With my wife on a trip, I took advantage of the situation. Finding my way to a preferred hangout for the young gay community. Being a closeted middle-aged man, far, too, old for the place, uncomfortable surrounded by the beautiful open young people. Still, I had a hankering for something different. In the wild habitat, the flashing lights, the pounding music, I stood out like a granite pebble bordered by diamonds.

Amid all the confusion, I caught sight of him, gliding about on the floor by himself. He danced alone near me, moving in front of the mirrored wall. Wiggling, shaking his rump to the grinding rhythm. Soft, cute, and inviting. A young guy, maybe 23, possibly as young as 15, who can say. He had long, platinum, shaggy, blonde hair, framing a lovely feminine face.

The boy was young enough to be my son. Or, I was old enough to be his daddy. With a quick guesstimation, I calculated he was at least 20 years my junior, at best, at worst, 33 years younger than me. You see, as a 48-year-old married man, I was careful. But I always had a thing for young femboys.

Then again, the boy couldn’t be in the bar if he was that young.

This boi was a grade-A twink, exuding innocence, but the glint in his gorgeous, pale, blue eyes spoke of some sort of knowledge. His body was thin, with a narrow waist and lovely shapely hips. I envisioned his chest as having hard, budding breast. Of course, they were pecks, but I can imagine them any way I desire.

The face, without doubt, stunned me.

The lad wore pink and purple, print pajama pants and top, nicely showing his tight, petite body, and topped off his outfit with salmon-colored running shoes. In our moment of nonverbal communication, he understood my wants. Dancing toward me, he pushed a blonde strand of hair from one eye, placing the tress back over his ear. In his eyes, a devilish twinkle told me, he wasn’t cheap, but he was for sale.

Rubbing against me, standing on his tippy-toes, he stretched up, kissing my neck. Pressing his tiny body into me, he hugged me, and my rooster responded. In a flash, he glanced up at me, and his smirk turned more wicked. Putting one small hand on my arm, he pulled me out to the action on the floor.

The din of the music made conversation out of the question. I danced with the lad, guiding him to the dark recess of the back of the dancefloor. Through an archway, we move into a darkened room. A small tight place, with mops, buckets, brooms and dustpans, and a giant sink. Once the door was closed, I flip the light on. A dim bulb illuminated the space in a dull yellow glow. Shoving my hand in my pocket, I pull a bill out and hold it up for the boy to see.

He stood there, not acknowledging the money. Eyeballing me, and nothing more. I add another twenty, nothing, a third twenty, and a fourth. Once $100 staired at him, he snatched the bundle, hicking his leg up, he tucked the wad into his shoe. Kneeling, he unzipped my jeans, unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my fly, and the young twink worked my slacks and shorts around my ankles.

Staring up at me, with oh, so, fucking, sexy eyes, he ran his tongue over his full, firm lips as he stroked my plumping johnson. Kissing the tip, his mouth went around my prickhead, moving to the flare of the helmet, he sucked me, and all the air rushed from my lungs. The heat of his tongue and warm space covering my member spread down my shaft, and I came, so, very, near to losing my load.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he engulfed my manhood with his soft gullet. His lips inched down the pole, sloppy, wet slobber covered my prick, and when his mouth covered the fat base, the cockhead was in his throat. Seven and a half inched, all inside his velvet, sodden maw.

To read this story you need a Registration + Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In or Register (Why register?)

Get all four stories at Bookapy

Dynamite Boudoir Tales Collection Three

Millie Dynamite

$3.99