The Second Oldest Profession

"What did my piss-stream sound like, Dane?"

"Powerful, sir."

"What else?" He exhaled more smoke.

Now I could smell both the aromatic tobacco and the more acrid smell of his piss, which had probably almost filled the bucket.

"So manly, sir. I wish I could piss like that. You piss like a horse, sir."

"You're a smart kid, Dane. Going to college this Autumn. Why do you think I sound like a horse when I take a piss?"

"Permission to theorize, sir?"

"Granted, boy. You're talking about your daddy's piss," he left his cigar clamped between his teeth and framed his bulge between his hands. "That has to be a sacred subject for you." He dragged and exhaled, gesturing with his cigar, "Go ahead."

His deep, even voice, both authoritative and balmy, slid down my spine like warm oil. My dick was almost painfully rigid, but another of his instructions had expressly forbidden me from touching myself, unless I wished him to terminate this session and delay its resumption indefinitely.

"From the look of your package, I figure your cock must be real thick, sir, in addition to being long, so your urethra's probably proportionately thick, which means more piss gushes out of your cock than normal. Also," I swallowed to ease the thrumming dryness in my throat, "because your cock's so long, sir, it hangs lower, and the end is therefore closer to the surface that receives your piss, whether a toilet, the ground, or that bucket, which means that piss of greater volume is hitting the surface at closer range, making for a more powerful sound."

"So tell me, college boy, would you like to do some fancy research paper on my piss?"

"No, sir. I'm not worthy of that yet."

"That's right, boy. You're going to need an immersion course. I think I dribbled quite a lot into these briefs, and if you're a good boy, I'd let you take them home for a deep sniff session, but right now," he broke off and turned to look at the stairs. "Kevin, is that you?"

I looked up to see a boy of about my age on the stairs, inching his way shyly down. At least I assumed it was a boy. He was pudgier than I. Or he looked that way because his fat was less firm and more doughy. He was Caucasian, as desperately Caucasian as Nigel, virtually an albino, though you could tell he didn't have albinism and was just a powdery-white redhead. In fact his hair was almost orange, but it looked perfectly natural. It was as long as mine, cascading in a rough-and-tumble series of waves and curls to a few inches below his shoulders.

Like me, he was barefoot, and in underwear; in his case, a pair of blacksilk panties with a lace border that only emphasized the babypink rolls of cloudy fat around the austere elastic of its waist and legholes; but he also wore an additional item of clothing, a matching blacksilk bra, which, given the preponderance of pectoral pudge, achieved the kind of all-natural mammary simulation most skinny dragqueens would kill—but not gain any weight—for.

The hot, stabbing pain bubbling up monstrously from the thick soup of percolating possibilities in my swampy head rapidly geysered into a furnace of blind jealousy, which had no effect whatsoever on my erection's tenacity.

"Let me get rid of that," she purred, taking the burning cigar from his hand and traipsing off to the corner. She dropped it into his bucket of piss. The sizzle was sharp and sipid.

"What'd you do that for, you strumpet? Those things aren't easy to come by on a construction worker's pay."

She waltzed her way back to him, "I'm going to let it soak for a bit, and then I'm going to fish it out and dry it in the sun. And I'm going to keep it by my bed and sniff it every night before going to sleep, so I can smell my daddy's special smells, the human and the animal."

"That's why you're daddy's special girl."

Nigel took her in his arms. As I watched, my agony escalating, he kissed her deep and passionately, his tongue invading her helpless mouth, his fine, strong lips devouring hers in a welter of loud, repeatedly-slurping spit. I assumed she was used to being macked on like a whore rather than kissed like a lady, because she sighed herself into his arms, her fat molding itself visibly—enviably—to his hard body like clouds to a series of topographical ridges.

She was soon shaking with desire in those arms I had longed to be held in, like this, if with more authentic tenderness; those arms whose long, lean sheaves of thick muscle, and few supple, richly-corded veins I'd ached to fondle and kiss and silently worship again, since I'd had a taste of their stern, declamatory power that day in the movie theater.

She broke, breathlessly, from his kiss. Still clasped and molded to him, she laid her head on his tattooed, muscular chest. She looked at me with those soft, iceblue eyes, in arch triumph; while Nigel caressed her body, dropping a large, strong hand to fondle the abundant curves and rolls of her derry, running his finger under the leghole of her panties on one side.

He gazed down at her, "Don't worry about him. He's just here to watch me with my real girl."

"You're so hard, daddy. Your meat is so hard."

She got to call him daddy; I was confined to the painfully impersonal sir.

"That's what my girl does for me everytime, walking around my house in her underwear, cleaning and fetching."

"Will that whore watch us the whole time?"

"Uh'huh," now both his hands gripped her fat ass, his fingers sinking deep into her soft flesh, the long belts of muscle in his forearms straining into vivid thick separations as their veins stood out more stridently, though without the blue inflexions of the heavier ones along each biceps. As she gazed rapturously up at him, he kissed her softly and said, "I don't understand those men who want their women all firm and fatless, with hard chests and arses, like men with a vagina and implants. I like my women fleshy," a peck on her left cheek, "and soft," a peck on her right cheek, "and completely feminine," first a peck and then a deeper kiss on the mouth.

She spasmed against him, and I knew his strong, workman's fingers had found her hole.

"Someone's plump little pussy's so wet."

"Mmmm," she sighed and writhed against him. "Just for my daddy."

"After a rough day keeping house, my girl clearly needs to have her pussy stuffed."

I tried to look away, believing that would diminish the pain, but not only could I hear their kisses—loud, sloppy, and resonant—like little explosions of delight, I also realized I was getting off on the pain of watching her turn him on, make him hard, enjoy unrestricted access to his amazing, not spectacular, but somehow just naturally worked-out, unremittingly masculine body.

"One last job," he said, letting her go. He walked over to me, barely acknowledging my presence, as if I were just a piece of furniture, a chore he were squaring away before relaxing with her for the evening.

He lifted my arm. His body smelled as if he hadn't showered for a few days. It uncovered, to my acquisitive nose, layers of masculine funk I never knew existed. As he pulled my arm up to cuff it to the restraints anchored to the wall, his package bulged again into my face. This time, fewer layers of clothing, grooming, and personal hygiene mediated olfactory and even tactile access to his hulking meat. His groins and package seemed to encapsulate the rest of his reek in electrifying concentrate: a mixture of sweat, genital musk, and piss. The last recalled that metal bucket standing in the far corner, still sending its pungent aroma through the room.

"Don't you fucking lick my package," he barked at me, backing rapidly away.

It was only when he recoiled that I realized that, driven mad by the pungent, alluring smell of him, I'd stuck out my tongue.

He backed away from me, my eyes feasting on the lean, muscular movements of those exquisitely sculpted, shapely legs. The sinuous, fuzz-coated muscle flowing upwards out of those heavy boots to form totems of sleek, fluid sheaves, uninterrupted by socks, seemed even more lithe and powerful.

She—the competition—had obviously been following the enraptured movements of my eyes, because when he turned to her, gestured, and said, "Come here, baby," now standing only a few feet away from me, she jogged over, quivering everywhere, and dropped to her knees before him, running her hands up and down his tall, vividly muscular, gold-haired legs, sniffing and kissing his package, licking his groins, to which the outward-arching thrust of his restrained phallus, pushing the cotton away from his skin, gave her easier access.

"Daddy," she whispered, "you smell so good. It's the sweetest, funkiest smell and taste in the world," her tongue loud and insatiable against his moist, straining tendons, as he squared his legs. "That piss-soaked cigar will only be a fraction of the real man," she held onto his narrow, tendinous hips and gazed up at him, so their bodies, in relation to one another, formed a raunchy satire on the covers of romance novels.

His brachial muscles bulging powerfully, acquiring mass they seemed to lack when cold, mesmerizing me with their sparsely blue-veined heft and strength, he hoisted her up from her knees with one hand and into his arms again, kissing her wildly, but now almost lifting her up against him, one hand slipping into her panties from behind, and deeper, into her moist hole, while she gasped and spasmed against him.

His fingers disappeared further; first one, then two, until she was screaming against him, her fat quaking madly, as he finger-fucked her pussy with enough expenditure of strength and energy to make the muscles of his arms swell up and separate as vigorously as they'd done when he'd lifted her off her knees.

"Fuck me, daddy," she moaned, "fuck me deeper. Make me ready for your huge cock."

"Yeah, baby," he tried to kiss her, but such romantic focus was out of the question at her present pitch of arousal, his fingers no doubt prodding her prostate as if it were made of Play-Doh.

"O, yeah. I'm gonna cum, daddy."

"Cum for daddy, baby."

"I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna make my panties all dirty and wet with my cum, daddy, if you don't stop." Vainly attempting to achieve a healthy grip on his bulging arms, moving between them and his vividly-straining delts, her hands deriving additional stimulation from this experience of his maleness and power, she groaned, "I'm going to cream my panties for you, daddy. You're so strong. My god, you're so strong—"

Already shining over their bodies, their sweat gradually layered its maddeningly mingled scent over the pervasive undertow of his piss-stink and the lingering aroma of cigar smoke.

"Yeah," he groaned into her throat, his torso embaying her backward-tilted body in an arch of thick, undulating muscle, "grip daddy's fingers with that fat, wet pussy, baby. Daddy's going to make you cream so nicely."

She yelled several times, jerking violently against him, her throat surfing a wild ride of groans and expletives; verbal ejaculations of mad worship; deep, shuddering sighs that shook all her fat, making it jelly this way and that in his powerfully straining arms; as if his hard, toned body were giving hers a protected playground—following Chesterton's metaphor in Orthodoxy—in which the less defined limits of hers could enlarge their playful passions without danger of overflow.

I almost passed out at my first sighting of his naked genitals. Those restraining briefs had kept him from full erection, so when the doughy harlot removed them, smiling at me in proud ownership of the massive cock she was unveiling for her exclusive pleasure, though I may watch her enjoy it, his shlong hung in a meaty downward arc, easily as fat as, or fatter than, the average wrist; fatter, in fact, than the delicate wrists of many girls I'd known in highschool, so their watches and bracelets would not have closed around it. I could only guess it would easily be ten inches long at full mast. Its girth was even, all the way, tapering slightly toward the smallish, conical head, now just about peeping out from a cowl of foreskin that muffled rather than accentuated its outline. Its veinage was not heavy or demonstrative; more Glazunov and less Shostakovich, for those who, like me, adore Russian art music. More lilting ballad than thunderous pile-driving rock, if you prefer. Arising at the root, where his cock merged with the wedge-shaped halo of his wispy, light-brown pubes, three veins formed an art-deco candelabrum that, like one of Dali's clocks, flowed off the right side of the shaft, the meandering vein of its middle branch extending almost halfway down the hulking shaft; while a faintly-tubed vein, unrelated to this configuration, shot down the center, with ethereal tributaries cording their way off the other side.

"That's right, baby," he said, "slobber over that slab of meat," because that's exactly what she was doing already, gripping it at the base, her chubby little fingers unable to circle it, her complexion showing up even more vividly white against the pink-tinted, light-bronze color of his colossal phallus, which visually overwhelmed both her inadequate hands and her upward-tilted face. "You've been waiting all day to play with my boy, haven't you?"

"Mm'hmm," she bobbed her accursed, fortune-favored head.

Within moments, he was rampant. His promontory of jutting manhood looked amazing above those shapely dancer's legs as their muscles strained seemingly in an effort to hold its weight aloft. The tattoo in Old English, divided vertically around his navel, saying either STABLE or ST ABLE, suddenly honored that moment of realization you sometimes experienced as a child, and easily forgot having experienced, where the word and the object finally connected and you felt yourself becoming a sentient being, a being capable of language.

She could barely fit his meat in her mouth. In her initial struggle with its majestic, rough-and-ready mass, she took no more than an inch of two below the blunt dome of the taut, gleaming, lavender head—which must've tasted better than anything in this world. The oblate diameter of the shaft looked to be about three inches across, all the way, but it could've been a little under that, while my adoration of his staggering, effortless, blue-collar maleness, the kind even D. H. Lawrence, for all his aspirations to aristocracy, had never been able to jettison his infatuation with, had probably propelled me to inflate it to more equine dimensions.

She was making him grunt and sweat, giving him pleasure that I wanted to give him; had, by this time, waited almost a month to give him, since I'd received his first email on that site; but, as with the piquant deprivation I'd experienced before at my being unable to touch him, I felt an exhilarating rush of proto-orgasmic energy invade my shaking body, watching this other pussyboy service and pleasure Nigel without, I expect, having to shoulder the intellectual baggage that had compartmentalized my mind and removed from this trainride's one erotically overcrowded coach, to which I had nevertheless joyfully—and perhaps unwisely—confined myself, any concept of traditional romance.

His balls still hung pretty low, in a smooth, finely-grained sac, which draped itself around them from a nice thick lead-in at the root of his cock, in a series of delectable folds, which accentuated the power and swagger of their suspension in ways more refined and retiring scrotums never did. More spherical than eggshaped, his balls were larger than average, too, but his cock overawed them.

She skinned his cockhead back, exposing the sudden whiteness of phallic skin under it, behind the lavender glans, and licked her way around this madly sensitive area, leaving me to wallow in my painful distance from him. Offering nothing smegmatic, his glans were probably as loaded down with the recondite spice and funk of his manhood as they were with neurons that drove him as wild with sensation as the turgid, silky flesh containing those delicate twittering nerves drove her with its musky flavors.

Holding the massive column of his erection up against his flat belly, hiding the tattoo completely, she lapped at the hard, clean urethral rib. Her soft, agile tongue molded itself to that shaft's colossal, uncompromising hardness as obligingly as her fat had molded itself to his lean, muscular body. Because of his cock's overwhelming girth, she took a while to wet the whole underside. The portions that gleamed and those that retained his phallic skin's natural matte finish made a brief kaleidoscope of textures that almost dazzled me into a faint.

There was no man like this in the universe, and I had no clue as to how to begin to love him, always supposing that love was more desirable than the unvarnished servitude I wanted to tender him. Young though I was, I couldn't imagine my responding to another man, regardless of his age, with more than a fraction of the longing and worship Nigel Greenwood summoned from me. Virgin though I was, I could feel my hungry little pussy pulsing for him, protesting its emptiness without his butt-blasting cock, investing him with exaggerated powers of maleness and deep, unspeakable satiation.

"I have to fuck you, baby," he said to her, hoisting her up roughly. "I want to shoot my load deep in your wet pussy," he kissed her savagely, fingering her hole again. "The most beautiful pussy I've ever plowed. You know that, don't you, baby?" His deep voice was hoarse and wild and hungry against her bruised lips and adoring, upward-tilted face.

Handling her as easily as he would a blow-up doll, he positioned her against the sling, her white flesh starkly moonlike against the nocturnal black leather of its seat. He pulled her panties down and smacked her heavy white ass. Her gasp of pleasure extended the reverberation of flesh and percussion. Holding one of the chains lightly, while her bent-over weight balanced out the contraption, he continued to smack her ass with one hand, first this cheek, then the next, getting the blood rushing toward the bleating orifice that would soon enclose his magnificent erection in its slick, energetic sheathe.

"So fucking wet," he said, letting the chain go, so he could finger her hole while continuing now and then to smack her cheeks.

Suspended between the delicious smarting pain of the whacks against her soft, ebullient white buttflesh, and the probing pleasure his strong, skillful fingers were giving her distending hole, she gasped and sighed and worked him up more and more with the sounds of her soft, compliant body, as it lay bent over, ready—so achingly and vocally ready—for her huge-hung daddy to ram her quivering, oozing pussy to nirvana.

I peered under the black seat of the sling, between her plump legs, to see his huge cock angled forcibly down, jerking against the rough hide, leaking thick silver stalactites of heavy, silvery pre-cum that hung and swayed and lengthened out to gossamer strands that slowly snapped and fell to the stone floor like the sacred oil of a phallic benediction; beginning in viscid, fluid reality, straining toward spirit and finally vanishing from the world of substance into the idea of his ineffably potent maleness.

"You always get yourself nice and lubed up and ready for daddy, little girl."

"Fuck me. Fuck me with your massive, monster meat. I'll be thinking of it all day tomorrow, while I'm making your bed, and sniffing your dirty underwear, doing your laundry and cooking your dinner, getting wet for my daddy all over again."

"This leisurely fun in the basement is only a weekend thing, you understand?"

He smacked her again, one cheek, then the other, in quick succession, with one hand, while the other began to piston-fuck her deep, plump pussy with two fingers positioned vertically, like the barrel of a gun.