“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.
