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"Oh fuck ... oh FUCK!"
Angelo looked on, smiling, his hand slowly working the cock of the hipster boy that lay naked beside him. The boy's head tilted back, unable to take in the rush of ecstasy his body was experiencing as Angelo worked the swollen, trembling cock like a pro, the side of his index finger rubbing back and forth over the lip of the boy's cockhead, the motion made all the more frictionless by the copious amounts of sticky-moist precum that were flooding from his member.
The brown-haired boy with the ten-o-clock shadow had never been worked so good, and before long, a full-grown lust monster took over, and the boy shouted desperately: "Yes ... YES! FUCCCCK YESSS!" And with that, rockets of sperm fired out of him, getting in his chair, then his face, and then down to his chest and stomach as they decreased in intensity. His panting was almost as loud as his orgasmic cries, sweat appearing everywhere on his skin. His heavy breathing slowly turned into normal breaths, but his very spirit wouldn't be so lucky, that orgasm having shattered just about every notion he ever had about pleasure. He reached around for his glasses on his night stand, and when he put them on, he saw his young Latino friend getting ready to leave.
"Oh -- hey!" he shouted, almost desperate, all while suddenly feeling weirdly embarrassed that he was naked. "Where are you going? What's ... what's going on?"
"I'm leaving," Angelo said, a leather jacket covering his bare chest and he finished buttoning up his tight black pants.
"But I ... I mean ..."
Angelo shot a glance to his latest conquest. "What, you want me to stay?"
"Yeah, I mean, especially after something like that, it just makes sense that ..."
"What? We kiss? I hear about your secret fantasies of boning one of the guys from Arcade Flames?"
"Arcade Fire, actually."
"Whatever. I mean, what do you think tonight was, boy?'
The lightly bearded collegiate lad looked around for the words he was trying to think of, slightly hurt. "I just thought that tonight -- as random as it was -- " (Angelo rolled his eyes to that) "was the start of something. Maybe something special, even."
Angelo took a heavy breath and a stern face. "Listen, I'm going to say this only once, and I don't care how hard it hurts: you're gay, honey. I know that's not what you tell your girlfriend, but judging by how you still have cum in your excuse for a beard, her mouth could never do what my hand just did. You're going to deny that you enjoyed this for weeks, maybe even months, and you're going to think that what we had was special. As you keep looking out for more guys to blow you and fuck you and turn you inside out, you'll realize that while women look for love, gay guys are looking for an honest fuck, without strings and without whatever you're about to say to me after I'm done speaking."
Visibly shaken, the boy struggled to make sense of what was being said to him: "I just thought ... I mean, I just thought that ..."
Angelo held his finger in the air: "I'm gonna stop you right there before I get bored. Drop it, move on, and whatever." Angelo walked out the room and walked down the hallway of whatever dorm he was invited into no more than 90 minutes ago. Right as he was about to leave, he heard the boy's voice calling from way down in the hall. Angelo didn't even want to turn around, but did so, seeing the pathetic newbie chasing after him in boxers with precum stains in the front, showing just how bad a boner he had earlier.
"Hey -- come back!"
"Leaving," Angelo said, turning and exiting once and for all.
"Will I ever see you again?" the hipster boy shouted.
"I'd worry about the cum in your hair first," quipped Angelo as the door shut behind him, leaving the boy all dejected and sad. Shame too -- Angelo really liked this one.
+ + +
An hour later, Angelo was at Swing, the local gay bar in town, sucking down another bottled beer, his eye darting around the room, lazily: nothing intrigued him. He recognized all the types: the recently-liberated jock boy reveling in his newfound status as a hunky sex god, the introverted goth types who didn't just fuck -- they practically worshiped the chance to suck a cock for way longer than necessary, and (of course) the guys over 35 who Angelo couldn't give less of a fuck about. He took another sip of his beer even though he knew he'd have to work out a bit more in the morning so not to reshape his already-sightly abs. Starting to feel buzzed, his eyes drew upward, staring at the lights above and how, despite his hundreds of visits here, he never noticed how perpetually dim they were. Was it mood lighting? Was it supposed to be (gag) romantic? What a weird setting, he thought. He took another sip, catching glimpses of "rubbers" (guys he fucked once and then effectively "thew away") and his regulars who became less and less interesting as time bore on. Angelo, once again, was bored.
He started thinking that perhaps it'd be more fun to go home, put in some poppers, and jack off to whatever was new on Xtube while making remarkably explicit Casual Encounters posts on Craigslist when he noticed someone sitting by himself in of the booths in the corner of the bar. This man was definitely older -- at least 40 judging by what he could make out in the soft-hued corners of this rainbow-colored watering hole -- but he was ... staring right at Angelo. Right at him. Like a target. Angelo's head tilted back a bit in disbelief, but the man's gaze didn't flinch, instead taking a sip of his own beer. Angelo would normally tease older guys like that by saying "Pervert!" in passing, knowing it'd piss them off, but something was profoundly different about this guy. The look he was giving him wasn't one of carnal lust or curiosity -- it was just ... knowing. That alcoholic buzz now officially reaching cruising altitude, Angelo thought "Why the fuck not?" He set his beer down and walked on over to the man's booth. As he approached, the man adopted a slight smile, but it was very faint, very controlled. Angelo stood at the edge of the man's table, striking a pose, almost.
"So what -- you like what you see?" teased the tipsy Latino boy.
"It's suitable," the man said, taking another steady sip of his beer. Angelo eyed his features more closely: thin glasses, his hair already graying a bit, his teal polo shirt assuredly showing a man who was not in "the scene" much at all. Still, the comment stung Angelo a bit. For a man who was lusted after by both gay men and straight women, this was the first time he could ever remember someone not falling for his spell right away.
"Suitable?" Angelo quipped, his voice drenched in sarcasm, "I'm sorry, did they you run out of WOMEN OF WAL-MART DVDs recently? That more your speed?"
"Not really, much as how 'bitchy queen' isn't your default setting either. In fact, it's not even a setting for you -- it's a pose."
"A pose?"
"Yeah -- it's a lot more fun being dismissive than it is being dismissed, isn't it?"
Defiant, Angelo said "Um, I've never been dismissed from anything, honey."
"And therein lies your problem," said the man, taking another sip from his beer, casually.
"What?" said Angelo, who would be in a huff if he wasn't so confused.
"Sit down, boy."
Angelo didn't take too well to direct commands, but there was something about the cadence in this man's voice that compelled him to figure out what this man's deal was. Angelo quietly slid into the opposite side of the booth, wondering what was about to happen.
"So, why is it bad that I've never been dismissed from anything?"
"'cos it's boring," said the man.
"How could a never-ending plethora of chocolates ever be boring?" asked Angelo, pleased with his choice of analogies.
"'cos it's repetitious Because you can have fuck after fuck after fuck, but what's really so good about that? I'm guessing that most of them are pretty average, right? Every once in awhile you find one that's half-way good, and you reward that boy with what? A date? One of your patented handjobs? Please. When was the last truly good orgasm you had?"
"Well, last week, I was playing around with this exchange student ..."
"No, that's not what I'm talking about," the man interrupted. "I'm not talking about the last really fun one you had, or even the last repeat visit you had. I assume you blew that heteroflexible boy you met earlier?"
"Who?" said Angelo, genuinely not aware of who he was talking about.
"The one in the Arcade Fire T-shirt."
"Oh, him. No, I just gave him a handjob."
"And how did he react?" the man asked.
"Heh, it was like he saw the stars for the very first time."
"And when was the last time someone made you see the stars?"
Angelo paused. On one hand, all he could do was wonder what the fuck this guy was getting at. On the other hand, he was somewhat stumped by that last exchange. Not one to show signs of weakness however, his bitchy queen started up again:
"You know, I don't take advice from guys who should be in the old folks home. Your time has come and gone."
"As has yours."
"EXCUSE ME?" Angelo shot back, vain and defiant.
"Yeah, boy. I've seen you here for a few nights now, and I've seen you try every flavor of man that there is in this bar. You're insatiable, and for that very reason, you're unsatisfied. You think you know so much about the scene but the truth is you're bored as hell, and that's largely because you're boring. Your primary function in life right now is to fuck and be fucked, and somehow after each climax you think, briefly, that you're happy. And then you go home to your bed, still alone, unfulfilled, downloading porn illegally because gay men have suffered for dozens of years so why shouldn't you get a well-made fisting video for free, right? You've been unhappy for years and you convince yourself otherwise and you don't fuck guys over how old: 30? 28?"
"35, actually." Angelo said, a bit flabbergasted.
"That sounds about right. It's a lot more fun to have playthings than it is to have experience or even meet someone who would know what to do with you but that invisible tiara you place upon your own head is ready to slip at any moment. You can sling as many snarky remarks as you want with me but I can clearly see that you're the shaken one, and however clever you think you are, I've heard whatever you're going to say a hundred times over, so you might as save it.'
Angelo's mouth parted, words ready to come out, but nothing did. Half-words almost formed, but the traffic-jam of information that hit his brain was just too much for him to handle. He wasn't sure if he was angry or apologetic or pissed or excited or what. After a minute of sputtering out barely-there syllables, Angelo finally said something coherent:
"So ... what ... do you want with me?"
The man grinned, and took his final swig of his beer. "I want to show you what you're missing.'
"And what, pray tell, am I missing?"
"I'm going to make you beg to cum with nothing but a finger, boy."
"Um, for your information, I've been fingerbanged before, old man," he said.
"Oh I know, boy," the older man said, getting up, "and what I want to do is nothing even remotely like it." He then leaned in and whispered into Angelo's ear: "I'm going to break you like a wild stallion, and you're going to love it."
The man, now standing, pulled out his wallet, and produced a business card from it. He handed it to Angelo and began speaking as he walked towards the front doors of the bar: "Be there, tomorrow. 7PM."
"Not tonight?" Angelo said, almost pleading.
"You're drunk."
Stunned by how blunt this man was, Angelo just froze there for a moment. Right as the man was leaving, in a moment of desperation, Angelo took a few steps towards him and shouted "My name's Angelo, by the way!"
"I don't care," the man said as the door closed behind him, not even looking back for a half-second.
Angelo didn't know what hit him: he sounded ... desperate "My name's Angelo, by the way!" Who the fuck says that? He knew exactly who said that: first-timers, rubbers, desperate scenesters. What the hell made him say that? What took over? He was so mad at himself right now. He looked down at the card in his hands, and it had an address that appeared to be just outside of downtown. A building filled with studio apartments if he wasn't mistaken. Despite his curiosity, Angelo made a solemn promise to himself: he would not show up at this man's apartment no matter what.
+ + +
Knocking on the door of the man's apartment, Angelo, strangely, felt nervous. His pants were the same from last night but this time around he wore just a form-fitting black T-shirt and put a little more product in his hair. He never felt this nervous about a meet before, but then again, this was the first time he was really at someone else's mercy.
There was no answer, no sound of movement, even, coming from the other side of the of the door on this building's large third floor. Angelo knocked again. He heard the echoes of each rapt sound bounce against the walls of an apartment that sounded very spacious. He stood there, waiting, impatient, and was about to walk away when the door opened and the man greeted him.
"Come on in," the man said, with a smile.
Angelo did, and the site was a dream come true: spacious and minimal, this massive abode had dark hardwood floors, kitchen counters made of white tile, and an island fireplace. It was incredible. The couches were also white, but aside from a few magazines on the coffee tables, there wasn't much in terms of decorations. There were a few bookshelves -- all filled with books that appeared well-worn -- a vinyl player, a large plasma TV against the wall, and a few art-deco paintings, but overall, the aesthetic was pretty direct. There were large wall-sized windows that allowed a small outlook over the city as well, which made Angelo feel like he was in some sort of movie. As he looked around in total awe, he failed to notice that the man had walked up right next to him with a glass of white wine.
"Please," he said, kindly matter of fact-ly. He extended his own glass out for a toast: "to our health," which Angelo clinked to without even thinking before taking a sip of the luxurious liquid.
"So," Angelo started, "how strong is the roofie you mixed into this?"
The man scoffed, smiling. "Oh please: roofies are used by guys who don't have a real shot at anything." Angelo laughed at that comment, largely because he agreed.
The guys made small talk while staring out the window onto the dusk-lit city below. It was actually kind of pleasant. Once the guys were done with their glasses, however, the man set them on his kitchen counter and then gestured with his fingers to Angelo, saying "Come with me."
Angelo followed and the man lead Angelo to another room in his studio, and in it, there was a simple wooden structure which housed -- a slightly above-ground-level sex swing. There was a small white credenza next to it, but seeing the sling was all Angelo needed to scoff.
"Really?" he said, turning to the man. "That's it? A sling?"
The man smiled again. "When was the last time you trusted someone wholesale, boy?"
"My name's Angelo."
"Again, I don't care, boy," the man said rather bluntly. "When was the last time you really trusted someone without question?"
"I'd say ... never," said Angelo, a bit of fire coming back to his words.
"Then trust me this one time," the man said, the proposition hanging in the air. Given that Angelo's take so far of this older gent was that he knew what he was doing every step of the way, he said something that he only previously said in desperation: "Why not?"
The man instructed Angelo to strip down to his boxers and socks and nothing else. (Angelo made some cocky remark about why the man didn't want to see his "massive" member, but the man cut him down to size simply by saying "Whatever you're about to show me, trust me: I've seen bigger.") Instead of getting in the sling so that he was face up, the man strapped Angelo into the sling so that he was actually face down.
Instead of being a relaxed, reclining position, he was at somewhat of a 45-degree angle, belly out, his whole body sagging from his arms, as if his ribcage was a pinata of some sort, just sagging there while his arms and legs held up the weight. There was a bit of a strain (of course) but it wasn't anything Angelo couldn't handle. Angelo tried moving around, but with his arms and legs stretched out at the angles they were, he couldn't do much in the way of escaping anything that came into his personal bubble.
"Snug?" the man asked as he adjusted one last strap.
"Yeah. I've been tied up worse," noted Angelo, thinking casual mentions of his own experiences might impress the man. The man looked at Angelo and then looked away, not even as much acknowledging the comment in question. Out of the corner of his eye, Angelo could spot the man grabbing something from a table that was set up nearby, and as he walked closer to Angelo, the boy could see what it was but only before it was too late: an incredibly sturdy leather blindfold. Without even asking, the man placed it over Angelo's eyes, adjusting the strap behind his head, brushing some of Angelo's jet-black hair out of the way as he did so. The man wasn't playing around or even taking in moments for himself as he fixed the strap tightly around Angelo's scalp, no: he was all about efficiency, which Angelo wouldn't admit frightened him just a little bit.
Angelo's vision was pitch black. The inside of the leather mask had these soft pouchy bumps that fit snuggly into his eye-sockets -- he couldn't even open his eyelids if he wanted to, but he wasn't necessarily uncomfortable either.
The man was truly limiting the boy's senses. Angelo could hear the sound of a wooden chair being pulled up in front of the boy. Angelo's body was tense, as all it was doing was simply swaying ever so slightly in the dead air of the room. He literally had no idea what was about to happen next.
Some 30 seconds or so passed. Then 30 seconds more. Then a minute. "Um, you going to do anything?" asked Angelo in a tone that simply oozed sarcasm. Nothing. Not even the creaking sound of the man adjusting himself in the wooden chair. Just, silence. As time pressed on, Angelo felt his body subconsciously tense up more and more, growing ever-fearful of what was being planned. The more tense he got, the more desperate the scenarios in his head spiraled, a rare tinge of doubt creeping in to his mind, thinking that perhaps he is actually in the clutches of a conniving serial killer or someone who wants to turn him into a full blown leather boy or was hired to do a number on him after he dumped some guy cold blooded-ly ("That's a word, right?" Angelo thought) ...
And that's when Angelo quickly shuddered "OH GOD!", his body spasming. On his left nipple, he suddenly felt this chill, cool cream get applied. A huge gob of it too. It must be ... moisturizer ... that had been refrigerated That was the only thing it could be. And now, it was hanging from his nipples and boy was it a shock to the system. Even with his black ankle socks still on, Angelo could feel the chill all the way down to his toes. Then, with almost the same level of surprise, a gob of the cool cream was placed on his right nipple. It wasn't five seconds before he felt both his nips jutting out at full attention. Already he could feel those dirty, dark tingles start to form at the base of cock, but there was no immediate movement. For now, it was all chill sensation.
"Now," started the man, his voice cutting through the silent air with authority and volume, "What was the deal we made last night, boy?"
"Ohhhhh," Angelo shuddered, his body still adjusting to its new nip-temp, "we ... we no you were going to ... ohhhh ... get me off."
"Nope, that wasn't the deal."
"You're lying then! You said ..."
"I said I was going to get you off with a finger, boy. And that's exactly what I'm going to do."
"Well," started Angelo, sounding like he was on the verge of another gasp of pleasure, "isn't the moisturizer cheating?"
"Not really," said the man, "as the only other liquids I need are going to come from you."
Angelo was almost scared, but that didn't last for long: the man's index finger was suddenly inside his Angelo's helpless bellybutton. The boy yelped. Even though he couldn't see it, Angelo felt as if he somehow knew the man was smiling right now.
At first, the well-manicured finger just stayed there in Angelo's bellybutton, but very slowly, it began to wiggle a bit, twisting around inside Angelo's sensitive tummyhole. A few boyish giggles bled out of Angelo's mouth. "Hehe -- stop it! Stop! That tickles!"
"I know," the man said, coldly.
The finger wormed its way around, the wiggling slowly and steadily growing intensity. It scratched the sensitive inside of the boy's button, but each little scrape of his fingernail unearthed a few more tickles than the last scratch. Over and over again, scratchy scratchy scratchy, tickle tickle tickle. Angelo's arms strained and flexed to try and get his body away from the wiggling finger, but nothing could be done: the finger was in there too deep, and it was tickling like its life depended on it.
Just when Angelo couldn't take it anymore, the finger removed itself from Angelo's belly button. A minute passed, and already, Angelo could feel sweat forming on his body. Then, out of nowhere, he felt the finger fondle his left earlobe a bit. "Hey, cut that out!" Angelo said, once again in a boyish fashion that surprised even himself. Yet the finger wasn't happy with his head movements. It went out to fondle that earlobe again, softly, before tracing behind his ear a bit, then playfully poking a bit on the inside. "Stop it!" shouted Angelo, through laughter, but the constant exploration of the finger wasn't stopping.
The finger's favorite thing to do right now seemed to be lightly flicking the lobe back and forth before exploring the ins and outs of the ear itself, poking around like a miniature bloodhound's nose, not caring where it ends up. All of this playfulness was still getting Angelo to laugh. The finger then went around to the other ear and did the same thing, fondling and fondling the ear like it was its own precious, ticklish thing. Angelo couldn't remember the last time someone was this playful, but for whatever reason, those tingles in his loins continued to mount because of it.
The finger then began tracing along the smooth sides of the boy's neck, but one it began running underneath Angelo's chin, he lost it. "Ahab get out of there!" he screamed as he did everything he could to bring his chin inward, but it was to no avail: the finger could travel wherever it wanted to, but playing with the boy's sensitive chin was actually tickling him.
"I got you by the hair of your chiny chihy chin," the man said, glee in his voice as he played with his toy. The childish talk, for whatever reason, was really getting to Angelo. After all, he was often the dominant force in all of his scenarios, so for someone else to be taking the reigns, much less treating him like a helpless child, was only adding on to the psychological torment, as if each degrading phrase somehow increased the boy's ticklishness. Tickle tickle went the finger, and no matter what awkward position Angelo put his face in, the finger somehow was able to scratch somewhere new and exposed at a second's notice and conjure even more tickles out of the boy.
Without warning, the finger left Angelo's chin and then dived right into the little mountain of moisturizer on the boy's left peck and began fondling the pointy nip tip with absolute relish. Angelo screamed, his body lurched to one side, but soon came back into position, the finger circling the sensitive circle of pink flesh as the base of his nipple, then tracing up the protruding center and then down the other side, doing this over and over again, sometimes wiggling around on the very tip for a few seconds just to see what kind of reaction it would get, before flicking the pointy mound a bit before circling it again. It was just constant nerve-ending stimulation.
When the finger jumped over to the right nipple, Angelo felt a wave of erotic electricity simply surge through his body, feeling it all the way out at the edge of his fingertips. His body flexed and almost leaned into it against his better wishes, almost asking for the nip to be played with all the more. Angelo couldn't believe it, but he felt as if his nipple was almost trying to grow larger. It loved being played with, tormented, fondled. In the back of his mind, he somewhat wished that the man had promised to get him off with at least two fingers.
The finger stopped its devious torment. "You had enough yet?" asked the man. Angelo, panting a bit, said, "What ... what do you think you're doing?'
Without even answering, a fingernail scratched one of Angelo's ribs no his right side. The boy let out a laugh. It poked and wiggled again, although this time a few ribs lower. Then it started scratching the side of his tummy. Angelo, ticklish as all fuckout, clenched his teeth together, defiant to laughter, but the finger wasn't having any of that. It jumped over to his left rips, wiggled there. Then the right ribs. Then the top of his right ribs. Then it traced a left rib back all the way to Angelo's sagging spine. Then the finger just began wiggling and poking wherever it pleased, finding great joy in the deep-seated laughs that could be found by scratching right in-between Angelo's ribs.
Angelo fucking hated this. His teeth were practically grinding against each other to fight off the laughter, but the fingers were too good, poking him in his vulnerable areas, scratching his sexy, sweaty skin, sometimes even working its way up into his hairy armpit, diving into the fleshy center and unearthing metric ton's worth of evil, evil tickles. Right now, the finger was doing serious tickle damage to his left armpit, twisting the hairs around before prodding and poking the center once more, and finally, at the very edge of sanity, Angelo lost it:
"HA HA HA FUCK DEAR FUCK THAT TICKLES PLEASE HA STOPHA!"
It was music to the man's ears.
Now that Pandora's box of laughter was cracked wide open, the finger grew ferocious: the armpits were now being prodded aggressively, a few new nip-flips were thrown in, and those terribly effective between-rib pokes all shot Angelo into a new stratosphere of sexual torment. He was almost dizzy, spending more time exhaling laughs than he was inhaling air, his brain and body now switched over to tickle-input mode and having little time to process anything else. Angelo was getting lost in this stratosphere of half-consciousness ...
... but a single swipe of his cock was all it took to ground him again.
So distracted by his futile attempts to contain his own maniacal laughter, Angelo failed to notice that he was sporting a massive boner through his underwear, and it was already dripping a bit of precum. The finger's smooth run against his shaft was almost like a slap in the face: it almost made him sober up. Before he could even realize it, a pair scissors was cutting off his underwear rather quickly, and before long, Angelo was naked in midair save for his socks. His large, fat cock flopped out, the air of the room surrounding his sweaty balls, giving him a sigh of relief after being cooped up in that underwear for so long. Angelo could sense the man moving, getting behind him, which honestly scared Angelo a bit.
Without warning (as always), the finger dove right into the middle of Angelo's gooch, that too-sensitive fleshy patch between his ass and his scrotum, wiggling and scratching and teasing away. The shock of the sensation made a high-pitch shock-laugh fire out of the boy's esophagus, all before desperate pleas of "No! Pleeeease stop!" followed, mixing in with reticent moans. The finger sometimes strayed and began slowly tracing the gooch down to the underside of the boy's balls, hanging there, exposed.
"I hope, for your sake," started the man, "that your balls aren't ticklish."
For the next hour, the finger teased and traced every curve and crevice of the young man's nutsack, sometimes touching the very bottoms of the balls ever-so-softly, sometimes wiggling their way up the glands that connected to the base of his shaft, sometimes wiggling in-between the two balls just to see if that cause Angelo to emit some sexy little laughs (they did). Dear fuck this finger was having a love affair with the boy's balls. After about 20 minutes of non-stop stimulation, Antonio discovered that, in fact, it was tickling behind the balls that got him the most, as that area was just so damn sensitive. Angelo had been naked in front of guys dozens of times before, but when the barely-touched back of his balls were teased like that, he felt something he had never felt before: vulnerable. Fully, 100% vulnerable. This man was controlling his eager, throbbing cock like a ticklish puppet, each wiggle and light fingernail scrape causing his member to throb or twitch or lift upward on its own, the tingles accumulating in his beet-red rockhead. By the end of that hour of non-stop ball teasing, not only was precum leaking out of the Latino lad, but it had formed a straight, uninterrupted line of the clear manjuice that went from his cock to the floor, where it was beginning to pool. Angelo, truly had never been more horny in his life.
The ball-teasing stopped and not a moment too soon. Every once in awhile, Angelo's blindfolded head would whip around, trying to shake off the constant threat of horny explosion that was forming in his skull. He sensed the man moving around, moving in front of him, and somewhat underneath him. The finger reached up and took a swipe of moisturizer of the boy's right nipple, and then rubbed that moisturizer right in-between where Angelo's cockhead the front of the shaft met. The finger slowly worked the moisturizer in, not focusing on any other area aside from that pinnacle of sensitivity. Stroke. Angelo took in a breath. Stroke. Angelo gasped a little. Stroke. Angelo felt his balls shudder just a bit, but not enough where anything was about to happen.
Then nothing.
Angelo's cock was practically begging for release, his entire shaft having turned as red as his helmet, the whole thing ready to burst if as much as a light breeze rolled through the room. In the back of his mind, Angelo was simply begging for a nipple fondle. Or a rib poke. Or maybe, oh please, a ball fondling? Please? That's all it'd need ...
"Do you want to cum, boy?"
"Fuuuuuck yes," Angelo said, sighing, desperately, defeated.
"OK," said the man, "but only under one condition."
"Yes, please, anything." Angelo was eager to get this over with.
"Once you cum, I get to play with you for as long as I want, no matter how much you beg me to stop."
"FINE!" Angelo screamed. "Just Make. Me. Cum!"
"Your wish," said the man, ever-so-sly.
He walked behind Angelo, kneeling in-between his suspended legs, and the finger did what it knew the boy liked best: it lightly scratch-tickled the backs of his balls. "Tickle tickle tickle," the man said, teasingly.
He lost it.
In one surge, Angelo felt his cock jut out, rocketing out a cum shot that was as intense as anything he ever felt. Instantly, tingles overtook every square inch of his body. The man's hand suddenly reached around to the shaft and the fingers wrapped around it. It began jerking the boy off mid shoot. The second shot felt about equidistant to the first, the sheer velocity of it making Angelo feel like he was swinging backwards. The hand, especially the the soft side of the index finger, began rubbing back and forth over that sensitive lip of the cockhead, the one that connected with the front of his shaft where the moisturizer was applied earlier. Except now that the moisturizer was worked in, that lip took on a bit of a rubbery feeling, and being stimulated while he was cumming was a sensitivity nightmare. The man's hand continued to jerk furiously as each shot of piping-hot cum came out, and as the pleasure shots died in intensity, the hand kept jerking. Slowly, the lightning bolt of pleasure that was Angelo's cock was becoming more and more a no-touch zone. His sensitivity was through the roof. The tipping point was crossed, and the boy began squirming.
"Please," Angelo said, "please stop!"
"That wasn't the agreement boy," said the man sternly.
"No, please, ha ha this is just ... he he too sensitive!"
"I know."
"No, really!" shouted Angelo. "I'm too sensitive!"
"I know."
"STOP!" he screamed, his body fidgeting with whatever remaining energy it had left.
"No," said the man, watching as the blindfolded boy's next thoughts were drowned out by his own helpless laughter.
The sensitivity jerking was actually tickling poor Angelo, and now his mind was lost in a world where "tickle" was the only word it knew.
+ + +
Angelo's torment lasted for three more hours. He passed out by the end.
+ + +
Angelo was once again sipping a beer in Swing, his leather jacket on, unzipped, with no shirt underneath, as per always. Angelo was looking around, looking for new meat, but right now, even the rubbers he once disposed of so fecklessly were now intriguing to him. That night with the man (whose name he never caught) was life-changing. For the first time in his life, he was at someone's complete and utter mercy, and the overwhelming desperate intensity rearranged a lot of things in his brain. He realized that even with his hundreds of experiences, there was still much to learn, and new lessons could come from any place. Angelo put the moratorium on his "over 35" rule for now. He'd take anyone who seems to know what they're doing. In fact, right now, he was ...
"Hey there, Angelo!"
Angelo turned around. It was that hipster boy from a few weeks ago. He was wearing a red flannel shirt that made him look like a lumberjack, but ... something was different about him. He had a confidence to him.
"Um, hey there," Angelo said, unsure of how to react.
"How are you man?" Dear gods this boy was excitable.
"Um, I'm good. How ... how are you?"
"Listen," the boy started. "I wanted to apologize for, um ... our last encounter. I'm sure I seemed desperate and pathetic to you, but that's only because, well, I was. It's ..."
"Stop right there," started Angelo, "don't even say another--"
"No no, let me finish!" the boy said, eager. "A lot of those things you said were ... very true. Very cold, hard truths that I had really ..."
"No," Angelo said, softly. "They weren't."
The hipster boy paused and cocked his head, curious. "What?"
"I was wrong to try and demean you like that," started Angelo, sounding more sage-like than he ever had before. "You're new to the scene, you're young, and a lot of the things I said were reactionary. I was playing the role of the stuck-up queen and I was playing it well. It was wrong to say those things to you."
The boy looked at Angelo, confused. "I ... those things were life-changing. I promise to never be like that again."
Angelo put his beer down, got off his barstool, and grabbed the front of the boy's shirt and pulled him close. "I don't want you to act like a stereotype, boy. I want you to act like you." He pulled him in for a deep kiss, and the hipster boy didn't know what to do, but somewhat leaned into it.
Their lips unlocked. They now stood facing each other, Angelo smirking a bit, which in turn caused the other boy to do the same. Angelo smiled as he spoke: "Tonight, I'm going to change your life boy."
And hours later, he did.
