- Joined
- Feb 20, 2017
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- Location
- London (Greater London, England)
- Sexuality
- 100% Gay, 0% Straight
- Gender
- Male
She walks into the gallery and, immediately, I want her all over again. Why did she come back? For me? Of course, no, it’s because of her work. Everywhere around the gleaming white walls of this little London art space, deep in the silent autumn streets of Mayfair, her paintings are hung. Hung, that word. That is my word.
And all her self-portraits in oil paint, reveal her innermost spirit. I’m talking about one now, to a couple of bored looking aristocrats. What do they see, as I lecture and indicate features of interest? “Her use of line tempt one inside … Her colours are so passionate …” A man in his mid-twenties, six foot two, goes to the gym, a square jaw and a bit of a posh voice – but essentially harmless. “Her flecks of fiery sparks here draw the eye to where it must not go … Her titles are openly seductive …” Nice suit. Nice manners. Nice guy.
I catch that scent she wears and I can’t keep my eye from her, while inside my beautifully tailored, charcoal-coloured suit, my dick is beating like a heart in the fires of anger. I fold my hands over my smart outfit, and nobody guesses that I am stirring behind it, lengthening, fattening, beginning to drip juice, as if my body anticipates congress even as my mind fixates on the night before.
The night of the launch. I’d been waiting to meet here since the senior curator first showed me her work. Work I wanted to bury myself in: steep my gaze in, trail my tongue across. Work I wanted to invade, to be a masculine figure sharing the canvas with her blazingly female presence.
That scent of hers made me hungry. The wine made me thirsty, to lap and taste and caress with my tongue. The men and women I pass on the Tube every day mistake me for a young innocent, the lads I work with talk about the laugh in my eyes. It might all have been true last week, but then I met her and now any niceness is a thin façade. I am one mouth made to pleasure her cunt, and one hard prick meant to lock us together in pleasure.
Canapes and champagne. Drunk. Invited back to her hotel room. Resisting, knowing she would insist. Which she did. I knew how she would operate – she had told the world in her artworks. She manoeuvred me back. Led me up the stairs by my tie, the fabric starving me of oxygen, as my body burned for her touch.
She averts her gaze now. She’s here on business, with the senior curator. I push home with the bored rich couple. “It’s a come on, and we’re helpless to respond…”
In her hotel room, lit by a streetlight through the window. Down on her knees. These trousers. Unfastening them, and looking up at me, and then pulling down my Calvin Klein’s. It’s hard for her. She has some difficulty. She can’t work out why. I can’t work out why.
I help her, reach in with both hands and pull out my dick, smear salty-precum over her lipgloss.
That’s when she says it. “Sorry – no. That’s … that’s just too big for me.”
It feels like a cheap line. I decide that’s how she plays. “You know you want it.”
“I can’t handle that.”
“Yes, you will, you know you will, you dirty bitch…”
I want to excuse myself from this couple and head over to her in the deep stillness of the gallery, to incline my mouth to her ear and murmur the words: “You do, you want it, you want that pony cock, you’re a dirty bitch…”
But it turned out she wasn’t playing. It turned out the sexual play was all a front. It turned out I was getting a taxi home at four in the morning.
I didn’t sleep.
I tried to sleep, of course. When I dreamt, it was in wild bursts, and I was banging her like a fucking animal. And I would wake and remember she had refused me, just because I was hung. Am hung.
I didn’t even know that was the case, before. Okay, so girls have said it before. Girls say that sort of thing. But this felt honest. She was intimidated by me.
So I went online to find out the truth.
To my surprise, I found that I really am hung. According to people on the Large Penis Support Group, I am considered big by men who are, generally, considered the big guys. I posted a few pictures on the LPSG website, just for guidance, and found men leaving all kinds of comments. Dirty comments. Comments that abased them and worshipped me.
That was the second part of my surprise. I would have thought men who fancied men wouldn’t like big dicks any more than this tight little virgin with her oil paints. But they love them. They love to find dicks bigger than theirs. Whatever else I’ve done, or achieved, or mistakes I’ve made, no matter how much older or stronger or more secure they are, even men with wives and girlfriends at home, consider me an alpha and want to be conquered by my big cock.
These men are more awake than you, the artist, to the wild fires of the human body. And goodness knows I am a volcano in need of a blast.
I excuse myself from the aristocratic couple. She thinks I’m going to try and speak to her, and she draws herself up, but I walk out of the gallery, my huge hard-on bouncing around in my suit trousers.
I activate the app. It tells me there’s someone working in an office not far away. I tag him and we chat briefly. Mostly to establish location. The public toilets in Green Park. I head there and wait in a cubicle for him to arrive.
He’s young. A nice guy. You wouldn’t look at him twice on the street. Almost a Daniel Radcliffe, but smart and bright eyed. Smiles at me, raises an eyebrow. I beckon him into the cubicle and shut the door, and then we’re on. No need for champagne, flirting, the trip to a hotel room.
He puts his hand on my bulge. “You weren’t kidding online,” he says, his eyes really lighting up with excitement. “That really is –”
“You know you want it.”
“I don’t know if I can handle it.”
I lean in and murmur. “You do, you want it. You want that pony cock. You’re a dirty bitch…”
“I am,” he says.
“We don’t need to talk,” I tell him. “Get on with it.”
In a moment he’s on his knees. That floor must be filthy. He unzips my fly, has the same trouble with getting out my big dick that she had last night, only he tries harder, doesn’t need help. He can’t prevent himself from saying, again, how big it is and how he wants it. He wraps his lips around my cockhead and slowly takes the whole thing. The whole head, I mean. That’s as far as he’s going for now, and it feels delicious enough for starters.
It could be her, if I close my eyes.
He’s going to slowly, working it inch by inch down his throat. It feels like a struggle. I hear him resisting the urge to retch. I look down, and he’s managed half of it. “You really are a little slut, aren’t you?” I say.
He takes that as his cue to take it out of his mouth, to breathe and gasp and look at me adoringly. He nods, without speaking.
“Then take it all,” I tell him. I grab his fluffy dark brown hair and use his face. I fuck his throat. It makes an interesting sound. Unfortunately I still can’t get the whole dick inside him. It’s the base of my cock that really does it for me. I need more than this.
“Bend over that fucking toilet seat,” I tell him.
He obeys. “Use a condom,” he tells me. Nobody tells me anything. I smack his tight arse for that. Then I rip apart his suit material. There it is, the gateway to pleasure. Surely I can fit more in here. I spit on my cock a few times till my mouth feels dry.
“Ohhh fuck,” he says, as the first third goes in.
“Ohhh Jesus,” he says, for the second third.
When I force myself balls deep, he’s panting.
“Stop talking.” I need to conjure her. I need to imagine it’s her hole I’m using. Bending her over, fucking her arse, instead of some office lad.
But a lad can take and enjoy a big cock. Or this one can, anyway.
I wreck him. I smash his boycunt with my monster cock as if it was my job in life. I use him, stretch him, and fill him full of my thick, purple-headed meat. I’m down to my shirtsleeves before I know it. One hand in that fluffy hair, one for stability on the toilet wall. I feel the power in my biceps, my core, the thick meat of my cock as I ride him. He’s moaning, half in pain and half in pleasure.
“You’re … so … big …!”
“Big bollocks, too,” I tell him, as they twitch and offload inside him, spilling over his tight little rounded, hairy arsechecks and staining his suit trousers. He’ll need to sort himself out on the way home.
Afterwards, sauntering back to the gallery, I find myself wondering, who did I think of at that moment? Her or him? Or was it the power of the fuck flooding through, the strength of my body, the size of my prick, the domination, the ride, the flood.
As I re-enter the gallery, and high five the security guard, I realise I wield a certain kind of power. I also realise I already need to fuck again.
And all her self-portraits in oil paint, reveal her innermost spirit. I’m talking about one now, to a couple of bored looking aristocrats. What do they see, as I lecture and indicate features of interest? “Her use of line tempt one inside … Her colours are so passionate …” A man in his mid-twenties, six foot two, goes to the gym, a square jaw and a bit of a posh voice – but essentially harmless. “Her flecks of fiery sparks here draw the eye to where it must not go … Her titles are openly seductive …” Nice suit. Nice manners. Nice guy.
I catch that scent she wears and I can’t keep my eye from her, while inside my beautifully tailored, charcoal-coloured suit, my dick is beating like a heart in the fires of anger. I fold my hands over my smart outfit, and nobody guesses that I am stirring behind it, lengthening, fattening, beginning to drip juice, as if my body anticipates congress even as my mind fixates on the night before.
The night of the launch. I’d been waiting to meet here since the senior curator first showed me her work. Work I wanted to bury myself in: steep my gaze in, trail my tongue across. Work I wanted to invade, to be a masculine figure sharing the canvas with her blazingly female presence.
That scent of hers made me hungry. The wine made me thirsty, to lap and taste and caress with my tongue. The men and women I pass on the Tube every day mistake me for a young innocent, the lads I work with talk about the laugh in my eyes. It might all have been true last week, but then I met her and now any niceness is a thin façade. I am one mouth made to pleasure her cunt, and one hard prick meant to lock us together in pleasure.
Canapes and champagne. Drunk. Invited back to her hotel room. Resisting, knowing she would insist. Which she did. I knew how she would operate – she had told the world in her artworks. She manoeuvred me back. Led me up the stairs by my tie, the fabric starving me of oxygen, as my body burned for her touch.
She averts her gaze now. She’s here on business, with the senior curator. I push home with the bored rich couple. “It’s a come on, and we’re helpless to respond…”
In her hotel room, lit by a streetlight through the window. Down on her knees. These trousers. Unfastening them, and looking up at me, and then pulling down my Calvin Klein’s. It’s hard for her. She has some difficulty. She can’t work out why. I can’t work out why.
I help her, reach in with both hands and pull out my dick, smear salty-precum over her lipgloss.
That’s when she says it. “Sorry – no. That’s … that’s just too big for me.”
It feels like a cheap line. I decide that’s how she plays. “You know you want it.”
“I can’t handle that.”
“Yes, you will, you know you will, you dirty bitch…”
I want to excuse myself from this couple and head over to her in the deep stillness of the gallery, to incline my mouth to her ear and murmur the words: “You do, you want it, you want that pony cock, you’re a dirty bitch…”
But it turned out she wasn’t playing. It turned out the sexual play was all a front. It turned out I was getting a taxi home at four in the morning.
I didn’t sleep.
I tried to sleep, of course. When I dreamt, it was in wild bursts, and I was banging her like a fucking animal. And I would wake and remember she had refused me, just because I was hung. Am hung.
I didn’t even know that was the case, before. Okay, so girls have said it before. Girls say that sort of thing. But this felt honest. She was intimidated by me.
So I went online to find out the truth.
To my surprise, I found that I really am hung. According to people on the Large Penis Support Group, I am considered big by men who are, generally, considered the big guys. I posted a few pictures on the LPSG website, just for guidance, and found men leaving all kinds of comments. Dirty comments. Comments that abased them and worshipped me.
That was the second part of my surprise. I would have thought men who fancied men wouldn’t like big dicks any more than this tight little virgin with her oil paints. But they love them. They love to find dicks bigger than theirs. Whatever else I’ve done, or achieved, or mistakes I’ve made, no matter how much older or stronger or more secure they are, even men with wives and girlfriends at home, consider me an alpha and want to be conquered by my big cock.
These men are more awake than you, the artist, to the wild fires of the human body. And goodness knows I am a volcano in need of a blast.
I excuse myself from the aristocratic couple. She thinks I’m going to try and speak to her, and she draws herself up, but I walk out of the gallery, my huge hard-on bouncing around in my suit trousers.
I activate the app. It tells me there’s someone working in an office not far away. I tag him and we chat briefly. Mostly to establish location. The public toilets in Green Park. I head there and wait in a cubicle for him to arrive.
He’s young. A nice guy. You wouldn’t look at him twice on the street. Almost a Daniel Radcliffe, but smart and bright eyed. Smiles at me, raises an eyebrow. I beckon him into the cubicle and shut the door, and then we’re on. No need for champagne, flirting, the trip to a hotel room.
He puts his hand on my bulge. “You weren’t kidding online,” he says, his eyes really lighting up with excitement. “That really is –”
“You know you want it.”
“I don’t know if I can handle it.”
I lean in and murmur. “You do, you want it. You want that pony cock. You’re a dirty bitch…”
“I am,” he says.
“We don’t need to talk,” I tell him. “Get on with it.”
In a moment he’s on his knees. That floor must be filthy. He unzips my fly, has the same trouble with getting out my big dick that she had last night, only he tries harder, doesn’t need help. He can’t prevent himself from saying, again, how big it is and how he wants it. He wraps his lips around my cockhead and slowly takes the whole thing. The whole head, I mean. That’s as far as he’s going for now, and it feels delicious enough for starters.
It could be her, if I close my eyes.
He’s going to slowly, working it inch by inch down his throat. It feels like a struggle. I hear him resisting the urge to retch. I look down, and he’s managed half of it. “You really are a little slut, aren’t you?” I say.
He takes that as his cue to take it out of his mouth, to breathe and gasp and look at me adoringly. He nods, without speaking.
“Then take it all,” I tell him. I grab his fluffy dark brown hair and use his face. I fuck his throat. It makes an interesting sound. Unfortunately I still can’t get the whole dick inside him. It’s the base of my cock that really does it for me. I need more than this.
“Bend over that fucking toilet seat,” I tell him.
He obeys. “Use a condom,” he tells me. Nobody tells me anything. I smack his tight arse for that. Then I rip apart his suit material. There it is, the gateway to pleasure. Surely I can fit more in here. I spit on my cock a few times till my mouth feels dry.
“Ohhh fuck,” he says, as the first third goes in.
“Ohhh Jesus,” he says, for the second third.
When I force myself balls deep, he’s panting.
“Stop talking.” I need to conjure her. I need to imagine it’s her hole I’m using. Bending her over, fucking her arse, instead of some office lad.
But a lad can take and enjoy a big cock. Or this one can, anyway.
I wreck him. I smash his boycunt with my monster cock as if it was my job in life. I use him, stretch him, and fill him full of my thick, purple-headed meat. I’m down to my shirtsleeves before I know it. One hand in that fluffy hair, one for stability on the toilet wall. I feel the power in my biceps, my core, the thick meat of my cock as I ride him. He’s moaning, half in pain and half in pleasure.
“You’re … so … big …!”
“Big bollocks, too,” I tell him, as they twitch and offload inside him, spilling over his tight little rounded, hairy arsechecks and staining his suit trousers. He’ll need to sort himself out on the way home.
Afterwards, sauntering back to the gallery, I find myself wondering, who did I think of at that moment? Her or him? Or was it the power of the fuck flooding through, the strength of my body, the size of my prick, the domination, the ride, the flood.
As I re-enter the gallery, and high five the security guard, I realise I wield a certain kind of power. I also realise I already need to fuck again.
