THE BUS MAN Sissy faggot romance Chapter 1
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THE BUS MAN (Sissy Faggot Romance) Chapter 2 free porn video
THE BUS MAN
Chapter 2
In my dream, I am walking through a lush forest. I can hear a light wind stirring the branches, and feel it breathing cool on my bare skin. Bare skin? I look down, and, yes, I am pretty scantily clad, in a kind of Native American Rocky Horror outfit - thigh length stockings of fine, soft chamois, held up with a suspender belt of leather thongs, and a g-string, also of chamois and thongs, pulled tight between my buns. My top is bare, except for some beads around my neck and wrists. It's tacky pseudo-ethnic, but it feels great, with the breeze, kissing my nipples, and my thighs and butt-cheeks, making my dick swell up in the soft pouch. I keep on walking, and before long I see a light some way ahead. Eventually it turns out to be a clearing, bright with sunlight, but with the opposite side in heavy shadow - and there is a dark shape, about the size of a man, standing in this shade. My pulse quickens as I approach the thing. It's a sculpture. A huge, phallic sculpture, in smooth honey-coloured marble. There's a low plinth, supporting two testicles, the size of basketballs, and, rising up behind them, a beautiful, erect penis. The detail is amazing! The thick veins twining up it, the folds of foreskin around the neck, the smooth dome of its helmet. In a sort of trance, I am drawn to it, closer and closer, until my face is inches away, my arms encircling the thick shaft. I begin to grind my hips against it, running my hands all over it. As my excitement grows, I start kissing and licking all around its neck, and over the glans into the hole at the top, my eyes closed in delicious abandonment. I'm so completely entranced, I don't at first notice the strange change - that I am thrusting my crotch into something softer than stone, and that my hands are caressing flesh. But when I taste the tang of spunk in my mouth, I snap out of it, and fall back, a thick cum string still hanging between my lips and the cock-tip. I am standing there, staring in amazement at a real, flesh and blood penis, five-and-a-half feet tall, when suddenly my attention is distracted by a movement under the eaves of the wood behind it. I back off further, and half-crouch, ready to turn and flee. Out from beneath the trees come seven men, all black, all tall - six foot two or three - dressed like Zulu warriors, with long assagai spears and shields. They form a half circle behind the phallus, and plant their assagais in the ground, before laying down their shields, and holding up their right hands in the universal sign of peace. I straighten up, and return the gesture. Now that my fear is fading, I am beginning to admire their long, lean bodies. Looking at them closely, I see that they are all the same man, like clones, or septuplets. Then I realise that I know them - or, rather, him.
During my time at college, one of my fellow students was a South African hunk called Samson Djubuthi. He was, in fact, a real Zulu prince, and I remember him coming to one Halloween party in his traditional tribal outfit. It was strangely chorus-girl like, with fluffy shin guards and armlets, a number of ostrich feathers and some beads, and nothing much else but a short skirt of leather strips, leaving his thighs and torso bare. Seriously drool-worthy! I had come dressed as a sort of tarty Goth vampire, with heavy eyeliner and scarlet lipstick, and a long clingy black dress that showed off my bum nicely. It was my first time in public in drag, and I was a bit nervous, but everybody was extravagantly complimentary. Samson, though, paid me the best compliment of all - he spent a good ten minutes chatting me up, before he realised it was me! And when he did, he laughed out loud, head back and teeth flashing, saying "Brilliant! brilliant! I thought you wear a real girl! Hahahahaa!!" I was glad he took it so well, (you never know with straight boys), but when he offered to share some ganja with me, I noticed how pink his eyes were, and twigged - he was stoned out of his box! That turned out pretty well for me, since he thought we should sneak off to the basement to smoke it, and, what with the dark and the dope, I ended up seducing him, and sucking him off. That still remains one of my sweetest sex memories - how I knelt down before him, slowly unbuttoning the black shorts he wore under his Zulu kilt: how, when I scooped his tackle out, it looked so edible, like two dark heavy plums hanging beneath a thick apricot-tipped liquorish stick: how I wrapped my lipsticked lips around it and gorged on it to the root. Delicious! It's making my mouth water remembering it.
Afterwards, I often caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, with a half-smile - like someone who has enjoyed a conjuring trick, but still can't quite figure out how it was done.
Meanwhile, back in the forest, the dream Samsons are clearly not wearing shorts, as seven stallion erections are thrusting straight out from between the leather strips of their skirts, nodding heavily with the pulsing blood. And their dicks are enormous! Those giant beauties would easily reach their knees if they bent them down. I'm ogling the dark shafts and succulent pink knobs, and wondering which one to feast on first, when the seven Samsons point imperiously at the standing phallus. I understand. I obey. As soon as I focus on the giant erection again, I feel myself slipping back into the trance state, drawn to it like a magnet. I drop slowly to the ground, and slink forward on my hands and knees, shoulders low, arse high in the air. Each Samson begins a rhythmic stamping, as he grabs his great, wood-hard horsecock, and starts slowly to pump. Now I'm kneeling before the big, round balls, fondling and licking them all over their smooth, honey-coloured skin. The Samsons' wank dance is becoming more intense, as with rhythmic, belly-deep grunts, they shuffle forward to surround me in a tight circle. I standing now, arms clasped around the giant shaft, feeling the rigid body, with its thick, ropey veins, throbbing between my thighs, contrasting with the sponginess of the sperm-duct against my chest and crotch. I am licking and kissing the soft fleshy head, making out with this giant cock, like it was my lover. The Samsons are prancing high now, beating their massive meat so fast it's a blur. I am caught up in the frenzied rhythm - down, my butt pushed out - up, thrusting my dick against the phallus - down, up, down, up - faster and faster, masturbating the thing with my whole body, slippery with sweat and oozing spunk, until my climax explodes. I drop to the root and jerk backwards, my legs stretched out stiff and spread wide, holding the giant cock hard against my spasming dick, feeling each spurt of the monster's own orgasm as it pumps upwards, gushing out like a fountain, and raining down on my upturned yelling face, while the Samsons, shouting triumphantly, squirt all over me like fire hydrants, until I am covered in hot spunk!
I woke up with the taste of cum still on my lips, and the feel of it sticky on my body. I was confused, still half asleep, but the sound of one pair of hands applauding brought me round. It was Tom/Shirley, crouched on a chair with his knees up, like a cute gargoyle, and grinning from ear to ear.
"Bravo!" he said "Such volume! Such projection!"
"Shut up." I said, though half-smiling, pleased at the compliment. My sleeping bag was bunched round my ankles, and my belly, chest and face spattered with spunk. As I pulled up my pants, and grabbed my tee-shirt to wipe up the mess, Tom said,
"Dreaming about Double Decker Derek, were you?" I paused a second, to think.
"You know," I finally said, "I sort of was."
Manmare
Chapter 2
In my dream, I am walking through a lush forest. I can hear a light wind stirring the branches, and feel it breathing cool on my bare skin. Bare skin? I look down, and, yes, I am pretty scantily clad, in a kind of Native American Rocky Horror outfit - thigh length stockings of fine, soft chamois, held up with a suspender belt of leather thongs, and a g-string, also of chamois and thongs, pulled tight between my buns. My top is bare, except for some beads around my neck and wrists. It's tacky pseudo-ethnic, but it feels great, with the breeze, kissing my nipples, and my thighs and butt-cheeks, making my dick swell up in the soft pouch. I keep on walking, and before long I see a light some way ahead. Eventually it turns out to be a clearing, bright with sunlight, but with the opposite side in heavy shadow - and there is a dark shape, about the size of a man, standing in this shade. My pulse quickens as I approach the thing. It's a sculpture. A huge, phallic sculpture, in smooth honey-coloured marble. There's a low plinth, supporting two testicles, the size of basketballs, and, rising up behind them, a beautiful, erect penis. The detail is amazing! The thick veins twining up it, the folds of foreskin around the neck, the smooth dome of its helmet. In a sort of trance, I am drawn to it, closer and closer, until my face is inches away, my arms encircling the thick shaft. I begin to grind my hips against it, running my hands all over it. As my excitement grows, I start kissing and licking all around its neck, and over the glans into the hole at the top, my eyes closed in delicious abandonment. I'm so completely entranced, I don't at first notice the strange change - that I am thrusting my crotch into something softer than stone, and that my hands are caressing flesh. But when I taste the tang of spunk in my mouth, I snap out of it, and fall back, a thick cum string still hanging between my lips and the cock-tip. I am standing there, staring in amazement at a real, flesh and blood penis, five-and-a-half feet tall, when suddenly my attention is distracted by a movement under the eaves of the wood behind it. I back off further, and half-crouch, ready to turn and flee. Out from beneath the trees come seven men, all black, all tall - six foot two or three - dressed like Zulu warriors, with long assagai spears and shields. They form a half circle behind the phallus, and plant their assagais in the ground, before laying down their shields, and holding up their right hands in the universal sign of peace. I straighten up, and return the gesture. Now that my fear is fading, I am beginning to admire their long, lean bodies. Looking at them closely, I see that they are all the same man, like clones, or septuplets. Then I realise that I know them - or, rather, him.
During my time at college, one of my fellow students was a South African hunk called Samson Djubuthi. He was, in fact, a real Zulu prince, and I remember him coming to one Halloween party in his traditional tribal outfit. It was strangely chorus-girl like, with fluffy shin guards and armlets, a number of ostrich feathers and some beads, and nothing much else but a short skirt of leather strips, leaving his thighs and torso bare. Seriously drool-worthy! I had come dressed as a sort of tarty Goth vampire, with heavy eyeliner and scarlet lipstick, and a long clingy black dress that showed off my bum nicely. It was my first time in public in drag, and I was a bit nervous, but everybody was extravagantly complimentary. Samson, though, paid me the best compliment of all - he spent a good ten minutes chatting me up, before he realised it was me! And when he did, he laughed out loud, head back and teeth flashing, saying "Brilliant! brilliant! I thought you wear a real girl! Hahahahaa!!" I was glad he took it so well, (you never know with straight boys), but when he offered to share some ganja with me, I noticed how pink his eyes were, and twigged - he was stoned out of his box! That turned out pretty well for me, since he thought we should sneak off to the basement to smoke it, and, what with the dark and the dope, I ended up seducing him, and sucking him off. That still remains one of my sweetest sex memories - how I knelt down before him, slowly unbuttoning the black shorts he wore under his Zulu kilt: how, when I scooped his tackle out, it looked so edible, like two dark heavy plums hanging beneath a thick apricot-tipped liquorish stick: how I wrapped my lipsticked lips around it and gorged on it to the root. Delicious! It's making my mouth water remembering it.
Afterwards, I often caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, with a half-smile - like someone who has enjoyed a conjuring trick, but still can't quite figure out how it was done.
Meanwhile, back in the forest, the dream Samsons are clearly not wearing shorts, as seven stallion erections are thrusting straight out from between the leather strips of their skirts, nodding heavily with the pulsing blood. And their dicks are enormous! Those giant beauties would easily reach their knees if they bent them down. I'm ogling the dark shafts and succulent pink knobs, and wondering which one to feast on first, when the seven Samsons point imperiously at the standing phallus. I understand. I obey. As soon as I focus on the giant erection again, I feel myself slipping back into the trance state, drawn to it like a magnet. I drop slowly to the ground, and slink forward on my hands and knees, shoulders low, arse high in the air. Each Samson begins a rhythmic stamping, as he grabs his great, wood-hard horsecock, and starts slowly to pump. Now I'm kneeling before the big, round balls, fondling and licking them all over their smooth, honey-coloured skin. The Samsons' wank dance is becoming more intense, as with rhythmic, belly-deep grunts, they shuffle forward to surround me in a tight circle. I standing now, arms clasped around the giant shaft, feeling the rigid body, with its thick, ropey veins, throbbing between my thighs, contrasting with the sponginess of the sperm-duct against my chest and crotch. I am licking and kissing the soft fleshy head, making out with this giant cock, like it was my lover. The Samsons are prancing high now, beating their massive meat so fast it's a blur. I am caught up in the frenzied rhythm - down, my butt pushed out - up, thrusting my dick against the phallus - down, up, down, up - faster and faster, masturbating the thing with my whole body, slippery with sweat and oozing spunk, until my climax explodes. I drop to the root and jerk backwards, my legs stretched out stiff and spread wide, holding the giant cock hard against my spasming dick, feeling each spurt of the monster's own orgasm as it pumps upwards, gushing out like a fountain, and raining down on my upturned yelling face, while the Samsons, shouting triumphantly, squirt all over me like fire hydrants, until I am covered in hot spunk!
I woke up with the taste of cum still on my lips, and the feel of it sticky on my body. I was confused, still half asleep, but the sound of one pair of hands applauding brought me round. It was Tom/Shirley, crouched on a chair with his knees up, like a cute gargoyle, and grinning from ear to ear.
"Bravo!" he said "Such volume! Such projection!"
"Shut up." I said, though half-smiling, pleased at the compliment. My sleeping bag was bunched round my ankles, and my belly, chest and face spattered with spunk. As I pulled up my pants, and grabbed my tee-shirt to wipe up the mess, Tom said,
"Dreaming about Double Decker Derek, were you?" I paused a second, to think.
"You know," I finally said, "I sort of was."
Manmare
Jo
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