Fisted And Tattooed!

I'll always thank my Uncle Bob for opening areas of me that have changed my life forever. I enjoyed stopping at my father's younger brother's house each day after school. It was on the way home and with Mom and Dad working late each evening, I developed a special bond with my kid uncle. He was an electrical engineer at the local Ford plant and he was usually covered from head to toe in grime by the end of the day after crawling in and out among the machinery at the plant. He had developed a slim and tight body as the result his job.

I seemed to get at his house every day just when he was finishing his shower. I'd sit on the edge of the bath tub chatting about all of the problems of the day while he intently listened and dried off. I liked this time together. I seemed never to get enough time admiring his tattaooed body and short full beard. His tattoos were different than my father's. Bob's seemed to tell a message, letting everyone know who dared to look that he was a man and had earned the right to be called one. He had an uncut cock that hung over two goose egg sized balls that stretched his sac to the limit. He thought his earrings were hot. He liked me and it was mutual.

On my eighteenth birthday, Bob gave my first beer. I thought it tasted like horrible, but would never admit it. After the third one, I had to piss like a race horse and stood in front of the toilet with the room spinning and I trying to stand straight and piss.

I had a hard on and things were not working as I wanted. Then from behind me Bob reached around grabbing me cock in one hand and a nipple in the other. It felt so fantastic! It was like there was an electrical circuit between my cock and balls and nipples. For the first time, I felt sexual. Sure, I had jacked off a lot every day and pumped quite a few loads of spunk into the pair of stiff underwear hidden under the bed. But this was different. I knew something was going to happen. Something good.

I had two more beers standing there in the bathroom. I woke the next morning in bed with Bob. I was naked, my ass was sore, my cock was sore, and had this strange feeling of satisfaction. I felt like a man. The bed was a mess. I knew I had been fucked and the bed showed all evidence. I could smell sex in the room. Cum was running out of my ass when I farted, there was dried cum on the sheets under my ass, blood and shit stained tracks where Bob had plowed all night.

Bob had opened me up that night and cracked my cherry. I had a bandage on my upper right arm. I was sore. I pulled it off to reveal a eagle tattoo. Fuck! What were my parents going to say. Bob came in the room while I was looking at the new ink work. He offered to put some vaseline on it. I looked at him and was reminded of the identical eagle on his upper right arm. He told me that my father had him tattooed after his first night. Don't worry. He'll understand. And he'll be happy for you.

So, Bob continued to fuck my ass hard every chance he got, and I loved it. I could never get enough. And my tattoo collection grew as well as my piercings--as did my sex drive. But something was not right. Maybe it was my introduction to hard butt fucking at such an early age, but it just didn't have the kick it used to have. I loved it, but something was missing. And Bob could tell.

He knew where I was headed and accepted the obligation to steer me in the right direction. Bob could really workout a prostate. He fucked over that little walnut-sized lump inside my ass every chance he got and started me on the road where I needed to go. I would go in orbit for hours while Bob abused that little fucker.

And then one day it happened. While Bob had two fingers up my ass working on my prostate, my ass starting to open. I could feel Bob putting a little more pressure against my ass. The steady pressure felt good. I was scared. I knew what was going to happen. I knew there was no going back. I was excited and afraid that my ass would get ripped open. But the pressure against my ass didn't stop. I opened more. I felt the pressure and then........the wildest feeling I have even had....Bob's knuckles slid inside of me while torturing my prostate.

He rotated his fist to make sure every knuckle did its job on the pulsating prostate. And then I felt him cross over the line and he was in and up me. A fist up my ass. I could feel his deep and I liked it. He had me under his control. That was what I had needed all time. He knew it. He had always known it. But I had to earn it. I never knew how good a sore ass could feel. Today I can't imagine a day without a fist up my ass. It's something I need. But it was the first fist up my ass that made a man out of me. Fist fucking is just like beards, tattoos and piercing. You either love them and can't ever get enough or you hate them. I can't get enough tattoos, piercings, beards or fists up my ass. And I walk a little taller today as a result.