A Instruction

Part 1

The Time: Now.

“You have the address?”

“Yes. Yes,” I answer. Flatly. To the person on the other end of my cell phone conversation.

“Do you know where it is?”

The voice. Deep. A baritone. Gruff. Intentional. Calculating. In its tone.

“Yes.” I answer in the same manner as I had in the first.

“Take the side gate. Go to the back door and follow the instructions there.”

Click. The phone goes dead.

(I have broken one of Maggie’s most sacred of rules. But I am not longer in her employ. But I am still her friend. And an occasional independent contractor. When she needs me. But now. I get to pick and choose. And decide. And not decide. Who I want to see.)

“Instructions?” I say aloud. “Instructions? What the fuck? Instructions?”

My watch says that I have about forty-five minutes before the scheduled appointment. There is no rush. It says that I am to arrive, promptly and on time. It is to be sunset.

I ride around a bit before I make my way to the address provided. The house is what I expected. Luxurious. Extravagant. I park in its circular driveway. It is five minutes before I am to arrive. The message said promptly. I take that to mean. Exactly. On time. I step out and make my way to the side gate. It is ajar. Ever so slightly as I expected it would be.

I am dressed per instructed. Basic black slacks. Pressed. A pressed white shirt. Long sleeves. The creases, precise and fitted to me. Precisely. A black belt. Leather. Polished shoes. So much that I could see myself in them. Which is matching the belt and slacks. “Dress to impress.” The words echo in my head. Over and over. I have three buttons unbuttoned. He said two, but I am bold (and rebel against that instruction). I break that rule. I am sockless. It said, explicitly, I am to wear no socks.

My shoes clomp on the expensive decorative tile. The door is easy to find. There is a large spacious pool behind the gated fence. As I reach the door, the sun ducks below the horizon, an orange glow bathes the world in its fading glow. As the pool lights shimmer to life. An eeriness encapsulates the pool area. It seems to have become magical. Fantasy. The illumination transports me. The minutes tick away like it has been hours. It is darker than one would expect so soon after sunset.

I find “the instructions.” They are simple. Self-explanatory. There are only three. Typed out in bold font on the paper.

I kick the shoes from my feet and then begin to unbutton my shirt. One. Two. Three. All of them. While pulling it, my shirt as alluring as I can, out of my slacks. I find a hanger and put it on it. I unsnap my pants and skim them down. I add these to another hanger and hook my belt in the upside-down ‘J’ of that hanger. I am naked. Now. Bare as the day I cried into the world. I do not wear underwear, per the request in the message too. I had no problem with that particular “instruction.”

I shower in the outdoor shower. The number two on the “instructions.” There is shampoo. Soap. A toothbrush and toothpaste. I get the hint. I had done all of these before my arrival but obviously he wants me spic n’ span from the dust of my travel here.

I grab the shampoo. Pour just a bit into the palm of my hand and lather up my head of my once quaffed hair. The suds run down onto my chest and torso. Weaving a bubble trail through the natural outgrowth of hairy abundance. On my chest. The trail of hair from my chest to my naval. And my pubes. I lather up my balls and cock with some of the shampoo, making sure I tuck through and lather up my ass-crack. I rinse off. I get hard. Worked up by the lather. And I grab the soap. And use it to re-wash my balls. And cock. An work to even harder erection. I do not want to be at my complete and total hardness. I want him to see. To see what I have to offer. I cannot do that without busting out a load. I wash my pits and the dense growth there. And then I rinse. Contorting myself. Turning and bending. Twisting. Teasing my ass. And my masculinity.

I finish and turn off the shower. I feel as though I am being watched. I am okay with that too. I do not care. I run my fingers through my manicured pubes. Combing them ever so delicately with my digits.

There is no towel. I noticed that when I began my shower. I am to air-dry. I assume.

I make my way to the lounge chair at the end of the pool. I leave wet footprints on the tiles as I tread to the assigned place. The water slides down my lean musculature. This was “instruction” number three.

A slight gust of evening wind sweeps across the patio. In the distance, I can see lights on the far side of the expansive pond. There are no neighbors on either side of the house. In this exclusive enclave. I am alone.

I sit. As “instructed.” I look to my watch; it has only been twenty minutes since my arrival. But it seems longer. I took a longer shower than usual. I teased. If I am being taped. I want it all to be seen. I bent at the waist as much as I could, to show my best parts. The better parts. I cleaned all my toes. And my fingers. All the hairy and dark places. Sometimes people want to be teased. I am happy to oblige. My admirers.

I hear the door open to the house, but I do not turn to look. I stare to the winking lights across the way. I want to be surprised.

I can feel him. I can see his presence looming over me, like a giant.

“You will do.” It is the same voice from the phone. He reaches out his hand and gives me the agreed upon price for the transaction. A wad of rolled up crisp bills. “Get dressed.” He demands. “I will call you when I want to see you again.” He dives into the pool. I can see the muscles on his arms as he swims to the opposite side of the pool.

I stand and feel his eyes upon me as I go to get dressed. It is $800. All crisp and new, one hundred-dollar bills. It is $300 over the agreed upon transaction. He must really like what he sees.

I dress fully. I can feel his gaze upon me as I put on every stitch my clothing, I had just removed. He says nothing as I dress. He just leers. I do not touch myself, although I remain semi-erect in my affect. He must not be the only one to tempt.

“How old are you?” I hear the naked hairy man in the pool, ask me, as I snap the last button to my slacks.

“Thirty-seven.” I say. “I am thirty-seven years old.”

“I thought so. You act like a man, that is over thirty years of age. Good. I like that. But you could pass for a man that is much younger.”

I do not reply. “Good genes.” And. “Good for you.” I say in my head. Sarcasm heard only by me.

I walk to the gate. The same one that I entered. My footsteps echo on the tile of the spacious and well-light pool.

“Until next time.” I hear him say as I ease out of the gate. His hands are underneath the water, rippling it like a whirlpool, just below his partially submerged face. His eyes like a sea creature just stalking its prey.

“Yes. Next time.” I mumble as I make my way back to my truck. I am not sure he heard me.

Click. Click. The gate locks me as it is closed behind me.

Part 2

On Wednesday. Days after the Saturday inspection. I got further “instructions” on my GabeNOW e-mail account. This is my business account. Yes. It is a business. One that I went into once I found out that I had a product that some were willing to pay handsomely for the chance to partake.

Maggie taught me all I needed to know. And Marks has been a big supporter of my dreams. Marks has an office and condo in Atlanta. Now. The two years I spent in Los Angeles with him. After I quit the road crew and told Donnie to “kiss my ass.” (In a nice way of course.) I took off to LA. And came back a few years ago and started my business. This one and the other. I still work with Maggie, on occasion, when she needs someone with my special talents. And Abbott is a frequent visitor here.

It had “instructions.” Short. Concise. Easily honorable by me. What was “instructed” of me did not require a purchase. I already had it in my possession. Thankfully, it is in the spring and my job is active. The outcome should be acceptable to my client.

And still, a week later, I got a follow-up e-mail on when to return to the lakeside house. I am to return on Saturday. He seems to like weekend excursions for his extracurricular activities. I am fine with it. This time he wants me to go through the front door. I like that he leaves notes. Notes prove that he has put some thought into this. Perhaps others have not been so compliant to his request, or this is his first attempt at such activity. This may be resulting from something he has read in some book or story. I do not know. I like the game. I like the mystery.

I park. Where I had before. I step out of my tan Toyota pick-up. It, too, was a result of a product desired upon by a specific demographic. My shoes hit the decorative pavement under my jogging shoe clad feet. He wants me in a more relaxed presentation. I am in my Levi’s. A pristine white tee. (Newly purchased.) I have even grown a slight beard. Scruff. All part of the “instructions” received over my GabeNOW account. My name is not Gabe but that is irrelevant. My musculature is perfectly accentuated with the snug cotton tee which is hugging me like a snake. When I put it on, I had gotten the desired effect. My cock heightened from the reflection I saw in the mirror. I am bathed in the glow of the light over the front door.

Tacked to the front door, in black font, perfectly measured to the size of the paper are two words. COME IN. The door is unlocked. My hand goes to the golden knob. I turn it and step over the threshold.

The house is dark except for the many lit candles scattered about the house. A gentle whiff of subtle fragrance hits my nose as I close the door behind me. There is a light heat from the many flickering flames.

“Come to the living room.” I hear his voice echo through the candlelit house. I step from the small vestibule into a larger interior space. Candles outline the room and flicker from the many floor to ceiling windows that encompass the room. I do not see him. He is buried, deep, in the shadows. There are so many candles. I feel a slight sweat break out over me. From the heat.

In front of the modern art deco chimney is a solitary black chair. Artsy. Expensive. An overhead light illuminates it. The chair is for me, I surmise.

“Did you do what I asked? I hear the deep baritone voice demand.

“Yes.” I answer, minus any emotion.

“I want to see.” He says in the now familiar gruff voice that I know to be him.

I begin to pull the tee over my head. “Keep that on.” He says before I can completely remove it.

I nod in compliance. I kick my shoes from my feet. Minus any socks. I unbutton my Levi’s, one button at a time, until I am unlocked from the confines of them. I slide the pants down and am left standing in the thin-elastic banded jockstrap. His preference.

“It fits you well.” I hear him once again from wherever he is lurking.

I do not respond.

“Did you buy it?” He asks.

“No. I already had it.” I answer. He seems to be okay with my answer.

“Did you do as I said?”

“Yes.” I answer, “I wore it every day. Slept in it. I complied with your every instruction.” I say.

“Good. Now take a seat.”

I do.

My bare ass cheeks spread as I sit down on the stylish black piece of furniture. I feel the hairs ruffle in the crack of my ass as I settle into place. I feel my ass begin to perspire in the created heat from the many burning candles.

“Your name is Gabriel, right?” I hear from the shadows.

“Yes.” I answer.

“You are an angel,” he says, “Spread your legs.”

I do. I man-spread wide my legs. My jockstrap-encased cock moves underneath the interwoven mesh that sheaths my tool within the stretchy fibers as it fights fiercely within its cotton confinement.

“You are hairy.” I hear from the shadows. “But I am glad you keep yourself trimmed and maintained.”

“Thanks.” I answer. Out of habit.

“I imagine you get a lot of advances from men.” He says from his hiding place.

“…and from women too.” I say. “But I prefer men.”

“Take your cock out” He demands.

I do. I slip my snake from its cotton cage and let it hiss, like a cobra readying itself to strike as it stands at erect attention.

“What is your length?” He asks.

“Last time I measured. I was nine inches.” I say.

You are thick.” He says. “But I suppose you have heard that before? Haven’t you?”

“I have.” I run my fingers over the blood engorged crown of my fleshy snake.

“I bet that thing can sink into any tight hole and stretch it?”

“It can.” I answer as I gently run my delicate fingertips over my now throbbing cock.

“Remove your hand!” Comes a fierce demand from deep in the shadows.

I do. As I place my hands at my side, wisp of pre-jizz slather forth from the deep recesses of my balls and glistens like pearl drops atop my pulsing tool. I shift in the seat as more of my jizz seeps from my straining dick.

“Tweak your nipples.”

I bring my fingertips to my nipples and pinch them.

“Don’t pinch! Tweak them!” He demands.

I quit the pinching and begin tweaking them. My left one is more sensitive. I can feel the juice increase from as it leaks from the depths of my balls, the more I fondle my sensitive nip.

“You are pre-cumming more.” I hear him say. “You do like your man-buds to be played with. Don’t you?”

I nod my head.

“Stop!”

I do immediately as he orders. But the stream of man-juice does not…it has increased, a rivulet of my precious DNA flows from my veiny tower down its stature and pools onto the floor and onto the fabric of the already cum and piss-stained BIKE jockstrap.

In the darkness, I hear the faint footsteps and his heavy breathing. I see an outline of him in that darkness.

I do not touch myself as I gently gush like a leaky spigot. The pool at my feet grows bigger on the expensive wood floor beneath my towering Eiffel-like tool.

I hear his breathing intensify as I sit there. I learned to maintain control in my twenties. This skill has only gotten stronger with each passing year.

“You are blessed.” I hear him say as his presence becomes more visible in the candle lit room.

“Smear some of that juice over your cockhead.”

I do. I rub the cream on my delicate sensitive cockhead, I begin to twitch. My semen increases. I have always been one to leak to excess. I got the nickname, Fountain, back in high school when I would leak during my wrestling matches. No amount of jacking-off, before a match, would stifle the flow.

“Take that tee off.”

I do. I pull it over my head.

“Wipe your cock with it.”

I do. The roughness of the cotton tee causes some discomfort on my engorged cockhead as I mop my essence.

“Throw it to me.”

I do. I toss the tee into the darkness to the direction of his voice. I hear him as he breathes in my offering. I listen to him as he wallows in my spent juice. I hear the deep sniffing of my discarded tee.

“You taste sweet.”

My offering provided enough to savor in his mouth and activate the taste buds on his tongue.

As I listen to him, his voice makes me grow even harder. I do not usually react in this manner to a client, but I am finding myself being turned on in this gray light, in the shade of this man’s obsession.

“Stroke yourself.” He demands. “Use your spit.”

I bring the already cum-coated fingertips to my mouth, tasting my salty-sweetness on my lips and use the spittle to further moisten my digits. I bring them back and forth from my mouth to my cock, several times, wetting down my tool.

My clutched right-hand grips and strokes my fleshy gearstick as I rock back and forth in the chair.

I squeeze tighter on my flashy-steel member. I feel my body break out in a slight sheen as I continue with my frantic machinations. Each time I near the sensitive mushroom helmet of my cock, I quiver, on my bare ass, in the chair. The harder my cock becomes.

“Don’t cum!” He shouts from the shadows. “Don’t cum!”

I move my hand and count down from 10 to 1 under me breathe.

10-9-8. I take a breath. 7-6-5. I take another breath. 4-3-2. I take another breath. One. One. One. I repeat to myself in my head. I want to burst.

He steps from the shadows. My tee shirt is thrown over his right shoulder. His hard cock points out like a saber from his dense hairy pubes, where it nestles like a bird of prey, ready to pounce.

In his hand, he has a champagne flute. The candlelight dances in the crystal glass from the flute.

He places the flute under my cockhead and the teases his wet fingertip atop my blood engorged helmet. I feel the pressure mounting.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” I yell. As my dense and heavy cream milks from my manhood. I feel the cum rise from my balls with each muscle pulse. Each heartbeat.

He catches it all, as it streams forth like a milky lava flow.

“That’s right.” He purrs as he collects my seed. “That’s right.”

The flute begins to steadily fill.

I hear my heavy breathing as it bounces off the walls of the candlelit room.

“Breath.” I hear him say. “Breath.” I open my eyes to see a smile meander across his candlelit face.

He puts the crystal champagne flute to his nose.

“Your juice is quite succulent. Aromatic. I dare say, it is a good vintage.” He says as he swirls my seed around, like it is fine wine. “Thirty-year-old seed is quite abundant.”

He gets my age wrong, but he is right, otherwise.

He looks down at my still, somewhat hard cock, as he stands, upright.

“But you do not look like you are finished.”

“I will need some time to recharge.” I answer.

“Take off that jock and wipe that remaining cream from your cock.” He orders.

I do. I clean the still leaking cream onto the mesh of the jockstrap pouch.

“Get it all. Don’t waste any of it.” He orders.

He watches me as I attempt to gather up my remaining abundance.

“Stand up.”

I do.

I feel his hand sweep across the bare flesh of my chest. He plays with my still erect nips. He does not say anything as travels from my nips to my treasure trail. He stops before he reaches my pubes.

“Get dressed.” He demands. And flicks away his hand like he has grown tired of me. (But I doubt it.)

I did not expect it to end like this; so soon, but I did as he had instructed.

I do. He watches me as I put on my jeans. Minus my jock. He has taken the cum-soaked jock from my hand and is now letting it dangle from his erect cock, while he watches me. I slip the jogging shoes on.

“Your payment is under the WELCOME mat. Outside. I will call you when I wish to see you again. You follow instructions well. Keep it up.” He says. And he just stands there.

I walk out of his house shirtless, minus my favorite jockstrap. The envelope with the cash is under the mat as he said, it would be. It is $1,300. My usual $800 fee with a $500 tip. The porch light goes off as I stuff the envelope into my jeans. I do not usually check my fee, but curiosity got the better of me.

I unsnap the top button of my jeans; open them to cool the heat that has been generated from my warmed body.

I know I am being watched. I saw several outside cameras when I made the first visit. In the darkness, I can see the tiny red light on. I know I am being watched and possibly being recorded.

I leave, awaiting the next e-mail or phone call.

Part 3

Doncha hate those squeaky wheels? I manage to get the shopping cart, at the grocery store, the one that must fight against the other three. When I attempt to get another cart, it, too, has a disagreeable wheel.

Grocery stores are places of opportunity. I have met several “tricks” down the aisles and even an occasional boyfriend. There is always something to see when you are shopping for the necessary food stuffs, along with any two-legged dick-wranglers that are among the employees or fellow patrons.

I usually shop at the store nearest my condo but today I decided to shop at the one nearest the Lakes. Change is good. The store had been remodeled; the selections widened for the consuming public.

I fight my three-legged beast of a cart as I go from aisle-to-aisle. My shopping cart has my usual cache of goods.

I have my list of items. My instructions, if you will, to make a taco salad. It is not a difficult recipe but more so as management, so I do not forget the items I want to be in it. Hence the list I am looking down at whenFatetakes a swipe at me.

I round the end of the cereal aisle. I come head-to-head. Cart-to-cart with another cart. But I manage to stop before sudden collision.

Once I have halted, I find myself peering into the face of him.

“Mr. Flute!” It is the only thing I immediately think of to call him.

“Gabriel!”