Date: Fri, 16 Apr 2021 02:06:20 +0000 (UTC) From: Randolph Adams Subject: Memoirs of a Slut: Brazilian Tony (Interracial) Nifty is free but there's no such thing as a free lunch. (Though some guys have given me a sausage for free, if I asked nicely.) Please be as generous as they were! http:/donate.nifty.org Author's Note: This is my recollection of a real event, long after it occurred. It's as accurate as my memory allows . . . . BRAZILIAN TONY The ad in the local magazine said `prostate massage', and that's the reason I picked it. I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but I was pretty sure I'd have fun finding out. I was in my mid 30s at the time, and my prostate had seen a LOT of massaging . . . most often by my husband's fat uncut Puerto Rican dick but often enough by someone else's. On several occasions there had been someone's fingers up there and, on three specific occasions, someone's entire hand. I was in Los Angeles for business and had a free evening. I booked the massage and got directions from the masseur over the phone. Tony was from Brazil. His accent was thick (thick enough that getting verbal directions was kind of a challenge), but I didn't mind a slight difficulty. There's something about an accent that turns me on, and I was excited to find out how the Brazilian with the sexy accent would look. By the time I stood outside his door, my finger hovering over the buzzer, I was feeling eager butterflies. Tony's apartment was over the top: fabrics draped everywhere, a profusion of pillows, everything in saturated colors and animal prints, the whole scene glowing warmly in the strategically dim lighting. I couldn't tell if the effect was a deliberate attempt to be `exotic' or was simply his natural taste. I had a sneaking suspicion it was his natural taste, maybe amped up slightly for effect. Tony himself looked at home in his natural habitat. He answered the door wearing nothing but bikini briefs . . . leopard print bikini briefs. He was perhaps 40, very muscular, with narrow hips and a broad chest and an absolute carpet of fur down his front. His skin was tanned even darker than his natural olive color, with a glimpse of lighter skin near his waistband. He welcomed me in, gave me water, showed me the massage table and where to put my clothes, and left me to get into position, face down / ass up. He gave a good massage, working over my back and shoulders and legs with strong, skilled hands. I was basically melting into the table. Then, about the time most masseurs would have asked me to turn over, he drizzled massage oil on my hole and started to caress my rosebud gently with a single finger. He slid the finger inside, and I purred. He stroked inside me, finding my prostate and gently rubbing it, then withdrew and went back in with two fingers. I purred louder. He moved on to three fingers and then four, and I was getting more and more turned on by the feeling of my hole being stretched, and by the thought of this hot hairy Brazilian doing the stretching. I imagined how his brown hand and hairy arm looked against the smooth, pale moons of my ass, and the picture in my mind turned me on even more. Four fingers was a genuine stretch for me, and his hand was not small. I noticed that the "prostate massage" seemed to involve a lot more penetration and stretching of my hole than actual massaging of my prostate. Just to clarify: this was an observation, NOT a complaint. He pulled out again, drizzled more oil on my hole, and pressed in his four fingers with the thumb tucked against his palm. I realized that this particular prostate massage was heading towards a full-on fisting (potentially just the fourth of my entire life), and while the idea turned me on, my hole was telling me in no uncertain terms that it wasn't happening. His hand was just too big. "I'm so sorry, but it's too much for me." He pulled his fingers out, and I rolled onto my side so we could chat face to face. He mentioned that he had dildoes in various sizes and could try those on me if I wanted. Maybe that would open me up? I liked the idea. He mentioned that he had a harness that he could put around his waist and attach a dildo to. I liked the idea! He left his leopard skin bikini briefs on and strapped on a huge dildo that jutted heavily from his hips, looking like a porn star's breathtaking endowment. I rolled onto my back, still on the massage table, and pulled my knees up to my chest. He greased up the big rubber prong and pressed it against my asslips. I willed myself to relax, but the blunt tip just felt bigger than my hole. I pushed out, seeing if I could shit the big rubber thing into me. When I felt the head pop inside, I gasped and stopped pushing out for a moment. Tony pressed his hips forward, and I could feel the massive thing sliding, ever so slowly, into me. It eased in deeper and deeper, gradually stretching and opening up my insides. He paused and worked it in and out, then slid in a little more. Finally, with about 2" to go, the dildo bottomed out. "Okay . . . that's good." He fucked me with it for a while, slowly stroking my gut and helping me relax and take the big rubber dick with more ease and less apprehension. I got off on watching his broad hairy chest hovering over me, his hands grasping my ankles or pressing down on the backs of my thighs. The illusion that he was fucking me with his own huge cock was very successful and very hot. He slid out and asked if I'd like to try an even larger dildo. What else could I say? "Yes, please." He swapped the new dildo into the harness, and perhaps because I was already opened up this one slid in more easily than the first, though it was definitely bigger around. I felt wide open inside (open like a train tunnel) and after he'd fucked me a bit . . . . "Do you want to try your hand again?" Three fingers, four fingers, four fingers with the thumb tucked . . . I was much more open, but his hand was still larger than any I'd ever taken, and it still wasn't going in. I concentrated on opening up, on pushing my hole open from inside as he pushed it open from outside. I could feel myself stretching, and stretching, and it still wasn't going in. I willed myself to relax, to trust that this would happen . . . and suddenly the fattest part of his hand cleared the tightest part of my hole, and his hand had slipped inside me, and my ring had clamped down on his wrist. His hand felt huge inside me. HUGE. There was such pressure on my gut, pressure from the inside as his hand stretched me more than anything I'd ever had in there. I wasn't sure how long I could take it. I reached up and grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down into a kiss, and the distraction of the kiss somehow made the weight in my gut easier to accept. He moved his hand as he kissed me, just a bit, rocking gently back and forth. It was a tiny movement, really, but still intense. Before long I needed a break. "Can you pull out, please." He tried pulling his hand out slowly and carefully, but at some point your body just wants that shit OUT of there. My hole aggressively dispelled him when he was about halfway through his slow withdrawal. The fattest part of his hand squeezing past the tightest part of my hole stung, and I sensed (correctly) that I was going to be pretty sore the next day. Totally worth it! I caught my breath. Tony checked in with me: Was I okay? Was I sure I was okay? I assured him I was fine. He asked if I wanted any more. "Um . . . sure . . . go for it." The second time going in, I knew I could take it. That psychological fact alone makes a huge difference. This time his hand got past the ring pretty quickly, and again I found myself drawing him into a long, sloppy kiss to keep myself distracted from the intensity of a big hand taking up so much space inside my body. He managed to move his hand a little bit more this time. I suspect the intense sensation I was feeling was the results of him shifting his hand all of a quarter inch deeper or shallower, but that limited motion was more than enough on that particular occasion. Before long, my hole had had enough. Once again it just pushed the intruder out, more quickly than I really wanted it to, and once again it stung on the way out. I decided my prostate had seen enough massaging for one evening. Or had it? Would Tony be willing to fuck me? He seemed uncomfortable at the request, but he did push the leopard print bikini briefs down, suit up with a condom and fuck me for a short bit, me on my back on the massage table, him standing at the end of it. His cock was a perfectly good, average-sized cock, perhaps a little on the smaller side of average. It suddenly occurred to me that he was ashamed of his own endowment. He'd kept it hidden in leopard print throughout the session, and he'd used the massive dildoes as strap-ons, not just tools to be held and handled. He'd also gone in for fisting, which can give you the sense that you're fucking someone with the biggest cock in the world. I found the thought rather sad . . . here was a hot guy apparently feeling inadequate because of something that he had no control over and that really, ultimately, didn't matter. I'm a firm believer in the `motion of the ocean' theory, and though I love a big dick, I've also had great times getting fucked by guys whose `ships' were noticeably smaller than Tony's. But it's hard to convey the idea to a guy that a small cock is fine with you . . . without also conveying to the guy that you think his cock is small. Oh well. It was pretty clear his heart wasn't in the fucking, and after a minute or two he pulled out. My own cock, which is on the larger end of the average-sized spectrum, had stayed half hard during the fisting and had gotten stiffer during the fuck. I asked him if he'd like to get fucked, and to my surprise he said yes. The leopard print bikini briefs came off completely, and he rubbed some massage oil on my cock, straddled me, and eased down on my cock. At that time, the official arrangement with my husband was that we used condoms with everyone but each other, so we could enjoy ourselves and stay HIV negative. And mostly I did. (The `mostly' part is not something I'm proud of). I was pretty good at behaving myself overall, but I did not LIKE condoms, and I particularly disliked them when topping. It took more will power than I could muster to tell a hot man to get his ass off my cock so I could put a condom on so I could not enjoy fucking him as much. Tony rode my cock with his eyes closed in concentration. My glasses were off, and the room was dimly lit, so I had mostly an impression of hairy dark hotness rising and falling in front of me, and the lovely feeling of his hole dragging up and down my cock. I ran my fingers through the mat of hair on his chest and along the smoother sides of his torso and along his thighs, enjoying both the situation and the wealth of sensations. I felt myself getting close to cumming and suggested to Tony that he dismount. He finished me off by hand, and after I'd blown my load on my belly, I kissed him as he jerked his own load on top of mine. I was sore for the next few days, though it didn't stop me from fucking or getting fucked by two or three other guys on that trip. I don't really remember any of those encounters with much clarity. By the next time I visited Los Angeles, Tony's ad was gone, and I had no way of finding him again. We just had that one session, but it has lingered sweet and hot in my memory, with just a hint of sadness that such a hot guy would (possibly) be embarrassed by the size of his dick. If I did meet him now, with another twenty years of experience under my belt (and another twenty pounds as well), with hundreds of fists taken (and given), thousands of loads taken and given and the costly freedom of being HIV positive / undetectable, I wonder how it would go. Would the big hand slip easily inside me? Would he punch fuck me? Would we flip fuck and breed each other while kissing passionately? Would he feel more confident in all the great things he had to offer? Or would it go more or less as it had the first time, but with less excitement? I bet we'd have a hot time, perhaps with less baggage. But I don't know that it would be as memorable as that first time, twenty-some years ago, when the only way I could take my first big fist was to distract my mind with a hot man's lips. I hope you enjoyed this reminiscence! I love to hear from my readers Ð feel free to drop me a line: Randolph Adams Shahairyzad@aol.com Also, consider checking out my fiction story, "The Lobsterback". It's under "Historical" and "Incest", but it's easier to find in "Historical" because . . . um . . . nobody publishes there.