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It was the early nineteen seventies in England, and I was working my first corporate job after university. I liked the job, and I liked my boss, and I was beginning to find my way around gay life in Manchester, my new home. However, I missed my friends from the college town in the south of England and regretted that I couldn’t easily travel to the East End of London on weekends to see my best friend, Chris.

Chris and I had been pals for a couple of years; partly because we were the same age, with the same interests in sports and entertainment, and a similar sense of humour, but mainly because we complemented each other sexually. I didn’t hear the word until years later, but “twink” would have been a good description for us both in those days, since we were young, tall, skinny, dark-haired white boys in our early twenties. We looked so alike that people mistook us for brothers, but there was one major difference between us, however. In “real life” he was a gentle sweetheart devoted to his Mum, but in the bedroom, he became a stern, dominating top; an ideal partner for this bottom boy who liked to suck cock and get fucked up the arse, preferably while in bondage.

I’d only made it down for one weekend with him in the six months since moving to Manchester, so I was delighted when my boss told me he wanted me to replace him at a sales conference in London. Since the meeting would be on a Thursday I asked for the following Friday off and arranged to stay with Chris for the rest of that weekend.

The sales conference was dreary, in the way such corporate affairs usually are, and wasn’t improved by being held in the same kind of anonymous, beige meeting room found in every hotel in every city in the world. As this was my first time, I concentrated hard on the presentations and took lots of notes for my boss, hoping he’d be impressed enough to send me again. However, while I was being “Mr. Keen” I’d been stuck at a table with my boss’ opposite number, an older man called Howard, from the company office in Birmingham. After telling me that he’d been to hundreds of sales meetings just like this, he spent the rest of the day looking bored while doodling pictures of naked women.

I wasn’t impressed, but since he was way up there in the company, I figured I should make a good impression. I spent the day running for his tea at the breaks, laughing at his bad jokes and pretending to be impressed by his stories of successful girl-chasing. The latter were particularly hard to believe, given his objectionable personality and nondescript physique. He was a pudgy, middle- aged guy with a big belly hanging over his belt, a ridiculous comb-over that only served to exaggerate his lack of hair and a face that only a mother could love. He was such an asshole that it occurred to me that the only reason I was there was because my boss couldn’t stand another meeting with him. I gritted my teeth and consoled myself by thinking about the evening ahead at the premier boxing venue in London, the National Sporting Club, courtesy of a corporate ticket.

I’d been looking forward to the evening from the moment my boss had told me about it. The fights, featuring leading international boxers, were held in a large ballroom with an all-male audience sitting at tables surrounding the ring; a posh affair, with everyone from the waiters on up dressed in dinner jackets or tuxedos. Most guys rented theirs, but luckily for me, my dad had recently passed down his evening wear to me. I was as skinny as he’d been when he’d bought it, so the suit fitted me like a glove.

It’s almost impossible not to look good in formal wear, and since Dad had bought himself a topnotch suit, I felt like a million bucks while waiting in our hotel lobby for Howard and two guys from the Cardiff office that were joining us. When I saw them walk out of the lift, I felt even better. I was twenty years younger than any of them and a head taller, slim rather than paunchy, had all my hair and was wearing a suit that flattered me, rather than badly fitting rental tuxedos.

Once we were sitting at our table at the Club, I gazed around in amazement at the crowd, most of whom were either puffing on cigars or gulping down expense-account tumblers of Johnny Walker. My companions behaved as badly as everyone around us, puffing away on the cigars, downing whiskey like water, being rude to the waiters, laughing at awful “fag” and “Paki” jokes and telling stories about pussies, tits, and cunts. I tried to tune them out and concentrate on what I’d been looking forward to this evening ever since I’d heard about it; the men in the ring.

The fights worked their way up the weight chart, starting out with the smaller men and getting bigger and heavier, making me more and more excited. I stared hungrily at the boxers, loving how their sweaty, muscled bodies glinted under the hot lights, and was so concentrated on them that I didn’t notice my glass being continually refilled alongside those of my obnoxious table mates.

Watching sexy young men, wearing just shorts and Büyükesat Escort boots got me excited, but also reminded me how much more I’d have enjoyed the evening if it had been spent with my friend Christ, rather than this stupid, bigoted threesome. Then, as if I wasn’t already aroused enough, the last but-one bout was announced and I saw a vision from heaven climb into the ring; a six-foot tall light heavyweight boxer from Nigeria, whose two hundred pounds of defined muscle and gorgeous face seemed to have been chiselled out of black marble. I’d been mentally drooling over the men before him, but the sight of this beautiful demi-god warming up gave me an instant hard-on.

Right from the start, it was obvious that his unfortunate opponent was badly overmatched. The object of my desire hardly broke a sweat as he toyed with the poor guy in the first round, knocked him down for a mandatory count near the end of the second then finished him off at the start of the third. With the fight being over so quickly, there was a longer than usual wait for the start of the next bout, and while listening to my table mates’ “expert analysis” of the fight, I began to feel light-headed and a little dizzy. I realised I’d ended up swallowing far more Scotch than I was used to. Telling myself to be more careful, I sat back for the final bout of the night, between two big heavyweights, which sadly turned out to be even more one sided than the earlier bout. The matchmakers were having a bad night, since it resulted in a knockout in the very first round, ending the evening far earlier than advertised.

I was far more drunk than was good for me, and with our hotel being a mere fifteen-minute walk away, I told the guys I was off to bed. That didn’t go down well with the others and Howard called me a party-pooping pussy, amongst other charming insults. As he said this very loudly while we stood with the rest of the audience streaming past us, I was embarrassed enough to agree to go for “a nightcap” at a club he knew of “just around the corner.”

A few minutes later the four of us stumbled drunkenly into a sleazy strip bar, complete with bored looking girls and humdrum looking punters. Since he’d dragged us there, Howard bought a round of ridiculously priced drinks and we sat down to watch a dreary floor show. This was my first-ever visit to a strip club, but with no interest in watching the girls, I soon got bored and started to look around the room. I caught sight of a bunch of younger guys at a table across the room, laughing and joking and making eyes at the strippers. Since a couple of them were serious hunks, I spent the next few minutes gazing longingly at them rather than the floor show.

Eventually one of them caught me staring at him, which made me look away and lock eyes with the barman instead, a young, dark and sexy looking man, who I could have sworn was cruising me back. Figuring I’d got too aroused by the boxers and the cute boys in the corner I turned to look at one of the strippers, hoping to calm myself down. Naturally, she took that as an invitation to walk over and start a conversation. She was good looking and pleasant, and most straight guys would have found her very attractive. But aware that her job was to sell the club’s overpriced boozed booze, I didn’t respond to her charms and eventually she gave up with me and decided to try her luck with my companions instead.

Two minutes later she was sitting on the lap of one of the Cardiff blokes and a waiter had delivered a bottle of cheap champagne to the table. As I breathed a silent sigh of relief, Howard leant over to whisper in my ear.

“Hey son, don’t be such a pussy. That bitch liked what she saw. Fit, well-dressed young guy like you; she’d have given you a real good time. I know people here; just say the word and I can fix you up with a real nice piece of tail.”

That sent me into a panic. I’d never been with a woman and didn’t want to be with one either, certainly not at some sleazy club in Soho. It was time to stop worrying about what Howard thought of me and just get away. I muttered an excuse about needing to pee and stumbled off to the bathroom. I took as much time as I reasonably could, and by the time I came out, I was glad to see that Howard was missing and both the Welsh blokes had girls in their laps.

As I looked around, hoping to see where he’d gone so I could tell him I was leaving, I caught the barman staring at me again, with the same sly grin on his face as before.

“You’re looking for your boss, right?”

“He’s not my boss, just a big wig at my company, so I have to be careful around him. Do you know where he went?”

“Howard’s a regular here and when he brings along a crowd along, the boss lets him take one of the girls upstairs. He usually takes about twenty minutes to finish up. If you want to wait, I can send a girl over.”

“That’s OK, don’t worry, I’m happy here. But I wouldn’t mind a glass of water; I’ve had far too much booze tonight already.”

While Elvankent Escort he turned to get me some water, the same young woman who’d failed to interest me earlier, walked up to get a round of drinks for the Welshmen. As the barman busied himself opening a new bottle, she smiled conspiratorially at me and said,

“Having a good time with Ahmed, are you, dearie? He’s a real nice boy, just like you.”

Ahmed handed her the tray of drinks and she walked back to the Welshmen, leaving me confused and the sexy Arab grinning.

“If you really want to know how a man ticks, ask a stripper; they know everything. Fay said to watch out for you, and lo and behold I notice you haven’t looked at a girl once, but you couldn’t take your eyes off that gang of cute boys in the corner. A girly stripper bar is the last place you’d want to end your night, am I right? And in case you’re wondering how I know, I only got this job because the boss wanted someone to just serve drinks, not fuck the girls like the last bloke.”

I grinned back drunkenly at him, happy now I was out of Howard’s clutches and in the company of another gay man. I told him about my evening at the Sporting Club, how the boxers had got me excited and that I was feeling randy as hell and looking forward to a weekend of sucking and fucking with my friend Charlie. Laughing, Ahmed said he’d offer to take the edge off my neediness, if he hadn’t got to work till four in the morning. But then he looked down the bar and spoke to a young man sitting on his own at the other end, who I hadn’t noticed till that moment,

“What do you say, Dan, know anyone who could help out a love-sick fellow in distress?”

In defence of my ignorance, the guy had been very quiet, the club was darkly lit, and I’d been leaning over the bar staring drunkenly at Ahmed the whole time we’d been talking. So, it wasn’t too surprising that I’d been blithely unaware of this other guys’ presence even while I was chattering on about sucking cock and getting fucked. I really shouldn’t have been talking like that in public, and especially not in such an aggressively straight place, but luckily, when I apologized, the bloke just grinned and said he wasn’t offended in the least.

Taking a good look at him, he seemed sexy enough, with a nice open face and what looked like a fit body under his clothes. Was Ahmed hinting that this cutie was available? I wasn’t sure that was what he meant, but if so, I was interested, especially when Ahmed continued to matchmake.

“Now come on you two. You’ve both been whining about not getting enough. One says he’s randy and desperate for cock and the other one claims his girlfriend’s just stringing him along. Well boys, here’s your chance to stop complaining and do something about it. Ben a cock sucker and I know from experience how nice Dan’s cock is. So, boys, what are you waiting for?”

I’d had some bad experiences with so-called straight guys, so hearing that the guy had a girlfriend almost put me off right away. But I was randy, and I was drunk, and I had to admit, the bloke was certifiably cute and had apparently played with Ahmed. At that moment, a bunch of new customers walked into the club, so our friendly gay matchmaker had to leave us on our own to talk. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I really liked the guy. He was as drunk as I was, giggling and laughing and telling silly jokes and a few minutes later I found myself saying yes when the straight(?) boy asked if I’d like to come back to his flat nearby for a “nightcap?”

We said goodbye to Ahmed and headed out. Being out in the cool night air sobered me up a little and I began to worry about going with a total stranger on the word of a strip club barman who I’d never met before. It was past midnight, the streets were deserted, and Dan had turned silent; was he regretting having invited me and was he getting angry at me or himself for doing so? What if that anger turned into violence? I’d heard far too many stories of gay men being beaten in similar situations. But if trouble was ahead, I figured there was one way to head it off. If he wanted a blow job, he’d get a real good one from me; I’d sucked dozens of cocks and one more wouldn’t matter if it saved me from a beating.

While I was telling myself I was just being paranoid, Dan stopped to unlock a door on a side street and led me up a set of stairs to his flat. Walking quickly through a small living room/kitchen area, I followed him into one of two bedrooms, where he turned to look at me, seemingly confused, as if having got me there, he wasn’t sure of his next move. After all, as he’d admitted earlier, his only homo experience consisted of being blown by Ahmed in a stuffy broom closet back at the club, and now he seemed shocked at how easy it had been to lure me, a stranger, to his bedroom!

One minute he’d been sitting at the bar, complaining to Ahmed about his girlfriend not putting out, then listening to some stranger talk about Beşevler Escort sucking cock and getting fucked up the arse. Now, less than half an hour later, he was about to get the blow job that his girlfriend wouldn’t give him!

When I saw him dithering, I figured I’d better take charge. After all, I was supposed to be the expert here! I shook off my jacket and asked him if he wanted to stand or sit on the bed. When he chose the bed, I dropped to my knees in front of him and before he had second thoughts I leant forward, pulled down his zipper and fished his cock out from behind his underwear. Once his junk was out in the open, I was quite impressed. His uncut cock unfurled to a good length and his balls were big and hung low in their sac. Starting off with those juicy looking spheres, I proceeded to give him, to judge by his own account, the best cock-sucking experience of his straight young life. Of course, since the only comparisons he could make were with blow jobs from unwilling girlfriends and quickies from Ahmed in a dark broom closet, I didn’t get too big headed about the compliment!

In contrast to my panicky thoughts on the walk to his place, I soon stopped worrying, hearing him moan happily while I worked. But just to make sure, after having heard too many stories of “straight trade” feeling guilty and turning nasty, I tried to keep him happy by deploying every cock sucking trick I knew; licked under the foreskin, then up and down the length of the dick, took his balls into my mouth first separately, then together, and eventually swallowed his stiff cock all the way down my throat.

Clearly enjoying himself, I felt him rub my shoulders and upper back and stroke my hair while muttering that he hadn’t known how good it could feel. In return I was getting off on the ripe testosterone-laden scent of a well-muscled body and the taste of big sweaty balls and a rock-hard penis. Complaining that the flat was “always too bloody hot” he pulled off his shirt, giving me a delightful view of some impressive chest and shoulder muscles along with an extra pungent dose of testosterone-laden body odour. That was the final straw, turning me on so much that I couldn’t help pushing my own trousers down to my knees, grabbing hold of my cock and wanking it hard.

I’d been sucking his cock for a good quarter of an hour or so when I felt his demeanour changing from gentle and passive to firm and active. Rather than let me continue working at my own pace, he grabbed hold of my ears and began aggressively pumping his cock in and out of my throat. Knowing what was about to happen, I waited eagerly for him and sure enough, a minute later he shouted ecstatically as a stream of warm, salty cum filled my mouth and slid down my throat.

He lay back on the bed to recover, with me still on my knees between his legs. He’d come, but as I looked up at him now, his dick seemed to be just as hard as before. It was as if his orgasm hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference. Meanwhile I still felt randy as hell and couldn’t help leaning forward to lick up the few drops of cum that still stuck to the dick in front of my face. When that got him sitting up and grinning at me, I asked an obvious question.

“Your cock’s still hard, and it stayed hard all the time I was sucking on it. Does the damn thing ever go down?”

“Yea, well, mate, I dunno, it stays hard for hours. My girlfriend says it wears her out. But that wasn’t a problem for you, eh? Though I guess that’s no surprise.”

In my experience, so-called straight guys often felt ashamed or guilty or angry after sex, but maybe because he’d already done it with Ahmed, Dan was showing no signs of post-orgasmic regret. That made me feel comfortable enough to start talking and eventually ask him about the flat and who his flat mate was in the second of the two bedrooms.

But he said not to worry, it was his older cousin, who worked a late-night shift at a warehouse in the East End and wouldn’t be home until seven in the morning. Hearing that, I stopped worrying about a shocked flat mate interrupting us and got back to concentrating on the stiff cock still waving at me from just two feet away. I wondered how it would feel going in and out of my other hole, but hesitated to ask, uncertain of his reaction. For most normal straight guys, a blow job was one thing, but fucking another guy up his arse would be a whole different ball game. But since he was still as hard as ever, I figured this particular straight guy (who hadn’t acted “normally” at all so far), might respond differently.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so drunk and so desperate to get off, I wouldn’t have got up the nerve. But, figuring I had nothing to lose, I asked him straight out. His dick was still hard, so did he want me to suck him off again or would he prefer to fuck my arse instead? He seemed surprised rather than shocked and it only took him a moment’s hesitation before he replied that he’d been wondering what it would be like to fuck my arse ever since he’d heard me tell Ahmed how much I liked it.

Figuring to get on with it before he got cold feet, I told him we’d need some lube, which confused him for a moment until he remembered a jar of Vaseline in the bathroom. By the time he returned, my clothes were off and piled neatly in the corner; after all, I didn’t want cum stains on my dad’s best suit the very first time that I’d worn it.

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