Sometimes I wonder what the rest of my life might have been like if a road crew hadn't been tearing up a Central City street on that morning in June several years ago. Because of the project, I was detoured around a block of a residential subdivision I hadn't been in for many years.
That's when I saw the intersection of Mayflower Street with Pilgrim Road. My late wife and I owned our first home on Mayflower Street. On a whim, I turned down the street to give it a look. The neighborhood was starting to look a little careworn, although its mid-century modern architecture was in vogue again. Our starter house - a 1,300 square-foot two-bedroom, one bath - had a 'For Sale' sign in front from a local realtor. No one had mowed the grass in a couple of weeks. It was unoccupied so I parked my car and did a walkaround.
Memories came flooding back of my wife and I when we were just out of college, buying our first house and building a business together. We had met while we each pursued MBA degrees. Her father owned a thriving service station, the sort of place where they still pumped your gas and cleaned your windshield. He was ready to turn it over to us so he could just work on cars and wind down to retirement. Over the next two-to-three decades we built it into a small chain of 30 shops over a four-state region, serving wealthier clients who demanded more service. We got on the app train early and leveraged our client base to the point where bigger companies took notice. Cora, my wife, and I and our consultants did an excellent job of developing the app so clients could schedule service, schedule pick-up, check on their vehicle's repair status, pay etc. It was a big hit.
That's when Cora got sick with ovarian cancer, just when had a big buyer on the hook. Our goal after getting our daughter, Suzanne, through college was to retire at 55. We had made it. Our buyer wanted to keep our brand, which we were adamant about and offered us a lot of money while also promising to expand nationwide. Something we also wanted to see happen. Six weeks after diagnosis, Cora was in hospice and two weeks later, she was gone. Suzanne and I both were heartbroken. My lawyer had to walk me through the sale process, which thankfully was already mostly done by the time of the funeral. Suzanne held me up but had to get back to Germany where her husband was stationed. They met while she was at Vassar College, and he was at West Point.
All of this was rolling through my head and competing with fragments of nostalgia and memories of our early years. That's when I had the idea for moving. I could sell my current residence, a house we had lived in for longer than this first one, take the profits and plow it into fixing this one up. I could retire here with much less maintenance, something I could handle myself. I would have a small house but I would really do it up, with nice finishes, marble-and-brass bathroom, landscaping.
That's exactly what I did. I even managed to get all the new electrical and plumbing renovations done before I sold the family home. I left the painting and some of the finishing for myself. I needed a project as a recovering workaholic, but I didn't hesitate to bring craftsmen/women in when I needed them.
I should have asked the electrician to install the new ceiling fans when he did the rewiring and grounding, but I didn't think of it at the time. After cussing up a storm and trying to put one up by myself, I came to the realization that I needed to just hire someone. I had plenty of money so why not forgo the headache, even if I could do it.
That's how I met Bill Stanton. I found him online. He had a construction job but he liked to pick up cash from odd jobs on the side. Bill said he could do it on a Saturday, so we made plans.
I should mention now that I'm bi. Cora and I had a conventional but satisfying, married sex life. As I grieved though, my loneliness increased and some latent tendencies came to the fore. I never cheated on Cora and somehow sex with another woman, even after Cora died, felt wrong to me, like I was an adulterer. I found myself turning to gay and bi porn and jerking off to get off. I had a couple of adolescent experiments that were very much of influence, too - mostly mutual handjobs.
When Bill showed up, I was greeted by a studly, blue-collar guy. He didn't have a six-pack but he was tall and lean, wiry. His faded blue jeans were tight when he was on the ladder and more than once I got away with staring at his bugle while he was pre-occupied with the installation.
By 1:30 that afternoon, he was finishing up on the last fan. We chit-chatted, and Bill complained about how pregnant his wife was and how he was shut off in the bedroom. He did it in an earthy, guy-talk way that wasn't off putting. He also told me I looked familiar but couldn't quite place me. Although Bill didn't look familiar to me, I played along.
We had popped a couple of beers between installations. Bill stayed sober, but I was buzzed. That and my own horniness are what I blame it on. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been so bold as to reach up and run my hand across his jean-clad cock and say, "Maybe I can help you out with that when you finish."
The instant I did that my internal alarm clanged. It was deadly quiet. I stammered an apology as Bill tightened the last screw and stepped down. There was a slight condescension in his smile as he said, "Maybe you can, Pete."
He laughed.
"You look scared," he chuckled.
"I can't believe I did that. I thought you might bash my face in."
He pulled his head back and squinted.
"I'm no bully, and what man doesn't want his dick sucked. A mouth is a mouth. I'm sure I am not your first."
I told him he would be.
"Well, that was a bold move then. Watch the teeth, and we should be fine. Where would you like to be instructed," he said with a smile. Boy, I thought, this escalated quickly.
The more direct he was in the way he spoke to me, the harder I got. I already was leaking pre-cum into my boxer briefs. I suggested the master bedroom. The very place our daughter was conceived.
In less than a minute, Bill stripped off his jeans, shoes and socks. He even left his loose boxers on and pulled his dick and balls through. The instant I saw it I almost trembled with excitement. I'm only a little over six inches but his was over seven-and-a-half, thick and uncut, an enticing surprise. Bill had clearly showered before coming over, but working with the fans had resulted in some moderate sweating and his scent wafted into my awareness. I imagine my eyes were glassy with lust and loneliness as I knelt between his legs. I had 25 years or more on him and suddenly I felt like a dried-up old man who needed to feed on his virility. I felt his hand on my head exert a slight pressure, guiding me down to his big balls and sack. With a moan I pushed my face into them, I nuzzled and began licking.
I'm not bad looking. Especially since retirement, I had lost the dad bod, and I had improved my diet and exercise. I was by no means dead yet, but still I feel my time as part of the male breeding generation was long past. Maybe at one time, I could have been Bill, but now I felt something slip inside me as I was there on my knees. I realized I have a new role in the reproductive cycle of humanity: to serve and please the next generation of alpha males behind me, to help them cool their lust, maybe even raise their children while they fuck to make more. I was deep in what I later learned was called 'subspace.' I was the beta and Bill was now the alpha.
These thoughts made me become passive and even submissive as I sucked up the shaft of Bill's cock, wrapped my lips carefully around the head and pushed down on to his rod. I felt it pulse with power and blood as it sank over my tongue toward my throat. I gagged, and Bill let me pull back. Bill chuckled when I tried and gagged again.
"You really want this cock, don't you, fag?" he asked.
I winced at the word but it made my cock twitch and leak more. My briefs were now as tight as a cock cage. "That's right," I thought. "You're now a faggot cocksucker." I moaned.
I kept trying to deep throat, and I kept gagging. Bill finally pushed me further down until it was all in my throat. I gagged, my eyes teared up, and I almost vomited until Bill eased up enough for me to catch some breath. I breathed deep, and he pushed me down past the gag point. Suddenly, I felt different, not outside my body, not at all, but a calmness came over me and became an object. My mouth was a Fleshlight for him to use. On some level, Bill sensed this and began pushing and pulling my head and mouth up and down on his cock. I fell into a rhythm of breathing and sucking that was almost mechanical. Finally, he erupted in my mouth, filled with cockflesh and seed and saliva.
What surprised me was the sudden feeling of successfully submitting to Bill, of pleasing him and being rewarded with semen, cum, jizz. I fed on it, I swallowed it in hungry gulps. It probably was a placebo effect, but his studly cum was rejuvenating. It was a stolen virility that would dissolve like a pill, but I was determined to savor it. I let it grow soft in my mouth as Bill leaned back. As it softened, his cock leaked more into my mouth, almost as sweet as pre-cum. It was only then I became aware of my own throbbing penis leaking copious amounts.
I let the soft phallus drop from my mouth and began stroking my own. After a minute, I became aware Bill was staring at me.
"Slow down," he said.
I obeyed and he got up and walked out of the room. On the way out, he asked me where my lube was. I told him and was surprised to hear him rummaging around in the kitchen and then the bathroom. He returned with the lube tube and a small, dark blue plate.
"I want to see you cum on this plate," Bill said.
Again, I was simultaneously humiliated and turned on. There was an intensity to his stare that emanated superiority and dominance.
"Cum, faggot," he commanded after a couple of minutes of silence.
That word, that insult, pushed me over the edge and my own jizz spilled out on to the plate. I hadn't ejaculated a load of that volume in a very, long time, a few drops surrounded the puddle of pearl jam in front of me.
Bill took the plate from the floor between my legs and held it before me. Suddenly, I flashed on images of Communion in church.
