Date: Sun, 31 Jan 2016 11:32:46 +0000 (UTC)
From: Boyatt Hart <boyatthart@yahoo.com>
Subject: Two Bulls for Damian ch 1 (Revised)

As with most of my stories, a bit of my history has been mixed with liberal
amounts of fiction to create what you are about to read.  All of the
players are at least 18 years of age and, hence, perfectly legal.  As usual
I was horny and perusing Nifty for some stories I might be able to jack off
or go fuck my old man to, but I guess my tastes are less than common.  So I
am reviving my usual assortment of characters and adding a new one and
putting it out here for anyone else who might fit with my little niche of
gay erotica...huge bulky men with big bulky dicks.  I hope the scenarios I
have in mind for this one will keep me interested enough and be varied
enough for me not to feel that I am repeating myself already before I can
bring it to a conclusion.  Call it my New Year's resolution.  ;-)

I'm grateful to the kind folks at Nifty Archive for giving us this forum to
share our sexual adventures and/or fantasies and strongly encourage you to
donate to them by going to http://www.nifty.org/nifty/ and clicking on the
"Donate" button.

I give permission only to Nifty Archive to publish this and respectfully
ask that you read and leave it here rather than repost it to any other of
your favorite online forums for sexual content.


TWO BULLS FOR DAMIAN

by Boyatt Hart


Chapter 1: The Bulls

The following events unfolded in the mid and late 70s, before the advent of
bear/daddy culture and, especially, AIDS. The sex was dangerously
unprotected in retrospect and terms like bear, cub, daddy, son, otter, pup,
etcetera, were nowhere to be found in the vocabulary of the average gay
fellow who often had no role models to counter the notion that he was
unique in the world, the only one who had to live with the tormenting shame
of those confounding and conflicting feelings and desires.

To say it was isolating to be gay and drawn to large men, strength culture
and other masculine pursuits in an age when gay was exclusively
characterized by youthful flamboyance, femininity and multi-floor disco
palaces would be a huge understatement.  Although, I must confess, in
hindsight it did make scoring all the more furtive, exciting and
rewarding. The downside, of course, was that the dry spells could be long
and frustrating; so long and frustrating, in fact, that I was already 31
when my first score finally happened in 1976.

I'll spare you the blow-by-blow details that led me to him, a man named
Luther, in order to get to the heart of this story as efficiently as
possible.  But I will say that he turned out to be well worth the wait and
must take the time to share as much as is required to put the remainder of
this tale in proper context.

In short, Luther was everything I prized in a man, and everything I strove
to be as a man.  At 48 years of age he was a perfect specimen of what I
called a bull at the time, standing five feet eleven inches and tipping the
scales at well over 300 strapping, powerfully built pounds (wide, thick and
round without a hint of blubber), and he was hung like a bull, too.  To
this day I've never seen another man who made a pair of slacks bulge at the
crotch the way he did.  It was always tantalizingly on display whether he
was seated or upright and walking.

Luther's face was round and he always had a twinkle in his eyes that made
him seem jolly.  His jaw was square and prominent with a strong chin, his
clean shaven beard so heavy that it tattooed the bottom half of his face
with a rich blue-black hue, and his wide forehead was neatly trimmed by
thinning hair slicked straight back with Brylcreem as almost all men of his
generation still commonly applied at the time.

Although he was nothing you could call pretty or handsome in any classic
sense of those words, he was far from ugly and the coarseness of his manly
facial features imbued them with a rugged beauty that exuded pride in his
clearly deep roster of masculine attributes.  Yet he always sported this
broad, disarming smile that was warm enough to melt glaciers.

His voice was a deep, soothing baritone that was at once soft yet
commanding due to the way it reverberated in his immense chest.  My knees
nearly buckled at the sound of it as he strode up and introduced himself to
me on my first day of work on a new job.  Proffering a platter-sized paw as
thick as the two of my hands together for a handshake that I think was
probably meant to gauge the strength of my grip as much as it was to serve
as a friendly gesture he said, "Luther Bruchner!" (pronounced brook-ner)

His left paw took my meaty right shoulder in a firm squeeze that he
unabashedly let linger too long as he swallowed my larger than average
right hand in his and vigorously pumped it.

Making sure to match the power in his grip as exactly as I could I smiled
and replied, "Terry Anderson!"

Before it was over his left hand had crept up my shoulder and begun
casually kneading the densely mounded trapezius that rose from my shoulder
to my neck.

"Nice to meet you, Terry, and welcome to the office," he concluded with
that incredible smile, then turned his magnificently broad back to me and
returned to his desk.

At a height of six feet one inch I had a muscular 250+ pound build with a
firm, prominent belly shaped much like a smaller version of Luther's.  I
had been proudly cultivating that belly for over eight years by then and
was used to dwarfing most men in my presence.  I could already feel the
stealthy glances of most of the other men in the office comparing
themselves to "the new guy", but Luther had thrown me for a bit of a loop.
Feeling dwarfed in the presence of another man as I had with Luther was a
rare and thrilling experience for me and, frankly, there was just something
different about the way he had sized me up.

I first took up weightlifting for high school football in the early 60s and
found that my muscles responded well to the stimulation. I liked what I saw
as the result.  Add to that the pleasure of what I called a lifter's
hard-on to play with at the end of each grueling session and, except for a
two year stint in the Army right out of high school where I did what I was
told, somehow I just never managed to put them down.

By the late 60s when the superheavyweight weightlifters began to grab the
public's attention I discovered my masculine ideal of the male form and
strove to achieve it as closely as I could in the privacy of a one car
garage. It had never even once actually housed my car thanks to my growing
hodge-podge collection of metal and vinyl-clad plates purchased as needed
to satisfy my insatiable appetite for greater gains.

At any rate, my first sighting of those majestic muscle mountains with
their enormous, round, hard looking bellies that seemed to lead their
powerful strides caused my hard-on to almost tear through my trousers.  I
immediately ramped up my routines and began consuming food in the most
outrageous quantities I could afford as a young man fresh out of college.

The only equipment available to me as a garage lifter at that time was the
bench that came with my first home weight set, for the bench press.
Looking back, having worked my way up to a bench press of eight to ten
repetitions at over 300 pounds I was probably stressing it beyond what it
was built for, but the thought of it buckling under the strain never
crossed my determined young mind at the time.

For all of my other exercises I had to clean weights that sometimes
approached 300 pounds from the ground to commence them.  As a result I had
developed a strong muscular core that proudly girded my expanding belly and
held it up front-and-center, framed by wide shoulders, a thick chest, what
showed between my traps of a 17+ inch neck and a beefy set of muscular
thighs.

Luther clearly approved and curiously seemed to feel no compunction about
satisfying his curiosity by blatantly copping a feel in front of all
present.  Suffice it to say that nobody dared challenge the colossus, a
former Marine who served in Korea I would soon learn, as he quickly laid
claim to me by matter-of-factly announcing that I would be riding shotgun
with him on my new job.

It was only a matter of three days being alone with him in his car six to
seven hours a day before he sussed me out as a gay man and quickly put me
at ease by sharing that his marriage had recently ended abruptly when he
confided to his wife that he was bisexual.  Respecting the honesty between
them he flat out admitted that, since their marriage was by that point
sexless and their son had graduated college and moved out of state, he
intended to explore it.  She moved out within days.

"I've never yet acted on these feelings, but I guess even the idea of me
engaging in sex with another man was just too much for her," he said in a
tone of voice that betrayed his sense of loss without sounding at all
regretful.

"If she's been gone for more than six months then why have you still not
acted?" I asked.

"Haven't yet run across a man who I felt understood what it is I value in a
man, I guess...till now, that is," he responded with a wry smile.

Our guards fell by the wayside as our friendship quickly blossomed and by
the end of our second week together we agreed to deepen the friendship by
becoming clandestine fuck buddies.

On my first weekend visit to his house to consecrate our mutually agreed
arrangement we quickly got to stripping our clothes off and, as the first
to shed his last stitch of clothing, he displayed himself fully naked with
bold confidence.  I paused to look him over and was relieved to find that,
much like me, for the coarse hair that decorated his thick forearms and
legs, his powerfully built torso was only minimally hirsute and only in the
most interesting places.

He casually stood before me with his powerful looking arms akimbo, ham
sized fists resting on his wide hips, kingly chest and belly seductively
heaving as he breathed, and trained his expectant gaze on me as I
nonchalantly peeled off my briefs.  He was clearly pleased to see that I
was equally at ease putting myself on display for him and that my cock,
although circumcised, compared as proportionately as the rest of my
physical presence did to his.

"Had you figured for a nice one, sport," he confided with an approving grin
as he watched me quickly erect in response to the visual stimulus of his
denuded physical enormity.

Luther, in turn, wasn't the least bit self-conscious about his own hulking,
hooded member throbbing to life under my shameless gaze and lifting off the
massive ball sac that regally rested against his tree trunk thighs as he
admired the muscularity of my nude form.  He slowly approached me, his
corpulent hard-on lazily wagging from side to side above his huge, sagging
balls in rhythm to the pump of his mighty thighs as he tentatively strode
forward.

"I must be dreaming," he sighed as he reached out and explored my body with
both hands, sinking his cock-thick fingers into my muscular density.

"I hope not," I replied as I inched forward the last bit required to bring
our bellies in contact, causing the heads of our fully distended dicks to
kiss as well.

I sank my fingers into the natural muscular density of his wide, thick
shoulders and felt him shiver a bit.

"Forgive me if I get this all wrong.  I've never kissed a man before," he
softly spoke in his mellifluous baritone, "but I guess there's a first time
for everything."

In truth I was scared to death because at 31 I still had never kissed
anyone in a sexual way, but I was hungry for the experience and put up no
resistance as I felt him palm the back of my head in one of his meaty hands
then press my face to his.  With one mighty thrust of his thick tongue he
pried my lips and teeth apart and proceeded vigorously to fuck my virgin
mouth with it as my nostrils filled with his manly scent.

I shivered in lust at his bold advance and instinctively slid my arms
around his barrel chest, squeezing him so hard I would have surely crushed
a lesser man in such a full-force embrace.  He never flinched, though, and
merely moaned in contented satisfaction as he continued his skillful
assault on my oral cavity, our swollen hard-ons sword fighting beneath our
protruding bellies as they pressed together ever more tightly.

After who knows how long he released my head from his grasp and gently
stroked my beard with both of his hands.  The two of us panting like dogs
in heat, I released him from my grasp as well and slid my hands up on top
of his.

He then slowly roamed one of them down over my chest and belly, clearly
savoring the tactile rewards of my bulky contours, until he reached my
thick, throbbing hard-on.  Taking it in a firm grip he used it to tug me
closer and whispered in my ear, "Let's see what other trouble we can get
into."

What transpired over the next nearly 48 hours was exactly what you would
expect from two men who had starved for a lifetime for the sexual
stimulation and comforting feel of another man's skin against his own.  In
that one masterful and impassioned kiss he had smashed down all the
barriers that had surrounded us and stood between each of us and our
personal fulfillment.

I had never felt more grateful, and might never again, as I felt in that
glorious moment when he freed us both from our fears of the unknown and set
us happily afloat in a flood of the sloppiest, nastiest, most uninhibited
torrent of man sex that your imagination can conjure.  So by all means let
it go wild, dear reader, and you probably still won't come close to what we
actually did with and to each other's substantial body as we set sail on
our new adventure.


(I hope you enjoyed yourself.  To be continued as time permits.)