Date: Wed, 8 May 2002 22:37:17 EDT
From: JSmith1480@aol.com
Subject: Manolo Returns (ws, scat)

Manolo Returns by Arablover


After he had been dumping in my mouth for about a year, Manolo left for
Ponce with only a casual goodbye. I was hurt. I liked servicing him. I
liked him, period. Apart from his unusual sexual needs, he was a nice
ordinary guy from the barrio. I had taken to being his toilet and to
being his male "wife" when Cielita was away.

What was there not to like? Manolo was 23, virile, and ready. His big,
long-foreskinned Latino cock was, for me, just one of his luscious
attractions. His body, his moves were magnetic, too. Once in a while I
would go over to Central Park on a weekend to see him play ball with his
"hermanos." It was a turn on to watch those massive upper arms and
shoulders get behind his swing or that strong meaty rump put to use in
his windup. Whenever he scratched that itchy, sweaty ass, my mouth
watered. Manolo made me feel deliciously low.

But once he had left New York, I never expected to hear from him again.
Yet, about a month after he went back to P.R., I got a post card from
him. The writing was heavy, awkward, as if he held the pen in his fist.
It just said: "Blondy , How are you doing? Manolo." No return address but
there was a brown smear across the top left of the card. How sweet. I
thought, I'll bet he gets off imagining me licking his shit off the card.
I sure whacked off tonguing at it.

Then, a few weeks later: a call from Ponce! Manolo told me that some
Mexican guy who imported groceries into P.R. would pay him to deliver
small parcels to New York every week or so. Back then, there was no
customs check on Ricans at JFK. Manolo told me that if he was carrying
the little packages on his person no one would know and the Mexican would
be spared having to pay U.S. duty on this stuff. It was some sort of
concentrated, agricultural product. I believe Manolo said it was used as
a nasal decongestant. The extra pay as a courier would be a useful
supplement to Manolo's modest income from the bodega.

He asked if I was still available. I told him I was pissed off at him for
leaving with hardly a shrug in my direction. There was quiet at the other
end of the line. Then Manolo said, "I am truly sorry, Jimmy." More quiet.
"Please, my blondy, forgive me."

"My" blondy? Manolo had never said "my" blondy before. Gee, I always
suspected that he cared. Softer feelings for him started trickling back
into me. "Okay...", I started, then hesitated. There was something else.
Manolo had always insisted on paying me for my services. For him, it was
his way of keeping things formal. It allowed him ease of mind. There
could never be any misunderstandings about the situation between me and
this Sunday-baseball-playing, married-to-a-woman, father-of-a-son,
"straight", macho-latin-man. It was strictly business.

"Manolo, I don't want you paying me any more," I said.

"Why not, Jimmy?"

"I don't want it. It makes things too cold between us," I said. "I like
you, Manolo." Silence. More silence. Then a sigh on the Puerto Rican end
of the line.

"I'll see you Saturday, Jimmy," he said.



How can I describe having Manolo's wiry-haired asscrack nestle over my
face again: like having one's man come home from the wars, like settling
into a bubble bath after a tiring day, like pushing into a warm cunt
after being womanless for too long. It was total, thirsty, hungry
fulfillment. I licked and sucked and tickled him with the tip of my
tongue, indulging myself in his crack, on his asspucker, up his chute.
Manolo was moaning and grunting. I was moaning and grunting ,too, even
though Manolo had come to me with "airplane ass" (similar to "Greyhound
ass"). One's ass is rank and stale from sitting too long and from being
restricted to making quiet farts, squeezing out just a little at a time
so as not to offend the person next to you. Yet those kind of farts are
all the more rancid because they leak out concentrated. (When will people
who are offended by farts learn that a big blast may insult the ear but
it assaults the nose far less than a quiet, but never-ending leakout).

Manolo had no hard shit, the rigor of travelling and the airline food had
given him diarrhea, which I dutifully swallowed. The desire to retch was
overtaken by a great happiness as I thought: I love this man. As he stood
up, I actually said to him, "I love you."

He did not return the compliment but knelt down over me, a knee at either
side of my head. He put his hands behind my neck and raised my head. I
opened up expecting piss but he stuck his cock between my messy lips to
fuck my mouth instead, fuck it so hard I was dazed from the pounding, so
hard I thought he would go through my neck. Finally, Manolo shuddered and
blasted down my throat. Then he fell over next to me on his back. "I have
truly missed all of this," he said. That was as sentimental as he got. He
was quiet for a while , then, suddenly, he leapt to his feet to go take a
shower. "Wash out your mouth, blondy, okay?"

I struggled to my feet to go to the sink. Usually at this point Manolo
would be readying to go. But, now, as he no longer had an apartment in
New York, he would be staying with me during his visits. (Goodie,
goodie).

Later, we watched a Mets game on my TV. That is, he watched. I think he
had missed the Mets as much as I had missed his ass. I rested my head on
his hairy thigh and held his nice big fat brown dick in my mouth. He
didn't want me to move my tongue too much. Didn't want a boner now.
Wanted to see the game. Inevitably, I drooled. As often as necessary, I
licked my saliva from his balls, thighs. Whenever he told me he had to
piss I got on my knees between his legs and clamped my lips around his
shaft to avoid any spills.

All this was all so much better than getting paid for everything. He,
too, had to be glad there was no more disruption, no more stopping
several times each session for him to pay me for taking his piss, or for
eating the next mouthful of spicy, salsa-flavored crap.

Though things were more relaxed between us, he still insisted on sleeping
on the couch. But I got out of bed and went to him his first night back.
I pulled off his covers exposing those young hairy Rican mounds. Gently,
lightly, I worked my tongue into his crack. He came grouchily out of his
sleep. He reached behind himself and pushed my head away. "Bitch, not
now," he said groggily. I stopped, but instead of going back to bed I lay
on the floor by the couch to stay near him.

Knowing I would have Manolo every Saturday and Sunday from now on made my
sleep content.

One time, Manolo called me during the week from Ponce to say his friend
Diego's wife had run away three weeks earlier and his buddy was very
upset, not only because his wife was missing but because he wasn't
getting any. The lack of sex was starting to bug him. Diego, Manolo said,
lived in Manhattan, just a few blocks north of me. "Would you help him?"
Manolo asked.

"Is he young and goodlooking like you?" I asked

"Yeah."

"Do you really want me to do it?"

"Yeah. A blowjob would help him out," he said. "The fella wants to stay
loyal, you know. With you it wouldn't be like with a real women,
cheating..."

Diego was young. That much was accurate. Late twenties. But he was a
short, wiry guy with frizzy black hair, and black eyes that looked like
they were going to pop.

"That bitch," he said, referring to his wife, "she knows what she's got
coming to her if she comes home. I even think I know where she is. But
her girlfriends, they hide her."

He opened his fly and sat down on the couch.

"Why ever did she leave?" I asked, undressing.

"Madrilena mouths off, I give her this," he said, raising his hand. "Once
a week. At the least. Last time, the bitch got me on the wrong night. I
made her bleed, muchacho. Next morning I wake up, no coffee, no blowjob.
Madrilena's gone. I don't feel good about hurting her, unnerstan'. The
bitch is my wife, you know. But ...ah, she gotta learn...You know?...
Maybe you don't..."

I sat naked on the couch with Diego. He reached into his pants and
brought out a light-tan dick with a nice foreskin like Manolo's. The dick
was almost as long as Manolo's but not as thick.

"What does Manolo think about your troubles with Madrilena?"

"He says I shouldn't beat the bitch."

"Sounds like Manolo," I said, wrapping my hand around his stick.

"You gonna blow me?" he asked uncertainly, as if there might have been
some misunderstanding.

I went down without further talk.

Because Diego's dick was more slender than Manolo's it was easier to deep
it. When he pushed my head down on his shaft I could take it all the way
to the hilt, his prickhead passing beyond my tonsils. Each time I came
up, he pushed my head back down on his meat.

"Good, faggot!" Diego was enjoying the action. He kept the rhythm
deliberate and steady, me gasping as necessary, my saliva falling out my
mouth onto his dungarees.

"Wait," he said, pulling his dick out of my mouth. "Let me take these
off." He got out of his pants. Unlike Manolo whose ass was beautifully
full and hairy, Diego's can was trimmer but more sculpted, smooth. I
wanted to get my tongue up there and I went for it.

"I haven't had a shower, papi," he warned as I licked at his crack.
"Good," I said, spreading his buns. I stuck my tongue up his stinky,
gritty ass and wiggled it around. He started to jerk off.

"Baby, yeah, I like that. If Madrilena spent more time lickin' my ass..."

I worked his pucker until I could get my tongue into the clayey inner
chamber of his rectum. Diego was hooting.

Suddenly, he turned to face me and I took his dick in my mouth in time
for his blast. There was plenty and it was thick. Not surprising,
considering the guy hadn't had any in weeks.

Diego wiped off with his hand, looking at my mouth and then in my eyes as
if he knew something now that he hadn't understood before. I stood up.

He pushed my shoulder. "Hey," he said, "Do you eat shit?"

I nodded.

"'Cause I got a load up there if you want it. Do you, sissy?"

"Yes, Diego."

"Tell me."

"I'd so like it, Diego, if you would take a big shit in my mouth."

"You want to chew on it, gulp it, you toilet."

"Yeah," I said, getting a little impatient. "Yeah!"
Diego knelt on the couch, his backside facing me. Without another word,
he spread his buns and I crouched to get my face in there.

"Suck on my ass," he said.

I did as I was told. I sucked his hole like a pump. I was starving for
the prize. It was so right, I felt so complete with this man's, any young
man's, asshole on my mouth. I could feel the dump coming, smell it,
knowing my nourishment was on its way. Without farting, Diego expelled a
four inch black torpedo from his bowels into my mouth. Immediately, he
looked over his shoulder to see me munching. He smiled a demon's smile. I
loved it that I could bring that out in a man, make him look that way. I
could feel nausea in my stomach. But somehow that was separate from the
pleasure of taking into me something so intimate, something created right
from the man's own body. It was sour, slimy, gritty, right. The
experience was meant to be tough. But the reward was a piece of him in my
mouth and in my belly, making him part of me.

Diego jumped off the couch and wiped his ass on the window curtain. "My
shit smells pretty good," he said "Don't it?"

"Mmm,hmm" was all I could say.

"I'm going to take a picture of you next time. Put a sign around your
neck 'I eat Diego's shit.'". Then he chuckled.



Much to my surprise, Manolo was upset when I told him I'd eaten shit out
of his buddy's ass.

"I send him to you for a blowjob and he makes you eat his crud! I should
kill this fuckin' bastard!" He violently threw his suitcase at the wall,
breaking it open, his clothes tumbling out.

"Manolo," I said. "I wanted to eat it. Don't I eat yours?"

"Yes, you eat mine. And only mine. Do you understand!"

"Okay," I said sheepishly. But, silently, in my head, I was going "tee
hee hee hee."

"You are disgusting" he shouted. "How can I take a dump in your mouth
again knowing another man has shit there, too."

"But, Manolo, I washed, disinfected as soon as he left." I opened wide to
show him how clean my mouth was now. "Anyway, his wasn't anywhere near as
good as yours," I said.

He bent gathering up his clothes and flung them on the couch. He pointed
at the broken suitcase. "Next time that will be you."

I looked at the floor and said nothing.

"Your mouth is for my shit and my shit alone," he said.

Later he fucked me hard, but, because he was still mad at me, when it
came time for him to shit, Manolo did it in the toilet while I stood
waiting.

He wiped his ass and stood up. "I'll teach you a lesson," he said. "Eat
it out of the bowl, whore."

Dutifully, I stuck my head down in the yellow water. It was awkward with
the wet shit tissue getting in the way but I managed to get the bite on
his shit bomb.

All in all, I was delighted. The very fact that he was angry proved
something downright, deliciously wonderful: Manolo was jealous!

Comments welcome

Arablover100@hotmail.com