Late Show
The ram had a winning pair: a modest confidence that surfaced in toothy grins and a fat dick which bulged his pants like a weekend suitcase on a weeklong trip. Having coaxed the ram into an exhibitionist mood, with no paucity of praise, I had a magnificent prick that sat before me in his lap like a bold black baron in a creamy fur throne. It nestled alongside a pair of balls that refused to be outshone for impressiveness. Somewhere behind me a bomb was going off, painting the coarse, aged fur with oranges and reds, and a deep bass rumbled through my thick body, made every nerve fire as I gawked respectfully at the package I had just unwrapped.
"Hah," the ram smirked with reserved pride, like a man who was unprepared to boast. "You're a fan, huh, mutt?" He folded his arms across his pudgy gut and dipped a hand under the weighty package, rustled it from its resting place, and stroked the soft shaft in slow, unserious shifts of his wrists. He even pulled back the foreskin to show me the great, gleaming head beneath the darkened skin, keeping his own eyes on his package. His movements followed a clunky routine, making it apparent that while his muscles remembered all the necessary moves for displaying his treasure, they halted slightly at the new element of a man's eyes. I kept my gaze fixated upon it, making no secret of my pleasure as a wide, dumb smile spread across my muzzle.
He beamed with obvious pride at having such an attentive and appreciative audience. The pleasure of the moment seemed to roll off his broad shoulders, the kind of pride that only comes with the insecurity that sets in with middle age. Divorced, as he'd told me before; but it was hard not to notice he still found cause to wear his wedding ring. Personal issues aside, I made no secret of my reverence and if I could make my eyes sparkle on cue I would have. Although his fur had grown a little more coarse, and didn't have that youthful sheen, his cock was ripe with all the vitality it must have ever had, like he'd once fucked the fountain of youth. I pressed my nose into his crotch, inhaled his heady scent, felt his warm flesh against my cheek, and made him shift uneasily in his chair as he put a bracing hand atop my head. "Hey now, you only wanted to see-" he quipped, his fingers tightening into a fist around my ears. He hesitated, neither pulling me up nor pushing me down, but reminding me that he reserved the right to do either.
"You know, mutt, we could-" he said in a low voice to prevent the empty theater from eavesdropping, "head back to my place... I don't have the kids this weekend." The words bounced off my ears like radar to lead. "I've got a plasma to watch some movies on... we could share a drink... the couch folds out into-" his voice began to trail and lose its inflection as I nosed his package, stirring it from its restful slumber, and basking in its appreciation of my touch. I had, in the moments that led up to this, gone through great pains to avoid the word "only." I grabbed his paw, slipped a finger into my mouth, and as he shut his eyes and moaned with pent-up lust I slipped his wedding band off with my teeth.
Straight guys, especially the ones that have invested a couple decades and a few marriages into their identity, want so badly for you to think they don't want it. It's a shame it's not true, might make them a bit more of a challenge. So of course he didn't pull me out of his lap when I dug my nose under his sack and huffed his scent with bare greed. He didn't pull me out of his lap when I took one fuzzy orb gently into my muzzle and tumbled it delicately with the tip of my tongue. He didn't pull me out of his lap when I lapped messily from the base of his stiffening shaft to the tip of his cock. What he did was, he said, "You can have a taste," while his dick was already shining with my spit. "Just-" he tried to continue, gripping my ears still as I lolled my tongue out and cradled his dick. "Just-" he stopped himself again as I eased his dick with obscene expertise into the back of my throat. "Just-" he tried one last time when I squeezed my lips around the shaft and pulled the rod out of my muzzle with a pop. He gave up on speaking, and at that point I stuffed my face with the proud prick and sucked at it like the only water fountain in the Sahara.
"Jesus," the ram spit in unbelieving ejaculations, the tone of surprise still in his throat. He tousled my red hair, taking hold of it to stuff me down onto his manhood. Explosions from the war behind me made my teeth vibrate in their settings, the only thing that could drown the ram's gasps and sighs. As I bobbed, I traced the contours of his body with my hands. My fingers sank greedily into his wiry fur, trying for the velvet skin and soft muscle beneath. He had an athletic gut, not the type that would have kept him off the basketball court, just something that would have put him into a position to throw his weight around. My hands pulled a full tour of duty over bulging calves, along grand thighs, around each side of his barrel-like belly, up to his broad chest to finally tweak and tease his nipples like I knew his wives never knew to do. My fingers twisted his nipples like oversensitive radio dials, the static of benign moans and sighs coming into brief concentration for a "goddamn" spit through a bit lip, or an "oh, oh, oh," only barely voiced before the sublime white noise of spent tension returned.
The taste of his juice bloomed on my tongue like cream in coffee.
I wriggled out of my plain black slacks to display my own package wrapped, incidentally, in a tight red thong. The thong was - had been for every night I'd worked there - my secret compensation for the frumpy, gauche usher's uniforms that were standard wear. The guilty pleasure of a sexy piece beneath the ensemble had always given me a little lift, and now as I tossed the hated uniform to the side, the pleasure became public and mutual. I can't imagine he'd never seen a man in skimpy clothing before - a day at the gym will see to that - but the light of curiosity in his eyes implied he must have been seeing something for a first time. I leaned over the row of seats in front of us. I didn't look back at him, I didn't instruct him, and he didn't request instructions. After a pause, he plied my cheeks, tender at first, as if he felt I were fragile, but soon with the rough approbation that is the hallmark of straight men. His touch was measured, studious, like the first reading of a dense, new text.
He surprised me. He stretched the string of my thong downward and I heard a slight, curious sniff from behind me. His cold nose sent a shock through my spine when he pressed it under my sack and huffed. The sniff was tempered, implied an almost academic curiosity, like a man holding his nose over a glass of wine. The next huff was deeper, greedier. The exhale, quick like a man impatient to inhale again, tickled against my sac.
The ram pulled his nose away, spread my cheeks and pressed a digit against my hole with as if fingering a launch button. Little circles, little pressure, my shoulders shuddered as he unwittingly teased me. He spread my cheeks again, as if trying to get some imperceptible thing just right, hesitated a moment, and pressed his pursed lips beneath my tail and lapped his tongue against my hole. Every movement of his tongue was considered and deliberate, every curl and wave particular and intentional, the hearty muscle painting my hole like a gallery piece. A few suppressed "mmms" escaped his lips as he wormed his tongue inside me, a fist around my tail now to keep it from interfering as he picked up his pace, only stopping for a moment at some unknown provocation to turn his head in the direction of the entrance. Assuaged, he returned to my ass with a renewed sense of vigor. I arched my back, lifted my nose to the ceiling, and moaned quietly to myself beneath the crushing bass of Hollywood blockbuster effects. With swelling eagerness the ram probed my hole, even had the good sense and good manners to reach around and stroke my hard, curved cock as he did.
I couldn't say whether he'd rimmed before. It's not something you can't do with a woman, it's not something a lady typically asks for. His licks were patient, his slurps reserved, and all the while his hands kept busy on my body. Whatever his experience, whatever his emotion, I couldn't help but moan to egg him on, and if one or two were wholly manufactured the positive reinforcement only gave him the confidence to probe deeper, curl his tongue tighter, and smack his lips. I pulled away from him, turned around, and marveled at the challenge stuck straight up in his lap. His cheeks burnt red and a slight smile fought to spread his lips, as if he had wanted some kind of defense against how well he had been enjoying himself. The way his dick stood firm and throbbed, no alibi would hold up in any court.
The thong came off completely, his eyes following them all the way down. I stuffed it into his shirt pocket; made no plans for retrieving them that night.
He stared at my prick - challenging him on girth, even if overshadowed in length - as I found my footing in the cramped seats. His horns provided a convenient handle for balancing myself, his head jerking just a little with my rough treatment as I settled myself on the tip of his great cock, the reticence in his face demonstrating a comfort with being used as such. I imagine rams are used to it. For his part, he put his hands on my generous hips, in a fashion I could only describe as respectful.
I could describe the ram, at that moment, only as a man who knew how big his dick was. I kept myself on his pedestal, the column of a dick taunting my ass like a mountain not meant to be climbed. I moved the ram's hands onto my cheeks, instructed him plainly and with the tone of a favor to spread them, and with that I let my weight ease onto his rod. The pressure against my hole built slowly, the tension like a stretched rubber band waiting to snap, a promise growing in stature the more resistance my ass put up. I bit my lip, pulled slightly on the stately horns as if steering the prick in. Progress came slowly, imperceptible millimeters meaning nothing without that- oh God! The balance tipped and I felt myself stretch suddenly, relenting to the plump head, violent shocks of pleasure shooting up my spine as if it were a lightning rod. A welcome ache burned my body, like a massage you have to ask for by name, and seemed to pulse deep in my gut as I slowly allowed myself to settle on the daunting cock. My knuckles went white on the ram's horns. My toes curled. My lips curled. My eyelashes probably curled. I flooded myself with his dick and through heroic determination I passed every high water mark, topped every levy, until I found myself in the high ground of his lap.
Every millimeter was taken stock of before the ram put his hands back on my hips and held me locked down on his prick, his meaty balls sandwiched between the the seat and my ass. His jaw was slack but his eyes were drawn tight, his fingers dug into my rump with thoughtless power that kept me in place despite my attempts to pull myself up for a second go. Savoring it, I suppose. Dull pangs of pain ricocheted inside my gut, the semi-sadistic sensation of having your ass stretched thin and invaded giving power to a much stronger sensation, a kind of pulsing pleasure, that surfaced at each sensitive part of my body. The reward of a conquered cock: you feel a big man deep in your gut; you feel a huge man in the back of your neck, on the pointed tips of your nipples, in the head of your dick, and I could feel nearly every nerve in my plush body tingling around his mammoth cock.
At the back of the theatre, a door opened, the sound masked by an explosion on screen. A million points of conflict flashed on the surface of my skin. A black hole opened in the back of my head. An usher, his face drooping with absent boredom, took a step inside. He paused at the landing, surveying quickly the empty theatre with his flashlight swinging lazily in his grip, before ducking out. The door nearly shut behind him before his head shot back inside, peeking from behind like a curious boy. I kept a firm hold on the ram's horns, made no effort to silence his gravelly moans, and stared deep into the startled eyes of a college dropout of a cat I'd spent the last two months working with. What a way to come out. He stepped back inside now, holding the flashlight with the backwards-grip, just like the training video taught us. He took a patient step forward, as if giving himself time to replay what the training video may have said about a situation like this. Now the ram was lifting me up on his dick, pushing me back down, inciting me to moan, and I didn't disappoint. I couldn't disappoint. I bellowed a deep, soulful moan as the dick - and I should say I've never known a tool more fit for the term, the way it spread me open could be described was nothing but vulgar - looted my ass in front of the startled cat. I left no mystery in the cat's mind as the spotlight shone in my face, blinding me, and all I could do was hold the ram's horns to keep him from turning around. I groaned louder, unable to break my milking stride should I alert the ram, my voice climbing into its highest register in blind confusion.
"Oh God I'm hurting you aren't I?" the ram asked with parental concern, his hand shifting under my cheeks to lift me up, though I sat down on them instead with a shrill shout of "No!" escaping my lips. I shook my head, blinked my eyes, and as they cleared the cat was gone. I glanced to either side of me, expecting to see him coming down the aisle. Nothing. I didn't even so much as hear the door latch. My heart pumped an anxious beat in my chest.
"You ought to be quiet," the ram lectured, "someone will hear us!" I shut myself up, centered myself around the feeling of a cock stuffed in my ass like dynamite in an anthill. "You need a rest or something?" he asked. I did, really. My body was settling down, and now my mind picked up the slack, pondering each contingency while attempting to hide the concern on my face. I didn't panic. As I remember, I was still rocking myself back and forth on the ram's pole as I took three deep breaths, weighed my options, then grabbed the ram's horns like handlebars and started bouncing my ass on his dick like I was leading a singalong. "Fuck!" he spit at the sudden onslaught, or perhaps at having his head wrenched, and his fingers dug deep into my rump. "Slow down, slow down," the ram pleaded, "don't hurt you- ah!"
I don't know what I did to myself in the flickering light of that theatre, but it mostly involved wrapping my stretched and battered hole around that gargantuan cock with all the youthful vigor the ram must have presumed I'd had. I had climbed Mt. Everest and drilled for oil. I was smashing atoms and trying for cold fusion. I was making the ram clench his teeth and wrap his arms around my stocky body to hang on, hold me down, or something else unsuccessful. And while I screwed myself down on that massive cock, squeezed and rocked myself back and forth, and squirmed my tongue into the ram's open mouth, what I wondered was: would they call this fight, or flight?
"Easy, easy, easy," he pleaded, but I disregarded him. I turned myself around - without leaving my station, mind you - gripped the seat in front of me and rode the monster dick. My own dong rimmed with fire-red fur pulsed and leaked with torturous promise, dangling precipitously over the edge of orgasm.
I swore and blasphemed, taunted and instructed, the words flowing from my mouth as generously as the pre from my dick. He didn't tell me to quiet down, now. He had his teeth sank into the back of my shoulder, his arms around my body and his hands squeezing my pudgy belly. I swear he was trying to hold me down, to pace me, but my hips rocked, traversed whatever length of the cock they could. My body strained to hold its pleasure, each bounce it took reverberating through me like a felled redwood. I indulged, I feasted, it was a mortal sin the way I stripped spasms of satisfaction from the haughty dick, more than my heavy frame could handle, but I maintained. I plowed inch after inch into me. Yards of dick, miles of cock, I lost count as I piled into thrust after thrust. I exhausted myself, my legs quaking under their burden, but no less able to do their duty.
"Kid, I swear, I'm gonna-" he moaned through his teeth. He did little more than hold onto me. I slapped his hand away from my prick, two, three, six times. I was gonna, too.
And then, he did. The ram grabbed me by the hips, and spitted my ass with defiant grandeur. His teeth dug into my shoulder, his legs twitched beneath me. Not enough; he let me squirm away, and stabbed me once more, a drive I felt from the tips of my ears, tips of my toes, and head of my cock. Not enough; he let me wrestle away, and pulled me ruthlessly onto his dick, speared me, ran me right through, forced an embarrassingly shrill yelp from my throat, and I painted the seat in front of me with generous dollops of cum. My unanchored prick twitched wildly, shot wherever my quivering body would point it, and all the while the ram held me secure in his lap, the image of stoicism, filling me as I emptied. My dick settled as he continued to gush, his grip on my wide hips tightening with each fresh torrent.
Reclining against his chest, I let out a deep sigh of relief. His hands now traced over the curves of my body, only a slight waiver of fatigue in them. My legs had yet to find their bearings, either. My red hair was a matted mess. I would have hoped the credits would be rolling, but looking up now I saw the hero in an embrace with the girl of his dreams. It reminded me.
"Let me see your hand. Your other hand."
I spit the ram's wedding band into my palm and slipped it onto his finger. "When did you-" he wondered, but I ignored him to slip off his dick and grab my uniform. I got to the emergency exit just as management arrived.
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