Frank

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Horse Hung

Frank didn’t vocalize his orgasms. So I never knew he’d cum until he stopped his motion and pulled out of me. Then I’d look over my shoulder with a smile and ask, “Did you cum?”And Frank, already backing off the bed, his big cock curving downward now, would reply, “Yeah.”Although normally quite chatty, in the immediate aftermath of sex Frank turned into a man of few words, a regular Clint Eastwood (though not nearly as tall or handsome). Without having to be asked I would back off the bed as well and say, “I’ll go get a towel.” I’d wet one in the bathroom sink and after wiping my crack with it come back out and clean the lube off Frank’s cock. I enjoyed doing this. It was the only contact I had with my lover that wasn’t an act of sex.Frank didn’t go for touching and hugging and certainly not kissing. The first time we had sex I was leaning against the headboard with him and, in a small show of gratitude, or affection, I leaned over and kissed his left shoulder (or was it the side of his neck)? And Frank said, “I don’t go in for that.” He wasn’t angry, his tone was even, but I got the message all the same: Frank liked fucking other men, and being sucked by them, but it ended there. No shows of affection.I always brought Frank a pristine hole to fuck. That was one of the things he liked about me, I think. I was older than him; he undoubtedly would have preferred a younger bottom, but after douching myself twice before coming over I provided him with a clean hole and one capable of accommodating the not inconsiderable thickness (and length) of his cock. He had a nice one, all right. Magnificent. And a nice plump pair of bahis siteleri balls as well. I loved to fondle them as, down on my knees, I sucked his cock. Got him ready before we climbed on the bed. Frank had only ever fucked me doggy-style. Not doggy-style exactly. I wasn’t up on my knees and elbows, ass in the air. He liked me lying face-down, on my belly, my mid-body bolstered by a couple of his dark-cased pillows. His bed sat atop a platform, in bedroom’s corner, wedged between three walls, with curtained windows on the far side. When you stood on the floor the top of the mattress, even in my tall case, came up to your navel. You literally had to “climb” onto Frank’s bed.Butted up against the top portion of the bed, and against the same wall as the headboard, was a tall, wide dresser. An antique, I think. Though Frank, a blue-collar guy who worked in some kind of warehouse, wasn’t the type to go around collecting antiques. On its doily were squirt bottles of lube and strips of condoms (magnum-sized) and in the top drawer on the left, various sex toys, including a penis vacuum pump that Frank, amusingly (to him, anyway), had tried on me once. I wasn’t into having an artificially enormous penis (I was into bottoming for them) and I think Frank, just as I had with the aforementioned kiss, got the message. There were dildos and butt-plugs in the drawer but we had no use for them. Wherefore? They were of no use when the real thing, blood and hard flesh, was available.Frank never bothered with the condoms, and I never made him. The first time he fucked me he started out wearing one, but—unknown to me at the time—he stripped canlı bahis siteleri it off at some point and finished in me with his bare cock. I only realized it afterwards, when he pulled out of me. I had mixed emotions as I stared at his unsheathed, now drooping, penis.“You took the condom off?” I asked, somewhat in amazement.“Yeah.”“Oh.” What could I say? I’d just received one of the best fucks of my life. I wanted to come back for more. I wanted to partner Frank in bed on a regular basis, every Saturday afternoon.“I hate wearing those things,” he added.“That’s okay,” I said, after a doubtful pause. Then, “I’ll go get a cloth and…”To be honest, it always thrilled me to know Frank’s deposit of semen was lodged deep inside me, sealed in me now. It brought a smile to my lips and produced in me a warm glow. It made me feel more complete as a lover, as a bottom and submissive, as the “female” in our relationship. I had no hard evidence that Frank was healthy (nor him about me) but he certainly seemed to be. Despite the show of condoms and lube on the dresser I got the feeling Frank had been as starved for sex, and as frustrated from its lack, as I. He seemed a rather lonely figure to me, and not someone who was out fucking everybody on Craigslist.Though, from that first time on, I’d never been enough for him. He was always advertising for a third person and frequently promised, upon my arrival, that he “definitely” had someone else lined up for today. No one ever showed, however. Like most people on Craigslist, they turned out to be fakers. Cowards. Mere fantasists. I understood, believe me. I myself had failed canlı bahis to show up for more than a few dubious get-togethers with strangers.So Frank was stuck with me. Just me. I liked it that way; Frank didn’t. I was jealous. Covetous, I guess, is the better word. I wanted that big pleasurable magic wand of his all to myself. Although…if that mythical third person had turned out to be a top, like Frank, and no matter who went first with me, I would have been able to experience the rare pleasure and privilege of bottoming for two men in a single afternoon. Did Frank want to watch? Was that it? Or have all three of us in bed, naked, at the same time? A sexual free-for-all? I don’t know, for sure, what his idea was. I never asked.I can’t quite remember how or when Frank found out I was a crossdresser. Did he realize it from the very beginning, the first time I sent pics of myself to him? Did I mention it to him in an email? “Oh by the way, if you’re into it I also happen to be…” The first few Saturdays I went over to spend the afternoon with Frank, in his double-wide on the west side of town, the only fem thing I wore was a discreet pair of dark women’s panties. The kind that, from even a short distance, could have been mistaken for a men’s Calvin Klein bikini brief. No lace, in other words. Nothing pastel or flower-patterned or too obviously girly.Upon my arrival, and very much still fully dressed, Frank and I would sit out on the minimal little wooden deck behind his trailer and drink beer—Keystone Light—and chat. Frank liked to sit and talk—and drink—both before and after sex. Except in the immediate aftermath, that is, as I’ve already mentioned. This was one of the things I liked about my lover. There was no “Wham, bam, thank you…” Frank was not your typical bisexual male, sourced out of desperation, or loneliness, from Craigslist.

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