liar. I don’t need that shit in my life.”
As the cab pulled up, he asked me again if I thought it would be OK for him to live next door. Giving him a hug, I said I couldn’t imagine why not.

I made my way back into my apartment and plopped down on the desk chair, ready to shut down the clanging guitars blaring from WMP, when I noticed that I hadn’t signed off from Manhunt. A blue box at the bottom of my screen informed me that I had several messages, so I clicked it and read through them, one being a fellow top/pal I chatted with frequently.

> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:06 AM, Buckob wrote:
> I really think that the right powerbottom might get a good > doublefuck
> out
> of
> us
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:08 AM, **** wrote:
> I know a few
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:10 AM, Buckob wrote:
> Got any profiles?
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:13 AM, **** wrote:
> have to view my buddy list and see who is still doing what
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:18 AM, Buckob wrote:
> I just hooked up with Dawgpound. He's a regular of mine
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:23 AM, **** wrote:
> Yeah, B*** is adorable AND fun..............
> --------------------------------------------------
On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:26 AM, Buckob wrote:
> Yeah. He just left. What's his story?
> -------------------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:30 AM, **** wrote:
> Probably you don't pty and he slams a quarter..........can't touch his > dick
> and just
> wants to btm.......ok for a bit, but NEXT

I read and re-read his reply several times, my heart suddenly beating faster as I blinked at the screen. I’d done enough research and knew that “slamming” was injecting, presumably meth. Taking him at his word, and as someone with more experience than I at such things, I shook my head as I typed:

> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:36 AM, Buckob wrote:

> Just what I > thought. He's a smart guy, but full of odd excuses and
> issues.
> I hate liars.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri Apr 28, 2006 03:40 AM, **** wrote:
> Thought you said he was a regular, so I didn't say anything because I thought
> you knew.
> --------------------------------------------------

I played it cool and we chatted a few more minutes, but the sweat was pouring down my back. Just before shutting down the computer, I clicked on my Buddy List, and saw that Dawg had signed back on line.

I’ll not bother relating in detail how and when I returned G’s car, but it all got accomplished hours before he was due to return home, with the help of a friend who followed me closely in case the shitbox stalled or died on the way (it didn’t). Making a final sweep of his apartment to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind, I locked his door and dropped my keys into the super’s box. I’ve never heard from him at all.

But returning home that night, I noticed that I wasn’t feeling right. I was flushed, crampy and slightly feverish. Writing it off as a stress reaction from the ordeal of the car, I took a pill and fell into a black sleep. Morning brought a slight sense of relief, but I still wasn’t myself. By noon I noticed a marked discomfort while urinating and realized that I’d probably picked something up, though from whom, I hadn’t a clue. All I knew was that if I had something, I’d either passed it to or gotten it from Dawg, as he was one of my last contacts. On my lunchbreak, I tried to call him, but voicemail picked right up. Leaving a message to call me, I shook my head philosophically and went back to work, feeling increasingly miserable. Walking to the bus terminal to get home, I flipped open my phone to see I’d received no new calls, So I sent a text, asking Dawg to call me and suggesting we find something to eat together. I wasn’t worried about his reaction to my infection, but all the same didn’t want to leave it as a message.

Arriving home without having received a reply, my condition quickly deteriorated, and with a sigh of resignation, I signed on to Manhunt and sent a note to Dawg, telling him to get checked for VD and asking him to call me, then signed off and laid down. I woke up with a start around midnight, sheets soaked in sweat, the light next to my bed making unfamiliar, menacing shadows on the walls. Making my way to the desk in my kitchen, I plopped down and signed on to Manhunt. Clicking to my Buddy List, I saw that he was on and left Dawg another note. Waiting for ten minutes with no reply, I sent a note to an attractive Latino I’d hooked up with recently named Izzy, asking him to call me. I told him that I had contracted something unpleasant, and that chances were good that he had it, too. After a brief discussion, it was decided that Izzy would drive me to the ER, as I was chilled, soaked and suffering a raging migraine.

Izzy was my angel for about a week, bringing me supplies and checking in on me. The antibiotic prescribed to me at the ER was very effective, with an immediate relief from the burning I felt during urination, but left me weak and nauseated. I worked a reduced schedule: I’d vomit a couple of times before begging off. Izzy would dutifully pick me up if I asked him to, and tried in a million ways to ingratiate himself to me. As I was in such great need, I accepted his efforts without worrying too much about repayment (unusual for me), until a conversation he initiated regarding the “lessons” I’d presumably learned:
“So I guess you’ll be more careful about who you bareback now.”
“What do you mean? We didn’t use protection when I fucked you, and we’d just met, too.”
“Yeah, but I don’t party.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” I was curiously defensive, considering that I don’t party either.
“You know…some guys will do anything when they’re tweaked.”
My voice took on an edge of tone. “Anything different from what we did?”
“They’re all trash, Bucko. You know that…Think about G******”
I felt as though I’d been slapped. “He’s not trash, he’s sick.”
“Then why’d you drop him so fast?”
A fresh wave of nausea rolled up my esophagus, partly from the meds, partly from finding myself in a conversation I had no intention of continuing. I lunged for the bathroom, just making the toilet before projectile vomiting.

Izzy came up and stroked my back in a misguided attempt to comfort me (don’t touch me when I’m puking). Worse yet, he continued the conversation in a new vein:
“I just don’t think condoms are always such a bad thing.”
Blowing the bile from my nose, I turned cold.
“They’re fine for those who need them,” I croaked in a hoarse whisper.
“And you don’t?”
“Not now, I’m… [cough]…abstaining.”
“You’re sick as a dog.”
“Look, Izzy, I gotta lay down.”
“Something to think about…”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.” I was scowling.
“Don’t get mad at me, I didn’t get you sick.”
“It could have been anybody, yourself included.”
“It couldn’t have been me. You’re the first guy who’s barebacked me in months.”
“You didn’t object…I made it all very clear when we met. Look, I really got to lie down.” Even lifting my head was too great an effort.

I stopped taking or returning Izzy’s calls, and eventually blocked him from contacting me on Mancunt. The problem with good guys is one is obliged to be good in their company, and I am many things, but rarely good. Give me a non-judgmental bad boy any day.

I could no longer keep up with the antibiotic that was making mincemeat of my digestive tract, and went to my regular doctor for something else, which immediately stopped the nausea. I began feeling more like my old self, signing on Mancunt again, but as I was still taking medications, thought it unwise to troll for ass and attempted to find a JO perv (surprisingly difficult there). Dawg was seemingly always on, but didn’t attempt to contact me, so I did my best to ignore his presence. Then, out of the blue, he sent me a note:

From: dawgpound
Subject: Re: hi there
Date: Fri May 19, 2006 12:24 AM
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri May 19, 2006 12:24 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> im looking for a tight pair of leather gloves to be worn and
> wrapped
> around my neck.....any ideas?
> On Fri May 19, 2006 12:26 AM, Buckob wrote:
> I've got a great idea, but I've also got the clap.
> --------------------------------------------------
> On Fri May 19, 2006 12:30 AM, dawgpound wrote:
> maybe im secretly a bugchaser and would love to fuck with you with > the
> clap...
> my puppy montgomery is such a thoughtful puppy.....he managed to > open all of
> mail for me and took the liberty of shredding it all over the floor for me.
> sorry, digressed a bit.
> ------------------------------------------------
> On Fri May 19, 2006 12:26 AM, Buckob wrote:
> Man, I miss you...
> ------------------------------------------------

My heart beat quickly as I typed out the notes and eagerly anticipated his responses. But I was stubborn in my refusal to see him. We would not have been content to just jerk each other off, and I wanted to be cleared of everything before starting up again. Dawg promised me he’d gotten fully checked out, but (like Izzy), everything came back negative. We signed off with promises of seeing each other soon.

Feeling better, I decided to make a bowl of pasta with the remainder of a jar of sauce Izzy had brought over earlier that week. As I was stirring the Angel Hair into a pot of boiling water, my phone rang, Dawg’s name appearing on the small screen on the front of my phone.
“Hey…can I have your landlord’s phone number? My bud and I drove past your house yesterday and we’d like to see the inside.”
“One sec…” I located it and repeated it twice.
“Thanks. When are you gonna be better?”
“Next week…early next week. I’ll call you.”
“Cool. Thanks for the phone number.”
“No problem. You take care…”
“You too. See you next week.”

Humming along to the song playing on WMP, I absently-mindedly tossed the contents of the jar on the Angel Hair and stirred it all together, not noticing until several mouthfuls in that there was a dicey quality to the sauce. I spooned the majority of it into the trash, regretting that I’d bothered. It wasn’t until the next morning that the all-too familiar rush of nausea seized my belly and sent me running from the bed to the bathroom. I added ten days to my recovery with that nasty snack.

I had been sick with one thing or another for the entire month of May. Unable to eat much of anything during the time, I’d lost at least ten pounds, feeling weak and looking drawn and too-thin. I started a regime of heavy carbs, with all the protein I could swallow and soon was back on-line surfing for bottoms nightly. I had many lustrous encounters with many lusty guys, exploring and pushing our mutual limits to their limits (and beyond). I had long since reconciled myself to the fact that most, if not precisely all, of my consorts were smoking or booting meth, occasionally even in my presence. I had found the gnosis I had been seeking, and I let the humiliations and drama of my time with G slide into my past.

My landlord called me one morning and asked about a referral I’d made, meaning Dawg and his bud, as tenants for the house. I was coolish, especially when asked if he was “dependable”. I had no idea how Dawg supported himself, I explained (not ever really buying his “landscaping” story, not when I saw him up and on-line every night till all hours), but know him to be a very sweet guy. I truthfully replied to the question of how we’d met (online), but that I didn’t know him well, and had never met his bud at all.
“His friend is much older,” my landlord offered without my having inquired.
“Like I said, I don’t know what his finances are all about. He doesn’t have a car, but always has money. All I can say is, check out their references. I only know him personally.”
I hung up wondering who this bud was, and what would happen if they really did move in.

Dawg responded to a message I left one evening, saying he’d just scored some G and was feeling very comfortably numb. Matty was on IM with me, and I asked him what the hell “G” was. Matty quickly explained that it is a highly erratic and incredibly potent tranquilizer and body relaxant. It is especially dangerous because one never really knew the strength of the dose one would take and has led to many fatal overdoses. He warned me against trying it, until I explained that it wasn’t I, but Dawg, who had taken it and was now interested in coming over. Warning me to proceed with caution, I reassured Matty that I’d watch for problems, but really wanted to see my Dawggy again after what had been an extended absence.

About 30 minutes later, there was a knock on my door and Dawg stumbled in, dressed in heavy leather despite the oppressive humidity and So-Fla Summer temperatures both outside and in my apartment. His hair had just been cut in a high-and-tight, giving his face an innocent, boyish quality at odds with the full regalia. He carried his usual bag, unzipped to show a Gateway laptop poking out. Why he chose to bring his computer was left unasked, but I met him at the door with a hug and deep smooch, which he lazily returned, eyes vacant.
“You OK?”
“I’m great,” he smiled, “Feeling great. You look fine…all better?”
I reassured him that I felt fine and took his bag, putting it on my table. I asked him about IML, which he’d been anticipating for weeks and from which he’d returned since we’d seen each other. He was non-committal, even as I had images (left unverbalized) of him prone on a hotel bed, stoned or tweaked or whatever, braving myriad comers. Standing upright, he took me in his arms, saying he’d have had a better time had I gone.
Glancing up at my computer he smiled.

Marian (Live)

“Still playing that music, huh?”
The Sisters of Mercy were blaring “Marian”, Andrew Eldritch’s basso profoundo bellowing out of my speakers. My sister always called it Devil Worshipper music.
“Yeah, it bother you?”
“Nah,” his eyes crinkled, “It reminds me of you.”

Reaching into his bag, Dawg removed a pair of unlined black leather gloves, the sort one might wear in cooler weather with an overcoat over a business suit, rather dressy.
“Will you put these on?”
“No sweat.”
I led him into the bedroom, removing the heavy jacket he was wearing. Stretching out on the bed, still in his T-shirt, leather pants and heavy boots, he leaned against a couple of pillows and in a conspiratorial whisper bade me join him. I yanked open my board shorts with a rip of Velcro and sat buck-naked (except for the gloves) on his pelvis, hands reaching under his shirt for his nipples. The gloves felt strange, with a sense of detachment from my own hands. I leaned in and nibbled at an ear before giving him a deep, soulful kiss. Pulling my hands out from under his shirt, I cupped his throat with my right hand, gently at first.

With eyes suddenly bright, Dawg nodded and broke into a big grin, his boyish face radiantly beautiful. I slipped down to his right and rolled him on his side, a full hardon rubbing against the seat of his pants, leaving shiny streaks on the black leather. I groaned softly and pulled at the snap above the zipper with my left hand. Yanking the pants down and exposing his ass, I gave it a couple of hard slaps before meeting my right hand at his neck, around the back. I slowly twisted my hands until my thumbs met under his Adam’s apple and gripped with a light force, pushing down and in.

Dawg responded with a low, enthusiastic groan. His exposed ass rotated slightly as I released the pressure from my hands.
“Like that?” I asked.
He nodded in assent, and I continued.

The next approach to his neck had greater force and purpose, as I became more comfortable with the whole concept. My thumbs pushed hard into his larynx, releasing then pressing down again. Dawg let out a yelp and I abruptly let go, unsure if I was hurting him or not. Our eyes met, and he whispered “Don’t stop.”

My dick responded dramatically, pulsing and drooling puddles of precum between his asscheeks. His imploring, eager tone sent me into delirious fits of excitation. Resuming my grip on his throat, I pressed until he lifted an arm in protest. Loosening enough to allow him to breathe, I used the element of surprise to advantage, he never knowing when, nor to what extent, I’d close my hands around his muscular, straining neck. My response astonished me with its ferocity. I literally had a man’s life in my hands, and that fact held an intense erotic charge for me.

We passed untold time in this game of cosmic chicken, my frotting thrusts in the crack of his ass a steady piston all the while. Lost in our moment, I grew light-headed, dizzy with lust, a contact buzz from Dawg’s drug sending me into a kind of trance. My sense of control was matched only by his willingness to let go and grant me the most sacred of trusts. I stopped noticing the music coming from the kitchen and focused exclusively on our breathing, mine steady, his irregular and coming in opportunistic gulps.

I have no clear recollection of how, or when, we stopped, nor how it was that Dawg came to be completely undressed, sleeping next to me, snoring in a profound slumber. All I remember is getting up to pee, finding the lights on, door unlocked, The Sisters of Mercy were played out, my screensaver bouncing and blinking at the desk. I turned the key in the lock, snapped off the light, emptied my bladder and snuggled back in bed.

Waking with a start, the bright morning light flooded my bedroom, and I found myself all alone. The digital clock at my bedside showed 9:35 as climbed out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. He had taken his bag and left, the door shut but unlocked. While making a pot of tea, the thought occurred to me that no one I’d met online had ever spent the night here, always in such a rush to leave, on to their next bump or boot or cock, whatever. As they had been purloined specifically for sexual pleasure, their hurried exits didn’t feel cold as much as expeditious.

Yet Dawg’s case had developed differently, and aside from B36 (about whom a separate post is required) whom I was seeing with equal, if not greater frequency, there was no one with whom I’d felt such intimacy. Most especially, Dawg’s sharing with me of his asphyxiation fetish seemed to be a reaching out. It necessitated deep trust on both our parts, his trust of me the greater. I could easily have killed him.

It was at about this time that a wrinkle in my experience started taking place on Mancunt. Although never one who favored quickies, I began to edge way beyond the pale of my previous experience, building up and coming down for hours. This, perhaps, was partly due to the meth use of my choice in partners. Their endurance and inhibitions are legendary, and I can attest to the veracity of the legends. Where before an encounter lasting a couple of hours would satisfy, now an entire night was required for full satiety. Six- to eight-hour marathons became the rule, with such practices as extended toy play, double penetration and water sports now the rule rather than the exception. When someone posted a comment here that I hadn’t “a pot to piss in”, I joked with Matty that I had no need for pots with all these drugged Latinos to choose from.

So came one day in June when, to my chagrin, I burned through three different encounters within a twelve-hour period without finding any satisfaction. The first was a Colombian, far plumper than his photos suggested who approached me with a wary paranoia, despite having read my profile and driving over from another town. His unwillingness to relax and get to business led to my sending him out after a frustrating hour of abortive foreplay. The second was a man who lived two streets over, a top-versatile who was unprepared for the cyclone who knocked on his door. After a short pool-side chat, I managed a throat fucking for him but nothing substantial for me. The third encounter held greater promise and prompted me to walk a couple miles to what turned out to be an unlocked door to a darkened apartment, dance music blaring. As I approached his bedroom, I found him face-down on the bed lit by a muted TV screen playing the sort of mainstream porn that hasn’t interested me in years. By the dim, blue light I saw that he had great legs and a bubble-butt (conforming to his profile) but a face ravaged by HIV meds. Horny as hell, I fucked him hard for a while. But his fingernails hurt my tits (when I could get any action for them at all) and the entire scene was hardly my style. I eventually left, neither of us cumming, and trudged home, exhausted.

In a last-ditch effort, I signed back on to Mancunt. Dawg was there, as always, but hadn’t opened any of my notes for days. Realizing the futility of trying again, and feeling dead-tired, I signed off and went to bed. Reaching to shut off the light, I glanced at the clock: after 4:00. Sleep weighed heavily in my eyes as I heard my phone ring.

Were it anyone else, I’d have let voice mail take it, but I flipped open the phone:
“Are you still awake?”
“Yeah…what’s up?”
“I saw that you were signed on a minute ago…want some company?”
“Sure…come on over. I’ll be ready for you,”

Shaking off the sleep that had been descending fast, I took a quick shower and made some tea. Clicking on WMP, I selected a playlist of raw and raucous songs, especially noisy, and turned the volume way up. About twenty minutes later, Dawg opened the door after giving it a tap.

His demeanor was soft this time, soft and sweet. Greeting him at the door with open arms, Dawg hugged me tightly and kissed me deeply,
“I’m glad you called.”
Holding my head in his hands and looking in my eyes, he saying “I’m glad I saw you were up.” Then, with an odd look: “Are you OK?”
“Sure, why?” I smiled.
“You look tired.”
“It’s been a day.” I sighed, brushing my hair forward and back across my head, squinting slightly.

Taking his hand we moved into the bedroom. Dawg as usual was dressed in layers, as if for a walk on an autumn day in Dorchester. Sitting him on the bed, I started with his boots, unlacing them slowly and pulling them off. I couldn’t help but notice that he wore fresh socks, which I removed without comment from either of us, exposing his funny wide, pink feet with short, round toes. He was wearing a black leather vest, long-sleeve shirt, V-necked white T, heavy jeans and (again a surprise) clean underwear. Dawg smelled neutral, of nothing in particular, like he’d washed without soap. This, again, struck me as odd, but I didn’t comment. As I undressed him, he leaned back on the bed, saying nothing and making no move to touch me.

Both naked now, I climbed on the bed and we began a familiar ritual, half caressing, half wrestling, that we frequently engaged in, Dawg using enough force to challenge me but not so much that he ever overpowered me, our mouths locked. We rolled around for several minutes, through several of the songs blaring from my computer speakers without either of us taking the lead, content to feel each other so close. At one point, I lifted his arm and dove into his pit, warm but curiously neutral, chewing and sucking on the reddish hair and secret skin hidden underneath. I could feel his erection against my hips, pulsing but dry, even as my own response was tepid and unsure. My fatigue was showing the hour.

Making my way down his torso, stopping briefly at his navel to outline the Iron Cross tattooed there (a favorite landmark on his body) with my tongue. I inhaled deeply and began blowing him in earnest: no hands, all mouth and throat.
“You really like that, don’t you?”
“Your dick?” I looked up, smiling broadly, “I think it’s perfect.”
Spitting on my right hand a couple of times, I rubbed his small, hairy balls, gently tugging here and there, feeling the effect on his dick as it pulsed in my mouth, before I braved further south and felt around his hole. He lifted both legs with his hands, and I made a tentative digital reconnaissance, but neither smelled nor felt anything (a tangle of matted hairs, for instance) that would indicated that he hadn’t been thorough in his clean-up.

Separating his asscheeks with both hands, I confirmed what I’d sensed. He was clean and pink, the little lines leading into his hole pulled in a clench. He tasted sweet and fresh, so I chowed with vigor and enthusiasm, hands on his ample cheeks pulling him as open as I could, lips, tongue and teeth working to relax and expand. Dawg and I each moaned from our throats in a unison grunt.

Nothing perks me up quite like eating ass, and I was erect and leaking throughout these actions, rubbing streaks of precum against the sheet. Pulling my chest up to his lips, I fed him my left tit while stretching to open the cabinet of my nightstand, pulling our bodies together. Withdrawing a newish tub of Elbow Grease, I unscrewed the top and scooped a dollop onto my fingertips, reaching around to the hole I’d been paying such close attention to. One, then two fingers easily entered to the second knuckle, my thumb pushing an errant glob of the white paste into the fold.

Scooping up more, I reached down to my crotch, but my hardon had lost considerable momentum and was hanging above a deep puddle of precum on the sheet, sensitive but hardly rigid. Pulling on it did little. It felt good, but wasn’t helping to get it back up. I scowled and pulled his hand to my tits, but even that did little beyond irritating me oddly. He looked at me with curiosity, then amusement as he jackknifed and took my slippery, soft cock into his mouth. Minutes passed with no change, until I laid down on the far side of the bed on my back next to him, meeting his gaze in a shy smile.

Dawg laid there only an instant before clambering to his knees in front of me. Lowering himself on top of me between my legs, he kissed me deeply and with an odd force. Balancing on one hand, he reached for the open tub of Elbow Grease and helped himself to enough to grease his still-hard dick. Lifting my legs, he felt awkwardly for his prize, and I suddenly felt a finger push at my anus.

This is not the time to explain why I am a strict top, but suffice it to say that the last time I’d willingly bottomed was when still a teen, twenty-seven years ago. Perhaps it was the extreme fatigue I was feeling, perhaps it was the immense sense of trust that existed between us, but I offered no resistance to his initial efforts, none whatsoever. I remember feeling a curiosity if, after all these years, I might be able to break through the pain of penetration and experience the pleasure I knew existed for so many, if never for me.

Dawg’s inexperience as a top became apparent pretty quickly. Although I had just showered, he made no attempt at analingus at all. In fact, it took a moment or two for him to even find my hole with his fingers. Withdrawing them quickly, he steadied his dick with his right hand and pushed the head in with no preliminaries. I inhaled sharply and grabbed his hips with both hands.
“Wait a second. I’m not used to this.”
His eyes were closed and his expression was pinched, twisted in a way that I’d never seen on his face before. He opened his eyes but there was no mirth in them at all.
“Leave it there for a bit, OK?”
He nodded and came close for a kiss, nibbling at my lips. I responded, and we spent minutes locked in embrace, my legs wrapped around his waist, arms across his strong back.

That was when the vibrations started. They started so small that they felt like the mild sort of twitch one gets in one’s eye, but they escalated into something that combined the erotic quality of spasm with the regularity of a vibration. There seemed to be no one center of sensation. Rather it was as if my entire body was attuned to some frequency I’d never experienced before. I groaned into his open mouth feeling our teeth bounce together before I pulled my lips in to act as a buffer. Eventually the vibrations became so intense that I pulled my head back altogether, my groan increasing in both pitch and volume as I leaned way back into the pillows, arching my back. That was when I began to hear a tapping coming from underneath the bed. This became insistent raps, rhythmic and steady, and in my ecstasy it dawned on me that it was the sound of the post of my metal headboard bouncing on the wooden floor of my bedroom.

Instead of pushing in or withdrawing, Dawg kept exactly where he was, hugging me tightly. His glans was lodged in my anus, his head pressed tightly against my chest. It was I who eventually pulled my ass back and away from him, even as the vibrations continued with the same strength. We neither spoke, just held the other, locked in embrace. As the vibrations slowly ebbed, the music from the kitchen became audible again, an obscure and strange song from Scritti Politti, clanging and banging with an otherworldly, plaintive vocal. It was one of the transcendental moments of my life, burned into my brain forever, complete with soundtrack.

We dozed lightly still locked in tight embrace, neither wishing to break the spell. When, if ever, had I been able to sleep with a man lying on top of me? The fatigue and emotion I felt, equally as profound, fed my slumber, which was light in contrast. I felt hyperaware of every sensation even as I was in a state of rest, eyes closed. Dawg’s heavy, muscular sunburned chest moved in the rhythm of breath, deep and restful. We stayed in the exact same position until dawn’s birdsong and first rays arrived. He moved his hands first, in sweeping circles and grips, then came his head, rolling back and forth across my chest. I tightened my grip crossing his back, moving my hands down to his waist. He lifted his face to mine and whispered how he needed to leave. I just nodded.

Rambling to his feet and reaching for his clothes, he smiled over at me as I laid into the pillows, arms over my head. Pulling on the V-neck T he said:
“I really just wanted to know if you‘re really a top.”
“Now you know…”
We walked down the hall and I turned into the bathroom to pee as he opened his phone to call a cab. I lit a cigarette, offering him one.
“Call me,” I said exhaling smoke.
“Yup.” He waved without looking back as he headed for the gate to my garden.

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At Sun Dec 03, 12:31:00 AM GMT+11, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Do I smell love in the air...or is it burning rubber? I am so very glad to hear you are on the mend...I was worried. I am overjoyed to see the Spin Cycle rotating again. Take care...keep typing.
Aunty Doxie

At Sun Dec 03, 07:37:00 AM GMT+11, Blogger Anonymous Phuck Hole said...

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At Sun Dec 03, 12:39:00 PM GMT+11, Blogger Bucko said...


Nice to see you, too, dear. And after such an extended absence. You first guess isn't too far from the mark- perhaps the Buzzcocks were a tad too obvious?

By the time I've published all of this prattle (and 9/10th of it is already written), perhaps you'll understand why I chose to sit out a few of the dance numbers of autumn 2006.

Bisous all around


Thanks for the kind words. After having perused a sample of your own brand of smut (told from the flip-side), I am indeed honored that you found our own little sinkhole here at the Spin Cycle.

Jolly reading, and check back often, dear-

At Sun Dec 03, 07:12:00 PM GMT+11, Anonymous zephyr said...

My Dear Brother,

Masterpiece is an understatement.

With all my love,


At Sun Sep 18, 03:38:00 PM GMT+10, Anonymous conan edo said...

hohoho thanks for the video and the script you wrote


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