“As I came home at five in the morn­ing, I saw an in­credible hunk emerging from a manhole in the empty street; a lit­tle while later he was back in a manhole: mine!

By Mario Mangiacazzo

(Honcho.April.1984.)

It was nearly five in the morning, and the dawn was beginning to crack through the blackness of the waning night as I strode through damp and deserted streets. I had spent Friday night dancing at my favorite after hours club, and my head still rang from the loud music and the drugs. Random half thoughts, fragments of conversa­tions, and refrains from records the DJ had played crackled through my head like static on a radio. As soon as I got back to my loft I’d drink some herb tea, smoke just a little reefer and then tumble into bed — alone.

I was just entering the section of downtown Manhattan known as TriBeCa — “the triangle below Canal Street” — when I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. About halfway down the block I saw a large, bulky figure slowly ascending from a hole in the street. In my semi crazed state this vague but imposing form looked to me like a devil rising from a Stygian pit. I’d seen some startling sights during my many years of predawn prowling in New York City, but none so arresting as this.

At first I felt a twinge of fear, but as I was able to distinguish the nature of this particular sight, the fear turned to curiosity. My devil was ac­tually a sewer worker — a “sandhog,” I think you would call him — and the pit he clambered out of was a manhole ringed by a semicircular iron frame. The man held a lantern in one hand; when he was fully outside the manhole, he hung the light on the frame. I slowed my pace as I ap­proached him. He was wearing a heavy poplin jacket that came down to the tops of his thighs. Whatever color it might once have been was totally obscured by dirt and grease. His dark work pants were similarly filthy, and his heavy, laced up boots were darken­ed with whatever nasty fluids he’d been stomping around in down in that pit. Not the most appetizing sight, but when he suddenly turned around and faced me, my distaste turned to sur­prise, and excitement.

The man wore a grimy hardhat and underneath it was a big, leonine head. Thick black hair streaked with gray hung over the tops of his ears. He had unfashionably long sideburns that reached below his earlobes. The ends of his bushy black moustache curled around the corners of his wide, thin lipped mouth like commas. His fleshy face was unshaven. Now, this guy was clearly no fey little fashion plate. He was a fucking animal — a brutish, swea­ty, fearsome motherfucker who looked like he could do a lot of damage to anyone who crossed him. God, was he hot!

I was only a few yards away when I noticed that either he bought his pants a size too small or he had massive thighs. The latter was of course, the case; the grimy workpants molded his mighty legs, outlining his bulging thighs and thick, rounded calves. The dirty pants also hugged his meaty ass, each fat cheek defined by the fabric. As he moved about, gathering up his tools and replacing the manhole cover, I could see muscle and sinew grinding inside the trousers. My groggy head was clearing rapidly as I stared. My only regret was that his coat blocked my view of his crotch. That, I was sure, had to be just as bulky and for­midable as the rest of him. Wrapped up in my rising lust, I was unprepared when he abruptly turned in my direc­tion. Our eyes locked. Mingled terror and exhilaration coursed through me. Say something! my brain screamed.

“Mornin’” I chirped, nodding in his direction.

“Mornin’” he grunted, eyeing me warily.

I stood there with my hands in my pocket, grinning like a Grade A asshole. He continued to stare as he kicked the manhole cover into place and lifted his tool bag.

“Got any smokes?” he rumbled.

“Uh — yeah, sure.” I reached inside my jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Benson and Hedges. I walked over to hand it to him, using our prox­imity to each other to study him further. He smelled as strong as I’d ex­pected, and the thick black hair was matted with sweat. His small, brown eyes glittered with a feral intensity. He took the cigarette in a huge, hairy paw, regarded it disdainfully and then tore the filter off and flung it in the street . ‘Fuckin’ pussy smoke,’ I imagined him thinking to himself

“Light?” he demanded.

I fumbled my lighter out of my pants pocket. He reached for it but I lit him up myself. As he cupped his hands around the flame and bent his big face towards it I found myself staring into the deep cleft in his hairy chin. He took in a deep blast of smoke and then exhaled.

“Thanks,” he said. There was ac­tually a hint of amiability in his rumbling voice. He puffed on his cigarette, savoring the sensation of smoking. He looked up at the lightening sky. “What a crazy fuckin’ hour to be workin’, huh?” he said, shaking his massive head. Then he reached down and tugged on his crotch.

“Yeah. Sure is.”

“Sometimes.” he continued, “I wish I had normal hours, ya know? The usual nine to five shit ’ He removed his hand from his crotch and scratched the back of his head. “But there’s somethin’ I like about this shift.”

“The solitude?” I put in.

He considered it for a moment before nodding his agreement. “Yeah. Ya don’t have ta deal with a lotta assholes. No rush hour bullshit. It’s peaceful. That’s what I like about it.” He stared at the sky again, and damn, that furry paw made it back to his crotch. He gave his basket a sharp tug. Was his underwear too tight around his huge — I imagined — dick? Was he horny after spending the past eight hours or so down in the sewers? Did he need someone to relieve his swollen, aching balls of their pent up cum?

“So whaddya doin?” he abruptly asked. “Where ya work?”

I almost told him that I’d been party­ing, not working, but I stopped myself. He’d gotten the idea that we belonged to the same fraternity of working class guys who labor overnight, while the rest of the world slumbers — a different breed of man, alone but comfortable in our solitude. Something was building between us, and I didn’t want to tear it down by telling him the truth: I was a well paid editor at a major midtown publishing house, who partied away too many of his nights. Nor if he knew that I was urbane, successful and gay — attributes of which I was proud — he’d probably sneer, spit and stalk off.

“I work at a warehouse over near the river. Same shift as you, man.”

“How ‘bout that,” he chuckled. I was startled by the boyishness of his smile. It softened his heavy, almost exag­geratedly masculine countenance.

“Say,” he spoke up, “I’m gonna stop off at this little joint for some breakfast before I go home. Wanna go?”

I looked into his expectant eyes. Oh Lord, I thought, what am I getting myself into? It could be a disaster. Or it could be the hottest, wildest escapade I’d had in years. Or, it might be a big, fat zero. We could end up eating our greasy fried eggs in silence, me with a painful, relentless hard on. But there was no way I could back out — not now.

“Sounds good, man.” I said, trying to affect his offhand, butch manner.

He said, “All right!” and shot me a quizzical, but unthreatening look. An “I’m trying to be sure I’m right about you” look. He pointed in the direction of the restaurant and shambled off, weighed down by his tool bag. I follow­ed. We walked two blocks before com­ing to the joint — a typical Greek diner located across the street from the Manhattan entrance to the Holland Tunnel. I’d passed it countless times but had never gone in, satisfying myself with amused looks at their dessert carousel — a multi-tiered, revolv­ing display full of sumptuous looking cakes, pies and pastries. As we entered, the place was nearly full, and the clientele seemed to consist entirely of worn out guys who’d just come off the graveyard shift or others who, hav­ing just risen for work, were rubbing the sleep out of their eyes.

A stout woman with disarrayed auburn hair and several large moles on her face hovered over the cash register. When we entered, she called out to my companion in a loud, ac­cented voice. “Hallo, hoe-nee! How you doin’ thees mornin?”

“Not bad, Maria,” he replied.

“That’s nice, Nicky.” She was count­ing a handful of paper money as she greeted us, and she continued this procedure while she talked to — Nick.

“Nicky, when you gonna find a nice wife to take care ‘a you — twenty, thirty, forty, feefty — so you no have to work such hours, eh?”

“Someday, Maria, someday,” he answered, his tone wavering between annoyance and weariness.

“Ahhh,” she wailed. “Someday. Someday. That’s all I — seexty, seexty five, seventy — ever hear from you!”

Nick shrugged and headed for a table near the back of the long, rec­tangular room. He yanked off his coat and hung it on the back of an empty chair. He was wearing a thick sweater of indeterminate color. He pulled it off, and dumped it on top of his coat. He was wearing a black t-shirt, and its sleeves had risen up almost to the tops of his shoulders. Tufts of black hair filled his deep armpits. Hair also curled up over the front of his collar. It swirled on his upper arms and be­came a dense crop on his oversized, sinewy forearms. Nick literally reeked of virility: a thick, musky odor com­pounded of sweat and a superabundance of hormones. My cock sprung up in my pants, fully hard.

We ordered eggs, toast and coffee. I picked at my food, focusing most of my attention on Nick. Or at least I tried to. He was going on about the vagaries of being a sewer man — dodging rats, getting used to the fetid air, pleasant stuff like that—and I would nod sympathetically and laugh at his little jokes. But the entire time I was imagining him naked, his hairy bulk enveloping me. I saw myself tonguing his big butt and slavering over his enormous, turgid tool. Fearful that he’d realize that I wasn’t paying full attention to his chatter, I’d chase these fantasies out of my mind only to have them return seconds later. In my febrile imaginings I was about to welcome his monster meat into my asshole when he blurted. “Hey! I been sittin’ here goin’ on and on and I just realized — you know my name and I don’t know yours!”

I laughed nervously. “Mitchell,” I said.

“Hey, fuckin’ Mitch!” he laughed heartily, extending his hand to me. “Nickolas O. Georgeulakos, ‘atcha ser­vice.” His affected courtliness got me laughing.

“Just Mitch?” he inquired.

“Mitch Brady.”

“Irish, huh?”

“Yeah. Well, half. My mother’s side is French.”

“Uh huh.”

The small talk ran out and we were arriving at an awkward lull when he exclaimed, “Hey look at this! We musta been in here a long time — the fuckin’ place is empty!”

I looked around the diner and saw that he was right. Except for Maria, who was paging through a Greek language newspaper, her two waitresses and an old guy sitting at the counter dawdling over his coffee, the place had emptied out.

“Yeah,” I said flatly. I found myself looking into Nick’s eyes, and what I saw both excited and discomfited me. He silently stared at me while his crowbar fingers crumpled an egg stained napkin. Oh Nick, baby, I thought, do something. Please.

He looked at his fingers and then looked at me. “Ya wanna?” he whispered. I stared at him as intently as he’d been eyeballing me, or so I thought. My hard on throbbed, struggl­ing against the confines of my pants like a trapped creature fighting for air.

“Well, do ya?” he whispered more urgently. I reached for my coffee cup, and my hand shook. I brought the cup to my lips, took a quick sip and set it back down in its saucer.

“Sure.” I said blandly. He smirked.

“I gotta go to the John,” he said, ris­ing from his chair. He stood over me for a second, and then reached into a small dish and picked out several pats of butter.

“Here,” he said, handing them to me. My fingers pressed lightly onto the paper covering the butter, which was soft and squishy.

“Bring ‘em with ya. Wait a coupla seconds, and then come on in.”

He turned and headed across the room, disappearing behind a wooden partition. I sat there, the pats of butter tying in the palm of my hand. I could get the fuck out of here, I told myself. I could simply get up, pay the check and leave. That would be the prudent, sensible thing to do. Anything else would be crazy. And crazy was what this big bruiser was. Did he really think I was going to get it on with him in the men’s room of this place, with old Maria sitting up front and people coming in and out? I mean, really!

Awww, why the fuck not!

I rose from my seat on wobbly legs, the butter in my sweaty hand, and headed to the men’s room. When I entered Nick was standing at a urinal, his back to me. He turned at the sound of the door. Seeing that it was me. he smirked. I walked over to the next urinal and stood before it with my legs spread wide. I pulled down my zipper and extricated my cramped cock. Bone hard, it was drooling pale juice onto my fingers. I turned to look at Nick. His attention was focused on my cock. I stepped back from the urinal to give him a better look. He shook his head appreciatively, his thick eyebrows leaping way up on his forehead. I had a big, proud joystick, and I loved seeing other guys go wild over it. I set the butter down on top of the urinal and began jerking my cock with both hands.

Nick’s expression turned hard and mean, but from lust, not anger. He moved away from the urinal to show me what he had. I gasped when I saw it, dark, veined and a good eight or nine inches long. Its upward swing reminded me of a diving board; I wanted to climb on it and do all kinds of tricks.

“Touch it, man,” Nick ordered.

I reached out for it and cradled the fat, brown head in my hand. Then I coiled my fingers around the shaft and began to jack it. After only a few strokes, the pre-cum issued forth in a steady stream.

“Suck it.”

I sank to my knees and wrapped my lips around his piece. The funk from his hot crotch mingled with the smell of his dirty pants. I’d never been especially attracted to “pig sex,” but I was quickly learning to love it. My ran­dy sewer rat began thrusting his hips, forcing more of his meat down my throat. I sucked avidly, savoring its heat and pungency. Just as I was working up a good, steady suck rhythm, he pulled it way from me. His big ham hands slipped under my armpits and pulled me to my feet. He nodded in the direction of the stalls set against the far wall of the men’s room, away from the door.

“The butter,” he grunted to me. I snatched the melting pats from the top of the urinal and followed him into one of the stalls. Once inside, he tore at my flannel shirt, popping off a couple of buttons. He pulled the shirt off my shoulders and hung it over the hook on the stall door. He spread his palms over my naked chest, ruffling the hair and squeezing my nipples between his fingers. His big hands next tore at my jeans; in a flash they fell to my ankles. He yanked at my underwear as if it angered him: his sex-rage was begin­ning to scare me. I knew he planned to sink that huge pole into my ass, and I tried to ready myself for the assault.

With one hand groping my ass, he us­ed the other to tear off his t-shirt. He carelessly tossed it on the toilet tank. The chest rippled and undulated as he moved. I could see the movements of the muscles because he wasn’t quite as hairy as I’d expected; there was more fur at his neck and thorax than on his pecs. The nipples were large and olive colored; the tips were stiff and pointy. I mouthed one nipple, slashing my tongue over it, sucking and chewing. He allowed me this pleasure for only a moment. Then he impatiently pulled down his pants, free­ing his dick and pendulous balls.

“The butter,” he ordered.

I handed the pats to him. He peeled off the paper coverings and smeared three pats of the mushy yellow stuff onto his cock, saving just a smidgen to coat my asshole. Then he sat down on the toilet, and, his arms wrapped around my waist, pulled me down on him. His cock stabbed right into my asshole, and I gasped from the painful in­trusion. He gave me a few seconds to get used to it; he stroked my chest and reached down into my lap to fon­dle the head of my dick. The pain ebbed, replaced by a warm sensation of fullness. I slowly began to raise and lower myself on his dick, and he mov­ed his hips in time to my exertions.

“Fuck me, Nick,” I whispered. “Fill me up and fuck me hard!”

Nick accelerated his thrusts, and as he fucked, he bit me on the back and shoulders. I gritted my teeth to hold back my cries. Shutting my eyes, I listened to the sounds of our fucking: Nick’s heavy breathing, my sharp gasps, the squish squish of conjoined, greasy dick and asshole. And then the door swung open. We both froze in midstroke. I carefully leaned back, shivering as my sweaty skin made contact with Nick’s chest. I heard the sounds of pissing, a urinal flushing and water running. The hot air dryer went on, and the anonymous pisser took an eternity blow drying his mitts. Get out — get out — get the fuck out! I heard the feet approach our stall. I looked down and saw them: white run­ning shoes. They paused, and turned. The door opened and then slammed shut. As soon as the intruder left, Nick began pile driving my ass. His cock had remained rigid the entire time. Danger queen!

I could tell that Nick was in a hurry to shoot his load, so I beat my dick in time to his thrusts. I wanted us to come together, I wanted my asshole contractions to milk a big, thick flood of jism from him. I reached down and gripped the rim of the toilet bowl to steady myself as the fuck tempo quickened.

“Gonna cum!”

Nick hissed, “Do it!”

The pace slowed and Nick delivered a series of fierce jabs into my ass that nearly threw me off the bowl and into the stall door. My own climax was nearly as violent; my erupting cock shot bolts of cum onto my shirt hang­ing from the door hook. When our orgasms subsided, I sank back down onto his stilled — but nonetheless rigid — cock. I wrapped my bared arms around him — leaving shoulders and pressed my face into his stubbly neck. I could’ve sat there for hours like that, impaled on his pork sword, waiting for him to fuck me again. But he instead pushed me off. His tool left my regretful asshole with a pop. Nick grabbed some toilet paper and wiped off his meat before standing and pulling up his pants. We hurriedly put our shirts back on.

I left the stall first. I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. Face a little flushed, hair a mess. I threw some cold water on my face and whipped out my comb. Nick came out of the stall.

“You go out first,” he whispered. “I’ll join ya in a minute.”

I smiled at him. “That was great,” I said, as I gave his crotch a firm squeeze. He shrugged diffidently. I turned and headed out the door. When I got to our table, I saw that the dishes had been cleared away The check had been placed under a water glass. I picked it up and headed to the register Maria was still reading her paper, but there were more customers in the place now, and they kept inter­rupting her to pay their checks. As Maria made my change, I pulled on my coat. My ass felt raw but when I walked I could feel the butter slathered between my buns. I went back to our table with the change and left it as a tip. Nick hadn’t yet emerged from the bathroom.

As I was about to leave, Maria snagged my arm. “Listen, hoe-nee,” she pleaded. “You Nicky’s friend, right? Can you feex him up with a nice girl? He stay out all night, working. All’a time working. What kinda life is that, eh? He needs a good wife, no?”

The black stud got up for a moment and looked through a drawer, and came up with a dildo. He came back to me and straddled me with his back turned, his ass pointed at my face. ‘Fuck me with this,” he said. I’d been wanting to eat his ass for so long now that I was a bit disappointed but did as he asked. The dildo was a pretty large one, about ten inches by three, and I wondered if he’d be able to take it.

Well, he was no stranger to dildos as it turned out, for I was soon able to insert it all the way up his ass — slowly at first, teasing his pucker with the head which made him moan a bit. He pressed back with his haunches and I was able to work in the head up his asshole, until it glided in to about halfway. He sighed again, a low deep sigh and said, “Stick it all the way in.”

Fiction by Bearmuffin

(Honcho.Sept.2007.)

I’m as patriotic as the next man so I believe in doing anything to help out our boys in uniform. One night I had the opportunity. I was working in a bar in down­town El Paso, a small wine and beer joint. Being a bar­tender may have not been the greatest of career moves but it sure beat working a boring 9 to 5 job. Besides, the pay was okay. I could pay the rent and still have plenty of free time to fuck around.

It was a slow night, with just a couple of locals who had come in for a few drinks and the usual bar gossip. For some strange reason I was exceptionally horny that night and needed some action. Well — the gods must have heard my prayer, for it was about ten minutes to last call when this hot looking black stud walked in. He was prob­ably one of the most handsome black guys I’d seen in a quite a while. He had a winning smile that could have charmed the pants off anyone. I immediately noticed his bulging basket tenting the crotch of his gray sweats. He sat at the bar and ordered a beer.

It was my usual policy not to make it with a customer but this stud was so appealing that I couldn’t help it. Whenever I was horny, it was my custom to drive to the local adult bookstore after my shift to go suck some cocks. There were plenty of horny guys in town that dug that scene and I always found some guys eager to get their cocks sucked. But tonight I was looking for some­thing different. So I started to engage the stud in a bit of small talk and it turned out he was just as horny as me, because right away he said. “How about coming over to my place? We can have a drink.” He looked at me with his dark, deep soulful eyes and flashed his smile. I felt myself being pulled in by the sexual current sparking between us.

I just grinned and said, “Yeah. Sure.” Well, I cleaned up and closed up the place as fast as I could. Then we hopped into his red sports car. My heart was pounding, and my pulse racing. I was especially excited to be making it with this hot stud.

When you’re a bartender you learn to size up people pretty quick and I got pretty good vibes from this guy.

Like I said, he was exceptionally handsome with a rugged face, broad nose and angular features. He had beautiful brown eyes and his lips were full and sensuous. He was wearing a denim jacket over a tight tee-shirt, so I could tell he was in superb shape by the size of his pecs. His long, thick cock snaked along his thigh underneath a pair of gray sweat pants. His thighs were meaty and muscu­lar. He was wearing a blue baseball cap.

Sometimes I’m a bit apprehensive when I meet a new trick but this guy seemed to so easygoing and laid back that I began to relax. We didn’t say much as he drove to his apartment, which was in a private gated community about a half hour from the bar. It was about 2:30 a.m. and so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

We got out of the car and walked to his apartment. I walked a bit behind him so I got a chance to check out his ass. I could tell, even under the sweats, that it was gor­geous. All of a sudden I had taste for some butt. I won­dered what it would be like to rim him and if he’d let me.

Once inside his apart­ment, he didn’t waste any time. We didn’t even get around to having that drink he promised me but walked directly to the bedroom Well, I got the biggest surprise of my life, for hanging on the bathroom door was a Marine uniform: a clean, crisply pressed set of Blue Deltas with the blood red stripes running down the trousers.

Not only was I pleasantly surprised but a touch anx­ious, too. I’d hoped he wasn’t one of those military types who picked up a trick, had their way with him, and then beat him up. But there was something gentle about this stud in spite of his muscularity.

“You’re a Marine?” I said.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Just got back from Panama.”

Now what the Marines were doing in Panama I didn’t know and never found out because this particular Marine got right to the point. “Let’s strip,” he said.

Well, he certainly didn’t believe in wasting time as I’d noted before, so we took off our clothes and got on the bed. He turned out to be a man of few words but what he lacked in diction he made up in dick.

He was a great kisser and the whole time were kissing he had his hand on my cock and I had mine on his. I’m not a size queen but I was pleased to find that my horny Marine was hung like the proverbial horse with a huge, pendulous cock curving downwards over a pair of unusually large, heavy balls. I massaged it into a full, ripe hard on, and his hands felt great on my cock. I don’t think there’s a feeling in the world like the hands of a mascu­line man on your body.

Soon I felt his warm mouth on my cock, sucking on the knob at first and then slowly gliding down the full length of my shaft, taking my meat all the way down his throat. This Marine really knew how to suck cock! My hands were on his head guiding him up and down over my cock, up and down, until I was crying out for release. “Oh fuck,” I sighed. “I wanna cum, I wanna cum.”

He took his mouth off my cock and angled it back a bit and jacked me off. All it took was a few smooth strokes and I began to cum, heavy, long spurts of jizz flying out, splashing all over my stom­ach as I rocked back in forth in a long orgasm, the hot spurts cascading on my abs. I looked up at him and he was smiling. He got on top of me and began rubbing his hard cock all over my cum soaked stomach, all the while kissing me again, driving his lusty tongue deep into my mouth. He rubbed his body against mine in a circular motion, his cock slipping and sliding between our bodies. I heard him groan, his eyes were closed, his mouth open and panting, ‘Unngh, unngh.” I heard him moan a long, deep throated groan and then felt his cock stiffen more as it suddenly exploded, hot spurts of cum drenching my already wet with cum abs. My hands were cupping his taut, muscular buttocks. I held each hard ass cheek, squeezing them and running my hands over the smooth, taut flesh.

Afterwards he just lay there on top of me, the cum dripping off our bodies. And I wondered again whether he’d let me eat his butt? For a moment he laid there, his face nuzzling my neck. His heady masculine fragrance rushed up my nose, making my cock hard again.

The black stud got up for a moment and looked through a drawer, and came up with a dildo. He came back to me and straddled me with his back turned, his ass pointed at my face. ‘Fuck me with this,” he said. I’d been wanting to eat his ass for so long now that I was a bit disappointed but did as he asked. The dildo was a pretty large one, about ten inches by three, and I wondered if he’d be able to take it.

Well, he was no stranger to dildos as it turned out, for I was soon able to insert it all the way up his ass — slowly at first, teasing his pucker with the head which made him moan a bit. He pressed back with his haunches and I was able to work in the head up his asshole, until it glided in to about halfway. He sighed again, a low deep sigh and said, “Stick it all the way in.”

Again I did as he asked and slowly inserted the rest of the dildo up his ass. He leaned back a bit and emitted a low deep groan of sat­isfaction. I took that as my cue to start pumping his ass with it, grabbing the base of the dildo and shoving it in and out, in and out, with long, smooth steady strokes. He began pushing his ass back to meet the rhythmic pumping of the thrusts. It was truly a sight to behold, the dildo going m and out of his muscular black ass. I must have fucked his ass with the dildo for a good ten minutes and when he was satis­fied he said, “Take it out.” I slowly removed the dildo and tossed it on the floor. I just lie there wondering what he would do next.

Then he moved down a bit so that his ass was just an inch away from my face. My heart began to pound again with anticipation. Finally, what I’d been hoping for all night was going to happen! I was going to eat his beau­tiful black ass!

He mounted me, easing himself down on my eager face. He also played with my cock again while I rimmed him. His butt tasted squeaky clean, a combination of soap and just the tiniest hint of musk that got me incredi­bly excited. I just love the taste of black butt.

I grabbed each of his thighs for support as he squat­ted down on my face and let me suck his butt, my tongue wiggling hard and fast up his hot asshole. I had wanted to eat his butt so bad that night and by then I was ready to get my tongue all the way up his ass. I must have rimmed him for at least a quarter of an hour. The raw, sensual taste of butt seared my senses and seconds became hours as I soon found myself lost in a dizzying universe of ass eating. I was jacking off as I continued to suck on his beautiful black ass.

I was ready to shoot another wad and felt like telling him so, but suddenly he lifted himself off my face and turned around again, only this time to sit upon my hard, pulsing cock. As it turned out, he was no stranger to ass fucking either, for he grabbed my long stiff meat and eased himself down over it as the shaft smoothly glided up his asshole.

The whole evening he had proven himself a real pro, not one of those butt-virgins like some mili­tary studs often turn out to be. My cock easily slid all the way up his ass tunnel. He eased back a bit and then my meat sunk in to the hilt. He began fingering my nipples as I grabbed his beautiful black cock, which was pulsing and throbbing in front of me. The harder he tugged on my tits, the faster I jacked him off.

I pumped him with smooth, steady strokes and he rode me hard, his eyes closed again,  his mouth half open as a long steady stream of groans and moans escaped past his lips. I fucked him for a full, steady ten minutes until he sighed, “I’m cumming, I’m cumming.”

“Me, too, buddy,” I said. “I’m cumming, too!” He rose up and then down again as my cock made one final thrust up his hole before it exploded like Fourth of July fire­works, cum spurting deep and far up his asshole.

“Fuck,” he cried, fisting his cock and aiming it right at my face. I watched as his fist flew over his meat, sud­denly grabbing the root and his cock exploding, the hot creamy Marine cum shooting all over my face. I thrust my tongue out and caught a few well aimed spurts right inside my mouth. His cum tasted so salty and tangy, I loved it.

Afterwards, we cuddled for a while and then we put on our clothes. He drove me back to the bar. As before, he didn’t say much but just smiled and said his thanks and he drove away.

That was a couple of months ago. I’m still tending bar and normally I still don’t have sex with the customers, sat­isfying my lust at the adult bookstore glory holes. But I sure miss that beautiful black Marine. I keep hoping he’ll turn up again some night.