It was many years ago, on a cold, fog-enshrouded night, that I first bred with him. Byron.
I. Meeting
Call me Antonio, Tony for short.
A few days ago, as I was rummaging through a dresser drawer, I found a wrinkled old yellowed sheet of paper. It was a pretty unremarkable scrap of paper, except for the cryptic symbols that were written on it; the numbers 1 through 20, and then each number being marked through with an X. I clutched the paper to my chest for a moment and took a deep breath; it brought back a flood of sweet memories . . .
Thirty-some years ago (yeah, I know that ages me), when I was in the service, I was stationed at a military base in an east coast city. Late one winter's Sunday evening, I was walking to a bus stop after seeing a movie at one of the city's multi-screen theaters in a mall. Earlier that night I had debated between cruising bars and catching a movie, and had settled on the movie. Dressed in the standard "civvy" attire of jeans, sneakers, long sleeved shirt, and jacket to cut the cold, I was a pretty good-looking dude in those days; 22 years old, short-cropped dark hair, angular, reasonably handsome face, and a slim but by no means muscular body, the whole six-foot tall package weighing some 170-180 pounds.
The night breezes caused a tingling sensation in my ear tips, and I could see my breath. I pulled my jacket tight around me against the cold, and as I walked, I thought I could see the bus stop (which I had used many times before) through the night's thick fog. A lot of cars had swished by me as I walked, so of course I had been paying them no mind. But now I heard a car approaching from behind slow down and then come to a halt next to the curb just a few feet ahead of me; a big, expensive looking Cadillac. The front passenger window rolled down partway.
"Do you need a lift, guy?" A deep voice, obviously male.
I approached the car and bent toward the window and said, "I was gonna catch the bus to the navy base." I peered through the glass, trying to get a look at the driver, but could only make out a fairly large silhouette.
"I can save you bus fare if you want. Hop in."
What the hell, I thought. I got in.
As I seated myself, I saw that my benefactor was a big (I didn't know just how big yet), middle aged, well dressed black man. He was bald on top, but had a full mustache and beard, framed around a square, stout-looking face; and he was nattily dressed to match his car, with a yellow turtleneck shirt (turtlenecks were pretty popular then) under a tan brown leisure suit.
He extended his hand and said, "I'm Byron."
"Tony."
We shook hands, and Byron put the Caddy in gear and we pulled away from the curb.
For a couple of minutes our drive was uneventful, until we approached an intersection where we both knew which direction the car would have to turn to go to the navy base, and I felt a warm pressure on my groin. I looked down and saw that Byron's huge right hand (twice the size of mine) was gently fondling my genitals; then I glanced up at his face and saw that his eyes were still gazing straight ahead at the road, but he had a sly grin at the corner of his mouth. I had been with many men before, both black and white, and so wasn't exactly worried. I squeezed his enormous hand in both of mine, pressed it down hard on my privates before releasing it, and said innocently, "Where are we gonna go to do it?" in a tone that I hoped was seductive, and which of course was in instant yes answer to Byron's proposition.
Byron smiled more broadly and said, "I have a place."
Judging from Byron's car and clothing, I expected us to drive to an expensive neighborhood. After all, I thought he was a doctor or a lawyer or something like that. But after a few turns, it was obvious we were in a more modest neighborhood, no slum to be sure, but a street with small, unassuming houses. We pulled into the driveway of a small, one-story, brick house, which was at the end of its street. The nearest couple of streetlights were broken, so the area immediately around the house was dark.
As Byron and I exited the car, I was startled to see he was much bigger than I had thought beforehand. Two hundred eighty or ninety pounds and six feet nine, he said, though he looked more like seven feet to me. (I later noticed that he had to duck his head slightly when going through ordinary sized doorways.) The top of my head barely came up to his broad shoulders whenever we stood side by side.
I made a mental note of the layout of Byron's home as we entered the front door. Upon entering, we were in the living room. To the right were the kitchen and a small dining room, with the house's back door at the far end of the kitchen. To the left was a small hallway, with a bedroom and the bathroom on one side, and a larger bedroom on the other. The living room, which was the first I had a decent look at, was sparely furnished with a threadbare sofa, a couple of chairs, and an old TV set. On the walls were a couple of cheap, obviously store bought art prints. For some reason, the whole house was rather warm. This sure as hell wasn't a doctor's or lawyer's home.
Although Byron and I both knew we had come to his home strictly for sex, we sat down and made small talk for a while, with the TV set playing just to provide background noise. Byron fetched a can of beer for himself and a can of soda for me from the fridge in the kitchen.
I told Byron about my job in the service (which I'm sure wouldn't interest the reader); Byron told me that he was an ex-pro football player, but now worked for the government - what kind of government job, he wouldn't say.
Byron glanced at his watch, then said, "I'm gonna take a shower, Tony - would you care to join me?"
"You bet," I replied.
We both stripped down to our undershorts and walked into the bathroom. Although tall and powerfully built, Byron didn't by any means have what could be described as a bodybuilder's body; for one thing, he had grown a slight paunch.
Once in the bathroom, I pulled down my jockey shorts, revealing my half-erect seven-incher; not huge, but big enough to get the job done.
Byron glanced at my equipment, smiled, and said approvingly, "That's a nice one."
He then removed his underwear with a well practiced gesture, and I was surprised to see that he wasn't completely nude but that there was still a jock strap around his midsection.
Byron glanced down at me with a curious, apprehensive expression and said, "Uh, Tony, I hope you're not shocked or scared when you see this . . ."
He reached down and removed the jock strap, and something that appeared for an instant to be a dark, black-brown firehose tumbled down his thighs. For my benefit, Byron planted his feet well apart, leaned back a little, put his hands on his hips, and gently gyrated his hips.
A thick, elephantine penis, which looked like it belonged on a horse instead of a man, swang between Byron's legs like a clock pendulum, the meaty head of the phallus thumping several times against his knees. And remember, Byron stood six-feet-nine. As this deadly weapon swung to and fro, behind it I could see a couple of enormous bollocks, the size of hen's eggs, suspended in a big rubbery sack.
"So, what do you think, Tony?" Byron asked, justifiably proud of his manhood.
What I thought was, Holy frikkin' God--but I smiled gamely and said, "Let's hit the showers!"
II. Mating
Now both completely nude, we stepped into the shower and Byron turned on the water; he had to duck his head to get it wet from the hot water stream from the shower head. We took turns completely lathering each other's bodies with soap.
When we were both completely wet and lathered up, Byron, grasping a bar of soap, knelt before me. By some unspoken and perhaps even unconscious agreement, we had decided to get me off first. Somehow it was incongruous to see this enormous black man on his knees, the head of his dangling cock dragging on the shower's wet floor, servicing a scrawny white dude like myself.
Bryron lathered soap on his left middle finger, which incidentally was the same size as a normal man's cock, and gently worked it up my anus, massaging my prostate. I felt the hot tingling sensation of the massage and my cock hardened to its full seven inches. Byron cupped my balls in his other hand, gently squeezing them, flicked at the tip of my cock with his tongue, and then took it all into his mouth and began fellating me.
After about five minutes, I shot my load and Byron swallowed it down. As I've said before, I'd been with many other men, and in comparison to them, as a cocksucker, Byron was good but not exceptional.
It was time for us to exchange roles, so I knelt and Byron stood. With one hand I grasped Byron's cock around the shaft just behind the head, and with the other hand I gripped his balls. I could feel the throbbing of blood in the veins of his cock as it began to swell to full tumescence, and his scrotum contracted itself protectively around his balls, making the ball sack harden and look like a weird sort of dark hairy gourd one might see on some exotic island. At that moment, I had a flash of inspiration.
The instant I had seen Byron's cock, I had had a burning need to have it rammed up through my rectum and deep into my colon, but Byron didn't know that . . . yet.
"What kind of sex do you like, Byron?" I asked.
Byron shrugged. "It's always been pretty much oral for me, Tony."
"Really? Why?"
Byron snorted. "You're holding 'why' in your hands, Tony. Most guys see my cock, it's oral, period. The number of guys who've tried to take this Mr. Johnson of mine up back could be counted on my fingers. There was a white guy who took half, and a black guy took maybe three quarters, and that was years ago."
"I see," I replied, paused for effect, and added, "I like both oral and Greek sex, especially Greek."
I felt Byron's body stiffen, and he said incredulously, "Greek?! With this?" Meaning his outsized appendage.
I looked up at Byron's face and saw that he was frowning.
"Don't jack me around, Tony--are you serious?"
I smiled sweetly and answered, "I'm perfectly serious. I know it'll hurt when you Greek me, Byron, but I want it. All of it."
In a conscious effort to drive Byron wild with lust, I stood, kissed and suckled his nipples, which were at exactly the right height, embraced him with all my strength while his cock, swelled to gargantuan proportions, was trapped between our bodies, and under the drumming of the hot water, offered to be his slave for that night if only he would be my master. The slave and master roles had nothing to do with race, I assured him, but with his cock, which made him master of any man. A lot of this speech was pretty corny bullshit, I'll admit, but I'm afraid that was exactly how I expressed it.
"Please fuck me," I finished.
Byron grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me out of the shower, saying "Shower's over."
He grabbed a towel from a towel rack, and while drying himself off, grinned down at me and said "You're gonna experience pain tonight, boy, so be ready for it, you've asked for it. But first, I've gotta get some lube. It's been ages since I needed any."
As Byron hastily dressed, he explained that he was going to an all-night convenience store to get some jelly and baby oil.
He paused at the door, glanced back, and asked, "You're sure?"
"I want you to hurt me with that monster prick of yours Byron," I said coyly, "just not too much."
Byron grinned. "I'll be back in a little bit." Click. He was off on his way to the store.
During Byron's absence, I went into the bathroom and sat on the commode, to make sure I was clean as a whistle down there, glanced at his selection of cassettes (I guess he liked Motown because I saw stuff by the Stylistics and Diana Ross and the Supremes), stood in the middle of the living room and did a few stretching exercises which I'd found useful for sex, and then walked over to a doorway which was slightly ajar, and looked in.
The room was his bedroom, and it was even warmer than the rest of the house, stuffy, even. The light was off, and I didn't enter, but I could see the bed. It was a big, heavy, iron framed bed, with a very thick mattress covered with a simple white sheet and cheap, no-frills blanket and pillow. What sights and sounds that silent, heavy piece of furniture must have borne witness to! Just the right kind of bed to get my butt reamed by Byron's cock, I thought. Nothing fancy, just a basic bed to sleep and fuck in.
About 15 or 20 minutes after Byron drove off, I heard his car pull back into his driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. When Byron entered the house, he was holding a brown paper bag which contained a big jar of Vaseline petroleum jelly and a couple of big bottles of baby oil.
He pointed in the direction of the bigger bedroom, demanded, "Get in there, bitch. Tonight I'm the stallion and you're the mare," and began to undress. My sphincter twitching with anticipation, I went into the bathroom, grabbed several towels, and laid them on the middle of the big bed's mattress, to catch the inevitable bodily fluids.
Because of the size of Byron's cock, we agreed to use two positions. First, reverse cowgirl, with me on top so I could squat over his tool and plunge down on it to loosen up my hole. Then, when we tried for full insertion, I'd sprawl on my belly, Byron would mount me, and we'd use gravity and his 100-pound weight advantage to drive him in. I opened the jar of Vaseline and applied a big dollop of jelly onto a couple of fingers of my left hand, while Byron smeared all 18 inches of his rod with baby oil from one of the bottles, his stallion sized prick bobbing in front of his torso like a flagpole and waving to and fro. I planted my feet a couple of feet apart, and with my knees locked, bent over to give my greased index and middle fingers ready access to my hole. I smeared some gel around the entrance, and then gently inserted both fingers into my anus and twirled them around, to lube my hole for easy entry.
In the meantime, Byron had lain on his back on the heavy iron bed, with the towels strategically located under his pelvic area. He clenched one fist around the base of his foot-and-a-half long penis; his hands were so big that his fist covered six or seven inches of his glistening cock, leaving only the ten or eleven remaining inches available for insertion in my rectum. The bed springs creaked warily as I clambered onto the bed with him, straddling him, with my semi-erect cock facing his feet, and my greased ass hovering over the purple, plum-sized head of his cock. The bedroom was so warm that we were both already sweating heavily. I'd have to ask Byron some time, why he kept the heat so high. I looked down at Byron from over my shoulder, and we both smiled.
It was time to submit to my Stallion.
I took a series of three or four deep, slow breaths, in, out, in, out, at the same time clinching and relaxing the sphincter of my anus, and with one hand held the slippery head of Byron's cock and pressed it against the anal entrance. Byron made a faint hissing noise and I could feel his tall, powerful body quiver.
"Please, let me do all the work for now," I said. Byron nodded.
I pressed my hips downward, while wiggling my ass in a semi-circular motion, and there was a slurpy, sucky noise as my sphincter yielded and the huge head of Byron's cock snaked in. Two inches in. I waited a couple of moments for both myself and Byron to get accustomed to just this tiny initial intrusion. Then I spread my knees out to the side to allow me to lower my body a little more, took another breath, and sank down onto Byron's shaft another couple of inches. Four inches. I felt like I was taking a frightful bowel evacuation, just in reverse.
"Byron, I promise you will remember this night," I said, and began milking his cock with my ass muscles, squeezing with them with all my might, then relaxing them, then squeezing again. Another man I'd done this with had described the sensation as similar to having your prick squeezed hard by a human hand.
"Oh, God . . . !" Byron gasped, his head whipping back and forth.
I lowered myself down another four inches for a total of eight inches, an impressive depth for most, but nothing compared to what Byron and I had in store. The bed springs were complaining loudly.
Byron's face was twisted into a mix of ecstasy and agony, and his free hand clasped a huge fistful of sweat drenched blanket, sheet and mattress. I wanted him to enjoy this coupling; by his earlier account, he must now be as deep in me as he had been in near anyone else thus far. With a gasp and a grimace, I relaxed my hole, and my body (and Byron's) convulsed as I impaled myself all the way to where his fist was, capturing 10 or 11 inches. Byron grit his teeth to keep from screaming. Eleven inches. I started riding Byron like a cowgirl on a bronco, lifting myself almost all the way off his cock, till only his bulbous cock head was buried in me, then plunging down, and repeating the procedure repeatedly and brutally for ten, then twenty, then fifty violent thrusts, to loosen up my bowels.
For the next few seconds, we remained motionless, catching our breaths. I could tell that Byron had not shot his load yet; he was saving it for later.
Now it was time to shift positions, for me to become Byron's mare. With a good part of his cock still buried in me, I leaned forward and sprawled on my belly on the mattress, and felt him clambering to mount me. As Byron pressed his full weight onto my body, I was completely enveloped in heat and moisture as I sank several inches into the mattress; I could feel rivulets of both my own and Byron's sweat pouring down my body. During this next phase, when we worked together to bury all 18 inches, Byron would be on top and in command, and with his size and strength, I would be helpless in his embrace.
Byron reasserted his cock head's depth at the 11-inch mark where we had been a few moments before, and flexed his cock a few times so that the walls of my rectum could feel the pulsating of its veins. Then, at my instruction, he began to exert a steady, patient, downward pressure. To receive the next few inches of him, I took a deep breath, held it, performed a sort of spasmic sucking action with my bowels, and pivoted my pelvis upward sharply against Byron's cock, a motion that pulled a few inches more of it inside me, passing an inner sphincter.
"YAAAaaahhh!"
Depth 16 inches.
We were both gasping now, at the threshhold. Just a couple of inches to go.
"Byron?" I asked.
"Yeah?"
"At the count of (huff, huff) three, I'll thrust my hips up, and you'll thrust yours down, and we'll bury it. Got it?"
"(Huff, huff) Got it."
Byron's hands dug into my shoulders painfully as we pressed our hips together on that sopping wet, creaking bed, preparing for closure.
"One..." Stinging sweat dripped into my eyes and I clasped handfuls of bedsheets.
"Two..." I felt Byron's heavy body on top of me stiffen, his great weight pressing me into the mattress. A car drove by on the street outside, causing ghostly lights to play across the dark room's walls.
"Three!" We each shouted. I simultaneously squinted my eyes shut and gritted my teeth to prevent any possible outcry. Byron and I each rammed our hips together, mine upward, his downward, in a might convulsion.
There was a heavy, wet thwud sound, and I felt myself buried even deeper into the bed's mattress by Byron's full 280 or 290-pound body weight. I felt his egg sized testicles slap against my butt cheeks. I also felt something sharp and scratchy grinding against my sphincter, which I then realized was Byron's pubic hair. An expanding ball of heat and pain began deep in my bowels where the head of Byron's cock was, thrust in all the way to the hilt, and I saw a brief flash of red, fading to black, through my closed eyes. Union. During our very first coupling in Byron's bed, he and I had achieved total union. This huge, beautiful, powerful black man was my lover! And no other man (or woman) had ever taken him all in like this.
For a few moments, we each rested, not saying anything.
I did it, I did it, I did it, I thought, and laughed softly.
Byron, concerned, asked, "You all right, Tony?"
After a brief pause, I answered, "Yeah, I'm okay." And I was. The initial flash of pain was receding, to be replaced by a swelling wave of pleasure.
I reached my hands behind me and wrapped them as far around Byron's midsection as they would go, and squeezed, as if trying to force him in even deeper. Then I wrapped my legs around his. Byron moved his hands from my shoulders and grasped my hips with them.
"Byron," I gasped, "mate with me."
Bryon withdrew the glistening, 18-inch weapon almost all the way, then drove it in to the hilt again, including a wicked twist of his hips as they crashed into mine. Then again, and again, and again. I was his. Sheets of sweat leapt off our thrashing bodies, my own white body and Byron's powerful black one, and spattered against the bedroom's walls. Both Byron and I heard a strange series of sharp rapping sounds, and then realized that the power of our mating was causing the entire, heavy iron bed to bounce.
As Byron approached his climax, he licked the back of my neck and bit me there, hard, but not hard enough to draw blood. On the penultimate thrust, he jackknifed his body so that only his pelvic area was putting any weight on me, and I felt a warm, gooey feeling spreading from deep in my bowels. Byron remained fixed for a few moments, then laboriously climbed off me, his cock retreating inch by inch. There was a wet, slippery sounding "pop" as the head emerged, and I could hear spatters of semen, baby oil, and gel on my body and the bed as Byron stood, taking a series of deep, gasping breaths.
I propped myself up on one elbow and cooed, "Next time, stud, missionary style," before passing out . . . A short while later I was awakened by the flush of the toilet, and glanced at a clock on a night stand, which read almost midnight. Byron entered the bedroom, filling the whole doorway on his way.
As Byron assumed a kneeling position on top of the middle of the bed, I retrieved the jar of Vaseline and a bottle of baby oil from where they had been sitting on the night stand. After handing Byron the baby oil, I turned my back to him and bent forward at the waist, so that he had a good view of my hole. Smiling back at him, I dabbed a generous gob of Vaseline on my fingers, reached down between my thighs, and smeared it over my anus.
"Damn," Byron said in appreciation, grinned wickedly, and began applying some more oil to his weapon.
Byron beckoned to me to join him on the bed, his enormous prick standing at attention before him.
"C'mere and ride me like a mare, Tony."
I climbed onto the bed and straddled Byron face-to-face. Our chests brushed together, and the hair on his chest felt like sandpaper on mine. With awe, I noted that the head of Bryon's cock, which was wedged between our torsos, was throbbing against my sternum. Where'd it go when it had been all the way up me to the balls a little while ago?, I wondered.
"Here comes round two, " I said, planted my feet on either side of Byron's hips, and raised my hips above the tip of his cock. With one arm, I clasped Byron around the neck to brace myself, and with the other hand, I grasped the thick column of his cock (my fist could not quite encircle it with the fingers meeting) and guided its head to my opening.
As I'd done before, I clinched my sphincter a few times, and then, bending my knees, impaled myself. In the meantime, Byron had gripped the base of his shaft again, so I slid down only to about the 10 or 11 inch mark. The acrid aroma of the sweat pouring down his body made my eyes water.
"Loosen that hole, boy," he commanded. "Ride me." I lifted myself up till only the knob of Byron's cock was still entrapped, then skewered myself on his rod all the way down to his fist, causing oil and jelly to dribble out my hole over his balls. Then Byron helped me with the next couple of dozen thrusts by grasping my shoulder with his free hand and driving me down onto his prick.
With a gasp, I said "I think I'm about as loosey-goosey as I'm gonna get."
"Then lay on your back and take what's coming like a man - if you can," Byron hissed.
I lifted myself all the way off Byron's prick and saw it wave to and fro lewdly as I laid on my back, gathering some towels beneath my hips as best I could to catch Bryon's and my fluids, and spreading my legs as far apart as possible, to give Byron easier access.
Byron took this opportunity to apply another coat of baby oil (we were using more baby oil than Vaseline) and then mounted me, pressing the tip of his cock against my sphincter.
"Ready?" Byron asked.
In reply, I thrust my hips up at Byron while convulsing my sphincter, a deft maneuver that instantly encircled the first couple of inches of his cock. Then squeezed. Hard.
"I guess so," he said, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.
We both then began to put our hips into it, jamming our pelvises closer and closer as if trying to weld our bodies. With each thrust, Byron sank a little more of his shaft into my hole, gaining a half-inch or inch on each stroke.
I felt a sharp little ripple of pain as Byron's cock drove past an inner sphincter, and looked down at our bodies and saw that he had buried 15 inches.
For the next few minutes Byron maintained the 15-inch depth, withdrawing almost all his cock and driving it back in, loosening me up for the final assault.
As we each caught our breath for the final set of thrusts, I reached one hand up behind Byron's ass, extended one greasy, slippery finger, and drove it into his anus, while with both arms I clutched his body tightly to mine.
As Byron gasped in surprise, I gazed up into his face and said, "Ram that prick up me as hard as you can, Byron - ruin my hole."
Byron screwed his eyes tightly shut, and with a convulsive jerk, drove in the rest of his dick to the balls, our bodies joining with a resounding thud. As before, the union was painful for me (and for Byron too - he claimed that the pounding made his balls sore). At my direction, Byron let me get accustomed to his full size by alternating three fast thrusts with three slow ones, thud-thud-thud, thud . . . thud . . . thud, thud-thud-thud, until I was ready for an all-out reaming.
"I'm ready for full power, Master," I said. "Power-fuck me."
As my master jack hammered me with a series of punishing thrusts that drove me deep into the mattress, the knob of his cock pummeling my belly, I was reminded of a bawdy song I had read somewhere, sometime:
Round and round went the big fucking wheel,
In and out went the big prick of steel,
`Til at last the maiden cried,
"Enough, enough. I'm satisfied." *
[* Okay, the whole song is printed at the end of this story.]
Well, I was well and truly satisfied.
Byron and I climaxed at the same time, my own little spurt getting caught in the coarse bramble bush of his pubic area, his geyser erupting in my colon. I could feel the veins of his cock throb as he pulled the weapon out, and sharp little stabs of pain as the knob-like head retreated past the anal rings.
After resting a couple of minutes, we each glanced at the clock and knew that it was well past time for Byron to take me back to my base.
"Nobody's ever been able to do for me what you did tonight, Tony," Byron confided. "When can we see each other again?"
I sighed. "I have some bad news and some good news, Byron. The bad news is, the week after next, I'm leaving the service and will be leaving town for good. The good news is, well, we've got next weekend. That is, if you're free next weekend."
Byron shrugged. "I'll make damn sure I'm free next weekend if that's all we got."
"Fine." I gave Byron the name of a convenience store that was a half mile or so from the base, and we agreed to meet there at 1800 (6:00 p.m. for civilians) the next Friday evening, so that we could fuck until Sunday night or the wee hours of Monday morning, when I would be driven back to the base.
I asked Byron for a sheet of paper and a pencil, which he provided. After writing the numbers 1 through 20 on the paper, I returned the paper and pencil to him and said, "Get lots of rest during the next week, Byron, and save your sperm. When we get together next week, we'll mark through a number after each time we fuck, and hopefully we'll mark off all the numbers. When we're finished, if I don't walk crooked for a week, we didn't do it right."
We both laughed.
On the drive back to my base, I was already dreaming of the next weekend's sex, creaming myself at the thought of some of it being painful, and some humiliating. (In fact, the next weekend, on one occasion when my rectum and colon had been well stretched, in a fit of lust I wanted some rough and painful sex, so I asked Byron to rape me, to fuck me mercilessly, which he did - but more about that later.)
III. Carnal Marathon
Friday.
On Monday my butt was still sore, and I crapped Vaseline and baby oil for the better part of the day, but Sunday night had been worth it. I ate my last meal on Thursday night, so that I'd be "clean" in the pipes for the weekend's activities. At the end of my work day on Friday, I showered, dressed in casual clothes similar to the previous week's, and walked for 20 or 25 minutes to the agreed-upon convenience store, which was distant enough from the base for me to not be likely to meet anybody else from the base. (I didn't want anybody I knew from the base to see me being picked up.)
While in the store, I bought another jar of Vaseline and another couple of bottles of baby oil, although there had been some left before; I hoped to use up all of it. As I completed my purchase and exited the store, Byron's Cadillac pulled up. I glanced at my watch, which read 1758; we were meeting precisely two minutes early.
In the car on the way to Byron's house, I teased him by reaching my hand into his pants, and encountering his jock strap, snaking it inside and clasping one of his balls, which I squeezed and fondled for the next few minutes. While performing this service, I looked straight ahead through the windshield and didn't turn to look at Byron, the same way he had behaved when he had first driven me in his car the week before. I also peppered Byron with questions.
"Are your balls full of cum?"
"Yep."
"Are you ready to fuck the hell out of me?"
"Yep."
"Are you--"
"That's enough, Tony!"
When we arrived at Byron's little house, Byron headed straight to the bathroom, saying he needed to take a leak. I went into the bedroom and laid my bag with gel and baby oil on the nightstand, where some of last week's lube was still sitting. Incidentally, I'd found out that this house wasn't Byron's domicile, just a cheap little rent house he took men (and women!) to, purely for sex. This weekend, it was all ours.
When Byron finished in the bathroom, he invited me into the living room where we had a couple of beers and chatted a while before starting in. At length, Byron gulped down the last mouthful from a beer can, pointed at the bedroom and said "Get in there, grease up your hole and bend over the bed, boy, we're gonna loosen you up."
In the bedroom, I quickly undressed, applied a big dab of Vaseline to my hole (I used what was left of last week's lube instead of opening the new jars), bent over and braced my hands on the bed's mattress, while splaying my feet a yard apart. I could see a big shadow on the wall as Byron entered the room, his hands fumbling for his fly, then uncoiling his weapon from his jock strap.
After coating his 18-inch prod liberally with baby oil, Byron positioned the head of it at my entrance. As if it had a mind of its own, my well-trained sphincter gulped in the first couple of inches of Byron's cock and began squeezing it with a series of contractions. Byron gasped, reached around with his left hand, said "This'll teach you to hold still," and easily clasped both of my balls.
Byron then raised himself up on his tiptoes to get the right angle, and drove his cock in up to the halfway point. Fortunately for me, my hole was still a bit loose even though it had been almost a week since it had been plowed. With his left fist still firmly gripping my balls, Byron used his right hand to seize my waist, and began pumping. Between my upward and his downward lunges, after about 50 thrusts, Byron's prick was completely embedded and his balls were swatting my ass cheeks.
Now that Byron had complete penetration, he released my balls, gripped my waist with both hands, and pitched both our bodies headlong onto the bed.
"Drill me, Byron," I gasped, "I want it to hurt!"
Byron complied, pulling his cock almost all the way out, then driving it in to the balls full force. The assault felt like being punched in the belly several times, except from inside. I was vaguely aware that I had already cum, my modest amount of sperm staining the sheets. Both our bodies were soaked in sweat in no time in the sweltering bedroom. Byron withdrew abruptly, which I found odd, because he hadn't climaxed yet, but I understood when he lubed his cock again, re-inserted himself, and resumed his powerful pumping motion.
As Byron's orgasm neared, I could feel the head of his prick grow hotter, and it even seemed to grow bigger. I could also detect that he had settled into a rhythm: one powerful thrust, a pause, then three, then five, then 10, then rest a few seconds, then start over. This enabled me to time my counterthrusts so that on each of his downward strokes, at the same instant I answered with an upward stroke that buried him full force, using my thighs to squeeze his balls as they bounced against my upturned ass.
Finally, he let out a gurgling cry as he finished with a last Herculean thrust, ground his groin against my ass to keep his weapon fully buried, and gushed forth a hot geyser of cream. As Byron extracted his cock, I tried squeezing my hole shut as best I could to keep as much of his seed inside me as possible, but inevitably a little of it dribbled out onto the bed.
As I lay on my belly gasping for breath, I noticed that it was now dark outside, and occasionally I could see cars' passing headlights sweep across the bedroom walls. There was a faint rustle of paper as Byron used the pencil to mark off #1 on the paper, and remarked "One down, nineteen to go."
We mated several more times that Friday night, the mattress's coils squeaking and the bed's feet doing their staccato tap-tap-tap on the bedroom floor. I was concerned that our cries and grunts would disturb the neighbors till Byron assured me that the couple of houses closest to his were vacant, and in any case nobody had ever complained to him. (I didn't mention to Byron the possibility that maybe his neighbors would be afraid to complain.)
After shooting his last load up into my bowels at 4:24 a.m., Byron didn't even bother pulling his cock out. We simply fell asleep for the night with his prick lodged to the balls in my rectum. I had been thoroughly loosened up by Friday night's activities.
Saturday.
In the morning, I awoke alone in Byron's bed. I could hear clinking noises emanating from the kitchen; Byron must be having breakfast. As I lay in bed, I thought about the last night's mating, and got hornier and hornier; during our next anal session, I desired to be taken with piledriver force. Deciding to join Byron in the kitchen, I hopped out of bed, donned my undershorts, and went to the kitchen.
I found Byron seated in a chair at the kitchen table, sipping at a cup of coffee with one hand and grasping a newspaper in the other, wearing only his jock strap. He glanced up at me over the rim of his coffee cup, simply said "Have a cup of coffee," then went back to reading his paper. That just wouldn't do. I needed to be serviced, hard. Following his advice, I did pour myself a cup of coffee and sat at a chair opposite the table from him, taking a few sips.
I started playing footsy, tickling Byron's calves with my toes under the table. Exasperated, Byron gave me a stern look and growled, "Knock off that foolishness, Tony." In response, I got up from my chair, walked `round the table, and sat on Byron's lap. As I ground my butt against his groin, I whispered in his ear, "Rape me, you big stud. I was bad last night, and deserve to be punished."
With a loud clink, Byron plonked his cup down on the table top and said, "You don't know how much I've been wantin' you to say that, boy!" He grasped both my wrists with one hand and with frightening ease, lifted me from my chair. With the other hand, in one swooping motion, he yanked off my drawers. Still holding me dangling at arm's length, he carried me to an empty spot on the tiled kitchen floor and deposited me there.
I waited on hands and knees in doggy style position as Byron opened a can of Crisco and coated his hardening, waving cock with it. Then he applied some of the cooking oil to my hole, growled, "Get on your belly!" and placed an enormous hand in the small of my back and mashed me flat against the cold kitchen floor in a prone position.
Byron mounted me and rubbed the tip of his cock up and down against my anus, lubing us both. With a sudden jab of his hips, he thrust "only" one-third (about six or seven inches) of the horse-sized cock in, then whispered in my ear, "Want the rest of it?"
I grunted, "Like I said before, rape me!"
"Have it your way, punk!"
Without further adieu, Byron drove the monstrous shaft home all the way, his balls in their leathery sack smacking loudly against my upturned bottom. I shut my eyes and grit my teeth and took this rear assault by my Stallion in almost complete silence. It was a matter of pride to me not to cry out. Countless times Byron withdrew 16 of his 18 inches of meat from my hole, leaving only the head inserted, only to ram the entire weapon up me again. When he felt the growing tingle in his balls, and they began to swell to even bigger than their normal hen's egg size, he knew he was about to erupt. At that moment he braced his hands against the small of my back, just over where my kidneys were, and finished us both with a last spasm of powerful thrusts . . .
When I next awoke, I was again lying prone in Byron's bed, where he had carried me after finishing with me on the kitchen floor.
"Are we awake now?" I heard Byron ask. I nodded. Then I felt a large, strong finger dab a gob of Vaseline on my sphincter and rub it in. A heavy weight pressed me deep into the mattress as I was once again mounted. When I felt the rubbery tip of the enormous organ poised at my entrance, I reached back with both hands and grasped my cheeks and pulled them apart, to grant Byron easier entry. After a few exploratory thrusts, Byron was able to navigate the head of his penis past my inner sphincters and around the bends of my colon, and was soon fully entrenched; with increasing and frightening power and urgency, yet again we copulated.
For the rest of that day and night, whenever Byron wanted me, he'd tap or slap me on the butt, I'd roll over on my belly if necessary, thrust my rump up, and Byron would clamber on top of me, work the tip of his Secretariat-sized member in, and begin probing for depth. (The last couple of sex sessions that night, he was able to drive in all the way to the balls on the very first thrust, proving that I had been well loosened up.) Except for bathroom breaks, neither of us got out of bed for the rest of Saturday. We both fell asleep sometime after midnight. All things, considered, a very memorable Saturday.
Sunday.
Sunday morning, I was awakened by Bryon's calls, beckoning me to the bathroom. When I entered the bathroom, I found Byron, grinning and sitting on the commode, nude and with his cock, which was the same length as my forearm from the elbow to my extended middle finger, standing fully erect. As he smeared baby oil on the weapon, giving it a glistening sheen, he said, "Grease your hole with some Vaseline, Tony, and sit on it."
"With pleasure!" I squealed, with what I'm afraid was a rather silly grin on my face.
I hurried back into the bedroom and fetched a jar of Vaseline. Returning to the bathroom, I turned my back to Byron and bent way over to give him a good view of my backside as I applied a large gob of petroleum jelly, using a couple of fingers to work some of it well up my anus and into my rectum. Positioning myself directly over Byron and with my back to him, I braced my hands on my bent knees and squatted until I could feel the head of his cock brush against my hole; my aim had been good.
Byron gripped me firmly around the waist with both hands, and gently pulled me down a couple of inches, working the glans of his cock up my tunnel. Since I was on top and Byron was seated on a hard seat (the commode's lid was down), most of the work for this session was up to me. I started out slowly, bending my knees slightly and lowering myself only for one or two inches, and maintained that depth for five, then ten thrusts. I repeated the process, lowering myself another couple of inches; considering how many inches Byron had, this would take a while for total insertion, but that was fine with me. We kept at it until Byron's cock had almost completely disappeared up my hole, pausing occasionally to dab on some jelly or baby oil.
To my surprise, Byron reached over to the bathroom sink, turned on the tap, and coated his hand with hot water and wet soap. I understood his motive when he reached around me and starting jacking off my own cock. I quickly grew hard, and, not having Byron's staying power, spurted my seed after just a few minutes. The moment I climaxed, I impaled myself all the way down onto Byron's upthrust cock, getting complete penetration. With a few animalistic grunts, Byron seized me again around the hips, and in quick succession, lifted me about halfway off his cock and then slammed me all the way back down onto it a dozen times.
With his cock buried all the way up me, he stood up from the commode and carried me into the bedroom. At first I thought he was going to toss both our bodies headlong onto the bed the way he had Friday night, but evidently this time he wanted to take me standing up.
Instinctively knowing the best angle of attack for Byron's cock, I stood on my tiptoes, leaned forward, locked my knees, and braced my hands on them.
"I'm ready," I said.
In reply, Byron withdrew his cock 15 or 16 of its 18 inches and slowly inched it back in. He loosened me up with five of these slow strokes, then jackhammered me with five powerful ones, our bodies heavily thudding when our pelvises crashed together. As sweat dripped off both our bodies, staining the bedroom carpet, Byron repeated this routine with an increasing number of reps: 10 slow thrusts, 10 hard thrusts, 15 slow thrusts, 15 hard thrusts. His stamina was incredible for a middle aged man, because I think he was up to sets of 45 or 50 reps when he first felt the insistent stirrings in his balls. When he felt his orgasm approaching, he gave up his practiced routine, clamped my hips in his hands with full strength, and battered me with what I estimated was a series of at least a hundred brutal thrusts up my colon.
I felt an eruption of hot goo in my bowels just below my stomach, and heard a series of spatters of cum, oil, and jelly as Byron shot his load and pulled his cock from my rectum with one monumental backward lunge. I tottered to the bed and tossed myself prone on the mattress, utterly exhausted.
"You're one in a million, Byron," I gasped. Byron assured me that the same was true of me.
"I'm gonna go eat some breakfast, Tony, good sex always makes me hungry," he said jovially, and turned and went toward the kitchen.
After a few minutes, I had recovered my strength well enough to join Byron in the kitchen. He had a hearty breakfast of pancakes, bacon, eggs, orange juice, and coffee; I limited myself strictly to coffee. This was Sunday, our last day together, and with a sort of mutual consent, for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, we rested and saved our strength for the concluding chapters of our anal marathon.
Thus far, 15 of the 20 numbers on that sheet of paper had been Xed through. Of course, as far as both of us were concerned, there was nothing magical or compulsory about the number 20; if we were able to make it more times than that, fine.
As a warm (inside the house, at least) and langorous Sunday afternoon passed by, we coupled whenever Byron's sperm reservoir permitted:
#16: As I stood before the toilet pissing, I felt Byron's strong hands pull down my drawers from behind and a couple of his fingers swab my anus with Vaseline. Without a word (or even change of expression), I stood up on my tiptoes, felt the greasy knob of the weapon against my sphincter and the strong hands clasp my waist. With a few deft gyrations of both our hips, the head and shaft were driven all the way up, followed by a violent series of thrusts and counterthrusts. An eruption. The deed done, I pulled my drawers back up, flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and exited the bathroom. Not a word had been said by either of us.
#17: We were sitting on the sofa watching TV when I noticed Byron's erection. I pulled down my pants and underwear and crouched on the living room floor doggie style, and was duly mounted and hammered hard. After an enormous load of sperm was shot into my bowels, I rested a couple of minutes, pulled up my pants and undershorts, and rejoined Byron on the sofa.
#18: In the kitchen, when I was retrieving a can of soda from the fridge, Byron entered, sat at a chair, and, smiling, pointed at his crotch. After taking a sip of soda, I bent down, unzipped his fly, fished his erect penis from its jock strap, and smeared some Crisco on it. Then I pulled down my own pants and drawers, mounted Byron, and rode him like a dutiful mare. After he spurted his sperm in my colon, I stood up, pulled my own drawers and pants up, coiled up his cock like a fire hose, returned it to its hiding place, and zipped his fly back up for him.
#19: When Byron exited the bathroom after taking a leak, he found me in the hallway, bent over with my pants and shorts pulled down to my ankles, my rump thrust up in the air with one hand smearing my anus with a large blob of Vaseline. "Please don't hurt me with that giant cock of yours, Master," I pleaded, "I promise I'll be good from now on, if only you'll be gentle with me." He whipped out his cock, easily shoved me into a prone position, mounted me, and drilled and finished me with a masterful flurry of thrusts.
But those were just preparatory matings, as fun as they were, and the Sunday sun had just set . . .
Before beginning our last set of couplings, Byron and I sat on the living room sofa and watched an hour or so of TV. Sensing that our time was growing short, Byron clicked off the TV set, nodded in the direction of his bedroom, and we stood from the sofa and walked into the bedroom, Byron's arm `round my shoulder.
For the past 48 hours, Byron's service as a stud had been magnificent. Time and again he had rammed his monstrous prick up me with the power of a locomotive, spurted quarts of his sperm up my rectum, and stretched my rear tunnel nearly to its limit. But I could now tell, on Sunday evening, that he was nearly exhausted, and the next few matings would require some special care.
In Byron's bedroom, I stripped completely and Byron stripped down to his jock strap, leaving that for me to remove. With some Vaseline and baby oil handy, I knelt before Byron and pulled down his jock strap. After uncoiling itself and unfurling down Byron's thighs, its head bouncing off his knees a couple of times, the fire hose-like appendage stirred slightly, but I could tell that after so much heavy use, it needed my ministrations to stiffen it again. I dabbed some Vaseline on a couple of my right hand's fingers and worked those fingers up Byron's anus to massage his prostate; with my left hand, I massaged his balls, kneading them in their sack; and with my mouth, I resuscitated his cock, first licking at the head of it and trying to work my tongue into the hole in its tip, and then taking the head into my mouth and sucking vigorously.
"Let's get you ready, Tony," Byron said softly, not wanting to waste his last couple of orgasms on a blowjob. At his direction, I bent deeply over the bed so that my head rested on the mattress, with my hands clasped behind my back. Byron coated my anus with a generous gob of Vaseline, and a moment later I felt the rubbery tip of his cock pressing against it.
"Suck it in like you done before, boy," Byron said.
I gulped, flexed my sphincter a couple of times, and then swallowed a few inches of the giant phallus into the lower part of my rectum, clinching and relaxing, clinching and relaxing. Byron reached `round me and grabbed my cock in one hand and my balls in the other, and squeezed, while driving his cock in about halfway to the hilt.
For the next couple of minutes, Byron simultaneously fucked and jacked me off, timing his own thrusts into my ass with his hand stroking my own cock. After I spurted, Byron pulled his cock out of me, climbed onto the bed, and instructed me, "Same position as the very first time, Tony--I think you called it `reverse cowgirl,' right? Sit on it."
After clambering onto the bed, I straddled Byron, facing his feet and with my rump poised over his cock. Groping with one hand, I located his cock, guided it to my hole, and began lowering myself down onto it. After about 20 downward plunges, my hole had engulfed about half of Byron's cock.
"When you've got it in almost all the way, mount me like the first time," I instructed.
"You got it," Byron answered.
I methodically worked my body lower and lower, descending an inch or two with a set of 20 downward thrusts, then repeating. After a few minutes of this, Byron swatted me on one buttock with one huge palm, telling me I'd reached the 15- or 16-inch mark. With a wet sucking noise, he pulled his entire organ out and waited for me to sprawl myself prone on the creaking bed, with my rump upturned.
As Byron mounted me, I swiped some sweat from my brow and asked a question I'd been meaning to ask: "Byron, why do you keep the house so warm?"
"Sex should be messy and sweaty," Byron answered matter-of-factly; I imagined him shrugging as he said it.
I felt the greasy tip of Byron's cock force its way a couple of inches into my hole, and then the whole 290-pound weight of his body pressed me into the hot, damp mattress. The masculine scent of him was overwhelming. Byron grasped my hips full strength with each hand, and simultaneously I thrust my rump upward and he drove his cock forward, our combined effort driving his sex into me to the balls.
For about a half hour, Byron used my smaller, weaker body, ramming all his 18 inches up me in five irresistible thrusts, waiting a few seconds, then savaging me with 10 similar thrusts, then 15. By about the time he got to reps of 35 or 40, I was making incoherent cooing noises, and had wrapped my arms and legs round his body as best I could, trying to force more of him into me. I was semiconscious and only vaguely aware of the brutal final assault that almost broke the iron bed's legs and the gush of hot spunk into my colon.
After extricating his cock, Byron sat on the bed's edge and gasped for breath while I also recuperated.
When Byron had gotten his breath back, he located the paper we'd been "keeping score" on and drew an X through the number 20. "I'm afraid I'm only good for one more time, Tony," he said afterward. "Let's make it the same as last week?" He was referring to the missionary position.
"Let me know when you're ready," I replied.
After a few minutes' rest, Byron said quietly, "Let's do it, Tony."
"One last time," I said.
"One last time."
I smeared more Vaseline on my anus, and with a bottle of baby oil, joined Byron on the bed. His cock, which seemed to be about half-erect when I approached, stiffened to its full foot-and-a-half attention when I wrapped both hands `round it and thoroughly coated it with baby oil; the little piss slit at the tip of it seemed to wink at me.
I straddled Byron, facing him and with my knees on either side of his body, pressing against his hips. With a lump in my throat, I realized that this would be the very last time I would breed with my lover.
With both arms, I embraced Byron with all my strength, and for the first time, kissed him, full on the lips. He returned the hug with a strength that dwarfed mine, then also returned the kiss. I became aware that with one hand he had grasped his prick and was positioning the tip of it at my opening.
I flexed my sphincter, and with a wet, smacking gushy noise, my expert and well-practiced rectal cavity seized and pulled the first couple inches of Byron's cock inside. With monumental patience, Byron somehow resisted the urge to instantly ram all his cock up me, and let me control the pace.
"Wrap your fist around the base of your cock, Byron," I gasped. "I don't want all of it till I'm on my back."
Byron complied with my request, seizing the base of his prick in one mighty fist.
Sweat poured in rivers down both our bodies as I impaled myself full force down to about the 11-inch mark, clinching my sphincter with full strength at the top of each stroke, and then plunging myself down, brutally, for dozens of times.
"Oh God," Byron gasped raggedly, "I need it now!"
I realized at once that Byron meant he needed full penetration; it was time for the last act.
I hurriedly lifted my whole body off of Byron's pistoning cock, causing the glistening weapon to swing back and forth wildly, and lay on my back on the bed's heaving mattress, grasping my knees with my hands and pulling them as far apart as possible.
"Ram it up me!" I cried.
With a crazed expression on his face, Byron hastened to mount me, positioning his huge body between my spread legs, and pointed his stallion-sized cock toward my hole. But at that very moment, his cock erupted, and gobbets of pearly hot jiz flew across my body, splattering on my abdomen, chest, and face. (I was able to lick and swallow some of it.) For the first and only time during our brief but sizzling hot relationship, Byron had had a premature ejaculation.
"Don't worry, Tony, I got more," Byron roared.
He mounted me, pressing me deep into the mattress with his full weight, and with both hands I located and gripped his cock, and guided it to my hole.
Byron's eyes fixed onto and then locked on mine as he forcefully thrust himself in. Four inches in. Eight. Twelve. Fifteen. When we both knew that the next set of thrusts would bury the whole 18-inch shaft, I clutched Byron's body close to mine with both my arms and legs, and he gripped my hips full force.
"Gyaaah!" we both screamed as Byron drove in all the way to the balls.
With every ounce of strength remaining in his massive body, Byron made love to me, our exertions seeming to go on forever. He jack hammered me deep into the violently shaking bed's sodden mattress 50, then 100, then God knows how many times, and a tremendous shudder racked his body as he shot the last gout of his seed; I had drained him.
After we had lain, heaving and gasping several minutes for breath, Byron laboriously pulled the elongated python of his cock from my hole, and I clamped my sphincter shut, trying to keep as much of his seed as I could.
Finished.
At long last, we were finished. I glanced at the clock which read 12:25 a.m., or 0025 in the military time I was so adept at using. With nary a word between us, Byron and I both dressed, me including a big wad of toilet paper in my drawers to keep them from being stained.
"Here's a souvenir to remember me by," Bryon said, handing me the sheet of paper on which I saw that all the numbers, 1 through 20, had been marked through. I folded it up and put it in one of my pants pockets, not giving it much thought at the time. Any souvenirs he got from me? The remaining Vaseline and baby oil I'd bought for us that Friday evening, I guess.
Byron drove me to the convenience store where he'd picked me up Friday and let me out. For some reason we each extended and shook hands. (As if shaking hands was the logical thing to do after having a baseball bat sized cock rammed up my bowels all weekend long.) Without a word, Byron pulled the Cadillac's front passenger door shut with a clunk, and drove off. I watched as the Cadillac's red tail lights faded into the fog and then were lost, then turned, and with a throbbing ache in my lower abdomen, walked to my base.
. . . Thirty-some years later, in the present, grasping that old scrap of yellowed paper, it occurs to me that Byron and I miscounted slightly. He'd be in his 70's or 80's now, if he's still around, I think to myself. Grasping a pencil, I whisper, "So long, Byron," write the number 21 on the yellow, wrinkled sheet, draw an X through the number, fold the paper back up, and return it to its dresser drawer.
The complete song mentioned earlier in the story:
The Fucking Machine
A sailor told me before he died--
I know not whether the bastard lied--
He had a wife with a twat so wide
That she could never be satisfied.
So he fashioned out a big fucking wheel,
Attached it to a big prick of steel,
Made two balls and filled them with cream,
And the whole fucking thing was run by steam.
Round and round went the big fucking wheel,
In and out went the big prick of steel.
`Til at last the maiden cried,
"Enough, enough. I'm satisfied."
But here is a case of the bitter bit:
There was no way of stopping it.
The maiden was torn from twat to teat,
And the whole fucking thing went up in shit.