[Breeder] The Football Player

[TheBreeder]

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I first met Jim when I was on cam4.com. I was broadcasting in my office, legs spread wide, a thin layer of lube on my dick as I pointed it at my laptop and stroked. Occasionally I’d dig my fingertips in the slit and pull out a pearl of precum that would leave a long and glistening trail as I raised it to my lips. (The photo currently at the top of my blog was a random shot from one of my cam shows.) I’d been answering the standard questions I always get whenever I go into cam4—no I wouldn’t show my feet, yes I could self-suck but I really don’t like it, no I wasn’t going to do it on cam, and no I wasn’t a prerecorded porn tape—when one guy suddenly said in chat, Hey, I recognize that zip code. You’re just up the street from me.

I sent him a private message and found out that in a room full of people from New York City, Turkey, and Germany (I always seem to get a lot of Germans), this guy lived about a mile and a half away. Want to come over? I asked.

I fully expected a no. Fuck yes, he said. Stay on cam until I get there, then shut it off. I want you just as hard and ready when I come through the door.

So that’s how I met Jim. He’s partnered and sexless at home, like many of the men I fuck. It’s a pity, because he’s a good-looking guy. What's really the pity is that he disguises it so well. The spouse used to watch one of those television shows about clothing—I don’t think it was the Tim Gunn one, but it might have been the one with that Carson guy from Queer Eye—in which the host would take the poor woman getting the style makeover for the week to a lineup of women dressed minimally. They’d range from big-boned at one end to more petite at the other, with four or five graduated body types in between. The host would ask that week’s guest to stand between the two women she felt best represented her own body type. Inevitably, the woman would stand between two of the larger-breasted and larger-hipped models, only to be told by the host that no, based on her actual weight and measurements, she really should have stood next to the smallest.

Jim’s got the same kind of body dysmorphia. He’s muscular and stocky, but in a good way. Still, he seems to think he’s a much, much larger and heavier man than he really is. Monday morning he arrived to my place wearing a sweatshirt from a Catholic boys’ school sized XXXL (yes, I looked at the label when he was in the bathroom afterward), a super-baggy T-shirt, cargo pants with enormous floppy pockets, and droopy drawers. I’m no Tim Gunn, but I want to sit him down and tell him, Listen, you’re a sexy man with a muscular football player’s build. Don’t dress like you’re trying to conceal a family of clowns.

He’s got a beautiful ass. It’s the kind of ass you see in porn—perfectly round, smooth, with handfuls to grab onto. Once I got his saggy clothing off, I bent him over, knelt down, separated his cheeks with my hands, and buried my face in the crack. Almost immediately I tasted the sweet and gummy fluid he’d liberally spread around and in his pucker. His ass hairs were wet from the stuff. After I wiped off my nose, I used my middle finger to prod at his hole. “Oh god,” he said. “It’s been so long.”

“You won’t have to wait much longer.” I stood up and unzipped my pants and let my dick flop out. I wore one of my metal cock rings; his hands immediately reached out to grab and tug at it. Now it was his turn to fall to his knees and suck at my dick. Jim has a good mouth. I told him so, over and over again, in a soft whisper. Finally, driven half-crazy by the sensations he was producing, I hopped up onto my bed and beckoned for him to follow. Like a dog still hungry for a bowl of food being taken away from him, he lunged and followed, still trying to keep his mouth on my dick.

I pulled him up on top of me and kissed him. Jim’s a great kisser. Making out with someone is my favorite activity, bar none, and when I find a man who knows what he’s doing, it makes my dick swell to twice the size. I loved the weight of him on me as we expressed our passion, the gentle grunts of satisfaction as we mashed our mouths together, the swelling of his dick against mine. “Fuck me,” he said at last, when he pulled away. “Just slam the fuck out of me.”

He rolled over and onto his knees at the bed’s edge. I stood between his legs, positioned myself behind him, spat in my palm, and spread it over the head of my dick. “When’s the last time the boyfriend fucked you?” I asked, teasing it against his hole.

“God, I can’t even remember.” I could barely hear his voice, so muffled it was against the blanket. “Too fucking long. Fuck me.”

I continued to graze the tip of my dick across the wrinkled indentation that pulsed in front of me. “Is his dick as big as mine?”

“No!”

I leaned down and blew a stream of air over his slick ass. The sensation made him twitch. “Whose dick do you like better?”

“Yours!” he said without hesitation.

“Whose dick do you want more?”

“Yours!”

“Do you want it now?”

He was almost choking with frustration when he gasped out, “So bad!” I slid in with almost no resistant, then held still when I reached the base. His back arched down. His head jerked into the air. “Oh god,” he yelled, his mouth open as wide as it could go. Then, a moment later, much more softly and passionate, “Oh god.”

I fucked him slowly at first, pulling out to just beneath the ridge under my head and then sliding slowly back to the base. He’d used so much lube before he’d arrived that it was leaking out onto my balls. My hands were so goopy that I had to wipe them on the blanket. Gradually, naturally, I increased my pace. Jim’s ass is full enough that it can take a real pounding, so after a few minutes of sweet talk and grinding, the room was full of the sound of our flash slapping “Do it, do it, do it,” was his mantra by then, and he kept repeating it over and over in time to my thrusting.

He came the same time I did, groaning and depositing his small load atop the bed. I let out mine with a mighty whoosh of air and then collapsed on top of him. He turned his head, craned his neck over his shoulder, and kissed me again.

While he was dressing I asked about his sweatshirt. “Did you go to that school?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. “My nephew does.” I began imagining that perhaps the nephew misjudged his sweatshirt size and gave it to him as a gift, when he added, “I bought it during a booster event. Thank god they had one in my size.”

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