At certain angles, and especially early in the morning when the light is soft enough and he hasn't been hardened by the day, Greg looks like a boy, a cute, sweet boy with a nose ring. Too bad he doesn't feel comfortable enough to show that side to my friends he's just way too defensive around them. But if they could only see that sweet boy face, and the timber of his voice when he says MattAttack (weird nick long story), soft almost a whisper because he doesn't want anyone else to hear that he's soft almost a whisper sometimes, and God do I feel privileged that I'm probably the only person he will be this way for.

If you ever want to see him at his best you would need to wake up with him. I'm the only one who can do that, but I can tell you about it, about him. Through all of swagger, and posturing, glares, huffs, slamming of doors he really craves contact. But he'll never ask for it. He needs reassurance on the most basic of levels I know his family is a big part of that, they just never accepted him they live in their dream of who he should be, and what he should do. So there's no talking about his real life in their house, and that deeply hurts him, because he can't be himself. And I don't know, but when he's holding me all night which he does every night, it's like he's reaffirming that I'm there and we're real.

I don't know how many times I've woken up, a little short for air because I've got just about 250 pounds of a slightly damp, too warm (but just right) human comforter wrapped around me. Even though breathing is impaired, and I have to maneuver just a little, because when I do that earns me 'a still sleeping no don't move hug'. Sometimes it's just a little aggravating when I have to get up to check my level or god forbid go to the bathroom, but squirming out of those 'no don't move sleep hugs' can result in 'yes move sleep/but I'm awake now keep squirming, isn't it grand we sleep in the nude, we can do this blindfolded the dark is no matter because his hand--my dick, his mouth--my shoulder... are slip and slide because the dark and sweat remembers, and my body remembers too, and it's that sweat, sometimes a little spit and that certain twitch my muscle memory opens... hugs'

Suddenly there is teeth on the back of my shoulder he bites soft to take away some sting, replacing sting with sting... but not all of it because his cock is where his two fingers were just a second ago...ahhh, and this is just my need for him when I push back, and he moves his hand from my ass and takes hold of my hip. His entry is one long pull on a cello the lowest notes, the lowest chord, the bow pulls straight and long, because the head of his cock is fat, and he's in I am not breathing, his hand grips my hip to the bone, the bow has finished it's arc on the cello and that note is ending his head pushes hard into the back of my head, his nose rubbing back and forth on my neck a hard nub foreign words, quick staccato are spoken just outside my ear...the bow is pulled back far and high, there is a throb before the thrust the head of his cock plumping and thumping, this is his heartbeat inside of me, the hand on my dick pulls, squeezing, and the bow razes the strings on the cello it comes down fast and hard, and this is Mozart on speed this is an insane cello solo, some kind of fucking orchestral bliss madness he is fucking me hard to hard, so fast and I can just see the cello player, playing as if the devil himself were sitting on his soul, he is sweating his eyes are closed hard... they could bleed he is closing his eyes so hard, and his arm on the bow is pumping the strings---sliding them across and around in a wicked fight, a needy desperation to make the cello groan and scream in beauty, and that other hand on the neck the hand on my dick is moving so fast, too fast, up and down fingers pressed at known points to produce the notes he wants to hear what Greg wants to hear...

After the first few lines of music... after the first few minutes of fucking Mozart, our crazy notes, the miracle that is this feeling of him trying to crawl into me by pulling out my soul this way settles from the insane beginning of first discovery, because my mad composer knows what beauty he can get from this instrument and he takes the journey slower. He removes his hand, because it's not those fingers on the neck of the cello not his hand pumping my dick that going to end this piece, and make me cum so hard, fast, and two times quick because that's what my mad composer does to me.

He and he alone, the way he is working my body over, that will make me cum. It does every time. Greg is big, but not huge; his cock is just enough and too much. It's in his attempt to meet with me balls and ass, imprint his pulse inside of my core, and angle, pulling me back, and hitting low then up, he strikes that perfect note inside of me and the soles of my feet are burning, and my eyes are burning too. He will hit that perfect note ten times in a row, with each hit I am up and over that first rise on the roller coaster, up and over and again. Up and over, my balls are so tight, and Greg can feel this, because he's in me he can feel me, so he bites the side of neck. One of his hands imprints his fingerprints (white, mad, and final) on my hip, and he goes around to the front, it's his hand and my chest, his fingers, and my nipple rings.

I am flesh being pumped by flesh, I am metal and skin being pulled to bring that tightness up from my balls into a sting, a reminder that he is in control. My body is his; I am his instrument to play and work hard. He pulls my nipple ring hard, flesh threatens to break away from the force. It's at that moment when teeth find the spot just under my ear the nipple ring is pulled quick and hard that he goes deeper. It's a slight movement of the hips, eloquent and known, suddenly his pulse, the throb of life in his dick is rubbing against the bumps in my spine, and the top of his cock is hitting on the back of my throat. That's what it feels like.

I am a puppet. I am connected at the feet, the hands, the knees, the elbows, my balls, my heart, and my dick by strings. And when Greg is deep, in and out of me deep, and slow like this, each thrust like the flourish on the end of a deadly debate. This. is. his. final. word.

The debate never ends. I feel all those strings pull in tight. It's as if he is trying to make the puppet look as if he is dying pulling into himself like this, the soles of my feet burn so hard, and all these strings pull so tight, too tight, and the last string is the finger in my nipple ring. The master yanks it, my puppet head shoots back because it's just been pulled like that, and these final strokes, fortissimo, he is no longer playing a cello, he is banging a drum.

I am being banged to death, because it feels like dying, because my brain is dying, and my dick has never been so hard; hurt so much, because it's dying too. This is not fuzzy mallets on a tympani, this is my man fucking me, my man inside of me. It's his cock, my ass is numb, but on the inside, I am pulling, inside by strings, by burning. The slaps sound violent like a domestic disturbance, but he is not hitting my outside, he is hitting my inside, fortissimo.

I go up the rise on the roller coaster one last time, and I come down in blindness, in white blindness that curls my toes. He stabs one last time. He pulls out; his head threatens to pop out, but at the last possible second when my balls are throbbing and the churning inside is just about to come out, he stabs one last brutal time, and I am hit by the train head-on.

I cum hot and long, his hands are bruising me, because he trying to make himself part of me. My devil in the flesh stirs 40 seconds later, and he is insane, but he awakens the rhythm, and he starts playing again.

I almost want to throw up, but it feels so good. Too good, and I don't even feel it when the trigger is touched, because I cum again. This is when my composer leaves himself inside of me. He is German; he is saying German things.

He is groaning deep like a bear that just woke up, and his arms wrap around my middle, my ribs are sore from this embrace, they've just healed from being broken, but it's his heart, that mad muscle trying to beat through his chest into my back. It is that sensation on my back, and the warmth, this healing stickiness sliding out of my ass, this is my master. This is my bliss.

This is what we did this morning. I am a boneless bunny, all white fur, pink nose, and perky ears. Greg is sitting here, as I've been typing this, and he has been petting me, rubbing my shoulders, the back of my neck. He's just reading, silent, and sweet. I'm his boy.

We're going to the desert, going to see some mountains. I suspect ha-ha, and that soft little kiss just then on the back of my neck has confirmed it. When I come back from the desert, I will be Greg's boy forever, and he will be mine. In other words, we're getting married, and I am speechless. But getting hugged around the middle just right like this... right now, it's making typing difficult. And we're getting such a late start, but he will be my husband. Oh my, that just hit me...




Rate Story Choose rating between 1 (worst) and 10 (best).

Bookmark and Share

blog comments powered by Disqus