Near Home—December, 2016
Kurt, the man who used to take most of my arm up his ass, is pulling back from all that mass going up him. He’s concentrating on dick. He asked for another public fuck at the bookstore. It worked out quite well. I was given exquisite head by a young African American to get ready to fuck Kurt’s very white ass. I did. Cam, a local top, happened to be there and filled Kurt’s mouth with his dick as I fucked him. Cam gave Kurt a load to swallow.
Kurt pulled off me and went to one of the other men watching us fuck. He sucked the guy and made him shoot. Kurt came back to me, drooled the load he’d just taken onto my cock and had me fuck it deep into his gut.
It was a mind fuck—and Kurt came very fast as I churned that cum into his ass. He left after cleaning up. And while all that was hot and fun, it was another moment at the bookstore I want to write about…
I stay behind. I am not even close to getting off. The young African American guy returns and hunkers down between my legs. There is a very buttoned down man watching us. Early 40’s, suit pants, shirt and tie. He is visibly fighting the urge to knead the front of his expensive pants with his left hand. In his right he holds the wastebasket Kurt has just tossed his clean up napkins.
Button Down comes and stands to my left. I’m hoping I’ll be blowing him as I continue to get the hot young mouth on me. But no.
Button Down sets the waste basket down in front of him. Precisely. He squares it so the long side of it is resting right at the tips of his beautifully polished shoes. He undoes his belt and unzips. He rolls the waistband of his pants down his legs so there is a very little of his suit pants touching the floor.
His tie is loosened. Just. It is thrown over his left shoulder. He unbuttons his shirt. The tails of which are tucked into the side waistband of his skimpy designer underwear. Only then does he pull the front of his underwear down so the waistband is under his balls. It’s a small cock. With bigger balls.
His right hand finds the tiniest bottle of lube I have ever seen in his shirt pocker. It’s in a tiny Ziploc bag. He opens the bag, leaves the bottle in the bag and opens it in there. Two tiny squirts of lube go on his dick. The bottle and bag are sealed and stowed away.
His right hand connects with his lubed (just) dick. He watches the movie. He watches me getting sucked. He has done maybe a dozen strokes on his cock.
He does a small plie that allows him to pick up the wastebasket with his left hand.
It’s his trigger. His cock erupts—firing directly into the held basket. Maybe three jets of cum. He puts it down and finds a linen handkerchief in his shirt pocket alongside the encased bottle of lube. He cleans himself up daintily.
The shirt is buttoned. The tie tightened and the pants unrolled, still holding their crease.
He picks up the wastebasket and returns to its usual place under the fire extinguisher.
I’d like to say he smiles at us as he leaves the room. But no. Eyes straight ahead, now that he is sated, he lets himself out the door, catching the handle so it doesn’t slam shut.