beefy pecs and rounded biceps, the fur covering his stomach. He dropped his pants to the floor. I don’t know why, but I imagined him wearing red silk boxers that clung to his body like a second skin. He pulled his long, fat dick out of them and stood there, stroking it while the naked woman on the bed got up on all fours and presented her ass to him.
He dropped the boxers and walked over to her, his stiff dick bouncing. His ass cheeks were covered with a fine layer of dark hair like his lower arms. He positioned himself behind the woman and grabbed her hips. His butt contracted as he pressed forward into her.
And then the woman was gone, and it was my ass that Walter was fucking.
“You think you can flaunt this sweet ass in front of me, and I won’t take advantage of it?” he said. “Think again, cowboy. I’m going to ride you so hard, you won’t sit down for a week.”
He reached around and grabbed my dick and began jerking me in the same rhythm he was plowing my ass. He talked as he fucked me—how he would make a man of me, make me his bitch, show me how a real man made love.
It was all so real to me. I could smell his musky lemon scent, hear the catch in his voice, feel the way his balls slapped against my ass with every deep thrust. His hand was rough against my dick, his thumb rubbing the sweet spot just below the head.
I caught my breath and saw stars as the force of my orgasm pounded out of me, semen spraying out of my dick and onto my shirt. When I opened my eyes, I was back on the toilet in my bathroom and I was a mess. Hopelessly intoxicated with Walter Loredo, drained and cum-stained and very much alone.
I drank a tall glass of water and took a couple of aspirins, stumbled back to my bedroom, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next day, though, I resolved to push all thoughts of Walter out of my head. I had a date with a real man, not a fantasy, and I was going to get laid if it killed me.
I took a long shower, making sure to clean my ass really well. If I was lucky Roberto would get his tongue up there, and then his dick, and I wanted to be spick-and-span for him. I dug around in my underwear drawer for a pair of bikini briefs that accentuated my assets, and put on a pair of silk slacks that clung to my body.
Roberto was a fancy dresser, so I paired the slacks with a starched white linen shirt with abstract embroidery in a faded bronze color. I thought it looked terrific against my neck and lower arms, tanned from so much time out on the site. I took my time walking to the restaurant, not wanting to get there too early, nor to sweat up in the evening heat.
When I arrived, Roberto was in conversation with the maître d’, who led us to a sheltered table at the back of the restaurant. “How have you been this week?” Roberto asked. “I’ve missed you.”
Then you could have arranged to see me earlier, I thought, but I didn’t say that. “Working hard.”
“I can’t see you on a construction site,” Roberto said. “You are too handsome and too delicate. You should be in an office somewhere, in a three-piece suit.”
I didn’t think that was flattering—I’d had enough of the “pretty” comments from my female relatives. “I can be macho when I need to be,” I said.
“I’m sure you can be.” Roberto smiled, and I felt a tingling in my groin. He ordered us a bottle of wine, and we clinked our glasses together. “To this evening,” he said.
“To more than once this evening,” I said and arched my eyebrows.
Roberto laughed. “You are quite the little rascal, Manuelito.”
As we ate our appetizers, I kicked off my shoe and stroked my toes against Roberto’s leg. He took a couple of deep breaths, but he didn’t tell me to stop.
“What is it that you do, exactly?”
“Wealth management consulting,” he said. “I create customized investments for the assets of non-US persons. They often have complex situations—some family members in the US, some abroad,
He dropped the boxers and walked over to her, his stiff dick bouncing. His ass cheeks were covered with a fine layer of dark hair like his lower arms. He positioned himself behind the woman and grabbed her hips. His butt contracted as he pressed forward into her.
And then the woman was gone, and it was my ass that Walter was fucking.
“You think you can flaunt this sweet ass in front of me, and I won’t take advantage of it?” he said. “Think again, cowboy. I’m going to ride you so hard, you won’t sit down for a week.”
He reached around and grabbed my dick and began jerking me in the same rhythm he was plowing my ass. He talked as he fucked me—how he would make a man of me, make me his bitch, show me how a real man made love.
It was all so real to me. I could smell his musky lemon scent, hear the catch in his voice, feel the way his balls slapped against my ass with every deep thrust. His hand was rough against my dick, his thumb rubbing the sweet spot just below the head.
I caught my breath and saw stars as the force of my orgasm pounded out of me, semen spraying out of my dick and onto my shirt. When I opened my eyes, I was back on the toilet in my bathroom and I was a mess. Hopelessly intoxicated with Walter Loredo, drained and cum-stained and very much alone.
I drank a tall glass of water and took a couple of aspirins, stumbled back to my bedroom, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next day, though, I resolved to push all thoughts of Walter out of my head. I had a date with a real man, not a fantasy, and I was going to get laid if it killed me.
I took a long shower, making sure to clean my ass really well. If I was lucky Roberto would get his tongue up there, and then his dick, and I wanted to be spick-and-span for him. I dug around in my underwear drawer for a pair of bikini briefs that accentuated my assets, and put on a pair of silk slacks that clung to my body.
Roberto was a fancy dresser, so I paired the slacks with a starched white linen shirt with abstract embroidery in a faded bronze color. I thought it looked terrific against my neck and lower arms, tanned from so much time out on the site. I took my time walking to the restaurant, not wanting to get there too early, nor to sweat up in the evening heat.
When I arrived, Roberto was in conversation with the maître d’, who led us to a sheltered table at the back of the restaurant. “How have you been this week?” Roberto asked. “I’ve missed you.”
Then you could have arranged to see me earlier, I thought, but I didn’t say that. “Working hard.”
“I can’t see you on a construction site,” Roberto said. “You are too handsome and too delicate. You should be in an office somewhere, in a three-piece suit.”
I didn’t think that was flattering—I’d had enough of the “pretty” comments from my female relatives. “I can be macho when I need to be,” I said.
“I’m sure you can be.” Roberto smiled, and I felt a tingling in my groin. He ordered us a bottle of wine, and we clinked our glasses together. “To this evening,” he said.
“To more than once this evening,” I said and arched my eyebrows.
Roberto laughed. “You are quite the little rascal, Manuelito.”
As we ate our appetizers, I kicked off my shoe and stroked my toes against Roberto’s leg. He took a couple of deep breaths, but he didn’t tell me to stop.
“What is it that you do, exactly?”
“Wealth management consulting,” he said. “I create customized investments for the assets of non-US persons. They often have complex situations—some family members in the US, some abroad,
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