To open the brown bottle now would result in his being in control yet again. I would have to remove the hand sliding my cockhead over the outside of his delightfully slippery soft ass, meaning it would be replaced with a stranger's hand, possessing more direct intentions. I could not stop myself from doing the hit, knowing what it would mean, wanting it, having already spent a wonderful time rimming and being rimmed, along with fingering his wettened ass as he went down on my cock, with the more than occasionally delightful downwards deviation to tongue my balls. This would probably be my 5th or 6th or 7th hit till now, losing track, having fully sunk into the glorious sensations of bathhouse sex.
To the extent of almost giving in to anything, including till now forbidden pleasures. Regular visitors of the baths are fully aware of what sex with strangers offers at a male only space like this, an institution that seems to have existed in all cities able to create heated spaces for public baths.
I fully understand why that is true, as clearly as he and all the other men who visit the baths. What he was doing with my turned on cock as the rush filled me was something that had only become a concern after I had turned 18. Resulting in never having had a chance to visit the Olympus, a bathhouse I'd likely learned about in the Blade, even while driving by to visit adult bookstores to buy hardcore porn and rush, and often to get off in the video booths.
The feel of my cock against his soft skin was magical, leading to the only complication of our encounter till now - a certain background tension about needing to use a condom, without at any point interrupting my cockhead sliding over his invitingly available hole. Ever since the first touch, it had captivated my cock with a certain sexual sensation only now rising from memory. Types and styles of sex are not gay or straight, but men having sex with other men is definitely homosexual sex.
A point complicated by the fact that my first experience with getting rimmed and anal fucking were with my first girlfriend, her being inspired by a copy of the Joy Of Gay Sex. A book we then looked through together, though it was not as interesting as the Joy Of Sex, apart from rimming. An idea that was a true sexual revelation, as she had me on my back, hips in the air, legs spread, saying she was sure that I would love this, that it was something that gay men did with each other.
Now, my wet cock sliding just past his yielding and well lubricated anal ring, I realized that the two pleasures were intimately linked. Knowing now that if it had been a man introducing me to the addictive pleasures of rimming, he would have undoubtedly also gone on to do what I was doing now, hard cock sliding over saliva coated skin.
My partner paused until I had screwed the bottle tight, letting the growing effects fill me as he pushed back a bit, his fingers sliding over my shaft, slowly circling it, then pressing along it. He took a firm grasp when I breathed out, knowing that desire had overwhelmed caution. The last few bathhouse visits have significantly altered my behavior, and now, another temptation was being enjoyed to its very limit. The hit was the final result of underestimating just how good it would feel, just beyond the edge of fucking a stranger. Or a desire to finally experience what was so common in the late 70s, a time I just missed when becoming an adult.
Fortunately enough, in retrospect, as the experience gained since then is much like the advances in motorcycle helmets - better safe than sorry is not the right perspective, merely that the consequences of a mistake are generally smaller than in the past. Experience that also includes self-control, at least in terms of not cumming quickly in hot passionate spurts. Something which has been indirectly commented on, amusingly enough, at the counter when leaving the bathhouse, after only being there a delightful half hour.
However, my last few visits have shown that my sense of time is becoming very unreliable, which is not a complaint. It is hard to reconcile the clock with the perceived interval, to the extent of still thinking that it is the clock in error.
Not only the sense of time, but my self-control also. I have sucked naked cock and licked hot ass with wild abandon in the darkroom, and now, I was approaching a formerly well defined boundary. Approaching it with lungs full of rush, cock ready to continue its journey of discovery, enthralled by pure male lust.
Fingers kept sliding over and guiding my turned on cock against a wonderfully primal inviting soft wetness, poised at the edge of my cockhead passing inside him whenever the pleasure finally grew too great to prevent. I had been moaning variations of "no .. not naked .. so good .. man sex .. condom .. not naked .. fuck yes .. condom .. sexy ass" for a while, our actions showing how meaningless the words were individually, while perfectly reflecting what was going on. A state where I could not keep my cockhead from being surrounded by his pressing anal ring, a ring loosened by finger fucking, and well lubricated after being repeatedly rimming.
Truly, here was a boundary not crossed for decades, now discovering that an available and wet asshole is as tempting as any mouth or pussy or cock. Rediscovering truths related to two decades of marriage involving no anal sex, utterly unable to stop as reality continued to overwhelm me. A sexual sensation that had kept me under its spell over multiple attempts to have me start fucking him. Attempts which had been at least partially successful, I knew, though it did not matter what happened before as the pleasure continued to control my mind.
Yet the pleasure grew too large, making me pull back even as he resisted, pushing down to keep me in. Orgasming now would be too soon, especially as pulling out was the smarter alternative at two levels, not just one.
Keeping contact though, letting myself be guided by his desire, letting him manipulate me at a most basic level, one of pure sexual sensation.
