Date: Sat, 8 Nov 2014 19:53:07 -0500
From: Benjamin K <benjamin70251@gmail.com>
Subject: My Feeders: Part 2 - Jay

An ordinary weekday evening at home, not long ago: there is nothing on my
calendar, but I've got something in mind. I pick up the phone and select a
number from my recent calls list.

"Hey there," I say when he answers the phone.

"Hey, how's it going," he replies brightly, sounding pleased to hear my
voice. "What's up?"

"Not too much. What are you up to?"

"Just finishing the dinner dishes, getting ready to walk the dog. How are
you doing?"

"I'm okay. Getting over a slight cold, but it's almost better. I wouldn't
mind some company if you're not doing anything. You feel like blowing me? I
could use a little TLC."

"I'll be over in ten minutes," he says.

Jay is forty-something, but with a boyish quality that he works at
preserving with the dedication of a museum conservator. Slight of frame,
shorter than me, very blond, with blue eyes and a deep, deep tan that sets
off a band of white skin the size and shape of absent swim trunks—and a
body that reflects many a spare hour profitably spent at the gym. The
boyish effect is somewhat diminished by a face lined from too much
ultraviolet radiation; he has had numerous pre-cancerous moles removed from
various parts of his body—so many that his dermatologist no longer wastes
his breath on lectures about sunscreen. But Jay doesn't care. He has an
image to maintain: a man with priorities.

His default affect is that of the cute little gay boy, accustomed to having
any man he flashes his smile at. Lately, though, he is frustrated because
the men he fancies don't fall as easily as they used to.

"Your problem," I tell him, "is that you still fancy
twenty-eight-year-olds. And so do they."

"I know," he says, aghast, dejected and disappointed by life's unfairness.
"But I keep feeling like have to try. Every now and then I still get
lucky."

He likes to act the role of the adorable airhead plaything, but, in fact,
he is far from dumb. Not among the deepest of thinkers, perhaps, but he has
a masters degree and a sense of humor, and can hold his own in
conversations about politics and world affairs, and a variety of other
topics. He is pleasant company, and we have started seeing each other
fairly often - even though we don't share a deep personal or intellectual
bond.

What we do share, however, is a deep, mutual respect for the fine art of
cock sucking - at the Ph.D level. I have rarely met anyone as talented as
my friend-with-benefits Jay, and I tell him so often.

"You really do sort of know what you're doing down there, don't you?" I
say. And he lights up, unable to speak, but tickled and amused by the
compliment.

"What makes you such a wonderfully gifted cocksucker," I say, "is precisely
the fact that you love doing it so much." He nods rapidly, wiggling his
cute little butt like a puppy being fed tidbits of fresh bacon. "And you
love hearing that, too, don't you?"

"Mmmm."

"I know. You like being told what a good cocksucker you are. You like it
when people notice." (I know this because I feel exactly the same when
complimented on my cock sucking skills.) He nods again, and then I force
his head down until his nose is flattened against my skin. I hold it there
for a full minute.

"Good boy," I say, running my fingers through his sun-bleached hair. He
smiles, and contentedly redoubles his efforts. "There's really nothing
better than having a nice, warm cock in your mouth, is there?"

"Mmmm."

"Good boy," I say again, patting his head.

He chuckles silently, not only from the pleasure of being appreciated, for
a skill of which he is justifiably proud, at a level achievable only by the
true *amateur* (literally, one who practices an art purely for the love of
it), but also from the absurd comedy by which we are both continually
convulsed: to wit, the taking of unbridled satisfaction from
accomplishments that much of the population would regard as, shall we say,
less than ennobling (an assessment with which I, for one, take vigorous
exception). It is as if we belong to an obscure circle of cognoscenti awake
to the finer points, invisible to the mere connoisseur, of an art-form of
such subtlety that only another artist can truly appreciate: the regard of
one prima-ballerina for another, in an age when the most popular
entertainments are NASCAR racing and professional wrestling.

"You are my role model," I tell him, eliciting a burst of laughter that,
unfortunately, dislodges from his throat the object under consideration—at
least temporarily.

Jay has been coming over for evenings devoted to cock sucking for nearly a
year, ever since we met last summer. Although this evening the focus is
entirely on my cock, owing to my recent cold, which makes it hard for me to
breathe through my nose – essential for giving truly inspired head, most
nights Jay's cock spends much more time in my mouth than my cock does in
his.

Jay is a lot of fun to suck off, although he doesn't have a very big cock.
It is a bit smaller than average, I would say. But he is pleasant company,
looks good naked, and he produces an almost ridiculous amount of jizz. He
can get off multiple times in quick succession, shooting big loads all but
the last couple of times. His record for feeding me multiple loads, as near
as I can remember, was seven separate orgasms in the space of about ten
minutes.

His cum doesn't taste very good, however. It is strong, salty, and acrid,
to the point where sometimes I am almost disgusted by the taste. But there
is something hot about that, too. Often, though, I don't taste very much of
it, because his favorite way to cum is while shoving his cock as far down
my throat as it can possibly go. If he is fucking my face from above – one
of my favorite positions – when he is about to shoot he bears down, forcing
my head against the pillow, and burying his stiff meat deep in my gullet.
If I am laying on my stomach between his legs as he reclines on his back,
he will grab my head with both hands and force it down, squashing my nose
against his pubes, and then holds it there until he finishes shooting.

After a guy shoots in my mouth, I like to savor it, nursing on the spent
cock while my mouth is still full of cum. When I do that with Jay,
oftentimes his cock stiffens again within a minute or less, and he grabs my
head and begins pumping another salty load into my mouth or down my throat.
There have been evenings when he has done that three, four, or even five
times in a row – sometimes even more - all within the space of a couple of
minutes. The man is a veritable jizz factory.

There is something about that I find quite thrilling. But after about a
year and a half I begin to feel that I need to find playmates with
nicer-tasting spooge, and I taper off, and then stop calling him
altogether. I have since found other feeders with much more palatable
semen, which I continue to relish unabashedly.

. . . to be continued.


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