Tag: blowjobs

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auburnguy-1:

Sexy

“Hmmm, yeah I guess it’s fine. If you want to suck my cock go ahead.” He flips back his bathrobe. “Funny. I thought you grew out of this. Guess not. Guess you’ll suck anything won’t you? Man, what would mom and dad say, knowing they have a cockslut for a son.” He snickers. “That was a dirty look you shot me. Fine, I’ll stop talking.” He sips his coffee. “Woah!” he gasps. “Since when did you learn how to deep throat? Fuck you went off to get your Masters and instead got good at this instead huh.” He leans his head back on the chair and half closes his eyes. “Mmnn. Fuck. Actually, I’m going to keep this secret of having a cockslut for a brother to myself.”

_________________
Captions are fictional.

Reposted from 2014

Reposted from 2014

by ccallenreese ♥ 0 Leave a Comment
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I finish tugging on my jeans and replacing my belt. I don’t want to go. I have a truck full of merchandise halfway to Boston that has to be there on deadline. I always look forward to leaving Atlanta, not because I hate the city of Peachtree, but because of my first rest stop, because of Lucien. I know very little about Lucien. He says that his mother caught him with the high school quarterback in a compromising position and threw him out of their trailer. I’m not even sure that’s his real name or if any of it is true. I think the story is.

Lucien is made of piss and vinegar. A lot of young kids in this town lose their way. The factories are gone. Drugs call. Cities call. Always farm work to be done, but you can’t check your Facebook standing in acres of wheat. Despite not having a GED, Lucien was an entrepreneur. He was barely 17 and horny as a dog, but there’s not a lot of one night stand material in a town of 450. Cordova had a grocery store, a post office representing three zip codes, hardware store, pool hall, coffee shop, and a doctor’s office, but what they didn’t have was a male whore. Plenty of female prostitutes and lot lizards around the diesel gas stations, but not a hot blooded male in sight. So, he opened up shop.

He lives at the nearby motel in a guest house behind the pool area. The town used to be a stopping off point for Laney, the next town over where a mineral spring resort used to exist. The motel used to handle a lot more traffic. The groundskeeper used to live out there in that little house, but over time it fell into disrepair. Within a year Lucien had enough cash to renovate it and claim it. It still looks like he’s in the process of moving in – books and bottles haphazardly scattered on the shelves, curtains but no blinds, some boxes of Kraft Dinner in cupboards.

He’s finishing off a cigarette as he rests nude on the mattress. The sheets are in the laundry, the comforter piled on the floor. I want him again. He’s barely 20 but can do things with that ass that have made men pass out. I called a week in advance to make an appointment, just in case. His number is in hundreds of trucker’s phones and address books from here to Vancouver, along with some farmers and highway patrol offiers. I never see them. Lucien showed me his phone once. I’m apparently in there as Yellow Truck cause my cab is yellow. I’m below Yappy Dog Owner and above Zeke with One Ball. I know I’m just a nameless cock to him and a hundred dollar bill, but I still dream of taking him back to Georgia with me and getting to enjoy that body every goddamn day. I’m sure every client of his dreams of the same thing.

As long as Lucien remains here, we all get to share. His afterglow cigarette is near done by this point. “What are you looking at?” he gives me a lazy smile.
“You,“ I drawl. The late afternoon light bathes his skin in a health glow. His penis looks like a hood ornament. "Christ, just the sight of you makes me all randy again like I’m 13 years old again.”

He likes that compliment, I can tell. “Well, my next client comes in about twenty minutes but you know the rates for a blowjob at the like.”

“Instead of you blowing me…can I suck on you?”

He smothers the cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand, not even having to look where it is, although there aren’t many stubs in there. “You give good oral?”
What the hell do I say to that? “I once made a girl start her period.”

He bursts out laughing, clutching himself as he rolls over onto his side. “Well that’s some claim!” he says when he recovers, “This one is free.”

“Really?”

“If you don’t make me cum, you owe me double.”

I grin. Cheeky bastard. “You’re on.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m zipping my pants up again and wiping both my mouth and my cockhead on a handkerchief. He’s panting, cleaned cock twitching, legs akimbo. I watch him soften as he lightly fondles the sensitive skin. “God damn, I didn’t think I would actually cum again so quickly.”

“Have some faith in your clients!” I pretend to be offended, “I feel bad for your next guy though, I drained you dry.”

Lucien makes a pshaw motion and waves a hand dismissively, “He just wants a handjob. He’s too scared to fuck me.”

“What’s his name in your phone?”

He snickers. “Armadillo Boots.”

“A Texan, I’m presuming. Yellow Cab is a lot more respectable.”

“Respectable as you can get for visiting a whore, I presume.”

I frown. “Lucien, don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re a damn fine commodity and when you retire half the trucking industry is gonna go into mourning. We’re gonna make a monument out of your ass. Rename Laney to Lucien or sumtin’.”

Gosh golly, I made him blush!
He groans. “Get out of here, Yellow, you’re embarrassing me.”

I chuckle and reach for my baseball cap. “Alright, alright I’m going. Boston calls. I’ll be back through here in about 10 days, gotta make a run to Buffalo first. Keep a time slot open, I’m gonna make you dinner next time.”

“Really?”
He doesn’t seem to believe me. “Really.” I walk over to the bed and kiss him lightly, “Take care Lucien, thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” He smiles, looking a bit tired and used and wiser than his 19 years. Like many men on that list, I am probably in love with him. It’s a long, lonely way to New England. I send him a postcard and magnet from Niagara Falls. When I see him again, both are displayed the fridge.

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Captions are fictional.

Original Flickr image link before it was removed: https://www.flickr.com/photos/jimtoide/8640454619/in/contacts/

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yeahstr82gay:

Somewhere along the way, I absorbed my father’s conviction that summer is over by August.  He was a teacher, and so he was already thinking about his new classes by then.  That preoccupation of his would brood over any family trip taken in that month and only intensify my own foreboding of another school year, filling August with a faint sorrow for lost time that most people only have to suffer on Labor Day weekend.  I always looked forward to being rid of that feeling as an adult, but I think it’s only gotten worse.  First, there’s my own kids, heading off to school every year, with all the challenges they have to face; and then there’s our yearly trip to Michigan with Patrick and Tiff.

We all went to college together.  My wife, Laura, and Tiff were roommates, and Patrick and I belonged to the same musical fraternity–yeah, I know, it sounds gay already.  But it wasn’t: we musicians can guzzle beer and seduce women with the best of them (do you know a woman who doesn’t melt a little at a deep baritone?), and I seem to recall Patrick getting cheered once as he carved a notch in the Woody (don’t ask).  But like any gathering of men, it had its undercurrents, and one of them ebbed and rolled in my heart for Patrick.

Trick, that’s what they called him–“Trick and Tiff,” when he first started dating her.  Now he’s a project manager with three kids and a tattoo he regrets–somewhere, after marriage and before kids, he found religion, of all things.  I mean, Laura and I go to church, too, but I don’t think it would make me feel badly about a tattoo.  But then, we’re Catholic, and he’s some kind of evangelical-Bible-something-or-other.  It makes him hotter, on some days, to look at him and see the strong, upright family man whom I once blew in May 2005.

I don’t think he actually remembers it, and I did not record it on the Woody.  He was as drunk as hell, and I was perfectly sober.  He called me “Lyssa” once as I was sucking him, and to this day I wonder who Lyssa was and when she got on his cock.  Lucky cow, for him to remember her like that.  He came from some small town in Ohio, and I figure she was from there–the one who got away, maybe.  Who knows.  I once almost asked Tiff, on one of our trips, as Patrick and Laura and our kids were in the surf, if she knew a Lyssa, but then I thought: the answer might be “yes,” and she may not appreciate thinking about her. So I kept my mouth shout, just as I never talked to Patrick, ever, about blowing him.

He tasted like coffee, which was strange and endearing at the same time.  I only blew two other guys in my life, Nathan Blechman in high school and some dude my freshman year at college when I was only a little tipsy, and they both tasted like detergent.  But Patrick was all richness and cream–and yes, I loved him, and I love him still.

I’m not sure what kind of love it is, but it feels a lot like August to me.  Maybe it’s just because I always see him every August now–and honestly, it’s mostly the wives who make it happen; Patrick and I hang out and have fun, but it’s mostly as fellow dads and for the sake of a remembered brotherhood than anything else.  He mostly talks about some men’s Bible group he attends in Maple Grove; I still sing in a band of other loser-dads on some weekends, just for fun, but he’s given up music entirely it seems.  The point is, we don’t have a lot in common anymore, and  he doesn’t even know that we once did one of the most intimate acts any two guys could do. 

So every August I sit here, on this rocky beach, looking at his back and those gym-toned buns, his body easing slowly into comfortable dad-hood, and it always marks the start of that old August feeling.  I don’t want to blow him anymore, not really; I just want us to stand, together, in the sun, on this beach, perfectly naked, embracing.  Seriously, I’d be happy with that, once a year.  As it is, I just feel this old, familiar, almost fatherly sentimentality, a faint sorrow for who we were and what we’ll never be.  

Incredible writing! Well done.

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chastitysuitandtie:

You thought those gala events were boring, but you still went only for the drunk tuxedos and rich cock.

James stood outside of the hotel, waiting for his breathing to regulate. It was cool, nearly cold out here, and it helped take the heat out of his skin. He took the napkin he was holding and wiped his brow with it. It was a bad idea to drink that champagne. He glanced at his watch. His early. Too early. The party was in full swing, but he couldn’t go back in there. He was a walking target for power-hungry women in this industry. James knew everyone in that room knew how much an advisor in the finance industry made. He swore he felt the hands of at least twelve women on his arm tonight. You’re single, James? What are you doing on Friday James? You should stop by sometimes, James, my husband thinks so highly of you… James, did you meet my daughter?

It had been so hot in there. Then, he overheard his boss’s daughter talking to some politician hopeful about how she would donate to help keep the gays from getting power in the city… It was 1994, who in fuck still talked that way?

James exhaled. He wasn’t going back there. Truth was, he didn’t want to go back to work. His doctor said if James didn’t do something, the ulcer in his stomach would get worse.

James had taken a taxi to the hotel like everyone in New York, but trading a stuffy ballroom for a cab made him freak out again. He began to walk. The further he walked, the better he felt. The cold numbed his fingers and fogged his breath, but the panic subsided. He wanted to keep walking forever.

You can’t get far in dress shoes, and even when James began to feel sore, he kept going. When he bothered to look up at the street signs, he was astonished to see he’d walked thirty New York City blocks. Jesus. James sighed. What was he doing? Without a goal, there couldn’t be a journey. As he turned the corner, Jack saw a sign that caught his attention.

It just said ,”Boots”. It appeared to be a bar. A bar with a lot of hot men mingling outside. Jack recognized how they dressed from the magazines he kept in secret. Tight jeans. Tight tanktops. Jack swallowed. Was this where he was meant to be? Was this his destination? Only one way to find out. He walked past the men who were looking at him and went inside.
“Woah did he just run off from a wedding?” one asked.
“He has a nice ass,” another said.

The bar was dim and dance music was playing. Hungry eyes considered him from the bar. James’ head spun at the smell of machismo and leather and suddenly he had to throw up all of that champagne. He ran to the bathroom and made it to the sink just in time, emptying his gut into the sink. “Shit,” he muttered. He instantly felt better though. He washed out his mouth and splashed water on his face. His knees felt like jelly. James stumbled into a stall, put the lid down on the toilet, and sat on it. He closed his eyes and heaved a huge sigh. Things couldn’t stay the same.

As James was thinking, the bathroom door opened and closed. Someone walked into the stall next to him.
“Someone in there?” a low male voice said.
“Uh, yeah,” James said, surprised.
“You wanna be a friend?” the man asked.
James wasn’t sure how to answer – when all of a sudden, a rather large cock thrust through a hole in the wall. James startled. It was so weird to just seeing a bare cock just sticking out of a wall! It was a really nice looking cock though…
The man pushed his balls through. James just stared.
“I’m looking for company tonight,” the man on the other side said again.
“You feel alone too?” James asked the cock.
“Yeah,” the man said.
“What do you do about it?” James followed up.
There was a pause. “You can choose to be alone, but if I chose that, I’d just kill myself. I’m happy to be gay, because I can always go make friends. It helps hold me over until I can find someone to be with.”
James found himself unable to tear his eyes off the man’s erection. “Being gay doesn’t impact your work life?”
“I build stages and sets. In my line of work, it doesn’t matter who you fuck as long as you do your damn job.”
“I need a job like that,” James muttered.
“Well, go get one. Stand up for yourself. You’re a queer in the big city. You fuck who you want, and do what you want. This city is ours as much as is it’s the straights. Succeeding will only piss off the haters and make us stronger.”
“Yeah,” James said, coming to a realization. “It will. I shouldn’t sacrifice myself to appease those people. I am in control of my own destiny, and I shouldn’t choose to be miserable.”
“That’s the spirit. See, you need more gay friends.”
“Yeah, I do…” James murmured. He bent his head and pressed his lips to the stranger’s cock.
He made a noise of surprise and jumped. “Woah!”

James reached up and cupped those impressive balls, suddenly wanting to give in to all of his curiosity. He slid his lips down the man’s shaft, exploring, not wanting to push himself too fast.
“Oh that’s good,” the man murmured. “I think we’re going to be good friends…”
James had to agree. This was actually pretty nice. This guy smelled kind of musky and it was making him horny. Soon he had as much of this guy’s cock stuffed in his mouth as possible and he was jacking off on the toilet. The release was one of the most cathartic experiences he’d ever had, and it seemed to flush all of the irritation out of his system. James didn’t even care that it got on his suit. He didn’t plan to wear it again anyway.

As his jaw was sore, James jerked the other man off until he too spurted. The guy grunted as cum flew. James petted him until soft, then helped cleaned up.
“You’re going to be a very good friend,” the man said.
“Can I see you?” Jack asked.
“Sure. Let me buy you a drink at the bar. You drink?”
“Anything but champagne.”

The next day, Jack marched into his boss’s office to put in his two day notice. He didn’t have things figured out quite yet, but he couldn’t figure things out working 50 hours a week. He wanted to be free. Right now, he only had a new friend, but it was a very good start.

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Captions are fictional.

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torontopup:

www.recon.com/torontoslave

Seems a bit nervous he will be seen getting sucked.

“You’re an idiot. We’ve been going on ‘bro trips’ for years. Since high school! And now our wives are off having ‘girl’ trips. They don’t suspect a thing; no one suspects a thing. Besides, what are we doing that’s so wrong? It’s not cheating. Or gay sex, for that matter. It’s just a blowjobs. Our wives aren’t into them, so how else are you going to get one?”
“Uh-”
“ Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“But-”
“Dude there’s NO one out here. You think Martha’s up on that hill with binoculars? The only thing that’s going to see you is a hawk. Focus. You get too soft when you’re distracted. If you still winge about it, I’ll stop blowing you.”
“No no, that’s…yeah you’re right. I’m freaking out over nothing, and you are really good at that.”
“Thanks man. Appreciate it.”

______________________
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The thing that surprised me most about being in a relationship with Zane was just how he could make an honest man out of me. I don’t mean marriage, I mean the way he could just shut off the white noise in my brain which resulted in me saying whatever was on my mind. You don’t realize just how many things influence what comes out of your mouth.
Our culture has specific rules on what is vulgar and what is not, what you should want and what you shouldn’t, and the virtues of being ‘pure’ versus being ‘dirty’, and what being ‘dirty’ says to your character. We sometimes doubt ourselves so much that we can’t even figure out what we really want. Our desires get lost in the fog of ‘what would people think if [blank]?”, even though chances of them finding out what you do with your self or your lover in private is slim to none. 

Zane kissing me might as well be the off button to all that bother. When he asks me questions – filthy, inappropriate, kinky questions – I just answer him without a second of reconsideration. All the answers are there. Zane just has to ask the right ones, and I will spit out the right response. So when he asked me just now – You want to suck my cock? – I said yes, because I really, truly wanted to suck him. I was not ashamed or embarrassed of how much I liked to pleasure him with my tongue and listen to him moan, or to taste his saltiness in the back of my throat, or to feel that fat vein on his shaft throb from my actions. Matter of fact, I was giddy. Excited. Eager. Horny.

I was in the grocery store the other day, and thinking to myself about that question, and I was blushing. I was sure everyone could read my mind. Would I suck your cock? No, of course not! That’s totally wrong, and kind of gross. It was as if I seemingly had two different minds. When I was in one mode, the other seemed ridiculous and unfathomable. It was bizarre, but also…magical. Cause that special place I go with Zane? No other boyfriend has ever taken me there. It is my favorite place.

Yes, Zane, I want to suck it real bad. I really want to. Please let me.

___________________________________________________________
Text is fictional. This is from Cocky Boys – Trenton Ducati and Jack Hunter. Thanks @themercuryjones for listing that info.

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Master Abdul won’t stop staring at my slave. It’s making me crazy. I
admire my slave’s ability to not appear annoyed, but it not professional
for one man to be oggling another’s slave so shamelessly.

“Master Adbul,” I ask, popping a date into my mouth. “Are you here during this meeting or not?”
He
blinks, but manages to tear his eyes away. “My
apologies… just your boy, he is captivating. Where did you find him?”
“An
auction. In Persia. A nomadic boy, captured in war times…so many stray men,
and not enough villages to go back to, unfortunately.”
“Doesn’t he resent you for that?”
I
chuckle and eat another date. “Goodness no. He is very loyal, because I
also bought his sick brother and gave him to my sister. She healed him. As long as he knows
where his twin is, he’s very obedient.”
Master Abdul chuckles. “Why on earth do you give in to a slave’s feelings? That’s what the whip is for.”
“What, so he’ll resent me more? I think not.”
Master
Abdul did not like my answer. “Honestly, I think you should show the
boy that the world is cruel and unfair. The sooner he learns that the
better.”
Shah Mohammed speaks up. “Can we continue the meeting please?”
“Master Abdul,” I say, “He already experienced war. I think that’s cruel and unfair as is.”
“You should sell him to me…I would make him into an even finer slave.”
I scoff. “So you can fuck him and make him scrub your floors like a scullery maid just so you can watch his ass?”
He stands up, red in the face, “How dare you-”
Shah Mohammed stands up too. “Sit down.
Master Abdul, you’re acting a fool, openly coveting a man’s property
like that. How he trains his slaves is none of your business, and
jealousy is unsightly.”
Master Abdul grumbles and sits.

I
glance over at my boy. I can see the panic in his eyes, but not on his
face. He’s kept his position, his posture, his composure. My heart
swells.

We finish our meeting on taxes and then Master
Abdul excuses himself as quickly as he could, no doubt to find a whore
for the evening.

Shah Mohammed watches him go.
“Good heavens, he leaves such a bad taste in my mouth.”
“I have to agree… no manners, what so ever.”
My slave is busy making us a fresh pot of mint tea.

“Well, taxes are rather boring…maybe he wanted to escape that.”
Shah Mohammed chuckles. “Perhaps so.”
I sip the fresh cup handed to me. “Mmnn. Say, Shah…do you still like to watch?”
A smile curls under his mustache. “Oh very, very much so.”

I glance up at my slave. “Come here boy. Kneel before me. Please me.”
My slave does not flinch or hesitate. He simply passes me a cup of fragrant tea and kneels onto the soft carpet under my slippers.
“Any requests Sir?”
“Not too fast…take your time. Make me nice and hard.”
My slave parts my robes and finds my cock hidden inside. “Anything for you Sir,” he murmurs, nuzzling my thigh. His beard tickles my skin and one of my testicles. A moment later, he starts.
Across from me, Shah Mohammed sighs and sips his tea as he slides down into his seat. “Praise the heavens, that is a beautiful sight watching him suck you like that.”
I close my eyes and tilt my head back. “I’ll have to take your word on that, but let me tell you Shah, it feels marvelous.”

______________
Text is fictional.

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[I reblogged this from a normal dance Tumblr, so for anyone who is seeing this post from there – take note the story below is NSFW and contains gay content.]

I never used to be early, ever. Since I dedicated my life to dance, I lived in a constant state of fatigue and stress and would sleep as much as possible. When I joined this company in London, I soon found a reason for being a bit more punctual – a 164 centimeter reason in white leggings, that is.

I opened the rehearsal hall door and smiled at the sight of Lambert spread out over this tacky red drop cloth on a prop sofa. He was a male, but he was a stereotypical prima-donna ballerina. Who else lounges around in leg-warmers and practice slippers? I smiled at the sigh of his curves neatly outlined by the sheer fabric. Lambert was one of our shortest male dancers, and by far the most feminine. He was the only male dancer that could squeeze in Bernadette’s little pointe shoes and wear them like a princess. Despite his size, that buff little man was the principal dancer in the company – and it wasn’t because his family name was emblazoned above the door.

I was impressed by Lambert, and inspired. Also, I was charmed by his dramatic streak and flair for fuss. When I first met him, Lambert put his hands on his hips and huffed at me for mispronouncing his name, “It’s LAMber, not lamBERT!” he insisted with a perfect French accent. He pouted at me with those cupid bow lips that begged for kissing. When Lambert was dressed up in powder and lipstick for performance nights, I was beyond relieved to have a cup to hide my erection behind.

Lambert looked up as I set my duffel back down. “Bonjour,” he replied.
“Hello,” I replied with my American accent. I strolled over to him. “What are you reading?”
Lambert turned the page. “I’m studying the program from when the Joffrey did their production of this show. The reviews were insane, people were raving about it! They packed theaters. I’m wondering howt hey did it, since the script is a bit weak, and the choreography a bit aged. Somehow the Joffrey was able to make some tweaks to improve it without angering the conservatives. The use of color in the costumes alone is incredible…”
A throb of jealousy pulses through me. No matter waht I do, no matter how much time I put into practice or exercising at the gym, no matter how hard I study, I will never be at Lambert’s level. I cannot match his dedication. To him, dancing is a religion.

I console my inferiority by cupping my hand and running my palm over the swell of his calves. “Mmmmmmm,” Lambert purrs under me. The touch slides up his thigh and slows as it crests over the sculpted muscle of his butt. As my hand moves up his leg, he arches up into my touch like a rather hedonistic housecat. I guide my hand backwards and down his elevated hips, between his legs and stroke his bulge firmly trapped in tight underwear. Lamber groans and buries his face in the pillow. “John, Johnny not – now, please, I am very sensitive and must wait to be horny after practice.”
I cluck at him with faux disappointment and my hand migrates back up, squeezing his balls a little, before sliding up his ass and resting on his back. I perch on the edge of the sofa next to him and run my flattened palm over his solid back. “Oh that feels good,” Lambert admits.

I immediately begin to give him a back and shoulder massage. Lambert sets the program aside and nuzzles his face into a pillow. Soon, he’s making some delightful noises as I work the stiffness from his upper body.
“Mon dieu,” Lambert says, “I hate that I’ll never be as strong as you.”

I flush under rare praise. I am bigger, so statistically, it’s probably true, but still, it’s hard to believe I can best Lambert in any category.
“Well, you are more flexible, beautiful, and graceful, you don’t need my strength.”
“I still want it. Mmnf. My hands get tired so quickly when I try to do this my feet or something.”
I work Lambert’s shoulders in my hands. “You need to relax more. You’re so tight.”
“Fuck,” he sighs. He never curses in practice or on stage. I am delighted to hear him slip in the rehearsal room. A moment later, I know why he’s slipped because he says: “It’s too late.”
“What’s too late?”
“I’m too aroused right now. I can’t dance when I’m horny.”
“Suck me,” I beg, now unable to think of anything else.

Lambert looks up at me with beautiful clear blue eyes. “Here? Now? People will be here any minute…”

But I am already standing and extracting my half-hard penis out of my sweatpants. His eyes light up at the offer of this treat so early int he day. Lambert’s hand rises to meet me. Lambert loves to play with me. It’s a weakness he wont admit to, I’m sure. He swings his legs over so he can sit up, and with a sigh of defeat, wraps his lips around me. I place a hand on the back of the sofa, one knee on the seat cushion, one foot on the floor, and the other hand on the back of Lambert’s head. I’m half folded around him, grunting and moaning as Lambert suckles me and explores my foreskin with his talented tongue. He cups my balls in his soft hands and pulls me forward, to the base. Stars swirl in front of my eyes as he blesses my cock with attention.
“Dios mio,” I gasp. “You have such a hot, velvety mouth, Lambert.”
He hums and makes my knees turn to gelatin.

Once, during one of our sex romps, Lambert said to me that oral is a lot like ballet, just ballet you do with your tongue. That night I learned just how fast my reload speed was.

I beg him to go slowly, but he’s eating me up. I watch him bob his head, devouring me, enjoying the sour tasting of me. Now that I’ve given him an outlet, all his sexual energy is pouring out. I stroke his silky blond hair and listen to him work. Lambert pushes the tip of his tongue into my piss hole and pre-cum dribbles out against his tongue. “Fuck Lambert!”
I can feel him smiling around my cock and for some stupid reason that sends me over the edge. I push my member down his throat and empty my seed in hot spurts. Lambert startles, and some of it dribbles down his lips, but he quickly recovers and pumps me with his hand as he tends my glans with his mouth. My vision goes entirely black, and I am cursing up a storm. Every nerve of mine is firing at once and I am surprised I haven’t fallen off the couch yet.
“Oh Lambert,” I groan. “You are a delight.”
He plays his tongue over my balls. “You know what I like about you American men?”
“Hm?” I ask, hazy.
“You never ask for permission to do anything. You thrust, you cum, you never ask or tell us, you just do it. It’s very sexy, the way you dominate like that.”
I puff out my chest, enjoying the testosterone coursing through me. “Is that why you love to bottom for me?”
“Yes,” Lambert says, licking his lips. “You nail me just how I like it.”
“Speaking of how you like it, you want your orgasm now?” I ask. My cock is softening, so I put it back into my pants. It’s still shiny from Lambert’s work, and I relish the idea of going through rehearsal with his marks on me.
“Oui oui!” Lambert points down. “Look how hard I am!”
“Good, cause I got just the thing for that…”

I wobble over to my duffel bag and extract a clean washcloth I use for sweat. I encourage Lambert to stand up. We kiss for a moment, and I pull his leggings down in the front until his cock springs free. I wrap the washcloth around it and pump him. Lambert melts against me as I milk his cock. Soft, he’s about 3 inches but when hard it’s more than twice that. A few pulls is all it takes before Lambert shudders and the towel grows wet under my fingers. He clings to my torso and pants against my neck.
“You all done, pretty one?” I purr.
“I feel like I’m floating,” he answers.

I stroke his hair and clean up the sticky mess between his legs. I also adjust his leggings and make sure he’s straight.
“Feel good?”
“Oh yes. I feel …cleansed. Empty. Clear-headed.”
“Good, cause practice starts in twenty minutes.”
Lambert puffed out his cheeks. “Fyew! That was fun! God, I love you American boys. Getting me into trouble.”
I fake throwing the soiled towel at him. “You like getting into trouble! You’re a mischievous little French minx in tights, a real danger to society.”

Lambert makes an uncharacteristically loud laugh. His hands immediately fly to cover his mouth as he turns red. Just at that moment, another dancer comes in.

“…What did I miss?”
“Oh nothing, Janine,” I smile sweetly. “Lambert and I were just fooling around.”
She rolls her eyes. “Man it is stuffy in here and it smells like sweat. How about we open a window?”
I cough. Lambert and I share a look. I stuff the washcloth into my bag. “That is a good idea.”

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Text is fictional. Source isn’t an actual ballet dancer, but some guy on Flickr that likes to pose in leggings. Huh!

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First was that theater kid, Kip, behind the vending machine in high school….and most recently, that hot Puerto Rican guy behind the bar. There’s been a lot in-between. Anthony, my best friend’s roommate in college, after he lost that bet. He liked it too. Man, I wonder what happened to Silvio. Hottest foreign exchange student ever, with the body of a god. Then there was that bear I sucked off at the gym. That wasn’t really my thing, but god what a cock on that man. Still picking hair out of my teeth though. God who else? Ryosuke, the skinny Japanese guy. He was one loud motherfucker. Dion. John. Chris. So many guys off Grindr. I don’t think I remember half their names – the dude with the eagle tattoo, the redhead, the Russian accent guy. I wonder if James counts, cause I stopped sucking his dick once I realized he didn’t clean his foreskin right. Gross. Who else? Oh, Marcus. Never seen a guy so proud of such a small dick. Fit so nicely in my mouth. Man, I’ve sucked a lot of cock. I wonder what that says of me? It says I like to suck cock, that’s what. Most guys are grateful, at least I like to hope. Everyone likes getting their dick sucked. Oh, forgot about Aaron…

Oh crap, this is my stop! “Wait, hold the doors!”

I rush off the bus, giving a wave to the bus driver in thanks. I get out of traffic and find a spot on the sidewalk to stand so I can check my phone. I fire out a text message: “Hey David, just got off the bus. On my way to your place. Looking forward to meeting you. Hope you’re naked.”

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Text is fictional.

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“See? Look at this huge boner I got. Are you gonna come over now and fix it or what? And while you’re here, can you clean my apartment? I’m fucking hopeless without you.”
“…Yeah you are. Your roommates must be out for the day.”
“Yeah they’re gone for the weekend, as is my girlfriend. No one will know. I’ll sneak you in.”
I stare at my phone. I don’t get it. He’s so in denial he’s not even acknowledging the closet exists. As long as he gets his blowjobs, he doesn’t see it as cheating or whatever. I sigh. I already know I’m going over there. He has a perfect cock and a damn amazing body. What do I get out of it? Frustrating him. Making him horny and needy, making him think about sex, and dangling my hot ass right in front him. He’s gonna snap one of these days, jump my bones, and fuck my brains out. Once he does, he’ll be addicted and I’ll be able to manipulate him however I want.
“Alright, give me a minute to clean up and I’ll come over.”
“Yr amazing.”
Yeah yeah. I set down my phone and dig through my underwear drawer for my best pair of underwear. I’m going to need something sexy to clean in. He’s gonna pay dearly if he thinks he can dismiss me as just a hot mouth. I want him to be unable to keep his eyes off of me. I want to fill his dreams with naked boys and make him wake up confused with sticky sheets. I won’t be happy until I’ve made him break up with his girlfriend. Sometimes I dream about locking up his cock and making him beg me for release. That seems only fitting. It would be a good way to correct his entitled behavior. I hum to myself as I slide on my best pair of Aussiebums. It’s gonna be a fun afternoon.

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Text is fictional.