Never Comes the Day

I looked up and saw his chest heaving as he sucked in heavy drafts of air. So heavy that the sound of his breathing must be deafening in the closed confines of his office, but I couldn't hear a thing except for the blood pounding in my temples.

I looked up higher, into his face. He was looking down, returning my gaze.

His hawk-like features were eerily fixated, unmoving, looking almost unearthly in their steady permanence. Appearing as if they were chiseled in granite—like a great Egyptian statue of Horus, part man, part bird, and all predator. A face hard as stone, save for that insipid, Yul Brynner smirk, the one Ramses gives when he sends all his slaves to die in the mud pits, trying to make brick without straw.

In my case, I was trying to muster the courage to unzip his fly while maintaining a sense of aloof calm. A battle I was sure to lose.

Oh yeah, he was really getting off on this. It must be what he lives for, coercing the all too stupid and all too arrogant schmucks in his employ to suck his cock. I could see his excitement in the way he breathed and in the way he stood. Moreover, I could easily read it on his face, even through its stone cold façade.

The hand that was stroking my hair gripped me firmly at the back of my head, and pressed my tightened lips into that bulge. It was a not too subtle hint that I needed to move faster.

His Majesty's cock awaits, knave. Revel in its magnificence.

He might have said something, but I don't know. The blood still pounded in my head, drowning out all sound.

I slipped a hand up between my face and the lump, searching for the zipper. I felt the lump shift and grow even larger than it was against my palm, and it was sizable before. It was warm. I could feel it radiating heat even through the layers of fabric of his garments.

I finally found the clasp, and with one clean motion unzipped his fly. Immediately, the bulge popped through the opening created, but it was still shielded from my eyes by the dark blue boxers he wore.

Funny, but once the zipper was down, releasing the tension in his slacks, the 'tension' that was building within, and between the two of us, was also released.

Conklin's body language seemed to change at that moment. Formally hard and rigid as stone, his stance softened into a more relaxed pose.

I guess he got me passed the one hurdle that most worried him—whether I would discard the metaphorical fig leaf against servicing another man on my own, without any other prodding on his part. The zipper must be the point where some of his victims—like Spaulding, perhaps—decided they couldn't go through with it, and choose unemployment over sucking cock.

As for yours truly, surprisingly, my feelings ran toward curious resignation. Now that I was in for a penny, I might as well invest the pound.

You see, this situation wasn't altogether new for me. Ever since high school, I've had certain sexual fantasies involving homoerotica.

Usually my gay fantasies were strongest when I had gone long stretches without having sex, and I was horny in the extreme. As such, I gave my mental flights into homoerotica little concern, thinking they were just an aberration brought on by unusually celibate circumstances.

However, over subsequent years, these fantasies grew more frequent and far more vivid; so much so, that I considered they were revealing something else about my true nature.

I acted on these 'gay impulses' a few times in my final year in college, but with great disappointment.

My partners were all nice guys, and, as far as I could tell, all were willing and able. However, there was always that moment, usually at the point I'm at now, when zippers were down, pants were unbuckled, and the equipment I most fantasied about was just about to be revealed that something negative would happen to break the mood. I would catch a scent, or a look, or note a mannerism in my partner that was off-putting. At that point, my rock-hard cock would instantly shrivel and soften, and I would back away from the encounter.

It was frustrating for me, and certainly frustrating for my would-be partners, some of who didn't take it well that I backed out at the last minute.

Due to my frequent bouts of sexual back-peddling, I came to empathize with women caught in similar circumstances, realizing all too well how easy it was to go from lust to revulsion in a moment's notice. Moreover, once revulsion occurs, it's impossible to get the desire back.

No, really means no, and it can be interjected at any time, much to the frustrated chagrin of some of those I rejected. After the last such encounter, I figured my gay fantasies were just that, fantasies and nothing more.

Oh, I still have homoerotic thoughts, but I don't bother acting on them. I guess for most guys in my position, that last step into the wild is an easy one to make when the time finally arrives, or so I thought. As for me, I assumed that the day would never come. My fantasies would remain just a naughty indulgence for my mind, and nothing more. I accepted that fact.

These thoughts whirled through my head as I continued to stare at that bulge in his blue boxers. I waited for that inevitable moment of revulsion to occur with Conklin, but it had yet to happen.

Strange that he could so repulse me on a personal level, but not on a sexual one. I wondered what that could mean other than I'm a bit of a masochist. Oh well, at least the pounding in my head was gone and I could hear again.

I must have been taking too long staring at his crotch. Conklin probably thought I was getting cold feet, because he quickly undid his belt. Letting go, his pants easily slid to the floor.

I hesitated for only a moment more...

In for a penny? How true.

...before sliding his boxers down past his knees.

And there it was, semi-hard, but growing slowly, now that it was released from its confines.

His shaft shot out straight just a bit, before curving and drooping toward the floor—weighed down by a large, bulbous head at its end. His balls hung heavy and low and appeared smooth. I didn't see a hint of hair anywhere around his groin.

I guess he shaves himself.

Although his cock hadn't come even close to full hardness, I could tell he was much bigger than me, thick at the base of his shaft, and becoming even thicker toward that large, bulbous head.

Immediately, my cock sprang to life. My blood, no longer pounding in my head and ears, must have found another, more sensible organ into which to flow.

I ran a teasing finger along the top of his shaft. It quivered slightly at my touch. I could almost see the blood rushing into it, causing it to jump and shift against my finger. It was so very sensitive and receptive to my touch.

Hey Mikey...he likes it.

His cock had that dry, smooth feel. A texture I've often felt in myself when I jerked off, allowing my fingers to glide effortlessly over the skin of my cockhead and shaft, and always leading to a very rapid, but intense, climax.

No, by the look and feel of it, it wouldn't take long to get him off. Somehow, I felt disappointed by that fact.

I stroked him gently, barely touching his shaft as I slid his cock through the ring made with my thumb and index finger. Even that small effort caused his cock to stiffen to near its full size.

Running another, teasing finger down the underside of his shaft, I really made his cock jump, shift, and swell in the extreme.

Jesus, he's big.

It winked and twinkled at me, as small bead of pre-ejaculate emerged, catching and reflecting the overhead lights.

Oh, yes, Mikey really does like it.

I so wanted to swirl that little bead around that bulbous head with a finger, tease it until the gland swelled tight within its skin like an overfilled bladder swells to near bursting from fluid.

I didn't, though, and it took all my will power not to tease. I didn't want the prick to think I was enjoying this—well, at least enjoying this too much. Besides, I didn't want his cock to lose that smooth, dry feeling, not just yet. Instead, I ran my fingertips back and forth, gently along the shaft, being careful not to get too close to his weepy cockhead.

He didn't say anything, but I could tell from his forced breathing that this was maddening for Conklin. He put a hand on top of my head and pushed his hips further forward so that his cock was barely a hair from touching my lips. He was telling me it was time to suck his cock.

Not yet, asshole.

Instead, I just touched the tip of my tongue to that little bead of fluid. I figured I could get a little hint at what to expect when he came, and see how bad it would taste and prepare myself.

You see, I had already decided I was going to swallow.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

As near as I could sense, however, it had no taste. I guess there wasn't enough. Oh well, I'll find out soon enough.

He urged me further to start sucking him, by putting pressure on my head from his hand. I still resisted his urging. I didn't want his cock in my mouth, not yet, anyway. I wanted to make him squirm a little, first. As such, when I felt him nudge me further, I shifted my head down and forward, putting my lips into the nook where his cock meets his balls.

I can't begin to describe the feeling of that first encounter, when my mouth first made contact with a cock. It was far more erotic and electric than I had ever fantasized.

At first, I waited with my lips wedged snuggly against the base of his cock, waiting, again, for the 'inevitable' feeling of revulsion to take over, but all I felt was increased arousal. Moreover, as I waited, a new sensation took hold of me. I could feel his balls, still hanging low and heavy, pressing against my right cheek, and they felt...cool. Along with that sensation, I felt his cock pressing hard against my other cheek, and it felt...warm, almost hot in comparison to his balls. The contrast between the two against my face—fire and ice—was almost more than I could take without coming in my pants.

I cupped both fire and ice in a hand and massaged them against each cheek while I nuzzled his sensitive nook with my tongue and lips. I must have been doing something right, because he moaned loudly and pushed his hips further forward, grinding his cock and balls harder against my face.

He was beginning to lose his composure. As for me, with my face buried deep in his crotch, I could feel I was losing what little control I had left.

How did he put it? He liked turning us straight-acting twinks into cock sluts. That was me alright—a genuine, bona fide, newborn cock slut.

It was always within me, I guess. It was more than mere fantasy. Conklin just gave me a good reason to finally bring it out and accept it.

I stroked that smooth, dry stick of his while pulling and squeezing those heavy balls. All the while, I alternated between the two with my mouth—a quick lick and a suck to the base of his cock here, a long swipe with my tongue to the top of his sack there, and in between I nibbled roughly at both with my lips.

He groaned again. Roughly grabbing a tuft of my hair, he forced my mouth fully onto his balls and smeared them against my lips. I knew what he wanted, and against my own desires to give it to him, I kept my lips together. I wanted him to ask, first.

When he did, his voice came raspy and with a trace of annoyance, "Suck on my balls, you little fuck."

I smiled to myself, knowingly, that I made him beg in his own strange way. It was the last bit of control I had over myself.

I didn't suck them in right away. Oh no, I was going to play with them a bit, tease each one slowly and deliberately, make them ache and fill to overflowing with cum, and make that smooth sack tighten against them.

With slightly opened mouth, I held one of his balls gingerly between my lips. It was the size and shape of a small plum—a firm, smooth ovoid sphere.

I loved the feeling of his smooth scrotum as I played with it against my lips. Thoroughly kneading it with my tongue while slathering copious amounts of spit onto it, I would then pull it completely into my mouth, sucking and tonguing it gently. I sucked on it as I would suck on a big, juicy jawbreaker candy as a kid, being careful to savor its flavor without ever chipping even a splinter from its surface. Then, spitting it out into my hand, I rolled it about in my fingers while licking any excess spit off him, before shifting my attentions over to its twin where I'd start the whole process over again.

I never put both balls in my mouth at the same time, although I wanted too. They were far too big for me to do that, or so I thought at the time. I feared if I tried to roll both of them around in my mouth, it would cause him pain.

Can't have that, pain would make him go soft.

Conklin wasn't a passive passenger. He continually teased me with his cock. Hard and thick and so very hot, he would rub it against my face, or nuzzle it against my nose while I tongued each of his balls. He was playful with it and never rough, which surprised me. I thought he would be like one of those crude assholes that try to humiliate their partner by slapping his cock down on your nose, or onto your tongue after making you hold it out for him. Although he was teasing with his cock, he was also gentle, and just rubbed it against me, or held it firm and steady alongside my nose while he stroked the upper part of his shaft with a thumb.

That feeling of fire and ice gripped me again as he held his cock against my face. The contrast of each of his cool balls rolling around in my mouth, made it seem as if his cock were hot enough to brand my face where it touched me.

I almost came again, and got control of myself by taking my mind off the branding, and concentrating more on tonguing and sucking his smooth, ripening balls.

As I shifted between his two balls, I felt them tighten a little bit higher against the shaft. Toward the end, they were so tight against him that I could no longer pull them away from the shaft with my lips alone. It was then that I knew he was ready.

Pre-ejaculate dripped from his cock like a leaky faucet. I didn't bother to lick it or kiss it, maybe that would come later at another time when I had more time. Right now, I just pulled him in.

He slid into me like a hand slips into a glove. That is, if the hand were Andre the Giant's and the glove belonged to Reese Witherspoon. Well, it wasn't as bad as all that. My enthusiasm got the better of me and I pulled him in too far too quickly, making me gag at first.

Conklin chuckled, and said, sounding like a bigger douchebag than he already was, "That's okay little twink, everyone chokes on it the first time."

What is this, the Matrix? No one makes the jump—or sucks the cock correctly—the first time.

I pulled him in slower the second time, stopping its progress when I felt him nudging the back of my throat. My saliva flooded into my mouth, bathing his cock, and almost making me choke again.

Once I knew how far I could pull his cock in without gagging on it, I set up a nice, easy rhythm, pulling him back and forth between tightly pursed lips, and emulating myself from my fantasy dreams. Just like I pictured my first time would be, I tried not to use any hand. I always thought that the perfect blowjob was done purposefully, thoughtfully and slowly, using only the mouth. Rushing him to completion using mostly a vigorous hand, while sucking on his cockhead, just wouldn't do for my first time.

How could either party enjoy that?

I applied a hard suction to his cock each time I pulled away, and ending my backward glide right at the point I felt his bulbous cockhead against my lips. At which point, I would release suction a bit while sliding him back into my mouth.

Through all this slow back and forth with varying the suction, I always kept my tongue pressed firmly up against the sensitive underside of his shaft, and which, invariably, pressed his whole cock up, causing that fat cockhead to continually rake against the roof of my mouth.

I must have been doing something right. Besides feeling his cockhead swelling larger against my lips and Conklin groaning loudly and incessantly, he slowly, yet inexorably, pushed his hips toward me until his back was arched well forward.

I had to back away each time he tried to push his cock further into my mouth to keep from choking, but even so, I was able to maintain that nice, slow, bobbing rhythm with my head and mouth.

When I clamped a hand around his tightened balls, gently pulling and squeezing them, his legs began to vibrate, comically. It was then that I knew he was close, and prepared myself for his inevitable hot load.

I was as hard as I ever remembered, waiting for his thick, creamy treat. So much so, it was starting to get painful having my cock pressed hard and continuous against my pants.

I rubbed my tightening lump, trying to get myself off as best as I could, but Conklin croaked out a loud moan that sounded different from the ones he'd uttered up until now. I assumed he was telling me, 'No,' and that I should concentrate on his member, only.

When I stopped rubbing myself, he grabbed a large tuft of hair at the top of my head. I guessed what he wanted, and kept my head still, allowing him to pump himself in and out of my mouth.

I was amazed how well he was at controlling himself. He never pushed his cock too far in where I would choke, but slid himself in to where his cockhead barely touched the back of my mouth.

I wished at that moment that I could step outside myself and watch Conklin's fat cock disappearing, then reappearing lewdly from my mouth. Just the thought of what it must look like, me, the newly born cock slut gobbling hungrily on his stiff, responsive cock, sent my own cock pressing even harder against my pants.

I inadvertently let out a low moan of pleasure at that visual in my head, and what with the feel and taste of him sliding and swelling between my lips, my head started to swim.

Conklin answered my moan with a deep rumble of his own, before giving me a raspy compliment, "God, I love your warm, wet mouth. Let me feel that hot tongue of yours, twink."

When I pressed my tongue even firmer into his sliding, sifting cock, he pushed in a little further into me, and felt him just easy into my throat—it was all he needed.

I felt the first few jets of his heavy, salty wash plastering the back of my mouth.

He continued to pump his cock back and forth, unloading himself into me the whole time, as I clamped my lips tighter around his shaft.

I was surprised I was able to keep up as he emptied himself into my mouth; although I did find it a bit difficult trying to swallow with his cock still inside me.

A bigger surprise was that I didn't find the taste of his cum altogether unpleasant. I mean, it wasn't something I'd add to my coffee or make a crème brulée out of, but it wasn't the vomit inducing substance some girls said it was.

The texture of it was what really set me off. I could feel it sliding down my throat as thick and heavy strands each time I swallowed. I can't describe exactly how it made me feel, except to say that as his heavy cream filled my mouth and flowed down my throat, I was filled with a sense of power and control.

I did this to him...me...the twink!

I made him moan and weak-kneed, like a little boy who suddenly found himself without his mother. A little boy lost; lost in the pleasure and comfort of my mouth. I took his stiff cock, a symbol of his strength and self-confidence, and pleasured it until it lost all its steel, and I did it with nothing but my soft mouth and tongue.

He was still stiff, but softening when he finally pulled out of my mouth. His bulbous cockhead, large and plumb-like in both size and color, was quickly deflating back to its normal size, but his shaft was still shiny slick from my saliva, and glistened slightly from the overhead, fluorescent lights.