The Bubble Butt and the Linebacker by Sizemore
The story starts last fall, one Saturday afternoon when I was working at the Java Joint. It looked like it was going to be a pretty slow day. The Java Joint's a small shop--very old school. We pride ourself on using coffee from independent roasters; we serve all our drinks in real china if you're getting it to stay. There's a shelf full of used books (on the honor system--take a book, leave a book), and none of our furniture matches. We've got our band of loyal customers on weekday mornings--commuters in for their coffee fix before they go downtown--and there's that crowd of students on weekday evenings who are there to cram for exams. Afternoons and weekends are a crapshoot, though, and that day it looked like I'd rolled craps.
Just when I was running out of ways to amuse myself, in walked this guy. Ruggedly handsome, but that wasn't the first thing that struck me. The first thing I noticed was just how big he was. I don't mean fat--probably not an ounce of flab on him. But he was like 6-foot-6, and built like a linebacker. Muscles in all the right places, you know. Just a little hint of dark stubble around his angular jaw, and green eyes set in a slightly tanned face that was framed by jet-black hair. The nose looked like it had been broken once or twice. He was wearing a blue dress shirt that showed off pecs and delts that any personal trainer would be proud of, and hinted that the stomach was tight but not perfect. Jeans, not too tight--obviously chosen for comfort and leaving plenty to the imagination.
I got a long look at him because it took him a long while to stare at the menu board. It was like he'd never ordered from a coffee shop before or something. I was just on the point of asking him if he needed me to explain anything when he settled on the house special--a doppio espresso macchiato with a light drizzle of chocolate and a hint of orange zest.
"Good choice sir," I said. "For here or to go?"
"For here. Thanks."
"It'll be up in a minute." I took his money and turned to start making the drink.
It was a few moments before I noticed that he was staring at my ass the whole time I was making the drink. As far as I'm concerned, I'm not, for the most part, much to look at. I'm 22, light brown hair, not bad looking if I'm honest, but I've always been pretty thin. I go to the gym, sure, but it's always been a challenge putting on much muscle. The one exception has always been my ass, which is a total bubble butt. It's like it's the one asset (so to speak) God gave me. When I was in high school, I tried to wear baggy clothes so no one would notice. After I went off to college and came out, I realized that you can use your ass to your advantage sometimes, so I've stopped trying to hide it. I'm still self-conscious about it sometimes, though.
Like this time. For some reason, it felt weird having this hot guy staring at my ass while I was trying to zest an orange onto a demitasse of espresso.
Anyway, I gave him the drink, and I figured that would be the end of it. I mean, he wasn't exactly the first hot guy to walk into my coffee shop, and usually the most that happens is a wink and a nod. He took the cup and put it on the coffee table near the couch. He then went to the bookshelf and grabbed something.
About a half hour went by, during which I served maybe about four other customers. Like I said, pretty slow. I took the chance to go out from behind the counter to bus the dirty dishes. He was still there.
"You finished with your cup, sir?" I said.
"Oh--yes, thanks."
"How'd you like the house special?"
"Good. Small. But good."
"Yeah, a lot of people don't zero in on how it's a doppio, so it comes small."
"Hey--do you mind if I order something else?"
"Sure. I'll bring it out to you, even. Normally I don't do table service, but in your case--"
"Cool. Can I get a coffee? Just a regular, black, drip coffee?"
"We don't do that. Just kidding. Of course I can do that. Small, medium, or large?"
"Medium's fine. For here. I'm getting into this book."
I went to pour his coffee, and I brought it back. "What are you reading?"
He showed me. The Plague, by Camus.
"Not at all what I thought you'd be into," I said.
"What--because you think I'm a dumb jock or something?"
"No. Not that at all. It's just--that's a black turtleneck and clove cigarette sort of book. You look too...well, too middle-of-the road to be the type that's into French existentialism."
"Well, I guess there's a lot you don't know about me," he said.
"In fairness, there's almost nothing that I do know about you. So far, I know that you drink coffee, read Camus, and are touchy about some things."
"We can talk about it later, I guess. When do you get off work?"
Now there's a question that a boy doesn't often get to hear. Could mean a few different things. I figured I'd just answer and see where it went. "Six o'clock."
"So if I leave and come back at about 6:10, you'll be out of uniform and having a post-work cup of tea or something?" Code for: hang around after work and don't go anywhere.
6:10 rolled around, and there he was. As predicted, I had hung up my apron and was sitting in a leather chair with an iced tea. He walked right in and sat in the chair across the coffee table from mine. "Yo," he said. "How's it going?" I replied. "Not bad. Had to go take care of a few things." "Got it. How'd you get into Camus?" "Oh, you know--I get some down time, so I read a lot. Got a question for you. You gay?" It was all I could do to stop from laughing. "What's so funny?" "I've just never met anyone who was that...direct before." "I don't have time for bullshit. Why not just cut to the chase, you know?" "We're not here to talk about books, are we. And yes, I'm gay. If I weren't, would I have been sitting here waiting for you?" His turn to laugh. "No, I guess not." "So, um--Mr.--sorry." "Sorry. Just Zach will do." "Good to meet you, Zach. Derek." We shook hands. So, Zach--what do you do for a living?" "I'm in the entertainment business, I guess you'd say. In town just for the weekend." "Okay. Just a weekend gig. Got it. You a musician?" I could picture him in a band or something. "Nope. Sorry. I'm a football player." Huh. He had to mean professional--too old to be college. I took another look at him. Nope--no idea who he was. "What position do you play?" "Linebacker." Not a bad first guess I'd made, then. A linebacker for real. For the visiting team. "Hey, wait a sec--shouldn't you have been at practice this afternoon when you were in here earlier?" "No," he said. "I'm injured. They've held me out of this game and next, at least. I travel with the team for moral support, or so they say, but not only don't I practice, I can't. If I do, they have to treat me as if I'd played this week, and--oh, boring shit about rosters and salary caps. You know." I didn't know, to be honest. I'll go to a baseball game every so often--great way of spending a summer afternoon--and thanks to this one ex, I do follow football a bit. But the finer details of sports business have always eluded me. "What did you injure?" "My ankle. Nothing too big. Bad sprain. Honestly, I probably could be playing tomorrow, but they can't be too careful, as they keep telling me." "It occurs to me," I said, "that I didn't ask the one obvious follow-up question. Are YOU gay?" He laughed. "No comment." "So, um...can I get you a cup of coffee? I'm off the clock, but I can still comp you one." "No, no coffee. I'd like a piece of your ass, though." "You ARE direct. I like that. So I know where I stand." I felt myself actually blushing a bit. "It's, uh, not on the menu. Not here, anyway. What did you have in mind, exactly?" "Well, my car is parked a block away, and my hotel's right downtown." "Cool. But Zach, aren't you worried about--you know, running into your teammates?" "Relax. I planned around that. They're at a team dinner right now. I'm skipping that; I told everyone I have the stomach flu. No one cares too much, since I'm not playing tomorrow or next week anyway, but since I made that excuse, I'm actually *supposed* to be in my hotel room right now. And as for you--you could be anybody. If we have to, it'd be easier to explain than you think." As we walked to his car, he made a studied effort to avoid even looking at me, and the conversation was innocuous. This was to avoid drawing attention to the fact he was picking up a guy, I'm sure. But if anyone was looking, and they weren't, they wouldn't have been fooled--I couldn't keep my eyes off of him, and my jeans were very distinctly starting to tent. "So, what kind of music do you like?" he asked. "Oh, a little bit of everything. Some classic rock, some indie bands that I picked up here and there, old jazz--I even have some classical at home." "Cool--so do I. I've gotten into opera," he said. At this point he glanced at me just a bit. I must have looked less surprised than he expected. "Strauss, Verdi, you name it. Wagner goes well with football, you know." We reached his car--a rented Chevy, not at all what I pictured a football player picking--and got in. We sat for a moment. "So, what are you into?" "Verdi, I guess." "No," he said, "what are you into?" He grabbed my crotch and massaged my cock a bit. At this point I had a raging hard-on. "I"m usually up for anything. I'm pretty versatile." "I can see that. You've got an ass to die for, but you're not so bad up front either. What's the hottest sex you've ever had?" "I once had a dick up each end--that was awkward at first, but got hotter once I got used to it. I admit that the guy I was blowing wasn't having much fun, because my ass was getting fucked too hard for me to concentrate on that part of it." "Hot." He kept massaging my cock. "You're a little slut, aren't you." It wasn't a question. "So what about you?" I asked. "What's your hottest sex?" "Dunno," he said. "It's yet to come, I'm sure of that." He gave my thigh something halfway in between a pat and a slap, and he started the engine. If you've ever been picked up by a random stranger, and it's his car you're riding in, you know that it's at right about this point that you start to feel a little bit nervous. He's totally in control, and if you've read the situation wrong, you could wind up--well, at best, with some uncomfortably bad sex followed by a long walk home, or at worst you could wind up a victim. But those of us who let ourselves get picked up by random strangers on a semi-regular basis find that part exciting: He's totally in control. And--to get back to my story--in this case, my nerves were making me even hornier. We wasted no time when we got to his hotel room. He shut the door almost with the same motion with which he pinned me to the wall and started eating my face. His hands cupped my ass and hardly moved from there, but he started massaging my butt as he thrust his tongue deeper into my mouth. My own hands moved all over his back and up through his hair. Our cocks were rubbing against each other through our jeans. He came up for air just long enough to say, "Would you like a drink or something?" But I didn't respond, except by taking my turn to kiss him. As we kissed, we unbuttoned each other's shirts and slipped them off. The new sensation of bare chest against bare chest kept the make-out session going. He used his hands on my ass to maneuver us towards the bed as we kept making out. Then he threw me down on it--okay, I sort of let myself get thrown--and he unbuckled my belt as I kicked off my shoes. He yanked my pants off by the cuffs, leaving me sitting there in just my underwear--briefs that day. They had been white when I bought them, but I made the mistake about a year ago of washing that pair in a load of colors, so they were a pale shade of pink. The head of my cock was sticking out over the elastic. "Happy to see me?" He said. I just grinned. I moved to take off the briefs, but he grabbed my wrist. "No--don't pull off those pink panties of yours until I tell you to. And stay right there." He turned to the dresser, and pulled out a jockstrap. And not a clean one, either. He threw it at me; it landed on my face. It smelled pungent, musty, like a man. It smelled like cock. "You like that?" he said, as he walked over and pushed the jockstrap up against my nose. "You like the way I smell?" "Mmm-hmmmfff," I managed. "You like that, you panty-wearing pussy? "Mmmmmm." You want the real thing?" He pulled the jock off my face. "Yes." "Let's see your man-pussy, then," he said. "Roll over." I did. He went to the foot of the bed, grabbed my hips, and pulled me towards him. At this point, I was on my knees, with my face on the bed. He pulled down my panties--even I was thinking about them as such now--until they were down around my knees. "Damn, that's a fine ass," he said. He slapped it a bit, and then massaged it. "Stay there," he said. I did. I did move a pillow so I wouldn't be as uncomfortable. He saw that, and said, "Good--don't want the neighbors to hear you moan." Next thing I knew, I felt the cold wetness of lube on my anus. He rubbed it around, and then stuck a finger in. He moved it in and out, getting it all slick. Then two fingers; down to the last knuckle, felt like. He twisted them as he did this. "Ready for my cock?" he asked. "Yes. Oh, god yes." "Just a sec." He took his pants and underwear off--we still hadn't gotten there--stroked his already-hard cock, and rolled a condom onto it. Making me wait, as my ass was poking up in his face, all exposed and chilly from the lube, actually made me more desperate to have him--all of him. I got my wish soon enough. First he stuck the head in, and I felt that red warmth that getting fucked always gives you. Slowly, he thrust a little bit farther. His was the kind of cock that might not have been a monster, length-wise--about average--but my god was it thick. My ass hadn't been opened up like this in a long time. "How are you doing?" "Ooohhhh." He began to thrust--slowly in and out, while my body opened up to him. "God, this is the best ass I've had in a long time," he said. He paused when he was all the way in, and I could feel his pelvis against my ass. He held me there, against him, and I knew I had him where I wanted him. He leaned down, and as he started to thrust again, he started massaging my nipples. I was in ecstasy. I turned my head and we kissed. From here, I wish I could remember the play-by-play, but all I can tell you is how I felt. It was fucking amazing. He fucked fast, then slow, then fast again. Sometimes I go a little soft when I get fucked, but this time I was doing the opposite. My cock kept getting harder and harder. He hit the sweet spot, and I had the man of my dreams on top of me, and he was fucking me like he meant it. We were both kneeling on the bed, with him holding me as he fucked. It was--oh, wow. Eventually my moans became shouts. As he hit a crescendo of fast deep thrusts, I shouted out and my cock exploded. Out came ribbon after ribbon of my seed. It was only a moment later that he shouted too. Both spent, we lay down on the bed. He held me, and just sort of stroked my hair a bit. "That was the best fuck I think I've ever had," he said. "You're fucking amazing, Derek." "I was just about to say the same thing," I said. "You know, I've never come while bottoming before. My god--that was fantastic." We kissed. "You staying the night?" he asked. "Absolutely. But--Zach, it's not even nine o'clock." He laughed. "Good point. You hungry? This place does pretty good room service...and you need to get your strength up. There's a whole lot more sex to get in. And we never did have that talk about books, either."This is the first part of perhaps four or five; let me know what you think.