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Don smiled down at me as I reached to take his enormous weight in my hand. Where adult films tend to pleasantly exaggerate the gifts of porn stars, they simply did not do Don justice.
"How do you do?" he asked, one hand on his naked hip, the other on my shoulder.
"I'm very... impressed," I managed through a dry throat, smiling back up.
I was mesmerized as I knelt before him, studying the length and girth that lay in my hand. If this is what he carried flaccid, I couldn't imagine what he'd be like in a state of arousal.
As it turned out, I wouldn't have to wait long to discover. Don lifted himself from my hand and encircled his shaft with his long fingers to begin a slow, practiced movement back and forth. More and more of him emerged from his fist with each stroke, the head deepening in colour to an angry purple.
Nearby, Bobby was stepping out of his Calvins, kicking them into a corner. Gord was practically salivating. I'd later learn that Gord had long wanted to make a movie with Bobby but had never gotten the chance. Now, even if the cameras weren't rolling, here he was, face-to-cock with his fantasy.
In fact, this was even better: no cameras, no makeup artists, no stagehands moving lights and microphones. He was focused solely on one thing, and it was the magnificent, beautifully cut slab that was jutting out from Bobby's groin, swelling to an almost obscene fullness. He could have been used as a model for a statue, his erection thick and eager beneath a finely cropped bush of pubic hair, his balls hanging low, swinging freely as he took two steps toward Gord.
It's no wonder these were the guys of his dreams. On the screen they were still fucking, their pectorals and biceps rippling, quads and hamstrings shredded like stallions that they were.
This garden party was an endurance contest, and the others in the scene were reaching their end with loud, throaty cries. Soon they were slumped back, a weak cheering section for Bobby and Don, on whom the cameras were solely focused.
We were all frozen when it happened: Bobby pulled out of Don for the final time and peeled off his condom, and with one hard stroke he came with a vengeance, flooding Don's back with a creamy white river from his lower spine to the back of his neck. My jaw dropped open at his yield.
Rick's camera showed come trickling through the crack of Don's ass, dripping to his balls, as Don jerked himself furiously, growling as the sensations grew too much. Then he too was over the edge, one generous spurt after another stringing across his navy-blue towel.
Rick had known of Gord's fantasy; they had spoken of it many times, apparently, and maybe this was a little surprise he had secretly arranged for his good friend. Whatever, Rick was now moving back in tight, positioning himself directly behind Gord, his cock aimed precisely. Gord was hard enough to cut a diamond, and the daylight was rapidly disappearing between his face and Bobby's cock.
My head was swimming, and that's when I felt a tremendous heat against my own cheek, dragging slowly to my lower lip. I turned my head slowly, and felt the breath drop out of my lungs. Don was unlike anything I'd ever seen.
"Good God...." I mumbled, tilting my head back a few inches to take in the full view. This wasn't an erect cock, it was a freshly milled length of steel, exquisitely veined, bobbing in rhythm with his pulse.
There was a small bead of fluid weeping from the tip, and Don swept it up over the bloated fleshy helmet with his thumb, polishing it to a high gloss. He looked delicious enough to eat, so I did. I wanted to gobble him whole, but I was lucky to take half of him, my mouth stretched wide, my need growing to feel him paint my tonsils.
(to be continued)