B.J. effortlessly flipped himself and the senator onto their sides. Pete was thankful that they were facing the supply closet so he could get the full view of Brick's nude and sweaty body, including his beautiful hard cock as it bounced around like a puppet on the end of a string in response to the way B.J. banged his ass. Sometimes it went up and down and sometimes side to side. Other times, it seemed to swing in a circle. Drops of precum formed on the end as it did its acrobatic routine.
"Who's the bitch now?" B.J. asked as he reached around to pinch Brick's nips in sync with the ass ramming he was giving him.
"Fuck me, Billy, make me cum," Brick practically begged in a small voice.
B.J. held his hand to Brick's mouth and commanded him to spit into the palm. Brick obeyed willingly, knowing what would happen next. B.J. reached down and began to manhandle Brick's cock which fit nicely into B.J.'s strong, masculine hands. First he teased the tip of it by running it against his spit-soaked palm. Then he wrapped his fingers around it and held his hand in place. He let the movement of their bodies thrust Brick's cock in and out of the hand made tube.
The precum oozed from Brick's man tool. The additional natural lube made Brick's cock feel even better, bringing it closer to cumming, thus creating even more precum. His cock was caught up in a cycle that could only end one way - with a big eruption of manly liquid spraying all over the place.
While keeping his hand in the shape of the tube, B.J. began to work his fingers and their grip as if he were playing with a stress ball. Feeling this massaging action all over his hard on sent Brick's muscles into involuntary convulsions. B.J. picked up on Brick's reaction as their hot flesh touched each other. He wrapped his free hand around Brick's abs, enjoying the feel of each worked-out individual muscle as well as the overall ripple when he moved his hand around the area as a whole.
Brick took shallow, rapid breaths. He tried to speak, but he spit out individual words and phrases instead of whole sentences. "Billy, I can't hold...it's gonna...oh, fuck me..." The sound of B.J.'s ballsac relentlessly slapping against his ass cheeks filled Brick's ears. He let control of his entire body go, literally putting it in the deft hands of his old friend. He felt himself melt away into B.J.'s bearish body. From deep in Brick's throat came the inelegant, yet appropriate sound, "Urgh," just as the first spurt of cum shot out of his dick and splattered against the couch closest to them. It left an intermittent trail of cum on the carpet between the couch and their writhing bodies.
B.J. loved the feeling of a man's dick exploding in his hands. "Again!" he commanded as he rammed his man rod into Brick's ass so hard it jolted Brick's internal organs. Brick's cock responded with another sperm eruption. This time, B.J. happened to jerk Brick's pole upward at just the right moment so the sperm shot coated Brick's chest and dripped down, following the line under his pec. The third blast simply filled B.J.'s hand and overflowed as Brick's now sensitive cockhead poked its way past the end of B.J.'s fingers.
B.J. quickly pulled out of Brick's butt with a popping sound. Brick's hole felt empty and yet still full all at the same time. Even though his buddy's cock was gone, all the tissues in his anus still felt stimulated and burned as if they were on fire.
Brick stayed on his back and watched expectantly as B.J. climbed on top of him and straddled him, pinning his arms down with his strong legs. "Spray me, Billy," Brick told him. B.J. was all too happy to oblige. He reached down and wiped his hand against Brick's stomach, scooping Brick's warm jizz to use as lube on his own hard on. He enjoyed the feeling of keeping Brick pinned down, dominating his helpless friend as he prepared to coat Brick with another layer of cum.
From Brick's angle on the floor, it looked like a squirt gun had been fired at him when he saw the slit on B.J.'s head open up and shoot a mixture of clear precum and white frothy jism. He felt the first wave of it splash against his left nipple and run down his defined pectoral muscle toward the middle of his chest. The manly squirt gun fired again, showering him this time with a full blast of sticky semen. He felt all the droplets hit in different spots like B.J. was marking his territory.
B.J. grabbed his own cockhead and his dick pulsated beneath his strong fingers. He made his way on his knees closer to Brick's face. Brick opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. B.J. let his remaining load bubble out and drip into Brick's mouth. For extra fun, B.J. give his huge cock (which had yet to show any signs of shrinking) another shake. A final glob of cum landed right on the tip of Brick's cute little nose. Brick tried to reach it with his tongue, but his tongue wasn't long enough.
From the hidden spot in the supply closet, Pete knew that was a scene he would never forget. It was definitely a mental picture he planned to use for masturbation sessions many times in the future. Why rely on memory, he thought, when he could snap a quick pic on his cell phone and look at it whenever he got horny.
He noticed his fingers were still a little sticky when he reached into his pocket for the phone. He'd done his best to wipe them on his briefs, but he must have missed a spot. He positioned the phone through the crack of the open door just right to get the shot of B.J.'s naked stomach and pulsing cock hovering over Brick's open and willing mouth, including the cum drop on his nose.
The instant he pressed the correct icon on the touch screen, Pete realized he hadn't thought to check the phone's sound settings. He didn't know if his phone was set to make that clicking sound that imitates a camera shutter. It was too late. If the cell phone clicked like that, the guys would know he had been spying on them the whole time they were having sex. He held his breath as he watched the cell phone screen. The picture appeared without making a sound. He breathed a heavy, but silent sigh of relief.
Back on the floor, B.J. and Brick both laughed as B.J. reached over and wiped the cum off his buddy's nose with the tip of his finger. He stuck his finger in Brick's mouth and Brick suckled it gratefully, enjoying every last drop of his buddy's semen.
B.J. got back down on the floor next to Brick. He got in position to cuddle with Brick laying in the crook of his strong arms. They didn't even clean up any of the spunk that was still on Brick's chest or stomach.
Pete's cock was stirring again in his pants at the sight of the two naked hunks side by side on the floor. The muscle bear and the worked out DILF made a nice contrast in body styles. Pete was a virgin, but seeing those two sprawled out like that made him wish he could change that status right that moment by bursting out of the closet and jumping across their bodies.
"I miss you," Brick said seemingly out of nowhere and breaking the silence.
B.J. softly kissed Brick's forehead. "We've made our choices in life," B.J. said taking Brick's left hand in his own left hand, purposely putting each of their wedding rings side by side.
"It was different back then, when we were in college. Now there are openly gay politicians - in both parties!" Brick said as if the exclamation point was going to drive his point home about how unfair life could be.
"I ain't much for philosophy," B.J. said reverting back to that "aw shucks" country boy accent and attitude that had long been removed from his speech and thought patterns, but had been authentically present all those years ago when he and Brick met during college freshman orientation. "I just wish you weren't so alone between my visits. I mean, you deserve to have man sex more than three times a year!" B.J.'s use of the exclamation point in his sentence drove home his aversion to the idea of not having man sex needs met on frequent and regular basis. "Isn't there anyone back home in your district or here in DC that interests you?"
"I told you earlier, you're the only one I trust," Brick repeated.
"Fuck trust!" B.J. declared. "You get something on them, they get something on you...you blackmail each other...mutually assured destruction...nobody talks and everybody gets what they want. Shit, isn't that how this town works? I think you would have learned something in the last twenty years in politics." B.J. playfully ran his hand through Brick's hair.
"I wouldn't even know wh
ere to start," Brick said truthfully.
"Open your eyes, man. Look around at what and who is right in front of your face." Realizing from his buddy's bewildered look that he would have to be more explicit, B.J. put it all out there. "What about that eager-beaver intern I met earlier before we went out to dinner? What was his name? Paul?"
"You mean Pete?" Brick said surprised.
Of course, Brick may have been surprised, but nobody was more surprised than Pete to hear them talking about him, especially in that context.
"Yeah, that's right, Pete," B.J. affirmed. "If that college hottie was my intern, I would have been tapping his ass two minutes after he started working for me."
"Ethics issues aside," Brick said in a statesmanlike manner, "What makes you think Pete is interested in guys?"
"Ethics issues?" B.J. mocked while he reached down and helped himself to a handful of Brick's now flaccid, but still semen-covered cock. He continued, "Quiet everyone, the married naked senator with the freshly fucked hole will now lecture us on ethics issues."
"You're an asshat," Brick said pushing B.J.'s hand away from him and leaving his buddy on the floor while he stood up and faced the opposite direction.
B.J. stood up quickly and engulfed Brick in his arms. Brick felt his friend's warm, furry chest and stomach against the bare skin on his muscular back. "I just want you to be happy," B.J. whispered in his ear as he kissed the back of Brick's hair. Brick closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of his friend's body against his as long as he could.
Eventually, they cleaned themselves as well as the carpet and the couch without saying another word. Pete was actually relieved when they got dressed and left the office, although it had been nice to admire those two big dicks hanging and swinging while the men walked around the room. He exited the hiding place in the supply closet and plopped down on the couch. Pete had so much to think about, not the least of which was his own mess inside his underwear that needed to be cleaned up too. More importantly, did he actually have a shot at losing his virginity to a married man who happened to be a supposedly arch-conservative United States senator?
***
Also By Rod Mandelli
Gay Political Sex Scandals Series
#2 - Senator Brick Scrotorum & The Intern
#3 – Senator Brick Scrotorum & The Political Consultant
Modern Gay Sex Christmas Carol Series
#1 - The Silver Haired Daddy Boss & The Sexy Employee
#2 - Hot Guys Going At It During A Snowstorm
#3 - College Roommate Friends Become Lovers
Gay Sex In The Military Series
#1 - G.I. Blow
Gay Sex Confessions Series
#1 - Screwing My Hot, Older Neighbor
#2 - Blowing My Best Friend's Brother
#3 - Banging A Stranger
#4 - Fucking The Boss's Cowboy Nephew
#5 – How To Get Out of a Speeding Ticket
Find more of Rod’s steamy stories on Smashwords!
***
Kidnapped by the Driver
By Jessi Bond
Let me start by saying I’m not proud of what I’ve done.
That’s neither here nor there, but I felt like I should get it out there before I start. It’ll be easy to dismiss me as a cold, hard bitch who deserves every bad thing that happens to her. And maybe that’s not wrong. But all the same, I think it’s important to say.
I didn’t intend to marry a mobster. I wasn’t born into it, wasn’t raised in it - unlike a lot of women who end up in my shoes, it was a choice I made, somewhere along the line. I don’t remember the exact moment, the exact realization, but at some point I obviously made a choice. Maybe I should have made a different one.
The thing about living a life of crime is that eventually, looking over your shoulder just becomes second nature. Except for the occasional scare, you don’t really spend a lot of time worrying about getting caught. You’re cautious, always, like when you’re speeding down the highway and keeping an eye out for the flashing lights, but it’s not some constant sense of foreboding or anything like that. There’s no point in worrying about it anyway. It’s true what they say, about how you never hear the bullet with your name on it.
After a while, my husband and I settled into a routine. I knew he had at least one girlfriend and some others on the side, but I never really let it bother me - I wasn’t exactly aching for his cock, anyway. If he came home with no interest in fucking me, then that was just fine.
One morning, he came into the kitchen and told me he was hiring a new personal driver. I remember the moment so clearly - the sun streaming in through the filmy curtains, the sticky feeling of egg whites on my hands as I cracked the shells to make our breakfast. We didn’t see many new faces in our circle of employees and friends, so I made a point of studying the driver’s face as he stepped into the kitchen behind my husband.
He was handsome, especially when he smiled, but the smile quickly disappeared and he didn’t respond to my greeting. I asked him if he’d like some eggs, and he shook his head tersely, his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his leather jacket. He was a shorter man than my husband, more slender, yet more muscular in build. I thought I saw sadness in his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure. He was very still. He hardly moved a muscle, hardly even blinked, the whole time he stood in the kitchen and waited for my husband to finish his breakfast.
After that day, he was a fixture in our house. He always came inside in the mornings when he arrived to pick up my husband and take him on his collections, and any other time my husband needed to go somewhere where it might be dangerous to be alone. I grew used to the sight of him standing in the corner, in my kitchen, in my living room, and even, occasionally, in my bedroom.
I didn’t want for much in my life. I had everything that money could buy. But it wasn’t long before the driver’s face was on my mind more often than it ought to have been, memories of his rare smile, the black leather driving gloves he wore, the way his body looked under the jeans and white tee-shirts that he habitually wore. When he took off his jacket, which was rare, I was treated to the sight of his wiry, well-muscled arms. Before I knew what had happened to me, I was fingering myself to thoughts of his gloved hands touching my sodden cunt, bringing me to climax in the passenger seat of my husband’s luxury car. I had fantasies of leaving with him, running off to Spain, to Australia, to Japan, somewhere far away, taunting my husband as we sped away, never to answer to him again.
I’d never heard the driver speak more than three words together, but I didn’t let that get in the way of my wild flights of fancy. I imagined that I saw great depths of feeling in his eyes, compassion and decency that was rare in my circle of acquaintances. With him, I felt I could be a better person.
I allowed myself to have these thoughts. Surely they were harmless, after all. What could come of them?
I allowed myself to be blind.
My husband never told me much of his business, but he did tell me when to expect him back. That way, if something went wrong, I could make the necessary phone calls to his associates to go after him. So when he didn’t return from some unexplained “business” one night, I waited half an hour and called his right-hand man, just as I had been instructed. A few hours later, the right-hand man squealed into the driveway and my husband came stumbling in through the front door, looking like he’d been run over with a truck.
By this time, I knew better than to ask questions.
I helped him nurse his wounds as best I could; as far as I could tell, it was nothing serious, just bumps and scratches and bruises. Once he was bandaged and nursing a glass of scotch, I asked him what had happened to the driver.
He gave me a dark look.
“I had to let him go,” he said.
I knew enough to fear the worst.
Weeks went by in a haze. I went through the motions of our normal life, and I doubt my husband noticed the difference, absorbed as he was in his own business and completely disint
erested in mine. I thought of the driver’s face, convinced I would never see it again. When I was absolutely sure that I was alone, I cried.
It was ridiculous to say that I “missed” him. I didn’t even know the man. I had convinced myself that I knew him, but he was a stranger to me - and, evidently, to my husband as well.
And now, most likely, he was dead.
I remember the night he came back, as clearly as if it were yesterday.
My husband had gone away to take care of some business in the city, so I was alone in the house. He never worried about leaving me, so I never worried either, assuming, as he did, that no one would be bold enough to harm the boss’s wife. So when I was sure I heard the click of a door opening downstairs, I wrote it off as a trick of the night.
I hardly even smelled the chloroform before I went unconscious.
I woke up to the sensation of my head splitting open. I soon realized that my head was, in fact, all in one piece - it was just an ache, albeit the worst I’d ever had. My throat also hurt, and I tasted metal, and I was in a moving car. All of these sensations came to me gradually as I came to full consciousness, and then I turned and saw the driver.
It was, in fact, the driver.
I swallowed with an effort.
“I thought you were dead.”
He didn’t take his eyes off of the road. “I’m not.”
I shifted in my seat, soon realizing that my hands and feet were bound with coarse rope. I felt a stab of fear in my chest.
Flesh: Alpha Males and Taboo Tales Page 14