Do What You Love

I’d just quit a job I knew I’d hate and was drifting, feeling that familiar pull toward places where older men hunted for boys like me. I found it in an upscale bar, dark wood, quiet music, the kind of spot where a guy in a suit could look you over without being obvious. I was small for my age, with a soft face and what more than one man had called a “cocksucker’s mouth”—full, sensitive lips, a wide, wet tongue. I knew my appeal: if you were straight and wanted head, boys like me were easier, no strings, no games. It wasn’t long before he sat down, introducing himself as Marcus. I gave him my real name, Alex. I loved hearing them moan it.
“Do you like older men?” he asked, his voice low, confident.
“Only if they look like you,” I answered, leaning in.
He smiled. “Good. Because I have a very specific need tonight. I want a mouth for the night. Yours. Are you available?”
“For you?” I let my tongue flick over my bottom lip. “All night.”
We left without another word. His penthouse overlooked the city lights, sterile and expensive. He poured two glasses of whiskey and sat opposite me, his knees almost touching mine. Then he began to describe it. His obsession. Not just a blowjob, but a ritual, a precise, choreographed act of worship he’d been perfecting in his mind for years. He’d used professionals, high-end call girls, but they couldn’t follow his script. They rushed, they improvised, they ruined it. He needed someone who would listen, obey, and become the living embodiment of his fantasy. He wanted to own me for the night, and to make it real, he slid a thick envelope across the table.
“I don’t take money,” I said, pushing it back.
“Don’t think of it as payment,” he replied, his voice dropping. “Think of it as a prop. It lets me do whatever I want. It gives me the right to use you. Take it. Burn it afterward if you’re uncomfortable. But I need to feel I’ve bought you.”
The word “bought” sent a shiver through me. I agreed, with one boundary: oral only. He nodded. “That’s exactly what I want.” Then he asked, “Do you get high? It enhances the pleasure, lets me stay on the edge for hours.”
“Are you kidding?” I grinned. “I’d love to get stoned with your cock.”
He produced a small wooden box and packed two bowls of weed that smelled like pine and lemon. We smoked, the smoke curling around us, the buzz sinking deep, melting my edges until I was pliant, eager, floating in a haze of lust and anticipation. “Ready for your close-up, Marcus?” I teased, my voice husky.
He laughed, a low, rumbling sound. “On your knees.”
I sank to the floor onto the silk pillow he’d placed there, the fabric cool against my skin. He stood over me, a full foot taller, and began to undress with deliberate slowness. His jacket came off, then his tie, cufflinks clinking as he dropped them on the table. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a broad, hairy chest, a firm belly, powerful arms dusted with gray. He kicked off his shoes and slid his slacks down, leaving him in tight white briefs that strained to contain a thick, heavy bulge.
“Tease me,” he ordered. “Through the fabric. Use your face, your mouth. Make me feel it.”
I leaned in, pressing my cheek against the cotton mound, inhaling his musk mixed with expensive cologne. I kissed the shape of his shaft, my lips parting to suck gently through the fabric, my tongue tracing the ridge. I mouthed his balls, blowing hot, damp breath until the cotton darkened with my saliva. His breathing hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
“Pull them down,” he said. “Slowly.”
I hooked my fingers into the waistband and peeled them away, his cock springing free—thick, uncut, hanging heavy over a loose, hairy sack. The head was already swelling, a deep purple, the tip glistening. He stepped closer, his dick an inch from my lips, the heat radiating off him.
“Hold my ass,” he commanded. “Lick everywhere but my cock. My legs, my stomach, my thighs. Then, when you’re ready, kiss it. Lightly.”
I gripped his firm, smooth ass, my fingers digging in slightly as I began at his belly, dragging my tongue downward in a wet stripe. I licked his thighs, avoiding his shaft, nuzzling the crease where his leg met his groin, tasting salt and skin. I traced his pubic hair, my face brushing against his cock, feeling it twitch against my cheek. I sucked the tender skin of his inner thighs, my moans muffled against him. His breath came in ragged gasps.
“Now my balls,” he directed.
I ducked under him, tilting my head back, and took his sack into my mouth, sucking gently, rolling his testicles with my tongue. The skin was loose, hot, and tasted of raw musk. I bathed every inch, my saliva coating him, my hands still gripping his ass, pulling him closer. He moaned, louder this time, his hands tangling in my hair.
“Perfect,” he breathed. “Now take my dick in your hand. Lick underneath, from my balls to the head. When you get to the head, stay there. Work that spot until I say stop.”
I wrapped my hand around his thick shaft—my fingers didn’t quite meet—and began licking upward, inch by inch, my tongue flat and wet. When I reached the sensitive ridge under his head, I pressed my lips there, sucking gently. He gasped, his hips jerking forward. I flattened my tongue and worked the skin, alternating between soft licks and firm suction, my free hand massaging his balls.
“Right there… just like that,” he groaned. “Don’t stop.”
I kept going, my tongue flicking, my lips sucking, until he was panting, his body trembling. After a few minutes, he said, “Trace the ridge under my head with your tongue. Slowly. All the way around.”
I circled the broad rim, my tongue tip exploring every contour, feeling the pulse of his arousal. He watched, transfixed, his eyes dark with lust. “Open your mouth,” he ordered. “Tongue out. Don’t move.”
I obeyed, my mouth wide, my tongue wet and waiting. He took my head in one hand, his cock in the other, and began rubbing the underside along my tongue, controlling every movement. His body twitched, his breathing ragged, his eyes locked on his dick sliding over my tongue. He edged himself, his hips rocking slightly, his moans growing louder. I stayed perfectly still, my eyes begging for his cum, my whole body thrumming with need.
“Not yet,” he whispered, pulling back. “Lick my balls. All over.”
I bathed his sack again, my tongue lapping, my lips sucking, tasting the sharp, pre-cum-like musk that coated him. “Let’s take a break,” he said, his voice hoarse.
We sat on the sofa, smoked another bowl, the buzz thickening, blurring the edges of the room. I stared at his erection, my mouth watering. My mind raced: how would he finish? Where would he cum? How much would he give me? I knew he’d choreograph every second, and I was ready to be his instrument.
“Ready for scene two?” he asked.
“Yes,” I breathed, my voice shaky.
He stood by the pillow again, his cock rigid, veins bulging. “Kneel. Lick under the head like before.”
I did, and he began pulling the skin up and down. “Each time I push, suck the skin in. When I pull back, use only your tongue.”
We fell into rhythm, his hips rocking, my mouth obeying. He whimpered, his head thrown back, his hands gripping my shoulders. “God, that’s perfect… I’m gonna cum so hard,” he groaned, pulling away. “Are you ready to suck?”
“Oh god yes,” I gasped.
“Lick the head first. Get it wet.”
I lapped the bead of pre-cum from his slit, savoring the salty taste, then coated his entire head with saliva, my tongue swirling around the ridge.
“Now just the head,” he ordered. “Suck it in and out. Tongue out, stroke the bottom.”
I engulfed his swollen head, my lips tight, my tongue pressed under the ridge. He moaned, loud and long, guiding my head with his hands. “Don’t go past the ridge,” he warned.
I obeyed, sucking gently, my tongue flicking, my hands roaming his thighs. After a few minutes, he said, “Now suck it deep. Take my head in both hands. Hold my dick with one hand—pull the skin in when you suck, pull it back when you pull off. Go as deep as you can.”
I took him deeper, four inches sliding into my mouth, my hand stroking in time with my sucking. His whole body flexed, his muscles tensing. “Oh god, Alex… so good… so perfect,” he groaned. “Slow now. Real slow.”
I slowed to a crawl, his cock filling my mouth, my tongue pressing, my lips tight. “Just hold it. Move your tongue a little. That’s it… right there,” he whispered, his face ecstatic. We stayed like that for minutes, him balanced on the edge, his breath coming in shaky gasps. Then he withdrew, panting. “No words for that,” he said. “Now lick and suck—alternate. About a minute each.”
I licked under his head, then sucked as instructed, my mouth wet, my tongue eager. He lost himself in the alternating sensations, hanging near orgasm for what felt like twenty minutes, his moans filling the room, his body trembling. “I want to finish on the bed,” he finally said.
We moved to the bedroom, the sheets cool against my skin. He lay back, propped on pillows, his legs spread wide. “Between my legs. Same thing—two minutes each.”
I knelt and licked, then sucked, keeping my movements visible, my eyes locked on his. He was a mess of gasps and whimpers, his hands gripping the sheets. After fifteen minutes, he said, “Okay. Just lick while I tell you how I’ll cum.”
I licked his shaft, my tongue flat, my lips parted, as he spoke, his voice breaking. “When I say suck, take three inches. Hold the base—no stroking. Suck in half-inch strokes. Tongue back and forth, firm pressure. Keep sucking until I’m done cumming. Don’t take it out until I say so. I want to see your face when I explode. Can you do that?”
“Yes sir,” I promised, my heart pounding.
I licked for five more minutes, my tongue wet, my mouth hungry, as he squirmed and moaned. “Oh god, tongue it… just like that,” he babbled, delirious. Then: “Suck it now, Alex. Just like I told you.”
I positioned myself so he could see my face, took three inches, and began the shallow, tongue-stroking suck he’d demanded. His cock was thick, hot, the skin slick with my saliva. “So perfect… so beautiful… here it is, Alex… all my cum in your mouth,” he whimpered.
Then he convulsed. A thick spurt of pre-cum slicked my tongue, followed by a hot blast of semen hitting my throat. He screamed, his back arching, his hands fisting the sheets as shot after shot pumped into my mouth. I held on, sucking gently, my tongue moving as he’d instructed, my mouth filling with his cum—so much I struggled to contain it. His body spasmed, his cries tearing from his lungs, his hips bucking as he emptied himself into me. I swallowed instinctively, my throat working, my lips tight around his shaft, not wanting to waste a drop.
Slowly, he collapsed, panting, his body limp. “Suck a few more seconds… then pull out slow,” he whispered.
I obeyed, my mouth still full, his cum warm and thick. I withdrew carefully, savoring the taste, the texture. “Swallow for me, Alex. I want to watch,” he said.
I swallowed twice, my throat tight, the taste coating my mouth. I ran my tongue around my lips, then leaned in to clean him, licking his softening cock and balls, lapping away the sticky mess. He groaned, his head back, his eyes closed.
We lay there, drifting in the afterglow, the room silent except for our breathing. “My god… I needed that,” he whispered.
“It was my pleasure,” I said, my voice soft.
Morning came, the light gray through the windows. We dressed in silence, and he handed me a thicker envelope. “Thank you for tonight,” he said.
In the cab, I opened it: eight hundred dollars in twenties and a note: “Thank you for your time. I hope it wasn’t unpleasant. The tip is vulgar, but I wanted to show my appreciation.” I smiled, leaning back against the seat. Could I do this again? Maybe. Not as a life, but for a night, it felt incredible to be paid so well for something I loved.