I had an idea. “I know how much you like authenticity,” I said, “but let’s try something new.” He still wore the hood and had no idea what I was going to do. I took a large, vinyl-sleeved dildo and slid it into place, securing it with a harness. I switched it on with a remote control, and he started thrashing his head back and forth in ecstasy. Then I adjusted the bench so that his ass was higher than his head and positioned a padded chair in front of his head. I poured some water into the glass and made myself comfortable in the chair.

I ran the dildo through its full repertoire of sensations, watching in delight as he reacted to each change. Finally I switched off the dildo. “Hold still, now,” I told him, “I’m going to take you down.” A couple minutes later, I had the dildo out of his butt and unstrapped him from the bench. I lowered a bar from the ceiling and told him to hold on to it no matter what I did. Once he was holding on, I yanked the steel pins off his nipples. He screamed and started swinging on the bar. I halted him and started slapping his nipples very hard with my open palms. Once he realized he was going to live, I stopped and removed his blindfold. He had that disoriented look that bottoms usually get when they’ve had their sight removed for an extended length of time. “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. Come back here when you’re done.”

When he returned, I was seated in the large leather recliner. “Let’s get you out of that hood. Come here.” I had him kneel so I could remove it. “Good boy. Now come around the front and put your head in my lap.” I stroked his hair. “How’s your ass?” I asked.

“It feels great, Sir,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind some more ass play, if it would please you.”

“Oh, good,” I replied. “I thought I’d reward you for being such a hot bottom.” I reached for the hugest dildo I owned, as thick as a forearm with a wide base that could sit on the floor. His eyes widened hungrily. “This is Mr. Jesus. Now squat so I can work him into place.”

After a bit of effort, I had him squatting on the floor in front of me with about a third of Mr. Jesus up his enormous ass-cunt. “You really are such a good little pig. Now put your snout under my trench coat and see what you can find.”

Of course, I had a jockstrap on. “Oh, Sir,” he murmured, and nosed hungrily around my bulging pouch, inhaling in a possessed fashion. He began chewing on the jock. I took my low-hangers out of the pouch and fed them to him.

“Yeah, good pig. That’s it, yeah, suck my balls, you hungry cockslave. Hot little pig-slut, slurp ’em, that’s right,” I moaned. He was good with his mouth, too. “Yeah, I want to hear some slurping sounds. Oh, yeah, noisy little pig, suck ’em good. And ride that big rubber dick.

“Hot little pig almost never gets enough dick, does he? Bet you love crawling around on your knees, don’t you, pig? Go to a sex club and suck off all the dick you can find. Spend hours on your knees taking dick in your mouth, up the butt, through the glory holes, everywhere you can…” He groaned around my hard-on. “Suck my balls, yeah, clean ’em off real good.” I took a leather crop, called, appropriately enough, a “pig slapper,” and started to slap him with one hand while I took my cramped cock out of its confinement and finally started to jack off with the other. The sound crackled through the air. He sank his butt further onto Mr. Jesus and sucked a bit harder on my nuts. It felt great. “Slobber on my hand, pig, yeah, give me some jack-off juice.” After a while, I put down the slapper and started jacking in earnest with both hands. He had me so turned on, though, that I was worried I’d shoot too quickly. Finally, I started slapping my rigid monster against his lips and slowly fed it down his waiting throat.

I played with my nipples while he sucked me; my dick felt like stone. “Oh, yesss, cock slave; suck me, suck my hard fucking meat.” I held his head and fucked his mouth. “This big dick’s gonna fill your throat; yeah, gonna pump your mouth full of cock. Got a big deposit here for Mr. Bank Executive!” I raised my booted feet above his head and rested them, crossed, on his back. His groans told me that he loved it. “Yeah, Mr. Bank Executive, look at you now, down on your knees, sucking some whore’s cock like he’s your master, huh? Well, looks like he is. Guess it takes a whore to put you in your place, don’t it?” The muscles in his back rippled from the triple effort of bobbing his neck up and down on my shaft and sustaining the weight of my boots as he continued to shove larger and larger amounts of Mr. Jesus up his butt.

I had to stop him. Reluctantly I pulled out of his throat and stood above him. “Take out your dick, pig-slut,” I growled. It was more as though he unstuck it; threads of stickiness clung to it as he wrenched it from the jock. “Now beat it off, with that huge dick up your butt. I want to see that entire thing up your hole, and then I want to see you shoot an enormous load on the floor in front of me.”

I pulled on his nipples as he tugged on his slimy cock. Then I turned around and let him sniff my crack as I squatted over him and pulled on my own juicing dick. That sent him over the edge, and I doubled my efforts as he bit down on one cheek, then the other, and he hollered in joy and pain. I turned around to see his ass swallow what little remained of Mr. Jesus as he shot an enormous, scalding load of cum onto the floor, where it was joined a moment later by my own cataclysmic torrent.

We both squatted there, facing each other and trembling, for about three minutes until he grimaced and raised himself off Mr. Jesus. He sat again on the floor, where we were still separated by a small lake of mutual jism.

Standing, I threw a small towel on the floor and smiled. “Wipe that up, and then come over to the couch.” I wiped myself dry, creakily moved myself to the library’s small refrigerator and took out a platter of goodies, then moved to the huge leather sofa. A moment later, his head was in my lap and I was idly stroking his hair.

Some time later, I awoke with a start and realized we’d drifted off. I nudged my client awake. He stirred sleepily, then, realizing where he was, sat up, startled. I grinned at him. “Let’s go to bed and get comfortable.” And with that, I picked him up in my arms and carried him down the hall.

I figured I’d have him sleep curled up on the floor, attached to the foot of the bed by a chain just long enough to reach the toilet.

Fuck that.

I placed him on the bed and jumped in, pulling the covers over our shoulders. I ran my hands lovingly over his taut body and pulled him close to me so that we were resting on our sides, spoon-style, with his back hugged tight to my chest.

It was a position we would repeat often in the months to come. And come, and come…

Frisco

Greg Wharton

My name is Joshua Clark II, Josh to my friends and clients. I volunteer on Fridays at the Brighton Retirement Home, a low-income old-age residency on Nob Hill, donating my time and services to some of the old guys who will end their days living there.

My favorite Friday friend is Manny Freed, also known as Frisco. He’s always my first visit. He’s seventy years young. His body’s not too sound anymore, but his mind is sharp. No known family. Lonely. But quite a character. And an amusing past. I never really know whether I should believe the tales he tells or not, but they’re certainly colorful, and he gets so excited when he spins them he lights up.

I’m running late today, thanks to a lengthy call from my mom, and after checking in with my supervisor, Nurse Wretched, I find Frisco in the TV lounge, on the couch, his big feet on the coffee table in front of him, a can of Fresca in one gnarly hand and a More cigarette in the other. His attention is firmly focused on a rap video he is watching, and the More’s ash is way too long, just barely holding on, ready to fall into his lap at any moment.