He Was Italian......or Some Kind of Spanish

FYI - this story is pre-Covid-19. 

I had two very hot sessions with him years ago (here and here). Now it turns, he’s back in town for a meeting.

I know for a fact he’s Italian but he is billing himself online as Spanish. Before he was a determined man. As you can go back and read, was into the head I gave and the fuck he did. All good. Not everyone’s tea, but it is and was mine.

He was back. Same hotel. And wanting to get with me. Ditto – and right back at ya, dude. Or Sir.

I arrived at his agreed upon time. He opened the door but was right down to business. I placed my keys and walled on his desk and then took my clothes off per his instructions. He was mostly undressed, but the most important part was exposed. It was his fucking fat Italian cock.

I’m making assumptions here, but either he got way more aggressive in his general behavior (and that’s saying something), or he figured he had been with me before and I would know what to expect and that he could push those limits like he had done last time. I’m all for having boundaries stretched, as you’ve seen over the course of this blog.

We started out well. He kicked back on the bed and I went about licking his nuts gently. Gliding my tongue across his sac, wanting to make him shiver the way I do when and if someone does it just right. I can’t say I got that response, but maybe he processed it internally. Or maybe it’s not a trigger point the way it is for me.

I worked my way up his shaft – methodically – and he seemed to appreciate that. He muttered in Italian not quite under his breath. I could feel the change in his respirations as well. He was controlled, but he was working at keeping it that way. Until he wasn’t.

There is nothing quite like being called “cocksucker” or “faggot” by a guy with a foreign accent. It is just slightly dirtier than your primary language. You know they have to work at the translation, process it, just to make sure they call you what they want. I was hard, but that hardness dug into his sheets and mattress. I knew I wasn’t to touch it, not that he mentioned it, but I know this guy – or ones like him – and I know my place in these instances.

He was ok with me taking a little video. Until he wasn’t.

”Put that camera away!”, as she slapped it out of my hands. I did. I went back to work.

He became gruffer. The hand at the back of my head became tighter. The length of time he held me down was longer. The amount I gagged increased. This all did nothing but turn him on more. The control. The degradation.

It became clearer to me, as we went on, this was no role play. This was no acting out a fantasy. This was more than likely the real him. It starting getting more intense, and potentially more dangerous. Not enough for me to call a time out, as there were no safe words. Truth be told, I didn’t want to feel like I wuss’d out either. And thought, I can ride this out…………..how bad can it be.

In reality, I’m not sure it truly got more intense, but I think my sensors were on high alert and I couldn’t enjoy some of what was going on. I know folks who read this have commented to me – mostly off-line – about how they don’t care for rough sex. I just happen to – to a degree. Everything is ‘to a degree’. Usually, most guys (read: tops) just play the part and aren’t really THE part. But if you’re gonna play with these guys, I felt I had to deal with the real ones when they represented.

Soon my head was hanging over the bed, he standing before me, feeding me his thick cock. Deep. Hard. Unrelenting. Me: spit over his dick, running out my mouth, gagging. “You fucking filthy whore!” he literally screamed. You’d think this is something he’d do in tandem with his orgasm, but it was not. He just went on a filthy degrading tirade while he plugged my mouth and throat.

There was no pulling off of his pole. I was between his thighs (and thrust) and the bed. I was at his mercy – literally, and he was showing little of it. That said, I rode it out. Well…………he did. The degrading expletives just flowed from his mouth with his accent, making them sound just slightly dirtier.

Then came the flood. His cock erupted. Into my mouth. Not that I wasn’t planning on swallowing, but the position, the angle, the ferocity made it challenging. He probably showed signs of impending orgasm, but I was not paying attention to that as much as I was trying to be able to breathe…..not properly, just at all.

I took the load. Granted, some oozed out the side of my mouth and into my beard, mixing with my spit. He didn’t let up on the pressure of his cock in my mouth until he was satisfied there was no semen left inside his balls. He pulled out with no ceremony and no remorse. I kind of stayed there for 30 seconds – felt like 30 minutes – just a little dazed and recovering from the experience. He was already stripping to take a shower to get to an event.

I got myself together and left. Only when I hit the valet did I realize my wallet and keys were in his room. I called up to his room first, no answer, but chance are he was still in the shower. I went back up and knocked. He was not pleased to see me, even asking if I left them there on purpose. I assured him I did not and grabbed and left.

I’m guessing on his next trip he will not be hitting me up. But I’ve been wrong before.