Tarzan’s Little Gay Bitch
Adventures of Stallion and Bunny – Episode 256
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He fucked my mouth with a steady, merciless rhythm, and I stayed open for him, my hands braced on his thighs, feeling the muscles bunch and release with every stroke
The canopy above us shivered with the weight of afternoon light, green fractured into a thousand moving blades of gold. I watched him swing.
Stallion. The name fit in my mouth like a secret. He gripped the vine with one hand, biceps bunching against sun-darkened skin, and his body arched out over the emerald pool— a flash of teeth, a flex of abdomen, the dark trail of hair below his navel vanishing into soaked shorts. Then the splash. Water erupted around his entry point and I felt the spray reach me even from fifteen feet away, a fine mist across my freckled cheeks.
“Bunny!” His voice bounced off the granite walls. “Get your pretty ass over here.”
The braces made my grin feel enormous. I pushed off the mossy bank, the jungle creek cool against my skin, my lean body cutting through the water toward where he’d surfaced. A natural spring fed this hidden pocket deep in the reserve. Nobody knew about it except us. The pond was maybe thirty feet across, ringed by ancient banyans whose roots dipped into the water like thirsty fingers, and the spring itself burbled up from a cleft in the rock—a constant, gentle rush that made everything feel pristine.
Stallion had hauled himself onto a flat shelf of stone at the pond’s edge. Water sheeted off his shoulders, tracing rivulets through the hair on his chest—that thick, dark pelt I’d pressed my face into more times than I could count. His shorts clung obscenely, the outline of what lay beneath already half-interested.
“The hell are you waiting for?”
“Just enjoying the view, daddy.”
He snorted. “View’s better up close.”
My feet found the rocky bottom and I waded toward him, the water dropping from my waist to my thighs as I approached. His gaze tracked me—my flat stomach, the sharp cut of my hipbones, the way my own soaked briefs did nothing to hide that I was already hard. I was always hard around him. The braces, the freckles, the tight little ass—he called me his perfect Bunny, and my body believed him.
The stone was warm from the sun when I crawled up beside him. His big hand found the back of my neck immediately, fingers callused from work, thumb pressing into the soft place behind my ear. A proprietary grip. The kind that said mine.
“You swung over the deep part,” I said, breath already thinning. “Like Tarzan.”
“Like Tarzan.” His eyes crinkled. Deep brown, almost black in this light. “And what’s that make you?”
“Jane?”
“Jane don’t suck cock like you do.”
The crude words landed in my gut and bloomed heat outward. My knees found a purchase on the rough stone, water still lapping at my calves, and his fingers tightened on my nape. Guiding. Insisting. His other hand worked the tie of his shorts loose, and then—
Stallion’s cock sprung free, curving up toward his belly. Eight inches, uncut, the shaft traced with veins that stood in relief beneath the skin. The head peeked from the foreskin, a glossy bead already forming at the slit. I’d memorized every inch of him months ago, but my mouth still watered like it was the first time.
“Go on, Bunny.” His voice had dropped half an octave.
I bent forward. The first taste was salt and spring water and the unmistakable musk that was purely him. My tongue lapped at the tip, teasing the foreskin back, and his hand on my neck flexed in approval. I took him deeper.
The sound he made—a low, resonant groan that seemed to originate somewhere in his broad chest—vibrated through the humid air. My jaw stretched to accommodate his girth. The brackets of my braces pressed against my lips from the inside, a faint metallic pressure that I’d learned to work around. He liked the contrast. The innocence of the braces, the filth of what I did.
“That’s it.” His hips rolled forward just slightly. “Show me you want it.”
I wanted it.
My head bobbed, picking up a rhythm, and his hand slid from my neck up into my hair. Not forcing. Just holding. The spring babbled behind us, a constant white noise that swallowed my wet, sloppy sounds. I hollowed my cheeks and pulled back slow, letting him feel every ridge of my palate, then plunged forward until the tip of him bumped the back of my throat.
“Fuck—”
His grip tightened. This time, he did push.
Stallion stood, planting his big feet on the rock—size twelves, I knew from the worn work boots he kicked off at my apartment door—and his other hand joined the first. Both fists in my hair. My world narrowed to the taste of him, the stretch of my lips, the tears beginning to blur my vision.
“You want me to fuck your face, Bunny?”
I couldn’t nod. Couldn’t speak. I just looked up at him, my green eyes meeting his dark ones, and let him read the answer.
He read it.
The first thrust was slow, testing. The second was not. Stallion’s hips snapped forward and my throat opened around him, a practiced surrender that still sent sparks behind my eyelids. He held there for a moment—one, two, three heartbeats—before withdrawing almost completely, letting me gasp, then driving in again.
The stone bit into my knees. The sun baked my back. Somewhere in the jungle, a bird called—a long, descending whistle that seemed to mock my complete undoing. He fucked my mouth with a steady, merciless rhythm, and I stayed open for him, my hands braced on his thighs, feeling the muscles bunch and release with every stroke.
“Beautiful,” he grunted. “My perfect little—” A thrust. “—freckled—” Another. “—slut.”
Drool slipped from the corner of my mouth and dripped onto the stone between my knees. I didn’t care. There was nothing in this moment but the weight of him on my tongue, the ache in my jaw, the wet sounds that seemed to echo off the limestone.
Then he pulled out.
I swayed forward, chasing him, and he laughed—a breathless, rumbling sound. “Easy. We’re not done.”
His hands found my shoulders and spun me around. My palms hit the rock, the surface warm and slightly gritty, and I felt him settle behind me. His big body blocked the sun. One of his knees nudged my thighs apart, spreading me open, and I arched my back without being told.
“Look at this ass.” Both hands gripped my cheeks, kneading. “So fucking tight. Perfect peachy little—” He pulled me apart, exposing me, and the open air hit my hole. “You been thinking about this all week, Bunny?”
“Every fucking day,” I gasped.
“Good.”
I heard the wet sound of him gathering saliva. Felt the first warm glob land directly on my hole. Then his thumb was there, spreading it, pressing just enough to make me whimper. He spat again—Stallion always produced copiously, and he knew exactly how to use it—and this time his thumb breached me.
“Fffuck—”
“Shh.” He worked me open with a patience that belied the brutal facefuck I’d just received. His thumb twisted, withdrew, returned. “Gotta get you ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
“Liar.”
But I felt him shift position. Felt the head of his cock replace his thumb, nudging against my spit-slick opening. The pressure built—an impossible stretch that I knew from experience would fit, had to fit, always fit eventually—and I pushed back against him.
Stallion entered me by increments.
My breath caught in my throat and my fingers scrabbled against the stone for purchase. The stretch was everything—a burning, radiant pressure that made my own neglected cock leak against my stomach. He kept going, kept pushing, and I swear I could feel every vein, every ridge of him as my body yielded inch by inch until his hips pressed flush against my ass.
“There.” His voice was ragged. “There, Bunny. Feel that?”
I could only whimper.
“Ancestral,” he breathed against my ear, chest hair scratching my back, “fucking breeding” as he thrusted in his spurts after spurts of primal cum all down my hole, impregnating me like his little bitch..
