cavern was steadily
relieved as he screwed the juice out of me. Juice that refused to be forced farther into me and leaked out from all sides
of his jackhammering cock. My pucker was slobbering all over itself. The handyman was hell-bent on torturing my swollen ass.
He would tickle it ever so gently with his fingers as he rammed deep inside me, and then follow that with unmerciful open-handed
slaps. My fist wanted so badly to grab my cock and beat the jizz out of it.
The coffee table I was tied to and stuck under seemed ready to collapse as it was shaken by the handyman’s weight. It creaked
and groaned as loudly as I did as he came down on it with his stomach, pumping into my upraised ass. His bulging thighs ricocheted
repeatedly off my butt, driving me into the ground while a mess of gooey liquid attempted to paste our flesh together.
And then the handyman vacated me, ripped off my blindfold, and was standing in front of me. He yanked off his condom and tossed
it across the room, then leaned over and undid one of my wrists. Without hesitation, my hand went for my cock. I began tugging
furiously on it while the handyman did the same to his cock… which was poised before my upraised face. I did my best to lap
at his dick and balls as he reached over the table and dug two, three, and then, unbelievably, four fingers of his other hand
up my ass. His fists seemed unable to distinguish which was doing what job, so both worked briskly. He slapped away at his
cock while nearly his entire hand gave my asshole—and particularly my prostate—an agonizingly deep tissue massage.
I thought I was going to bust a gut as I came. His cock was smacking me inadvertently across the face as I let loose with
a stream that had my asshole clamping down on his fingers. I thought this finally reminded him that this was a
person’s
asshole he was tearing away at, because his hand stopped, but actually he had merely gotten distracted.
My eye got the first gusher. Then his hot cum streaked across my face, covering my lips, clogging one of my nostrils. He screamed
out a bunch of expletives in sync with his expulsion.
When at last we both finished, each of us panting, me with my throat sore and hoarse from so much guttural expression, he
dropped onto his back on the sofa bed and blindly reached for my other bound wrist and undid it. I crawled out stiffly from
under the table and used a nearby leftover from my jeans to swipe most of the cum from my eyes, nose, mouth, and cheeks.
I dropped face-first onto his chest, completely spent, and breathed in his now-pungent sweat. His chest heaved up and down
and carried me with it. At last, I found the energy to look up at him. He looked down wordlessly at me.
“You’re a fucking bastard!” I griped.
And there was that charming, slight smile at the corner of his mouth. “You ain’t felt nothing yet.”
He brought his face toward mine and began sucking some remnants of cum and cherry juice off my bottom lip and chin.
Critic’s Choice
Karl Taggart
I didn’t tell him I was a writer until after I’d fucked him and even then wasn’t totally honest about it. He was a well-known
literary critic; I was a pornographer. Match made in hell.
At first I didn’t realize who he was. He’d turned from the bar to survey the room and caught my eye. Slim, elegant, dressed
in dark slacks and white turtleneck jersey. Graying hair, high forehead, cerebral look. He was incredibly handsome. He had
an aristocratic face, the kind you’d expect to see in some English country manor or maybe the House of Lords: high cheekbones,
sharp chin, everything sculpted, perfect, but still the hint of softness that age brings. Not always unwelcome, I’d found,
especially in guys like this. I knew instantly what he wanted and moved in. He bought me a drink and got his hand onto my
crotch, groping until I was hard, tracing the length of my cock, rubbing it along my thigh.
We took a
relieved as he screwed the juice out of me. Juice that refused to be forced farther into me and leaked out from all sides
of his jackhammering cock. My pucker was slobbering all over itself. The handyman was hell-bent on torturing my swollen ass.
He would tickle it ever so gently with his fingers as he rammed deep inside me, and then follow that with unmerciful open-handed
slaps. My fist wanted so badly to grab my cock and beat the jizz out of it.
The coffee table I was tied to and stuck under seemed ready to collapse as it was shaken by the handyman’s weight. It creaked
and groaned as loudly as I did as he came down on it with his stomach, pumping into my upraised ass. His bulging thighs ricocheted
repeatedly off my butt, driving me into the ground while a mess of gooey liquid attempted to paste our flesh together.
And then the handyman vacated me, ripped off my blindfold, and was standing in front of me. He yanked off his condom and tossed
it across the room, then leaned over and undid one of my wrists. Without hesitation, my hand went for my cock. I began tugging
furiously on it while the handyman did the same to his cock… which was poised before my upraised face. I did my best to lap
at his dick and balls as he reached over the table and dug two, three, and then, unbelievably, four fingers of his other hand
up my ass. His fists seemed unable to distinguish which was doing what job, so both worked briskly. He slapped away at his
cock while nearly his entire hand gave my asshole—and particularly my prostate—an agonizingly deep tissue massage.
I thought I was going to bust a gut as I came. His cock was smacking me inadvertently across the face as I let loose with
a stream that had my asshole clamping down on his fingers. I thought this finally reminded him that this was a
person’s
asshole he was tearing away at, because his hand stopped, but actually he had merely gotten distracted.
My eye got the first gusher. Then his hot cum streaked across my face, covering my lips, clogging one of my nostrils. He screamed
out a bunch of expletives in sync with his expulsion.
When at last we both finished, each of us panting, me with my throat sore and hoarse from so much guttural expression, he
dropped onto his back on the sofa bed and blindly reached for my other bound wrist and undid it. I crawled out stiffly from
under the table and used a nearby leftover from my jeans to swipe most of the cum from my eyes, nose, mouth, and cheeks.
I dropped face-first onto his chest, completely spent, and breathed in his now-pungent sweat. His chest heaved up and down
and carried me with it. At last, I found the energy to look up at him. He looked down wordlessly at me.
“You’re a fucking bastard!” I griped.
And there was that charming, slight smile at the corner of his mouth. “You ain’t felt nothing yet.”
He brought his face toward mine and began sucking some remnants of cum and cherry juice off my bottom lip and chin.
Critic’s Choice
Karl Taggart
I didn’t tell him I was a writer until after I’d fucked him and even then wasn’t totally honest about it. He was a well-known
literary critic; I was a pornographer. Match made in hell.
At first I didn’t realize who he was. He’d turned from the bar to survey the room and caught my eye. Slim, elegant, dressed
in dark slacks and white turtleneck jersey. Graying hair, high forehead, cerebral look. He was incredibly handsome. He had
an aristocratic face, the kind you’d expect to see in some English country manor or maybe the House of Lords: high cheekbones,
sharp chin, everything sculpted, perfect, but still the hint of softness that age brings. Not always unwelcome, I’d found,
especially in guys like this. I knew instantly what he wanted and moved in. He bought me a drink and got his hand onto my
crotch, groping until I was hard, tracing the length of my cock, rubbing it along my thigh.
We took a
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