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Fabio, Chance and The Giant Thing.

(Part 1 from 1)

Fabio is 25, 6’2, 195 pounds,” Kevin, our dispatcher will tell you. “Blue eyes, brown hair, moderately hairy and 8 inches cut and he’s a top.”

I’m really 32, my name isn’t Fabio and I have six and change solid working inches with a nice big head on it-- but the rest is true. I am a professional boyfriend and if you’re in NYC and if you can afford it I can be your boyfriend too, for an hour or so. I’m with an agency called The Stable that harnesses male “talent’ and sends them out to stud an upscale, elite clientele. I freelance too but it’s nice to have the agency fall back option, since it’s the last agency left.

I was a starving actor until I stumbled into being an escort. I was on a hook up site chatting with a guy and he said, “How much to book a date with you?” Bingo! I realized I had something I could sell and I started selling it. The money is good, the hours are unbeatable and for the first time in my life I have a nest egg.

This my last year. I want to quit while I’m ahead before I get marked down or put out to pasture. Another hundred hungry young studs get off the train every day ready to push me out of the way. But they don’t know what I know: how to read a man and give him what he wants. A surprising number of times all a guy wants is to be held in another man’s arms and listened to.

I get a text from Kevin one rainy autumn afternoon and take a cab to my assignment, a bleak soulless tower in the East 80’s near Third Avenue. I’m going to the penthouse where I’m supposed to do a double with a new guy I haven’t met yet. The client is “Max” and the doorman announces me. He’s got on the uniform, cap and a whistle around his neck. I ride the forty floors up in a mirrored elevator and adjust my meat so the big head of my cock is strategically visible. The penthouse door is open.

“Come in!” a gravelly voice barks. I stepped into a cavernous white room with a few unremarkable pieces of furniture scattered about. It’s all about the view because one wall is all windows with dizzying misty view of the East River, Roosevelt Island and everything beyond.

A burly, balding man in his mid-fifties enters the room and I recognize him immediately. He is a Broadway producer, a Tony winner and his name really is Max. I’ve seen him at cattle calls when I was just another piece of actor meat up for a part so he won’t recognize me. He’s built like a built, wearing a red flannel shirt and expensively distressed jeans. Tanned and healthy looking, he has spray of fine red hair across his scalp and red fur tufting out of his shirt. He takes care of himself or makes sure he gets taken care of. His face is full, pleasant and determined.

Max pins me against a wall and kisses me, his tongue rooting around where my tonsils used to be. I feel his roaring hard on through his jeans. This guy knows what he wants. His big hands squeeze my basket and dig into my ass. He pulls me off the wall, his mouth still clamped on mine and we topple onto an enormous white leather couch. He almost pokes a hole through my jeans and fucks me dry with his fat cock. I guess he’s reliving his teenage backseat days with Betty Sue or Cornelius. He takes a breath. I break loose and stand up.

“Strip!” Max barks.

I do.

Max rips open his shirt and exposes his full hairy muscular chest. He sits back on the couch with his mouth open, eyes wide and stroking the fat rosy cock he’s yanked out of his jeans.

“Yeah. You’ll do fine. Just fine,” he says and pulls me toward him. He dives on my cock and gobbles it. Max is a hungry daddy. The buzzer sounds. Max curses and goes to the intercom.

“Send him up!” he barks and tears off his shirt, tossing it on the floor. He has the powerful back of a steelworker. He has muscle to go with that attitude. The doorbell rings and Max points at me. “Sit!”

“Hi. I’m Chance from The Stable. I’m sorry I’m late but I’m using my dad’s car and if I don’t let it warm up enough, it always conks out on me.” I hear his flat, earnest voice before I see him but right off the bat I don’t like him. He sounds like a loser and he may ruin this gig for me.

“Holy shit!” Max says, “You were in the lobby like that?”

“Like what?” the clueless voice asks.

Max looks tiny as he holds him by the elbow, holds his platinum blond giant by his enormous bronzed elbow. His hair is 90’s rock star wild and frizzed down to his shoulders—and his shoulders are everywhere. A book bag hangs off one of them. He is the biggest man I have ever seen in person. Enormous bronzed pecks spill out of the pink satin jacket he wears unzipped to the navel, exposing the hard won architecture of his perfect abs and narrow waist. This guy is like a walking infomercial for Nutra…..anything!

He’s wearing lime green, skin tight anchor shorts that look like spandex and they barely contain his cartoon superhero thighs. The bulge in the center makes it look like he’s trying to smuggle a puppy into a No Pets building. Beneath the platinum bangs I see green eyes and a good natured smile. I’m waiting to hear how old he says he is because I clock him at 35 minimum. He offers his big hand. I want to say, Really, Bro? Bangs? But I shake his hand.

“You must be Fabio. I’m Chance. It’s going to be a pleasure working with you.”

Max snaps his fingers and barks, “Showtime!”

He pushes us into the bedroom which is unfurnished except for a big gray platform bed and a wall wide entertainment system. Chance plunks himself down on the bed and Max and I exchange glances, as if to say, what the fuck is this thing and how do we unpack it? We get on either side of Chance and pull off his jacket while he grins. We each take one of his giant pecs and gnaw at his aroused nipples and he sighs. He has us both clamped in headlocks with his monster arms. Max’s hands meet mine rooting around Chance’s big, stirring basket, then Max pulls at the skin tight shorts.

“Let me do that,” Chance says. He stands, his back to us, as he peels off his second skin. Max and I exhale at the same time; that is one big beautiful ass: round, firm and rippling. You want to bury your face and then your cock in it for a few days and just order room service. Max and I look at each other and smile. This will work.

Chance turns around and the front view is just as nice, a good solid dick with some heft and character and big smooth balls like melons. Max dives on the pretty cock and I aim for the melons. Chance lies back on the bed and pats each of on our industrious heads, like the good boys we are.

I scorch down and push up the massive thighs to get a better shot at those balls. Max helps me get the thighs aloft and I get a peek at Chance’s man hole. It’s pretty in pink too, looking tight and tasty with a few blond hairs protecting the winking jewel.

Max has Chance’s swelling cock in his mouth and is puffing some life into it. He switches his torso so that he can put his stiff, straining cock in Chance’s mouth. Chance kisses it.
Chance’s balls are so big I can’t get one into my mouth so I work my tongue around and around them, feeling them shift and tighten under my care. He spreads his legs and now it’s a clear shot to that munchable, fuckable hole.

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Oh yeah.
I start tonguing my way down to the steamy treasure, lapping at the swelling musky golden patch just above it. The sweet, clever hole winks at me. I run my tongue around it and Chance sighs and works his hips to accommodate my steady assault. My tongue works its way into his steamy, fragrant man crack in my journey to the center of his being. I want it all eased up and ready for the pounding my cock will give it and maybe, if I’ve done my job, Max can push his way in at the same time with his rock-hard daddy dick.

I get a tap on the shoulder. It’s Max. Oh yeah. I forgot who was paying for party. I lift my head and follow Max’s nod to the sight of Chance nibbling delicately at Max’s cock as if he’d never seen one before and doesn’t know what to do with it.

I have to do something. I stand and pull Max up with me and plant my mouth on his. He drinks in the taste of Chance’s tangy crack on my lips and his powerful tongue roots around for more. Then Max pushes my head down and I descend his brawny, furry body slowly letting my tongue leave a juicy trail on his solid frame. I get whiffs of good, expensive soap mixed with prime beef in his crackling ginger pubic hair. One hand cups his tight furry balls and I slowly work his solid, throbbing cock into my mouth, inch by inch, taking my time to give this rich, powerful, sexy man his money’s worth. It’s a good, satisfying cock to suck, just the right heft to fill your mouth without being obnoxious. I know this means if I cross paths with Max at an audition I will never get the part, even if it’s my life story. With his cock in my mouth I think I might hum my go-to audition song, Soon It’s Gonna Rain from The Fantasticks for him (I played the boy at the Secaucus Rep). But nah, I just like sucking Max’s sexy daddy dick and this is my job right now.

“Yeah, boy,” Max barks. “Show this guy the right way to suck a dick.”

Chance lies back on the bed and watches us intently, nodding his head and absentmindedly pulling at his cock. He’s taking mental notes. I half expect him to raise his hand and ask a question.
“Nice,” he murmurs. He leans forward and puts his face right up to the junction of Max’s cock and my mouth; then he kisses me on the cheek. He falls back on the bed and spreads out, then he lifts his mighty thighs and shows us his pretty, winking fuck hole and breaks our concentration.

Max and I both try to squeeze in between Chance’s thighs at the same time. We both want to get inside him. Maybe, just maybe, we both can but for now, I yield. The customer is always right so Max buries his face in Chance’s hot hole and grunts like a bull.

“My bag,” Chance says to me from behind a massive thigh.
“Huh?”
“Reach into my shoulder bag,” Chance says to me.

It’s a soft black leather Vicuna Polo bag. I feel around in it, snack bars, a bottle of water, moisturizer and then something long, thick and cool lying at the bottom.

“Yes. That’s it,” Chance says. “Take it out.”

I pull out a cucumber, a giant mutant cucumber, 20 something inches long and almost as thick as a boy’s fist. Max and I stare at it.

“Use it, please,” Chance says.

Hmmm. I run the cucumber up and down and all around his crack. He sighs and his pliant hole puckers and expands inviting the long, thick insanely substantial vegetable into his downy, warm interior. When I diddle his hole with the tip of the cucumber he gasps.

“Spit on it, please.”

I do.

“You spit on it too, please, sir,” Chance says to Max. Max’s gob joins mine.
I put the dense deep green tip of the cuke at Chance’s sweet hole and nudge it forward. In one smooth move, Chance’s colossal legs are over his head and his hands clasp his ankles. His magnificent muscled ass is wide open country now.

“Work it in,” Chance says and I twist the cucumber in like a corkscrew, slowly, steadily. Chance’s amazing hole accommodates it and his hips shudder with each millimeter of interior progress. Everything on this stud is developed, even his sphincter muscles.

Max leans in to get a better look at the phenomenon and his eyes are wide. He grabs the cucumber, spits on it again and pushes it deeper into Chance’s ass. The fat vegetable squeaks as it parts Chance’s inner chamber and Chance squeaks a little too. He’s got at least 16 inches of hot produce in his ass. Max lets go and we both step back and look at the cucumber stuffed so pleasurably in Chance’s amazing, gasping man hole.

“Get down there and use your mouth on it,” Max barks.

Why the fuck not? It’s his dime and this is interesting, not the usual pump and dump. It will be good for the memoir.

I clamp my chops over the cucumber and push it deeper into Chance. Then I pull halfway out and slam it back in again. I’m fucking him with the cucumber in my mouth, refreshing cucumber juice drips down my throat. Max is beating his sturdy meat hard and Chance’s big balls are flopping up and down and slapping my face. Chance pumps his own cock as his sphincter tightens around the smoking cucumber jammed in his ass.

A missile of jizz shoots out of his engorged tool and hits the gray wall behind him with a splat, more missiles hit his face, his mouth, his chest and his pumping hole spits out the cucumber and it knocks me back on my ass. Max’s swollen dong squirts a sizzling load across Chance’s glorious chest and some residual hot dollops land on my back. I stand and straddle Chance’s chest. I pump my load across his face and neck as his eyelids flutter in ecstasy.

The three of us tumble onto the bed and laugh our asses off. Max goes somewhere and comes back with three chilled bottles of pricey beer, Hill Farmstead Abner, from Vermont. Chance, of course, declines. No alcohol will ever enter his sacred temple, which cucumbers have penetrated. Good for him. I drink his beer too.

Chance pads off to the bathroom, his gorgeous ass deserves a drum roll as we watch his mighty globes bounce and his back is roadmap of perfect musculature and years of hard work. Max and I look at each other, shrug and start to laugh again. When Chance returns, it’s time to break up the party and tally up. Max gives us each a nice tip (one of his Broadway shows is always sold out) and a hug. This was a good gig.

Chance and I ride the 40 floors down in silence until his says, “Thank you.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“I would like to talk to you some more. Can I give you a ride?”
“You have a car?”
“Yes,” he says.

It’s raining so getting a cab will be tough and I wouldn’t mind skipping the subway.
“Okay.”
“Great,” he says and holds out his hand. “Hello again. My real name is Chester.”

*** End of Part One

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