Naked hunk, hosing himself off; final installment of “Fuck Me … Please” …

Hi, friends and readers:

If you’re a devotee of guys with beautiful butts, then I know you’ll enjoy this morning’s photo post. How come he’s not bathing on my patio? Where does this guy live? What’s his name? Aye-yi-yi.

I’m up early this morning. Last night, after I watched sunset with my good friend and neighbor, I ate dinner and tried to watch the film Chinatown for the third time. Once again, I fell asleep.

Okay, I know most film buffs think Chinatown is a cinematic gem. It’s directed by Roman Polanski, it stars Jack Nicholson, but I still find the whole thing boring. I should have read a book instead.

My day’s not going to be too exciting. I have an appointment at 11 AM. After that, I’ll stop by the YMCA to run on the treadmill, thus avoiding running outdoors in this blazing heat. I have three writing projects that’ll consume the afternoon. I have no idea what I’ll do with my evening. (Maybe I’ll track down the guy with the garden hose.)

Okay, here’s the eighth and final installment of Fuck Me … Please. As always, it comes with a caveat:

This story contains graphic sexual scenes involving two men. It’s not for the squeamish and it’s not intended for readers under the age eighteen. If you are offended by explicit sexual language, don’t read Fuck Me . . . Please.

* * * *

“All right,” I said, “Get back in the bed. Do what you want.”

He narrowed his eyes. He told me, “That’s not enough, what you just said.”

I said, “Huh?”

He said, “Ask me for it. And say ‘please’ when you do.”

My heart hammered my rib cage. The fucker wanted me to beg. Anger boiled in my chest and I felt an urge to get myself dressed and hit the street, but I didn’t. I gave in to Tyler’s will instead. I told myself, Go ahead, punk. You’ve already humiliated yourself before this guy. Do what he wants, just say it.

I moistened my lips. I looked at Tyler and said, “Fuck me.”

He said, “Fuck me… what?”

I swallowed hard. Holding Tyler’s gaze, I said, “Fuck me … please.”

A smile crossed Tyler’s face. He returned to the bed and I assumed the required position, lifting my ankles. Tyler re-greased his cock and pressed it to my anus. Looking into my face, he said, “Ask again.”

I glanced away. I drew a breath and let it out. I looked back at Tyler and his gaze locked onto mine. My voice cracked like a teenager’s when I said, “Fuck me … please.”

He drove his cock into me, then, and I cried out. The pain was no less than before. My hole burned like someone had shoved a hot poker inside me. I cried out, but did not pull back; I let Tyler have his way. I submitted.

Then, like when he’d used his fingers, Tyler’s cock nudged something inside me and again I felt the electric jolt. Warmth spilled into my sensitive spots. He fucked me hard, making me grunt with each thrust. I sweated buckets, soaking the sheet.

Tyler brought his lips to mine. I tried turning my head, but he seized my chin and held it in place. He pried my mouth open, his tongue entered me, exploring, rubbing against my tongue. My dick swelled. It dripped pre-come upon my belly while Tyler pumped my ass, while his cock stretched me, over and over, till I stopped fighting, till I relaxed and accepted my role in our lovemaking. I told myself, Admit it, Forrest. This feels awfully good…

I was Tyler’s fuckboy now. I sucked his tongue like a slut on prom night. I sighed when he pinched my nipples. I shuddered when he whispered into my ear, “You’re a hot lay, Forrest. I love drilling your ass.”

He increased the frequency and power of his thrusts. The headboard drummed the wall in time with our movements and my whole body felt electric. Tyler’d gotten sweaty as me and we shone like two seals in the lamplight.

Minutes passed. My hole felt raw and sore now, but I didn’t care. Tyler brought his lips to my ear, whispering, “I’m ready.” He returned his mouth to mine and our tongues entwined. Tyler moaned and his cock throbbed inside me. He ran his hands over my scalp, groaning with satisfaction. I reached for my cock and squeezed it only once, then I spurted come all over my belly and chest. Some hit my cheek, and some struck Tyler’s too. I cried out, my lungs pumped and my spine tingled. My mind went blank.

It took a few minutes before my breathing slowed. I felt exhausted, but in a good way, as if I’d hiked up a mountain and reached the summit and now I could sit and enjoy the view. Only, instead of peaks and valleys, instead of rivers and meadows, I had Tyler to look at: his blue eyes and smooth skin, his muscles and his dark hair. The lips I had once refused to kiss.

He stayed inside me a while. We said nothing to each other, only breathing in the silent room. Then Tyler withdrew and I lowered my legs and he lay beside me on the bed. He stroked my cheek with a finger. He said, “Are you okay?”

I nodded, making a little smile.

He said, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I said, “Some, but it’s all right.”

He said, “Be truthful, Forrest. Tell me how you feel right now.”

I thought a moment, then I said. “It’s like I’ve been in jail a long time, and now you’ve released me.” (Which was exactly how I felt.)

He smiled at me, then. He moved closer. Draping an arm across my torso, he laid his head on my chest and I stroked his hair. I closed my eyes and seconds later fell asleep.

***

I stayed with Tyler till his submarine went to sea–five happy days. We did the sights together: the Golden Gate, Muir Woods, Fisherman’s Wharf. There’s something magical about doing such things with an intimate companion. I’d sit across from Tyler in a crowded restaurant and my knee would touch his and I’d look at him, recalling last night’s steamy fuck. I’d grin and even blush a little, remembering the smells and sounds, the grit of the sex we had shared.

That’s how it was for me, anyways.

Do I ever hear from Tyler? Of course. He writes once a month, at least. His sub will surface, then rendezvous with a supply ship and mail bags get exchanged.

I go to college part-time now, plus I work as a janitor for the public school system. I clean rooms at an elementary school at night, after the kids are gone, and sometimes I’ll take a break. I’ll sit alone in a quiet place and read Tyler’s letters, over and over, sometimes out loud. I’ll think of that day I first met him, hearing his voice inside my head and recalling his touch on my skin.

I long for the day when Tyler returns to San Francisco, when he’ll take me to a room and close the door. When he’ll make me say it again, more than once.

Fuck me, Tyler.

Fuck me … please.

* * * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2008.

That’s the whole story, my friends. I hope you enjoyed it. And I hope you’re having a nice day, wherever you are.

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