[Breeder] The Pounding

[TheBreeder]

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He’s greedy when he sits on my dick. He’s lost in his own world once I slide in. I don’t really exist for him, anymore. He rocks back and forth, his knees digging into the fleece blanket imprinted with a giant tiger, that covers the mattress resting on the bare floor. All he cares about is how deep he can take me, how much of me he can accommodate in that tight ass of his.

Not that I mind. The Mover has a body that’s worth looking at—natural muscle formed from daytime shifts of lifting furniture into trucks. I can study the tattoos inked over his Puerto Rican golden skin. The picture of his mother, on his pectoral; the flying swallow on his bicep, the stars and one-word brands of inspiration on his forearms, his hip, the inside of his thigh. I can look at his gap-toothed grin, a private smile generated from the sensations of my hard pole sinking into him, again and again. I can notice the way his hands push down on my chest as if he’s restraining me, preventing me from leaving, until he’s gotten what he invited me for.

I’m getting pleasure from the encounter, of course. Every time he rocks back and forth, his slick ass grips and releases at my dick. I can feel the precum oozing out in small squirts, making our point of connection even more slippery. I’m rock hard inside the warmth of him, secure and breathing heavily as he sits on and uses my cock the way he wants. The way he needs. It’s enough of a distraction to take my attention away from his ‘room,’ as he calls it.

Ever since The Mover managed to get out of his sister’s crowded apartment—three generations crammed into two small bedrooms—he’s bombarded my phone with text messages about how we can meet all the time now that he has his own ‘room.’ The first time I took him up on his invitation to host me, I didn’t really understand how literally he meant the word; it’s a square cell in the basement of a boarding house, with no shower, no sink, not even a real closet. In anyone else’s residence the dim little room with a single window covered with burglar bars wouldn’t be fit even for a workroom or an exercise room. I would’ve used it to store old boxes and Christmas decorations, back in Michigan. Here, though, it’s a cheap living space. I know I shouldn’t be a snob about these things, and beggars can’t be choosers, but an unheated room in someone’s basement, copulating on a mattress on a bare floor covered by stained linoleum, isn’t exactly the green promise of luxury Connecticut living. Especially when I’ve had to sneak in through the side door while the family occupying the first floor was busy at their dinner.

“Mmm, feels so good,” he moans, in his heavy accent. Then he remembers I’m there, and leans down to plant his lips on my mouth. He kisses like an untrained little boy, all eagerness without any actual technique. “I love it. You feel good, lover.”

“So do you,” I say, jerked back to the moment.

“You give me your seeds?” he asks, not opening his eyes. “You will fill me up, my lover?”

“I’ll seed you, “ I promise.

His dirty talk inspires me. When he rocks forward to get as much of inside him as possible, I thrust up. I can tell I’m hitting that little button of pleasure, both from the way it indents my swollen cock head, and from his ecstatic reaction. “Yesssss,” he hisses. His eyes are mere slits, revealing on the slightest glint. “Yessss.”

“You like that?” I ask. “You like—?”

Whatever I’m about to ask him is interrupted by a commotion at the closed and locked door to his room. It’s an explosion; it’s the hammering of a pair of fists against the cheap wood. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making me cold, and then hot. My heart accelerates and thuds so heavily in my chest that I’m certain The Mover can hear it. We both free, mid-grind. Outside the door is a male voice, deep and gruff, cursing in Spanish. I can’t make out what he’s saying with my fading memories of high school Spanish, but I can tell the tone. It’s angry. Enraged, even.

The Mover looks at me with big, dark eyes. “Oh, fuck,” is all he says. Then he pushes me back onto the bed and covers my lips with a finger before I can reply. He yells back in Spanish. I can’t understand a word of it.

In reply, the guy outside the door attempts to kick it in. I can hear the wood cracking in the frame. The only point at which the door is securely fastened is at the latch, where the lock is only a push-button in the knob. The Mover climbs up from the mattress and off my dick, then crosses to the door. He puts his head against the wood as if to listen, and then recoils when the guy on the other side once again assaults it.

In the shock and confusion of the moment I don’t know what I’m supposed to be thinking. I’m surprised to see that I’m still rock-hard, mostly. I’ve stayed erect through worse yelling, though. The pair of them begin arguing with each other at the tops of their voices while I consider what I should be doing. Crawling across the floor to retrieve my clothes next to where The Mover is standing, maybe? Hiding underneath the tiger blanket?

The argument goes on for about a minute, but it seems infinitely longer. The volume decreases slightly, then more. At last they’re arguing in only raised voices, rapidly and unintelligibly. Finally, The Mover shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and pads back to the mattress. “Estúpido. He is stupid,” he proclaims.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, my neighbor. He all the time wants money for drugs. I tell him no, but you see how he gets.”

Oh, fantastic, I think to myself. A drug-hungry addict high enough almost to break down a door in a boarding house to extort money from his neighbor, who’s naked and having gay butt sex with a strange white guy. That’s really I need in my life. I raise myself from the mattress, rise to a standing position, and move for my clothes.

He begs me to stay. He wants my dick—no, he needs my dick. But I’m too far past the point of excitement now, after that nerve-shattering barrage. I’m sweaty, and my head is throbbing almost as loudly as the addict’s fists against the door had pounded. I just want to get out as quickly and quietly as possible. I dress, and apologize as best I can. Once he’s unlocked the door and peeked out in the basement to make sure the coast is clear, I stealthily make my way out, and onto the street with its mix of houses and light industrial businesses.

And to be honest, I haven’t been back since.

More...

[Hotload84]

I'm with you, TheBreeder. Like you, I'd be afraid take-on the additional risks associated with the Mover's accommodations. Were I in your shoes, doubtless I would miss the opportunity to fuck-around with the Mover, but I'd also be far too cautious to take-on the risk of an encounter with a "...drug-hungry addict high enough almost to break down a door in a boarding house to extort money from his neighbor...." I think I'd be more likely to get a room in a cheap motel where the Mover and I could play without fear of interruption.

[TheBreeder]

Hotload, I'm always telling guys to ask only the risks they're comfortable with, and not to exceed them unless they're sure about it, and this is one risk with which I'm not comfortable.

[Hotload84]

Agreed. Deciding on where that threshold is, and then self-enforcing it, is the challenge for all of us, regardless of the type of activity at issue, whether we're talking about barebacking, or the physical location of a liaison, or fudging on taxes, or deciding whether one will eat a third wedge of chocolate cake.

[TheBreeder]

Agreed. Deciding on where that threshold is, and then self-enforcing it, is the challenge for all of us, regardless of the type of activity at issue, whether we're talking about barebacking, or the physical location of a liaison, or fudging on taxes, or deciding whether one will eat a third wedge of chocolate cake.

Exactly. And like I say over and over again, just because one of the risks I'm comfortable taking is sexual, doesn't mean that it's more harmful or a worse choice than non-sexual risks that have comparable consequences.