My lack of proper image for this post makes me cry inside.  It’s been weeks, and I am no rubber fetishist, and I am still thinking about those pants on him.

I like to entertain myself with sexual remembrances fantasies in times of boredom. When art modeling, for example, or when on half-empty and freezing cold Virgin America flights. Coming back from Folsom I wrote this in my notebook, then lost a page. Lost!

It turned up today, so I post in order to get on to current items.

It’s so cold here! I miss San Francisco already.

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I slid my hand up his thigh, touching the molded ridges in the pant. The rubber had an agreeable thickness to it, unlike the flimsy pink top I wore. I let my hand glide higher, across his groin, and embarrassed myself more than anyone else when I felt his cock against my palm. Good grief. Mischievously I squeezed and felt him respond against my hand, a warm throb even through the latex. I wasn’t just goosing him; I could feel the fat shaft of it, the wide ridge where it flared into the head. I could as well have been jerking him off in public. Heat reddened my sunburned cheeks, and I had to turn away, blushing like a fool.

“These pants are obscene,” I shouted into his ear.

“Oh, I hope so, for the amount of money I paid for them.”

I went back to fondling him.

“I like to think of these as my ‘Why, yes, I am Jewish’ pants.”

We found ourselves closer to the middle of the balcony, and I sat on the edge between his legs. Before long my groping and his impatience got the better of us; he hauled me around on my knees and pressed my face into his rubber-covered cock. Emboldened by the scene below, I sank my fingers into his thighs and mouthed his groin. I have rarely met a penis I disliked, but I could not remember ever finding one so irresistable. There it was, blood-hot and hard and flexing under my tongue, slippery with saliva, and yet I couldn’t have it. The frustration was sublime.

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Later that night, after fucking me into an agreeable stupor, he guided my mouth back onto his cock. Never a master of deep-throating, I’d fallen out of practice in the last year. When he locked his hands across the back of my head, encouraging me to take it deeper, I tensed in anticipation of gagging. Eventually he let me devour him at my own pace. Once slow, all the way down for a few seconds, then back up for air, laving the head with tongue and suction, a hand sliding on the shaft slick with viscous deep-throating spit.

I could tell when he lost patience, or perhaps came nearer to orgasm, because his hands crept back to my hair and this time they were persistent. We struggled a little and then established a rhythm. He’d thrust almost painfully into my throat, then let me off for a second (gasp, choke) before thrusting again.

At the moment of orgasm he seemed too distracted to insist on anything. I let him come in my mouth instead, savoring each grunt of aftershock as I lapped up the rest. I took a little longer than necessary. If that had been for him, then this moment was mine.

Posted in cocksucking, folsom