An Artist from the Past - Sex Stories

An Artist from the Past

... swollen balls colliding with mine. Again he paused, but distracted me again by reaching around and teasing my ultra-sensitive nipples into erection. Then he flattened his hands on my pecs and drew me into his lap. I couldn't believe how deep he had gone. I swear he was in my gut, and that I could see the head just under my belly button. I was panting with desire. My eyes were dilating. And I could definitely feel his girth inside my chute which had stretched to accommodate him. Fuck he felt so good!

Jerry began his vigorous fuck with alternating long slow thrusts and short hard jabs—which always targeted and usually hit my prostate. He continued for what seemed a long time but was probably only a few minutes. But during that time my arousal was reaching the crest of the hill. I called out my impending climax, but he probably already knew. He had strangled me twice to prolong our mutual pleasure. My precum was pooling in the palm of the hand that he was using to retract my hood so his fingers could brush the glans. I jolted back from the sensitivity and pushed hard into his lap. That of course drove him as deeply inside me as anyone had ever been—or has been since. He sped up and I felt his spasms. And I responded with jerks of my own. I shot an enormous load in a half dozen shots. I was totally spent, but still anxious to have him on top. Then he fell on top of me, and we collapsed onto the bed.

"Fuck. I needed that," he whispered as his lips touched just below my ear ...

... lobes. Then he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked each in turn, tasting my cum.

"So did I. So did I, Jerry. I love having your giant tool inside me. No one has ever done me better."

He ended up spending the night. And, although Jerry was a top, it turned out that he enjoyed being spooned afterwards. So we slept with him in my arms. He fucked me twice more that night: in the middle of the night and early the next morning before our run. Each time was a gold medal performance, longer and more athletic than the one before. And by morning, I could barely rise from the bed. Fortunately it was Sunday. The hell with the run. Given how close his studio was to my condo, we repeated often in the next few weeks. (I learned that he had been sleeping on the old Victorian couch in his studio—strictly against the no-residency policies of the building—and using the old children's bath to wash up. As a grammar school, it had no shower, so he had been sponging off for weeks at the tiny knee-height sinks.) Within a month he had moved in, and we often showered together. He loved having my fingers deep in his hole, teasing his prostate. He liked to be finger fucked, but rarely did he actually bottom.

Given his artistic nature and attitude, we were nude usually in the condo. And we couldn't get enough sex. He would return from a day painting beautiful nude men and women, often feigning sexual activity. That always turned him on, and I suspect he may have relieved himself more than ...