Young Man’s Gift

I was lying on my back on the cold steel table, trembling, scared, virginal, but oh-so prepared emotionally for the older, experienced, dominating man. He was wearing that white, pretend doctor’s medical coat—and nothing else. I vividly remembered being surprised that his pubes were jet black, silky and curly, even though his head hair was a delicate, shiny gray. I writhed, my legs spread, my buttocks at the edge of the table, while his soft mouth went down over my hard cock and his lubricated thumb moved inside me, preparing me, loosening and opening me up for that huge member springing forth from that jet black bush. Then that first, painful, glorious breaching and glide—deeper, deeper, and deeper, as I cried out my first taking to the hard steel beams overhead—that hard steel beam of his stretching and penetrating inside me—and arched my back and he pulled my legs up and out with strong hands wrapped around my ankles and began to rotate and pump.

He was so sophisticated and serious and elegant and fatherly in reading from the script, but the unscripted Hank was crude and hoarse, muttering of ripe buns, taut nipples, young flesh, fucking, scoring, popping cherries, and, when he had entered me for the first time, not so painfully as I expected as fully as he had prepared me, of sweet tight virginal asses and of how he was going to make me beg for it and cry out at what he could do inside me. All of which was true. The unscripted Hank filled me with lust—and with his burbling cum. Again and again and again.