Punch (Drunk)

Greetings, readers! Without saying anything that might incriminate myself and render me ineligible for future federal employment, let me suggest that it might be best to read this post as if the following had happened:
1. I had gotten stoned during sex;
2. I had subsequently, while munching on Wasa fiber crispbead, decided to come to my blog and write a post; and
3. I had determined not to edit this post (aside from correcting spelling -- because not to do so would rend my very being) after typing it, no matter how embarrassing it might be the next day to come back to it for the purpose of adding naughty, naughty pictures, and to then determine that I can't write while stoned.


To that end, I had had a somewhat disappointing start to the evening, when a young submissive slave wannabe had flaked on me yet again -- it having been some months since the last time -- leaving me with no alternative but to advertise. And after a couple of false starts, I found a man describing himself as a bear and a power bottom who offered to come over and rock my world. So I asked him to come over, and he arrived, and he was all cute and goateed and tall and linebackerish, so I kissed him, and we worked our way upstairs and undressed and into various positions that likely included my working his nipples or lying on top of him or his going down on me while I pushed two fingers into his ass, and then I had my head between his knees, with my tongue driving into him. And after a while, when I wanted to take a break from eating his ass, I stuck four fingers into him and followed them with about half my palm, and he liked it so much that I was pretty sure that he gets regularly fisted, so I asked him whether that was, in fact, the case, and he replied that it, in fact, was.

And then I applied still more lube and began to try to fist him. He's the expert, so I let him advise me. His ass itself told me how much it could take. It would open wide but then clamp down and expel most of my hand, and slowly, slowly, it would open more and reject with less assurance, and I swear to whatever -- if anything -- is holy that when his ass finally allowed me to close my fist inside him, it was like unto an orgasm. But less messy. On my end, anyway.


But that was likely because I was stoned. I neglected to mention that the preliminary fisting phases proceeded very slowly and that at some point he mentioned that he usually uses poppers when he gets fisted and that he didn't have any, but he did have some weed and that that might work just as well, or at least -- interjected I -- we would sure have some fun trying. And we did have some fun.

Including his saying that I was one of those people who become much more relaxed and funny when they're stoned. "Look, you're even smiling." And, well, I was.

And because I was so content, and because I'd just had that fisting pseudorgasm, I just really couldn't care about fucking him, and I went soft, and I kept trying to care about being soft, but I just couldn't, even though it was very clear that he wanted to get fucked -- even though I'd, for crying out loud, just fisted him, and surely, surely he could see that my cock was no match for my fist -- and wanted it bad, so I really should care about being hard so that I could be a good host and give my guest what he wanted. Top pride, or whatever. But I didn't care, and no matter how hard he tried, I remained flaccid. And, boy, did he try hard. He had my hump him in every position, and I'd start to get hard again, but then I'd think about how I was getting hard, and I'd laugh, and I'd get soft again. And he did everything he could think of, including talking dirty, but when he did that he just reminded me of various recent sex scenes, and I spent the next ten minutes talking about various sexual exploits from the previous week, with the effect that he couldn't help but know that I could pound, pound, pound everyone I'd met, except for him. And usually, you'd say that's my fault, and you'd be right, but he seemed to be taking it personally. And I tried to care about that, but I just failed. And laughed. And finally, when he stopped trying, I turned to him and said, "At last, I have exhausted you," but he didn't think it was as funny as I thought it was.


We played and chatted for a long while, and eventually he got himself off, and then we lay there for a bit, and he looked at the clock, and it was after midnight, and he lost his glass slipper said that he needed to get going, and I realized that we'd been playing for two hours, even if I'd been floating for more than half of it, and we both had a really good time, even though he didn't get what he most wanted, and I didn't get what I will want -- after I'm sober -- to have wanted. But what I did get will still have been pretty awesome even if, well, don't make me repeat that.

And now I am beginning to feel extra heavy instead of unbearably light, so I will close this narrative with the intent of not editing, but also with the intent of finding some better munchies and then the comfort of a warm bed. Goodnight.