A Life Well-Loved

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Sunday morning, June 9, 1996…it was our first anniversary and just over a couple of weeks shy of my forty second birthday. My eyes fluttered open to see 9:47 displayed on the digital clock by our bed. I felt Chik’s warm mouth gently nursing on the head of my morning hard-on and I looked down over the crest of my belly to see his head barely bobbing under the sheet that covered us. It felt incredible. I laid my hand on the back of his head and gave it an affectionate rub through the linen.

“Morning, babe,” I croaked.

He slid his mouth up off of my dick and the sheet-covered mound at my loins responded with “Morning, Papa. Sleep well?”

“Sure did. Was dreaming you were giving me the best head,” I told him.

“Fancy that…sorry,” he sheepishly apologized, “I waited as long as I could stand.”

“No apology needed,” I sighed, feeling his mouth sink down over as much of my member as it could comfortably hold, maybe two-thirds of it.

A contented sigh escaped him as I resumed my petting, the heartfelt diligence of his labor washing over me in waves of pure pleasure. His sigh of contentment was immediately matched by my own. I threw the sheet back so I could watch him. He looked so small and cute.

Chik’s eyes were closed and he looked like he was in heaven as he sucked me. I folded my pillow in half to prop myself up for a better view. His eyes opened and twinkled as our gazes locked.

He ramped up his game slightly, firmly pressing his gullet to my cock head and the resulting compression on my shaft causing my girth to stretch his lips into a slight oval. It always gave me cause to chuckle seeing his eyes bug out a bit at full oral penetration.

He was pleased by my reaction and ran his hands up onto my fuzzy round belly, gently kneading his fingers into its firmness. I laid my hand on the back of his head again and gently cinched his curly brown hair up in my fingers as he happily bobbed for my pleasure.

“Mmmmmhhhh,” I sighed as I received his devotion.

He ramped up his attack again in response. His slender, almost delicate looking hands slid down my belly and he laid one on my sagging balls as he wrapped the other around the two-and-a-half or so exposed inches of my stalk that bested his oral cavity.

“Such a hungry boy,” I teased him in a husky sigh.

He pulled his mouth up off me and said, “Your dick tastes good.”

“You do remember it was up your ass for most of an hour last night, right?” I pointed out.

He just grinned, then quickly sank back down on me and struggled to reach his hand with his lips. Once he succeeded he slowly worked both hands back up onto my belly and eagerly groped it while he stuffed his mouth.

My cock head firmly planted against his gullet, he got up on his knees and positioned himself between my legs. I knew what was coming next.

Fully aware of the mystical connection between my cock and my paunch by that point of our relationship, he bore down and fought with his gag reflex until his forehead was snugly nestled against me just below my belly button. Slowly at first and then picking up speed he began bumping his head on my belly, eventually achieving a force that neared discomfort.

I reached down, using my erector to pump my hard-on full of blood, and pinched off the base so I could maintain maximum erection without relying on that trigger happy muscle to do the job for me. I wanted him to get what he was after, but I also wanted to see him work for it.

For more than ten minutes he pounded the back of his throat on my swollen, rubbery cock head with absolutely no regard for his own comfort. His eyes were tearing up, his nose beginning to run and his saliva streaming down onto my fist as he threw his head at my ball of a gut. His stamina was something to behold.

As he massaged my bloated glans in the deepest recesses of his orifice, the tightness of its fit was the most rewarding sensation I could imagine. Even with my cock desensitized by my assistance, I could not remain immune to his diligence and felt my loins beginning to tingle with the onset of an orgasm.

When I could no longer hold off coming I released my grip and loudly sounded out my ecstatic climax, flooding his mouth with a spurting load so big it surprised even me. He backed off just enough to gulp it down and then kept me in his mouth until my erratic ejaculations had completely ceased.

He lifted his head and let my hard-on flop down onto my belly, the head resting in my navel. He smiled at me as he licked his lips and then proceeded to peck my cock head and each of my balls with a kiss.

“Thanks, Papa!” he beamed.

“No, baby, thank you,” I said, ruffling his hair.

I reached down, hooking my hands under his arms, and effortlessly dragged him up onto my bulky torso for a deep kiss.

“Mmmmmm!” I sighed, “You taste like my seed.”

“That’s a relief. It was such a big load I wasn’t entirely sure you were coming and not pissing,” he giggled as he sank çankaya escort his fingers into my densely muscled shoulders.

“You know I could never do that,” I assured him, patting his smooth butt with both hands.

“I know,” he sighed resting his head on my chest, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I responded, “How about putting on some coffee?”

He crawled off me and rolled out of bed, pausing to admire me before scampering off to do my bidding. At twenty two he was all of five feet six inches tall, maybe 130 pounds when soaking wet and, but for his wispy pubic bush, smooth as a baby’s butt. I could count the few, baby-fine whiskers he had to shave from the square cut of his chin on the fingers of both my rough, calloused hands.

I slowly rose to my feet and saw my disheveled reflection in the dresser mirror across the room looking back at me. At a height of six feet one inch and most of 270 pounds my forty one year old body was nearly twice as old as his and a tad more than twice its size. My beard and medium length brown hair were flecked with gray and angled in every which direction due to our slumber and the hot sex with which he’d awakened me.

I wondered what Chik saw when he looked at the man I saw intently studying my naked form.

Did he see a bear?

Not in accordance with the classic image of a man sporting a luxurious pelt. Although my belly and chest are fuzzy, what I saw in the mirror was far from what anyone would describe as being covered in fur.

The patch in the nexus of my belly and pecs was pretty coarse, as was the triangle that started above my navel and spread to merge with my dense pubic bush. However, it got much finer as it rode on up the top side of my paunch and on my pecs where it fanned out to surround my areolas.

No hair could be found on my shoulders, or on my back except for the patch above my haunches and the tufts that lightly lined my butt crack. The hair on my arms and legs was coarse, but not densely populated enough that anyone would mistake me for a bear.

Did he see a chub?

I had to discount that, too. My build was decidedly round then and featured a prominent belly, but as I scanned the mass of humanity I’d become in middle age I could see no sign of the cherubic softness that typified that classification either.

My roundness had largely been forged through countless hours of hoisting heavy weights, not for the development of a bodybuilder’s physique, obviously, but rather in pursuit of a strong core. I’m sure the attendant appetite required to fuel the activity had a little to do with it as well.

Like many teens of my generation I became smitten with the raw power exhibited by the new super heavyweight class of Olympic weightlifters that dominated the sport at the dawn of the ’70s. They clearly dedicated themselves to the singular pursuit of pushing the boundaries of human strength beyond imagination.

The uninhibited growth of the bellies that led their powerful strides and the inconceivably thick chests, shoulders, arms and legs that framed them struck me like a lightning bolt out of the blue. Their trapezius muscles, as thick as they were tall, engulfed necks that were easily the size of an ordinary person’s waist.

Everything about them openly mocked the men whose superficial interest in weights was the vain pursuit of twenty eight inch waists, peaked biceps and shapely figures to be girlishly paraded in skimpy posing straps. These were men who shamelessly embraced the very essence of their maleness to the exclusion of worrying about appearances.

At age fifteen I got my first set of weights and struck out to embrace mine too. There I stood at age forty one staring at a build that, after twenty six years of toil, was finally as close to the powerful roundness of theirs as my otherwise typical frame would support.

As my body grew in proportion with my accomplishments I was dismayed to discover that most normal sized people reacted to me in a manner very unlike the reaction I’d had to the men I idolized as a teen. They tended to find my size off-putting and, in some cases, even frightening.

Chik wasn’t put off in the least, though. He was sincerely wild for what stared back at me from that mirror.

I concluded that he simply saw a man; a man in whom I hoped he found strength, safety, happiness and, most of all, love.

Chik’s youthful enthusiasm was infectious. The flaws in my middle aged skin, along with the ponderous muscular bulk and belly that slowly shifted to my plodding stride, betrayed the energetic ‘twenty-something’ young man who still lived in my psyche between peeks in the mirror. That part of me loved the friend I’d found in him.

And yet those same physical traits, which I merely accepted as evidence of my advancing age, seemed to be the foundation for the attractions he found so magnetic about me. They drew him into my arms to nurse on the dark brown nipples that keçiören escort decorated my chest, and kept him climbing on and under me for the security he found in my sex. That part of me regarded him with some paternal instinct I never knew I had.

In honor of our first anniversary I tried to recall some particular moment I could point to in which he had won my affections in return, but for the life of me I couldn’t find one. It was as though I had always harbored the emotions that welled up in my heart at the sight of him, and yet I knew that wasn’t true.

It seemed to have taken place while my mind was on other things; some nebulous turn of events, much like the pet names we had come to call each other by. I had no recollection of the moment when his given name of Chris fell by the wayside and I began to call him Chik, nor when he had morphed Pat into Papa.

Try as I may I could find no explanation for how a man like me, drawn by nature to other men of similar physical presence if not even more intimidating, had ended up with someone so slight, slender and young as he. He had a rail thin build and boyishly smooth features; the polar opposite of everything that typically drew my eye to a man.

Don’t take me wrong. There was nothing feminine about him. In spite of his petite size he was a young man in every sense of those words. It was just that nothing about his body particularly aroused me. So what could explain the almost non-stop frequency and love-fueled intensity of the sex we enjoyed?

Was it his strongly submissive tendencies? I was certain the answer was no.

My own tendencies had always been strongly tilted to versatile sex play and remain so to this day. Perhaps it was a natural byproduct of my size advantage over him that I never expected him to take me in the same way I took him, but I was certain that his strict adherence to the role of bottom in the beginning was something I inexplicably indulged him.

‘In the beginning’…those three words triggered a surprising revelation. Somewhere in our first year there had been a gradual shift in our sexual dynamic.

Without me really noticing he’d seemed to recognize I had needs that were not being met in his casting of me as strictly top. In spite of our drastic size differential, he’d begun to assert himself sexually in ways that were attempting to address them. How had I missed that?

The fog began to lift further and, as I looked back, his entire transition from house guest to house mate and eventually to partner in life seemed to come clear. Maybe I couldn’t assign dates to it, but the many ways in which he’d gradually changed my life for the better were suddenly competing for my attention.

Whereas I had often come home after work to two-plus hour workouts with my weights followed by dinner in silence, I realized how quickly I’d grown accustomed to those same workouts being followed by meaningful conversation over a dinner that I sometimes didn’t even have to prepare.

I tried to remember when he had started cooking. I was at a loss.

Easier to recall, but still nothing you would exactly raise a glass to in public, was that first blow job. I chuckled to myself as the memory bubbled up.

He’d spent a couple of weeks as my guest watching my shirtless bulk collapse in my Naugahyde recliner after working out. I could see him stealing uncomfortable glances as I would casually stuff my hand down in my jock and reposition my post-workout erection so that it arced more comfortably across my left hip inside my sweats.

I laughed it off at first, explaining that it was an unavoidable consequence of lifting that he would simply have to get used to seeing for the remainder of his stay. The glances quickly became lingering and less ‘stolen’.

“I can…help you with…that,” he tentatively offered one evening, his generosity betrayed by practically having to stem the flow of drool down his chin with the heel of his palm.

“With what?” I teased him, seeing his aroused state.

“You know…that,” he said, nodding in the direction of my unmistakable hard-on.

I looked around as though I was having a difficult time figuring out what he was staring at and then feigned a look of discovery as I stretched my cotton sweats over it and said, “Oh, you mean…this?”

His mouth was obviously going dry as he nervously nodded. I couldn’t help laughing as I apologized for the bit of fun I’d had with him.

Ultimately I decided there was no harm in both of us getting a little relief from our respective strains and, rising to my feet, pulled my sweat pants down around my thighs. The wide-eyed look on his young face as my rigid, circumcised member sprang into view beneath my belly was maybe the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

He stared at it for what seemed like forever. I thought maybe he’d had a change of heart until, with a slight tremor in his voice, he eventually told me that he’d never seen one etimesgut escort quite like it.

Kneeling before me he took it in his soft hand, wrapping it around my glans. I was struck by the way his fingers overlapped with such a slim margin around it, and even more surprised by how aroused I became at that observation.

He then slowly slid his grip down to the base and took the sweaty thing in his mouth. I had to admit that the blow job which followed was one of the most intensely rewarding I’d ever received.

He worked it hesitantly at first, seeming to fear that if he revealed his desire too completely I might back away, but the longer he stayed on me the bolder and more determined he became. It was more than forty five minutes before he succeeded in exhausting the stubborn thing by making me come three times. He happily swallowed each one.

That he’d seemed to enjoy his labor every bit as much as I had was perhaps the most rewarding thing of all. At his insistence I let him measure me the second time.

He excitedly reported more than seven inches of length and nearly five-and-a-half inches of circumference as he pinched it off at the base and made no effort to conceal his delight at the veins standing out on its surface. Something about the honesty in his reaction appealed to me.

I quickly decided to make him more comfortable by moving his blow jobs to my bedroom and preceding them with showers so he wouldn’t have to endure the sweaty condition of my loins to get the loads he craved. His appetite for my seed was insatiable and his appreciation for the more hospitable setting showed in his zeal.

I tried to recall when his belongings made the move with him and he began to share my bed, but again I came up empty. Nonetheless, he did, and we gradually grew closer still. It was sometime after that when I saw something in his gaze as he peered up over my belly one evening when he was done.

I’m still unsure how to describe it but, whatever it was, it caused me to drag him up onto my freshly pumped bulk for that first kiss. He went completely limp and gave me free rein over his tiny body to position him for it.

My kiss was tentative and dry at first. Then I suddenly felt an urge to taste my seed in him and pried his lips apart with my tongue. He let me stuff his mouth with it and proceeded to suck it with the same fury he had unleashed on my cock only minutes before. I suppose that was the kiss that changed my life, even if I was still unsuspecting of the future that lay ahead of us in that moment.

After that I began taking him anally as well, inexplicably mesmerized by our contrasting size as he trustingly offered up his small but nicely rounded fanny to my carnal needs. I was never rough with him. I actually strove to be as gentle as possible given our size difference…and the kissing gradually became more frequent.

But I decided even that was not the elusive turning point. I was really still learning about him as the sex became more heated.

I was discovering that in spite of his youthful age there was a maturity to his intellect and a sharpness in his wit that often made me forget we weren’t peers. He was able to talk about himself at twenty one in ways that put him years ahead of me at that stage of life.

For example, whenever we spoke about the sex we’d begun to enjoy he demonstrated a grasp of his sexual identity that had completely eluded me at his age. He said he’d always understood it from as far back as he could remember, even if he somehow knew that it was something he shouldn’t discuss with family or friends. He insisted he’d always known what he wanted and felt no sense of shame.

Maybe it was just a generational difference between us that was typical for him and his peer group. I don’t know. All I know is that growing up from the mid ’50s through the mid ’70s I had no clue how to categorize my sexuality in early adulthood.

I knew that I was drawn to trappings of strength and masculinity and that women held no attraction for me, yet I couldn’t identify with any of the images of gay culture promoted in media coverage of the era. It wasn’t until the bear subculture began asserting itself into the mainstream during the late ’80s that I came to realize there were others like me and that I was in fact gay.

Even though I was unable to see myself as a bear, the roundness and muscularity of my build gained me acceptance with some in that community and, for the first time in my life, I began to feel that I fit somewhere in the grand scheme of things. I grew out my beard and liked the result.

Giving up my search for ‘that special moment’ I let my mind drift back farther still to the night of Friday, June 9, 1995, when he came into my life.


I was with friends at a gay bar that catered to an older clientele called The Ivory Tower. It was a little more than an hour before closing time when Chik showed up at the door looking scruffy as all hell and questionable in age. His eyes were darting around like a child window shopping a candy store.

I watched as the doorman pressed him for his ID. To this day I’m not sure what it was about him that made me come to his rescue but, seeing him clearly on the verge of tears at the possibility of being denied admittance, I hastily made my way to the scene that was unfolding.

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