From: honjohn@gate.net (John E. Smith)
Subject: Good-Looking Latino "Model", Part 2 (M/M Oral Anal)
Date: 27 Jul 1998 00:00:00 GMT

		    Good-Looking Latino "Model," Part 2

        Jorge acted as if he were enjoying his work.  He didn't act bored
and he didn't use his prissy reluctance to do certain acts as an excuse to
raise his price.  He was willingly giving me my money's worth, because,
whether Jorge was being paid or not, I felt that here was a man who enjoyed
sex.  Here was a man who let himself go, who "got into" the scene.  Here was
a man who was a sensualist, who was able to extract all the pleasure that
was possible from his sexual activities.    

        Like a camel filling his humps at an oasis before a long, deprived
trip across the desert, I saturated my senses with hearty draughts of
Jorge's male Latino beauty.  I felt his brown, hard-muscled masculine body
with my lips, tongue, and cheeks as I rubbed my face all over those twin
mounds of ass-muscle, wallowing joyously in their excess of male beauty like
a gold-lover in the treasure vaults of Fort Knox, or an alcoholic at the
Shenley distillery.  I felt his generous gluteus muscles ripple, tense, and
flex as his body writhed in ecstacy under me.  I smelled his man-scent --
the sweet-warm-milk scent of male pheremones in the salty sex-sweat on his
body and the pungent tannery odor of man-civet between the cheeks of his
ass.  

        My nose glided on tip-toe like a tango dancer across the ball-room
floor of his ass cheeks as the tip of my tongue sought the hole in the
chocolate-covered donut that I knew was hidden somewhere, like the El Dorado
mineshaft, between those granite peaks of manmuscle.  "Mama el culo!" he
encouraged me.  "Bite those Rican buns!" he commanded me.  "Lick that brown
Rican asshole!"

        Believe me it didn't take much encouragement to make me go hog wild.
I tongue-tickled, licked, and gently bit those beautiful, firm-muscular
mounds of Rican manflesh.  I spread his cheeks and insinuated the tip of my
tongue up into his tight little rosebud pucker as far as it would go, which
wasn't very far.  I could tell from its tightness, that I was invading
virgin territory.  

        Even so, Jorge encouraged me to go as far as I could.  He pursed his
ass-lips in and out, like a 42nd Street whore in the shadows between two
buildings, beckoning me to come farther and farther into the dark recesses
of his body.  I pursued him.  Each time he loosened his ass, I stuck my
tongue up there farther, only to feel the sphincter muscles clamp down on it
a few seconds later, trying to capture my tongue with his butt.  When he had
achieved his goal, locked the tip of my tongue inside him, he held me there
until he relaxed again, and, like Sherman's march to the sea, I continued my
unrelenting advance through the South.  

        Spreading his ass cheeks with my finger tips, giving the sensitive
tissue around the edge of his tunnel of mystery a sensuous tickle now and
them with my finger tips, I raped his rectum with my tongue like a hungry
aardvark savaging a six-foot ant hill, searching ravenously, with my sticky
tongue, for each delicious morsel hidden inside.  

        After I had about a yard of tongue up in him, I tired of that game.
Like a blacksmith shaping a tool at the forge I wanted to feel Jorge quench
the fire of his sexual ardor in me as he tempered the steel of his
lust-lance in my willingly-receptive body.  I wanted Jorge to fuck me.  I
wanted him to lay the full weight of his body on me and ravish me like a
pagan bride, captured by a marauding horde of horny huns on her wedding
night.  I wanted him to roll around on me joyously, like a horse, after a
winter of captivity, rolling in the sweet young spring grass of the meadow.
I wanted him to pin me to the bed, crush me exquisitely under the weight of
his body, and make me submit to his sexual abuse like Hulk Hogan having his
way with an inferior wrestler.  

        However, I am not erotically excited by rectal pain.  Before he
could "ravish me exquisitely," I had to figure out a way to introduce that
immense bludgeon into my body without requiring the services of a surgeon,
to sew up the rent flesh of my tender little tail, after he had finished
with me.  

        With him still lying on his back, I lifted his legs and laid them
onto the bed.  Since I think it is simply de classe' to dirty the best part
of my lover's anatomy, I wanted him entering an unpolluted Love Canal.  For
his benefit, as well as mine, in anticipation of this attack, I prepared
myself by douching my tutu with castile soap and glycerine.  In addition, I
smeared KY up and down the shaft of that magnificent rocket launcher, as
well as the target of his missile attach.  

        I climbed on top of him, aimed his battering ram toward the
portcullis it was about to demolish, and prepared for the assault.  I leaned
back, slowly, impaling myself on his lust-lance, like a modern-day version
of Vlad the Impaler (the real-life prototype for Dracula), who impaled on a
spear any subjects who offended him.  Then, while they were still alive, he
had his pathetic victims stuck up in the air on their spears around his
banquet table, so their cries of agony and their death-throes could serve as
dinner-table amusement for his horrified guests.       

        "UHHHHHHH," I heard myself moan as the humongous head of his
lust-lance spread me more than I could ever remember being spread before.
"Please wait a minute, Jorge," I gasped, the breath knocked out of me by the
fierce pain that full dilation had given me.  "I've got to get used to that
thing in there."  

        He lay perfectly still as I stopped forcing myself down on him.
After a while, the heart-beat pain in my posterior subsided and I felt I
could endure another assault on the portals of my soul.  I leaned backward
again, forcing more of that humongous piece of Latino manmeat into me.   

        "Oh, God!  That hurts so good," I moaned.  Jorge smiled at my
oxymoron.  Somehow, in the strange alchemy of my brain, the pain of rectal
dilation by his immense member had been transmuted by lust into the pure
gold of sexual ecstacy.  Somehow, the pain had been transformed into a
spiritual experience, much as, I imagine, the pain of childbirth is
transformed by a Mother's love for her unborn child, into a spiritual
experience.  Somehow, in my mind, doing this for him, submitting to rectal
childbirth in reverse, for his enjoyment, made all the pain worthwhile.  It
made me resolve that I would master this obstacle to ecstasy, that I would
emerge triumphant.  

        I held my breath, gritted my teeth and leaned back, forcing all of
that magnificent member up into me in one fell swoop.  My painfully
stretched backside now rested on the crinkly-curly cushion of his kinky love
jungle, scratching its sensitive surface delightfully, scratching an itch
that I didn't even know that I had until he revealed it to me.  

        "AAAHHHHH," I sighed, in relief from the painful stretching and in
the satisfaction that I got from having achieved my goal.  "Please wait a
few minutes until I get used to it," I whispered, breathlessly.

        "Sure," he replied.  

        As we lay there waiting for my prick-tickling passion pit to adjust
to its rude intruder, Jorge said, "You're very good, John.  None of the
women, and only a few of the men I've been with have taken that big Mother
up the ass like you have.  And, it feels great!  Just great!"

        I felt as if I had just won a gold metal in the sexual Olympics.
Here was this sexually experienced man, who, in the past, had probably had
thousands of sex partners, telling me that I was among the best.  His
compliment filled me with joy, and I reacted impulsively to it.  I lay down
on his chest, with his root still firmly implanted in my ass, and kissed
him.  

        Now, I should say, that I very seldom kissed the "models" I hired
because the ones I was attracted to, were usually macho bisexuals who sold
their sexual favors to "clients" like me because they felt they needed the
money.  It was a quick and easy way to earn extra cash.  

        However, to preserve their masculinity, many of these "models" had
strict rules of behavior.  It was all right for a "client" to perform
fellatio on them or for them to be the penetrator in anal intercourse.  To
them, that was macho.  But many of them would not reciprocate by performing
fellatio on their "clients" and, even though some of them had a lover at
home who fucked them recreationally every night, they would not let their
"clients" be the penetrator in anal intercourse.  Somehow, in the strange
value system of their minds, those acts were not macho.  Performing those
acts with a "client" would attack their masculine self-concept, would make
them feel whorish, would make them feel less of a man.

        Kissing was in that same category, for many of them.  It was
forbidden, also.  Unlike the inhabitants of some countries where men embrace
freely, American men do not kiss, not even members of the same family,
because kissing another man is not masculine.  Kissing is reserved for girl
friends and wives.            

        Even though I usually accepted this unwritten rule, in this case, I
broke it.  I stepped over the line because I could not help myself.  I was
so overjoyed by his compliment, I felt so warmly toward him because of his
kind remark, that I bent down and kissed him on the lips.  

        He did not avoid my lips, as some "models" did when I tried to kiss
them.  He, also, must have been caught up in the joy of the moment, and
responded to my blissful emotional need.  Perhaps he, also, was celebrating
my achievement with me.  

        In any case, he pursed his lips to meet mine, and I felt his arms go
around my body, hugging me to him, as I felt a hand behind my head, pressing
my lips strongly against his.  He was responding to my emotional need,
making me feel loved and wanted, rewarding me in a coin I understood, for
the pain he seemed to know that I had endured to give him pleasure.  He was
telling me, with that embrace, that he was glad that I was who I was, and
that I was with him.  He was telling me, with that kiss, that there wasn't
any other place in the world that he would rather be, right at that moment,
than with me, lying supine under me with his arms around me kissing me, with
his tremendous pinga still buried deep in my body.

        Moments of intimacy, such as that, in which two lovers give up their
silly pretentions, stop playing stupid games, and give themselves to each
other freely and willingly, are very rare, indeed.  They should be
remembered and cherished, for a lifetime, as precious memories.  

        From that moment on, after I kissed him impulsively, our lovemaking
reached a new level of intimacy and, also, a new level of ferocious
intensity because up until that point, I had been the aggressor in my
submissiveness.  I had been taking him.  I had inserted him into me as he
lay there passively.  

        With that kiss, for some reason that I do not fully understand, our
roles changed.  He became the aggressor.  He assumed responsibility for
choreographing our "dance of love," and I willingly relinquished the lead to
him.  

        Still kissing me, locked in his arms, with his pinga still firmly
buried in my body, he rolled me over onto my side.  Then he rolled over on
top of me, so that the full weight of his body crushed me delectably under
him.  "UHHHMMM," I moaned in my throat, as the weight of his body
delightfully pressed the air from my lungs, the air that had to escape from
my nostrils because my lips were still tightly sealed against his.  

        "UHHHMMM," I moaned again as I felt him begin to move on me, his
hips communicating their insistent copulatory movements to my body through
the prodding and jabbing of his firmly implanted pinga.  At the same time,
his tongue, between his lips, insinuated itself between my lips, nudging my
lips open as it thrust its way into my mouth, in imitation of the motion of
his unrelentingly insistent pinga.  

        "UHHHMMM," I moaned again, as I surrendered to his will, and allowed
myself to be used as a willing receptacle for his sexual passion.  I became
an appreciative audience as well as a participant in his erotic performance,
a skillful partner, like a ballroom dancer, matching the movements of my
insatiable passion pit and my lingual organ to complement and embellish the
basically sexual, jungle-drum-beat rhythm of his hips.

        We fucked like that for a long time.  I don't know how long because,
in the state of suspended animation he had induced in me, I completely lost
track of time.  But, I can remember thinking how lucky I was.  Here on a
blind date, I had discovered a "model" who was hung like a stud stallion in
heat, and who fucked as skillfully and imaginatively as a porno star on
camera.  

        In addition, "What a performer!" I thought.  He was like a living,
breathing, fucking, sex machine, designed to maximize the erotic stimulation
he gave his sexpartner, willing to pay a high price in terms of impeccable
performance, for the pleasure of slaking his thirst at my wishing well.  

        Even in that transcendental state of suspended animation induced by
his love-making, I was aware of my surroundings enough to realize that he
practiced sexual techniques to enhance my enjoyment of him.  He held off
several climaxes by plunging all the way into me and lying there quietly
until the impulse to climax had passed; then, he began to fuck me seriously
again.  

        At the same time, he kissed me, tickling my upper lip with his
black, macho-Latino "Pancho Villa" moustache, tonguing my mouth mercilessly.
He stimulated other parts of my body, such as my head, ears, tits, and buns,
with his hands and fingers.  All this activity, was designed to raise me to
higher and higher levels of erotic stimulation.  It was intended, I
suspected, to "hook" me willingly, like a narcotics addict, on his brand of
addictive substance -- his body and his sexual performance.  All of this
masterful performance was designed to enslave me, to make me a "Jorge
junkie," to make me crave another sexual "fix" from him. 

        He continued this magnificent sexual performance, it could have been
for hours, or it could have been for days.  Anyway, just before his use of
my body for our carnal pleasures reached the point for me that would have
crossed the thin line between pleasure and pain, I felt his fucking become
more rapid, more rhythmical, and more insistent.  I felt him start to climb
for his climax.  In response, I reached, with one hand, for my own cobra and
stroked it, like the handler in a serpentarium, in the sweaty slickness
between our bodies, to make it spit its venom for my benefit as well as that
of all mankind.  

        Jorge held his breath.  I felt his body go on autopilot as the
higher functions of his brain were suspended.  Only the ganglia of his spine
controlled his autonomic nervous system and he became all animal.  Gone was
the masterful performance, stimulating and titillating me erotically.  Gone
was his consideration for my welfare.  His fucking increased in frequency
and ferociousness as he dashed mindlessly, like a pillaging Mongol horde,
for sexual release.  

        Faster and faster he fucked, plunging furiously into me again and
again and again, until the breath that had been captured in his lungs, as he
raced for his climax, exploded from his lungs in a great, soul-felt groan,
like a bass primal scream, that reached for its inspiration into the
communal subconscious of humanity.  It was the moan of climatic sexual
release of all mankind.  It was the triumphant sound of a race of masterful
fuckers, selectively bred, in a Darwinian sense, from those who had
successfully spread their seeds across continents.  It was the trumpet
fanfare for those sexually skillful masters of the bedroom who had
successfully seduced and impregnated generations of wives and concubines,
and delighted generations of men and boys, with their sexual prowess.

        The product of all that selective breeding was distilled, I felt,
into a single human being who was right there in bed with me, delighting me
with his sexual competence, moaning in climax on top of me, delivering to my
viscera all those beautiful Latino sperm cells, that were, even then,
searching futilely for an egg to fertilize.  

        "UUUUGGGGGHHHHH," he moaned, as I felt his pinga swell inside me and
spit wad after wad of his red-hot Rican semen deep in my bowels.  His
climax, prodding my prostate, made my "pinga" cough up great wads of my
unwanted semen, like a tubercular whore after sucking off a chancrous cock.

        "UUUUGGGGHHHH," I moaned as my pulsating prostate, spurred by his
prodding prick, still spitting Rican spooge into my spanky, pushed jets of
jism out of my piss-tube, spilling my seeds on my belly, like an adolescent
boy on the belly of a whore.  I felt my hot spunk flow into my belly button
like lava from a volcano into a sink-hole. 

        We lay there, in that position, for a long time, with him on top of
me, like animals too exhausted from the exertion of rut to disengage
ourselves.  As we lay there resting, in that position, I felt our hearts in
our chests beat a syncopated rhythm against each other, like distant jungle
drums, communicating to savages across the countryside, the news of an
historic event.    

        After we had both climaxed, Jorge and I lay there, in that position,
for a long time, with him on top of me.  I felt his heart beat slow, until
it was almost back to normal.  He stirred himself.  As he rolled off of me,
his now-flexible pinga, that felt like a large, flexible rubber dildo as it
slid out of me, left its wet, snail-like track of our body fluids, a mixture
of my anal juices and his semen, across my thigh.  

        Jorge lay along side of me on the bed, and reached for his
cigarettes from the stand by the side of the bed.  "Whew! That was wild," I
said.  "I can't remember when I've enjoyed sex as much as that."

        Jorge did not reply, immediately.  In that way that some macho men
have of making you wait for their reply, he shook out a cigarette, took it
into his mouth, lit it, inhaled deeply, then exhaled a fine column of smoke
into the air above him before he replied, "Glad you liked it.  Yeah, that
was good."

        As we lay there quietly, like a couple of joyful young newlyweds on
our honeymoon, savoring the afterglow of a very successful connubial
embrace, the memory of that embrace made me want to experience again and
again, the ecstacy that we had just enjoyed.  "Are you a one-a-night man?" I
asked.

        "No.  I'm good for more than one if you're willing to pay for it."

        "Good!  I'm willing," I replied.

        "Just let me rest a little and take a leak, and I'll be ready to go
again," he said.  We lay there quietly as he smoked.

        When he had finished, he snuffed out the butt of his cigarette in
the ash tray and announced, "I need to take a leak."  He sat up, climbed
over me, stood by the bed, wrapped his towel around his slim hips, tucked it
in at the waist, and headed for the door. 

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