A gay story: Axle The ‘regulars’ moved aside when he came in and took the stool beside mine.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
“You waitin’ for someone?” He looked around twenty, his body so built, even his high-cheekboned, velvet-skinned face looked muscular.
“No–I was just about to leave.”
“I’m Axle. Who’re you?”
“Todd.”
“I don’t like this place much, either.” He looked around. “Yo’ got plans, Mr. Todd?”
He had no drink–just swaggered right on through the dance floor drawing all eyes to his five-eleven, big-shouldered, big-biceped handsomeness.
Guys like Axle were an extreme rarity.
“It’s not Mr. Todd. It’s just Todd. And plans? No. No I don’t have plans.” I spoke down at my drink.
Axle laughed, the sound high spirited and sharp. “You think I’s hustlin’ yo white ass, don’ you?”
I felt blood rise in my neck–a mix of surprise and annoyance. I don’t much like being second-guessed or sized-up.
“Yeah, I do.” I looked him up and down, then into his large and surprisingly soft brown eyes. “I’m twice your age.”
“Shiiiit–get him another,” he theatrically announced to Joe, slapping a fifty on the bar. “–an’ I’ll have th’ same,”
Axle swiftly turned and stared at the cloying, eavesdropping regulars. They backed off, moving into the shadows, trying to listen-in despite his glare, and the loud electronic music.
“I can’t help that, man.”
“What?–help what?” I raised my eyebrows, finishing my drink.
“That I’m a kid an’ you’re a man–that’s what,” he pocketed his change, leaving two bucks for Joe. He sulked as he took a sip, then made a face. “What IS this shit?”
“Rye.”
“Rye?? What th’ fuck’s ‘Rye’?” he sipped again, his sexy lips curling over the glass.
“It’s whiskey. It’s Canadian.”
“Shiiiiiit!”
I had to smile.
“Don’ act superior, wi’ me, man–I gets enuff a’ that shit at work!”
My smile disappeared. “That’s on me, Axle. Sorry.”
“Good–sayin’ sorry’s good. I neva’ hear dat,” he took way more than a sip this time.
Once again he turned to stare off the voyeurs. “What’s wi’ this place, man? They’s like a bunch’a women.”
“It’s a gay bar, Axle,” I shrugged, shifting my eyes to glimpse the nipple-stretching heft of his t-shirt. “What do you expect?”
“I nev’a been in one. My bitch kicked my black ass outta bed–so I came in t’ see waz up.”
“You want me to believe that, huh?” I didn’t smile this time.
Axle came off the stool, turning full front. Over the white t-shirt was a black leather vest, his baggy jeans falling from his slim hips, revealing a 2(x)ist waistband. He crooked his fingers to gesture at his full-chested, big-all-over, V-shaped body.
“Does THIS look faggy t’ you, man?–shiiit–” He fell dramatically back onto the stool, shaking his head.
Joe looked at me across the bar, not even having to roll his eyes.
“So, Axle, let me get this right…you’re not queer, but you want to know if I’ve ‘got plans’?” My voice was quiet, confidential, yet betraying my irony. I didn’t care for drama.
“Yeah. You gots it–Bingo!–that’s right! You’re a big motha’fuck’a,” he smiled as he drank, those lips curling into dimpled creases in his muscled, ebony face. “Tonight, I just need a man–OK? That’s how it is wi Axle–” he completely killed his drink, then looked down at the bar, suddenly serious. “When my bitch acts up, I think about shit–what I need–what I want….”
“…and this time you didn’t just think about it.” I put a twenty on the bar and nodded to Joe. Axle waited till he was once again fixed up, then slid his glass over to clink mine.
His young, husky voice fell to a whisper as he leaned closer. “You want t’ know th’ truth?? I’m shakin’ inside me, bein’ here like dis. This ain’t my scene, man–feel me?” He turned quickly to the side, but by now the crowd had learned to stay away. “–creeps me out.”
“Then let’s go,” I pushed my drink away.
Axle looked left and right, the whites of his eyes very white in his dark, seriously handsome, and yes, seriously young face. “Yeah? No shit? –where, man?–yo got a place??”
I nodded. I’d questioned whether he’d never been in a gay bar before, but I knew that look–that look I myself had that first time out, so long ago now. That look? That look was real. That look bought him some cred. That look can’t be faked.
He slid my drink back at me, then took a swallow from his. “I don’ know–I don’ know–you serious, huh? Me wich you?” His eyes ran over my face–at my nose, bent over from boxing in college. “I don’ go back tonight, she’s gonna freak–” His eyes fell to the hair curling from the opened collar of my loosened, necktied shirt. “–Look, uh….”
“…Todd,” I countered his nervousness with an open, no-pressure, blank face.
“…Yeah, man–Todd,” he smiled quickly, his teeth dazzlingly white. “–this?” He pointed to his chest. “This ain’t no act, feel me? I’m scared, ok?–” he looked to his right, then turned back, letting his baggy-jeaned leg dare to touch mine. He spoke down at his drink. “You sure is a big motha’…”
“…and you aren’t?”
He laughed, his full lips spread. He lifted his rye, purposely flexing a T-shirted bicep. “–I is, that’s no lie!–takes anotha’ dude t’ say so, huh? She sure don’ fuckin say it!” He laughed, then scowled. “–thinks it’s all ’bout HER, man–the queen bee, the…” He was getting loose, the whiskey already more than his youth could handle.
“Ok, Axle–let’s cut to the chase, here.”
“Huh? What’s that mean??”
“–when you don’t want your girlfriend,” I fixed my eyes on his, not blinking, “–what do you think about?”
“You mean wi’ a guy?” His voice fell, his eyes shifting left and right.
“Yes–with a guy, Axle. With a man.”
“Shiiiiit,” he grinned, then stopped–then drank–then grinned again and then frowned.
“Axle….”
“–ok, Todd-man–I hear yo’! Shit. This shit ain’t easy for me, thas all. Chill out, gimme space, man–” he stirred his rye with a finger, looking lost in thought. “–not that gay porn shit, man–hear-what-I’m-sayin’?–not that fag shit. I ain’t gonna suck….”
“–that’s cool, Axle–ok?”
“–good! Ok, then,” he cleared his throat, adam’s-apple bobbing in his muscular neck. “–don’t laugh, is all. Jus’…don’t even SMILE, brotha!” His finger shot out from the glass to point in my face.
I opened both palms. “Who’s laughing?”
“Yeah–ok–cool. Ok. Ya’ll cool wich Axle, huh?” His large, light-brown eyes searched mine.
I suddenly reached over and gave him a brotha’ grip in reassurance.
“–yeah–tha’s it, man–ok. I neva’ told no one this shit, feel me?–” he took a quick sip. He looked around once more. His voice dropped. “–I see me with a white dude–older–a real man–like you, man….”
“–OK–”
“–someplace nice–no one gonna bust in, or mess it up, or that shit. Door locked….” He turned his glass with both hands–his hands large with prominent veins. “…an I’s posing…” he looked at me quickly, then back at his drink. “–yeah–posin’ fo’ th’ dude. An’ he’s watchin’. Watchin’ me strip. Openin’ his shirt–sittin’ there…undoin’ his pants…” He laughed–then drank–then shrugged–then looked around. “–like that!”
I waited.
Axle raised his glass to his lips, his ice clinking. “–tha’s it–tha’s all.”
He looked at me, sizing me up–looking like even a glimmer of a smile from me would send him out the door, back to his ass-kicking woman.
“….and then??”
He shrugged. “–and then?? Why, by then I’s popped my cork, man!– and don’ wanna think ’bout it no mo!” His smooth, broad brow attempted to furrow in thought. “–it’s like my very own homemade porno flick in m’ head when I’m fuckin’ her, man. An’ I get t’ that part, and blow m’ load…an’, POOF!–it’s over!…” He spread open his palms.
“How old are you, Axle?”
“Why?”
“I’m thirty-five–ok? And you’re….”
“…nineteen. So what?” he flexed his arm. “–I ain’t man enough for you, man?”
“C’mon, Axle,” I pulled out my keys and stood up.
“What??–waz wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
He looked around, still sitting, like he was comfortable just talking.
I wasn’t. It was decision time. “I’ve got a place. No one’s going to be there or come in. Three locks on the door. A sofa….”
He pulled me back down onto my stool, his grip like iron, his voice a shaky whisper. “…no fag shit, huh, man? –no….”
“…I’ve got two bedrooms. You just want another couple of drinks? You change your mind all of a sudden? Don’t feel like it?” I shrugged. “It’s cool. Whatever. You go to your bed, I go to mine. I make you breakfast. You go patch it up with the girlfriend.” I stood up again, waiting.
He tossed back his drink.
“Careful on the roads,” Joe said, rolling his eyes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Shiiiiit,” Axle went right to the sliding doors. “–I only seen this view in pictures, man! Y’all sit out here, sometimes?”
I threw my jacket over the couch. “Go ahead–could be a little windy, though. You want another drink?”
“Can you put somethin’ in it this time? –like Pepsi?”
I headed for the kitchen, watching how his low-slung jeans couldn’t even try to hide his solid soccerball butt–an ass only his height, broad back and developed shoulders kept in proportion. I heard him clattering deck chairs around as I searched for my Crown Royal–Crown Royal, and a Diet Coke.
Axle was right. He had a man’s body–an amazing build for any man, much less someone so young. It was only his face and energy and teen confusion that gave away his age.
Not allowing myself even a moment of fantasy over what I might be allowed to enjoy of that teen-thug physique–I used my foot to slide open the door.
“Whoooee, man! I never seen the lake before! THIS is Chicago??–shiiiit–” he’d put two wooden chairs together–close together–his Nike feet propped up on the railing. “–not MY Chicago, man–fuck!!”
My balcony’s in the middle of a semi-circular building, my condo visible by those on the outer edges. I prefer privacy when at home, but Axle looked like a kid at a Macy’s Christmas window. He clinked my glass so enthusiastically, it almost sloshed out.
“I never been up this high in m’ life!” he tasted his drink, “–what’re them buildings?–them round ones down there?”
“–granaries–full of wheat. They fill those barges with it,” I positioned myself to view the breadth of his upper back and shoulders, surprised by the cuteness of Axle’s little ears. His head was almost shaved, the nape squared-off and razor trimmed.
He obviously took pride in his natural appearance –no earring–nothing flashy–no rings or apparent tattoos.
“Barges?? What’s that?” a look of open curiosity–an amazed, seeking quality in his large, dark-lashed eyes.
“Flatboats–and out there? Cargo ships–the ones with the little lights on them.”
“Shit–I’d work on one’a them, man–no questions asked, man! I hate construction…” He removed his long legs from the railing, splaying open his jeaned thighs.
“–they give me all the dumbass jobs–bustin’ up concrete –fuckin’ slave-times, man.” He complained out at the night sky–his large hands making rap gestures.
Meanwhile, I pulled my tie loose and began undoing my buttons.
“–‘hey, Axle,’ they call out, ‘swing that sledge, man!’, they tease m’ ass–a’ways hootin’ n’…..” The whites of his eyes grew very white all of a sudden. “–hey! Wuz up??”
I shrugged. “It’s warm out here.”
There was a long, long silence. A police car whined through the streets far below.
“Yo sure ’nuff built, huh?”
His voice dropped nearly an octave, his eyes softening–growing heavy-lidded–the man in him awakening. “–bigass hairy ches’, huh?” He tongued his bottom lip.
I spread my shirt.
“Bigass nipples, too.” His eyes moved slowly, deliberately now, lust changing his rhythm–his pace.
I imagined Axle in bed with his woman and slid my hands over my abs to push my muscletits up at him.
This wasn’t the way his fantasy scenario was supposed to play out. He wasn’t posing in the living room while I watched. It was me, on the balcony, stripping for him, wondering how shy he’d be with a man.
His right hand came over, the movement natural, at one with his body, his energy centering, finding its pace. He squeezed my meaty pec, his little finger thrumming my nub into erection. “Nice,” he whispered into my face, bending over me. “–better’n Wanda’s, brotha. Fuck.”
My hand came down over the back of his nappy, close-cropped head and pushed. I groaned to feel his teeth rasp my nipple bud, his tongue then lapping like a cheetah.
“You like those don’t you, Axle?” I touched my forehead to the top of his fragrant scalp, half-whispering in his little ear. “–you’ve seen big hairy pecs like mine on the job, huh?”
“–Bossman Scarlotti gots one,” he whispered back, his breath hot in my chest forest.
“You see the guys mopping their open shirts with a rag–watch those mantits slog up n’ down when they’re working…”
“…jackhammerin’,” he murmured in sync with my sentence. He used his badboy lips to slowly frenchkiss each nipple, tonguing, then suctioning them, nursing on my maleness, making me pant against his head, making me plant wet kisses on his sweet-smelling, kinky scalp.
In one feline, graceful move, he was out of his chair and kneeling high between my legs, pulling my shirt free of my shoulders, burying his handsome face in the hairy valley dividing my mounds.
“A boy needs a man sometimes, huh, Axle?–a man who understands–won’t give you grief–a man who’ll….”
“…hold me tight,” his voice muffled into my furry pecs, his fingers tugging at my shirtsleeves.
I quickly pulled free of them while he himself managed to peel both vest and t-shirt right up his wide torso and off his head. Rising fully up on his knees, he crushed his giant, teen body against mine, his loaf-sized biceps around my shoulders, his face planted against my neck. “Hold me tight. Hold yo’ boy some now,” he kissed my leathery jaw, his voice husky, urgent.
Proud to have the kind of body he hungered for, I slid under his armpits, impressed by the breadth of his flared lats. Spreading my legs fully, I pulled him deep into me, our naked chests rubbing–my hairy swells massaging his smooth, sloping, youngbuck pecs–our nipples erect, frictioning together.
“I don’ mean yo’ ‘blackboy’, get me?” he kissed and whispered into my ear, “–not that way–not that racist way….”
“….it’s ok…don’t…”
“…I mean ‘boy’ like yo’s m’ daddy n’ Axle’s yo’ boy, feel me?–huh?–y’hear what….”
“…yeah, I do Axle–you need a dad, maybe–a man…”
“I ain’t got dat–jus’ m’ mamma. An’ Wanda? She ain’t no man!–no big…” he licked my neck, his big lips all over my earlobe, his voice so soft now I could just about hear him, “…strong muscle dad t’ praise me n’ make me feel like I’m somebody–give me some hope…”
His need fed my heart, my lust, my biceps flexing to full power against his thick back. “Don’t you fret, I’ve got you covered–I’m the one who’s got you now, Axle. You’re safe, home with me now.”
His hands came behind my head, pushing me into his youthful, urgent teen mouth, his sexy lips pulling at mine, his pink tongue finding my own, washing it over and over, tasting, probing, lapping, sucking. He may’ve been nineteen, but he was a natural lover. He knew how.
The wooden chair rocked, almost tipping as Axle rose up from the kiss, slipping free of my grip to straddle my thighs, his twin bubble-butt cheeks perched on each knee, his huge, black-shiny tits in my face. Like the dark side of the moon, they blossomed from his collarbone–pure, expansive, solid muscle–wide-circled, dark, saucer-like nipples bullseyeing each mammoth, curvacious swell. Almost feminine in their juiciness, those tits were calling out my name and went straight to my thick meat.
His boulder-sized biceps enfolded my neck, planting my face between his muscular pillows. “I ain’t got what otha’ brotha’s got–no bigass piece–but I got what they DON’T got,” he whispered into my scalp. “I gots me some tits–an’ somethin’ else, too, white-daddy Todd….”
Axle rose up again–this time to stand–interrupting my chest licking–leaving me panting and wiping my mouth, staring hungrily as those hot tits backed away from my needy lips–watching him pull open his jean button, his pants falling to his ankles. Not boxers, but 2 (x)ist snow-white jock-type briefs mounded out from his smooth dark thighs, the contrast against his black skin dazzling in the dim light from the living room.
“…no, I ain’t got th’ BBC, twelve-inch thang goin’ on….” his hand cupped the incredible bulge of his pouch as he started kicking free of his Nikes and tried to get rid of his jeans.
“…I don’t care, Axle–” but my eyes were telling me he was way too humble–that something very large had to be aching to spring out of that pouch, “–size isn’t important…”
“…they’s lots’a brothas who got big wangs–skinny dudes–a’ways grabbin’ their crotch–braggin’ n’ shit–” Now free of his pants, Axle stood against the railing, his bubble ass bouncing over the edge. “Shiiiiit,” a smile spread open those lips, “–they can’t even get hard–have t’ squeeze th’ bottom half before they can fuck!” Axle’s hands slid up his satin ab ripples to cup his perky-nippled pecs. “–I seen them porno flicks, man–” he laughed, the sound rich and husky, “–no, I ain’t got a dick like that–jus’ normal one–gets hard as a rock in no time–big fat head on it….”
I watched him fondle his pecs, squeezing the black half-moons of those meaty, sloping slabs–a construction man’s tits, not a hint of steroidal assistance–beautiful in their ripe, youthful, perky, potent, upward-tilting heft. As he became more settled and confident, his blaacent got even more hood-like, as though he was getting more comfortable being with me. “…what I got me is some bigass tits fo’ m’ white daddy t’ play wif’ n’ suck on…” He looked down at them, removing his hands, then pinching his cones into bullets. “–sorry they ain’t hairy…”
“Jesus, Axle…”
He laughed again, full of teen horniness and tease “–but I gots manhair where it counts, daddy! Under m’ arms–” He raised both elbows skyward, hands behind his neck, his muscular pits full of ultra-curly hair, his triceps bulging, along with his delts. “…an’ down below, man–lots’a it! Turns me on, man. Fuck….” he used his thumbs to pull his waistband down, a puffy wedge of kinky black wool piling out at me between his smooth, hairless, black thighs.
“Yeah,” he smiled at me impishly, letting his waistband snap back, “–this baby’s jus’ normal,” he patted his pouch, then made sure he caught my eye, “–but these babies sho’ ain’t!” Axle hooked his finger into the side of his meshed pouch, letting loose a sac of velvety balls so fat and heavy, they flopped out like two ocean-polished rocks held inside a purse of generous man-drapery–a sight so full of youthful potency I couldn’t begin to imagine how much cream they could churn up, but knew I would before the night was over.
“Sweet Jesus….”
Axle laughed, slinging them inside his pink palm, one of them falling over the edge. “Yes, oh YES! I may be a kid, but I KNOW what makes a man, a man!–it’s how big a load he got! An’ these honeys’re holdin’ a whole BUCKET’a buttermilk!”
With youthful abandon and casualness, Axle climbed out of his briefs to stand preening and pornographically naked for my voyeuristic pleasure on my outdoor front balcony. Only the pale glow from the living room illuminated his dark Belgian chocolate physique–a muscular, glimmering work-of-art, cloaked in darkness, the night adoring his classically-sculpted body.
” Axle…”
“…boy! Call me your BOY, daddy,” his voice dropped in a conspiratorial reminder of our roleplay, which for him was something needy, a fantasy with great longing attached. He reached his arms to the sky and sucked in his abs, his stud nipples standing in bold relief, armpits deep and hair-pilled, all reflecting the available light. His cock–bigger and fatter than any cock I’d challenge anyone to call ‘normal’ –jutted forward, half-hard, over a pair of truly enormous, skin-luxuriated balls. And yeah–his kinky, woolen black cockhair looked erotic as hell– stuffed in the sexy depth of his amazing Apollo’s belt as it swooped down from his intercostals, below a beautifully deep navel and between his bulging thunder thighs.
“Pose for me, boy.”
The words sounded racist as hell and immediately embarrassing, coming from my schooled, politically-correct, liberalized mouth.
But to Axle, they were like an aphrodisiac–a verbal Viagra–making his midnight-black cock suddenly throb upward to an eight-inch, vein-throbbing, girth-blessed work of art, capped by a flared, purple mushroom.
Training his eager-for-approval eyes on me, Axle swung into a double biceps–his arms turning to polished black marble–his shotput delts striating into a weave of amazing power. He flexed his abs, his intercostals driving the eye down that amazing Apollo’s belt into to the sudden gush of cockhair haloing his youthfully hard cock, and gigantic, black-velvet balls.
Finally Axle was living his fantasy–posing naked for an older white dad who was shirtless and undoing his pants. I pulled apart my belt as he swept down sideways on one knee–turning his magnificent torso to face me–then throwing his arms stiff behind him, clasping his hands and flexing his triceps along with his cantaloupe muscletits. He smiled broadly, his teeth dazzling, then watched me open my snap, suddenly transfixed.
Not one to tease and carry on, I was about to just shuck both pants and shorts off in one quick move when I noted Axle’s catatonic stare–his thirsty, is-this-really-happening look of wonder. It made me remember my own first time–how the guy got naked before the door was even closed–how he had no patience for my wanting to drink in his body–how he….
Stopping short of unzipping, I stood up, then leaned down to help Axle up–not that he needed any–my hands lingering over the definition of his triceps and delving into his deep furry pits. I felt his trudgen-of-a-cock brush my pants as I turned him, nudging him down into my chair.
“If I had your body,” I backed myself up to the railing, “I’d just want to stare into the mirror all day long.”
“Yo’ body’s th’ kind I wish I had, big daddy,” his voice was so worshipful, I almost laughed–not that I’m ashamed of my body–but hell, at my age, my abs are furry and not chistled as they once were. I look good, no lie, yet time does what time does, and the effect is one of unifying one’s physique, the fur contributing to how the chest and abs seem to ripple down and create a pleasing overall beauty. Gone, at least with me, is that ripped, cut, articulation,
But there was no mistaking that look–the look I myself had as I gazed over at Axle’s naked, spread-legged beauty. He was as turned-on by me, as I by him, and each due to our own personal history and needs.
“You mean you wish you had my big, hairy chest, boy?” Unlike Axle’s skintight, gleamingly-full pecs, mine have become suckable, warm, inviting, a man’s carpeted big titted chest radiating strength and offering him that security he craves for and never had.
“Yes’sir–them’s a MAN’S tits–a REAL man!”
I punched each mound with my fist, then flexed them into mountains.
“Awwwh, shiiiit!” Axle grabbed his big cock, wetting his gorgeously-full lower lip.
I made them independently jump and flex while pulling down my fly, watching Axle fighting over where to fix his eyes. And when my pants fell around my ankles, I realised I’d not put on my usual jockeys that morning. I’d chosen a pair of red bikini briefs, due to what needed to be laundered. I fought free of my shoes, socks and pants.
“Yo! Y’all’s hung like a brotha’!”
And once again inner desires brought out the man in him as he slung his big arm clear around my butt, his other hand touching and exploring the thickness of my bikini-stretching nine-incher. His fingers traced the whole, thick length, rimming my big head, tracing the fat lip, making me shudder. Then he squeezed my hard cock like it was his own, making me wince, making my cockhead buck against the cloth and juice out a wet spreading pearl of liquid lust.
“Bigass white-daddy COCK,” he stared, wetting his lips, his hand coming up between my naked, furry thighs, pushing my pouched balls into one big mound. “Awww, fuck!” he used his thumb and fingers to squeeze under them, the twin orbs punching-out against the cloth.
I thought I’d die, watching those so-sexy lips spread open before he mouthed my bundle, the flat of his tongue lapping the thin fabric, jiggling my horny balls around. I panted–my hands pressing into his huge shoulders–watching him pull open the side seam, my hot, furry, naked bag tumbling down free and heavy against my leg.
Axle stared at my ample, skin-draped peaches, then looked up into my face and smiled. “Damn!” he grinned, before ladling them tenderly up to his hot mouth.
“UUUhhhhhh,” I was losing what little control I’d had–my head falling back–feeling his juicy cocksucker-sized lips pulling at my generous skin, his tongue washing the fleecy hair, then teasing each orb before he sucked my whole cum-loaded scrotum into his saliva-filled pink mouth.
His other hand was pulling my bikini down over my big hard ass, making my cock cry out over being wedged inside its pouch prison. Popping each ball out wetly, Axle stared at my trapped cock, both his hands now pulling my waistband down over my cheeks.
It was being pried backwards against the cloth, a big wet stain at the head. Sweet thrills shot up my resisting shaft as the downward pressure continued–my balls bunching-up in sympathy over the tender shocks my indignant cock felt.
Loving the erotic drama–the visuals, the sheer stiffness of another man’s erection–Axle showed no mercy, dragging my bikini down to my thighs, making my cock scream at me for allowing this torture. The head was hooked under the lip of the waistband, sending shocks of horny agony into my balls. My thick but soft-brown cockbush gushed out the over-stretched top.
“UHH!” It suddenly knifed free, smacking Axle’s chin, thwacking my abs, then swinging to-and-fro, derrick-like nine inches up from my swaying balls, the flared head maroon and shiny–and mad as hell at me.
“Goddamn!” Axle grinned, his chin wet from my juice.
“C’mon, Axle–pull ’em off me, now–Jesus….”
He quickly got me naked, then stood up, grabbing our excited rods together in one hand and feeling up my thick hairy tits with the other. His big eyes were all over me, staring at my biceps, my saucy areola, my bigass nipples, then down at our cocks, then back up to my face.
My hands got busy, too, reaching around to finally get a feel of those spherical cheeks of his–my fingers peeling apart each globe–pulling Axle into me. His lips took in my whole mouth, his tongue spearing at mine till we were waging crazed tongue washing battle, flicking and panting and crying out over the sheer sexiness of kissing another man. He’d let go of our cocks–his hands now full of my balls–his hard, majestic piece thumping mine, both of them oozing cockhoney.
I rubbed my hairy chest across his incredible, shelf-like pecs, my finger delving inside his deep, deep asscrease, trying to find his buried treasure.
Axle moaned into my mouth, my middle finger tracing his tiny slice, probing its tightness. “Oh daddy!–what’chu’all DOIN’??!” He arched his muscular back, his ass suddenly opening like two moons, wanting more–his slit pushing into my rigid finger. “Do dat!–play wi’ it,” he husked, his hands suddenly pumping my hot, wet cock. “She neva’ does dat wi’ me!…Awwwwh, FUCK!”
It was impossibly tight–totally cherry–his hot black butt shaking with lust, our hunching, naked bodies on display to whoever happened to step onto their own balcony for a smoke.
I pulled away–my nine-incher scything about–and sat in the chair. Without having to say a word, Axle bent over–looked at me over his big shoulder–and backed up into my waiting face. I smelled traces of Axe bodywash in his well-showered crack, my nose prying open the cleft of that smooth, beachball butt.
I experimentally smacked his rounds with both hands, making him groan as my tongue sand-papered his pink, virgin pussy.
“OOOoooh, yeah!–das’ it–das it!–ooooh, daddy–watch’ch’all doin’???” Axle craned his head around, trying to watch me slobber up his hot ass.
I couldn’t get enough–eating, chewing, snorting into that segmented oval, my hands playing with his huge, swaying, generous purse of balls, his cheeks sealing-in my entire face. And when I pulled away to catch my breath, Axle swivelled around, his hard, purple-headed, eight-incher jabbing above his bushy, hair-piled vee–between his smooth, bulging thighs–his over-sized balls thudding, as he straddled my sitting legs. “Yo’ gots what I want, white-daddy,” his usual smile was now a slack-mouthed mask of lust, “–an’ I’s gonna HAVE it!”
Axle squatted a little more to let my mushroom bulb rub its cockhoney against his cherry butthole. He used his hips to friction his horny slit as I held the base of my nine-incher steady and shuddered to feel the ripe thrills sparking over my kettledrum-taut, glassy-wet helmet.
“It’s too big for you, Axle…”
“…I ain’t yo’ Axle! I’s yo’ boy–an I wants it!….” He suddenly squatted right down, my cockhead squeezing past his virgin lips, the flange of my big knob popping inside his clasping ring of need.
“OH! Oh, daddy!” His eyes grew wide, his lips parting, his big erection suddenly flagging.
I grabbed his forearms, directing his hands to my shoulders for support. “Don’t move. Get used to it–let it stretch some….”
“….Goddamn, daddy!” His muscle-corded thighs quivered, his spread, black ass impaled on my first two pink inches.
“….give it a minute,” I reached in and filled my hands with balls, rolling them in my palms–massaging and petting them–his thick black meat lolling around from his black-wool bush. It was as much a horny distraction for me as it was for Axle.
Hell, it was all I could do to stop my hips from just knifing up and digging for gold. “MMMmmmmmm,” he purred, feeling up his pecs, his ass squirming down another few inches till both he and I felt my nerve-studded head press his boy-buzzer. “UUhhhhhhhhhh,” Axle’s mouth broke into a smile, his half-soft cock pulsing, the heavy piece tocking upward in heartbeats to stand in all its proud, full-throttled glory.
His hands shifted from my shoulders to anchor themselves on the tops of my thighs, the wooden chair groaning under our combined weight as Axle began riding my rod–slowly at first–each time trying to find that magic spot, his cock throbbing at the thrills.
“Awwwh, fuck,” he moaned. His knees were hugging my thighs, his broad back arching, his sweet, virgin ass eating all nine inches–rising to the crown–then squatting back down to rub into my electrified bush.
Hell, even my chest hair was alive–every nerve-ending in my body vibrating–feeling his asslips milking my skin rocket, strangling, squeezing, frictioning the shaft as his ass rose and fell. “Uhngg! Ung! Ung! Ung! Ung! Ung!” he bounced, his hard, black cock slapping his flexing abs, his fat balls thudding my lower belly.
I took hold of his rod, feeling it fuck my fist as he pistoned his round, black ass up and down my nerve-stripped love muscle.
“UH!–daddy!!–Uh! uh! uh! uh! uh! UH!!! I’s gonna….OH! oh! oh! oh!” He stopped and stared into my eyes, his clasping asslips clamping like an o-ring around my meat just below the head, making me grunt in alarm, my balls bunching, my whole body quivering.
Waves of ultra horny current rushed up my shaft, my hips suddenly plowing upward to bury my whole, erupting cock in his hot, teen boycunt.
“D-D-DADDY!!!—-Ohhh, daddy! UHHHHHhhhhh!”
A fountain of hot lava volcanoed out his flared purple head, splatting my tits, then shooting skyward, painting his shoulder. He grabbed it out of my hand and took over–his face mixed with familiar alarm and unrestrained joy–his huge pecs slogging up and down, his biceps rolling into a flexing mountain. Ropes of rich white shot all over his black body, the sight igniting my fuse, sending me off the deep end, sailing into space–my mind spinning into that ecstatic void where all I saw was muscle and cock and Axle’s ripe, fat balls slapping my belly, his hot ass rippling as I bludgeoned it full of my cannonading cream.
“Oh God, oh god, oh god. OH Fuck!” My head tossed around, the chair creaking, my hands flying out to squeeze his meaty pecs. With one last lunge, I buried my jizzmaker deep in his ass and rode the wild, rollercoaster of lust–revelling in the thrills–my heart nearly bursting as volley-after-volley filled Axle’s steamy guts.
We languished into a never-ending kiss, his beautiful lips completely encasing mine, his tongue painting my own, the roof of my salivating mouth, delving down deep, little moans filling our lungs, our torsos becoming one as our muscles flexed into a sealed bond only men who love men can have.