[Breeder] Birthmarks

[TheBreeder]

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When the lifted his lips to mine, he had to stand almost on tiptoe to reach me. I was surprised how gentle he was, how tentative at first. After our skin grazed, though, his tongue flicked out. Its tip tickled against the spot in the center, directly beneath the indentation. The hairs of my mustached shifted and prickled against it, before it slipped into the opening and connected with my own tongue.

I felt, rather than heard, him sigh. He tugged me down to him as if afraid I might want to pull away.

I didn’t.

I was a little surprised at how tender he was, as eventually we moved from my front door upstairs to the bedroom. His profile hadn’t indicated anything of the sort—it had been a tangle of ‘ask mes’ and ‘unspecifieds’ and had let me know nothing about the man. He’d let me see his private photo, a murky composition of shadows and acrid yellows that had seemed to point to the fact that the guy was merely shy man in his mid-thirties, and not a total troll. In person, he was both cuter and sweeter than his profile would have let on. With his dark skin, his broad Greek features, and hair so thick and curly that it was like bristles, the man was actually pretty good looking.

We didn’t do much. In the lamplight I let him undress me. His hands roamed over my body, seizing my waist and moving up along my hips and ribcage to the tender areas beneath my arms. He licked tentatively on my nipples, staring up at me the entire time as if he was asking permission. He sucked on my dick, and licked my balls, and gnawed pleasurably at the spots where my legs connected to my pelvis. I had to talk him into removing his pants and sweatshirt. He left his button-down shirt in place, though, seeming embarrassed at the bulk of his hairy body. He wasn’t a heavy man, exactly, but he seemed extremely self-conscious of the few extra pounds he carried.

He trembled when I pulled down his briefs. He didn’t liked to be eaten, he’d told me. He just wanted someone to rub his dick over his hole. I lay him on his side and spooned beside him as I warmed lube in my palm and then gently, so gently, parted his buttocks and spread the goo within. He curled in a fetal position, both hands curled like a boy’s as they clasped the back of his head. His forearms covered his ears. When I pushed at his legs, he drew them up almost to where his elbows touched together.

My dick was slick with the lube when I pushed against him. I let the top side of my shaft slide against the crack. It was like passing the open door of a furnace; I could feel the intense heat from his hole, every time my head passed on its back-and-forth journey down the crack and between his legs. “Is that what you wanted?” I asked.

His head jerked spasmodically. “Yes,” he grunted. With every pass, his knees drew higher. He exposed more and more of his hole as the crack surrounding it widened. When I had him breathing heavily with pleasure, he panted out, “It almost kind of makes me want . . . want to. . . .”

He didn’t need to finish that sentence.I let him pretend for a while more that the sweet sensation of my rod passing back and forth over his most guarded spot was all he needed. When he was relaxed, and sighing, and breathing deeply, I paused. In the guise of shifting positions, I changed the angle of my shaft, and let the head wedge against the hole.

He gasped a little. Without a word, his hands flew back and down, but they stopped short of pushing me away. Instead, the more free of his hands hovered helplessly in the air, as if waiting to see what I would do next. Taking that as permission, I pushed in a little more.

The hole was so hairy that I could feel the hairs rasping my engorged cock head, and so tight that it felt a little bit like trying to push through a brick wall with a marshmallow. My head was wedged in there, though. I ground my hips a little to create some sensation, without trying to scare him. Millimeter by millimeter, I edged in, keeping the pressure constant. His hand flopped helplessly, pawing at something invisible. It then collapsed onto the bed. Whatever fear was in his mind, he’d abandoned, or at least discarded for the moment. The only thing that existed for him was the sensation of my dick, warm and hard in his hole.

When I reached bottom, it seemed as if I’d been fucking for a half-hour already. Perhaps I had been; my entry had been the slowest I’ve made in years. All I knew is that when I pressed my body against his, he began to convulse. My hand moved down to the area of his small, uncut dick, and seconds later came away covered in sticky wetness. Cum dripped onto the blankets. “Oh shit,” he said, panicked. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry—“

“Sssh,” I whispered to him, stroking his thick hair like I might have tried to calm a worried animal at the vet’s. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. Thank you.” He relaxed again, so gradually it might have been measured in inches. Meanwhile, I withdrew. He sighed in relief when moments later I was all the way out, my still-hard dick wedged against the warm flesh of his ass. “It was nice of you to meet me,” he whispered into the quiet, after a long while. “And not turning me away after you saw my, you know.”

“Your what?” I murmured, sounding sleepy. His extra pounds? His small dick? Those were inconsequential.

“You know.” I shook my head and grunted. I didn’t know what he meant. “My birthmark.”

I still didn’t understand. “Your what?”

He rolled over, and pointed at his face. “My birthmark.”

The man’s skin was already darker than my own complexion. Hell, uncooked bacon fat has more of a natural tan than I. When I looked carefully at the area he indicated with his forefinger, though, I could tell that part of his face was a little darker than the rest. The area coincided neatly with the hollow of his right eye. It didn’t resemble a birthmark or a black eye so much as it did a trick of the light, a shadow where a shadow might not ordinarily be.

And in a snap I was able to imagine the man’s life in a way I hadn’t, before. All that shyness, those hidden photos, the ask-me’s and the tentativeness—a lifetime of holding back and denying himself—predicated on worrying about men’s reactions to a couple of square inches of discoloration. “I honestly didn’t notice it,” I told him. The words sounded corny. “You know, my face gets red and dry in certain areas. Worrying about other people’s skin is not something I ordinarily do.”

The expression of gratitude he wore at my words was heartbreaking. Incredible, that something so simple as my heedlessness was going to make him feel like a real live person instead of walking monster.

“Do you feel that self-conscious about it?” I asked. His shrug told me that he did, though he might not have wanted to admit it to me. “Were you picked on in school and stuff?”

“Not by my good friends,” he said, which told a story in itself. After a moment’s quiet he added, “For years and years I used to go to New York City every couple of months for laser treatments on it, starting when I was about six. They really broke down the pigment. It’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“It’s not bad at all,” I said, matter-of-factly, “if I didn’t even notice it until you pointed it out.”

“But you see it now,” he argued.

“Yeah, because you stabbed your finger at it and told me to look,” I retorted, with a snort. I lay back down and ran my hand through his hair. “Look. Everyone’s got birthmarks. Everyone has them. That’s what you have to remember. We’ve all got shit that stains us, and that we’re afraid sets us apart. Yours is on the outside, that’s all. It’s unfortunate, but those treatments must’ve worked, because like I said, I couldn’t even see the thing.”

He thought about that for a minute. “Where’s yours?”

“Mine? They’re the black stains on my eternal soul,” I replied, without hesitation. “And trust me, laser treatments are no good for that.”

His hand reached out for mine; he squeezed my fingers tightly. “I don’t believe you,” he said, twining our hands together. “You must be the sweetest guy I’ve ever met.”

I wish I believed his words, myself.

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