November 10, 1953. 63 years
He likes to find you waiting for him, naked in some rented room. He’s turbo engine horny for what a willing faggot is ready to do for him. Right now he wants you on your knees, ready to use your mouth and throat on him. You help him off with his shoes while he unfastens his trousers, eager to share his meat with you. It’s the pink colored flesh of puckered English assholes, already fat but not fully hard. Al dente. He drags it across your lips, your tongue.
“Let me hear you beg for it, boy,” he growls.
“Please feed me your cock, Sir,” you beg, and he thrusts it into your face. You swallow it whole and he grabs your skull and holds you steady, grinding against your gaping mouth, stretching your throat. His brown, greyish pubes smell like ball sweat and day old piss. He’s fucking your face now, slowly, establishing a rhythm. His strong buttocks are in your hands, encouraging him to use your mouth in whichever manner brings him the most pleasure.
“Stick a finger up my asshole, faggot,” he barks, and you do, slowly, feeling the warm, moist darkness of his anus. He stops fucking and pulls his engorged cock from your mouth.
“Suck the shit stink off that finger, boy,” he orders, watching you submit to his orders while sucking on your own digit.
“Good faggot. Now Im going to smoke a cigar and watch some porn while you eat my asshole. Do you understand? Yes? When I’m done smoking this cigar, we can decide which drrserves breeding the most. Your cunt or your face.”
