Date: Thu, 4 Dec 2008 01:54:57 -0500
From: James English <swimmingcock81@hotmail.com>
Subject: Speedos in SoCal: Part I

Speedos in SoCal

By swimmingcock81@hotmail.com

Part I: A Day at the Beach

    Certain things always feel good. Strong hands making delicate circles
across bare shoulders. Smooth, warm skin rubbing against smooth, warm
skin. Wet lips and probing tongues slipping about each other. A thick cock
slowly entering a snug asshole. Across the varied spectrum of gay men,
these sensations are uniformly desired and admired.
    Other sensations, however, offer particular pleasures to particular
recipients. For me, one sensation has always brought a curious pleasure to
my body and mind. Or rather, one piece of clothing. A speedo.
    I was twelve, I think, when I donned my first speedo to compete in a
swim meet. I had little idea what I was getting into--quite literally--when
my coach hastily tossed to me and my fellow teammates fresh pairs of
speedos right before the meet began. Along with my other hesitant
teammates, I warily slid my legs into that tight band of fabric. For me,
the reaction was electric; the sudden hug of the suit about my ass and
crotch made me hard. It was a sensation unlike any other, one that was
deeply intimate and uncontrollably exhilarating. Not so for my teammates,
who stared at the hard dick inside my speedo and giggled playfully as they
hurried past me out onto the pool deck with limp dicks.
    Alone in the locker room, I couldn't lose my boner. I started to relax
but then, as I walked past the mirrors and towards the exit, the sight of
my tightly bundled package sent a surge through my dick. So I stood there,
looking in the mirror at my hard rod and firm ass bound inside the red
sheen of that brand new speedo.
    The starting guns banged, the crowds shouted, and I missed all of my
events that day. When the coach came into the locker room calling my name,
I hid in a shower stall. Then, once he left, I turned up the hot water,
tugged at my cock through my speedo, and vigorously beat myself off--three
times--before the meet ended. Only when the crowds cleared did I sneak out
of the locker room. That night, at home and alone in my room, I pulled out
my speedo and slipped into it before getting in bed. I was twelve; I was in
love with a piece of clothing.
    As a confused gay teenager, the pieces of my sexuality came together
through speedos. I started to wonder what my friends would look like in
speedos. I got hard not just when I wore speedos but at the sight of other
boys in speedos. Despite the constant struggle to fight back hard-ons, I
stayed on the swim team, in part, so that I could continue to see boys in
speedos. What's more, I could put giant posters of my favorite
swimmers--all wearing speedos--all around my room without the least
suspicion from my parents. I beat off countless times to the life-size
Olympic bulges that surrounded my bed.
    The first time I kissed a boy I was in a backyard pool, wearing a navy
blue speedo. The first handjob I ever received came as my best friend
pulled my throbbing, eager cock from a red speedo. The first boy I ever
blew was a teammate who wore, beneath a pair of jeans, a black speedo. My
first give--and minutes later, my first take--took place in another locker
room shower stall where my moaning boyfriend and I humped each other wildly
as our team-issued green speedos hung halfway down our smooth thighs.
    After high school a swimming scholarship granted me four more years of
speedos. Two gay teammates made those years particularly interesting.
Speedos were present at my first threesome and my first and second
university citations for having sex in inappropriate places (i.e. in the
university pool and on the one-meter springboard--with a diver, of
course). They also elevated my profile on campus; after my speedo-bound
bulge and muscled torso had strutted the pool deck at a few well-attended
swim meets, I found a steady stream of undergraduate guys--in addition to
two law students and an associate professor--seeking me out at parties and
finding their way into the comforts of my bed.
    Speedos also came with me to SoCal where, as a fresh-faced twenty-two
year old, I began graduate studies in History at UCLA. Under the eternal
California sun I began a new chapter in my life with an eighteen year-old
car, four hundred dollars in my checking account, eighty pounds of History
books, three duffel bags full of clothes, and a backpack full of speedos.
    I expected sunny days with tan, blonde boys on the beach and warm
nights with wet lips clasped firmly about my cock. I expected steamy West
Hollywood clubs filled with bare-chested muscle queens, Palm Springs pool
parties with seas of speedo-clad beauties, and Orange County beaches with
scruffy-haired, lean-bodied surfers. I expected to fall pitifully for
blue-eyed boys and to be mystified painfully by dark-eyed men. And, of
course, I expected to study Thucydides, Livy, and other names in Classical
History. Four years in, I can safely say I got all that I expected...and
much more.

    Four days after leaving Minnesota I crossed the deserts of southern
California and began looking for a sign. What, I wondered, would
appropriately mark and symbolize my passage into a new state, a new
climate, a new culture--a veritable new world for me? The Los Angeles
county sign was less than inspiring; the sprawl of the San Bernardino
Valley hardly seemed picturesque; even the sight of the LA skyline didn't
stir up in me any grand emotions. So as planned I drove along the ten to
the apartment of a friend in Santa Monica, unloaded my car, and tried to
contemplate what my first steps in my new city should be.
    Unable to come up with any options of my own, I called a college
friend. I should have predicted what his advice would be: "Shit, boy, c'mon
now. Get yourself laid. Every new gay to LA should bust a nut first before
doing anything else."
    "Charming," I replied.
    "It's the truth. Why'd you go to LA anyway?"
    I thought about being contrary and mentioning my great faculty adviser
at UCLA, but I opted not to. Part of the draw of LA certainly rested
between the hips of buff boys.
    "Fair enough," I said. "I've got four hours before Jamie's back from
work. Any suggestions?"
    "Yay," he cheered as I rolled my eyes, "I know the perfect beach you
should go to..."
    And soon I was heading off by bike with boardshorts, a baby blue speedo
underneath, a T-shirt, and a beach towel flung over my shoulder. I briefly
contemplated a more restrained, noble trip to the UCLA campus but my eager
cock vetoed the thought.
    I had only to navigate through a few busy blocks of Santa Monica before
I was biking along The Strand with the great grey-blue expanse of the
Pacific Ocean to my left. It was a Tuesday afternoon, but the beach was
densely dotted with sunbathers, beach volleyball players, and couples under
umbrellas.
    Unaccustomed to so much bare flesh, I nearly crashed head on with
several other bikers and rollerbladers. In high school in Minneapolis and
college in the Northeast I had to wait through agonizing winters and
springs before I could see any boys shirtless who weren't on my swim team.
In my first ten minutes cruising The Strand I counted no fewer than eight
guys whose six-packs rippled impressively in the late-summer sun. Eager to
flaunt a bit myself, I considered stopping my bike to take off my shirt,
but I restrained myself.
    Rainbow umbrellas unambiguously demarcated the beginning of the strip
of beach I was looking for. At first glance about seventy-five bodies
appeared to be on display near the umbrellas. I chained up my bike and,
with my heart beating in my throat, began trekking across the sand to my
first gay beach.
    I had seen a gay beach before on a family vacation but I didn't enter
its thong-covered sands on account of my younger siblings. They preferred
that their "superstar swimmer" older brother raced them in the water rather
than kicked back on the sand with strangers. I couldn't blame them for
that. Still, between dunking my little brother in the waves and hoisting my
little sister on my shoulders I had stolen many a glance at the glistening
bodies of the gay beach.
    Before I even entered the tangle of beach towels and umbrellas on that
northern Santa Monica beach I felt the eyes on me. I was somewhat prepared
for that. The few times I had gone to gay bars in Minneapolis I was forced
to come to terms with the fact that my sandy-blonde hair, bright smile, and
muscled frame often caused the pent up sexual energies of forty-somethings
to overheat. I noticed this acutely when a man had, I thought at first,
casually bumped his crotch into my ass as we jockeyed for positions near
the bar. When I looked at the man, however, I saw that the minor friction
between us had left a sizeable jizz stain on the front of his jeans. While
the egotist in me would like to claim that ejaculation as evidence of my
irresistible sexuality, the realist in me is forced to note that the
incident probably also says something about how severely undersexed some
Minnesota gays are.
    So one by one heads began turning towards me, the blonde whose pecs
bulged through his T-shirt and whose biceps gently curved into the ends of
his short sleeves. The many pairs of eyes, however, were occluded by dark
sunglasses on virtually every head. Some of the men seemed to believe this
rudimentary camouflage would conceal the fact that their necks had
tellingly turned their heads in my direction. Careful not to let
self-consciousness slip in, I met the gaze of only a few pairs of
sunglasses before lifting my chin and focusing my eyes out to sea.
    I wanted so badly to begin scouring the beach for tight bodies in even
tighter swimwear. I held my dignity a few moments longer, however, as I
found an open patch on sand and cast open my towel to claim my territory.
Then, I realized, a decisive moment had come. I realized this mostly
because out of the corners of my eyes every head I saw was turned my way.
All that was missing was a shout of "fresh meat" as I began to disrobe.
    I could easily surmise the thoughts in my fellow beachgoers heads. Will
the boardshorts come off, or just the shirt? (Both.) Is he as toned as his
bare forearms and legs suggest? (Of course. I was a college swimmer, after
all.) Hairless or smooth chest? (Smooth.) And of course: what's he packing
in his pants? (Come, now, do you really think I'd be so obsessed with
speedos if I couldn't fill one out?)
    Before all those eyes I took a deep breath and a thought came to me.
Here was my symbol, the mark of a new beginning: me, muscled and tan,
stripping down to my favorite piece of clothing in front of the hungry eyes
of dozens of California gays. I had exposed my body to handfuls of
hook-ups, several boyfriends, one lover, and countless swimming spectators,
but there and at that moment I was exposing myself to a new mindset, a new
culture.
    I took it as a sign of great respect that when my shirt was tossed
aside and my boardshorts clung only to one of my ankles not one head had
turned away from me. A first glance at my body didn't immediately exclude
me from anyone's fantasies. I didn't have to worry what they might be
thinking; I figured it was complementary. The heads only turned from my
direction when I lay down and settled in among the crowd.
    After thirty minutes on my back, then thirty minutes on my front, I
propped myself up on my elbows and observed the gay beach scene about
me. There was so much to see.
    To my immediate right two bears in black thongs lathered each other in
tanning oil. Their round stomachs suggested potbellies but upon closer
examination it was clear that their midsections were instead smooth arches
of muscle curving up to the massive slabs of flesh that constituted their
pecs. As one of them, with a shaved head, slowly lathered the tree-trunk
things of another one, with a buzz, a sizeable hard-on grew in the latter's
thong.
    Further to my right a gaggle of prissy-faced twinks pompously stretched
hairless, lithe bodies upon their beach towels. Their delicate noses
pointed skyward from faces otherwise covered by saucer-sized Prada and
Gucci sunglasses. Though they didn't speak, I could easily imagine their
nasal voices trading viscious gossip.
    To my immediate left a group of late-twenty-something circuit boys
prattled on incessantly. Their bodies were immaculate. Some were perhaps
overly muscled but all of them had smooth tanned thighs, rigid six-packs,
and toned chests. Their cocks were crammed into Aussiebum square-cut trunks
or the latest style from Andrew Christian. They squawked about GHB
overdoses, orgies at San Diego Pride, hook-ups with tiny dicks, laser hair
removal, and, of course, other people on the beach. They seemed to realize
I was in earshot because I heard one of them say, "The only ones I'd do are
the guy in the green trunk and--," before jerking his head in my direction
to the giggles of his friends.
    Further to my left several old men sat in sad solitude on beach chairs.
One especially hairy one with a gold chain around his neck listened to an
old Walkman; another sported the smallest thong on the beach that barely
covered his balls; another wore a white Havana hat and linen shirt as he
puffed on a cigar beneath his white mustache. Occasionally a group of three
early-twenties Latino men came up to the latter and chatted with him. The
three Latinos were flawless. My eye fell especially heavy on one that wore
a light green low-rise speedo that left the top of his ass crack exposed to
the light of day and struggled to contain the plump bulge in his crotch.
His ass curved fully and invitingly and he smiled brightly beneath his
close-cropped dark hair. I stared unabashedly at his smooth,
chesnut-colored skin and chocolate nipples.
    I wondered where I fit in on the beach. The only other loners appeared
to be the older, more desperate men; the younger, fitter beachgoers all
seemed to have self-segregated into small groups. Part of me resisted
that--and for various reasons. First, it seemed unkind that men who shared
the hurtful experience of social ostracism would let similar ostracisms
occur within their ranks. But secondly, and more importantly to me at that
time, why, I thought, would a gay man want to limit his options to a
certain body type? I contemplated being cuddled by a bear, fucking a
moaning twink, rimming a giddy party boy, and getting blown by an eager
Latino. Why not have it all?
    But if I had to categorize myself, I reasoned, I'd be with the two
college jocks tossing a football behind the main mass of beachgoers.
Without a trace of a lisp, uninterested in designer jeans, and made of
smooth lean muscle, I reckoned those two jocks were the fairest
representation of my niche along the gay spectrum. I considered joining
them but hesitated; my speedos usually sent the wrong signal. I could
easily pick up with those straight-acting boys if I wasn't dressed in the
ultimate apparel choice of the flaming gay. However, on that day, I wasn't
willing to slip on my boardshorts for anyone.
    I was interrupted from my daydreaming by a tap on the shoulder. I
looked up to see the Latino I had been gawking at moments before.
    "Come and play?" he said with a heavy accent and a winning smile.
Before my mind could fantasize over what that meant I saw a baseball glove
in his hand.
    I self-consciously looked around and saw a few people staring at us.
They were probably imagining us fucking, I thought. Staring up at his
smooth brown pecs, I certainly was.
    "Sure," I said as I slowly stood on my beach towel.
    His smile widened and bright teeth flashed. "Here. Take," he said as he
offered another glove.
    "Great. Over there, then?" I said while pointing to an open patch of
sand.
    "Yes, yes," he said intently.
    I started walking but he lightly touched my arm. "Wait, wait."
    Suddenly I felt his hand brushing across my upper back and
shoulders. The feel of his sturdy hands was exhilarating. "Sand," he said
as he smiled coyly.
    I turned around and returned the playful smile. "Got it all?" I asked.
    "Yes, yes," he said as he made one final brush of his hand across my
left hip. His fingertips lingered on my skin for a moment. In that moment I
looked down past his hand to the green bulge of his speedo. The very top of
his bush was visible above the low waistline of the suit. An image of him,
standing above me sliding his fat, half-hard cock into my mouth flashed
before my eyes.
    We played catch for about half an hour. Part of me couldn't help but
smile at the thought of our spectacle. There we were, two speedo-clad
fairies amidst a sea of gays playing a game usually seen as the
quintessential rite of passage between fathers and sons. Perhaps the game
worked well as a metaphor for the transmission of the lessons of manhood
from father to son, but I mused that perhaps the game better served as a
metaphor for the constantly changing interplay between two men in heat. The
constant switch from throwing to catching to throwing to catching reminded
me of slipping my dick in a tight hole only to be quickly flipped on my
back and have my own hole penetrated.
    I didn't ruminate overlong on metaphors because my mind occupied most
of its energy on observing the form of Renzo, as my new friend had
introduced himself. I watched the muscles of his arm stretch and then
tighten as he snapped the baseball towards my glove; I stared at his
curvaceous ass as he ran to find and bent to pick up missed catches; I
carefully spotted each and every time his hand reached down to adjust his
tight basket. I had to force myself not to imagine his skin on mine, lest
my cock start growing wildly under my speedo.
    "Okay," he shouted with the ball in his hand, "who gets it!" He then
threw the ball straight up into the air. Immediately he began to follow the
ball with his eye and tried to get under it. Understanding his broken
English, I ran near him and tried to position myself under the falling ball
as well.
    "Hey, hey," he said playfully as he bumped my shoulder with his, "I'm
gonna get it!" With both our eyes on the sky our bodies leaned against each
other, each trying to find the ideal spot to catch the ball. His muscular
arms were alluringly warm to the touch and I almost lost sight of the ball
as I stole a glance at his chest.
    As the ball came closer, however, it appeared to be heading for my
glove. Then, just as the ball fell its final ten feet I felt Renzo's body
move away from mine. I wondered briefly where he had gone.
    Then, in quick succession, the baseball smacked into my glove and
Renzo's chest thumped heavily into my back. I fell hard onto the sand and
immediately relished the feel of Renzo's body atop mine. His chin rested on
my shoulder; his tight abs pressed against my side; his bulge was lodged
firmly into my hip. I had hardly noticed what he was up to when I heard and
felt his panting voice triumphantly claim, "I win," and I saw his hand
holding the baseball which had been jolted from my glove.
    "Cheater," I playfully chided from under his dominant body.
    He smiled and rolled off of my body and onto the sand. I was sad to
feel him go. We both rested on our sides in the sand and looked at each
other for a brief moment.
    "You got me all sandy," I coyly complained as I brushed off my
shoulder.
    He laughed, lept to his feet, and held out his hand. "Come, come. We
get off in the water." Again, before I could dream up my own meaning to
those heavily accented words he had pulled me up and started leading me
towards the water.
    As we ran into the waves I'm sure the masses on the beach began
fantasizing us into a thousand positions. Looking at our firm, bulging
asses, they likely had little trouble imagining my dick lost deep between
Renzo's ass cheeks. Or perhaps they pictured Renzo's appealing jaw line
chomping wildly between my ass cheeks and his tongue probing my tight pink
hole.
    We ran into the water and then dove headfirst into the first wave that
swelled before us. As I my head resurfaced and I began wiping the water
from my face I suddenly felt Renzo's strong arm reach from behind me and
constrict around my midsection. I flexed my abs in protest but he had
already lifted me up and backwards--my back against his firm torso. With
one powerful motion he rolled my entire body back underwater with a
crashing splash.
    Underwater I quickly plotted and swam in a half-circle until my head
glided through his legs and my shoulders thudded against the backs of his
smooth thighs. From below the surface I heard him yelp with surprise as I
quickly rose from below him and propelled his body skyward. For a few
moments he hung in the air above the water, teetering on my shoulders with
his bulge pressed fast against the back of my neck, before I pitched my
body backwards and sent him falling into the water.
    When he resurfaced his wide, playful smile had grown even wider in coy
shock. We stared at each other for a quick quiet moment before he splashed
me and the chaos began again. As we wrestled about for several minutes our
hands began to focus less on grabbing and more on groping. At one point he
tried to stop me from retreating by grabbing my speedo and exposing my
ass. Later I reached for his waist but "accidentally" wrapped the palm of
my hand around his meaty bulge.
    The scene finally settled when Renzo wrapped his arms around my chest
from behind and refused to let go. I struggled at first but then relaxed
the muscles of my back against his solid pecs.
    "What should I do with this crazy animal?" he mused out loud.
    "Who are you calling an animal?" I protested as I wriggled and fought
against his muscular grip.
    "No, no, no," he chided as his grip tightened. "You can't get away."
    "We'll see."
    "Maybe the animal just needs something to chew on," he said, ending his
words with a mischievous tone.
    Suddenly I felt, below the surface, his bulge press against my ass. His
cock and balls formed a nearly fist-sized lump in his speedo that wedged
itself between my ass cheeks.
    "What have you got for me?" I countered with an impish grin. I slightly
rocked my ass back and forth against his basket and flexed my muscles
tauntingly.
    He could only respond with a low moan as his cock began to grow in his
speedo. His boner rose straight up along the deep rift of my ass crack. Its
girth surprised me; I wondered how far it would stretch out. As my rocking
continued as he moaning grew louder he reached a hand to his bulge and
slipped the tip of his cock above his waistband where it could expand more
freely. It continued snaking up my ass crack until I could feel the tip of
his dick resting along the small of my back. A proper sea monster had
awoken right behind me.
    I easily broke free from his arms as his attention had strayed
completely to his crotch. He looked at me with wounded eyes as my ass
abandoned his cock, but his smile reappeared when I turned to face him and
slipped my hand around the top of his shaft. With my other hand I pulled
the waistband of his speedo underneath his big brown balls.
    The full length of his shaft, which was bobbing underwater, was
impressive. A wide girth seven-inch cock, I guessed. Always over-proud when
it came to displaying cocks, I reached with a free hand and moved his hand
over my bulge. I wanted him to see my own monster.
    I relished the look on his face as he began kneading my bulge with a
blank expression that slowly grew to intrigue and then amazement as my
thick, eight-inch cock spilled out of my speedo. I was about to say
something flirtatious when he suddenly dropped to his knees, his head going
underwater, and took the top of my shaft into his mouth.
    My head rolled back in delight as his lips and tongue moved seawater
and saliva along my shaft. I cast a self-conscious eye to the beach,
however, where I noticed a number of people squinting to espy our
antics. Worried that a lifeguard might take issue with our less than
discrete goings-on, I reluctantly put a hand underwater and on Renzo's
shoulder to bring him back above water.
    He stood in front of me, but his eyes stayed on my cock.
    "A big, beautiful cock," he muttered appreciatively.
    I put a hand under his chin and raised his eyes to mine. "Not here," I
cautioned as I nodded my head towards the beach.
    "Somewhere else?" he asked with fear in his voice, as if our game might
be over.
    "Of course," I replied.
    He beamed. "Okay. You come with me. Okay?"
    "Okay," I warmly agreed. I slipped my hand into the water and around
his wide shaft. "This is a big, beautiful cock too."
    He chuckled. "This still bigger," he said as he tugged at my
dick. "This might hurt a little."
    "Only a little, I promise."
    We tucked our dicks back into our speedos and began wading to the
shore. As we stepped onto the shore Renzo said, "Meet me there," as he
pointed to the bike rack.
    I slipped into my boardshorts, tossed my shirt and towel over my
shoulder, and scanned the beachgoers quickly before I began walking away
from the rainbow umbrellas. I'd be back, for sure.
    From the bike rack I watched Renzo stop to talk to the man smoking the
cigar under his Havana hat. Renzo stood and toweled off in front of the
man's beach chair and spoke. When the man replied Renzo nodded his head
obediently. Soon enough his eyes met mine and his muscled body, clothed in
white boardshorts and a yellow tank top, bound energetically across the
sand to the bike rack.
    "I ride on back of your bike?" he asked.
    "Sure."
    "Okay, okay," he said with a wide smile and a clap of his hands.
    As we positioned ourselves on my bike, his firm chest warm against my
back, I asked him a question. "Who's that man in the hat?"
    "Who?"
    "Him," I indicated with a pointed finger.
    "Oh, that's Mister Franco. He's a very interesting man."
    With that, I put my feet to the pedals and we were off. It was two
hours before I was due to meet Jamie at his apartment.

    Renzo insisted I wait at his bedroom door while he went in first. Horny
and impatient, I reluctantly obeyed.
    "Come, come," he called from within.
    I entered into a dimly lit room. The darkness of the room was
penetrated only by faint light escaping the bottom of a set of curtains and
a weak lamp resting on a nightstand. The shadowy corners of the room
offered no clue of their contents.
    Renzo sat on the end of the bed, his brown skin lightly glowing in the
lamplight, and looked up at me with intense, sensuous eyes. He ran the tip
of his tongue along his upper lip as his eyes lustily surveyed my
body. When I stopped several feet before him, he reached out a hand and
took one of mine.
    "Hey, hey, sexy baby," he said in endearing broken English. "Papi wants
to take care of you." He pulled me closer, leaving me standing between his
knees.
    With my crotch staring him in the face, he resisted the great
temptation and instead slipped a hand up under my T-shirt and began rubbing
my rigid abs. Still radiating some of the sun's heat, my muscles quickly
grew hot under his touch.
    "Such a sexy baby," he said as he spread his firm palm across my
stomach and up towards my pecs. "Let me see my baby." He lifted my T-shirt
up as high as he could. I finished the job for him.
    A deep breath and a low, slow sound of pleasure came from Renzo when he
looked up at my bare chest. He reached both his hands up to my pecs and
began kneading my muscles with his strong hands. As his hands worked over
my chest his lips first delicately, then wet and wildly, began kissing my
abs. His mouth slid across my stomach, sometimes sneaking its tongue into
my navel, other times playfully nibbling on one of my abs.
    His hands dropped from my pecs and smoothly slid down my back so he
could push my torso into his kiss. However, once he started moving south,
he couldn't stop. His kisses gradually drifted from my navel down the taut
muscle of my stomach towards my crotch. The drawstring of my boardshorts
halted his advance only momentarily while he untied my knot and let fall my
boardshorts to the carpet.
    Standing there before him, my baby blue speedo bulging only inches from
the tip of his nose, I relished the moment. I was pleased at the offering I
was making to Renzo, the latest hunk to know my body. A muscled and lean
torso, supple and smooth thighs, a tight and full package--these things and
more I was eager to give freely and passionately. In return, I would take
from the rich, brown body below me the feel of flexing muscles, a pair of
wet lips, a thrusting cock and the taste of sweat and skin.
    Renzo wrapped his wide palm around my bulge and began squeezing my
manhood through my speedo. My response was instantaneous. My shaft shot
sideways towards my hip, all the while barely bound by my tented
speedo. Renzo, pleased with my swift arousal, began to peel back my speedo
and unveil my cock.
    I, however, wasn't ready to part with the tight hug of my speedo just
yet. Instead of yielding to his undressing I pulled him to his feet and
pressed the front of my body into his. Our lips met eagerly as his head
gracefully pivoted so he could suck and bite my lips and tongue from every
angle. His kisses conveyed passion, and some relief, as if he feared I
might not welcome such intimacy.
    "You are so sexy," he said over a heavy breath between deep kisses. His
hands caressed the side of my face and held my face firmly against
his. Between kisses I gasped for air.
    Soon I ran my hands under his tank top and began raising it up his
body. He very reluctantly pulled his lips from mine just long enough to
slip the tank top over his head before resuming the probing of my mouth
with his tongue. As he controlled our kisses I reached down and untied his
boardshorts.
    As his boardshorts fell to his ankles I pressed his body against
mine. The sudden heat of muscle against muscle, bulge against bulge, and
skin and skin was intoxicating. I wanted to wrap every inch of my body
around his, I wanted to find new ways to put my body against his.
    Renzo's arms wrapped around my shoulders and I wrapped mine around the
small of his back. Soon, however, my hands wandered to his ass and I tried
to cover his curvaceous ass cheeks with my palms. He flexed his muscles as
I kneaded his ass. The apparent power of his muscles exhilarated me and
made me eager to explore his ass and overtake his power with my
penetration.
    As I squeezed his ass his cock grew in his speedo. Soon both of our
shafts pressed flush against each other amidst the heat between our
bodies. Feeling our cocks side by side, we both began thrusting and flexing
our hips into one another to try to sate our hungry cocks.
    Eventually, however, Renzo could wait no more. In one frenzied blur he
fell back to his seat on the end of the bed, pulled my throbbing dick from
my speedo, and took my cock into the hot, tender embrace of his mouth.
    The speed of his maneuver took me by surprise. A mild spasm
reverberated through my body as the soft, wet suck of his mouth stirred the
very core of my balls. I knew that instant that when I came, I was going to
spray my jizz thick and fast.
    He sucked gently at first, relishing the taste of my skin and the
contours of my shaft. His lips closed delicately around my cock tip, then
slid halfway down my shaft, then rose to pucker around my tip again.
    Soon, however, he grew bolder. He opened his mouth wide, unhinged his
jaw the best he could, and lowered the full weight of his head onto my
cock. As I felt my cock lodge tightly against the back of his throat I
watched his lips move further towards the base of my cock. When he was
within an inch of my pubes his face grew red and he gagged
aloud. Concerned, I gently pushed him off my shaft and smiled
affectionately as looked up at me with cock slobber on his chin.
    "So nice," he said with a look of wonder.
    With his breath regained he resumed sucking my shaft. He fell into a
rhythm. As he pumped the base of my cock with one hand his mouth slurped
and twisted up and down the upper two-thirds of my shaft.
    I tried to find a rhythm of my own so I could withstand the pulses of
pleasure that shot through my crotch like lightening. If I didn't control
myself I could have easily shot my load at any moment. I thought back to
those afternoons in high school when I lay back on my bed for almost an
hour at a time as my friend slowly sucked away at my shaft. Trying hard to
relax and extend our pleasure, we would suck each other raw, it
seemed. Still, no matter how focused we were, the pleasure always ended
when we relaxed too fully and shot our hot, pulsing loads into each other's
mouths.
    With my head tilted backwards, my eyelids hanging lazily, and my hand
resting heavily on Renzo's close-cropped hair, I tried to feel only with my
cock. I tried ignore all my nerves except for those that were responding to
his wet, wandering tongue and his tight, sliding lips.
    Just as I was beginning to feel with my cock alone Renzo's mouth broke
its rhythm and wandered down my shaft, his lips kissing their way down the
underside of my cock. When they reached the spot where my cock rested
against the waistband of my speedo Renzo pulled my speedo part of the way
down my thighs.
    Upon their release my red balls swung free, heavy, and hairless below
the base of my cock. Renzo's lips swiftly and delicately enclosed around
one of my balls. As his tongue ever so softly began stroking the outside of
my sack I savored the new sensation. I momentarily remembered a bizarre
college hook-up who was obsessed with my balls. It started off innocently;
he began blowing me in the bathroom at a party. However, once he got a
taste of my smooth sack he never wanted anything else. The few times we
hooked up after the party the routine was the same: he'd suck my balls for
a while, I'd sit on his cock a bit, and he'd go back to munching on my
balls until I came. Most times I came in his hair so we'd end the night
shampooing and stroking each other under a hot shower. He, of course,
soaped up my balls for me.
    As Renzo tenderly rolled my balls with his tongue his hand reached up
between my legs and rested, spread across my ass. Slowly his middle finger
worked its way in between my ass cheeks and stroked the smooth bottom of my
ass crack. Gently tracing my crack, the finger finally found its way to my
pink, puckered hole and began tapping on the door to my insides.
    Softly at first, but soon with purposeful force, his finger massaged a
way into my hole. When his sweaty fingertip ran dry he brought it to his
mouth, coated it with spit he'd gathered from sucking my balls, and resumed
his penetration with a more slippery spear. The advantage allowed his
finger to slip, quite abruptly, two knuckles deep into my hole. The sudden
feel of his curling fingertip on my tender insides made me gasp and tighten
my whole body. Careful to keep me comfortable, he reached a hand up my
stomach and soothingly massaged my abs.
    His finger penetrated my ass slowly and steadily like a lazy
piston. Caught between the mouth massage my balls were receiving and this
new teasing to my backside, I could scarcely think about anything other
than shooting hot gobs of cum across the bed in front of me. I tried to
ignore my dick's cry for cum and focus on relaxing my hole so I could take
whatever Renzo offered next.
    Relaxing my ass was a good idea because Renzo quickly added a second
finger to his gentle pumps into my ass. Some uncontrolled part of me issued
a long, low moan as my sphincter adjusted to the new girth. I reveled in
the feel of his fingers exploring me, testing my readiness, but my hole
craved something else to prepare it for Renzo's cock.
    "Eat my ass," I order with hot, steaming words.
    Renzo immediately obeyed. Soon I felt his hands part my full ass cheeks
and his jaw lodge his face tightly into my crack. When the tip of his
tongue hit the center of my pink hole, my body shook in a momentary spasm.
    "Fuck," I said. It was all there was to say.
    Renzo's tongue not only found my hole, it stroked it, covered it in
warm saliva, and prodded it gently. I purred with delight as he delicately
tended to one of my most precious parts.
    It wasn't long, however, before Renzo's mind thought beyond the
excellent rimjob he was giving. His tongue began to try harder to penetrate
my wet hole; his hands worked harder to spread my ass cheeks; his gentle
licking became wet and earnest chomping. I could feel his passion
surging. I was ready for him.
    Renzo finally turned me around, threw me on the bed, and prepared his
cock. Before I could look down to see what was coming my way I felt his
bulbous cock tip resting on the pink portal to my insides. He didn't enter
me right away, however. Instead he lingered there, teasing me, with his
glistening, lubed shaft throbbing in all its glory. I was able to catch of
glimpse of his cock just before he began easing himself inside me. Pangs of
worry hit me as I registered its girth, but as he began the warm slide
inside me I cooed with pleasure.
    "Okay?" he asked with adorable concern as his shaft had traversed about
four inches of my insides.
    "Yeah," I said with heavy breath. "Give it all to me."
    He continued his slide into me. The sensation of his fat dick filling
my velvety insides made me shiver. Renzo leaned forward and stroked my
forehead.
    "Is good, yes?"
    "Yes. Put it all in."
    Just as my hole began to burn and my mind panicked over how far his
cock would spear me I felt his bush pressed tight against my sack. He had
entered me to the hilt.
    Holding my spread legs up against his sides he gradually began
retracting his cock. The feeling as his impressive girth abandoned my
tunnel was miserable. Thankfully he only pulled back a little before he
slid back into me, running his bush up against my hole. I cooed again; he
began searching for a fucking rhythm.
    I never quite made up my mind of how I liked to be fucked. Midway
through college I postulated that I preferred gentle, slow fucking from fat
dicks and fast, wild, ball-slapping fucking from slender dicks. Of course,
up to that point fat dicks had always fucked me slow out of cautious
respect and most other dicks had taken me for faster rides. I myself,
having a wide cock that made some twinks turn pale, usually used my tool
with great delicacy. But these preconceptions changed during my senior year
when I spent a night with Jerome, a fullback with a monster residing
between his legs. He started slow with me, but he quickly elevated to a
stride so fast and so powerful that I thought he'd slice me in two. The
echoes of my screams across the courtyard that night became the stuff of
legend. I spent the next day in bed, sore like I had never been before, but
I had no regrets and a new hunger to be dominated by fat dicks.
    Renzo certainly began cautiously; he let his fullness rock ever so
slowly along my tight passage. Soon, however, I pleasantly felt him pick up
his pace; his rocking became pumping.
    "Still okay?" he asked.
    "Yes," I said, gasping a bit. I didn't want to give him the wrong
impression, so I added, "Faster. Harder."
    I looked up at his flexing abs, his firm pecs, and his tight jaw. His
eyes were cast down at his pumping rod with intense determination. He
quickened his pace.
    As my hole continued to relax waves of warm pleasure filled radiated
along the wide track his cock was making inside me. My cock was accordingly
hard and it twitched above my abs in a pitiful bid for attention.
    "Jack me," I commanded in a low moan.
    Renzo's hand clasped around my shaft and began tenderly tugging on my
dick. Renzo stopped briefly to put a hand to his mouth but quickly resumed
stroking my shaft with the benefit of his slippery saliva. With a
well-lubed hand, he traversed the length of my shaft with each pump of his
forearm.
    Submitting to the pleasure of his warm palm, I found myself completely
within Renzo's control. His cock throbbed inside my ass, his hand caressed
my dick, and his body loomed large and muscular over mine. I didn't dream
of resisting the power of pleasure he lorded over me; I only asked for
more.
    "Harder," I said.
    Rezno had already assumed a brisk pace and balked at my request, unsure
of how to proceed.
    I spoke sharply to break his hesitation. "Slam my fucking ass!"
    "Okay pretty baby," he said mischeiviously. "If you say so."
    The torrent of force that exploded from Renzo's after he said those
words was thrilling. In one thundersome motion his giant cock torpedoed
into my deepest chasm, his balls slapped against my ass, and his slammed
into the backs of my thighs. My body jerked forward and my ass was set
aflame. He wrapped his arms around my legs to keep my body from escaping
his onslaught and then set into a dizzying blur of furious fucking.
    I screamed, but I didn't dare try to stop him. I shouted "Yes!" as
often as possible to let him know I wanted his brutal assault on my asshole
to continue. There was some pain, to be sure, but the feeling of such raw
power being unleashed upon my body was irresistible. His cock tip seemed to
plunge impossibly deep into my body; his wide shaft seemed to fill every
space there was inside me; his wild strength seemed to surge into my ass
and from there to every corner of my body.
    "He is so fucking amazing," Renzo shouted--to the heavens, I
presumed. "This boy is so fucking amazing!"
    My eyes were closed in ecstasy when he began his massive thrusts. As I
finally opened them I looked up to a strange sight. No longer was his jaw
set in a look of poised power. Instead his face was sweaty and wild and his
mouth was contorted into an unending moan. He, too, was being driven to mad
passion by the workings of his cock. I could tell he wouldn't last long.
    "Ay, Ay, baby," he moaned rapidly from a wincing face. "I'm coming!"
    With those words his shaft retreated from my territory, leaving a sad,
empty hole behind. He put a hand around his glistening shaft and began to
pump it. Within a half pump his body jerked in a crazed spasm and I watched
as a thick stream of pearl jizz shot from his cock and splattered onto my
pecs. He held his hand on his shaft and his body froze in the tense posture
of ejaculation as a second, third, and fourth spray of cum issued from his
throbbing knob. Then he tugged gently at his cock to drain the last drops
of his jizz onto my abs.
    As his breathing slowed he looked down at the puddles of cum on my body
and smiled. Then with a wide palm he lathered the jizz evenly across the
muscles of my chest and stomach. Our eyes met and traded a playful, tender
moment as I stroked the upper arm of the hand that massaged my sticky
chest.
    Then, with his eyes still locked on mine, he dropped to his knees and
carefully took my cock into his mouth. The sudden feel of his warm,
delicate tongue was a beautiful contrast to the rough fucking he had just
administered to my asshole. To watch that wild beast suddenly turn tender
was endearing. I relished the view of his careful lips covering my shaft
and kissing my cock tip.
    He sucked slowly and gently but my cock surged violently. My balls
ached to be drained and not even the greatest effort on my part would hold
them off.
    "I'm gonna cum," I warned with soft tones and a soft touch of his
shoulder.
    He continued sucking.
    "I'm gonna cum soon," I said with some concern in my voice.
    Still, he continued his soft and steady sucking.
    I put a hand to his head and tried to lift it but he grabbed my hand
with his own and flicked it aside. I smiled down at him.
    Before I released my load I took in the view of the close-cropped hair,
sculpted shoulders, and wet, pink lips before me. I briefly closed my eyes
and remembered his curvaceous ass and beautiful basket filling his green
speedo on the beach. I remembered his firm pecs and rippling abs. Then I
came.
    Renzo didn't break his pace in the least as my jizz rocketed against
the back of his throat. As his lips continued to move over my sensitive
cock my body convulsed with pleasure. He slid a hand back up and across my
sticky chest as he sucked every bit of cum from my cock tip. His eyes found
mine as he gulped down the last of my load.
    Then he climbed up on the bed, straddled my body with his knees and
arms, and started to give me one long, tender, deep kiss.
    That kiss, however, was interrupted by the startling sound of clapping
coming from I didn't know where. My head twisted rapidly about until a
light flicked on and I saw a figure sitting in a chair in one of the
previously dark corners of the room.
    "Excellent," the figure said. "Absolutely excellent."
    My eyes narrowed and the figure became clear. It was the man in the
Havana hat from the beach. He pulled a lighter from the pocket of his linen
shirt and lit a cigar.
    Renzo stood up just before I jolted to my feet.
    "Who the fuck are you?" I demanded. Fear and anger rose side by side in
my voice.
    "Now, now," the man said with a slow and sturdy voice. "There's nothing
to worry about."
    As I scrutinized the man's white mustache and sly grin, I wasn't so
sure.
    "I said, `Who the fuck are you?'" I said as I raised my voice.
    "Hey, hey," Renzo said soothingly, "Don't worry, baby." He put his warm
hands on my shoulders and gently began rubbing them. "He's a friend."
    I contemplated that statement for a brief moment. Those words seemed
the introduction to an unwanted second act. "I'm not into that shit," I
said defiantly.
    "What `shit' would that be?" the man said with only a trace of
irritation in his otherwise calm voice.
    I looked at him, then turned to Renzo, and said, "I'd better go." I
grabbed my clothes and made for the door.
    "Wait, wait, baby," Renzo pleaded. "Don't go."
    I kept moving.
    "It's alright, Renzo," the man said. "It's to be expected."
    Though the man did not follow me out of the bedroom, Renzo did. I
stopped before the apartment door to put on my clothes. I was fuming.
    "What the fuck? Was he just gonna jump out of the dark and fuck me when
I wasn't looking? What the fuck were you trying to pull?"
    Renzo looked hurt. "No, no. Mister Franco's not like that."
    "Fuck `Mister Franco,'" I said harshly. "And fuck you."
    I threw my shirt over my cum-covered torso and grabbed the doorknob.
    "Wait," Renzo said as he put his hand over mine. He paused for a second
as he seemed to consider saying something but then stopped himself. When he
did finally speak, his voice was considerably more faint. "I'm sorry. We
should have done it another way." I wasn't quite sure what he meant by
that. "Promise that," he paused before continuing, "promise that when you
see me again you won't be so mad."
    I didn't respond.
    "Please. Promise you'll be nice when he tells you."
    I was a bewildered as I was angry. I said nothing as I opened the door
and left.
    I checked my watch. In twenty-five minutes Jamie would be home from
work. I needed to get the jizz off my chest before then.

To be continued...

Swimmingcock81@hotmail.com

*I'm happy to have my stories posted elsewhere. A head's up would be nice,
though.