When you write a real-life "porn" blog, it might be hard to believe, but it gets boring.
2014 had me posting 78 adventures and you got a fraction of my activity, as you really don't want to hear about the weekly head I give to two married guys (separately). They're great guys, with nice cocks and flavorful loads, but it is all very standard stuff.
And as I've said before here, the mechanics of sex don't switch up too much, so it's hard to make a non-exciting fuck or suck sound interesting - to me as a writer or to you as a reader. It's hard to get excited to sit down in front of the keyboard to tap out a story you might like.
So, I'm going out on a limb to say this one might hit a few good marks. It certainly did for me.
Anyway, I'm sitting in Starbucks on a very cold day having a hot beverage.........and cruising - not necessarily in that order. Well, cruising 21st century style. Yes, I'm looking at the nice men coming into get coffee while also looking at Recon, Scruff and A4A via my phone. I'm a multi-tasker.
So I got 'woof'd' at by a guy: 38, 6'2", 185 and hairy. His pic also shows him having a mohawk. Not a semi one. But one strip of hair on an otherwise shaved noggin.
I reply back, "very nice!!!"
And then I get a picture back.
To which I reply back that what he was showing was VERY nice, though I doubted this was news to him.
I "may have" also sent back a shot or two of me showing him in which ways I have some skills, therefore insinuating what I could be doing with that member of his.
He asked if I was free after 6p and unfortunately I was not. He then told me he was working, but maybe we'd find time at a later date. Bummer.
About 10 minutes later, I get pinged by him again. He was still working, but I could come to where he was on a job site and take care of him there.
Ok, now my curiosity is piqued.
In past jobs, I have had men by my office so I could assist them in relieving their nut sac. Now I was being offered to come to a site. Although this was not his office, but a third-party place where he was doing work.
As it turns out, he works in HVAC and was on-site fixing a furnace. He claimed we could use the boiler room or a small closet off the boiler room. He even sent me a pic.
I hemmed and hawed on whether to do this or not, until he told me it was at the Boy Scouts of America's regional office.
Oh fuck that. I was in.
Hot tradesman. Big cock. Semi-public sex. And at an organization I loathe, as they loathe men like me.
So the address was given. He told me where to park and to text him when I go there. GPS told me 14 minutes to get there. I think I made it in eight. I text him, he comes out and has a little sigh of relief. As it was frigid out, I had on jeans, Wolverine boots (very very well worn) and a Carhartt jacket. In other words, I looked the part of potentially needing to be down in a boiler room.
He himself had on work boots a sweatshirt and Carhartt overalls. And as it turns out, nothing on under those.
After scoping out the closet, we determined it would be much too cramped for anything. So we opted for the boiler room and though no one had come to check on him all day, he was cautious, and I get that.
He even propped open the door so we could hear if anyone was coming down. As they'd have to get through another door at the top of the steps, we should be able to hear them in time. And he leaned against the cinder block wall right next to the door for optimal hearing. It was a boiler room after all, and it can be noisy. I get it.
He undid his zipper and out came that beautiful meat. Clearly he was commando but that made it easier for me...and him. Nothing for him had to be unsnapped. I went right to my knees.
His cock slid beautifully, and effortlessly, down my throat. I loved it. He loved it. His hands went to my head and he skull fucked me for a little bit, but then would let me do my thing, and then back to skull fucking.
He kept listening for anyone approaching. But he pulled me up by my pits and pushed my back against the wall. I undid my pants - not just my zipper - and let him go down on my dick. While he was a great sucker of cock, his mind wasn't quite in the game, as I know he was multi-tasking by listening. I was too, but maybe I projected more confidence than he. Also, it wasn't my work reputation on the line, his was.
While my dick was exposed, his hand went under my carriage and his finger(s) found my backdoor pucker. My knees weakened just slightly, but enough for him to notice.
Oddly, during our on-line convo, nothing was discussed of likes, dislikes or expectations. The word 'into?' never were exchanged. Not as odd, was, that after zippers went down, not another word was exchanged as well. Nor a moan. Or a groan.
He (I never did get a name), pulled down my pants farther, stood up and spun me towards the cinder block wall. While he was sucking me, he furiously was stroking his big, fat, fucking cock. I knew I was about to be the recipient of that fuck and that cock.
There was no lube other than whatever precum he had. At one point, I'm sure my spit was on that cock, but that had been five minutes ago. He had to have stroked it all off by now, right?
In one SHOVE he was buried in me. All of him. All of "it".
Yes, I wanted his cock. Yes, I wanted it in that dirty boiler room, no doubt where scout masters had already sodomized their future Eagle Scouts.....the ones they wouldn't let in for decades had they known from the start they took it up the ass outside the confines of the organization.
But the body is a funny thing - that kind of violation, no matter how much you want it, you crave it, the body reacts. I had nowhere to go, but I involuntarily tried to crawl off the shaft that impaled me. I didn't want to be off it, but that kind of invasion does not go unnoticed by every nerve ending in your butthole.
He held me down on him. Between his workman's hands and the unforgiving wall, I was there, going nowhere.
It was the only time words were uttered: "I'm shooting".
It was low. Sotto voce, actually.
Since my ass was on fire anyway, I could feel every throb and pulse of that missile. He just kept shooting in me.
I'd tell you I got fucked, but I don't really think I was fucked at all. Sure his cock was in me. Sure his baby batter was now in me, but I'm not 100% sure there was any fucking - or any time for fucking.
And that's what it came down to: efficiencies. He had to get off. He had limited time and an excitable, though limited, environment in which to perform.
Still, the deed was done.
Dirty deeds done dirt cheap, as it were.
He seemed to think about going back down on me, but he just put his junk away and waited for me to do the same and escorted me out of the building.
As a boy, I never made it past Cub Scouts - not that I wanted to - but it's nice to know that somewhere I earned some kind of merit badge for doing something for which would never be rewarded.
I drove home with an ass full of cum with the hope that we'd get together again. I'm not sure that excitement level can be recreated or obtained again, so we'll see if we try again in the comfort of where either of us live, or if we just go on with the masturbatory memory that is the BSA Boiler Room.