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FALL INTO ME
"The sky is turning red. Return to power draws near. Fall into me, the sky's crimson tears." - Slayer (Raining Blood, 1986)
I run because it keeps me fit. And one other thing. It makes me incredibly horny. It always has. That's the real reason I joined track and cross country in high school, continued through college, and still run today. I should say, I ran today. Now that I'm finished, I'm furiously trying to write down what happened to me. To keep the mood, I'm sucking on a finger covered with the cum that got dumped in my hole about an hour ago.
I guess the way these always start is that I have to describe myself. I'm tall at 6'4" and a lean 180 pounds. From my look, you would probably think I was more into basketball than running but I couldn't sink a shot from the foul line to save my life. Years of being active have kept me fit and easy on the eyes. You know, usual jock shit. Big meaty quads, tight chest and abs, armpits you want to stick your face in and lick for hours.
If you're not a runner, you might think all you have to do is pick up and go run. For me it's a process. I start by slathering on sunscreen, then the music and headphones have to be set up. Don't forget the labor of getting dressed. Today I wore a black and silver sleeveless Under Armour metal Compression Gear shirt and 2XU running shorts. Yes, the shorts do have a liner. As much as I like to see the boys and the business bouncing around on the runners that face me, I find it uncomfortable at best and painful at worst. I apply Aquaphor liberally to my crotch, to stop chafing of course and not because it feels awesome. A pair of Oakleys will let my eyes wander privately and a visor keeps away the glare. My weapons of choice lately have been Newtons. I wear a size 15. Don't get any ideas, pervert.
Just the thought of hitting the pavement is enough to set my nuts simmering. Today, I'm thinking of a long one. The run, that is. I go through the route in my head and it will be 12 or so miles. I let my thoughts shift to the hardcore self abuse session I'm going to have on my return. I set a towel over the chair in preparation. There's nothing I like more than double fisting my junk firepole-style in my sweated up run gear. The Aquaphor helps with that too.
One of my guilty pleasures is that about five miles in, I run through a relatively blighted public housing project. I'm not worried about my safety, here or anywhere really. I'm that fast. The appeal is in the view. The trade there tends to not wear much, especially in the summer heat. Today was no exception. The heat and humidity was contributing to an ample show of skin.
I was grooving to the sights and my latest run mix so hard that I didn't notice the billowing clouds behind me. A flash then thunder then there's huge raindrops slapping against my visor. Another flash, quickly followed by that weird sounding higher pitched crack you hear when it's close. I should probably seek shelter. Fortunately, shelter was near, in the form of a worn bus stop that served mostly as a canvas for graffiti.
Already covered with sweat, I managed to make it without collecting much more wetness. I wasn't alone. Also setting up camp to ride out the rain was a tough of the most generous proportions. He was Latino, most likely Mexican. He was wearing a gray fitted Kings cap with a black brim and the requisite 59FIFTY sticker. Under the cap was stunningly beautiful long black hair that reached halfway to his waist. It cascaded downward with a hint of a wave, the bulk of it thrust forward by his chest, shining radiantly even though there was little light in the storm. The black stood in stark contrast to his brilliant, bleached white wifebeater. Tattoos wound their way from under the shirt, extending over his shoulders and arms and up his neck. I could see through enough to know that there was something written large across his back. The shirt was tucked into a pair of khaki cargo shorts that would have been smart dress pants had they been longer, held up by a broad leather belt and a heavy buckle. He had tree trunk legs with the smoothest, richest dusting of dark hair for bark and calves like knots, rooted sockless into a pair of black suede Converse. His arms were crossed over the handlebars of a trick BMX bike, hilariously small for him, but on which he balanced effortlessly. I swooned.
His face was frighteningly gorgeous, handsome, macho, with a slight, wispy moustache and a much more adult goatee. He filled out the wifebeater in an amazing way. It was stretched with strength and power, not muscle, though he did have big beefy arms and a similarly big beefy everything else. He probably carried twenty pounds he didn't have to, but they looked hot as hell on him. You know how sometimes you go for someone you wouldn't ever think you'd go for? That's where I was right now. Everything him was perfection. It helped that I was drunk on the shots of tension, danger, and hunger I had just thrown back. I let myself think about what it would feel like to have his breadth pin me down.
As much as I wanted to, I didn't dare be the first to speak. The gods let me know they were on my side by sending another flash, more thunder, and sheets of rain unwavering in their intensity. They made him say something. "Sup?"
My silent prayers were answered. "Hard as fuck."
"Que?" He had no idea what I had said and labored to ask me simply, "You k?"
Well, I was tired from the run, but otherwise fine. He must have thought I was struggling. I doubted there would be much understanding between us. But this could be the fuel to fire up the party that would start when my run was finished.
"The rain. Hard as fuck." It really was the rain that was hard as fuck and not me, at least not yet. Though if I wasn't careful, I would be.
I added suggestively, "You have no idea how k I would get for you."
He looked off into the storm and reached to where I would guess the head of his dick to be. He gave his shorts four or five slow, small, deliberate scratches right at the spot. His last move lingered. I'm sure I had just imagined it, the whole thing took only a few seconds. It made my mind reel.
"Me llamo Rivera." He stood so the bike didn't get in our way and stuck out his hand, which I grabbed tightly in the shake. I was expecting rough and tumble. What I felt instead was silk. I must have held on a bit too long or done something else he didn't like, because his expression soured. "Puto," he sneered, glancing both ways. He raised his fist to strike and I cringed, tightening my eyes and waiting for the gush of blood that would come from my freshly broken nose. But the punch didn't connect with my face. Instead it landed softly and open palmed on my shorts and was followed by a solid downward pull on my nuts. "Soy un Puto," he growled with an evil smirk.
I don't know much Spanish but I know what he just said. It definitely wasn't what I had expected. I also speak fluent crotchgrab and translated what just happened into, "I'm going to have an un-fucking-believable afternoon."
While I stood stunned and dumbfounded, Rivera hopped on his bike and launched into the rain shouting, "Siganme." I did what I was told and followed him into the downpour. I wasn't able to keep up with him since he was on his bike but he made sure he would stay in my sight. He turned down one street, then another, and we headed deeper into the complex. Both roads had never been on my run. He made a sharp left and rode up a broken concrete path to one of the stark concrete buildings, leaning his bike against one that was labeled with a large "38". He opened a heavy metal door that led to a stairwell and I followed him up. When he reached the landing, he turned to face me.
"Besame," Rivera whispered as I caught up to him. "Besame. Kiss." He was louder and more insistent this time. He grabbed a handful of my shirt, spun my visor backward and went at me. I let him. I can't fucking believe what is happening to me right now. Though not as tall as me, I moved to his level. I reached a hand to his brow and brushed the wet hair from his eyes so I could lose myself in them during our embrace.
Rivera took firm control. As he bit at my lip and probed deeply with his tongue, he dove both hands into my soaked shorts. Like when I shook his hand earlier, they felt so smooth against me it was like he was using lotion. I squirmed and shook my hips, widening my stance to give him the best access I could. I kept moving backward to accommodate until I was against the stairwell wall. He kept moving into me and started sucking on my tongue as if he were giving it a blowjob. I was steel hard.
Rivera broke off. "Siganme." This time he grabbed my arm and we bounded up the stairs together. We emerged on the second floor and he fished through his pocket, pulling out a key and unlocking the door. We entered what I can only assume was Rivera's apartment. To say that it was sparsely furnished was an understatement. The carpet was lime green and worn to the base. At the entrance, there was a small tube TV sitting on a table and a torn up, lumpy, brown leather sofa that was no doubt scored for free on the side of the road. He peeled off his beater and threw it with a slap against the sofa. "RIVERA" was what was written across his back, in bold, six inch tall Old English letters.
"Mamada. Suck." I didn't need to be told twice. I sunk to my knees and nuzzled at Rivera's shorts as he removed my shirt. Even after the cleansing rain, there was plenty to sniff. I mouthed the fabric and sucked the wet out of it. He undid the buckle and the shorts crumpled around his ankles. He wore blue plaid button fly boxers with the buttons undone. How I love a boy who's ready for action! I repeated what I had done to the shorts with the boxers, drawing out the wet. "Suck." Maybe I did need to be told twice. I finally got to see it and it's an image I'll never forget.
I can only describe what was covered by those boxers as 'fuck yeah'. Fuck yeah hair, fuck yeah balls, fuck yeah sackfolds, a fuck yeah shaft, a fuck yeah foreskin tightly trapping a fuck yeah cockhead, and both of those fuck yeah spots between where each leg meets the meat that I kept trying to stick my nose into.
"Fuck yeah," I hummed.
From my position at his feet I could drink in all of Rivera, from his ink, to his strength, to his power, to his cock. Mostly I wanted to drink in his cock. I caught it while it was plumping up. Not soft, but certainly not yet stiff. He lightly sighed and brought a hand to his nipple, scratching at the point. I dug out around the foreskin, exposing the head. I continued my attack, sucking and stretching it out as I pulled my head back, then watching it rebound as I returned forward. With each pull it grew, finally reaching perfection.
It was worth saying again. "Fuck yeah."
At full size, Rivera filled my mouth in absolute comfort. When my nose tickled his pubes, the tip just touched deep. The fit was exact. I could live the rest of my life with him like this. I'd muscle things around with my tongue, get some air, swallow when I needed to, then do it again. I moved my head back and he put his fingertips to the base of his cock, guiding it downward. That would be the start of him piston fucking my throat. He got faster, then withdrew. I had gotten him real close. Maybe too close. He shuddered and a single, tiny white shot tossed out of his slit. In the pause, he was able to will himself from the brink back to earth. I was able to grab a quick taste of what I hoped was to come.
Rivera led me into his bedroom, which was decorated as spartan as the rest of the apartment. A mattress on the floor, covered in sheets that badly wanted washing. A dresser, surely another freebie, had a beaten up boom box sitting on it that looked like it had come from a construction site. A large, unframed mirror was put against the wall. I was looking forward to watching some live porn on its flat screen.
Rivera reached into a drawer that was hard to open because it was off its rails, grabbed a tape and pressed play. After a few seconds of hiss came the unmistakable opening riff of "Angel of Death" shredding through the speakers. Are you kidding me? We're going to fuck to Slayer? I just about threw my load.
"Asshole. Suck. Ahora. Now, maricon"
Rivera plopped on the mattress and leered seductively, propped himself on an elbow, and exposed the thick hair in his pits, his dick drooling and further staining the sheets. He absent mindedly but aggressively toyed with his tool. All he was wearing now was the cap, the Converse, and his ink. "Suck." He pointed toward his asshole, clearly wondering why I wasn't there yet. I admired Rivera's vocabulary. Every word he said I liked.
Before swooping into rim position, I was overcome by the smell of man, of Rivera, wafting up from the sheets. His nest, God it was heady. I loved it. After some jockeying for position, I got him to cover the top of me with his ass close to my face. I bit at a cheek hard enough to change it from medium brown to pink, then got to watch the pink dissolve back to its original color. His tip and shaft were dragging and sliding back and forth against my chest between my pecs as I worked on his hole. Everything pouring out from his dickslit was pooling there and every once in a while I would sneak a fingerful. I wrapped my arms around his bulk to draw him in closer, which seemed to strengthen his mouthgrip on my shaft. He was nodding on me like a kid responding to a long list of chores being read by his parents. By the way, if we ever hook up and you want the keys to the kingdom, just start off with your ass in my face and my dick in your mouth and I'm yours to ravage.
There aren't many things in this world better than a squeaky clean asshole. Here's one better thing, though: an asshole that's musky and filthy and dirty from use and the man who owns it doesn't feel like he needs to make it squeaky clean for some worthless slut. Come on. Be honest. The unpleasantness, if you can call it unpleasant which it isn't because it's really fucking amazing, goes away after you do your job and vacuum suck that first layer of slime away. And the dirtier it is, the better your chances of waking up the next morning still tasting it, which forces you into admitting just what exactly you are.
I'm not timid when I eat ass. It's not a kiss here and a kiss there and I'll touch it a bit with my finger to fool you into thinking I'm doing something. If you're eating ass, your next act isn't to put a tiara on top of your head and walk down the runway. You're a fucking pig. So root around like a fucking pig and get your whole face into the groove. Hell, use your whole fucking head if you can. I use my whole fucking head. The rough boys go crazy for a day's worth of chin stubble drawn back forth through their crack, so I'm giving Rivera a healthy dose of that. It's working. I'm feasting and he's going fucking crazy.
I finally unburied myself from Rivera and was greeted by everything soaked to the point of dripping. Thick, spit matted hair down there is to die for. I made that ass look gold medal. Come to think of it, why don't they give medals for eating ass? Or at least statuettes or something. Sexy Olympics would be way more fun than regular Olympics.
My idea is really just a fleeting thought, and I don't want you to think I'm not paying attention to what I'm doing. Believe me I am. It's just that some of my best thinking comes either during sex or when I'm on the shitter and it demands to be noticed. I think my Sexy Olympics idea has wings.
"Fuck. Fuck me."
Rivera wants me to fuck him? Another thing I wasn't expecting. But oh the timing. Postmortem was just wrapping up. I had been eating him out for twenty minutes. Let me tell you something. If you can stomach it even a little, don't just be a bottom. Be versatile. It will rock your world. I danced behind his bulk and positioned myself teasingly. I had him so wet there wasn't any resistance at all. As soon as my song started, I skewered him, from tip to base all at once, pulling up on his hair like I was taming a horse and using the drum beats between the wailing guitar to guide my pace. He was not all that willing to be tamed, which made the scene all the hotter. I couldn't help but scream along to the tape, "Trapped in purgatory. A lifeless object alive..."
It's like I tickled a spot where a switch got thrown, because next thing I know I'm on my back rolled up in a ball pinned with my knees against my ears. Rivera wasn't going to let me fuck the cum out of him, he was going to fuck his cum into me. Where I slid into him with lust, he slid into me with ownership. He slid into me like I was property. He slid into me like I was his bitch. Fall into me, Rivera.
As he quickened, he made sure each thrust shoved me a little deeper into the mattress. The pressure had me to the edge of crying out for him to stop, which I desperately didn't want him to do. When I had thought about what it would feel like to have his breadth pin me down, this was my fantasy.
Our connection had extended to thought. Rivera eased and lifted me in a half nelson, still knobbed inside. He shuffled me to the mirror, squeezing my cheek against it but so I could still see him take me in the reflection. I was right about what I thought earlier. I'm watching killer porn.
The slick of sweat and torrent of grunts and obscenities let me know Rivera was getting close. I felt his other arm tighten around my neck, and I backed into him, working it. He went slack jaw and closed-eyes. Five times Rivera shot into me. Five times my hole got stretched a little extra by Rivera doing his best to get his bitch pregnant. Then get this, I can see him tense up and hold it. I see anguish in the face in the mirror. He spins me around and forces me down where I belong and lets loose with the rest of his load. He gives me another five shots before the flow subsides to idle twitching. I'm greedy. I eat it all.
In his bliss, Rivera pulls off one of his Converse and holds the opening under my balls. I briefly consider going in for some serious huffing but what lurks in the ripeness is going to have to stay secret. The whole scene had me so ready, I aim into the hole and I barely brush against the insole, which sends me off shooting ropes. My whole body is convulsing with the thrill of it. Once I'm spent, Rivera bends down and licks the tip of my dick clean then wriggles his foot back into the juiced shoe. I back him into the mirror and we make out, the way you make out after a mindblowing, headbanging fuck. He's doing that blowjob tongue thing again as the two of us and our reflections come down from our dizzying high.
Loudness at the front door broke our trance.
"Shit. Fuck. It's her," Rivera hissed. "I gotta get you the fuck outta here."
I was stunned and dumbfounded. He got close and gave me a lick on my lips.
"Yeah bro. Hablo Ingles. Hot, huh?" He whispered. "I get the bitch in the bathroom and slam the door shut. That's when you run."
I was still stunned and dumbfounded. Another lick.
Hushed, he added, "When you see my bike outside, you come up. We do this again, stud?" His voice was thick with pleading and desire.
Rivera jumped up, threw on a pair of boxers, and was gone. I could barely make out some idle chatter and then the door slammed. I took my cue and bolted out the front, down the concrete stairwell, and past his bike. I kept running, but tenderly. I needed to spend the next seven miles focused on keeping Rivera's caviar tight inside me.
I got held up at the red light on my way out of the projects. There at a bus stop on the corner slacked a tough. Much more wiry and sinewy than Rivera, this one was a lithe hardbody. He had a touch darker skin and was harsh in his face, but there was beauty in the harshness. You know how sometimes you go for someone you wouldn't ever think you'd go for? He caught me staring, kicked up his head and drawled, "Sup?"
I responded, not pausing for blessings from above this time.
"Hard as fuck."
It couldn't hurt to try.