Today I found myself in Brescia again, and as I walked the familiar streets, a memory from about ten years ago came rushing back.
A moment so simple, yet so intimate and intense that my body still remembers it.
It was a quiet evening. The kind where you don’t expect much.
He had written to me on Telegram. Polite, direct, no small talk:
“Can I see you tonight?”
Let your hole speak.
Not with words, but with tremors.
With every pulse, every squeeze, every drop.
Because when it does, a real man listens —
and makes you cum without even touching your cock.
When he arrived, he was just as I imagined: short, a little older than me, but with that quiet look in his eyes… the kind of gaze that already knows where your body will end up.
We didn’t talk much. There was no need.
I dropped to my knees, looked him in the eyes, and took his cock in my mouth. Slowly at first, then deeper, until I felt his breath shift.
I love sucking. The way control slips away with every stroke, every moan. The warmth of a man growing harder in my throat.
He didn’t last long.
His hand gently pressed my head down, his hips twitched, and he came in my mouth. Thick, warm, eager.
I swallowed everything, then looked up and smiled.
He smiled back.
And then, with no hesitation, he asked:
— Can I stay another hour?
— Of course, I said. — It's 200.
No drama, no haggling. He reached into his wallet, took out two crisp €100 bills, and placed them on the bedside table.
But instead of fucking me again like most do, he sat on the edge of the bed, reached for me with calm hands and whispered:
— Now I want to see you cum.
I lay back, curious but relaxed.
He moved slowly.
No rush. No aggression. Just the focused, deliberate touch of a man who knows what he’s doing.
He began teasing my hole, almost playfully, like he was waking it up. First one finger, then two.
His other hand touched my cock — not stroking, just holding. Supporting.
I was melting under him, letting go.
It was the beginning of something real — a deep, honest moment of passive anal play.
I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t faking.
I was lying there, open, bare, trembling — letting him explore me like a lover and a master all at once.
— Relax, — he whispered. — Let your hole speak.
And it did.
God, it did.
Every nerve was listening. My body wasn’t resisting. His fingers played like they’d been there before — circling, pressing, sliding in and out.
It wasn’t just touch. It was command.
In that moment, I wasn't a person.
I was just a body ready to cum.
A mouth. A hole. Something to be used.
My cock was rock hard — untouched, but throbbing.
It was all in the rhythm of his fingers, in the heat he pulled from deep inside me.
He curved them just right, hit that sweet spot, and I broke.
It came over me like a wave.
A raw, deep orgasm — one that started in my ass and took everything with it.
I moaned, louder than I expected, as thick cum shot up and out onto my chest, my neck, my stomach.
I collapsed, my legs shaking, heart racing.
He leaned over, licked a bit of my cum from my skin, smiled and said:
— That’s how I like to see you cum.
Passive anal play is not just fingers.
It’s not just pressure or technique.
It’s surrender.
It’s trust.
It’s the moment you stop needing control and just let your body feel.
He didn’t fuck me that night. He didn’t need to.
He had already owned me in the most intimate way possible —
by giving me the kind of orgasm that no vibrator, no porn, no rough sex can deliver.
Only a real man, with real hands and real intent.
Afterwards, we lay there in silence.
Then he leaned in and whispered:
— Next time… I’ll make you cum with my tongue alone.
Since that night, whenever someone asks me what I really enjoy —
I smile, lean close, and whisper back:
“Passive anal play… if you know how to use your fingers.”
