[Breeder] Roses and Thorns

[TheBreeder]

To see Breeder's original blog post click here

I've known and fucked Jason for two years. I've never seen his face.

Oh, I've caught glimpses of it from time to time. I've seen his sharp chin as it settles against my nuts. Sometimes it's softened by a crop of fuzz. Sometimes it's bony and clean-shaven. I've observed many times the curve of his pink little lips nuzzling around my meat. Once in a while the tips of his long brown hair will bob below the restroom stall partition and brush against my thighs.

I know well the leanness of his hands, and the taut strength of his hairy legs. Scrolling thorn-studded vines of plump roses decorate the insides of both his arms, decidedly retro in appearance but somehow perfectly modern. They look like the kind of ink you might see on Popeye's biceps, re-imagined and forced into full bloom by a real artist. It's the tattoos I'd recognize immediately if I saw Jason out in public—but like I said, I never have. I've only seen them as he's reached beneath the stalls to grasp at my dick, or when his hand has darted underneath my balls to tease around my hole or to grab my ass and pull me closer.

Jason first met me when he was eighteen, and cruising Squirt for older dick. He was young and lean and horny and lived with a pop who was always home; I was old and jizz-filled and ready to get inside him and didn't have a place to play that day. "How about somewhere public?" he messaged me. "A toilet? I'll do you anywhere, dude. I need that dick."

I named a local mall. "Sears," I told him. "First floor men's room, men's department." I told him what shoes I'd be wearing, and he told me he'd be in black sneakers. We agreed to meet in twenty minutes' time.

I half-expected him not to show. When I arrived at the Sears, I went to the bathroom, chose a stall, dropped my pants, and started stroking. I'd fucked and sucked in there many, many times in the past. I was in the very stall where I'd once met a businessman who was into humiliation; I'd roped him to the toilet hardware with his necktie, fucked him, pissed on him, pulled up my pants, and left him scrambling to extricate himself before he was discovered. (He loved it. Emailed me about it for years, though I never met him again.) The thought of that long-distant afternoon alone was enough to keep me rock hard. I'd only been there a couple of minutes when first the outer door creaked open, followed by the gunshot snap of the inner door's hinge. Through the crack in the stall I could see an impossibly skinny kid dash by. A pair of black sneakers shuffled into the next toilet. I heard the sound of a belt unfastening, followed by the heavy clunk of the kid's jeans as his huge belt buckle dragged to the tiles. He sat down, and tapped his foot. I tapped mine back.

Then his hand snaked under the metal partition, palm up, anxious to hold something. For the first time, I saw the thorny vines that decorated him. I knelt down and put my purple-red dick in his hand, and let him prove himself.

The first time he only sucked me. Sometimes that's all we do together. I don't shoot very easily from blowjobs alone, and even warn most guys up front that mere head is unlikely to get me off. Jason's never had an issue getting me to unload, though. Even the first time he knew exactly how much pressure to keep around the base of my dick as he greedily slurped up and down its length. He knew, as if I'd directed him, when to stroke my nuts on their sides, coaxing the sperm upward. And when I shot a very few minutes later, he impaled his throat on the shaft and took every drop, just the way I prefer. Yet I'd said nothing at all in that quiet men's room. The only thing that could have been heard were the soft sounds of sucking, our heavy breathing, and the very gentlest of my moans. He took his mouth off my dick, and then I felt something wet land on my cock and stomach. When I leaned backward and craned to look beneath the stall, I saw that he'd shot his own load on my meat. I watched his fuzz-tipped peaky chin graze my skin as he licked off his sperm. Then I withdrew back into my own stall, pulled up my pants, flushed, washed my hands, and walked back to my car on trembling legs.

After that first day we started meeting in other restrooms, every month or so. The local Home Depot is one of his favorites—the floors there are grimy but we're rarely interrupted. We've done several local colleges, one of the rest stops, a park restroom in the summers, and a building in the downtown area. We attempted a casino one time, but the foot traffic was too steady.

The only time we've met face to face is once at my house, late at night. My family was actually away for a few days and I was there alone, but when we were chatting online I told him they were upstairs asleep, and that he should be a good boy and come taste my dick while being very, very quiet. To my surprise, he was all for it.

My neighborhood is pitch black and unlit by street lights, and there was no moon that night. It was easy for me to meet him at the side door, guide him up the kitchen steps, and take him into the family den, where he knelt between my legs and lapped at my cock and balls like a good little boy. Right before he came, I put my hand over his mouth and whispered in his ear. Sshh. I cupped his ass as he convulsed and squirted out ropes of semen. It was the only time we've kissed. Still I didn't see his face that night, nor he mine. We were nothing more than silhouettes in the darkness.

We'll always have Sears. That's where I met him Saturday morning. He recognized my shoes instantly when he sat down in the same stall next to mine. I dropped to my knees and spread my legs beneath the partition as his mouth rushed to greet me. "Hi, daddy," he whispered, before taking my dick between his lips.

Saturday we fucked. His hole was lightly greased. My torso was pressed tightly against the clammy, cold partition while my waist and legs were fully underneath. I felt the pressure as gripped my meat with one hand while he lowered himself onto it. From his feet I could tell that he faced away from me as he squatted down and accommodated my girth. Inch by inch, he started to take it. Not until he'd taken most of my eight inches did he rise up again. When he did, it was with a gentle rocking motions. Every bob up and down started to bring me closer and closer to orgasm.

We know when we meet in the public spots that our time is limited. It didn't take him long to settle into a more aggressive rhythm. "Fuck me, daddy!" I heard him whisper. The partition thudded a little with every rise and fall. Closer and closer I got until I was on the edge, willing myself to shoot while simultaneously wanting not to. Then I felt a splatter on my nuts and thighs, accompanied by the sensation of his hole clenching. He'd shot his load on me. Knowing that was enough to push me over the edge. Still clutching onto the underside of the stall, I blasted inside him, shooting harder than I had all week. Once my breathing had subsided, we both withdrew and started mopping at the floor with toilet paper, until the evidence was gone.

A middle-aged chubby guy walked into the restroom while I washed my hands. He looked me up and down with speculation while I ignored him. I watched as he darted into the stall I'd just vacated. Jason was still in the next john, waiting for me to leave so that we wouldn't see each other. I didn't stick around to see if there was any action or not. I had to get home.

I think we both know that neither of us is ugly. I used to have an avid curiosity to see what he looked like, and even tried sticking around afterwards to catch a glimpse. Now, though, I accept that the anonymous aspect of our coupling somehow makes it hotter . . . especially as it's been going on for two years.

One day, somewhere unexpected—along some street or outside a Gap in a mall—I'm certain I'm going to walk by a good-looking kid who'll have thorn-studded vines climbing the insides of his arms, abloom with plump red roses. I'll look at his face, and he'll look at mine. There'll be a moment of recognition and surprise, and we'll know all we need to know.

More...

[evilqueerpig]

I don't know how you'd feel about my mug, but I need to see your face when I've got you inside me.

[Freddiboi]

To see Breeder's original blog post click here

I've known and fucked Jason for two years. I've never seen his face.

Oh, I've caught glimpses of it from time to time. I've seen his sharp chin as it settles against my nuts. Sometimes it's softened by a crop of fuzz. Sometimes it's bony and clean-shaven. I've observed many times the curve of his pink little lips nuzzling around my meat. Once in a while the tips of his long brown hair will bob below the restroom stall partition and brush against my thighs.

I know well the leanness of his hands, and the taut strength of his hairy legs. Scrolling thorn-studded vines of plump roses decorate the insides of both his arms, decidedly retro in appearance but somehow perfectly modern. They look like the kind of ink you might see on Popeye's biceps, re-imagined and forced into full bloom by a real artist. It's the tattoos I'd recognize immediately if I saw Jason out in public—but like I said, I never have. I've only seen them as he's reached beneath the stalls to grasp at my dick, or when his hand has darted underneath my balls to tease around my hole or to grab my ass and pull me closer.

Jason first met me when he was eighteen, and cruising Squirt for older dick. He was young and lean and horny and lived with a pop who was always home; I was old and jizz-filled and ready to get inside him and didn't have a place to play that day. "How about somewhere public?" he messaged me. "A toilet? I'll do you anywhere, dude. I need that dick."

I named a local mall. "Sears," I told him. "First floor men's room, men's department." I told him what shoes I'd be wearing, and he told me he'd be in black sneakers. We agreed to meet in twenty minutes' time.

I half-expected him not to show. When I arrived at the Sears, I went to the bathroom, chose a stall, dropped my pants, and started stroking. I'd fucked and sucked in there many, many times in the past. I was in the very stall where I'd once met a businessman who was into humiliation; I'd roped him to the toilet hardware with his necktie, fucked him, pissed on him, pulled up my pants, and left him scrambling to extricate himself before he was discovered. (He loved it. Emailed me about it for years, though I never met him again.) The thought of that long-distant afternoon alone was enough to keep me rock hard. I'd only been there a couple of minutes when first the outer door creaked open, followed by the gunshot snap of the inner door's hinge. Through the crack in the stall I could see an impossibly skinny kid dash by. A pair of black sneakers shuffled into the next toilet. I heard the sound of a belt unfastening, followed by the heavy clunk of the kid's jeans as his huge belt buckle dragged to the tiles. He sat down, and tapped his foot. I tapped mine back.

Then his hand snaked under the metal partition, palm up, anxious to hold something. For the first time, I saw the thorny vines that decorated him. I knelt down and put my purple-red dick in his hand, and let him prove himself.

The first time he only sucked me. Sometimes that's all we do together. I don't shoot very easily from blowjobs alone, and even warn most guys up front that mere head is unlikely to get me off. Jason's never had an issue getting me to unload, though. Even the first time he knew exactly how much pressure to keep around the base of my dick as he greedily slurped up and down its length. He knew, as if I'd directed him, when to stroke my nuts on their sides, coaxing the sperm upward. And when I shot a very few minutes later, he impaled his throat on the shaft and took every drop, just the way I prefer. Yet I'd said nothing at all in that quiet men's room. The only thing that could have been heard were the soft sounds of sucking, our heavy breathing, and the very gentlest of my moans. He took his mouth off my dick, and then I felt something wet land on my cock and stomach. When I leaned backward and craned to look beneath the stall, I saw that he'd shot his own load on my meat. I watched his fuzz-tipped peaky chin graze my skin as he licked off his sperm. Then I withdrew back into my own stall, pulled up my pants, flushed, washed my hands, and walked back to my car on trembling legs.

After that first day we started meeting in other restrooms, every month or so. The local Home Depot is one of his favorites—the floors there are grimy but we're rarely interrupted. We've done several local colleges, one of the rest stops, a park restroom in the summers, and a building in the downtown area. We attempted a casino one time, but the foot traffic was too steady.

The only time we've met face to face is once at my house, late at night. My family was actually away for a few days and I was there alone, but when we were chatting online I told him they were upstairs asleep, and that he should be a good boy and come taste my dick while being very, very quiet. To my surprise, he was all for it.

My neighborhood is pitch black and unlit by street lights, and there was no moon that night. It was easy for me to meet him at the side door, guide him up the kitchen steps, and take him into the family den, where he knelt between my legs and lapped at my cock and balls like a good little boy. Right before he came, I put my hand over his mouth and whispered in his ear. Sshh. I cupped his ass as he convulsed and squirted out ropes of semen. It was the only time we've kissed. Still I didn't see his face that night, nor he mine. We were nothing more than silhouettes in the darkness.

We'll always have Sears. That's where I met him Saturday morning. He recognized my shoes instantly when he sat down in the same stall next to mine. I dropped to my knees and spread my legs beneath the partition as his mouth rushed to greet me. "Hi, daddy," he whispered, before taking my dick between his lips.

Saturday we fucked. His hole was lightly greased. My torso was pressed tightly against the clammy, cold partition while my waist and legs were fully underneath. I felt the pressure as gripped my meat with one hand while he lowered himself onto it. From his feet I could tell that he faced away from me as he squatted down and accommodated my girth. Inch by inch, he started to take it. Not until he'd taken most of my eight inches did he rise up again. When he did, it was with a gentle rocking motions. Every bob up and down started to bring me closer and closer to orgasm.

We know when we meet in the public spots that our time is limited. It didn't take him long to settle into a more aggressive rhythm. "Fuck me, daddy!" I heard him whisper. The partition thudded a little with every rise and fall. Closer and closer I got until I was on the edge, willing myself to shoot while simultaneously wanting not to. Then I felt a splatter on my nuts and thighs, accompanied by the sensation of his hole clenching. He'd shot his load on me. Knowing that was enough to push me over the edge. Still clutching onto the underside of the stall, I blasted inside him, shooting harder than I had all week. Once my breathing had subsided, we both withdrew and started mopping at the floor with toilet paper, until the evidence was gone.

A middle-aged chubby guy walked into the restroom while I washed my hands. He looked me up and down with speculation while I ignored him. I watched as he darted into the stall I'd just vacated. Jason was still in the next john, waiting for me to leave so that we wouldn't see each other. I didn't stick around to see if there was any action or not. I had to get home.

I think we both know that neither of us is ugly. I used to have an avid curiosity to see what he looked like, and even tried sticking around afterwards to catch a glimpse. Now, though, I accept that the anonymous aspect of our coupling somehow makes it hotter . . . especially as it's been going on for two years.

One day, somewhere unexpected—along some street or outside a Gap in a mall—I'm certain I'm going to walk by a good-looking kid who'll have thorn-studded vines climbing the insides of his arms, abloom with plump red roses. I'll look at his face, and he'll look at mine. There'll be a moment of recognition and surprise, and we'll know all we need to know.

More...

Another blow by blow (no pun Intended) of one of your hot encounters....you are one hot man!

[TheBreeder]

Another blow by blow (no pun Intended) of one of your hot encounters....you are one hot man!

Freddi, thanks. This was one of my favorite entries, so I'm glad someone else liked it.