From: honjohn@gate.net (John E. Smith)
Subject: Good-Looking Latino "Model", Part 1 (M/M Oral Anal)
Date: 29 Jul 1998 00:00:00 GMT

John E. Smith 
P.O. Box 7762 
Port St. Lucie, FL 
34985-7762
        
                        THE CLASSIFIEDS: "MODELS"

		  GOOD-LOOKING LATINO, PART I, Episode 1

        Please let me warn you.  They print on the envelopes of
advertisements for X-rated videos -- WARNING: THIS ENVELOPE CONTAINS
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT MATERIAL.  Do not open unless you are at least 19 years
old and interested in seeing what may be deemed a sexually oriented
advertisement under the postal law!  I say, if you feel that you would be
offended by explicit homosexual descriptions, please read no farther because
I plan to be homosexually quite explicit.  

        In addition, I have a very low tolerance for euphemistic bullshit.
I'll call a man's penis a cock, or, for this story, a pinga, if that is what
I am describing.  Please be warned that I am going to tell you explicitly
about my homosexual experiences with "models" in an honest, open,
no-bullshit way.  If you feel that such descriptions would be offensive to
you, may I respectfully suggest that, instead of reading this story, you
write to your Aunt Mabel in Milwaukee, telling her all about your latest
exploits as a Sunday School teacher .
        As I looked over the ADVOCATE ads for "MODELS", I felt that I had
the right attitude toward hiring a "model."  I felt that I had learned from
an experience I had several years before, when I first started using the
services of male "models," right after I broke up with my lover, Kurt.  

        At that time, I had a fear of loneliness.  I was looking for anyone
who could fill the aching void in my heart that I felt when Kurt left.
Because of this emotional pain, I was looking for "love" in all the wrong
places.  I was eating and drinking too much, cruising subway T-rooms,
hanging out in gay bars, and looking in the classified ads of "gay"
periodicals for a satisfactory replacement.  In that emotionally weakened
state, I saw this ad:
        20 Y.O.
        PORN STAR
        CLASSIC GOOD LOOKS
        & HUNG HUGE
        24 hr. Lve mess for Todd
        In or Out. (212) 000-0000 (18+)
        
        Now, if you don't know the abbreviations used in classified ads,
"Lve mess for Todd," didn't mean that Todd was into scat (scatology) and
wanted me to shit on him or his doorstep.  It meant that I was supposed to
leave a message for Todd with his answering service, which I did.  

        Todd phoned back.  Even though it cost me more to have a "model"
come to my home, rather than meet him at his residence, I made a date for
him to come to my home.  I had a high-paying job, and felt that I could
afford to indulge myself.

        At the appointed time, my door chimes bonged Beethoven's Fifth, (I
like classical music), and I opened the door.  Standing at my doorstep, I
saw a tall, very handsome, well-dressed young man.  He had curly blond hair,
electric blue eyes, a face like a G.Q. model, and his body bulged his
clothes in all the right places.  I knew that, under those fashionable
clothes, he was as well-built and well-hung, as his ad had said.  
        When I saw him standing there, my heart melted into a pool of lust
at his feet.  "Take me! I'm yours!" it said.  "Do with me what you will.
Wipe your feet on me like a door mat, if you want to, only please let me
bask in the radiance of your beauty forever and ever, Ah-men."  

        Despite my racing mind, all I could manage to say, when he
introduced himself as Todd, was, "Please come in."  He stepped into my
modern, mirror-walled vestibule.  I closed the door behind him, turned, and
without a word, put my arms around him.  He responded by putting his arms
around me and kissed me. 

        We held that kiss for a long time.  Our tongues played hide-and-seek
with each other in each other's mouths, until I felt an insistent bulge,
like a rock in the front of his pants, against my belly.  I tore my lips
from his, knelt right there on the hard ceramic-tiled floor of the vestibule
in front of him, unzipped his fly, hauled from his pants his rock-hard,
unclipped piece of sleek, smooth, milk-white love muscle, and plunged on it
like a hungry dog snapping for a meaty milkbone.            
        I tongued back the foreskin and plunged his lust-shaft deep into my
throat, nursing on the naked head with my throat muscles.
"UUUUHHHHHHMMMMM," I moaned, as all of my senses focused on the object of
erotic delight, deep in my throat.    

        He responded to my sexual stimulation by moaning, "That's it, Baby!
Suck that big porn-star dick!"  He ran his hands over my head, and played
with my ears as he said, "YYYEEEAAAHHH!  Tongue that big mother."  I did as
he ordered.  I tongue-tickled his fancy.  

        Todd fucked my face, that way, in the vestibule, for a long time,
until, as he lifted me from his cock, he said, "Let's get more comfortable,
John.  Let's go into the bedroom."  

        I'll have to admit when I stood up, my knees hurt from kneeling on
the hard ceramic tile, and for hours afterward, they carried indentations
from the grooves in the tiles, a small price to pay, I thought, for the joy
of unbridled passion.  I wore those grooves like a badge of honor.

        We went into the bedroom and fucked for hours, like maniacs
condemned to death the next day, trying to compress all of the delirious
bliss of a lifetime, into the preciously few hours remaining to us.  When we
finished, I paid him, and he went on to his next "client."

     Our relationship went on, that way, for a while.  Then, I made the
mistake of confusing pity and lust for love.  He was living from hand to
mouth, desperately rushing from one "client" to another, in order to get by.
I tried to relieve his financially desperate circumstances.  At the same
time, I had a "do gooder" attitude.  I wanted to "redeem" him, to save him
from his "life of sin."  

        My solution was to try to buy him.  I offered to help him get a job
and leave "the profession," if he would come live with me.  Of course, the
thinly veiled agreement was that I would get as much sexual Toddy as I
wanted -- morning, noon, and night.  

        He agreed; but, before too long, our relationship evolved into a
parasitic one -- his needs, especially for coke, exceeded my resources, and
I had to ask him to make other arrangements, which he did.  He returned to
his previous life.  You've probably seen him performing in some of the
videos that you've bought, because he is a very popular porn star. 

        I learned from my experiences with Todd that there are plenty of
emotional "babies" out there looking for a "sugar daddy" to take care of
them financially -- "babies" who are looking for someone with a big money
tit they could suck on whenever they need pacifying.  In Todd's case, I felt
that I had offered him a hand and he had tried to take the whole arm.  Once
the honeymoon was over, I felt he reverted to type.  His needs came first,
and he became like a leach, mercilessly sucking the emotional and financial
blood from my veins.  

        From Todd, I learned that I could buy sex but I couldn't buy love --
I couldn't buy the other person's care, concern, responsibility, and
affection.  I learned that it takes two mature, willing people to sustain a
loving relationship.  Furthermore, instead of blaming Todd for being a
parasite, I came to realize that I had set myself up for victimization.  I
had let Todd take advantage of me.  Also, I came to realize that we had both
been victimized by our greeds -- Todd's for money and mine for sex. 

        I felt that my experience with Todd had prepared me to deal
appropriately with male "models."  I felt that I would not have unrealistic
expectations of them, that I didn't expect "love" from them, and that I had
become tough enough so that I would never allow myself to be as vulnerable
as I had been with Todd. 

        As I again looked over the "MODELS" section of the ADVOCATE, I could
not help but notice the great variety of different sexual fantasy types
represented there -- all-star lover-boy, Norwegian fantasy, surfer boy,
good-looking Latino, country hunk, young and hung, etc. -- each different,
but all beautiful.  I could not help but think that each of us would be
attracted to a different type of "model."  Each of us would choose to
respond to a different ad because of our different sexual tastes, attitudes,
and fantasies. My sexual tastes determined the ads that I found attractive
because they fed my fantasies and excited me erotically.  One in particular
piqued my lust:
        GOOD-LOOKING LATINO
        6', 175#, hung, black hair/brown eyes with a smooth, tan muscular
body.  Masculine, young, clean, safe and healthy.  Call Marco at
000-000-0000, 24 hrs.

        With this choice, like a projective test in psychology, I revealed
some of my sexual tastes.  You now know that I like tall, good-looking,
masculine, well hung men.  You also know that I am not prejudiced against
Latinos.  

        In fact, besides finding them sexy, I am attracted to some ethnic
minorities, such as blacks and Latinos, for another reason.  I like
uncircumcised cocks!  And, I am pleased to report that routine circumcision
of all male babies, that barbaric curse of allegedly "civilized" societies,
has not yet crept its insidious way into some minority cultures to leave its
hideous scars on those lovely, brown, third-world penises.  Therefore, I
don't mind panning the rich vein of ethnic minorgities for sexual gold.

        I was attracted to this ad for another reason.  In New York City,
that sexual capital of the world, where you can find almost anything to
please any sexual taste, I had an exciting sexual experience with a Latino.
Through a "MODEL" ad in the classified section of a local "gay" periodical,
I met a humpy Puerto Rican stallion, who turned out to be sexually very
satisfying.  

        His name was Jorge (pronounced, in Spanish, Whore-hay, no pun
intended) an improbable name for a macho Rican stud, whose parents should
have named him Jose (pronounced Hose-A) because his hose was big enough to
use to put out more than sexual fires.  Anyway,names don't mean that much,
do they? 

        I dialed the telephone number, given for Jorge in the ad, and a
woman answered.  Hearing a woman's voice unnerved me.  I almost hung up the
phone.  Maybe, unrealistically, I expected Jorge to be sitting by the phone
all the time, just waiting with baited breath to answer my call on the first
ring.  Maybe the female voice made me feel guilty -- made me feel that I
was, somehow, a "home wrecker" by availing myself of his services.  I
resisted my impulse to hang up the phone and left my name and number with
the woman.

        Some time later, Jorge phoned back.  Since I lived on Long Island at
the time, and he lived in Manhattan, to avoid the additional "fee" involved
in having him travel to my home, I arranged for him to meet me in Manhattan
at the Barracks Baths.  Jorge admitted that he had been to the Barracks
Baths before.  He knew right where it was, and agreed to meet me there.

        Because of my experiences with Todd, I believed that I approached my
meeting with Jorge with a mentally healthy attitude.  I had no great
expectation that I was going to meet the "love of my life" through a
"MODELS" ad.  To my way of thinking, it was purely a business deal, like
buying a quart of milk without having to feed the cow.  I had something the
"model" wanted -- money.  And, he had something I wanted -- his body.  All I
wanted was for him to agree to let me use his body for a little while to
quench my lust, to let me rid myself of a few milliliters of unwanted semen
that burned in my testicles screaming for release.        

        True, if sexual release were my only need, I could have easily put
an X-rated video in the player and gang-banged Ma fist and her five
daughters.  But, I wanted more than just physical release of sexual tension.
I longed to have my mind and all of my senses stimulated by a satisfying
sexual embrace.  I wanted to feel the warm, hard-muscled masculine body of
my sexpartner crush me delightfully as he ravished me.  I wanted to see the
muscles of his beautiful body ripple as he labored to satisfy my sexual
needs.  I wanted to smell his man-scent -- the sweet-warm-milk odor of male
pheremones in the sex-sweat on his body, the intoxicating odor of his body
fluids captured between his foreskin and the head of his lust-sword that
escaped when I unsheathed it, the funky-musky tannery scent of man-civet
between the cheeks of his ass.  

        I wanted to taste his manliness.  Even though I know I am a stupid
victim of tobacco advertisements that associate manliness with smoking, I
wanted to taste the tobacco-smoke pungency of his mouth.  I wanted to taste
the sailor-sea-saltiness of his sex-sweaty skin, the orange-blossom-honey
sweetness of his precoital fluid, and the oyster nutty-saltiness of his cum.
Like a starving man at a sumptuous feast, I wanted to savor all the
gustatory pleasures of sex.  

        Since my experience with Todd, I had no delusions about the basis of
my relationship with a "model."  I knew that I was physically attractive.  I
knew that I watched my diet and worked out in the gym so that I was in good
physical shape.  I knew that I could have attracted a lover, if I had wanted
one, because I never had any trouble attracting sexpartners at the baths. 

        I didn't care, however, if Jorge found me attractive or not.  I
didn't even want him to be attracted to me.  All I wanted was a
depersonalized sex object, a sexual plaything, like a full-sized, living,
version of one of those plastic blow-up "John" dolls that you can buy in the
porn shops, that come equipped with a vibrating dildo cock, a vibrating
mouth, and, at additional cost, a vibrating asshole.  

        Egomaniacally, all I wanted was for Jorge to satisfy me.  He was
there to do a job, to service me sexually, and that was all I wanted from
him.  I wanted to exercise my sexual fantasies to achieve sexual release
without any entangling relationships.  I was willing to pay the price, in
terms of money, because I didn't want to pay the price, in terms of care,
concern, and responsibility, of winning him as a lover.  I didn't want to
know if he had a family or if he had problems.  I didn't want to deal with
him as a human being with wants and needs.    
        Furthermore, I didn't have any unrealistic expectations about
meeting Jorge.  I didn't think that his ad was necessarily a completely
accurate description of his sexual attributes because I knew that people
lied in classified ads.  After all, I had done it often enough.  I knew that
even though his ad said that he was "hung," and even though I am a size
queen who often judges his sexpartner's performance by the size his love
muscle, I had no great expectation that when he said "hung," the size of his
cock was anything greater than average.  When he said "handsome" in his ad,
I wasn't expecting Lorenzo Lamas.  

        In other words, I went to meet him with a healthily skeptical frame
of mind.  That way, if his reality did not meet my fantasy, he would not
disappoint me.  I would not resent him.  After all, my expectations were my
problem, not his.    

        True, if he exceeded the limits of "decent" exaggeration, if he said
in his ad he was 6' tall and was, in reality, 4'3", at 185#, I would have
accused him of deceptive advertising, and would not have gone with him.
But, if he looked like Lorenzo Lamas and had a 12" dick, I wouldn't quibble
if he was only 5'11"?  

        The Barracks Baths was a sleazy homosexual bath house on 42nd
Street, were I often went, either with a trick or to find one.  Since I was
friends with the owners, and did their advertising promotion for them, they
let me stay there, free, any time I wanted to.  I used the place as a
pied-a-terre whenever I stayed overnight in the city.  

        In those days, the entrance to the Barracks Baths was on the south
side of Forty-Second Street, under the Harris Theater marquee.  At the
agreed-upon time, I went there.  As I approached, I saw a tall, incredibly
handsome, well-built hispanic-looking young man who appeared to be in his
mid-twenties, Jorge's age, leaning against one of the posters that announced
future features, apparently waiting for someone.  I hoped that it was Jorge
because the glaringly bright-white lights of the thousands of naked bulbs in
the ceiling of the theater marquee revealed that this tall, macho-looking
Latino, dressed fashionably in a revealing LaCoste shirt and sexy-silky
dress slacks, was as attractive as Jimmy Smitts on LA Law and as well-built
as Rambo.  "What a hunk!" I thought.  

        When I got close enough to him, I asked, "Is your name Jorge?"
        "Yes," he replied.  "Are you John?"  His voice was masculinely deep,
as I liked it, a product, I thought, of the massive amounts of male hormones
released at adolescence into the bloodstream of his beautifully matured
masculine body by his ragingly overproductive, hyperactive cajones
(testicles).    

        "Yes, I'm your John," I said.  We shook hands as "models" and their
"clients" often did when they first met.  "Shall we go in?" I asked.  When
Jorge nodded affirmatively, I turned and led the way up the brightly-lighted
flight of stairs, under the view of the video surveillance cameras, to the
desk clerk, who was as secure behind a thick glass window, with a security
drawer, as a bank teller.  Such security precautions were necessary for
doing business in the 42nd Street area.  

        The clerk on duty recognized me as soon as he saw me and buzzed the
lock on the heavy black metal security door that admitted us to the baths.
Once inside, at the office window, I took enough money out of my wallet for
Jorge's "modeling fee," a tip, and enough extra cash for snacks, put my
wallet, along with my other valuables, into a large, brown paper envelope
and gave it to the clerk.  He took it, sealed the envelope, and placed it in
a safety-deposit-type drawer that he locked into place in a safe.  Jorge did
the same with his valuables.  

        The clerk gave each of us a towel, and a small cake of soap.  To me,
he gave a key to room 320.  To Jorge, he gave a key to a locker, that Jorge
did not use because he was sharing room 320 with me.  

        As if I were an angel escorting another candidate up the stairway to
heaven, Jorge followed me up to room 320.  I unlocked the door and
immediately adjusted the dimmer switch of the room light to a sexy
candle-lit glow.  Like lovers at a romantic candle-lit dinner, I wanted
enough light to see my food without revealing all the flaws of the diners.  

        Jorge followed me into the room.  He went immediately to the side of
the room where there were clothes hooks with hangers on them.  I sat on the
bed and watched him strip as I undressed.  

        When he took off his shirt, I saw that his build was natural, as if
from athletics or hard work.  As he moved to take off the rest of his
clothes, his hard muscles rippled under his beautiful cafe' au lait skin
like lovers fucking under a brown satin sheet.  "No wonder, since Christian
Bjorn has been saturating all the glossy "gay" magazines with pictures of
those beautiful brown, uncircumcised Latino studs from Brazil, "gay" tourism
to that country has increased 300%!" I thought.  I felt like signing up for
the next flight to Rio, that Mecca of macho Mocha-male majesties.

        As I waited impatiently for him to unveil his best asset, I wondered
what was hidden under those fashionable pleated slacks.  Jorge must have
sensed my anticipation because he seemed to be putting on a performance for
me.  He was dramatizing The Unveiling a little for my benefit.  He looked at
me and smiled faintly as he unfastened his belt.  He unbuttoned the top of
his trousers, slowly unzipped his fly, and slowly slid his trousers and his
designer bikini shorts down his hairless, cafe'-au-lait thighs.  His pinga
sprang from the captivity of his clothing like a star acrobat doing a
handspring into the spot-light at the center ring of a circus, ready to
perform for an appreciative audience.  And, as if it had a mind of its own,
it seemed to know what bliss was in store for it because, in anticipation of
the erotic ecstasy it was going to enjoy, it was already partially hard!  

        Now, I know that the word "pinga" in Spanish, means something macho,
like dick, cock, or prick; however, in English the word sounds kind of
cutesy or diminutive like "peter" or "wanger" or "wee wee."  If you are
laboring under that misconception, please let me disenchant you.  Jorge
didn't have a "wee wee."  He had a "COCK TO END ALL COCKS," a bludgeon, a
battering ram, a sex-tool large enough and strong enough to transform the
West -- sturdy enough to plow fields and pry up boulders.
        Here was a sex-tool that was worthy of worship in a pagan fecundity
festival.  Here was a phallus that was no phallic symbol, a May Pole that
deserved decorating with ribbons and dancing around at a Springtime
bacchanal.  When he said in his ad that he was "hung," he should have said
that he was HUNG!  It was as long as a quart-sized Bud can and was about as
wide.  In all my years as a connoisseur (pronounce that "kind-of-sewer") of
cocks, I could not remember seeing one that, even though it was only
partially hard, was thick as the one Jorge unveiled for me.  

        Of course, it was uncircumcised.  We had established that fact
before I had engaged him.  "Models" and their "clients" often discuss body
parts, such as dick size, and foreskin, and important things like that,
about as freely as ordinary people discuss the weather.  And, now that I saw
it in person, I discovered that, even though his love lance was already
partially hard, his lusciously long foreskin extended almost to the tip.  In
fact, because of that lascivious foreskin, all I could see of the head of
his gigantic power-tool was its piss hole's pouty little lips, pursed as if
awaiting a lover's kiss, nestled securely within the generous folds of his
cockhead's covering.  

        "What a succulent piece of manmeat!" I thought.  The head, a giant
Monarch plum, bulged obscenely under his love sausage's encasement, like a
hustler's gonads under his skin-tight jeans, covering his sexual parts but
concealing nothing.  That bulbous head, as thick as the amazingly thick
shaft, made me hunger to feel it dilate delightfully every orifice known to
man, and a few that hadn't been discovered yet.  

        The shank that supported that magnificent globular glans was also
appropriately proportioned.  It did not diminish in thickness until it
flared to a sturdy root, where it was attached to his body, under his curly,
black love-jungle.  

        Also, unlike some wangs I've seen, that dangle pendulously between
their owner's legs, when partially hard, like a stallion that just finished
servicing a mare, Jorge's cock was no limpy wimpy.  Like a native warrior on
guard, holding his ceremonial spear in front of him, Jorge's pinga stuck out
and up at a jaunty angle away from his body, like President Roosevelt's
cigarette holder, communicating, I thought, an aggressively assertive
attitude toward life in general and an aggressive attitude toward sex in
particular.  

        In addition, Jorge's love-lance was as straight and true as an
arrow.  It was unlike some peckers that I have seen that were deformed by
masturbation during adolescence, given either a left-hand or a right-hand
bend during puberty by the hand-preference of their owner.  It was a
veritable object d'art, as beautifully symmetrical as if it had been
sculptured by Rodin of flawless creamy light-brown milk-chocolate-colored
marble.  No flaws disturbed the smooth texture of its tissue-thin skin and,
even though the shaft was amazingly wide, no prominent veins disturbed its
placid surface.  It was as sleek and smooth as a jumbo jet, waiting to
transport me to ecstacy at 600 miles an hour.  

        Jorge sat on the bed, with just his buns on the edge of the bed so
that his cock stuck up free and clear, between his legs, like the steeple of
a church, awaiting a congregation for the 11:00 o'clock service.  As he
reclined, with his elbows on the bed, resting his head against the wall, so
that his head was high enough to watch what I was doing, his humongous
cajones hung over the edge of the bed like the speed bags that boxers use,
inviting me to spar with them with my tongue.  

        I spread his knees and knelt on the floor between his legs.  Of
course, this encounter took place before AIDS, when it was possible to
wallow in the body fluids of your sexpartner and only have to worry about a
curable disease like syphilis.  Now, of course, I would not engage in such
unsafe sexual practices as I am describing here.  Even though I hate the
taste of rubber, today I would not perform fellatio without a condom on the
object of my sexual affection because I want to live long enough to see my
grandchildren grow up.  

        Anyway, with his foreskin still covering the head of his cock, I
kissed the pouty little lips of the piss hole, as Jorge pulsed his baton
d'amour upward, so that it rushed to meet my kiss like long-separated
lovers.  I immediately followed that kiss with a tonguing around the rim of
his foreskin, finally immersing the entire covered head in the copious
amounts of spittle in my mouth.

        Ordinarily, on a normal-sized cock, I would have skinned back the
cowl of the uncelibate monk with my tongue; but, I could not do that in this
case, because, just the head alone, completely filled by mouth.  Therefore,
with my hand, I unfrocked the monk, to expose his naked bald head, like an
infant at the baptismal fount, to the passionate blessings of my titillating
tongue.  When I did this, the rim of the cowl popped so sharply behind the
corona of the glans, that it felt like the snap of an elastic band, suddenly
released.  

        In this position, his foreskin was locked behind the head,
constricting the shaft so that it acted like a cock ring.  It enlarged the
bald monk's head to tremendous proportions.  Once locked, in this way, with
the head exposed, like Lou Ferignio bursting from Bill Bixby's clothes in
The Incredible Hulk, I doubted that all that manmeat would fit back into its
covering again until his milkweed lost its seeds, not because his foreskin
was unusually tight, but because the corona was unusually large.  It was
like the collar around the neck of a working dray horse.  

        With only the head in my mouth, I strummed the chord at the bottom
of the head, plucking a tune on his sex banjo with my tongue like a virtuoso
artist at a blue-grass festival pleasing the crowd with a rousing rendition
of Turkey in the Straw.  His moans and groans revealed that I was performing
for an appreciative audience and, after a few more stimulating choruses, he
rewarded me with, what I considered to be, a sexual standing ovation.
"Jesus, you give good head!" he said.  

        His compliment, inspired me to try more daring feats.  I plunged
that monster as deeply as I could into my throat, stimulating the
pressure-sensitive nerves on the stretched skin of the shaft with my tongue
and lips, working on the sensitive, naked head of that magnificent monument
to masculinity with my throat muscles.  He responded to this treatment with
a deep moan, and, impossible as it seems, I felt his humongous hank of
Latino manmeat pulse even larger in my throat, making it impossible to get
more than just the head into my mouth. 

        Now I should tell you that I am a "deep throat" artiste.  I taught
myself to sword swallow by practicing on lubricated dildoes after seeing the
movie, DEEP THROAT, where the heroine demonstrated her fabulous cock-sucking
technique, coincidentally enough, on a remarkably well-hung Latino.
Realizing that it was impossible for even an artiste like myself to deep
throat Jorge's King Kong dong to the root, as I could with any normal sized
cock, I contented myself with tonguing and sucking the naked head while
massaging the spit-slickened shaft with my hand.  With my other hand, I
gently massaged and stroked Jorge's king-sized cajones.  

        In response to my gentle ministrations, Jorge moaned as he relapsed
into use of his Mother tongue, as men sometimes do in moments of passion,
"That's it, baby.  Mama la pinga!  Mama la pinga!"  He rolled his hips
sensually, stirring that stupendous stallion-like stud pole around in my
mouth, stretching my lips and prying my cheeks like a dental technician
looking for cavities.  

        I sucked and plunged and tongued that magnificent piece of Latino
manmeat for a long time, until, not wishing to bring him to a premature
climax, before I got my money's worth of fun out of him, I stopped.  I
rolled his legs up over his chest, exposing his firmly muscular buns and his
preciously tight little studly rose-bud pucker to an attack by my tongue.
"UMMMMMMM," I moaned as I dove between the cheeks of his ass and wallowed my
face, happy as a pig in shit, between those beautiful mounds of man-muscled
ass, savoring the musky odor captured there.  My titillating tongue did a
tango on the tender tissue of his tight little tunnel.  His response,
visible as I looked upward over his king-sized cajones and over his
wash-board abdominal muscles, that rippled as he writhed in ecstasy, was to
turn his head from side to side and moan passionately, "That's it, baby.
Besa me culo.  Mama el culo Rican!"  

        Jorge was a "model" who was unlike some that I've encountered, who
acted as if they didn't enjoy what they were doing so they could use their
alleged discomfort as an excuse to ask for more money.  He didn't say, as
I've had some "models" say, "Oh, I don't like that.  If you want to tongue
my ass, that will cost you more money."


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