I’ve been told I have a ‘type’, but I don’t know if this is true. Sure, if I had a fantasy type, he’d be bearded, bald, hairy chest, nice arms, decent sized dick and a dirty mind and foul mouth. Suits, leather or uniform would be preferred but not required. But men like that are few and far between, so I normally settle on “regular” guys – and hope they have a filthy mouth and mind. Everything else is gravy.
Even for my ideal vs the others, this guy wouldn’t have necessarily been on my radar. I wouldn’t have reached out to him, but he did to me. 48, 5’11, 195 – all respectable stats. Solid 7.5″ thick. Nice enough. But it was the hair, mostly the beard that was throwing me off. WILD didn’t begin to describe it. It went at least 6-7″ below his chin and completely untamed.
His picture, at first glance, was that of looking at a homeless man, or the Unibomber. He looked like that in person as well. Oh yes, I went through with the meet-up. In the exchange on-line, he said all the right (or was it wrong?) things with the right tone and attitude. Trust me, that commitment takes a man far.
There was no getting to know one another. He was in the door and the pants were off. His cock was already hard, so he was good to go. No kissing. No sucking. It was him turning me around and bending me over. While lube was put out, he never reached for it. He was a spit man and that’s all that was on his cock as he pushed his way into me. And the man knew how to fuck. Hard. Deep. His own rhythm, his own needs, mine were secondary or tertiary…..if they ever came into the equation.
He had alluded to that he can fuck a long time and we switched positions often. Next was on my back while atop a desk. My entry was the right height for him standing next to the furniture. He looked down on me as he made his shaft disappear, then reappear, then disappear again. All the while he’d volley insults at me, in the names of “faggot”, “pig”, “whore” and the likes – sometimes strung together in a barrage of filth. It made me hard. It’s not like anything he was saying was untrue – right?
Eventually we were down on the ground, him on his back, me riding him. Always dangerous for me, as I have no control over my orgasm that way. …and I didn’t want to cum, at least not yet and at least not first. More insults as he pulled out and instructed me to lick him clean. When I complied, that’s when he really called me a “dirty fucking pig”.
As he stood over me, I thought he’d spit on me, but he was just making spit for his cock, lubing it – readying it….again. But while he stood, his shoed foot more than bumped my crotch. I didn’t flinch. He did it again – harder. I remained stoic. Then again and again. “You like to be beat up?” he asked. I didn’t say ‘no’, but I didn’t say ‘yes’. He continued oddly enough it did not hurt. He could have done more damage if he had liked.
I was on my back and he bent my legs over my head, just to play with my ass. I was bent over far enough, I was wondering if I could mouth my own cock, but it wasn’t quite close enough. He never noticed this. Soon enough I was on all fours with him behind me – fucking the hell out of me fast and hard. No mercy. But soon that gave way to him sitting on a chair and me straddling him, facing him, riding him.
That turned out to be it for him. I rode and he met my downstrokes with up ones. Soon enough, his hands were on my waist pulling me down – all the way down. Then I felt him throb. For all his verbal nastiness, he waited till he was done unloading in me before telling what a fucking whore I was. He did that while putting on his pants.
He said he’ll want another go-round. He’ll most likely get it.