The Other Side of the Tracs

Author's Note: Just a walk on the other side of the tracks, as it were, written for a Litster a couple of years ago.

"So...penny for your thoughts...?"

I didn't look up at you; not yet. I just kept pushing the eggs and the sausage around on my plate. I normally devour breakfast; right now, I wasn't sure if I could hold in a bite. The Waffle House waitress would slide past every once in a while, but I was pretty sure she was reading my mind, so I didn't want to look HER in the eyes either.

My thoughts? Oh my... I had so many thoughts, swirling around in my head. The butterflies had returned, and were doing some aerobatic maneuvers; "You're a little late NOW, guys!" I thought briefly.

So what were my thoughts? Embarrassment, I thought first. Shame? Yeah, maybe a bit. Nervousness, about what would happen next, what the future would look like, what I had to face about myself... Those were a few of the hundreds of thoughts.

But one thing, one thought, was somewhat spectacular by way of its absence from the whirlpool: There wasn't a shred of regret.

"I...I...really...really enjoyed it. And..." my voice trailed off.

I finally looked up at you. There might have been a smirk there, but it wasn't too obvious. (And thank you for that.) "And...?"

"And...I'd...I'd like to...do it again. Sometime. I mean, if you, you know, I mean, don't feel any pressure, and if you don't, that's okay, I mean, I understand, I mean, I have no delusions about myself, or what I look like, or..."

I was interrupted by the pressure of a foot, making its presence known by pressing against my crotch.

"Jay...that would be fine. I'd like to do it again, too."

Inside, part of me, the part that is scared of me, of my thoughts, of my desires, of what those desires would make of me, what they would make me do...that part groaned. Some of the groan may have even slipped out of my mouth.

"You okay, sweetie? You need some more coffee? Here, I'll fill you back up..."

Yeah, I'm pretty sure she read my mind.

**********

We picked the hotel because we knew it was just far enough off the beaten track that it wouldn't be busy, but it wouldn't be a run down meth motel. It's a Baymont, so it's a pretty decent place.

Picking the weekend was a little more difficult. I had to buy my absence from the family with a web of intricately woven lies and by giving them enough money to go to Gatlinburg for the day and go shopping. I hoped the money would be well-spent; now, if only I don't chicken out!

I get there first, and check in, leaving a key for you at the front desk. I text you only the room number; you respond with only this: "7:00." I look at the time on my phone; I have a little over 2 hours to prepare.

Entering the room, I set the air conditioner to 70 degrees, grateful for a digital thermostat versus one of those where you just set it to Max until you freeze, then turn it off and sweat. I put my bag down, and begin to pull out what I needed first. Then I head to the bathroom.

I shave my face smooth, then my legs, and finally everything below the belt, front and back. I brought clippers to help with the bush up front, then I shave every hair from there and then, not without some discomfort, everything I can reach in back. I shower all of this off, and then administer the first enema. I hold it as long as I could, then expel it, then use the second. I would rather be thorough than even a bit remiss on this task! Lastly, I brush my teeth, gargle some mouthwash, and exit the bathroom.

I return to my bag, and pull out one item: a black jockstrap. I can't remember the last time I wore one of these; high school? The Army? No idea, but as I pulled it up over my thighs, pulled it into place over my cock, and smoothed the waistband, I couldn't help but think how different the circumstances are now. Not to be a conqueror or competitor tonight; just vanquished. Surrendered. All I know is that you'd mentioned it at some point during our steamy chats, and it was then and there that I had decided that, if this day ever came, this would be my clothing choice. Kind of a gift to you; or perhaps a gift wrapping?

I look into the bag at the other items. I have included handcuffs, but you specifically told me I am NOT to wear them at first. You told me then that my initial submission to you has to be completely of my own free will, and now I see the wisdom in it. Part of me would love to be "helpless," but that is because then I could rationalize that I was not actually submitting to you, you were just "taking" your pleasure from me, or perhaps I should say in me. You know better, though, don't you? You know that's not really submission, that it's a cop-out. Still, I brought them, just in case later...you...well...

And then there is the blindfold. It might seem silly on the surface; obviously, it will be you that has the key to open the door (in more ways than one tonight), And I have an idea of what you look like; a whole lot better than me. If anyone, it should be you that wears the blindfold, I think, so you don't see what I look like. But I know the blindfold is an important part of the submission; it involves trust.

I look at my watch; 20 minutes! "That's twelve hundred seconds!" my mind ridiculously calculates, as if considering it in seconds means it is even closer. I take off my watch, then pause only a moment before taking off my wedding ring and put both in the nightstand drawer. You hadn't mentioned that, but somehow, it seemed important to me to shed any signs of who I was before this night. It might not matter to you; you probably wouldn't notice, but to me...it was significant. I take a pillow off the bed and put it on the floor beside the bed, on the door side.

I lay out the items you specified on the corner of the bed. Lubricant; I surely wasn't going to forget that! Two packages of condoms; you hadn't been specific, so I got both regular and Magnums. (Buying the Magnums, I admit, gave me a little shiver right there in the store.) I had seen the pictures, and you told me how long you were, but I have zero experience in large cocks; my own has never even required a full unfurling of a standard condom.

Five minutes. I sit on the chair, the jockstrap leaving my bare (and smooth!) ass in contact with the material. It feels odd, having that sensation of the material against my skin like that. In my hands, I hold the only other thing that will adorn my body when you enter: The blindfold. I'm thankful for the internet; a few clicks on Amazon and then it was just a matter of snatching it out of the mailbox before anybody saw it. It is well made; I can't see a thing through it, and it is comfortable, even when snugly in place.

Three minutes, and-Oh, crap! There is your text! You are downstairs! I type a quick, "Yes, sir," confirming the room number. I turn the phone off, put it in the drawer with my watch and ring. I take my place on my knees at the foot of the bed, and fit the blindfold over my eyes, pulling it tight in the back. Kneeling, arms crossed in the small of my back, I wait.

I'm used to not being able to see; my vision is horrible without glasses. Like many others, though, the weakness in one sense trains the mind to pay closer attention to the other senses. So when I hear the door open, swooshing quietly over the carpet, my mental world explodes. There is a pause, and I can tell the door is still open, leading me to wonder who might be walking down the hall and catch the sight of a nearly naked man kneeling on a pillow. Too late to worry about that, though.

I hear you close the door, the click of the automatic lock, then the sound of the second lock. That second lock does something inside of me; it's as if I am now locked into my fate. I can perceive you stepping closer to me, but I still have to stifle a flinch when I feel your hand on my head, stroking gently over it.

"Do not speak," you tell me, your finger coming across my lips, as if to silence a child. "In spite of what I said, I am giving you one last chance to back out of this. Speak the word No, and I will turn and leave, and you will give me 5 minutes before you gather yourself and go. This is your last chance. If you stay, I will expect your complete submission."

Less than a second passes before I give you my response. I kiss your finger, then raise myself just slightly and draw it into my mouth, slowly sucking the length into my mouth, laving it with my tongue, until I have it all in my mouth. I then retreat off of it, lips sealed around it until they pop off of the end, and resume my position. The whole time, my arms remain crossed behind me, holding my elbows in sweaty palms.

"Very well, then," you respond. "Let us begin. I have had a long and frustrating day, and you will make for a pleasant receptacle for that stress." I hear you unbuckle your belt, and unzip your pants (I wanted to do that for you, but then...my choices don't matter now, do they?). I hear the rustling of material, and I'm pretty sure I know what's going on, but the first confirmation is the feel of something spongy and warm touching my lips.

"Kiss it," you tell me. You're not loud, but your voice carries authority. I wet my lips and kiss the top of your cockhead. I want to lick, but...you didn't tell me to. Yet.

"Open," comes the next command. I smell your light musk, a day of being confined inside your pants creating a light musk that instantly intoxicates me. I open my mouth wide, my lips wet, anticipating your next command.

But your next command isn't a spoken one. Instead, your hand, resting at the back of the top of my head, pulls me forward, effectively sheathing your cock in my mouth. As soon as you begin to enter, I cover my teeth with my lips. Quickly, though, my mouth runs out of room long before it runs out of you. I feel you at the back of my throat, and I have to focus hard not to panic or pull back. Fortunately, I've been practicing: on a hot dog, on a banana, and finally, on the neglected toys I bought for my wife years ago. Still, you're bigger than any of those, and your flesh is alive, warm. I struggle to remain calm as you press against my throat, slowly pushing it open. My mouth fills with saliva, which lubricates your shaft, but threatens to make me cough. Still you don't relent, pushing gently but insistently until finally, I exhale, relax, and your cock slides into my throat. I hear a groan from you, and for some reason, it gratifies me to know I am pleasing you. You pause there, and in just a couple of seconds, I become keenly aware that your magnificent member is blocking my airflow. A flash of panic almost causes me to move my hands from behind my back; a struggle your keen eyes evidently catch.

"No! Keep your hands still. I will decide when you need to breathe. You must trust me."

My shoulders slump in surrender, and then you pull back slightly. Your thick cock still fills my mouth, but I am now able to draw a couple of frantic breaths through my nose before you push again. I force myself not to panic, and focus my attention on pleasing you, running my tongue along the underside of your throbbing manhood. You fall into a rhythm: In, hold, out, hold. I get the sense you're still training my throat, preparing me, and then I come to a revelation: My lips still haven't bottomed out on you! "How much more cock do you have," I wonder. And how much more can I, no, scratch that, MUST I accommodate?

As if you're reading my mind (are you?), your next push goes deeper into my throat, forcing me more open. Beneath the blindfold, my eyes bulge and quickly water, and my throat convulsed around you. You don't linger this time, pulling out until only your big throbbing head is in my mouth. I know better than to think the ordeal is over, though, and that is confirmed a moment later when you drive forward again, sinking even deeper into my throat. Still my lips haven't kissed your base yet.

Back out, in, back out, in, and I'm a mess. Drool flowing from my mouth, down my chin, tears soaking the blindfold, with involuntary and debasing sounds coming from my pillaged mouth and throat.

On a particularly hard thrust - your hands are no longer resting benign on my head; you have a firm two-handed grip - I feel your balls hit my chin, and the tip of my nose feels the light tickle of your pubic hair, and I realize that I have almost taken all of you. Suddenly, a sense of depraved accomplishment fuels me, and on your very next thrust, I push forward, helping you seat your cock fully in my tormented throat.

"Nggg," you grunt, clutching my head in place, relishing your conquest. "Fuck, that feels good, slut," you growl. "You're learning your place well. You're going to be a good slut for me, aren't you?" My head held tightly, mouth and throat full of your dominant Male flesh, I can give only a slight nod and a guttural groan of assent.

Now you pull back and begin an all-out assault on my mouth and throat, about every fourth stroke going to the deepest point. I have no masculine pride left. I am sloppy with drool, wet sucking sounds come from my mouth as you piston hard and fast, reaching for your orgasm. A new taste fills my mouth: your precum. There's a lot of it, judging from the change in consistency of the swamp of my mouth. It is a bit salty, but not strong. I know what is coming after it will be different.

Your breathing comes faster, louder, and filled with commentary.

"That's right, suck that big cock, Jay! Take it all, you little slut! You love that, don't you? You love my big cock fucking your throat, huh? You're going to get a bunch more of it tonight! And after I fill your belly up, I'm going to fuck that virgin ass!"

I'm listening to it, to every word. They stir a storm of emotions inside me. I expected the abusive language; in fact, I asked for it. "Hold nothing back, okay? Nothing. Anything that comes to mind, heap it on me, no matter how hurtful. Please?" I had asked you.

"Okay, you little cocksucker, I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna fill your mouth. You better not waste any, not a single drop, or you're not gonna like what happens, you hear me?" I can't even nod, I just try to get an unintelligible "uh huh" out around your rock hard throbbing cock.

Even with your rapid, now erratic pumping, I can feel your cock beginning to swell and pulse. I apply a solid liplock on you, and use my tongue to coax your orgasm into reality. Risking rebuke, I bring my left hand from my back up to cradle and gently rub your balls. My God! They're huge, even pulled up tight against you in preparation for seeding my gullet.

My hand was the straw that broke the camel's back, or at least its resolve. With a roar, your cock swells then pulses. My mouth is instantly full of your seed. With your cock deep inside my throat, a volley goes straight down my throat, but then you pull back slightly, still pumping me full. I swallow some more, the thick consistency coating my tongue, but you just keep dumping the content of your balls into my mouth. I choke a little, and the seal of my lips breaks, releasing some of your man juice. Remembering your admonition, I frantically try to recover it with my lips, but I'm not sure if I did or not.I continue to swallow until all that remains in my mouth is some slimy residual coating and an overwhelming taste of...you.

Your cock softens a little, but only deflates about 50%. You pull it from my lips, leaving my mouth feeling quite...empty. My lips tingle a bit from the abuse, and I am sure they are chapped raw. My hands are both back behind my back, and my mouth is still open, as if waiting for the occupying force to come back.

I feel your hand on my jaw, a finger tracing it...and then I feel it gather a wet glob. The finger continues, bulldozing the glob up to my lips, which open and then close around the finger, sucking this last bit of your seed in.

"Not bad for your first time, lover. But you'll get even better with more practice..." I shiver a bit at the promise of those words.