The Rapper and His Wondrous Delights

Marcel was working my last fucking nerve!

He was excited, I know—I got that. But, still, though, don’t some of these wannabes straight, young flaming sissies have anything better to do than talk about whose dick they sucked off last?

I mean, got-damn, does his easily grossed out plain vanilla light-skinned ass want to hear the seedy details about the last butthole I fisted or the last time I showered a submissive in my piss?

No—because I respect his boundaries.

Aside from being a day old enough to have crawled out of the closet, Marcel was still squeamish at the thought of having a dick up his ass.

Thought, as the boy often rest assured me, he would be more than willing to make that one exception just for me.

Overall, Marcel was a good kid who hung around me like a moth to an open flame, impressed by my, I would say, je ne sais quoi to being so open about my man-on-man rendezvous yet buck every gay stereotype to stand as the epitome of a man’s man.

That was only one part of it.

The other was he was still young and naïve enough to believe that the first man he gave it up to would ultimately appreciate his most cherished possession, enough to become the man he would spend the rest of his life with.

Hence, the reason, despite being his first of what I was sure to be many to grace his high yellow booty, I didn’t even bother to venture there.

Besides, the boy was a bit too feminine for my taste. (Not that I have anything against truly feminine men, but it has been my experience (thus far) that a truly feminine man is more likely looking for a big daddy to cuddle up next to and easily concede to in the art of power plays whereas a bitch (which many emasculated gay men often mistake being a “bitch” for being “feminine”) who needs a good man to put him or her in their place. And where is the fun in that?) Nevertheless, I still had love for him as a friend.

Which, for some odd reason, translated to Marcel, to mean, telling me every sordid detail about some exclusive party where he made his rounds and was fortunate enough to suck off some celebrity, well-known to me or otherwise.

“I was truly amazed,” said Marcel, beaming as he sounded out every word. “Most rappers only talk about tossing away magnum wrappers in their songs. I never really thought I would come across a live one who owned all the bragging rights to it!”

“Great,” I mouthed nonchalantly, busily transferring a hot piece of drill steel from the open-hearth furnace to the cooling pool on the other side of my workshop. “He had a big dick.”

“Not just a big dick, Diesel. He had a dick that was only becoming of a thick, big phyne brotha like himself.”

“Oh, really,” I said, hoping that Marcel would finally catch the mockery in my voice, watching the steam from the water shoot high up to the ceiling.

“You had to see it—not that it would’ve held any significant interest to you. But for a big, hefty banana-dick like that he was definitely packing something truly gorgeous, something that earned some respect.”

“Earn and respect,” I chimed in, making a mental countdown of how long I was going to keep the piece of steel submerged.

“Of course, he had foreskin—like any hardcore rapper would—that started off silky smooth, handsomely covering up that big mushroom head like some snung oversized sweater.”

“Snug? Oversize?”

“Sounds like a catch-22, I know. That was why I said you had to see it. And, oh, it felt like such a heavy hand treat as I cupped the whole shebang in the palm of my hand. Notice how I said it started out that way. Once that thing started going and got fully erect, its veins started popping on like streetlights when it starts to get dark. And the darker it got the more those veins started to come together to form wide snaking rivers and long tributaries.”

“You’ve been waiting all day to use that word, haven’t you? Go’n and admit it.” I joked, letting a laugh escape out of my mouth.

“Very funny, Mr. Comedian,” Marcel said, rolling his eyes. “As I was about to say, his dick looked like a huge curved over ramp that seemed to go left, off into oblivion. And it wasn’t like his dick just stopped or tapered off or anything.”

“Another word off the Word-A-Day calendar? You’re getting pretty good.”

“Shut up.”

“What! I was giving you a compliment.”

“Like I said,” Marcel cleared his throat. “It wasn’t like his dick just suddenly stopped or—tapered—got smaller; it just couldn’t decide where to go next—

“So it just ended…eventually.” I completed for him.

“Exactomundo,” Marcel smiled.

“The Spanish version of the word-a-day? Impressive. But I’ve dated enough muchachos to know that it is either exactoor preciso.”

“Ha, ha,” Marcel sounded off dryly.

“…three…two…one…,” I said, transferring the relatively hot piece of steel onto the heat-resistant bench.

“Not that I would expect you to know anything about hip-hop—

“Hey, now,” I snapped. “I remember what it used to be when it was truly—

“How come I feel an old man speech coming on?” He said.

“Old man?”

“Mature,” Marcel corrected in sort of blasé flair.

“When hip-hop was the bomb, I was already fresh in my Kangols and Adiddas, I was there when it switched up to Karl Kani and Cross Colours…and Starters and Fila.”

“Oh, whatever,” Marcel fanned his bent-wrist hand.

“No whatever.”

“Do you still listen to what is going on today?”

“Shit, yeah! I still listen to hip-hop, and probably have more hip-hop and rap in my playlist than the artist you’ve claimed to have deep-throated.”

“See, I ain’t the only one using the word-a-day.” He snapped back.

“Cute. Granted, I don’t always get it, but I always try to keep a strong pulse on what’s going on.”

“Okay, then, Mr. Pulse,” Marcel crooned. “Well, have you ever heard of Mike Check?”

“No,” I frowned as Marcel greedily smiled, thinking his young know-it-all ass had gotten one over on a man seventeen years his senior. “No not at all…except he got a single out on the radio that is number one regionally here in the South and steadily climbing the charts nationally. From what else I know, unlike most, his career didn’t start going beyond a street buzz until after he left his now-defunct major label for an independent label. And secondly, his name isn’t ‘Mike Check’ like M-i-k-e. It’s ‘Mic Check’ M-i-c like mic is short for microphone check.”

“Well,” Marcel puffed in defeat. “All I know is that Mike—Mic—or whatever his name Check had a helluva monster that I sucked off in the downstairs basement bathroom of the man hosting the party.

▪        ▪        ▪

Ever since the world learned the term “DL”, every sissy has a story to tell about who they had the privilege of hooking up with. While some were based on real accounts, most, by the way they were told, regardless of how rehearsed their stories were, were nothing more than wishful figments of the imagination. And while I was almost ready to throw Marcel’s latest fable out with the rest of the garbage that could be found plastered on the internet about men that “allegedly” messed around, it wasn’t the first time I had heard that this particular man messed around—in fact I was proof positive of it.

The name was originally brought to my attention a couple of weeks prior by a good friend of mine, who like me, was often dumbstruck by a thick, handsomely in-shape good-looking man of color sporting a beard or a goatee, along with white boys of the same caliber but with an added swagger. (Black man trapped in a white boy’s body.) And although my friend missed out on the opportunity to be an executive producer for his upcoming album, he failed to miss the label’s rising star receive five-star head from his budding protégé like it was a privilege and not a right. “I mean, every day I come across things that shouldn’t blow me out of the water. But he just whipped it out and motioned him to go at it—and the crazy part about it was that he did! Risking the chance that anybody could look through the glass and see them.”

Shortly after our little conversation, my friend called back a few days later telling me to pick up one of those alternative weekly periodicals which happened to feature a full-length profile of the rapper.

“You, thick, and phyne,” my friend boasted over the phone. “Too bad he knows it.”

“Oh, I know him.” I said, smiling at his well-groomed picture, filled with the standard rapper bling along with showing off his designer shades and his many visible tattoos on his neck and arms.

Minus the shades and the tattoos and the three-carat earrings and chains and the wide-ass bracelet, Mic Check was a guy I knew by the name of Thorn Jenkins, whom I had the pleasure of meeting five years earlier at a local leather bar.

I was out and about as usually, on the patio having a little fun with the newbies who were often enthralled by my scantily-clad leather codpiece when I saw this plump solid dude eyeing me from afar. At first, looking at how good he looked, I thought he was one of those many cockteases that all they wanted to do was look. And later, I simply chucked it up to either mere coincidence or greedy curiosity when he started circling around me like a hungry vulture. By the way the boy moved around the bar, though, I knew for certain he was absolutely harmless. But you do know they say about a live antelope left along in a large cage with a lion? So I decided to make my own little play by luring the poor sap into the nearby leather shop. And like a good little boy, he haphazardly followed, of course, accompanied by a skinny friend at his side practically shoving him into my paws.

“Ex-excuse me, sir,” he asked nervously of the guy behind the counter. “What are these?”

“Cockrings.” I mouthed, moving my hand over the glass case to make eye contact with him, and proceeded to drop twenty dollars and some change on two large double-thick rubber cockrings. “Follow me.”

Because I had become somewhat of a permanent fixture around the bar and brought in a steady stream of cash into the shop, it was nothing for me to make use of the little room in the back, with or without another hot guy trailing behind me.

“Come on in.” I said, waving him into one of the small rooms.

He was reluctant to step in, and as soon as I was able to close the curtain behind him, he became visibly shaken. So much so I thought the poor boy was going to faint.

“You do know what a cockring is…do you?” I asked, holding up the two rings.

He shook his head.

“It’s a device use to hold an erection or to prolong an erection during intercourse.” I said, sliding my pants off my ass just enough to show him my patient dick.

“How do you use it?” He asked in a trance, so stunned by my protruding dick I was surprised he heard a word I said.

“I’m about to show you,” I said slowly, taking the ring and stretching over my hefty meat and potatoes. “As you can see, I don’t look like the kind of brotha that would have problems in that area, but it makes a nice conversation piece for those on the receiving end of my dick.”

“So, for you it’s decorative.” He said, not taking his eyes off my prize.

“Exactly. Now take off your pants.” I said seductively.

“Huh?” He snapped out of it, but made the mistake of looking me in the eyes, and nervously asked, “Why?”

“Where am I going to put the second ring, silly?”

He was once again reluctant to answer my request, but did so nevertheless showing off his long, slender, hard banana.

I started off slow, running my cold hands over the length of his shaft as I watched him tingle to the touch. None the wiser that I was rearranging his loosing hanging balls to get the perfect fit ring down to the base.

“There you go.” I smiled. “Now you can put your boyfriend out there out of commission.”

“He ain’t my boyfriend.” He said catching his breath. “He is just a friend.”

“Good,” I said, grabbing his large stubby hand and pulling it over to my crotch. “So he won’t mind you holding another man’s dick won’t he?”

He shook his head, choosing to channel most of his attention to copping a feel for a dick that was significantly fatter and an inch longer than his own.

“Feels good, don’t it?” I said, a few moments later as he started to become more aggressive in his slow stroking. “Keep that shit up, and I might just have to put it in your mouth.”

He gave a feign smile as if to say he ‘wasn’t so sure about that,’ but the way he licked his lips told me he was no stranger to blowing a man off.

“Let me buy you a drink,” I said. “Before your ass get both of us into trouble.”

Though, we were slow to disengage, we pulled up our pants and left the shop.

Because he still had his friend with him, I gave him his time and space to fill him in on the seedy details that transpired behind the curtain before he made his way to the bar.

I bought him some lightweight drink, and we converse a little.

And while the vibe was right, I could see the gentle “no” working in his head, if by chance I decided to invite him over to my place later. Before I could burst his bubble with my other plans later that evening, his friend came over and whisked him away. But not before we could exchange cell phone numbers.

“I thought you had a little freak in you.” I found myself saying to him an hour later with a huge shit-eating grin on my face in a hot stuffy bedroom, where the two of us were both naked except for our new cockrings getting sucked off simultaneously by two eager cocksuckers.

Eventually, I broke away from Thorn and laid some pipe into a couple of pieces of ass for the room to see while he stayed posted up on the wall getting his nipples and his dick sucked.

Days later, I called him up and asked him was in interested in scoring a cup of coffee with me. He agreed, confessing later in our stroll around the park he had been dragged to the bar by a friend who was there supporting another friend who was pledging to a leather fraternity for men of color. And in the same breath, told me the only reason he was at the sex party was because he was following his friend once again.

“It’s cool. I was there, too.” I said, offering up some comfort to his edgy behavior. “I take it that both were partaking of your first gatherings?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled heavily. “Especially with the club. As far as I was concerned, the gay boys went to the drag queen shows.”

“They do,” I injected. “Though, the men head straight to the leather spots.” I winked.

“As far as that jam party went, I had gone to several…except for that one, all the rest I’d attended had been of mixed company.”

I got him out on a few more dates and got further up in his head. Much like I had expected out of a nice-looking athletic guy like himself, he was more than experience with men. And much like myself, he started out his sexual career with a guy.

“Let me get this straight,” I said one autumn evening three weeks later, trying to process the information he was then giving me. “In order to get ready to get with some girl that was about to give it up to you, you decided to get ready by hemming up one of your freaky homeboys?”

“In a nutshell, yeah,” he smiled at his former logic. “All the other dudes I had been hanging around had made such a big deal about going up in their raw and tearing it up’ that I wanted to be prepared for my first time.”

“So, how did you convince your homeboy to let you know ‘knock over his can’?”

“Easier than you would think. Even though my boy didn’t come off as a sissy, I knew he wanted to mess around by the way he pushed up on me on the basketball court—even when we were on the same team. But I finally got hip to it all one day when I came out of the shower, and his perverted ass was looking at my dick like it was an ice cream pop.”

“Maybe he was hungry? Sweet tooth?” I joked.

“He was definitely sniffing around for a lick, alright.”

“And I bet his ass got it to.”

“No doubt.” Thorn simpered with a nostalgic look in his eyes. “He ended up fucking me up, though, too.”

“How?”

“Because while I was getting it on with my girl, I kept on thinking about how much better he felt from the head down to the booty hole.”

“Well, in her defense, cunt is no substitute for ass.”

“True, but she was only given up the ass—she was so afraid of getting pregnant she let me nowhere near her ga-gina.”

“Damn,” I smiled, hearing for the first time in my many years a woman giving up her ass in oppose to giving up her cunt.

Later that same night, back at his place, Thorn and I went back and forth about our many past sexual trysts. Before long I was stretched out on his bed half naked and playing with my hardening dick, obviously hot and horny. The next thing I know, he got his lips wrapped around it going to town on the damn thing.

Usually, like 1-2-3, it was nothing to me to start playing with his ass, getting it open for a dick down. But I knew from previous experience that thick young macho men like Thorn were like dancing across a minefield. Some were deathly afraid of having their booty touched much less have their crackholes played with in fear it would, without reservations, make them a homosexual. Others were apprehensive that if they conceded to letting themselves get fucked that that would make them gay. Gay might be a word that plain ol’ white boys could accept and tolerate in the suburbs, but in the ‘hood for black and browns alike gay meant morphing into some ugly oversized drag queen, which often meant a life of constant scorn and on the late-night prowl for dick in some unkempt train station bathroom. Because these particular men were of girth and size, it was especially a no-no for them considering that most of these men were looked up to as the pillars of manhood in their respective communities.

For some, however, there was one exception to the rule—a man had to be man enough to climb on their back.

Not just a man; but a man that would without a doubt overshadow their own manhood, be it attitude, or size, followed by what they were packing.

Fortunately for me, I was that large older experience man, and he was that very exception.

But my fortune soon turned, however, as the sex proved to be less than ordinary and very much uneventful. He never relaxed enough to enjoy the real pleasures of having a real man inside of him. The very first time he let that macho man do this to him was still written clear on his face. The man was too selfish to give a damn. He couldn’t see that Thorn was too proud to cry out in pain or risk the chance of coming off as weak begging him to stop or slow down.

While it would’ve taken some time, I could have worked with the boy to retrain his reaction to getting penetrated. But like too many like him, Thorn vanished from view.

He was had.

Therefore, he felt he was less than a man in my eyes, or the eyes of any other man that knew, which in his limited world made him nothing more than a bitch.

…and I wasn’t about to waste my time and convince him otherwise.

▪        ▪        ▪

With Marcel and my adoring friend keeping me abreast about the going-ons of the man who had morphed himself into Mic Check, I thought I would be kind enough to send him a congratulatory email wishing him the best in his newfound celebrity. But as I started in on my fourth draft, I thought about how really corny that was, especially after all this time. After I found out he was going to be in town that weekend for the All-Star game, I thought it would be better to send out a mass email to everyone in my “special” group, including him and a couple of his peers whom I knew in passing.

Subject: F.R.E.A.K.

This is your man, Diesel

It certainly has been a long time since the MEN have cum to “congregate” last. How ‘bout it? This Saturday night ‘round the stroking of midnight? Holler back with your response. Oh, and by the way, just like a true boss, I got everything you want and need for the congregation. So cum on out!!!

Within fifteen minutes, I had twenty-five of the thirty men inform me they would be present. And within five hours that number had multiplied to six times that amount. Which pretty much meant that between forty and sixty guests weren’t going to show up; leaving the rest, about a hundred plus, throughout the night, to partake in the festivities.

“A sex party. You’re going to lure the boy to a sex party?!” My good friend stammered, coming through the door with the festivities well on their way.

He knew me best, knowing I had some sort of deviant trick up my sleeve.

“Honey…vinegar…you know the old saying,” I said, tilting back my lime-flavored beer, concentrating on the door.

Hours passed by. I witnessed several scores of good-looking, well-built men disrobe before me and make good use of my many sex rooms, at their disposal.

“Eh, Diesel,” one of my early arrivals asked, coming out of one of the bedrooms with a drink in hand and several on his breath. “When you going to come on back and feed me some of that big dick?”

“Later.” I barked.

“I ain’t got later, man. I’m going to bounce in the next half-hour to catch this plane.”

“And?” I snapped coldly.

“And? You promised you were going to feed me some of that hard fat dick next time we crossed paths.” He whined, reaching over and inappropriately copping a feel on my groin.

I fanned his hand away and turned my attention back to the door. Obviously, he was ticked off I wasn’t making my swinging dick available to him. Even more peeved, I was holding out on him for a possibility.

“Like you said, you got thirty more minutes. So, we’ll see.” I said, taking the last swig of my beer.

It seemed to be enough to keep him satisfied, and eventually moving into one of the other bedrooms behind a set of short, powerfully-built naked guys after some time. I awaited approximately fifteen minutes after the fact, when I finally made up my mind the rapper wasn’t going to show up. Actually, it had more to do with the noise calling my ears like the scent of fresh baked cookies do to the nose, with the insatiable grunts and groans coming from the faraway bedroom. As I got closer, the more the sound became more piggish, as if someone had snuck a boar up in my house when I wasn’t looking. So as I go in, because of the lack of light, I was only able to make out this slim gentleman butt-naked, bent over and bracing the foldable card table as another man stood behind him, making the man squeal in searing torment. And if that wasn’t enough, he had about seven to eight big-dick men strapping on condoms and patiently awaiting their turns in the oddly cool, crisp room.

I know I stuck around long enough to watch one man take the place of the other, but on my way back to the front I was startled to find my boy Sahmir laying on his back in the middle of the floor with some very attractive heavyset dude riding his dick like he was at the rodeo.

As I made my way into another dark bedroom, it wasn’t nearly as subdued as the first one. The room reeked of sex, a hot and heavy heat with men littered about, sucking and groping and mauling each other like they had never done it before and liked it, sprinkled with men working up a sweat and fucking each other silly. I hadn’t posted up on the wall before two cocksuckers came out of nowhere working on my dick and balls before two pairs of lips decided to make nice with my pointed nipples.

These dudes got talent; I remembered thinking as neither one of them were too gentle or too aggressive, dedicating their energies to some of my erogenous zones. And while I was figuring out in my mind which one of these men would look best bent over with my dick ramming the wind out of them. I looked over to find this just-right dude with the most beautiful, sculpted ass I had ever seen, do a full spread-eagle on the mattress below. And before I could break free of my captives, this solid plump dude with a matching-size dick came from the other corner of the room and jumped on it.

 

Booty, booty, butt cheeks, a verse from a radio plug quickly came to mind as the nice, round caramel-brown buttocks jumped up and down against its prey.

The room seemed to go completely quiet watching the man on the bottom muffle his cries into his arm. The other dude seemed to be in full control except for the sweat rolling down his face and into his eyes. But he played it off cool, coming to rest of his balls crushed up against that sculpted ass, letting the man accommodate him.

Then, he was off, holding the boy steady and leveling some deep, hard monster strokes into that sweet ass. Up and down, left and right, his hips along with the man throwing it back to him looked like they had erupted into some kind of seismic seizure that somehow went wrong but tried to make itself right. Both men go at it strong for a really long time—at least for a casual sex party—until the bottom man concedes, raising himself to his knees and starts jacking off while the plump solid man grabbed him by the waist and started fucking him steady and deep. He must’ve been doing something a little different because the homeboy that was getting put to the screws started panting hard, making sounds I had only heard out in the wild. All this against the backdrop of the man putting the screws to him, slapping skin and slapping ass, telling him how he worked his tight hole into a sagging tunnel and how good it felt and how slick it was.

“Oh, shit! I’m about to loose this nutt!” The star bottom proclaimed.

“Shoot it off.” His partner told him, pulling out of his ass and motioning him to roll over onto his back. And just like it had been planned and synchronized, the big man stuck his dick back into that ass at the precise time the recipient sprouted a huge gusher that should have been made for porn, sparkling in the fleeting moonlight as it streaked across his sinewy body and onto the behind below him.

And like a proud poppa, the top pulled out of him again and willed himself to shoot a load the length of his torso all the way to the underside of the man he just fucked.

Once he got it all out of his system and the other man was lying down to catch his breath the scene went from entertaining to a bukkake with every man choosing to stop by and shoot a nutt in the face of the exhausted bottom while the celebrated top was praised by his adoring fans.

With my two nipple-suckers vying to be my number one cocksucker, I was able to break free of them and congratulate a guest of mine for a job well done. But before I could get to him, his face became clear in the dull light, and I got the biggest surprise of my life.

“I was wondering when your ass was going to show up,” I said, wrapping my arm around Thorn Jenkins aka Mic Check.

“Diesel?” He said, somewhere between shocked and intimidated as I led him out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where I had a makeshift bar set up. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“You should. It’s my party.” I said, reaching over some random arms and hands to mix up some drinks. “You still go for that rum and coke?”

“Yeah.” He said, licking his lips to his ready-made drink.

“The directions didn’t give it away? That I was the one throwing the party?”

“Oh, yeah,” he beamed. “This was ‘the house’ you were buying when we were doing our thing. I would think after five years you would’ve put more shit in here, though?”

“You’re a fucking decorator now?” I smiled. “This was the house—still is, I should say—but I use it as a rental property when occupied.”

“That’s good,” he said, drinking his drink and flashing me a cheesy smile.

“I heard you, too, had made a few changes in your own life as well. Maybe we could talk about them a little bit later when the crowd thins out.”