Like a Telegraph... to Your Hole

Some nights are more awesome than others. 

This is one of those nights. Lately, I've been saying that a lot... but this one... just read on. It's insane. 

A photo I took of Wes when we were modeling for life drawing

I check in with Wes [see also: The Fraternity of Handsfree Daddies, Part 1: And One to Grow On where I gave him his birthday spankings and then some birthday breedings... see also: The Fraternity of Handsfree Daddies, Part 2: The Fuckenking; see also: RECONfigured where I spank him a lot more and we pose for art... ] because a few days ago, he said he'd like to join me at the baths some night. A boy who looks and fucks like that, doesn't have to twist MY dick. Yes, please. Daddy likes. So, he says he's up for it, and I say cool, that's awesome or something similarly witty, and I head to the Ho House.  

I get signed in, and yes, the cute boy that I usually see Wednesdays, smiles and gives me the key to my favorite room. It's gonna be a Wesnesday. Wes and I click. We do the weird stuff. But, seriously, read the other posts, if you haven't met Wes before. He's like a gaited horse - and I am uniquely qualified to put him through his paces. I remember meeting him at the Cambodian Buddhist Temple's Street Food Festival (Y'all should go - it's SO yum, and you can get plants you don't see anywhere else.) He had come with friends of his (whom Husband and I have both played with in various combinations over the years), and his strong shoulders were gleaming through a tank top, olive green if I can remember right... and I thought, "Hmm... what a hot dude. I want to fuck him." But what I said, was, "Hey! It's nice to meet you. I'm Michael." 

I realize when I crack one open, that the other cute boy at the desk gave me the with-sugar Gatorade, and I need the without-sugar one, and so I take those back and get the right ones, because that would irk me all night long, and that much sugar makes me shaky.  I don't like how that sugar shaky energy combines with the weed and the poppers and the tantra. Especially the tantra. I get my lights set up, and I'm fiddling around with how I have the stuff laid out - including this fun super-long tapered dildo that goes RIGHT down your throat... and somebody knocks on the door. I've told Wes where I'm at, so I'm expecting him - but when I open the door, there's two young guys standing there. The one in front - the knocker - is the cute boy from [see also: Ducklings] with the curly hair. He's as striking as he was before - a fine-boned, elfin beauty that carries proportionally throughout his elegant, well-muscled slender body, fine hands, high cheekbones. He asks if I remember him, and I say that of course I do; he's asking after the other guy, apparently thinking he was my partner just because we stopped the throat-fuck session that he and two other young new guys were watching... and had a kind of quick catch-up lesson on what HIV is, and what PrEP is, and Doxy PEP, and how to handle yourself when guys are creepy or aggressive. Like a crash course in cruising for baby gays. The guy standing with him is kind of sandy blond; he's cute, but not nearly as much as the elfin boy. They watch me fiddling with stuff for a bit, and we talk, just a little this and that, I tell the other guy about some of the stuff I like, and I show him a quick flash of some of the blog. After maybe ten minutes talking, I'm ready to go for a lap to check out the property and the possibilities. The boys walk out, and then the sweet slim one pulls back into the room with me and shuts the door. 

He tells me the other young guy is homeless, and has been asking him to buy him food - mind you, we're talking a vending machine selection of things like those little packs of Donuts, or Honey Buns or Cheetos - and asking for money, and asking for a ride later... and he doesn't know how to deal with it. He's not shy, really, so much as he's just not used to people trying to essentially guilt-trip him during a bath house visit. He's very self-possessed, but doesn't have any armor or weapons training. He's never been in a big city. So I talk with him a little about how to say no, about how to make it clear you're not interested in having your playcation turned into a philanthropic giving session. I'm not saying that you can't connect with someone like that - but if you don't want to be connected, you are always within your rights to clearly and firmly disconnect. Learning to communicate as an autistic person involves a lot of formulae; if you watch me talk, when you finish saying something, I'm counting, because apparently I don't hear the difference in tone between "I'm done with a sentence," and "This should be a semicolon; I'm still going." He raises one arm over his shoulder and scratches the other shoulder; his pits are furred with a slim strip of curled dark hair, like his armpits each have their own Brazilian. It's clearly just the way he grows hair; he's nearly hairless except for his secondary sex patches. He never gets naked, but he fiddles with his towel enough that I know he's got a sweet little brown bush. He clearly senses that I'm happy to provide him a space to get away from that situation, and he enjoys talking to me, and he's not interested in sex with me. It's kind of nice. He doesn't seem to mind that he turns me on, but I've made it clear that he's got to ask if he wants something. He says he remembers that he liked the lights, but last time they were red and blue; this time they're a brilliant cerise and aqua. I ask if he'd like to switch them back, and he would, and so I do, letting him call out when the blue is the right blue. 

I always get such a thrill playing with Real Daddy Steve's butthole.

There's another knock at the door, and it's the sandy blond in the ballcap, and he's got a Honey Bun that one of the desk guys gave him. I understand how it would be an oasis, if you're a gay twenty-something-under-five, and you're homeless, and you go to this place where there's infinite hot water, hot tub, a sweet pool where you can be naked, guys who will buy you things and suck your dick... I mean, I begrudge him absolutely nothing about this, as long as he'll leave the other kid alone and not try to guilt-trip him after he's said no. The little elf kind of stands next to me as we talk, separating himself from the boy in the hat with a space that includes me. I get it; I've got you, kiddo. We keep talking, and I'm explaining to them some about the kinds of things I like doing - because while he saw some of it happen last time, a lot of the time when the Ducklings were hanging out, was watching me fuck in public places. I'm a lot mouthier in my room. I'm more explainy. He leans over, peering at a bit of what looks like booger on the wall, then turns his phone's flashlight on it and asks what I think it is. I tell him it looks like snot, and that's actually more likely at the level where it's at, and it doesn't look like what dried jizz looks like, and it COULD be some other orifice's mucus secretion, like a really gobby loogie... but it just looks like somebody sneezed. We're all wheezy, drippy, oozing, shedding, farting mammals. Bits of us end up all over things. No matter how fastidious one might be, and doubly especially so in a place like this, where guys like me do their best to turn your insides into outsides. They clean the rooms a lot - and if there's something like this, point it out to staff and they'll scrub it off with sanitizing cleanser. Somebody walks up and knows the other young'un in the ball cap, and they go off together, him still gnawing on his Honey Bun. I shut the door. I show the boy a couple of videos of things from before from the blog, and I talk to him about how things like breath play and role playing and spanking can contribute so much to a sex experience. How I'm in it for the weird game. For adventure-style sport fucking. I'm in no hurry to shoo him out, because I'd really rather start with Wes in my room - and as if on cue, there's a knock at the door, and it's Wes. I introduce them to one another, and although I tell him he's welcome to hang out and watch, the handsome little elf boy flees for the safety of the hallway so he doesn't get caught in the splash zone. 

I kiss him, and hug his body and smell his skin, always fresh and just smelling like human being and maybe a little cocoa butter. He smells delicious. I turn him so that he backs up to the bed, and push him so that he sits, then I press his shoulders to lay him back. I take his cock into my mouth, sucking as he hardens, his cock rampant and glistening in its slippery skin. He's got a really nice foreskin; when he's not yet fully hard, it swallows down into my throat, sucking just the tip with the tight spot at my tonsils. I want to get him warmed up, and also show him some fun new things I've learned. I suck him back and forth in my throat, and I wipe my slobber over his ballsack and then suck his nuts into my mouth, one and then the other, and then both at once. I hold his nuts in my lips and stretch the sack, running my tongue up and down the seam on the underside of his scrotum, the raphe. It's sensitive on a lot of guys. Especially when you've got their ballsack stretched taut in your warm wet sucking mouth. Then I let his nuts go, and push his legs further up so I can properly address his asshole. I lick my way around, and then roll first my beard and then the fuzzy top of my head and then my beardy chin around the space surrounding his hole, tenderizing it and waking the nerves up. I suck his hole into my mouth and nibble it with my teeth; I lick a lot, pointing my tongue to poke his hole open, and then widening it up to lap over the whole entrance with a flat tongue like a cow. I used to feed them when my Grandpa was helping his friend who ran cattle, and that tongue is a sensation. I make a pointy tongue to lick circles around the tight ring of muscle at his anus. I nuzzle it with my nose, and then deep pressure with my chin. I lick my way up, flat-tongued, from below his asshole up to the tip of his cock, sashaying my tongue from one side to the other as it travels, like a skier jumping the wake. Then I get to the top, and sink my mouth and then my throat onto it again. He's just long enough to be right where the tip of his cock touches the tight spot at the back of the throat; he's not long enough for me to deepthroat. He can't cut off my breath like I do his. 

I slobber on my fingers, and slip a spit-slicked finger into him, stroking his prostate as I remind him where he's pulling that energy up - pulling up the golden fire through the rainbow windows, drawing the energy up from his crotch to the roots of his hair, so that it flows through him like an electric current, like a swift, mentholated wind. He asks me what the little bottle is and when I tell him it's not lube, it's peppermint oil in alcohol - Wes is the kind of explorer I am, and so I heavily spritz it into my mouth so that my mouth is full of menthol, and then I lean over and begin vigorously making out with his asshole, getting as much of my mentholated surface in contact with his mucus membranes as possible. It definitely has an impact; he writhes and moans, holding his knees and arching his body like the yoga pose called Happy Baby. He opens himself to me; I can feel the adjustments as he squeezes and relaxes, gripping my working fingertip like a firm child's hand - not something that can stop you from doing what you want, but a sensation that it's trying almost effectually to stop you. His face contorts when my fingers carry the menthol sparkle up inside him, massaging it into his hole. I work my way up his penis from its base to the glans again, this time kind of sucking my way up like you could imagine my mouth was a snail... and getting that peppermint drool in every nook and cranny. When I get to the tip, I suck him down into my throat, and work a single finger into his hole and stretch him out with the Carlton Butt Clock (TM). I suck his cock while I massage his prostate, then work down and suck his nuts some more. I smack them a few times, making him dance and twitch. 

So now, he's warmed up. 

I stand up and put him on his knees, pushing him down by the muscular smooth shoulders until he's mouth- level with my cock. He kisses it, and sucks it into his mouth, and it gets quickly stiff enough that breathing is not really possible for him. I keep having him swallow, keep making him gag hard and then spit into the bowl. I give him some poppers with the cloth, because that's always a fun one... you hit the main wave of the rush, RIGHT at the same time. I ask him if he likes the smell of armpits, because I've got a clean cloth, and I've got a cloth that's been seasoned with two four-mile shirtless barefoot walks in the sun, and it kind of adds a spicy element to this sensory experience. He does like it, so I know that one of my favorite evil ploys is an option.

I'm telling him, as I'm blocking his airway repeatedly with my cock, and then three and then four fingers, and then by covering his mouth and nose with my hands so that there's no breathing available. Looking down at him, he has the most fascinating fuck face; he's got the Buddhist training to be totally serene, and he can recognize the sensation of panic as it arises, persists, and departs, like a cloud crossing the sky. And, there is something to me about the way his face looks as he suffers on my cock, and then remembers the nonduality of existence and just experiences, without suffering... it's a fucking trip, I tell you. I can watch the wave of panic hit him, and his face flickers, and then he re-exerts control with his mind, and he rides it. Fuck yogis. Meditators. Breathwork dudes. They KNOW shit. But the thing is... he has the face that the huge stone Bodhisattvas at the temple have. His eyes are the eyes of the Cambodian statues. And we're standing here, discussing (and yeah; I let him come off the cock, and we talk a little.... while he catches his breath... for another round) how the panic is a bodily sensation, combined with a fear which arises in the bodily sensation, and how once you can get over that "I'm gonna die" feeling, you can float along in a very hot zone of biological mayhem with a peaceful mind. Like Joni Ernst said, "We're all going to die." 

And that's the thing - there's a whole genre of Buddhist meditation where somebody slowly and serenely and without disgust, walks you through your beautiful body and describes how your hair will fall out, your skin will sag, your eyes will dim, and you will grow frail and die, and then your corpse will rot. You really appreciate life more, when you've done some serious sitting with the fact that we're going to die, it's totally non-optional, but whether we SUFFER or not, depends on whether we are attached. I mean, I still fuck up; I get attached to bullshit and I suffer, and I struggle... but I can look at it and SAY that I'm stuck on it, at least, and I'm working on the rest. I recognize the shenpa. Anyway. It's a thing that I'm able to do with a cock in my throat, where it's just not as easy to get into that zone with a fuck; there's a combination of lack of oxygen, and the "THERE IS AN OBSTACLE IN THE AIRWAY" klaxon going off with the flashing red light in my head, and I'm just serenely thinking, "Massage the cock. Let it know you are glad to see it. Stroke the tongue strongly against the root of the penis, where it goes down between the balls, and while the cock is all the way in, you rock that sucker back and forth with the top of your tongue." It gets you to a Zimmerman's Valley (and I'm not gonna copy a big chunk, but it's a concept in a fantasy book I love, Terry Pratchett's Thief of Time. I've listened to his Discworld audiobooks so much, that I know not only the lines, but the cadences of the readers: but the Teal Deer is that the monks are slicing time, using time control to move through the world at superhuman speeds, and if you go too far, you get to a place where everything goes dim and dark and you can't be anywhere near people because you'll break them as you crash through... but RIGHT before things go totally black, there's a special valley condition where it's easier to breathe and persist. I picture it in indigo, like the real stuff that friends of mine have fermented in dye vats, where there's the blue-black-copper oily scum on the top. I've gone and dunked my yarn into friends' dye vats with the natural stuff, but have only done chemical mixable dyes myself. Anyway. Distracted.  I look down at him as he's gagging and coughing slimy spit on my cock, his eyes streaming with tears and snot running down his nose and drool from his mouth. His battle with that unavoidable hypercapnic panicky sensation is beautiful to watch; I look into his eyes as he gags once, and then twice, and then taps. He's able to go really, really long; and then... we do some pranayama. He pulls off me and starts the long, rhythmic deep breaths, and I join in, breathing deeply as well, and counting to ten. While I'm counting, I'm also dabbing a cloth with a dot of poppers; after ten of the deep breaths, I lean down and put it over his mouth, seal my lips over his, and then suck and then blow the poppers from the cloth, deep into his lungs and then into mine; I love that feeling of inflating someone's lungs. Then I pull the cloth away, my mouth still sealed over his, and I let in a little more air, so that neither of us can take a full breath, because there's too much air in our paired lungs. I pinch his nose to keep control of his breath, and make him work to breathe. I close my lips, so that he has to suck hard to get any of the air back. We breathe back and forth, and then I stand back up and take another ten deep breaths with him as the poppers rise toward a peak, and then I shove my cock in his throat and just hold his skull and fuck. Deep hard strokes, so that I feel his teeth against my pubic bone. I have him put his hands behind himself, so that any time he falls, he falls forward onto my cock. He can't raise his body up if he loses his balance. He has to depend on me and my hold on his skull with both hands as I fuck. I pull his jaw forward, and I say, "Say 'Ahhhh...'  or, heck, just try to scream for help. Keep screaming, like scream like you're trying to get somebody to come in here and get you off my cock and untie your hands before you fucking choke to death. And maybe if you make it feel real good... you won't choke to death." I like it dark. Everything you are, will be rotten before a century is out. It makes you really realize, playing in this weird, deep consciousness-altering way is pretty unusual.... but I'm surprised how many guys just absolutely adore it, or they've seen it on a video and want to know what that feels like, or they're just curious for whatever sensation. I think about the poor Republican staffers who are going to have to print bunches of my pages in color for some briefing. Like, I have a grim dark fantasy of being attacked from the right, and then of course I turn it into a twisted hate-fuck with some right-wing horndog who saw some of the videos and knows I can make his fucking head explode, and then he decides to break me out of the holding pens after a brutal throat-rutting in the cell makes him realize that I'm here on a mission of joy and understanding. This feeling among Republicans usually lasts until about the point where the semen has cooled and partially dried in your belly hair. 

I talk with him some about the various ways you lose consciousness... obstacle in the throat, that's an unpleasant, panicky sensation, combining a massive air hunger feeling with a super-intense feeling of cogency - a sense that everything matters and is important, and everything seems super detailed. All this is happening while you are retching on a very short repeat timer, usually every eight to ten seconds for most trained throat-fuckees. The body is trying to find the last-minute save to keep you from choking to death. The blood choke - thumbs on carotids, and I don't knock him all the way out, but I take him to the point where he starts to slump. I put the Lacrosse ball in his hand, and show him how to hold it so that when he EITHER puts it down, or begins to really lose consciousness, it stops and I make sure he's safe and happy. This way, because you're still freely breathing, there's not the sense of panic. I'm talking in smooth, quiet slow monotone, and you feel safe, because you're not in pain or unable to vent your spent metabolic gases. It feels serene and peaceful. The world sparkles and touches you everywhere like feathers or velvet. It's a sensation like pins and needles, but with no sharpness and only tingle. Then I reach my hand into his throat, and hold his epiglottis closed with two fingers while I look into his eyes and he struggles. This one, like the deepthroat hold, trips two alarm circuits - one for the blocked airway, which initiates certain protocols trying to clear the airway, from coughing to retching to vomiting, and the other based on the rising acidity of his blood because he's not off-gassing CO2. This one's really panicky, because you've got two intertwined systems both trying to right themselves, clearing a pharyngeal blockage and getting gas exchange in the lungs. High carbon dioxide in the air stream is a reliable tool in research to induce physiological panic - a condition that cannot be ignored in the body. Buddhism says that we should not ignore it; it should be observed, with a serene and curious attention, allowing it to arise, to persist, and to decay, as every urge and sensation will do. 

Wes's fine ass. Photos courtesy of Wes

He's really, REALLY good - I wish he was up for video, but he's not, because it's beautiful watching it go over his face like a storm, but his eyes are totally chill. And every time, he taps at the very last fraction of a second, and he drops the ball just as he's starting to brown out, without letting it go black and without slumping, but I can feel that he's JUST starting to. Like how you nod off in a boring church service, and you're in that almost-conscious state, and just as you start to droop, you pick yourself up. Then I do a similar round, but this time, I am behind him as he is sitting up, and I'm holding my right hand over his mouth while my left hand intermittently pinches his nose, or lets it breathe, or lets a tiny unsatisfying trickle of air through to the starving lungs. I take the finger and thumb of my left hand and get them a good helping of the funk under my right arm, and then I put my finger and thumb into his nostrils, my hand making a big OK gesture, so that my finger-thumb circle looks like a bull's nose ring hanging from his nose. The other fingers of that hand drape across my right hand where it covers and compresses his mouth. I pull my fingers apart so that breath passes through, and then I pinch them together, totally blocking his breathing. And then when I spread them apart again, everything he smells is my pits. And again with the lacrosse ball, holding his breath for him until he starts to slump, and then he drops the ball quite deliberately and then I let him breathe. I admire and adore his ability to surf the edge. 

After a couple of good rounds of gagging, spitting in the bowl, playing with his nuts and then his anus with slime, it's break and shower time. But first... an interlude with Peanut. 

There's this sweet kid on Scruff who likes for me to pick on his tiny wiener. He doesn't really HAVE a tiny wiener; he's got a perfectly average looking dick, probably five inches long. Yeah, mine would make his look little. I would totally take the picture of my big dick on top of his to make him feel humiliated. But, it's not about the actual size, it's about the picking-on. That's the rush. It's also about this fantasy he has of being in a place where everybody is hard, but he can't get hard, so his dick is little and soft with all these other hard big dicks. 

I call him Peanut, because when his cock is soft, it kind of looks like one. It's plump at the base, and then it's narrower in the middle, and plump at the edge of the glans. I'm trying to get him to send me a photo I can put in here, of his little weenis so you can all point and laugh at it and make reaction videos and post them on my Bluesky. (I kid, but it sounds hot). I made him a snippet of video once of me kissing one of the peanuts we throw out for the crows, acting like it was a very tiny penis and playing with it with my tongue in a mocking way. I pull up a photo of him that he's sent on Scruff, and I show it to Wes. I explain. Wes says, "Yeah, but that looks like a perfectly nice dick." But... he read the brief, and so we make a video: 

Then, Peanut replies with two more pictures, and then a bawling-crying emoji, and Dadddddy and Where did u go?

So I make him another video snip: 

We go to the showers and wash off. Wes realizes that he hasn't been here since they renovated, and so he wants to see the new steam room and sauna. He goes off and checks those out, while I luxuriate under the running shower. I stand under it hot for a long time, and then cold for maybe a minute, feeling it tighten my skin and raise the little hairs on my arms. I towel off, and Wes has come back out, and we walk onward around the outside once, and then to the outside pool deck where we walk around in the strong breeze and he shares his very nice THC vape. It's good, and quite strong. We walk back inside after a circuit of the pool, and then to the outside maze; the one where it has the double video wall. I drop my folded-up towel, and Wes obediently kneels on it, and begins sucking me hard again. We play in there for a little while, but nobody seems inclined to join, and we move on. We walk outside, we vape some more of Wes's delicious weed, and I realize that the towel I'm carrying has been on the maze floor, and I just don't. I go and get a fresh towel, and run into (gay gasp) Real Daddy Steve. 

Real Daddy Steve. [See also... Hematospermia, Daddy Sandwich, Substitute Player] holy fuck, y'all... read the other ones. Some hot shit happens with Real Daddy Steve. Seriously. I hug him tight and grope his big stiff cock through his towel, and tell him I've got someone he's GOT to meet, we are going to have so much fucking hot sex. Having exchanged one defiled towel for two fresh ones, I take Steve out on the pool deck where Wes is sunning in one of the tall chairs. I point to the two of them, and I say, "Hey, this is (hisrealname) and I call him Real Daddy Steve... and (hisrealname) this is (realname) but I call him Wes, and you've seen me spank his ass in slow-mo. And Steve is the guy I was telling you about with tracing his prostate as he traced mine, so he could feel what it feels like." And so, I know that I have here two hardcore pleasure specialists who each have a seriously intense skillset, some of which has been kind of customized to mine... all three of us can work the same elevator. They both know where a man's prostate is, and how to massage and stroke and thump it for pleasure. They both know how much extra fun can be had - and we know a common vocabulary. 

I stand behind Wes where he's seated in the tall chair, and I put my hand over his mouth, then my fingertips in his nose... yeah, same bull ring as earlier, and again with the pit funk as well... and I show Steve how I'm doing it, how I pull my thumb and finger apart so that air can whistle by in the tiny passage that creates - and it can still induce panic if it's too restricted. The body has RULES, and they're the ones I love to play around with. I pinch my fingers closed, totally blocking his air path, and I take Wes to the point where he nearly slumps two or three times, and then I take Steve's hand and show him how to shape his finger and thumb, how to put it into Wes's nose, and how to decide whether Wes lives or dies. The rule is, you never do the ones where they die. You cut off breath but only until you start to see syncope, and then the breathing reflex is usually REALLY strong at that point, and most guys breathe deeply automatically once they've slumped. We go through a couple of rounds with me smothering Wes's mouth while Steve blocks his nostrils intermittently. Steve begins riding his cock back and forth against Wes's hole, and then enters him and begins thrusting into him as I control his breathing in various ways and show them both how it feels different to have your carotids compressed, from having your mouth and nose blocked, and how that's still different from three of my fingers in his throat. Each time he gags, I point it out to Steve just in advance so he can deep-dick him and get the benefit.

I tell them that it's time to go to my room, and we do that. Walking down the hall, with the way the light shifts, it looks like Wes has a tattoo on his back in a shade just very slightly different from the color of his skin. I tell them about someone I knew when I was in college, who'd had a flesh-toned dot tattoo'd on her forehead. It turns out what I'm seeing, is the marks from where the chair has impressed Wes's back as we made him slump into the chair repeatedly. It tickles me; it almost looks like some script in Devanagari or Elvish, with the way the "letters" curve.  I spend some time just stroking and praising their beautiful bodies, touching beard and soft buzzed hair and silky soft skin. Stroking Steve's rigid cock and then Wes's soft one, holding together, looking like maybe it's actually Steve's massive Dad cock, and his cock's sweet infant son, wrapped in swaddling. Don't get me wrong - I totally love Wes's cock, but the size comparison of the two when Wes is soft and Steve is hard, is like Great Dane and Dachshund. Steve puts me in the shade too. Wes explains that his cock often goes soft when he's bottoming, and he will frequently actually ejaculate even though he's not hard; it's still awesome, and don't feel any remorse if you don't make him have a huge splashy orgasm. That's what the Fraternity of Hands-Free Daddies is all about - the ability to so stimulate his prostate, that he ejaculates without handling his cock. I know I've already helped him enjoy at least two of the little nonejaculatory orgasms tonight, and we talk about how sometimes you have a thing, a cap on your evening, and after that it's time to go home. I tell him I'll do my best to make sure his evening is well-capped. 

We stop for a little fun in the hallway leading to the inside maze, and Wes sucks Steve's cock and mine, one after the other, and I smile as Steve's eyes widen at feeling Wes's throat. Like I've said, he's fucking amazing, and Steve's dick is a challenging one to take. Kind of like me discovering Gag the Fag porn and beating my poor penis until it was overstimulated and explosive orgasms... Real Daddy Steve, found me. I have laid skilled boys at his feet, and had them demonstrate their talents and their gifts on his manhood. He continues to discover things about himself and what he likes sexually; he's been making a point of coming to the baths cleaned out, so that his ass is available to eat and finger - pretty much exclusively for me, so far as I've seen  - and I'm planning to assay a good fucking if the night goes well. But it makes my dick hard all over again as I'm writing this, to picture him in his nice house somewhere, in his study after the kids have gone to bed and his wife is watching some situation drama comedy show she loves but he hates... and blowing a massive load reading all this and watching the videos. A Tantric load. Edging it up. You should try it, Steve. Doooo Eeeeet. Jerk off to yourself being hot. It's remarkably freeing. Know that a small but dedicated group of perverts around the world is jerking off to the videos of you getting sucked, getting fucked, sucking cock. And know that it's absolutely the kind of thing that the MAGAs hate - fun without shame, pleasure and skill and playful delight, in a way that's definitely not in Jesus's plan according to the conservative far-right. 

Wes is in the mood to have the door closed for a little bit, and he kneels down and slobbers on my cock and Steve's cock - and we're both taking turns thrusting into his throat, making him hold for time, feeling him gag and retch and spasm. He's really, REALLY good at it. I need to remember to ask him some time if I can record the audio. Like, get the camera RIGHT up against the throat, so you hear the squelzching and the splorching and the gluck gluck gluck. The VUUUURUUUGHHHH as he retches. I tell them I want to lay back on the bed, and have Wes suck my cock while Steve fucks him, and I hold his head down until he gags, his hole clenching around Steve's ramrod cock. It's not quite as thick as my wrist, but it's definitely not a cock that gives a guy much leeway in terms of getting it down. I can see the exquisite agony on Wes's face as it breaches his second hole again and again... and then I put my cock in his throat again, and hold until he's tearing up and spluttering, his hole spasming rhythmically so that Steve at one point gets completely thrust out. I tell him to shove in hard, to get ALL the way in... and hold it.... and I do it again, making him gag. Steve's eyes fly open and he laughs out loud at the beautiful intensity of the spasm that goes through Wes's body and squeezes his cock with both sphincter and pelvic muscles.. 

I want to switch ends, and I stand up and start to direct Steve to take my place. Wes reminds me that he doesn't like sucking lubed dick, and so if Steve's going to throat-fuck him, he's gonna need to go wash it, and if I want to fuck him in the throat again, I can't go from his lubed ass to his velvety throat without washing. At least until he's been transformed into a fucking cock pig, but more on that later. I realize... I think Steve's in a place where I think he could have a really sweet orgasm, and I honestly was switching places so that he wouldn't go over the cliff, because he's fun to suspend on tenterhooks like that... and he knows how he cums once it's the big ones. So I lie back in the place where I was, and I share some poppers with Steve on a cloth, and then with Wes, and then we start to drive toward the edge. I'm fucking him in the throat, holding my cock until his entire body bucks. I give him the Lacrosse ball again, because we need to know if he loses control. He's gagging on my cock and Steve's just RAILING his ass, slamming into him hard every stroke so that his body jumps with a shockwave. I tell him when to thrust in and hold, and I make Wes gag on cue, again and again. I tell him that I'm sending messages from my cock to his... that we're using Wes's nervous system like a telegraph, you can feel the shockwave of the gag that I initiate. We are in both ends of him, like a double-ended cock sleeve, except we can't meet in the middle. I put my hand in Wes's mouth and slide my body down so that I'm holding him down onto my body with my left arm and my right hand is massaging his tonsils until he gags. And gags. And gagagagags... he does this thing where his whole GI tract spasms in a fast stutter that I haven't seen before, but FUCK it sends Steve over the edge and he starts to cum. I keep fucking Wes in the throat with my hand, gagging him again and again as Steve unloads... and keeps going. He keeps pounding into Wes, this low groaning note coming out of him but punctuated with the thrusts smacking into Wes's ass, so it comes out HRRRRRGH. HRRRRRGH. HRRRRGH. and from where I'm lying I'm basically fucking Wes's smooth belly. I remind him about pulling the fire up, and then squeezing and holding... and I'm stroking up Wes's back, and up Steve's belly. He grimaces with tension as he squeezes... and then his head explodes. He cums hard, thrusting into Wes with short stabbing strokes followed by deep thrusting all the way in. I tell him to make sure some gets up inside that sweet second hole; we want him to go home knowing he's got daddy's baby batter up inside him. And down his throat. 

After a little spell of resting through the afterglow, Wes flat on top of me and Steve slumped across Wes's body, his cock still inside him, Steve gets up and heads off to shower. I stand up, and Wes and I kiss for a moment, I put his face into my armpit and let him smell me, and then I turn him around so that his belly is bent over the bed, and I kneel on the folded towel and lick Real Daddy Steve's copious thick load off and out of Wes's hole. I suck at his loosened pucker and poke it with my tongue and fingers, pulling out more. He's clearly gotten a lot of it way up inside, but plenty of it glazed Wes's donut, and having swallowed it more than a couple of times, I know the taste. I roll my face in Wes's hole, getting that cum and funk all up in my beard and hair. I massage his taint with my bearded chin. I start to get more riled up again, and I ask Wes to go down on me again; he obediently situates himself between my thighs and starts to suck. I fuck up into his throat, and it gets intense very quickly, picking up from where I left off. I can smell Real Daddy Steve's sperm on my face, and the mild musk of his delicious butthole. He plays with my ass as I direct him to, slicking his fingers up with spit from the dog bowl and massaging my prostate. I fuck into his throat, and I'm pulling up the energy myself this time, picturing it going up from where his fingers make me acutely aware of my root chakra, up through the channel to the Universal. RED-ORANGE-YELLOW-GREEN-BLUE-VIOLET-OMGHOLYFUCK... And I thrust deep into his throat, and it begins. The first volley of semen starts to squirt out of my dick. I shove my cock all the way down his throat so that he gags, and gags hard; it feels FUCKING AMAZING on my spasming cock, Iike I can tell this would be the kind of cumshot where I hear it hit the wall behind me with wet splatting noises. I picture it splatting into his throat in jets. I pull off for a second, but it's not done; I have him keep working with his fingers on my prostate, and stroke my cock a few times, and it squirts some more. And then I shove it back down his throat and it spasms a few more times, and then I finally drop, exhausted. I let Wes breathe, and then re-sheathe my cock in his throat and just let it rest there, feeling his heart beat in his throat with the head of my softening penis, twitching and thrusting into him with the aftershocks. We head to the shower, my face feeling like I've rolled it in donut glaze, and I'll shower, but with water and no soap, at least some of the funk lingers. I smell like sex. I don't wash my face or my pits with soap when I'm here, unless somebody licks me with gross halitosis or something like that. I mostly just rinse off with my arms down, so that the pit funk remains deliciously spicy. I smell like cumin and sandalwood and musk. 

After that amazing experience, I am covered in slime, semen, and sweat, and it's gone from hot to icky, in the sense that I want to shower now, so I can redress the sensory palette and enjoy whoever's ass gets eaten next, without them commingling. I don't use soap when I shower here, though, so the slick stuff mostly comes off, but a lot of the scent stuff lingers. Which is how I like it. Like it remains as a flavor layer, but not so strong that it gets in the way of sniffing new things. 

Wes is getting tired and is going to need to go soon, but asks if Steve and I would help him get off. He really enjoyed being outside with guys watching as Steve and I choked him in the tall chair, and he wants to go be on display in his pleasure. And this is understood not to be just some more fun fuckery... I totally understand what this is - this is a mission. You do whatever the guy asks, you provide precisely the pressure that is desired, you milk that fucker until it's dry. If he says suck my big toe, you suck. It's the gift we return to a partner who's served us well. He made me cum REALLY HARD; I want to make sure he does, too. 

Wes's image from another time

So, I kneel down on the floor of the cabana on top of Wes's sandals, and start sucking his cock. Steve is kissing him and stroking his nipples. Wes says he really likes the nipples, so we move so that I'm sucking his left and Steve is sucking his right, our Daddy beards making a really cool visual, like we're nursing from Wes, but in a bear-y way. I realize that I feel uncomfortable because my ass is sticking out into the pathway, and we shuffle around so that I'm able to suck Wes's cock and play with his hole while Steve works his nips. I keep working his hole, and move up again so that we're both gnawing on a teat, tenderizing his chest to the point where I wonder if it'll be sore in the morning, but he is moaning and stroking his cock in time with my fingers working inside him, which is in time with the music. I can feel his tension starting to build, and I stroke up his belly, toward his chest, then his shoulders, neck, head... and the other hand still stroking and thumping his prostate on each beat of the song. He arches up, his body tensing, and he starts to spray cum. I feel his prostate spasming at my fingertips, and I instantly go down on him and keep swallowing as he continues to squirt, feeling the little spasms fade in intensity. I keep stroking with my fingers and swirling his cock with my tongue, and he has another little round of aftershocks, and I get another surprise spurt of semen. I kiss Steve and snowball some of it into his mouth. We lie in a panting pile. 

Wes is... ready to go home now. We shower, make out a little, and he takes off. Fresh towels. I tell Steve that it's time to go back to my room; I need to get a drink, and make some notes. He lies quietly in the tiny bed as I dictate into my phone; a couple of times he says something and the dictation catches his voice too. I sketch out notes for what's happened so far - because, intense though it is, there's so much that my mind will forget hot little moments if I don't mention them. Making notes also helps me to kind of reset my mind; it empties the cache and allows me to record new sensations with my mind's attentive focus. I eat some Tic Tacs. I drink some Gatorade. I have another toke on the vape pen. Life is very good. I lay Steve back on the pillows and begin sucking his cock. I work a couple of spit-slicked fingers into his asshole, and he rocks back and forth between the axis of my fingers and my throat, like a piston traveling through its cylinder. Every stroke pushes more energy into the engine of his lust and he fucks hard into my throat while grinding his hole downward onto my fingers. Chugga-chugga... it picks up motion like a steam train getting underway. I ask if he wants to cum - he's close - and he says, "Not yet." 

I love "Not yet." 

I find this bit of video just here, really shows some of the beauty and the weirdness of tantric fucking. The way he grips my head, shakes, spasms, and keeps fucking my throat as he unloads, is awesome. 

We shift and shuffle around, and he pulls the fire up his belly, red and yellow; up his chest, blossoming out in green, up his blue throat, over his face in rich violet, out the top of his head in shining silver sparks. I massage his prostate and gently stroke his cock, then turn to sucking his balls and his cock, back and forth, taking his stretcher-tightened nutsack into my mouth and swabbing it with my tongue, then sucking hard like I'm trying to get it into my throat, then back to licking up his cock. He begins to ejaculate; I feel his prostate spasming on my fingertips, like I'm stroking a living animal that's stretching and flexing. You know how a cat will lean its head into your hand to achieve the perfect angle of scritch? He grinds his hips so much it looks like he's having a little seizure, but I can feel the logic of it being communicated by the firm touch between my digits and his insides. It's like he's stropping his prostate against my fingers like a cat will rub against your shins, pressing where he wants it most. He shakes a lot. You hear it in his voice. He keeps cumming. After a while, I pull up and ask if he's done - I mean, I can tell he's been orgasming, and I think he still is, but I can't tell if he's gotten to the point where he's had so much it's done being pleasurable. He wants to keep going. We don't have more splashy volumes of semen - this is like orgasm number four at this point - but you can see it rocking across his face and body like a windstorm. We rest, panting and opening the door so that the breeze comes back in. 

I suck his cock and his nuts in alternation, and I make him cum. A lot. For a while. There's part of this that is without video, because Real Daddy Steve is a pleasure model, and does not interface well with my phone camera and he keeps putting it down. I keep picking it up and handing it to him, although he does pick it up some himself. He just gets overwhelmed or needs both hands to do something like hit some poppers or fuck me hard in the skull... so I'm not gonna interrupt a man about his business with anything other than a complete inability to breathe for too long. I'm gonna drop that ball. He lets me navigate this a lot. If you're reading this, Steve - use both hands on my head. Or at least one. Thrust your cock into my throat while you're holding my skull, and it helps align my jaw and throat. I love it when you fuck me in the neck, Daddy. 

Then we trade places, and he does mine. WOOF. He uses his fingers and then one of the steel toys to massage my prostate while he takes my cock to the hilt in his throat. I enjoy fucking into his throat, and I start to feel another orgasm coming up... the fluid volume is a lot less by number three like this. 

He says, "I love having your cum in my mouth." Such a sweet talker! Yes, please.

I'm kind of wiped out for orgasms at this point, but I want to talk about the fun new dildo; it's an excellent piece for showing how you can gag on something and still be OK, and also for how to develop the ability to tolerate the cock in your throat. I get several inches of it into my throat. 

And then somehow we're both still hard. We trade places, and I do his again, AGAIN. I start out playing with his hole with my cock, backlighting the fur so you can see my cock playing with the fuzz. Unfortunately, I bump the camera while I'm getting his ass up off the bed, and miss some serious hard fucking. 

When I get the camera back on, I'm fingering him, and then he asks for more dick. I mean, like I'm gonna say no? I am honestly surprised that I'm not saying, "I've ejaculated so many times my penis is unable to harden." Like, I should be in rest mode now. 

As always, I'm more focused on doing the fucking, than recording the fucking... but it's a shame you can't get to see it, it's HOT. I fuck him, and he pulls his ass up so that it squeezes everything, flexing his core... and I'm gonna cum again. Holy fuckwads. I cum for a while, although it becomes more spasmodic and less well-defined. After I get my breath back, I start working his prostate again with my fingers, but he tells me he needs more dick. And I'm still hard. I get him to do the human sling trick again, and get some really hot footage of him bouncing on my cock. I tell him, "So... I guess you are a bottom." It doesn't mean he's not a hot top; it means he's fully versatile. We move to switch sides. He gets a little dizzy - and I know that he has the possibility of syncope, passing out from low blood pressure. First he stands and puts his head forward; then I lay him back on the bed and lift his legs. He brightens up instantly. I play with his hole some more, and he rises up to a beautiful shimmering prostate orgasm.

At this point, I feel wrung out as far as getting an erection, although I keep getting these little momentary flashbacks of the sensation of orgasm. We go and shower, and there's this guy with a *remarkably* furry butt - he's got this soft, red-brown fur that is thick enough that the shower water makes it hang in clumps. He's got a beautiful cock, too; thick and up-curved and veiny. He's a good looking guy, baseball cap over a short-cropped skully. I decide he may be the dessert course for the evening - or, you know, sometimes after a delicious dinner there's just a little nut course. I suck his cock a little, but he tells me he doesn't want to get off just yet. I tell him, I'd be happy just to wind him up and turn him loose; it's a fun way to start an evening of debauchery, and it's a fun way for me to pass the torch on the energy of this amazing night. We talk about the stuff that's been going on, and he comes to my room with me. I lie him back on the bed and begin to suck his thick-as-my-wrist cock. It's really difficult to get it in my throat, but I manage, gasping and moaning around the weight of it as I struggle to breathe. I move down and suck his nuts, and then dive beard-first into the glorious pelt surrounding his butthole. I rub my beard in it; I rub the sharp part below my chin, and then grind his perineum with the bones of my chin, then lick some more. I pull the hair up in little clumps with my lips; I tug them gently with my teeth, and then nibble his hole. He spreads his legs wider, and I ask him if I can put my fingers in his ass. He says yes, and feel free to use a variety of those toys you've got. HOT DAMN. So I do. I keep reminding him that I'm just winding him up - let me know when we get too close to the edge - but he keeps riding the waves of pleasure, fucking into my mouth, grinding his crotch against my palm where the stainless steel toy infiltrates his butthole. I lean down so my mouth is next to the toy, and lick where his asslips stretch around the bulge at the end of it, then shake the toy so it vibrates him inside. He has some poppers. I have some poppers. We go at it some more. He fucks more and more rapidly, and I think he's about to nut - but he just buries it deep in my throat and holds still as the pre-orgasmic waves shake across his body and pass. I pull up, and say, "Hey. So - there, you're all warmed up. Happy hunting, yeah?" and we laugh and he goes off to shower and get on with his fucking around. 

Needless to say, ANOTHER shower. 

Steve comes by as I'm packing, and watches how I put things into little bags, little bags into the deep bag. We talk a little about what's happened over the course of the night, and the week before, and then I head out and he goes back toward the sauna again. If he's gonna somehow pull another load out of his nuts, I have no idea HOW - but maybe he just wants to relax after all the exhausting work we've done.