Chapter 9: Face to Pillow-2
542 Words
He spanked me briskly. He dug his tongue into me—unbelievable euphoria. My hands dug into the thick, plush comforter, and I groaned. I didn’t mind his sounds, either: heavy slurping, loud smacks on my ass, and Cord murmuring into me.
Soon he took his face from my rear and pulled a condom from his jeans, slipping it over his nine inches of rock. He said, “You know you’re ready for this, right?”
I grunted something unintelligible, giving him permission to ride me.
“It may hurt,” he warned, pushed my legs farther apart, and did what every Oklahoma cowboy does with another cowboy when they’re naked together.
And hurt it did, when just one inch of his condom-covered fencepost pushed between my bulbous buttocks to press inside me. Two inches caused immediate, fresh pain to spike through me. When he had three inches inside me, a bubble of pre-come leaked out of my spike onto the comforter. Four inches and I felt like a log being split in half. Five inches just about knocked the wind out of me. Six inches sent me into a state of semi-consciousness. Seven inches and I felt like an actor in a triple-X movie, taking more than humanly possible. Eight inches pushed all my organs aside, almost touching the back of my throat. All nine inches pulverized my man-hole, pulled out, pushed inside again, and catapulted me into the state of Zen shared by all naked men who call themselves real men.
“More,” I groaned into the pillow, begging for his swollen log, but I knew he wouldn’t understand me, since it sounded like a growl.
He swirled his c**k inside me, pulled all nine inches out, heatedly pushed back in, and said, “Tightest ass I ever nailed.”
My pillow drowned my wails of bliss. I squeezed my fists into the comforter as I clamped down on his nine inches of cut d**k. My body rocked against the bed with each of Cord’s thrusts.
Where was my mind? On a hay bale in some Midwestern state where country boys dated each other, stripped out of their tight denims, and joined themselves together. A faraway place where ranch hands were valued for more than their muscles, and bedded longhorn riders’ extended rifles. A distant and alluring somewhere that prompted one cowboy to lick another cowboy’s belt buckle, inviting tongues to lap against ripped muscles. A place called Stockton County near Tulsa, Oklahoma, where young, strapping rodeo riders coveted other men, giving them bareback rides and exploring their western lusts.
“Pound me,” I sobbed into the pillow—again, a muffled noise and nothing more.
And pound he did, pounding his post into my tight hole, using my city-born body. Cord didn’t spare me, pulverizing my insides with his hammer, banging his hairy cowboy balls into my buttocks, and groaning with hearty gratification above me. He thrust into me dozens of times and spanked me forcefully, making my ass sting with fresh, but desired, pain. The cowboy rode me with a fine rhythm, planting his post inside my ditch for a few seconds, then pulling out, then plunging back in. He was strong and consistent, laboring at me for maybe twenty minutes, panting and sweating, until he exclaimed, “Ready to fire my load.”
I turned my head to the left, unburied my face from the pillow and said, “Do it, Cord. Don’t hold back, man. I’m ready to wear your cowboy cream.”
- Writer
