I lie on my couch stroking my meat. It's a hot summer evening, 8:30 and the sky is still light. The Santa Ana winds won't let the evening cool off, and the sun won't set. The red leather sofa is sticking to my back. This kind of heat always makes my dick hard. If I can't play with my bottom's butt I'll play with my meat, but I can't keep his butt out of my mind. I drift into a memory about my bottom, his butthole, my asshole man. I just fucked him yesterday. I can still smell his asshole on my fingers. I can't believe I'm this horny after yesterday's workout.

I can see his puckered hole before my eyes. I am drawn to it. I kiss it. It seems to kiss me back, and steals my breath. I'm licking it, probing it with my tongue. I savor its manly tang, and the whiff of this man's crotch permeates my senses. My guts go limp, and I can hardly breathe while my body seems to stiffen like my dick. My whole being becomes focused, I must have his hole. I am overcome with the essence of this man. I draw my head back so I can gaze on this wonder. Fingering this wet, slippery cr inkle, it begins to relax. One finger is not enough, two is redundant, three is easy, four is beginning to feel like home. It's moist and warm inside, beckoning me, pulling me in. My thumb slips in unnoticed. I grab some grease with my other hand and lubr icate my knuckles and wrist.

"Take a hit. Relaaaaax. Open up for me. I need to get inside you. That's it. Yeah. Goo-o-o-d."

He moans at the knuckles. I push to the wrist and force a glob of cum out of his dick onto his belly. All at once, everything relaxes. He's lost, and I've only just begun. The sight of my hand in his hole makes my eyes cum.

"I will ream out every wrinkle in your butthole. I will send you home with an ache in your belly and your hole turned inside out. Others have built fires, but I know how to inflame your asshole. I'll shoot hot bolts into you. I'll make your sphincters inc andescent. I'll set the shores a little wider. I'll iron out your wrinkles. After me, you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across yo ur navel, and I will strum it while inside you. I'm fucking you so that you'll stay fucked . I'll rip the hair from your ass and glue - it to my chest with your cum."

I pull my hand out, then right back in before your ass has time to close up again. Working it, relaxing it. I grease up my forearm and begin to slide in. The second sphincter opens up, and I slide home. Rotating my arm with an open hand, my bottom's condu it of warm flesh loosens its grip on me. Now I can begin to play. It's time to fuck. I love to do this, but I can never seem to remember how good this really feels until I'm up to my elbow in asshole. Pumping, sliding through this man-space tunnel, hearin g the slurping sound of greasy flesh against greasy flesh only makes me want more. God this is good. I am always a little dazed that this really happening, that it's even possible.

This is not an asshole; it's a valise. Immense, stupendous, grand. What a whore this bottom is. On every hill he has played the slut.

Sometimes in toilets with his pants around his ankles, he has fingered himself. Once, when there was nothing else around, he fucked himself with a telephone receiver. He has used candles, Roman candles, and bed posts. Not a prick in the land big enough fo r him...not one. He wants dildoes, self-exploding rockets. He would cut off your prick and keep it inside himself forever if you gave him permission. One ass out of a million. A laboratory hole, no litmus paper that could take his color. A man less than m e could only curl up inside him and die. Then if this bottom took a breath, he'd fall out, like a dead clam. When the flag waved, it was red all the way back to his throat. You entered on Griffith Park and came out on Santa Monica Boulevard. I look out on this vista through a wet foggy fart on dirty window panes. One butt in a million. All bottom and a class ass in which you can read the history of the ages.

I have always been satisfied to dick a bottom crazy until I met this bottom with his "fist me or get out" attitude. I hadn't found the need within myself for plunging to these depths until I discovered this swelling crater that now devours my limbs and co nsumes my soul. I've reached bottom and something goes off like a depth charge that reverberates up my arm, makes my dick stiffen, signals the start of a long night.

Now that he is loose and open, I can launch my fucking assault. My arms become heavy, blunt weapons that wedge their way through flesh and bone. As I bulldoze this cavity, a thick tide of semen slime leaks onto his belly. In a spasm, he squeezes his guts to stop the gnawing. I unlock his grip by pumping him back open. His guts succumb as I piston-fuck this hungry man hole, feeling I'll go mad with the beauty of it. I don't even notice my legs going numb beneath me. To fill these depths is my focus, to ple asure this man is my mission, to find the end of this expanding universe is my goal.

The music batters my brain: Almond, Bolton, Billy, Jones. My hand feels light and heavy at the same time, like a piece of lead with wings on it. His moans and howls could send the neighbors running, but he has hold of me and I don't care who comes or what happens. Some days there is no going, standing up, sitting on it, no matter how we try it. It won't work. We're too hot, too eager, trying to hold on to that hole like a life preserver, but not today. Today, everything works. I go deeper; he takes it. I go harder; he relaxes. I give him both hands, he opens to them. I go faster, he needs it. The music changes, our rhythm mutates, but never stops. I cum all over, and he's mad as hell. "What did you cum for?" Me, "I came, but I'm not stopping." He melts ba ck as I assure him of my intentions by pushing my fist up against his belly, creating an alien mound that roams his abdomen like a mole.

We're surrounded by mirrors. I fuck him and watch. Matching eyes watch us back as we stare in an orgy of fucking men just like us. Arms and legs and butts and leather and changes just like us. He shifts his butt around to a mirror so he has a better view of his own gaping hole. He loves to see when I pull my arm out and his hole hangs open waiting for my closed fist to fill it again. I submerge, wild, consumed by hysterical perversion. He is beautiful, and I love him. Now I am happy and willing to die. Pu mping him to ecstasy, there should be smoke coming up from between his legs. He is mine now. I rub my hands over the warm velvet inside him. I have him and am aching for him at the same time. He cums once, twice, three times. I'm afraid he'll go mad.

How good it is to feel him tight around my elbow again. How long will it last? If someone would feed me, I could stay here forever. Sap is oozing from between his ass cheeks. There is a warm odor that I have grown to love. I feel his heart beat in my hand . I feel his breath as we breathe together in cadence. Everything is glistening, my arms, his butt, our eyes. We have become a slippery, slimy, greasy performance of debauchery. His-former puckering pink hole has surrendered and become a limp, gaping bell ows of flesh just asking for more. I start again, slowly increasing the depth as this abyss opens to me. My energy is boosted, my pulse elevates. I punch him blow after blow. He torments me with his ability to take this battering. It becomes so incredible and so ridiculous at the same time that I am obliged to laugh. My smile gets a hard-on as his whole body begins to rock, absorbing the impact of each closed-fisted jab from my knuckles to my elbow. I love the sight of it. I love the idea of it. This low five causes my heart to quake. Fist fucked fistfucker, fistfucker. I am it.. Fistfucker. We're doing it. Fist fucker. He's taking it. Fist fucker. He is it. Fist fucker, fist fucker, fist fucker.

I stop for a moment. We both need to catch our collective breath. Leaving my fist in him to the wrist, I bend forward and place my mouth on his. My fist in his ass, my mouth locked on his, somehow seems to complete the circle of electrical current, a char ge of energy flowing from one to the other. One moment we are almost collapsing with exhaustion, and now, the harder we kiss the stronger the waves of electricity crash, like a tide sweeping back and forth between us. Feeling the rhythm, I drive my arm de eper into him. It pulls me away from his wet, sucking mouth. I pull back to my wrist, my mouth falls again on his. We become so charged I feel we will burst into flames. We scream into each other and he cums again. On a merry-go-round you don't get anywhe re, but we go around and around and always end up ahead. We are sapped and zapped by our own love making. Just when I feel we can't go on, we do, we must. I look into his eyes and see a total pig, my soul mate, my bottom.

The world is dying piecemeal all around us, and I am putting a bomb up the asshole of creation and setting it off. We are taking a quantum leap of sexual evolution. When we come together we become a fucking thing, swimming in the face of time as all else sinks around us. Out of the slimy ooze rises a horned, winged, fucking thing, whose energy will send vibrations out that will be felt for lifetimes to come. We need strong hands and strong spirits. As if returning from out of body, I find myself pummellin g asshole. Left, right, left, right, left, right. Looking up to check on my partner, he is adrift in pleasure. Stopping is the only thing that would cause him discomfort.

Now I feel him pushing back. His guts closing down on me, trying to shit me out. I keep fucking. His moaning turns into groans, his groans turn into some kind of animal roar. I can't push back any more. My arm is shit out like a huge turd, and his asshole is replaced by a red rose whose petals open as he cums again . His rose, a treasure which has been acquired at great cost, an object whose value has increased with time and which I now prize above all worldly things. There is my bottom, there is that ros e of his. I love them separately and I love them together. All the men he's been with to bring him to this point of expertise, and now me just me and the current of life that flows through me, and him and all the guys before me, creating this fucking fuck .

I look down and realize I have cum again. My dick hangs from by body like a piece of meat that has been sucked by every man I've ever had drooling, dripping, oozing. My fine red rose is retreating and beckoning me. I finger it before it is completely gone . It sucks me in, and closes down on me like a sea anemone. I stretch it open again with another finger, and another, and another, then a thumb. Am I probing him, or is it eating me, this man eating beast? A man, that's what it craves. A man that could ma ke him writhe in ecstasy. A man that could make him grab his ass with both hands, look down between his legs with authority over this jurisdiction, and order me to fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, until we were both out of control. A man, that's what it craves. A berserk, demented, deranged, mad man, fucking him senseless. He is a bottom all the way through, down to his heart, his asshole heart.

My concentration is broken, I have to piss so badly my bladder is about to burst. I am stroking this loosened asshole like it was made for my arm. Just in, just out, not a hitch. But I have only one thought in my head, "how can I take a piss?" Without mov ing from the spot, I kick the trash can to where I can let go with a yellow flood. The splashing gets to my bottom. He lets go with a stream of piss that flows across his belly, down between his legs to his asshole where I use it as lubrication. I'm pissi ng, he's pissing, and I'm pumping his up his own ass, as the overflow pours off him into the trash can below. I can do anything with him. I play in piss like a small boy playing in a sudden warm summer rain storm.

I can control his flow by pushing on his bladder. He thinks he's through and I make him piss again. It makes him laugh, which stops the flow. I make him piss again. What a man-toy he is. He is my playground, and he lets me play in him. Now that I've relie ved myself, I can concentrate on his hole. All the way in past my elbow, all the way out. His hole just hangs there, open. I make a fist and shove it to the hilt and out again. In, out, in out. Fucking him gives me utter clarity. I feel who we are and wha t we do is totally justified. I have lost the illusion of time and space. I want it, he wants it. I give it, he takes it, I take it, he gives it. Yen yang, yang, yen. This miracle renders life tolerable. That life struggle, the daily grind, the confrontat ions, are all worth going through to get here, to be with him, to be doing this. If at any time we come face to face with the absolute, this is absolutely the best: To close my mind to the ugliness of reality and to bask in this actuality. He makes me gla d to be part of this miracle we call gay, glad to be a top, to be his top. I grab a handful of grease and plunge it up to the hilt. If assault is the order of the day, then assault it will be, and with a vengeance. One must burrow into life to find it. Wh y in the name of God has our sexuality been hidden from us? The word must be made flesh. I am spiritually alive. I am morally free.

I manipulate my fingers into his inner sphincter. It's like another asshole to conquer. I push in, up to my knuckles, his ass presses against my biceps. I can feel a virgin chamber in there. I hear a quiet but demanding "In . . .in . . ." I press on. I ca n feel it's open in there, if I can just coax this gate to open enough to let me through. I know he wants it too. He has that eager look in his eyes which comes from wanting it badly. "Come on, you can do it. You can kill me afterwards, but just let me in . I've got to get in." I have such a hard-on it's beginning to ache. I feel saliva drooling down my chin. I'm concentrating so hard I'm forgetting to swallow. Sweat is cascading over us. We can barely breathe. We have become such sweat-soaked, greasy pigs , it's as though this greasy asshole has enveloped us.

There is little distinction between inside and outside, as though I have become part of this asshole, fucking itself. I am feeling waterlogged. I can hardly breath. I'll just take a short break, leaving my arm in him, holding perfectly still, pressing my knuckles against his third sphincter. Maybe, if I just leave that pressure on it, it will stretch enough to let me in. I take a deep breath and try to revive myself. As though he can read my mind, my bottom reaches over and picks up a clean towel and mops my face. That's better. I can't keep my fingers still. It feels so good, this flawless tunnel. I can't help myself. I'll just fuck it a little. Pulling my knuckles out, then pushing them back in to the widest part of my hand, then back out. Just an inch or so, in, out, in, out. His face strains, then relaxes. I know he is trying to relax, trying- to take it. We both want it. His butthole is just at the bottom of the cross tattooed on my arm. If we can make it through this sphincter, my tattoo will be swa llowed up. He's trying. He wants it so much. In, out, in, out, almost, in, out, nearly, in, in. He's making it. "Do what you do, the amazing you."

"I can't! Out! Please..." He gave it a good try. He's disappointed. I pull out. His head falls back from exhaustion. "We'll make it," I tell him, "it doesn't have to be today." I draw my arm back to my wrist and play with his hole. Stroking it with both hands, sliding, stretching, probing.

This fist fucking thing has eaten it's way into me. It has possessed my mind. It has dug into my soul. Sometimes my elbows will begin to twitch, or my arm will begin to ache, and I know the pressure and heat of his asshole is the only therapy that will ma ke me well again. He lies there exhausted. His hole won't even pucker, it just hangs there, open. It has been marched through. It has been assaulted and left with such a devouring hunger that I may never appease it. That same hunger lives in me, and it mi ght take more than this lifetime to satisfy it, but I will die trying. But this, this is not dying, it's exactly the opposite. He touches me, he touches my life. Nothing makes me feel more alive than being in him. He energizes me. He amazes me. I find per fection in him, a joy for living that I find nowhere else in my entire life. His strength and endurance make me feel strong. Sometimes I feel so full of contradictions. My mind is a whirling blur of passion and completely focused with determined desire at the same time. I am never satisfied, I can never get enough of him though he shows me more and more and takes me places I could never imagine. I go about day and night with one thing on my mind, his butthole. There is no Christian more devoted to his chu rch than I am to this altar. His out-stretched legs revealing this open passage to the heart of a man. It's a fire that penetrates me, a circuit that connects me with the earth and the universe. With candles flickering and music playing, I am humbled by t he magnificence of the phenomenon.

I come in reverence and respect to worship at this altar. With incense burning, I once again begin the ritual, the rite of passage. I dip into the receptacle of oil, and anoint him. My hands in prayer begin to pleasure him, to honor him in communion. In p raise of this spiritual intercourse of fellowship with my man, my bottom, my asshole. Inch by inch, slowly because he is showing signs of becoming tender, I begin to spread his hole. A little left hand, a little right hand. A little more here, a little mo re there. I am up to the third knuckle. I slip the fingers of my right hand into the palm of my left hand, and push past my thumbs. He begins to moan. He knows where I'm going, and he concentrates on relaxing. His mouth falls open and his breathing become s deeper. Holding my arms close together, I press my elbows against my own stomach, and lean the weight of my body against his hole. As he relaxes, I begin to slide in a little bit more. I hold my breath as if it will help. A little bit more, yes, yes, a- aa-nd . . . we're i-i-i-i-i-n. God that looks beautiful. Both my hands up to the wrists. Now it seems to be sucking me in, a couple more inches and it's home. His whole body seems to go limp with the feeling. Now I can fuck it. Out to the wrists,then back in. Left, right, left, right. God I love this. It looks as good as it feels, and it feels miraculous.

Fisting has to be lived, it has to be experienced. It grows inside you, making you something more than you were before. I have been sucked down into this vortex, and when I come to the surface again, the world has changed. The music is crystalline, the li ght is distinct, my passion unconventional, liberated, clean of the past. I am a sun god casting a shaft of light into the dark and fearsome bowels of the earth to illuminate and clarify. It is a pilgrimage of enlightenment. I can embrace the most fantast ic. The most impossible becomes feasible. Here all boundaries fade away and limits stretch away to infinitude.

When did it get dark? When did the sun finally set? How long have I been lying here? My stomach and chest are covered with sticky cum. Thinking about my bottom's butt always does this to me. I've got to call him and make a date to fuck his hole.