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|I hung up the phone and a smile crossed my face. "Oh, Larry," I said, "am I going to have a good time tonight."
He looked over at me and smirked. "How can you tell?"
I shrugged my mammoth shoulders, feeling their power swell and recede in the movement. "Just a feeling."
Desciples. Isn't it perfect? An escort service! I mean, think about this; it's a service that men call who already want pleasure. They may only want the pleasure of a beautiful man at their side, someone to charm their host, someone to drain the jealousy of every other man in the room, someone so beautiful to look at, so wonderful to listen to, so charismatic and captivating that he is the object of everyone's attention but he goes home with you.
Or maybe they just want a nice raunchy romp. Some big fucking muscle stud to come over and use his big dick in every way a big dick ought to be used. Some swarthy hunk of man meat with a window-rattling depth charge voice wearing leather everywhere and a rough growth of hair on his chin and fat fucking muscles busting through his skin who'll manhandle them like a big, bad daddy and really show them what their ass is for.
Or a cowboy. One time Scott left the place looking nothing short of fine. He had this lean, hard-muscled form, flat-bellied and wide- shouldered, Montana sky blue eyes, sunken cheeks, gnarled hands and about the tightest ass I'd ever seen on a man in these even tighter blue jeans and starts talking with this Texas drawl that about had us all rolling on the floor. Still, whoever his partner for the evening was, that man was about to experience the fantasy of his life.
We could be anything, anyone, our customers desired. We would allow them to live their dreams, fulfill their fantasies, and leave them better men than when we found them. We were on a mission, see. We were building men, fucking making them better than they were. We would spread these seeds, sort of, the seeds of possible. We would inspire and entrance and introduce the idea to these men that they could be better than they were. And we would change them when we were with them, and they would start becoming better.
And as they improved, as they went to their gyms and saw gains they never saw before, as their dicks grew, as they regained their youth and rediscovered how horny they could be every morning, every afternoon, every evening and every night, they would go to other men and "spread the gospel" of D. The gospel of utter pleasure, of the sharing and the experiencing, of the possibility of giving yourself over to your desires and becoming able to live them and fulfill them in others.
It was perfect.
Larry brushed a hand through his hair. I scanned his muscled form as he lounged there, his legs open, his chest rising and falling as he breathed, the clear perfection of his eyes and his smile. "What are you doing?"
"You're just sitting there."
His smile grew brighter. "Is it working?"
We had a very good fuck.
Here's what Paul Johnson's profile told me to be.
`He has dark hair. Jet black. The kind of black that seems to have blue highlights. It is cut so that his bangs drop across his eyes on occasion, so that he has to reach up and brush them away from those eyes, those ice blue eyes, eyes that sparkle and reach inside you and make you feel nothing but good. His skin is olive, Mediterranean, not tanned but born dark. Smooth and soft to the touch, the sort of skin that seems to glow in certain light as if it is made of silk.'
`His chin is square and strong. His lips, broad and sensuously soft. To look at them is to feel them on you. When he speaks, his voice is deep and lush, smooth and soft and powerful all at once. You feel it as well as hear it.'
`His nose is slightly broad as well, as if he has been in a fight and had it broken. It has character, and says he is a man, not a model. High cheekbones accentuate the lean, sculpted appearance of his face. It is, as you would expect, a face to die for. When he smiles, it's the sun coming out. His whole face changes. Without it, he looks serious, slightly mean, a don't-fuck-with-me face. When he smiles, he looks inviting, sexy, a fuck-with-me face. Night and day.'
`His neck is long and lined with fine muscles. Stretching onto a set of shoulders that would have no trouble holding up a small planet. Big, round, powerful muscles off of which the rest of his huge powerful body hangs.'
`And that body shows off his assets to consummate beauty. Starting at the top, his chest is amazing. It stretches the largest of T shirts to the breaking point, and is carpeted with a soft forest of dark curls, erupting like a shadow from the deep cleavage between his hemispheres of power and spreading like an inviting carpet that accentuates and does not mask the obvious strength and size of that chest. And his nipples could tear a hole in aluminum. Large, tight and hard. Round caps begging to be played with in the center of silver dollar-size areola.'
`His dark fur trails down onto a belly rippling with a cobblestone street of brawn. Like a river, it winds though the depth of those muscles to heighten and illustrate their contained capacities. His narrow waist and hips widening to that chest and those shoulders help create a tapered V of such dramatic flair that it looks like he might topple over. But that's before you see his legs.'
`That soft fur appears again, there. And beneath that are strips and wedges of incredible definition and evident capability. Broad, thick, muscular thighs and diamond calves.'
'Circle around the man, and observe an ass created for a god. Breathtaking in its shape, it is a round, smooth, beautiful butt to make anyone observing it -- clothed or naked -- cream their jeans immediately. The definition of a man's ass. Spherical, high, dimpled and aching to be caressed, kneaded and fucked.'
`Saving the best for last, his cock and balls make you question how he manages to wear pants at all. He is gifted with a tool of such thick, firm, lengthy glory that seeing it puts horses to shame. It is in perfect proportion to the rest of him, yet so enormous and lush and beautiful that all you want to do is swallow him whole and feel him grow large and hot inside you. The head is cowled in a tight, uncut foreskin. Yet his prick is so big, even his naturalness cannot fully contain him and the broad tip of his helmet hangs there, pink and luscious.'
`His balls hang low and full, like fruit ripe for plucking. Separate round beauties, they look plump and firm and ready to produce gallons of his powerful seed. And cum he does, in thick hot fountains that shoot across the room. He erect prick, hard as steel and hot as molten lead shoves his load of white lava so fully that you can hear him cumming in the next room.'
This is what Paul told me that he wanted. This was his dream lover, his ultimate man, the fantasy he wished fulfilled.
And, hey, that works for me!
Six o'clock couldn't come soon enough.
Paul's plans had been pretty simple. A little necking, a little fucking, a little dinner, a little more fucking, good night. Just him and a guy for hire for a little night of fun with no strings attached. He was no spring chicken, he'd been around and around. Money is a powerful aphrodisiac, a powerful tool for getting things. It may not buy happiness, buthe found that it bought enough happiness for himself. He'd paid for sex, he'd been paid for sex. He'd tried lots of things, and he didn't think he was afraid of anything.
But the more he thought about the service, and what William had looked like, and the man he'd described, the evening kept getting more elaborate. Paul had hired the guy and chances were the man of his dreams was going to like him and whatever he had in mind. And the weird preparations he'd gone through pretty much guaranteed that the guy would be up for whatever he was up for. Literally. There'd be very little need to seduce anyone, and that went for the both of them.
But as the hour drew near, he found myself experiencing butterflies like a 15-year-old virgin facing his first tube of KY, some guy's hairy ass and an unopened Trojan. Paul knew it didn't matter to the guy if he measured up. He'd pretend to like him, no matter what.
But was pretending enough? If the perfect man -- literally the man of his dreams -- appeared on his doorstep, didn't he want this man to like him as much as he worshiped the man?
So his brain started flip-flopping between his thoughts of strictly carnal joy, bought and nearly paid-for, and some silly romantic fantasy of perfect romance where we'd find everything in common and fall deeply in love, enjoying each other in every way possible for the rest of our natural lives.
Which was, he felt, was complete bullshit.
He kept trying to force his head toward fucking. Paul imagined the man's muscled form, the silken skin under his hand, that face of masculine beauty. He saw them tangled in sheets, he saw them under a hot shower, he saw himself swallowing the man's hard, huge meat, he saw the man licking his own asshole, plunging his tongue into him like some prehensile dick that dug deeper, hotter and wetter than any cock ever could.
He imagined the feeling of the soft, black fur spread across the twin muscled globes of his immense chest. He felt the man's lips on his neck, the man's hot breath against his skin, the soft kisses of his mouth accompanied by the fullness of his prick in Paul's ass. He saw the eyes he described, the same eyes that haunted his dreams, the shiningly handsome eyes, shadowed under a heavy brow, the ice blue surrounded by dark, long lashes. The eyes that, when they looked into his, sent deep shivers through his body and made him cum, pumping thick and heavy and forever. Just the look.
The clock in the hall started to chime, and just as it finished, the doorbell rang.
The servants had been excused. The house -- his house, inherited from the estate of his grandparents when he turned 16 and his sole place of residence, far from the folks in Connecticut because city life was "too fast" for them -- was an empty, darkened place. The curtains pulled, the candles lit, filling the shadowed corners with dancing light.
His pulse quickened. He was about to see if his imagination could be fulfilled. Paul couldn't imagine that the man on the other side of the door measured up to his dream. How could any stable of men fulfill every man's fantasy, without limitations?
He opened the door.
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