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When I tried to reciprocate at all, he firmly pressed me back down into supplication against the couch. The only places he had not touched me was my throbbing rock hard dick and balls.
He moved them out of his way when he had to, but otherwise he ignored them in every other sense.
He slobbered around, tongue- fucking my ass as his roughly shaven face scratched my inner thighs raw.
He pulled my ass cheeks wide and dug his tongue in as deep as it could go, making me thrash and moan in ecstasy.
Now, normally I pick up a man based on what I feel like doing sexually on that occasion.
If I want to get fucked, I look for a burly masculine man who can’t take his eyes off all the ass that walks by.
As they do with so many young gay men, my possibilities began to expand.
Precum drooled continuously out of my cock and dribbled onto my torso.
He paid the cabby and we went up to his flat, which wasn’t shabby at all and convinced me he was a well-paid professional.
He told me to take off my clothes as he went to get us some beers, and excused himself to take care of a few quick and immediate matters.
When I entered the bar, the usual rag-tag group of leather-worshippers — rough trade, masters and slaves — was loitering about the place, many enmeshed in a live-fisting sling scene in a dark corner.
I quickly surveyed the men as I usually did as soon as I enter a bar to get my bearings, to see what’s available.