Drums in the Night

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Rise, fall; rise, fall. This was usually when inspiration came to me—when I was riding a man’s cock. It wasn’t working today, though. Inspiration wasn’t coming. Guido, an Italian-American hunk, even at fifty, was coming, however. The coming of Guido was well worth working for. I reclined back, grasping his knees, and continued rising and fall on his shaft as he grasped my waist between his hands, huffed, and with jerks, rhythmic squeezing of his hands on my waist, and low gasps, came again, and again, and yet again, filling out the bulb of the condom.

“Oh, shit; oh, fuck, you come big,” I exclaimed at the event, to his pleasure and my own satisfaction.

It would have been more satisfying, of course, if he’d been barebacking me, but our relationship, as close as it was, wasn’t that committed. One of us, at least, took it where we could get it. I strongly suspected Guido did as well.

Guido, a stage performance producer, mostly of gay male plays and of an all-male Hell’s Kitchen permanent musical revue, Guys and More Guys, was virile and a champion producer of cum. I didn’t lie to him about that. What was it, four blasts? I can only imagine how that would have felt if he hadn’t been sheathed. It was almost worth the risk to find out.

Some things Italians do best. Fucking is one of those. Guido Coursu, the man I lived with in our West 51st Street Manhattan apartment he paid for, had a very nice cock and he was body beautiful for a half-century man. He’d kept his trim and his hair, not to mention his tanned body and his erection.

When Guido had come, I remained straddling his hips and leaning back, grasping his knees, focusing on him going flaccid inside me with the promise that he’d rise again, while he took my erection in hand and stroked me off. I strained for inspiration. This often was when it came, in a flash of full-imaged imagination. In addition to being a men’s fashion model, I was the designer of Guido’s Guys and More Guys musical routines, including composing the music. We needed a new review to start rehearsing for our October show. This was usually when we did something weird and wild, something witching, but the inspiration wasn’t coming.

He raised his muscular chest, swirls of salt and pepper hair matting his pecs and trailing down his sternum into his pubes; encircled my torso with one arm while keeping his other hand between us, jacking my cock; and brought his full, sensual lips to mine. I thought I wanted to bring myself off, but he wouldn’t let me going, holding me in thrall and stroking, stroking, stroking. I accepted that he was going to finish me and, with a sigh and a low moan, gave myself over to his relentless hand. Italians were such passionate people. I dug my fingernails into his shoulders, rocked my pelvis against his stroking hand, and felt him hardening inside me again.

“Oh, shit, Guido. I’m going to blow. Yessss.” Releasing, I collapsed in his arms. Then I couldn’t help myself. “Do me again,” I whimpered. He was, after all, hard inside me again.

Guido was all the lover I could ever want, not that I left it there. He needed me to design a review set for him. I tried to bring music up into my brain, to get inspiration for a review from this fuck, but it wasn’t coming. It wasn’t just lust. I needed him to be pumping me to pull of the cadence that gave me the beat to construct the reviews on.

He pulled away from my lips and moved them to my right ear.

“You’re not done. You have more to give me.” He didn’t stop pumping my cock with his hand, and his hips were beginning to move again. There would be another fuck.

“You’re so nice, Mark,” he whispered. “So sexy, so young, such a beautiful body. And you give it all to me.”

“Do me, Guido. Pull it out of me,” I begged. He needn’t know it was inspiration I wanted him to pull out of me more than another ejaculation. With me, coming with a man, with a variety of men, wasn’t as important and fulfilling as images of stage productions were. Art was on a higher plane with me than sex was. Having a man’s cock inside me had become commonplace.

October. Halloween. Something witchery. Swirling witch boys in the dark forest. Walpurgis Night. No, that’s in the spring, I think. But the mood of it. Swirling witchery.

Guido was doing what he liked best, holding me immobile, his cock possessing me and throbbing, me begging for it to move inside me, but Guido holding, because, in the throes of my passion, he wasn’t finished with what he wanted to say.

“I wish you didn’t have to go to Africa.”

“It’s the job, Guido. I won’t be gone long.”

“I wish it wasn’t with Jean-Phillipe. He’s such a letch.”

“I can handle Jean-Phillipe.” What I couldn’t do was to tell Guido how Jean-Phillipe, the fashion photographer, handled me as he liked. It was what I had to do for him for me to get photo shoots with him, but I would have opened my legs and elevated my pelvis for Jean-Phillipe anyway. I wasn’t very good about keeping zonguldak escort my legs closed, and Frenchmen were consummate lovers too. And a handsome hunk with a big dick was fine with me. What I needed to do now, though, was to gain inspiration for a stage review for Guido. And I needed to come for him. He had started to slow pump me again. I had been running the edge and was ready to explode.

“Oh, shit, Guido. Oh, fuck. I’m coming again.”

He tightened his embrace of me, possessed my lips with his again, forced his tongue in, stroked me more forcefully, and, with a shudder and then another one, I shot another load up between our bellies. He knew me so well. He knew I had another load.

With a laugh, he rolled us over so that I was on my back on our bed and he was between my thighs, still inside me, hard again. He ran an arm under the small of my back and raised my pelvis to him.

I was over the peak. He was just approaching it again. It was all about Guido now. He’d been good to me. Now he was going to be good to himself. I was just a hole and warm channel now.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. A beat was coming to me now. The beat of the dark forest and swirling figures.

He was in deep. He was a thick man. I set my channel muscles to clutching at the cock as it stroked inside me, searching for and finding a rhythm of my own in working the shaft with my channel wall muscles. We were settling into fucking as one, but everything gauged to Guido’s need, his desire, his cadence. The rhythm of the fuck was trying to raise some form of steady musical beat in my brain, working on the idea of a review.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. Young, fit, beautiful men, nearly naked, their costumes not yet materializing, were spreading out over a stage. The music should start at this point. The inspiration usually came at this point, a man’s cock deep inside me, thrusting hard, rhythmically building to a climax. Swirling witch boys. I was that close to full realization of a set.

I was at my best creatively, my muse pumping on all cylinders, during sex—when a man was on top of me, inside me, fucking me. That’s probably why I gave it out to so many men.

“So nice, so yielding, Mark. You’re the best. All mine.” Thrust, thrust, thrust. “Ahhh . . . shit . . . Oh, FUCK!”

Guido came again in a flood and the forming images evaporated. I lay there, sobbing quietly, Guido still inside me, slowly rocking, his cock still working me, the bulb of the condom pulsating from the eruptions of cum—but, unfortunately, with the forming stage production lost to me. I was well fucked, though.

“You are so big. You have so much cum.”

No one did it like an Italian could. No one was better at it than Guido.

But that, of course, wasn’t true. If that had been true, I wouldn’t be going to Africa.

* * * *

“Are you packed for the Kenya trip yet?”

I didn’t think Jean-Phillipe really was interested in the answer to that. He was just trying to make small talk as the others were packing up and leaving his photography studio where we’d been in a photoshoot for male fashion house underwear ads. He was the photographer and I was the one modeling the sexy underwear. There had been others from the commercial production and lighting crew milling around as well, but I knew he wanted to hold me back.

I knew he wanted me to lose the underwear. I knew he was going to fuck me.

Jean-Phillipe was French. He was a good ten years older than I was, but he still was in his early thirties, young for the reputation he’d already earned as a fashion photographer. He was dark and sultry, sex on a stick, and I was one of his favorite models—and not just because I looked good in men’s fashions. He had crooked his little finger and I had laid down for him was one reason—because he had a dick and a technique to die for—but I also was savvy about what was good advertising and Jean-Phillipe knew it.

It had been his idea to use me for a tropical clothes layout on location, but it had been my imagination to have seen a safari setting in the clothes line I was shown and to come up with a location for the shoot. I also suggested where we could go. The fashion house was giving Jean-Phillipe carte blanche on the location, so I suggested an actual safari resort in Kenya. I’d suggested the Ngulia Safari Lodge, in the Tsavo National Park West, 260 kilometers from Nairobi and not far from the Indian Ocean coast.

“You’ve been there?” Jean-Phillipe asked.

“No, I just saw a travel article about that resort,” I had answered. It wasn’t a lie. Having met and lain under Aasir Karu, I’d gone and looked up the resort he’d told me about—the resort that he managed.

Jean-Phillipe and I chatted about our plans for the Africa trip in two weeks’ time while his studio cleared out. When the last of the crew had gone, he drew me to him and we kissed.

“Find a pose on the studio couch,” he said. “I’ll fethiye escort find a mask.”

While he was gone, I slipped off the half undershirt and the bikini briefs I’d last been wearing on the underwear photoshoot and stretched out in a provocative pose on the cobalt-blue velvet-covered studio couch on the photo studio platform. Jean-Phillipe came back with a sparkly purple and green Mardi Gras mask with a couple of feathers rising from it. The mask reminded me of something I’d been thinking of in terms of the October show as the men’s review, but I couldn’t remember what that was at the moment. I was a bit keyed up as I always was when Jean-Phillipe photographed and fucked me. He was always doing something different—something sexy.

He made more money from his private subscription gay male pornographic photographs than from the commercial photo shoots—and so did I. I agreed to be photographed in the nude and even in what Jean-Phillipe termed coital play, carry through, and aftermath, but the use of the mask effectively covered my identity.

“You have a very nice face, but that’s not what men will be looking at,” he had said.

Seeing the mask, delivered by a Frenchman, Jean-Phillipe, got my imagination going, though. It wasn’t only that it often was during sex or in anticipation of sex that my ideas for male review sets came to me—often it led to a quick buildup of the total image, with music, for a review scene. Sometimes the music came first. It was a sense of the music for the stage production that almost had come to me when Guido was fucking me. Sometimes, though, it was something visual. That was happening now, with the purple and green mask. I was seeing a New Orleans street, complete with French-style curlicue wrought iron balconies as the backdrop and young, hunky men fanning out on the stage with flamboyant purple and green masks, with feathers, the men in purple or green speedos—at least at the beginning of the set. Other than that, all they were wearing were strings of purple and green beads. The music started to come to me as well, and then . . . it all evaporated, at Jean-Phillipe putting on background music of his own choosing.

Country and Western music—a male singing in a twangy voice of someone named Lucille leaving him. That’s all it took for the building all-male music review to melt from my brain. It was maddening. I needed to come up with a new review for Guido Coursu’s Guys and More Guys October production soon—certainly soon after I returned from my African safari photoshoot later that month. I almost had it. But this was Jean-Phillipe’s studio and I was working on his payroll now.

I sighed and moved into a stretched-out pose on the studio couch with my buttocks sticking out that I knew he and the men who subscribed to his pornographic male photos service liked. As I did, I started my mind working on a country and Western scenario for a musical revue, but the inspiration for that just wasn’t happening—and we’d done a Western setting earlier in the year.

He photographed me from a distance with both a large still camera and a video camera, as I slowly writhed on the studio couch and masturbated. Then, exchanging those cameras for a smaller one, he came in close, sitting beside where I was stretched out on my back. One of his hands snaked down between my thighs and he entered me with, first one finger, and then two, working up to all of them on the hand bunched up and inside me up to the knuckles. The other hand held the small camera, catching my expressions as I arched my back, threw my arms above my head to grasp the top edge of the studio couch, and writhed to the sensation of him, up to the knuckles, hand fucking me.

Was he going to fist fuck me? We hadn’t gone there before. Would I let him do it? Probably yes.

At length, he put the hand camera down. He went to the video cameras on tripods and turned them on. Then he returned to the couch, unzipped and extracted himself, and stroked his erection while I undulated on the couch beside him, rocking my pelvis on his hand, in response to the working of his bunched fingers inside my ass. When he was in full erection, he rose; ran an arm under my waist, pulling me off the surface of the couch and turning me, belly down, hovering over the couch. Still fully clothed himself, he folded his tall, lithe, sinewy body over mine, still holding me in place with an arm under my waist; mounted me in the doggie position; penetrated; and fucked me with an impressively long cock while I lay my cheek on the blue velvet couch covering, stretched my arms out over the surface of the couch, bunched up velvet in my hands, and moaned at the working of his long, slow thrusts into the quick of my soft core.

The video cameras caught it all. The edited film would go out to a private subscription service and I’d receive a very welcome and meaty royalty check.

Maybe a Frenchman did it even better than an Italian. I hadn’t alanya escort tried to compare. I didn’t need to compare as long as they both did it for me.

But then there was someone else I was quite sure did it better than either one of them.

* * * *

He was big and strong—and jet black. I was wholly his captive, my pelvis being held off the hotel room bed, elevated by the black bull’s beefy arm under my waist. He was arching my pelvis high, completely immobilizing me. That he had me positioned precisely as needed for his straightest shot, the most accessible angle to force his cock inside me to depth and that, though trembling, I did nothing to defend myself from the total violation, marked how fully he was the master of me.

My torso was cascading back onto the sheets, my shoulder blades pressed into the mattress and my arms extended directly out from my body. My legs were almost at full extension as high as he had me arched.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, please, please,” I was whining, me not knowing what I meant by the plea, and he not caring.

My fists were clutching up wads of the sheeting to maintain a hold, some sense of control, my eyes locked onto the tiles of the Nairobi Sheraton Four Points hotel room ceiling. My feet were planted firmly on the mattress, being used as leverage to rock my hips back and forward against him, as his crouched between my thighs, his thick mamba of a cock slithered down into the quick of me. I gasped and moaned and sobbed as he sank deeper than any other man had or could and possessed, dominated, and conquered and slayed me in my soft core.

Obliterating me again as he had done before, in London. I had no idea that a highly elevated midsection position like this could totally immobilize me and put me at a strong man’s mercy as Asir Karu had—or that it gave a god-awful-long shaft such as Aasir Karu had such deep access. It all relied on his strong leg muscles, allowing him to hold steady in a crouch and rock on the soles of his feet in maintaining a good fuck rhythm. It must, I believe, be some talent men coming from the part of Africa he lived in perfected.

I hadn’t been fucked like this since the last time Aasir Karu had mastered and vanquished me—in a hotel room just as now, but in London. There, like here, it was in an airport hotel. The first time we’d been on the same flight from New York to London, in business class, sitting beside each other. We were strangers. We’d never met before. It transpired that we both took pleasure from casual sex with a stranger and easily fell into a hookup.

Over drinks several hours into the flight I’d admitted that I melted to towering, big-muscled black men—especially when one of the big muscles was between their legs. Karu had admitted he liked willowy blonds with narrow hips that would seem totally impossible in taking what he had between his legs. He took the hand I wasn’t swilling the drink with that had loosened my tongue and put it between his legs.

“Do you think you could sheath that without passing out?” he’d asked.

“I certainly could try.” I’d responded, aroused by the blunt straightforward conversation with this big, beautiful brute of a man, taking flirting further than I normally would not only because the drinks had loosened my tongue and because I was in heat but also because who would think they were in danger of being wiped out sexually in the business-class compartment of a commercial airplane overflying the Atlantic Ocean?

“Do you lay down for complete strangers?” he asked.

“When I want to,” I answered.

He laughed, a hearty, deep-throated laugh.

A seven-hour flight had gone from me adjusting to the physical size of the African giant beside me, even in business class, and a nervous comment here and there during the first hour in the air to touch down at Heathrow, where, several drinks later, we were surreptitiously feeling each other up when the flight attendants, including a mincing young man, weren’t hovering over us, some flirting with Karu, some with me, and some with both of us. The male flight attendant wanted to be in bed with Karu in the worst possible way. But two hours after the wheels touched down, it was me in bed with—and under—Karu in an airport hotel, just as we were now, and Karu was laying me out and destroying my channel with a championship jet-black cock, just as he was doing here in the Sheraton Four Points—bending me so far over backward, with a beefy arm under my waist that I was totally immobilized and open to his down-thrusting shaft.

Although it had been just a one-night stand in London and the two of us going our own way afterward—me stumbling around hardly able to close my legs—I had remembered that Karu had said he was the manager of a safari hotel in a Kenyan wildlife park and that I had his business card and an invitation to visit him anytime I was able and interested. When the possibility of a safari-themed photoshoot to advertise a men’s fashion house’s new casual clothes line came up—me having brought it up—I easily connected the house’s photographer, Jean-Phillipe Jouret, with the Kenyan safari resort. Jean-Phillipe had dropped my name when reaching Aasir Karu and had gotten a honey of a deal in housing and support that would also be sweet advertising for the resort.

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