On the Docks

I no longer was neutral. Now I wanted it to go on, pushing me to an even higher level of passion. I wanted a third and a forth creaming. But my body could only take so much pounding, and the dockworker, as young and virile and strong and lusty as he was, could hold his load for only so long. I was exhausted and was just flopping around on his pistoning cock when he finished with me—with the yelp of victory I was seeking from him at his climax.

He let me down to the ground then and I collapsed into a moaning heap, grateful that I had survived the size and power and endurance of him, sorry now that it was over. I nonsensically grabbed for his ankle as he stood over me, panting and muttering in Spanish. I didn’t know how I was going to manage it, or how soon he would be capable of delivering it again, but I wanted to be transported back to the heights of that virile, primeval fucking.

His hand was on mine, prying my fingers away from my grip on his ankle.

“No, no,” I was moaning softly. “You don’t understand. I want it again. Fuck me again.” All of my previous experiences with men had been too bland. I had no idea such passion and pleasure could be wrenched from me. I was a slut for him—for that long, thick cock swinging free above my head now. He could do anything with me now. Just as long as he fucked me again—when I’d had a chance to recover myself. Just a bit longer. I had to make him understand.