I’m walking toward Broadway in the lower Seventies when I pass a storefront with a display of floral bouquets out front. Garish carnations dyed orange, bundles of freesia, drooping boughs of heather. On impulse, I stop to select a plastic-wrapped cone of roses. The bored young man inside smiles when I proffer them to be rung up. “For your girlfriend?” he asks.
“For my boyfriend,” I correct. He just raises his eyebrows, shares a knowing smile as if he’d already guessed that answer, and returns my change.
Almost at your place, I text, as I step out back out onto the sidewalk. It’s only a little before five, and already the sky is almost dark in New York. People are hustling homeward with swift steps; most of them seem to be in pairs. I’ve scarcely shoved my phone back into my pocket when it vibrates once more. I press myself against the shop front, pull it out, and see a notification from one of my cash apps. There are four digits before the decimal point.
So that part of the transaction is done.
Julio’s apartment is only a short walk from where I’ve selected my bouquet. In the vestibule I press a tiny button with my index finger, wait for the corresponding buzz of the door, and let myself in. I share my ride to the tenth floor with an older couple. They smile at the flowers, and then at me, conspirators in my wooing. I pull my mouth to the side, wryly bashful, and wish them a good evening when they exit on eight. At my floor, I step out, look both ways to find the direction I need to go. When I’m outside his door, I press the rectangular button beneath the peep hole. With one hand I hold the flowers behind my back, parallel to my spine.
I hear footsteps. The door opens. A man stands before me—shaved head, muscular, handsome, late thirties. I’ve seen photos, of course; they didn’t do him justice. Julio’s wearing nothing but a towel. His hairless pecs still glisten with droplets of water, as if he’s run to the door straight out of the shower. He’s considerably shorter than I expected, but it’s obvious he’s a powerful man. “Baby,” he says, looking at me with chocolate brown eyes. He speaks in velvet tones. “You got in early.”
“Hey, lover,” I murmur back. I lean forward from the waist over the threshold of his apartment until my lips meet his. His eyes close as he melts into the gentle kiss. One of his hands still holds his towel at the hip, but with the other, he cups the side of my furry face. “I’m home.”
The kiss ends. I straighten up. For a moment, his eyes remain closed, as if he’s still lost in the moment just passed. Finally, he smiles. “Yes, baby. You’re home. And I’m so glad.”
That’s when I present the flowers. He’s genuinely surprised; his eyes dart back and forth between the red roses and my face as if he can’t believe I’ve gone to the trouble. “What were you thinking?” he fusses, absurdly pleased, as he paces down the hallway into his little kitchen, roses in one hand, the ends of his towel in the other. The apartment smells of spices; there’s something cooking in the oven.
I follow him, and watch as he lays the flowers onto the counter and tucks the terrycloth to fasten it tight. “I was thinking that it has been a long time since I’ve been home, and that my boyfriend might like to know I’ve been thinking of him. Every day. Every minute. Every second.”
He’s flattered, I can tell. Both hands now free, he joins me at the kitchen door. “I missed you,” he tells me.
“I missed you too,” I say, softly. Our faces are mere inches apart. “My beautiful, beautiful boyfriend.”
That’s when he takes my face between his palms and draws me down for another kiss. This one is soft, deep, my tongue deep in his mouth, his hands holding me in place until he knows my taste. “You don’t have to say that.”
There’s a genuine bashfulness in the way he nay-says me. Is he fishing for compliments? He doesn’t seem the type. Maybe he’s unaware how striking are those rugged features—the crooked nose that looks like it might have been broken at some point, the sculpted brow, the point of his chin. I can picture him in his Wall Street pinstripe armor as a formidable foe, or as a beast lifting weights at the local Equinox. Here though, nearly naked, his damp flesh pressed against my fully-clothed body, he’s sincerely handsome. “I say it because it’s true,” I assure him.
Julio cracks a smile. He’s delighted, I can tell. And shy. Surprisingly shy. “God, I missed you,” he says, as he grabs my hand and leads me deeper into the apartment.
Julio’s home is no cramped walk-up; it’s a genuine luxury flat. I’d already noticed the gleaming stainless steel and marble of the kitchen. The combined living and dining areas seem professionally decorated, or at least the pieces have been chosen with someone with taste far better than mine, and with much deeper pockets. The oversized sofas are upholstered in rich, textured jewel-colored fabrics; the dining table is glass and steel. Plush rugs in earth tones delineate the different living spaces. It’s not a decorator’s showcase, though; the space looks lived-in. There’s a stack of mail on one of the occasional tables, and books that actually look like they’ve been read on the shelves; through the bedroom door I can see Julio’s work suit discarded on the mattress.
“Hey babe, I know I said we’d go out to dinner, but the show’s at seven and I thought I’d just cook at home so we wouldn’t be in such a rush.” He holds both my hands now as we sink onto a sofa together.
“That’s great,” I tell him. “It gives me more time to spend with you here, baby.”
Again, he seems pleased with my answer. “Are you tired?” he asks. “Let me rub my boyfriend’s shoulders.”
I laugh, and protest, but he’s already helping me out of my jacket. I admit to being a casual dresser at the best of times—a hoodie and jeans kind of guy. Tonight, though, I’ve made an effort to clean up. I’m wearing dark slacks and shiny black shoes, a dress shirt of deep purple with cuff links, and one of the few sports jackets I own. I’d had a haircut earlier in the week. I’ve been growing out my beard for the last two months, but earlier today I’d made an effort to trim the sides and groom back the startling chin so that it looks neat and respectable. Surrounded by all this finery, however, I feel a little like Cinderella, the kitchen drudge cleaned up for the ball.
Once Julio has positioned me so that I’m leaning over the sofa’s arm, I feel the warmth of his body across my back. His fingers begin kneading my muscles. It’s been so long since anyone has done this for me. I sigh, and allow him to continue. “You’re so tense,” he whispers in my ear. “Did you have a hard day at work?”
“No,” I murmur, my eyes closed. “I just missed you, baby.”
“Really?” he asks. “My god, you are so sweet. I couldn’t have asked for a better boyfriend.”
“Neither could I.” I groan slightly as he finds a knot and massages it into submission. “You are so good to me. So handsome.”
For reward, he plants a succession of tiny kisses upon the back of my neck. I gasp at the tickling sensation, then shiver as the fluttering pecks send a wave of tingles across my scalp and down my spine. “My sexy boyfriend.” His words, whispered directly into my ear, cause another tsunami of shivers across my skin.
Something is pressing into my lower back. Hard. Insistent. I’m pretty sure it’s his cock. I twist myself around, reach beneath his towel, and wrap my fingers around his dick. It burns like a branding iron in the palm of my right hand. I can feel wetness from its tip on the inside of my wrist. For a moment we stare at each other as I squeeze him tightly. “Oh god, I have missed you,” I tell him at last.
“Me too,” he says. Then he’s on top of me, his mouth on mine, his hands stroking my beard, my hair, the underside of my chin. Our kisses grow more and more desperate as I hold his rigid cock in my hand. It’s thick. Short—maybe five and a half inches. Uncut. I haven’t seen it yet, but can easily imagine the thick dark shaft, the fat and glistening head. “Baby, I don’t want you ever to go away again.”
“I won’t.” Tonight I’ll be saying all kinds of things I cannot really mean. We both know that. But in the moment? My promise is all sincerity. “I belong to you.”
“You’re my boyfriend,” he whispers, staring down from above.
“And you’re my boyfriend,” I reply. In that moment, I’m being honest.
We stare at each other in the moment. His flesh throbs in my hand. Then slowly, sweetly, he leans down to kiss my forehead. “Let me get you some dinner, baby,” he whispers.
There’s a breed of man who sometimes crave the close and established intimacy of a lover—a deeply-connected lover with whom they have a history—yet who have little time, or perhaps no serious inclination, to cultivate a long-term romance. In my experience, these men tend to have achieved success in their careers, perhaps at the cost of their own personal lives. These men sometimes reach out to me and inquire whether I’d be willing to fulfill, for a price, a specific fantasy.
The Boyfriend Experience. It has a name. The illusion, just for a few hours, or a day, or a weekend, of complete intimacy, of a familiarity that goes far beyond a hookup. It combines tenderness. Suavity. A gallant respect for the client and his emotional needs. The Boyfriend Experience is perhaps the deepest form of Method role-play I’ve ever encountered.
Take Julio. I’ve never met him before today. We’ve communicated only briefly, first through an app and then later a handful of text messages. There’s so much I don’t know about this man—what he does for work, what paths in life he’s walked to get to this point, his tastes in food, his family and friends, whether he’s one of those Taylor Swift gays. His surname, even.
And yet, how difficult is it, really, to be a good boyfriend to someone you’ve never met? I’m leaning against the kitchen lintel, glass of red wine in my hand, watching him putter around the stove and steaming some green beans. He’s talking about work. Someone named Gretchen has done something that I can’t in the least parse, but it sounds as if it could be grievous. Julio, now wearing a t-shirt and joggers beneath his apron, checks on whatever smells so good in the oven and chatters away about how he spent an hour consoling Gretchen and trying to educate her on how to avoid the problem in the future.
“You are such a good mentor, baby,” I tell him. I’m sincere. I’m not making a stab in the dark. It genuinely sounds as if he’s doing the right thing by this woman. “But that’s just the kind of man you are.”
He beams. Doesn’t the colleagues with whom he spends his days tell him such truths? I suspect not, after he replies with a shy, “Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I really think so.” For reward, he comes over, stands on tiptoe, and kisses traces of wine from my lips. “So tell me more. What happened?”
And then I listen, like a good boyfriend should.
We sit catercorner at one end of the glass-topped dining table over dinner, glasses of wine nudging together as closely as our knees. The roses I bought for him sit in a glass vase filled with water, at the table’s center. He’s pulled open the draperies, revealing a fantastic view of Broadway below, and of lights from the neighboring buildings. He’s still telling me work stories, dropping first names as if I’ve heard them all before, while I nod or shake my head at appropriate junctures, and ask questions when I feel the need for more clarification. I don’t find financial work all that fascinating, but I’m here to pay attention, so I do. Meanwhile, I eat the eggplant lasagna, laden with cream and cheese, that he’s sweated over, and compliment his cooking skills.
“I wanted to make sure you got a good meal before we go out,” he says.
“You are so fucking sweet,” I reply, meaning it. In my time I’ve cooked for plenty men I’ve loved. None of them have cooked for me. Impulsively, I place my hand over his.
“Anything for my boyfriend,” he tells me, as he leans in for another kiss.
The show is less than three blocks from his apartment, a way-off-Broadway comic revue of which I’ve seen other iterations. The theater itself sits on the second floor of the building, over a restaurant; once we’ve passed the ticket-taker, we slide across a vinyl bench to sit side-by-side at a cocktail table close to the tiny stage. The audience demographic seems to be mostly older than me, and definitely a lot older than my date, but there are young gay men in pairs sprinkled throughout the crowd. Once settled, I rest my left arm atop the padded bench’s back, around Julio’s shoulders.
“Cocktails?” asks a server.
Julio’s already studied the drinks menu. Without consulting me, he tells the young woman we’ll be having the theater’s fruity variation on a Moscow Mule. I’m taken aback at having someone choosing for me, yet slightly flattered, especially since of all the specialty cocktails on the list, he’d picked what I’d have chosen. “Everybody’s looking at us,” he murmurs in my ear.
“Are they?” I ask, scanning around. I don’t see any evidence of his claim, but I haven’t been paying attention to anyone else but him.
“They’re probably wondering how I landed such a handsome boyfriend.” I flush a little at the compliment. If anything, I suspect they’re speculating why such a good-looking Latin stud is saddled with such an old geezer—the prince burdened with Cinderella. He leans in a little closer, though, as if telling me a secret. “They’re probably wondering what a tall, handsome…big-dicked…stud sees in someone like me.”
Again, my scalp and spine tingle from the combination of flattery and close-talking. “I’m the lucky one,” I tell him. His hand rests on the table; with my left arm still around his shoulders, I cross my right arm to take his hand in mine. I look him in the eyes. “Because I’m out on the town with the most handsome boyfriend in the theater. If they’re looking—it’s because they’re jealous I have such a good-looking man to take care of.”
I sidle closer on the bench as I speak. It doesn’t take a psychic to know how pleased he is by those words. His eyes are liquid. His lips tremble with unspoken happiness.
“You are beautiful,” I tell him. I need no acting skills to mean what I say. The server arrives with our drinks, disappointingly served in bar glasses instead of copper mugs.
“You’re my gorgeous boyfriend,” he says, giving me a gentle kiss on the cheeks.
I raise my mule. He taps his glass against mine. “To us,” I suggest.
He agrees. “To us.”
Then the lights dim.
We hold hands on the walk back to his apartment, my larger paw completely encompassing his fingers. No one really turns a head to stare our way, but I sense that he wants to be seen like this. With someone. Together. Taken. The show had no intermission and hadn’t lasted more than an hour and a half, so it’s not even quite nine o’clock yet. “You want a hot dog, baby?” he asks, as we amble past the sidewalk brightly lit by Gray’s Papaya.
“No. Seriously, after your delicious dinner?” I ask. “You’re not hungry, are you? Do you want a hot dog?”
He squeezes my hand. “I’m hungry for something. Something I want only from my hunky boyfriend.”
My dick stirs at the insinuation. “I think I can accommodate you, in a bit.”
Up Broadway we stroll, seemingly in no particular hurry, though we’re both anxious to get back to his apartment. Along the way he tells me more about an upcoming work trip to Chicago, where’s he never visited before. I share a few of my hazy memories of previous visits to the city, but mostly he’s interested in telling me about the hotel where he’ll be staying, the deals he’s expected to accomplish. I know much more about Julio and his day-to-day workflow than he knows anything about me, at this point, but I don’t mind. A good boyfriend—in this situation—listens more than he speaks.
Once we reach his building, we fall silent. No conversation during our elevator ride up, though our fingers remain clasped. Neither of us utter a word as we walk down the hall to his apartment. I drop his hand when he fumbles with the door keys, and follow him inside.
“We’re home, baby,” he finally says, once we’ve crossed the threshold.
“We’re home,” I echo.
He turns to face me. All evening he’s been spoiling me with alcohol and food, with back rubs, with entertainment. Now, I sense, it’s my turn. I step forward until I’m able to hold him by the shoulders. My face looms over his. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart,” I whisper.
“I love being good to you,” he protests. His voice is soft. Breathy.
“Now let me be good to you.”
Slowly—slowly—I lean down. Our lips connect. I hesitate, pull back, and look into his eyes. “Do you love me, Julio?”
This powerful little man, this muscular athlete, seems unsteady on his feet at hearing the question. He breathes, “Yes. I love you so much.” My heart pounds more quickly when he says my name.
“I love you too,” I tell him. Again I give him the lightest kiss possible, our lips barely touching, our hastened breaths warming each others’ faces. “You know that, right?”
Slowly he nods. “I know.”
“And you’re going to show me how much you love me, right now,” I inform him.
“Yes.”
“Because you’re my boyfriend.”
“Because I’m your boyfriend. And because I love you.”
I look into those brown eyes and pause a moment before I say, emphasizing each word, “And I love you like no other.”
My erection rages as he leads me into the bedroom. Gently, carefully, he removes my jacket. Undoes my cuff links. Kneels to slip off my shoes. Lifts each foot to remove and fold the sock covering it. He stands, unbuttons my shirt, unclasps my belt. I finish the job of removing the rest of what I’m wearing, watching as he undresses.
He was solicitous with my clothing, but he shows no mercy to his own, in his haste to get naked. Shoes and socks fly. He yanks open his shirt front so quickly that I imagine buttons popping. His pants and shorts hit the floor with a thump. Then he’s on the king-sized bed, on his back, holding out his arms for me while I’m still shucking my trunks. “Come to me, baby.”
I straddle him on the mattress. Both our dicks are hard as cement; they strike against each other like fencing epees. When I lower my weight on his smaller frame, he wraps his knees and arms around my body and holds me tight. “I need you tonight,” I tell him. “I need to be deep inside you, sweetheart.”
“Use me,” he begs. I feel him reach for my dick, and then sense him squeezing it tightly for the first time. “I want that big dick making me pregnant.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “I’ve always wanted to have a baby with the man I love.”
“I need your babies.”
His moaning continues, though muffled, as I kiss him roughly. “I think about you all day at work,” I tell him when we come up for air. “People see me daydreaming and they tease that I must be thinking about my boyfriend again.”
“Oh fuck,” he pants. “That is so hot, baby.”
“They’ve all seen the photo of you I keep on my desk,” I tell him. “They all know that I’ve got the most handsome boyfriend out there.”
“You keep my photo on your desk?” he asks with wonder, as if this world for two we’re building is real. “Really?”
“Of course!” I exclaim, cradling him in my arms. “I’m proud of being your boyfriend.”
I retrieve my right hand, gently lift it to my lips, and deliver a payload of spittle to his rectum. “Oh fuck, baby,” he says again, as I slather the moisture there. “You don’t know how that makes me feel.”
I shake my head. “I know exactly how that makes you feel. Because I love you.”
“I love you,” he repeats, lost in sensation.
“Then show me,” I tell him.
It takes only the gentles of nudge to roll him onto his abdomen. I position a pillow beneath his hips, then spread his hairy little legs. He gasps when I taste him; my beard is covered with the scent of his shower soap, and of my own spit, as I lick my way into his pussy. Deeper and deeper I delve as he jerks, twitches, and groans. “Fuck me, baby,” he says, while I lap away at his most tender parts. Then, more sharply, “Fuck me!”
With that snappish tone, he sounds more like a client making demands. I’m not a dick for hire, though. I’m not his employee. No way. Not now. I’m this man’s boyfriend. I call the shots.
I love eating hole, and his is the perfect combination of fuzz and warmth. So for a while, I ignore him, and gnaw my way in. His tone is less aggressive next time he speaks. “Fuck me,” he begs as I pull apart his cheeks.
But no. I’m still rapt in my own passion for my boyfriend’s hole. It slides open when I insert two fingers, three. His back arches; his hips lift. I’m determined to pleasure him this way until he can’t stand it.
A few minutes later, he sobs. “Fuck me. Please fuck me. Please—just fuck me. Please.” I’ve tamed the boss. Reduced the beast to whimpers.
That’s when I pull myself to my knees and plant my hands on either side of his ribs. “Yeah?” I ask, sounding dubious. “Should I stick it in?”
“Yes.” He’s almost crying with frustration and pleasure.
“You want your boyfriend’s dick in that sweet ass?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeats. And now he wrestles with the pillow and manages to turn himself on his side, so that he can look me in the eye in that dark bedroom, illuminated only by the city’s lights. “Because I want to show how much I love you.”
I allow the words to hang in the air for a moment. Finally, I nod. Help him turn onto his back. Adjust the pillow once more beneath his hips. Haul his legs into the air, and aim my pulsing cock at the hole. “I want you to look me in the eyes as I slide in,” I tell him. He nods, anxious to have me inside. “And I want you to tell me how much you love me when it’s time to breed you.”
“I’ll tell you how much I love you right now,” he promises. “I love you, baby.” My head presses against the point of entry. “I love you so much.” I feel his flesh part to admit me. I hit the first ring, and press harder. “I love you,” he says. “I love you. I love my boyfriend so…ahhhhh.”
And then I’m in. True to his promise, he keeps his eyes wide open, adoring me from below as I slide to the base.
It’s after midnight. Julio sleeps in a fetal position, his legs pulled up, his head crooked down. It rests on my half-numb arm. I’m big spoon to his little. My belly is glued to his back by the juices of four loads. A few minutes before, he had asked, in the softest and most boyish of voices, “Will you stay until I fall asleep, baby?”
I’d kissed the top of his smooth head, and rubbed my beard against his neck. “Of course.”
He had sighed, and cuddled against me. “I have the best boyfriend,” had been his last words before subsiding into a doze.
I’ve been lying with him, listening to him breathe, for the last half hour. Down on the streets below I can hear the occasional whine of traffic whenever the lights change. Distant sirens occasionally cut through the quiet. Julio slumbers solidly, now. I’m able to retrieve my prickling left arm from beneath him without disturbing his rest. After I creep to my feet, I pull up the sheets and blankets from the bed’s bottom, where we’d kicked them a couple of hours before. His deep respiration continues as I tuck them gently around his shoulders.
I don’t take a shower—I don’t want to wake him, and I’ve a commuter train back home to catch. In the bathroom I do quietly run a washcloth beneath the faucet and sponge myself off, however, then check my reflection in the gloom before returning to the bedroom. My clothes are mostly in one place; I dress, check my pockets, and determine I’m good to go.
I’m walking in the direction of the front door when I see the roses I’d bought Julio, resting in their vase on the dining table. I pause, then pluck one from the rest. I wipe the water from its stem onto my palm, and tiptoe back into the bedroom. Then, gently, softly, I lay it upon the pillow where my head had been resting a few minutes before.
It will be the first thing he sees when he wakes in the morning, my boyfriend. I love you so much, he’d told me, I think, as I let myself out.
In that moment, those were the words I’d needed to hear. Even if, like Cinderella’s gown and carriage, their spell had evaporated at midnight.
Showing posts with label whoring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whoring. Show all posts
Monday, November 25, 2019
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
Monster
“Monster.” The man is kneeling on the floor as he speaks, hands on his thighs, back erect. His eyes are transfixed several feet away, between my spread legs. From time to time, though, his glance attempts to meet mine, to garner approval. “Gargantuan.”
I’m sitting buck-naked in the hotel room’s armchair. It’s an high-backed, period replica with a hard seat that’s about as relaxing as an iron maiden. But my comfort isn’t what’s important, here. What matters is the view I’m providing—sitting there with my knees wide apart, my meat pulsing against the palm of my hand. He can’t take his eyes off it . . . but neither can I. There’s a naked man on the floor in front of me, but I deliberately pay him zero consideration. I focus on my dick, my rock-hard, red dick. It’s the main attraction. Anything he might be saying, I’m telling him through my inattention, is just background noise.
“Colossal,” he says, flicking his eyes to my face. “Titan.” He’s hoping for approval. I don’t intend to give it to him. Not yet.
He’s a handsome fellow. Worked-out biceps. Deep chest, with a trail of fur leading down his abdomen to where his dick stands at attention. A couple of times his right hand wanders between his thighs so he can pleasure himself. When that happens, I use the top of my foot to punt it away. He should know better.
Pre-cum is beading at my dick’s tip. With my right hand, I squeeze tight my inches, making them redder, fuller. With the left, I dip my index finger into the clear fluid, pulling it up to my mouth. Its tendril of slime stretches, diminishes, then snaps right as I shove my finger in my mouth. With gratification I notice that he unconsciously licks his lips.
He’s parched. “Monumental,” he rasps, adding to his thesaurus of compliments. He amends, “Sir.”
Still not paying attention to him. My left hand now chokes my cock, as the right grabs and pulls at my nuts. I let out a little sigh of satisfaction.
The man starts to rise from his kneeling position. “May I…?”
For the first time in several moments, I break out of my absorption and stare directly at him. Slowly, I shake my head. My foot lifts. Settles on his shoulder. Pushes him back down upon his haunches. Then I return my attention to my silent self-pleasure.
He offers no resistance to my direction. When his hand jerks, I think he’s going to touch himself again, but with discipline he plants it firmly on his leg again. He understands his assignment: to observe, and to yearn.
Denying him what he wants—well, that’s what he wants, isn’t it? I sized that up immediately when he contacted me, when he made the arrangements to host me in this expensive midtown hotel. He could’ve picked any dank and dismal location, but he wanted to impress with his taste. He wanted to impress with his carefully-chosen, understated but expensive clothing, which I’d made him remove while I pretended not to watch. With the wine he’d brought, in case I wanted any. He’s a man used to casually gratifying himself with his credit card, or thrilling others with that Hollywood smile. And I have no intention of giving him what he wants.
Not immediately. Not yet. He needs to work for it, a little.
The sound of his swallowing is plainly audible as he attempts to moisten his dry throat. “I bet you get any hole you want, with that cock.” I make no reply. There’s a silence before he tries again. “I bet I’m not the only one to pay for a chance to touch that monster.”
Our eyes lock. I’m still stroking, but I acknowledge the statement.
“Fuck. I didn’t think so. You deserve fags emptying their accounts for that weapon.” I’m pretty sure he can tell this line of talk is turning me on; my dick is already rigid, but it visibly swells at his words. “You could have anyone you wanted, and you said yes to me.”
I return my attention to the throbbing sexmeat in the palm of my hand. I lift a fist, spit into it, and slather the slickness over my length. I’m not particularly fond of this form of lubricant for masturbation, but I am fully aware of how good it must look from his perspective, down there on the floor.
From the corner of my eye, I can tell the show is having its intended effect. His stubby uncut dick points upward; his shoulders snap back. He raises a hand to run it through his short blond hair. “Shit.”
Again I meet his glance. My dick surrounded by my fist, I point it in his direction. He stares first at it, then at me, then at it again. Is it an invitation? Am I ready to let him have what he’s so anxious for?
Tentatively he leans forward, ready to service me.
I, however, thwart him. Before he can connect with me, I raise my foot again, and shove his shoulder to the floor. He flops prone before me on the hotel carpet, face down. When he looks up again, I’ve got my dick in one hand and my phone in the other. “Please,” he whispers.
But fuck, I’m busy with my emails. Or Grindr. Or maybe I’m watching cat videos on YouTube. Who knows? I’m putting on a good show of it, anyway. He doesn’t deserve to know my business. He just needs to know it’s not him—yet. I’ve got one foot on the back of his neck, and the other on top of his head, holding him down to the floor as I pay him absolutely no nevermind.
“I’ll do anything.”
I look around the phone’s screen, as if mildly interested in what he’s got to say.
“Anything,” he promises, grateful for my slight attention.
I kick him upward and over, onto his back. I plant my right foot onto his chest. He attempts to grab it, but I boot his hands away. When he’s finally still, I lift my left foot and bring it down onto his face.
He knows exactly what to do. I feel the tickle of his lips against my sole. Then he’s lapping at the bottom of my foot with broad, wet lengths of his tongue. When he seizes my foot again, I allow it; the man angles my heel so that his lips can encompass it. Sheer sensation overwhelms that area of my body as he greedily nibbles, licks, and chews his way around my foot. I angle my ankle so he can attempt to take my toes into his mouth, but it doesn’t work. He flops onto his belly again to service one foot while the other rests on the back of his neck. At last I put down my phone.
After long minutes of him pleasuring my left foot, he takes it between his hands and kneads the flesh. He looks up at me for validation. I’m still stroking my dick, but I don’t have to feign or exaggerate my expression. He’s making me feel good. I starre him in the eye. Nod.
That’s all he needs to commence servicing the other foot.
For a wordless half-hour or more he lies there on the hotel floor, groveling, writhing as he makes love to my feet. First one, then the other, then back again. I know he’s using the opportunity to grind his own dick into the plush carpeting, to ease the tension building in his own nuts. But he’s not attempting to grab himself. All his focus is on me.
As it should be.
Finally I remove my feet from his face. I prod him with a toe, flick a finger, to have him resume his kneeling position. He knows something’s going to happen. Will it be what he most wants?
He clears his throat. Runs his hand once more through his messy hair. Dares to speak. “Please?”
But no. Not yet.
I point my index and middle finger in his direction. Raise them twice. The motion clearly orders him to rise, and he obeys. When his hands automatically slide in front of his hips to hide his nakedness—a newly self-conscious Adam trembling before his God in front of the Tree of Life—I shake my head. His hands drop again to his side.
I circle my index finger in the air, slowly. He turns. I have him stop when he’s facing away, though allow him to look at me over his shoulder. Still stroking, I pleasure myself while I admire his firm buttocks, his thick thighs. A fantastic Chinese dragon covers his left shoulder in colorful inks. His shoulders are broad. He is, as I’ve said, a handsome man.
There’s a helpless expression in his eyes. I recognize it. It’s the look that a thousand and more men have given me, the moment they realize that I honestly, truly, see them. That I’m aroused not by some fantasy on an app, or a flawless shirtless selfie they’ve managed to pull off—no, but by the reality of them, the here and now of them as they stand naked and exposed before me. I can tell by the liquid aspect of his eyes, the unconscious parting of his lips, that he realizes I am turned on not by the sight of my own dick, but by him. By his ass. By the curve of his hips. By his presence before me. Most of all, by the potential of pleasure I see in him, in this very moment.
He turns to face me. Slowly, carefully, not breaking the contact we’re making in our held glance, he lowers himself to his knees.
Once more, he licks his lips. Clears his throat. Asks softly, “Please, sir? Have I earned it?”
I pause to give the question the consideration it deserves.
Then this time—this time, I nod.
I’m sitting buck-naked in the hotel room’s armchair. It’s an high-backed, period replica with a hard seat that’s about as relaxing as an iron maiden. But my comfort isn’t what’s important, here. What matters is the view I’m providing—sitting there with my knees wide apart, my meat pulsing against the palm of my hand. He can’t take his eyes off it . . . but neither can I. There’s a naked man on the floor in front of me, but I deliberately pay him zero consideration. I focus on my dick, my rock-hard, red dick. It’s the main attraction. Anything he might be saying, I’m telling him through my inattention, is just background noise.
“Colossal,” he says, flicking his eyes to my face. “Titan.” He’s hoping for approval. I don’t intend to give it to him. Not yet.
He’s a handsome fellow. Worked-out biceps. Deep chest, with a trail of fur leading down his abdomen to where his dick stands at attention. A couple of times his right hand wanders between his thighs so he can pleasure himself. When that happens, I use the top of my foot to punt it away. He should know better.
Pre-cum is beading at my dick’s tip. With my right hand, I squeeze tight my inches, making them redder, fuller. With the left, I dip my index finger into the clear fluid, pulling it up to my mouth. Its tendril of slime stretches, diminishes, then snaps right as I shove my finger in my mouth. With gratification I notice that he unconsciously licks his lips.
He’s parched. “Monumental,” he rasps, adding to his thesaurus of compliments. He amends, “Sir.”
Still not paying attention to him. My left hand now chokes my cock, as the right grabs and pulls at my nuts. I let out a little sigh of satisfaction.
The man starts to rise from his kneeling position. “May I…?”
For the first time in several moments, I break out of my absorption and stare directly at him. Slowly, I shake my head. My foot lifts. Settles on his shoulder. Pushes him back down upon his haunches. Then I return my attention to my silent self-pleasure.
He offers no resistance to my direction. When his hand jerks, I think he’s going to touch himself again, but with discipline he plants it firmly on his leg again. He understands his assignment: to observe, and to yearn.
Denying him what he wants—well, that’s what he wants, isn’t it? I sized that up immediately when he contacted me, when he made the arrangements to host me in this expensive midtown hotel. He could’ve picked any dank and dismal location, but he wanted to impress with his taste. He wanted to impress with his carefully-chosen, understated but expensive clothing, which I’d made him remove while I pretended not to watch. With the wine he’d brought, in case I wanted any. He’s a man used to casually gratifying himself with his credit card, or thrilling others with that Hollywood smile. And I have no intention of giving him what he wants.
Not immediately. Not yet. He needs to work for it, a little.
The sound of his swallowing is plainly audible as he attempts to moisten his dry throat. “I bet you get any hole you want, with that cock.” I make no reply. There’s a silence before he tries again. “I bet I’m not the only one to pay for a chance to touch that monster.”
Our eyes lock. I’m still stroking, but I acknowledge the statement.
“Fuck. I didn’t think so. You deserve fags emptying their accounts for that weapon.” I’m pretty sure he can tell this line of talk is turning me on; my dick is already rigid, but it visibly swells at his words. “You could have anyone you wanted, and you said yes to me.”
I return my attention to the throbbing sexmeat in the palm of my hand. I lift a fist, spit into it, and slather the slickness over my length. I’m not particularly fond of this form of lubricant for masturbation, but I am fully aware of how good it must look from his perspective, down there on the floor.
From the corner of my eye, I can tell the show is having its intended effect. His stubby uncut dick points upward; his shoulders snap back. He raises a hand to run it through his short blond hair. “Shit.”
Again I meet his glance. My dick surrounded by my fist, I point it in his direction. He stares first at it, then at me, then at it again. Is it an invitation? Am I ready to let him have what he’s so anxious for?
Tentatively he leans forward, ready to service me.
I, however, thwart him. Before he can connect with me, I raise my foot again, and shove his shoulder to the floor. He flops prone before me on the hotel carpet, face down. When he looks up again, I’ve got my dick in one hand and my phone in the other. “Please,” he whispers.
But fuck, I’m busy with my emails. Or Grindr. Or maybe I’m watching cat videos on YouTube. Who knows? I’m putting on a good show of it, anyway. He doesn’t deserve to know my business. He just needs to know it’s not him—yet. I’ve got one foot on the back of his neck, and the other on top of his head, holding him down to the floor as I pay him absolutely no nevermind.
“I’ll do anything.”
I look around the phone’s screen, as if mildly interested in what he’s got to say.
“Anything,” he promises, grateful for my slight attention.
I kick him upward and over, onto his back. I plant my right foot onto his chest. He attempts to grab it, but I boot his hands away. When he’s finally still, I lift my left foot and bring it down onto his face.
He knows exactly what to do. I feel the tickle of his lips against my sole. Then he’s lapping at the bottom of my foot with broad, wet lengths of his tongue. When he seizes my foot again, I allow it; the man angles my heel so that his lips can encompass it. Sheer sensation overwhelms that area of my body as he greedily nibbles, licks, and chews his way around my foot. I angle my ankle so he can attempt to take my toes into his mouth, but it doesn’t work. He flops onto his belly again to service one foot while the other rests on the back of his neck. At last I put down my phone.
After long minutes of him pleasuring my left foot, he takes it between his hands and kneads the flesh. He looks up at me for validation. I’m still stroking my dick, but I don’t have to feign or exaggerate my expression. He’s making me feel good. I starre him in the eye. Nod.
That’s all he needs to commence servicing the other foot.
For a wordless half-hour or more he lies there on the hotel floor, groveling, writhing as he makes love to my feet. First one, then the other, then back again. I know he’s using the opportunity to grind his own dick into the plush carpeting, to ease the tension building in his own nuts. But he’s not attempting to grab himself. All his focus is on me.
As it should be.
Finally I remove my feet from his face. I prod him with a toe, flick a finger, to have him resume his kneeling position. He knows something’s going to happen. Will it be what he most wants?
He clears his throat. Runs his hand once more through his messy hair. Dares to speak. “Please?”
But no. Not yet.
I point my index and middle finger in his direction. Raise them twice. The motion clearly orders him to rise, and he obeys. When his hands automatically slide in front of his hips to hide his nakedness—a newly self-conscious Adam trembling before his God in front of the Tree of Life—I shake my head. His hands drop again to his side.
I circle my index finger in the air, slowly. He turns. I have him stop when he’s facing away, though allow him to look at me over his shoulder. Still stroking, I pleasure myself while I admire his firm buttocks, his thick thighs. A fantastic Chinese dragon covers his left shoulder in colorful inks. His shoulders are broad. He is, as I’ve said, a handsome man.
There’s a helpless expression in his eyes. I recognize it. It’s the look that a thousand and more men have given me, the moment they realize that I honestly, truly, see them. That I’m aroused not by some fantasy on an app, or a flawless shirtless selfie they’ve managed to pull off—no, but by the reality of them, the here and now of them as they stand naked and exposed before me. I can tell by the liquid aspect of his eyes, the unconscious parting of his lips, that he realizes I am turned on not by the sight of my own dick, but by him. By his ass. By the curve of his hips. By his presence before me. Most of all, by the potential of pleasure I see in him, in this very moment.
He turns to face me. Slowly, carefully, not breaking the contact we’re making in our held glance, he lowers himself to his knees.
Once more, he licks his lips. Clears his throat. Asks softly, “Please, sir? Have I earned it?”
I pause to give the question the consideration it deserves.
Then this time—this time, I nod.
Monday, April 9, 2018
Show-Off
So here I am, butt making a dent in my mattress, legs spread with my laptop between them. The tiny dot of a camera in the top bezel is angled squarely at my junk. Just a typical Monday morning, right?
Whenever I get exhibitionistic on some cam site, viewers always ask me, Dude, what’s getting you so hard? Here’s the serious truth: I’m not watching porn. I’m not fixated on anyone else’s broadcast. I’m just admiring the sight of my fist clutching my meat. And right now it is seriously grabbing onto those inches. My fingers are wrapped, vise-like, at the base of the shaft, stretching out my taut, fat nuts below. The top two-thirds of my meat—yeah, not the top half, but the top two-thirds, because I’m big like that—is thick and dark red from my own grip and strain for a hole that’s nowhere near.
What gets me so hard on cam is the sight of my own rock star dick. I’m am one cock-proud, and cocky, motherfucker. This crank of mine is turning on the seventy (and climbing) spectators who are using the chat box to cheer me on and express an admiration that almost equals my own.
Fuck, I love looking at myself on cam. My shaft is slick and glistening from all the lube I’ve been slathering on these past fifteen minutes. Every now and then a bead of my own natural juices will bulge at the tip; I’ll make a show of corkscrewing my finger into it, mashing the head down hard to give the illusion I’m digging deep into the tip to retrieve it. A long spider’s thread of precum connects cock to fingertip as I lift it up and bring it to my mouth. My spectators go fucking nuts when they see the long strand, plainly visible against the background of the black tee I’m wearing specifically for this purpose.
fuck look at that precum, writes someone.
This stud could breed me anytime! messages sexykittenMO.
pvt me? write a few people at once.
I’m not looking to send private messages now, though. I like to respond to my audiences in the chat room, sure. When hungdad4sexybois tells me I look hot, I’ll wipe sticky goo from my fingers and tap back, thanks hungdad. When trucker007253 asks where I live, I’ll reply, NY, trucker. I’ll answer questions about my size and my marital status. Some shit I ignore. When I get asked if I’ve ever been caught jerking off, I refrain from the obvious answer, No, because I have ears that work. When guys ask me to pull up my feet and put them behind my head, I refrain from suggesting that they go find the Ringling Brothers if they’re looking for acrobats. The dumb shit, I just refrain from answering at all.
But damn. I sure love the sight of my image on the computer screen, choking my big fat hog and grinning like a fool while I do it. Seeing how turned on and erect I am just makes me even more turned on and erect; I’m trapped in a pleasurable feedback loop. I’m a perpetual boner machine, watching my fist slide up and down over my gleaming shaft. The bout of ego doesn’t bother me. It’s like my mom always used to say: if you’re gonna be doing some self-loving, best love yourself while you do it.
(Note: my mom never actually said that.)
Show you feet, says m4hotfems in chat.
lift up that shirt dude, says boyfordads.
Someone named torpedo announces, I’m camming too. Check me out, stud.
My enjoyment of cam rooms and sites always takes place in three acts. Act One is the slow-moving scene setter in which I turn on the cam and wait to see who starts watching. Act Two is the bulk of the show, when I have more than a couple of dozen viewers, but less than a hundred. It’s during Act Two that I can chat with the guys and gals viewing me, thank them individually for their compliments, answer their questions, grant a few of their requests, if they strike my fancy. I love Act Two.
Act Three, though, begins when the number of my viewers outstrips my ability to keep up with them. There’s something about the triple digits that pushes the whole experience over a cliff. Onscreen chat happens too fast and frequently; I have to resort to a less personal thanks guys! after a spate of compliments scroll down my screen. I get too many private messages to really keep up—it feels like I’m almost spending more time typing than showing off—and typing is not why I’m here.
Today, Act Three begins about forty-five minutes into my show. My viewership hits the triple digits, dragging me to the top half of the first page of broadcasts. Having more people in my room brings in even more people—and more of them are making demands. More of them are trying to lure my viewers to their own rooms. It’s a little bit of a clusterfuck.
I’m used to this pattern, though. I know it’s coming, the moment that little green dot above my screen blinks on. I’ve been down this road many times before. So I thank my viewers, encourage them to follow me, and sign off. Sure, I didn’t shoot . . . but my cam shows aren’t about the climax.
They’re about the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.
I stand up, stretch my stiff legs. Snap down the lid of the laptop. Time for a shower, anyway. I pad over the bedroom floor and across the hall into the bathroom, where I wash the sticky lube from my dick and let the warm water soothe my aching boner. My dick’s soft, but still hefty, by the time I’m toweling off.
I’m still damp and clutching my towel when I scoop up my phone from the end of the bed where I’d left it. Several notifications from Scruff have filled the front screen; I let my thumb unlock the phone to check them.
There’s a message from a guy less than five miles away. Were you just on cam? he’s asked, naming the site where I’d been publicly masturbating. Hot as hell if you were. Woof.
My first thought is a startled How the fuck . . . ? My Scruff profile uses my face; on the cam site I’d only presented myself from the bottom of my nose down. When I realize I’ve used the same name on both places, though, I relax. Plus, the guy’s fucking hot.
That was me. Enjoy the show?
Fuck yeah, he says. You’re amazing.
Like I said, this fellow is pretty amazing himself. Mid-thirties, body of a muscled bulldog, dark red beard. Rapidly he sends me a few shots of himself—one on the beach, tanned and sweaty, one of his round bubble butt bent over a bare mattress in a dark room. I flipped through those and the others, dick beginning to harden again.
You’re the one who’s looking amazing, I tell him.
I get dressed while I wait for the next message. I don’t have to wait long, though. I really need to give head this morning. Can’t host, though.
Honestly, the offer of head is highly attractive to me. I can’t host, either, though, and tell him so.
Kinda unsure if you’d be into this. But I’ve got a van we could meet in, and I know a place off the parkway we could do this, if you’re up for now. Before I can tap back a reply, he adds, There’s a hundred bucks in it for you.
A hundred bucks? To get blown? I ask. My dick’s now filling out the pouch of my jeans.
Two hundred if you can do it now. Might not be your bag but you’d be worth it.
Tell me where and when, I tell the guy.
I’m grinning like a fool the entire drive up there. Nah, my smile’s not about the validation the transaction implies. I don’t need validation—though it’s pleasant when I get it. I’m just thinking how god-damned funny it is still to be doing this at my fucking age. When I was a twink, sure, I could see guys shelling out their hard-earned bucks for a taste of me. But midway through my fifties? Preposterous, right?
Yet I’ve been doing this for how many decades, now? Not soliciting—never soliciting. But accepting.
And here I am, hopping into yet another suburban minivan in a parking lot with a stranger. He removes his sunglasses. That pic in his profile must’ve been very recent—he’s even wearing the same tee/hoodie combo that’s in his main photo. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he comments, as I slide into the passenger seat and pull his door shut.
“Really?” is my only question.
“Nah. Not really,” he admits. His dark eyes are looking me over. Up. Down. Mostly down, checking for signs of stirring in my crotch. “You seemed like the kind of guy who would step up to the plate. Here you are.”
“Here I am,” I agree. I’ve dressed casually. I’ve made myself easily accessible—in a parked car emergency situation, you don’t want to be fiddling with any more fasteners than you really have to. So I’ve got on a flannel shirt, unbuttoned. The dark V-neck tee I’d been wearing on cam, earlier. Jeans—no belt. I sit there with my hands at my side, letting him see everything. “You want to . . . ?” I rub my thumb over my fingers.
“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. A moment later, I’m pushing folded bills into my own pocket. “Let me see that dick again.”
“Up here?” I ask.
He looks around and rethinks his request. “Back seat. Yeah? Think it’d be better?”
I absolutely thought it would be better. There’s enough room for me to squeeze between the seats; he follows so that we’re sitting in the minivan’s back seat, where the shadows are deeper. He reaches for my groin, rubbing the flat of his hand over the taut denim.
“Fuck,” he says. “You know how many dudes wanted this dick this morning?”
I nod. “I know.”
“Now I’ve got it.”
“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” I tell him. (Honestly, it sounded better in my head.)
“You hard?” I nod again. He licks his lips. “Let me see.”
I unbutton my jeans. Unzip. Immediately my dick flops out. No underwear—like I said, in car sex, the less you have to mess with, the better. My meat is hard. Even though it’s been through a shower, it still feels moist and slightly swollen from the thorough lubing it had during the hour I’d been on cam. Kind of like a sponge swollen from an excess of fluid. And god knows my balls have an excess of fluid today.
“Shiiiiiiiiit,” he whispers, drawing out the word. My dick jumps when he reaches to take it in his hand. “That’s what I’m talkin' about.”
“All yours.”
He urges me to get comfortable. There’s only so much comfort to be had in the back seat of a minivan, but I pull myself sideways so that my back is pressing against the door’s armrest. One of my legs is up on the seat itself, and he’s got a shoulder leaning on my thigh. With my pants pulled down a few inches from my waist, my dick’s pointing at the roof when he finally opens his mouth and engulfs it. One of his hands cups my nuts.
“That what you wanted?” I ask. “That big dick in your mouth?”
His reply is a muffled gulp of pleasure.
“So make it feel good, then.”
He replies to my demand by taking all my inches down his throat. The fur of his red beard tickles against the inside of my thighs. He’s surprisingly good, this bulldog cocksucker. Fucker could have anyone he wanted if he walked into the Eagle. Yet here he is on a weekday morning, sucking off some strange dude in a suburban strip mall parking lot. I’m happy he’s enjoying himself, though—and I can tell he’s really enjoying himself. His eyes are closed as he bobs up and down on my meat. Every time he reaches the base he lets out a contented little grunt. The dude is lost in a sexual fugue, caring about nothing but the sensation of his lips around hard cock, of his throat as my engorged head stretches it. When I let loose with a glob of precum, he lets loose a rumble in his chest, at the salty taste.
The street we’re parked on is sleepy and not much traveled; it’s too early for lunch and no one’s visiting the ramshackle travel agency. The van’s back windows are tinted, and a building blocks the front windscreen, so I’m not much worried about being caught. I let out a few groans to let him know what good work he’s doing. They’re not feigned, not forced. I’m genuinely getting off on this scene. His spit is slopping out of his mouth and down the length of my shaft, drawing wet lines of sensation down my nuts as it puddles on the seat. He wraps his thumb and forefinger down at the base, making me more rigid than I already am.
Eventually he comes up for air. “Do what you did earlier,” he asks, staring directly into my eyes.
“What was that?” Earlier covers a lot of territory, for me.
“Put on a show.” He pulls himself up slightly to rest his weight on his forearms. “Stroke for me. Let me watch. Like this morning.”
There’s something so fucking arousing about the way he’s making his request. I spread my legs a little wider and spit in my hand. Then, like I’m considering the request—casually, you know, the way guys always do when they’re masturbating while thinking over proposals—I reverse my usual jack-off fist and start stroking with my thumb at the bottom, bouncing against my pelvic bone. Usually drives them wild on cam.
He’s no different. I can feel the stiff intake of breath as it stirs the wet patch on my nuts. “Fuck,” is the only word he mutters.
Yeah. I can do this. I’m aware of his intense presence between my legs, mere inches away from my crank. All my attention is focused on my dick, though. This is what he wants to see. Intense, sexual, preoccupation. I make-believe he’s not even there.
One of my hands reaches up and squeezes my own tit. My jaw drops, like I’m loving it. “Fffffffuck,” I spit out.
“Christ, you are hot,” he whispers, watching the show. “Can’t get over how I’m actually right here in front of you, watching you choke that fat dick.”
I pretend not to hear him. I spit again, apply the liquid to my slick meat. It’s red, now. Throbbing. I thwack it into my palm with a wet slap.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. “I didn’t get to see you cum on your cam show.”
“You want me to cum?” My voice is low. Deliberate. When he nods, I look at him directly. “Tell me.”
“Cum for me,” he says, excited. He hasn’t opened his pants the entire time we’ve been together, but now he reaches for his zipper and pulls out a cut five-incher that he begins to beat furiously. “Dude, please cum for me. Shoot it.”
“Yeah. I’ll shoot it.” I pull back into my cock-proud self-regard, staring at my fat prick while I pull on it. “You’d sure like that, wouldn’t you.”
“I’d take all your loads if I was lucky enough to be your boyfriend.” He’s pulled himself on his side, now, so he can whack. He’s beating so audibly that his balls are slapping against the denim of his jeans. “Take all your loads. Mouth and ass. Not a drop would touch the ground. Fuck, if I was your boyfriend, you’d be drained twenty-four/seven.”
I’m digging how deep into the fantasy he is. As he keeps talking about all the things he’d do for me if I were his boyfriend, I pick up the pace to let him now how much he’s turning me on. “I’m getting close,” I warn him.
“Feed me,” he says, abruptly shifting place to position his mouth near my cock head. “Feed your boyfriend. Fucking feed your boyfriend.” While he repeats the words, he starts ejaculating into his own cupped hand. “Fucking feed me, fuck, feed me please, motherfucker.”
“Here it comes,” I tell him. I can tell from the pulse in my nuts that it’s going to be a big one. There’s just something about the sensation of the spit and the close quarters and his insistent boyfriend chatter that’s pushing me over the edge. Obligingly I angle my dick so it’s pointing at him. His mouth opens wide to watch the flying seed. I feel his wet pursed lips close over my meat, hungrily sucking the ejaculate as it spews.
His eyes half-closed, he nurses at my softening meat. I let him. His dime, after all. Finally he wakens from his sexual reverie. “You’re going to let me do that again sometime.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Not a question. You’re definitely going to let me do that again. Soon.”
I shrug, and smile to myself. Who am I to argue? I’m already picturing another time with this guy. I’m picturing the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.
Whenever I get exhibitionistic on some cam site, viewers always ask me, Dude, what’s getting you so hard? Here’s the serious truth: I’m not watching porn. I’m not fixated on anyone else’s broadcast. I’m just admiring the sight of my fist clutching my meat. And right now it is seriously grabbing onto those inches. My fingers are wrapped, vise-like, at the base of the shaft, stretching out my taut, fat nuts below. The top two-thirds of my meat—yeah, not the top half, but the top two-thirds, because I’m big like that—is thick and dark red from my own grip and strain for a hole that’s nowhere near.
What gets me so hard on cam is the sight of my own rock star dick. I’m am one cock-proud, and cocky, motherfucker. This crank of mine is turning on the seventy (and climbing) spectators who are using the chat box to cheer me on and express an admiration that almost equals my own.
Fuck, I love looking at myself on cam. My shaft is slick and glistening from all the lube I’ve been slathering on these past fifteen minutes. Every now and then a bead of my own natural juices will bulge at the tip; I’ll make a show of corkscrewing my finger into it, mashing the head down hard to give the illusion I’m digging deep into the tip to retrieve it. A long spider’s thread of precum connects cock to fingertip as I lift it up and bring it to my mouth. My spectators go fucking nuts when they see the long strand, plainly visible against the background of the black tee I’m wearing specifically for this purpose.
fuck look at that precum, writes someone.
This stud could breed me anytime! messages sexykittenMO.
pvt me? write a few people at once.
I’m not looking to send private messages now, though. I like to respond to my audiences in the chat room, sure. When hungdad4sexybois tells me I look hot, I’ll wipe sticky goo from my fingers and tap back, thanks hungdad. When trucker007253 asks where I live, I’ll reply, NY, trucker. I’ll answer questions about my size and my marital status. Some shit I ignore. When I get asked if I’ve ever been caught jerking off, I refrain from the obvious answer, No, because I have ears that work. When guys ask me to pull up my feet and put them behind my head, I refrain from suggesting that they go find the Ringling Brothers if they’re looking for acrobats. The dumb shit, I just refrain from answering at all.
But damn. I sure love the sight of my image on the computer screen, choking my big fat hog and grinning like a fool while I do it. Seeing how turned on and erect I am just makes me even more turned on and erect; I’m trapped in a pleasurable feedback loop. I’m a perpetual boner machine, watching my fist slide up and down over my gleaming shaft. The bout of ego doesn’t bother me. It’s like my mom always used to say: if you’re gonna be doing some self-loving, best love yourself while you do it.
(Note: my mom never actually said that.)
Show you feet, says m4hotfems in chat.
lift up that shirt dude, says boyfordads.
Someone named torpedo announces, I’m camming too. Check me out, stud.
My enjoyment of cam rooms and sites always takes place in three acts. Act One is the slow-moving scene setter in which I turn on the cam and wait to see who starts watching. Act Two is the bulk of the show, when I have more than a couple of dozen viewers, but less than a hundred. It’s during Act Two that I can chat with the guys and gals viewing me, thank them individually for their compliments, answer their questions, grant a few of their requests, if they strike my fancy. I love Act Two.
Act Three, though, begins when the number of my viewers outstrips my ability to keep up with them. There’s something about the triple digits that pushes the whole experience over a cliff. Onscreen chat happens too fast and frequently; I have to resort to a less personal thanks guys! after a spate of compliments scroll down my screen. I get too many private messages to really keep up—it feels like I’m almost spending more time typing than showing off—and typing is not why I’m here.
Today, Act Three begins about forty-five minutes into my show. My viewership hits the triple digits, dragging me to the top half of the first page of broadcasts. Having more people in my room brings in even more people—and more of them are making demands. More of them are trying to lure my viewers to their own rooms. It’s a little bit of a clusterfuck.
I’m used to this pattern, though. I know it’s coming, the moment that little green dot above my screen blinks on. I’ve been down this road many times before. So I thank my viewers, encourage them to follow me, and sign off. Sure, I didn’t shoot . . . but my cam shows aren’t about the climax.
They’re about the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.
I stand up, stretch my stiff legs. Snap down the lid of the laptop. Time for a shower, anyway. I pad over the bedroom floor and across the hall into the bathroom, where I wash the sticky lube from my dick and let the warm water soothe my aching boner. My dick’s soft, but still hefty, by the time I’m toweling off.
I’m still damp and clutching my towel when I scoop up my phone from the end of the bed where I’d left it. Several notifications from Scruff have filled the front screen; I let my thumb unlock the phone to check them.
There’s a message from a guy less than five miles away. Were you just on cam? he’s asked, naming the site where I’d been publicly masturbating. Hot as hell if you were. Woof.
My first thought is a startled How the fuck . . . ? My Scruff profile uses my face; on the cam site I’d only presented myself from the bottom of my nose down. When I realize I’ve used the same name on both places, though, I relax. Plus, the guy’s fucking hot.
That was me. Enjoy the show?
Fuck yeah, he says. You’re amazing.
Like I said, this fellow is pretty amazing himself. Mid-thirties, body of a muscled bulldog, dark red beard. Rapidly he sends me a few shots of himself—one on the beach, tanned and sweaty, one of his round bubble butt bent over a bare mattress in a dark room. I flipped through those and the others, dick beginning to harden again.
You’re the one who’s looking amazing, I tell him.
I get dressed while I wait for the next message. I don’t have to wait long, though. I really need to give head this morning. Can’t host, though.
Honestly, the offer of head is highly attractive to me. I can’t host, either, though, and tell him so.
Kinda unsure if you’d be into this. But I’ve got a van we could meet in, and I know a place off the parkway we could do this, if you’re up for now. Before I can tap back a reply, he adds, There’s a hundred bucks in it for you.
A hundred bucks? To get blown? I ask. My dick’s now filling out the pouch of my jeans.
Two hundred if you can do it now. Might not be your bag but you’d be worth it.
Tell me where and when, I tell the guy.
I’m grinning like a fool the entire drive up there. Nah, my smile’s not about the validation the transaction implies. I don’t need validation—though it’s pleasant when I get it. I’m just thinking how god-damned funny it is still to be doing this at my fucking age. When I was a twink, sure, I could see guys shelling out their hard-earned bucks for a taste of me. But midway through my fifties? Preposterous, right?
Yet I’ve been doing this for how many decades, now? Not soliciting—never soliciting. But accepting.
And here I am, hopping into yet another suburban minivan in a parking lot with a stranger. He removes his sunglasses. That pic in his profile must’ve been very recent—he’s even wearing the same tee/hoodie combo that’s in his main photo. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he comments, as I slide into the passenger seat and pull his door shut.
“Really?” is my only question.
“Nah. Not really,” he admits. His dark eyes are looking me over. Up. Down. Mostly down, checking for signs of stirring in my crotch. “You seemed like the kind of guy who would step up to the plate. Here you are.”
“Here I am,” I agree. I’ve dressed casually. I’ve made myself easily accessible—in a parked car emergency situation, you don’t want to be fiddling with any more fasteners than you really have to. So I’ve got on a flannel shirt, unbuttoned. The dark V-neck tee I’d been wearing on cam, earlier. Jeans—no belt. I sit there with my hands at my side, letting him see everything. “You want to . . . ?” I rub my thumb over my fingers.
“Yeah, yeah.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. A moment later, I’m pushing folded bills into my own pocket. “Let me see that dick again.”
“Up here?” I ask.
He looks around and rethinks his request. “Back seat. Yeah? Think it’d be better?”
I absolutely thought it would be better. There’s enough room for me to squeeze between the seats; he follows so that we’re sitting in the minivan’s back seat, where the shadows are deeper. He reaches for my groin, rubbing the flat of his hand over the taut denim.
“Fuck,” he says. “You know how many dudes wanted this dick this morning?”
I nod. “I know.”
“Now I’ve got it.”
“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” I tell him. (Honestly, it sounded better in my head.)
“You hard?” I nod again. He licks his lips. “Let me see.”
I unbutton my jeans. Unzip. Immediately my dick flops out. No underwear—like I said, in car sex, the less you have to mess with, the better. My meat is hard. Even though it’s been through a shower, it still feels moist and slightly swollen from the thorough lubing it had during the hour I’d been on cam. Kind of like a sponge swollen from an excess of fluid. And god knows my balls have an excess of fluid today.
“Shiiiiiiiiit,” he whispers, drawing out the word. My dick jumps when he reaches to take it in his hand. “That’s what I’m talkin' about.”
“All yours.”
He urges me to get comfortable. There’s only so much comfort to be had in the back seat of a minivan, but I pull myself sideways so that my back is pressing against the door’s armrest. One of my legs is up on the seat itself, and he’s got a shoulder leaning on my thigh. With my pants pulled down a few inches from my waist, my dick’s pointing at the roof when he finally opens his mouth and engulfs it. One of his hands cups my nuts.
“That what you wanted?” I ask. “That big dick in your mouth?”
His reply is a muffled gulp of pleasure.
“So make it feel good, then.”
He replies to my demand by taking all my inches down his throat. The fur of his red beard tickles against the inside of my thighs. He’s surprisingly good, this bulldog cocksucker. Fucker could have anyone he wanted if he walked into the Eagle. Yet here he is on a weekday morning, sucking off some strange dude in a suburban strip mall parking lot. I’m happy he’s enjoying himself, though—and I can tell he’s really enjoying himself. His eyes are closed as he bobs up and down on my meat. Every time he reaches the base he lets out a contented little grunt. The dude is lost in a sexual fugue, caring about nothing but the sensation of his lips around hard cock, of his throat as my engorged head stretches it. When I let loose with a glob of precum, he lets loose a rumble in his chest, at the salty taste.
The street we’re parked on is sleepy and not much traveled; it’s too early for lunch and no one’s visiting the ramshackle travel agency. The van’s back windows are tinted, and a building blocks the front windscreen, so I’m not much worried about being caught. I let out a few groans to let him know what good work he’s doing. They’re not feigned, not forced. I’m genuinely getting off on this scene. His spit is slopping out of his mouth and down the length of my shaft, drawing wet lines of sensation down my nuts as it puddles on the seat. He wraps his thumb and forefinger down at the base, making me more rigid than I already am.
Eventually he comes up for air. “Do what you did earlier,” he asks, staring directly into my eyes.
“What was that?” Earlier covers a lot of territory, for me.
“Put on a show.” He pulls himself up slightly to rest his weight on his forearms. “Stroke for me. Let me watch. Like this morning.”
There’s something so fucking arousing about the way he’s making his request. I spread my legs a little wider and spit in my hand. Then, like I’m considering the request—casually, you know, the way guys always do when they’re masturbating while thinking over proposals—I reverse my usual jack-off fist and start stroking with my thumb at the bottom, bouncing against my pelvic bone. Usually drives them wild on cam.
He’s no different. I can feel the stiff intake of breath as it stirs the wet patch on my nuts. “Fuck,” is the only word he mutters.
Yeah. I can do this. I’m aware of his intense presence between my legs, mere inches away from my crank. All my attention is focused on my dick, though. This is what he wants to see. Intense, sexual, preoccupation. I make-believe he’s not even there.
One of my hands reaches up and squeezes my own tit. My jaw drops, like I’m loving it. “Fffffffuck,” I spit out.
“Christ, you are hot,” he whispers, watching the show. “Can’t get over how I’m actually right here in front of you, watching you choke that fat dick.”
I pretend not to hear him. I spit again, apply the liquid to my slick meat. It’s red, now. Throbbing. I thwack it into my palm with a wet slap.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. “I didn’t get to see you cum on your cam show.”
“You want me to cum?” My voice is low. Deliberate. When he nods, I look at him directly. “Tell me.”
“Cum for me,” he says, excited. He hasn’t opened his pants the entire time we’ve been together, but now he reaches for his zipper and pulls out a cut five-incher that he begins to beat furiously. “Dude, please cum for me. Shoot it.”
“Yeah. I’ll shoot it.” I pull back into my cock-proud self-regard, staring at my fat prick while I pull on it. “You’d sure like that, wouldn’t you.”
“I’d take all your loads if I was lucky enough to be your boyfriend.” He’s pulled himself on his side, now, so he can whack. He’s beating so audibly that his balls are slapping against the denim of his jeans. “Take all your loads. Mouth and ass. Not a drop would touch the ground. Fuck, if I was your boyfriend, you’d be drained twenty-four/seven.”
I’m digging how deep into the fantasy he is. As he keeps talking about all the things he’d do for me if I were his boyfriend, I pick up the pace to let him now how much he’s turning me on. “I’m getting close,” I warn him.
“Feed me,” he says, abruptly shifting place to position his mouth near my cock head. “Feed your boyfriend. Fucking feed your boyfriend.” While he repeats the words, he starts ejaculating into his own cupped hand. “Fucking feed me, fuck, feed me please, motherfucker.”
“Here it comes,” I tell him. I can tell from the pulse in my nuts that it’s going to be a big one. There’s just something about the sensation of the spit and the close quarters and his insistent boyfriend chatter that’s pushing me over the edge. Obligingly I angle my dick so it’s pointing at him. His mouth opens wide to watch the flying seed. I feel his wet pursed lips close over my meat, hungrily sucking the ejaculate as it spews.
His eyes half-closed, he nurses at my softening meat. I let him. His dime, after all. Finally he wakens from his sexual reverie. “You’re going to let me do that again sometime.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Not a question. You’re definitely going to let me do that again. Soon.”
I shrug, and smile to myself. Who am I to argue? I’m already picturing another time with this guy. I’m picturing the raw sensation of my fist traveling the length of my dick, and the pleasure of watching myself . . . and being watched.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Dad
“Damn, it’s cold out!” My entrance into the twenty-fifth-story apartment is as vigorous as the blustery wind outside. “Hey dad,” I say, giving the older man standing there a quick hug. I shut the door and toss my backpack onto the dining room chair nearby. I use the tips of my toes to pry loose the heels, then kick my sneakers off so that they fly up in the air and land in a haphazard mess in the middle of the hallway. “Man, it’s good to see you. How’s mom?”
The man stares at me as I make myself right at home. I’ve never been there before, but it’s easy enough to find the kitchen. “She’s good, son,” he says to my back.
I’ve been bending over in the fridge, and emerge with a bottle of beer. I don’t like beer. I don’t intend to drink much of it. But I pop the top and take a chug, for show. “Awesome.” I’m taking another chug as I walk to the living room. I’ve got on a sweater, but it comes off before I put the beer down on the coffee table. I use a coaster. I’m not a savage.
The man has followed me over, somewhat dazed at the way I’ve treated his apartment as my own. He’s a good looking man—probably quite a looker when he was younger. He’s in his sixties now, though. Still distinguished. Still has a head of gray hair that’s cut expensively and styled well. At the moment he’s wearing a tank top that reveals a thatch of chest hair, dark at the edges and silver in the middle, and a pair of designer jeans.
I look him dead in the eyes. “Fuck,” I say in a low voice. “It sure is good to see you, dad.” Then I lean down, entwine my fingers in his hair, and pull his face to mine. My lips surround his in a deep, wet kiss. It’s not the kind of kiss most sons have for their dads.
I pull away, and smile at him. He’s breathing heavily. Beneath that expensive denim, he’s rock hard.
Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.
I flop down on the sofa, legs wide apart. Then I take another swig from the beer—my last, because that’s about as much of the stuff as I can stand. I wriggle my toes. “So what’s my dad up to tonight?”
He’s staring at me, entranced. The heel of his hand rubs against the front of his trousers. “I’m here for you, son,” he says, his voice husky.
“I’m here for you,” I softly correct him.
He falls to one knee, then the other, in front of me. His throat is still choked with emotion as he says, “Let me give you a foot rub, son.”
I let my calf rest on the coffee table. “Oh man, that’d be great, dad. It’s been a long time since you gave me one of your foot rubs.”
Slowly, reverently, he takes my foot into his hands. I feel the warmth of his flesh against its top and its sole. He leans forward, close enough that I can feel heat from his breath on my toes. Then he places them against his cheek, and holds them tight.
I lean back, smile, and allow him the liberty. I’m a good boy to my dad.
He’s a client. I’ve never seen this guy in the flesh before, never been in his apartment. He reached out to me online just the night before to say that if I was willing to indulge him in a very specific fantasy, he’d be more than willing to pay for a couple of hours of my time. He’s a married man, with a ‘secret apartment’ in one of the city’s more desirable neighborhoods. I don’t know how anyone manages to have a ‘secret apartment’ in this day and age, but hey. More power to him.
It’s a nice apartment—not large, but gracious. Elaborate moldings. High ceilings. A modern, renovated kitchen. The furniture is clean and tasteful without being fussy. I look around and take in the books, the CDs, the collection of porn DVDs near the flatscreen. All the while, he continues to worship and rub my feet. He’s removed the socks. Sometimes he kisses them as well.
“I shouldn’t have drunk that beer,” I say in a murmur. “Maybe I better lie down a little bit.” Without waiting for permission, I rise and make my way to the bedroom.
The bed is neatly made. I flop down on it. “Let me make you more comfortable, son,” he says, as he unbuttons my shirt. Then his hands fumble with my pants. I allow him to undress me as if I’m his child, until he’s down to my shorts. I stick my hands inside, and rub my cock. “Wow,” he says, looking at me. “Wow, son.”
“You’re so good to me, dad,” I tell him. I reach around to the back of his neck, and pull him down to me again. Our bodies press together as we kiss. He’s a good kisser. I could make out with him for as long as he wanted. He presses into the hardness between my legs. I make it swell, so he can feel it against his flesh.
“Please let me suck your cock,” he begs, when he comes up for air. “Let me suck my boy’s cock.”
I look at him with wide eyes, “Fuck, dad, really?” Then, more conspiratorially, “I don’t know what my girlfriend would say. Would it be just between us?”
I pull down my shorts so he can see the goods. His eyes are even bigger than mine. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“It’ll be just between you and me, right? Right, dad? No one else has to know?”
I’m pushing every single one of his buttons. No. I’m mashing those buttons with the heels of both hands and my jack-booted foot, hard. He’s breathing so hard I’m actually almost worried about a heart attack. “Just between a dad and his boy,” he rasps.
“Well . . . okay, I guess. . . .” As if there were any doubt.
He’s completely lost in the fantasy as he lies between my legs and lets his mouth travel up and down on my meat. The sounds of enjoyment I make are completely genuine. He’s good at what he does. I’m enjoying the fuck out of this guy, and his excitement feeds mine. When I reach between his legs, his cock is dripping wet. I thought I pumped out the precut—I’m a dry spigot compared to Dad.
He starts to moan when I rub his hole. “Have you ever been fucked, dad?” I ask, in the softest of whisper.
“Yes, son,” he says, looking up at me from beneath my rigid erection. “Your dad loves to be fucked.”
“Wow,” I say. “You mean, my own dad lets guys fuck his ass like pussy?”
He moans and his eyes half-close. I’m stomping on those buttons again.
“Can I try?” At my question, he looks at me helplessly. “Is that okay? Can I put it in you, dad?”
“Please,” he begs. “Please, son. Please fuck me.”
I’m already reaching for the bottle of lube by the bedside. It’s on plain display. I’m rubbing some into my meat and some onto his hole. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you, dad. I bet it’s sweet. I bet it’s soft and warm and—fuck.” I’ve navigated behind him, and gently positioned him onto his knees. He’s groaning and moaning loudly and rubbing his forehead against the pillow. “Fuck, it’s just like pussy, dad. Just like pussy.”
He does feel good. Easy to penetrate, slick and warm. I’m as hard as cement as I start to fuck his hole. “I need this so badly,” he confesses to me. “I needed my son inside me.”
“I told you I was here for you tonight,” I sat to him, right into his ear.
And I am there for him. For the next hour I fuck him in every position. From behind, where I plunge in and out the entire length of my cock. On his back, where I kiss him sweetly and grind in deep. On his side, so I can hold him tight and tell him how proud I am to have him as my dad. I even get him to slide head-first off the bed, so I can fuck his hole as he props his butt in the air against the mattress. He loves every fucking minute of it. Whenever he opens his eyes wide enough to meet mine, they’re flooded with adoration.
This is for him. Completely for him, just between a dad and a son.
“You’re making me so fucking hot, sir,” I tell him, as I get too close to turn back. “Tell me where to cum.”
He wrestles with the decision for a moment. “Pull out and cum on my dick and nuts,” he says.
I’m fucking him on his back again at that point. I pull out, shuffle back on my knees, stand at the bed’s foot, and yank him down. My hips are jutting forward as I use the lube and juice I’ve already been pumping out to slick up my cock. Obscenely I masturbate for him, making as much noise with my fist as possible. “You are so fucking hot, Dad,” I whisper. “Maybe sometime you’d let me cum inside you.”
“Yes,” he says, playing with his own dick. “Please, son. Please cum inside me next time.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “You want your son’s sperm in you? Fuck, that’d be hot. I want it, dad. Next time I’m breeding your hole. Breeding my dad’s hot hole.” I’m pushing myself over the edge now. Cum sprays out of my dick and paints his junk. After he feels the first jet, he’s rubbing it into his skin. I shoot more liquid over his cock. Immediately he uses it as lube, and jacks himself into a frenzy. I let the head of my throbbing, still-hard cock nudge against his hole. Rub it around. Let it dip in and out as he continues to jack. Then he’s climaxing. His body contracts and writhes as his short, fat cock unleashes an even bigger load than I’ve produced. It seems to go on for minutes. He gasps and chokes for air, then shudders once, twice, three times, four times, as the sensations wrack his body.
I collapse on the bed beside him. “Thank you, sir,” I say, as he rests his cheek on my chest.
It’s a couple of minutes later when his head is clear and he comes to. He looks at the clock. “You still have a few minutes left,” he says. “Please let me wash you off.”
“I’d like that a lot,” I say, as I kiss his forehead.
He warms up the shower for me, and joins me inside it. Once we’re both under the prickly jets he uses his hands to wipe the semen from my body. He soaps me all over, and rinses me off. I let him do what he wants, as I enjoy the sensations of skin and soap and slippery flesh.
Then we’re back to the living room, where he helps me dress as tenderly as he undressed me. I’m putting on my own shoes when he grabs my wallet out of my pants. I don’t mind that he checks out my drivers’ license. He already knows my name and age. “Looking a little empty here,” he murmurs, which is accurate, since besides my license the only thing I’m carrying is a Visa and a MetroCard. “Let me make sure you have some spending money,” he says, as he slips several large bills inside.
I don’t even count to see that it’s the amount we agreed upon for the two hours I’ve been there. I know he’s good for it. “Don’t take the subway back to the Terminal,” he says, slipping a twenty into my jeans pocket. “It’s late and rough out there. Dad wants you to take a cab.”
“Yes sir,” I say. I let him zip up my jacket before I lean in for a final kiss.
He puts his hand on top of mine, stopping me before I go. “I’m going to want you to come back again,” he says in a whisper.
I nod, then take my leave. I’ll be back again all right, to that secret apartment high in the city, where everything that happens is just between my dad and myself.
The man stares at me as I make myself right at home. I’ve never been there before, but it’s easy enough to find the kitchen. “She’s good, son,” he says to my back.
I’ve been bending over in the fridge, and emerge with a bottle of beer. I don’t like beer. I don’t intend to drink much of it. But I pop the top and take a chug, for show. “Awesome.” I’m taking another chug as I walk to the living room. I’ve got on a sweater, but it comes off before I put the beer down on the coffee table. I use a coaster. I’m not a savage.
The man has followed me over, somewhat dazed at the way I’ve treated his apartment as my own. He’s a good looking man—probably quite a looker when he was younger. He’s in his sixties now, though. Still distinguished. Still has a head of gray hair that’s cut expensively and styled well. At the moment he’s wearing a tank top that reveals a thatch of chest hair, dark at the edges and silver in the middle, and a pair of designer jeans.
I look him dead in the eyes. “Fuck,” I say in a low voice. “It sure is good to see you, dad.” Then I lean down, entwine my fingers in his hair, and pull his face to mine. My lips surround his in a deep, wet kiss. It’s not the kind of kiss most sons have for their dads.
I pull away, and smile at him. He’s breathing heavily. Beneath that expensive denim, he’s rock hard.
Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.
I flop down on the sofa, legs wide apart. Then I take another swig from the beer—my last, because that’s about as much of the stuff as I can stand. I wriggle my toes. “So what’s my dad up to tonight?”
He’s staring at me, entranced. The heel of his hand rubs against the front of his trousers. “I’m here for you, son,” he says, his voice husky.
“I’m here for you,” I softly correct him.
He falls to one knee, then the other, in front of me. His throat is still choked with emotion as he says, “Let me give you a foot rub, son.”
I let my calf rest on the coffee table. “Oh man, that’d be great, dad. It’s been a long time since you gave me one of your foot rubs.”
Slowly, reverently, he takes my foot into his hands. I feel the warmth of his flesh against its top and its sole. He leans forward, close enough that I can feel heat from his breath on my toes. Then he places them against his cheek, and holds them tight.
I lean back, smile, and allow him the liberty. I’m a good boy to my dad.
He’s a client. I’ve never seen this guy in the flesh before, never been in his apartment. He reached out to me online just the night before to say that if I was willing to indulge him in a very specific fantasy, he’d be more than willing to pay for a couple of hours of my time. He’s a married man, with a ‘secret apartment’ in one of the city’s more desirable neighborhoods. I don’t know how anyone manages to have a ‘secret apartment’ in this day and age, but hey. More power to him.
It’s a nice apartment—not large, but gracious. Elaborate moldings. High ceilings. A modern, renovated kitchen. The furniture is clean and tasteful without being fussy. I look around and take in the books, the CDs, the collection of porn DVDs near the flatscreen. All the while, he continues to worship and rub my feet. He’s removed the socks. Sometimes he kisses them as well.
“I shouldn’t have drunk that beer,” I say in a murmur. “Maybe I better lie down a little bit.” Without waiting for permission, I rise and make my way to the bedroom.
The bed is neatly made. I flop down on it. “Let me make you more comfortable, son,” he says, as he unbuttons my shirt. Then his hands fumble with my pants. I allow him to undress me as if I’m his child, until he’s down to my shorts. I stick my hands inside, and rub my cock. “Wow,” he says, looking at me. “Wow, son.”
“You’re so good to me, dad,” I tell him. I reach around to the back of his neck, and pull him down to me again. Our bodies press together as we kiss. He’s a good kisser. I could make out with him for as long as he wanted. He presses into the hardness between my legs. I make it swell, so he can feel it against his flesh.
“Please let me suck your cock,” he begs, when he comes up for air. “Let me suck my boy’s cock.”
I look at him with wide eyes, “Fuck, dad, really?” Then, more conspiratorially, “I don’t know what my girlfriend would say. Would it be just between us?”
I pull down my shorts so he can see the goods. His eyes are even bigger than mine. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“It’ll be just between you and me, right? Right, dad? No one else has to know?”
I’m pushing every single one of his buttons. No. I’m mashing those buttons with the heels of both hands and my jack-booted foot, hard. He’s breathing so hard I’m actually almost worried about a heart attack. “Just between a dad and his boy,” he rasps.
“Well . . . okay, I guess. . . .” As if there were any doubt.
He’s completely lost in the fantasy as he lies between my legs and lets his mouth travel up and down on my meat. The sounds of enjoyment I make are completely genuine. He’s good at what he does. I’m enjoying the fuck out of this guy, and his excitement feeds mine. When I reach between his legs, his cock is dripping wet. I thought I pumped out the precut—I’m a dry spigot compared to Dad.
He starts to moan when I rub his hole. “Have you ever been fucked, dad?” I ask, in the softest of whisper.
“Yes, son,” he says, looking up at me from beneath my rigid erection. “Your dad loves to be fucked.”
“Wow,” I say. “You mean, my own dad lets guys fuck his ass like pussy?”
He moans and his eyes half-close. I’m stomping on those buttons again.
“Can I try?” At my question, he looks at me helplessly. “Is that okay? Can I put it in you, dad?”
“Please,” he begs. “Please, son. Please fuck me.”
I’m already reaching for the bottle of lube by the bedside. It’s on plain display. I’m rubbing some into my meat and some onto his hole. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you, dad. I bet it’s sweet. I bet it’s soft and warm and—fuck.” I’ve navigated behind him, and gently positioned him onto his knees. He’s groaning and moaning loudly and rubbing his forehead against the pillow. “Fuck, it’s just like pussy, dad. Just like pussy.”
He does feel good. Easy to penetrate, slick and warm. I’m as hard as cement as I start to fuck his hole. “I need this so badly,” he confesses to me. “I needed my son inside me.”
“I told you I was here for you tonight,” I sat to him, right into his ear.
And I am there for him. For the next hour I fuck him in every position. From behind, where I plunge in and out the entire length of my cock. On his back, where I kiss him sweetly and grind in deep. On his side, so I can hold him tight and tell him how proud I am to have him as my dad. I even get him to slide head-first off the bed, so I can fuck his hole as he props his butt in the air against the mattress. He loves every fucking minute of it. Whenever he opens his eyes wide enough to meet mine, they’re flooded with adoration.
This is for him. Completely for him, just between a dad and a son.
“You’re making me so fucking hot, sir,” I tell him, as I get too close to turn back. “Tell me where to cum.”
He wrestles with the decision for a moment. “Pull out and cum on my dick and nuts,” he says.
I’m fucking him on his back again at that point. I pull out, shuffle back on my knees, stand at the bed’s foot, and yank him down. My hips are jutting forward as I use the lube and juice I’ve already been pumping out to slick up my cock. Obscenely I masturbate for him, making as much noise with my fist as possible. “You are so fucking hot, Dad,” I whisper. “Maybe sometime you’d let me cum inside you.”
“Yes,” he says, playing with his own dick. “Please, son. Please cum inside me next time.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “You want your son’s sperm in you? Fuck, that’d be hot. I want it, dad. Next time I’m breeding your hole. Breeding my dad’s hot hole.” I’m pushing myself over the edge now. Cum sprays out of my dick and paints his junk. After he feels the first jet, he’s rubbing it into his skin. I shoot more liquid over his cock. Immediately he uses it as lube, and jacks himself into a frenzy. I let the head of my throbbing, still-hard cock nudge against his hole. Rub it around. Let it dip in and out as he continues to jack. Then he’s climaxing. His body contracts and writhes as his short, fat cock unleashes an even bigger load than I’ve produced. It seems to go on for minutes. He gasps and chokes for air, then shudders once, twice, three times, four times, as the sensations wrack his body.
I collapse on the bed beside him. “Thank you, sir,” I say, as he rests his cheek on my chest.
It’s a couple of minutes later when his head is clear and he comes to. He looks at the clock. “You still have a few minutes left,” he says. “Please let me wash you off.”
“I’d like that a lot,” I say, as I kiss his forehead.
He warms up the shower for me, and joins me inside it. Once we’re both under the prickly jets he uses his hands to wipe the semen from my body. He soaps me all over, and rinses me off. I let him do what he wants, as I enjoy the sensations of skin and soap and slippery flesh.
Then we’re back to the living room, where he helps me dress as tenderly as he undressed me. I’m putting on my own shoes when he grabs my wallet out of my pants. I don’t mind that he checks out my drivers’ license. He already knows my name and age. “Looking a little empty here,” he murmurs, which is accurate, since besides my license the only thing I’m carrying is a Visa and a MetroCard. “Let me make sure you have some spending money,” he says, as he slips several large bills inside.
I don’t even count to see that it’s the amount we agreed upon for the two hours I’ve been there. I know he’s good for it. “Don’t take the subway back to the Terminal,” he says, slipping a twenty into my jeans pocket. “It’s late and rough out there. Dad wants you to take a cab.”
“Yes sir,” I say. I let him zip up my jacket before I lean in for a final kiss.
He puts his hand on top of mine, stopping me before I go. “I’m going to want you to come back again,” he says in a whisper.
I nod, then take my leave. I’ll be back again all right, to that secret apartment high in the city, where everything that happens is just between my dad and myself.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Open Forum Friday: Selling It
After nearly three years of blogging about my sex life, I’ve developed a keen eye for the subjects that tend to be contentious. I know which topics are going to bring out the hateful comments and the howls of those who have a point to prove at someone else’s expense. I’ve learned the hard way which types of entries are going to elicit those little acid pools left by the dripping fangs of someone who only feels big when he’s anonymously venomous.
I almost wish I hadn’t figured it out. Because sometimes I’ll think about a topic, consider it for an entry, think about all the negative shit-storm that’ll follow, and just delete it from the list. And that’s no good, because it clearly causes me to write less.
But today I’m not so much here to write about the Negative Nancies and their desire to squelch anyone who thinks or lives differently from themselves, as I am to discuss a topic that inevitably raises their hackles. Because nothing brings out the irate and disparaging commenters as much as when I discuss the fact that sometimes I accept money for my sexual services.
It’s a taboo area of discussion or even contemplation for a lot of people. We have an cultivated knee-jerk reaction, as ‘nice people,’ automatically to assume a number of things about the people who get paid for sex. At best they think they’re hardened mercenaries who have no better way to earn money. They’re predators, out to make an easy buck. They can’t get a real job. They’re simply unfortunate. At the other end of the spectrum, they see sex workers as wicked, and evil. Diseased. Untouchables. They’re taught to think these things from an early age and taught so strictly not to deviate from a single way of thinking about people who are sex workers that it almost prevents any serious and critical thought about it. Hell, those in the sex trade aren’t even people to most folk. They become in many minds an awful, dreaded other, a subhuman species that’s disposable and forgettable and which should be ignored.
For the life of me I can’t figure out why my selling sex enrages and disgusts a small handful of (vocal) readers. It’s not like I’m telling them to fork over a twenty to read my sexual encounters. I don’t post on my profiles phrases like, LQQKing 4 generou$ men. I don’t hot men up and then suggest they make it worth my while with cold cash. In my youth and adulthood both, I never demanded cash for cock; I just accepted it when it was given me. I don’t claim to be an escort. (Hardly. Escorts are much better looking and have way better bodies than I.) I never suggest anyone pay me, I never demand it. I don’t have only an eye for the bottom line, and choose sex for cash over just good old-fashioned fucking.
To be totally honest, when my libido’s running on overdrive and my dick is hard and my pants barely holding onto my waist, exchanging sperm for cash is about the last thing on my mind.
Yet earlier this week, when I was contemplating my 2012 reported annual income for my tax returns, one thing that kind of leapt out at me was that when I compared the amount I made last year from pushing my artistic work to the amount I made from selling my body . . . well, it kind of made me half-wonder for a moment or two if I was in the wrong business.
If we look at the amount of income I’ve generated over the years from sex work, my life would look like a reverse bell curve. The graph would be high in my teens, start declining in my mid-twenties, bottom out to nothing during my thirties, and then swing back up to a new peak in my forties. It’s not something I think is an awesome accomplishment of my life. But I’m not ashamed of selling sex, either; I’ll talk about my experiences pretty openly. Mostly I just think it’s kind of a hoot that I’m racing up a half-century and still rake in pretty good bucks for my body.
Yet when some butthole of a reader decides to be snide and to write in a comment saying something like Aren’t you ashamed of having been a prostitute when you were a teen?, it makes me sigh, swat the irritation off my shoulders like a bull would a swarm of flies, and ask right back, Are you ashamed of having been a babysitter when you were younger? Because frankly, if one removes the stigma of the sexual component from the equation, the economic transactions are about the same. And there’s less puke to clean.
Though frankly I don’t know many people who would rather babysit brats for three or four hours when they could make four times the money in a fraction of the time getting a blow job. Nor do I know many people who made their first house downpayment with their babysitting or lawn-mowing money. Just sayin’.
As as bad as the misconceptions I think we have about sex workers, however, are those we have about those who buy it. I get those in my comments as well—the sneering implications that anyone who would pay for my time must be ancient, decrepit, blind, desperate, or some combination of the above. And probably leprous. People believe that anyone who would pay for sex must be unattractive, past his prime, and unable to get it any other way than preying on young victims. (Or me, if he’s really desperate.)
These people would be dead wrong.
Over the years I’ve found that men who offer to pay for sex fall into three broad types.
1. The Fetishists: These men get off on the little extra kick that the exchange of money lends to a sexual situation. Whether they’ve bought into the notion that adding a financial component to something they already consider sordid and dirty makes it doubly so, or whether they get off on the notion of being controlled through the wallet in the same way that some men like to be controlled with blindfolds, or restraints, or verbal domination, the exchange of money is vital to their enjoyment.
The cash slaves I’ve had fall into this category—that is the men who give me money to degrade and control them, whether or not we’ve actually met or not. So does the Latin boy I wrote about in my last entry, who empties his billfold into my pocket to prove how thoroughly I control him before I skull-fuck him and pound his little hole. So do the married men who fork over folded bills for my time and then breathlessly get off on a dick that other men have paid for.
2. The Justifiers: Some men, like the Landscaper, can only settle their consciences by rationalizing what they do in what is—let’s face it—a self-deluding way. They approach their sex not as a physical act, but as a financial transaction. To them, sex is best when it’s drained of all its implications of desire and need, and reduced to an entry in their Quicken ledger or the writing of a check. Everyone buys stuff. To these guys, paying a couple of hundred dollars to suck a dick is about as free of guilt and shame as a trip for groceries to Trader Joe’s. (In my opinion, the two are already equally shameless, but not everyone is as sexually liberal as I.)
3. The Businessmen: Some of these guys actually do have careers in business, but I use the phrase loosely. These are guys who feel their time is valuable; they’d rather pay someone to give them exactly what they want, than have to waste time hunting fruitlessly for it. They’re willing to pay a guy who has the look they want, or the dick size they want, or who can perform the specific act they crave. The money’s not a sticking point. Nor do they get off on paying a professional for his services any more than they might get off on hiring a guy to clean out the gutters on their houses in the autumn after the leaves have fallen. It’s simply a matter of expediency and guaranteed performance, for them. They get what they want, for a guaranteed period of time, with a minimum of fuss and complication.
I’d venture to say that the vast majority of men who’ve paid me for sex fall into this last category. The Texas department store magnate who forks over hundreds of dollars for three hours of my time in his hotel whenever he’s in the city is a handsome, virile, and surprisingly young man—but he’d rather have me come back time after time because I give him what he wants, and then some. The college professor in New Haven who could easily have just about any man he wanted, but who reads my blog and enjoys talking to me after the sex, pays me because I understand what makes him tick in bed and he’d rather not have to answer Craigslist ads for hours. The out-of-towners who contact me before their visits, pay ask me to reserve nights for them weeks in advance, pay me for the courtesy of arranging my calendar for them (and for the fucking).
Whatever it is, I have something all these men want. They consider it worth their money. So I pocket it, keep in mind the reasons they pay for sex, and attempt to exceed their expectations. They get what they need, and I have a little extra spending money for books and music and household expenses. Are they men unattractive? Lord, no. Not by a long shot. A handful of them are pictures of physical perfection. Are they old and senile? Most are mature enough to be earning a comfortable living, but some are young and barely scraping by, but need the thrill that saving up for a really good fuck can give them. Are they desperate?
Desperate for my dick, surely. But not desperate in the general sense of the word.
I know that many of my readers—probably more than most would suspect— have had experience with the sex trade. I’m curious to hear from those who have, in today’s open forum. If you’ve bought sex before, in what category would you consider yourself to be—or would you create a new category for yourself? If you’d sold it, how have you experiences compared to mine, with the types of men who pay for yourself?
I just ask that your comments be thoughtful and nonjudgmental. It’s not necessary automatically to preface your comments with a phrase like I’ve never paid for sex and never would, but. . . . I’ll probably delete comments like those. That kind of phrasing isn’t thoughtful. It’s just a way to to establish guiltlessness—which implies guilt for those who have paid, or received money, for sexual acts.
But insightful dialogue about money for sex? Bring it on, people. And enjoy your weekends.
I almost wish I hadn’t figured it out. Because sometimes I’ll think about a topic, consider it for an entry, think about all the negative shit-storm that’ll follow, and just delete it from the list. And that’s no good, because it clearly causes me to write less.
But today I’m not so much here to write about the Negative Nancies and their desire to squelch anyone who thinks or lives differently from themselves, as I am to discuss a topic that inevitably raises their hackles. Because nothing brings out the irate and disparaging commenters as much as when I discuss the fact that sometimes I accept money for my sexual services.
It’s a taboo area of discussion or even contemplation for a lot of people. We have an cultivated knee-jerk reaction, as ‘nice people,’ automatically to assume a number of things about the people who get paid for sex. At best they think they’re hardened mercenaries who have no better way to earn money. They’re predators, out to make an easy buck. They can’t get a real job. They’re simply unfortunate. At the other end of the spectrum, they see sex workers as wicked, and evil. Diseased. Untouchables. They’re taught to think these things from an early age and taught so strictly not to deviate from a single way of thinking about people who are sex workers that it almost prevents any serious and critical thought about it. Hell, those in the sex trade aren’t even people to most folk. They become in many minds an awful, dreaded other, a subhuman species that’s disposable and forgettable and which should be ignored.
For the life of me I can’t figure out why my selling sex enrages and disgusts a small handful of (vocal) readers. It’s not like I’m telling them to fork over a twenty to read my sexual encounters. I don’t post on my profiles phrases like, LQQKing 4 generou$ men. I don’t hot men up and then suggest they make it worth my while with cold cash. In my youth and adulthood both, I never demanded cash for cock; I just accepted it when it was given me. I don’t claim to be an escort. (Hardly. Escorts are much better looking and have way better bodies than I.) I never suggest anyone pay me, I never demand it. I don’t have only an eye for the bottom line, and choose sex for cash over just good old-fashioned fucking.
To be totally honest, when my libido’s running on overdrive and my dick is hard and my pants barely holding onto my waist, exchanging sperm for cash is about the last thing on my mind.
Yet earlier this week, when I was contemplating my 2012 reported annual income for my tax returns, one thing that kind of leapt out at me was that when I compared the amount I made last year from pushing my artistic work to the amount I made from selling my body . . . well, it kind of made me half-wonder for a moment or two if I was in the wrong business.
If we look at the amount of income I’ve generated over the years from sex work, my life would look like a reverse bell curve. The graph would be high in my teens, start declining in my mid-twenties, bottom out to nothing during my thirties, and then swing back up to a new peak in my forties. It’s not something I think is an awesome accomplishment of my life. But I’m not ashamed of selling sex, either; I’ll talk about my experiences pretty openly. Mostly I just think it’s kind of a hoot that I’m racing up a half-century and still rake in pretty good bucks for my body.
Yet when some butthole of a reader decides to be snide and to write in a comment saying something like Aren’t you ashamed of having been a prostitute when you were a teen?, it makes me sigh, swat the irritation off my shoulders like a bull would a swarm of flies, and ask right back, Are you ashamed of having been a babysitter when you were younger? Because frankly, if one removes the stigma of the sexual component from the equation, the economic transactions are about the same. And there’s less puke to clean.
Though frankly I don’t know many people who would rather babysit brats for three or four hours when they could make four times the money in a fraction of the time getting a blow job. Nor do I know many people who made their first house downpayment with their babysitting or lawn-mowing money. Just sayin’.
As as bad as the misconceptions I think we have about sex workers, however, are those we have about those who buy it. I get those in my comments as well—the sneering implications that anyone who would pay for my time must be ancient, decrepit, blind, desperate, or some combination of the above. And probably leprous. People believe that anyone who would pay for sex must be unattractive, past his prime, and unable to get it any other way than preying on young victims. (Or me, if he’s really desperate.)
These people would be dead wrong.
Over the years I’ve found that men who offer to pay for sex fall into three broad types.
1. The Fetishists: These men get off on the little extra kick that the exchange of money lends to a sexual situation. Whether they’ve bought into the notion that adding a financial component to something they already consider sordid and dirty makes it doubly so, or whether they get off on the notion of being controlled through the wallet in the same way that some men like to be controlled with blindfolds, or restraints, or verbal domination, the exchange of money is vital to their enjoyment.
The cash slaves I’ve had fall into this category—that is the men who give me money to degrade and control them, whether or not we’ve actually met or not. So does the Latin boy I wrote about in my last entry, who empties his billfold into my pocket to prove how thoroughly I control him before I skull-fuck him and pound his little hole. So do the married men who fork over folded bills for my time and then breathlessly get off on a dick that other men have paid for.
2. The Justifiers: Some men, like the Landscaper, can only settle their consciences by rationalizing what they do in what is—let’s face it—a self-deluding way. They approach their sex not as a physical act, but as a financial transaction. To them, sex is best when it’s drained of all its implications of desire and need, and reduced to an entry in their Quicken ledger or the writing of a check. Everyone buys stuff. To these guys, paying a couple of hundred dollars to suck a dick is about as free of guilt and shame as a trip for groceries to Trader Joe’s. (In my opinion, the two are already equally shameless, but not everyone is as sexually liberal as I.)
3. The Businessmen: Some of these guys actually do have careers in business, but I use the phrase loosely. These are guys who feel their time is valuable; they’d rather pay someone to give them exactly what they want, than have to waste time hunting fruitlessly for it. They’re willing to pay a guy who has the look they want, or the dick size they want, or who can perform the specific act they crave. The money’s not a sticking point. Nor do they get off on paying a professional for his services any more than they might get off on hiring a guy to clean out the gutters on their houses in the autumn after the leaves have fallen. It’s simply a matter of expediency and guaranteed performance, for them. They get what they want, for a guaranteed period of time, with a minimum of fuss and complication.
I’d venture to say that the vast majority of men who’ve paid me for sex fall into this last category. The Texas department store magnate who forks over hundreds of dollars for three hours of my time in his hotel whenever he’s in the city is a handsome, virile, and surprisingly young man—but he’d rather have me come back time after time because I give him what he wants, and then some. The college professor in New Haven who could easily have just about any man he wanted, but who reads my blog and enjoys talking to me after the sex, pays me because I understand what makes him tick in bed and he’d rather not have to answer Craigslist ads for hours. The out-of-towners who contact me before their visits, pay ask me to reserve nights for them weeks in advance, pay me for the courtesy of arranging my calendar for them (and for the fucking).
Whatever it is, I have something all these men want. They consider it worth their money. So I pocket it, keep in mind the reasons they pay for sex, and attempt to exceed their expectations. They get what they need, and I have a little extra spending money for books and music and household expenses. Are they men unattractive? Lord, no. Not by a long shot. A handful of them are pictures of physical perfection. Are they old and senile? Most are mature enough to be earning a comfortable living, but some are young and barely scraping by, but need the thrill that saving up for a really good fuck can give them. Are they desperate?
Desperate for my dick, surely. But not desperate in the general sense of the word.
I know that many of my readers—probably more than most would suspect— have had experience with the sex trade. I’m curious to hear from those who have, in today’s open forum. If you’ve bought sex before, in what category would you consider yourself to be—or would you create a new category for yourself? If you’d sold it, how have you experiences compared to mine, with the types of men who pay for yourself?
I just ask that your comments be thoughtful and nonjudgmental. It’s not necessary automatically to preface your comments with a phrase like I’ve never paid for sex and never would, but. . . . I’ll probably delete comments like those. That kind of phrasing isn’t thoughtful. It’s just a way to to establish guiltlessness—which implies guilt for those who have paid, or received money, for sexual acts.
But insightful dialogue about money for sex? Bring it on, people. And enjoy your weekends.
Friday, October 5, 2012
No Complications. No Strings.
This is how it goes down. No complications. No strings.
He’s wary of giving me too much up front. I get that. There are parts of my life I don’t hand out on request, either. I don’t share with guys my phone number on a first chat. Or a second, or third. Nor my address. If it’s hookup time, they’ll get the information they need. Otherwise, fuck it. I don’t know what they’re going to do with my numbers.
So on the day he’s flown into town, I travel into the city. Take the 4 train down to Wall Street, then walk to place he’s staying. It’s a little boutique hotel across from Delmonico’s, where a porter peers at me through the glass in the front doors. I call him on the phone.
“I’m here,” I tell him.
“I’m ready,” he replies. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice. It’s lighter than I’ve imagined, higher, more of a tenor than the baritone I’d expected. It has a bit of a flutter in it, as if he’s nervous. I hear him clear his throat.
“I’m ready . . . what?” I ask.
“I’m ready, sir,” he says. The three words are breathy. Excited.
“Give me your room number,” I tell him. He does. I lower my voice, as if there’s a possibility I might be overheard. There’s not. Even though it’s midday, this particular little side street is fairly quiet. “Now listen, you little shit. After I hang up, you’re gonna have three minutes to strip down, get the lights low, and assume the position. You’ve got your blindfold?”
“Yes,” he says. I can almost hear the gulp he lets out.
“It’d better be on. And after I hang up, I don’t want to hear a word from you until I’m zipping up to go. Then you'd better fuckin' thank me. And you'd better fuckin' mean it.”
“Yes,” he breathes. I don’t know whose pulse is louder—his or mine.
“Any questions?”
“No,” he says.
“I’m not gonna romance you,” I tell him. “I don’t give a shit whether you come or not. Got it?”
Then he adds, “I understand.”
“Then let’s make it happen. Oh. You got my dough?”
“Yes,” he says, for a third time.
“Have it out for me or I’m not even sticking around. I’m coming up.”
I end the call. It amazes me that anyone buys my tough top act. That it passes for genuine says something about how heavily invested men can be in their fantasy version of me. Then again, perhaps it is genuine. I pull it out often enough. I’m confident that this guy is going to follow my orders. I know exactly what he wants, and I say what he needs to hear. I’ve got no hesitation; I know that the sex is going to happen with no complications. No strings. Maybe the confidence to pull it all together all it really takes to be that tough top.
The door’s cracked when I get up there. The lights are off. There’s enough daylight in the room that I can see everything in a hazy relief. His laptop on the desk. His suitcases on the stands. His suit, neatly pressed, hanging on wooden hangers just inside the closet door. And most importantly, this man kneeling on the bed wearing nothing but a jock. His head is at a level lower than his ass, but it’s craned forward, staring blindly at the wall. He’s got some kind of mask on his face. There’s a hole for his mouth, but he can’t see anything. The eyes are completely covered.
The money’s in an obvious place. He’s tucked it under the elastic of his jock, so that the bills cover the small of his back. I let them stay for now. I don’t even stop to count them. I can tell by the sleekness of his luggage, the cut of that suit, the expense of the highest-end Apple laptop, that he’s not going to be stiffing me. The guy’s not ugly by any stretch of the imagination—not from what I’d seen in his photos. He’s built. He’s got a narrow waist and a little round ass that’s seen a lot of squats at the gym. His thighs are broad at the top. Muscular. His shoulders are strong; the arms that hold up his torso are well-rounded, powerful.
When he’s originally contacted me and asked if my cock was ever for hire, I’d added to my affirmative that with his looks, he could get any dick he wanted in this city. I prefer to pay, he’d said. It makes for no complications. No strings. I get that, too. Sometimes it's worth shelling out a little extra for quality.
That’s what I plan to give him. Value for the dollar.
Sound is going to be his main sense for this encounter, to start. I let him hear me circle the bed. I let him hear me kick off my shoes. Unbuckle my belt. Pop open the button of my jeans, unzip the fly. I let him listen to the sounds of the cotton as it slides over my head and off the chest, and hits the floor.
Taste. I open his mouth. Pry it open, with my fingertips. Cram my half-hard cock in. He gulps at it greedily, getting it hard between his lips, letting his tongue travel the length. He slurps at my balls. His hand reaches out to grab my shaft, but I shove it away. It’s the mouth and nothing else. He’s got to prove he deserves it.
Touch. I slap his ass hard. He doesn’t know it’s coming until the split-second before, when the rush of air gives him only enough warning for his mind to raise a primal alarm. He cries out and chokes around my dick, but doesn’t say a word. I slap the other ass, harder. Instinctively, he lets my cock slide out of his mouth. His hips thrust higher in the air. He buries his face in the duvet.
I walk around the bed’s edge. Yank him to the side. He puts up absolutely no resistance whatsoever as I jerk him into a position where I can fuck him without having to tiptoe, or to spread my legs to lower myself down to him. His neck’s at an angle; his shoulders are pinned down, their blades poking out his skin. He looks like a broken rag doll.
The hole’s lubed up already. Good. I’m glad not to have to waste time with that. I spit on my dick to give it a little extra moisture. Line it up with the hole. Press in. I go a little faster than usual; I don’t really give a shit whether it’s too fast for him or not. His hole opens up, though. It’s been well-fucked through his life. The edges of the fifty-dollar bills scrape against my pubes when I sink to the bottom. They’re new bills, too. Crisp, clean, sharp-edged, fresh from the bank stack. I leave them there. I don’t really care if they get a little fuck juice on them.
He’s trying hard not to talk, I can tell. He should’ve put a gag in. He starts to utter the first syllables of exclamations like Oh god or fuck or shit, but he’s got enough presence of mind to let them wash away. Ohhhhhhhh, it comes out, and fuuuuuh, and shiiiiiih.
“That’s it,” I’ll tell him. “Yeah. Open up.” Or, “Squeeze down. Make it tight. Come on.” I grunt. I slap the ass. But mostly I make sure he feels fucked.
Because that’s what they want. They want to know they’ve been fucked. They don’t want some guy climbing on and giving little rabbit thrusts that wiggle and jiggle their butt cheeks. They don’t want some novice who thrusts in twice and shoots. They don’t want a small dick that can’t do the job. I take long strokes, all the way in and a little beyond, then all the way out save for the tip. I let him feel the length of it. I squeeze the pelvic floor to make it swell when it’s at its depth, so that he feels the girth.
Men like this could have anyone, but they pick me. They pick me because I’ll give them exactly what they want. No complications. No strings. I make this guy’s ass sing from my cock. It’s vibrating. He’s humming to himself beneath me, and there’s a dark wet spot on the fabric of his mask from where he’s drooling from the side of his mouth. He’s blind with that cover over his head. But he doesn’t need to see. Everything he needs to know is centered in one place: his slick little pucker and the eight inches of colon just beyond. All the knowledge in the world, all the money in Wall Street, all the power and trinkets and accoutrements of his lifestyle, the money flapping back and forth over the small of his back as I fuck in and out for endless minutes—it all means nothing while I’m there. What matters is my cock. His hole. And the rawest of sensations I’m producing by introducing one to the other.
He remembers not to speak until I’ve pulled on my shirt, my pants, my shoes, and I’m zipping up. “Thank you, sir,” he says, in the meekest and most submissive of tones.
I snatch the bills from his jock strap. They’re not as pristine as they were. I stuff them into my pants, and take a last look at the load spilling out of his ass. “You’re welcome,” I say. Because I can tell he means it.
Then I turn on my heel and leave him there. And I wonder how long he’ll lie in that half-darkness, dreaming about what came before.
He’s wary of giving me too much up front. I get that. There are parts of my life I don’t hand out on request, either. I don’t share with guys my phone number on a first chat. Or a second, or third. Nor my address. If it’s hookup time, they’ll get the information they need. Otherwise, fuck it. I don’t know what they’re going to do with my numbers.
So on the day he’s flown into town, I travel into the city. Take the 4 train down to Wall Street, then walk to place he’s staying. It’s a little boutique hotel across from Delmonico’s, where a porter peers at me through the glass in the front doors. I call him on the phone.
“I’m here,” I tell him.
“I’m ready,” he replies. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice. It’s lighter than I’ve imagined, higher, more of a tenor than the baritone I’d expected. It has a bit of a flutter in it, as if he’s nervous. I hear him clear his throat.
“I’m ready . . . what?” I ask.
“I’m ready, sir,” he says. The three words are breathy. Excited.
“Give me your room number,” I tell him. He does. I lower my voice, as if there’s a possibility I might be overheard. There’s not. Even though it’s midday, this particular little side street is fairly quiet. “Now listen, you little shit. After I hang up, you’re gonna have three minutes to strip down, get the lights low, and assume the position. You’ve got your blindfold?”
“Yes,” he says. I can almost hear the gulp he lets out.
“It’d better be on. And after I hang up, I don’t want to hear a word from you until I’m zipping up to go. Then you'd better fuckin' thank me. And you'd better fuckin' mean it.”
“Yes,” he breathes. I don’t know whose pulse is louder—his or mine.
“Any questions?”
“No,” he says.
“I’m not gonna romance you,” I tell him. “I don’t give a shit whether you come or not. Got it?”
Then he adds, “I understand.”
“Then let’s make it happen. Oh. You got my dough?”
“Yes,” he says, for a third time.
“Have it out for me or I’m not even sticking around. I’m coming up.”
I end the call. It amazes me that anyone buys my tough top act. That it passes for genuine says something about how heavily invested men can be in their fantasy version of me. Then again, perhaps it is genuine. I pull it out often enough. I’m confident that this guy is going to follow my orders. I know exactly what he wants, and I say what he needs to hear. I’ve got no hesitation; I know that the sex is going to happen with no complications. No strings. Maybe the confidence to pull it all together all it really takes to be that tough top.
The door’s cracked when I get up there. The lights are off. There’s enough daylight in the room that I can see everything in a hazy relief. His laptop on the desk. His suitcases on the stands. His suit, neatly pressed, hanging on wooden hangers just inside the closet door. And most importantly, this man kneeling on the bed wearing nothing but a jock. His head is at a level lower than his ass, but it’s craned forward, staring blindly at the wall. He’s got some kind of mask on his face. There’s a hole for his mouth, but he can’t see anything. The eyes are completely covered.
The money’s in an obvious place. He’s tucked it under the elastic of his jock, so that the bills cover the small of his back. I let them stay for now. I don’t even stop to count them. I can tell by the sleekness of his luggage, the cut of that suit, the expense of the highest-end Apple laptop, that he’s not going to be stiffing me. The guy’s not ugly by any stretch of the imagination—not from what I’d seen in his photos. He’s built. He’s got a narrow waist and a little round ass that’s seen a lot of squats at the gym. His thighs are broad at the top. Muscular. His shoulders are strong; the arms that hold up his torso are well-rounded, powerful.
When he’s originally contacted me and asked if my cock was ever for hire, I’d added to my affirmative that with his looks, he could get any dick he wanted in this city. I prefer to pay, he’d said. It makes for no complications. No strings. I get that, too. Sometimes it's worth shelling out a little extra for quality.
That’s what I plan to give him. Value for the dollar.
Sound is going to be his main sense for this encounter, to start. I let him hear me circle the bed. I let him hear me kick off my shoes. Unbuckle my belt. Pop open the button of my jeans, unzip the fly. I let him listen to the sounds of the cotton as it slides over my head and off the chest, and hits the floor.
Taste. I open his mouth. Pry it open, with my fingertips. Cram my half-hard cock in. He gulps at it greedily, getting it hard between his lips, letting his tongue travel the length. He slurps at my balls. His hand reaches out to grab my shaft, but I shove it away. It’s the mouth and nothing else. He’s got to prove he deserves it.
Touch. I slap his ass hard. He doesn’t know it’s coming until the split-second before, when the rush of air gives him only enough warning for his mind to raise a primal alarm. He cries out and chokes around my dick, but doesn’t say a word. I slap the other ass, harder. Instinctively, he lets my cock slide out of his mouth. His hips thrust higher in the air. He buries his face in the duvet.
I walk around the bed’s edge. Yank him to the side. He puts up absolutely no resistance whatsoever as I jerk him into a position where I can fuck him without having to tiptoe, or to spread my legs to lower myself down to him. His neck’s at an angle; his shoulders are pinned down, their blades poking out his skin. He looks like a broken rag doll.
The hole’s lubed up already. Good. I’m glad not to have to waste time with that. I spit on my dick to give it a little extra moisture. Line it up with the hole. Press in. I go a little faster than usual; I don’t really give a shit whether it’s too fast for him or not. His hole opens up, though. It’s been well-fucked through his life. The edges of the fifty-dollar bills scrape against my pubes when I sink to the bottom. They’re new bills, too. Crisp, clean, sharp-edged, fresh from the bank stack. I leave them there. I don’t really care if they get a little fuck juice on them.
He’s trying hard not to talk, I can tell. He should’ve put a gag in. He starts to utter the first syllables of exclamations like Oh god or fuck or shit, but he’s got enough presence of mind to let them wash away. Ohhhhhhhh, it comes out, and fuuuuuh, and shiiiiiih.
“That’s it,” I’ll tell him. “Yeah. Open up.” Or, “Squeeze down. Make it tight. Come on.” I grunt. I slap the ass. But mostly I make sure he feels fucked.
Because that’s what they want. They want to know they’ve been fucked. They don’t want some guy climbing on and giving little rabbit thrusts that wiggle and jiggle their butt cheeks. They don’t want some novice who thrusts in twice and shoots. They don’t want a small dick that can’t do the job. I take long strokes, all the way in and a little beyond, then all the way out save for the tip. I let him feel the length of it. I squeeze the pelvic floor to make it swell when it’s at its depth, so that he feels the girth.
Men like this could have anyone, but they pick me. They pick me because I’ll give them exactly what they want. No complications. No strings. I make this guy’s ass sing from my cock. It’s vibrating. He’s humming to himself beneath me, and there’s a dark wet spot on the fabric of his mask from where he’s drooling from the side of his mouth. He’s blind with that cover over his head. But he doesn’t need to see. Everything he needs to know is centered in one place: his slick little pucker and the eight inches of colon just beyond. All the knowledge in the world, all the money in Wall Street, all the power and trinkets and accoutrements of his lifestyle, the money flapping back and forth over the small of his back as I fuck in and out for endless minutes—it all means nothing while I’m there. What matters is my cock. His hole. And the rawest of sensations I’m producing by introducing one to the other.
He remembers not to speak until I’ve pulled on my shirt, my pants, my shoes, and I’m zipping up. “Thank you, sir,” he says, in the meekest and most submissive of tones.
I snatch the bills from his jock strap. They’re not as pristine as they were. I stuff them into my pants, and take a last look at the load spilling out of his ass. “You’re welcome,” I say. Because I can tell he means it.
Then I turn on my heel and leave him there. And I wonder how long he’ll lie in that half-darkness, dreaming about what came before.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Regular Dudes
I’m sitting in the Mexican food joint, solo, three-quarters of the way through the burrito I’ve ordered for dinner, when he walks in. He’s wearing jeans from Neiman-Marcus, pressed to within an inch of their denimed life. A leather jacket the color of caramel, and softer than butter. And one of those plaid, J. Crew shirts that are the weekend uniform of married dads throughout this county of Connecticut. His hands are in his pockets.
The burrito flippers behind the counter usually call out to each customer as he enters, but right now they’re too engrossed by the scene on the TV. “Is this an actual Superbowl commercial?” one girl asks the manager. She’s all of seventeen.
“I think so,” he says.
The landscaper looks up at the screen as he sidles into the seat opposite me. I tear off a bite of my burrito, stare at him, and chew. “I’m late,” he says. “Sorry, dude.” I say nothing. I’m eating. “I was going to take you out to dinner. Kind of like a date.”
I stop chewing, and stare at him. Then I look at the screen, trying to pretend to be rapt in the pre-game chatter.
Look, I’m going to be honest. I know shit about football. I don’t know how it’s played. Oh, my dad tried to teach me in that obligatory dad-son way when I was a kid, but the rules are so fucking complicated, and there are so many of them, and it takes so long between plays that by the time the ball actually moves a yard or two, I’ve given up and gone on to some far more interesting activity.
I grew up playing (and hating) the two games my dad loved the most as a kid—lacrosse and tennis. And it should tell you something that even after playing on a tennis league all through middle and high school and into college, I never did quite understand its scoring system. I’d just keep swinging until someone was vaulting over the net to shake my hand, at which point I understood the game was over.
There’s just some part of my brain that shuts off in the face of the prospect of learning how to play competitive sports, and football has never been on my radar.
My football knowledge is so poor that it wasn’t until about an hour ago that I even knew who was playing. So while I’m probably competent enough to fake interest in the pre-game commentary, I’m just glad there’s no actual football going on above our heads about which I’d have to make conversation. “I’m good,” I tell him, as I finish up all I want of the burrito. I put the remainder on the plate and push away the tray.
“Told the wife I was going to my buddy’s for the game,” he said. Even though he’s attempting to act casual, his eyes are dancing all over me. I dress in a certain way when I meet the landscaper. I don’t wear the kind of stuff I’d wear into a trip into the city, for example—boots, moleskin overcoat, natty trousers, tight shirt, my garish scarf. I wear Levi’s. And a flannel shirt. And sneakers. “What’d you tell yours?”
“I tell her I’m going out,” I say flatly.
“She doesn’t ask where you’re going?”
I shrug, very slowly. “Does she need to know?”
He’s not paying attention. He’s looking at my body. Unconsciously he licks his lips. “Want to go out to the van?”
“Not yet,” I say. “It’s the national anthem.”
The burrito wranglers are all rapt in Kelly Clarkston warbling her way through the song. I don’t really give a shit. But I like the landscaper thinking I’m a red-blooded, all-American type of guy. He gives all his attention to the television screen during the song’s duration. I watch his pink little lips move along with the words. He even puts his hand over his heart.
“All right,” I tell him, when it’s over. “Let’s go.”
It’s freezing outside, but his van is still warm from his drive over. He must have overheated it, actually. The back of the van is surprisingly toasty after he shuts the doors. I fall to the floor and leg my legs sprawl apart so that my crotch is prominent. My back leans against the rear of a passenger-side seat. I let my hands fall negligently between my thighs, and play air drums with my thumbs.
When he reaches out for me, I draw my legs together. What light there is is coming from the Mexican place and the AT&T store beside it, but it’s enough that he can see my face. “Oh yeah,” he says in a soft voice. He pulls out a roll of bills from his pocket, and peels off three from the top. He pushes them into my outstretched hand, and I bury the identical Ben Franklins in my pocket. After that, my legs are more pliable again. I let him rest his nervous hands on my calves as I unzip and shuck the denim down my legs.
“Fuck,” he whispers, at the sight of my hardness. I love this moment with the landscaper, this inevitability, when he drops all his defenses and carefully-built lies and comes face-to-face with what he truly desires. He can’t bring himself to admit how badly he wants sex with another man. I like knocking the everyday cockiness out of him with my cock. “Fuck!” he repeats. My eight inches are Svengali to his Trilby, though he’s more thoroughly mesmerized by them than by any swinging gold watch.
I pretend to ignore him, though it’s impossible. He’s already breathing with a rasp. It’s been a while since we last met, and he’s been deprived. He needs this.
“You told me I could touch it this time,” he said. It’s a child’s plea. He’s begging me. I act as if I’m considering changing my mind. He rolls over and exposes his right hip, and thrusts a hand into his pocket. A fifty-dollar bill grazes my ball and lands beneath them. Then a twenty. Without a word, I scoop up the bills and shove them into my shirt pocket.
His fingers are cold, but on my red-hot dick they’ll warm up soon enough. He squeezes—too hard, in fact. I make little noises to tell him to back down, and he lessens his death grip so that it’s soft and almost feather-like. He’s lying on the floor of the van in an uncomfortable-looking posture, absorbed by what he’s holding. I’ve been with young guys before who’ve never played with a man-sized dick before, and the same kind of fascination has taken hold of this guy. His thumb rubs over the head, smooths the bead of precum at the tip, plays with the shaft. “Is this gay?” he asks, suddenly.
I think it’s pretty gay, yeah. Guys having sex with each other is pretty much the definition of gay. But I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m too busy saying, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” because he’s scooting up and approaching my dick with his mouth open.
“I’m not going to suck it,” he says. Then, foxily, “Unless you want me to.”
“Fuck no,” I say, as if offended by the very idea of a dude slobbering down on my hog.
“I’m just going to lick the balls while I stroke you,” he explains. He’s already thought this one out, I realize. Planned it all along. He knew exactly how’d he work it, how he’d put the married straight guy at ease. Throw enough cash at him, make it sound convincing, take it a step further. “You’ve let me suck your nuts before. Same thing. Just my hand this time.”
“I don’t know,” I say, with the maximum amount of doubt in my voice.
“Come on, dude,” he says. He’s wheedling. The need is almost plaintive.
I pause for a moment, then nod. He can have his way. I just lay back against the seat and let him work. His breath is hot and soft of my nuts, and then there’s the sensation of his tongue working against them. His hands are warm now, and they surround my cock and jerk at it clumsily. The scene is hot, though, and I’m turned on by the scam we’re both working on the other. So it doesn’t take long before a steady flow of precum is leaking down my shaft and onto his hand.
He doesn’t care. I let him play with my dick for a long, long time in the back of that dark van. Then I take over. I remove his fingers with the least amount of touching him possible, then grip my shaft in a firm fist and begin to jack it. He’s grunting softly to himself with his eyes wide open as he still licks at my nuts.
I put on a show for him. I tip my head back. I shiver and quake as I stroke faster. I pretend not to notice when his tongue moves from the safe area of my balls to the lowermost inch of my shaft.
“It’s all good,” he urges. “Just two regular dudes. Doing stuff. The women don’t got to know about it. Doesn’t make anyone less of a man.” The words are making a pleasant buzz against my balls, but they’re annoying. “Come on, buddy. Score that touchdown.”
“Shut up,” I say, not having to feign the annoyance in my voice.
The warning works. He resumes his licking. In the quiet it doesn’t take me long to climax. I let out a long growl from my diaphragm, hiss through my pursed mouth, and shoot. The load drools out of my dick and slides in a long rope onto his cheek. Then another joins it. A third is building up at the tip and pooling out when I slump back violently against the seat.
When he sits up, he’s got my load on his face. He seems a little bit panicked by it. He reaches for the roll of paper towels he conveniently has beneath the seat, and wipes the stuff away as if it’s burning. “Didn’t expect that,” he says.
“Gotta go,” I tell him, sounding brusque. I’m zipping and adjusting my shirt already.
“Fuck,” he says, looking at his right hand. “I touched a dick. I touched a dick. I mean, I’ve touched my own.”
“Mine’s bigger,” I say, stating it as a fact, not a question.
“You want to go back in, watch some more of the game, get a bite to eat?” he asks, as I crawl over to the door to let myself out.
“Gotta go,” I repeat. Then I’m in the cold air, and hitting the remote on my car to open the doors.
I’m barely on the road when he’s texting me. dude u r the hottest!!!
I don’t know about that, but I’m a forty-eight-year-old guy with money in his pocket from putting on a jackoff show, and that’s not too bad at all.
The burrito flippers behind the counter usually call out to each customer as he enters, but right now they’re too engrossed by the scene on the TV. “Is this an actual Superbowl commercial?” one girl asks the manager. She’s all of seventeen.
“I think so,” he says.
The landscaper looks up at the screen as he sidles into the seat opposite me. I tear off a bite of my burrito, stare at him, and chew. “I’m late,” he says. “Sorry, dude.” I say nothing. I’m eating. “I was going to take you out to dinner. Kind of like a date.”
I stop chewing, and stare at him. Then I look at the screen, trying to pretend to be rapt in the pre-game chatter.
Look, I’m going to be honest. I know shit about football. I don’t know how it’s played. Oh, my dad tried to teach me in that obligatory dad-son way when I was a kid, but the rules are so fucking complicated, and there are so many of them, and it takes so long between plays that by the time the ball actually moves a yard or two, I’ve given up and gone on to some far more interesting activity.
I grew up playing (and hating) the two games my dad loved the most as a kid—lacrosse and tennis. And it should tell you something that even after playing on a tennis league all through middle and high school and into college, I never did quite understand its scoring system. I’d just keep swinging until someone was vaulting over the net to shake my hand, at which point I understood the game was over.
There’s just some part of my brain that shuts off in the face of the prospect of learning how to play competitive sports, and football has never been on my radar.
My football knowledge is so poor that it wasn’t until about an hour ago that I even knew who was playing. So while I’m probably competent enough to fake interest in the pre-game commentary, I’m just glad there’s no actual football going on above our heads about which I’d have to make conversation. “I’m good,” I tell him, as I finish up all I want of the burrito. I put the remainder on the plate and push away the tray.
“Told the wife I was going to my buddy’s for the game,” he said. Even though he’s attempting to act casual, his eyes are dancing all over me. I dress in a certain way when I meet the landscaper. I don’t wear the kind of stuff I’d wear into a trip into the city, for example—boots, moleskin overcoat, natty trousers, tight shirt, my garish scarf. I wear Levi’s. And a flannel shirt. And sneakers. “What’d you tell yours?”
“I tell her I’m going out,” I say flatly.
“She doesn’t ask where you’re going?”
I shrug, very slowly. “Does she need to know?”
He’s not paying attention. He’s looking at my body. Unconsciously he licks his lips. “Want to go out to the van?”
“Not yet,” I say. “It’s the national anthem.”
The burrito wranglers are all rapt in Kelly Clarkston warbling her way through the song. I don’t really give a shit. But I like the landscaper thinking I’m a red-blooded, all-American type of guy. He gives all his attention to the television screen during the song’s duration. I watch his pink little lips move along with the words. He even puts his hand over his heart.
“All right,” I tell him, when it’s over. “Let’s go.”
It’s freezing outside, but his van is still warm from his drive over. He must have overheated it, actually. The back of the van is surprisingly toasty after he shuts the doors. I fall to the floor and leg my legs sprawl apart so that my crotch is prominent. My back leans against the rear of a passenger-side seat. I let my hands fall negligently between my thighs, and play air drums with my thumbs.
When he reaches out for me, I draw my legs together. What light there is is coming from the Mexican place and the AT&T store beside it, but it’s enough that he can see my face. “Oh yeah,” he says in a soft voice. He pulls out a roll of bills from his pocket, and peels off three from the top. He pushes them into my outstretched hand, and I bury the identical Ben Franklins in my pocket. After that, my legs are more pliable again. I let him rest his nervous hands on my calves as I unzip and shuck the denim down my legs.
“Fuck,” he whispers, at the sight of my hardness. I love this moment with the landscaper, this inevitability, when he drops all his defenses and carefully-built lies and comes face-to-face with what he truly desires. He can’t bring himself to admit how badly he wants sex with another man. I like knocking the everyday cockiness out of him with my cock. “Fuck!” he repeats. My eight inches are Svengali to his Trilby, though he’s more thoroughly mesmerized by them than by any swinging gold watch.
I pretend to ignore him, though it’s impossible. He’s already breathing with a rasp. It’s been a while since we last met, and he’s been deprived. He needs this.
“You told me I could touch it this time,” he said. It’s a child’s plea. He’s begging me. I act as if I’m considering changing my mind. He rolls over and exposes his right hip, and thrusts a hand into his pocket. A fifty-dollar bill grazes my ball and lands beneath them. Then a twenty. Without a word, I scoop up the bills and shove them into my shirt pocket.
His fingers are cold, but on my red-hot dick they’ll warm up soon enough. He squeezes—too hard, in fact. I make little noises to tell him to back down, and he lessens his death grip so that it’s soft and almost feather-like. He’s lying on the floor of the van in an uncomfortable-looking posture, absorbed by what he’s holding. I’ve been with young guys before who’ve never played with a man-sized dick before, and the same kind of fascination has taken hold of this guy. His thumb rubs over the head, smooths the bead of precum at the tip, plays with the shaft. “Is this gay?” he asks, suddenly.
I think it’s pretty gay, yeah. Guys having sex with each other is pretty much the definition of gay. But I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m too busy saying, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” because he’s scooting up and approaching my dick with his mouth open.
“I’m not going to suck it,” he says. Then, foxily, “Unless you want me to.”
“Fuck no,” I say, as if offended by the very idea of a dude slobbering down on my hog.
“I’m just going to lick the balls while I stroke you,” he explains. He’s already thought this one out, I realize. Planned it all along. He knew exactly how’d he work it, how he’d put the married straight guy at ease. Throw enough cash at him, make it sound convincing, take it a step further. “You’ve let me suck your nuts before. Same thing. Just my hand this time.”
“I don’t know,” I say, with the maximum amount of doubt in my voice.
“Come on, dude,” he says. He’s wheedling. The need is almost plaintive.
I pause for a moment, then nod. He can have his way. I just lay back against the seat and let him work. His breath is hot and soft of my nuts, and then there’s the sensation of his tongue working against them. His hands are warm now, and they surround my cock and jerk at it clumsily. The scene is hot, though, and I’m turned on by the scam we’re both working on the other. So it doesn’t take long before a steady flow of precum is leaking down my shaft and onto his hand.
He doesn’t care. I let him play with my dick for a long, long time in the back of that dark van. Then I take over. I remove his fingers with the least amount of touching him possible, then grip my shaft in a firm fist and begin to jack it. He’s grunting softly to himself with his eyes wide open as he still licks at my nuts.
I put on a show for him. I tip my head back. I shiver and quake as I stroke faster. I pretend not to notice when his tongue moves from the safe area of my balls to the lowermost inch of my shaft.
“It’s all good,” he urges. “Just two regular dudes. Doing stuff. The women don’t got to know about it. Doesn’t make anyone less of a man.” The words are making a pleasant buzz against my balls, but they’re annoying. “Come on, buddy. Score that touchdown.”
“Shut up,” I say, not having to feign the annoyance in my voice.
The warning works. He resumes his licking. In the quiet it doesn’t take me long to climax. I let out a long growl from my diaphragm, hiss through my pursed mouth, and shoot. The load drools out of my dick and slides in a long rope onto his cheek. Then another joins it. A third is building up at the tip and pooling out when I slump back violently against the seat.
When he sits up, he’s got my load on his face. He seems a little bit panicked by it. He reaches for the roll of paper towels he conveniently has beneath the seat, and wipes the stuff away as if it’s burning. “Didn’t expect that,” he says.
“Gotta go,” I tell him, sounding brusque. I’m zipping and adjusting my shirt already.
“Fuck,” he says, looking at his right hand. “I touched a dick. I touched a dick. I mean, I’ve touched my own.”
“Mine’s bigger,” I say, stating it as a fact, not a question.
“You want to go back in, watch some more of the game, get a bite to eat?” he asks, as I crawl over to the door to let myself out.
“Gotta go,” I repeat. Then I’m in the cold air, and hitting the remote on my car to open the doors.
I’m barely on the road when he’s texting me. dude u r the hottest!!!
I don’t know about that, but I’m a forty-eight-year-old guy with money in his pocket from putting on a jackoff show, and that’s not too bad at all.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Good Buddies
He’s showing me a video on his iPhone. It’s tough to tell what’s going on. It’s as if he’s walking with the video recording. I catch glimpses of a carpet, of a frilly bed skirt, of a lamp on a bedside table. The sudden light causes the screen to flare and bleach, before it adjusts again. Then I can see a pair of feminine legs, lying on pretty floral sheets.
Then there’s a dick, red and engorged. It’s one of those fat, almost flat dicks, wider than it is thick. The head is enormous. As the camera focuses, I can see it flare. I wince, and pull my expression into one of disturbed disgust. “Why are you showing me cock?” I ask.
The Landscaper is watching my expression intently, I notice. We’re in the front seat of his van, parked in the usual lot of the local strip mall. From the Starbucks he’s brought two cardboard cups of coffee, one black and one what he calls ‘regular,’ which means with cream and sugar. (“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got one of each,” he told me, proffering both, like a shy boy with an apple for the teacher.) I’ve got the regular between my legs, warming my thighs. The roll of bills he’s given me makes a lump in my jeans pocket, to the right. My dick is bulging to the left.
“It’s mine,” he says, unnecessarily. I look away from the screen to his groin. His faded designer jeans are tight in the crotch. He’s managed to sidle over the gap in the seats and insinuate himself close to me. His shoulder’s only a hair away from my own, but we’re not touching.
I curl my lip. The Landscaper likes thinking I’m the straightest of straight men, the married guy he’s managed to talk into showing off his dick for cash when we meet. “So why are you showing me your cock?” I ask, like he’s some kind of sick bastard.
He gets off on my tone. “Just watch,” he says. “You’ll see something you like better.”
I can feel his breath on my cheek as he watches me watching. I get the impression he’s actually trying to smell me. I hold my attention on the jittering screen in front of me. Through the little speakers pressing against his palm I hear voices, his own and a woman’s. I’m assuming his wife’s. I can’t tell what they’re saying, though. The woman’s legs appear again. Then I see the Landscaper’s big, meaty hands lifting up the hem of some kind of oversized T-shirt or night shirt. Her hands swat him away for a minute, but then he’s thrusting two of his fingers in her slit, none too gently.
“You like her pussy?” he asks, over her mild and somewhat amused protests. “Sweet one, huh?”
I have to clear my throat. “Yeah,” I murmur. On the phone, he’s moving the camera back and forth between his own dick, which is throbbing and pulsing, to his wife’s pussy.
His shoulder touches mine. I can feel him freeze. He desperately wants to be there, touching me, and he’s hoping I don’t notice. It’s an intimacy I shouldn’t allow. A real straight guy would pull back from it. I pretend to be too absorbed in the video to care much. He’s using his left hand to pull apart her pussy lips, to show her off to me. She’s laughing and trying to swat him away, the entire time. “You like that, huh? I did it for you, buddy. I figured you’d want to see her.” I grunt, deeply, sexually. I’m turned on that he made this video with me in mind. “You should see her when she shaves,” he says. “Like a fucking teen. You want me to make her shave? I’ll tell her to do it. Make another video. For you, dude. I’ll do it for you.”
I’m not one of those guys who really gives a crap whether a few square inches of skin are shaved or not. But I’m turned on at the idea of him shaving his wife at my say-so. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I want her shaved.”
“Dude, I’ll do it!” he says, thrilled beyond measure that we’re conspiring together. “Fuck, I’ll do it tonight.” His dick appears again at the bottom of the screen. He’s having issues getting both it and his wife’s pussy in the camera at the same time. In a moment, the camera tilts, confusing the view. Then it shuts off. He pockets the camera. “You turned on?” he asks. I nod. “Maybe you should get in the back and let me take care of that for you,” he whispers.
“What do you mean, take care of it,” I ask, wary.
He licks his lips unconsciously. “I’ll suck it.” He’s aware instantly he’s asked too much. I’m opening my mouth to warn him I don’t do that fag shit, when he overrides me. “Let me stroke it off for you, buddy. Just two guys. Kids do it for each other. Nothing wrong with it.”
I puff my cheeks and blow out air. He’s overstepped the line, and he knows it. What he doesn’t know is how much I enjoy putting him through the wringer, every time he tries to inch his way a little further into full-on man sex. I get off on knowing he wants it so desperately, that he wants me. Obsesses about me. Makes videos for me. I could just feed him my dick and get it over with, but I like prolonging his agony. I’m a cruel bastard that way.
I’m really considering how far I’ll let him go this time, but he seems to think I might just step out of the truck. “Sorry, sorry man,” he says. “I know you’re not gay. I’m not either, honest. Just something about you, you know. Makes me get a little crazy.” In a husky voice, he asks, very politely, “Please let me taste it.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. I look toward the back of the van, where we’ve played before. I shake my head.
“Let me lick your nuts,” he pleads. “You’ve let me do that before. You liked that, right?” I shrug, like I’m trying not to remember it happening, or like I was just doing him a favor and it hadn’t really done a thing for me. “Get in the back,” he suggests. “Just get in the back and let me watch you. Okay buddy?”
There’s such a note of yearning in his voice that I’m aroused even more than before. It hurts, that need. I can tell by the catch in his tone, the raspy grating at the back of his throat. His breathing is heavy. He wants me badly. Without a word, I climb into the back of the van and take off my leather jacket. He’s ramped up the heat over the last few minutes. The floor is cold when I settle on it, though.
He follows and takes his place between my sneakers. He pulls down my jeans. We wrestle for a moment with exactly how far I’ll let them descend. He wants them above my knees; I want to keep them just below the nuts. I let him win. He’s a handsome man, this married daddy, this well-off professional, this boss of a dozens. He’s an eye-catcher, a prize. And he looks fucking ridiculous, prone on the floor of his work van, thrall to my erection. He rests the side of his head on my leg above the knee, gazing at my hard dick like he’s in love with it. I allow it.
“Let me suck it,” he pleads. I make a show of thinking about it, like I’m a straight guy who could use a mouth, any mouth, even a dude’s mouth, no matter how dirty I’d feel afterward. I give it a moment before I curl my lip and shake my head. “Let me lick those nuts then,” he begs. “Please. Please.”
I wait another moment while I stroke. I seem totally absorbed in my own meat. My fist grips it tightly, making the head red and shiny. Precum starts oozing out. After a while, I grudgingly nod.
Then he’s up there, right between my legs. His breath is hot on my sac for a moment, and then I feel the warmth of his tongue, the pressure of his chin. His eyes stare up at my meat, then into my eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, as if he’s half-asleep, or having the best dream in the world.
His hands hold my thighs as I jerk. They’re strong, and the grip is relentless. From time to him his mouth starts to travel up; his tongue licks out at the base of my shaft, as he tries to get a taste. I let my face wrinkle with disgust whenever he does, and then get him back on my nuts by adjusting the angle of my hips. I don’t touch his head. Touching is something he does, not me.
“You want her pussy, don’t you?” he asks after a while. “You want that shaved pussy?”
“You want to see me fuck her?” I grunt. My own eyes are shut now. I’m getting closer, and he can tell.
“I want to see you bang the shit out of that bitch!” He’s turned on at my excitement. It’s okay for a straight guy to shoot at the thought of fucking a buddy’s wife. Normal, even. “You wouldn’t tell her our arrangement, would you?”
I’m assuming he means the money, or maybe the nut-licking, or perhaps both. “Fuck no!” I spit, as if I’d never tell anyone about that perverted shit.
“Fuck her,” he says, urging me on. “Fuck that cunt! Would you watch a movie of me fucking her if I take it?”
I’m real close now. My fist pounds over my shaft rapidly. “Yeah,” I grunt.
I’m shooting. It’s a thick load that slides out of my slit like lava from a volcano, just as hot, burning a trail down the back of my knuckles. He’s mesmerized at the sight. My dick lets loose glob after glob as he watches. For a minute I think he wants to lick it off my hand, but he’s not got the courage to ask.
Instead, he pulls a canister of baby wipes from a bag lying against the van’s wall. Softly, almost tenderly, he swaps away the goo. In a couple of moments my hand is clean and smelling of shea butter. “You are so fucking hot,” he whispers with reverence. Then, with a note of longing, he asks, “Do you like my lips on there?”
It’s time to throw him a bone. The pup’s worked hard enough for it. “Yeah,” I say in my normal voice. “Yeah. It’s not too bad.”
The light that shines from his face is worth all the acting I’ve had to do. He’s so fucking happy at the back-handed praise. The pride is palpable. I can still feel it emanating from the van as I gather my jacket and get back into my own car.
I’m pulling into my own parking space at home when I get his text a few minutes later. i think we got a good thing going here, right buddy? It says.
Yeah, I text back. It’s cool to have a good buddy like you.
Then there’s a dick, red and engorged. It’s one of those fat, almost flat dicks, wider than it is thick. The head is enormous. As the camera focuses, I can see it flare. I wince, and pull my expression into one of disturbed disgust. “Why are you showing me cock?” I ask.
The Landscaper is watching my expression intently, I notice. We’re in the front seat of his van, parked in the usual lot of the local strip mall. From the Starbucks he’s brought two cardboard cups of coffee, one black and one what he calls ‘regular,’ which means with cream and sugar. (“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got one of each,” he told me, proffering both, like a shy boy with an apple for the teacher.) I’ve got the regular between my legs, warming my thighs. The roll of bills he’s given me makes a lump in my jeans pocket, to the right. My dick is bulging to the left.
“It’s mine,” he says, unnecessarily. I look away from the screen to his groin. His faded designer jeans are tight in the crotch. He’s managed to sidle over the gap in the seats and insinuate himself close to me. His shoulder’s only a hair away from my own, but we’re not touching.
I curl my lip. The Landscaper likes thinking I’m the straightest of straight men, the married guy he’s managed to talk into showing off his dick for cash when we meet. “So why are you showing me your cock?” I ask, like he’s some kind of sick bastard.
He gets off on my tone. “Just watch,” he says. “You’ll see something you like better.”
I can feel his breath on my cheek as he watches me watching. I get the impression he’s actually trying to smell me. I hold my attention on the jittering screen in front of me. Through the little speakers pressing against his palm I hear voices, his own and a woman’s. I’m assuming his wife’s. I can’t tell what they’re saying, though. The woman’s legs appear again. Then I see the Landscaper’s big, meaty hands lifting up the hem of some kind of oversized T-shirt or night shirt. Her hands swat him away for a minute, but then he’s thrusting two of his fingers in her slit, none too gently.
“You like her pussy?” he asks, over her mild and somewhat amused protests. “Sweet one, huh?”
I have to clear my throat. “Yeah,” I murmur. On the phone, he’s moving the camera back and forth between his own dick, which is throbbing and pulsing, to his wife’s pussy.
His shoulder touches mine. I can feel him freeze. He desperately wants to be there, touching me, and he’s hoping I don’t notice. It’s an intimacy I shouldn’t allow. A real straight guy would pull back from it. I pretend to be too absorbed in the video to care much. He’s using his left hand to pull apart her pussy lips, to show her off to me. She’s laughing and trying to swat him away, the entire time. “You like that, huh? I did it for you, buddy. I figured you’d want to see her.” I grunt, deeply, sexually. I’m turned on that he made this video with me in mind. “You should see her when she shaves,” he says. “Like a fucking teen. You want me to make her shave? I’ll tell her to do it. Make another video. For you, dude. I’ll do it for you.”
I’m not one of those guys who really gives a crap whether a few square inches of skin are shaved or not. But I’m turned on at the idea of him shaving his wife at my say-so. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I want her shaved.”
“Dude, I’ll do it!” he says, thrilled beyond measure that we’re conspiring together. “Fuck, I’ll do it tonight.” His dick appears again at the bottom of the screen. He’s having issues getting both it and his wife’s pussy in the camera at the same time. In a moment, the camera tilts, confusing the view. Then it shuts off. He pockets the camera. “You turned on?” he asks. I nod. “Maybe you should get in the back and let me take care of that for you,” he whispers.
“What do you mean, take care of it,” I ask, wary.
He licks his lips unconsciously. “I’ll suck it.” He’s aware instantly he’s asked too much. I’m opening my mouth to warn him I don’t do that fag shit, when he overrides me. “Let me stroke it off for you, buddy. Just two guys. Kids do it for each other. Nothing wrong with it.”
I puff my cheeks and blow out air. He’s overstepped the line, and he knows it. What he doesn’t know is how much I enjoy putting him through the wringer, every time he tries to inch his way a little further into full-on man sex. I get off on knowing he wants it so desperately, that he wants me. Obsesses about me. Makes videos for me. I could just feed him my dick and get it over with, but I like prolonging his agony. I’m a cruel bastard that way.
I’m really considering how far I’ll let him go this time, but he seems to think I might just step out of the truck. “Sorry, sorry man,” he says. “I know you’re not gay. I’m not either, honest. Just something about you, you know. Makes me get a little crazy.” In a husky voice, he asks, very politely, “Please let me taste it.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. I look toward the back of the van, where we’ve played before. I shake my head.
“Let me lick your nuts,” he pleads. “You’ve let me do that before. You liked that, right?” I shrug, like I’m trying not to remember it happening, or like I was just doing him a favor and it hadn’t really done a thing for me. “Get in the back,” he suggests. “Just get in the back and let me watch you. Okay buddy?”
There’s such a note of yearning in his voice that I’m aroused even more than before. It hurts, that need. I can tell by the catch in his tone, the raspy grating at the back of his throat. His breathing is heavy. He wants me badly. Without a word, I climb into the back of the van and take off my leather jacket. He’s ramped up the heat over the last few minutes. The floor is cold when I settle on it, though.
He follows and takes his place between my sneakers. He pulls down my jeans. We wrestle for a moment with exactly how far I’ll let them descend. He wants them above my knees; I want to keep them just below the nuts. I let him win. He’s a handsome man, this married daddy, this well-off professional, this boss of a dozens. He’s an eye-catcher, a prize. And he looks fucking ridiculous, prone on the floor of his work van, thrall to my erection. He rests the side of his head on my leg above the knee, gazing at my hard dick like he’s in love with it. I allow it.
“Let me suck it,” he pleads. I make a show of thinking about it, like I’m a straight guy who could use a mouth, any mouth, even a dude’s mouth, no matter how dirty I’d feel afterward. I give it a moment before I curl my lip and shake my head. “Let me lick those nuts then,” he begs. “Please. Please.”
I wait another moment while I stroke. I seem totally absorbed in my own meat. My fist grips it tightly, making the head red and shiny. Precum starts oozing out. After a while, I grudgingly nod.
Then he’s up there, right between my legs. His breath is hot on my sac for a moment, and then I feel the warmth of his tongue, the pressure of his chin. His eyes stare up at my meat, then into my eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, as if he’s half-asleep, or having the best dream in the world.
His hands hold my thighs as I jerk. They’re strong, and the grip is relentless. From time to him his mouth starts to travel up; his tongue licks out at the base of my shaft, as he tries to get a taste. I let my face wrinkle with disgust whenever he does, and then get him back on my nuts by adjusting the angle of my hips. I don’t touch his head. Touching is something he does, not me.
“You want her pussy, don’t you?” he asks after a while. “You want that shaved pussy?”
“You want to see me fuck her?” I grunt. My own eyes are shut now. I’m getting closer, and he can tell.
“I want to see you bang the shit out of that bitch!” He’s turned on at my excitement. It’s okay for a straight guy to shoot at the thought of fucking a buddy’s wife. Normal, even. “You wouldn’t tell her our arrangement, would you?”
I’m assuming he means the money, or maybe the nut-licking, or perhaps both. “Fuck no!” I spit, as if I’d never tell anyone about that perverted shit.
“Fuck her,” he says, urging me on. “Fuck that cunt! Would you watch a movie of me fucking her if I take it?”
I’m real close now. My fist pounds over my shaft rapidly. “Yeah,” I grunt.
I’m shooting. It’s a thick load that slides out of my slit like lava from a volcano, just as hot, burning a trail down the back of my knuckles. He’s mesmerized at the sight. My dick lets loose glob after glob as he watches. For a minute I think he wants to lick it off my hand, but he’s not got the courage to ask.
Instead, he pulls a canister of baby wipes from a bag lying against the van’s wall. Softly, almost tenderly, he swaps away the goo. In a couple of moments my hand is clean and smelling of shea butter. “You are so fucking hot,” he whispers with reverence. Then, with a note of longing, he asks, “Do you like my lips on there?”
It’s time to throw him a bone. The pup’s worked hard enough for it. “Yeah,” I say in my normal voice. “Yeah. It’s not too bad.”
The light that shines from his face is worth all the acting I’ve had to do. He’s so fucking happy at the back-handed praise. The pride is palpable. I can still feel it emanating from the van as I gather my jacket and get back into my own car.
I’m pulling into my own parking space at home when I get his text a few minutes later. i think we got a good thing going here, right buddy? It says.
Yeah, I text back. It’s cool to have a good buddy like you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)