Ted and Zac's Blind Date

The sound of the toilet flushing took my attention away from the soft melody of the music in the background, not quite loud enough for me to recognize the tune, but something for me to try to concentrate on in my nervousness. I had no idea why I had agreed to this, why I was here.

It was a studio apartment, but the room was large. There was a living and dining area and even an exercise corner where I saw that he had parallel bars, both set low to the ground, the nearer at waist level and the one beyond that about a foot and a half lower. I shuddered at the thought of how he might use those.

Over in the far corner was the kitchen area, separated from the bigger room by a table-high, marble-topped counter. The marble had been cold. This is where he'd fucked me in the second and third positions the first time, starting with my legs folded against his hips, him palming and separating my buttocks, my torso reclining back toward that counter with my arms stiff and the heels of my hands pressing into the countertop to hold my body steady as he fucked me. He'd said he like an athletic fuck. It certainly had been that.

He also had said that he liked to have his partner doing the splits when he fucked him. We had gotten naked and he flopped down on his sofa and pulled me down on my knees between his spread thighs, obviously wanting a blow job, which I gave him, my teeth having trouble not clicking against the thick ring in the bulb of his cock. Then he pulled me up on the couch and we cuddled, rather belatedly, I thought, in some exploratory first-date fondling, which progressed to my being on my back against the arm of the sofa, my left leg crossing his chest, the ankle hooked on his shoulder, and him finger fucking me to an ejaculation.

After that he introduced splits fucking to me, starting with a cowboy splits position with him sitting in the middle of the sofa and me straddling his hips, facing him, and riding his cock, with my legs stretched straight out to either side in the splits and him holding my sides in his hands and fucking up into my ass. Then, without coming, he carried me, showing off how strong he was, to the kitchen counter, fucking me in the second position suspended in front of the counter and then in the third position before coming, facing the kitchen, my legs in the splits, my hands pressed into the cold marble in front of me, his hands pressing down on my knee joints to keep me in the splits position, and finished the first fuck by taking me from behind.

I had been completely submissive for him. He had made total submissiveness a condition for bringing me home with him, and I had wanted this fuck. He had wanted to fuck me with me doing the splits, and both of those positions certainly had been me doing the splits for him.

So was this. I was on my back on his bed, a wedge pillow under the small of my back, rolling my pelvis up. My legs were pulled straight from my sides, in the splits, and bound at the ankles on both sides of the bed, where he had a four-column metal stand, two columns each side, that joined under the bed. My arms were similarly stretched straight out from my body and tied off at the wrists on the other two columns.

I had agreed to be bound before he agreed to bring me here. I had wanted it badly. I had wanted it totally, and I had wanted it with the inventiveness and the challenge to flexibility he had described to me.

I turned my head to the nightstand and saw the used condom, thick as a sea slug, laying on a paper towel. He had said there would be three laying there, in a row, before he was done. I had had the image in my mind all the time he was driving me here.

The door to the bathroom opened and he strode out—all six and a half solidly built, muscular, hard-bodied feet of him, a handsome, black bull hunk. And a virile, vigorous stud as I had already found out and was promised more of. He was holding the base of his erect jet-black cock in one hand and rolling a condom on it with the other. He'd said he was eight inches long and an inch and a half thick, and I had no reason to doubt that from watching it as he moved toward me. He certainly was built big enough otherwise for that to be in proportion.

I did know that it had filled me and challenged me and stretched me—and satisfied me. My first black bull. I already had gotten what I'd hoped for from him, and more, and he wasn't finished with me yet.

He was smiling—a friendly smile and, I hoped, a smile of satisfaction with how this was going. I certainly was doing all I could to make it pleasurable for him. I hadn't said no to any of his demands.

"So, are we ready to go again?" he asked, as he came up on the foot of the bed on his knees.

I didn't say no to this either.

He pushed his knees under my buttocks, positioning the bulb of his cock inside my now-gaping hole, grabbed my hips, thrust inside me, and immediately began to pump. I gave a little cry at the sudden, deep penetration, groaning and shuddering on how expertly he was working me. Leaning over my torso, he took my mouth with his in a French kiss—and without losing the rhythm of the fuck.

There had been no preparation this time, and there was unlikely to be any the next time. He did say he would have three ejaculations from anal penetrative sex—he would have sounded clinical when he said stuff like this if he didn't say it with such conviction and seriousness—and I could have as many ejaculations of any type as I could manage. He estimated six, which almost made me hyperventilate as assuring as his claim was. I'd never had more than two in a session before. I'd already had two, and so I certainly couldn't say this wasn't good for me. There'd been preparation the first time, but it wasn't needed now. I had been reamed to his requirements in the first twenty-minute fuck. I'd never had a black bull the length and girth of legends before, and he affirmed the legends. He'd said he could fuck vigorously at length, and he hadn't lied. He'd also said he recovered quickly. That too proved to be true.

I now knew what they meant when they talked of black bulls.

He was using his cock to give me another orgasm, pulling the bulb out to my prostate and worrying that before causing me to jerk and arch my back to the extent I could and unsuccessfully try to break his kiss so that I could scream when he dove deep again and revolved inside me, giving attention to all of my walls with that thick ring he had in the bulb of the cock.

And, suspending my writhing, to tense up and break away from the kiss at last to gasp and cry out my release, I came again. As long as he made me come again and again like this, I was his.

"Three," he said. He said he could provide six. I no longer doubted he could. He said it was the reward for giving him what he wanted. My balls already ached from the evacuation of three. I could only shudder at the thought of how drained I would feel after six.

He had told me that this would take no more than two hours from start to finish. I wondered if he'd ask me to spend the night or kick me out after I'd taken a shower and there were three sea-slug-thick used condoms lined up on the paper towel on the top of his nightstand.

I didn't know if I'd be able to walk if he didn't invite me to stay the night. But then I thought of how he would be rejuvenated enough to want it all over again in the morning. I groaned in fear—but also couldn't deny the surge of energy that went through my body in anticipation of getting all of this again—his exotic fetishes; his hard, muscular body; his virility and vigor; his eight-inch, thick cock working my passage; the feel of running my hands over the hard muscles of his chocolate-brown skin. The thrill of my first black bull.

Stretched out and bound like this, all of my sensations concentrated on my channel and that churning cock. He'd said that would help me jack off repeatedly—that he'd take me to heaven repeatedly. I thought he was probably right. I could feel the next orgasm coming on already.

"Four," he sounded out twenty seconds later. "At this rate you could have eight, although I seriously doubt you can produce that much cum in the time given," he cheerfully and helpfully added, his voice floating out over my deep groan. "Ever had a dry jack off?" he asked. "They can roll on and on and be really intense. Hang in there; you're doin' great. You take the positions great and have a sweet ass. Keepin' my pecker real hard here. Doin' your job."

My answering groan was even deeper.

* * * *

Josh had let me get to the restaurant before calling me to say that something had come up and he couldn't make our date. I answered the call outside on the walk between the parking lot and the building and hesitated after the call, but I decided to go on in even though I was alone. I had to eat anyway, and I certainly was in the mood for something to drink. They sat me in the last booth but one in the back corner of the restaurant a few steps up from the bar. I ordered a bourbon chicken something or other appetizer and a beer. I was more thirsty than hungry.

I had some thinking to do. Josh had been in a snit since he'd asked me to move in with him and I said that I needed to think about it.

"What's to think about?" he'd asked. "We have a good thing going."

The problem was that I wasn't sure about the good thing going. I was frightened at the prospect of a monogamous relationship with one man who I'd see every day and sleep with solely. Josh was nearly thirty, obviously ready to settle down. I was barely twenty-one and was still experimenting. I had a "so many cocks and so little time" attitude. The issue went beyond the settled relationship concept, though. Josh was OK as a lover. He was built and on the border of being hung, and he was good looking, had a good job, and was generous with his money. I didn't know whether I was ready to be a kept man, though, and, truth be told, my experimentation had told me that I preferred someone more forceful, demanding, and inventive than Josh was. And I liked variety.

On the other hand, he was there when I needed to be fucked, and I did like to be fucked. When he got wound up, he became demanding, and I liked that too. I liked being controlled and forced—a bit more of that than Josh did, though.

I'd just about finished the chicken and had ordered another beer when a couple of guys were brought to the last booth down the line, which was behind me.

As they passed, I got a glimpse, first, of a slightly under height—like me—guy about my age, who was slim, dressed neatly, and walked gracefully, with a shy demeanor. I got the impression of a dark, sultry, Mediterranean look, which is how my friends often described me as well. The other guy was quite a contrast. He was built like a football player and was a deep chocolate brown. His features were more Caribbean than African in origin, and he strode along the aisle toward me with self-confidence, legs parted like he had a load between his thighs.

He and I made eye contact as they passed and his smile caused me to smile back and incline my head. There was something commanding about him that made me lower my head to him as if in submission. I recognized a dominator when I saw one, and it sent chills up my spine when I readily recognized him as one.

The white guy slipped into the seat backing on mine and the black guy went into the seat across the table from him. They ordered quickly. Their initial conversation, which I clearly could hear but no one else around us could, was on the food choices and their preferences until they had ordered. The white guy had a twangy tenor voice, I could tell by where it projected from, and the black guy more of a smooth, confident baritone. Ours being the last booths in the line there really was no one else nearby except when the waitress came by to deliver or check on the patrons. Next up from my booth was a drinks station, not another booth.

After the waitress took their order, they traded information on what part of town they lived in and whether in a rental apartment, a condo, or a house. The white guy was in a rental with two other guys; the black guy owned his own studio condo. The impression was established that the black guy made quite a bit more money than the white one did. They compared electronics and the white guy came out on the losing end of that. They briefly talked sports. The black guy followed college football, admitting that he'd played it in college on scholarship; the white guy followed pro basketball. He was enrolled at a local college. Religion was tossed out there, but wisely, I thought, dropped immediately. The black guy believed in sleeping in on Sunday mornings—preferably with a bed partner. "I like white tail on a Sunday morning," he said.

He'd obviously thrown that out as an ice-breaking joke, although, as far as I knew, he was speaking the truth. He laughed at his joke; so did the white guy, but nervously and insincerely, and I'd heard the intake of breath from just behind my head. If the black guy was trying to cut to the chase, this should do it. It was Saturday night. The conversation on that stopped when the white guy said he was an Evangelical Baptist.

I realized at that point that these two guys were either meeting for the first time to do some sort of business or were on a blind date. If the latter, I thought, the religion issue should be enough to end the conversation and close out the date early—unless the white guy really wanted to be laid by a black stud, in which case they could fold up their tent now and get to it.

The "what do you see yourself doing in five years" question that next came up made me think they were strangers considering doing business together, and I was intrigued enough—and bored enough and at loose ends enough—to order another beer when the waitress came with my tab. The "five years" question was one I associated with dating, but the black guy responded in terms of business. He said he was a stock broker and hoped to have his own branch of his firm within the five years. The white guy, who was referred to as Ted, was still in college but also was a private high school—the Baptists again, apparently—gym assistant teacher. He saw himself as a vice principal in that time.

He also saw himself settled down in a steady relationship by then.

Then it became evident that the meeting wasn't about business.

"Oh, I don't think I will be," Zack, the black guy said. "Five years from now I think I'll still be moving around. I like to experience what there is out there—variety. Different kinds of guys, cruising like me, but they have to be fit."

There was a bit of silence here and Zack picked up the conversation. "The gym angle was what caught my eye. And your age. I like dating younger guys. You look like you're in great shape, and you walked loose, like you're really flexible. I like that. You look like a gymnast."

"You're built too—more so than I am," Ted answered. "You must spend half your free time in the gym. You've got great guns and definition."

I'd noticed that too when I'd glanced at the black guy. He was dressed conservatively enough, but the way his clothes fit him accentuated his cut musculature. There was no surprise he'd played football in college.

"I

am

a gymnast," Ted continued. "I took the fifth year at Temple to help the varsity team."

"Bet you can do the splits all the way down," Zack said, to which Ted answered in the affirmative.

I was really interested in the conversation now. First, obviously this was a blind date and the two were feeling each other out. They were gay. They were my kind of men. That piqued my interest right there. Beyond that, I was a gymnast too—but at U. Penn, so I didn't recognize this guy. Temple wasn't on U. Penn's level. And, I thought with a bit of bravado, I probably could do the splits all the way down better than this Temple guy could.

My beer was half down, but I decided to nurse it. These guys were getting into more intimate talk, and maybe I'd find it arousing. My date with Josh was supposed to have ended in bed, and even if we were having a rough time in our relationship, I still was in the need of a fuck. Josh could be upset with me and still fuck me. It might even make the fuck more exciting.

"A gym teacher in a private school, eh. I guess that means you aren't out yet."

"No. You?"

"Sure. I think it makes me more interesting. It certainly makes cruising easier. So, was the file right? You like to take cock?"

I nearly choked on the swig of beer I was drinking when he said that.

A bit of silence preceded Ted's response. "Well, I've done it both ways."

"I only give cock," Zack answered. "I think it said that on my profile."

"Yes, it does," Ted answered.

I felt a little warm at that—at Zack's part of the discussion becoming pretty bald. I'll take your cock, I thought, feeling the buzz of the second beer. I found that my hand had gone to my crotch and that it had found more than the usual mounding there. No way I was going anywhere as long as this conversation was spinning out.

"You pretty active?"

"Not really. But one gets curious, you know—wants to expand the circle of friends he's comfortable with." Ted was sounding like he was forming what he had to say carefully. "What about you?"

"Oh, you know, I fuck who I can when I can. They've got to be athletic, though—and submissive. I have my fetishes. So, are you the adventure and risk-taking kind? That wasn't clear on your profile."

"Do you mean do I go down on the first date? Or do I bareback?" Ted's voice sounded tight.

"Well, I don't do bareback—I go with too many guys. But, yes, do you fuck on the first date?"

I strained to hear Ted's answer, but the waitress showed up just then to ask if I wanted anything else. I guess she was goosing me to pay my tab and clear the table. I ordered another beer, gulping the last couple of swallows in the one I had and giving the glass back to her.

When I could listen in again, it was sort of a shocking monologue from the black guy—I wanted to think of him as a black bull now, having heard the legends about black bulls and not having tried one yet, and he affirmed that right fast.

"A guy laying under me needs to be able to take eight inches hard—and, probably more important—an inch and a half thick."

I had visions of Ted sitting there with his mouth hanging open in what he was being told he had to look forward to. Josh had told me that he was a little more than seven hard and thick—although he didn't tell me how thick. And I was always begging him to give me more. So, eight inches—that would be a challenge, I would think—and something to look forward to.

"And the gymnast part that caught my eye. I use challenging positions. My favorite is putting my partner in the splits to fuck him. I have a set of useful parallel bars for that in my condo. And stamina. I can fuck twenty minutes at a time. I need a guy who will keep with me—and who doesn't mind being bound during sex. And I have rituals. I do it three times with a rubber in a session, if I like the guy and he is completely submissive to me. I'll give him five or six jack offs, but I get three with a rubber from the anal sex alone. I'll come more often if the other guy gives good blow jobs, but only the ones earned inside a hole and wearing a rubber count officially. And I line my used rubbers up as I finish as some sort of victory celebration. Oh, and I have a Prince Albert—a PA, thick ring in my cock head. You've been fucked by a guy with a PA before, haven't you?"

I couldn't help myself. I swiveled my head to get another look at this guy. And I got a very clear look, because he now was the only guy in the booth. He'd been talking to the back of my head. Ted was gone—he must have left while I was talking to the waitress.