Barry the Horse
This was a long time ago, when I was about 21. I was working in a furniture shop in London, humping furniture. It wasn’t exactly my dream job, but I had wanted to live in London and this was the first opportunity I had. I had left my girlfriend back home and lived in a bedsit.
The people at the shop were all pretty friendly and there was a guy about my own age who I went for a drink with a few times.
We were sitting in the Coach and Horses one day after work, talking about our colleagues.
“I reckon Mal is a woofter,” Steve said. Mal was the manager, a curly-haired little man of about 40.
“Really?” I said. In my naivete I had never thought about that, but now that Steve mentioned it, I could see his point.
We talked about the salesmen and eventually got to Barry the Horse. He was the unpopular one, a big, unsubtle type who got into arguments. But he was a guitarist and so was I, so I had talked to him a bit and quite liked him. I told Steve that.
“Rather you than me,” he said. “He’s a twat.”
“Why is he called Barry The Horse?”
“I don’t know,” Steve said. “Maybe he’s got a huge dick.”
That sort of thought stays with you. I wasn’t interested I the size of Barry’s manhood, but I couldn’t help thinking about it.
The next week Barry and I were chatting again and he said I should bring my guitar to his place some time for jam. It sounded like fun, and I had nothing else to do, so I went round that night.
Barry’s house was near the shop and easy to find. We had a beer each and patted each other’s guitar cases.
“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” he said cheekily.
“What, your guitar?” I replied, trying to be funny, but it came out bit suggestive.
“No, my chest,” Barry said, and unbuttoned his shirt. I could tell he was proud of his body. He was tall and stocky, probably muscular once but now the bulk was mainly fat. His pale skin was covered in black hair. He threw his shirt on a chair.
“I prefer to play like this,” he said. “More comfortable. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, sure,” I said, a bit taken aback, but thinking he must think it was normal, and who was I to disagree?
As Barry turned around and went to get another beer I saw his back was hairy too. And his shoulders. People had a thing about hairy backs being unattractive, and I had never see one up close before, plus I was a man, so it didn’t really concern me. But Barry’s body looked okay to me.
We got our guitars out and played a few things, jamming on a 12-bar blues, as people did because çanakkale escort it was an easy way of both playing the same thing, even when you didn’t know the same songs. A 12-bar is a 12-bar.
I was quietly watching Barry and his big body and a funny feeling came over me, a sensation of desire, such as I was used to having in the presence of a girl, but not a man. Barry hadn’t done or said anything to indicate he was feeling that way too, but I suddenly caught him looking at me and he stopped playing.
“Would you mind if I took my jeans off?” he said. “It’s what we used to do when I was in Frisco.”
He had told me about six months he had spent in California as a young man, a hippie. Again I said sure, that was fine. He unzipped his loose jeans and they dropped to the floor to reveal fat, hairy legs and a pair of tight, dark red y-fronts. I averted my eyes instinctively, but then thought I was being silly, paranoid. He was just getting comfortable. I looked back at him and saw a sizeable bulge in his underpants, but that was just his cock and balls – nothing unusual and nothing to be afraid of.
Barry put his guitar down and sat on the floor, cross-legged. His bulge was facing me, like a hilly city at the top of the Hairy Thigh river. Sin City.
Do you smoke dope?” Barry asked casually, and when I said yes, he found a bag of grass and rolled a big joint.
We listened to music and smoked and drank and eventually I was pretty mellow. So was Barry, but not as much as me. He fetched a blanket and spread it on the floor and we lay there and listened to American psychedelic music: Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. We talked about sex.
“It’s very different these days,” Barry said. “We understand, people like you and me, that sex is just sex. It’s got nothing to do with procreation, or even love most of the time. It’s just physical sensations that make us feel good. Same for men as for women. And all the stuff about power and domination and submission: they’re just roles to play. Before and after sex you’re still the same people.”
As he said this he was gently stroking my cock through my underpants and because I was agreeing with him, I didn’t feel I could object to his touching me. And anyway, I was enjoying it. He was – or the situation was – filling me with lust. Lust for sex, for orgasm.
“See, if we did a role play,” he said, “where I was wrapping my arms around you because it felt good, and if you were getting into it, then it wouldn’t matter who we were.”
He put one big, çanakkale escort bayan strong, hairy arm across my chest and offered his other shoulder for me to rest my head on. I lifted my upper body and found myself lying in his arms. I could smell the masculine scent from his armpits, which were excitingly hairy. He put his right hand on my cock and balls and I flinched for a nanosecond, then allowed it. His big hand kneaded my genitals with gentle skill.
I put my free arm around him and felt the hair on his shoulders. I was on the very edge of playing the submissive role in this sex game. I wanted to, but I needed one little further push.
Then he leaned over and kissed me. His big, hairy body was on top of me and I found myself in a kiss, a tongue in my mouth and my own tongue responding eagerly. The spring tide of desire was dragging me into the sea.
Barry slid his hand inside my underpants and felt me. He felt me up. This person was feeling my cock and balls, inside my underwear.
He also began sucking my nipples: big, long sucks like I had never experienced before. And that was only making things more extreme, each suck sending a burst of electricity to my cock.
I was losing my grip, and then I decided.
I decided to relinquish full control. I surrendered myself to this guy. I loved his big strong body. I loved his confidence. I loved being taken by him, because that’s what it was. He was asserting his right as a man to have sex with another consenting man, and boy, was I consenting.
Barry got up briefly to wrench my pants off, followed by his. He showed me his big, strong, animalistic erection, his rock hard penis, and he knew it fascinated me. He knew that for the next however long I was in his power. Barry the Horse. Whatever he might have been like as a person, he was a stallion to look at. I wanted to touch that magnificent cock, butI was still nervous.
He lay down beside me and whispered, “Give me a little suck.”
I had never done that before (I know women sometimes say that hen it’s not true, but in this case it was). Anyway, the brakes were off. This was a one-off, one performance only, and I felt like I was someone else. I got straight down to his crotch and took his rod in my mouth. I liked the taste of it and the feel of it on my tongue. He thrust his middle finger into my anus and it hurt momentarily but then he was just in there – his big digit inside me where it should be. Or where something should be.
I realize for the first time that there was escort çanakkale pleasure to be had by having a long object in my arse. I became aware that he might well put his cock in there, and I knew I wasn’t going to object.
Reading my thoughts, he said, “One minute,” and skipped into the bedroom, returning with a thrilling jar of Vaseline – thrilling because there was only one thing he was going to do with it. He spread a big fingerful in my arse and on his cock.
“See?” he said happily. “We’re interchangeable. You have an arsehole just like a woman and it likes being penetrated just the same. Get on your knees.”
“What are you going to do?’ I asked.
“I think you know that,” he replied.
“Tell me anyway,” I said in my abject submission.
“I’m going to put my dick up your arse,” he said. “It used to be called buggery. Now it’s just fucking. You and I are going to fuck.”
I was thrilled beyond sanity. The drink and the cannabis and the brain chemical released by physical stimulation, sexual anticipation, turned me into complaint jelly.
Barry mounted me like a big, stout dog. No, like a horse. Like his nickname said. He rammed his big cock up me and I yelped in pain but longed for more. He adjusted his position and rammed me again.
I was being fucked by this brute-like man. This masculine being with big muscles, fat, hairy back and shoulders and a fantastic penis with which he was ploughing my back passage. He pushed down on my back to get more purchase as he buggered me. Then he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back as he got close to coming.
My head was swimming. I was daydreaming. I was in a warm, safe place where the sun was shining through the trees. It was a beautiful day and there was a warm happy feeling swelling within me. Birds sang and the warm feeling grew. It got bigger and bigger and then I was floating above myself, looking down. And what I was looking at was a horse being mounted by a bigger male horse.
And then the horses turned into men, and it was me underneath and Barry on top, his huge cock buried deep within me.
And then suddenly the warm, swelling feeling burst like a riverbank in a storm and water gushed out on all sides. Barry the Horse had come inside me and I had ejaculated too, swept away on the tide of his sexual passion. He lay on top of me, his cock still spasming, sending more semen into me, and my own cock wept helplessly, pouring out streams of semen onto the blanket.
“So how did it go with Barry the Horse?” Steve asked the next day. “What did you do to him? He’s off sick.”
“He was all right last night,” I said casually. I could still feel Barry’s bulk on top of me, his raging erection inside me. I was glad he wasn’t there. I had considered taking the day off myself, but decided to put a brave face on it. Maybe I would have to go round after work and make sure he was okay.