FULL LENGTH PIECE
ARTFUL PORN


Less is always more, John mouths to himself, his trim nakedness reflecting in a full length mirror- nineteenth century, original gilding, chosen for its innate flattery as much as the obvious antique value.

There was no escaping his given stature- lesser endowed. A subconscious bane.
But, thirty two and well provided for he is, and so rich his accounts read like hardcore porn. A rich white cunt. A bare fact.

To be fair, at five foot four, he’s beautifully proportioned. Sun kissed in all his creases. Everything being as it should be. Worthy of a passing glance but nothing exceptional standing out.

Discreet.

Not so his most memorable sex partner. The icon that escaped.

In John’s memory, Paul is six foot three, a manipulator of heavy goods vehicles. A myth in hardhat and dungarees. Not that the job was immediately recognisable in the gloom of Manbars’ backroom. A place lit only by mobile phones and cigarette lighters. A crowded space impossible to negotiate without some genital intimacy.
Sticky.

In Manbars’ backroom, John had let his nose guide him. Paul was wearing a retro Aramis- its woody pungency key to the remembrance of past exploits. Paul was wearing fresh sweated denim- a short sleeved shirt and belted jeans. Paul was lashed into heavy duty boots, boot blacked and glossy. John’s probing fingers found them all. Following the workaday seam stitching.

Flicking the tough leather laces.

Fondling the bulk of the smooth metal buckle.

Faint smell of stale piss and coconut.

Paul’s great knob end was an unexpected mouthful- bulbous, pulsing, uncut, clean tasting. Wonderful and scary.

As it goes- very cock-sucking scary.

That scary because the full length of its shaft remained unconquered- more than a handful, stiff with a vivid blood, its life force throbbing, rapidly pumping, then more rapid, almost robbing John of breath. John’s lips moist and trembling, nowhere near the desired target of enveloping this stranger whole. And the same-sex danger constant, thrillingly incognito, multiplying the spinal excitement.

John thinking fast, how to stop himself coming right now, and how to get this fit fucker into bed.

John gently abandoning the anonymous blow job. And, like a real gentleman, putting the saved package away. Re-zipping him, slick, practised.

‘Gee. Thanks buddy.’ the politeness intended, creamy, brown as caramel.

John whispering in the big man’s ear, ‘Incest in Cinemascope. How does that grab you?’ And the rest.

A home theatre, geared to screening porn in four times life-size, is a facility that almost always pulls.

The old ploy delivered again. And, in no time at all, John got Paul back to his eye popping estate in the hills, interrogated, laced with Sambuca and down to his snow white Calvin Kline’s, spread eagled in the green plush of the mansion’s basement stalls. Paul, a real man, married with teenage children, willing, able and at his immediate disposal.

On screen and flickering, some ‘twin’ eighteens smile, got up as farm boys and their so proud ‘father’ in a corn hat and not much besides. The action horny. The worn soundtrack full of silk skin on sacking skin. Panting. Squelching. Bum fun in surround sound. The smooth boys enjoying their less conditioned bear of a dad, his hoary cock a baby’s arm of veined flesh and saliva. His thick thumbs teasing in his sons’ pert rectums. Their Twinkie erections leaking eager pre-cum. Young guns on the brink of finally exploding gallons.

Rural