Fuck A Duck

I liked them small—short, but otherwise perfectly formed. And the stripper was all of that.

I'd stopped in Orlando on my way down to Key West for my usual winter gay cruising fix, having been told that Orlando was a secret Key West. Parliament House at Orlando's Rock Lake, on North Orange Blossom Trail, had been recommended to me, and thus far it was panning out. Ten acres of musky male lust.

I'd been hit on three times in just walking across the hotel lobby. Maybe it was something I wasn't wearing. I had wondered how I would go over down here in the south, but I'd never had a problem in Key West, and I wasn't to have any problem here either. If anything, I attracted more interest than most, thanks to the legends, which in my case rang true.

I could see through the lobby window that I'd barely walked away from my Chrysler Crossfire parked out there before two guys were having sex on the hood.

I went immediately hard as I was checking in and the hotel clerks and I checked each other out.

"Will there be anything else, sir," one was saying. "Anything at all?"

"Maybe later," I answered with a smile. About thirty minutes later if I couldn't set up a better hookup before then. I was horny as hell, and the desk clerk looked ready to go.

The hotel room was nice enough, and at $70 a night was a steal. It overlooked a pool of young, ripped men having a ball and the queen-sized bed was firm, just the way I liked it. It later was amusing to think that less than an hour after check-in I'd find that the bedsprings had a little squeak to them as I lay on my back, and the small, perfectly cut body of a male stripper bounced up and down on my cock, whimpering "Black cock, black cock, big black cock."

That's me, a black bull.

I arrived thirsty, so I headed for one of the resort's several bars—just one of the resort's amenities in addition to all sorts of other ones, including a nightclub—as soon as I'd stowed my bag, taken a leak, draped myself on the balcony railing for a few minutes to pick out my favorites among the men at the pool, and bounced a bit on my butt on the bed—but not heavy enough by myself to have discovered the squeak.

I was feeling raunchy as well as thirsty, my mind dwelling on the two guys I saw fucking on the hood of my Crossfire, so I went into a bar that I could see had a stage with male dancers on it. I sidled up to the bar, ordered a scotch from a beefy tattooed bartender wearing just a Bike jockstrap and knee-high soccer socks and giving me the eye of interest, and turned to find that they weren't just dancers. They also were strippers. Having already gotten the measure of this place, my guess was that they were rent-boys as well.

They apparently had started off as firemen and policemen, and now were in various stages of being down to G strings. They came in all sizes and coloring, even another black guy, filling out his pouch better than any other stripper up there—but not, I'm proud to say, as well as I would. Something for every guy. And every guy in the audience seemed to be pleased—those who weren't intimately paired off and having eyes only for each other, that is.

My eyes went to a short Latino who was perfectly formed other than being maybe no more than five foot three. I was six five myself and built solid and muscular like a football halfback, but I very much appreciated little guys. I appreciate them so much that that my dick flips right up when I see one I like. I like to hear them squeal as I spike them with every possibility, given the relative sizes, that I'll see my cockhead waving at me from their tonsils as I fuck them.

I really liked this one, and I'd changed into a pair of loose shorts, a cut-off athletic T, and open-toed sandals when I'd come down both because I wanted to be more comfortable after a long day of driving south and because this attire showed me off to great advantage. I was stopping in Orlando for two days. I wanted to score well and often.

And I wanted to score first right now. I was so rock hard that my balls ached. It had been a long drive from Detroit.

I stared at the little Latino hard, taking in all of his moves and licking my lips. I was a specialty; not just every guy would go with me. And a few ran away screaming when they got a real good look at me.

He didn't seem to have that problem. He must have picked me out of the crowd as special and his king of special, because he began to dance just for me—or so I fancied. I'd seen movies where two people connect across a crowded room and the movie emphasized that by putting spotlights on just those two and having the rest of the crowd dimming into the background and otherwise absorbed in small conversation groups away from the center of the action. I had always thought that was fake, but that's what it seemed like this was now, and it didn't seem a bit fake.

In the movies too, they sometimes suppress all background sound at these moments to something in slow motion like sound heard under water, and that was happening here too. I could feel the beating of my heart—it was matching the rhythm of the throbbing of my cock. I wouldn't say I was in love like this often depicts in the movies, but I was in heat and lust, with a hard, throbbing cock that I was fisting through the silky material of my sports shorts.

I wanted to take the little stripper and fuck the stuffing out of him—see my cockhead waving at me from behind his tonsils—and I wanted to do it right now.

I knew the dancer had picked me out; his hand went to his crotch too, and he grabbed his nuts as he blew me a kiss with the other hand. You can't engrave an invitation any better than that.

I could see a couple of guys from the audience going up on stage, and it hit me that the underwater tones of an announcer floating over the music on the stage was an invitation for guys to come up and dance with the strippers.

I made a beeline for the little Latino, who was obviously waiting for me, because he brushed off a couple of guys before I could get to him. We danced close, his arms raised and draped around my neck, his face looking up at mine and mine down into his. My dick pressed into his torso somewhere between his navel and his pecs, and there was no hiding that I was in heat. He would have had to be a dummy not to know I was built big. They usually were trembling at this point, but he showed no fear.

So, I didn't waste time in preliminaries. I dug into my pocket and came up with a hundred-dollar bill. I'd put bills of various denominations in there and folded them differently so I'd know which was what. I didn't catch up with that many little guys and this one was a real honey and wasn't backing away from me, so I went for the gold. I waved the bill in front of his eyes so he could see Benjamin Franklin staring back at him. I always laughed at using Franklin this way, because I had the feeling that, of all the Founding Fathers, he was the one who would approve of being used in this way.

"Wonder what this can get for me around here?" I asked, as we swayed against each other, the feel of his hard chest rubbing against my covered cock to the swaying of our bodies driving me nearly to distraction.

"Just about anything you want, for just about as long as you want," he answered. His voice was a high tenor and it had sort of a funny, squeaky sound to it. "I have a break in about ten minutes," he added.

"I've had a long drive today and I'm horny as hell."

"So, I noticed," he murmured.

"You say you get off in ten minutes. I'm not in the mood for a tease. I want to get off in thirty. You can do that, or do I go looking?"

"Sure, for a Franklin I can do that."

As I stuffed the banknote down the front of his jockstrap, he both raised his lips to mine in a kiss and moved a hand down to creep up under the leg hole of my shorts and rise to grip my cock. I wasn't wearing briefs.

As he came out of the kiss, he murmured in a voice tinged with awe, "Shit you're big. Long and thick."

"I'll bet you say that to all of the johns."

"Not like I'm sayin' it to you. Is it as black as you?"

"Darker." He shivered, and I added, "Sure you can handle it? I don't want to waste any time here."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Scared of it?"

"Shit yes," he said with a big smile.

And handle it he did, although at one point where he arched his back and his eyes were rolling up into his head and his mouth was open in a silent scream as I tested out how deep I could go, I thought maybe I'd lost him. I looked in his mouth and didn't see my piss head staring back at me, but I bet it was close.

Seven minutes after we'd left the bar I was on my back on the bed in my room—he had cut out for his break early—and he was astride my thighs, his knees pressing into the outside of my thighs, and he was rolling a condom on my cock. That done and lube applied on the condom and his hole and with a fist around the root of my cock to keep it erect, he saddled himself and lowered his channel on the cock.

He was whimpering, "Black cock, black bull, big black cock," over and over again and was doing some groaning and chuffing, but no more than I was. He had a loose hole you could drive a truck into, so, in time, he was able to slide nearly all the way down me. (Later, when I took control, is when I gave it all to him and he nearly passed out on me.) I made the customary, "You're so tight" comments, but we both knew that wasn't so. If it was so, he couldn't have taken me nearly all in. Still, as soon as my cock was sheathed, he managed to tighten the channel up on it. And he could use those channel muscles to undulate all over the cock. I moaned. He was perfect.

I just lay there as long as I could contain myself, with him doing most of the work, pumping his channel up and down on the cock, faster and faster. Breaking the pumping occasionally to rotate his channel on the cock, making both of us groan with pleasure. Still murmuring "black cock, big black cock" like he meant it. Taking nearly all of the cock and then exposing nearly all of the cock with each pump, setting the bed springs chattering. I started off holding his waist and helping him with the rise and fall, but it was quite evident he was fully capable of doing this all by himself, so I used one hand to grip and stroke his cock that had been beating against my belly and the other one to worry his plump, brown nipples with.

Eight minutes into the fuck, he reversed himself on the cock, leaning toward the foot of the bed, grasping the ankles of my spread legs with his fists and pushing hard back into my groin with his butt cheeks. Taking me to the root. I was jerking and shuddering. Almost no one took me to the root. I had images of seeing the bulb of my cock coming out of his mouth. Where in the hell was he putting it all?

Seven minutes of this and I felt like I was going to explode—and that I needed to take control—and I raised my torso up, embraced his torso with my arms and laid back again, taking him with me. I used my thighs to spread his legs wider and roll his hips up, and I began the pumping action inside him myself. I fisted his cock with one hand and grabbed his balls with the other and began stroking and squeezing.

"Want you to come for me," I growled into his ear. And he did so, shooting a little arc of cum up into the air, which fell back on his belly. Within thirty seconds I had filled the bulb of my condom, and he was scrambling around, ripping the condom off, and sucking the last bit of cum out of my bulb, as I huffed, fisted the bedspread, and lifted my pelvis off the surface of the bed.

When I had lowered my hips with a sigh, and his mouth slid farther down on the cock, I turned my head and looked at the clock on the nightstand. I had shot off thirty-two minutes from the moment we'd left the bar. Not bad.

Having licked me clean, the stripper turned his body and reclined into my embrace. We lay there like that, both panting, for several minutes.

"That was good," I murmured. "You're very good. I was going to float, but I think I want to do you again."

"You're not just good; you're great. I love black cock," he answered in the funny little tenor voice of his. "Any time you want me I'm available. Cocks that big, thick, and black are hard to come by."

That's when I got him under me and gave it all to him—and when he nearly passed out. Fifty minutes from the bar and I almost had a dead stiff on my hands with a cockhead swabbing his tonsils from the inside and a smile on his lips. God, I loved the little guys.

I gave him a rest then and time to revive before setting up the next round. I thought he'd cut and run as soon as I heaved my body off him, but the tough little guy was hanging in there with me.

"You available after dinner?" I asked "I'm famished. I mean for food. But I came here to fuck too."

"No, not tonight. Sorry." The response sounded genuine—not just putting me off. "I work my other job tonight."

"Your other job."

"You don't really want to know."

"Sure, tell me. I've always wondered what other jobs male strippers have. Altar boy?"

"No, I'm a duck."

"A duck?" I couldn't help but laugh. And not just at what he said, but at the connection I immediately made with his strange voice. A little manipulation of that and he'd sound just like the cartoon character, Donald Duck.

"Yes. I work most evenings at Disney World in a Donald Duck costume. I'm small enough for that, you know."

"Yes, right," I said, trying to suppress the laugh. Not only short enough to wear a Donald Duck costume, I thought, but a voice that could be made to go with it as well. "Well, OK, guess I'll see you around."

"I do want you to fuck me again," he said. He already was lightly fingering my cock, like he wanted me to do him again already. My cock was engorging like it had the same idea. My mind was already considering whether he'd want another Ben Franklin to do it.

"It's OK. I know you have to say that to all . . ."

"I do want you to fuck me again," he repeated. "I don't say that to every guy who fucks me. But I have to be over to Disney shortly."

"OK. It's OK. I'm going to take a shower now. You can see you own way out."

I was in the shower when I heard the door open, and he was standing there. He hadn't dressed, and his body was absolutely gorgeous. My cock was interested again. I made no objection when he entered the shower stall.

"Back against the tiles," he said.

"You don't have to do this," I said, as I backed up to the tiles. "You'll be late for work."

"The brats can just wait," he said—and he said it in a Donald Duck voice that made me laugh.

"Well, then, how much more for . . .?"

"No charge for this one. I told you you were big and thick enough for me to want your cock. And I melt to black cock. I want you to believe that—to know that I can't get enough from a black bull."

He put his hands under my thighs and coaxed me to move my feet away from the wall and crouch a bit, letting my back slide a little way down the slick tiles of the shower wall. Water was cascading over both of us from the showerhead. He climbed my thighs with his, and I encircled his back with my arms to give him support. I felt him rolling another condom on my cock before he positioned it at his hole and skewered himself. Then he did a crab thing, motioning for me to hold his waist in my hands and then palming the tiles on either side of my biceps and raising his feet to the tile walls beside my waist and spread, and then using them for leverage as he fucked himself on my cock until I couldn't take him having all the control anymore. Then I pulled him hard and fast on the cock, coarse black pubic hair jamming into silky black, curly pubic hair with each thrust. His cries of "black cock, black bull, big black cock" echoed around the tiled bathroom. I briefly worried that we were making too much noise, but this was a men's fuck hotel. There was probably fucking going on all up and down the hallway of rooms.

With heavy panting and moaning we came nearly simultaneously, and he sank to the tiles on his knees again, jerked off the condom, and cleaned my cock with his mouth. He didn't let me go, though. He kept sucking and sucking the cock until I gave him an after ejaculation and, knees weak, sank to the floor of the shower to join him in kisses while I moved my hand between us and brought him to another jack off.

"That was a nice surprise," I murmured afterward, still in position with the water raining down on us.

"I like surprises too. Surprise me sometime," he said. And then he was gone, leaving me to finish my shower. He wasn't in the room when I came out of the bathroom naked. I went out onto the balcony and looked down at the pool. I didn't realize at first that the wolf whistles were for me until the propositions started being called up to the balcony.

"Hey, up there. Black beauty. Hung just like I like 'em. Tell me your room number and I'll come up and show you a really good time. I can sheath all of that. You'll love it."

I smiled and waved. But I also shrugged and returned to the room. The fucks and a blow job after a long day on the road had been exhausting. Besides, I think the guy was being way too optimistic about what he could sheath of me. One of the reasons I liked doing the little guys is that I'd found that, interestingly enough, they often were able to handle the big dicks better than bigger guys could.

I laid down for a short nap before dinner. I dreamed of little guys in Donald Duck costumes and chasing them around an amusement park and fucking one in the bushes, his little white tail wagging and tickling my belly as I spiked him. I woke up with the thought of combining this dream with surprising Donald, as he had suggested I do.

That was his real name. He had told me his name really was Donald. And we both had laughed at the coincidence.

* * * *

I was in a bit of a daze when I turned from the ticket booth at Disney World. This was almost as much as I had paid to fuck Donald earlier. So, I was feeling a bit screwed. Already I was thinking that this little surprise wasn't the best of ideas. And I hadn't been wholly sold on it from the beginning. After dinner I had roamed the pool area of the Parliament House resort, and although I'd gotten a lot of offers, several willing to do exactly what I was looking for, Donald's slight image kept springing to mind. I wanted to do it with—to him—because his body was exactly what set me off. I didn't find anyone else at Parliament House with his body and I was only here for two days. I wanted to do him as often as I could.

I didn't have that much trouble finding him. All of the cartoon characters were gravitating toward the central circle on the island at the end of the Main Street section. The park would be closing in another couple of hours and many of the people, especially the ones with children, were filtering out of the park. The cartoon characters were gathering for last-minute photo ops with the children.

I picked out Donald in his little white, feathery fat suit and large yellow bill, and positioned myself in front of him, but away from the kiddies. I called out "Donald" to him and waved. He waved back.

When there was a break in the children, he turned and entered the park area called Adventureland. I followed at a discreet distance. He waddled with his little white tail wagging back and forth—I can't describe it in any better way—through that park area to the last building on one side, with the sign "The Pirates League." At the edge of the trees beyond that, he went down a path at the side of the building. He obviously wanted me to follow him, which I did.

I walked faster, catching up with him at the doorway into another building in back of The Pirates League building.

He quacked—quite convincingly—as I wrapped my arms around him and forced him deeper into the wooded area. Finding a pile of logs, I bent him over the logs on his fat, white tummy, found what I wanted to find—a zipper underneath him that exposed his ass.