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From: dantheman@freedomstorehousepress.com
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Subject: {ASSM} BFE  Chapter 1 by Paragon (MMF, bi-, bdsm)
Date: Sun,  8 Sep 2002 03:10:02 -0400
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BFE - Chapter 1 by Paragon (MMF, bi-, bdsm)
 

This story and ALL Paragon fiction appears exclusively at
www.freedomstorehousepress.com .  All rights reserved.


This story is intended solely for the entertainment of adults. 
Anyone wishing to correspond may e-mail me at
paragon@freedomstorehousepress.com .  I welcome any comments,
positive or negative.





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 déjà 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 ½ 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 turd burglar?"

"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 ..?"

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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