The Tale of Baby Boy Bubble Butt's Massive Ass Smothering My Face
The 29-year-old cutie pie had been struggling with his (bi)sexuality...until he sat on my face.
I first met Baby Boy Bubble Butt (not his real name) two years ago. The 29-year-old therapist drove me and my friend Cheryl to “Thee Lakehouse.” It was a Friday evening—the week had beaten us down—and Cheryl and I were being inappropriate and obnoxious. Shouting. Making inside jokes without explaining them. Singing the entirety of Meatloaf’s album Bat Out of Hell at the top of our lungs. But that’s what makes Cheryl and my relationship so special—we bring out the worst in each other.
But BBBB, a man we’d never met, found us “fun.” Or, at the very least, entertaining.
Cheryl and I both assumed BBBB was bi because we assume everyone is bi. Not to mention that Cheryl has turned countless women. She is catnip for questioning women. They flock to her, and only afterward will she learn it was their first lesbian experience.
So when I said, “You’re bi, right?” he paused before replying, “Isn’t that the million-dollar question!”
“Wait, really?” I said reflexively. He nodded.
I corrected myself and went into the sex columnist mode. “If you’d like to talk about it, let me know. A large part of what I do for work is helping men embrace their sexuality—however it may look.”
I didn’t think much of BBBB, though I’d seen him at Thee Lakehouse a few more times. But now, I think of him often, partly because he has become the background of my phone.
The last time I went to Thee Lakehouse, BBBB was flirting with me—hard. The eye contact, the hair flips, the way he would lean to the side when he stood contrapposto, accentuating his ass that looked fake. It was just so big—so bubbly—much larger than his tiny frame.
I had to ask him, “How is your ass so big? Is it genetic?”
“I do squats every day,” he said.
I was confused. He didn’t work out the rest of his body. He just did squats from home every day of the week. This was undoubtedly the gayest thing I had ever heard. This man was training to be a power bottom but had never had anything in his rear end. Straight men do chest, shoulders, and arms. They skip leg day. But this “straight” man just did his ass—and he didn’t even put it to good use. What a WASTE.
“Can I touch it?” a question I have no qualm asking men, even straight ones.
“Yeah, of course!” he replied with glee, sticking out his behind. I squeezed his tushy over his form-fitting shorts.
“Good God,” I said.
“Right? It’s pretty good.”
It was better than pretty good. It was so good—I think it had the power to turn me monogamous. To turn any straight man gay. To resolve the conflict between Israel and Palestine.
If the Trolley Problem were to save his ass or a thousand children—there would be four thousand dismembered limbs scattered over the railroad track.
By this point in the evening, I was already in my underwear. People go to Thee Lakehouse for many reasons—relaxation, archery, tennis, swimming in the lake, and bonding with friends. Sure, I attend for those reasons, but I also go to get blitzed, be loud, and fuck.
So I was in my undies—so too were other guests. Well, immediately, I popped a boner.
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.
He looked down at my dick, then back up to my face. We made prolonged eye contact.
“Could I…um…” I didn’t want to be too aggressive because he was new to men, but at the same time, I thought he wanted me to make a move. Back in college, when I struggled with my sexuality, I needed other men to initiate. It was a delicate dance, but I was pretty sure I was reading his cues correctly.
“Could I eat your ass?” I finally said.
“Yeah, of course!” he replied again with equal excitement.
He wasn’t wearing any underwear underneath his booty shorts, which is homosexual. I then bent him over the bar and started to feast.
“Ohhhh,” he said. “That feels…nice!”
I spread his cheeks and poked my tongue in and out before resting my tongue flat against his anus. I licked him up like an ice cream cone.
“YES!” he said. I squeezed his cheeks hard as I ate his ass. I loved feeling all of his meat in my hands. When I released his cheeks to stroke my dick, he quickly pulled his cheeks apart. He wasn’t done yet, and neither was I.
“Question: Would you want to ride my face while I jack off?”
“Yeah, of course!” he said for the third time that evening.
We went to the center of the room, surrounded by our friends. Cheryl was pegging someone on the couch—or getting pegged; I don’t remember. I lay on the floor. Across from Cheryl, a lesbian sat on the sofa, a safe distance from the action-to-cum.
Finally, Baby Boy BB put all of those squats to good use. He sat on my face. At first, he was hovering gently over me.
“I want to be smothered. If I can’t breathe, that’s a good thing!”
“Okay!” he said. He rested his knees beside me, his ass completely enveloping my face.
“Uhm,” I mumbled. I licked and licked until my jaw hurt. Vigorously, I was jerking myself off.
I couldn’t see BB’s face until I came up for air and realized he was staring intently at my dick. Eying it like a hawk. If the Trolley Problem was to save my dick or a thousand children…
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