It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of you. You were the boy on the dance floor with all the hot moves. I was the Madonna-wannabe in the tattered lacy skirt, wild hair and big hair bow. We danced near each other, occasionally brushing a hand or a hip, sometimes even seeming to dance together, for hours before you finally pulled me off the dance floor and bought me a drink. Funny thing though, I can’t even remember your name, much less what you looked like. Except for your hair. It was white blond, straight and flat as my grandmother’s well-ironed sheets, hanging halfway down your back.
I followed you out of the bar to your truck, a completely incongruous vehicle for a guy that looked like a predecessor to Neo in your full-length black trench and boots. I’d had too much to drink (surprise surprise) so I can’t remember much of what happened there in your truck, except at one point I had my skirt up over my hips and you were pumping away between my legs. It was over before I really had a chance to start enjoying it. Frankly, you were a lousy fuck.
However, you have since redeemed yourself.
I spent the day in the cage today, and you were part of my – and thus W’s – entertainment, and as such, I want to write you this letter of thanks. See, you were in the cage with me. I was tasked with a writing assignment: make a list of all the men I have fucked. When I was done with my “first pass” at my list, as W called it, he told me to tell him who number 16 was, and there you were. No name, just, “Miscellaneous Bar Guy after Harry C’s.”
“Now masturbate to him,” W said. Contrary to popular belief, I am not really an exhibitionist, so it took some stern persuasion on W’s part to get me to do the deed, there, alone, in the cage. But I wasn’t really alone, was I? You were there with me, MBGAH. You got to spend some time in my head as I made myself come.
Unfortunately, afterward, W wanted to confirm it was you that made me come. I couldn’t fib-you were just too damn boring. You couldn’t make me come then, and you didn’t now. Halfway through the fantasy you went away and Alison’s drummer from “Banging Rebecca” showed up. Banging me.
“Redo,” W said. “And this time make him make you come.”
Damn. I mean seriously! But W threw me a bone: I could make you do whatever it took to get me off.
MBGAH, you were quite a bit better the second…er, third, time around. You’d learned a thing or two.
No longer the half-drunk fumbling college boy, you were a man of power, and you weren’t afraid to use it. You had me on my knees beside your truck before I could say, “Wait, I like it better this way–”
You grabbed the back of my hair, my wild, big-black-bow-tied hair, into one fist and pulled your cock out. You were already hard, a drop of pre-cum just on the purple, angry head. I leaned forward eagerly, slut that I am, but you didn’t let me taste you just yet. Oh no, that would be too easy.
“You want that?” you asked, staring down at me. When I nodded, mutely, you grinned savagely and slapped me across the face with your dick, smearing my face with that string of pre-cum. And then you pulled my head back and shoved your cock into my throat. “Then you’ll have it, you fucking little slut,” you said. And while you face-fucked me, there in the parking lot of the bar, with the gravel digging into my knees and tears in my eyes, I stroked myself furiously in my cage at W’s, no longer caring if he was watching, or taking pictures. No longer caring what I looked like, what I sounded like, just wanting to get off, needing to get off so bad there could have been an audience all around and I wouldn’t have cared.
As you jetted your hot, musky come into my mouth, your cock jerking with each spasm, my own body spasmed inside the cage. Your moans mingled with mine, and when you were finished, as you shoved me away, back onto the asphalt, I fell back against the bars of the cage, spent.
We had even managed a simultaneous orgasm.
So you see what a little age does to person…matures them, like a fine wine. I only hope now that you’ll take this commentary and do something good with it. Face-fuck your wife after the kids are in bed, maybe.
With many fond new memories,
3 thoughts on “Dear #16”