Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
“YOUR A GODDAM FUCKIN QUEER. YOU SHOULD GO SUCK A COCK BECAUSE THATS ALL YOU GOOD FOR!!!” As I typed the words into the comment section after the story I’d just read, I felt a sense of satisfaction and relief. Maybe I should write to the editors of .com to tell them to get this fucking gay shit out of other forums. I mean, it’s not that the story was really about gay sex. But it was about a wimp-ass pussy-boy who got off watching his wife fuck other men. That’s not the kind of thing that a normal man would write about. It’s the kind of thing that a cock-sucking queer would think men would find exciting. Cause the cock-sucking queer was imagining himself in the role of the wife and thought the husband in the story should do the same.
I was getting so sick of this shit showing up in every category. If we’re going to have stories about cheating wives, let’s have ones where the dude acts like a dude. You know, he comes home and grabs a gun and kills them both. First, he shoots the balls off the guy and then fucks his wife in the ass on top of the guy as he bleeds to death. Then he puts the gun up the bitch’s cunt and just as he’s shooting his load in her ass, he pulls the trigger. Then all he has to do is clean things up a little and call the cops and say, “I’m sorry, officer. I came home to this.” That’s the kind of cheating wife story that a real man would write.
Well, I’d have to do that later. I was late for meeting George at the bar. I wiped the history in my browser so my wife, Marilyn, wouldn’t accidently find out what sort of sites I visited. Then, I headed out to meet George.
When I got to the bar, George was sitting by himself in a booth, nursing a beer. He’s a big guy-about 6’3″ and built like a tank. He’s been in the construction business all his life, first as a worker and now he owned his own business building small strip malls and things like that. I liked George. He was a regular guy. You could talk with him without having to watch what you said. No political correctness. He was fine if you made a racist joke or called women “cunts”. He didn’t raise an eyebrow if you called a queer a “faggot”. You could just say what you thought.
I got a beer and joined George. He teased me about being late: “What were you doing? Yanking your crank because Marilyn won’t give you any anymore?” I told him I lost track of time because I was reading a cheating wife story on .com that really pissed me off and I posted an angry review. I could talk with George even about this. He read .com, too. In fact, I think he was the one that told me about it.
“You really hated it, huh?”
“Yeah. It was another story by that faggot in hiding, Cinderblock. You know the guy. He writes about all kind of things but you can tell that he’s really a queer that just can come to grips with the fact that he wants to suck a guy’s cock.”
“Yeah, I’ve read some of his stuff. Doesn’t bother me as much as it seems to bother you.”
“Are you kidding,” I shot back. “The guy’s a sick fuck. I haven’t read one story of his that’s just a straight, guy-fucks-the-living-brains-out-of-a-stacked-chick story. I mean, what the fuck? Does he think people like to read his twisted shit?”
“Well, you read it.”
“Fuck you,” I said. And, actually, I was a little pissed at George right then. “I read it because I keep wondering whether this guy will straighten his head out. But he never does. The faggot should just do the world a favor and fuckin’ kill himself.”
George kind of chuckled and I could tell that it would be better to move on to some other topic. I didn’t really know why this guy, Cinderblock, pissed me off so much. He was really pressing my buttons and I could tell from George’s response that my reaction was over the top. I decided it was best just to let it go.
The bartender brought us two new beers. We were regulars here and he pretty much knew to keep us stocked with beers until we stopped him. George went to take a piss and, while he was gone I got myself all worked up again just thinking about the stories that this asshole Cinderblock posted. But when I saw George returning, I resolved not to bring it up again.
George had other ideas. First thing he said when he sat down was, “So, do you want to get this guy?”
“Who?” I said, not wanting to make assumptions.
“You know. This guy who’s pissing you off. Cinderella or whatever?”
“Cinderblock!” I corrected, knowing that George was just trying to provoke me. “What do you mean, “get him”?”
“I mean, track him down and beat the holy crap out of him.” George paused. “You’d like to do that, right?”
“Would I! That would show him.” I took a swig of my beer. “But there’s no way to track him down.”
“Maybe. But maybe not.” Now George paused to take a gulp. He had my attention. I’d love to teach this little sissy-boy creep a lesson. “If you’re right,” George continued, “I’ll be I can get this Cinderblock to show himself. I mean, if he’s really a faggot-in or out of the closet-I’ll bet casino oyna I can get him interested in a date.” He took another drink of his beer. “Then, we can beat him to a pulp when he shows up for his date night.”
“Shit! That’s fucking brilliant,” I said, stunned by George’s willingness to join in on this. “Of course, we’d have to be lucky enough for him to live near here. Who the hell know where in the world anyone on .com really is?”
“Well, we can see.” And with that, we moved on to other topics.
About three days later, George e-mailed me and told me that he’d gotten a response from Cinderblock. In fact, they’d been chatting up quite a bit in private correspondence through .com. Turns out that Cinderblock lives in California. I suspected that it would be San Francisco, land of the queers and fairies, but it turned out he lived in Sacramento. That’s a long way from Atlanta, where George and I lived. So, I figured that beating the shit out of Cinderblock would have to remain just an unfulfilled fantasy.
But life is good and it turned out that the world was revolving around me. Not two weeks later, George e-mailed me another back-and-forth between him and Cinderblock. Ah, the fates were with me and George. Cinderblock was going to be travelling to Atlanta on business in just a couple of weeks. And, he was interested in meeting George (though George had been using the name Greg in the correspondence). I couldn’t believe the luck. It was as if the universe, itself, wanted me to beat the crap out of Cinderblock and it was conspiring to bring him to me for that purpose.
George kept me up on the e-mail from Cinderblock, who told “Greg” that his real name was “Ben”. But who knew? No one told the truth about these things on the Internet. I decided to keep thinking of him as “Cinderblock”. Cinderblock was the guy I’d come to despise. And it was Cinderblock, not some guy named “Ben”, who I was going to beat the shit out of for being such a little cock-sucking faggot.
Cinderblock wanted George to meet him at his hotel room in downtown Atlanta. That was great. We could go there, beat the crap out of Cinderblock and threaten to do it again if he kept writing his shit and posting it to .com and leave him in his hotel room to nurse his wounds.
George and I planned our attack on several different occasions over beers. “Planned” might be too grand a word. There wasn’t much to plan, really: go to his room, beat the crap out of him, promise more if he ever posted another of his shit-ass stories, and leave. But it was fun to run the scenario over and over in our minds while sucking on our beers.
Finally the big night arrived. I’d told Marilyn that I was going to a basketball game with George, so I had the whole night free. George and I drove to the hotel separately because he was coming from a building site the other side of town. When I got there, George was waiting in the lobby. He told me that Ben, as he called him, had instructed him to get a key at the desk-he’d left instruction with the receptionist-and come up to the room and let himself in. That seemed weird to me but, who knows, maybe this pussy-boy, Cinderblock, was planning on meeting his lover in a nightie, reclining on the bed. It’s impossible to figure out what goes through the mind of a queer.
I could feel my pulse pounding as we went up in the elevator. The prospect of beating the crap out of this guy was really energizing me. When we got to the door, George inserted the key card gently and opened the door quietly. He stepped in and I followed, closing the door silently behind me. I started to take a step down the entry toward the beds when I was pushed violently, head-first, into the wall. It all happened so fast that I couldn’t process what was happening. I hit the wall so hard that I lost consciousness.
I have no idea how much time passed. I came to slowly and I was pretty groggy for a while. I realized that my hands and feet were tied securely to the bed I was lying in. I was tied face down, but with enough slack that I could look around. The only person I could see was George, who was sitting at the desk, watching something on a laptop.
“What the fuck?” I complained.
“Oh, you’re with the living again,” George replied.
“What happened? Did that little faggot shit Cinderblock jump me?” Then I realized how silly that was. George wasn’t tied up. And why didn’t he untie me?
“He sure did,” George said.
Now I was more confused. If Cinderblock jumped me, where the fuck was he? And why didn’t George untie me? I was still a bit addled but I suspected that I’d be confused under the best of conditions.
“But I wouldn’t call him “little”. Of, for that matter, a “faggot shit”. He’s about 6’3″ and a good 230 pounds. And, right now, he owns you.”
“What are you talking about?” I still wasn’t getting it. My head was pounding and I’m sure my brain wasn’t at its best. But this was all so confusing.
“Well, Ken,” George said calmly, “if you’re slot oyna so dense that I need to spell it all out for you, here goes.” George paused, I think for dramatic effect. “You wanted to meet Cinderblock so you could beat the crap out of him. Well, you’ve known Cinderblock for years but I doubt that you could beat the crap out of him. Even on your best day and my worst, you’re no match for me.”
Okay, this was really weird. It was like the truth was revealed but it was in a language that I couldn’t understand. No, that’s not right. I knew what George was saying. I just couldn’t imagine the world being the way he was describing it.
George was Cinderblock! That was ridiculous. Cinderblock was some little faggot pussy-boy-or at least a wannabe faggot pussy-boy. George was the epitome of a manly man. He had a beautiful wife and two kids. No one really knows what goes on in a person’s marriage, but I was pretty sure that he and Claire had a terrific relationship, both physically and emotionally. And, I think I have pretty decent-maybe even overly sensitive-“gaydar”. And I can assure you, George ranks a “0” on a scale of “0” to “100” on the gaydar. So, what the fuck was going one. I understood the words, but I couldn’t think of the world being the way the words said it was.
“What the fuck? You’re not that faggot Cinderblock!” I said, knowing that it was false but challenging George to make things make sense.
“Well, I am. But I’m not gay. I’ve never had sex with another guy. I don’t even think about having sex with another guy, except sometimes when I’m searching for a story line that is really provocative. I think about lots of things that are disturbing, even to me. That’s part of the point of fantasies, you know.” George looked at me and seemed to be recalculating. “No, you probably don’t know. You probably think the point of fantasies is to live out your secret yearnings. That’s a pretty limited vision. But I think it’s probably the one you have.”
“Untie me!” I said forcefully, not really wanting to engage George in a debate about the nature and purpose of sexual fantasies.
“I will, but not yet.” George got up, grabbed the laptop, walked toward me. “First, there are a couple of things I want to show you. I think you’ll learn something tonight. One lesson can be learned just by watching. The second will be what teachers call ‘experiential learning’.”
George set the laptop down on the bed next to my head. The media player filled the screen and, after setting it down, George pressed a button to start a video. The scene was a hotel room, much like the one we were in. A woman entered the room and sat down on one of the beds. It took a minute for me to recognize her. It was Marilyn. She kicked off her shoes and then hiked her dress up to roll down her stockings.
Marilyn usually wore pantyhose or no stockings at all. She only wore thigh-highs, like those she was wearing on the video, for special occasions like when we had a “special date”. Then she’d wear those stockings with no panties on. I thought through some of the times we’d gone out with Marilyn dressed like that. There had been sexual tension all through the night. I’d eaten my dinner with the vivid image of her neatly shaved pussy, bare under her dress.
And then a man came into view. George! (Okay, I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I still found it shocking.) He was unbuttoning his shirt as he walked toward Marilyn. When he sat down next to her on the bed, she said, “Here, darling, I want to show you something.” Marilyn took his hand and pressed it up under her skirt. “Do you like it?”
“Very nice!” George replied.
“I did it for you, you know. Ken has been wanting me to shave my pussy for a long time but I didn’t feel like doing it. But then I thought, if Ken wants this so much, maybe it would please you, too.”
“It does. But it pleases me even more than you did it just for me. I’m going to love licking this sweet little shaved cunt until it drips with wetness and you beg me to fuck you.”
“Well, that won’t take long,” Marilyn said, pulling George onto her on the bed.
As they were pulling off each other’s clothes, I did some calculating. Marilyn had first shaved her crotch for me over a year ago. I remembered it distinctly because it was so surprising. I’d wanted her to try that for years but she’d always said that she didn’t want to have to deal with the itching and the stubble. Then, one day she came to bed with her pussy shaved as smooth as a plum. When I questioned her about it, she said that she’d been talking with her girlfriend, Louise, when they were out shopping that afternoon and Louise encouraged her to try shaving her twat just to see the reaction she would get out of me.
My reaction was intense. I licked and kissed her clean little cunt no end that night. (At least, at the time I thought it was clean. I now realized that she’d come home that afternoon not from a day of shopping with Louise but from a day of fucking my friend George. canlı casino siteleri Shit, even if she’d showered, she probably came home to me with some of his cum clinging to the walls of her cunt and dripping out as I coaxed her juices with my tongue.) We’d fucked like teenagers that night. I think it might have been the best sex I’d ever had with Marilyn, or anyone for that matter.
Now, watching George’s video, I realized that it was all a lie. While I’d been completely immersed in an intense sexual encounter with Marilyn, she was, in her heart, laughing at me and fantasizing about her afternoon with George.
“You like it,” George said, breaking me out of my dark thoughts.
“You bastard! I hate your fucking guts!”
“Probably. But not as much as you will.” George seemed so confident and in control. I guess he was. “For the time being, just enjoy the video. I have a few things to do.”
George went around the corner into the hallway by the bathroom. I had nothing to do but bemoan my fate and watch me wife satisfy her lover, my friend (or so I thought), and get more pleasure from doing it than she’d ever gotten with me.
I’d never seen George’s cock before-and of course not when it was hard. But I could see on the video that it was big. I don’t mean “hung like a horse” big, but it was a good eight inches and very fat. Its size wasn’t lost on Marilyn. I had to listen to her telling George how big and beautiful his cock was. She said this while she was fondling it, before she put it between her lips, and several times as she was making love to it with her mouth. And she said it when she’d finished pleasuring George with her mouth and started begging him to fuck her with his huge cock.
I watched Marilyn moan with pleasure as George entered her and gave her an intense fucking. She wrapped her legs around his torso and gripped him with her thighs. And, when she came, she screamed out loud urging him to fill her with his cum. I didn’t have to review my six years of marriage and two years of dating Marilyn to realize that she’d never reacted to me with the same excitement and enthusiasm.
The video ended and I suddenly realized that George was watching me watch the video.
“She’s a tiger!” he said. “I don’t know that I’ve ever had a woman that was more enthusiastic or appreciative.” George walked around toward the bed and I could see that he was carrying a tripod with a video camera on it. “The videos with Marilyn are easy. I just use the laptop’s camera and she doesn’t even know that it’s running.” I noticed that he said “videos” not “video”. “But I need a camera tonight because I don’t want to deprive you of the joy of watching your wife be truly sexually satisfied.”
George set the camera up so that it aimed toward the bed I was tied up in. Then he moved onto the bed and straddled my hobbled body. I tried to buck him off but to no avail.
“You can fight if you want. But it won’t help you. You might as well relax and watch the videos.”
I couldn’t relax. That was impossible. But it also appeared to be impossible for me to turn my head away from the laptop-not physically impossible (there was nothing restraining me from just turning my head), but I still couldn’t do it. So I watched a collage of scenes of George and Marilyn betraying my trust. I’d already deduced that their relationship had been going on for over a year. Maybe it had been going on much longer. But what stunned me now was the number of times they were together. It seemed like they must have been meeting weekly, maybe even more often.
“Like what you see,” George said as the video showed Marilyn on her knees sucking his rigid rod like it was the sweetest thing in the world. “There’s lots more.”
I didn’t like what I saw. And I liked even less what I felt. George was reaching around to unbuckle my belt and undo my pants. I struggled, but there was little point except to make it clear that I wasn’t consenting. George had my pants undone and pulled down without much trouble.
“You are a fucking faggot! You know that?” I screamed.
“Well, maybe. I meant it when I said I’d never had sex with a man-never even touched one sexually. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t find you attractive. In fact, I don’t like your body any more than I like you twisted little bigoted mind.” George untied one of my legs so he could get my pants and underpants completely off. I tried to kick him, but he handled me easily.
“What I’m going to do to you has nothing to do with sexual attraction or lust-at least not mine. From my point of view, this is all about power and dominance. Well, and about teaching you a lesson. You’re going to learn. And it will be a hard lesson.” I guess he thought that was kind of funny. I heard him snicker.
He had me completely exposed and vulnerable from the waist down now. Then he stood up, undressed, and turned on the video camera he’d set up. On the laptop, I could see Marilyn on her hands and knees being reamed from behind by George’s stiff shaft and begging for him to fuck her harder. And then I felt drops of cold liquid on my ass. First, they splattered on my ass cheeks and then George focused them on my crack. I could feel myself being oiled up for his pleasure.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32