Huge Security Guard Wants to Ride My Cock 2

In the remote chance that the two beers I'd just consumed in less than an hour had gone to my head and were clouding my judgement, it seemed like the ideal time to get a hold on myself: in the emblematic sense of course. I'd heard stories about guys who carried guns, and it was in my best interest to find out a little more about him before things went much farther.

To my relief, he didn't mind my asking a few questions and even had a few of his own. It turned out that he really disliked guns but in the light of a recent string of armored car holdups saw them as a life saving necessity. If the thought of it made my stomach flip, I had to admit the logic was sound.

Before long, I knew everything there was to know about his job, his likes and dislikes and who else shopped at the same market. He didn't mention Manuel.

It was eleven o'clock before he got around to putting his hand on my leg. I stared into his large gray eyes and prayed that he'd take it from there.

Vince, the bar owner, had a policy about extreme public displays and was keeping a close watch on the horny Friday night crowd. I moved my stool closer and slipped my finger into the opening between his legs. He was as hard as I'd been all evening. I smiled as I stood up and put my empty bottle on the counter.

Busch drained the last of his beer and put the bottle aside.

"You're going to make me work for this, aren't you?" he asked.

My reply sounded more frog like than I'd have liked.

"That depends on how you define work," I croaked. "So... (ribbit)... Interested... (ribbit)... in blowing this place?"

He adjusted himself and slid off the barstool.

"I'd rather blow you."

While walking to my truck, it occurred to that I still hadn't caught his name: at least I didn't think he had offered it. The music had been loud, but I'd always made a point of knowing who I was fucking. If this was destined to be a one-time encounter, at least it wouldn't be an anonymous one. I opened the passenger door and paused.

"Please don't think I'm an asshole for asking this, but did you tell me what the "J" stands for?"

"I don't... and I didn't. It's Jay."

I may have gone brain dead, but THAT much I could remember. All that remained was if he knew mine.

It was a five minute drive to his place. Jay lived in the upper half of a duplex on a narrow side street just south of the trendy part of Melrose: not the kind of area most people associate with presumed rednecks who carry guns. So much for stereotypes.

We ascended a long flight of stairs to a wide landing and a sparsely furnished living room.

"Sorry about the odor. I wasn't expecting company."

I realized to my dismay that I'd been searching the dimly lit room for racks of assault rifles and crates of grenades.

"Odor? What odor?"

Jay reached for the switch.

"The gun oil. I cleaned my weapon before I left tonight. It takes awhile for the smell to go away. If it bothers you..."

Relieved, and a little ashamed of my stupid assumptions, I guided his hand away from the wall and downward to my crotch.

"Don't worry about it. It kinda reminds me of the Hollywood High School ROTC Armory."

He looked at me questioningly and, grabbing my sweaty hand led me down a long hall toward the rear of the apartment. We came to a door and stopped. A room appeared as if by magic with the click of a switch.

"My friends call this the fish bowl."

"Damn!" I exclaimed as I stepped inside. "Words fail me."

The room was, roughly, 12 by 18 and sheathed, four walls and ceiling, with mirrors. It was awash in a soft blue light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

"It was like this when I moved in. Pretty cool, huh?"

I joined him at the foot of a massive sleigh bed. Cool? I was standing in the middle of a huge diamond with this hot fucker standing at my side hard and ready for action. Cool didn't begin to describe it: especially when his hands disappeared beneath my leather jacket. No. Cool was definitely an understatement.

"Yeah... It sure is."

I pulled him closer and ran my hands down his muscular back until they came to rest on his ass. My jacket hit the floor and I buried my face in the crook of his neck.

"By the way, my name is..."

"Your name is Michael," he whispered.

"Yeah... I know," I replied just before our lips met.

Jay stepped back out of reach as my hand ventured downward over his taut belly. My first thought was that I had just overstepped some unspoken commandment: kinda like "Thou shalt not tweak my tits" or some other bullshit. Seeing the look on my face, he grinned.

"Don't sweat it. There's something missing.

"Missing? How much more do you need?"

"Don't move. I'll be right back."

He walked out of the room leaving me alone with my four selves (five if you counted the ceiling). As one who's been known to partially rate a man by what he reads, I switched on the lamp and wandered over to the bookcase.

It was filled with an esoteric unusual collection that ranged from a compilation of porn star interviews done by my friend Dave Kinnick to the works of Isaac Singer. Scattered about were computer manuals, books on nineteenth century guns and biographies of obscure people whose stories would never see the light of a TV Movie of the Week. I picked out the Singer volume and began reading.

"Do you know Singer?" he asked eyeing the book as he stood watching me from the door.

"Not intimately, but I saw Yentyl."

Whether or not the book made it back into it's slot is unimportant. I was too absorbed in the sight of the man in the uniform walking across the room to even care. Jay was dressed exactly as he had been that first day at the bank. All that was missing was the mace, the gun (neither of which was a major loss) and the restrictive lead lined underwear.

"I remember you said something about being into uniforms."

To be honest I couldn't remember ever having said that. It could have been a lucky guess for all I knew or cared, but I wasted no time in letting him know how right he was. My hand shook a little as I grabbed him by his thick leather belt and pulled him closer.

As our tongues met, I began to very slowly unbutton his jumpsuit. I had every intention of making things last for as long as I could. Assuming my imagination didn't give out, he would still be begging for more at dawn's early light.

At 6'4", 190 pounds, I'm not a "small" man. I like the feel of a man in my arms. It doesn't matter how tall they are, as long as I'm holding something substantial. Jay fit that requirement and then some. God did he ever.

I rested the palms of my hands on his back for a second or two before allowing them to drift downward until they came to rest on his ass. His powerful, finely tuned muscles grew tense: like those of a tiger preparing to spring. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed his crotch tightly against mine as I slid my middle finger through a hole in the seam.

"It's an old uniform," he growled.

The temperature in the room seemed to jump ten degrees as I dropped to one knee turned him around and got to work. I yanked the two halves apart, then sat back to admire his exposed ass. Strangely enough, there was still something wrong. Then it hit me.

"Lose the tee shirt," I commanded. "Get rid of it."

Jay's face remained impassive as he lowered the zipper of his jump suit, reducing the shirt to shreds while I watched with breathless anticipation.

It was only when the last piece had fallen to the floor, and every feature of his sharply defined chest was revealed, that I recovered my senses and got to my feet. I brushed the palm of my hand lightly over a hard, pierced nipple, then grasped the ring between my thumb and forefinger and pulled gently.

"You like that?"

Jay shuddered and nodded his head.

"Yes sir. I like it very much sir."

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written by michaelm