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It’s been a month since that first referral from the Front Runners group, and Carlos still couldn’t get the session out of his head. At forty-one, the bi guy who lived just off the Country Club Plaza had heard the jokes for weeks—how Jackson, the thirty-five-year-old masseur and former college gymnast, was “on top of his game.” Carlos hadn’t fully understood the punchline until that first appointment, when the happy ending turned into Jackson flipping him over, stretching him open, and showing him exactly what “top service” meant. The memory alone had him booking a ninety-minute follow-up the second he walked out the door.
Now he was back. He walked into the private room, winked at Jackson as he closed the door, stripped completely naked, and bent over the table so the masseur would see his ass already open and waiting the moment he stepped inside.
Jackson entered, locked the door, and asked the usual professional question about problem areas. Carlos spread his cheeks and said, “Right here. I need that deep, penetrating top service again.”
The oil pump squirted. One slick finger worked into him while warm lips brushed his neck. Then two fingers. Carlos whispered that if Jackson wanted a tip he’d better fuck him already. Jackson’s breath was hot against his ear: “Oh, you’re getting more than just the tip. I told you last time—I’m on top of my game.”
He positioned himself behind Carlos, slicked his thick eight-inch cock, and pushed the head in, sliding halfway on the first thrust. Carlos moaned and yelped at the same time. Jackson chuckled low. “I thought you wanted it deep.”
Carlos pushed back hard in answer. Jackson took the invitation and buried himself balls-deep in one smooth stroke, the former gymnast’s strength and control obvious in every inch. “Still just as tight as last month,” he murmured. Carlos assured him no one else had been inside since, that his ass was Jackson’s whenever he wanted it.
For the first fifteen minutes Jackson teased—pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in to the hilt—before the real fucking began. Dirty talk filled the room: asking how Carlos liked being topped by the best in the Front Runners circle, making him beg for harder, deeper, and to be filled. Jackson gripped the edges of the table, balls slapping against Carlos’s ass with every powerful thrust. A towel was pressed to Carlos’s face to muffle the louder sounds as Jackson tensed and unloaded a massive load deep inside him.
He stayed draped over Carlos until he softened and slipped free, then simply pulled his pants up and left the room with a knowing smile. Carlos rolled onto his back, stroked himself once, and came hard across his own stomach.
After cleaning up he went to settle the bill. Jackson waved it off. “Comped. Call me if you still need that deep top service later today.” Carlos did. From that point on Jackson was saved in his phone under “Top Service—KC,” and the appointments shifted to home visits on the Plaza. They lasted longer, cost nothing, and usually went more than one round—Jackson’s gymnast stamina made sure of it.
More to cum.
Now he was back. He walked into the private room, winked at Jackson as he closed the door, stripped completely naked, and bent over the table so the masseur would see his ass already open and waiting the moment he stepped inside.
Jackson entered, locked the door, and asked the usual professional question about problem areas. Carlos spread his cheeks and said, “Right here. I need that deep, penetrating top service again.”
The oil pump squirted. One slick finger worked into him while warm lips brushed his neck. Then two fingers. Carlos whispered that if Jackson wanted a tip he’d better fuck him already. Jackson’s breath was hot against his ear: “Oh, you’re getting more than just the tip. I told you last time—I’m on top of my game.”
He positioned himself behind Carlos, slicked his thick eight-inch cock, and pushed the head in, sliding halfway on the first thrust. Carlos moaned and yelped at the same time. Jackson chuckled low. “I thought you wanted it deep.”
Carlos pushed back hard in answer. Jackson took the invitation and buried himself balls-deep in one smooth stroke, the former gymnast’s strength and control obvious in every inch. “Still just as tight as last month,” he murmured. Carlos assured him no one else had been inside since, that his ass was Jackson’s whenever he wanted it.
For the first fifteen minutes Jackson teased—pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in to the hilt—before the real fucking began. Dirty talk filled the room: asking how Carlos liked being topped by the best in the Front Runners circle, making him beg for harder, deeper, and to be filled. Jackson gripped the edges of the table, balls slapping against Carlos’s ass with every powerful thrust. A towel was pressed to Carlos’s face to muffle the louder sounds as Jackson tensed and unloaded a massive load deep inside him.
He stayed draped over Carlos until he softened and slipped free, then simply pulled his pants up and left the room with a knowing smile. Carlos rolled onto his back, stroked himself once, and came hard across his own stomach.
After cleaning up he went to settle the bill. Jackson waved it off. “Comped. Call me if you still need that deep top service later today.” Carlos did. From that point on Jackson was saved in his phone under “Top Service—KC,” and the appointments shifted to home visits on the Plaza. They lasted longer, cost nothing, and usually went more than one round—Jackson’s gymnast stamina made sure of it.
More to cum.
