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Message-ID: <34003asstr$1008252605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Matt Carpenter" <paragon38@lycos.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} BFE  -  Chapter 1 (MMF, bi-, bdsm)
Date: Thu, 13 Dec 2001 09:10:05 -0500
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BFE - Chapter 1 (MMF, bi-, bdsm)

This story is intended solely for the entertainment of adults. 
Anyone wishing to  correspond may e-mail me at 
paragon38@lycos.com  or paragon74@hotmail.com . 
I would welcome any comments or reviews.





BFE



1



"Yes ..?" The man's voice squawked over the tiny speaker on the
apartment's intercom switchboard.

"It's Randall," I tried to steady the quiver in my voice.  No
matter how many times I've done this, I always feel nauseous. 
Part stage-fright, part revulsion - you'd think I would have
gotten used to it by now.  Sliding a tin of Altoids out of my
jacket pocket, I popped the lid and tossed two in my mouth.  

The sharp, cold rush soothed my stomach momentarily, but my knees
were still quaking.  I steadied myself against the intercom
console and took a deep breath.  `120 minutes ...' I told myself,
shaking off another wave of queasies.  `7200 seconds ...'

"Hold on a sec, okay ..?" The man half-asked after a short,
uncomfortable pause.  Waiting through another even longer pause,
I could hear mumbles and pensive whispers coming through the
small speaker.

Dominique's email had described the appointment as a `middle-aged
couple, 50s, Dom-Bi male, sub female, fetish, total 3-way
interaction, first-timers.'  I hadn't been on a couples call in
over a month now, and I was a little nervous.

Most of the clients I'd been seeing since I started in the
business were gay older men, and I had gotten accustomed to
dealing with them.  My last couples call hadn't gone very well
either.  The man had freaked out the moment I touched his wife,
and then threatened me with a screwdriver.  Luckily I hadn't
removed my pants or shoes on, and the fee was already in my
pocket.  Talk about your quick getaways ...

Needless to say, I'd been a tad apprehensive about taking
tonight's appointment when Dominique contacted me.  I told myself
after Screwdriver Man that I wasn't going to do any more couples
calls.  There were just too many variables at play, too many
chances for someone or something to go awry.

But, as S.E. Hinton once said, `that was then, and this is now.'
The incident with Screwdriver Man had happened months ago, the
terror dissolving into a kind of wry bemusement.  Besides, I
needed the money.

No matter what my reservations might have been getting into this
business, as time slouched forward I was finding it harder and
harder to pass up the money.  Three bills would go a long way
towards staving off my most recent financial shortfall.  With two
more appointments booked for the following evening, I'd have
enough to make the mortgage payment and pay my overdue cell-phone
bill.

So, while the two muffled voices inside the intercom speaker
engaged in their terse exchange, I took the opportunity to
recalibrate my current fiscal situation and further scout out my
surroundings.  I'd been to this apartment complex before.  I was
almost sure of it.  Then again, maybe it just resembled one of
the dozens of upscale high-rises I'd been visiting for the last
few months.  After awhile, all these places - just like all the
clients -- start to look alike.  Still, this particular foyer
seemed to strike a more familiar chord than just your common
d**e9**j**e0** vu experience.

Trying to jog my memory, I continued studying my surroundings
carefully.  Immediately, I noticed the blinking red eye of a
closed-circuit camera perched above the door.  Yes, I had been
here before!  An afternooner -- the old queen with the colostomy
bag, the walker, and the bald cat.  When had that been?  October
..?  No, it was in November, right before Thanksgiving.  We had
talked about Thanksgiving, family ...  Poor guy ...

"Sorry, can you hold on another sec?" the man's voice from the
speaker interrupted my disturbing reminiscence.

"Sure," I replied, drumming my fingers against the intercom
console.  `They're looking at me,' I suddenly realized as I
looked back into the lens of the closed-circuit camera.  `If they
keep me waiting another minute, the clock starts running.'  I
glanced down at my Bulova and started watching the sweep of the
second hand.  `5 ... 10 ...' I silently counted the seconds.

"Come on up," the man's voice suddenly crackled over the speaker,
giving me a slight start.  "Tenth Floor, Number 1005."

I nodded up at the camera, just to let them know I knew they were
watching me.  A moment later, the lobby entrance buzzed.  I
grasped the handle, opened the metal-framed door and strode into
the empty atrium towards the elevators.

Glass and metal sparkled all about me.  In my peripheral vision,
I spied even more closed-circuit cameras lining the walls,
interspersed with faux sconces and mirrored tiles.  Yes, I had
definitely been here before, and it was definitely to see
Colostomy Man with the walker and the bald cat.  Even when you're
jaded, those kinds of memories stick with you.

When I reached the bank of elevators, I pressed the Up button and
checked out my reflection in the brass paneling - striped sports
shirt, Hagar slacks, black trench coat and Italian loafers. 
`Shit!' I grimaced, noticing a slight sag in my belly.  `Time to
start hitting the gym again,' I sighed, sucking in my gut and
doing a few quick ab flexes.

As you might guess, male escorts don't get a lot of mileage when
they're carrying around a spare tire.  No one really expects you
to look like Fabio, but it wouldn't hurt.  Still, I was in decent
shape, and half the battle is knowing how to carry yourself.  You
have to project confidence, like you know deep in your soul that
you are worth every penny the client is shelling out to see you.

The successful `professional man' also must be able to pull off a
variety of `looks.'  Some clients want jeans and a flannel shirt.
 Others want Versace, while others want the total `bad boy'
ensemble -- leather pants, Doc Martens, white t-shirt.

Tonight, I looked like I'd just stepped off a "business casual"
ad for the Men's Wearhouse.  Dominique had told me tonight's
appointment wanted me `conservative but relaxed.'  So, last night
I'd checked out some men's fashion websites, approximating as
best I could with my wardrobe.

In the last few months, I'd learned a lot about not only how to
dress, but also how to maximize the clothes in my closet.  Before
I got into the business, I knew very little about men's fashion
and cared even less.  Once I started `working,' though, I was
forced to take a crash course on `dressing for success.'

To be honest, I did seem to have a flair for fashion.  The
problem is, once you get on the clotheshorse, it becomes hard to
dismount.  Lately, I'd been spending more and more money and time
supplementing my wardrobe, time and money that would have been
better spent on other, less frivolous things ... bills, food, my
son. .

Suddenly, Danny's face flashed like a snapshot behind my closed
eyes.  `120 minutes,' I repeated silently to myself before I
heard a bell ring.  I opened my eyes, and one of the elevator
doors opened.  In another second, I was inside the well-lit car,
ascending to the tenth floor.

If my memory served me correctly, Colostomy Man's apartment was
on the 8th Floor with his living room window overlooking the
Kershaw Valley Parkway.  Even though that appointment had only
been five months ago, it felt like a lifetime had passed since
then.  Everything had changed since I first got into the
business; everything except the nausea.

I glanced down at my Bulova again.  7:45PM.  I made a mental note
of the time and set the small alarm mechanism for 9:56PM. 
Dominique had booked the appointment for two hours.  As always
with first-timers, I'd allow them ten minutes to get situated and
comfortable before the clock started ticking.  120 minutes later,
though, I'd be out of there ... on the dot.

Not that I thought this would last the full two-hours. 
First-timers are usually "rush jobs" and rarely ever go the
distance.  Once they get their rocks off, the adrenaline rush
crashes, embarrassment sets in, and most of them can't wait to
get you out of there.  Which is fine with me.

I learned from day one to collect the money upfront -- the WHOLE
fee.  It doesn't matter how long the session lasts after that --
15 minutes or the whole allotted time.  I don't give refunds to
short-timers.  When someone books Randall for two hours, the
price is fixed and paid in full BEFORE anything happens. 10 or
120 minutes, it's all the same to me.

To be truthful, I hoped tonight's appointment would fall on the
short side.  I was still tired from work and wanted desperately
to unwind before I had to pick up Danny at 11:00PM.  The last
thing I wanted to deal with was a "talker," or worse yet a couple
of "lifestylers."

The only thing more aggravating than clients who want you to
socialize afterwards are clients who insist on getting ALL their
money's worth.  I swear, some of these guys pop four or five
Viagras before you show up.  And they're so proud of it, too. 
They all want to prove to you and especially to themselves what
big studs they are.

You see, for most people who pay for sex, fucking is a big
occasion, kind of like the Super Bowl, Christmas and winning the
lottery all rolled up into one.  Which is why I never deny
clients their full time if they so desire.  On the other hand, I
certainly don't encourage them to go for extra innings.  I lived
by the 3 `Gets,' just like Dominique taught me -- `Get the cash;
get `em off; and get the hell outta there,' 

I had a feeling I'd be working on the third Get a little harder
than usual tonight.  If I could manage to extricate myself a few
minutes early, I might even be able to catch the last inning of
the Cubs game at Hennesey's before I had to pick up Danny at
11:00.  But I knew better than to plan ahead.  I still had the
next two hours ahead of me, and I had to get through next
7,200-odd seconds before I could think of doing anything else.

The elevator doors slid open at the tenth floor, and I stepped
into the corridor.  More mirrors, metal and mauve carpeting.  An
artificial flowery scent hung in the air, too, making me even
queasier.  I followed the signs along the wall to Suite 1005 and
rapped on the door.  `120 minutes, 7200 seconds ...'

Time froze.  My stomach turned inside out, and my knees wobbled
slightly.  I sucked hard on what remained of my Altoids.  I heard
muffled voices behind the tiny twinkle of light in the door's
peephole, then shuffling, then the scraping sound of a chain
being drawn back.

An instant later the door opened.  A man in his fifties faced me
and looked me in the eye.  He was shorter than me but much
broader.  His thick pale body was both pudgy and wrinkled, which
made the dragon tattooed on his left bicep look patently absurd.
Squinty brown eyes studied me from behind a pair of bifocals.  He
wore a blue velvet bathrobe and smelled like a toxic cloud of Old
Spice cologne, body odor and El Productos.

`Another winner,' I sighed to myself.  `Three inches hard, at the
most,' I surmised silently.  This was a game I'd started playing
with myself in the last few months.  Guess the john's cock size.
If I was within **bd** inch, I rewarded myself with a little
prize - a new tie, a jazz CD from Borders.  If I was wrong, I
forced myself to abstain from meat and fried foods for three
days.  Needless to say, I'd quickly become pretty good at judging
a guy's package.  `120 minutes,' I repeated to myself.  `7200
seconds ...'

"Come on in," the john ushered me inside with a quick sweep of
his hand, stepping aside to let me through the doorway.  "I hope
you found us all right."

"No problem," I answered as I entered.  "I've been to this
building before."

"Really ..?" he sounded genuinely surprised, maybe even a little
disturbed.

Suddenly I wondered if this guy knew Colostomy Man two floors
below him.  For some reason, the thought amused me, and I cracked
a secret smile.

"This building ..?" the man suddenly seemed obsessed with the
thought that someone else in his building was also a sex-starved
pervert who had to `pay for it.'.  "Are you sure?"  

"Yes," I sucked the remainder of the mint and extended my hand. 
"I'm Randall," I wanted to change the subject and get the
appointment moving.  Like I said, I'm not much fond of"talkers."

"Ted," the man croaked in reply, hesitating a moment before he
took my hand and shook it.

I could tell right away that he was uncomfortable relating to me
as both a man AND a human being.  I made a mental note of this,
not wanting any difficulties to arise.  I didn't need another
screwdriver pulled on me, thank you very much.

"Like I said," Ted continued, "Come on in."  He was still
recovering from the handshake, backing away from me at a
noticeable distance.  I detected a bit of a southern accent about
him.  Not the long drawl of the Deep South, but the lazy loll of
a displaced West Virginian or Kentuckian.  "Can I get you
anything?" he offered with studied civility.

"No, I'm good," I replied, venturing deeper into the candlelit
apartment.  When my eyes adjusted to the light, I suddenly became
aware of a third party in the room - the second half of my
`middle-aged couple.'

"I'm Mary," she gasped with a throaty, raspy voice.  Stretched
across a brown leather sofa, she wore a fluffy white dressing
gown and appeared to be sipping champagne.

"Hello," I nodded her way, and she rustled a bit.

With each passing second, my eyes grew more accustomed to the
light, and I could make out Mary's features more clearly.  She
was in her fifties, just like Ted, with wrinkles, dyed red hair,
an over abundance of rouge, and a nicotine-stained smile. 
Between sips of her champagne, she took long, deliberate draws on
a long thin cigarette.  When she saw that I was studying her, she
smiled at me, spread her legs, and revealed a neon green dildo
inserted in the gray, brillowy nest of her pubes.

"Would you like some Asti Spumante?"  She pointed her cigarette
to a marble coffee table in front of the sofa.  An iced champagne
bucket and an empty glass flickered in the candlelight.

"No thanks," I shook my head and turned back to Ted.  We
exchanged stares for a moment, and I could tell he was still
sizing me up, trying to determine whether or not I was worth the
money he was about to fork over.

They all do this.  Gay, straight, singles, couples - it doesn't
matter.  Clients always have second thoughts before the
transaction is completed.  When I started out, this part always
bothered me.  By now, though, I've gotten used it, and I've
learned to just stay quiet and let them wrestle with their
demons.

Eventually, they all come around, even the ones who look
terrified enough to scamper away and hide.  In all these months
and all these appointments, I've yet to have a john or joan meet
me at their doorstep, get cold feet, and then turn me away ante
delictum.  Whereas cancellations are commonplace in this
business, it's rare to get blown off face-to-face.  Even
Screwdriver Man sampled some of Randall's charms before going all
Othello. 

The real secret to avoiding The Stiff is consummating the first
Get quickly and efficiently - get the cash.  Once a client has
forked over the fee, they won't turn you away.  I don't care how
terrified or ashamed they might be.  And even if they do chicken
out after the transaction has been completed, it still doesn't
matter.  In the end, this business is all about closing the deal
and getting that first Get.  The rest is all just incidental.

"Give him the money, dear," Mary rasped at Ted, breaking the
fragile silence.  "He's waiting."

"How old are you?" Ted asked, ignoring Mary for the moment.

"36," I answered stoically.  Dominique had already told them all
my vitals in the confirmation email she'd sent - age, race,
height, weight, cock size.  She never exaggerated her
descriptions either.  You can get a bad reputation pretty fast in
this business when you try to pull the old bait and switch.

"Take out your dick," Ted suddenly challenged me.  "I'm not
handing you one red cent until I see your dick."

"Ted ..." Mary started, her voice a combination of shock and
embarrassment.

"The agency says he has a ten-inch dick, and I want to see it,"
Ted ignored her as he locked eyes with me.  "That is all right
with you, isn't it, Randall ..?"  He pronounced `Randall' with a
high-pitched, teasing lilt, like the taunt of a schoolyard bully.


Obviously he wanted to establish right away who was `boss' here.
He wanted me to know what he thought of me, what he thought of a
man who would rent himself out to be another man's sissy. 
Ten-inch cock or not, he was going to show me who the real man
was around here.  In fact, that was the whole reason I was here.

For two hours, I was going to be Ted's bitch-boy while his wife
Mary watched.  This was what made Ted feel like a real man, to
sexually dominate another man - a bigger, stronger, younger,
well-hung man - while his wife watched and cheered him on.  
Being watched validated Ted's precarious masculinity.  For the
next two hours, he could bask in his supremacy, forgetting all
about the insecurities and inadequacies he'd no doubt been
plagued with for his whole `real life.'

Welcome to the game, my friends.  Whatever the clients want they
receive - for fair market value, of course.  Ted had called my
hand, and now it was officially "go time."  If I wanted to see my
money, I needed to start following his lead, obeying his
commands.  I wouldn't surrender completely to him, though.  At
least not yet, not until I had his fee safely in my hands.

For the next few tense seconds, I plotted my moves carefully. 
Ted wanted to see what he was purchasing, and as the client that
was his right.  What I needed to do was show him the goods and
seal the deal without giving away too much for free.

I placed my fingers on the fly of my Hagar slacks, slowly
unbuttoning them and grasping the zipper with my thumb and index
finger.

"Come on, Randall," Ted jeered at me.  "Whip out that ten-inch
dick of yours.  What are you afraid of, boy ..?  Don't think
you'll measure up?  I'll tell you right now, faggot," Ted spat. 
"If that thing is even one quarter inch less than 10 inches, I'm
going to bend you over this chair and cane your ass until it's
black and blue.  Then I'm going to rape your sissy shit hole
until you're shitting blood.  Do you understand me, boy ..?  Now
whip out that meat, and present it for inspection!"

Trying my best to look scared, I unzipped my trousers and pulled
the crotch of my Hagars down past the bulge in my boxers.  Then I
stopped and looked back up at him.  He was glaring angrily at the
thick pipe of flesh pressed along my upper thigh and outlined
against my cotton briefs.  If he had any doubts that I was
stuffing my shorts, they disappeared when my bloated red
cock-head peeked out from the bottom hem of my right boxer leg.

I saw him start slightly, and I knew I had the upper hand again
momentarily.  I extended my hand silently and opened my fingers.
Without looking at me, he withdrew his wallet from the pocket of
his robe and riffled through the billfold.  In a second, he
withdrew six bills and handed them to me.

I accepted them and quickly made sure all of them were fifties
before I slid them into my breast pocket.  Three hundred dollars
to be another man's bitch-boy for two hours.  A female working in
this end of the business  -- if you could find her -- would be
pocketing at least three times the amount if she were standing
here.  Such is the marketplace.  Ladies who book as fetish-subs
are one in a million; sissy bitch-boys - even ones with ten-inch
dicks --  are a dime a dozen.

By this time, Mary had risen from her perch on the couch and was
standing behind me.  I could feel her eyes focused directly on
the bulge in my boxers.  Her breath crawled along the back of my
neck.

By now, she had finished her cigarette, and with her free hand
she began stroking and kneading my ass through my cotton shorts.
Slowly, as she worked over my bottom, she peeled back the elastic
waistband and dipped her hand inside the cotton confines. 
Grabbing a handful of my left butt cheek, she pinched her long
sharp fingernails into the soft fleshy moons.

I spread my legs slightly to allow her greater access.  She
snaked her wrist between my legs.  The tops of her fingers grazed
the underside of my balls.  She wanted a reaction.  I smiled to
myself and let loose with my best pensive gasp..

"Did I say you could touch the sissy, cunt!" Ted barked at his
wife.  Suddenly, before I could even react, he reached down
between my legs, pulled down my shorts to my knees, grabbed her
wrist and twisted it so hard she crumpled to the floor below me.
"AND YOU!" he grabbed my face between his pudgy fingers.  "Did I
say you could let this cunt touch you?"

"No, sir," I whispered.  `113 minutes,' I told myself, catching a
glimpse of my Bulova.

"Fucking faggot!" he spit in my eye.  "You are in MY HOUSE now,
and you will learn to show me the respect due to me in MY HOUSE.
Do you understand, you mealy-mouthed, cock-sucking turdburglar?"

"Yes, sir," I whispered, looking down to the floor.  `110 minutes
...'

"Hold his cock, cunt!" Ted spat.

"Yes, sir," Mary mewled.  From below, she reached up and
encircled the stalk of my prick with her wrinkled palm.  I
noticed for the first time the liver spots along the back of her
hand and the slight arthritic bend to her fingers.  Her grip felt
rough and scaly, like a bird's claw.  I tried not to shiver. 

"You like that big horse dick, don't you, cunt ..?"  Ted kept at
her.

She nodded silently through her heavy breathing.  She continued
squeezing my shaft for another few seconds before she suddenly
flinched.  From out of nowhere, a riding crop suddenly
materialized in Ted's right hand and sizzled through the
candlelit ambience.

"Answer me when I speak to you, cunt!"  Ted's voice and the
riding crop snapped against Mary's hand and my bloated cock.

"Uff ..." This time, my reaction was real.  THAT HURT!  Before I
could prepare myself for another blow, the riding crop cut
through the air again, slicing into my genital flesh a second
time.

I tried to squirm away, but Mary's talon-like grip was too
strong.  She had my dick by its roots, her gnarled fingers
intertwined in my pubic curls, her Lee Press-On nails digging
into my ball sack.  She wasn't going to let me go.

"What do you think of your big horse dick now, huh, sissy?" Ted
returned his attentions to me.  The riding crop bit into my cock
again, and I winced.

"Please ..." a very real cry escaped my lips. 

"Did I say you could speak, FAGGOT!?" Ted lashed out again -
Whack, WHACK, WHACK! -- issuing three quick blows that sent my
knees buckling.  "Did I?" he spat in my face, steadying me with
his hand so I could take more blows.  "Let's see his balls now,
cunt," he snarled at Mary.  "Show me your boyfriend's big horse
balls!"

Mary dutifully obeyed Ted's orders.  She lifted my cock and
pressed it upwards against my lower stomach, exposing my
pendulous scrotal sack to Ted's bitter gaze.  He jabbed at my
balls with the riding crop, teasing the stiff black whip back and
forth between my legs, drawing it along the crack of my ass.

"You like that, don't you, FAGGOT ..?" he spit in my eyes again,
his saliva mixing with the mist of tears clouding my vision. 
"Some stud, you turned out to be, sissy," he cackled.  "Some big
man ..."  He stroked my face with his left hand, opening my lips
with his finger.  "All that cock, and you're still nothing more
than a cock-sucking queer, aren't you ..?"

WHACK!  The riding crop slashed my balls, and I felt my knees
buckle again.  "Plwwease ... Mwwaster ..." I blubbered through
the stubby fingers stuffed in my mouth.

By this time, I had acclimated myself to the sting of the whip,
and I was beginning to settle back into the session.  I had to be
close to 100 minutes by now.  I bit my lip, collected myself and
started playing my part.

"Plwease," my lips were barely able to form the words around
Ted's prying, probing fingers.  "I bwegg ywou Master, plwease
..."

"Listen to your big stud, cunt," Ted threw back his head.  "He's
got such a sweet little sissy mouth, doesn't he ..?" The old man
laughed while he continued worming his fat fingers between my
slack jaws.  "I bet you give good head, don't you, sissy ..?" 
WHACK!  The riding crop bit into my balls again.  "Don't you
..?!"

"Wes, Mwaster .." I burbled through my spit and his fingers.  I
knew what was coming.  I only hoped it was sooner rather than
later.

There was no getting out of it this evening.  No matter what else
transpired, Ted was going to demand some head.  Faced with this
prospect, I'd rather suck cock at the beginning of a session than
at the end.

Usually, I can get a client off quickly with my mouth if it's his
first cum.  Sometimes, if I'm lucky, that's all he's got, and I'm
out the door five minutes later.  Ted struck me as the kind of
guy who'd be working with a hair trigger on his first cum.  If I
could get him to bust his nut early, the rest of the session
might turn anti-climactic and break down inside of an hour.

Still, I ran the risk of getting him off too soon, especially if
he'd just popped some Viagra or if he was the kind of guy who
could just keep going after an orgasm.  I myself barely lose my
erection after my first cum, and my second hard-on can last
forever.  When we first got married, Camille called me her
"everlasting gob-stopper."  After a few years of being subjected
to my libido, though, she just called me "freak."

I hoped Ted wasn't a "freak," too, or this was going to be a long
session ...  Whack!  WHACK!  WHACK!!  WHACK!!!  The rhythm of the
riding crop burst into a frenzy.  He trembled with bloodthirsty
rage and spit on my cock ... A very long session ...

"You need to learn the PROPER respect, faggot!" Ted foamed at the
mouth.  "How dare you insult me with that sissy cock of yours!" 
WHACK!  "You think you're better than me, don't you, FAGGOT ..? 
You  think because you have a big dick that you're more man than
me, don't you ..?"  WHACK!!  "Don't you, cock-sucker ..?"

"No .." I moaned, laying it on thick.  "No, Master, please ..." 
The riding crop still hurt, but I was getting used to it by now.
With every blow, my balls and cock grew more and more
desensitized.

"You will show me the PROPER respect in MY HOUSE, FAGGOT!" He
ranted onward.  "You will PAY for mocking me ... insulting me.  I
will BREAK you, sissy.  I will make you bow to me, and worship
me, and curse your faggot cock to hell.  You need to learn who
your Master is, bitch.  You need to learn your place."

WHACK!  WHACK!!  WHACK!!!  While he beat me about the cock and
balls with a renewed sense of rage, he kicked Mary away from her
position below me.  Obediently, she assumed a groveling position
at his feet and began kiss and lick his leather slippers.

"Get the rope, cunt!" Ted ordered.  "Bring them to me on your
knees.  I'm going to show you how much of man your little sissy
boyfriend really is.  GO!" he snapped.  The riding crop sizzled
across Mary's face and left a welt.

I watched her crawl like animal across the floor to a large cedar
chest next to one of the closets.  She opened the latch on the
lid and began rummaging through a heap of shadowy implements.

"You're proud of this, aren't you, FAGGOT!" Ted hissed in my ear.
 He drew close to me now and licked my ear.  He cupped my
swollen, bruised balls in his hand and squeezed them roughly. 
"Aren't you ..?" he repeated, digging his fingernails into my
ball sack.

"N..no, Master," I affected a servile stammer.  If I wanted to, I
could knock the old geezer out with one punch.  But this was his
show, his dollar, and as long as things stayed under control I'd
allow him his fun.

I had a feeling Ted was about to pop his prick, and I had another
hunch he was not a repeat performer.  Most likely, this session
presented his one opportunity to feel like a man.  And, like all
johns, he was going to make the most of it.

No secrets remained between us now.  I could see it in his eyes
-- the desperation, the anxious self-awareness.  We both knew
that the moment he came would spell the end for him that night. 
His supremacy over me was fleeting, transitory, nothing more than
an illusion he paid for.

I almost smiled at him, almost smirked.  But I checked the
desire.  He knew the truth about himself.  There was no need to
rub it in.  After all, he was the client here.  He was the one
paying me to make him feel like a man.

Once he shot his load, he'd go back to being Loser Ted.  I, on
the other hand, would walk out of his house with $300 of his
hard-earned money.  That's the essence of this Business.  Those
are the rules of The Game.

"I'm going to break that cock, stud," he licked my cheek as he
whispered in my ear.  "Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Master," I laid on my most pitiful grovel.  As I lowered my
eyes, I caught a glimpse of my watch.  "89 minutes ..."

"I'm going to shrivel that cock up and show the slut what a
limp-dick little queer you are," he rambled on.  "Then she's
going to watch you suck my cock and take my load down your throat
like a little sissy faggot whore.  Do you understand me, bitch
..?"

"Yes, Master," I repeated, trying my best to sound thoroughly
cowed.

"I will break you, faggot," he hissed.  "I guarantee it."  As we
watched Mary crawl back to us with the rope, Ted slid his index
finger into the dry crack of my ass.  I winced when he found the
tight ring of my sphincter.  "You fucking queer," he gloated,
probing inside my ass pipe past his knuckle.

Mary had now returned, and she offered Ted the rope.  He dangled
it before my eyes, allowing me to look at it momentarily.  With a
gleam in his eyes, he then set to work, tying up my cock and
balls with a flurry of coils and knots.

Mary stared at my dick as he worked.  With his back to her, she
could now afford to lick her lips and smile at me.  I locked eyes
with her, gave her my best amorous gaze.

"I want you," she mouthed to me silently.  Then she pantomimed
sucking my cock, cupping her right hand in the air and moving it
back and forth towards her mouth while her tongue pressed against
the inside of her cheek.  With her left hand, she massaged her
wet, gray-haired snatch.  Seconds later, I could smell her
womanly effervescence wafting up into the candlelit room.

"What do you think of your boyfriend now, huh, cunt ..?" Ted
snarled, breaking the moment.

I tried not to pay attention to the old bastard as he trussed up
my genitalia.  "80 minutes ..." I caught a glimpse of my watch. 
If I played the Game right, I'd be out of there in less than an
hour.  I could sense that Ted was almost ready to pop.  I just
needed to get him to the cliff and push him over.

When he was done hog-tying my cock and balls, Ted took the end of
the rope and tugged.  As the rope sank into my flesh, the noose
around my balls tightened.  I bit my lip.

Ted's knot was sloppy, and a few of the loops popped loose,
easing the pressure.  I didn't let him know this, though.  I
pretended to moan and wail like he was castrating me with the
rope.  He cackled with glee as I carried on.

"On your knees, faggot!" he insisted, tugging the rope down.

I knew what he wanted next.  I sank to my knees and lowered my
chin towards his waist.  He casually flipped aside his robe to
reveal a sagging belly that completely obscured his lower
extremities.  Only when Mary hoisted up his gut did his laughable
two-inch cock become visible.

He was even smaller than my original estimate.  His dick
resembled an elongated pencil eraser, and it wobbled like a
broken pinky finger.  I almost laughed, but I bit my tongue ,,,
HARD.

Ignoring me for the moment, he snapped his fingers.  On cue, Mary
produced a condom from the folds of her fluffy robe.  She bit
open the shiny, metallic wrapping and extracted the crumpled
rubber sheath.

"Now you'll see what a real man your boyfriend is, cunt," he
gasped to his wife as she slid the condom over his tiny
prick-helmet.  He was so small that she had to tie the slack
latex into a knot, like the bottom of a balloon, so it wouldn't
slip off his oily skin.

Ted was so lost in the moment that he had no idea how ridiculous
he looked.  He stood with his hands on his hips like some Bizarro
John Holmes, enamored with his own imagined glory.  Sweat poured
down his flabby tattooed body.  His sunken chest wheezed.

Mary pulled back his belly even further, and he placed the heel
of his hand against the back of my head.  "Suck it, faggot!" he
hissed, drawing my head up to his doughy body.  "Show the cunt
what a real man you are ..."

Stifling my nausea, I opened my mouth and allowed him to jab his
tiny prick between my lips.  It felt like soggy beef jerky
against my tongue.  I closed my lips around his glans and swiped
my tongue at his piss hole.  One lick ... two licks ...  His
whole body tensed, and a second later his pathetic penis burped
out a thimbleful of rancid sperm.

His didn't even last five seconds in my mouth.  After one pitiful
spasm, he slumped over against me, sighed, and then jerked back.
The condom was so loose that it drooped off his prick and dropped
to the floor.  In a second, he was halfway across the room,
heading to the wet bar.

It was over ...

I started to rise when I felt Mary's bird claws scratching at
trussed up cock.  "Now it's my turn," she whispered, nuzzling my
chest.  With skillful fingers, she undid the knots around my
still-hard cock.  She tossed her dyed red hair back and bent her
lips down to meet my swollen head.  "You're beautiful," she
gushed, loud enough for Ted to hear her.  "God, what a cock."  

She smothered my dick and balls with kisses.  She rolled my balls
in her fingers and pumped my shaft into her mouth.  Her
exaggerated lip-smacking resounded through the silent
candlelight, and she actually began to purr.

Somewhere amid her cock worship, she managed to secure another
condom, unwrap it and slide it down my cock.  Her lipstick smears
adorned the latex sheath like bloody wounds.  "My God, it is SO
BIG!" she giggled.  "The rubber looks like it's going to split!"
she squealed, obviously for Ted's benefit.

If he heard her, Ted wasn't showing it.  He stood at the bar
drinking.  He was perfectly still, not turning around to watch,
just staring ahead and sipping at his glass.

"I've got to feel that big, hard beautiful dick inside me," Mary
moaned between meaty mouthfuls.  "Fuck me, baby.  Fuck my cunt
good.  Please ..."

I pulled out of her mouth and slapped her ass gently. 
"Doggie-style," I told her, sensing she wanted me to take charge.
 Obediently, she crouched on all fours for me.  "Now spread that
pussy for me, baby," I coaxed, pressing the tip of my ten-inch
cock against the wet petals of her slick pussy.

Every time I eased a half-inch into her, I pulled back, teasing
her until she was wiggling her ass around and scooting backwards.
  "Oh, baby, fuck me .." she groaned anxiously.  "Park that big
cock in my pussy ... please ..." she begged.

"Come get it, baby," I cajoled her.  "Back up on it.  Show me how
much you want it."

I had her pussy irritated into a frothing frenzy.  Like a bitch
in heat, she chased my cock with her backside.  Desperately, she
worked to impale herself on my shaft, to feel its length, width
and heft stab deep inside her belly.

I played with her for almost five minutes like this, taunting her
until she was begging me.  "Please .. God .. stick it in ... fuck
me ... God, please ... fuck me ..."

Finally, tired of the game, I thrust forward, sinking my cock
into the puddle of her cunt.  Burying all ten inches with one
stab, I slapped my balls against the cellulite of her ass with a
resounding THWACK!

Ted started at the sound, and then returned to sipping his drink
in cold silence.  With every successive cock-blow, his back
stiffened then slumped, like he was receiving lashes from a
bullwhip.  Gradually, his head began bobbing to the squishy
rhythmic pulses that shattered the candlelit stillness.  Beneath
the steady, metronome of fuck sounds, I thought I could make out
a faint sobbing.

"Oh. God .. Oh, God .. " Mary kept repeating, totally oblivious
to Ted's obvious pain.  Her voice grew weaker as my thrusts grew
stronger and more decisive.

"65 minutes ..." I counted down to myself, timing each
down-stroke with the tick of my Bulova.  I was tired of this Game
already.  It was time for me to score the second `Get' - get her
off - so I could move onto the third `Get' -- get the hell out of
there.

I shut my eyes, closed off everything surrounding me, and just
concentrated on the fuck.  I gave her everything I had,
everything in Randall's playbook - every shimmy, wiggle, thrust
and glide.   

Four minutes later, measuring one thrust - up and down -- per
every two seconds, I finished her off.  DONE!  The old joan
collapsed against the floor with a gurgling squeak.  I continued
sawing in and out of her, riding her aftershocks, making her feel
like a woman.

Now that my obligation towards the old joan had been completed, I
eased up on my concentration.  I relaxed, opened my eyes, and
permitted the world back into my brain.  "60 minutes ..."  My own
orgasm began to surface on cue.

Seconds later, I pushed forward and gave Mary every inch of my
cock.  She moaned again, and I grunted a load of hot cum into the
reservoir of my condom.  After a few hard pumps, I let my cock
slither out of her pussy and plop against her flabby bottom. 
"That was really good," I whispered to her, kissing her flabby
back.  "I mean ... wow."

One of the tricks I'd learned over the last few months was
"afterplay."  If you compliment them and say the right things,
you can convince any client that the fucking is finished, and
that you are both totally spent and satiated.  When you can catch
clients right after orgasm, their sense of time is off-kilter,
and they're usually very suggestible.  Lots of times you can be
out the door and miles away before they realize they've been
hustled.  

"Jesus," she gasped.  "Those reviews on the website aren't a lie.
 You fuck like a fucking god.  Jesus ... what a man you are! 
What a fucking cock ...!"

"You totally drained me," I whispered to her.  "I haven't been
ridden like that in years.  I can barely move."

"Oh, poor baby," she giggled.  "I guess momma broke you after
all, didn't she ..?"

"You'd better believe it," I sighed.  "You broke me good.  I mean
.. wow ..."

"Can you find your way out?" she asked, crawling up on the couch
and lighting another cigarette.

"No problem," I smiled, blowing her a kiss.  "56 minutes ..." I
mused silently, gathering up my shorts and Hagars.  "Now where
are those Altoids ..?"


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