This is a true story from my early 40s that needed no embellishment.
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JAVIER
The picture showed a well-built Latino -- Mexican, I guessed -- with big biceps, prominent pecs, and a firm, slightly rounded belly, all wrapped in a tight polo shirt. Black hair and olive skin -- yum -- and a salt-and-pepper goatee that perfectly framed his beautiful smile. Even his broad, rounded nose was sexy.
His Gay Chicago ad was thoroughly professional -- Swedish and deep tissue, on a table, ten years experience -- none of the red flags that suggest your "massage" is going to be a perfunctory rub-and-tug. Don't get me wrong -- I like a good handjob as much as the next man, but I really like a good massage, and if that's what I'm paying for, that's what I want.
Javier was even sexier in person, though slightly reserved and entirely businesslike. Short, compact and muscular -- and his voice deep and slightly accented, which just added to his appeal. Even his handshake was sexy -- small but strong hands, with a plumpness that I suspected was all muscle. I felt a pang of regret that he gave no sign of interest at a personal level -- I would gladly get more than a massage from a hunk like this! Oh well . . . waste of a perfectly good enema.
As I lay quietly, face down and naked in the warm, dim bedroom that doubled as his studio, he went to work on my back, warming it with long, practiced strokes. He asked the usual questions: Any injuries? Any areas needing particular attention? Is the pressure okay? But when he asked if there were any parts of my body that he should avoid, my radar gave a hopeful `ping'. I assured him emphatically that no part of my body was off limits.
I relaxed as he worked deeper, kneading away the chronic tension in my upper back, stroking the muscles along my spine, working the spot where the lower back meets the glutes, working the glutes themselves . . . . As his hands made mirror image circles on my buttocks, brushing the base of the spine, sliding out and down, pushing back up on either side of my crack, I formed the happy suspicion that he was lingering there longer than necessary, enjoying his manipulation of my soft, round ass.
He asked me again if the pressure was alright. I responded,
"I could use a little more pressure, right . . . there" -- timing my "there" for when his thumbs were moving closest to my hole.
He said, "Where?" and again I said, "Right . . . there."
This time he got the message.
On the next circle his thumbs grazed my hole, and I purred encouragement. On each subsequent pass they applied a bit more pressure.
The circling stopped, and an oil-slick finger pressed into my hole, which opened happily. I moaned and squirmed as a second and then a third finger pushed its way inside, and he began to fingerfuck me. The more I moaned, the more vigorously he moved.
Something about the pliancy of my hole must have inspired him, because he added a fourth finger, then folded his thumb under and . . . pushed.
Thank God enemas leave me juicy, because massage oil is a far cry from Crisco.
I heard him mutter "Oh my God" as the widest part of his hand slid past my sphincter and into the accommodating cavity beyond. The muscular ring gripped his wrist tightly. I wish I could have seen his face. I wish I'd had a camera to catch that smooth brown arm disappearing between the pale pillows of my butt.
He jammed his hand in further, and I winced. He pistoned his arm back and forth with an exuberance that showed how excited he was -- and how inexperienced. His roughness turned me on but also worried me -- I didn't want him damaging anything.
"Hold on . . . pull it out a moment and add some lube. Okay -- D‡melo otra vez. Uhhhn! Oh yeah, that's better. Uh HUH! . . . Wait, not quite so hard . . . a little slower . . . ."
I was propped on my elbows at this point, grinding my rigid cock into the massage table, the sheet bunching up beneath me, my legs spread, my back a bow, my ass welcoming Javier's forearm. He continued to work his hand back and forth inside me till I was seeing stars.
"Hold on . . . ."
I twisted round -- his hand still skewering my butt -- to lie on my side, lower leg extended, upper leg drawn to my chest. Now I could see the grin on his face and how his dark eyes glittered. I pulled his shoulders towards me -- he even kissed well.
The sensations were fantastic -- intense -- but . . . I needed a break.
"How about you put a condom on and fuck me?"
His body was smooth and golden brown, with whispers of hair around each brown nipple, a dusting on his legs, and a neatly trimmed jet-black bush. His ass was a work of art -- muscular, tight, and perfectly round. I couldn't keep my hands off it as we rolled around naked on his bed (how convenient that we were already in his bedroom!) -- embracing, kissing, rubbing against each other. Then he pushed my knees towards my ears and jammed his cock into my smarting hole.
No question he liked it rough -- but so did I, and I could take it. Both his aggression and his obvious pleasure got me so turned on I happily tuned out the burn in my backside.
I fondled his tits, pinched his nips, clutched at his muscular back, kneaded his perfect butt while he continued to slam into mine.
All too soon he pulled out, whipped off the condom and crawled on top of me. He straddled my chest, his cock aimed at my mouth. It was as beautiful as he was -- uncut, smooth and golden, a little longer than average and quite a bit thicker. He tapped it against my lips and murmured,
"Open up, Pap‡."
I obeyed, and he shoved it in my mouth. Soon he was aiming for my tonsils, nudging the shaft down my throat. I gagged and pushed him out an inch or so, my tongue slathering his cockhead as I gave my throat time to recover. When I relaxed my hands he drove in deep again, pressing farther down my throat, holding his cock there till tears came to my eyes and my gorge rose. Again I pushed him slightly away till I caught my breath, and again I let him do as he pleased with my raw throat.
Finally I pushed him all the way out.
"That's all I can take."
He began to beat off, his cock inches from my face. His skin glistened with sweat, and tiny drops flew from his arm, prickling my cheeks and forehead. His body tensed, he threw back his head and gave a low groan, and globs of cream frosted my goatee.
He collapsed on top of me in classic fashion, and I hugged his overheated body to mine till his panting calmed into regular breathing. My cock was still rock hard and pressed against his groin.
Javier then polished my opinion of him to a shine by picking me up (the man is strong!) and setting me back on the massage table. He finished the massage, doing such a good job of relaxing me that my hard-on subsided -- until he began to make circles on my abdomen, brushing my cock with every pass of his hand.
He stroked me rapidly to rigidity, and when I parted my legs he took the hint, probing my hole with his fingers -- pushing, stretching, pushing harder. Again my ring opened and drew in his hand, and the incredible fullness inside, the active living thing rubbing against my prostate, pushed me over the edge. I splattered all over my belly.
I had to clutch his forearm with my hand to stop him stroking my now over-sensitive cock, and I grabbed his other to stop him moving his fist inside my gut. I lay there gasping, not daring to let go of either arm, till an internal spasm pushed his hand out of my hole.
As I dressed, I asked him if he had ever fisted anyone before.
"No, but I always wanted to. It was incredible."
I made sure he got plenty of practice in the years that followed!