I like routine. Routines get things done. They add some structure to your day, and make sure that you stay on course. Routine is usually better than its reputation.
I jog six times a week over to a wide staircase leading to a castle at the top of the hill, through a beautiful pine forest. Other guys do, too. We nod, say our ‘olas’ and ‘buenas’ but nothing else ever happens there.
I also jog to the stairs using the very same streets, lined with rows of beautiful houses, and upscale condos in the neighborhood. You meet very few people at the crack of dawn here. Those who live in multi-million Euro homes do not trot to work with the first wave of morning commute.
I saw a young guy approaching from the top of the street as I was slowly jogging towards my almost-daily thousand-stairs routine Sunday morning. Judging by the way he was dressed, he was heading home from a Saturday night party. A typical Spanish preppy dude sporting his Sebago loafers and a Ralph Lauren jacket atop his designer golf-shirt with matching tan chinos. I caught myself thinking that he looked surprisingly rested for the Sunday daybreak, though. Like one of the guys who showed up, had couple of drinks, failed to score, and found a quiet place to sleep till the morning while everyone else was drinking and scoring or at least, trying to.
Once I realized that he was slowing down, I did the same without really wanting to. There was no rush anyway. I saw that he was checking me out, and I returned the favor. With no one around, there was nothing to be shy about.
At the point where we were to cross paths, he simply stopped and locked his gaze onto me. I stopped, too. He pulled out a small bunch of keys, and shook with his head. Sure, he was not wasting his time, and his language was pretty clear, too! I gave him a short nod and turned around. He started speeding up down the road for half a block or so before stopping in front of small garden door. Keys at hand, he checked that I was following him, opened the gate, and walked in.
We quietly walked behind a very patrician-looking house with sandstone façade to end up at the back entrance which led straight into his study, bachelor pad one-big room studio.
I started massaging my crotch. He smiled. We had a deal. He slowly approached, and dropped on his knees. There was no time to be wasted. I leaned back, and allowed him to do his part. Many if not most guys enjoy a good face-fuck. But if you mess your timing, your game is ruined, too.
I looked down on him. The slurping sound and the perfect rhythmical action showed that he had a good mixture of experience and enthusiasm. I messed up his hair, and started giving him a push now and then. He would look up occasionally, pleased at both his and my pace. We were not going to get married anytime soon but we both had our mechanics of sex right.
Some fifteen minutes into his routine, I started thinking that I scored well on that morning. The cute, young guy was an expert, dedicated cocksucker who sure knew how to please his man. He read all my signs right, slowed down and sped up as I wanted him to. He barely used his hands, and tried to keep occasional eye contact. His deep-throating was nicely paced, and showed some genuine effort and appreciation for the tool he was handling. I started smiling at myself, ‘yeah, there are worse ways to start a day than by getting a good BJ’.
He came up for some air, and looked at me. I really had no further plans. He dropped his trousers, and handed me over a bottle of lube. I guessed he wanted to cash in on his part of the bargain, too.
I ripped a condom package open, and gave it to him. In a show of youthful prowess, he used his mouth to place the Trojan on my cock. He had done this before. But he was good at what he was doing. I find little pleasure of showing the ropes to the new guys. I have got other things to do.
He dived into a pillow to muffle any noise he was afraid to make, and used his hands to spread his ass cheeks. I rode in slowly, following the rhythm of his breath. We did not have a whole day to do this, but haste at the wrong moment can be the worst joy killer. He took it all with admirable determination of a guy who was racing towards a goal set a long time ago. I gave him few moments to adjust. A dude will signal once he is ready to take the good pounding. Impatient tops are rarely good tops.
My minimal motion was soon met with his counteraction. This guy knew the mechanics, no doubt. This was the time for me to take over. I set the pace, and he was breathing heavily in tune with my shafting action. Few guys are born with bubble butts. Most of these are earned in gyms. He had done his part to inspire his tops. It was my turn to show that I read him loud and clear. He looked back every so often, his brown buck-like eyes slightly clouded but not lost. I was speeding up, and he was working his ass muscles to milk my cock. I slowed down, only to speed up again. He started looking back at me more frequently. I saw the beginnings of that ‘please, I cannot take this much longer look’ in his eyes. I do not believe in cruelty, but I top on my terms. If the dude wants to call quits, and give up that’s all up to him. Few guys ever do this. Bottoms have their pride, too.
I went on purely for the fun of it. I was simply more experienced, and knew how to hold my shot better than he knew how to milk it out. But I watched him closely. I wanted to give him a full shot before he got to stage where discomfort would dominate his perception.
I pushed in with my final assault, and he dutifully started pushing back. His knees gave up on him, and I was now carrying the weight of his hips in my arms. I lifted his lower body and fucked him as if he were a rug doll for a few moments. He offered no resistance. I exploded inside him.
I peeled of my filled condom and dropped it into a waste bin next to his desk. He watched my moves, motionless, sated with his ass still in the air.
I blew him a kiss, and left.
Nothing has changed much on that particular morning.