Used

Phil came into the sauna as I hoped he would. He came up to the top tier and sat below me where I was lying on my back, just a white towel around me, the leg toward the wall bent, foot flat on the wooden slats of the bench, with the other leg straight. He sat close enough to me that the roughness of his towel brushed the toes of my stretched foot. I had started hardening up just in anticipation that he'd come. It had been him who had said "See you in the sauna" and had given me "that" look. And I continued to engorge now that he was here.

It had been my first visit to the gym I'd signed up to use on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and, saying that he was a physiotherapist at Baltimore's Mercy Medical Center, he volunteered to spot me. I said that was fine with me. I liked the look of him already, dark-haired, maybe ten years older than I am, sparely built but with the musculature of someone who gymed a lot. What really got me was that he was colorfully tattooed all over his torso and arm on his right side. I couldn't see it all because he was wearing an athletic T over his shorts, but it appeared to be one, swirly Oriental pattern. Very intriguing.

He had a gentle, sensual touch with strong hands and long, thin fingers.

I wasn't the only one he was spotting. He spent time with a small Hispanic guy about my age too. I could tell that he aroused me not only because I was hardening up while he was spotting me but also because I felt the loss when he was working with the Hispanic guy.

I had taken his "See you in the sauna," along with the look he had given me, as indications that he'd known I had hardened and was interested. I wasn't easy or anything and didn't go with a guy often, but I wasn't any virgin either. When I went with a guy, I wanted it to be casual, like this was, and I wanted him to take the initiative and control. I'd had no intention of going in the sauna before he'd said he'd see me there.

I felt his hand on the calf of my stretched-out leg. He was lightly massaging the muscle of the calf. I neither drew away from him nor responded positively—although, of course, not drawing away from his touch was an affirmation. I went harder. I felt his other hand wrapping around the ankle of my bent leg and the one on my calf raised my right leg to a bent position as well. He gently coaxed my bent legs into a wide stance, and there I was, the towel around my waist spread wide and him scooting in and sitting close below me. He could see all the way up my thighs. He could see that I was hard. And he could hear my shallow pant.

Both of his hands glided in, along the inner surfaces of my calves and thighs on either side, slowly. He was giving me time to object. I could have swung away, off the bench, and just walked out of there. I didn't. I wasn't doing anything to help him, but I was giving all control over to him. When he got there, one hand encased my cock and the fingers of the other laced themselves through my balls and distended them. My cock was throbbing inside his loose grip and my moan surely was audible to him.

Letting loose of his hold on the balls but not the cock, he changed position, moving down to the bench tier below me and sitting below my waist, and turned toward me. He leaned over and took my lips with his and, while we kissed, he began to stroke my cock. Sitting back up straighter, he captured my eyes with his. Neither of us said anything, but I was breathing heavily and giving little whimpering sounds. I was overwhelmed by arousal and it didn't take long before I jerked, gave a little exclamation, and came in his hand. Still we were silent; still he was holding my eyes with his. His cum-slathered fingers moved down to my balls, lacing through them and distending them again. A slick thumb moved around the rim of my hole and then penetrated me. I gasped and raised my buttocks to give it a better angle, and the long thumb entered me to the knuckle joining the hand, and he began to slow stroke my ass. He stopped occasionally to press in hard with the thumb and jerk it back and forth, causing me to raise my pelvis up, my body to shimmer, and me to groan deeply. That arm had gone under my leg and I raised my right leg and rested it on his shoulder on the tattooed side.

I wanted him to fuck me. I didn't do this often. But when I did, it was casual like this. I wanted him to more than finger fuck me; I wanted whatever he had between his legs inside me.

We both heard the sound of the sauna door opening, and he pulled his hand away and turned to a seated position as I quickly lowered my leg. It was the Hispanic guy, small of stature, but a well-cut body and a cute face. He came in and sat below me, his back to my face and beside Phil. Phil's attention went to the other guy, and I felt the loss. He put his arm around the Hispanic guy, and it wasn't long before I could tell that Phil was giving the guy a hand job. I could tell it from the moaning the guy was doing and the movement of his back in front of my face.

I knew the moment the Hispanic came. And I knew when Phil lifted him and pulled him into his lap and lowered the Hispanic guy on his cock. And then I knew the moment Phil stopped pulling the small guy up and down on his cock and ejaculated.

It did embarrass me, but I was patiently waiting for my turn—either right there or in the shower or anywhere Phil asked me to go with him.

But when he was finished with the Hispanic guy and they both stood up from the sauna bench, Phil just turned, leaned down and kissed me on the lips, and muttered "Later. Let's meet again later." I tried not to show my disappointment and he hadn't broken the connection. He'd said "later."

* * * *

"Interested in going someplace and shooting pool tomorrow night?" Phil asked as he was spotting me on the bench press Thursday night.

"Sure, but why not tonight?" I asked, not being in a hurry to be with him or anything.

"Can't tonight. I'm working the night shift. In fact, gotta get going now."

"Where should we meet and when?" I asked, trying not to let the disappointment in my voice show. I had been looking forward to tonight for two days—since he'd finger fucked me on Tuesday.

"How about the President Street Starbucks at about 9:00 p.m.? There's a good place with pool tables not far from there."

Friday night and Phil was late getting to Starbucks, by about half an hour. But I waited for him. It occurred to me that it was done on purpose as a show of control, but that suited me. I wanted him to know he could control me. When he arrived he was dressed in green hospital wear—cotton-like trousers and a tunic-like thing over them.

"Might have to go into the hospital later," he said. "One of my regular patients isn't doing so well. Vertigo."

"Maybe we should cut the pool and go straight—"

"Naw, I'm sure it will be OK, and I want to play pool."

The place was full of atmosphere and testosterone. Everyone in there was male, and several looked like they were cruising. I got a couple of whistles myself on the way through the bar area to the room in the back with three pool tables. The air of both rooms was filled with smoke; it was hard to find a place in Baltimore these days that permitted smoking like this. I didn't smoke myself, but I connected it with being macho, and macho turned me on. All of the tables were in use when we got there, but there was just one guy at one of them, a good-looking tall, trim professional-looking dark-reddish-haired guy in well-pressed jeans and a navy-blue mesh T-shirt that closely fit his well-muscled torso and showed his beefy pecs off real well.

"Hi, there," Phil said as we sidled up to the table. "Mind if we join? This here's Shawn."

The guy and I shook hands as he said he'd enjoy having us shoot pool with him. Phil had said his name, but I didn't retain it. I was busy looking him over and liking what I saw. I did remember where Phil said the guy worked. He was an accountant in one of the big-name insurance companies that had its own skyscraper down at the nearby Baltimore Inner Harbor.

I wasn't good at pool, and Phil didn't seem much better at it, but the accountant was really good and was good about standing behind me and helping me to line up my shots.

It wasn't long before Phil came back from a visit to the head and was holding his cell phone in his hand.

"Sorry. Gotta split. The patient I was worried about fell and may have broken something. Later, OK?" he said to me.

It wasn't really OK with me, but it had to be. He left me in the middle of a game with the accountant.

"Want to go grab a bite to eat after we finish this one?" the accountant asked.

"Sure," I answered.

"A Five Guy's burger OK with you? It's nearby and right next to my apartment building."

The conversation over the burger was easy. He showed more interest in me studying to be a vet at the Community College of Baltimore County than I was able to muster in what an accountant did in an insurance company, but he was attentive and we found other things to talk about. The discussion got around to sports, as it usually does between two guys, and to professional basketball. I was purely hometown and followed the Baltimore Bullets. He went further afield, saying he followed some California teams but was partial to the Washington, D.C., Wizards.

"Hey the Bullets and Wizards are playing tonight," he said, like it had just occurred to him. "A late game. It may have already started, but we could catch most of it if you like. It's on TV and my apartment's right around the corner."

He lived in a pretty snazzy building, and although he only had a studio apartment, a living and dining area with a kitchen behind a bar counter and then a sleeping el off to the side with a big bed in it, it was kept neat and was expensively furnished. He had a gigantic wall TV on one wall with a sofa in front of it, and this was where we sat.

The game was already half way through the first half. He got us beers after he'd gotten the TV on and set on the right channel—two beers for each of us. When he came back to the sofa with them, he'd taken the mesh T-shirt off.

We sat there, side by side, watching the TV. The players looked nearly life-size on his TV and I found the game mesmerizing at this size. I don't know when he'd put an arm around me, but it was sometime into the second beer. I do remember when, during a commercial, he'd turned my face to him and we kissed. It was right after that that he pulled my T over my head and we kissed again while he ran a hand over my torso and rested it on my belly as the game came back on the air.

During half time he left to go to the bathroom, delivering me another beer before he left. I had half of it drunk before he came back. He was naked and was carrying a couple of packets of condoms and a tube of lube in his hand. Most of my attention, though, had gone to between his thighs. He was horse hung, both long and thick. And a good ways erect.

I, of course, knew what was going to happen then, but I was too mellowed out to care and the guy was Grade A for the occasional casual sex I liked to have.

Before the second half of the game started, I'd downed the third beer and he had my jeans off and me stretched out on the sofa, my chest on an arm of the sofa, my head flopped over the side and my arms extending toward the floor, my fists gripping the sofa legs, front and back. His face was buried in my crack and he'd pulled my cock through my legs and was stroking it with one of his hands.

We'd done no talking since he'd come back, naked, from the bathroom. Until then I had been so absorbed in the game that I thought we were just fooling around a bit.

He didn't ask me if he could fuck me, although it was quite obvious now that was going to happen. And I hadn't told him he couldn't either. He'd taken control, assuming assent, and that was OK with me. That had been more than OK with me ever since I saw what he had hanging between his thighs. One of my fascinations was in accommodating a huge cock—knowing that I had all of that inside me and could manage it. Not that I'd had a lot of experience with this—but enough.

When he rose from in back of me and came around to the side of the sofa to present his cock for sucking, he brought the TV clicker with him. As I took the cock deep into my mouth, seeing how far back into the throat I could get it before the gag reflex won out, he changed the TV to a gay male fuck video. The basketball game wasn't over, I didn't think, but he must have thought that the game had served its usefulness now, and I was too far gone with him to be concerned about the score in a basketball game. It didn't hit me until now, that he hadn't really been that much into the game anyway.

He fucked me there on the sofa, with me in the same position he'd put me in to begin with and him stretched over my back. I'd given him some "yes, fuck me. Oh, shit. Slower, please. You're killin' me. Oh god, oh, god, oh, god" lip while he was entering me, but once he was saddled and starting to pump, I just lay there, whimpering and groaning and gasping and breathing real heavy as he plowed me. He'd put a towel under my midsection, and I stroked that with the underside of my cock while he fucked me. When I came, it was on the towel, leaving his sofa all nice and neat and clean.

After we'd both come and laid there, cooling down, as I felt his cock shriveling up—never really shriveling, though, always thickly possessing—inside me, we whispered, him telling me how nice and sweet I was and me complementing him on the size and strength of his cock. He told me he didn't do this very often, which I knew from how he had it all set up was a lie, but that I was too sexy to resist. I told him I almost never did it either and that he was like to split me with that horse cock of his. That pleased him, I could tell—and as I knew it would.

Neither one of us apologized or said it shouldn't have happened.

When he let me up off the sofa, the porn flick still going on the screen, I went into the bathroom, peed, and cleaned myself off with a washcloth. I looked into the mirror, examining my face for some sort of self-remorse for being such a pushover on a casual meeting. I didn't see any sign of guilt. What I saw was a little smile, remembering how big the guy's cock was and how I'd taken it all. I tried remembering his name or even a sense of where this apartment house was, but nothing came to me. That did make me slip on a little frown.

I stood back from the mirror, took a "pose," and dipped my head down a bit, letting a lock of hair fall down in my face, and gave what I thought of as a sexy James Dean expression. I looked good and highly fuckable, if I did say so myself. "Please, Mr. Accountant with the huge cock, can you stick it in me again, pretty please?" I murmured, gave a little laugh, and then turned back to the bathroom door.

When I came out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the foot of his bed, swigging another beer. He had another in his hand, which he gave to me, and I stood there in front of him, pulling on the beer, while he did the same with one hand and palmed my cock with the other and slow stroked it. The porn was still going on the TV. I thought then that he must have it in some sort of loop. The actors kept changing, even though the fucking didn't, so maybe it was something that just played constantly.

He had a fresh condom on his cock and was hard. When he'd finished his beer, he latched onto my waist, turned me, and pulled me down onto his lap. It took a long time for me to slide down his pole, but when I could feel his reddish short hairs tickling my buttocks, he held there, one of his hands roaming my chest and belly and thighs while the other one slow stroked my cock. He was waiting for me to finish my beer.

When I did finish it, he took it out of my hand, tossed it onto the carpet beyond danger of involvement in our fucking, and, arms encircling my waist, reclined back on the bed, taking me with him. He brought his legs up on the bed between mine, bent his knees, placed his feet on the edge of the foot of the bed and spread them. This spread my legs out wide too, but I managed to dig my toes into the edge of the bed and raise my pelvis enough to give him space to pull nearly all of the way out of me before stroking deep inside.

He fucked me in long, strong, ever deepening and quickening strokes, while I babbled how fully and well he was taking me and the porn continued on the gigantic wall TV screen across the room.

After he was done, he pulled me up with him fully onto the bed, used a clicker of some sort from a nightstand to turn off all the lights in apartment—with the porn still going on the TV screen—wrapped his arms around me, and pulled me into his stomach.

I woke up only once in the night—near dawn, it seemed, from the dim light now showing in the room from around the corners of the curtains on the two windows. The TV screen was flickering its never-ending porn film. I was on my belly, with the accountant straddling my hips and slowly working his cock inside me. For some reason—possibly because we both were half asleep or because we were more reliant now, in the darkness, on the sense of touch rather than sight—this was the most sensual of the couplings.

He worked into me slowly, his bulb kissing my walls as he descended, giving them close attention as they opened to him. I raised up on my knees and spread my legs to give him deeper access, and his cock gained every nano inch it could inside me. I was dragging my cock on the sheets to provide friction, and he snaked a hand in, grasping the sides of the cock with his fingers and increasing the friction of the underside of the cock on the sheets. The other hand cupped my chin and turned my face to his for a kiss. I could feel him shudder and from there he took me quickly, vigorously. When I came in his sheets, I remember thinking nonsensically, "Oh, shit. Now I've left DNA." and worrying whether he'd be mad that I had soiled them.

When I next woke, still on my belly, one arm dangling toward the floor, it was light and he was coming out of the bathroom, obviously showered—I could tell because his hair was still wet—in a white shirt and dark suit trousers, and fixing a cufflink. He looked up and smiled.

"Good morning. I'm almost late for work. Coffee's made and feel free to scrounge anything else you can find for breakfast. Just be sure the door is locked when you leave."

I was thinking that it must be rough to have to work on Saturday and wondering if that was what all accountants had to do as he walked into the living area, picked up the TV clicker, and—at last—turned the porn off on the screen.

It was suddenly very quiet in there, as he knotted his tied and pushed his feet into a pair of loafers. I kept waiting for him to say more, but he didn't. This was the first time I'd ever spent the night with a guy. I assumed there was more that they said to each other the next morning. For the life of me, I couldn't think of anything to say. Ask him if he had flavored creamers for the coffee? Where the sugar was? Something, probably, but I didn't know what.

Ask him if this was it? Should I leave a telephone number or something? Surely this wasn't the end of it.

I heard the click of the apartment door and was all alone. I closed my eyes, needing more sleep, because, frankly, he had exhausted me.

I probably

should

have asked him "what now?" He had a cock to die for and he handled it real well. I had always skidded away from any possibility of entanglements, and he certainly had treated this as nothing more than a casual notch on his belt, but I could see the possibility of something more with him. But I didn't even remember his name. I was out of the apartment, the door locked behind me, when I realized that a little snooping probably would have rewarded me with his name at least.