“Dear diary. It has been almost three months since my jungle lord saved me from the wretched trap and Sabor. You wouldn’t think that this—this is my life now. I am fully now and one living in the jungles of the Congo with the most powerful man in the world, a literal Master of the jungle. Tarzan is everything and more that I have wanted in a mate; he is caring, charming and protective and an amazing lover. I have grown from a skinny little seedling to a man in my own right. I mean, you must to keep up with the literal king of the jungle. Tarzan has taken me all over his domain and taught me so much; we have dived off waterfalls, rode on the backs of elephants and looked underneath the stars laying next to wild mountain gorillas. It is beyond magical. My body and mind has been transformed for the better and I am happy to be the mate of such a loving man-”

As he was sprawled across their bed, ass arched up, Tarzan swung into the treehouse with a bouquet of fiery red and orange flowers that James did not recognize. Tarzan muttered, “Sundara nyekundu”. “It means orange red flower”. James immediately grinned and slunk his small frame towards his jungle master; his loincloth barely hanging onto him as he moved forward. Tarzan reached out and made a similar grin and eyed his prize. His 5’5 mate was noticeably smaller than his 6’8 frame but in the three months since their last encounter with Sabor, James had quickly adapted. His copper hair now flowing past his shoulder blades like embers in a fire, almost longer than Tarzan’s; his shoulders a tad broader than before and his pale pink body now bronzed like a light toffee. As Tarzan reached out to James, his hazel eyes met James’ blue and then Tarzan took his paw of a hand and cradled James closer in for a kiss. He laid the flowers down on the nearby table and began to passionately tongue fuck his mate and when they broke away briefly, Tarzan started to ooh and ahh in his natural ape manner. Seeing his love gleaming with joy made him aroused. Without thinking, Tarzan scooped up James and fell out the side of the treehouse nearing the floor of the jungle and catching a nearby vine. James closed his eyes and held onto Tarzan’s beefy chest and clutched his man. Tarzan let out a powerful yell. It was early in the morning and the sun was rising. It was time to let the jungle awake from its slumber and know that its king was in a happy mood. James was still clutching onto Tarzan when he noticed they were coming up to a nearby lake. Without thinking, Tarzan dropped James below and let go of the vine, diving headfirst into the water. James couldn’t think. The water was like icicles being daggers into his body. He gathered himself and swam upward. As he gasped for air, he noticed he was naked. Tarzan tore off his loincloth as he threw him into the lake! Nearby, a small waterfall poured into the lake and James noticed Tarzan sitting atop a rock smiling like a sly fox. James then raced over and said, “Tarzan give me back my loincloth please.” Tarzan replied, “No. Come up here. Now.” James did as his lord asked of him. He was cold and shivering. Unknown to him, Tarzan had a plan in mind that morning. Tarzan snapped his fingers and implied that James stand up. He took his knife from his belt and snapped off a piece of vine near him. He then proceeded to tie James up and bound his hands behind his back and led him to a nearby grove of trees that crisscrossed one another perfectly into an X shape. Tarzan then made a makeshift mask with two banana leaves and blinded James. James knew better than to disapprove or not submit to Tarzan. Although loving, Tarzan could have a temper if prompted and James knew who oversaw this scene-the literal lord of the jungle. With James tied and unable to break free, Tarzan began to speak in his deep low masculine tone. “James my love, you are going to submit to me and only cum when I deem you are ready to, understand?” “Yes Sir.” “Yes. Yes, I am Sir. I am your Lord and Master. And you will submit to me.” Tarzan then took off his own loincloth; his 11-inch cock was already pulsating to life; it’s uncut tip already drooling with precum. Tarzan tied his long brown hair back and began to lick his mate. He started at James’ nip and worked his way down to his cock. James writhed in ecstasy. “Baby, stop that tickles”, said James. Tarzan giggled to himself. He got on all fours and maneuvered himself behind James and gazed at James’ hairless hole. Tarzan loved the tight pink pussy. He would then take his fingers and gently poke inside his boy’s cunt. James shivered. Tarzan began to lick the pussy. He licked and ate his boy’s hole like it was a meal for an hour or so, savoring the taste of sweet precum that flowed from James’s cock and down his taint. Tarzan then took it upon himself and tied James upside down so that his mouth was in the perfect condition to take his cock for a blowjob. James relaxed his throat and took all of his jungle lord’s cock. He began to suck vigorously onto Tarzan’s member. Tarzan was getting closer and closer and started to fuck James’ throat. After 5 or so minutes, Tarzan flooded James’s mouth, throat and nose with a massive amount of sticky sweet cum. He began to beat and holler on his chest and thrust his cock back into James’s throat. He pulled out and immediately flipped James over and took some of his own cum out of James’ mouth and began to use it as lube and fuck James senseless. James began to pour more pre-cum out of his own cock and whined, “Yes Sir. Fuck me Sir. I am yours Tarzan.” Tarzan replied, “Yes, you’re Tarzan bitch, Tarzan owns this pussy.” The 12.5-inch cock never weakened. Each time he pulled out, more cum poured into James and then after a good 30 minutes of thrusting, round two came. Tarzan then held James as he rut into his mate making primal ape noises and after one last thrust into James he cummed. He beat his chest one more time to signify to James that he owned him. Tarzan was satisfied with this morning fucking and then gently slid his knife in-between James’ wrists setting him free. Tarzan then grabbed a vine and as James was getting himself together, Tarzan grunted, “Going to hunt. Be back at treehouse before sundown.” He then flew away from various vines. James took off the make-shift blindfold and realized that he was drenched in dried cum and took a moment to catch his breath. He then noticed that his own loincloth was tied to a tree limb nearby and since he was familiar with the area, he decided to take a dip into the lake to clean off and reminisce about the last few hours of submitting to his mate.

It was one of those sticky summer afternoons where the heat clung to everything, making the air feel heavy and charged. Mom had split three years ago, leaving Dad to rattle around in the old house alone most of the time. At 48, he was still in solid shape, broad chest from years on construction sites, a bit of a gut now, but his arms and shoulders were thick with muscle, and that salt-and-pepper beard gave him this rugged vibe.

Me? I’m Alex, 19, crashing at home between college semesters, trying to sort out my life. Ben, my boyfriend of six months, was over more and more, he was 20, with that lean swimmer’s body, sun-bleached blond hair that always looked messy in the best way, and these blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled. We’d met at a dorm party, bonded over shitty playlists and late-night talks, and now he felt like part of the routine.

Ben showed up around noon, the screen door slapping shut behind him. Dad was out grabbing groceries or something, so we had the place to ourselves. We crashed on the living room couch, the AC humming weakly against the humidity, flipping through channels before settling on some old action flick. Ben’s foot nudged mine, casual at first, then his hand slid onto my knee. “Missed you,” he murmured, leaning in. His lips brushed mine, soft, tasting like the iced coffee he’d grabbed on the way over. I kissed back, deeper, my hand slipping under his tank top to feel the warm, smooth skin of his back.

His tank came off first, tossed aside as I kissed down his neck, tasting the faint salt from the heat outside. My shirt followed, then our shorts, unzipped, pushed down to our ankles, kicked off without breaking the kiss. We were both in our boxers now, grinding against each other, hard and leaking through the fabric. Ben’s hand dipped into mine, wrapping around my cock, stroking slow. “Fuck, Alex,” he breathed, his own dick throbbing against my thigh. I tugged his boxers down, freeing him, long and hard, the head flushed pink, and he did the same to me. We were fully naked now, bodies pressed together, the couch creaking under us as he shifted to straddle me, our cocks rubbing slick and hot.

That’s when the front door opened. Dad. Home way earlier than expected. He stepped in with a couple of grocery bags, keys jingling, and stopped dead. His eyes widened, taking it all in: me on my back, Ben on top, both of us buck-naked, mid-grind, breaths coming fast. The bags slipped a little in his grip, but he caught them. “Christ, boys,” he muttered, voice low and gruff, but not angry. More surprised, maybe a little amused? He set the bags down by the door, rubbing his beard as he straightened up.

Ben froze, face turning red, scrambling off me to grab a throw pillow for cover. I yanked the blanket from the back of the couch, pulling it over us both, heart pounding like a drum. “Dad; shit, sorry, we didn’t hear you.”

Dad just stood there a second, eyes flicking over us, lingering on Ben’s flushed chest, the way his legs were still tangled with mine under the blanket. He exhaled, shaking his head. “Door wasn’t locked. Good thing it was me and not the neighbors.” He didn’t yell or freak out. Just picked up the bags and headed to the kitchen, calling back, “Grab some clothes; we can talk.”

We dressed quick, shorts and tees, no underwear, the adrenaline still buzzing. Ben whispered, “Should I bounce?”

I shook my head. “Nah, he’s chill. Just… embarrassed us more than anything.” In the kitchen, Dad had three cold ones open on the counter. He handed us each one, leaning against the fridge.

“Not mad,” he said, taking a swig. “You’re grown. But be smart about it.” His eyes met Ben’s, holding a beat too long. “Ben, right? Swim team?”

“Yeah,” Ben said, sipping to hide his nerves “Thanks for the beer, Mr. Thompson.”

“Rick,” Dad corrected, smirking a little. “And no problem.”

We ended up back in the living room, beers in hand, the awkwardness fading into small talk. Dad asked about college, Ben’s practices, my part-time job at the warehouse.

The beers went down easy in the heat, loosening everyone up. Dad grabbed a second round, then a third, and the conversation turned personal, him talking about the divorce, how Mom had wanted “something different,” how he’d been single since.

Ben opened up about coming out, his folks being supportive but distant. Dad nodded along, his gaze drifting to Ben more and more, the way his tank clung to his shoulders from the sweat, the easy way he laughed. I felt it too, this undercurrent, like the room was getting warmer.

By the sixth beer, we were all buzzed, the sun slanting low through the windows. Ben’s hand found my knee again, casual, but Dad noticed. 

Dad set his bottle down, leaning forward. “Look, I interrupted earlier. Don’t let me kill the vibe.” It came out half-joking, but his eyes were dark, fixed on us.

I laughed nervously. “Dad, come on.”

“I’m serious,” he said, shrugging. “House is hot, we’re all guys here. If you wanna pick up where you left off… go for it.” He adjusted in his chair, and I saw it, the faint outline in his jeans. He was getting hard just thinking about it.

Ben looked at me, eyes questioning, a spark of excitement there. My heart raced, jealousy mixing with this weird thrill.

Dad’s voice dropped. “Been a while for me.”

The air thickened. Ben leaned in, kissing me soft at first, testing. Dad watched, silent. The kiss deepened, tongues tangling, and Ben’s hand slid up my shirt.

“Fuck it,” Ben whispered against my lips. He pulled my tee off, then his own. Dad shifted, unbuttoning his flannel slow, letting it fall open to reveal his hairy chest. We all stripped from there, like shedding the tension. Shorts unzipped, pushed down. Dad stood last, jeans and boxers hitting the floor, his cock springing free; thick, veined, cut, and a bush of salt-and-pepper pubes. It was bigger than mine, heavier, curving slightly up as it hardened fully.

Ben’s eyes widened, but he smiled. “Damn, Rick.” Dad chuckled, stroking himself once. We were all naked now, the room smelling like sweat and beer, cocks hard and ready.

Dad stepped closer. “On your knees, Ben.” Ben slid off the couch, taking Dad in his mouth first, lips stretching wide around that thick girth, sucking slow. Dad groaned, hand in Ben’s hair. I watched, stroking myself, mesmerized by the sight of my boyfriend sucking my dad’s cock. Then Ben switched to me, his mouth hot and sloppy, while jerking Dad off. The wet sounds filled the room.

“Upstairs,” Dad grunted eventually, pulling back. “My bed’s bigger.”

We followed him to his room, the sheets rumpled, fan spinning lazy overhead. Dad pushed Ben onto all fours on the mattress. “You want this, kid?” he asked, voice gravelly.

“Fuck yes,” Ben breathed.

Dad grabbed lube from the nightstand, slicking his fingers and cock. He prepped Ben slow, one finger, then two, pushing in until Ben was moaning, ass pushing back. I knelt beside them, watching, my own dick leaking pre-cum as I watched my dad slide his fingers in and out of my boyfriend 

“Alex,” Dad said, eyes locking on mine. “Spread his ass for me.”

I swallowed, hands trembling as I gripped Ben’s firm cheeks and pulled them apart. His hole was pink, slick, clenching in anticipation. Dad lined up his cock with Ben’s tight hole; that thick, veined cock pressing against it.

He pushed in slow, the head popping past the rim, stretching Ben wide. I watched up close, mesmerized: Dad’s cock looked massive, the shaft glistening with lube, veins bulging as it disappeared inch by inch into my boyfriend’s tight hole.

The way Ben’s rim gripped it, pulling taut around the girth, made my stomach flip with hot jealousy and arousal. It was so fucking intimate, seeing my own dad’s cock claim what was mine, his heavy balls swinging forward with each thrust.

Dad bottomed out, hips flush against Ben’s ass, and started moving; long, deep strokes that made Ben gasp. “Fuck, he’s gripping me like a vice,” Dad growled. Ben’s moans got louder, raw and desperate. Dad glanced at me. “He’s noisy. Shut him up, son.”

I moved in front, kneeling before Ben. “Open,” I said, guiding my cock to his lips. He took me eagerly, mouth hot and wet, sucking as Dad’s thrusts pushed him forward onto me. It was intense, Ben choking on my dick while Dad pounded him from behind, the rhythm syncing up, wet slaps echoing.

Dad pulled out after a bit, flipping Ben onto his back. “I wanna see his face while he takes your dad’s com.” Ben’s legs went over Dad’s shoulders, and Dad slid back in, deeper this time, the angle making Ben arch and cry out. I watched from the side, stroking myself, but Dad nodded at me. “Get under there, Alex. Watch close. Watch your boyfriends ass stretch around your daddy’s cock.”

My heart hammered, but I was so into it, obsessed with seeing my dad like this, raw and dominant. I slid under them on my back, head underneath Ben’s spread thighs, right under Dad’s balls. They hung heavy, swinging with each thrust, brushing my forehead as I stuck my tongue out to get a taste; sucking on his balls as they slapped against my boyfriends ass.

Up close, it was obscene: Dad’s thick cock plunging in and out of Ben’s hole, his shaft slick and veined, stretching him wide open. The rim clung to it on every pull-back, pink and puffy.

Dad’s balls tightened, slapping against Ben’s ass, the musky scent overwhelming. I was rock-hard, jerking myself furiously, turned on beyond belief by my own dad using my boyfriend like this; powerful, relentless, his grunts mixing with Ben’s muffled moans. I had to stop to keep myself from cumming.

“Fuck, gonna cum,” Dad rasped, hips snapping faster. “Gonna fill your boy up, Alex. Watch it.”

He buried deep inside him, roaring as he unloaded, I could see thick pulses of cum throbbing through his shaft, flooding Ben’s insides.

Cum leaked out around the base, dripping hot onto my face. Dad pulled out slow, his spent cock glistening, still semi-hard, the head smeared with cum.

Dad smirked down at me. “Clean him, son. I wanna see you eat my load out of him.”

I didn’t hesitate, tongue diving in, lapping at the messy hole. Salty, bitter, thick with Dad’s cum. Ben whimpered, grinding back against my face as I swallowed it all, wanting to get a taste of my dad’s cum. The thick and bitter taste of my dad’s load on my tongue caused my own orgasm; spurting ropes of cum across the floor.

We collapsed after; sweaty, sticky, breaths ragged. Dad lit a smoke by the window, exhaling slow. “Good boys.” Ben curled against me, spent. I held him, still tasting Dad’s cum, the image of his cock in Ben’s hole burned into my brain. 

Revenge

Victor had been sucking on my dick for what seemed like hours until I was finally ready to blast my cum when suddenly he stopped sucking my cock head. I felt his warm finger go up my hole. “I was so close, what up?”

“Sorry, James but I want to plant my seed up your sweet ass, Handsome.” 

I think I pleased Victor when I said, “I can’t wait to feel his cock up my pink tight hole. And get a blast of your man juice.”

Instantly I rolled over on my belly, spread my legs, and then the spread my ass cheeks. He kissed my pink hole then he inserted two lubed fingers pushing them into my wet waiting horny hole.

I took hold of his beautiful 8-inch cock and just sat right down on it. 60% Yummy. His massive rod sunk deeply into my bowels. I started bouncing up and down, feeling like a new man. I let out a “Yippee Ki‐Yay!” As a lifelong bottom I had always hoped for that one dick that you just can’t live without being in your life or your hole. That dick was Victor’s big ole dick … last Christmas and now maybe forever. Vic remembered the whole evening too, it was just the the two of us them remembrance remember and today. I planted a big kiss on his lips.

“Have you formed your diabolical plan for today?” Asked Vic.

“Indeed I have. I started already this morning at six am. I strapped both of the bastards to a mobile examining table. Then tied their hands to the table. They each had a ball gag put into their mouths. Your father thought of everything. He had syringes filled with liquid valium to calm his victims. I gave each brat a shot. They each wore a cock ring and both are in white tight bikinis, which easily can be easily ripped off their firm bodies for entertainment.”

“Now, onto the main event, the hot boy’s tight buttholes. I have shoved a six inch long, two and a half inch wide vibrating dildo deeply up both their buttholes. As there was a TV on the wall with a DVD player in your father’s “playroom” and because I knew where you kept your supply of gay porn, I got a few flicks and turned it on for them.  Here’s the catch … their hands are tied so they can’t whack off.”

Now I shall serve the dessert, which comes in the form  of both Bruce, the pool boy and JR Washington, the gardener. They have agreed to help us as the nephew brats have insulted and offended them as well.  Washington wanted to ‘rough fuck’ them. I didn’t want that so we came up with whacking their dicks but stopping right before they cum and yes we can be that cruel and yes we would like that outcome too.

I followed Victor outside as he wanted to speak to both Bruce and JR, ” Alright men. We decided we’re going to jack the bad boys off but just as they’re about to cum. We stop jacking them. What da think?”

“I’m lovin’ it!!” Bruce proclaimed.

“And then,” JR smiled. “Bruce and I are going to have sex together which the Brats will hate because they are both racist.” I’m gonna fuck my favorite boy toy Bruce and lick his pink hole.”

Victor decided we ought to watch their scene. I nodded with lust on my mind. The idea of watching two hot guys like Bruce and JR make love stirred my sleeping cock.

When we arrived at the playroom, the bad nephews were awake and trying to talk thru the ball in their mouths. I had to laugh. They had hard-on whopper dicks but couldn’t touch them. Also I noticed the older nephew had a much bigger dick than his younger brother. “I think your nickname should be baby dick, Justin!!” 

Everyone in the room laughed out loud except Justin. Bruce and JR had started making out and squeezing each others bulges. Watching them I got a woody, which Victor kept squeezing in delight. When Bruce got down on his knees, taking JR’s huge cock into his mouth, my cock got even harder. I thought it was going to burst, Victor got on his knees taking my bloated cock into his mouth and BANG I instantly shot my thick creamy man sauce filling up his mouth with the natural goodness of cum.

I watched JR untie Jenson’s leg binds then retie them with his legs pulled over the young man’s head. “How’d you like some black cock up your lily white ass, mother fucker? I can’t hear you.”

When the ball gag was removed Jenson fired off a string of obscene but creative swearing. The big surprise came when JR slathered some lube on his big black cock. He then shoved his cockhead into the muscle ring of Jenson’s anus. And all at once he started slamming his large man tool ruthlessly in and out of the man’s tight butthole as Jenson pleaded and begged to pull the big black cock out of his hole.

Leaving the gardener and the pool boy to inflict whatever pain they wanted upon the two brats. 

Still in their boxers and briefs Victor and James made their way downstairs to the dining room to have have a cup of tea. 

James smiled, “You and I together makes sense as a couple. And Uh … I’d to make it now and forever.” Still in his briefs he got down on his knee and asked the magic question …

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes!”

Loud cheering, yells and screams erupted from the kitchen with the Cook sticking her head out the door! “It’s about bloody time!”

I happened to look at JR and I could tell an idea was forming in his mind. 

“Whatcha thinking Lincoln?”

“Sir, will you give me permission to fuck one of your nephews?”

A wicked smile rose upon his lips. “Have at it!”

In silence I watched JR remove the ball gag from Jenson’s mouth. A string of violent threats and racist insults follow. JR continued unabated. 

In the mid nineties my mother died leaving her husband of forty years a widower on the verge of retirement. As I was still single it gave dad and I the chance to spend some quality time together. My mother was a strong woman who tended to dominate the things she and my dad did. So it was good to get to know him for the person he was. I hadn’t long bought my first house in a town in the north of England so it was easy commuting between his and my house. One conversation came up about me getting married and settling down. Unsure of what l should say l asked him how broad minded he was. He assured me that he was and l could tell him anything. At this point I think he thought I was about to announce that I was gay. I swallowed hard and told him that while l loved women l also liked men and was not exclusive. Dad went very quiet and I thought I had said too much. Maybe he could accept me being one or the other but not both. When I asked him what he was thinking he quickly reassured me that he was okay with it but I had my doubts. He then started asking questions about how long l had been like this and I told him honestly that I had been questioning myself for most of my adult life . Being brought up a Catholic I was not to have any of those sorts of feelings so l suppressed them. I had long thought there might be a genetic aspect to it and dad was going to tell me about a member of the family that had caused a scandal. But again there was more silence which worried me a great deal and had me thinking l had ruined my relationship with him.After a few minutes of silence l began to see if I could find a way out of this awkward moment when dad looked at me and announced that he too had had these feelings but that during his day it was illegal and impossible to meet like minded people except byencounter. So there it was. My bisexuality came from my dad. He suppressed his feelings and went down the conventional route, marrying my mother and having four children. I, with the help of the new internet technology was able to continue to experience both sides of my life. I have to say that this moment brought us closer together. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about the bisexual side of our lives. He asked me about when l first discovered l liked sex with men and l briefly told him about the man in the cinema and Father Damien. l kept a lot of the details to myself, not wanting to shock the old man but he questioned me more closely about it and bit by bit he managed to drag almost everything out of me. My first wanking off by another man, my first blow job both

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Some would say that Sam is obsessed, infatuated or enthralled. Others might think that he is under a spell, that he has been swept off his feet, that he’s head over heels in love. Who is the lucky man? Who is he crazy, wild and nuts about? Has he been captivated by a White, Black or Asian dude? Here is a hint: Sam is a Bottom. He adores having a cock in his ass and in his mouth. Sam is madly in love with any man’s rod, cut or uncut, at least 6 inches long, preferably 8 to be honest.

Sam is 26, has never dated a girl, is only interested in guys who are his age or older. He lives in Malaysia. Handsome, adorable face, thick black wavy hair, full-figured shape, fleshy but not fat, hairy pecs and armpits, well-endowed, uncut: Sam is a cute and sexy dark Asian young man. A trick recently went as far as telling him that he could become a porn star.

Ever since he was 18, ever since he saw some of his classmates in the locker room and in the shower, Sam developed an interest to pamper and dress-up his cock. You can even call it a devotion. The athletic jockstrap was obviously the first gear he wore. There was no doubt, it made him feel very manly, and it framed perfectly his peachy butt. However, the sport or Bike jockstrap – the only one available at the time – lacked glitter.

When Sam turned 20, he noticed how tight faded blue jeans could enhanced a guy’s assets, front and back. It’s true that they left a lot to the imagination. Thongs, on the other hand, indicated how well-hung you were. Sam also found out that white underwear was a turn-on for some guys. In terms of decoration, cock ring, leather chaps and tattoos were an option. Sam even considered genital piercing, namely the Prince Albert penis procedure.

Jewelry suitably worn in a Prince Albert (PA) piercing includes the circular barbell, curved barbell, captive bead, segment ring, and the prince’s wand. Curved barbells used for PA piercings are worn such that one ball sits on the lower side of the penis and the other ball sits at the urethral opening. Because some wearers have found that large or heavy jewelry is uncomfortable to wear for long periods or interferes with the sexual functioning of the penis, Sam discarded the Prince Albert piercing.

Finding the right dress-up for his cock and balls took a few years, but by the time Sam reached his 23rd birthday, he had set his hand on the perfect gear: a shiny transparent plastic pouch. Sam’s dream was to date a daddy/master who would force him to always adorn that kind of jock-wear. Having his thick cock and tight plumy balls wrapped in a clear-see-through gear made Sam so fucking horny. His sex life changed to the point that he needed a man to worship his shiny package on a weekly basis. He even discovered that some guys were ready to pay 500 US$ for a two-hour sexual encounter.

I met Sam through the Silver Daddies dating site (I’m 67). He has posted 10 pics of his hot body and we can watch 3 videos where he caresses his shiny plastic pouch. I first exchanged a few messages to congratulate him on his charm, beauty and sex appeal. He immediately treated me as a Daddy. I then chatted with my Son and asked for a close-up pic of his ass hole since I adore rimming my boy. I told him how I would love to kiss his dark rosebud and his lips back & forth; to me, there is nothing tastier than a man’s upper and lower hole.

After a few chats, I checked how much it would cost for a flight from Toronto to Kuala Lumpur. I got a good deal for a 10-day stay in Malaysia. Sam suggested that I book a room at The Signature Hotel & Service Suites.

Malaysia is a Southeast Asian country occupying parts of the Malay Peninsula and the island of Borneo. With a population of 35.5 million, Malaysia is known for its beaches, rainforests and its exotic mix of Malay, Chinese, Indian and European cultural influences. The capital, Kuala Lumpur, has a population of around 9 million.

Sam met me at the International Airport, acting in a very straight way since he is not out to family and friends. He drove me to my hotel; on the way there, I could not keep my left hand off his right thigh and bulging crotch. His smile was so promising. He helped me register and as soon as we were behind closed doors, he tried to kiss me. As I’m almost five inches taller than him, we cuddled on the sofa and embraced passionately.

I slowly undressed Sam, caressing his full body and sniffing is hairy armpits (better than any brand of poppers for an intoxicating effect). Not surprisingly, Sam was wearing a shiny plastic pouch. As soon as I squeezed it, he moaned with pleasure and said: “It’s all yours to enjoy. I only ask that you fuck my ass and my face.”. I undressed, keeping on just my red jockstrap. We settled on the king-size bed, kissing and rubbing crotch to crotch. I had seen pics of Sam’s ass, but being able to bury my face in it was simply awesome.

Sam’s see-through plastic pouch fuckingly excited me! I could not resist to slap his huge tight balls. My Malaysian lover did not feel any pain; on the contrary, his cock seemed to grow and extra inch, the moans if pleasure reaching a higher pitch. I’m basically a romantic type of man, but decided to play a little rough. I gave Sam a good spanking on his peachy ass, on his yummy balls and on his bulging 8-inch dick. As a result, my own cock increased from 5 to 6 inches. I was ready to fuck like a stallion.

I have pounded many guys over the years, but never have I sensed the incredible power of my rod before sticking it into Sam’s face and ass. He kept yelling: “Harder! Deeper! Fuck the hell out of me!” After having exploded my load in his back door, and sensing that he was on the verge of cumming, I positioned myself to suck his dark brown cock and taste his creamy nectar. I like it not for the taste but for the gratification I get from my partner, just seeing the smile on his face makes me giddy.

Sam slept with me. His warm body made me feel so good. He refused to get completely naked, insisting on keeping a plastic pouch. Sam chose a shiny black one and that aroused me non-stop. I squeezed it so many times at 2-3-4 a.m., feeling his pulsing cock, and imagining various ways to worship it in the coming days.

After a sightseeing tour of Kuala Lumpur, I asked Sam to bring me to a restaurant for a typical Malaysian dinner. It featured a mix of laksa (spicy noodle soup), satay (grilled skewers), coconut rice, and rendang (a slow-cooked meat curry). This variety of dishes gave me the idea of a male buffet to satisfy Sam’s sexual appetite. I wanted him to feel an 8 or 9-inch cock in his ass and in his mouth, simultaneously, while I would play with his plastic pouch and yummy butt. Two well-hung ex-tricks agreed easily to join us for an unforgettable kinky get-together.

I got to lubricate two new Malaysian cocks, to taste their ass hole, and to worship Sam’s plastic altar once again. With 9 inches in his throat and 10 inches in his back door, my Kuala Lumpur Son was in heaven!

I never had so much interracial sexual fun!

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The creak of the front door, followed by the heavy, familiar tread of work boots being kicked off in the entryway, pulled Rory from a thin, unsatisfying sleep. The clock on hos phone glowed 2:47 AM. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of his husband moving through their dark apartment. The hushed rustle of a leather jacket being hung up. The distant sigh of the refrigerator door opening and closing. Then, the sound that always made his stomach clench: the shower.

Twenty minutes later, James emerged. The scent of his expensive body wash, something dark and woodsy, preceded him into the bedroom. Rory feigned sleep, his body a tight coil under the duvet. The mattress dipped profoundly under James’s considerable weight as he slid in beside him.

A massive, warm arm draped over Rory’s waist, pulling him back against a broad, solid chest. The heat of James’s body was like a furnace, radiating through Rory’s thin sleep shirt, seeping into his bones. Coarse hair tickled his back, the familiar scratch of James’s chest fur against his shoulder blades sending a shiver down his spine. Soft, full lips found the sensitive spot just below his ear, that secret place James had discovered years ago, the one that never failed to make Rory melt. He’s so tender, Rory thought, his heart aching. Even now, after being with someone else, he’s still so tender with me.

James’s breath was warm against Rory’s neck, slow and steady, as if he were savoring the moment. His fingers traced idle patterns along Rory’s hip, the calloused pads of his fingertips, rough from years of police work, dragging lightly over the fabric of his boxers. It was a touch so familiar, so achingly intimate, that for a fleeting second, Rory could almost pretend nothing had changed. That they were still the same two men who’d fallen into bed together every night for over a decade, hungry for each other, unable to keep their hands to themselves.

But then James shifted, and Rory caught the faintest whiff of something foreign: a cologne that wasn’t his, a shampoo that wasn’t the one they kept in their shower. The scent was subtle, almost buried beneath James’s own musk and the clean, woodsy aroma of his body wash, but it was there. A ghost of the night James had just spent with someone else. Rory’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into the embrace, greedy for the affection James would always offer him, even if they came tinged with the sting of betrayal.

James nuzzled deeper into Rory’s neck, his beard scratching lightly against the delicate skin. “Missed you,” he murmured, the words slurred with exhaustion but no less sincere. Rory closed his eyes, swallowing hard. It was a lie, but God, he wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that James still craved him the way he craved those faceless men he took to bed now. But the truth was in the way James’s body relaxed against his, sated, spent, utterly content. There was no restless energy, no hungry hands seeking more. Just the quiet comfort of a man who’d already gotten everything he needed elsewhere.

Rory let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening briefly in the sheets. This is enough, he told himself, even as his body burned with want. This has to be enough. Because it was all he had left. James’s arm around him, his lips on his skin, his voice in his ear, those were the remnants of a passion that had once been all-consuming. And Rory would take them, even if they came with the bitter aftertaste of someone else’s pleasure. Even if it meant lying here, aching, while the man he loved layed beside him, his appetite thoroughly satisfied by another.

“Sorry, baby,” James murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against Rory’s skin. It was the voice that could command a room or, years ago, make Rory come with just a whisper. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Rory turned in his arms, their faces inches apart in the dark. He could just make out the strong line of James’s jaw, the shadow of his beard. “I was awake,” Rory whispered.

James smiled, a flash of white teeth, and closed the distance between them. His kiss was deep and languid, tasting of mint toothpaste and something else, something faintly foreign. Someone else’s taste? Rory’s mind unhelpfully supplied. But his body, traitorously hungry, responded instantly. He moaned into the kiss, his hands coming up to frame James’s face, his thumbs tracing the rough stubble on his cheeks.

They kissed for what felt like both an eternity and no time at all. It was all there, the practiced skill, the latent strength, the affection. It was the kind of kiss that, for over a decade, had always been the prelude to something more. A promise. Hope, hot and desperate, flared in Rory’s chest. Maybe tonight. Oh god, please, maybe tonight.

His hand slid down, over the vast, proud expanse of James’s belly, through the dense thatch of hair, seeking what he desperately needed to find. His fingers found their target, and the hope curdled into a cold, familiar humiliation.

It was completely, utterly soft. Flaccid. Lifeless.

James broke the kiss with a soft, breathy laugh, a sound that wasn’t cruel but was somehow so much worse for its casualness. Like he was shrugging off a minor inconvenience rather than delivering another blow to Rory’s fragile self-worth. “Ah fuck, Ror,” he murmured against Rory’s lips before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes in the dim light. “Tank’s on empty tonight.” His thumb brushed Rory’s cheekbone in what might have been an apology if it weren’t so damn easy for him.

Rory felt James’s grip shift slightly, just enough to telegraph it, as he gave him a familiar, apologetic squeeze. The kind reserved for disappointing children or wounded animals. “That new lawyer from the Davis case…” James continued, voice dropping into that rough, storytelling register that used to make Rory shiver with anticipation. Now, it just made him nauseous. “Christ, the guy was insatiable. Like he hadn’t been fucked proper in years.”

A low chuckle rumbled through James’s chest, a sound that was equal parts amusement and self-satisfaction. He shifted slightly, the movement deliberate as if to remind Rory of his sheer, unyielding dominance. “Dude could barely keep up with me,” he said, his deep voice dripping with a smugness that bordered on douchey. He patted his own limp cock. still thick, still intimidating even in its spent state, with a casual pride, as if it were a trophy rather than a tired muscle. “Tapped out on me after round two. He crawled off the bed like a whipped pup.”

James smirked, his tone laced with arrogance. “Told him I wasn’t done yet, but he just couldn’t take it. Said I was too much for him.” He shook his head, chuckling again, the sound reverberating through the room. “Guess not everyone can handle this kind of power, huh?” he added, giving his cock another lazy slap, as if it were a badge of honor.

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken implications. James wasn’t just boasting; he was reveling in it, basking in the memory of his own virility while leaving Rory to stew in his inadequacy. It was almost as if he wanted Rory to know, needed him to know, that there were men out there who could barely withstand what Rory would give everything to access.

“Poor man,” James added with a smirk, his voice thick with mock sympathy. “He’ll probably be walking funny for a week.”

The words hung between them, thick with unspoken comparisons. Rory could practically see it: James, those massive arms flexing as he pinned some faceless, writhing lawyer beneath him, that legendary stamina pushed to its limits… for someone else. For anyone else.

James yawned then, wide and unselfconscious, before nuzzling lazily into Rory’s neck. “Mmm. You smell good,” he muttered, already half-asleep. As if this were any other night. As if he hadn’t just carved another piece out of Rory’s dignity and left it bleeding between them.

The silence that followed was deafening. Rory lay frozen, staring at the ceiling, painfully aware of two truths: James’s breathing deepening into sleep beside him, and his own traitorous body, still aching, still wanting, even now…

“Love you,” James mumbled, his voice already thick with sleep. Within moments, his breathing deepened into the heavy, satiated rhythm of the utterly spent. He was asleep, a mountain of contented masculinity, exhausted from pleasuring another man.

Rory lay beside him, vibrating with a need that felt like a sickness. The image was seared onto the back of his eyelids: James, his James, pounding into some faceless, grateful lawyer. That huge, beautiful cock, the one Rory hadn’t felt inside him in nearly a year, hard and eager and working. The lawyer’s cries of pleasure. James’s own guttural groans as he emptied himself into a stranger.

Tears of frustration pricked at his eyes. He was a prisoner in his own perfect life, in his perfect bed, next to his perfect husband. A pathetic cuck. The title fit him perfectly now, a tailored suit of humiliation.

He couldn’t lie here. Not with the scent of James’s shower gel clinging to him, a pathetic imitation of cleanliness that couldn’t wash away the truth of where he’d been. Not with the specter of the lucky lawyer hanging in the air.

Silently, Rory slipped out of bed. James didn’t stir. He padded naked across the cold floor and into the walk-in closet, closing the door behind him before turning on the light. He went to the small, locked case on the top shelf, a pathetic little secrets. His hands shook as he fumbled with the key. Inside, nestled on velvet, was his salvation and his shame: a large, realistic silicone dildo, a near-perfect replica of the very organ sleeping just feet away from him. And next to it, a small, brown glass bottle of poppers.

He didn’t bother with foreplay. There was no one to give it to him. He sank to his knees on the plush carpet, the fibers rough against his skin. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle, brought it to one nostril, and took a sharp, deep inhale.

The world dissolved into a sudden, pounding rush of blood and heat. A chemical tidal wave that crashed over his brain, melting his inhibitions, amplifying every single nerve ending. His head swam, the confines of the closet seeming to expand and contract with his heartbeat. He groaned, low and desperate, his own hard cock dripping onto the floor.

He slicked the toy with a generous amount of lube, the chill of it making him gasp. He reached behind himself, one hand braced against a shelf, and pressed the cold, blunt tip against his entrance. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about who he was with. Just feel it. Just feel something.

He pushed back, working the thick head inside with a practiced, miserable ease. The stretch was immediate, intense, good. But it was a hollow victory. He took another hit from the bottle, the roar in his ears drowning out everything but the base animal need.

He began to fuck himself, each thrust a clumsy, selfish imitation of what he truly craved. He imagined it was James. He couldn’t help it. He saw those beefy, hairy arms wrapping around him, that deep voice grunting in his ear. You like that, baby? Taking all of me?

But the fantasy shattered, replaced by the vivid, cruel reality his husband had given him. The lawyer. Was he younger? Prettier? Did he scream when James filled him? Did he beg for more?

A sob escaped Rory’s lips as he drove the toy deeper, punishing himself with the truth. He was alone. In a closet. Getting himself off with a piece of silicone while the real thing, the man he loved, slept soundly in the next room, sexually sated by another man. The poppers and the rhythm consumed him, the pleasure a sharp, cutting edge that was inseparable from the pain. He was hurtling toward a climax that felt less like release and more like surrender.

His body arched, trembling with every thrust, his muscles taut and desperate. He took another hit of the poppers, the chemical rush crashing over him like a wave, making his skin flush and his vision blur. He could feel his pulse in every inch of his body, every nerve alight with a need that burned hotter than shame. The toy plunged in and out of him, a cruel imitation of what he craved, its silicone surface slick and unforgiving. This isn’t enough, his mind screamed. It’ll never be enough.

But it was all he had. Alone in the dim light of the closet, Rory surrendered to the brutal, mechanical rhythm. His hand moved faster, driving the toy deeper, chasing the fleeting illusion of fulfillment. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of James, his James, pounding into someone else, his deep voice growling with pleasure as he gave everything he had to a stranger. But the harder Rory tried to push it away, the more vivid it became. He could see it all in excruciating detail: James’s broad shoulders flexing, the smug smile on his face as the lawyer moaned beneath him, begging for more.

Stop thinking about it, Rory begged himself. But his traitorous mind wouldn’t obey. Instead, it fed him every humiliating detail: the way James had laughed after, smug and satisfied, as he recounted fucking the lawyer senseless. The way he’d patted his limp cock like a prize, reminding Rory that even spent, James was still more of a man than Rory could ever hope to satisfy.

The tears came then, hot and relentless, streaming down his cheeks as he worked himself with frantic desperation. He cried for the man he’d lost, for the passion that had slipped through his fingers, for the life they used to have when he was enough. He cried because he knew this would never change, that he would always be second best, always be the one left behind while James went out to claim his conquests.

His climax hit him like a freight train, violent and overwhelming, tearing through him with a force that left him gasping. Pleasure and pain intertwined, indistinguishable from one another as he came hard, muffling his cries against the sleeve of his pajamas. Rory slumped forward, his body trembling as the aftershocks rippled through him. The dildo slipped from his grasp, leaving him achingly empty and raw. He wiped his tear-streaked face with the back of his hand, his breath shuddering as he tried to steady himself. The high from the poppers was fading, and with it went the fragile illusion of satisfaction. He felt pathetic.

He cleaned up quickly, his movements mechanical and devoid of thought. The toy was tucked back into its case, the bottle of poppers stashed away in the locked drawer. He scrubbed at his face in the small bathroom attached to the closet, trying to erase any trace of what he’d just done, but the shame clung to him like a second skin.

When Rory slipped back into bed, James stirred almost instinctively. His arm reached out, heavy and warm, wrapping around Rory’s waist with a tenderness that felt both comforting and cruel. He pulled Rory close, his broad chest pressing against Rory’s back, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of their sheets. James murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, his breath warm against the nape of Rory’s neck, and for a moment, it was easy to forget everything that had just happened. For a moment, Rory could pretend that they were still the same two men who had fallen into each other’s arms every night for over a decade.

Rory let himself be held, his body stiff at first but gradually relaxing into the embrace. This is all I have, he thought, his heart aching as he pressed himself closer to James. The scent of his husband’s shower gel was faint now, but it was there, a subtle reminder of where James had been just hours ago. Still, Rory clung to the moment, trying to take solace in the fact that James, even in his sleep, still reached for him. Maybe it wasn’t just out of habit. Maybe that meant something.

James’s breathing deepened again, steady and content, his arm a heavy but comforting weight around Rory’s waist. Rory stared into the darkness, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the warmth of James’s body against his. This is enough, he told himself, It has to be. Because it was all he had left. A hug from a sleeping man who belonged to the world, not to him. A fleeting moment of intimacy that tasted bittersweet on his tongue, like the last sip of a drink he could never have again.

I could see my breath in the cold evening air when I got out of the car.  A little below freezing as I pulled into the driveway, parked, and got out.  Brrr.  I had been gone from the Midwest winters for too long, and I had forgotten how cold it could get.  As I walked to the front door of the house, I shivered.  It had been a long flight then the drive here, and the car was so comfortably warm.  But now, standing on the front porch, I was chilly and wanted to get inside.  I rang the bell, stamped by feet, cursed the cold.  The door opened, light pouring out from inside.

“Dad!”  There he was, my dad, my childhood idol.  64 years old, widowed a few years now.  No trace of the ginger that had been in his hair and beard.  He stood there, smiling in welcome, that warm smile that always signaled his care and approval.

“Dan!  Welcome home.  How as the drive?”  He stepped forward and drew me into a hug.  I breathed us in deeply, then let it all out.  That trip had really been a lot, and I was so glad to be back at the house where I grew up.  We pulled apart and smiled at each other.  “You look great, son!  So glad you decided to come for a visit.  Far too long, champ!”

His nickname for me.  A nickname others use, I know, but I always loved hearing that from him.  I stepped inside the foyer, we closed the door.  Finally, warmth!  “I know, Dad.  It’s been so busy at work and such.  And I’m sorry I couldn’t get Christmas off this year.  That really sucked being away for the holidays.”  I was pulling off my coat and scarf and knit cap and wanting to get away from the door, warm up in the living room where I knew the fireplace would be blazing.

“Come on in, champ.  I have some soup on the stove and a good loaf of bread for us.  Get you warmed up.  And I want to hear how everything is going out west there.”

It was all so easy, being home.  And soup?  Yes, please.  I was hungry, and I knew Dad knew his way around the kitchen.  I’d missed being here for all that I loved my life in Seattle.  Mostly loved it, I guess.  Good job, and I had managed to buy a nice little condo there.  I had great friends, and I had dated on and off.  But I had missed being here, too.  I missed snowy winters and the small town feel of it.  And I had missed Dad.  He was my buddy.  Even before Mom died, we talked twice a week on the phone.  When I came out in my early twenties, he didn’t bat an eyelash.  “You’re my son, period,” he had said, and that was that.  Utter acceptance, total support.  Unconditional love.  My Dad.  At 41, I had my life together, and a wonderful part of that was my Dad.  Of course I wanted to come visit him.

I got myself settled in my old room upstairs, came down, and found Dad in the kitchen.  He was at the stove, stirring a steaming pot that smelled so good.  I was in for a tasty dinner, I knew, and thank goodness for that.  There he stood, an apron around his waist, intent on stirring the pot.  Grey hair and beard, a plaid flannel shirt on.  The table behind him was set for the two of us.  I came up behind him, wrapped my arms around him.  “It all smells so good, Dad, thanks!”  And it did.  The soup.  But not just the soup.  No, hugging him in the kitchen I caught a whiff of Dad himself.  Manly, natural.  My nose picked it up.  An automatic response – I have always loved the scent of a man, no perfumes.  Been that way since I was young.  My cock twitched, and I was startled.  Nope, down boy.  This is my Dad, scent or no scent.

He dished up the soup and set it on the table for us.  We sat there, slurping it up and mopping our bowls with some good, crusty bread.  Dad liked wine with dinner, so we shared a bottle and got caught up.  Life in Seattle, life here, the various relatives, who I was dating, his retirement not too far off.  The things we talked about twice a week still, but so much better for being face to face and sharing dinner and wine.  I helped him clear the table and wash up, then we headed to sit in the living room with a little more wine.

The fire had warmed the room, making for a cozy night inside.  We sat together on the couch, chatting more.  In the heat of the room, I had unbuttoned my shirt a little, and so had he, and I found myself noticing the hairs in the V of his shirt.  I’m hairy-chested like Dad, but I had never really given it much thought.  Tonight, though, I was drawn to seeing his hairiness, even just that glimpse.  And then I caught his scent again.  Masculine, natural.  My cock twitched again, and I shifted how I was seating, suddenly conscious of my Dad as a man and of how I was responding.  I didn’t want him to be weirded out, so I kept up the chat.  But an hour later, having inhaled him all that time, when I stood to head to bed, I knew that my uncut cock was bulging in my jeans.  I just hoped he didn’t notice.  I said goodnight and headed upstairs.

Lying in my bed in only my briefs, I found myself unable to sleep.  Why was I horny?  My Dad’s scent?  No, that couldn’t be it.  But it was.  I couldn’t stop thinking of it, and lying there, I could smell myself, too.  A sweaty crotch from a day of travel, an uncut cock that had drooled out some already.  I love the smell of my cock, I admit.  I pulled off the covers and pulled down my briefs.  My cock was hard, standing up thick.  The foreskin didn’t fully peel back, so there was only a little peek of the cockhead.  I gripped it and began to stroke.  Memories of past encounters and of porn I enjoy drifted through my head, interrupted by the thoughts of my silver-haired, bearded Dad and his ripe scent.  And I imagined him.  Undressing for me, pulling me into his pits, inhaling his bush, and more.  So wrong, I know, and yet, I couldn’t shake the image.

What did he look like naked.  I knew he was hairy, but how hairy?  I hadn’t seen him naked since boyhood trips to the community pool, so I had never seen him hard.  I remember that he was uncut like me, that he had insisted that I be uncut like him even if that made me the oddball in the locker room in high school.  I kept stroking, pre-cum starting to ooze, making my cockhead slick under its hood.  The scent of my cock fueled my bate.  Soon I had completely given myself over to thoughts of Dad.  What did he enjoy?  What would his cock taste like?  What about his ass?  How would it feel to kiss him?  My thoughts were a jumble.  I imagined him here with me, naked and fragrant like a man is.  I wondered about what he enjoyed, what made him cum.

Fuck.  I wanted my Dad.  This was not right.  My hand slid up and down my uncut cock, and I tried to think of other things, but that silver, bearded fox of a man kept coming back to my mind.  I wanted to see him naked, the soft swell of a belly that I could make out, the cock and balls I knew were packed into his jeans and whatever type of underwear he wore.  Fuck, what did he wear?  I was suddenly desperate to know.

I kept working my cock, feeling it hard in my hand.  My foreskin doesn’t slide all the way back when I am hard, but it does slide enough on my cockhead to feel really fucking good.  My own stink in my room was getting to me, feeding my fervor.  “Dad,” I said quietly.  At first.  “Dad, fuck,” I said louder.  I was lost in my bate, enjoying my cock.  I abandoned any attempt not to think of him.  I wanted to know his scent intimately, wanted to inhale his pits and cock and balls and hole.  I kept bating, thoughts of smelling and tasting my Dad racing through my head.  “Dad, please,” I groaned loudly.  My balls were pulling up, my cockhead flared, and fuck yes, that awesome feeling.  I rode it, my cum shooting up my hairy belly to my chest.  “Dad, fuuuuuuuck.”  I couldn’t help it.  Seeing and smelling him had unlocked something in me I had never considered before.  But now?  I needed it.  I need him.

I licked the cum from my hand then slid my briefs all the way off to use them to wipe up my load just like I used to when I was a kid.  That’s when I heard it.  The creak of the floorboards in the hallway.  Dad’s room was at the end of it, past the bathroom.  I froze, the taste of my cum in my mouth and my cock softening.  Had he heard me?  Oh Jesus, fuck, I hoped not.  Or so I tried to tell myself.

I finished wiping the cum from myself.  The hallway was quiet.  I didn’t dare look out the door.  Just please, I told myself, let Dad not have heard me calling out for him.

I was fooling myself, though.  In my old room, enveloped in the scent of my cum and ripe body, I was still horny.  And I still was thinking about Dad….

I don’t have any idea what Mr. Jackson said or did, but overnight things changed dramatically. I was treated like royalty by my fellow colleagues and my students. All of the slander and bullying ended overnight and I didn’t have to worry about who was lurking about to taunt me.

All it took was me bending over for the most powerful person in the school. Not the principal like you would think. It was the janitor who was the high school’s Godfather.

Sure, I had a sore asshole the next day, but that was a small price to pay for the psychological relief I earned by giving Mr. Jackson what he wanted.

I did my best to avoid the man, but I knew that wouldn’t be a long-term strategy. Mr. Jackson did say he had other cocksuckers on his roster so there was a pretty good chance he wouldn’t be wanting my ass again for a while.

I wondered who the other cocksuckers were? There were other male teachers, there were guidance counselors, and other staff. Any time I encountered another male in the course of my day, I tried to suss them out. My gaydar has never been accurate so I wasn’t too successful in this endeavor.

Well, just like in all the mafia movies, debts are collected and the time came to pay mine. A week after all the madness ended so abruptly, Mr. Parker appeared at my classroom door with the smuggest of looks on his face.

“Feeling better fruitcake?”

“Yeah, thank you.”

“I told you, I make things happen around here.”

“Yes you did, Mr. Jackson. Am I allowed to ask how you did it?”

“No, that would be like a magician telling you how he did his trick. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Ok, Mr. Jackson.”

“You have to admit that coming to teach your classes everyday without any hassle must feel good.”

“Yes, of course it does, Mr. Jackson.

“I’m sure you want me to keep this going for ya, don’t ya?

“Yes, Mr. Jackson.”

“Well, it’s gonna cost ya. Everything in life has a price, don’t you agree, faggot?”

“I guess so”

“So now you know exactly what it takes to make your life much easier around here.”

“I guess so”

“You guess so? Is that all you have to say to me, pussy boy?”

“No, thank you for doing whatever it is that you did. I appreciate it.”

“That’s a little better. A little gratitude goes a long way in my book.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Jackson.”

I tried to look away so I could look busy grading some papers, and hoped Mr. Jackson would go away.

“Hey! We’re not done here fairy boy! It’s time to pay up?”

“Pay up?”

“You didn’t think fucking you only one time was gonna be all it takes to keep things nice for ya for an entire year, did ya?”

“I don’t know, I guess not.”

“So…I collected my debts from my other cocksuckers this week, now it’s your turn.”

I took a big gulp.

“My turn?”

“Don’t act like some dumb bitch. I know you got some brain cells in there being that you’re a teacher in this school. You just not be as stupid as you look. Yes, it’s your turn to pay up pussy boy!”

“When?”

“Today. As soon as your last class is over I’m gonna come back up here and beat that pussy up over your desk.”

“In here? On my desk? Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”

“Do I look afraid of anything you dumb faggot? You’ll see how things work around here. The staff fear me. I might not have a degree but I sure figured out how to run this school. I do what I want when I want. I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.

“Yes Sir, I guess I’m still learning how things work in this school.”

“You’ll see how this works eventually. When I come for you, you don’t ask questions, you just do as I tell you. You keep doing that, your life will be easy. You don’t…well…you probably don’t wanna know.”

“Yes Sir”

“Sir! Hehe. I kinda like the sound of that. Your privileged prissy ass calling me “Sir” is pretty amusing. Now we’re making some inroads. You always show respect to me and I say or do anything I please to you. Not many rules to follow but this is one you’ll learn quick enough. See you later fairy boy.”

As I taught the last three classes of the day, I was clearly distracted. Images of Mr. Jackson fucking me over the chair in his office just the week prior filled my mind and my poor asshole was hurting already. I also remembered Mr. Jackson didn’t have any lube last time and it was up to me to provide it with my mouth. I had no idea if Mr. Jackson would be so kind this time around.

I excused myself from my class for a few minutes while the students did some silent reading and ran down to my car. There was a small tube of hand lotion I kept in my car. Not perfect, but better than no lube at all. At least that’s what I thought.

I watched the clock for the rest of the afternoon, counting down the minutes until Mr. Jackson would be at my door.

I had a moment when I thought about running out of my classroom and speeding out of the parking lot, avoiding Mr. Jackson altogether, but then I thought that would only make things worse than they already are.

No, I had to accept my fate. I had to surrender my pucker to Mr. Jackson. It was the only way to keep things going as they were for me in this new school. There was no point in resisting, and likely, this would be the case for the entire time working there, unless Mr. Jackson retired or I decided to work somewhere else.

I shook my head back to reality when Mr. Jackson rapped at my door to get my attention.

“Were you dreaming about my cock up your ass pussy boy?”

“Huh? No Sir.”

Mr. Jackson peered into the hallway before closing and locking my classroom door. There was a small window in the door, but on the upper floor, there wouldn’t be anyone around to witness my humiliation.

“You might not be dreaming of it now, but you will be soon. All you faggots do. Shit, half of my cocksuckers beg me for my big dick every time I come for a visit. You’re no different from them. You’re probably even more of a homo than they are.”

“Mr. Jackson, what did I do to you? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I can. What did you do to me? You exist. Faggots like you were born for exactly this purpose. I’m just fulfilling my right, my place, in the hierarchy of men. This is how it is, how it supposed to be. Instead of asking why, you should be asking how. Look at you, and look at me. I’m a man, there’s no doubt about that. You, you’re a fruit, a fairy, and trust me, there’s no doubt about that either. Hell, for a history teacher you sure have a lot to learn about the realities of life.”

I sat in my chair and contemplated Mr. Jackson’s words.

“I was thinking about owning your ass all day pussy boy. You know that? I don’t give two shits about my other cocksuckers. A mouth is a mouth, but yours is the only ass I’m screwing. You’re special. Stand up and show me that ass I’ve been craving all day.”

“Yes Sir”

I stood up from my desk chair and walked around it. Mr. Jackson was standing in front of me. His index finger made an impatient twirling gesture.

I turned around and now the back of my body was facing him.

“Bend over, hold your ankles.”

Mr. Jackson walked behind me and started to grind himself on my dress pants. I could already feel his hardon pressing against me.

“You feel that, pussy boy. You see how hard my cock is for that ass of yours? I never get that hard for any of my cocksuckers.”

If that was supposed to make me feel any better, it didn’t. If I had it my way, I’d be anywhere else, but that wasn’t my reality.

Mr. Jackson pulled away from me.

“Now show me your sweet ass pussy boy. Pull ‘em down.”

I undid my belt buckle and pulled down my zipper and pushed down my pants down to my ankles.

“Cute tighty whities. Pull ‘em down or I’m gonna tear ‘em right off of you pussy boy.”

Dignity was something I’d no longer have if it were up to Mr. Jackson.

Without further ado, I pushed my Fruit of the Loom’s down to where my pants were and remained upright.

“There she is. The prettiest ass I ever did see. So smooth, firm, round. Just as a faggot’s ass outta be. Now bend over and let me see that pink pussy hole.”

It was true, there wasn’t a hair to be found anywhere near my butt. I was an athletic kid growing up so I did have a firm and muscled ass. I just wasn’t expecting the janitor to be the one admiring it. That was never part of the plan.

I bent over, resuming the position I took earlier. Hands gripping my ankles. I felt so prone and vulnerable like this. Defenseless.

This time when Mr. Jackson approached me, he wasn’t wearing pants. I felt his naked cock dry hump my ass crack.

I remembered I had the tube of lotion in my pants pocket and since I was in a position to reach it, I pulled it out and showed it to Mr. Jackson behind me.

“Well aren’t you the little pussy fag Boy Scout? Always prepared, hehehe. You want me to use some of this?”

“Yes please.”

“You know what? Today’s your lucky day. I’m going to, but only because it will make it better for me, too.”

I heard Mr. Jackson squeeze out the lotion from the tube, but I didn’t expect him to finger my butthole with it.

“You’re so tight, pussy boy. Let’s get this hole opened up for my big dick.”

Mr. Jackson did eventually add a second and then a third finger using lots of the lotion from that little tube. I was glad I had it, and also glad he was not gonna stick it in me without a warm up.

“Time for the real thing pussy boy!”

Mr. Jackson pushed me over my desk, spread my ass in his hands, lined his dick up to my assring and plunged inside. I felt my asslips spread and my sphincter attempt to loosen.

“Ohhhh yeah. Much better with the lotion pussy boy.”

Mr. Jackson was a forceful fucker. As much as I tried, the desk kept inching forward with every hard thrust.

“I’ll keep you still fuck toy!”

Mr. Jackson pulled my hips back with his giant hands, and every one of his nine plus inches was buried inside my love chute, Mr. Jackson held me firmly in place and then the  dick down was on. Id spent so much time jerking off to porn where the top was aggressively taking it to his bottom, but never expected it would ever happen to me in real life.

“Fuck! I might have to give up all my cocksuckers to get more of this pussy. This is even better than the first time. Shit, you keep bending over for me, I’ll see to it you’re the king of this fucking school.”

I felt like one of those blow up dolls I’d seen in porn shops. Like a rag doll. I wondered if I’d ever enjoy one of Mr. Jackson’s breedings. He said some of his cocksuckers actually beg him for his cock. Would I be doing that one day soon? It wasn’t how I was feeling at the moment. I was just trying not to move around too much so Mr. Jackson get his rocks off.

“Ohhh fuuck pussy boy. This ass sure is making my dick feel so good. I’m ’bout to load you up, fruitcake. You feel my dick getting ready to pump you full of my babies?”

“Yeesss Sir!”, I managed to grunt.

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m gonna plant my man seed right up your sissy ass. Fuck, this is some Grade A ass right here!”

I tried to help things along by squeezing down over Mr. Jackson’s dick, thinking that if I was able to milk it, Mr. Jackson would finish his business already. Well, that and it would feel better for me, too.

“That’s it pussy boy, show me how much you want my big dick. You like it when I call you pussy boy?”

“No Sir”

“I don’t give a fuck whether you like it or not. That’s what you are, my pussy boy. Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours Sir”

“Damn right it is. From now on this pussy hole is mine and mine only. You got that?”

“Yes Sir”

Mr. Jackson seemed to be getting off on claiming my ass as his. His entire body slammed into me, his big dick impaled me time and time again. I was panting and my hands gripped each side of the desk with white knuckles.

“Oh shit! I’m ’bout to cum right in this pussy! Fuck! My fuckin’ pussy! Ohhhh fuck yeah! Fuckin’ loading you up pussy boy! Grrrr! Grrrrrrr! Ohhhhhh fuuuuccckkk!”

I felt Mr. Jackson’s hard cock injecting me with his seed. His cock twitched inside my asshole, seven or eight times. A gush of his semen drained right down my taint as soon as he pulled out. Mr. Jackson used his still hard shaft to scoop it right up and put it right back in my ass, pushing deep, determined that every drop of his seed was unspilled and buried inside me.

“There you go pussy boy.”, Mr . Jackson said as he pulled out.

“Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did. Don’t fret, I’ll be back to get more of my pussy real soon!”

Mr. Jackson smacked my ass as he zipped up and left me there, sprawled out on my desk.

When I finally stood upright I was surprised to see a trail of my own cum dripping down the desk. I didn’t want to admit it, but Mr. Jackson’s huge cock made me cum. Of course I’d never tell him that, but the proof was right in front of me.

I imagined having to explain to the class why there were dried lines of cum on my desk so I quickly came out of a post-fuck daze and grabbed some paper towels hoping I’d cleaned off all of the evidence.

I went home so confused. I shouldn’t have liked being fucked over my desk so much. I shouldn’t even like Mr. Jackson, but after having been fucked twice by him, and cumming the second time, I was unsure how to reconcile all of this. I wished I could talk to one of Mr. Jackson’s regular cocksuckers. Someone who could relate to my predicament, but that was impossible right at that moment.

That night, as I laid alone in my bed, in my underwear, my asshole still sore and full of cum, I closed my eyes and I couldn’t fall asleep. I was getting so hard. I couldn’t understand why I was obsessed with Mr. Jackson…well not the man himself, but with his huge dick.

My hand crept closer to my butthole. I felt an urge to pull my briefs off, and I wet two of my fingers and inserted them inside me. My hole was still moist from Mr. Jackson’s use.

My small dick was never so hard in all my life. Then, when I replayed in my head how Mr. Jackson pounded me out, the moment I’d splattered my desk with my jizz came back to me! I tugged on my dick a few times from the memory and a fresh batch of spooge coated my chest. My entire body shook and I was heaving and out of breath.

After my mind cleared from the excitement, I had many unanswered questions about why I was so turned on by being taken advantage of by this mean bully, Mr. Jackson. It must be a common thing for Mr. Jackson that his boys learned to look forward to, and even love, to suck his dick meat. A man like Mr. Jackson must sense us vulnerable faggots like a shark in water.

And…it is almost pathetic that when Mr. Jackson said my ass was special and that he should give up his other cocksuckers to get more of my ass, I was proud. I was feeling good about myself that Mr. Jackson said that about me.

Why was my dick still so fucking hard again? I’d already shot two nuts that day, now my unrestrained cock was trying for a third?

I knew if I didn’t relieve myself, I’d never fall asleep. Once again, I closed my eyes and images of Mr. Jackson filled my head. This time I imagined myself naked and in my back, begging Mr. Jackson to fuck me, pleading with him to batter my butthole with his one-eyed monster. I was actually yelling, “oh yes! Fuck me, Mr. Jackson!”, and I coated my chest with a fresh round of hot seed. My balls were so high and tight, every drop of cum I had left was now all over me!

I reached for my briefs and used them to wipe off the mess before falling asleep.

The next day at school, I was actively looking for Mr. Jackson. I needed to see him. It didn’t take long, but Mr. Jackson had me exactly as he wanted me…desperate for more of his dick. I had become his pussy boy and I was ready to tell him.

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My phone alarm wakes me up. The bright screen blasts 6 am into my sleepy eyes. I started cussing under my breath right away. I hate early mornings.

I got out of bed started for the shower, walking past my couch and seeing the mess we had made there last night. Guess it’s going to be a cleaning day later.

Ooh, a good excuse to break out a sexy little maid’s outfit to prance around in all day, I thought to myself.

Then I remembered. Oh my gosh, Daddy is staying at my house all week. I could just imagine him coming home tonight finding me here in my maid’s uniform, standing meek and humble, offering my body to him in a graphically enticing way. I could just see him taking hold of me, his hands mauling my body, running over my curves, touching my skin, searching, probing, squeezing…

Fuck, snap out of it. I’ve been awake for two minutes and I’m already narrating my own private porno in my head.

Stop being a dumb slut for five minutes, I thought to myself as I shuffled off to the bathroom. I got undressed and glanced in the mirror, seeing the aftermath of what Daddy did to my poor neck last night.

His hand prints were clear as day. I looked like someone tried to strangle me. His outline of his hands were crushed into my skin and turning purple and blue, with red irritated skin glowing around each finger imprint.

Well this is not the first time I’ve had to use cover up on my bruises. I hopped in the shower, searching my mind for why I let this keep happening to me but knowing I couldn’t stop now even if I wanted to.

An hour later and I’m on the road. I dressed casually, realizing it’s early morning and people out and about don’t want to see some white trash slut dressed like she was working a shift on Figueroa Street. Low rise stretchy black pants and a too short white t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination with what was going on with my chest. Some sneakers and a jacket, and I just became another commuter on the road.

The guy’s house I was going to wasn’t too far, about 20 mins away. I was surprised I didn’t see him more often considering how near we lived, but this Daddy wasn’t like my others. He was younger, in his 20s, some sort of professional. From all the things that decorated his frat-like bachelor pad, it was obvious he had a very active social life so probably just didn’t have time for someone like me very often.

The other men in my life were older, had come to terms with certain things, and had no misgivings about what they were doing. There was nothing gay about fucking me, I was as bitch as bitches come. Nothing about me was manly or made a man question what he was doing. I had shaped and molded my body to show I was nothing but a soft, eager, feminized play thing.

This Daddy I had met by happen chance about a year back. I was bored so I had taken a night shift job at a hotel near the interstate, part time just as something to pass the time and see some people other than just the black men climbing on top of me every day. Not that I’m complaining, but sometimes I need some conversation that doesn’t end with a dick rooting around in my booty.

He was a guest one night and I checked him in, tapping away on the front desk computer. I had failed to keep my hair pulled down around my neck and he noticed the spade tattoo there. He started chatting about tattoos and asked me about mine.

I didn’t know how much to say. I mean this is real life, this guy is just trying to get in his room for the night, not get harassed by some little femboi pervert behind the counter replaying every BNWO propaganda video in his head while taking in this fine black man’s body with my desperate eyes.

I told him I got it for someone I had hooked up with long ago. He asked me if I had any others and I reluctantly showed him the pink heart on my right upper arm, the tattoo I hated the most. People may not know what the spade symbolizes, but everyone knows what a soft boy with a pink heart on his upper arm means.

I had hoped that would end the conversation, but he just looked at me and lifted an expectant eye, so I told him I had one more. I glanced at him real quick and said, “It’s on my bottom.”

He didn’t really react too much, still that same friendly smirk and gently taunting look. Meanwhile I’m blushing so hard my face is practically on fire.

“So did you get all of them for the same guy, or for different ones?”

Guy? Well, there was no pretending now. He definitely knew.

Like I could hide it, I thought to myself.

So I told him about it, another spade the size of an orange on my upper cheek. Then he asked what the spade meant and why that guy gave me two of them.

It was pretty obvious at this point that we both knew the game and were each playing our part. But it was still fun to feign innocence, teetering on the edge of fantasy and reality.

I looked up at him and whispered, “Daddy says it shows everyone I’m black owned.”

He starts laughing out loud while I’m standing there feeling my face burn off with shame. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard it almost hurts. This is what I crave. This is what I yearn for all the time. The mind-shattering humiliation that floods my brain with dopamine and rewires my pleasure center, getting me hooked on it, getting me addicted to the high, numbing me to it and making me always need more, always chasing the fix, one degrading action after the other.

He regains his composure and leans towards the counter a bit. I can smell his scent waft towards me, his cologne or body wash or whatever it was, mixed with the smell of a man, and when I breathed it in my head started swimming.

Oh, no, I thought. Not again. Not at work. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Stop being such a slut. Stop it!

“Prove your Daddy right. Show me,” He says, in no way a question.

I just looked at him, bewildered. Show him? Where? Here???

He nods his head towards the back office and I didn’t say a word, I just lowered my eyes and walked around to the door, unlocked it and allowed him behind the counter. He followed me into the tiny office and started undoing his pants.

No pretense here, I knew what he wanted. Our hands fought with each other trying to get his pants off, me trying to grab the belt, him pushing my hand away when I’m taking too long, me trying not to break my nails on his zipper.

Damn it, why are boy’s pants so hard to get off? All my clothes just come right off with a hard tug.

His cock sprang free and bounced in front of my face, teasing me with every throb. He had had enough of my silly hands and pulled them up over my head, crossing my wrists and holding them tight with one hand. He took aim at my mouth and stepped towards me, letting my mouth engulf him.

He let me do what I clearly wanted to do, my hands held high, no other choice for me anyway. So I did what I loved to do, and the noises coming from his throat were telling me he liked it.

This didn’t last too long, and he pulled me up onto my feet by my arms and spun me around and bent me down over the manager’s cold metal desk, exposing my little bottom to him. I was wearing a hot pink thong tonight, pulled up onto my hips in a sexy whale tail, my spade tattoo peeking out over my low cut pants. My clothes were supposed to cover all of this to guests, but I guess we’re past all that now.

He groped around on my jiggly cheeks, mumbling something about some tasty cake and making my face burn with shame all over again, and started tugging on my pants, the stretchy material sliding over my butt and hitting the floor, keeping my ankles trapped. He gave my bottom a few good slaps and I could feel the fire rushing into my cheeks. I wiggled my butt at him enticingly and he pulled my thong up out of my crack and stretched it up out of the way, exposing my little pink rose bud to him, the lips clearly swollen and stretched and begging it, winking at him a vulgar invitation and promising a soft fit.

I wasn’t plugged. I wasn’t lubed. I had tried my hardest to get him as wet as possible with my mouth, but with my hands held up like that I didn’t have enough time to get it get it good and sticky.

I felt his fingers rub up against my little pink hole, just rubbing around it. I could feel something wet, so at least I knew he used a little spit. Then the feeling of his fingers disappeared and were replaced with the familiar feeling of an angry cock head trying to work it’s way inside me.

He pushed hard and even with no lube my little hole couldn’t resist him. It hurt, it burned as he pushed it inside me, bottoming out in one quick, determined thrust, crushing my body into the desk. My hole was aching, clenching over and over, trying to adjust to this intruder as he kept rocking his hips deep against me, trying to find the deepest spot with every push.

Then he fucked me, right there on that cold desk. Hard and fast, not caring at all about me, just trying to get his relief, just using my body to jerk off his horny cock.

After a few minutes he grips my hips hard and lets loose, spilling his seed in my belly, holding onto me so tight, his fingers flexing their muscles into my hips every time his balls pushed their cum into my tender hole.

And that’s how I met a new Daddy.

About a week after that the manager brought me into his office, played the security tape of me getting bent over his desk, and fired me.

I was laughing the whole drive home. So worth it.

So this is how I met this man who’s house I was driving to now, him pounding one out in me on my boss’s dirty desk.

I got to his house and he let me in. We both knew why I was here and we wasted no time as he tugged off his pants and took a seat on his couch. I crawled up between his legs and assumed my place.

I ran my hands up his legs and cupped his balls, weighing them gently.

“Ooooh, your balls are so big and full,” I cooed at him while massaging them around in his sack. His dick was inches from my face, staring angrily at me, bouncing in time with my fingers playing with his soft balls.

“How long has it been since you came,” I mewled at him, daring a quick tongue flick across the head of his cock, just a taste, just a tease.

“At least a week,” he breathed heavily. Music to my horny ears, and my hungry belly.

“Mmm, you should never have to go long that long, Daddy. These big balls deserve to be drained every single day.” I said, still cupping his balls, kneading them around, tugging on them, pulling them down nice and tight until the skin around his cock head started to slowly peel back, the big swollen head glistening with drops of precum.

“And I intend to do it for you,” I said in my brattiest voice as I opened my mouth and sucked in his juicy head, swirling my hungry tongue all around it, learning it’s shape, tasting it’s flavor.

I watched as his eyes rolled back and his head tilted back onto the couch, his arms resting by his side. I had practically begged him in my texts to let me come give him head, promising he wouldn’t have to do anything. I would do all the work and leave when I’m done.

And now I had it to do.

I focused all my skills on him, sucking and slurping every way I could think of. I ran my lips down the side of his shaft to his base, then back up his shaft and over the head and back down the other side, never stopping my mouth on his cock head, just teasing it with a flick of my tongue as I passed over it. Every time my wet mouth moved over his head I could feel his hips rise, trying to find an opening.

I teased him and edged him on, and finally as I drew my lips up the side of his dick I landed my lips around his head and sucked it all in, pushing it to the back of my mouth. When I felt it hit the back, I pushed down and felt my throat loosen up and let him in.

His big hand came up and wrapped around the back of my head, taking a big handful of my hair to hold me tight, and started working my head up and down his dick, using my mouth like a flesh light.

I loved every second of it, being used like this to make him feel good. Giving him so much pleasure, hearing it from his moans, feeling it from his throbbing hard cock, and all because of me. The thought sends me on a rush, increasing my efforts to milk him off into my mouth.

His pace quickens as he uses my mouth, and he starts panting harder, looking down at me while he drives up into my sloppy mouth.

I know it’s coming, I can feel his dick getting harder in my throat. There’s no way I can let him cum down my belly, I thought. I have to taste it. I came all this way.

I still had my hands around his balls, holding them and tugging on them this whole time. I felt him start to tense up as his thighs started to push up off the couch, and I tightened my little fingers around his big heavy balls and pulled down hard.

Just enough to get his cock out of my throat and onto my tongue, and just in time. He loses the fight and starts unleashing blast after blast of scaling hot cum into my mouth, shooting into me so hard and violently that it’s gagging the back of my throat, making me sputter and cough cum out around his spasming cock.

I furiously stroke his shaft fast with one hand while still tugging down on his balls, working his orgasm out from the very bottom of his balls, coaxing every drop into my mouth, my lips sealed as tight as I could around him.

His cock stops jerking and his cum oozes from his big hole, and I suck hard to get every bit out. As his softening cock slips from my lips and slaps up against his thigh, I sit back on my legs and give his big load a quick swish around my mouth for good measure, and gulp it all down in one big slimy mess.

Oh, that feeling. That feeling as it slides down my throat, almost agonizingly slow, feeling it slide down deep.

He didn’t need me to show him the gooey mess, he couldn’t care less about feeding my humiliation addiction. He used me as a wet hole to unload in from time to time, and my needs were the furthest thing from his thoughts. I had other men in my life for that.

I cleaned up any bits of his cum from on my face and around my mouth, several places where it ran down my chin and was about to drip off. I used my fingers to feed it myself as quick as I could, leaned forward and gave his spent cock a wet, passionate kiss right on the underside of the head, and I could feel it twitch under my lips.

“Thank you, Daddy, that was yummy,” I cooed licking my sticky lips and smacking them together like some bukkake porn slut.

Mmm, cum-flavored lip gloss. My favorite.

“Remember what I said. Your balls deserved to be drained every single day. See you in the morning!”

With that I turned around and left before he had time to process what I said, or to say no.

I got in my car and after checking myself for any evidence of his cum on my face in the mirror, I sat back and just basked in the memory, his taste still strong in my mouth, tasting it on my breath all the way home.

Oh, I’m going to get my breakfast this week, I thought to myself while I drove. When he wakes up this evening to get ready for work, he’ll have some sexy pictures of me in my maid’s outfit on his phone, something to keep him thinking about me all night.

My diet was going great.

Listening to a New Friend Jerk off

My Russian Friend Val

I hadn’t expected much from the departmental picnic. The whole thing had sounded like a polite trap—lots of wine, volleyball, forced jokes about “team spirit.” I went mostly to avoid looking like I thought I was above it. By noon, the sun was too bright, the sea wind carried barbecue smoke, and I was calculating how long I had to stay before I could vanish. Then I noticed Val.

He wasn’t loud about it. In fact, at first I thought he was one of the staff, not faculty, like a building custodian or electrician.  Mid-forties maybe, long hair tied loosely behind his neck, a silver strand catching the light when he turned his head. He had that quiet sort of face—open, a bit shy, as if every gesture was thoroughly thought through before it left him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he kept tucking his hair back while helping the cooks lay out skewers of meat. When someone joked about how men never know how to start a fire, he smiled faintly and crouched down to do it properly. No show, just skill. The flame obeyed him.

By the time the first kebabs were ready, Val was already everyone’s favorite. He carried trays to the tables, fixed a jammed speaker, found a missing phone in the sand, and somehow made it all look easy. The new TAs followed him around like ducklings. Even the strict department head laughed at his dry comments, though I noticed Val never said anything cruel or self-important—just small, observant things that landed well.

He organized a volleyball match later, not by barking orders but by simply starting to play. He dove once, came up grinning, and tossed the ball toward a nervous junior teacher who hadn’t said a word all day. Within minutes a large group was involved, shouting, laughing, the tension gone. When the ball rolled toward a group of kids—the children of our colleagues—he played with them too, inventing a mini version of the game just for them. They clung to his legs afterward, making him laugh and fall and give up to their hugs, exasperated, but he didn’t mind.

I sat apart most of the time, watching. There was something about the way he existed—without effort, without hunger for attention—and that felt rare. You could tell he lived with music: his movements had a rhythm, and his silences were tuned.

At sunset, someone brought him a guitar. He resisted at first, said he wasn’t warmed up, then gave in with a small shrug. He sat near the fire, knees drawn up, and started playing. The sound came like it had been waiting all day to appear. His voice wasn’t loud—more like smoke than sound—but it carried. He sang old love songs, half-forgotten ballads that people’s parents might’ve danced to. The lyrics were tender in the plainest way possible, and that made them hit harder. A few of the women cried quietly. The men stared into the flames, thinking of someone they’d lost or hadn’t found yet.

When he finished, the crowd clapped awkwardly at first, then with real feeling. He thanked them softly and put the guitar aside. Later, on the bus back to town, a drunk colleague—Marina from the dean’s office—slumped against him, laughing too loudly, trying to nudge him into something that wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t snap or move away harshly. He just steadied her, spoke low, and every time she leaned closer, he gently drew a little distance between them until she fell asleep against the window instead.

I kept watching him even then. The passing lights from the highway flashed across his face, and he looked so calm it made my chest ache.

When we arrived at the university building downtown, everyone scattered into taxis. Val lingered near the bus stop with a small duffel bag, saying he’d just wait for morning since his flight was early. This was when I found out he was a guest of one of the staff members who left him behind when he refused going to her place for the night.  He showed her his wedding ring and declined, as if telling her he knew where it was going.

I offered my couch before I even thought about it. He smiled, surprised, and said thanks like it truly meant something.

At home, in my rented studio, I made tea. The night smelled faintly of smoke and sea salt. We sat by the window in silence, too tired for small talk. After a while I said, “I just wanted to tell you—I respect how you handled today. All of it.”

He looked at me then, his eyes soft but unreadable. “Nothing special,” he said. “Just… people being people.”

I didn’t answer. I just sat there, listening to the quiet hum of the city and thinking how rare it was to meet someone who moved through the world like music—never asking to be heard, yet impossible to forget.

I put him on the couch for the night, and disappeared behind the large wardrobe where my bed was.  I’ve arranged it like that on purpose, to separate the sleeping world from the working world in the rest of the studio.  Now it played to our advantage.

***

Fuck, I wanted him. Fuck, I dreamed of being in his bed being fucked by this gentle, good-meaning man.  Fuck, I wanted to know what he was like with his wife, how he got aroused, how he moved, what he sounded like, how he came, and whether he was as polite and nice or he growled and thrust his cock inside her or stuffing her mouth.  Fuck, I wanted to know what his dick looked like because in his shorts I could fucking see nothing—it was probably tiny and squished by his briefs.   Just thinking about it made me hard.

…The apartment clock ticked past two when I caught it: a hush of cotton sliding over hair-dusted skin, Val turning on the couch. The sheet exhaled—one slow, secret sigh—then settled under the low drone of the AC. I lay stiff behind the wardrobe, pulse loud in my ears, and knew the prelude to his solitude had begun.

The minute hand slid past two-ten before the real music started. First came the faintest whisper—Val’s shoulder rolling against the cushion, the worn sheet dragging half an inch across his chest, a sound like a fingertip brushing silk. Another rustle followed: his hip lifting, cotton peeling away from damp skin with a reluctant hush, then resettling in a soft puff of trapped air.

I lay motionless behind the wardrobe, eyes wide in the dark, counting each microscopic shift—the tug of fabric over what I guessed was a hair-dusted thigh, the low creak of couch springs answering some slow tilt of pelvis. Every noise felt magnified, intimate, as if the room itself leaned in to listen. My own pulse drummed louder than the distant AC, yet I kept my breath shallow, afraid one exhale would break the fragile spell of his secret, solitary overture.

A single, low groan rose from the couch springs—like the bed itself let out a sympathetic breath. The metal gave a muted creak, then another, softer, settling into a rhythm so tentative I felt it in my own ribs. Pillows swallowed most of the sound, but each faint compression sliced through the stillness, telling me Val had found his angle: knees probably parted, hips rocked forward, weight balanced on one elbow while the other arm disappeared beneath the sheet, the hand doing what hands do after romantic picnics and nights away from the faithful wife. My own body answered without permission—pulse skittering, breath frozen mid-inhale—while the springs kept their quiet confession, exhale after exhale, nudging me deeper into the dark behind the wardrobe.

The next sound wasn’t fabric—it was air itself. A thin inhale slipped through Val’s teeth, hitched halfway, as though the breath snagged on a sudden pulse of want. He held it a second, ribs suspended, then released in a slow, almost careful sigh that trembled at the edges. I felt it brush the quiet of the room like a match struck in velvet dark. Another followed—shallower, quicker—then a longer exhale that steadied into rhythm: quiet sip, longer hush, quiet sip, longer hush. Each cycle thickened the silence between us, until the space behind the wardrobe felt dense, electrically charged, my own lungs copying his cadence while something low and hot coiled awake inside my skin.

Then it surfaced—low, unmistakable, slow, wet sound of slick skin gliding under the sheet. Each stroke rolled out unhurried, the wet cockhead slurp kissing his palm with a velvet drag that carried through the dark like a whispered metronome. I pictured his fist—easy grip, thumb skimming the crown on every up-pass—while the cadence settled into a hypnotic pulse: schlick… pause… schlick… pause. The sound tightened the air; my own pulse synced to the rhythm, my temples throbbed, and my cock filled my hand as if his hand were working me instead. The rhythm coming from the room was steady, private, inevitable—while I lay frozen behind the wardrobe, ear pressed to the crack, drinking every slick note of Val’s quiet ascent to his peak.

He stopped to listen for any sounds from me, and I made sure my breathing sounded deep and quiet, and soon his action resumed. His breathing found the beat. Each upward glide dragged a ragged inhale through his teeth—edge cracked, almost whistling—then the down-stroke pushed a warm whoosh across the pillow. In… schlick… out… schlick: the two sounds braided, mechanical and animal at once.

A low hum rose from his throat—more vibration than a voice—like a cat’s purr bottled under pressure. It rolled out between clenched teeth, soft yet thick with need, then broke into shorter pulses as the wet slaps quickened: schlick-schlick, hum, schlick-schlick, hum. Each tiny growl painted the hush with color, turning the studio into a sounding box for restrained ecstasy. I felt the rumble in my own ribs, a sympathetic resonance, while my cock strained and oozed precum under my feather-light touches, every slap and purr stitching us together in the dark behind the wardrobe.

The tempo shifted, and wet schlicks sharpened into brisk pats, flesh smacking flesh in a lewd drumbeat: slap-slap-slap, each impact ringing off the walls like rain on tin. I saw it in my mind—his cockhead was now slick, precum flying off knuckles in microscopic droplets. The couch springs added their metallic chirp on every down-stroke, turning the room into a tiny auditorium of unignorable percussion.

Then came the words—ragged, whispered. “Takaya pizda…” he hissed, voice raw, then sharper: “Blyad, suka…” each curse slipping through clenched teeth like steam from a cracked pipe. They weren’t meant for me, but for some imaginary woman he was calling a slut and a bitch,  yet they landed hot on my skin—sparks flared behind my eyes, sketching crude, glittering pictures of the dirty thoughts gripping him, this polite guy, a gentle romantic singer, everyone’s friend, volleyball player, kid entertainer…. Between the slaps the dirty Russian words hung in the dark, before dissolving back into the wet symphony, leaving my imagination blazing and my own cock throbbing in my hand in silent answer.

Then, him being sure that I was asleep, his moans unfurled into low, gravel-laden growls that rolled up from his sternum, then thinned into higher, rawer notes as he tightened his grip with each stroke. His voice cracked on the up-swing, followed by a fragile break that sounded weak, almost pathetic, before he dived back into the wet, frantic cadence. Beneath him the mattress squealed in compressed bursts, wooden slats knocking out an urgent Morse code against the floor—tiny hammer-strikes that announced his rising abandon through the floor of my studio. I felt every creak travel the boards under my back, translating his private climb into a language I could read with eyes shut tight—his fist blurred on his shaft, his balls jumping, his hair messy over his forehead, his lip bitten and breaths ragged and raspy…

Suddenly his voice cracked mid-groan and stalled—air caught, muscles locked. The wet slap-rate froze at its fastest, fist welded to root, arm trembling under the strain; I pictured tendons standing in his neck, every vein flared. A high, keening note leaked through clenched teeth—raw, almost surprised—while the mattress bore down in one final squeal of springs. He hovered there, suspended on the edge, breath hitching in tiny, ragged gulps, the whole room balanced on the tremor before the fall.

Click.

I turned on the light.

The yellow light flooded the couch like a theatre spot. Val froze mid-stroke: fist clamped around a thick, red shaft that arced upward; that hidden secret of his was venous, the mushroom head shone bright, the slit was flared and already pulsing. His balls, heavy and pink, jerked tight to the base once—twice—then the first arc of cum  launched into the air: it was high, glassy and seemed to hang in the air for a millisecond, catching the bulb’s glare before it snapped down onto his trembling thigh with a wet slap. He yelped, tried to smother the spurting head with both palms, but the second jet squeezed between his fingers, ribboning the crumpled sheet in a pearly stripe. A third spurt—thicker, slower—dripped through his knuckles, falling to the parquet in a fat, audible drop.

With a scarlet face he stammered, “S-sorry, sorry…” looking terrified, yet still terribly horny, hard as steel, sweaty, suddenly so thin without his clothes, hairless, untanned with funny pink toes on his large feet, our good guy Val, everyone’s friend who turned down two horny women in one hour to remain faithful to his wife…

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” I said in a light voice, wanting to sound sleepy, instantly retreating behind the wardrobe. “Sorry, man, I thought someone was crying or something, sorry, sorry… I completely forgot about you, shit, sorry, man…” 

***

Mine was the fastest ever jerkoff that night.  I swear, fewer than ten strokes and my foreskin fold accepted three grateful spurts that I wiped off with a wet wipe on my night table.   The glistening arc of cum, the dancing balls, the thick red shaft with a mushroom head on this polite wonderful man with a noble gray streak in his hair—man, what could be more horny?

In the morning I woke up to Val cleaning.  He was dressed and looked horrified.

“Morning,” I said cheerfully.

“Fuck, Augie, I am so sorry,” he said in a quiet, shaking voice.

“Nah,” I said in the voice of an old wise man. “Come on, Val. No problem at all.  I should apologize!  But I forgot I was hosting you, and was scared shitless by the… you know…”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he asked. “I’d fucking jump out of the window if anyone learns.”

“Don’t worry,” I said.

Must tell you: the story is true, but his name wasn’t Val, he looked different and he doesn’t play the guitar, but you still liked it, huh? Oh, come on, the tent in your shorts is visible all the way from the other side of the screen.  Glad it worked, the story. Lock the door before you give in to your impressions.

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