The Hardest Thing

coherent speech. I didn’t
need it. My ass was doing the talking for me. I leaned back on the bench and pulled my knees up. I wanted to see him while he fucked me.
    “This is going to hurt, Dan.”
    “I know.”
    “Sure you want it?”
    “Mmm.”
    That was all the encouragement he needed. He placed a condom over the head of his cock and rolled it down. Confident, he’d come prepared. I didn’t even know they made them in his size.
    “Cold,” he said, rubbing lube around my hole. One finger slipped in, worked around in a circle. Then he got to work on his dick, slicking it up. It took a couple of generous applications to cover the entire rubber-sheathed surface area.
    “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
    “Okay.”
    “Sure?”
    I made a sound which I can’t put into letters, mostly at the back of my throat.
    He stood over me, stroking his lubed-up dick. How many men really wanted that thing? And how many of those could actually take it? Well, he was in luck. I may not be used to a cock up my ass, but I have extensive military training and know how to endure pain for a worthy objective.
    And from where I was sitting, or rather lying, it looked pretty damn worthy to me. I took a deep breath and then, as soon as I felt him push, exhaled.
    Jesus Christ. It was like labor in reverse. I screwed up my eyes, bit my lip and tried to breathe through
it. Steady, Stagg, steady. You’re trained for this. Go through the pain, not under. Focus ahead. Clear the mind. Breathe.
    The agony subsided, leaving behind it a warmth that I have never known before. Every muscle in my body seemed to relax. He sensed it, waited a while, caressed my thighs, and then, slowly, gently, advanced. I’ve made easier advances through enemy territory under heavy fire—he encountered resistance every inch of the way—but the further he got, the easier the going, and finally, to our mutual surprise, his pubic hair hit my balls, and I’d taken the lot. I felt him right up to my guts. I half expected to feel him in my throat.
    “You’re doing well,” he said, as if I was undergoing some kind of operation which, in a sense, I was. “Now, just relax.” He took hold of my cock which, to my surprise, had gone completely soft. “Let’s see if we can get this hard again. It’ll be a lot more fun if we can.”
    “I feel like I’m going to come.”
    “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.” He did, too. He stroked the underside of my dick with the back of his fingers, gently, until it started to stir. Then he took it by the base between thumb and forefinger and wagged it from side to side, slapping it against my thighs. I could feel the blood flowing back into it, and as it did so the sensation inside my ass got stronger. When it was fully hard, he bounced it against the palm of his hand a few times, testing it.
    “You’ll do,” he said, leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. At the same time he pulled his dick out a few inches, leaving what felt like an intolerable vacuum inside, and then thrust.

    I realized, with that thrust, that I had never really been fucked before. Yeah, I’d let a few guys in—and I’d enjoyed it; it made a change. But I’d never felt what guys like Jody felt—that ecstasy that makes their eyes roll back in the head, that makes them lose it completely, bucking around like a crazy steer. I used to put it down to types: you were a top, or a bottom, and while you might switch around from time to time, you never really changed.
    And here was a guy in his fifties in an uptown steam room showing me that everything I ever knew was wrong.
    He started slow, which was just as well; I was struggling to keep up. Pain was never far away, lurking just below the surface of this new pleasure. I was either going to scream or come. I checked my dick—still hard. The temptation to grab it and start jerking was enormous, but it would be all over in four strokes. I wanted this to last.
    He wasn’t one of those guys who likes to keep up a running commentary, thank god; some people watch too much porn and feel the need to put everything into words. One of the best things about sex is that it’s nonverbal, and I like to keep it that way. Instructions and requests are fine—and, in this case, the occasional question about one’s well-being—but apart from that, I don’t need to be told that a dick is up my ass. I can feel it.
    After cruising along in first gear for a while, he shifted into second and,