A Daddy, His Musk and a Rub & Tug

The gleaming double towers overlooking the muggy harbor appeared more like a fortress than an apartment complex, especially as it rose above the drab, industrial urban-scape of the neighborhood, one that I was vaguely aware existed but had never visited.

Summer came early—even for the south China coast—and I had begun to sweat from the ten-minute walk up from the subway station.

The woman manning the reception desk let me stride across the lobby with feigned confidence, and watched me call the elevator and find that the button wouldn’t light up, before finally asking, “Where are you headed?”

“Um… 37th floor?”

“Which unit?”

“D.”

“D for dog?” She double-checked as she picked up the phone and, in Cantonese, announced: “You’ve got a visitor.”

Almost as soon as I stepped out of the elevator, a door down the hallway clicked open, and a man as shaven-headed and green-eyed as in the expiring photo I had received greeted me: “You made it.”

He had found me on Grindr, where I was advertising for a massage—spelled “ma55age” so that I wouldn’t be banned. I had done it before, when I was still living abroad. I had just decided to take it back up recently, even if I already had two jobs—an office job and another one serving drinks at a cocktail bar—because it was just so expensive living in this damned town.

“May I offer you anything? Water?” He asked once I was inside.

“Oh…” I was distracted by the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Yes, water would be great.”

He was taller than I expected, definitely over six feet, and his long, arched bare feet now padded across the spotless hardwood floor as he came back with my water.

“So have you been here before?” He was looking at me squarely in the eye and smiling, baring his uncannily sharp canines.

That was when I decided that he was actually handsome, and I considered myself lucky, because I’ve had worse—way worse.

“No,” I took a sip of the water and confessed, assuming he meant this part of town.

“And where do you live?”

“Central,” I replied, and noticing the ferry slicing through the military-green harbor down below, almost the same shade as his eyes, inquired out of genuine curiosity, “Is there a ferry that comes here?”

“Nah.” His grin widened, like I just said something stupid. “That’s too far.”

That was good to know for the way back.

Just as I was about to ask him if he spoke Cantonese, since his door woman called him up in Cantonese, he switched gears abruptly and started looking around, as if he weren’t in his own apartment: “Well shall we do this?”

“Yes, of course,” I concurred, following him and his bare feet into the bedroom.

I instructed him to lay down a towel on the bed before we both proceeded to undress. He had a few tattoos here and there, and hair everywhere. I couldn’t tell if he was just getting in shape, or if he had been in shape—and was beginning to let himself go, at his age. Not that he said exactly how old he was on his profile—I’d just had him pegged somewhere in the mid-forties.

“Underwear on or off?” He looked at me expectantly, even though his hands were on the waistband of his boxer briefs already.

“Off,” I told him, while planning to keep mine on, for the time being at least, but actually I was just realizing he was my type—just my type.

“Alright.” He bent so that he could slide his boxer briefs all the way down his long legs. He had a swinging, snouted thing for a dick, which he tugged, and also giving his furry nut sac a fluff, lay facedown on the towel on the bed, to allow me to get to work on him.

As I oiled up his back, his thighs… I could smell the shower he took before I arrived; and yet, a heady tang gradually cut through the scent of the body wash—the type that would’ve had the words “For Men” emblazoned unabashedly on its blue, possibly gray, bottle. Instead, an authentically male musk was beginning to fill the space between us, redolent of cumin, or caraway seeds, or the taste that diffused your mouth if you accidentally crunched a Szechuan peppercorn kernel with your teeth.

It was not the spoor of a young man, but rather one that developed with biological maturity. I knew where exactly I could get a real hit, and so I spread his furry glutes as widely as possible and immediately caught a concentrated, undiluted whiff of the stuff before I even glimpsed the tuft that was the source—his personal musk pod—that lined the crack of his ass.

“Fuck…” I resisted blurting out: I was on the job, and I didn’t want to betray any evidence that I was enjoying myself. But on the other hand, what if he liked to be rimmed? I dove in face-first.

I couldn’t see what I was tasting, but it was silken to the touch of my tongue and kept shying away. He—my paying customer, as I kept reminding myself—emitted a sort of muffled grunt, before lifting his hips off the bed and thrusting them back into my face.

Good, that meant he liked it.

Emboldened, I darted my tongue forward to feel the smooth interior of his hole. He gasped, seemingly in pleasant surprise, and rose fully onto all fours, arched his back, and pushed back his pelvis so that I finally got a good look at the blushing pucker I was lapping at.

“Fuck, you taste so good…” I wanted to tell him, feeling like I might actually be intoxicated from his overpowering musk.

“Stroke my cock while you do it,” he demanded, keeping his head down without looking back.

“What?”

“Stroke my cock while you eat my ass,” he repeated.

I had sincerely forgotten about his cock, which, upon reaching forth, I found to be as stiff as a squash. It had grown into a formidable fistful, so that my fingers could just about encircle the shaft, which I then pumped with a steady rhythm as I cleaned off his hole, his taint, and his balls with my tongue.

I must’ve gotten carried away, as he suddenly placed his hand over mine and went, “Easy… easy…”

“Are you close?” I asked.

Still not looking back, he said, almost scoldingly, “You’ve gotta slow down.”

“Ok…” I glanced at the time: Just about half an hour had passed, which meant he got himself another half-hour. “Turn over for me.”

Slowly, as if reluctantly, he maneuvered his long-limbed, lumbering frame onto its flip side, which was when I saw that his uncut, dangling appendage had swollen into a ramrod-straight and big-headed thing, his foreskin having been all but stretched out into oblivion in his current state of arousal.

“You’re not gonna take your underwear off?” He squinted at me through half-closed eyes.

“If you want…”

I realized as I slipped off my briefs that I was myself nursing a raging boner, which paled in comparison to his in terms of dimensions. Nonetheless, I had been pre-cumming like a faucet, the zealous secretion staining through my underwear.

Once my dick was out, he couldn’t keep his hands off it. I ran just about the length of his fist, and he made quick work of me, so that as much as I tried to focus on my job—a massage, which was what he wanted—soon it was my turn to pry his hand from my cock.

“Here, just lie back,” I said to him, trying to ignore the droplet of pre-cum threatening to drip from the tip of my cock.

He folded his arms behind his head, closed his eyes, and behaved for a while. However, when I was done with the other parts of him and moved on to give him his happy ending, he became restless again.

“You sure know how to stroke that cock, don’t you?” He remarked in a daze, his olive-colored eyes still only half-open.

Holding the base of his tool firmly with one hand and polishing the head with my other, I joked, “What? You don’t think I’ve got tricks up my sleeve if I’m charging you five hundred dollars?”

He broke into a grin, baring his sharp canines again.

“Do you suck dick?”

“If you want me to…” I had not wanted to play it coy, but it was how it came out.

“Would you suck me off if I give you two hundred more?”

I shook my head: “You don’t have to.”

To show him that I meant it, I lowered my head and tickled his frenulum with the tip of my tongue.

“Really?” He sounded incredulous.

“Really,” I reassured him, and ran my lips back and forth over the cord that ran along the underside of his shaft.

“Oh fuck, you’re gonna make me cum hard…” He was now writhing all over the bed, so I thought I’d better stop teasing the poor dude, and throated him to the hilt. And when my nose nuzzled the trimmed copse that carpeted his loins, I found that it diffused the same musk that had so intoxicated me, so I throated him again, and again.

“Ugh…” He groaned, “I’m gonna blow my load down your throat any fucking minute…”

He still had about ten minutes, and I didn’t want him to think I was rushing him.

“Sit up,” I thus instructed him, and installed myself behind him to give him a good old-fashioned reach-around, for the home stretch. Putting both hands on his cock, I methodically quickened my strokes as I noticed his breathing become shallower and his stomach tightening, until eventually—

“Aw, here it comes… Awww!”

The first rope of thick cum lassoed out of his overstimulated organ and landed as far up as his chest. A few more strings followed and splattered sloppily over his stomach and thighs. Dutifully, I milked him until he became all oozy and I was certain that nothing else was coming out, and just held him there for a while as he tried to catch his breath.

“You wanna cum too?” He twisted his neck back to ask after he’d recovered.

He still had seven minutes, but not that I thought he was keeping track.

“I’ll cum if you want me to cum.”

He chuckled, and called my bluff: “You can do what you want. If you wanna cum, cum.”

“Ok… would you help me?” I got way more worked up than expected, as I was just a sucker—no pun intended—for big white daddies with a good stench, and was actually dying to cum.

We rearranged ourselves so that I was lying down on my back and he was next to me, propping himself up on his elbow on one side, in order for him to jerk me off. His tugs were short but hearty, and it wasn’t long before I felt the familiar pressure of climax build up inside me and pronounced, “I’m close…”

Amping up the speed, he egged me on: “Yeah, come on… shoot everywhere…”

That I did: I hadn’t cummed in at least seventy-two hours and I was practically drenched in my own jizz by the end of it.

“I think you need a shower,” he observed out loud.

“I think I do…”

When I reemerged, he had already gotten dressed again. He asked me what I was doing for the rest of the weekend and I asked him where he was from.

“I’m German,” he replied, in Cantonese, so there you go.

“How long have you been in Hong Kong?” I then asked.

“Twenty-seven years,” he admitted sheepishly, “I was here before you were born.”

It wasn’t true, but I decided to let him think that I was younger than I was.

“The rest is tips,” he explained as he held up seven hundred dollars at me.

When I got back downstairs, I decided to smoke a cigarette before getting on the train. They had increased the price of cigarettes again—to ninety-something dollars a pack, which was a rip-off in any regard. Right then, however, I didn’t mind it so much. Maybe I’d even smoke two in a row. And when I ran out, I could go buy another seven packs, and have change to spare.