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I sat in the hotel dining room where other business men and women were starting their day over run-of-the-mill continental breakfast, USA Today, and mercifully low-volume CNN. Cell phone mumbling surrounded me. The coffee was good however, and I was well into my second cup, trying to clear my head of the alcohol and the bizarre event that had ended only a few hours ago. I felt conspicuous in the room, as if my humiliating escapade would somehow be common knowledge by now—surely, my morning shower and fresh shirt could not hide my guilty exhaustion. My eyes buzzed with lack of sleep. Were my lips still puffy and red? I swear I could still smell his sack on my hands—I checked them periodically.

Luckily—miraculously even—my day’s schedule was light; the end of what had been a hectic four-day trip around my territory. I could handle a couple brief meetings, call it a day, and start my drive home. I’d catch a rest stop nap if needed. The drive would allow me time to recount last night’s experience, and time to pack away my guilty knowledge before facing my wife and my weekend life. Jesus! I can’t fucking believe it! Did I really do that? Jesus! What the fuck’s wrong with me?

I went back to the coffee urns and poured one more half cup and realized it was him reaching around me for a cup. “Good morning,” he said casually. I didn’t respond. “Where you sitting?” he asked, and I nodded toward the table near the window and returned to my chair with my coffee. I sat and watched him feed a sliced bagel into the toaster. He sipped his coffee while he waited. I couldn’t reconcile his mundane activity with what I knew about him. He looked rested and ready for the day. He gave no hint of having been up until 3 a.m. watching blowjob videos, sipping beers, and pumping his cock into some guys mouth. He took a bite out of the bagel and chewed as he headed toward my table.

The man sat, still chewing as he pulled his chair forward, and he asked, “How’d you sleep?” He sipped his coffee and looked directly at me for the first time and continued, “I slept great man. I could use another hour, but I slept fucking great. I got some great fucking head last night and it did the trick.” He smiled, and spread butter across the open bagel. “How about you? Did you get any last night?” he laughed through his nose as he sank his teeth into the roll.

As I had dressed that morning, I debated about coming down to breakfast, knowing full well that I might be faced with a gloating stranger—some guy who had just used my mouth for the better part of two fucking hours. But, the disbelief and disgust at my actions were easily overpowered by the chemical rush that had engulfed me as I first kneeled in front of him to undo his pants. The man’s stern commands were on repeat in my memory—each selfish word. I had rested little in the hours before the alarm sounded; flashes of the demeaning events blending with my half-sleep, my half-dreams. I had determined that, not only could I bear the breakfast confrontation, I welcomed it. I wanted to see the guy I had serviced so intensely. I wanted to see, in daylight, the business man attached to the cock I sucked so obediently. I needed that reality more than I dreaded it, and his new taunts invigorated and shamed me.

The man eased off now. He knew I had no face-saving response to his quips. I think he could see my tiredness and was confident that his dominance was secure. He looked around, and then in a lower and less mocking voice he spoke again. “Hey, man. That was some great head. I wasn’t sure I was going to get into that, but you sucked like a fucking champ.” He ripped off another bite of his bagel and continued, “Are you sure that was the first time you ever did that? I think that’s what you said.” I nodded my confirmation, not feeling it necessary to include a single, and unsatisfying, “experiment” with an acquaintance many years ago—many.

Finally, I managed to get a word into the air. “Yeah. It’s just something…I don’t know… I thought about for a long time…and…I…just…” I paused, not really remembering what I wanted to express. “Just a fantasy I guess. I’m not into anything else with men…just that.” I didn’t need to detail my long fascination with cock sucking, watching hours of blowjob porn—straight porn—envying the woman slobbering on some headless guy’s dick. I’ve wanted to wrap my hands around that cock for years, but never ventured beyond my computer screen fantasy. But, in my mind’s eye, I have been practicing for years.

I spoke again, “This was just a lucky…uh…lucky match I guess. I have to admit I enjoyed it too. But, I’m just a little freaked out right now. I have to think it out a little yet.”

“Hey man, I know what you mean,” the business man responded with something close to empathy for the first time. But it was very concrete, “Don’t worry man, I’m clean. I was talking big in the bar last night—I was loaded—but I don’t do shit with whores. A hand job massage, once in a great while. That’s it. poker oyna I’m married too. And believe me, I sure don’t do any shit with guys.” He paused, and then leaned forward with a serious look, as if to offer some great insight, “But this is kind of different. I’ve seen this stuff on the internet—men like you, who only want to suck a guy—blow and go stuff—just like what you did on me—service a bigger guy’s cock.”

It sounded more crude than I wanted it to sound, but in fact, he had my number. I know well the “blow and go” profile—that “stuff on the internet.” And, his expression of concern about safety provided me with some relief—not enough, but some reassurance—about the state of his health. I welcomed that.

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean,” I said. “It’s a little different than that, but close”.

“Well, it was pretty hot, man. I got off a good fucking load,” he said shaking his head, and relaxing back into his chair. He looked at his watch. “Listen. I’m going to be back in town, at this hotel, in two weeks. Two weeks from yesterday. I want you to get here and do me again. I think we can help each other out. That’s exactly the way you put it in the bar last night. You were right.” He bent forward again, and whispered with a menacing intensity, “I— know— you. I know how to handle you. Let’s get this together and see what happens. One more time.” He paused, two, maybe three seconds and added, “Cocksucker.”

He caught me off guard, “I don’t know. I…uh…I’d have to…”

He broke in impatiently, “You don’t know what?” Now he whispered between clenched teeth, “Don’t give me that shit, fucker. I know you can do it, and I know god damn well you need to do it, so don’t bullshit me. Don’t bullshit yourself.” He stared directly into my eyes, “By this time tomorrow you’ll be counting the hours ’til you suck me again and you know it! I know you’re already hooked on this dick.” I couldn’t muster a convincing denial, and he tossed one more cruel truth across the table, “The way I saw you working on that meat…Man!…you looked like you were in fuckin’ heaven…like an addict with a bag of dope in your face. Actually, you are an addict—and I’m offering you every addict’s dream—a very big score. Big! You know enough about me now. You can trust me. It’ll be good… very intense…but very good for you. I know, what you, need.”

He sat back, slowly, and pulled at the front of his collar to adjust his tie. He looked around the room for a moment, stood up, and took his cup over to the service counter. I watched him fill his cup and exchange a few pleasantries with the attendant who was freshening and rearranging fruit and pastries. He loomed over the chubby, older woman. She giggled at some comment he made, and when she responded, the man laughed out loud and touched her arm lightly to cement their connection. “Okay…have a good day now honey,” I heard her say as he walked back in my direction.

As he sat down, he pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his suit coat. He flipped it open, laid it flat, and with a pen from the same pocket made a fast circle inside the Thursday square, two weeks away. He pushed the pen and calendar across the table. “Write your email there,” he instructed. I didn’t make any pretense of resistance, and I neatly recorded the address I had never seen or written except on the screen of a computer—the address I reserved for my illicit communiqués. I stared at it, on the page, floating in the circle. That collection of numerals and letters had solicited and received years of digital fuel for my cock sucking obsession—anonymously. No one except the business man sitting across from me, sipping his coffee, had ever seen the face that it represented. And no one but him had done more than write about fucking my face. I wanted to unzip him now.

I slid the notebook back to him. He tucked it away brusquely, checked his watch and stood up. “Okay. I’ll talk to you,” he said, and he left the dining room. I returned to my room and took a last piss before leaving. I looked at the mirror, examining my lips and the inside of my mouth where his cock had worked so furiously. I smelled my hands and washed them again. I gathered up my suitcase and computer and left the room to start my day.

His first email made its way into my computer early Sunday morning. In the subject line, lower case letters arranged themselves to spell “cocksucker”. The sender’s name, I didn’t recognize. But I knew whose face—and cock—it represented. The stranger now had a presence in my house. The flashback of my fantasy-come-true injected me again with a surge of exhilaration; but in the confines of my home office, a blast of guilt and vulnerability followed close behind. My cock buzzed and filled almost to erectness. I listened to the blend of cooking, kids, and television downstairs. The mouse felt clumsy in my anxious hand and I paused a moment before I clicked open the illicit message.

“Cocksucker” was the only salutation. canlı poker oyna “I was just thinking about fucking your mouth the other night and hearing you gag on my cock and cum. I would guess that you’ve been thinking about that too—about getting your face smacked with my fat wet dick and the feel of my cum in your throat. That’s good. Think about that a lot, and think about your next suck session. Send an email to tell me what you’re going to do for my cock.”

That was all. I closed the email, but couldn’t close the man’s obscene comments from my thoughts. He was right. More than any image, I had pictured him looming over me, flopping his spent cock onto my wet face, lingering in his superiority, looking down on his bitch and taunting me with the heavy, flaccid tool. He had rubbed it across me, pushing it back into my mouth for a few more dick-cleaning sucks. Even after cumming he maintained his cockmaster role. For him, the release let loose no guilt or return to reality. He was comfortable in his superiority, and willing to exploit my submission without reservation. He could expel me from his room only minutes later, without gratitude or sympathy. Not me. I had scurried back to my room to jack off, only to have all my desire and fantasy expelled into the towel with my cum. Anxious and guilt ridden, I could scarcely sleep. Meanwhile, the man who had used me so crudely rested easily and slept soundly just a few floors above me.

I waited until later in the evening to respond. The house was quiet now—kids settled down in their room. My wife read in bed, half-watching TV. It was not unusual for me to continue work in the office well after everyone said good night. I was eager for this quiet moment to respond to the man’s message. When I was confident of my privacy and safety from interruption, I opened his email and read it again. I contemplated my response

“Sir,” I started, and then I began to compose my acknowledgement of his email and its contents. The hours between my first reading of his note and this late moment had built in me such a need to respond that I launched into an unrestrained admission of my cocksucker addiction and the power of his cock over me. The hypnotic glow of the monitor and my erect dick fueled my submissive confession—I revealed desires and inferiorities in too great detail. As directed, and in equally humiliating specifics, I told him what I would do for his cock at our next meeting.

The cathartic stream filled two pages before I stopped. I loosened the tie of my sweat pants and tugged the waist band and my briefs down to my thighs. I saw the blot of my dark secrets inside my underwear, and I massaged my dick made rigid by my perverted pledge and the image of the stranger’s cock I had promised to serve. I stroked my cock to the edge of no return. The head of my dick bulged full and leaked clear beads. I was so close now, and I wished fiercely that my next meeting with the man’s cock was sooner. I halted my pumping and typed “cocksucker” at the bottom of my message and I clicked the send button. The filthy text disappeared and I pictured the recipient at his computer— naked, cock and sack hanging over the front of his chair. I stroked intently, held my breath, and then exhaled haltingly as my dick released semen and reality.

I checked my email repeatedly during the next few days—every private moment at work and at home. I had expected a quick reply to my confession and my offer of total subordination. The empty mail box hurt and deflated me. I conjured scenarios of rejection: my letter was too much—too explicit—even for the man who demanded that I meet him again to suck his cock. I became embarrassed by the perverted plea I sent him, and re-reading it only made it worse. Had I sounded so disgustingly desperate that I repelled him? Everyone, even the stranger, has their limits. I wanted my letter back. I had fucked up my one chance to explore my secret desire. By mid-week I was desperate and nearly disoriented by the absence of a response. Now I had to start to waiver on the earliest of my excuses to co-workers and my wife as to why I would be out of town next week—retreating on the certainty and the urgency, but leaving the door open—trying to leave the door open without drawing undo attention to the matter. I could not measure my performance: too much explanation, not enough? I am not a confident liar and I was walking a mine field of guilt and desire. Fuck! God damn it! Fuck.

Thursday night, just before bed, I made one last trip to my computer and logged on to my clandestine mail box. There it was. There I was, in the subject line, “cocksucker”. I could scarcely contain a yelp of joy and relief. I opened the message and read the short but thrilling note: “Just confirming our appointment—one week from today. I will be there by 5pm. Call me from your room at 5:30—no later. Ask the desk for Mr. Heyburn. I’ll give you instructions from there. I’m sure you won’t let me down cocksucker. Attached are a few pics. internet casino Bring your appetite! I got your letter.”

I opened the attachments, one at a time. A large naked cock appeared: thick, long, with a full head on it. It was a nice dick with full balls in a perfect sack. I could not tell if it was him however. In fact, it seemed too big to be his. I had been impressed by the stranger’s cock that I had only seen in dim light, but this well lit cock was too large to be the one I had sucked. The dick hung confidently out of unzipped pants, standing close to the edge of a desk or dining room table. I clicked the next picture and the same cock now rested in the owner’s hand. This picture aroused me…I lingered on the attachment for a few moments, and then opened the last photo. Now the thick waisted man stood over the corner of the table and the large cock and balls lay heavily across a pocket calendar opened flat on the table surface. And there near the tip of the dick was the red circle around my email address. The cock pointed at the Thursday of our meeting, now just one week away. I wanted to stare longer at the dick that filled my computer screen, but I closed the much welcomed email and went to bed. I was ecstatic and still stiff. I pictured my Thursday ahead as I moved close to my wife and rubbed my cock against her ass. She rolled toward me; I hiked her night gown up, and yanked down her panties. I fucked her.

I arrived at the hotel about 4PM and settled into my room. I had planned to arrive early so I could relax and compose myself, not sure of what lay ahead—if anything. I showered, changed into comfortable clothes, looked absent-mindedly at the TV, and paced. I opened my laptop to check my email. There it was. I opened the man’s message. “Hello bitch. Saw you checking in downstairs. I’ll be ready for you soon. Call me like I told you.”

It was 5:20 and I could wait no longer. I called the front desk and asked in as nonchalant a voice as I could muster, “Mr. Heyburn’s room please.” “Yes Sir,” the clerk answered. It rang three, four times, and then the man answered.

“Yes?” It was him—calm, curt.

I spoke, but barely.

“Sir…it’s me.”

“Who?” he countered.

“Cocksucker, Sir. This is your cocksucker. I hope I’m not calling too early.”

“No, you’re not calling too early. I want to go down to the lounge and have a couple drinks. But come to my room first. Five minutes. Room 8C. Five minutes.”

“Yes Sir…” I answered, but the phone hung up before he could have heard me.

Five minutes. I was too exhilarated. I had made it here and the man was waiting for me. I paced the floor and punched the air. Fuck! Yes! I was too eager and too anxious—I couldn’t calm my racing thoughts or my racing heart. “Slow down…settle down,” I told myself. I went to the bathroom and rinsed my face once more. “Calm down. Calm down.” I took slower breaths and dried my face. I sat on the corner of the bed and told myself to absorb the moment. I had made it here and I had managed, somehow, to put a hold on my other world—my real life. I breathed in deeply. This was the very moment in the scene I had imagined again and again and I was ready to perform my perverted role. I saw my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. I think it was me. I composed myself. I was ready—ready to face whatever the stranger had in store for me. I looked around my room once more…suitcase, shoes, computer, bright light coming through the late afternoon window…I didn’t recognized any of it. My legs lifted my torso from the bed and moved me to the door.

Unlike my previous trip to the stranger’s room, the hallways and elevator lobbies were filled with end-of-the-workday activity and noise. An attractive woman waited at the elevator as I approached and she looked up and smiled and offered a polite “hello”. “Hello,” I responded, and we looked at each other for an extended moment before she looked down. Her business attire did not disguise a full, shapely figure. I looked at her crisp, white blouse, the buttons pulling slightly across her breasts. I could smell her perfume and I fixated for a moment on her perfect ear. I thought about kissing it and cupping her tits. The elevator chime sounded. The door opened to reveal a nearly full car of suits and briefcases. She stepped on and turned around to face the hall where I remained standing. Our eyes met once more and she was still smiling as the doors slid shut. The red arrow darkened indicating the box’s decent.

The other elevator opened to reveal a single business man and a hotel maid with an armful of white towels. I stepped on and pushed “8”. The man got off on the seventh floor and the maid held her position as I pushed eight again. The doors opened and the uniformed woman in white gym shoes stepped out quickly and turned left into the hallway. I looked at the room numbers on the wall plaque and also turned to the left to search for the letter “C”. She was well ahead of me when she stopped at the linen cart parked in the hall. I kept walking toward her. She could tell I was watching the room numbers and asked in a Spanish accent, “What room Sir?” I answered, “8C”, and she nodded toward the door just beyond her cart.

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