Like Bread in a Pan
?"What do you think you're hiding, sweet cheeks?" I asked him as I wrapped my burly hand around the glaring bulge in his khaki shorts. "You think I managed to miss this?" He only whined an answer to my interrogations, still struck with a sense of surprise. He was surprised when I picked him out of the campus sci-fi discussion group to talk to him, he was surprised when I invited him over to my apartment off campus, and he was surprised when I told him I had good enough sense to know his phone was stuffed to the brim with pictures of men built like me, the core of muscle softened by an inviting layer of chub. The skunk had only the extra outer layer on himself, and maybe a couple more underneath that, the kind of men I seem to have the most power over. Maybe because they know they could have never been a twink, they could have never been a bodybuilder, but not too much more would have had to go different for them to be built like me.
"You can't do with just the pictures, sweet cheeks." I told him while he was still denying it, half-heartedly with careful diction, as if it were a court of law and a well-worded, diplomatic response would be convincing to a guy who'd felt the skunk's glare a dozen times at the campus gym. "Twinks, maybe. Twinks almost wish they were just two dimensions. They make a good silhouette. But men like me, and like you-" I teased as I traced a deft touch over his chubby black body. "Men like us, you gotta touch to appreciate. You gotta get all the sensations, you have to get a real sense for our, you know," I let the last word hang in the moment with an indulgent squeeze of his soft sides, "depth."
He still played shy. I didn't know what he expected that to do, now. I don't think he didn't appreciate the attention, in his own way. Maybe he'd write a fanfic about it later.
I stuffed my hand into his pants and felt his body seize as if he'd been struck with a great blow, my big bear body cushioning him as he tensed up and slowly melted. He whined, again. He was a font of whines and whimpers. Not much for talking, but he did make a lot of sound.
I unbuckled his belt, because I always unbuckle the belt. You can break through blushing stammers of denial to get them to take their shirt off, and you can even ease them through vague but persistent feelings of change to get them to climb into your arms. If they're the romantic type - the ones raised on those prince-and-princess fantasies where they're the one with the remote controller, the one in shining armor, the one who gives the triumphant kiss - you can even get them to put a smooch on your cheek. But even if their body is vibrating with faint tremors of confusion and lust at the touch of your fingertips, as the plump skunk I had pulled up against my brown body did, they won't ever unbuckle the pants themselves.
His dick popped out like the cheap effect of a party novelty. I had no complaints, but I can't say I was interested. Nothing wrong with it, It made a nice tent, but I didn't have plans for it. I turned him over, and he must not have known why, since his bushy tail covered his ass with something unlike shame but not quite modesty, either. He didn't whine when I pulled it aside and surveyed the bulbous hams beneath.
"You got a nice ass, sweet cheeks."
"I-I do? How?"
I shrugged. Didn't really expect to have to show my work, but the nerdy types tend to be a little insecure and wanna know the why behind everything. I'm sure he was already lost for an explanation why I chose his body, of all bodies, to pore my hands over. Now I had to compliment him, too, and make it just that much more confusing. I pondered on his cheeks for a moment - hell, at least it gave me a chance to pause and get a real good look at them - and straightened myself up to start undressing while I educated the bookish skunk on the subject of himself.
"It's plump, but it doesn't seem weighty, unlike something you've been afflicted with and more like something you've earned" I assured as I pulled the shirt off my body. "Your cheeks don't bulge off your body like fake tits, they rise like bread in a pan," I demonstrated the point with my hands, like trying to draw a diagram of a luscious ass in the air, the tips of my fingers instinctively curling into what I was trying to illustrate. As I did, my pants fell off my waist. Didn't take near as much work to get me naked as it did him. I take a guilty pleasure in a guy seeing my dick, because they're never less than impressed. But he'd stolen too many looks already to be filled with that awe, and the look of vague concern on his face didn't substitute well. It doesn't occur to me, I think, how disconcerting it might be to get compliments on your ass with a fat cock in front of your nose, especially if it's stiff as a straight scotch and looks like it could stretch a paint can. "But mostly, I like your ass, sweet cheeks, and I know this is more of a hope on my part, cause I imagine it knows how to handle a dick."
And that made him whine, again. He was looking up at me, his tail splayed across his back so I could see what I was complimenting. He looked up at me, and I looked down at him, and I didn't know what to say, and he didn't have the confidence to say anything. My patience drained, so I turned him around and stuffed my tongue in his ass.
He hadn't expected it. I had his rump propped up to meet my lips, and when the skunk tried to get up on all fours, I gently pushed him down, told him between savory smacks to just lie there and relax. He writhed in my hands for a few raw moments, like uncut footage where the actors are honest and awkward as they get comfortable in their roles. His body squirmed eagerly with the sensation, bursting with the sudden energy and promise of a lit fuse. His tensions seemed to be slipping away, but maybe it's just difficult to be shy with a tongue in your ass. He dug his nails into the carpet and said, meek as if fighting through the lust, "more, please."
It was the "please" that got me. I plied his cheeks apart, stuffed my nose under his tail. I slurped at his ass with an indulgent lust, like I was taking the last of it, like I was calling dibs, like I was keeping it all for myself. His whole body seemed to soften around my tongue. I would give him a deep thrust with the fat muscle, and his rump would sink as his thighs twitched. I curled the tip to plumb the sensitive spots, making his tail brush against my forehead in an instinctual response. I exaggerated a satisfied smack of my lips and his voice strained as if struggling with his own need, "Oh god, please, more!" It was the "Oh god" that got me that time, uncapitalized as I heard it. It needled into my ear and sent the strangest surge down my back. Every impulse I had toward considering myself a Professional, an Artist, a Know-It-All disappeared. I tugged the skunk's tail by the base, got it out of the way as I burrowed my stubby muzzle between his cheeks. "Oh god, oh god," he moaned, becoming creative with the spacing between and within the words, his troubled voice creeping into higher octaves as I fucked his hole. His hips dipped to the floor and now he didn't have the peace of mind and I didn't have the interest in propping him back up. My tongue slipped out and I caught my breath and wiped my chin with the back of my paw as I looked at him lying on his stomach, his body rising and falling with heavy breaths.
He turned his head, but didn't turn his body, I supposed as if he were waiting for more. Not that his ass wasn't calling me like a siren, but there's only so much your tongue can do, really. "Sit up," I told him, and he did, got up and crawled over to me, plopped himself down and let his eyes survey my body. He had a sense of guilt about him, of course. He'd always felt guilty looking at me before, and I suppose he hadn't quite yet learned to be comfortable. He licked his lips, and my ears perked. He licked hips lips again, with a certain indecisiveness in him, his head tilted down so that he had to look up to see my reaction. I was smiling. His tongue curled up along the side of his stout little muzzle, as if he were thinking. I let him think, he could figure this out on his own, but I gripped the base of my cock and squeezed it as if I were in tremendous need. I rolled my hefty balls with my fingers to display their massive potential. The skunk may well have been the camera for all those pictures he still didn't admit to having, and I did my best to pose like I was two-dimensional, like I could be something familiar to him. As something always insatiable, always ready, and always demanding satisfaction. This is how a man looks before photoshop, without a makeup artist, with depth. That's how I presented myself while the skunk stared down my dick like the final click in Russian Roulette, licking his lips. I shut my eyes, and I even moaned for him. He was going to come to me, I had no doubts about it.
The tickle of a tongue teased underneath my head, and I opened my eyes to see the skunk's muzzle on my crotch. He wrapped his lips around my meat, looking up into my eyes as he did, another habit from porn, I'm sure, but it was endearing. He handled my dick with the aplomb of an eager amateur, drooling along the sides and blushing when he tried to take in one more inch than his throat would let him, but he didn't apologize, like so many guys seem to think they need to. He kept turning his eyes up to me, such a bad habit to be developing so early, but the innocence in his face when he gazed up at me in search of approval was too guilty a pleasure to correct him on. He played with my balls, a little roughly, like a guy might play with a toy, but I let him have his fun. He was a smart guy, he was figuring things out. He hummed on the head of my dick, even managed to get the weidly tool into the back of his throat for a moment.
The look on his face said "please," but I had no idea what he was asking. I pulled him off my dick and let him soak me with that look from a little longer. He seemed to sweet, so innocent, so out of place. He was naked, on all fours, his stout dick stiff and dripping underneath him. And I think I figured out the look in his eyes, then. It was the sense of ridiculousness. It was a first for him, for sure. You don't prepare a guy for that, the feeling of being exposed, the sensation of being in such strange positions, the curiosity of what you do about such a basic problem as your dick dripping onto the carpet. His chubby body seemed so firm, so sound on all fours like that, like it was meant to hold something, to absorb power, but it was obvious he felt ridiculous in front of me. He was looking to me for a little education, some helpful tips, a little comfort.
I patted my lap. He eyed it, wondering what to do, and looked back up at me. I patted my lap again. "Get on," I said. He whined, performing the same little dance of his eyes again. "C'mon, sweet cheeks. If you can crunch numbers you can take this," I assured him, baring my teeth in what I probably thought at the time was a friendly way. He didn't seem convinced, but he at least seemed determined. He sat up and crawled into my lap, his fingers digging into my shoulders as if he were trying not to be thrown off, or like a drunk man steadying himself on a rail. He didn't seem to have the natural coordination of the more athletic men I tended to grab up, he didn't seem to have their conviction of victory, either. I could see in his eyes as he rubbed the head of my slick cock between his plump cheeks that he didn't want to go through with it. I rubbed my hands along his meaty thighs, letting just the tips of my claws drag along the skin underneath his soft fur, a low rurr in my chest, anything to comfort him, waiting for him to take that decisive dive onto my dick. But it didn't come.
"I'm a bit bigger than I looked in the shower, huh?" That made him blush, maybe I shouldn't have said that. But either way, he nodded.
"You know what you gotta do with it, skunk?" I asked him, and he shook his head. He was still sliding the head of my cock - leaking pre like a cheap hose, lemme tell you I was well past ready - like just trying to comfort himself, as if the motion along was therapeutic. His eyes closed and his chin sunk into his chest, and he seemed to distraught, prepared for defeat.
"Here-" I said simply. "Stop," and he stopped sliding my dick. "Up a little," I teased him, and he whined as he slid it closer toward the sweet spot. "C'mon, you know where it goes..." I egged him on until I felt my head pressed up against that tender button. I sunk my masculine hands into his rump, plied his cheeks apart, and didn't so much order him as gave him the very firm impression that he ought to know what to do. I pulled only gently, and he let his weight fall slowly onto me. I could've sworn he might have bitten right through his lip, the stifled sighs of anticipation barely seeping through, if his tight pucker hadn't finally swallowed the head of my dick. He could've torn a muscle, how hard his nails dug into my shoulder as he slowly sunk down, curt "ohs" and "ahs" sprinkled throughout. His soft cheeks settled gentle into my lap, and there he wiggled his hips, gyrated them from side to side, as if getting comfortable.
"How deep can you feel that, skunk?" I teased him, helping him to rock back and forth on the fat tool. He didn't answer immediately, as I'm sure he wasn't exactly practiced in dirty talk. I'd figure out what'd get him moaning, it usually didn't take too many guesses. "Show a little spunk, ride that dick," and he did, he lifted himself up, and I had to give him credit for giving himself as big a shot as he could handle. He ground back down on every inch of my meat again, his face screwed tight in concentration. He wrapped his arms around my head, and he started to bounce his hips. And, why not, I suckled his nipples while he acquainted himself with the deepest nerves in his body. It was always one of my favorite little things, but it was hard to tell if he was enjoying it as much as he was drilling himself on my fat cock - it's kind of hard to differentiate the impassioned moans from each other, especially as they grow in intensity, not quite as if it's feeling that much better, but as if he's becoming that much less restrained.
I had no concern meeting him with thrusts, my hands stretching his cheeks to make sure he got every fraction of an inch I had to give him, and he was eager enough to take them all. I even let myself start to get into it to, my role as shepherd becoming less necessary as the skunk started to take care of himself. And if the skunk's gonna take care of himself, I can start taking care of myself.
Not to say that I'm selfish. Not to say that I'm sadistic. I just learned a long time ago that there's only so much damage a dick can do, and a sore ass in the morning is just a reminder of what a great night you had. I pulled him down onto my dick, and held him there, though he wanted to bounce back up and keep screwing himself. He struggled against my grasp long enough to realize I wanted him to stop, and then I wrapped my muscular arms around him, reminding myself of just how much bigger my bulky masculine frame was than his with its friendly pudge, and lifted him up onto the couch. His arms and legs wrapped around me for security, and when I laid him down on his back, my dick hadn't budged from his tight ass.
And from the moment his back hit the cushions, I was plowing into him, and oh you should have heard him moan then. Through a wide open muzzle, those breathy, throaty moans of pleasure, as if needs to be vented like pressurized steam. I'm practiced, but I'm not artist. I've never quite known how you fuck any more elegantly than stuffing your dick into a guy. Maybe my dick's too thick for subtlety, maybe my desire's just a bit too unpolished for flourishes, but I fuck. My thighs are powerful, my grasp is tight, and I don't tire. The skunk had writhed under my tongue, had squirmed on my dick, had dripped pre into wet pools on my fur like he'd found a surplus of ecstasy. And now I fucked him like levying a tax on it all. He grunted with every thrust like I was pushing the air right out of his lungs, he stammered through broken sentences, like each heavy slap against his plump cheeks shorted his memory, put him back at the first word. And through it all I simply gritted my teeth, huffing hot air through my nostrils against his neck, absorbed in my work, reveling in that virgin ass wrapped around my dick. Each thrust seems to come instinctively, like the immediate sensation of a glaring need. I throw my hips into him, feel that tight hole squeeze down my shaft like its milking me, feel my heavy balls slap against his cheeks, feel his body pulse in my arms as it absorbs the energy, and I have to do it again. Nothing could stop me, and there couldn't be anything else I'd need than to plunge my dick into him again, each visceral sensation comforting in its potency, in its reliability. No, I'm not an artist when it comes to fucking, that's for sure.
"I gotta cum-" he had to find time between his gasping moans to cry out. I didn't stop, though. I figured if I got him close enough to want it, I could drive him far enough to get it. "I gotta cum-" he begged again, trying to worm his hand between our bodies, eager to stroke his cock. "Oh God, please, I gotta cum, I got to-" He was rolling now, his back arcing up off the couch, his hands looking to grab anything that might serve any purpose. His bushy tail swung in erratic, almost startled swishes to his side, batting against my side with its plush mass. I almost believed him. Guys have told me they wanted to cum, that they were going to cum. Don't think they'd ever told they got to. I was still laying into him, plowing him with the regular, dominant rhythm I fall so easily into, letting his pleas collect in my ears like blackmail material.
I turned him over, I bent him over the back of the couch, bent over him and held his arms down. "Oh God," he cried immediately, and I knew. "Oh shit shit," he strained to moan. "You're-" and he bit down on his lip.
"I'm what?" I rasped as I bent further over him, driving my dick deep into him.
"You're-" and a moan saturated in unsated lust cut him off again. "You're getting- You're getting-" and a sound oozed from his throat, staccato with the pace of my thrusts, like unvarnished need, like uncut shame.
"I gotta cum!" he hit on, finally. "I gotta cum!" he announced through perverse compulsion. "I gotta cum," he chorused with himself, as my determined strokes pushed him against the couch, hard enough that it skidded minutely across the floor with each heavy blow. I bore into his stocky body, tempted him, teased him, did everything but let him off the hook.
There's only so much a body can take. There's only so much an ass can take. There's only so much a dick can handle, and in my experience, I'm more than enough. That's why I don't get impatient. That's why I don't break patterns. There's only so much the skunk can take, and I know.
"Ah!" He shouted, sharp and final, like it was a gasp from the dictionary.
"Ahhhhh!" He squealed, shrill and tense, and I could tell he was cumming. His ass convulsed around my dick, squeezed it, the nub inside him I had been hitting so well pulsing with power. I didn't stop to watch, I felt him out, listened to him. "Ah, ah, uhh," he continued, waves of energy visibly coursing through him as his body twitched and writhed and squeezed and rocked in my arms and around my dick, and he kept going, he kept going, and I kept fucking him, and I fucked him with rapacious determination, I unloaded my all into him.
Though he was mostly still, mostly satisfied, the little tremors didn't stop, became instead almost too faint to register. I wondered if he felt ridiculous, now, draped over the back of the couch like that, his ass stretched and a mess beneath him. Though he seemed content, I still felt in him something slight like a faint pulse, a dull throb. Something I wasn't sure what, something that begged my curiosity to examine it.
So I fucked him. I hadn't stopped fucking him, but I bit into his shoulder and I slammed my dick into his ass, trying to keep that fire from going out.
"Oh, please..." he whined. I didn't know what he wanted, I didn't bother to interpret it.
I rocked my hips and skewered his sensitive ass until I felt the muscles begin the liven, and I heard the voice regain its uneasy titter, and I saw the strain return to his face. And I fucked him until the moans rose back in his throat, and I fucked him like I could ignite every nerve of that chubby body if only I could get as deep into his ass as I knew I could. I fucked him until he started panting, I fucked him until he started whining, I fucked him until he started moaning, and I fucked him until my dick could feel his ass squeeze and my arms could feel his body rock and my ears could hear him shout "Ah, ahhhh," with a defeated weakness. I fucked him until the heavy breathing meant I'd gotten everything out of him that I could.
And when I'd emptied him, I filled him back up with the good stuff. I hilted myself deep inside him and creamed, let myself pump everything my heavy balls had stored up into his virgin ass. And the irony of it, he didn't even seem to notice. My dick pulsed and throbbed inside him, I unloaded enough cum under that bushy tail to drown his tonsils, and he simply laid himself over the back of the couch like wet laundry and moaned quietly to himself. A fitting postscript for him, I think. I pulled out and he still laid there, his chubby body trembling with exhaustion, but he kept his tail raised for me so I could see the mess I'd made of him. It might be a little disturbing, if I weren't so proud, seeing my spunk splattered between his cheeks, rolling down to the back of his balls. The skunk's pair of loads had completely soaked the cushions of my couch, and I'd sure as hell have to turn it over to the other side before I had any proper company over. I sat on the floor, legs crossed, admiring my work as he put the pieces of himself back together.
He raised his head, finally, and looked back at me, a rosy tint on his cheeks.
"If you had my view," I told him, "you'd really be blushing."