Protect and Serve: Dire's Strait
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Copyright ©2013 Mikala Ash
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There are few things better than waking up with a raging post-fuck hard-on. One of these is to wake up with a warm mouth surrounding said erection. Unfortunately, on that particular morning a head job was not on the breakfast menu. The events of that particular morning are seared into my brain, etched indelibly in blood.
It was ten a.m. on a Saturday. After a long night of fucking my brains out, I awoke with, in addition to a full-fledged erection, a slight hangover and aching body. My thighs and abdomen complained as if I'd spent a long hard session in the gym. In effect, I had. I'd fucked -- and been fucked -- in every conceivable position for most of the night.
I settled deeper beneath the bed covers and looked forward to a playful day in bed involving plenty of sucking and fucking. My cock throbbed at the notion, and I wrapped my hand around it. I winced. It was a little sore, and that brought to mind not just my sensitive cock and tender asshole, but the cause of that delightful discomfort.
Max. Max Detroit.
Speaking of whom, where was he? To my relief, sounds of movement came from the lounge room, followed closely by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, so I settled contentedly back into my pillows. I breathed deeply. Max was everywhere; his heady aura mingled with the pungent aroma of come. Lots of come. He had an intoxicating scent, sweet and bitter at the same time. It made my head spin.
Wild images of last night's indulgence populated my mind. I put those images in order, starting from our meeting at a swanky mid-town restaurant for a late night supper. Max had been wearing a perfectly cut tuxedo. He'd been to a fundraiser and, as usual, looked absolutely stunning. He was a beautiful man: tall, athletically big with wide, coat hanger shoulders, a deep muscular chest, and powerful thighs his clothes could not disguise.
My cock had throbbed with lust just at the sight of him. We'd engaged in small talk over a bottle of red wine and the most exquisite meal I'd ever eaten. Then it was back to my place. We'd barely made it through my apartment's front door before we were ripping off each other's clothes.
I relived the visual and tactile memories of undressing him: sliding my hands along his muscled flanks, lifting the coat off his shoulders, popping the buttons of his silk shirt, and impatiently unzipping his trousers. Those images were quickly replaced with more erotic memories of sucking his huge cock, and him sucking mine while cupping my ass cheeks and fingering my asshole. We left piles of clothing from the front door to my bed. There was a whole lot of kissing, tonguing, and licking each other's salty flesh, and then the liberal application of lube and bam!
Fuck, it had been a good night.
I was a uniformed cop back then. I had plans to sit my Detective exam and hopefully get into Homicide like my friend and partner, Mai Lin. She'd scarcely changed into her tailored suit before being transferred to the FBI. Unfortunately, my big plans for advancement through the force were not to eventuate -- though I didn't know it then. Max was descended from European aristocracy and a much-loved philanthropist. He wasn't just a representative of old money. He was also an accomplished academic from the University in Paris, his specialty being medieval economic history. Max was a brilliant young man. Not even thirty, he conducted himself with the grace and dignity of a much older man.
We'd met at a City Hall gala event. He was the guest of honor, and I was working traffic and crowd control. He looked absolutely gorgeous, all decked out in a tuxedo that fit him like he'd been born to wear it. I can't say it was love at first sight -- that would be plain silly -- but I admit I developed an immediate crush on him. I remember thinking he wasn't just anybody, that there was something about him that marked him as anything but ordinary. He moved with such casual grace, and he greeted people with genuine affection and warmth.
When that anti-something or other protester lobbed a balloon at him, I didn't have to think. I just leapt in front of him and intercepted the missile, getting showered with a quart of pig's blood in the process.
Later, Max had come down to the station house to thank me. That doesn't happen too often. Celebrities generally took it for granted that uniforms weren't really human. We were simply there to stand between them and the ordinary people. As he shook my hand, he held my gaze with those incredible turquoise eyes, and when he finally released me, his business card was in my palm.
It took me two days to get up the courage to call him. A newspaper story reporting he was departing the country was my motivation. I couldn't let him leave without... Well, I didn't have any plans apart from lurid fantasies involving kissing his full aristocratic lips.
I'd been so nervous when I called him, just like a college freshman hitting on his first guy -- which I wasn't. Max was actually my second. We met for a drink, and he put me at ease without even seeming to try. I was enamored by his French accent, and the seductive melody of his speech. We made all the usual small talk people make on a first date, but through the banality of all that, he seemed to look on me with genuine affection.
For all his innate calmness, I sensed that there was a hunger within him. A hunger for sensation, excitement, and even danger.
And oh, that first kiss. I can still feel it. Even today I can feel that first touch of his firm lips upon mine. Then I surrendered to the urgency of lust, his tongue exploring my mouth, his wide hands stroking my thigh.
Max was a consummate lover. He knew how to coax out of me any uncertainty. He knew all the right places to kiss, to touch, to stroke. He was experienced, to be sure, far more experienced than me. After all, I'd only kissed one other guy before. I was reasonably confident with women since I'd bedded a dozen or so by that time, but men were relatively new to me.
Despite my inexperience, it was the best sex I'd ever had. The sheer size and weight of his cock was a jaw dropper. I really doubted I could fit it in my mouth, let alone in my asshole. But from the start Max was so gentle and patient. I'd confessed to him my naivete, but he didn't make a thing of it. At no stage did I feel he was going through the motions with a clumsy inexperienced lover. He was passionate and caring. He made me feel so very important, completely loved, more than I could have ever wished for.
That morning, as I ran my hands over my body, reliving Max's touch, I noticed little bite marks, nips really, on my chest near my nipples. I remembered how playful he'd been last night, each little bite making my cock give a throb of pleasure. It throbbed again. I wanted him then and there.
I wondered where he was and what he was doing, and suffered the sudden irrational dread that he would leave without saying goodbye. I feared I hadn't been up to his expectations in bed, that I'd disappointed him. I'd wanted so much to please him. I don't think I could have borne that kind of failure.
There came a sizzling from the kitchen as fat hit the fry pan. Breakfast! Not only was he a great fuck, but he seemed domesticated as well. My stomach growled. I was ravenous.
I decided to surprise him. With my erection preceding me, I padded naked out to the kitchen. However, he wasn't there. In the fry pan on the stove, a slab of pink bloody meat was sizzling. I didn't recognize what it was, but I spared little thought on it. I wanted to give Max a kiss and maybe a quick suck before breakfast.
I found him in the dining room, sitting naked on the rug. I crept toward him, hoping to playfully surprise him. I was thinking how beautiful he was, and how lucky I'd been to have fucked him.
It was a moment before I realized Max was eating something...