There are some people who you take one look at look at and can never imagine them, under any circumstances, engaging in any kind of sexual activity. There are others who you take one look at and you can't imagine doing anything else. Even if they are at that moment doing something else, you know it's a freak happening, an aberration, an exceptional and strictly temporary break from what they're built to do, which is to go at it like a fucking machine.
He fell into the second category.
I dropped into the bike shop yesterday on my way to work. It took a while before he showed up to serve me. I'm a regular customer but I'd never seen him before. Shit no, I would have remembered if I had. He was so fucking gorgeous he was spellbinding.
He looked like a manga hero, with hair that was so black it was blue, a beautifully-sculpted face, and a musculature that made his clothes look like they were painted on. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved cycling top that fitted him just so. His clothes weren't tight in a constricting kind of way, they just looked like they were part of him, like they belonged on him, the way the skin belongs on a fit animal. Animal was the word for it, though since he was shorter than me I saw him more as a tough, feisty dog -- a boxer, maybe -- than as a racehorse. Animal was also the word for it because even though he looked and smelled freshly showered it was like he was giving out sex pheromones in bucketloads. He was one of those peple who carry an aura of unshakeable sexual confidence. He had a pristine sheen about him that looked almost too perfect to be true. Only his hands, slightly grimy, with less than immaculate nails, gave him away as being human and not a fantasy android.
I followed him around the store as he picked up my order for brake pads, cables, handlebar tape. He moved with a combination of easy grace and enormous energy. He wasn't built the way cyclists so often are, tall and lanky with scrawny arms and round shoulders. He was more of a mesomorph: he may have been a keen cyclist but he looked like he did other stuff too. Thick-necked and solid, he looked like he'd be fast and useful in a rugby team. He had a lightly-tanned olive skin and his forearms had a light growth of fine dark hair. No untidy wispy curls: his body hair was as perfect as the rest of him, just so, just enough to define the contours. I had only his face and arms to go on but it was all to easy to imagine what the rest of him looked like.
He went back behind the counter to swipe my credit card. I looked down at the machine and his crotch was in the same line of vision. I can't claim I saw much of what was inside his jeans -- not much of a bulge, just a slight assymetry -- but it was enough to feed my imagination and I couldn't take my eyes off it. If he'd been looking at me the same way he'd have got a glimpse of a half-hard in my spandex shorts. But he wasn't looking.
"Your receipt," he said crisply, shaking me out of my reverie. "Have a good day."
.....
Good or bad, I spent the day at work thinking about him. I couldn't concentrate on anything else. It's weird, he'd hardly addressed a word to me and there I was, obsessed. Fantasy started clouding reality. I thought about him so much I started to forget what he looked like. I needed to see that dude again.
So I dropped into the shop again on the way home. He was outside the shop, preparing to bring in the bikes on sale standing out on the forecourt.
"Hi." His greeting was courteous but no more than that.
"Hi. I forgot this morning - I need an inner tube as well." Not strictly true. All I needed was a pretext to see him again, but the inner tube didn't cost much and I'll be able to use it some day.
I paid cash this time, which denied me an excuse to watch his crotch past the credit terminal again, but I did it anyway. I still couldn't see much of what was in his jeans but I just knew that whatever it was, man, I wanted it right now. Then out of the blue I said it. Fuck knows where it came from, it certainly wasn't a speech I'd thought out before and I'm slightly embarrassed to tell it now. Even in my spontaneity I was probably slightly embarrassed, because I kept my eyes on his crotch as I spoke. Fuck, it sounds so corny now.
"I guess you must get a lot of people offering to suck your dick," I said, "But I'd like to add my name to the list."
By the time I did look up to his face, he was looking at me with a slightly crooked smile. It could have been a smile of derision ("You've got to be kidding. Fuck off, pervert") or of irony ("Yeah, sure, people ask me that all the time"). I realised that up to this moment his expression had hardly changed. Perhaps that's why he looked like a manga hero: that mask of inscrutability hadn't dropped yet. Then the smile faded, he looked at me as if weighing up the arguments for and against, then nodded and gestured me behind the counter.
The counter ran along the back wall of the shop, opposite the door. Anyone coming in would have seen a guy at one end, looking a bit distracted perhaps, behind a computer screen. Like millions of people at work the world over. What they wouldn't have seen is me, squatting just below the counter, unbuttoning his waist and fly. Although his jeans fitted snugly around the ass and thighs they were loose in the waist and peeled down easily. Underneath he was wearing white cotton briefs. His cock was not yet fully erect but was pressing hard against the fabric. I traced its outline with my mouth then, running my fingers around his waistband, pulled his briefs down. Liberated, his penis straightened and grew. I watched as his foreskin unrolled to reveal the glans. It was dark and moist and irresistible.
I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of cocks I've sucked in my life. Three out of courtesy or curiosity, and two because I really, really wanted to. Not exactly wild promiscuity for a sexual career that's spanned two decades, but possibly more than most straight guys. Now this made six in total, and here was the third cock that I really, really wanted to suck.
If you're reading this, you probably know the feeling. You're there with a hard, strong cock right in front of your face. You don't think of anything else but getting down and worshipping its power, paying homage to that pure essence of maleness. As I drew him into my mouth I ran my hands over his hard, warm buttocks. I let one finger stray towards his asshole, not sure how he'd react, but as I touched his puckered little hole I felt him lean back against my finger. I released his cock from my mouth and wet my finger with saliva then simultaneously started sucking him off again and slipped the finger into his ass. He was getting a little less cool and inscrutable now, breathing words of encouragement.
"Oh, yeah, that's good, Oh, man, that's good.'
I could hear his breathing quicken, his movements grow more random and urgent, I could sense the taste and texture of pre-cum on my tongue. "Someone's coming," he whispered. "Yeah, go for it, I said." "No," he said, "I mean there's someone coming into the shop."
I raised my head to just above the level of the counter and saw a young woman, maybe 18 or 20 years old, on the forecourt outside the shop, working along the line-up of bikes. She was moving slowly, with an air of shyness and indecision: I figured we had time to finish the job before she got to the shop, if ever she got that far.
With one hand I pulled his foreskin back hard and resumed sucking him, and I slipped two fingers of the other hand up his hole. I was pumping my mouth up and down his shaft, taking it all in and wanting more, and he was leaning back onto my exploring fingers. Someday he's gonna want more up that little hole, I thought. But not just yet. Then I felt his ass tighten, his cock twitched and stiffened even more, and eight or nine powerful jets of spunk flooded my mouth. I swallowed. It went down smooth and surprisingly cool.
The door opened and I heard the girl walk in. I quickly licked the spit and cum off his cock and left him to button up his jeans.
Fuck, how was I going to get out of this one, I thought. I couldn't just pop up from under the counter. Still down on hands and knees, I backed out as if searching the floor for something. I saw an old handlebar grip in a dusty corner and picked it up.
"Found it!" I said out loud, standing up and holding up the grip like a trophy. "Right, thank you, I'll see if that fits." It was a pantomime that probably wouldn't have fooled anyone but, fuck, what should I care?
"OK", he said then, turning to the girl, "Hi. Can I help you?"
I left him to his business but he followed me to the door. "Nice blowjob, man," he said quietly. "Come again." It was great to hear that. As I got on my bike he added "I owe you one", and you can imagine how that made me feel.
As I left I looked at the girl, asking him about bikes. Her body language, the way she looked him up and down, suggested that in her shy way she had the same thing in mind that I had. All I hope is that he enjoys having that sexual power, the kind of power that those of us who don't have it, or don't know they have it, can only dream of. Lucky bastard. I'll try to get to see him again next week.