My Sour Adventure
6'4" | 195lbs | 31 | Top/Vers | Creative Kinkster Seeking Sour Surrender
Headline: Craving a guy who pouts like he means it? Let's turn tang into thrust.
About Me:
Fit, bearded creative type with a twisted sweet tooth for the pucker. I love slow builds—kissing my way from citrus whispers to full-on fermented frenzy. Imagine me feeding you bites that make your eyes water, your lips twist, and your body beg for more. It's not just food; it's foreplay that hits like lightning. Discreet, clean, vaxxed, and always down for aftercare with ice cream chasers. Bonus if you squirm in the best way.
What I'm Looking For:
Masc or fem, any build—especially if you've got a thing for sensory overload. Let's start with a lemon tease and end in shudders. No flakes, yes to safe play. Pics swap first. Hosting tonight?
Tribes: Bearish | Creative | Kinky
Looking For: Right Now | Dates
My Stats: HIV Negative | PrEP | U=U
Nick looked like a legendary muscle man of myths—tall, lean but with powerful arms and legs, a short but curly golden-colored beard and bright blue eyes that sparkled with good humor. The moment I saw him, I fell in love, although the mention of his kink with sour things made me cringe long in advance. But hey, as soon as I saw him, I said to myself, Augie, brace. You will need to suffer to have this man in your bed, so be it…
Nick was a gentleman. Nothing in him hinted at hurrying towards the end goal of the day. He greeted me with a warm hug against his and a ghost of a kiss on my cheek; his lips were soft and smelled of mint, and his beard was surprisingly soft. Ah, how I aimed to touch him between his legs in those tight rower shorts where I could see the gentle outline of an ample dick and its two bouncy friends… but his was a gentlemanly hug that kept me away from my favorite area on the man’s body.
We started with breakfast in a coffee shop because, as Nick confessed, he hadn’t had anything to eat in the morning, and hr hand-fed me pieces of flaky pastries, taking the advantage of the corner table where few prying eyes could see us. His eyes shone at me bright and tender, betraying the desire, but we talked about philosophy, psychology and culture. He knew a lot about classical philosophers and engaged in quite a dialog about the similarities in the thought of Cicero and St. Augustine, which he said was his term paper last semester; then he switched as easily to the program of my course in cultural anthropology and told me about his visit to South America where he in Uruguay he watched native priests carry out their holy rituals. As you can imagine, this charmed me beyond measure and promised me a date with a guy who was smart enough to interest a seasoned academic.
There was a lighter side to him, however, and when he took me to his favorite promenade, he held my hand gently (with just fingertips!) and shared hilarious stories about mishaps during rowing races, like when their oars got broken or they got stuck on a shallow strip under a bridge shaking under a huge freight train. There was delicious intellect behind his storytelling, and he seemed to be as amused by the stories as I was. I allowed myself to laugh and enjoyed watching him hitting his laps as he burst in melodic high-pitched laughter at one of the stories.
We lunched in a coffee house that presented a music concert, and when we sat in the small auditorium, and the music filled the tiny space, his hand finally clutched mine, and kept caressing it in rhythmic patterns all through the program, and his eyes were—if my own eyes didn’t deceive me—moist with admiration.
I know, I know, my dear readers, this sounds almost too good to be true—a flaxen bearded giant who knows philosophy and culture, enjoys music and has been to wondrous distant worlds—and a prospect of more, more than that, the adventure that might ruin it or make it better: what could have been more arousing?
And then, walking me to his apartment, he read me poems—he didn’t say whose they were, but they sounded sweet and naïve, but who doesn’t like sweet and naïve poems, right? Some allegories and metaphors in them were magnificent, and—hold on to your chairs—the last lines about “thank you for sharing naked mornings” made my heart, okay, not only my heart, my balls, too, jump in anticipation.
When we entered, I was surprised at how clean and spartan his studio apartment was. The kitchenette gleamed; the bed was made to perfection, a soft armchair looked very inviting, and four chairs around the polished table made me think of intellectual conversations. Nothing—nothing!—in this set up spoke about this great guy having a crazy fetish I was looking forward to; terrified yet fascinated. I was wondering, as I always do, what this guy will look like when he surrenders to his hidden animal side, what he will do, how he will sound, oh god just thinking about it made me hard, then and there, and now as I write this.
“Well,” he said, and his voice trembled a little. “Would you like to… you know…”
“Yes,” I said readily. “Yes, I would.”
***
Nick lifted my shirt first—slowly, very slowly, like he was peeling bark off a live tree. Fingers grazed my ribs on the way up; I raised my arms and the cotton cleared my head with a soft pop, leaving me goose-prickled under the ceiling light. I reached for his shirt next—thin flannel, buttons already straining where his beard brushed the collar. One by one the discs slipped free; each release let out a breath warmer than the last, until the fabric slid from his shoulders and revealed that pale, flaxen down all across his body—his neck, his chest, his arms, all the way to his big hands. The fuzz caught the lamp’s glow in tiny gold sparks, so fine it felt like touching sunlight—barely there, yet electric under my palms.
Then I knelt to tackle his belt. Leather sighed open, zipper rasped, and jeans sagged enough for me to see the root of him—thick, curved, weight pulling the shaft downward so the head peeked past the hem of his briefs like a heavy fruit bending its branch. When I eased denim past his thighs the whole length swung free, slapping softly against his stomach before hanging at rest, veins visible beneath translucent skin. Above, his chest rose and fell; those downcast blues stayed fixed on the floor, but every exhale trembled, beard fluttering, as if the quiet itself were undressing us both.
Nick hooked his thumbs under my waistband and eased everything down in one slow glide; the cool air hit my cock first, then the heat of his breath just above it. I stepped free, and his own heavy dick swung inches from mine—curved shaft pale as milk, the flared crown a slick light-pink beacon that bobbed with every heartbeat, slick bead trembling at the slit. Beneath, his sack lifted and dropped in the same rhythm, two smooth weights rolling under that translucent fuzz; my gaze drifted to the thick flaxen bush at the base—hair so fine it shimmered like wheat silk—and farther down to calves furred in the same gold mist, strands glittering each time he shifted.
Then he closed the gap. Our chests met first, soft hair against my smoother skin; a moment later our cocks kissed—his curved heft pressing the underside of mine, crowns sliding wetly together, heat trading heat. Arms circled backs, palms spread shoulder-blades, and the whole length of him radiated clean warmth, like sun-dried linen even after a long day. I felt his pulse thud through both shafts, the soft catch of his beard against my neck, and the quiet tremor in his ribs answering mine—two strangers suddenly fluent in the same silent language of skin.
I almost leaned in for the usual glide—lips to lips, hand sneaking south—but Nick stepped back, palm gentle on my sternum. “Let me feed you, remember?” he murmured, voice low, eyes still half-shy. “Climb on the bed.” The words felt ceremonial; I obeyed, sitting cross-legged atop the quilt while he padded across the studio. Every stride stretched that flaxen fur over shifting muscle, his cock riding parallel to the floor—heavy enough to stay curved forward, head peeking past thigh, swaying like a metronome. His feet were almost comically long, soles smacking soft against laminate, ankles dusted in the same gold down that caught the fridge light when he bent. He returned balancing a small saucer with rainbow-colored delicious-looking morsels on snow-white porcelain. I watched the arc of his arm as he placed it on the bed between us, the calm bulk of him blocking the lamp, and realized the hunger he meant to satisfy first wasn’t the one between my legs.
“Don’t worry,” Nick said. “We’ll take it slow. I swear it won’t be uncomfortable. Just keep looking at me, please.” Nick’s voice wavered on “uncomfortable,” a tiny crack that let the nerves leak through; I glanced at his forearms and saw every filament of that pale fuzz bristling upright, gold sparking against flushed skin. He lowered himself onto the mattress, thighs spreading until our knees touched, and gravity shifted his cock from that heavy hang to a proud upward salute—a good eighteen centimetres lifting off his abs, swaying slow arcs like a mast in gentle wind. The curve softened when seated, shaft thick and straight as a candle, veins subtle under pearly skin; beneath, his balls settled wide and smooth, pretty rose tint against the white duvet, quiet yet already drawing tighter with every breath he fought to steady.
When his gaze lifted, the blue hit me like sun through windshield—clear, unreadable for half a heartbeat, then flooded with layers: shy flicker at the edges, wild hunger pulsing in the center, and underneath both, a soft curiosity that quivered like a fingertip testing water. I saw doubt there, too—tiny ripples asking if his hunger showed too stark—but the gentleness was bottomless, a promise etched in iris rings: you’re safe, I’ll never bruise what I’m aching to hold. My chest caved open, some inner latch undone, and warmth poured through me—different from lust, thicker, steadier. Blood followed that warmth south; my cock didn’t jump, it bloomed, each heartbeat nudging it higher until the head brushed my own belly, skin sliding silk against skin. The erection felt wrapped in down comforters, not fireworks—an arousal born of tenderness for this big, anxious man who was going to feed me sour things, his quirky prelude already sweeter than any savage rush I’d known.
“Yum,” he said, lifting off a piece of lemon dipped in sugar. “This is sweet, don’t worry.” His fingers gently took the morsel to my lips, and I accepted, leaning in a bit; indeed the piece was sweet with just a hint of lemon tanginess. I wish you could see the deep stare of his blue eyes as they roamed my face for the slightest sign of reaction, but I just smacked my lips. “Yum,” I said.
Next he lifted a lime wedge like a tiny lantern, juice glinting across the slice, then pressed it to my lip—cool droplets landing first, like a tart mist before the flood. “While it still feels sweet,” he murmured in the voice that sounded like rough velvet. The second the pulp breached my mouth, the bitter sourness softened by the sweet lemon snapped me awake—bright, electric—and I am sure I felt my pupils dilate. My torso shook a bit involuntarily, one hand flew to his shoulder, my fingers dented his warm skin as I swayed between jerk-away and lean-closer. Nick watched that war play out on my face and for a while he seemed to forget how to breathe, as if my surrender were a drug he’d just tasted—he crushed the rind harder, milked the last sting, already hungry for the next layer of me he could peel.
“Like it?” Nick murmured. “It’s not too bad, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” I admitted. “It’s… pleasantly bitter and yes, the sweetness helped. You are a master, Nick!”
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and I swear I saw his hand brush the glistening head of his cock for a mere second. “This next one is more salty than sour… it’s a pickle, don’t worry; it’s got an aftertaste that you’ll like… Open up your mouth, Augie.”
I opened my mouth and he placed two razor-thin slices of pickled cucumber on my tongue. It tasted of cool cucumber sugar first, then came a gentle kiss of salt—my mouth relaxed, welcoming more. Half a heartbeat later the pepper bloomed: fire raced across my tongue, down the throat, a bright chili flare that snapped my spine straight. I gasped, but it still was manageable, pleasant though hot, and I knew Nick could see it on my face. My chest heaved, and my cock throbbed against his hand that he extended now, and the sting settled low—warm, alive—turning every of my breaths into a silent plea for the next sweet trap he’d dare me to bite.
“Like it?” he asked, and his hand moved in to grab my cock fully, as his face came closer and closer. Soon he was kissing my neck and his fingers circled the ridge of my crown, strong, powerful, teasing.
“Love it,” I said, finding myself unable to breathe under the surge of pleasure on my neck and between my legs.
Then I, too, reached between us, fingers brushing that flaxen trail before closing around his shaft—thick, furnace-hot, the curve fitting my palm like it was molded for it. Nick’s breath stuttered; his thumb started circling my crown the same moment I traced his slit with a slow swipe. We leaned in, mouths landing on each other’s throats and necks instead of lips—open, hungry, tasting salt and citrus and chili heat. Necks stretched, his beard rasped my skin, our pulses hammered under our tongues. Our forefingers formed tight rings, polishing each other’s cockheads in slick, mirrored strokes—tiny circles that sent matching shocks down thighs. Our hips now rocked in silent sync, the room shrinking to wet skin, shared breath, and the slippery glide of two crowns begging for the next spark.
Next, Nick trapped the sour cherry drop between his teeth, leaned in, and passed it to me like a secret—it was very sweet at first, then the sugary shell cracked, and a citric flash flooded my tongue. I yelped into his mouth; he swallowed the sound, kissing harder while our hands jerked our cocks, giving each other unpredictable surges of pain and pleasure. The tart shock rippled down my spine, hips twitching in reflex, but his palms were already guiding—pressure on my shoulders, gentle insistent tug. I let him lower me, back meeting cool sheets, knees drawn up and apart without a word spoken. His shaft ghosted over my hole, blunt head nudging my perineum—warm, insistent promise—while the candy’s sour sting still sparked between our fused lips and our heartbeats drummed the same frantic tempo.
“Take me,” I moaned. “I am so ready… oh, Nick, please.”
“Not yet,” he murmured. Up came the saucer again, his lips lifted another morsel. I no longer knew what to expect but I never expected the peppery saltiness of perfectly pickled kimchi, refreshing and so different after a sour kick.
I braced for another sour ambush—then tasted only warm salt, chili glow, fermented cabbage giving way like a soft crunch of ocean. My shoulders dropped, a low hum of relief rolling through me just as Nick’s gaze locked on, pupils wide, studying every twitch. He eased forward, his angled crown kissing my ring, pressure building until the flare slipped inside and slid along the wall—pressing a secret button I never knew existed. Light burst behind my eyes, white starfields, the kimchi’s heat still blooming on my tongue while his curved shaft pressed that spot again, sending sparks down thighs and up my spine in one seamless electric arc.
If you ever had your face studied up close, you would know what Nick’s face with a wild grimace of passion looked like just a couple of inches away from mine, cataloging every reaction, every micro-motion, every murmur of sound. It was inquisitive, curious, wild, animalistic, and that face moved—up and down—further and closer as his bent shaft pounded my ass, harder and harder, to the point where it almost hurt but in the same pleasant way as the terribly sour cherry blended with the sugar on a lemon slice.
Then there came a stop—just seconds from where I wouldn’t know the way back—and his huge body reached for something else on that magic saucer. I saw his fingers bringing something green to my lips, and the thought—God, no, it’s the Japanese cherry!—made me jump almost instinctively. But he held my face, almost forced my teeth open, and as the sour hell touched me, roared and pounded me harder and harder, holding my face with his fingers, growling and pushing, pushing, pushing as his eyes hungrily searched my face for signs of this sour torture.
Wish you could see his grimace—he was now a werewolf in his den, a dark spirit of the Halloween night in some ghostly town, a wild ghost of a Scandinavian horror story—wish you could hear his growl that made my heart flutter, wish you knew how my prostate ached to release a flood of cum as he pounded, pounded, pounded me, his crooked shaft kissing that hot spot inside me. He was no longer that philosophizing gentleman who spoke in a quiet voice about Cicero, he was driving me in a crazy buggy along a bumpy road with my balls hitting the hard seat—or so it felt—until I sounded the alarm of the weirdest orgasm of my life.
As I screamed my head off, coming and coming in thin hot spurts on my stomach, pressed down by his body, he licked my face, and the rough hot surface of his tongue brought warm comfort to my mouth and face burning from the pleasant sour torture. The fur of his body was now hot against me, and his pushes were now ragged, and then…
His growl rattled the room as the first pulse fired: a thick fountain coating my walls in warm silk flooding inward. Each throb hit that hidden side-spot again, sparking fresh starbursts behind my eyes while his palms cracked against my ribs—sharp slaps that turned the glow into lightning. My tongue still carried kimchi salt, lingering sour cherry, and the ghost of chili heat; the three tastes merged into one dizzy current as his cum kept pumping, overflowing, until sight blurred, thighs shook, and all I knew was the warm storm inside me and the sting of his grateful strikes branding my skin.
***
We couldn’t breathe for five minutes, shaking, moaning, kissing, panting… but as soon as his aftershocks ceased he was again the gentle and shy big guy who was himself a bit scared of what he had been doing minutes ago. He looked at me guiltily but when his eyes met mine he could see that I was still trembling in aftershocks and licking my lips, and relaxed in my arms…
I honestly don’t know if I am up for repeating this taste torture, after all it was perhaps the strangest food experience in my life, but the crooked shaft touching the side wall, fuck, guys, it was the hottest thing of all. Sometimes I meet Nick on campus, most times he pretends he is busy looking at his phone, but when our eyes do meet I can feel him say “Not again, huh?” and we pass by each other. But the pounding, the mixture of tastes and the rough tongue on my face, while my ass is flooded with cum, still come to me in my dreams, o my bogatyr of ancient tales.
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