It all started with an ad on Craigslist.
I had always been a cock sucker, reveling in the simple, profound act of giving men pleasure with my mouth, lips, and tongue.
The taste of cum, salty, slightly bitter, warm and thick, had become my personal aphrodisiac; swallowing another man’s semen felt like an intimate surrender, flooding me with a quiet, glowing sense of well-being.
I scoured gay hookup sites, offering my eager mouth, and met men wherever convenience allowed: cramped car seats smelling of leather and faint cologne, quiet apartments heavy with the scent of laundry and loneliness, or secluded spots where the only sounds were distant traffic and our ragged breathing.
No reciprocity required, I existed for the act itself. When possible, I stripped naked, savoring the cool air on my skin as I knelt or lay with my head dangling off a bed’s edge, throat open and ready. Erections rarely came for me during the act; instead, my soft cock would leak steady pre-cum, a slick trail drying on my thigh. Men often whispered that my technique felt like worship, slow, reverent swirls of tongue, gentle suction, the deliberate press of lips along every vein.
After swallowing a fresh, pulsing load of sperm, the metallic tang lingering on my tongue and the faint musky scent clinging to my lips, I’d drive home. The first thing I did was sit, still tasting him, and stroke myself until I spilled into my palm, warm, viscous ropes I’d lick up slowly, savoring my own milder flavor mingling with the taste of his.
Sometimes my wife was already home or pulled in moments later. I’d greet her with a deep kiss, sliding my cum-coated tongue against hers, and watch for that fleeting, puzzled flicker in her eyes as she caught the unfamiliar saltiness.
By my late 50s, Craigslist became my secret gateway. In my area, dozens of elderly men posted ads craving relief, wives uninterested or unable, bodies still wired for release but lacking an outlet. I began targeting them exclusively: men older than me, aching for a skilled, no-questions-asked mouth.
This opened a chapter of varied, tender encounters. Some finished quickly, eyes averted, ushering me out while their softening cock still glistened with my saliva.
Others sighed in gratitude, asked me back, and turned into regulars, weekly lunch-hour snacks for me, where the clock ticked softly in the background, or post-work sessions with the late-afternoon light slanting through blinds.
A few welcomed me while wives puttered in distant rooms, the faint clink of dishes or TV murmur underscoring the risk. One elderly couple made it ritual: she sat in a chair nearby, legs parted, fingers moving in slow circles over her clit as I knelt between her husband’s thighs, her soft gasps blending with his low groans.
Their cocks told stories of age, many small and soft (3–4 inches even semi-erect), velvety skin loose over veins, never fully hard. Others surprised me: thicker, longer, rigid enough to stretch my jaw, pulsing with stronger throbs and ejaculating richer, more forceful sperm.
Volumes ranged from thin dribbles that coated my tongue like warm cream, to heavy, flooding mouthfuls I had to swallow in frantic gulps to keep from overflowing. None of it mattered; my joy was in their shudders, their relieved sighs, the way tension melted from their bodies.
My latest ad drew Gene, 78, alone in his tidy condo that smelled faintly of coffee and old books. We talked for nearly an hour, his voice gravelly, lots of stories, before I sank to my knees. I unbuckled his belt, eased down his slacks, then his boxers. His cock emerged heavy and thick even soft—6–7 inches of smooth, veined flesh, balls shaved clean and hanging loose in their sac, skin smooth under my fingers. I inhaled his clean, musky scent, then began my worship: my lips closing around one ball, then the other, sucking gently, tongue tracing every wrinkled fold in a slow, wet bath. The skin was warm, slightly salty; I hummed softly as his shaft thickened in my hand, growing impossibly long and girthy for such a slender man.
I licked upward in long, flat strokes, tasting the faint bead of pre-cum at the tip, tangy and sweet, before taking him in. His groan vibrated through my mouth as I sank deeper, throat relaxing, slick saliva coating every inch. Glug, glug, glug, the wet, rhythmic sounds filled the room as I deep-throated him, nose brushing his smooth pubic bone.
“Oh my God, don’t stop,” he rasped. When he warned of climax, I pulled back to focus on the swollen glans, tongue flicking the sensitive underside in rapid lashes. His body locked rigid; a primal roar tore from his throat as he erupted. Hot jets flooded my mouth, thick, copious, tasting pungent. I swallowed repeatedly, cheeks hollowing, some escaping to trickle warm down my chin. I held him through every spasm until he softened, spent.
He looked down, eyes soft. “Thank you, that was mind-blowing.” Instead of leaving, I stayed; he spoke of his late partner, their frequent, passionate nights, the hollow ache, he felt. He asked for more. I agreed.
This time, he wanted me naked. Clothes shed, goose bumps, in the cool air, he pulled me atop him. His kisses were deep, hungry, tongue exploring, hands kneading my ass cheeks.
My cock hardened against his thigh, thick and heavy (respectable 6–7 inches, 6-inch girth), grinding instinctively. He flipped us; suddenly his mouth engulfed me, hot, wet suction, tongue swirling, fingers rolling my balls while spit-slick digits circled my hole.
He breached me slowly, one finger curling to tap my prostate in steady rhythm. Pressure built like a wave; I moaned loud and came hard, pulsing thick ropes onto his tongue. He rose, kissed me deeply, sharing my own warm, salty release between us, slippery and intimate.
His finger still inside, he whispered, “Have you ever been fucked?” Years since, never by anything his size. He promised gentleness.
I positioned on hands and knees. He praised my ass, smooth, rounded, the pink pucker tight and inviting. Then his tongue: warm, insistent laps over my hole, probing, circling, the wet heat making me shiver. He French-kissed my entrance deeply, tongue pushing in as a finger joined, stretching gently. The sensation was electric, slick, probing, his breath hot against my skin.
Warm lube dripped down my crack, pooling at my opening. His blunt head pressed, fat, insistent. I bore down; the stretch burned as the crown popped through, then inch after thick inch filled me until his hips met my cheeks. “Every inch inside you, Dick,” he said proudly, voice thick.
The rhythm built: slow, deep drags that grazed my prostate with every pass, then quicker, shallower thrusts that made wet, slapping sounds. Pre-cum dripped steadily from my softening cock in cool strings.
He pushed me flat to the bed, plunged deep, then rolled us to spoons, his chest hair tickling my back, arm wrapped around me, hand stroking my cock in time. His breaths grew short, ragged. “Cum with me.” His grip tightened; I felt the swell inside, the heat blooming as he flooded me, pulse after hot pulse. My own orgasm crashed, cum squirting across the sheets in thick spurts, ass clenching rhythmically and tight, around him.
We lay joined, his softening length still inside as my muscles milked the last drops. Cum leaked warm and slow from my stretched, gaping hole when he finally withdrew. We murmured in the afterglow—how perfect, how rare.
I cleaned up, dressed, and we scheduled Saturday, all day. Gene and I shared nearly a year of these encounters, deep, satisfying, connected until my move. I still remember him vividly: the taste of his skin, the stretch of his cock, the way he made me feel utterly, deliciously claimed.
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