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The flight from L. A., although mercifully short, was horrible. First-class accommodations were sold out, so I had to fly coach. There was no legroom. A fat fucker sat next to me, in the aisle seat, hogged the armrest between us, stank of foul body odor the origin of which I’d refused to consider, and talked incessantly (mostly to himself, as I refused to carry on a conversation, and, it appeared, he wanted only to use me as an ear for his soliloquies on politics, religion, sex, and the “conspiracy of the fast-food industry” to kill him), wedging me between his massive bulk and the window. We hit turbulence a few miles outside of L. A. X., and the pilot seemed to do everything possible to ensure that we rode this roller coaster of air currents all the way to our destination, San Diego. I thought I’d puke–several times; my seatmate did. To make matters even worse (as if they weren’t bad enough), the idiot in front of me leaned his seat back until it was mere inches from my face. Behind me, a baby started wailing–non-stop, as it turned out, all the way from the City of Angels to America’s Finest City, as L. A. and San Diego bill themselves, respectively. Twenty minutes into the flight, the air conditioning failed. When I finally arrived, hot, tired, and irritable, at San Diego International, my luggage, I found, had decided to remain aboard the jet and, consequently, was bound to Miami!


I’d come to San Diego for a souvenirs-and-novelties convention. I sell the latter, in a chain of stores I own that stretches across the country, from border to border and from sea to shining sea. Called What A Notion!, there’s at least one shop in each of the fifty states and several in those that comprise the major markets. I do quite well; one would be surprised at the amount of money in kitsch (or perhaps not). To paraphrase P. T. Barnum, one might say that no one ever went broke underestimating the tastelessness of the American public.



The convention wasn’t until the next day, so I decided to go directly to my hotel, the Ritz, which overlooks the harbor, offering a beautiful view of the water, especially at night. At last, I’d be able to cool off and relax in luxurious surroundings. Then, later, after a bit of exercise in the weight room, a refreshing dip in the pool, and a relaxing session in the Jacuzzi, I’d settle back for a movie over dinner, courtesy of room service. Tomorrow, I could shop for some clothes to wear to the convention.



I checked in, explaining to the clerk at the front desk that the services of a bellhop would not be necessary because the airline had sent my luggage on a vacation to Florida, obtained the keycard to my room, on the eighteenth floor, overlooking the San Diego Harbor, and walked the marble floor of the football field-length lobby to the bank of elevators in the distant Tower One Access vestibule.



“Good afternoon, sir,” the operator said as I entered the carpeted car. “Which floor, please?”



“Eighteenth.”



He pushed the button, and the car ascended skyward.



Halfway up, I remembered that my swimsuit was on its way to the Sunshine State. Like it or not, I’d have to visit one of the hotel’s shops, hoping the store would sell swim trunks. A bit embarrassed, I explained my predicament to the operator, concluding, “I guess I’ll have to go back down.”



“May I offer a suggestion, sir?”



I nodded. “Please.”



“Why not send for room service? I’m sure the hotel can dispatch someone to take care of this errand for you.”



“I’m not sure of my size.”



“I wouldn’t be concerned about that, sir; the staff is very capable.”



What the hell? I thought. I had nothing to lose, and I didn’t like the idea of bothering with buying a swimsuit, although I did want to take a swim and sit in the Jacuzzi. “Good idea,” I agreed, tipping the operator well before stepping out of the car and making my way down the quarter-mile stretch of hallway that led to my room.



A spacious suite, with two bedrooms, a cavernous living room stuffed with plush furniture, including overstuffed leather couches, a big-screen television, and a wet bar, and two full baths, my room–or rooms–boasted a balcony that overlooked the harbor, providing a view of the sailboats, speedboats, yachts, and, farther out at sea, Navy battleships. The beach was a crescent of sand, separating the ocean’s surf from the lines of houses and storefronts that lined the boardwalk upon which joggers jogged, skaters skated, and bicyclists bicycled. Bikini-clad girls and sun-bronzed boys played volleyball, threw Frisbees, or tanned beneath the bright-hot California sun. No wonder everyone loved the Golden State. The climate was superb, and the scenery was breathtaking.



I turned from the spectacular view, crossed the carpet to the telephone, and pressed the button next to the “Room Service” button.



“Room Service,” a polished, polite, feminine voice announced. “How may I assist you, please?”



A blowjob would be nice, I thought, smiling. “This is Randy Hollis, Suite 1818. I’d like someone to fit me for a swimsuit. And I need to order a few toilet articles. Is that possible?”



“Of course, sir. Someone will be right up.”



“Thank you.”



I poured myself a scotch on the rocks. A double. By the time I’d drunk it, there was a rap at my door, and a male’s voice announced, “Bellhop.”



The hotel had sent a bellhop to fit me for a swimsuit? They should have dispatched a tailor. In my opinion, one of the stars of this five-star establishment had just fallen.



I opened the door to a young man who was so handsome that the absurd uniform he wore wasn’t able to make him look ridiculous. He had close-cropped, light-brown hair, a trim mustache, dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, symmetrical features, and a good build. I wondered what he looked like in a swimsuit. Not bad, I’d bet. He’d look even better, though, without any clothes on at all, I thought. “Come in,” I invited, and he stepped past me, allowing me a glimpse of his firm, compact buttocks.



“Room Service told me they’d send someone up to fit me for a swimsuit.”



The bellhop smiled. “That’s why I’m here, sir.” I guess he saw my skepticism, because he added, “Don’t worry; I used to be a tailor.”



“A tailor?” I repeated, wondering why a tailor would be working as a bellhop.



Again, he seemed to read my mind. “I’ve been a lot of things–bellhop, tailor, disc jockey, masseuse, to name only a few.”



“Masseuse?” I’d love to have him run his hands over me, preferably while I was nude.



“I still do massages,” he informed me. “By the way, my name is Rick.”



I blushed, wondering if he’d read my thoughts. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, pausing before I added, “Rick.”



“What sort of swimsuit do you have in mind?”



I shrugged. “Something for the pool and the Jacuzzi.” I explained how my wardrobe, such as it was, was winging its way to Miami.



Rick looked me up and down, with more, it seemed to me, than a professional tailor’s concerns in mind. His gaze lingered on my crotch and seemed to caress my abs and chest. “Turn around, please,” he requested.



I turned.



After a moment, during which I was intensely aware of his gaze upon my buttocks, he said, “You’d look good in a thong.”



I gulped, unsure of what, if anything, to say. Finally, I said, “Thanks, but wouldn’t that be a little too–uh, daring–for the Ritz?”



“Maybe you’re right, sir,” he said.



I turned back around, and Rick was standing only a foot or so away from me. He’d stepped close while I’d had my back turned. I swallowed, having caught a glimpse of his crotch; there was, no mistake about it, a bulge there that hadn’t been present a few moments ago. My own cock felt stiff, too, and it showed through the fabric of my trousers. If he’d noticed my burgeoning erection, Rick didn’t give any indication of his awareness of it. Instead, he said, “Let’s measure you.”



Measure me? What did he mean? I wondered, thinking, as men do, immediately of my cock. Did he intend to measure the length of my manhood. “It’s seven inches, erect,” I almost blurted, “and circumcised.” Instead, mercifully, I uttered nothing more than, “Okay.”



Rick reached into a pocket of his uniform, producing a tape-measure. He circled my waist with it. In an approving tone, he said “Mmm. Thirty-two inches.” Then, he measured an inch or two along my inner thigh, tugging the tape firmly beneath my scrotum. “Mmm,” he repeated, sounding as if he were sampling something sweet to eat. He looked into my eyes, holding our gaze for a few moments, showing me his desire and, no doubt, reading my own as well, before asking, “What color do you like? Do you prefer solids or patterns?” His words were appropriate to the topic at hand, but his tone suggested that he was talking about something entirely different than a pair of swim trunks.



I didn’t break his gaze–our gaze. “Whatever you think best,” I managed to reply.



After a long moment’s pause, he said, “I think you’d like another drink.”



“What makes you think I’ve had anything to drink?”



He indicated my empty glass with a nod of his head. “I saw the glass. Besides, I could smell the liquor on your breath. Scotch, right?”



I smiled. “Right.”



“Let me pour you another,” he suggested.



I shrugged. “Okay.”



He picked up my glass and took it to the bar. I heard the clink of ice in the glass. “You like it straight up, I’d say,” he declared.



“Do you?” I asked, aware of the double entendre.



“Oh, yeah!”



He poured the amber liquid into the glass and brought it to me. Handing me the drink, he said, with a wink, “Down the hatch.”



I took a sip.



“How is it?” Rick asked.



“Perfect.” I took another, longer sip. The excellent scotch warmed my throat and stomach.



He turned, smiling, and crossed the room. At the door, he looked back at me, smiling anew–or, perhaps, still smiling–and said, “I’ll pick something perfect for you.”



I nodded.



“Maybe you’d like a massage to go with your new suit?”



I swallowed, although there was no liquor in my mouth at the moment, and nodded.



Rick’s smile broadened, and he winked at me. As if he were making a promise rather than an announcement, he said, “I’ll be right back.” He made a parting suggestion–”Why not relax with a drink or two?”–and the door closed behind him.



With afternoon drifting into twilight and lights beginning to shine out of the gathering gloom, I drank several more drinks before Rick’s knock sounded at my door.



In his hands, he bore my suit. It wasn’t a thong. It was a pair of dark forest green trunks that accentuated my complexion and, if I do say so myself, looked fabulous on me.



I’d slipped into one of the bathrooms to try on the suit. Rick had insisted upon seeing them on me, to make sure that, in measure and in taste, he had not been amiss. Reassured, he said, “Take them off, lie face down in bed, and I’ll give you the massage you requested.”



I started for the bathroom in which, a few minutes ago, I had doffed my clothes in favor of the swimsuit.



“Don’t bother with the bathroom,” Rick suggested. “Strip in the bedroom; it’ll save time.”



Strip? His use of this word made it impossible for me to rationalize my action in removing the swimsuit as anything other than what it was–stripping. I shrugged, slipping my thumbs under the elastic waistband and pushing the trunks down my thighs, over my knees, and past my calves, stepping out of the abbreviated shorts, and exposing my buttocks to the bellhop’s gaze. I could all but feel his stare upon those twin spheres. I knew I had a nice ass. The mirror, women, and other men had told me countless times that my buttocks were “sexy,” “beautiful,” and “handsome.”



Rick added another superlative: “Excellent!”



I turned, and his eyes found my genitals. My seven-inch, circumcised cock was half-erect above the large, loose pouch of my scrotum, in which my balls dangled–invitingly, I hoped.



“Magnificent!” Rick complimented me.



After staring another long moment at my burgeoning erection and my tightening sac, the bellhop proposed that I “climb into bed,” lie on my “tummy,” and close my eyes.



I did as he bid me to do, and I felt the mattress sag on either side of me as, a minute or so later, Rick, joining me, straddled my thighs. I felt the bare flesh of his own upper legs against my outer thighs, and his cock brushed against the backs of my thighs as he shifted on his knees, adjusting his position. I realized that he’d stripped out of his clothes, too, and that, like me, he was naked!



Again, he complimented me–or, rather, my ass: “Your butt is the best-looking I’ve ever seen.”



I chuckled. “I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.”



My joke fetched me a sharp slap upon my ass, and I winced. “Hey!”



“One doesn’t joke about perfection, sir,” Rick admonished me. “Some things still are sacred, one of which is a perfect bottom.”



His hands closed over my shoulders, opening and flexing. Then, he shifted the balls of his hands up and down my shoulder blades, alternating their directions so that, as the left ascended, the right descended. My muscles began to relax under the magic of his touch and, as they did, the stress of the day evaporated. I sighed, concentrating all my attention upon Rick’s stroking, kneading, jabbing, flexing, rubbing, twisting hands and fingers. His efforts, along with the alcohol I’d drunk, were beginning to loosen me up.



His hands worked their way down my back, thumbs pressing each vertebra of my spine and fingers rubbing and pressing my back muscles. With each stroke and compression, the muscles loosened further, and I became more and more relaxed. My body went limp under Rick’s touch. His hands were as dexterous and skilled as any concert pianist’s. My breathing deepened, and I almost went to sleep, but I forced myself to remain awake so that I could enjoy the massage that Rick was administering to me.



He did not skirt or skip my buttocks. Instead, he gripped these mounds of muscle in his powerful hands, flexing his fingers so that their tips went deep into the gluteus maximi, working them firmly but gently, as if these firm-soft globes were dough to be kneaded. He manipulated my ass cheeks with expertise, relaxing them as well and as thoroughly as he had the muscles of my shoulders and back. A thumb pressed into the cleavage between my buttocks, teasing the tiny, tight, puckered muscle of my anus. The tip of his thumb dipped inside this hidden portal, wriggled insistently for a moment, and then withdrew. My cock sprang to full bloom between my groin and belly and the mattress upon which I lay, my balls rising inside my tightening scrotum. His touch of this secret, intimate part ignited my passion, and I willed him to shove his thumb all the way through my anus, past the guardian sphincter, and into my rectum. Instead, after teasing me as he had, Rick ignored my asshole, as he did my ass, and turned his attention to my thighs.



He scooted down the bed, his knees pressing the mattress alongside my knees and calves and his dangling cock rubbing against the backs of my legs as he repositioned himself. After he’d gained the position he wanted, he massaged me again, this time his hands and fingers pumping and squeezing and chopping lightly at my lower legs. The muscles loosened, relaxing, and I felt as if I were in heaven, lying upon a cloud rather than in a bed and being caressed by an angel instead of being massaged by a bellhop. I was nearly asleep when I felt the second resounding slap upon my buttocks.



“Ouch!” I protested. “What was that for?”



“Turn over,” he said as he rose from the bed to allow me to reposition myself.



I rolled onto my back. Stiff and upright, my swollen cock was a tower; its rigid, insistent state brought a smile to Rick’s lips, and he said, “Beautiful!”



I half-expected him to grab and squeeze my prick, but he resumed his position, straddling my thighs. As he did, I observed that, like me, he also had an erection. Jutting stiffly from his groin, his cock, which exceeded mine in length by approximately three inches, was every bit as swollen as my own, and, like my member, his was circumcised, crowned with a glans as rich in color as a ripened plum. Without thought, I echoed his own sentiment regarding my cock: “Beautiful!”



“Close your eyes,” he said.



I did, and his hands and fingers worked their magic on the front of me, massaging my shoulders, my chest, and my stomach. When he reached my waist, he skipped my genitals, resuming the massage with my thighs and working his way down my calves. His rub-down of my tired and aching flesh included my ankles, feet, and toes, and he ministered to these parts of my body with every bit as much enthusiasm and earnestness as he had shown when he’d tended to the rest of my body. When, at last, he’d finished, I was totally relaxed and limp. The terrible flight and all the stress of the day were forgotten as if they had never happened. I felt rejuvenated.



My eyes were still closed when his hand closed around my cock.



I opened them, lifting myself upon my elbows, and stared down, past my naked chest and belly at his fist curled round my stiff-standing organ. There must have been a quizzical expression on my face, for he said:



“Lie back. Close your eyes. Be still. Your session’s not over yet.”



I followed his directive.



Rick’s fingers, already coiled loosely around my cock, tightened their grip, making a firm fist. His closed hand pumped up and down, drawing and shoving the skin back and forth upon the stiff, swollen shaft of my penis. Already erect, my cock stiffened still more, swelled to yet-greater dimensions, and throbbed, twitched, and jerked. My balls ached inside the contracted pouch of my scrotum. Rick’s fist pumped more rapidly, jerking my cock and driving the taut skin more forcefully up and down upon the straining, lurching shaft. It wouldn’t take long, as this rate, for me to reach orgasm–and ejaculation. I wished he’d slow the tempo a bit. I didn’t want to come too soon; I wanted the pleasure of his magic touch to last a while, before . . . .



Again, as if reading my thoughts, Rick’s almost frantic hand-pumping of my prick slowed.



My eyelids fluttered.



“Keep your eyes closed!” Rick ordered. “Stay still!”



I did, concentrating on the whirling eddies that fluttered and stirred within my loins, on the heavy breathing of my lungs, on the rapidity of my pulse, and the quickening of my heartbeat.



I waited.



The air was cool upon my exposed flesh. I felt my nipples harden.



I continued to wait.



I’d always thought that the phrase “sound of silence” a contradiction at best and an inanity at worst, but, now, I understood its meaning and knew what a deafening noise the absence of sound can make, especially when it is accompanied by absolute stillness.



With an effort, I kept my eyes closed, waiting patiently, faithfully.



I heard the ticking of a clock. No. It wasn’t a clock, or even a watch. The alarm clock on the table beside the bed was electric, and the pulse of electrons within its wires and circuitry were too muted to be heard. The faint tick-tock, metronome-of-a-sound that I heard was the beating of my own heart. In the silence of this still room, it sounded louder and louder.



I would have supposed that Rick had left me alone in the room, except that there was no way that he could have lifted his leg over me, scooted to the edge of the bed, and stood without the mattress alerting me of his movements, nor was it likely that he’d have been able to dress and exit the hotel suite without my hearing at least the sound of the closing door.



I waited for him to say something, to do something.



At first, the silent stillness was a welcome interlude between Rick’s massaging of my flesh and his masturbation of my cock. Then, it became something of an annoyance. Now, it was not only disconcerting but, somehow, a little frightening. Initially, I had supposed the bellhop to have been heightening the effect of his massaging and masturbation of my body and my sex by purposefully interposing a period of silence and stillness between sessions of sound and action, but, were that his intention, he had already accomplished this objective, and, still, he made neither sound nor movement, nor would he allow me to do so. What other motive might he have for maintaining such silence, such stillness?

Posted on July 26, 2010 at 5:32 pm · Permalink
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