Thirty-Year Anniversary

And then Damont showed he still had remarkable recovery powers at fifty-two and both showed that age and infirmity had not stolen their ability to do a standing fuck in the middle of the living room. And later, the lasagna already cold in the oven, Aaron showed that a bum leg was fine running up Damont’s meaty torso, ankle hooked on Damont’s shoulder. And that his other leg was still flexible enough to just sit straight out and up from his hip as Damont held it wide at the ankle to widen access in Aaron’s ass to a cock that hadn’t lost a millimeter in length or girth, as Damont drilled him hard and deep. Damont was putting all of the desire into the pumping that he had fantasized to do with the young blond on the rings earlier in the evening.

He was dreaming, yes, of fucking an athletic young man in taxing positions. He could do nothing about his fetish for this but to resist it and, successfully, to put Aaron’s face on all of the bodies of the men he fucked in his dreams—as he strongly resisted doing earlier in the evening or he might have given in and given the young blond the cocking he do obviously had wanted.

The truth of it, though, was that there had never been another man since that night thirty years ago with Aaron. Whenever there had been the temptation, Damont had done the comparisons, and Aaron had always come up the winner—with so much going for him beyond the sex.