Men Fucking: Two Types of Hunger

And it stays with you, even now, hours after it happened, hours after you’ve left that place, left him, and yet your whole body is still in that feeling, that state of being, that fucking, an all-consuming sensation of pushing into someone so open and hungry for cock, so desperate and pleading, asking you to keep fucking him, even when you want to pause. No, he says, more. And: fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, over and over in your ear, so close to his mouth, pressed against him. He’s so beautiful that it’s the sensation of being inside him in particular that stays with you, that’s with you even now, not just the fucking, but the fucking him out of everyone there. Him.

All the way from China to be fucked by you. Which is kind of what he says when you ask him what he’s doing in London.

This, he says.

In your mind he’s a banker. There’s something in his sleek body, toned, so smooth, so, yes, unbelievably smooth that you slide against him while you fuck. His body, his beauty, the way he moves all have the efficiency and focus of a banker, a hawk, someone on the trading floor (you only think all this because he reminds you of a man you were in love with many years ago who was in mergers and acquisitions).

He is darker than other Chinese men you’ve been with, taller, Mongolian, perhaps. A smoker, though that doesn’t bother you the way it did last week with the other guy who, let’s face it, was not as beautiful, not as smooth, not as young. You tend to forgive the physically magnificent ones things you’d never forgive the less beautiful.

The thrusting stays with you, how open he is, the feeling of his chest and stomach against yours while you’re inside him, and the two of you are kissing in a way you’ve never kissed before, a way you imagine sea creatures might kiss, or like the suction cups on the tentacles of an octopus, so close and wet and inside each other’s mouths that you can’t tell whose lips are around whose. It’s like he wants – and you want, too! – everything to be connected, your cock inside his arse, his arse that is so soft and open that fucking feels like kissing, like banging your way into him, thrusting and fucking and pummeling and being, being inside him, and your mouths and when you come up to breathe, when you take your mouth away from his he keeps his open and you spit into it, spit into his mouth and he moans the way you’ve heard other men moan when you spit on them, the gratitude, the comfort, the sheer erotic thrill of, yes, being spat on and adored, transforming an act that in the playground, in the playground was a thing to fear, and on the street, and yet here, you are inside his arse and your spit’s in his mouth and you’re kissing again, and pushing into him and his arms are around you and his legs are around you and you just keep pushing and you think that if he keeps playing with your nipples like that and let’s you keep fucking him like this that you’ll come inside him.

Two types of hunger. His hunger, the hunger of the one getting fucked, the one who is relinquishing and open and being filled, and is responsible for nothing. All he has to do is let go. And the hunger just keeps growing, a hunger to disappear, to be consumed, and you know this, because only two days ago, Chen had fucked you so hard on your bed that you thought you would howl at him and order him to get his whole fucking body inside you. When you fuck it is different; it’s a hunger to be needed, to be wanted, to be welcomed and necessary to someone else, to provide. It’s a hunger for gratitude, to feel grateful, to feel accepted. You cannot imagine what it is like for men who don’t fuck. There are days when the hunger to fuck, when your whole body is wanting this, this ramming into someone, this act of pleasuring another person, especially someone as beautiful as Lee, all the way from China, to be fucked by you.

No, really, you say. What do you do?

Really, he says. This.

He gathers up your cum from his belly, licks it, then goes back for more, scoops it up off skin that is so smooth and brown and taut across his abdomen… then swallows that, too. When was the last time someone did that with your cum? He raises himself up so that you’re facing each other, you on your knees, him beneath you on his elbows. If one day in the future you could confess to having a type, this man would be it.

So you joke and say you’d pay him for something like this every day, and he jokes back, kissing you, says for you he’d do it for free.

2 thoughts on “Men Fucking: Two Types of Hunger

  1. Wow. That has to be your horniest and yet most sensitive post yet. Captures perfectly the beauty, intimacy, physicality and masculinity of the finest sex two men can have when there is real chemistry between them.

    I just know it was every bit as amazing as you described it.

    • Thanks, Richard. It was more amazing than I could have described, to be honest. Even this morning I can still feel the sensation. It was kind of profound 🙂 One of those experiences that restore something in you after feeling a bit low for days (even weeks).

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