It was the deep darkness of a moonless night as I crept through the open glass doors from the rooftop patio into the open bedroom. I was barely able to see the bed and slid my feet carefully across the unfamiliar floor as I made my way towards it. Then I froze as I heard the sound of movement, and observed a bunching in the dark shadow of the bed. I hesitated about continuing, not want to be discovered,
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I had both the advantages and curses of being a rock star. I could afford to go anywhere I wanted on the spur of the moment or as the mood hit me, but if a mood hit me that would land me in the tabloids, I'd better be prepared to go to the ends of the earth. The mood had hit me to get the most exotic and total fuck that I could find by the most talented cocksman I could attract. I had been on open exhibition for months and could have had any woman I'd wanted during that time.
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My stomach was all a twitter and my head reeled in anticipation as I race through the deep shades of a cold November evening. I am late and I do not really know where I am driving to or who I will find when I arrive. That is the beauty and liability of the Internet. Chat rooms upon chat rooms full of sexual mysteries, dreams and lies. A place where fantasy reigns and reality need not apply.
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I found myself walking across the street from my neighbor's house with the taste of cum in my mouth. I walked into my house, not my house, but my wife and I's house. I was married, my wife is out of town for the weekend, and after helping my neighbor with some yard work I end up sucking his cock and being his pussy boy. What got into me, other than my neighbors cock that is?
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Please forgive me if there are any spelling or grammar errors in here – I don't have anyone to correct my work so I have done my bets. Hope you enjoy it as you did my last stories (thanks again for the response to those).
I am 30 years old and I am good-looking guy – so I have been told. I am just under 6 foot tall, medium build 70kg – with a nice physique.
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I'm close to the end of my life now, and as you reach your twilight years mostly all you have left is memories. Especially since I lost my wife of more than 50 years, Katie, I spend most of my time looking back.: my youth in Nebraska; my brief spell as a college football star; the first time I ever saw Katie, and fell in love with her; and, of course, the War.
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Judge Thomas Oakley slowed the car as he crossed Martin Luther Key Street on St. Catherine where it turned into Jefferson. He often slowed down here, in passing the King's Tavern Lounge—although he'd never gotten up the gumption to go in there. It was too close to home and he was too well known.
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There was a storm that went through my development a few days ago. Some siding came off the house, so I phoned a local guy to stop out and replace the pieces that had blown off. When I got home around 2 pm, Ray the siding guy, was still at it. He was up on the ladder placing the last of the siding back where it belonged.
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"He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff . . ."
The rich, resonating, calming baritone of the La Lectura began to weave Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea for us for perhaps the hundredth time, as we Torcedores settled once more into the rhythm of preparing our bunches of tobacco leaves perfectly for the press. We could not have done our demanding work without La Lectura, the reader who sat on the dais on the cigar factory floor, reading to us, first from the daily press and then from classical works—and sometimes, to our great privilege, reciting poetry to us in perfect rhythm to the set movements of our leaf bundling.
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It all started a few weeks ago while I sat in a bar after a long day of searching through the want ads.
"How's it going?" said the clean headed muscle man who sat down next to me.
"Not the best," I said, looking up from the paper. "I've been slogging around town all morning, looking for a job."
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