Ancient History: A Slave to My Cum

Have you ever met a model? A real one? Someone in the pages of a magazine or on a billboard?

I don't mean a porn model. God knows some of those men are gorgeous. I'm talking about mainstream, all American man who's paid to just be beautiful and nothing more — no sex, no speaking and reserved nudity if any at all.

When I met him, modeling turned out to be a part-time job. His other? Bio-chemist or something remarkable like that where he wore a lab coat and had an IQ that exceeded the genius level of 140.

African American in a lovely caramel coloring with striking angular features. His eyes expressive and a remarkable six-foot-six-inch frame. Once his clothes came off, though, the beauty proved to be blinding.

At times, he let the wiry black curls cover his perfection of a chest. Other times, his eight pack showed every definitive line. Perfect pecs and incredibly strong biceps. The Apollo's belt accentuated his incredible ass and gorgeous legs.

He lived with a wife or girlfriend. I always suspected it was his wife.

The magic just took a kiss and then to lightly touch his nipples. I never needed to touch his cock. Large just laying there, spongy and soft. Probably six-by-five completely flaccid. But if I touched a nipple, the cock stirred and filled. When the blood stopped rushing there, usually taking around five minutes for him to achieve a full erection, it stood straight out from his body and easily 10 full inches or more. If I grasped it in my hand, my fingertips couldn't touch my thumb. Thicker in the shaft than near the base, the beast felt rock hard.

I don't exactly remember when we started fucking or how we met. I know it was online and sometime in 1999. Over the next five years, I fucked him 30 or 40 times. Usually, it was late at night. He would sneak out of the townhouse in the far Maryland suburbs. He'd arrive at my doorstep ready for no-nonsense fucking.

Never lube. Never poppers. He would kiss but rarely sucked me. And my respectable seven inches looked tiny next to his huge monster-of-a-cock. But he had the smallest black balls, covered with a fuzzy black hair that defied his caramel coloring. My balls, once warmed, would be slapping against his hairy ass while his tight little ping-pongs pulled even tighter up.

His shirt was always off first because he wanted me to touch his nipples, to lightly stroke them, tweak them, and nibble at them. I gladly did so, stroking every inch of the most incredible body ever.

But his goal was singular and one. I don't think he cared about anything else other than one thing.

My cum. It belonged in his ass. He never spoke — probably one of the quietest bottoms I've ever used — with a slightly loose ass that still found a way to open up completely then tighten down on my cock. He always wanted it on his back. Nipple access, of course.

When I would say, "I'm cumming," that was the moment his cock would jump to full-mast. He'd begin to close those eyes as they rolled into the back of his head. And he would blow, a magnificent amount of cum to match his huge body.

He would rub the cum into his chest — that magnificent chest — whether it was smooth or hairy. His clothes would be on quickly. He'd never kiss after cumming and he never cleaned up. He left my cum in his ass and his cum a sticky film across his chest.

Again, I used him 30 or 40 times over five years. We were each other's go-to guy for reliable fucking. We tried small talk a few times but realized it wasn't anything more than it was. He was a slave to cum, in particular my mighty white swimmers. And I just wanted to feel the amazing muscle god beneath me.

So when you flip the pages in your magazine or you notice the fashion billboard downtown and there, in stark black-and-white or a beautiful caramel, wonder if that's the man I bred. The man who craved my cum.