A Instruction

Part 3: continued

I am not in the attire that he has seen me in but in my daily workwear. Blue work shirt (with the name label and business name on either side of my chest) and as clean of jeans as possible for the work that I do. At the end of the day.

He sees the name of my workplace on my chest.

“ELITE.” He says. “That’s rich.”

I smile. The specialty auto garage, where I work on my daily job. And then his eyes drift to my nametag.

“Bryan. How appropriate.” He smiles at me. “It suits you perfectly.”

I smile with a randy (sly) intention on my face.

“You are a mechanic?”

“Among other things” I answer. “Among other things.”

“True. You are quite skilled in other areas. I admit.”

I nod my head.

“I have never seen you in here.”

“I usually shop at the store downtown, but I wanted to see the remodel. I figured that there would be new stock in here.” I say. “And I was right.”

“They have.” He adds.

I catch him perusing the contents of my shopping basket.

“You are on your way home to prepare dinner?”

“Yes.” I say. “I am going to fix supper.”

Flute smirks when I say ‘supper’ while he uses the more formal word, dinner. I said it intentionally.

“What do you plan to prepare?” He asks.

“Taco salad.” I answer.

“Oh!” He bemoans. “That doesn’t sound like a proper meal for a hard-working tough mechanic. Like yourself.”

“I am not so tough,”

“I disagree.” He replies, “Would you like something more substantial? Something more befitting a working man, like yourself?”

“Yes. It was a tough day at work, today.”

“Why don’t you put up what’s in your cart and be at my house, in, let’s say, 45 minutes,” Mr. Flute says, “Make that 50 minutes. An hour.”

“I don’t have time to go home and shower.” I answer.

“Don’t. Come as you are. Go to the back and do what you did on your first visit, “he tells me.

“Okay.” I know what he meant. To shower.

“These are my instructions,” he says, “I’ll see you in a bit.” His tone is authoritative. What it has been on prior visits to his house.

He turns his cart around, as do I. I place all my gathered groceries back on the shelves. It does not take me long.

As I walk out the front door, I see him in the check-out line. He does not see me. I get to my truck and wait. He emerges from the store, minutes later carrying several plastic bags. I want to see the vehicle he gets into. Curiosity. One of my many faults.

It is a black Benz. (What is it with all these black Mercedes-Benz sedans?) This does not surprise me. I watch him drive out of the packed parking lot. I am to see him in about 40 minutes. I do not follow him. It is a short distance from this shopping center to his lakeside home. I never suspected I would stumble on a client, I thought it was so unlikely. I was wrong.

The sun is setting once again as I park in the spot that is now fast becoming familiar. Today is Thursday and not a Saturday as it has been my previous visits. And unplanned.

The side gate is unlocked as I walk through it. I am greeted with the wafting aroma of grilling steaks, and Mr. Flute, standing naked, in front of the stainless-steel grill.

“Steaks, alright, Bryan?” He asks as I feel his eyes survey me in all my days grime and grease.

“They are fine.”

“Why don’t you shower, “he says, “…and relax.”

“Sure.” I happily follow his instructions.

I strip from my dirty clothes. Boots. Socks. Name embossed button-down blue short-sleeve work shirt, my ELITE FOREIGN CAR MECHANICS attire. Mr. Flute’s eyes linger on me as I shed my garments. He has maintained a full erection as I go about my endeavors.

He does not touch himself, but his eyes bore a deep hole through me.

“How would like your steak prepared?” I hear him say as I slide my jeans down.

“Medium.”

“Tightie-whities.” He says. “Not what I expected.”

“It’s all part of the camouflage.” I say.

“I can imagine. You know where you are.” He says.

I slide the white cotton briefs to the decorative tile of the pool. I can smell the days’ worth of reeking sweat waft up from my discarded apparel. My cock is hard too as it bounces out of the briefs and hits just below my bellybutton.

“Don’t touch yourself.” He orders. (This is one of his most repeated statements to me.)

I do not. I turn on the shower and wait a second or two, as the water warms. He turns from staring at me to check the grilling steaks. I give, myself, a quick and robust yank on my cock for which the blood rushes too, at my interaction. I step under the warm spray and let it wash the days filth from me. I lather the soap and wash my dark and dingy places. The hairs between the crack of my ass. My underarms. My pits. The smelly places from the sweat gathered in these areas. I do not linger long under the water. I have been fighting the many hunger pangs. I usually eat before 7 p.m., it is one of my many rules. Tonight, I will be breaking that rule.

Glasses and plates are on a table when I walked up. He had prepared the dinner setting in rapid time.

As the dirt of the day washes down the drain. I feel invigorated by the warm water. I have my second wind. I feel renewed. Like before, there is no towel. Mr. Flute sees me looking around.

“I like to air-dry. Is that alright?” He tells me as he lays the finished steaks on the plates.

“Sure. Sure.”

“Have a seat.” Mr. Flute pulls out the chair next to him. My plate is set in the area where the chair had been pulled. He pats the seat of that chair. “You are still hard.”

I nod my head, ‘yes.’

I look to his crotch and see his steel hard erection that he had been sporting since I arrived. It has begun to deflate somewhat. He notices that I am looking to his mid-section.

“You look fine.” I say.

“But I’m not thirty.” He says. (He still does not remember my correct age.)

“It looks and smells wonderful…,” I say, “…but…”

“My name is Ross.” He tells me, unexpectedly.

“Nice to meet you, Ross,” I say, “It’s a pleasure.”

I extend my hand, in a handshake, he takes it and we mutually respond in a fierce grip.

There is some Alpha-Male dominance in our handshake. We do not battle in our grips, but we are doing what I presume we were taught to do by our fathers in this circumstance. A firm handshake.

“Eat up. Eat up. Before it gets cold. I bet you are hungry,” Ross tells me.

The knife cuts through the medium well steak like butter. It is just the way I like it. We eat in hushed tones. But I can feel his emerald eyes upon me as I devour the meal before me.

“This is wonderful, Ross, you have cooked it to my liking. Thank you. Thank you.”

He smiles at my compliment.

“You are most welcome; they say that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach…or some such as that.” He says.

“I believe you are right.” I say.

We finish. I devoured the steak and side salad in record time.

“That was wonderful. Honestly. It was.” I say.

Ross stands. As do I.

“Let me help you take these dishes to the kitchen.”

“There is no need. Leave them here.” He says.

“Okay. Okay.” I say.

“Let’s get your dirty clothes washed,” Ross states.

“There’s no need. I have more at home.” I say.

“How ‘bout you stay the night?” I assume you will need clean clothes for work tomorrow.” He explains.

“You want me to stay overnight?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s get those clothes washed.” I say.

“You stay out here. I will take care of it. You relax. Please.”

“Okay.” He turns and walks with my dirty workwear into his house.

I do what he says. I relax.

Part 4

I would like to tell you where I live. It would add more intrigue to this story. But I am afraid that you may know Ross. He is that man that we all know. (But with a secret.) Maybe you can guess.

“You have a beautiful home, Ross.”

“Thanks,” Ross replies.

We are sitting in matching deck chairs. The pool behind us and the expansive lake in front of us. House lights, like lightning bugs, twinkle on the other side of the lake. The same lights I saw on my first appearance. On either side of his house are empty lots. High hedges shield either side of this sprawling home. The privacy protects us.

As we both sit, erections are between our spread legs in the chairs. You could say I am the slightly younger version of Ross. Both of us are moderately hairy, I have manscaped the fields of my hair across my body. Ross, on the other hand, has chosen not to touch his and lets the hair normally. He does seem to trim but not to the extent that I do. (Mine is an occupational prerequisite.)

“How big is that cock, Bryan?”

“Nine. Maybe more. It has been a while since I have measured, myself, too.” I say.

“And that head. Damn! It looks like it would be a mouthful,” he says.

“I have been told that it is.” I say. (Many times.) “The harder I get, the bigger my cockhead becomes.”

“I remember. I do.” He says. “You did so on the chair.”

He strokes himself as he leers at me. Ross’ equipment is not of the length and girth of mine, but he is far from having to worry about how he measures up. I reckon him to be about seven inches. I have learned not to ask how endowed the men are, I see, it is okay to be asked, often they want me to be, ‘the bigger,’ I usually am.

“C’mere.”

I stand. I know what he wants.

I plant my feet on either side of the chair where he is sitting. My crotch is at his eye level with his face. I can feel his wet mouth as he begins to devour my cock, all the way down to my trimmed pubic root. His nose is buried deep in my soapy-clean pubes. I can feel the back of his throat as I tickle his tonsils.

“Ahh! Ahh!” I sigh. Few have been able to swallow my rod. But he does. He lets go and slowly travels the length of my tool from the base to my cock-helmet. I feel his tongue rake the underside of my crown. I react. As my nerves are on fire. He does not disengage from it but lathers me down with his spittle and my leaking cum.

He sips on my cock, like a straw in a red Dixie cup. I can feel the pressure as he forces the milky seed from the deep depths of my balls. His hands are on either cheek of my ass, pushing and pulling me. Directing me, as I plunge in and out of his mouth, like a jackhammer.

I hear my sighs as the momentum changes with every thrust in his mouth, as I ram, his hands squeezing on my posterior. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter.

I should tell you that I am unable to stand on my feet when I am getting blown. My movements get jerky the more I become excited. The bolts of sexual electricity fire through me as the arousal mounts within me.

“Ross. I need to get off my feet.”

He slides up the length of my cock and tickles the underside of it with his slithering tongue before he releases me from his wet grasp. A ‘pop’ from his deep suction happens when he frees me.

“You need to lay down? Sit in a chair?” Ross asks.

“Lay down would be best.”

Ross stands and takes the cushion from the lounge chair and lays it at the pools edge. He pats the cushion. A signal. “Here.”

I position myself on the ‘magic’ cushion and let the sucking genie resume his machinations on my wand. He resumes his rhythmic machinations on my steely 9-inch cock. I feel myself getting warmer and warmer.

“You are going to need to stop…or slow down or am going to explode.” I say as I feel the cum begin to mount within my balls.

“I want you to fuck me.” Ross says nonchalantly.

“Fuck you?”

“Yes.” Ross says. “I want that cock in my ass.”

I barely see him shift and hover over my cock before I feel the tightness of the muscles of his ass before they overtake my cock.

“FUCK! FUCK!” I yelp as he sinks down onto my upright cock. It disappears into the crack of his firm ass. “FUCK! FUCK!”

“You feel good.” Ross moans as gravity lowers him down my statue-like cock. As his weight pulls him lower and lower down my rod. I can feel the ripple of his muscles (of the interior of his ass) he adjusts to accommodate my hefty girth. “OH FUCK! OH FUCK! YOU FEEL GOOD!”

As he rides me, we are face-to-face like a bucking bull and a wrangler holding on for dear life as the seconds count. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. Our hairs mingle between my pubes and his ass as the excitement escalates.

Each bounce brings me closer and closer to eventual volcanic eruption. But Ross senses my hardness in his sensitive hole and STOPS, letting me, once again, regain composure.

Ross’ cock leaks while he slings, to and fro, on my fleshy pointed steeple, the milky cream seeping onto his pubes, treasure trail and chest hairs.

“Take a breath. Take a breath.” Ross says calmly to me as I attempt to come down from my sexual high. As he says this, as his hand rests on my chest, while he squeezes the muscles of his tender interior.

“Breath. Breath. Breath.” Ross repeats the mantra. Again, and again.

I do. I feel my cock further swell within his fleshy inside. My cock pulses as he applies pressure to my steely tool.

“Breath. Breath.” Ross repeats.

Ross raises himself. I can feel his muscles tighten around my sensitive crown. He sees me wince as he glides up my shaft. Slowly. He watches my expressions as I respond to his deliberations. He smiles. I catch a note of sly in his grin.

“You are toying with me.” I tell him.

He nods his head and mouths, “I am.”

He lowers himself and begins to bump and grind on my cock. Getting faster and faster as he pivots on my cock, like a rabid madman.

He squeezes me tighter in the clenched-like fist of the muscles of his ass. My body temperature rises. I am using my sweat as he bumps on my cock like a pogo stick.

Click. Click. A faint noise is drowned out by the mounting eruption.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” I yell as I feel my cock explode its cum deep within Ross’ welcoming ass. He squeezes me and milks the last drops of juice from my balls.

My juice floods his hole. I buckle on the cushion. Jerking. Jerking. As the cum fills the deep recess of Ross’ ass. I feel Ross stop his gyrations. I open my closed eyes.

“Milk him. Milk that seed, Ross.” It is a voice that I do not recognize.

“What the FUCK? What the FUCK?” I say as I open my eyes and am greeted with a young man, standing over us.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the younger man says as he kicks his boat shoes off his feet, yanks the tee over his head and drops his shorts. He is naked. Now. Too.

“This is Gary,” Ross says as he lifts himself off my still hard cock, “he is my ex-wife’s nephew.”

“Nephew? What the FUCK!”

“We are not kin, Bryan,” Ross says, as I see the whiteness of the cum gathering at the entrance to his hairy hole, “we are not blood.”

Gary is standing over us. He swipes his tongue over his lips.

“Let me clean that off,” Gary say as he gets on his knees and licks the cum from my still throbbing cock. He mumbles as he takes me into his mouth.

I sigh, loudly, as he bobs on my cock. My voice carrying over the pool. Sweat breaking out over my body.

Not the End