In the back seat of the limo again, parked, idling again, not far from the entrance of the Club Picante. The windows were steaming up so that they now were almost as opaque from the inside as the outside. The hot breath was being supplied by Jomo. I was still fully clothed except for the spreading of my pants waistband and the hooking of the rim of my Calvin Kleins below my ball sac. The object Jomo was interest in was standing thick, and long, and proud straight up from my groin, reaching for the ceiling of the car.
Jomo was naked, though, facing me. I had wanted to see the ebony muscles rippling as he exerted himself. I wanted to test whether I could span his thin waist with my hands, although I couldn't because of the hard slab of stomach muscle, as finely formed as a Roman soldier's breastplate, that descended to the first fringe of curly black pubic hair. And then I wanted to run my hands up the hard side of his torso, feeling every rib until I reached his pits, and I wanted to see that I couldn't hope to span that bulging chest of his.
I worried his plumped-up nipples with my thumbs as he positioned himself over my pelvis, fisting my engorged cock in place with both hands, each encircling my phallus but not touching the other hand.
He worried his entrance with the bulb of my cock for some time, obviously worried at being able to take it in. But I knew it would go in. It was one of the miracles of nature. It always went in. It often looked like an impossible task with me, but it always went in.
He grunted and strained and encased me at last, managing a couple of inches of me. Using the leverage of his knees on the cushion beside my hips, he then labored at swallowing a couple of more inches into his channel, all along muttering about some sort of comparison of what he was taking, declaring that a horse just didn't do it justice but not knowing of any other animal in the kingdom as well hung.
I didn't even ask him if he wanted to continue. He was lost in lust and determination. He had told me that he had volunteered to be my driver just for this possibility.
More inches and I was beginning to get that old feeling of detachment again, of seeking more, something else. Of getting on with whatever was next. Listening for a director to yell "cut."
But Jomo was prime meat. I needed to try my best. I needed to feel fully satisfied, and there was nothing about Jomo's beautiful body, given so openly and freely for me, that should not be satisfying.
I took over the fuck. I told him sharply to lean his shoulders onto the top of the front seat and just to hold himself in place above me. He did so, and then, gathering up all of the strength in my hips that I could, I grabbed him with my hands at his waist and thrust my pelvis sharply and viciously up into his lower belly, driving hard and deep up inside him with the full length of my cock. Jomo cried out in pain and shock and almost collapsed.
"Hold, Jomo. Hold. Damn it. Hold there."
He was moaning and giving out little yip yip sounds, but I held, arched up against him, balls to balls and sword sheathed deep inside him, until I could feel his channel walls flex and begin to ripple. And then, mustering all of my strength, I started to pump up into him in long, gliding strokes, while he began to move with me. His head was revolving on his shoulders, and he was giving fully satisfied gurgling noises. I moved my hands back up to his nipples and twisted them hard as he bellowed and shot his load up my belly and unto the underside of my chin. I almost simultaneously creamed his insides as now he did collapse his massive body on top of mine.
It was only then that I realized that my thoughts had turned to whether or not this would be a take or whether we'd have to shoot the sequence again. My body had been fully with Jomo, but my mind had drifted again.
As Jomo lay against me, his bulging body gleaming with sweat in the light cast through the foggy windows from the nearby club entrance, my eyes caught a change in the light. Someone was entering the club, casting a shadow. Cocky strides. Leather jacket, arms cut off, straining across tanned tattooed arms and torso of the finest cut. Dark, self-assured. An obvious top. One that would be cruel and would take and then take again.
I wanted to fuck him. This was the "next"; this was what I'd come to Acapulco for. It just hit me in a flash
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