Date: Sun, 31 Jul 2016 15:42:53 -0400
From: Joe Justice <lexdude34@gmail.com>
Subject: His Chaste Servant/Chapter 1
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Disclaimer: What follows is a work of fiction, the first chapter in a
series to appear here on Nifty. the following is an original story of
fiction that contains explicit scenes of consensual sex between men. All
characters depicted are above 18 years of age. If you are under the age of
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His Chaste Servant/Chapter 1
Of course he was hung. You think I would have checked his profile if
he wasn't? Helloooo! I'm not talking "Holy Shit!" hung, but big enough for
me: 8" x 6" cut, a fat shower when soft, a heavily-veined club when hard,
with massive low hangers in a thickly forested bush. A total top whose
online profile and pix seemed geared to harvest a long line of size
queens. He knew what he wanted, too: "ISO total bottom, with outstanding
oral skills." Bingo!
I showed up at his apartment for what I figured would be a standard
off-the-apps one-nighter. The night before, our online back-and-forth had
been efficient. "I ask the questions here," he said, cutting me off when I
started to chit-chat. Okaaaaay! Point taken! Not much of a sense of humor.
But very handsome. Tops mostly like my look – auburn close-cut hair, pale
complexion, and a thin, fit build. I guess he did, too, though he said
nothing.
My cyber connection wanted to know if I was on PREP `cause he hated
rubbers. Told me he didn't like wasting time with beginners, and asked me
to prove I could handle a dick his size. He dared me to show him on Skype,
so taking the bait, I throated one of my toys that was about his size.
Staying fully clothed himself, he told me to strip and show him my hole.
(I'm told my hole kinda broadcasts, "well-used.") "Okay, good," was how he
wrapped it up, telling me to come at 10 sharp the next night, in a
jockstrap and ready to play. "I don't wanna see your junk." We didn't
exchange names.
Now, at his apartment door, he paused a beat to look me up and down,
but also to let me know he was looking me up and down. Just like his pix,
but damn, even better looking in person: I'd guess late twenties, maybe
early thirties. Mediterranean looks, thick black hair, a five o'clock
shadow, 6'1", probably 200 pounds, clearly jacked beneath his T-shirt and
jeans. His place was very, very nice, Chelsea modern, beautiful spare
furnishings. Clearly some money here. "Bedroom's down the hall to the
left. Leave your clothes on the chair near the door. All fours."
That first night was intense. No kissing. No music. No candles. Not
much talking, except very terse instructions on where to put my body next.
He was hairy everywhere except his back, with a jungle of a bush. Big
hands that gripped and grabbed and probed and conveyed coiled power. And
that cock! It swung and jiggled when he stood up, with a slight downward
curve, uniformly thick from the base before flaring to a huge head. Like I
said, he was cut, but "baggy cut," with part of his foreskin moving around
the corona of his dick. As the night went on, I noticed his cock never
fully deflated after he came, and rebounded to full hardness after maybe
ten minutes.
My...uh, `date' had stamina to burn, not a huge surprise given his
oaktree legs and rugby ass. He blew three huge loads inside me – down my
throat, up my ass and across my face. Let's call it...weaponized sex. No
laid back cock worship, just skullfucking. No warm-up holeplay, just to-
the-root-in-one-push slam-fucking. In retrospect, a first moment of truth
came when he batted my hand away as I adjusted myself through the jock
pouch. He'd been deep-dicking me in face-down, ass-up position for at
least 15 minutes, and had just flipped onto my back to grab my ankles and
open me from another angle. "Un-uh. Don't do that shit in front of me," he
said, nodding to my crotch, stern and borderline angry.
We went at it for two hours. And I was hard the whole time. I was
hoping he'd let me jerk off while nursing on his spent prick at the end,
but he soon made clear that wasn't happening tonight. Catching his breath
after he blew that last load on my face, he walked to his dresser and,
back to me, calmly said, "My name's Max, by the way. What's your number?"
I gave it to him and said, "James, here. Can I have your number?"
Turning around, with the slightest smirk, he very slowly said. "I do
the calling. I'm gonna take a shower. You can let yourself out." And he
just walked into his bathroom.
Despite not cumming, I floated home on an endorphin high, took my
own shower and massaged a very tender hole, then jerked off twice before
falling asleep. I wasn't a stranger to tops who couldn't be bothered with
their bottom's orgasm. And I was a pretty committed pussyboy, usually
indifferent to a partner's attention on my slightly-smaller-than-average
cock. (Ok, five inches hard, a grower, with a cute little ballsac.)
That week, the fact that seeing Max was out of my control didn't bug
me as much as I thought it would. In fact, it was part of the Max
mystique. I told my usual pals in breathless, bottom-y detail all about
Max, his apartment, his cock, his cold control. It was the usual fag
gossip about "men," that other half of male humanity of which, we said
half-jokingly, we were only technically members.
"You think you'll see him again?", Danny asked. "Does Mister Man
have a name?"
"'Dunno' and his name is Max.
"So, `dunno' if you'll hook up again?" Our set was well trained in
modest expectations. Tops did the chasing. We did the answering.
"Exactly."
"Well, you sound like you wanna see him again, babe."
"Of course I do."
My job was going fine. I'm a legal secretary, with my current law
firm for five years. I'm more or less used to keeping things in order and
managing oversized attorney egos. The next few nights, I watched my usual
dom/sub porn vids, played with my toys, jerked off, surfed the apps for
Max-like tops.
Max sent me a pic five days later, of his big softie laying across
his thigh. "Ready for more of this?" was the caption.
"Yes!" was my immediate reply.
And his shot back, "Okay, same time, Friday. And one more thing..."
"Sure..."
"I like smooth. Can you lose the rest of the hair?"
I took a deep breath. "Sure. I guess so." He sure didn't trim
anything.
"You guess so? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Yes, I can get rid of the rest of my body hair."
"Good."
"Do you mean just my crotch? Legs too?
"I mean no hair from the ears down. Zero. Still not clear?"
"I'm clear now."
"See you at 10."
Okay, I had two days to book a full body wax at Quarter, my
neighborhood hair-removal place. I'd ask for Tino, my regular sack-and-
crack guy. My apartment, a small rent-stabilized one-bedroom in the East
Village, was a mess. I called Danny from an empty office landline,
whispering. "Danny, I need your help!"
"How come, this time, baby? Good help or bad help? Why are you
whispering? You at your desk?"
"No way I'm at my desk. Max called. He wants to see me Friday."
"You go, girl! You better get that pussy ready, sweetie."
"Real funny. He wants me totally smooth, by Friday."
"Really? What's `totally'?"
"As in, `nada.' `Smooth from the ears down,' is what Mister Man
said. Do you believe that shit? Anyway, I am doing it. Can you lend me a
few hundred until pay day? I need to go see Tino, you know, the Brazilian
wax dude I told you about. What am I gonna wear?
"What are you talking about? My crystal ball tells you'll probably
be wearing...wait, it's coming to me...absolutely nothing, if it's the same as
last time. Oh, I forgot, Mister Man says you gotta cover your junk. So the
only thing you need to be thinking about is `thong' or `jock.' Or does he
want lace panties this time? Yes, sweetheart, I'll can lend you, but we're
talking payday next week, right?"
"Only `til payday."
"Sweetie, I love you, and I'm just gonna say one word: `Savings
account.' Ok, that was two words. You want to come by my place and get it?
I could just put it on my credit card."
"Dunno. I can't think straight right now."
"That be so true, girl. Do those law queens know how disorganized
you are?"
"Staaahp!"
"But really. At the office, it's all, `Yes, Mr. Clayton, I put it in
the file.' At home, it's `Dan-eeee, I can't find my Arpad dildo! Did I
lend it to you? Maybe I put it in the wash.'" We both chuckled.
"I gotta go. Love you!"
"Love you too."
I didn't have a whole lot of body hair to start. Like any good
bottom, I kept my hole smooth and my bush trimmed in a cute little
inverted triangle. I had a little bit of hair between my pecs and on my
forearms, a light treasure trail, and a `regular' amount of hair on my
legs. Oh, and armpit hair. Nothing Tino couldn't do in one session. God,
it would hurt. I just hoped my skin wasn't all red and bumpy for Max.
Tino dropped me into a cancellation slot that very evening. He was a
slight, 5'7' Filipino boy, wise beyond his years, always sweet and always
efficient. "Everything off, huh? So, who are you doing this for?" he
chirped, as I lay under a towel on his table and he got to work brushing
on the wax.
"What makes you think I'm doing it for someone?" He raised an
eyebrow, tilted his head to the left, and smiled, all mock-skeptical.
"I've been waxing you for three years and suddenly, you have to see
me right away, and you want it all gone. The only reason boys like you do
this is because their man tells them to. You know what we call it around
here? `Full Pussyboy.' Don't worry, it's just a joke!" Busted, I thought,
sighing out deeply.
"Oh. My. God. I think I'm in love. I want to have his babies, Tino."
"Seriously. How long you been seeing him?"
"We've had two dates."
"Annnnnd? Sooooooo? How big is it?"
"Big. Really big. Here, get me my phone and I'll show you." Tino
brought my phone over from the chair where I'd put my clothes, and I
showed him. "He's even hotter in person. Really built."
"Well, woof, first of all. Major woof! What's he do?" The inevitable
New York question. Always about work.
"I don't know. I don't know, yet. I guess he'll tell me. But he's
got a real nice apartment."
And so I shared the whole story. I guess it would be like the TV
stereotype of women and their hairdressers – Tino got me talking, oozed
empathy and listened really well. He'd also keep his mouth shut afterward,
I'd learned. After the first rip of the cloth strip – I always yelled, at
every pull – we got quiet. When he got to my crack, Tino whispered in my
ear that my hole looked a bit puffier than usual. "Before I finish up,
lemme say someone's doin' real, real good down here," he cooed, as he
lightly brushed the ring with his fingertips. I whimpered just a little.
Ten p.m. Friday. Max opened his door and gestured me in. I started
walking to the bedroom when he said, "Stop right there. Don't turn around.
Get outta your clothes, and leave `em on the floor. Keep the jock on. I
wanna see." My heart was pounding. I took off my shirt, stepped out of my
loafers, and dropped my pants around my ankles.
"Okay. Hold right there. Don't turn around." I heard him walk up
behind me and then felt his breath on my neck.
"Gonna check the handiwork. Arms up." Max trailed his fingers under
my armpits. "Nice." Then he reached around in front, brushed my nipples
with the backs of his hands and then turned his palms over to check the
cleavage between my pecs. His big forearms were roped with veins. It was
just the two of us breathing. Max was pressed up close, his jeans-clad
cock just sitting there, hard against my ass. Now he trailed fingers down
my belly and reached into my jock to check my pubes, pushing my junk aside
to check my balls. All clear so far.
"Bend over and spread your cheeks." My cock was so hard I was afraid
it'd pop out of the jock. Somehow I knew that would be a moodkill. "Pull
`em apart wider." I did.
We were off to an even more intense start than last time. Max put a
finger up my hole, then feeling the lube – a good bottom is always lubed!
– put another finger then a third. I groaned in pleasure. Threading one
arm around my waist to hold me steady, he pushed his three fingers up to
the second knuckle. I groaned. "Stay there. Nice work. All smooth. Just
let me work your cunt." And so he did, me bent over, trying to keep my
hands on my cheeks, trying not to lose balance, trying to handle his
invasion.
After a few minutes, Max pulled out his fingers abruptly, used the
arm around my waist to straighten me upright, and took his greasy fingers
around to my mouth, pushing them in. "It pays to be clean," he whispered
obscenely in my ear. "Suck." I did, and that elicited some involuntary
whimpering from me. His cock was like a hot pipe against my ass.
When Max broke the spell and pushed me toward the bedroom, I was
still trying to step out of my pants. "Lay on the bed with your head off
the edge." As soon as I was in position, he walked up close so that his
big bulge rested on my forehead. I heard and saw him unbutton his fly, and
haul out his rod. Moving the cockhead into position, he grabbed my head
with both hands and pushed all the way in until I choked. "Fucking hold
it! Calm the fuck down. Relax your throat and stop pretending you're a
novice. Don't worry, you'll get to breathe."
Max's mantra, I thought, `Don't worry.'
The night never dropped from this pitch. Throatfucking, assfucking,
ass-to-mouth fucking. Was Max on uppers? Because he did not let up. Again,
no kissing and no talking. Again, three loads in about two hours. This
time, I was not foolish enough to touch myself. This time, when he got up
after we were done, he said, "I'll call you." When Max told me to let
myself out, I wobbled out, afraid two of his loads would dribble out of my
swollen hole. This time, I couldn't just go home. I went to the Eagle,
found someone there who wanted to get sucked off, and blew him in a
bathroom stall while I jerked myself off to a stupefying orgasm.
"So?" It was Danny. I was at my desk, with no one in visible
earshot.
"Even better than last time."
"I want all the details. But first, tell me he liked smoothboy."
"He liked it, I guess. He told me he'd call."
"Heeeeyh! You musta did good, girl. You find out anything else about
him? He have a last name?"
"Nothing. Same silent-type. His bathroom's the size of my whole
apartment. Well, just about. He must have a pretty big job, or family
money."
"So you're gonna see him again?"
"Yes. Gotta run. Details at eleven. Love you."
"Can't wait. Love you, sweetie."
Four days later, Max called. As in, Max used a live voice on a live
call, though his number showed up as `restricted.' "Hey there."
"Hi," I answered, my voice actually cracking with immediate
nervousness.
"Where are you? Work?"
"Uh huh."
"And where's that?"
"I'm a legal secretary. I'm at Mudge Phipps Finley."
"So you work for Travis Kumble?" Now, this was eerie. How could Max
know that? I paused.
"You know Travis Kumble?"
"Don't worry, I don't stalk. I'm an attorney. So I've heard of your
firm, and I've definitely heard of Travis Kumble."
"Okay, that's a relief. I don't work for Kumble, thank goodness.
He's down the hall. Can I ask where you work?"
"I'll tell you soon enough. And other things. Don't worry. You at
your desk?"
"Yeah."
"So you can't really speak. That's okay. Just listen, okay? I want
to see you again."
"Me too." Max wanted to see me! My heart was racing, and I only
hoped I wasn't flushed in the face.
"So same time, Friday. That work?" Hmmm. Max was actually asking.
"Yeah, that works."
"Good. You did good on your last assignment."
"Assignment?"
"The hair. So you ready for the new assignment?"
"Uhhh..."
"No cumming between now and Friday. Three-and-a-half days. Can you
do that for me?"
"Uhhh..."
"I'll take that as a `yes.' I have full confidence. See you Friday."
Then he hung up.
I think he was smiling when he said that. Max was smiling!
(to be continued)
I welcome comments and questions, at lexdude34@gmail.com. If you liked the
writing, see my other story, "I Like Head," here on Nifty.
Nifty/His Chaste Servant