MotorCycling Hustling 4 by jared Disclaimer: adults only! no minors! Same-sex-theme story.
- It is still a young night by my standards, the bars haven't let out, and plenty of people are swarming around looking for fun in the city. My writer client the 62 year old gentleman, wants a quick bj---he says can only afford 50$ tonight, so I will be nice and throw in a poem I wrote out during my coffee break. He loves my sensual body electric----i sing praise for our worded companionship--- He likes it when I recite my poem naked, while he fondles my tits and ball sac-- his frail hands feel like thin skeleton keys clasping my small dick. I arrive and approach his door, where he greets me in a bath robe-a cotton ruby red garment, he wears just for the occasion. He ages well carrying a slender gaunt face, bony cheek bones, sunken eyes behind a gold frame glasses, a shock of white hair, neatly trimmed. I often count the wrinkles of his brow, as I lay next to him and nestle, before sucking his long aged restless dry dick, a frail member that tells many histories of gorgeous boys, throughout his writing career. I often think that I am sucking off another page of his history and will eventually get down to the core, of his member a tiny jewel of flesh to be found where he stored all his limbido in the early days. His dick is a miniature mummy wrap in layers of ancient orgasms, yet to be discovered by my excavation. So far I haven't been cursed by the awakening the pharaoh! Vincent is his name, a strong name for a aged writer, He kisses me, and I sit down on his plush sofa in the palour. "Well my gifted poet, what have you for me tonight?" "A poem about Homo-Shame!" Vincent places fifty dollars in my new pants, sliding it underneath the waist band of my new fresh white briefs. I feel the sudden urge to begin my poetry-strip tease, for him, as if we were suddenly transformed into a bar, where he is having a power lunch with me, I his author boy, except I am dancing for him, reciting my poem, he is my agent-sugar daddy---i must perform my best orgasmic verse to make him cum his pants. So like the pro i am-- I start stripping, line by line---i take off an article of clothing:
"Wounded drummer boy's face points to the
grey sky....my shirt flies open....
as the rain floods his bullet holes.....
my pants come down....
a distant mother's call embraces his heart.... my socks are stripped off...
Don't feel my shame---dear mother..... A hammer pounds down on her gentle understanding, turning the bullet into a spear--- my white briefs slide down----
"She stab's her son's liver.... His homo-shame--spreads as a black plague---- She grows into a hatred boil he can't reach through her ---a white rose grows from his finger tips..... sends her a thorn to bleed her, The son's love melts the bullet of shame- into his dog tag---- Mother weeps as the Homo-Shame becomes a bed of white Roses, for her to to send to the other weeping mothers---- His Homo Shame-----a contained virus, not exstinct, but dormant for the harsh future of parents who habour it quietly---and dangerously,"
My body dances and gyrates nude for my writer friend, he is in total awe and sexually charged, as he slowly masterbates, "The drummer boy's beat
rattles on in the victory of his platoon, His fellow men lift him high on their shoulders, and place him on the pyre His homo-shame is no longer!"
He explodes with a erotic howl! He grabs my naked body and forces my head down on his cock, which I take like a pro---in 5 minutes he explodes again and I drink his cum, a warm mix of human honey--salted by the sea-- i his boy bumble bee--- go buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz in my swallowing of his life force. He thanks me and shows me the bathroom, He takes my poem for a momento...... I shower and tuck him in and kiss his wrinkled brow, with the tenderness of a grandchild,boy I sure do hope when I get this old,I have someone to tuck my elderly frame. I only take 25$ from him,---a senior citizen discount, and place the other 25$ on his night stand. Sweet dreams my dear Vincent! Since it is too late for him to have a ride on my bike, I place one of his novels in my bike bag, and take this speed read through between down time, the title of this short book is "Crying on the Moon" it is a love story about two young males who seperate during a future war, between the race of men on the moon and earth. Sounds like a boring tragedy....I start humming "Moon River".....down the road. Funny the moon is out tonight, in half crescent!
Please read my other stories and comment as well, "A Brother's Keeper" "diary of a prison-work-boy" email me jared_00_00@yahoo.com