[Breeder] Saturday at the Baths: Italiano

[TheBreeder]

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One of Breeder’s Readers wanted to meet with me, and made the offer a few times to drive up from his hometown of Cleveland. The guy had some hot, hot photos on his BBRT profile. It was difficult to say no to him. So I didn’t. We made arrangements to meet last Saturday at one of the local bathhouses.

I was trying to time it so that I’d get there at roughly the same time as he. When one person has roughly a ten-minute drive down the freeway to an exit a mere five miles away, and the other is driving three and a half hours through rainy weather and construction, it’s a little difficult to predict to coordinate a simultaneous arrival. In the end, I managed to get there a full hour before the guy arrived. So I had some time to kill.

I did what I always do when I arrive in the bathhouse: I unfolded the threadbare sheet provided and laid it across the plastic mattress, then slipped the prisoner’s pillow into its case. I kicked off my shoes and opened my locker. From my jacket I pulled out my lube, my mints, and my cock rings, and lay them on the narrow table wedged between the bed and locker.

When I shucked off my clothing and opened the locker to store it, I found that the room’s previous tenant had bought a new jockstrap, taken it from its plastic package, and then left both the supporter and the package on the locker’s top shelf. Somehow the people responsible for cleaning the room had overlooked it—or perhaps decided to leave it as a prize for the next occupant. The jockstrap was my size and seemed clean, so I slipped it on, wrapped my towel around my waist, made sure my key was strapped around my forearm, and left the room.

I always head to the steam room first, in this bath. There are other public play spaces—a couple of dark rooms with gloryholes, a sling room, a movie room, a lounge—but in the afternoons, with a light crowd, all the action takes place in the steam room. A couple of guys sat in the smaller and more concealed half of the vapor-filled enclosure. I moved over to the larger and more open side, and settled down on the lower of the two tiled seating shelves there.

Now, normally I choose the upper shelf. It’s usually high and far back enough that it keeps guys from invading my space without invitation, and it’s a pretty clear indication that I prefer to get my dick worked on. No one was present, though, and I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to linger in the steam room when Cleveland was going to be showing up at any moment. Besides, I figured, I could always slide up to the upper platform if anyone came in.

I’d barely made the thought when the door opened and I heard the soft slaps of feet against wet tile as someone pushed through the wet clouds. I saw a tall, thin man standing in the steam; the first feature I noticed was his gray hair, which lay in short, perfectly-formed waves over his head. Then I saw his eyebrows, as black and thick as his hair was silver. The guy had to be at least sixty, though it was tough to tell. He was both lean in the waist and hips, and muscular in the shoulders and arms. His firm chest was covered in thin white hair. Any plans I’d had for scooting up a shelf went by the wayside. I was too busy thinking, Jeez, that’s one handsome man.

Not that I would have had much chance. The guy looked me over once, liked what he saw, and immediately moved forward. His strong legs propelled him onto the top shelf, only inches away. He removed his towel, spread apart his knees, and began working his fist over a very large, very thick dick.

He had to have been nine inches, and a good extra inch thicker than myself. I stared at the obscene gyrations of his wrist, mesmerized. He inched closer, spreading wider his legs, then held out his opened hand, heavy with that slab of cock.

I didn’t have to be asked twice. Or once, even. I knew what to do. I leaned forward and took the dick in my mouth. It leapt at the moisture and at my tongue greedily digging for precum from its slit. I gobbled it as far down as I could, and let the head plug my throat. Several times over the next few minutes I heard the door open and close to the steam room, but I didn’t look up for a long time. When I did, there were at least six men standing behind and around me, watching me fellate the older man.

When I surfaced for air, the man grabbed my jaw in his hand. He tilted back my skull, and stared into my eyes. Then he angled his own head slightly to one side, and kissed me. It was one of those kisses that was so passionate and hard that it made my nipples tighten. Though his right hand still held my jaw as his lips crushed against mine, his left hand yanked away the towel from around my waist. I was left sitting in the leftover jock I’d found in my locker.

“Italiano,” said the man in my ear, the moment he released me. I blinked at him. He patted his chest in a me-Tarzan, you-Jane kind of way. “Italiano,” he repeated. Then he said a rapid-fire sentence in his own language into my ear that I did not in the least understand, though I was willing to consider whatever it might have been. Then he spat on his fingers, leaned down, and began to work them into my hole.

I jumped a little. I don’t get determinedly fingered down there that often. The man repeated the same sentence in my ear again. Since he clearly wanted to fuck me, and I’d done precious little preparation for that than what could be done in a ten-minute shower beforehand, I gently pulled away his hand from my hole and went back to sucking his dick. That’s what I get for sitting on the bottom shelf, I thought to myself as I went back to work.

He seemed fine with that.

The other men surrounding me, however, saw me as fair game. While I sucked, I felt someone tug my dick out of the jock, and latch a mouth onto it. Someone else’s hand groped for my hole again—and then another hand joined it, so I had two different men trying to probe me. The Italiano, in the meantime, held me down by the scruff of my neck on his dick until I was gasping for air. And I liked it.

The hands pawing me were too insistent, and too invasive, however. I stood up, stuffed my stiff and dripping tool into the pouch, found my towel, and exited the steam room. I wasn’t too surprised when the Italiano followed me out. Though he carried his towel in one of his hands, he didn’t bother to wrap it around himself; his dick pointed at and followed me like some kind of lascivious dowsing rod. Once he was in my room, he shoved me against the wall so determinedly that it took my breath away. I have to confess—it was kind of hot to be manhandled with that kind of passion and lust, but mostly it was the Italian that made me eager to do whatever the fuck he wanted. He murmured some syllables in my ear as he ran his fingers through my damp hair. I dropped to my knees in the dark of my room and sucked him down. I knew how to get to the root, now, and didn’t mind that my airways were blocked every time his fat head slipped down my throat.

After a while, though, he wanted more than my throat. He pulled me to my feet and pushed me down onto the bed, then hauled my ass into the air. I laughed, and tried to wave him away. He said something in Italian, then followed it up with a handful of heavily-accented English words. “You and me. Fuck? Yes? Fuck?”

“No,” I said, charmed by the accent and regretful that I couldn’t follow through with the one thing he wanted. “You are way, way too big.” When he crunched together his dark brows, I tried to explain. “Too big.” I pointed at his dick, which was still stiff and pointing at the ceiling. I widened the space between my hands. “This is fine,” I said, then mimed my mouth open as I bobbed up and down on an imaginary rod. “But not this.” I leaned over and made a pained face while I thrust an imaginary redwood up my hole.

Well. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But I must’ve looked like a goddamned fool. The Italian merely appeared baffled. At last, inspired by a grasp of Italian that consists of crescendo and decrescendo and a handful of other terms I see on my musical scores, I gabbled out, “Molto grande” as I pointed at his junk.

Light dawned. “Ah! Molto grande,” he repeated, with the correct pronunciation. Then he laughed, and reached out to give me a quick hug. After saying something else in his own language, he gave me a hard kiss on the mouth, then ruffled my hair once more. “You. Handsomely. Man. Yes?”

Yes. I was good with that. I was so deeply charmed by his continental manners that I found myself wanting both to blush and curtsey, for some odd reason. Instead, I contented myself with flopping down onto my mattress and glowing so brightly I could’ve lit up both dark rooms as well as the sling chamber.

I tell you. I’m considering taking a quick course in conversational dirty Italian, and then passing myself off as a foreign visitor in bathhouses. I bet I could get just about anything I wanted with that technique.

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[evilqueerpig]

SEXY as you are, you don't need any techniques to get what you want.