Letting Go

I had the laptop set up on the coffee table in the living room, watching a little porn. That always made me feel like a loser, especially since my wife had pretty much given up on sex. So, a couple times a week, I'd fire up some porn and beat off.

I'm decent looking, 45 now, but I stay in shape -- 6', 185. My cock was maybe a shade on the small side -- six inches or so, just average thickness. But my wife said I was too much of a pussy, that I didn't really take charge in the bedroom, that she needed a real man and that she just couldn't stand to fuck me anymore. She never said anything, and I couldn't prove anything, but I'm pretty sure she'd found some "real men" somewhere to take care of her needs, leaving me to take care of my own.

I was close to coming when the doorbell rang. Oh shit, that's right. Ken, our neighbor from up the street, was supposed to stop by today and take a look at the downstairs bathroom we were thinking of rehabbing. He was good at that kind of shit and, of course, I was not. Ken was probably the sort of real man that my wife dreamed about -- a couple years younger than man, a couple inches taller, much thicker through the chest and shoulders. I stuffed my cock back in my pants a little embarrassed and raced to answer the door -- the bell was now ringing a third time.

"Hey, Frank," he said. "Thought maybe you'd forgot. You OK? You look a little flustered?"

I shook my head. "Just busy with some work stuff."

He shrugged and headed for the living room -- you had to go through there to get to the bathroom. And I remembered the porn that was running on the computer.

I started to push around him "Just let me shutdown the comput . . ."

Bill stopped, smiling. "Somebody's being a naughty boy. When the cat's away, eh?"

I could feel myself blushing. Bill laughed.

"Dude, relax. Everybody likes a little porn. Let's see what we got here." And he sat down on the couch.

I sat down, too, not sure what to say. The flick I was watching was a threesome -- a couple of studs were double ending a girl.

"I love this kind of shit," Bill said, settling back on the couch. He started rubbing his cock over the top of his jeans.

"Yeah," I said, not sure what else to do.

Then Bill really freaked me out. He opened his pants, took out his cock and started stroking it.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"Beating off," he answered. "That's the whole point with porn, isn't it? Relax man, I know that's what you must have been doing when I showed up. Join me."

I didn't at first, still shaken up at being discovered watching porn, and also a little intimidated by Bill's dick. It wasn't fully hard yet, and it was already at least eight inches long and much thicker than mine.

"C'mon man," Bill said.

Finally, I took out my cock, which had gone completely limp. I started stroking, my cock slowly coming back to life. I tried to keep my eyes on the screen, but they kept going back to Bill's cock.

And to my dirty little secret. Not that my wife wouldn't fuck me anymore, or that she was probably fucking half the guys I knew, hell, probably had fucked Bill for all I know -- not that dirty little secret -- but to my fantasies. All my life, I've had gay fantasies. I've never acted on them -- never so much as touched another man's cock. But ever since I can remember, I've had these daydreams where some guy makes me touch him, suck him, makes me let him fuck my ass. Probably that's the vibe my wife picked up on, why she thought I was such a wimp. Because I didn't want to be fucking her. I wanted someone to be fucking me.

I got lost a little in my thoughts, I guess, and must have stopped sneaking peeks at Bill's cock. He caught be staring at it.

"Checking me out, huh?" He was fully hard now, at least nine inches, his mushroom head a little reddened at this point. "Don't feel too bad, man. Your dick is average. I'm just, well, I'm just hung is all."

I tried to think of something to say, but couldn't think of anything.

Suddenly, Bill's face changed a little, a different look. He reached over, grabbed my right hand, and pulled it to his dick, wrapping my fingers around his shaft.

"What are you doing?" I said. I tried to pull my hand away, but Bill just held it there.

"The way you were staring at it, you didn't just want to look. You needed to know how much more of a man I am. So go ahead, stroke this horse meat for me so you'll know." He forced my hand up and down his shaft with his own, making me beat him off. With my left hand, I was beating my own dick, with my right, he was making me beat his.

"That's right," he said. "Get a good rhythm going." He guided my hand, showing me the speed he wanted. He'd loosened the pressure on my hand now. I could have pulled it away if I wanted. But I didn't.

Then he let go of my hand. "Just keep that up," he said. "You're doing great." He sat back against the couch, spreading his arms along the back of the sofa while I beat him off and he watched the movie.

Then I felt his left hand rest on the back of my neck, just sort of kneading it. "Yeah, man," he said, "that feel great." His hand pushed a little, pulling my head toward him and down toward his cock.

"What are you going?" I gasped.

He didn't answer, he just kept pushing on my neck. My head was halfway down to his cock. I didn't know what to do. Fantasies were one thing, but I wasn't gay. I WASN'T GAY! That's why I'd never . . .

He pushed again, my mouth now maybe six inches from his cock, the head of it huge that close to my face, watching my own hand moving up and down the shaft like it belonged to someone else. Of course he was still pushing. If I didn't want this, why was my hand still on his meat? Still stroking it? If I did want this, why wasn't my mouth already wrapped around his cock?

I didn't know what to do, what I wanted. And he pushed again. Now, the head of his penis was pressed firmly against my lips, his left hand on the back of my head, holding it in place. He wrapped his right hand around mine again, guiding it up and down his shaft, but also rubbing his cock back and forth across my lips, the hand behind my head pushing harder as I clenched my lips shut. I wanted to open my mouth. I couldn't open my mouth. I was frozen between fear and desire.

He moved the head of his cock to the exact middle of my mouth. "Hold that there," he told me, and I did, with my own hand. He pressed harder still on the back of my head, the pressure almost bruising my lips as his cockhead forced them against my teeth. Then, with the hand he had released from his cock, he pinched my nose shut, cutting off my air.

I felt my own cock swell even larger in my own left hand as I continued to stroke myself, even as I held his cock against my own lips. I had not used either of my own hands to fight against any of this, only to serve him and my own desire. And I understood. My choices were no longer my own because I did not want them to be. They were his because I was not even man enough to surrender on my own. I needed to be taken.

I held out as long as I could, trying to force some air in through my nose, but it was pinched completely shut. Finally, I opened my lips wide, both his cock and the oxygen I desperately needed filling my mouth. I gasped a few breaths, and he continued to push, his cock moving over my lips, past my teeth, sliding down the length of my tongue, lodging firmly against the back of my throat, my hand still stroking the remainder of his cock outside my mouth, and furiously stroking my own.

He released my nose, holding my head in both hands, sliding it up and down his cock while I stroked both him and myself.

"That's a good little bitch," he said finally. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

I tried to say yes, but the sound that came out around his cock was only a mumble.

"I'm going to stand up now," he said. "And you are going to get on your knees so I can fuck your face properly."

He stood, me actually hanging on to his cock for a moment, holding it in my mouth so it wouldn't get out, not wanting to break contact with it for even a second. I dropped to my knees as quickly as I could, keeping my mouth open. He grabbed my head in both hands again and rammed his cock into my mouth, the end of it wedged against the entrance to my throat, its girth filling my mouth entirely.

"You're going to have to do better than that," he said, increasing the pressure.

I wanted to. I wanted to take it all. I tried desperately to take more, opening my mouth wider, changing the angle of my head, until finally, he was able to force the head of his cock into my throat and I could feel his pubic hair against my nose, his sack and balls pressed against my chin. I could not breathe, but it did not matter. If he wanted his cock in my throat until I passed out, I would accept it. I went limp, my hands down, my mouth open, bent completely to his will.

He pulled almost all the way out of my mouth. I sucked in a breath. He rammed his cock back in, it stuck for a moment at the back of my mouth, but then forced its way back into my throat. Pulling out, pushing back in, pulling out, pushing back in, my throat completely open now, like a vagina, accepting the repeated invasion. Saliva and pre-cum spilled out of my mouth, dripping off my chin on my shirt. I didn't care.

Then he pulled all the way out of my mouth.

"Stand up," he said. I did.

"Move to the end of the couch," he said.

I did.

"Drop your pants," he said.

My cock was already out of my fly. I undid my belt and the snap of my jeans and pulled them and my boxers down to my ankles.

"Bend over the arm of the coach," he said.

I did. My face was buried in the seat cushions, my ass in the air.

"Reach behind you with both hands and spread your cheeks," he said.

I did, exposing my hole to him.

From the corner of my eye, I could see him grab the tube of KY Jelly I had been using to lube my cock while I beat off before he had arrived. I felt him smear some on my asshole, work some inside me with his fingers, heard him smearing some on his cock.

"I don't have a condom," he said. "But I'm clean."

"OK," I said.

"This is going to hurt," he said.

"Good," I answered without thinking, almost without my own volition, as though someone else was answering for me.

I felt his the head of his prick press against my hole, felt the hole stretch, felt his head pop through the ring of muscle, felt a burning, tearing pain as he leaned in to me, pushing his cock further and further into my bowels. With each fraction of an inch it penetrated, I would have sworn it could go no further, but it speared into to me, deeper and deeper, the burning pain subsiding a little, a sense of pressure building. Finally, I felt his hips pressed against my buttocks as he had pushed his cock into me as far as it could reach.

For a moment, he just held that position, pushing as hard against me as he could, making sure the tip of his cock was wedged as deeply as it could be. Then I felt his hands on my hips, holding them tight and pushing me down hard against the arm of the sofa as he slowly pulled back. I relaxed my knees, allowing the coach to hold my weight, surrendering my ability to resist. He pulled back until only the head of his cock was still inside me then, all at once and with all his weight, rammed his cock back in as deep as it could go. There was some of the tearing and burning from the first penetration, but not as bad. He pulled back again, rammed in again. Less burning, less pain. He did this again and again, each time the force of his body slamming me into the coach, and involuntary "OOPMH!" escaping my lips each time.

The speed and intensity of the thrusts increased, the flesh of his flanks slapping against my ass, sometimes too the flesh of his hands slapping my ass checks as well.

As the pace approached a crescendo, he pulled out completely. "Back on your knees, bitch," he ordered.

I spun around, dropping to my knees, my mouth gaping open. He grabbed my head again, ramming his cock back into my mouth, back down my throat, pumping hard, but only in strokes of an inch or two, so that the head of his cock remained in my throat. I felt his scrotum tighten against my chin, felt his shaft quiver, felt his cum pulse into my throat, flowing down into my gut.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my wife standing in the door to the living room. She was wearing a raincoat, but it was open. She was naked beneath it, except for a strap-on rig from which hung a black plastic cock even larger than Bill's. She was stroking it like she was a man.

Bill finished cumming. He pulled out, stroking the last few drops of cum from his cock into my open mouth.

"How did it go?" my wife asked.

"About like we figured," he said. "Your turn."