Trophy Boy - Part 1
NOTE: Somebody asked in a comment, where they can support me on socials. I have a BlueSky account with this same name: RubMyButch. I used to have a Twitter before the Nazis took over, and I have an Instagram with the same name, but I never post. My email is the same name at gmail.com. I'm not (at least, not yet) setting any of this up as a subscription or Patreon or anything like that - but I've contemplated the possibility. For now, I love the freedom of being able to write when I have inspiration and time, and not to worry about pleasing anyone but myself and the beautiful men who share their experiences with me. I want to be myself, and not a product or a character.
This is a post with some really complicated feelings. There's race play in here. Quite a bit of it. There's not a lot of actual racist language, but there's considerable discussion about my growing up with some racially charged situations, and the beautiful boy who introduced me to race play as a BDSM concept, and how I have come to understand this very taboo niche experience. I know that some people find this so offensive that they can't even consider it as a role play option. It's frowned upon in many corners of the BDSM-sphere. A well-educated porn performer I talked to said it would be considered "radioactive," like something you don't post because it would tank your Twitter. And, it might have tanked mine... but it's hard to tell if it was the language or the aggressive chokey fucking. They were both potentially crossing the line, even when I obscured the language with software.
So. There's this boy. I first ran into him a few years ago - I honestly don't remember how many years, but it was more than three or four. A while back. I think maybe even pre-Pandemic. He and I chatted, and he offered some really compelling photos of his beautiful body and his handsome face - and I wanted to stop by and say hey and check him out. I have a serious autistic overload issue if I have to deal with a new person and a new place at the same time; it's why the bath house works so well for me. Place is familiar, noises and aromas are known and categorized as safe, hallways are mapped and organized in my mind - so there's sufficient bandwidth to deal with a new person, with all their new smells and behavioral quirks and tones of voice that remind me of some particular person in memory, and the file clerk has to run this whole subroutine trying to recall why I remember that sound, and who it was, and then the conversation we were having... and then I find I've been staring goggle-eyed for twenty seconds as my brain buffers. Picture a wait icon over my face. It's a lot easier if I have a place in which I feel like I'm comfortable and familiar and in control. It gets to a point where my buffer loading is almost invisible, and you can't even see it in video. Until you do. If I ever look like I glitch and you think the camera froze up, sometimes it's not. Although there's one glitch on this that amuses me, and you really see it in slow-mo. ANYWAY. Returning to the narrative.
I walked over after a night out dancing to say hi to him. My rules with my Husband don't allow us to do anything like a date - we can't take a potential fuck-buddy to dinner or go for a hike - but we can meet somewhere on neutral ground to evaluate one another, like a drink at a bar, or a walk around a block. It works for us. It is one of a number of things we do to help avoid developing feelings for the fuck-friends, and also to avoid us having jealousy issues. AND AGAIN, ANYWAY.
I walk over three or four blocks from the strip where the bars are, where I've been cowboy-dancing the night away. I'm lathered with sweat, and the night air feels cool and refreshing on my skin. I get to his place, and he's standing out front to meet me, a cute slim Black kid, early twenties, sweet naturally athletic body, big liquid eyes, charming grin. He's very attractive, and really nicely built. For whatever reason, he's SERIOUSLY hot for me too, and so I undertake to walk him around the block. We walk slow, and I reach over and put my hand on his ass, and then slip it inside his shorts, feeling his ass-cheeks slide over my fingertip as he walks, his muscles flexing and shifting, and I trace the cleft down to massage his pucker with a finger. I take it out, give it a good deep sniff, and rub it into my mustache. He smells fucking DELICIOUS. Not a hint of anything fecal, but the kind of musk you get if you showered this morning and then went hiking. When I lick it, my finger is salty.
I lean him against a wall next to his apartment and kiss him, lick down his face and the side of his neck, and there's that same sexy salty musky smell in his pits. One of the things I really enjoy about certain Black men is their smells; they have a distinct note that I would bet I could pick out from their shirts. It turns me on. I like the smell of all guys, but I also like the fact that they smell so different because of their genetics and their lifestyles and their diet. I take his face and smash it into my armpit, then rub some in his nose. I want him to remember me. It's a funny thing - I can almost always give a good estimation of how I'll get along with someone sexually, if I can smell his natural smell. Not what cologne he likes, not what soap he uses, certainly not deodorant - but the other one... and there are guys where my gut says "Um, no, back away" and I always follow that. An-e-way. I press him against the base of a street light and choke him out a little, so that he slumps against the brick pillar the light pole comes out of. I choke him again. His body slumps. I start just kissing, and then I ask if I can spank him, and lay a really sweet smack on his ass cheek. It's time for me to go; if this goes on much longer, I will have hooked up on a night in which I said I was coming home after dancing, and I have enough information to know that this boy and I will fuck like minks, and there will be no problem. He's sorted in my head.
Later that night, he sends me a video of him jerking off while he talks about the parts of the walk he enjoyed most, and how he can still smell me, the smell is all over his face, his hands, his arms. He strokes his cock and closes his eyes as he remembers, moving his mouth like he's kissing or sucking, rolling his head back in pleasure.
And then, there was weirdness with his boyfriend, and our schedules didn't align, and some other situations, and we just never get to hook up. We keep chatting, though, and he tells me about race play. How he wants to be my [redacted] and worship my body, kiss my feet and say thank you when I hit him. He wants rough sex, but he wants talk about chattel slavery, about one person owning another, about the whole twisted fucked-up history of Black enslavement in the South. We have a hot conversation, and occasionally he'll send me another video - I think there were 4 or 5 all together, it's not like it was a regular thing at all, and I deliberately keep them far-separated in time to keep them hot and not attached.
Finally, we're talking about a date that he's going to meet me at the bath house - and then he flakes. That day. He's been talking to me for a week or so, and his boyfriend knows and is cool with it... but then when it's the morning, his boyfriend just isn't as happy when he tells him, as it seemed the week before he was - and, I totally respect that if he has this kind of relationship with his boyfriend, that they honor that primary commitment. I'm that way with my Husband; I won't fuck the guy he tells me he doesn't want me to. I get it. But, it still hurts my feelings and disappoints me and pisses me off. So I banish him and I don't communicate with him for several months. Finally he messages me and tells me he and the boyfriend aren't together anymore, and he's really sorry he flaked, and can he, please, Sir. Please. So, I relent, because you'll see why when you get to the videos, DAMN, and, because he appears genuinely sorry. I make him send me a video of him choking around a big dildo while he explains, his words mumbled and muffled by the pretend cock in his throat, how sorry he is. He drools and his eyes tear up. I'm prepared to believe his remorse and his offer of restitution.
I want a very particular experience with this, and we've talked through what I'm going to do, so that I know where his consent is and what's OK. I have an incredible amount of leeway, but there are limits I will absolutely honor. He messages me when he arrives - I've been at the bath house for a bit, and have the bag opened, but just getting started setting up. I go up to the front, and watch as he pays his way in and comes around the counter. I give him a hug and a kiss, and then hold out my hand. He relinquishes his key and his towel, and starts stripping into his backpack, folding his clothes neatly away. I'm still fully dressed. When he's naked and the backpack is zipped up, I take away his bag, hand him his towel to carry in his hand, and I take my belt off and slip it around his neck, a hot option another Black race play submissive taught me [see also: Master and Servant]. I walk him to my room, holding the tail of the belt like a leash.
In my room, we make out, we sniff each other, I turn the camera on him, and I inspect him and give him some spankings, getting him used to what all the implements are. This is a thing we've discussed; he's gonna get hit, a lot, with a lot of things. The pretense is that I'm angry from him flaking on me, but it's just that, a pretense. He wants me to be angry for something. He wants me to hit him and be scary and mean. I'm still fully dressed.
First, it's the hand. I put it in slow-mo so I can get that satisfying visual of his pert buttock, and the sine wave of force from my hand moving through it.
I have him undress me like a manservant, lifting my shirts one after another, untying my shoes and pulling off my socks. He kisses part after part as he reveals them. I just want his attention focused. I show him around some of my implements, and then try a couple of masks on him to see what he likes. He looks so hot in a mask. I'm torn between which one I like more - the objectification of the eyeless mask is more complete, but the eyes are beautiful to watch as he struggles. I put the Whitehead gag in his mouth, showing him how it goes, and play with his throat. I touch him all over, inspecting him like I'm planning to make a bid. It's part of the game. The fantasy, is the hot racist guy who stops when you say stop and isn't really mean, but can play mean really well. This is something he's explained in detail, so I know where he's coming from and how to craft his experience. I think he actually wants it a bit rougher - I alternate between telling him worshipfully how beautiful his body is, and smacking it around roughly with hand, paddle, cane, hairbrush. I'm going for mixed message here. Also - and this is important - tops get to have limits too. I also possess the power of no. There are things I don't want to do, because then I'd be the guy who did that.
I think this may be one of the most intimate things I've filmed - he undresses me, stroking and kissing my body.
And, y'all, just watch this. He's AMAZING. I gag him and he spits into the bowl; we get to sheeting within a few minutes. Wow. I rub the slimy spit all over him.
Where can we support you on socials? I’d like to talk to you about hopefully meeting.
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