Ralph crawled forward in the darkness. A hand groped Philippe’s bare thigh. He jerked and gasped. The hand rose and fell again, this time landing right on top of his stiff cock. He yelped.

  “What’s this, Philippe? You got a woodie. Nice. Mind if I sit on it?”

  Philippe’s cock leaped in Ralph’s fingers, not the least bit shy about broadcasting its emotions. Philippe, on the other hand, was unable to utter a single word. His mouth had gone dry in the heat and his body throbbed around the sensation of a hot hand now slowly pumping his cock. The image of Ralph’s oh-so-awesome butt riding him was just too good to be true.

  He was dreaming. He had to be. The thought released his tongue and voice. “Fuck yeah, Ralph. Sit on my hard cock. Fuck me with your hot ass.”

  Words Philippe had been dying to utter. If it was a dream, what was the harm? If he was rejected, he’d wake in the morning no worse for wear.

  But the physical sensations bombarding him in the pitch darkness felt all too real. Ralph’s thighs, lean and smooth, slid over his and settled down to straddle him. Satin-hot asscheeks, naked and firm, pressed into his lap.

  It was no dream. Philippe gasped as he clutched for flesh. His hands found strong arms and pulled them forward. Ralph released Philippe’s cock with a sexy Southern giggle, and then scooted up to sit right on it.

  They both grunted at the connection of cock and crack. Philippe’s stiffie throbbed between Ralph’s parted buttcheeks, pulsing and twitching all along the deep valley where it lay mashed against his stomach and Ralph’s grinding hips.

  “Oh yeah, buddy. I’m gonna fuck you real good with my hot asshole. Real good.”

  The drawled nastiness was followed by more grinding, and Philippe had to feel that silky butt with his hands. He released Philippe’s arms and searched farther, sitting up on his elbows until he discovered the objects of his desire.

  Twin globes of heat. His palms cupped them as they writhed over his stomach. They felt larger in the darkness than he remembered them. Full and heavy and powerful. Sleek, clenching, relaxing, writhing over him as Ralph slowly humped Philippe’s thick cock.

  “You love that ass, I can tell. That’s real good. Real fucking good.”

  Ralph’s ass rose in the darkness, Philippe’s groping hands following it, unable to relinquish the feel of those amazing mounds now that he had them in his grasp. He kneaded and stroked the big cheeks, probing into the spread crack and finding the sweaty crevice, even slicker and smoother. With Ralph’s ass in the air, Philippe found the redhead’s hole, and attacked it.

  “Fuck, so sweet,” Philippe grunted out as his fingers ran across the puckered slot and then settled on it.

  “It’s all yours. Hot and tight and ready for cock. You lick your finger and put it up there.”

  Philippe snorted, almost laughing at the nasty request uttered in that languid Southern drawl. But he instantly complied, moving one hand to his mouth and shoving a pair of fingers in it, working up a mouthful of saliva before removing the fingers with a slurp and returning his hand to that satin-hot buttcrack.

  “How’s this? Feel real good yet?” Philippe muttered.

  His fingers, slick with gooey spit, collided with Ralph’s wrinkled butt rim. The hole convulsed, twitched open and then swallowed those fingers whole. They sucked him right in as Ralph groaned, arched his back and sat down on the pair of invaders.

  “Real good. Real fucking good,” he gasped in the darkness.

  The hole was alive with spasms and twitches. Philippe rammed deep and twisted, probing for prostate. Ralph wiggled his big smooth can over those fingers and began to fuck them, promising unbelievable delights for Philippe’s cock once it replaced those fingers.

  “Cock. You. Gimme some of that fat cock.”

  Ralph’s face hovered close over Philippe, and the whispered words carried an urgency Philippe shared. His cock throbbed with need. The big bone jerked on his belly as it rubbed against an equally stiff cock his redhead friend was thrusting into him as Philippe’s fingers twisted around deep inside him.

  Now that Ralph’s hole was spit-wet and fingered open, it was ready for cock. Ralph himself eased the way by spitting on his own palm and reaching down between their bellies to rub the gooey saliva up and down Philippe’s stiff tool. Philippe yanked his fingers from Ralph’s quivering hole and Ralph squirmed while propping up Philippe’s cock so that the head was again rubbing into his smooth crack.

  That hairless crevice was hot and slippery with spit. Philippe thrust up from the ground with his hips just as Ralph planted the head of Philippe’s cock at the gooey entrance to his anal slot. They both wriggled together, moaning, then grunting as cock-head penetrated butthole.

  Twitching anal lips parted, hot hole gulped. Philippe shoved and Ralph sat down.

  The redhead was impaled. Philippe’s mouth was wide open as he groaned loudly. His cock ached, entirely surrounded by pulsing anal flesh. Sphincter clamped over the root, while hot inner muscle quivered all around the fat shank and head. Ralph was breathing hard, his body rigid for the moment it took to accept all that girth inside his aching guts.

  Then the redhead went nuts. Fingers reached down and clamped over Philippe’s nipples, twisting and yanking as the Southern hottie began to ride the cock up his butt with slamming force.

  Ralph rose and fell, fucking his ass and Philippe’s cock with a slapping frenzy, his chunky buttcheeks smacking against Philippe’s thighs and hips on every downstroke. The tight hole clamped around Philippe’s cock like a heated vise, sucking him in then spitting him out with every rise and fall.

  Philippe held on to those driving buttcheeks, squeezing and kneading them furiously. His back arched, lifting his chest into those pinching fingers as Ralph twisted his nipples like they were handles he was holding onto while he rode cock for all he was worth.

  The redhead paused long enough to alter his rhythm, pulling almost all the way out so that only the aching head of Philippe’s cock was trapped inside his snapping sphincter, then he began to grind his ass in circles as he fucked himself a little more slowly but just as deeply. He groaned and gasped, obviously feeling all the meat penetrating his guts and massaging his prostate. He fucked like a skank, riding and humping and squeezing and releasing. Philippe was helpless beneath him.

  Philippe’s nipples were on fire, a direct line of heated electricity arcing through his chest and down into his throbbing boner up Ralph’s hot ass. Waves of fire emanated from both areas, cock and tits simultaneously. It was the hottest ass-fuck of his life.

  Philippe had been fantasizing about this moment for days as he had groaned his way up the slopes of Kilimanjaro behind Ralph’s sweet, pumping ass. Now that he was getting what he wanted, he sure as hell didn’t want it to end. But orgasm couldn’t be held at bay forever.

  Ralph ripped it out of him. That squeezing, riding, twisting hole massaged and worked his cock so relentlessly, while those pinching fingers yanked his nipples so fiercely, he couldn’t hold back. Holding in a scream with all his willpower, Philippe rose up off the ground and shoved deep into Ralph, then dropped down just in time to pull out and explode.

  Cum shot out of him like a water pipe had burst, spurting over Ralph’s heaving asscheeks. Fire in Philippe’s nipples burned right down into his belly, balls, and erupting boner. He shook and gasped and thrashed all over.

  Ralph released Philippe’s nipples, which only made them throb all the more. As he was still squirting, Ralph scooted down on the sleeping bag and knelt between Philippe’s thighs. In the darkness, Philippe couldn’t see what was going on, but he felt his thighs being lifted, Ralph’s slim, smooth body moving again, and then the insistent throb of a very hard cock rubbing up between his raised legs.

  “Now I get to fuck you. I’ve been thinkin’ of your sweet butt for days and praying for a crack at it.”

  The words were whispered in the darkness, and Philippe’s ears were ringing with the final, exhausted spurts of his orgasm. But he understood and, limp and willing, he spread his knees and offered up his own creamy brown butt for fucking.

  And now he really got fucked. Ralph’s cock was long and slim like he was, and stiff as an iron pipe. The head was like a gloved fist, though, as the redhead punched it right up Philippe’s defenceless and quivering asshole.

  Thankfully the cockhead was coated with a layer of spit Ralph had applied at the last minute before ramming it up Philippe’s ass. That flared crown drove home, splitting Philippe in two and then searing him like a hot spear as it gored him to the balls.

  Philippe’s nipples burned, his asshole burned, and his chest burned. He gasped for air, partially because of the altitude, partially because he was so stuffed with cock. The ache inside him became another wave of intense pleasure that rose up to blast his hot nipples, still throbbing from Ralph’s assault.

  Philippe slammed back against the pile-driver dick up his butt, fucking himself as wildly and eagerly as Ralph had just done. Ralph’s breathing was like a bellows in the darkness as he sucked in air with every pounding thrust up Philippe’s tight ass. Hips slammed against asscheeks again. Hole massaged cock again.

  Orgasm followed almost too quickly. The ache up Philippe’s ass was a pulsing pleasure, and the fire in his nipples had become a soothing heat, and he could have gone on for much longer taking that lengthy fuck spear up his guts. But Ralph was fucking too fast and too deep, his cock drilling Philippe’s tight hole in a frenzy that couldn’t be resisted.

  “I’m blowing. You got my load!” Ralph yelped.

  The redhead pulled out and hovered over Philippe, his body tensed and then jerking as warm cum erupted from his cock to splatter Philippe’s uplifted buttcheeks. Ralph sprayed Philippe’s ass.

  He collapsed on top of Philippe and both men gasped for breath. When he could speak, Ralph whispered in Philippe’s ear. “I think I almost had a heart attack! Maybe it ain’t safe to fuck at this altitude.”

  They began to laugh, their sweat-slick bodies thrashing together on Philippe’s sleeping bag. But that effort had them gasping for air again and they finally settled down. They slept the rest of the night in one sleeping bag.

  Philippe’s determination to conquer Kilimanjaro was renewed, and three days later he stood beside Ralph for a photo at the peak. A sign beside them proclaiming Kilimanjaro Summit proved their conquest.

  Naturally, the hike down was easier, but they still managed to work up a sweat. At night in their tent, mostly.

  It could have ended there at the foot of Kilimanjaro in Africa, but Ralph went the extra mile. The redhead drawled out a sincere invitation to Philippe to visit him at his South Carolina beach house after they returned to the States.

  Philippe took him up on it, and the New Yorker has been there ever since. They both get a kick out of telling people how they met—fucking, almost breathless, in a tent high on the slopes of Kilimanjaro.

  GONE FISHING

  Rob Rosen

  Shit, shit, shit,” I cursed, lunging, too late, for my cell phone as it dropped, kerplunk, into the clear blue water of the toilet bowl. I quickly retrieved the water-, urine-, and Clorox-soaked device and flicked it on. To my utter dismay, a dead screen stared back at me. Apparently, cell phones don’t like to be dunked in water, urine, Clorox, and whatever other chemicals were in the bowl—which, of course, made two of us. I cleaned my arm and the phone off, and tried to collect myself.

  Only I was beyond collecting.

  Normally, I don’t talk on the phone while peeing. Normally, I back up the information from my cell phone onto my laptop. Normally, I don’t have to plunge my arm into a toilet bowl at two in the morning.

  And, normally, I don’t meet the man of my dreams at a gay bar. Nightmarish men, yes, most definitely, and repeatedly, but not dream men. No sir, no-how. Which is why I was standing over my toilet bowl at two in the morning—I don’t pee in bars, being pee-shy and all—calling the man of my dreams, whom I’d met only three hours prior. In retrospect, the call probably could have waited until morning, but I figured he’d find it romantic that I called him so soon after we clicked. Okay, yes, he might have found it a tad desperate, as well, but I was looking at my glass, like my toilet, as being half full.

  Anyway, I dropped the phone on the second ring, before anyone had picked up. Kerplunk it went, as did my heart, my stomach, and several other bodily organs. You see, his phone number, like all the other numbers, resided solely in my phone, unless it was backed up on my computer, which, of course, it wasn’t—what with it being two in the morning and me just getting home.

  I tried to remember his phone number, but to no avail. I dialed quite a few combinations of what I thought the number was, because, yes, besides being romantic, I was also, sadly, desperate; but all I got were a bunch of pissed off people who weren’t thrilled at being woken up at two o’clock on a Sunday morning. And one guy who was seemingly as desperate as I was and promptly invited me over.

  I declined politely. (Okay, I let him jack off on the other end first. I mean, I had woken him up, after all.) And then I sank to my knees, with head in hand, and cursed, once again, the evils of modern technology—in the olden days, a good three years ago, I simply would have gone out with a few Post-it notes and a pen.

  “Okay, Chuck,” I said, though, generally speaking, I didn’t converse aloud with myself. “What are your options here?” I began ticking off a short list.

  “Number one. Forget about him. There’re other fish in the sea.” Only my bait was quickly dwindling with each passing year, and the fish were getting smaller, stinkier, fatter. Besides, he was The One. I felt it down to my very bones.

  I know that most guys have a type they go for: tall, short, hairy, muscular, young, old, white, black, a mix of all of the above. But my type has always been, up until now, elusive, for I sought the nearly extinct normal guy—not too tall, not too short, cute but not conceited, well educated, drug free, in decent shape without being too gymified, as I like to call it, with a good head on his shoulders, thoughtful, respectful, and, here’s where it gets tricky, monogamous. Maybe I’d been fishing in the wrong pond all this time, because the desirable species of fish clearly wasn’t biting.

  Stuart, that’s the guy’s name, Mister Right instead of Mister Right Now, was all this and more. We met in a quiet corner of the bar. He was sitting alone, I was sitting alone, and we struck up a conversation. He’d never been there before, hating the scene even more than I did. Three hours later, with my heart going pitter-patter, I had his number and the most memorable, deepest, longest, lip-numbing kiss I’d ever had in my life. He was everything I’d been fishing for, plus a whole buried treasure to boot—the catch of a lifetime, in other words.

  So, Number One was out. There was no forgetting about him. Even if I tried, I couldn’t. Not those lips, not those sparkling blue eyes, not the soft hand that stroked my index finger as we sat there those several hours conversing.

  “Two,” I continued. “Keep dialing phone numbers until I reach him.” I mean, I did have what I thought were most of the numbers firmly in my head. Eventually, I’d find him. Then again, I thought I had the phone firmly in my hand before it fell in the toilet, and look how that turned out. Besides, how many men could I bring to climax over the phone before that got old and boring? “Nix on Two.”

  I knew what Three was before I said it. But it was a long shot. I’d left the bar shortly before closing time. It was sure to be shut tight upon my return. And, even if it were still open, Stuart would certainly have left already. “Three,” I groaned, putting my coat back on and trotting down the stairs and out to my car. “Back to the old fishing hole I go.”

  The bar was indeed closed, but several men who had lingered were headed to their cars as I drove into the parking lot and scanned it. And there he was, opening the door of a brand new, blue BMW—icing on an already delicious cake.

  I hollered, I yelled, I screamed, “Stuart! Stuart, wait!” But I was too late or too far away. He screeched out of the other end of the lot, and out of my life. I tried to run after him, but running after a Beemer—you get the picture. He was gone in the blink of an eye.

  “Fucking toilet,” I said with a sigh, and headed back to my car, only to find I was no longer alone.

  “Hey,” a guy standing by my driver’s side door said.

  “Oh, um, hey,” I replied, not in the mood to deal with anything or anybody.

  “You looking for Stuart?”

  My heart raced. Was I being offered a second chance? A lifeline? A blow job? At least my priorities were in the right order. “Yes, actually, I am,” I replied, breathless.

  “He’s not worth it, you know.”

  Ugh. Again my stomach sank. Now what was going to go wrong? “Not worth what?” I asked, afraid of his answer but curious nonetheless.

  “Dating. Chasing after. Fucking. Take your pick.”

  Um, sadly, those were my picks. I neglected to say this to him, though. “I just had to tell him something, that’s all. But, if you don’t mind me asking, why is he so low on your favorite person list?”

  “We dated. Briefly. Guy’s a dud. Boring. BORING. Doesn’t go out to the clubs. Doesn’t party. Would rather go to a museum than a mall. And worst, worst of all…” Oh god, what? What, in this guy’s meager opinion, could be worse than someone who doesn’t like to shop? “Worst of all, he’s monogamous. Can you imagine?”

  Bingo! Bingo!

  “Ugh,” I said, with fake disgust. “What a loser. So then, again, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you date him, however briefly?”

  “Guy’s got a big dick.”

  Man, my karma must’ve been royally fucked. I must’ve killed kittens for a living in a previous lifetime to deserve this. “Yes, well, thanks.” And then, with a last ditch effort, “Do you by any chance have his phone number, or address?”

  “Sorry, bud, I never made it to his home, and I tossed his number a long time ago.” He paused and leered at me. “But if it’s a home address you’re after, feel free to come over to mine.”

 

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