Unexpected Embrace: The Sneaky Encounter

You didn't hear the front door creak open over the hum of your laptop fan, the one that's been wheezing like an old man since you bought it secondhand from that sketchy pawn shop downtown. You're sprawled on your bed in the middle of your cramped apartment room—posters of indie bands peeling at the edges, a half-empty pizza box from last night still kicking around on the floor—scrolling through some forum threads about underground wrestling matches, your mind wandering to those raw, sweat-soaked bodies slamming together. It's one of those lazy afternoons where the sun slants through the blinds in weird jagged patterns, turning the air thick and sticky.

Then, without warning, massive arms wrap around you from behind, yanking you back against a wall of hot, damp flesh. It's John, all 350 pounds of him crashing into your tiny frame like a fucking freight train. His work shirt—some stained mechanic's uniform from the garage—clings to his broad chest, reeking of motor oil, sweat, and that musky tang that hits you every time he walks in after a twelve-hour shift. His huge body drapes over yours, pinning you down with effortless weight, his hairy arms locking around your waist like steel cables. You feel every inch of him: the dense fur on his forearms brushing your skin, the heat radiating off his belly that's packed with muscle under a layer of bulk, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

"Miss me, you little sneak?" John's voice rumbles low, vibrating through his chest into yours, a gravelly chuckle that makes your skin prickle. He doesn't wait for an answer—his mouth crashes down on yours, forcing his tongue past your lips in a deep, insistent shove. It's rough, all wet heat and the faint bitterness of the energy drinks he chugs at work, his beard scraping your chin as he claims your mouth. You taste the salt of his sweat, feel the sheer power in how he holds you, not letting you pull back even if you wanted to. Your hands instinctively grab at his shoulders, fingers digging into the damp fabric, but he's too solid, too overwhelming. Your heart hammers, a rush of heat flooding south as his tongue twists against yours, dominating the kiss until you're gasping into it.

He breaks it off with a wet pop, his dark eyes locking onto yours, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Been thinking about that time you crept up on me while I was out cold, huh? Snoring my ass off at three in the afternoon, and there you were, sneaky as fuck, getting your licks in." His voice drops, teasing but edged with hunger, reminding you of that lazy weekend when you'd slipped into his room, heart pounding, and buried your face between those massive cheeks while he snored like a chainsaw. The memory flashes hot in your mind—his tight white underwear stretched over that huge, hairy ass, the way it twitched under your tongue before he even stirred.

Before you can shoot back a witty retort, John's hands are on your shoulders, shoving you down onto the bed with casual strength. The mattress bounces under you, springs creaking in protest, and he's already peeling off his shirt, revealing the expanse of his chest: thick black hair matting across pecs that could bench-press a car, veins bulging from the day's labor. His pants follow, kicked off in a heap, leaving him in those same tight white briefs you remember so well—strained to the limit over his thick thighs and that bulging package. The fabric is damp with sweat, clinging to every curve, and yeah, his ass is a goddamn sight, massive and furred, spilling out the sides like it's begging to be grabbed.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, breath coming fast, your own shorts tenting painfully as you take him in. "Fuck, John, you smell like you wrestled a grease trap," you mutter, half-laughing, but your voice is thick with want. He grins, that predatory flash of teeth, and climbs onto the bed, the frame groaning under his weight. In one fluid move, he swings a leg over you, straddling your chest first, his knees pinning your arms. His briefs are inches from your face now, the heat and musk hitting you like a wave—sweaty balls, the faint tang of ass from a long day without a shower. You squirm, already half-lost in it, your dick throbbing against the fabric of your shorts.

"Shut up and take it, Travis," he growls, shifting forward. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and yanks the briefs down, freeing his cock—thick and heavy, swinging free with a slap against his thigh—but he doesn't touch it. Instead, he plants his ass right on your face, all 350 pounds dropping down like a boulder. The impact knocks the air from your lungs in a whoosh, his hairy cheeks smothering you completely, the coarse fur tickling your nose and mouth. It's suffocating in the best way, the weight pressing you into the mattress, his crack grinding against your lips as he settles in. The smell is intense—raw, earthy sweat mixed with that deep, masculine funk from hours on his feet, his hole right there, puckered and damp, brushing your tongue if you dare to push out.

You go crazy under him, ecstasy firing through every nerve. Your body arches instinctively, hips bucking up into empty air, humping nothing but the desperate need building in your gut. Fuck, it's too much and not enough—his ass cheeks enveloping your face, the heat making your head spin, every breath you manage pulling in more of his scent. You moan into him, the sound muffled, your tongue darting out to trace the rim of his hole, tasting the salt and musk. It's like that time you licked him while he slept, but now he's wide awake, rocking his hips slowly, grinding down harder to cut off your air just a bit longer, making stars burst behind your eyelids.

John chuckles above you, the vibration rumbling through his body. "Yeah, that's it—eat my ass like you mean it, you little perv." He reaches back occasionally, his huge hand brushing over the front of your shorts, fingers grazing your small pee-pee through the fabric. It's a tease, just enough pressure to make it twitch and leak pre-cum, but he pulls away every time, leaving you whining into his crack, thrusting uselessly at the air. Your balls ache, drawn tight, every denied touch ramping up the frustration until you're a writhing mess beneath him. Sweat slicks your skin, mixing with his, and you feel his hole clench under your lapping tongue, the hairs around it tickling as you push deeper, fucking him with it like you're starving.

He rides your face like that for what feels like forever, shifting his weight to let you breathe in ragged gasps before slamming back down. Your hands are free now—he's confident enough to let you grab at his thighs, fingers sinking into the dense muscle and fur, pulling him closer even as your lungs burn. "Goddamn, your tongue's got me leaking already," he mutters, voice husky, and you hear the slick sound of him stroking his own cock above you, but he doesn't let you up to see. Instead, he grinds harder, his balls dragging over your chin, heavy and full, smearing sweat across your skin.

Your mind's a haze of need, memories flickering—sneaking up on him in those tight whites, the way his snores turned to low groans when you rimmed him awake. But this is better, more intense, his full awareness making every twitch of his ass feel deliberate. You hump the air wildly, shorts chafing your dick, the friction not nearly enough to push you over. He touches you again—fingers circling the wet spot on your shorts, pinching the head of your pee-pee lightly—and you buck hard, a muffled cry escaping into his hole. "Not yet, Travis. Beg for it," he says, lifting just enough for you to gasp out words.

"Please, John—fuck, touch me more," you pant, voice wrecked, tasting him on your lips as air rushes in. He laughs, low and dirty, and drops back down, smothering you again. The cycle repeats: grind, tease, deny. Your tongue works overtime, spearing into him, feeling the tight ring give way, the musky heat coating your mouth. His ass flexes around you, pulling you in, and you swear you could come just from this, but he keeps you on the edge, his occasional gropes light as feathers.

Finally, after what must be twenty minutes of this torture—your face slick with his sweat, your jaw aching from the effort—he shifts, turning around so his cock hovers above you like a threat. It's rock-hard now, veins pulsing, the head glistening with pre-cum that's dripped onto your chest. But he doesn't fuck your mouth; instead, he plants his ass back down, this time facing your feet, his hand snaking between your legs to toy with your shorts. He yanks them down roughly, exposing your small dick—hard as steel, leaking steadily, twitching in the cool air. "Look at this pathetic little thing," he says, voice dripping amusement, giving it a single, firm stroke that has you seeing white. You thrust up, chasing his hand, but he stops, chuckling as he grinds his hole over your mouth again.

You're lost in it, tongue-fucking him deep, the taste overwhelming—salty, bitter, all man. Your hips jerk erratically, humping nothing, the denial building to a fever pitch. He reaches back more now, fingers wrapping around your pee-pee in lazy pumps, slow enough to keep you simmering but not boiling over. "You love this, don't you? My big hairy ass owning your face while you hump like a dog in heat." His words hit you like sparks, and you nod frantically into him, moaning vibrations that make his hole quiver.

The room fills with wet sounds—your slurping, his heavy breathing, the creak of the bed as he rocks. Sweat drips from his back onto your stomach, pooling in your navel, and you feel his balls tighten against your chin. He's close, you can tell from the way his thighs tense, the grind getting erratic. One hand braces on your thigh, the other still teasing your dick—squeezing the base, thumbing the slit to spread your pre-cum, but always pulling away before you tip over. "Fuck, Travis, gonna flood your pretty face," he grunts, voice breaking.

You redouble your efforts, tongue plunging in and out, lips sucking at his rim, hands gripping his massive cheeks to spread them wider. The musk is everywhere, filling your senses, your own cock throbbing painfully, untouched for agonizing stretches. Memories blend in— that playful sneak into his room, the thrill of his snoring body yielding to your mouth—but this is rawer, him taking control, using you. Your body shakes, ecstasy coiling tight, every denied touch making the air-humps more desperate, your small pee-pee slapping against your belly uselessly.

John's breath hitches, his ass clenching hard around your tongue. "Here it comes—open wide, you filthy fuck." He lifts off just enough, twisting to straddle your chest, his cock aimed right at your face like a loaded gun. You gasp for air, face glistening with his ass sweat, eyes locked on the beast in his fist—stroking fast now, foreskin sliding over the swollen head. Your hand darts to your own dick, but he slaps it away. "No. Watch."

He erupts with a guttural roar, the first rope of cum shooting thick and white across your cheek, hot and sticky. It keeps coming—huge spurts painting your lips, your nose, dripping into your open mouth as you stick out your tongue to catch it. The taste is sharp, salty, flooding your senses as more lands on your forehead, your chin, a massive load that feels endless. His body shudders above you, hand milking every drop, until he's spent, smearing the last bits over your lips with his thumb.

You lie there, covered in it, chest heaving, your own dick still hard and untouched, twitching in the aftermath. John looks down at you, grinning through the haze. "Damn, Travis, you look like a glazed donut. Next time, maybe I'll let you finish—if you beg nicer." He flops beside you, pulling you into his sweaty side, but the ache in your balls lingers, a promise of more teasing to come. And fuck if that doesn't make you want round two already.