Seven months after the real estate bubble burst, I was still showing luxury houses in the exclusive neighborhoods in and around my native Seattle. Of course, being the professional realtor that I am, I was only showing my esteemed clients with secured financing the prime properties on my premiere listings. Unfortunately for me, though, when the filthy rich have it set in their minds that they can get in the lap of luxury for next to nothing , most of the truly savvy, financially-conscious one like to take a wait-and-see approach to the new falling market. So to make a little extra money—if the market and my commissions were going to stay down for more than a little while—I decided to moonlight as a part-time sales associate for a series of new high-end high-rise condominiums downtown that the developer was practically hell-bent on giving away.
On my very first day, I had showed all five different floor plans to about twenty-something-odd people looking to purchase. But, it was on my last potential sell of my three-day workweek that I had to stop myself from drooling over this gorgeous hunk of a man—a strong potential prospect.
It was a quarter 'til quitting time on a Thursday afternoon when he and his steamy boulder-like buns came waltzing through the door. Now, normally, I am not the kind of openly gay man to go goo-goo gaga over a good-looking man with a nice super-sized basket, seeing that a truly masculine, buffed-out man like myself doesn't usually try and put himself out there like that. And, secondly, in my line of work, I come across a bevy of men that seem to fall into the "gorgeous, good-looking, athletic" category on a regular basis, considering the some of those same gorgeous men tote around deep pockets and have no hang-ups about paying top dollar for full service.
This man, however, was hard to miss; even if he was drowning in the mist of dapper and hung millionaires. He had a still and swagger (yes, swagger) strictly his own—a style that covered his muscled brawn of a lumberjack quite well, with a face that looked as if he came off of a man-style porn box. His overall presence was—as if I had two choices in the matter—either go along with the program or risk being his next rape victim.
If it wasn't for the damn Employee Manual, I would have been more than happy to have gone along with the program. I mean, showed him what I had to offer. But, as it stated on Page 16, it was against company policy to show a condo to a prospect without another sales associate present in the office. Again, as it was my unfortunate luck, my training supervisor, Sharon, had left early to fuck her blue-collar boyfriend while her white-collar husband was still out-of-town on business.
At any rate, not to cause an uproar with a man that seemed desperate tog et through the door before closing time, I was reluctant to tell him that I was getting ready to leave for the night and that there was no way I could show him around.
Looking pissed and looking as if he was ready to verbally rumble, the man took a deep but short breath and told me that he had a late afternoon appointment with Sharon.
Mildly afraid to tell the annoyed man that she had left for the day, I walked over to her desk and saw the she wrote him in on her calendar—for the following day.
"Mr. Leslie Jones," I read from her desktop calendar, after I confirmed his girlish name for such a masculine-reeking man. "Four-thirty, Friday afternoon, two-bedroom, two bath, Floor Plan B with twelfth floor harbor view."
"Shit, I thought I had changed it to today!" he said with a slightly heavy but pronounced accent. He came off slightly embarrassed as he ran his long thick digs into his raven-black hair. "I mean to change the time today since my flight to Atlanta got bumped up from late Saturday morning 'til about this time tomorrow."
"Were you two going to sign on the place today?" I asked, allowing my professionalism to dictate of my snaking trouser trick.
"Nah, I just wanted to look it over one last time before deciding on it. Like, you know, 'could I see myself coming home here or something?' I guess I can do that when I come back to town, huh?" He said with an undertone, as if he was seeking a parental permission.
"No," I anxiously blurted out without trying to sound too obvious about wanting to jump into his well-fitted pants. "I don't see any harm in showing you your future abode, Mr. Jones."
"Please, call me, Lester, it sort of goes with the testosterone," he winked, wanting me to ignore that his first name was really Leslie.
"Okay, Lester. I'm Fuller," I said, shaking on it.
Full of Lester, I thought. Skank!
By the time we got off of the twelfth-floor elevator, I was already regetting my decision to go against another rule in the Employee Manual about showing a cond close to closing time. While his charming personality seemed to contradict his arrogant good-looks and stature, the large band on his left index finger happened to suggest that he was not only off the market, but also he didn't even play for my team as I gave him my best sales pitch ever. (And, before anyone starts, a single gay man that messes around with a married man on the sly is so cliché.)
Still, being the professional salesman that I am, I once again highlighted the many perks of living right in the heart of downtown Seattle and the many amenities the condo itself had to offer. After awhile, though, I got the lingering impression that Lester was already sold on the luxury property and just wanted a chance to look around on his own.
If I had been more courteous than disappointed, I would've gone back downstairs and left him to his own devices. This, in spite of the fact that this particular condo was fully furnished by some world-renowned interior decorator, even if an iota of an item went missing, it was coming out of my lowly commission. So, in lieu of that, I left him alone to look around while I took up space moping around the couch.
"You're ready to go?" I asked when I saw him comeback into the living room.
"Not yet...if you don't mind?"
Hell yeah, I mind. I'm not going to get paid or laid for this shit.
"I know that you're probably anxious to get home to your family, but I'll like to take another look at this beautiful skyline from the balcony."
"Axel," I said quickly opening the door outside. "The only thing I have to get home to is my dog, Axel. I don't get my son, Curtis, 'til tomorrow, for the weekend, obviously."
"So, do you and your misses have any kids?" I asked dutifully.
Lester seemed to pause for a minute and look over at me. He was getting ready to ask me something, but his right hand happened to grip his left ring finger and laughed.
"I don't have any kids, and I'm not married," he said rolling his ringer off with his thumb. "It's a decoy to keep co-workers at bay. If they're not trying to score a quickie in the break room, someone is always trying to fix you up with one of their girlfriends. When that doesn't seem to work out, they always got a fart-face cousin or nephew or brother that they're always trying to hook you up with."
"So you're the one that my Aunt Ethel has been raving about?" I joked playfully.
"I guess so...but if I had only known."
"That I didn't have a fart-face?"
"Exactly," he beamed.
The two of us exchanged that look. The nonverbal version of "it's about to go down."
Before I knew it my hand was boldly reaching over the front of his pants massaging his budding crotch before adding, "At least this way, if it doesn't work out, no one would be to blame."
"Exactly what I was thinking," he said.
"Well, I was thinking of something else," I said, going in for the kiss.
It was as if I was in a race, getting on my knees and fishing out his stumpy dick from his expensive pants. Just like a fish in water, I swallowed him whole as if I had been waiting for him all day rather than just meeting him ten minutes earlier.
"Go slow," Lester asked in a low sexy rumble. He had said it as if we were going in a small enclosure instead of on the balcony for all of Greater Seattle to see.
Per his request, I started off sucking him slowly and deeply, trying not to get carried away with the many thick inches forcing its way down my tightening throat; though it was hard for me to fight the urge to bob up and down on his Heineken beer-can thick prick, I did manage to keep him moaning ecstatically with my curved tongue milking the underbelly of his mushroom dickhead.
"Keep that up," Lester boomed above me, "and I might just let loose in your mouth."
Oh, shit! I don't want that to happen.
But, while my mind went one way, my mouth went another, sucking him off like I was trying to pull a brick through a paper straw.
"Damn," Lester hissed, pulling out of my mouth with a large pop. "Let me make myself clear. If I unloaded there," pressing his dick against my pursed lips, "then I won't be able to use this," he said with a condom in hand, "and unload there," pointing at my covered derriere.
"So you want to fuck me?" I asked, naively, while at the same time being seductive by sticking out my tongue and fucking with his piss-slit.
"Most definitely," he said, matter-of-factly.
"Then, why didn't you just say so?"
We pawed each other, working our way back to the sofa, stripping each other naked along the way. I was spent and spun, losing any sense of direction, whether I was right side up or upside down.
"Oh, shit," I mumbled aloud, finally noting that I was bent over the sofa with the cooling sensation of a wet tongue and a gentle tug of the balls. "Get that fucking tongue up there!"
He did, pushing my buttons even more so by gently thumbing my perineum. And just when I thought his tongue couldn't drill harder and me, it did.
Even more astonishing was what happened next.
All I remember was letting out a deep pent-up sigh, and the next thing I knew, I had felt suddenly empty and relieved. I had come instantaneously, hands-free, on the sofa beneath me.
Once I realized what had happened, I was just too embarrassed to say anything else, as Lester let go of my draining balls and started to laugh behind my back.
"Couldn't wait for me, huh?"
"Nah," I said joking, in my sad attempt to save face.
Being that that had never happened to me before, I was unsure of the proper protocol that followed, seeing that I always had a hard and full dick on the rare occasion I got fucked.
"I can suck you off if you like," I offered, in lieu of a better phrase.
"Nope," Lester said calmly, as he cupped his hand under my sticky dickhead.
He once again pressed against my hot button, forcing me to shoot another wave of spoo from my cumhole as if it was creaming soap from a soap dispenser, and rubbed it across my throbbing spit-slick hole. "You're even more fuckable with your self-made lube."
Before I could say anything to the effect, I could here the wrapper of the condom being discarded on the floor as Lester masterfully rolled it onto his meaty dick. It wasn't even a moment later when I felt the latex sheath roll up and down the crack and then aimed dead center for my quivering hole.
To my surprise, it wasn't nearly as painful taking him as I thought it was going to be, but painful nonetheless. Nevertheless, my hole seemed much more open than ever, like I was some slut that just bottomed for the entire Seahawks team or something. And, just when I thought I was in for an easy and enjoyable carefree ride, I felt my gaping hole clamp on his dick like a vice.
The more I tried to relax, the more it felt like his dick was starting to swell, as if he was about to come at any second except the size of his dick in my cramped hole was not about to give in and come.
Holding my shoulders down with his large hands, Lester made the best use of the existing lube, ripping me apart with ease and battering my already tender prostate.
Lester rode me hard and fast, and for the second time, I was hard myself and practically easy picking for a no-assist cumshot. I gasped for air again, but to no avail.
I had to holler for this orgasm to come.
And it did—a load so powerful that it arrived with the howls and grunts of a popular rock start on an amped-up stage. He leaned in giving me a congratulatory bite on the neck, as his hard sweaty body down poured no mind.
Going two to none, I thought Poor Lester would've given in, sooner rather than later. But as my hole re-opened and clammed back down around him, Lester humped his way to slow, steady end.
When I saw Sharon at the second, high-rise location a couple of weeks later, she thanked me for going ahead and showing Mr. Jones the condo. I would've taken the gratitude as is, if she hadn't insulted my established "professionalism" by telling me that that was what a good associate does, pleasing the client.
"He took the condo saying that he had already established some good memories there," she noted.
"I guess he and his 'wife' really liked the place," I lied, hoping that he usually took his wedding ring routine on the road with him.
"Oh," Sharon paused. "The way I heard you two going at it, what good would a wife do? And before you even start to deny it, Fuller, a word of caution: The reason why the Employee Manual is against showing a condo near closing time is because it gives the cleaning crew plenty of time to clean the furnished condos for the open houses on the weekends. And they had a hell of a time cleaning up those streaks off that sofa!"