Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures in Barebacking Part 7: The Brazilian Bowelwash (Part 1)

Author’s preface:
My Dawg's tale has not yet run its course, and I don’t feel as though I have enough material to construct a coherent finish to the trilogy. I beg my reader’s patience on this matter, and indulgence in allowing me to relate other tales from my experiences during the Summer of 2006. Dawg’s tale will eventually be told, but in the interim…

As I related in chapter 5, the texture of my exploits on Mancunt began to change both in duration and with regards to what I’d always previously called my limits. After my encounter with B36, I chose to take a fresh look at my habits and attitudes and was determined to see how far my comfort level (as well as that of my beaux) might be pushed.

In the hours I spent on-line, several profiles intrigued me, but I’d always resisted contacting them because the true dynamic of such encounters made me slightly uneasy. Principal among these were guys looking to play more intensely submissive roles than I’d customarily considered. I’ve always preferred a more active participant, someone who brought their full power of wit and enthusiasm to bed, and had always considered submissive and passive to be synonymous.

But my experiences with the latest crop of powerbottoms whetted my appetite for a more dominant stance. They seemed to expect a more domineering top, perhaps because their consumption of drugs put them into an extreme state of mind. Beyond a doubt these drugs (primarily Meth and/or G) both enhanced their exigency and raised their threshold of pain tolerance to near-superhuman levels.

The morality of what separates “rough” from “abuse” whirled briefly in my mind as I contemplated my next steps. I’ve never been accused of being physically abusive (emotionally distant, however, has been a life-long criticism), but my past choice of partners generally veered toward simpler passions. The more complex passions were usually reserved for tricks and anonymous one-time events.

It wasn’t that I respected piggy fistbottoms less, it’s that I felt that such a steady sexual diet would ultimately jade me, and I harbored fears of where such encounters might ultimately lead. Although it seems naïve in retrospect, at the time it made an odd kind of sense and constituted one of my principal limits.

So it was that I began approaching my encounters without trying to restrain wilder sides of my psyche (or libido). The first of these was with a couple who live about a mile and a half from me, in one of the more upscale neighborhoods close to the ocean. I had seen their profiles separately, never knowing that they operate as a team.

One, whom I shall call Manny, appeared completely Asian but was in fact Latino. He is quite short, no more than 5’3, very muscular, and seemed to be hovering around forty years old. His profile describes him as “versatile” and suggests one ask him regarding his HIV status. Manny and I had had some near-misses in the past, with his backing away at the last minute. Although I hadn’t exactly written him off, I was surprised when he approached me around 1:30 on a hot morning in early July.

He was curt and to-the-point, providing a profile name for my consideration in a three-way. The tone was take-it-or-leave-it and put me somewhat off, especially as the pix did little to entice or impress me. “Paul”, tall and portly, seemed as enormous as Manny was tiny. I sent him a half-hearted note and unlocked my private pix for him, curious as to what kind of scene they expected. Paul’s response was simple and direct: they needed a fearless and aggressive top with stamina and had heard from another member that I would suit them very nicely. The referral was an early-morning regular of mine, a musclehead powerbottom whom I’d seeded on occasion. Smiling a private little grin, I got the address and told them I’d be there after a quick shower.

Going as directed to the rear gate, I stopped for just a moment outside. Trance music throbbed from the tropical garden on the other side of the fence, and I heard splashing water. I opened the gate and saw a small patio paved with smooth white square panels of cement puddled in water. To the right was a pair of large, single-paned French doors leading to a small bedroom, the queen-sized bed covered with a black, shiny latex spread. To my immediate left was a small cylindrical hot-tub set off the ground on a wooden platform. Beyond was a small wooden toolshed, through the open door of which came the music and dim flickering light.

I called out as there didn’t seem to be anybody around.

Manny emerged from the toolshed, a studded black leather harness criss-crossing his beefy chest, leather bands on each of his highly-developed arms. His dick was much larger than I’d expected, fat and hanging low next to his powerful thighs. He gave me a quick appraisal, up and down, his expression serious, his face set without mirth. I approached him and pulled at his dick with one hand, pinching a nipple with the other. His cock was slippery with lube and did not respond as I gripped on his foreskin and rolled my index finger underneath. When I attempted a kiss, he moved his face silently to the side, so I moved my mouth down to the free tit and sucked hard, rolling it between my tongue and bottom teeth.

“Take off your shorts. He’s waiting”. Manny’s voice was masculine, spiced with the slightest touch of a Spanish accent. His hands moved to my nipples and pulled on them with just the correct pressure. I hadn’t bothered with a shirt in the drenching humidity and oppressive SoFla midsummer’s heat, and pulled off my shorts and sneakers in seconds. As I followed Manny into the toolshed, my eyes scanned his broad back and big, bouncing ass.

The interior of the toolshed was illuminated by several tall pillar candles. Two large stereo speakers sitting on the rough wooden floor boomed out a relentless electronic beat. Suspended from the exposed wooden struts of the walls was the black leather sling that held Paul. His legs were up, resting on heavy chains, his hole open and wet. Even on his back, hanging in mid-air, he cut a large and imposing figure.

He was wearing a kind of jump-suit made entirely of black latex, stopping at his shoulders and the middle of his thighs. It had been slit to expose his wide ass, a generous scrotum and a tiny penis, about two inches long. He appeared to be totally devoid of body hair, his armpits as smooth as his balls, and his skin was milky pale. His voice was low and masculine:
“Hey! Glad you made it.”
“This is quite a sight. ” I observed, smiling.
“Manny’s been getting me started.” He moved his neck slightly and pointed his nose at a shelf hung on the wall to my right. It was lined with several dildos, ranging in size from large to menacing. The thickest of the lot was as wide as my forearm and was easily twenty inches long. Most were jet-black.

To my left, parallel to the sling, as a small table that held a tub of Crisco, a roll of paper towels and several bottles of poppers. Paul reached for one of the bottles and inhaled deeply. Sticking my right hand into the tub of Crisco, I withdrew a substantial portion with three fingers, rolling it into my palm in a circular motion. Large clumps clung to my index and middle fingers, which I rubbed together before approaching and inserting them into his waiting hole. Meeting no hint of resistance, I slipped my ring finger underneath and diddled him to the last knuckle for a few minutes, getting the lay of the land. Looking over my shoulder at Manny, I instructed him to work my tits (as he’d done so nicely outside), and I was up pronto.

Removing my fingers, I used the grease remaining on my palm to slick my cock and stuck my head inside.
“Ready?”
Paul grunted and steeled himself with another hit from his popper bottle, groaning as I sunk in to the balls with one long thrust. Manny pulled on my tits with increased tension and began licking the small of my neck, which was level with his head, sucking and chewing occasionally.

I started slowly, making long strokes up and in. Grabbing at the chains, I stood on my toes for maximum penetration.
“Wait,” Manny mumbled and retrieved a wooden box from under the sling. “I need this too.”
The box served me perfectly. Paul’s ass was right at optimum height and it eliminated any strain I might have put on my back or neck.

I’d been fucking for quite a while when Manny went to get some Gatorade for the three of us, as we were drenched in sweat. Paul reached up to my chest and grabbed at my nipples, but his fingers were greasy, and I made a noise as I pulled away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just prefer dry hands on my tits.”
“Hand me some paper towels then.”
Holding a square in each hand, he twisted my tits with more enthusiasm than experience.

Manny returned with three plastic cups, and it made me pause. Proper etiquette demanded sealed containers be presented for any beverage consumed in such circumstances. It went unsaid that an open container could contain anything and these two were still strangers to me, fucking Paul’s ass notwithstanding. I took my cup from Manny and withdrew from Paul’s ass, stepping down off the box. I sniffed the liquid.

“Don’t you trust us?” Manny looked at me warily.
“I don’t know you.” My voice was flat, gaze direct. We kept an eyelock for several seconds, neither blinking.
Paul spoke up finally from the sling: “Just get him a bottle of water.”
Manny broke the stare first, putting down the cups and turning on his heels.
“It’s nothing personal” I offered.
“Don’t worry about it, he’s fine.” Clambering out from the sling, Paul suggested that we rinse off in the hot tub, which sounded pretty nice.

We were installed in the small tub when Manny returned with my sealed water bottle, passing it in with his usual glare.
Paul looked over at him. “So, you gonna try out this guy for a while?” He put his arm on my shoulder.
I felt as expendable as one of the toys arrayed on the shelf in the toolshed.
Manny turned and headed for the shed as he replied. “Sure...why should you get all the fun?”

Bending my knees, I took one more dip down into the hot, bubbling water before stepping up and out. Paul was right behind me, the latex suit glistening as water ran off his belly. The night air didn’t feel chilly in the least, but the dip was refreshing.

Stepping into the shed, I found Manny already up and in the sling. Looking at me along his body and through his legs, he said:
“I’m not an intermediate like Paul, here. Give it to me hard like I’ve heard about...if you can” The contempt in his tone whistled through a snarl on his full lips.

My heart began beating more rapidly, my breath strained to small measurements through my nose. Reaching into the open tub of Crisco, I slicked my dick first, and pushed a couple of fingers into his hole. It wasn’t as relaxed as Paul’s had been, “intermediate” or not, and resisted in response to my probing. Paul pulled on my tits with better assurance than he’s shown previously, and I stepped up onto the box, hardon slipping in and out of my fist.

Despite the firm grip Manny had on my fingers, my dick found no impediment into his fundament and I drove it to the maximum. Withdrawing completely, I pushed in again with vigor and energy. My closed right fist pounded at his hard abs.
“Feel it yet?” My heart raced.
“Almost.” Manny bated.
I filled my mouth with saliva and spit a gob on his forehead, the trail running into his left eye.

I withdrew entirely again and grabbed the can of Crisco from the table, pulling a handful out and rubbing my right hand up to the wrist with my left. Stepping down from my perch on the box, I bent low and surveyed Manny’s ass. It winked into a gape for me before closing tight. I looked up to see him inhaling from the small brown popper bottle. Our eyes met for a moment, and his head nodded in a private conspiratal affirmation.

Paul seemed slightly annoyed, his deep manly voice took on a whiney, high-pitched timbre. “What are you doing? Aren’t you gonna fuck him anymore?”
“I will. But this hole’s too tight.” I scooped up another gob of shortening and smeared it in. “Didn’t you hear? I like ‘em big and sloppy.”
“Oh he’ll loosen up, just give it some time.”
“He’ll have plenty of time. I’m a patient man.”
Manny smiled at me for the first time that evening.

I reached to my right and grabbed a dildo that was about the girth of my hardon, but absurdly long, well over two feet. I lubed up the head and stroked on the shaft before taking aim at Manny’s hole again. Inserting the head, I slid almost half up and in before beginning a sawing motion. A clump of shortening was stuck to one of his asscheeks, and with my left hand I scooped it up and slid three fingers in besides. I looked up and saw Manny tossing his head silently from side to side, inhaling continuously from the poppers.

I looked up and over at Paul, who was leaning forlornly against the door jamb of the toolshed.
“Help him with those poppers,” I suggested. “He’s gonna burn his nose.”
Big as he was, Paul managed to scurry under the sling and emerge on the other side. He took the bottle from Manny and screwed the cap on tight. He began a low moan and looked up into Paul’s eyes, then reached up and pulled Paul’s head down into a soulful kiss.

Meanwhile, I was making great headway and decided to upgrade the dildo for one of the truly massive ones with the circumference of my wrist. The tradeout was accomplished quickly and easily, and he took the greater part of it up his ass, his breathing steady in big, noisy gulps. I switched my hand for the dildo and soon found that forming a fist while inside and pulling it almost to his asslips ratcheted him into a whole new level of delirium. We continued this for over an hour, until Manny finally asked for a break.

This time all three of us climbed into the hot tub, sending a rain of chlorinated water up and over the rim, soaking the patio and garden nearby. Manny and I each lit cigarettes and Paul asked me how long I’d been fisting ass.
“Well, let’s see…” I thought for a second. “My first experience was when I was really young, about twenty-one or twenty-two.”
“How’d you get into it?” Paul seemed genuinely interested.
“I met this older guy in a bar on Beacon Hill…I’m from Boston. I can’t remember his name, but I used to call him Wolfie. He was a brilliant mathematics professor at MIT, just incredibly intelligent. That was his thing, and I guess he seduced me into trying it. I remember that he could be very persuasive.

“The first time was really strange. I’d fucked a lot of ass, but this just seemed…extreme, I guess.” I took a drag from my smoke and continued.
“I remember bolting out of his apartment afterwards, swearing that I’d lose his number and never return. But I went back soon enough and tried it again. We saw a lot of each other for about six months. It seemed like it was always cold outside, musta been over a winter. It eventually ran its course and we just stopped calling each other. But I always thought of him as my first step into oblivion. I remember a friend of mine was horrified when I told him what Wolfie and I use to do. But I was too young to be believable in leather bars yet. It wasn’t really until I was in my thirties that I was credible as a fisttop, and it’s still not my only thing.”

Manny jumped out of the tub and fetched some more drinks. This time I asked him specifically for a glass of Gatorade.
“Sure I’m not trying to poison you?”
“I’ll take my chances” I said, grinning broadly.

It was Paul’s turn back in the sling, and Manny and I took turns on him, alternating hands and toys and our dicks. He seemed relaxed and was obviously enjoying himself, but I had the feeling that he was holding back, somehow. As available as his body might have been, his mind seemed miles away.

When it came to be Manny’s turn again, Paul resumed his station at the head of the sling while I took advantage of Manny’s now-wide open state. I alternated my dick with my hands, then in a moment of inspiration grabbed one of the relatively-moderate sized dildos from the shelf and slid it next to my dick. I’d push with one while pulling with the other, sending him into a whole new level of sensation. Adding a second dildo, this time one of the massively large ones, caused him to scream in fits of delirium. His greasy gash was opened to a degree I’d only ever seen on video before, way beyond gape into another, more magical realm.

With his encouragement, I removed everything and began punchfucking him in rhythm, left/right/left/right/left. I was hypnotized by the action and humbled by his total lack of limitation. The fact that he trusted me, a total stranger, to perform such a potentially deadly service on him both thrilled me and set up vague rumblings of passing disquiet in me, but I continued for what seemed like an eternity. It was Paul who eventually suggested that we go into the house.

Paul jumped in the shower while Manny showed me around. The décor was all very SoFla sunny, with some decidedly girlish features (hideous window-treatments, crimson fully-upholstered and skirted dining chairs, for instance) and I was once again dismayed that an otherwise expensive piece of South Florida real estate was defaced by pedestrian taste and amateur stylisms. The kitchen, having been professionally done, was bland but expensive, with acres of granite and stainless steel. Passing me a glass, he asked me what I thought.
“You guys are great. Thanks for hitting me up.”
His lips curled into an inscrutable grin. “Paul’s new to this.” His face twisted slightly.
“This is his house.”
I swallowed a sip from my drink. “He seems to catch on quickly. He’s lucky he has you.”
“We’re not lovers.”
I wondered where the conversation was turning and made an expression of curiosity as I exhaled loudly, looking around at nothing in particular.
“I’m just showing him the ropes, so to speak.”
Paul’s voice yelled from the other side of the house.
“Let’s take our showers, he wants us back.”

Entering into the bedroom again, I noticed that the shower was still running in the adjacent bathroom.
“You guys take your shower together, I’ll make myself comfortable.” Paul had removed his latex suit, exposing his pink, flabby body. His manbreasts sagged, his nipples perfectly flat but bigger around than poker chips. I hadn’t understood how much support the suit had given him until he’d taken it off, and found the results even less erotic.

Manny and I stepped into the shower together, the water warm but not steaming hot, as is the custom here. He reached for a bottle of dish-washing liquid sitting on a shelf built into the stall. Smiling faintly, the dim memory of an old fistbuddy from my mid-thirties came flooding back. Such detergent was preferable, he used to say, because it removes all the Crisco. Besides, he would say, we get to smell lemony-fresh. This time around, in that shower stall with the fetching if enigmatic Manny, we smelled of green apples.

Manny squirted some of the thick green liquid in his hands and rubbed it on my chest, creating bubbly suds.
“You know”, he started, “No one ever do that to me before.”
“Did what?”
“Punchfuck me…always wanted it, never happened. I broke through a limit”
I leaned back into the water and let it pour over my front, rinsing and fresh.
“Glad to have obliged.”

For our last round, Paul announced two goals: he wanted to be doublefucked in a sandwich by Manny and me, and he wanted one of us (no matter which) to jerk off to the point of cumming with the fist of a hand up his ass. I nodded my head as if to prepare mentally for the obstacles to his goals that I might encounter. Manny spoke up:
“You sure you’re ready for a fist and cock up your ass the same time?”
“I think I am.”
“You gotta know you are.” They held a steady eyelock, complicated by the fact that Paul was easily a foot taller than Manny. “Otherwise, you get hurt.”
“I want to try it.”
“OK” Manny’s voice had a sing-song quality. “But tell us when you had enough. Be honest.”
“I’ve always been honest with you, Manny.”
Feeling like a voyeur, I suggested that we get back to business and started sucking on Manny’s dick, curling my tongue up under his copious foreskin as he laid face up on the mattress’ shiny black latex cover.

When Manny was hard enough to fuck, I greased his pole and eased it into Paul’s open, twitching twat. Paul breathed deeply and sat down until Manny’s balls kissed his anus. Standing up on the bed, I fed Paul my half-hard cock and pulled his hands up to (increasingly sore) nipples. I was soon ready to take position and moved around to the foot of the bed. With one hand I pushed Paul down against Manny, with the other I steadied my dick and with a push met Manny’s dick inside the warm wet hole.

I quickly learned that porn stars make such theatrical gymnastics much easier-looking than they are in real life. Paul’s anus seemed so low in relation to his enormous, bright-white hairless asscheeks. I felt bruised and tit-pulled to an extreme and miles from actually cumming. Paul would shift position and out we’d pop. After the third time this had happened in five minutes, I suggested that we switch to dildos instead.
“You tired?” Paul seemed vaguely disappointed.
“Not really” I lied, massaging my thighs, “But I got a leg cramp.”
I looked down at Manny’s dick and noticed that it had deflated completely.

The energy level had ratcheted down considerably from the riots in the toolshed.
“Go get some.” Manny offered, making a gesture toward the French doors.

Making my way the twenty feet across the patio, I first heard the discord of hundreds of birds before looking up at the brightening sky. Making my way into shed, I selected several of the dildos, contemplating various possibilities. On my approach back to the bedroom, toys stacked like firewood in my arms, I overheard Manny and Paul speaking in hushed by emotionally-charged voices.

“I think I’m gonna head out, guys.”
“You OK?” Paul was standing up, Manny still on his back, pulling absently on his soft dick.
“Yeah. I think I’m just done tonight.” I dropped my load of dildos on the bed.
“You want another shower?”
“Nah, I’ll just take a rinse in the hot tub if you don’t mind.”
Manny spoke up. “Suit yourself.”

I smiled a weak grin and grabbed a towel, remembering suddenly that my shorts and shoes were still on the patio.

On the way out I stepped into the bedroom one more time. Manny had his right hand in Paul’s ass to the wrist and a slightly bored look fixed on his face.
“I had fun, guys. Thanks…” I leaned over and kissed Manny’s cheek, as he had turned his head away from me.
“We did too.” Paul turned his head and I kissed his open mouth one last time.

By the time I’d made it to the end of their street, the stars had disappeared and the sky was a brilliant hard cloudless blue. The birds sang a riot of conflicting symphonies and I felt strangely renewed and utterly alive.




About a week after I’d met up with Manny and Paul, I got a message from someone who called himself SoBeFfun in my mailbox on Mancunt. His account, at least with that specific profile, has since been deleted from the website so I can’t quote it verbatim. But the gist was very vague. The pix weren’t much more enlightening, although the ass shot showed much promise. His stated age was thirty-eight, which online might well have meant fifty, but there was something in his profile that piqued my curiosity. His writing made it pretty clear that English was not his first language, and he rather quickly requested my phone number.

Almost immediately I got a call with a Miami area code and answered. His voice was deep and flat and accented. He repeated his first name, for which I’ll substitute “Hector” (for reasons I’ll explain later). Hector was from Venezuela and gave me the usual rundown of height, weight and general preferences. At the end, he asked:
“So what are you into?”
“I’m a top. I love to fuck and I suck uncut dick like a pro.”
“You party?”
“No, but bring what you want. I prefer to play with partybois. They have the stamina to go all night. I’m not looking for a quickie.”
“Cool…you a freak?”
I laughed softly. “Bring it on, baby. I’m up for anything.”
“You mean anything?”
“I wasn’t joking if that’s what you mean.”
I gave him directions to my house.
“I wanna ask you something.” My mind turned with possibilities and horrors. “The double-F in your profile…it mean what it should?”
“You fist?”
“Been known to.”
“What else you like?” His voice was very curious.
“Bring some toys. I like toys.”
“Like what?”
“Bring your favorites.”

About ninety minutes (and close to midnight) Hector showed up, driving a Range Rover. I met him out front and directed him to my empty parking spot in the front, separated from the driveway by a large tree. Through the windshield Hector had a sweet and open face, pleasant but not distinguished by the Native American or Arab look most Latins have. He stepped out with a gymbag over his shoulder and we shook hands. I remarked to myself that he had a firm shake and looked me in the eye with intelligence, both excellent signs. His age seemed to have been quoted accurately.

Once in the kitchen, he kissed eagerly and with passion, open and wet and firm, not mushy. My usual clangy, raucous music blared from the computer. His hands rubbed briefly across my pecs before focusing on my nipples and I was leaking precum in moments. With one hand he reached into my shorts and milked the ooze with his hand, pulling it up to his tongue.
“Titpig indeed."
“Just keep that up, we’ll be just fine.”
“So I see.”

I pulled back somewhat and slapped his butt through the shorts he was wearing.
“Show me your ass."
He turned around and leaned against the solid cherry table that takes up too much space in my small kitchen. As his shorts dropped, I saw that he had a very serviceable (if not specifically bubble-shaped) butt. Ranging closer, I saw that his crack and hole were hairless, but saw no evidence of shaving, the same with his low-hanging balls. Everything was clean and fresh and I kissed his button as I spread the cheeks further apart. He moved his hips lazily from side to side, making sure that I got the best view from all angles. Diving in one more time, my tongue pushed at the gate and was admitted immediately.

I reached around front and yanked on a long, thick prick with an extended rubbery foreskin. With the index and middle fingers of my left hand, I pulled at the overhang hard, twisting it between my fingers then fingers and thumb. He responded rapidly to my rough treatment, letting out a deep, breathy sigh as he sprung to life. I pulled my mouth back and aimed a gob of spit on his hole, already winking from the attention of my tongue, and sunk two, then three fingers in and rapidly withdrew them. I backhanded his ass hard and watched it giggle.

Standing fully upright again, I jerked his face toward me by the hair. Staring deeply into his eyes I muttered “Follow me, and bring your bag. I wanna see what you brought for us to play with” before I kissed his mouth, pulling with my lungs.

I was stretched out on the bed with my back against the feather/down pillows before Hector made his way through the bedroom door. As our eyes met, a spontaneous smile overtook each of our expressions, an eager smile of complicity in the crimes that were to follow. Slung over his shoulder was the gym bag, which he zipped open quickly before setting it down next to me at the level of my hips.

I peered inside. The assorted dildos were surrounded by clear zip-lock bags of various sizes, the contents of which were obscured by the low lighting and my poor viewing angle. He fished around a bit before presenting me with a box of some sort, the corners of which were rounded, covered in black vinyl. It piqued my curiosity.
“What’s in that?”
“Open and see.” He was very eager for me to see what was inside.
“Hmmmmm,” I pondered various possibilities before setting it down on unopened on my nightstand. “I will in a bit..”
I was in absolutely no rush.

He withdrew a small ditty-bag and rested it on the TV. Unzipping the top, he gingerly withdrew a glass pipe and mini zip-lock bag about one inch square containing several nuggets of glassine crystal rocks.
“You want some?” He asked as he took one of the nuggets from the bag, placing it in the round opening at the top of the pipe.
“No thanks…I’m good.”

I watched him without emotion as he lit a tiny handy blue blowtorch and hovered the glass bowl over the flame, swinging it back and forth with rapid movements.

My mind skipped quickly over the first time I’d seen this done in front of me. I had walked over to the apartment of a guy who’d hit me up several times on Manhunt before I agreed to go over. The change in his demeanor after inhaling the thick white smoke was vivid and profound, a Jekyll & Hyde act worthy of some silent-screen melodrama, as he went from butch Italian musclegoon to panting ravenous pigbottom begging for hard cock and hot wet seed.

My subsequent experiences were all very anticlimactic, with the ritual serving more as booster hit than primary dose. I never tried to count the times I’d seen it but surely would have lost track by the time Hector finished his tokes and climbed into the bed leaning over me, gripping my tits with a greedy lust.
“You find me sexy, Papi?” His rubbery face was full of expectations.
“Oh yeah, Nino” I stretched my left arm to the cabinet door of my nightstand and withdrew a tub of Elbow Grease, about half full. Holding it over his head (so as not to interfere with the tit-action), I unscrewed the lid and dug two fingers into the soft white paste. Standing up, I fed Hector my drooling dick and bent over to lube his gash.

He grunted loudly and nodded his head as I fingered him, my left hand slapping his ass in a staccato rhythm following the music from the kitchen. My head was buzzing from the tea I’d drunk (about a quart) and the frenzy of sexual excitation. Bending as far as possible, I dug deeper into his ass with three then four fingers right to the top of my hand, his ample hole yawning to accept anything without hesitation.

I pulled his mouth off my dick and spun off the bed, Hector pivoting to facilitate my movement as if we’d planned and discussed the choreography beforehand. With my feet planted firmly on the Tibetan carpet, his ass was the height of my shoulder. It pushed back against my fingers, stopped by the top of my hand and thumb. With my left hand I served myself another dollop of lube, greasing the thumb, back and outer edges of my right before balling it up and slipping it all in.. I looked up and saw him staring at my face reflected in the closet door mirror, sweat pouring from his forehead.

Minutes were spent in this fashion, eyes locked in the reflection, my left hand alternating first inside the rim of his stretched asslips next to my right wrist then stroking my hardon.
“Come down on the floor, standing up.”
He nodded and backed off the bed slowly as I moved my arm back and forth, my wristbone disappearing and reemerging from inside him, glittering with white lube. In a lightning-fast move, I switched my hand with my dick, fingers meeting shaft just for a moment before I gripped onto his hips and fucked furiously. Hector dug into his bag and found a zip-lock filled with little brown bottles, selected one and hastily unscrewed the cap, inhaling. Passing it up to me, I slowed down briefly, took my turn and threw it on the mattress after replacing the cover. The poppers exploded in my head and chest. Wild music rang in my ears as I continued fucking wildly at his wet open quim, lost in the ecstatic moment.

Reason returned slowly and I asked for a break. He heartily agreed, asking for some water. I pushed him forward against the bed, my dick slipping out as he fell face-first into the bed, grinning.

I lumbered into the kitchen, soaked with sweat and slick Elbow Grease as I lifted the handle on the kitchen faucet with the top of my forearm. Hector came behind he and hugged me tightly just as I reached for the bottle of dishwashing liquid
“You play rough, like me. I like you”
“You’re pretty special yourself, baby.” Rubbing my hands into a lather, I twisted my head and opened my mouth, seeking his. We kissed briefly and smiled.
He looked over at the pot of brown water on my stove, four round pillow bags resting on the bottom. We had discussed the tea over the phone earlier.
“You need some more?” Hector passed me a couple of sheets of paper towel so I could dry my hands.
“My glass is over there” I pointed toward the desk with my nose. Hector fetched it and I filled it with the tepid tea from the pot.
Going to the fridge to get his water, I asked “Do you smoke cigarettes?”
“No…why? You want one?” Hector picked up my open pack of Parliaments sitting on the counter.
“Yeah. You mind?” I handed him a bottle of water.

We went into the garden and he took a cigarette from the blue box, put it to my lips and lit it with the lighter he’d found on the counter.



“What’s that music you play?”
“Mostly old stuff, but some of it’s new. You like it?”
“I’ve never fucked to it before. It’s got some great energy.”
“When I go over someone’s place, they’re either playing porn or Trance. I hear Trance all night at work,” I made a face. “And porn’s not really necessary for me most of the time. This is different.”
“It’s very exciting.” He put his arms on my shoulders. “Like you.”
Then he looked at me with a mild concern. “You need more tea? I’ll get it.”
I grinned and let out a little laugh.
“Yeah…that would be great.”

Back in the bedroom we twisted and crawled all over the bed, soaking the sheet with sweat and Elbow Grease, exploring and pushing each other into ever-greater heights of depraved delight. Perhaps another hour had passed (and several more glasses of tea consumed) before I looked into his eyes and asked if he were ready.

His eyes danced with exquisite anticipation as we marched into my showerstall. He grabbed the shower head and bent low at the waist as I approached from behind. His hole was wide open as I entered him and rode him roughly, feeling a tingling and urgency I’d never associated with fucking previously. Edging and holding while pushing and attempting a release, my urgency finally overcame me and I began streaming load after load of hot urine into his lower digestive tract.



To be continued…