Ever heard of Gyotaku? Well it’s an art form started by Japanese fishermen in the eighteen hundreds. They recorded their fish catches by rubbing the fish with an edible ink, before making a print of the fish on paper. Naturally, as time went on they began painting in the eyes etcetera. I won’t bore you with too many details, suffice to say, that as an artist this process captured my imagination and I was beginning to dabble more and more with this technique. My greatest problem, however, was acquiring the fish to press. Living inland, the fish shop closest to me had a very limited assortment.

When a friend of mine therefore, offered me his seaside apartment, I decided to take a three month sabbatical and really get stuck into my latest obsession. After a successful recent exhibition I also had the funds to pursue my latest passion. The apartment was the corner unit of a two-story block and very comfortable. I was particularly delighted to find an excellent fish shop very close by. When I visited the fish shop the following day, the owner was very engaging and fascinated by the example of the print I had brought along.

We struck a pact and after promising to give him one of the art pieces in a barter deal, told me I could select any fish I liked. After selecting three fish and placing them into my potable ice box, I was soon on my way back to the apartment to commence my work. A few hours later I returned his fish, promising to call again in two days’ time.

Upon returning to my apartment I got to meet my neighbour, Barret Foley. When I introduced myself as Barry he let out a laugh, saying that it would be very easy to remember my name due to the similarity of our names. Barret was a large and unattractive widower in his early sixties. He had a big gut, was bald, and looked like a total slob. He was barefooted, wore dirty shorts, and a t-shirt with an array of condiment splashes. His false teeth seemed too big for his mouth, which was surrounded by a nicotine stained goatee.

After explaining the reason for my vacation, he asked if he could take a look at an example of my art. Returning to his apartment with a print a short while later, I placed the piece on his dining table. As he looked at it I scanned the living area of his home and I clearly saw that he was indeed a slob. When I pointed out the various aspects of the piece, he moved in close to me and placed his left hand on my right shoulder. Observing the print his fingers began to open and close on my shoulder. Barret’s left hand then moved to his crotch, before he began toying with himself.

I was slightly uncomfortable at this point and said that I needed to be on my way. As I was leaving he praised the print, saying that he would like to pop in from time to time, if that was okay with me, to see more of the work. How I refuse?

The following afternoon there was a knock at my door. After inviting Barret in, we approached the new piece I was working on. Standing next to me again, his right arm moved across my back and onto my right shoulder. As he did so his left hand once more began to clamp his crotch. Sensing my discomfort his hand tightened on my shoulder, leaving me in no doubt that he wanted me to remain put. After what seemed like forever, he removed his hand before sauntering towards my front door.

“Well, fish also needs to be eaten,” he said, before concluding, “Dinner, my place, tomorrow night,” in what sounded like a command.

Late the following afternoon, I returned the fish I had used for pressing back to the fish shop. As it was closing time, however, the owner of the fish shop insisted I stay for a few beers, which I did. After three beers, I made my way home mentally preparing for the dinner ordeal that lay ahead. Somewhat apprehensively, I arrived at Barret’s home as instructed. Again, the smell of cigarettes and body odour assailed my nostrils. Barret was wearing one of his splattered t-shirts, which looked like a culinary tribute to Jackson Pollock.

In fairness to him, he really cooked well and the dish he made was very tasty. After dinner and three more beers, we moved through to the lounge. I am not a big drinker and by now I was slightly on my ear. After I was instructed to sit on the sofa, Barret sat down next to me. As we chatted his leg moved ever closer to mine and soon our knees were touching. A rubbing action followed as he began lifting and lowered the heel of his foot. Not long after, his right hand again settled on my left shoulder and began its pulsation. I felt totally cornered by him and imprisoned by his large presence.

After finishing our beer he asked if I liked cognac. I gave a noncommittal shrug. Next, getting up he moved to the kitchen and retrieved two balloon glasses, before pouring us each a large tot. Upon returning to the couch he lit a cigar. When he sat down I got a cognac lecture and a demonstration of how to warm the glass in your hand. He also revealed the art of blowing the cigar smoke into the balloon glass, before savouring it. Truthfully, the drink wasn’t really to my liking. There was no doubt, however, that I was expected to consume the full contents of my glass.

After twenty minutes a strange thing happened to me. I began to feel physically drained having consumed way more alcohol than I was used to. My mind was fuzzy and my body felt sapped of energy. It was if the slightest movement had become an ordeal for me.

“Are you okay?” Barret asked.

“Yes,” I replied bravely, “But I’m just feeling a bit slack.”

Placing his hand on my forehead he tested my temperature.

“You aren’t feverish,” he answered with a look of concern, “But maybe you should lie down for a while.”

I began to protest, but he lifted me and supporting my body, ushered me to the spare bedroom. The double bed was covered a thick dark canvass material, devoid of any other linen. Sitting next to me he once again placed his hand on my forehead. “You definitely don’t have a temperature,” he announced.

“Please… I just need to go home,” I replied, “I’ll be fine.”

“Just relax. I’ll take care of you,” he answered.

After a short while Barret got off the bed before removing my sandals. Then he undid the buttons on my shorts before they were slowly pulled off my body, along with my underpants. Again seated next to me, he lifted my torso and pulled the shirt I was wearing over my head.

Oh Jesus, I thought, feeling totally drained, this ogre wants to fuck me.

Barret then got off the bed and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Next, he pushed his elasticised shorts and underpants down before kicking them to the side. As he stood next to the bed I observed his erect cock. It looked like a fat polony that was holding up his gut, and his balls looked like a huge growth stuck between his fat thighs.

Barret now retrieved a camcorder and a tripod stand from his cupboard, and strategically placed it next to the bed. Once all set up and recording, he stood looking at me with an obscene expression on his face. Following that, his right hand moved towards his mouth and my heart almost stopped when he extracted his huge set of false teeth. Before getting on the bed next to me his floppy mouth spoke, “I hate kissing with my teeth in.”

Every fibre of my being wanted to jump up and run, but I was powerless and totally unable to move. When his mouth closed on my lips, it felt like a sloppy jellyfish encasing my mouth. As his tongue pushed through my lips and began to rub against my teeth, the last bit of energy in me I kept my teeth clenched. My defiance was short-lived, however, as fat fingers began to compress my cheeks. When my teeth parted his fat tongue began to slosh around my mouth, accompanied by horny grumbles from him.

As my ordeal ensued his fat body began to move up and cover me. With my head secured in his thick hands, his knees began pushing my legs apart. I then felt his huge knob nestling against my crotch, before his bulky thighs pushed my legs even further apart. Throughout his onslaught, Barret kept grunting and groaning. He kept wriggling his arse as he ground his cock into me. Just when I thought I was about to drown in spit, he lifted and got off the bed before repositioning the camcorder. Moving to the foot of the bed Barret got back on, before placing my legs over his shoulders. His mouth then consumed my dick before he began to suck my knob.

Strange as my experience had been thus far, I have to admit that getting a blowjob from a toothless mouth gets a ten out on ten on the fellatio barometer. It was fucking awesome. Between the sucking and slurping, having your knob gummed is extraordinary. Every time he sensed me getting close, he would lift his head and allow me to cool down, before recommencing his oral extravaganza. Barret was in no hurry and I was really beginning love the stimulation. This was the pinnacle oral stimulation and when I finally came, I had never been so aroused in my life.

When he again began to kiss me my involvement was a lot more reciprocal. Then, lifting off me and turning my body over, he again repositioned the camcorder. When he mounted me once more he whispered, “My turn now baby.”

Jiggling his fat body, his thick meat excavated my hole. Barret had more stamina than any man I had ever met before. He humped and thumped into me for the thirty minutes. Not only could he suck a cock, but this old man could really fuck. I also couldn’t believe how much his mass was turning me on. As the bed rocked like a ship in a stormy sea, I happily sailed off with him towards a far destination, promising untold riches. The grunts, saliva, and domination by my toothless suitor, introduced me into a new world of sexual delight.

Once Barret came he lay on top of me for a short while. Then, as he lifted off he said, “Time for my dessert.”

After leaving the room, he returned a short while later with a plastic bottle in his hand. It was a container with liquid chocolate. “Now I’m going to show you my favourite art form,” he announced.

After covering my body with liquid chocolate, Barret began to savour his dessert. Next, placing the container nozzle up my arse, Barret filled my backside with chocolate.

As his lips closed on my hole, Barret slapped my arse and muttered, “Feed me, baby, feed me, I’m still hungry.” I pushed out as hard as I could and listened to slurping and approving groans from the diner, behind me. After the nozzle was again inserted and squeezed, more chocolate entered me. This time, however, he climb back on top of me, and reinserted his cock. Barret fucked me for the next ten minutes before again unloading.

After returning his mouth to my hole he enjoyed a third helping of dessert. He vacuumed every bit of chocolate and spunk out of me, prodding his tongue into me like an anteater that had just found a bumper nest of termites. Turning his body into a sixty-nine position afterward, his chocolate covered cock nestled on my face. Happily, I feasted on my final course of the evening.

The following morning, I nervously asked about the recording he had made of us. “It’s purely for my own pleasure,” he replied, and then winking he concluded, “Your place tonight, I’ll expect dinner at seven.”