Mister Fister

Mister Fister

 
There’s a guy at the prairie. I call him ‘Mister Fister’. I’ve known him for at least ten years and he’s been showing a bit of an interest in me during the past four. Which is surprising, because from what I can tell, he likes them young and handsome.
 

A charming man, he’s incredibly handsome; we’re talking top-tier television show good-looking. His eyes strike me as somewhat cold and distant, but they have a lovely sparkle to them. His jaw is nicely squared, his smile mischievous and beguiling. When I met him, he had a full, thick head of soft brown hair. It has since turned rather salt and pepper, but age simply enhances everything he’s got going on. Which is a lot: tall, huge arms, rail thin bod, an awesome six (eight?) pack, perfectly furry muscled legs and a cute boy tushy. Yes… very easy on the eyes.
 
And he has that sort of executive businessman thing going on, too. You trust him. You get a sense of his power instantly.
 
You just know he looks great in a suit.
 
He always arrives at the prairie on his bicycle, chaining it to the same tree each time. I watch for him.
 
You, know… just in case…
 
His interest in me seems centered on a solitary little kink; fisting or, at the very least, ass play. He likes destroyed holes. He likes talking about them while he’s working his hand into your ass.
 

No, he has never fisted me completely. I fear my pelvic bones are too close together or something. It has never happened for me. But he likes trying and he enjoys tearing up my hole, pausing frequently to admire his handy work.
 
Initially, when this all began, I let him do whatever he wanted. He was handsome and I was flattered. But after a few sessions where he was a little over zealous and I was left in pain, I began protecting myself by putting the brakes on once I got a hint that he had crossed a line. Always gracious, he simply exits the scene with a smile on his beautiful mug.
 
For the most part, his dick has been off limits. Once, my ass caught in his grip, I managed to wrestle it from his shorts and suck on it. But it was an awkward position and I never really got a sense of it. He always remains clothed when he plays with my ass. Not even so much as unzipping the fly of his shorts.  
 

-- --

 
Last autumn, on what is to be my final day at the prairie for the season, I am cheerfully making the rounds, chatting up people… not really expecting anything.
 
I’m not even in my usual spot, in the shade of my oak tree. At this point in the season, I am sufficiently tan and the sun is significantly mellow, enough that I can risk being in one of the pods in the open field. I think this is why I didn’t notice Mr. Fister’s arrival.
 

He surprises me, his wicked, knowing smile charming me right onto my back and sending my legs into the air. There is always something very stealth about his approach, as if this is something he doesn’t want anybody to see him doing. Sometimes I think it’s a reflection on me… that he’s ashamed to be seen with me, but, I have made my peace with it. He always brings to mind that hoary old ballad from the forgotten Broadway musical, ‘Ballroom’…
 
“I’d rather have fifty percent of him, than no percent of him, than any percent of anybody else…”
 
And it sort of applies here.
 
I am a very sentimental ugly duckling.
 
We play for a bit, until I shoo him away, telling him that is enough for today. Gone are the days when I want to risk a fissure or worse in order to please someone. It’s also good for the self-esteem, to send them on their way. He smiles and walks back to his pod, about ten yards away. Surrounded by pretty things, I am sure he’ll find someone else to occupy his time.
 
Surprisingly, however, he remains in his pod, as do I. Every once in a while, while getting up for a stretch, we catch one another’s eye and he gives me a sly once over. We are both nude (not that I can see much); rare for him, not so rare for me.
 

By late afternoon, I tire of lying about and decide to take a stroll around the perimeter of the prairie. One of those habits of mine. I like to survey the landscape, check out where people are gathering and stretch my legs.
 
It is a beautiful day. Nice temp, warm breeze, gentle early autumn sun and plenty of people about, so you feel apart of something larger than yourself. Such is our little community.
 
As I round the last corner, the one that leads to my oak tree, coming up the center trail is Mr. Fister, wearing only a beach towel. Again… very unlike him. We catch each other’s eye, but I am far away, so I am thinking that is all it is. I continue towards him and as he crosses the path I am on, moving his way to the mouth of the path that leads to the woods, he let’s his towel drop revealing what I believe might well be a raging hard on.
 
It happens so quickly and I’m so far away, that again, I’m not sure what to make of it. But my heart kicks in right on cue, beating away in my chest, as I ramp up my pace, just enough to get to the spot where the paths intersect, but not enough to give away my rampant idiotic wishful hopes.
 
As I approach the intersecting paths, I glance over to the old troll’s den; a small clearing just off the main path where men sit on a log to suck dicks. Through the foliage I can see Mister Fister standing, working his dick and smiling in my general direction.
 
And what a dick! It’s at least nine inches and a total beaut. Needless to say, with only a rudimentary glance over my shoulder, I am standing before him, where all I can seem to do is stand and stare.
 
It’s like finally laying eyes on Klimt’s ‘The Kiss’ at the Belvedere. You’re slack-jawed and rather mesmerized.
 
Yes, his is a work of art!
 

Still, I’m not quite sure what to do. It seems I’m always this way with really handsome men. Having been rejected so frequently, I simply wait for them to be very clear about what it is they want from me. I have learned never to assume anything. So, I wait for an invitation. And I wait. Until finally he sighs and says… “Yeah, c’mon.”
 
Well, he needn’t ask twice.
 
I fall to my knees and, using all the restraint I can muster, I resist the temptation of trying to force his whole dick down my throat. Instead, I begin by taking only his sweet mushroom head in my mouth, allowing my tongue to trace its contours. Then I flatten my tongue and move my head forward, so my tongue’s running on the underside of his shaft. I move in until the head of his cock nudges itself tightly against the roof of my mouth. And then I wait. My saliva reserves are building. I want my throat good and ready.
 
He gasps. And yet, by the tension in his body - which I am finally seeing naked for the first time (OMG, his abs are fucking astounding, not an ounce of fat on his whole body and skin tight as a drum) - I can tell that he is eager for something more, impatient even. But I don’t use this against him, or to toy with him.
 
I am here to please.
 
Inhaling deep, I change up my posture just enough to begin swallowing his dick whole - like a sword swallower. It’s easier than I thought and goes way more smoothly than I ever expect. It has to be his dick - just the right width. My throat is full, but I am not struggling at all. All that saliva is working its magic and the dude lets out the deepest groan. Once I am down to the root, I wrap my hand around the base of his balls and pull him toward me, shoving his cock just a tiny bit more down my throat.
 

And then I slide my mouth slowly off his dick, while relaxing my grip on his ball sack just a bit. Keeping the head in my mouth, I again roll my tongue around it, allowing my saliva reserves to rebuild. Flattening the tongue along the shaft, I ready myself for another deep dive. And so it goes. I only gag once (and I think he likes that). As I begin picking up momentum and spending more time with the entire shaft of his dick in my flexing throat, he becomes more and more verbally encouraging. His voice is very soft and sexy and, basically, this is a moment I know in the moment that I will always treasure.
 
A kind of dream fulfilled.
 
Hey. Keep your dreams small and you’re more likely to achieve ‘em, am I right? It’s not a marriage proposal, but it’s better than a bologna sandwich and a slap in the face.
 
Amazingly enough, he allows me to do all the work. Which is rare. I mean, typically at some point guys lose patience and start grabbing your head and forcing their dick down your throat, but this guy? He must be enjoying what I’m doing. So I keep doing it. 
 
Until the dude finally cracks. I’m at the base of his dick, constricting my throat like a python ingesting another giant snake, when he places his hands on my shoulders, pushing down slightly, his head reels back, his body stiffens like he’s a rocket about to go off and he starts saying… “stay… stay… Stay… STAY… THERE…”
 
And he blows.
 
His whole load down my throat. I have no idea how much cum, because his dick is lodged so deep all I feel is the pulse of his shaft with each ejaculation. I loosen my grip on his ball sack and let my throat relax around his shaft.
 
I have been working my dick the whole time and it is hella ready to shoot. So once he’s finished, still on my knees, leaning back, I fire one off. The first shot is always the best, hitting well above my naval. The rest? The ground between Mister Fister’s feet.
 

My eyes are watering… from all the effort spent sucking this dude’s dick. And I am feeling rather jubilant - because there is no way this motherfucker can walk away without saying I give amazing head.
 
And yet, I’m not expecting applause, either. Or, that suddenly he’s going to realize that I am the love of his life; the throat he’s waited for all his life.
 
I look up at him and run my hand down his chest and abs.
 
“You’re gorgeous.”
 
And then, feeling like I have said too much and overstayed my welcome, I get on my feet, grab my towel, quickly wrap it around my waist, and without another word, turn and walk away.
 
I move toward my place in the center of the prairie and don’t look back.
 
I’d waited so long.
 
Heh…
 
Not a bad way to end a season…

 

 

  

Fifty Percent from 'Ballroom' - Barbra Streisand

Backdoor Man - The Doors