From: honjohn@gate.net (John E. Smith)
Subject: Good-Looking Latino "Model", Part 5 (M/M Oral Anal)
Date: 27 Jul 1998 00:00:00 GMT
Good-Looking Latino "Model," Part 5
My prediction turned out to be correct. He prodded his passion probe
into me with such force that his hips slammed up against my buttocks with a
resounding slap and his lust lance thrust into me so far that, if it had
been just a little longer, it would have come out of my mouth. He plunged
into me deeply, and rolled his hips so that his pinga stirred my guts like
his Mother mixing a pot of paella. Then he pulled his dork out of me
completely, leaving my insides feeling abandoned and empty. Just as they
were adjusting themselves to fill in the aching void his absence created, he
plunged rapidly into me again, dilating me again, forcing my innards to
adjust quickly to his sudden reoccupation of my netherlands.
"OOOOHHHHH, GGGOOODDD!" I moaned, pleasantly pained by the deep ache
his merciless attack had caused me. Somehow, perversely pleased by my
response, he did it again. He withdrew his plug from my socket, and waited
even longer for my viscera to adjust to his absence, his pinga flicking up
and down with his heartbeat, like a conductor's baton beating time during a
silent break in an orchestral performance, until he plunged back into me
again. I moaned again, rolling my head from side to side on the pillow,
reacting to the agonizing ecstacy his plummet, like a snake bird diving for
a juicy fish buried deep inside of me, had caused me.
Pleased by my response, he plunged into me again and again, until my
passion pit, exhausted from his unrelenting abuse, prolapsed and lay there
unresponsively like the pussy of a dead corpse getting fucked by a
necrophilic.
Jorge evidently sensed my submission. He evidently felt the complete
loss of determination by my passion pit to resist his onslaughts. "Tighten
your asshole," he ordered, like Jeff Stryker in all of his porno tapes. I
did as he ordered. He repeated his abuse of my passion pit several times,
plunging into me fully, and waiting for me to clamp down on him again before
he pulled out of me only to plunge into me again.
He started a new game. He stuck just the naked head of his ass tickler
into my passion pit and ordered, "Squeeze down on it, Baby." I did, forcing
him out of me as if he were a big Cuban cigar. As soon as I relaxed a
little again, he pushed just the head into me again. "That's it, Baby,
nurse on that sucker," he ordered. "Let me know how much your ass loves
that big brown Rican dick."
Now, he decided that he wanted to challenge me with another
competition. He decided that he wanted to see how much suffering my
penitant passion pit would endure. With the fattest part of his cock
dilating me delightfully, he swept his hips sideways, hunching his hips into
me so that his cock tortured my asshole delightfully, stretching it to its
limits in every direction, prodding and punishing my prolapsed passion pit
like a proctologist looking for polyps.
It seemed as if he was testing me, trying to see how much abuse I would
accept, challenging me to endure, as a symbol of love, all the punishment
that his prodding penis was able to perpetrate on my penitent pussy-ass. I
accepted his challenge. I accepted his abuse and magnified its effect by
squirming my hips around under his prying prod. I wriggled and squirmed
under him like a Bangkok whore trying to please her favorite customer.
Then, with his dagger half in me, he swept his hips to one side and lay
on me so that his prod pried at my ass like a soldier in the battlefield
opening a can of beans with his bayonet. "UUUUGGGGHHHH," I moaned in sweet
agony from the pain, each time he pried me, as he worked around the rim of
my can. With each pry of his bayonet, he seemed to be hostilely punishing
the enemy within him, expressing all of the pent up anger from
unacknowledged resentments toward himself for selling his self esteem, and
toward me for taking advantage of his vulnerability by buying it.
At this point, I felt that he had stepped over my boundary. I felt
that he was testing me to see how far he could go, what he could get away
with. Before my experience with Todd, I would have let him. I would have
been so fearful of his rejection if I objected, that I would have submitted
to his abuse. I would not have challenged him. Now, come what may, I
decided that I was not going to enable his free expression of his
existentialistic anger. I decided that I was not going to allow him to
rampage in my body like a petulent child. I had asked him to make love to
me as he made love to his wife on her wedding night, and here he was
treating me like the most despicable slut he had ever abused. No longer was
he going to whip my pussy-ass into submission. No longer was he going to
have unrestricted access to the portals of my soul. If he wanted an angry
fuck, I'd give him an angry fuck! If he wanted a fight, that was what he
was going to get.
Instead of moving compliantly to his lead, I resisted him. Instead of
allowing him to plunge in me freely, I frustrated him by clamping down and
twisting so that his cock broke in the middle, slid harmlessly out of my
ass, and skidded down my back. He tried his hostile plunge several times,
but I would have none of it. Each time, I clamped down and arched my back
so that his cock cracked, slid out, and slid off my body harmlessly.
Then, it was almost as if I could hear him say to himself, "Whoa!
What's happening here?" All during his hostile fucking, he had not kissed
me. He had held himself up from my body, with his arms above my shoulders
locked me under him so that I could not escape from under him as he punched
his hips into me like Iron Mike trying to knock out an opponent in the first
round. With the realization that I would not accept his hostility, that I
would not accept blame for his circumstances, the combative tenseness left
his body, he melted lovingly into my arms, and he whispered "I'm sorry," so
softly that afterward I thought that I had only imagined that I had heard
it.
But, his behavior changed. He kissed me again on the lips and he tried
to insinuated his irresistable Rican pinga back into me again, so gently, so
pleadingly, that he seemed to be saying, "Please forgive me. I'll be a good
little boy. Just let be back into the family again where I belong."
At that point, the nucleus of my anger at his silly little rampage
dissolved and my heart went out to him. Like the father of a little boy who
was pleading for a treat, I didn't have the heart to deny him. I allowed
him entrance to my love tunnel.
At the same time, his hostile attack saddened me because it revealed
how vulnerable I was to the abuse of the people around me. His loving
caress had built a trust that had been violated with his angry rampage.
Loss of that trust saddened me, because it symbolized more than just an
angry fuck, which, at the right time and place, with consenting partners,
can be lots of fun. I was disappointed because, despite my resolution to
the contrary, I had subconsciously begun to view him as a "lover" willing to
respect my vulnerabilities. I was saddened and frustrated when my
expectations went unmet. Like a disappointed child, I felt a tear squeeze
from the edge of my eye as I blinked. He noticed it.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," he apologized, as he wiped the
tear from my cheek.
"You didn't hurt me physically," I said.
"Some of my customers like to get fucked that way," he said,
defensively trying to justify his attack.
"Not me," I declared, bravely, setting my lips in a firm line that I
hoped communicated determined resolve and concealed a quiver that would have
revealed how really close I was to crying. "Just gentle love for me," I
replied, ignoring the hostile roots of his behavior.
From that point on, our sex games were gentle. He made love to me the
way I imagined that he made love to his wife on their honeymoon. He cuddled
and placated me and worked his love machine into me so gently that I hardly
knew its immense bulk was in me except that I felt it swell my belly, not
uncomfortably, like a pregnant woman with a ten-pound baby in her.
At first I did not respond to his tender care because I was still too
pissed at him for what I felt he had tried to pull on me. He sensed this,
and pleaded, "Please, Baby, don't be mad at me. I didn't mean to offend
you. Some guys like to get fucked that way. Now I know you don't like it,
I won't do it again. Just because I tried something with you that you
didn't like, please don't hold it against me."
He was pleading so cutely, like a little boy who had been naughty and
knew it, that I could not help but forgive him. "All right," I said, "I'll
forgive you. Just don't try it again because I respect myself enough not to
let anyone use me as a punching bag."
"Agreed," he said. "Now, please make love to me." I did as he
requested. As he kissed me and moved on me, I responded. When he moved his
pinga into me, I responded by moving my hips up to meet him. When he
stirred his hips around, so that his pinga stirred my lovepot like the love
potion in a witch's kettle, I moved the kettle to scrape its sides with his
paddle. I complemented his every move with an appropriate response,
communicating, with my willing participation, my approval of his efforts.
After we had performed this love ballet for a while, in which I played
partner to his role as Premier Dancer, he stopped moving his body, with his
cock deep inside of me, and made his cock pulse inside of me as if he were
cumming. "Work your pussy-ass on my cock. Make me know how much you love
that big Latino pinga in you," he ordered, again assuming the assertive,
directive role that he seemed to favor.
I didn't object to. With his order, he was also requesting
reassurance, testing me to see if I had really forgiven him. I did not
disappoint him. I did as he requested. I worked on his cock with my ass
muscles like a "peg boy" in a Phillipine brothel trying to please an
American sailor. I wriggled and squirmed and massaged his cock inside of me
with every muscle I could summon to the task, using a few that I didn't even
know existed, performing sexually for him as if his request had been a
Command Performance by the Queen.
"That's it. That's the way to do it. That's it, work on that brown
Rican pinga. You know I like it rough. Really grind me up inside of you
and eat me like a Nathan's hot dog, with relish, buns and all. Suck my cock
into you. Eat my cock like a Hersey bar, nuts and all. That's it, really
work on that cock." I did as he ordered, inspired by his lewd
instructions, whispered in my ear as we fucked, like a dirty old man
teaching Lolita how to do it. I worked my ass muscles on his cock like an
army of oriental geishas trying to please a puissant potentate who had a
twelve-inch piece. "AAAAHHHH, that's it," he moaned. "Work that pussy-ass
of yours on my cock. . . That's it, jerk me off inside you."
God! His dirty talk made me hot. I wanted to treat his cock to
sensations from my passion pit that he had never felt before. I wanted
pleasure pit to suck on his pussy-sticker so hard that when he came, as in a
surrealistic dream, his whole body would collapse and be sucked along with
his semen, into my body. When he ejaculated, I wanted his whole body to
pour out of his urethra into my anal cavity.
We kept up these delightful sexual games for a long time, I don't know
how long, it must have been for days because, in the ecstatic state of
suspended time-sense that he had generated in me, time had no meaning. I
was on an exciting sexual trip as unaware of temporal events as if he had
used his beef injection to shoot me full of LSD. I was a slave to the
passion he produced in me, as much a slave as if I had been shackled to the
bed, unable to exercise my free will, unable to divert my attention from the
sexual events that were taking place within me and around me.
Jorge kept up this virtuoso performance, using his fire hose to
gradually extinguish my forest fire of sexual passion, the forest fire that
he had ignited, that had been raging joyfully out of control. Then, with an
unerring sense of timing, when he somehow knew that more sexplay might cross
over that fine line between pleasure and pain, he pulled his cock out of me
and said, "Why don't you lay on your side so I can get you off when I come
off," he suggested considerately.
I did as he suggested. He lay behind me and reinserted his still-slick
pinga back into the love-nest from which it had just emerged. "That's it,
John, let me show you how much that Rican cock likes that pussy-ass of
yours. Let me show you how good it can make you feel," he whispered in my
ear, over my shoulder. "That's it, work that pussy-ass of yours on that
Rican cock," he encouraged, acknowledging the fact that I was responding
again, that I was working my ass muscles on his cock, matching my motions to
his.
At the same time his pinga was taking care of my back end
magnificently, his hand was taking care of my front end, rhythmically
strokinging my love muscle with a firm authority that would eventually bring
me to climax. "That's it, John. Let me see how much you appreciate that
big Rican cock in you. Let me see you dump a big load for me. Let me see
you shoot about a quart of scum when I dump my load in your ass."
With that challenge, he started to climb for his climax, fucking me
more rapidly, but always gently, as he frigged my cock more rapidly with his
hand. Faster and faster he fucked. Faster and faster he frigged, until he
pulled my body to him and lay very still. Like an elegant nobleman at a
concert by Mozart, almost apologetically, his groin sneezed its life-giving
snuff into the lace-edged handkerchief that I offered him gladly for his
use. "UUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHH," he moaned softly and I felt his macho Rican
lust-machine deliver again, deep inside of me, another trillion or so of his
Latino-baby sperm.
He lay there, with his pinga still in me, encouraging my prostate to
rid itself of its unwanted burden with prods from his still-rigid rod. Even
as I felt his body deliver its precious cargo to mine, his hand continued
its frantic frigging of my cock. His hand, sensing that I was near the
brink of the precipice, continued its frantic frigging with unbroken rhythm
until my cobra spit about a quart of venom onto the sheet in front of us.
"UUUUGGGGHHHH," I moaned as my prostate, gently prodded by his pinga, like a
gun in the hand of a highwayman, delivered up its treasure to his
outstreached hand. "AAAAHHHHH," I sighed, from the overwhelming feeling of
satisfaction that flowed over me, like the dawn of a beautiful Florida day,
with our mutual climax.
With our climaxes, he continued to hold me tightly to him as we rested
from the exertion, his exhausted body crushed against mine delightfully, his
rapid heartbeat, thumping in his chest, beating on my back like an African
native beating on a jungle drum, announcing to the world the successful
completion of a magnificent connubial embrace between two native princes
whose right to reign depended upon their sexual performance with each other.
Here, the drum announced, were two perfectly matched contestants for the
honor of "Best Fuckers in the World". Here was a male nymphomaniac and a
satyrist, two sex fiends who delighted in their addiction, getting off
together, like heroin addicts in a shooting gallery, satisfying each other's
addiction. Here was a marriage made in heaven.
We lay there resting, in that position, for a long time, not talking,
just relaxing from the exertion of our activity, and enjoying the shared
intimacy of our successful sexual embrace. Suddenly, a sharp knock on the
door startled us from our reverie. "Time's up!" a voice of an attendant
announced from the other side. "If you want to stay longer, you'll have to
pay."
Evidently, the front desk didn't realize that I was a VIP guest who
could stay as long as he wanted to without paying additionally. "I'll
settle that interruption with them later," I thought. "We don't have to
leave if we don't want to," I reassured Jorge.
"That all right, its nearly dawn. Why don't we shower and go get some
breakfast? I've got to get home, anyway," he replied.
That's what we did. We showered, got dressed, went out and had
breakfast at one of the near-by all night diners. "Why don't you call me
again when you need a model?" he asked me as I paid him for his night's
work, and gave him a sizeable tip.
"I will," I replied, sincerely, feeling that Jorge had certainly given
me my money's worth, and then some.
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