Hot Jocks, page 5
On offer were all shapes and sizes and colors and ages of manhood; all they had in common was that they were cocks! Glorious cocks! The smell of fresh cum was soon rampant, but every cock that invaded my throat somehow became the flavor, the texture, the length and breadth of Matiss’s. Fuck off, I told my mind, and got back to the job at hand. Surely I hadn’t fallen for that Lithuanian Mata Fairy.
Four condoms were oozing against my knee to Denise’s five. I put on a spurt, so to speak, and drained my next two sets of balls in record time. Now I was getting into it! My mouth and throat were hoovering sac loads (again, so to speak) of sperm from overflowing balls. I was in cockhog heaven. Drool poured from my lips as I sucked and swallowed rubber and the hard gristle it shielded in a feeding frenzy.
I lost count of the tally and I didn’t fucking care. I’d drown in oozing condoms before I’d let a fucker like Matiss and his gorilla make a monkey of me.
I sucked and dribbled like I’ve never fuckin’ sucked and dribbled before. I gulped and belched until my breath stank of burning rubber, and still more horny manhood poked through the aptly named glory holes and turned me cock-eyed. By now, six of us were left in the competition, everyone else having retired satiated or satisfied at bettering his or her previous personal best. I was awash with perspiration and drool and cock cheese and stale piss. My latest cock had taken an eternity to cum, something that under different circumstances I would have savored—great cock, great technique, but in bed, not at the Cocksucker Olympics.
As I bent forward for my next prize it seemed to me reluctant to appear, but appear it did eventually while I cursed the lost seconds. I made a mental note they needed better organization next time.
I knew that cock before it had even poked through its entire length: it was Matiss’s. I shook my head to clear it, but this wasn’t my imagination. My heart sank and my throat seized up. I couldn’t. I attempted to push the cock back, which could lead to disqualification. It made a tentative effort to return but I had my mouth to the hole whispering, “Matiss? Is that you?”
I saw the look of horror on Denise’s face not because she knew I would almost certainly be disqualified but because she knew with certainty I was in love—something I now had to admit to myself.
Matiss squatted and I could see his face through the intimacy of the glory hole. I hated myself, but I said it. “I love you, Matiss. Fuck it!” He smiled that beautiful young smile he has. “I love you, Nick. Fuck it!” Kneeling in the detritus of over a dozen orgasms, the watery cum crushed beneath my aching knees, I kissed Matiss through the glory hole that had finally brought us together.
A few of the more romantic judges applauded and I was on my feet racing around the barrier to find my man. He grabbed me and flung me in the air, almost knocking over the guy whose cock was firmly embedded in Denise’s vampirelike mouth.
We found a quieter spot to talk and all the questions tumbled out of me, and he did his best to explain. The photograph had been taken not only to intimidate me but to keep Matiss in line. They’d threatened to show it to his family. He’d already told the Lithuanian swimming coach he intended migrating to Australia. The coach believed the incriminating photo had kept Matiss in line and had been responsible for my losing the race. He believed that until the fateful kiss on the winners’ podium.
Matiss told me that he would need a very personal trainer if he was to get in shape for the London Olympics. I didn’t listen after that. My stomach felt funny and my head was filled with marshmallows and my mind with plans that included a queensized bed and a harbor-side apartment with a swimming pool. Then the young man stopped his babbling and stuck his tongue down my throat. Who was I to fight true love?
Oh, yeah: fuckin’ Denise won Cocksucker gold. And she bought the apartment next door. She’s threatening to install a glory hole between our living rooms. But that’s taking friendship one step too far.
THE PLATONIC IDEAL
Simon Sheppard
His nipples were perfect.
The rest of him was perfect, too.
Unapproachably lovely.
“I’m a championship swimmer,” he said, and I could believe it. “I almost made it to the Olympics” and I could believe that too.
He showed me what he looked like in Speedos; in tight, brief Speedos and nothing else, the skin of his shaved body shining white, his chest chiseled, fuck, how amazingly chiseled, and his abs defined and muscular. He had a prominent belly button—something I like—and beneath it, a flat belly leading to the edge of his swimsuit and the promise of his prominent crotch. I can see why most straight men don’t like to wear Speedos: I could easily see the shape and heft of his cock through the thin, shiny fabric, and lower down, a pair of thighs both muscular and graceful, calves that could cause a grown man to cry. Even his feet were gorgeous: shapely, not too bony, but each toe perfectly defined; not a symphony, no, but maybe a sonata.
Like I said, perfect, all of him, but especially those nipples: conical, pink, ready to be sucked.
He raised his long, leanly muscular arms, placed his hands behind his head, exposing two closely shaved armpits, even paler than the rest of him. “You like?” he said.
Well, of course. He was awesome. Awesome.
I am not awesome. I am ordinary, tall, kind of skinny, with a flat chest, a pair of tiny nipples, really just nubs, and a dick that’s nothing special. My face doesn’t turn heads. His did. Will. Yes.
Those nipples. Nobody has nipples like that, except statues. Paintings. Him.
He turned around, the swimmer, his broad, tapered back to me. The Speedos clung to every astonishing curve of his ass. He reached back with his right hand, stroked his right cheek. “You like?”
Again: of course.
I imagined him coursing through the water, David Hockney–blue, in competition, as thousands cheered. I could almost smell the chlorine.
He lowered the waistband of his trunks, just a little, revealing the beginnings of his cleft. As thousands cheered. The breast-stroke, the backstroke, the butterfly.
“More?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer.
More.
He peeled down the stretchy blue fabric, all the way down to the top of his athletic thighs. All the way down.
His ass was, like the rest of him, a near-unimaginable pleasure, smooth and pale as Greek marble, or some other cliché. He ran his hand over the muscled flesh, then guided his finger down the crack, deep, and put it to his face. I could hear him inhale.
I was envious.
He let the Speedos fall to his unimaginably shapely feet, then stepped out of them. When he bent over to pick them up, the cheeks of his ass parted, revealing a sprinkling of dark-blond fuzz, the only hair visible on a body that had been groomed for slicing through water. His thighs, slightly apart, gapped just enough to allow for a glimpse of what seemed a generous ball sac, the sort no Greek statue ever had.
He stood, his back still toward me, and paused for more than a second, his only motion his right hand stroking the back of his thigh.
Then he turned partly around, allowing me a profile view.
His dick.
It was long, very long, and though erect, stood out from his body and then curved down slightly. He was cut, his cockhead as beautifully formed as the rest of him. It was apparent that he’d shaved off his pubes, something I do not like. But in his case, I was willing to make an exception. He moved his hand from his thigh to his erection, fingers extended, and indolently stroked the shaft, fingertips just barely grazing his swollen flesh.
The man knew how to put on a show. Yes he did.
He slowly, slowly turned to face me. His hand moved to his sac, and he circled the base of both his cock and balls, the flesh growing even more prominent, more swollen, more stunning. Even from a slight distance, I could see he had a big slit crowned by a single drop of precum.
Amazing. Fucking amazing he was.
Who, I ask you, would not both admire and resent his perfection?
I made my move.
Still fully dressed, I stepped forward until I was mere inches from him, until I could clearly hear his rapid breathing, smell him.
“I’m going to show you what you really are,” I said softly, my exhalations colliding with his.
I took two steps back, reached up, the palm of my hand toward him, then slapped his perfect, perfect chest.
And suddenly, for a moment, the expression on his lovely face was not quite so unreadable. Then it returned to classically composed.
I slapped him a second time, though I didn’t have that much room to maneuver, and the blow was in fact fairly slight. So I grabbed hold of one of his startling nipples, pink nub between my thumb and forefinger, and gave it a brutal twist. He sighed, but remained unmoving. I reached up with my other hand and grabbed hold of his other nipple, torturing both tits, but his expression still bordered on impassive. Perhaps he was thinking of diving into a swimming pool; I don’t know.
I do know that I suddenly felt like I did when I went scuba diving off Cozumel, all weightless, directionless and painfully conscious of my own breath.
Which wouldn’t do. So I focused, coming up with a little fantasy of him in a locker room, still soaking wet, and slowly, very slowly, peeling down those blue Speedos, exposing his ass, then letting his cock spring forth, making sure all eyes were on him, admiring him, wanting him.
That did it.
I got up a big gob of spit and launched it onto his chest. His wonderful chest.
And for the first time, I saw the swimmer smile.
He kneeled before me and looked up with his pale blue eyes. His cock was ragingly hard.
I slapped him again, this time on his amazing face. And then, like Jesus said, on his fucking other cheek. He reached down for his hard-on.
“Hands off.”
He jerked his hand away.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out an ugly looking set of tit clamps. I looked down at his wonderful nipples. Now I was the one who was smiling. I reached down and slowly, deliberately, fastened down one of the clamps to his perfectly formed right nipple. I knew that the brutal little clip hurt. He gasped. A glistening thread of precum oozed from his large, downwardfacing piss slit.
After just a beat, I attached the other clamp to the second soft, pink cone of flesh.
He gazed up at me, looking as if he might cry. Life was good.
“On all fours.”
He dropped to his hands and knees, the heavy chain between the clamps swinging, pulling painfully at his unparalleled chest.
Fuck.
I walked behind him and slapped his marble-white ass. I hardly left a mark at all, so I hit him a couple more times, leaving satisfyingly dark-pink handprints on his right asscheek. It seemed only right to slap the left one, as well, so I did. Twice. Then I ran my fingers down the hairless crack of his now-sullied ass. It felt hot and a little sticky down there, but that wasn’t what this was about.
It was about making him feel pain.
“Spread your legs.”
He semi-clumsily moved his knees apart.
“Farther.”
I stood back a few paces, admiring. His heavy balls were visibly hanging down between his crystal-white thighs.
Fuck.
There was a shortish bit of rope hanging from my belt. I tugged it off, knelt, and tied a loop with a slipknot at one end. I stretched out his well-filled ball sac, then slipped the loop around the base and pulled it tight. When the rope bit down, the swimmer’s smooth body trembled slightly.
“Hold fucking still.”
He did, and I wrapped the rope around his balls till his sac was all stretched out, nice and glossy. I tied off the end. The perfect swimmer couldn’t see me smiling as I began to tap his stretched-out nuts with the back of my right hand. As I accelerated the intensity and the pace, I could see his classically beautiful thighs beginning to shudder. Just right. I stood up behind him and pressed the tip of my steel-toed boot into his delicate, sensitive balls.
And then I pressed harder.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded, short-cropped blond head bobbing up and down.
So I hauled off and kicked him in the nuts. For a second, I thought he might collapse, but he managed to maintain, remaining on his hands and knees, sticking that startling ass out for more.
Which I gave him, putting the boot in again and again.
I wanted him to whimper. There was a young man I’d done this to—a lithe yoga-boy, not a jock—who had whimpered, gratifyingly, sounding almost like a puppy. The swimmer, though, was silent, stoic. Whimper, damn you. I wondered, idly, how much more he could take. Wanted to take.
Finally, he said one word: “Enough.”
“Yeah. Lie down and turn over.”
The perfect boy did, as quickly as racing swimmers perform those flips at the end of a pool.
He lay there, utterly shaved, utterly erect, tit clamps still biting into his impeccable flesh. Utterly ready, or so I hoped.
And, of course, utterly beautiful.
For one long moment, I ground my heel down into his scrotum, pressed the waffled sole of my boot into his hard dick. Then, I unzipped, pulled out my cock, so much smaller than his, and pissed all over him.
That was the second time I saw him smile. I wanted to wipe that expression off his face.
And I could think of another use for his mouth.
My cock was still hanging out, and it was getting hard. “Suck me,” I said.
He got on his knees and, soaking wet, closed his blue eyes and opened his lovely mouth.
I slipped my cock between his lips. He gobbled it down.
For the first time, I let myself look at the full-length mirror on one wall of the room. There it was: an image of fleshly perfection, naked, now sullied, sucking the very hard penis of an ordinary-looking bloke, still fully clothed aside from an open fly. My open fly. If anyone was drowning here, it was me.
I reached down and slapped the swimmer’s shoulder. He sucked harder. I hit harder, then hit the other shoulder, then, using the other hand too, both.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off the mirror now. I watched myself getting close to orgasm, my face stupider than I would have liked. I watched myself slapping the perfect boy around. I watched myself hit his perfect face, over and over. I saw myself tense up, felt pleasure coursing through my body, my cock throbbing; watched myself slapping his face wildly as my cum flowed out of me, as he swallowed my essence.
Fuck fuck fuck.
But I wasn’t done yet. I’d have to catch my breath.
When I did, I said just three words: “On your back.”
His mouth was still on my cock. He backed off, wiping cum from his lips, and lay on the wet floor. His cock was still rock hard, his balls, tightly tied, slick and bulging. I ran the toe of my boot up between his muscular legs, all the way to his crotch.
“Permission to jerk off?”
I surreptitiously glanced at my watch. Sure, why not?
“Permission granted.”
He spit on his hand, reached down and started stroking himself. He was beginning to reek like a urinal.
I rebalanced myself, turned partway around and ground my heel into his balls. He winced.
I loved that wince. I dug my heel in harder, and as I did, he gasped out, “Permission to come?”
“Permission denied.”
I took my heel away. He seemed both disappointed and relieved. I moved around, straddling him, kneeling down till my ass was right in his face.
I could feel his breath, the tentative touch of his tongue.
“Go ahead, eat it.”
His tongue slid up my hole.
I reached down and gave the chain between the tit clamps a brutal tug. His tongue plunged farther.
I glanced again at my watch. Time.
“Okay, fucker. Permission to come.”
His mouth still on my hole, he accelerated his stroking until a stream of hot cum jetted from his beautiful cock, all over his glorious chest.
And that was that.
I rose to my feet and waited while he struggled to his.
“Don’t slip,” I said.
He walked over to a small table. His tapered back was shiny, his ass still bearing the traces of my blows. Nice. He wiped his hands on a towel that was lying there, then grabbed his wallet.
Turning to me, half smiling, he asked, “How much was that?”
“Three hundred.”
“Here’s something extra. You did a good job.”
I looked down at the money he’d pressed into my hand. “Thanks,” I said. “So how long you in town?” I was hoping he might hire me again.
“Only till Monday. I’m here for a swim meet.”
So he was a jock, then, for real.
“Well, I hope you win.”
“I probably will,” he said, smiling, giving his cock a tug.
“Oh, almost forgot. The rope and clamps.”
I reached between his legs and untied the cord, unwinding it off. His balls, released, shifted gratefully in their shaved sac.
“And now the clamps. Ready?”
He nodded.
I reached for the right clamp. He inhaled. I undid the clip’s grip. I knew it hurt like hell, but all I heard was an exhalation and a slight sigh.
“And now the other.”
This one I pulled off quickly, without warning.
“Ow!” he exclaimed.
His perfect nipples bore the traces of tit torture.
“Good?” I asked.
“Good.”
I leaned over and sucked gently on one bruised nub.
He, unexpectedly, lifted my head and kissed me on the lips.
“See you,” he said, when the kiss had ended.
“Yeah,” I said, and headed toward the door.
Sometimes I think I have the best job in the world.
The best damn job in the whole fucking world.
