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I saw Prince Kaltan's ad. in a health and fitness magazine:
Wanted: (i) Personal fitness trainer and personal cook for wealthy, powerful potentate of small African nation. Excellent salary; wonderful living conditions; a unique opportunity to develop your own career and have fun. Apply to Box:......
I didn't know what a potentate was. I've been too busy building up my butt-muscles, I guess, and my iron pecs, so I haven't had a lot of time recently to go around swallowing dictionaries. Garson, my high-schoolteacher friend, who gets off on blowing a body-builder (me) once a week, told me it means a powerful person: "You know, like a sheikh, or a sultan, or a prince. Something like that." I could hear him drooling down my phone-line.
"Hey, steel-cock stud, how about tonight?" he asks.
Garrison seizes every opportunity.
"I don't know," I say. "I'm going to be busy writing a job application."
"Hey, come on."
I enjoy hear his begging tone.
"I need your meat, man. My lips are hot to suck. If I can get your manjuice to lubricate-"
"Hang on a minute," I say. "No need for the dirty talk to get me in the mood. Here's the deal. You come over right now and help me do my resume and stuff. Then you get all the cockmeat you need to feed on for the rest of the night."
"A deal," says Garson and slams down the phone.
An hour later, at my place, Garson turns up. Tight old faded blue jeans, a white torn muscle-shirt. Trying hard not too look too much like a schoolteacher. He doesn't, except for the trendy round gold-rimmed glasses and the sharp blue analytical eyes. "So which job are you applying for?" he asks, studying the advertisement. "Cook or trainer?" I know he's teasing me, but I play along. "Well, I ain't much of a cook," I say regretfully. "Otherwise, I'd love to slave over Prince Kaltan's hot meat. I guess Iíll have to help out in hishis gym or his pool, or his tennis courts, or whatever."
Garson and I work for an hour on my resume. It's not a bad one. I've already been a personal trainer to the rich and famous in New York and Hollywood. I believe in helping people who really want to help themselves. By the time the stars call me and say they are willing to pay my hourly rates, I know that they already have the motivation. All they need is the discipline. I'm pretty good at giving discipline. No, not the kinky leather-and-handcuffs kind. The "get-your-sorry-fat-ass-out-of-bed and start jogging " kind.
Garson lists my qualifications, names some of my more important clients as referees, then insists on attaching a rather lewd photo to the resume. He rips up the nice passport shot I have: head and shoulders against a neutral background.
He chooses, instead, a shot he has of me that he carries in his wallet. I am charmed. I am sincerely touched. I didn't know that I made it into that category: a place in the photo-slot of a guy's wallet. Geez, what does he do with that shot? Show me off to his friends? Jerk off on it?
The photo shows me reclining deep into a poolside chair. My eyes are the most amazing thing in that photo, believe it or not. They are completely clouded over, and hot at the same time, with lust. Garrison had interrupted a magnificent pool-side blow-job to take the shot. My cock is straining and streaming inside the constraints of a pair of white-speedos where I had stuffed it hastily when Garrison had said he wanted to take a shot --before he received a shot of cum.
I can see the purple ring of cock-head clearly defined against the elastic material. Every muscle and crevice of my body is glistening from Garrison's agonisingly slow and teasing oil-based massage that he had given me for an hour before the blow job started. My black, curly wild hair is a complete mess where Garrison had been rubbing his oily hands through it. My toes and fingers are clenched inwards trying to control the "I'm two-seconds-away-from the orgasm of my life" feeling.
"Don't worry," Garrison says tenderly, looking at the photo one last time before he staples it onto the first sheet. "I've got the negatives. I can make lots of copies."
"I'm sure you will," I say as I press his head down on my jeans. It's time to feel some teeth and tongue on denim. It's time to feel the heat of manmouth. "Tease me first, Garrison," I order him. I don't get off on a guy who just grabs your meat and stuffs it in his face. I enjoy the build-up, the face-to-cock relationship that slowly develops as a guy tastes his way inwards on that most private journey: from the cool buttons of your fly through the cotton tropical heat of your jockeys until he reaches the jungle of hair and the pulsing tower of meat.
"Suck it, man, suck it," I growl, feeling his teeth still nipping at the old washed-out denim. I press his face closer into stretched moist blue fabric. I feel him smothering in the cotton. I want his hot breath to go nowhere but through the layers of material onto my hardening cock. "It's all for you, it's only for you," I tell him. Then I tell him the truth that really turns him on. "I've got gallons of the stuff, man. I haven't come for five days."
I met Garrison six months ago. He was in a smoky noisy bar crowded with muscle-men and the preening pretty boys who love them. I hated the smoke. But I loved the meat. I loved the heat. I loved the beat.
Garrison picked me out in the crowd. Or I picked him out. Whichever. There was that instant compatibility that flashes like hot electric current from one cruising set of eyes to another. I liked the hot longing I saw in his eyes. I liked the slow way his tongue drifted over his upper lip, as if he was promising me something nice. Or promising himself something nice. He wasn't the kind of man who needs to make instant eye-contact with your crotch. He took his time getting that far down. He lingered first on the most visible things: the tanned shoulders, the biceps, the promise of an enormous chest through a t-shirt that hinted rather than revealed what was inside.
He drifted casually over in my direction. "I'm hot, but I'm in no hurry," his body language told me.
"How about a cold beer?" he asks.
"How about giving me some service in the darkest corner of the bar?" I reply.
He might be in no hurry, but I was. I know hot lips when I see them. I cemented my question by kissing him fully on the lips. I stuck my tongue inside and started exploring. A moist mouth, a perfectly even set of teeth that nipped a little on my tongue. A tongue that twisted into a mouth-embrace with mine, a love-lock that said, "I don't want to let go."
I passed a finger across his ass while I was at it. No, not a hand, just a teasing finger, light as a butterfly alighting on rough denim. There was an instant response, a quiver of delight as the buttocks rippled and then tightened. Man, this was a hot little number. How old was he? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? By the time my hand was fully on his ass, grasping the globes and fisting denim roughly into his crevice, he was helpless. His mouth still hadn't left mine, but he was twisting his crotch urgently into the cock-shape in my pants.. Only I could hear his tiny insistent moans in the crowded din of the bar. One of his hands had sought out a nipple through my t-shirt and he was twisting it into a full erection. It would be nice to know his name. Maybe. But not yet. I dragged him into a corner and got to know him in that other way first.
Now, here he was again in my apartment, six months later, helping me with my resume. Suck-buddy and friend. If they're good, I hang on to them. If they're routine blow-jobs, I don't remember their faces. I don't even get to know their names. Some say I'm an arrogant bastard. I'm not. I just think there are so many men and so little time. Why waste that time on the duds!
Garrison has me flat on my waterbed. He has stripped me down to my jock-strap. I have an old worn one from the gym that I know he loves. It has that slightly musty used odor of old orgasms and sweaty balls. I slip it on as a special treat for him sometimes, before he comes over. He moans quietly every time he dips into my jeans and finds I've got it on. He eats it slowly for minutes at a time, gurgling in contentment and soaking the cotton in the process. At least I think it's Garrison that's soaking it. Maybe it's his spit or maybe it's my pre-cum drooling into his mouthy drool with only a filter of jockstrap in between.
But there's only so much teasing that a man can take. At a certain moment, I jump on the bed, screaming, "Enough, cocksucker. You came over here to eat cock, so you damn well better start eating some. Enough of that pussy-teasing stuff!"
He hangs on with his teeth to the damp jock, even as I shout and jump up. I shove him back down onto the bed and fix my groin up near his nose. "Take off that thing and start eating some meat, man."
He enjoys that moment when he peels my jock down and off. I can see the enjoyment in his eyes, I can hear it in his quickened breathing. The moment my engorged cockhead pops out into his face, he dives down onto it. He takes the whole head and stem into his throat. It's as if he's testing his own cock-swallowing capacity. For me, there's that great man-melody of tongue and teeth and throat. Sweet harmony of men in unison in sex.
Then, he takes it out and is preparing to go into tease-mode again. You know what I mean. I can see him thinking:- I'll just take a little bit at a time, and play with it. I'll run my tongue around that purple cock-slit and see how it feels. I'll dart down to his balls and wet them up a bit with my tongue. I'll do a little ball-biting.
OK, I can stand that sort of thing for a while. But he's been teasing me for the last century through my jock. I can feel my sperm building, man. It's surging in my testicles and in a minute that sperm is gonna want to leave the sac and find another hot little home. Preferably in a stud's mouth. And here's one all ready and waiting.
I shove the whole cock back into his mouth. "I'm really gonna face-fuck you tonight," I tell him. He can't answer. Sound is difficult for him. He can manage a choked gurgle. He can also manage a smile, and a delightful grip with two hands on my ass, telling me it's all OK and to give it to him as roughly and as urgently as I need to.
He's here to service me, not to set the agenda.
I get into my push-ups position on the bed. Then I start doing 100 shove-downs into his mouth. I start off slowly. I know I'm going to finish slowly too. But I build up a fierce momentum in the middle. Faster and faster. Deeper and deeper. As I go deeper, he doesn't object. On the contrary. His hands on my ass contrive to push me in further and further. Not just the cock but the balls too. He wants it all. He's an open orifice waiting to be fully plugged. Plugged with sex-swollen plunging meat. I don't know what is happening in his crotch. I don't care. He still has his jeans on. This evening is not about him. It's about me. I'm a selfish bastard, OK. Do you think I spend my days and nights in the gym doing workouts so that I can become a better cocksucker? No way, man. It's so that I can attract the very best cocksuckers in the world. Nevertheless, I can see his groin humping upwards into where my big muscular butt is. He isn't quite hitting my taut little butt nodule with his denimed cock, but in his head he obviously is, because a pool of something is spreading slowly in his pants, turning a patch of those faded jeans slightly darker. Look at your teacher now, kids. A slavering cockslave but like all good cockslaves heís struggling as much as he dares for power. No way I'm gonna let the little cocksucker get up my butt. If he wants to come, he can spill it into his jeans. Or anywhere else he likes. But not my butt. No way, man. No way.
Garrison's cocksucker instincts tell him when I'm about to come. That's when he becomes the ultimate tease. He pulls his head away and stares me challengingly in the eyes.
"How'm I doing, man?"
I say nothing. I just growl my primitive jungle man-rage. There's no way my sweet honeycum is going to squirt into the earth's atmosphere. I shove his face back down onto my cumstick. This is the final moment. Pump it into him. Fuck that face. Wrap those lips tighter and tighter around it. Feel that pulsing deep in the throat? Is it cock membrane? Is it throat membrane? It doesn't matter. There's one last great thrust, a spill into darkness.
There's a choking sound beneath. I have the courtesy to look down, even while my cock is still busy sending the aftershocks into the depths of Garrison's mouth. I can see sticky drops surging up around the lips. The overspill. What Garrison wasn't able to swallow. I can also see that the dark damp patch in his jeans has spread much wider.
Dear Garrison. In a moment, I shall withdraw my cock and kiss that sweet mouth where my cock has been.
I shall hold him in my arms and call him buddy.
Cos thatís what he is.
And I love him as much as a master is capable of loving the creature that serves.

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