The Sir

The Sir By Marco May I watched the young jock lying face down on the leather swing, blindfolded and whimpering. He was trapped now. Nothing could save him from the dirty old man, whose aged hands gripped the jock’s ankles while rocking his naked body hard from behind, sweaty slam after sweaty slam. Sometimes, another dirty old man would stand on the other side of the jock and grab a fistful of hair while thrusting into his mouth, but not in this one. Just the two in this one. I stroked my super-hard c**k with the last bit of my bottle of lube, making a quick mental note to buy some more. My fingers moved back and forth from n****e to n****e as a boost, causing my eyes to get heavy in delight. That jock boy had been way too naughty. He’d done something to annoy the old man. Instead of a hand or a paddle for punishment, it was a fat c**k plunging into the jock relentlessly while his ass cheeks jiggled from each thrust. No loud moan or cry for help would stop the old man, already in the zone of pure lust. Because I’d watched this video before over and over again, I knew when exactly to come. I waited and waited, edging all too torturously for the past half an hour, and waited and waited some more. The old man’s grunts turned into loud roars, like drawn-out cries of achingly sweet pleasure. No condom in this, marked and claimed for eternity. That was when I shot all over my chest and over my left shoulder. This time, my bottom lip as well, and I licked my own sweet taste from all the fruits I regularly ate. What I’d do to be that jock, who’d gone on to a slew of other videos and was now a well-known porn star. I didn’t want to be a porn star, though. I just wanted to be him in that particular video. I flipped down the lid of my laptop, gave a hard blow of relief, wiped the sweat from my forehead and nose, and got up from my desk chair. I grabbed a used T-shirt from the hamper, used it to clean myself, then threw it back, ready for a warm shower before work, despite the heater being on all the way. I entered the bathroom and captured my reflection in the long mirror nailed to the back of the door. Faint abs, decent pecs, and a bubble butt. I still had it all along. I smirked at the memory of being hit on at the gym and gay bars. Twink, my ass. I wasn’t a f*****g twink. Damn bears and their arrogant asses. (Though, I’d probably let them gangbang me if I hadn’t been a virgin back there.) I stepped toward the shower tub and pulled the knob for the faucet. I climbed inside and yanked the curtain closed. I closed my eyes and smiled while the warm water ran down and instantly soothed me. When I soaped myself and got really up in there from behind, I imagined what it was really like to be taken. I wasn’t stupid, so I knew those young guys in the cross-gen videos I always watched faked it. Maybe it really didn’t hurt? I wiggled my finger around my hole until my c**k rose and twitched on occasion. I f****d myself for a while, and even though I’d used small dildos before, my finger was perfect right now. My stiffening c**k concurred. I played with my n*****s every time I played with myself, and I used the soap as lube. I pictured myself in place of the young jock, or any younger man in my saved videos collection. What was it like to be with a much-older man? I’d played around with a boy while in high school and a couple of guys my age during my two years at the local community college from which I’d recently graduated. But those encounters had done nothing for me. Well, okay, something, but not the “something” I’d expected. One of Dad’s coworkers who was about forty had hit on me when I’d started college, and we’d a one-time hookup. It’d been a little better, at least. But almost every “Daddy” in my saved videos tended to be even older than that. Gray, silver, peppered, any of those. Soft and aged skin. Tons of wisdom and experience. Threatening to spank me if I didn’t get off his lawn. But old enough to be my grandpa, said society. Oh, I was so close right now, but the door flew open and made me jump. “What the f**k!” I had to remember to have the lock fixed. “Sorry! I have to pee, like, really bad!” Theresa’s figure was faintly visible through the translucent curtain, and I seriously didn’t need to watch her on the toilet. As a lesbian, though, it worked out perfectly living with her. No possible attraction to each other whatsoever. If only we were actual friends. After she finished, Theresa slid up her shorts and stood there. “Um…Jack?” I let out a deep sigh and rolled my eyes. “Fine, I’ll step back from the water, and it’s Jacques!” She flushed the toilet and burst into laughter. “Dude, shut the f**k up with that pretentious bullshit.” She washed her hands. “I’m actually serious.” “Whatever, Jack.” She left the bathroom and closed the door. I cringed at my real name and resumed my shower. I told everyone I’d met after college that my name was Jacques because I’d always liked that name. Besides, my paternal grandpa from France who wasn’t alive anymore had been named Jacques du Marcel, and I kind of wanted to honor him. No, I didn’t have a thing for my own grandfather (gross), but I’d respected and admired him while growing up. He’d practically raised me with Grandma when Mom and Dad had been too busy not being parents. If only I’d kept up with my French from Grandpa and my Spanish from Grandma. Better job opportunities would’ve come knocking at my door by now. Instead, I was stuck working at the gym, cleaning up after visitors, and I suddenly wanted more out of life.