He unzipped his shorts. Motioned for me to come over. I smirked and stuck a hand in the first time I touched the man of fire.
We looked at each other, I watched him wring his hands, and I said, "Please don't say anything. I've got more to lose than you do."
The night prior, I sucked his cock several times in a six hour period. The first time, he jumped up on the couch, his bed, and teetered over me, facing the wall behind me.
Before when we were frenzied but unworried. But things progressed quickly. I motioned with a nod for him to come down from the couch as I sat there facing him. I placed my hands gently on his bare hips and guided him toward me. Between my thick legs and next to my warmth.
I whispered, "Like this."
He let. We rolled over the hobo couch and entire room all night. He held me long and hard as the sun came up. I ran to my room near Master's.
I made love to the man of fire in that way many times. With and without permission. The man of fire's legs were warm, hairy, and strong like I had imagined all those years in silence, only expressed ever during fervent masturbation. He was well endowed and when his cock grew thick, long, and hard for me, I was flattered and determined to satisfy him to no end. I had never submitted to a man in such away. Before I touched him, I thought of him as a roving thing with fun stories and a voice like a melodic barking dog.
In my mind he was heroic even before I fell in love with him. I listened to his stories like Desdemona to Othello. He was black man in a white man's body and that body was magnificent. I had known of him for a long time. He could dance. I remember a mountain man sitting casually (high) in a restaurant booth as I took an order for coffee.
Later, the universe tossed him into my path again and we spend quite some time together. I learned from him. I sucked the cum from his cock and it strengthen me. Our sex was a feeding. It revived a dead soul. Although he never penetrated me vaginally, I felt as if one evening, with the shift of a hip and in the span of another six hours, I could have sat on that cock. As I hovered over his hardness and pudge, I quivered and felt my succubus below awake. This is quite near the time that the master changed his mind about the rules. I was to no longer fraternize alone with the man of fire. The succubus has been alive since then. She begs from below as I write.
One night, the man of fire shook and said that what we were doing was crazy. I kissed him from the top of his head, hovered near his lips and breathed in his exhales. I bit his neck and chest and rested my head on his big belly. His body was a cartoon. He hoisted an 8-9 inch cock with perfection likened only to the divine. I couldn't stop going on about it; the moment it touched my lips, I wanted it inside me elsewhere.
My favorite man of fire parts in varying order: big, masculine arms the size you imagine could skillfully wield dual Claymores, his face and the scars there, the perfect teeth, pain in the soft blanket blue, slightly big ears worsened by some tribal gauging, the neck, inked, large, and sea-salty. He was no longer the long haired mountain man; he was a docile, over-sized caregiver with no hair and a bizarre gait from some wound I knew nothing of but traced the scars with my eager tongue. He wore everything well despite being pudgy. I had a fascination with his utility pants with several pockets and a place for scissors. I wanted to stuff my hands in each pocket and remove what was inside and discover. I wanted to cut the material that held the scissors with the scissors.
