I Want to be Fucked by another Man

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It took John many years to come to that conclusion; he wanted to be fucked by a man. Having had his first experience, when by chance he came across Brent and found himself in bed with the guy, he had liked it so much he couldn’t wait for more.

But Brent wasn’t the one: he was only interested in one night stands and got a kick out of the seduction. John wasn’t sure what he was looking for – maybe that’s what he wanted too – but he intended to find out.

How do you do that? He signed up with a couple of gay dating sites. One was for bears, because his biggest fantasy was being taken by a big, hairy, strong, masculine man. “Taken”: that was the word people used when they wanted it to be not of their own doing, but someone else’s will. Not rape, because that was something else altogether, but being steamrollered by someone whose lust to fuck you eventually rubbed off, making you the most willing, submissive of sexual partners, not just happy to do whatever this man wanted but getting a kick out of being given no choice.

The other site was more general, and while on the bears one there were big, hairy animals who thrilled him to the marrow, there were none close to where he lived.

In certain moods he would have been happy to travel many miles just to walk into some masculine man’s house and get fucked. But what about afterwards? Get back in the car and drive home in the middle of the night?

The general hookup site offered guys just around the corner, but most of them seemed to be bottoms and that’s what he wanted to be. He wasn’t going to dress up in a skirt and bra and heels and a wig (although there were times when that appealed) but he wanted to be seduced, made to do the bidding of a confident top who had the single vision of shoving his erect cock up John’s arse.

He drooled over the pictures of a short, fat black guy with a Neanderthal face, draped across a cheap leather sofa like some tart. Yet even he claimed to be versatile, and John didn’t want versatile, he wanted one of those “100% top” guys who would call the shots.

He wanted to wake up one morning with a sore hole and the memory of being swung around a bedroom like part of some deviant circus act. He wanted to smell someone’s arse on his face because he had been ordered to lick it – although in truth with the right guy he wouldn’t need much persuading.

So, with the bears too distant and the others not man enough for him, John decided he would have to go looking for it.

Not in his home town, though, obviously. He wasn’t attracted to any men he knew and it would be dangerous to approach someone he might find himself standing next to in the newsagents.

He tried thinking about it, though. There was plenty of porn about people having sex with their best friend or someone at work. He studied the barber who was cutting his hair. Not a bad looking man. Dark and hairy. But too nice, too soft. You never know what someone is like in bed, he told himself, but somehow he knew it wouldn’t work with this one.

He thought about his male teachers all those years ago at school. Yarnsley, the maths teacher, one of the younger ones. Red hair that came curling out of his collar. John had had a few teenage wanks thinking about being made to suck Mr Yarnsley off. And the old English guy, Mr Forbes. Straight as they come, middle aged, old fashioned, completely unsexy. Yet John had sat in the toilet at home, overtaken by youthful hormones, imagining Mr Forbes sitting on his face, rubbing his arse all over John’s nose. He had sat there şişli escort in paroxysms of lust, thinking about being subjected to that man’s perverse desires. He had cum bucketloads into six folded sheets of toilet paper and the fantasy had left him.

But the fantasies always came back.

What had happened recently with Brent had reinvigorated that side of him. He had been through the adult, staunchly heterosexual phase and the marriage and divorce and a few casual women, and now he saw it was just a phase like any other.

Brent had liberated him. It was now his choice, his prerogative and no business of anyone else’s.

He looked up the gay clubs in Hodlington and decided to go there. Friday night. Bold as brass. Walk in, find a guy, walk out with him and have spunk trickling out of his arse within half an hour.

Friday night came and he drove to Hodlington, parked in a side street and had a pint in the nearest pub. It was still early and the club didn’t open till 10. He had another pint and his mind turned to the men in the bar. What would a woman do in his situation? Sit there and wait. Sooner or later someone would try it on with her.

But that wouldn’t work for him. He wasn’t cute or desirable. He was just an ordinary guy.

It would have to be the club.

He was the first person in the place. He ordered a scotch and soda and sat in a corner of the bar, sheltered from the booming music that seemed to be obligatory in these places.

Two young men walked in, dressed and behaving in a way that said all you needed to know about how the word “gay” had been hijacked by stereotypical homosexuals.

He wasn’t a stereotypical homosexual, he thought. He was simply a man who liked having sexual intercourse with another man from time to time.

He didn’t know why. He didn’t feel like that every day and he never knew when the feeling would strike.

But when it did, it was powerful and he couldn’t fight it. The urge to get on his knees and suck a penis was overwhelming at such times. He wanted to debase himself, to give up all his self respect and his carefully-managed status in his little world. Just for a short session in which he would surrender to a man. Suck a cock. Lick an arse. Be invaded by a stiff, hairy rod and ridden until his rider ejaculated inside him, or in his mouth or on his chest or in his hand.

Lost in this train of thought, John hadn’t noticed the bar filling up, but when he looked up he was surrounded by men. Gay men. Men who wanted to do what he wanted to do, or something similar.

He looked around for someone like himself, a fish out of water, because he couldn’t suddenly become a smiling, laughing, dancing gay man.

There was a man on the other side of the room, standing alone at a little high table, absorbed in his pint of Guinness.

John stood up boldly and walked over to him. He was short and stout and hairy: red-haired hairy like Mr Yarnsley, but older. Kind eyes, mellow voice. Something familiar about him.

It was him. Mr Yarnsley. How should John play this? He thought briefly about some bogus reason for being there, but then he thought no, they were both there for the same thing and the place was clearly what it was. It was unmistakable.

Yarnsley looked at John with dawning recognition.

“Are you…?”

“Dixon,” John said.

“Johnny Dixon,” Yarnsley said “How long has it been?”

“Fifteen years,” John said. “You’re Mr Yarnsley.”

“Bob,” said the man.

They found a table and sat happily as çapa escort an avalanche of memories carried them through the best part of an hour. Neither of them mentioned where they were or why.

Then, as the conversation slowed, it was now or never.

“You want to stay here or shall we go somewhere quieter?” John asked.

“God, thank you,” said Yarnsley. “Let’s get out of here, for Christ’s sake.”

He was staying in a hotel nearby, just visiting for a funeral on Monday.

The hotel bar was full. They went to Yarnsley’s room and he opened a bottle of vodka he had bought in Duty Free, having flown down from Aberdeen, where he now lived.

“I have to say, Johnny, it’s very nice to see you after all this time. Although I can’t quite shake off the feeling that it’s inappropriate, as they say nowadays, to be in a hotel room with a student.”

John smiled and allowed his old teacher to deal with what probably had to be said.

“But you’re an adult, way over the age of… not that I’m…”

“I used to daydream about sucking you off,” John said, and regretted it immediately, in case it sounded crude.

“Ah,” said Yarnsley. “We are on the same page after all. It’s okay for a young man to have such thoughts; inevitable, probably. But you’ve been married, so presumably you’re heterosexual.”

John loved the way the teacher in Yarnsley kept him in control, even in such a strange and delicate situation.

“I am, yes,” John said. “But sometimes I just…”

“Me too, Johnny, me too. I was married for 30 years. Anyway, since we’re both in the clear, why don’t you come and sit next to me.”

John joined him on the little two-seater settee and to his trepidatious delight Yarnsley unzipped his trousers and pulled his erect cock out, fringed with that gorgeous red hair.

“Do you still want to suck me off?” Yarnsley said, not looking at him.

John stood up, got on his knees and took his old teacher’s penis in his mouth. It was big and hard, smooth and plump. His mind buzzed with distant memories. Lying in bed, thinking about sucking Mr Yarnsley’s cock, thinking about the older man getting carried away and launching his semen into his mouth. Disjointed thoughts, scraps of pornographic fantasies. But now they were in a completely different situation and it shouldn’t be wasted.

John unfastened Yarnsley’s belt and pulled his trousers and underpants down. Yarnsley pulled off his shirt to expose his magnificent hairy chest, a work of art with symmetrical patterns, joined in the middle like a violin.

“Take me to bed, Mr Yarnsley,” he said softly.

Yarnsley stood John next to the king size bed and undressed him quickly.

“What a big dick you have,” he said, stroking it. “Let’s lie down.”

They lay together and began to kiss. This wasn’t what John had planned, but it was wonderful. He felt that they cared for each other. They kissed like lovers and Yarnsley was tracing the contours of John’s body as if he had dreamed of this day. In fact he had probably enjoyed the unspoken lust of half the boys in the school.

“Did you ever fantasise about me?” John asked.

“Johnny, even though it was so long ago and what we’re doing now is perfectly legal and above board, I can’t associate this with my profession. You’re an old friend I bumped into and we’re enjoying each other’s masculinity.”

“I feel almost feminine with you, though,” John said, surprising himself. “I want you to treat me like that.”

“Did you fantasise about me buggering you?” Yarnsley asked, fındıkzade escort setting off a grenade of lust deep in John’s bowels.

“No, it was all oral,” John said. “I just wanted your spunk in my mouth.”

“And now?” Yarnsley asked seriously.

“Now I am ready for you to bugger me,” he said. “I want that more than anything. With anyone else I would say fucked, but with you I want to be buggered. It still feels wrong, do you know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Yarnsley said. “And that’s what is so exciting. I have some lubricant over there. And I will bugger you if that’s what you want.”

“First I want to lick you all over,” John said.

“All over?” Yarnsley wanted to hear details.

“I want to lick your arse,” John said

“Have you always wanted to do that?”

“No, that’s a recent interest,” John explained, as he kissed the man’s lips and neck before venturing into his armpits and sucking his nipples. The feeling of Yarnsley’s hair was intoxicating and John had to pull back a little to look at it before descending on the man’s bulging penis.

“On your knees” John whispered, and watched in adoration as the object of his teenage fantasies knelt with his big hairy ballbag hanging down and his erection awaiting its turn.

John licked his old teacher’s anus. It was warm and fragrant with that indefinable scent that set off another grenade in John’s bowels.

It was time to get fucked by this man.

After five minutes absorbed in the narcotic pleasure of giving anilingus to a man he desired so strongly, John came up for air and whispered, “Now.”

He got on his knees, because that was how he wanted to be done, and Yarnsley lubed him up, gently spreading the stuff in John’s epicentre and inserting one finger, then two.

“You been fucked before?” Yarnsley asked calmly.

“First time a week ago,” John said.

“And you liked it, presumably.”

“It was heaven,” John said. “But that was being fucked. Now I’m going to be buggered and it’s extra naughty.”

“Yes, I’m going to bugger you” Yarnsley said. “Kneel on the edge.”

John got into position as Yarnsley stood behind him. John loved the feeling of presenting himself to Mr Yarnsley and he could sense that Yarnsley was consumed with homosexual lust for him.

The penetration was wonderful as John welcomed Yarnsley’s beautiful big cock through his eager ring and felt him plunge as far up as he could. His head was swimming with lust and the intoxicating feeling of debauchery.

His Mr Yarnsley was buggering him and he was a willing partner, an accomplice in this most depraved of acts. Yarnsley quickened the pace and his balls were slapping John’s thighs as his cock head thrilled him deep inside, in the sinful darkness of his arse.

Then he felt the older man becoming more agitated and his thrusting became increasingly urgent until with a diabolically exciting lurch he gave way to his orgasm and his semen spurted into John’s depths.

They lay together afterwards and the conversation returned to normal. Then they showered and got down to it again. There was a lot of catching up to do. John wanted Yarnsley’s spunk in his mouth and he got it: the red-haired animal wanked in front of him and delivered his creamy seed with a desperate lunge onto John’s fascinated tongue.

For his part, John knelt behind Yarnsley and shot his spunk into the man’s beautiful crack.

The weekend stretched before them like a two-day X certificate feature of lust and depravity and by the time they parted they were the most intimate sexual lovers they could possibly be, bathed in each other’s semen, John ploughed by the man’s big penis, sore and satisfied and Yarnsley thoroughly serviced and adored.

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