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By the time another business trip came up to cross the Atlantic, I was ready and grabbed at it. It was back to my old stomping grounds when I’d worked in that European branch—and when I’d been with Cal. And when I’d been such a wandering ass that I now couldn’t forget about my sins against Cal.
The trip would give me a chance to atone for my sins—to confess and take my punishment—or, I don’t know, exorcise my demon. Who knows? I’m not Catholic, but this seemed to be a very Catholic thing I needed to do to square myself with Cal. Not in person, of course. That wasn’t going to happen. But at least to myself. I had just been waiting for this chance to go back to the scene of my crimes and erase what I could.
I didn’t seek out the Jazz Club immediately upon landing, but pretty close to that. I checked into a hotel and was almost immediately out on the street, walking the familiar pavement. I’d picked a hotel closer to the club than to my company’s offices. It was clear to me what my priorities were in coming here. I had two days to get this done before I had to appear at the office. And I’d had two years to plan what I had to do.
The Jazz Club—the signage in English, I guess to appear more cosmopolitan—was a basement venue reached by a door at the head of an alley in the old town, where the buildings were three and four stories, flats above and businesses below, that were an architect’s delight and an engineer’s nightmare.
I could hear the strains of the saxophonist from nearly a block away—a rendition of Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Were,” pretty much the way Cal used to play it. I slipped into nostalgia almost immediately, even before descending the steps into the cave-like room where those who loved jazz—and particularly jazz played on the saxophone—gathered nightly. I stopped on the stairs, closed my eyes, and imagined that Cal would be on the small stage under the haze of smoke when I got down there. And that I could just enter the club and reenter his life with an entirely new attitude—not be the shitty little snip I was when we parted, or, rather, when I’d flitted off in a snit and taken the first transfer available back to New York.
The musician had moved into the Stan Getz arrangement of the “Girl from Ipanema” before I reached the bottom of the stairs. It was another one of Cal’s standards. This wasn’t going to be easy on me. But maybe that was part of what I needed for this act or atonement, or exorcism, or whatever.
The saxophonist the club now had certainly was no Cal. He was short and pudgy, black and wrinkled, and wore a beret on a wild-haired wooly black-shot-with-gray head. He may have sounded like Cal, but he certainly didn’t look like my tall and thin handsome Aussie.
I sat at a table near the back of the room, which was three-quarters full of patrons here for the music, rapt in the sweet tones of the sax. When I was seated, I braved a look toward the bar that ran nearly the full width of the room along the back wall. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him still to be here or not. He had become the most important element of this ritual I had decided I needed to go through, so, for that reason, he still needed to be here—and still needed to have the wants he had expressed to me while I was with Cal, and most pointedly when Cal and I were having difficulties. But if he wasn’t here, maybe I could take that as a sign that I didn’t need the ritual confession of my sins and punishing atonement for them at all.
But he was there, behind the bar, where he worked as one of the bartenders and also as the club bouncer, not that this club needed a bouncer. The patrons were sophisticated, well heeled, and here for the music. The saxophonist had moved into “Take Five” in the Dave Brubeck version from his Time Out album. The patrons would be floating on that for some time. They wouldn’t be paying any attention to what was happening at my table.
The big Slav, Horst, saw me from behind the bar, did a double take, and then smiled. He raised a bottle of Scotch, and I nodded in assent. He fiddled under the bar for a few seconds, but quickly had added two glasses to the bottle and was moving toward my table. He was as monstrously big as always—a head or more taller than I was, broad shouldered, and muscular. Completely unlike Cal. It was weird that I was planning to use him to make atonement—in my mind, at least—for how I had treated Cal, but somehow it had seemed fitting. The last thing Cal had said before I flounced out on him was, “If I don’t satisfy you, go fuck Horst.”
But Cal did satisfy me. He always did. I just didn’t know it at the time. I was always after more—mostly more attention to me. I had grown since then, but I couldn’t square that directly with Cal now. He was departed. Not in the sense of the final last breath, but back to Australia, which was as close as he could get to being dead to me and still breathing.
“You came back,” Horst said, as he sat down, precariously, on a chair meant for a much more normal-sized person than bahis firmaları he was.
“Yes, I came back,” I said as he poured out two stiff glasses of Scotch. He’d brought good Scotch. He was still interested, on the make, which fit into my plans, even if it sent a chill up my back. Besides the magnificently muscled oversized body, Horst was pug ugly with a bald head resembling a bullet and a face that only his pug could love.
“He’s not here anymore,” he said. “Went back to Australia not long after you left.”
“I know. I didn’t come here to see him. I came here to see you.”
That obviously pleased the big Slav. He smiled and took his wallet out of his pocket and placed it on the surface of the table. He immediately pulled a photograph out of it, but I knew he’d placed it on the table so that I could see the indentation the condom disk made in the leather of the wallet—a very wide condom disk, a Magnum size. He had done this signaling before when he’d been trying to make me. He wanted me to know he required a Magnum—and that he went everywhere prepared to use it.
That’s what he’d done when he saw that Cal and I were having difficulty and he wanted some of what Cal got—some of what some others were getting, which was at the root of the problems between Cal and me. He’d slapped the wallet, showing the indentation, down on a tabletop, drawn my attention to it, and said, “You want a real man? I’m a real man.”
He flipped the photograph over and showed it to me. “Nice blond little piece, isn’t he?” Horst said. “Curly hair just like you. Cal had him in here almost before your seat at the table had gotten cold. That didn’t last long, though. None of his progression of cute little pieces like this twink and you lasted long with Cal. He pulled up stakes and returned to Adelaide soon thereafter.”
“Soon after what?” I asked.
“Soon after I’d fucked the stuffing out of this one,” Horst said with a grin. “Squealed like a little pig, he did. He loved it but couldn’t walk straight for days afterward. Cal was pissed.”
I know, I know, I screamed in my mind. You have a big cock.
He was rubbing a finger over the indentation of the condom disk. He was trying too hard. I’d come in with the intention of using him as punishment. He wouldn’t know it, but he didn’t have to sell himself to me. He poured us both another shot of the Scotch and asked me what I’d come here for.
I was honest—to a point. I told him I’d come for him, that I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since I’d gone back to the States. This was half true. I couldn’t stop thinking about Cal and what I’d done to him, but Horst did fit into those thoughts—and then, increasingly, into my plans for atonement.
Horst was pleased and put a big paw on my thigh, high up on my thigh. I didn’t push him away. I confessed my sins to him, although he probably thought I was just nervously babbling, working up to taking that big cock he was advertising. If he was listening to me, it probably didn’t turn him off to hear that I had fucked indiscriminately and like a rabbit when I’d lived here before. If he was Catholic, which I doubted, he might have seen the ritual in what I was doing. I wasn’t Catholic, but I thought of this in those terms: confess my sins; seek penance, which Horst’s challenging cock would provide; take my punishment; and walk away cleansed—and, I hoped, able to forget and move on with my life.
It all sounded great to Horst, and I tried not to make it sound too churchy when I went through the litany, leaving the walking away happy bit out of it, naturally. I’d carefully rehearsed it all, and he was so anxious to get into my pants that he spent more time filling my Scotch glass and thinking he was seducing me than paying attention to how much I was controlling this.
He probably had no idea that a young-looking blond half his size could be controlling anything when he was the one with the huge cock.
He fucked me in the dark stair hall just behind the bar through a door covered with a beaded curtain. The saxophonist moved into Ray Charles’ rendition of “Unchain My Heart” about the exact time Horst stuck it in me—although that took some doing.
He was crouched down against the wall to bring his face down to the level of mine and possessed my mouth with his, sticking his tongue in my mouth and forcing me to suck on it, while his hands unzipped us both and he unbuckled my trousers and pushed them and my briefs to the floor. I lifted my legs off the floor and hooked them on his crouched thighs. He fisted our cocks together, and I moaned at how much larger his was than mine. I was grateful for the dark and not being able to see his face clearly and being able to concentrate on the cock play.
I heard more than felt or saw him fiddling with his wallet to extract the condom and the wallet falling to the floor next to us.
“You,” he whispered in a low, hoarse voice. “You want it, you crown it.” He pressed the condom disk into one of my hands. Taking his big cock kaçak iddaa in punishment for my sins against Cal having been the whole reason for coming here, I rolled the condom on the cock.
Part of what he brought from the bar must have been a tube of lube, because I felt the heel of his hand under my ball sac and then slick fingers at my hole. I grunted and jerked when a finger entered me and began working on opening me to him. This was going to take some time, I knew, so I unbuttoned his shirt and lay my cheek in the cleavage between his bulging pecs. I worried his taut nipple near my mouth with my fingers for a moment or two before moving my mouth to the nipple and suckling it while he worked my channel opening with, now two, slicked fingers.
He must have found this arousing, because he came up from his crouch, with my knees clinging above his hips for dear life, rolled my buttocks up to him, and pressed his huge mushroom cap at my opening. I grunted and tensed up.
“I don’t think I’m ready for it yet,” I whimpered.
He muttered, “Ya gotta relax or it’s gonna hurt like hell.”
I relaxed as much as I could, but it still hurt like hell, as he got the cap lodged inside the opening and pressed in. I wanted to scream, but he was holding me tight and had a big paw clapped over my mouth. I panted and he was breathing heavily and grunting at the effort to spike me.
It hurt like bloody hell and I was sure he was going to split my walls. But he didn’t. Slowly they gave way to him, at least enough for him to fill me up—or so I thought. I reached down and felt maybe five more inches that weren’t inside me.
This would not do. The punishment was to take all of him. I felt filled, but this wasn’t enough.
He maybe pressed in another inch, but that was all, before he started to slow pump me. I was wearing a vest with a metal buckle at the back, and I gauged the increasing rhythm of his pumping by the clicking noise the metal made when it hit the wall behind me.
It still hurt, but there was pleasure in it now too. The pleasure of being filled, and taking what I had inside me, as impressive in girth as it was in length. I concentrated on the fuck and the cleansing intent of it and began to bang him back, trying to pull all of him inside. Nothing less would do in this atonement or exorcism, or whatever my mind had decided it had to be. But a good part of my life was spent being fucked, and once I was into the rhythm, the fuck was all that mattered. We were fucking to the rousing strains of “Second Balcony Jump” on the sax beyond the beaded curtain.
But, with a jerk and a grunt, he came, filling out the bulb of his condom.
He held there for a full minute, both of us breathing hard, me feeling down there to be sure he was only half inside me, which he was. “Shit,” he muttered. “Been thinkin’ of this too much, I guess. Came too fast. You didn’t come. Wanted to make you come.”
“You still have the flat a couple of flights up from here?” I asked. “Can you get away from the club?”
His breathing was ragged, his heart racing, I knew, at me asking for another fuck rather than he having to figure out a way to get it. I felt the little lurch in his cock inside me, the promise that it could recharge quickly when sufficiently aroused. I took his head between my hands, gave him a deep kiss on the mouth, and then whispered, “Take me upstairs and fuck me all night. Make me come—again and again.”
It was a chore. There was bad news and good news. The bad news was that his early ejaculation wasn’t an anomaly. He was a fast shooter, each and every time. The good news was that he had balls the size of lemons and could reload fast.
The chore was that, as idiotic as my needs were, I had to have him all inside me for a fire off or the atonement or exorcism wouldn’t be complete. It didn’t matter if it made sense or not; my mind had to be satisfied. I had to open enough to him to take him all in a fucking before he ejaculated.
We sixty-nined, stretched out on his bed. I gave him a Cal special—or tried to—sucking on his bulb and flicking his piss slit with my tongue until his hips involuntarily went into motion. Then I tried to deep-throat him. I could with Cal. There was no way with Horst. And he shot off without warning to either of us, filling my mouth with his cum. It took him several more minutes to bring me off, but he was determined to, and did so. While I built up to blow, I played with his huge balls with my hands and teased a few after spurts out of the cock. I measured the cock with my hands, fisting it like a baseball bat and getting the sensation that it was that big.
He’d brought the Scotch bottle upstairs and we finished it off as we waited for him to reload, which didn’t take long.
He couldn’t sit, but nervously pranced around the room, seemingly filling every available space with his magnificent muscular body, no muscle of his less magnificent than the one between his legs, which might have reached to his knees kaçak bahis if it weren’t perpetually erect, reaching out and curving up from his body, giving the impression he was trying to press it into the walls across the room.
“Of all Cal’s pieces, you were the nicest,” He said, standing over me and looking down. He was already rolling a new condom on his cock—a second one he took from his wallet. “Great little body, always so young and innocent looking. But we knew you weren’t innocent, didn’t we?”
Yes, we did, I thought. Cal was never enough. “I should have stuck with Cal,” I said.
“Of all the guys you let fuck you, why was it never me?”
“You should know why, Horst? Look at me, how small I am. I was scared stiff of it.”
“What? This cock?”
“Yes, of course.”
He clearly was pleased that his cock cowed me. “But now you want it?”
“Yes. Now I want all of it. I want you to keep fucking me until I have taken all of it.” He didn’t need to know why—that it wasn’t because I loved his cock but because taking all of it was the penance I had to pay for being at peace with how I had treated Cal.
“You want it, you got it,” he growled as he grabbed me out of the chair I was sitting on with hands on my waist and pulled me right onto his cock. I arched my back toward the floor and he tucked my knees under his armpits. He seemed aroused at the unusual fuck position; I had the experience to know a million of them. He pulled me on and off his cock with the strength of his arm muscles, but he didn’t last any longer this time than he had down in the hallway. He wasn’t fucking me at much more than a six-inch depth before he ejaculated.
He muttered another, “Sorry,” but added, “But there’s more.” And indeed he was still as hard as ever.
He lay me on the side of his bed, opened his nightstand drawer, took out another one of those Magnums, and rolled the used one off his cock. His eyes went wide as, standing between my legs, which were bent, with my heels digging into the edge of the mattress, he was rolling on the condom and I was reaching into the drawer and pulling out two more condoms and laying them on the top of the nightstand.
“All night long,” I murmured. “I don’t care how many times you have to come, I want to take it all.”
He groaned, crouched over me, pressing his forehead into mine, grabbed and raised and spread my legs wide, and started working his cock inside me. I moaned and reached down and spread my buttocks as open as I could, wanting him all inside me. He’d given me maybe seven inches before he was moved to start pumping—and then, shortly, firing off.
We were both exhausted and slept for a couple of hours, stretched against each other, me cuddled into his groin, inside his embrace. Late in the night, I woke and slipped a hand between us. He was snoring quietly, lost to the world. In this world, though, his cock was hardening at my touch.
He wasn’t fully erect, but he was erect enough to handle a condom when I gently rolled him on his back and continued to stroke him. He remained asleep. He was erect enough for me to straddle him and press the cock head to my hole while he was still in deep sleep. He was moaning, though, having a wet dream that he hadn’t connected yet to reality. It helped make him rock hard.
I had most of him inside me before he even started to wake up. He was fully awake, though, when I had taken all of him and was able to feel the scratchiness of his wiry pubic hair on my buttocks. And he was immediately game for the fuck, grabbing my waist and pulling me up and slamming me down as I went into a wild rodeo ride of his dick—of all of it. Taking it all, pain deep inside me, but pain that was subsiding into the sheer pleasure of taking a cock that big and long. I both felt and listened to the slapping of his balls on my buttocks in time to his thrusts, savoring it as victory music.
I felt the guilt flowing out of me. The plan, as idiotic as it was, was working. Cal was great, but I wasn’t his one and only. He probably had already recovered. According to Horst, he had recovered and gotten back onto the small blond twink circuit within days after I had walked out on him.
It was only my guilt I had to deal with. And the punishment I had chosen had turned into a glorious cleansing. I had never taken it so deep.
Horst jerked and cried out and came deep inside me. But he wasn’t the only one doing so. I came with him, giving me assurance that I was free and had picked an appropriate ritual to free myself.
I lay, crouched over him, panting. He was looking up at me in wonder, holding my arms in his hands.
“All of it,” he muttered.
“Yes, I took all of it. Has that never happened before?”
“No, never,” he said, his voice still in awe.
I knew the secret now. I wouldn’t tell Horst—that he had to be three-quarters buried before he was even aware he was being fucked. This wasn’t about Horst, and I didn’t really like Horst all that much.
But I think I could come to like Horst’s cock. Very much. I had never felt so possessed.
He started to struggle up from underneath me, but I whispered, “No, don’t. We’re already there. Let’s take advantage of that.”
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