The Hitchhike

by – Cupido

  I gasp for breath. My arms ache and I need to support myself on the table. My rod is pounding and bumping against the underside of the tabletop. Sweat drips down my forehead and my back, blending with the flour in my exposed buttocks. I’m hungry. Famished.

  “You said you wanted extra strong sauce?” he mumbles rhetorically, and without releasing the grip that is separating my buttocks, he reaches for the tomato sauce with his free hand. He uses his palm as a ladle and my crack and sensitive anus quickly and without warning feel the chill of the cold sauce. He massages me with even, gentle grips, like a painter spreading a brush across my body. He covers the entire crack between my buttocks. It smells of food, sex and spices. I am getting hornier and hornier.

  “And olives!” he shouts.

  Before I know it, I feel a great, big, black, oily olive pressing against my anus. He twists it a little, twists it into my hole. He pushes down on my lower back, commanding me to bend with his hand. I swallow, take a breath and, as I relax, I feel my sphincter engulf the olive. It tickles, stings a little and the sensations begin to travel up my spine and down the inside of my thighs until coming to rest in a wild, hammering pounding in my scrotum.

  He’s handsome, like an ancient warrior. And in a sense, he is – directly descended from historical migrations and the scorching Middle Eastern sun. He came from the scorched Kurdish mountains. He’s told me that, but not much else. His gaze is often distant, far beyond the Nordic landscape in which we find ourselves. He was a soldier. A proud man who would occasionally disappear for months at a time to help relatives across the border. He is secretive and open at the same time. His skin is golden, hairy, almost furry. His smile is pearly white, his body veiny and his eyes vigilant. He’s the most handsome pizza chef I’ve ever met. And he knows what I’m hungry for.

  I’m swaying a bit now. After a while, I begin to hear my moans blending with the sound of the buzzing ceiling fan, with the clawing noises of his increasingly rougher treatment of my buttocks and with the intense way in which he spreads my buttocks to inspect the olive stuck in my anus. Making sure it’s still where it should be.

  Suddenly, he raises one of my legs, pulls off my shoes, and pulls down one trouser leg, then the other. Soon I’m standing there in just my socks on the tiled floor, nicely prepared and arranged like a dish. I hear him smacking his lips. I feel his hard chin and his grating stubble brushing over my neck and shoulders. A startlingly cold tongue licks me behind my ear and moans. I smell his scent – olive oil, garlic, sweat and sex. I moan loudly. I know that he loves it when I’m loud. I moan loudly, rising like dough and puffing like a simmering soup. He loves my noises. He loves the fact that it’s his handiwork that produces them. He gets as much as he gives with his commands. That is his pleasure.

  I’m trembling the whole time. All my nerves are tensed. My body is alert. My heart has dropped from my chest and landed in my scrotum. There it beats heavily and slowly, and when one of his hands squeezes around my balls, my cock jolts, and I shriek, scream and whine, before he releases his grip to prevent me from gushing too soon. We’ve only just started. This is just the appetizer.

  “You wanted feta cheese too”, he moans, feigning exertion. With a toss, he has turned me around and placed me on my back on top of the flour-covered table. My legs are slightly spread apart. He drinks in the sight of me, a body, a soul, so open and inviting. So incredibly horny and willing to offer itself without inhibition, to be watched and touched and treated, baked and tasted. I feel a jet of fluid trickle from the head of my engorged penis. He looks down at me, evaluating the situation. His eyes are warm and rust-brown, he’s smiling and following my face. A fingertip caresses my chin and cheek. A look says that everything is okay. That I’m in the right hands. His vigilant eyes move down my chest and over my belly button which he immediate bends down over and licks clean with his moist, cool tongue, before shifting his gaze to my bush of pubic hair, so fair and colourless compared to his tight, black hair, which seems to grow out of every pore on his lean, warm body.

  Much of my reward is to see his desire. He desires me and what my body and our encounter can offer. Equally, his desire is to see me writhe with arousal and horniness, to the limits of raw, masculine rutting on his altar, from his expertise.

  I see him licking his lips as he watches my tongue, the stiff cock bobbing and dripping from an increasingly agitated purple head. It was my massive rod that made him fall for me. I’m a big fellow. A viking with a juicy sword between my legs, shrouded in soft, frizzy, strawberry-blond hair. I know that he practically worships my cock but he will never bow down to it completely. This fact makes both of us even hornier. I’m his forbidden fruit. And I shamelessly allow myself to be picked.

  He lets a finger touch my testicles gently again, feeling to see how firm and tense they are, waiting to release their sperm. He studies my face, my involuntary spasms and grimaces, my flour-covered nose and desperate attempts to catch my breath as his touches bring me to the edge of total ecstasy.

  “He wanted feta cheese, he said”, he mumbles with a smile and picks up a bowl with the small, bright-white cubes of cheese. They are ice cold. The one he places in my belly button makes me shudder and freeze over. I shriek like a frightened child and try to sit up. But with a shush he pushes me back down to the table. I breath heavily and feel his warmth between my outspread legs, as he stands between them in his pizza chef’s outfit. His apron is tied around his waist and, underneath it, I glimpse something hard, big and moist, wobbling in his baker’s trousers – those cheap but practical underwear that seem to function more as a filter for collecting the volume of pubic hair than to hold his hard, dark and sinewy member in place. It almost feels as if all the hair on his body is escaping through the pores of his clothing and beginning to grate against my skin and make my thighs quiver. I almost get a cramp from his closeness and my own desire. I’m horny like an animal. Hunger is nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to this longing.

  He smacks his lips loudly, releases cube after cube of cheese and laps them up. He sucks on my pubic hair, my stomach, my belly button. Over and over, until the spit, flour and cheese become a smooth coating on my lower body.

  “Extra cheese too, on the house”, he whispers, and leaves me lying on the table. Naked, covered in oil, with half an olive up my backside, with his scent and animalism so close yet so far.

  Soon, he is back with a metal bowl and a ladle. He has melted cheese over a bowl of hot water. Cheese, just for me. Slowly, he pulls the ladle out of the bowl, holds it over my chest, laughs and presses himself even more firmly between my legs. I feel his hardness through all the clothes. I clench my teeth as the first drop of nearly-melted cheese lands on one of my nipples – just the right temperature. It stings and burns, and my nipple becomes erect as if I’m cold.

  The surprises are amazing. His culinary skills are more than art. They are heavenly, almost religious, and my rod bounces in tune with the falling drops. It fills with even more blood and the extreme desire of my balls evokes moans and gasps from my throat. There’s nothing but longing.

  By the time he continues with the other nipple, I have managed to pull myself together and think of ice. At the same time, I become aware of his hard, moist member, pressing and circulating between my legs. I want to feel his cock against mine.

  I grip the tabletop and just enjoy. He tears himself free from our increasingly wet embrace. He’s found the garlic press. Delicately, he squeezes a few drops onto each nipple. He rubs the cloves carefully but with a determination that almost makes me pass out. The oils are swirling in my olfactory system, filling me up, and as he leans towards me again, and as I feel the heavy Arabic groin against mine, he smilingly spreads basil, black pepper and oregano across the stiffening cheese on my small nipples. All the while, he licks me.

  I grab hold of the edge of the table with both hands as he increases the pace. He licks, bites and tears off the cheese with his lips, swallowing. My cock is dripping with c
lear pre-cum. I empty my tanks and watch as the transparent sauce pours down his pearly-white apron. He rubs himself against the strong rod between my broad soldier’s legs.

  He tastes me for a long time. I don’t know how long, and it feels as if I’m losing consciousness, losing all sense of time and space, until I realise that he’s getting ready to put the pizza in the oven.

  Suddenly, his trousers drop down to his heels. The apron’s already off. His bare chest glimmers with sweat, looking like a map of rivers and hair and valleys and veins. A handsome, tired and warm chest is what I see. Then I feel his naked thighs against mine, his extremely stiff, sandpaper-like scrotum against mine, and the hammering feeling of the short, but thick, dark and circumcised cock. With his lips, he pulls the olive out of my anus, spits it out and down on the floor. Just as firmly as when he laid me down on the table half an hour ago, he spreads my legs, places them over his shoulders and, without me really understanding what is happening, forces his cock quickly and firmly through the muscle, into my anus, and all the way in – right to the base.

  I scream.

  I gush. Load upon load of thick white fluid squirts up and onto his belly and chest. He laughs. He doesn’t move. He lets his entire, heavily seasoned cock lay there, pressing against my sensitive prostate while I empty myself. I cramp up. I pump and I cramp. Pump until I’m empty.

  Everything is a haze of aromas. Then he kisses me gently. Long and caringly. He licks my eyelids, with his member still deep inside me. He kisses my cheeks and my throat. He kisses me with a warmth that makes me want to leave the earth, to fly and never come down. With a firm jolt, I feel how his rough rod pushing a few inches deeper. And then a bit more. He gasps for breath and says quite obediently, “Time to put the pizza in the oven. “It’ll be fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I answer and close my eyes.

  About The Hitchhike

  Woman on woman. Man on man. Some have never questioned whether they’re gay. Others are in a straight marriage with kids when suddenly their best friend makes their nipples erect, or a touch from their best mate makes their cock hard.

  “He was the only one of his friends who was still a virgin. Moreover, he was broke and needed to hitchhike to get to the cottage.” – The Hitchhike by Marianne, Drøbak

  “We didn’t dare speak of it, and instead did the strangest things when we were together.” – My Mate by Someone Who Misses Paradise

  “He was a burly fellow, about six and a half feet tall, with a jet-black beard and massive hands.” – Me and the Boss by A.B., Oslo

  “He ordered pizza with olives and feta cheese, but probably hadn’t expected to end up on the baker’s table with his butt in the air.” – Hunger by Manu Seppënen

  CUPIDO - the magazine for intimate, horny pleasure - has been publishing erotic fiction based on readers’ everyday fantasies and sexual experiences since 1984.