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Hot Sex Story Of The Day
FrostburgFrostburg, Ohio, is well named. A small town, consisting of a single, tree-lined street alongside of which are neat, two-story clapboard houses with screened-in porches, small mom-and-pop shops, a church, a post office, a small public library, a park, and a couple of bars, it could have been the model for Disneyland's Main Street, USA, the inspiration for a Norman Rockwell painting, or the setting of a Ray Bradbury novel. It was winter when George, who is my chauffeur, and I drove through the town, on our way to points east, and a blizzard overtook us. The town's benches, awnings, rooftops, fire hydrants, mailboxes, vehicles, windowsills, sidewalks, roads, and everything else was blanketed in drifting snow, and the branches of trees and shrubs were encased in shimmering sleeves of ice. Frostburg was a winter wonderland.
Since my childhood in a similar town in the Midwest, I haven't been to many places like Frostburg. Like most wealthy men, I prefer the glamour and sophistication of the big city. My homes are in New York City, Key West, and Los Angeles. I am considering the purchase of an estate in Lake Tahoe and another in a London suburbs. Never once have I thought of buying a home in a place like Frostburg. To be frank, I wouldn't even have considered spending a night in such a town. However, the blizzard left me no choice. I booked a room in the Frostburg Inn, which was the only hotel in town. It contained only four rooms, and three of them were occupied, so George and I had to room together. In fact, since the room had only one bed, a king, we had to sleep together as well. There were only two consolations: the chamber boasted its own bath, complete with shower, and we had to endure the arrangement for only a night or two, until the snow stopped falling and the road crews cleared the streets and highways.
While I paid for our accommodations, George parked the limousine. Then, we had dinner at the Wine and Dine, a cozy, if pretentious, Italian joint across the street from our hotel. It served acceptable linguini and terrible wine. Sated, we repaired to our room. While George took a shower, I stripped to my skivvies, donned my robe, and read a tawdry science fiction novel featuring an inane utopia in which wealthy aristocrats lived parasitic lives on the backs of the working poor, whom they kept sedated, if not fulfilled, by plenty of sex, drugs, and the novel's version of rock and roll. The so-called utopia was so depressing that it made my employees' cubicle lives seem good by comparison. Once again, I thanked my lucky stars that, as an only child whose mother had died in childbirth, I'd inherited both my father's business and his entire fortune, which is--well, considerable.
I was just about to toss the idiotic narrative aside when I heard a crash from the bathroom, followed by a moan. George! I thought. Somehow, he'd hurt himself. At least it would be the hotel, not me, who was liable if he sued, I consoled myself, as I hurried to his assistance.
Fortunately, he hadn't locked the door. Opening it, I stepped over the threshold, and froze, shocked.
My chauffeur lay on the floor, nude, bleeding profusely from a nasty gash over his right eye. Part of his towel lay near his upper body. He was moaning.
"George?" I cried. "Are you all right?"
"Uh."
My eyes swept over his body. Blond of hair and blue of eye, George was a handsome man and, at thirty, young--and strong. During his leisure time, when he was not in the gym, working out with weights and performing a battery of exercises, he was lying on the beach, soaking up the rays. Consequently, he was muscular and tan, with wide shoulders, a deep chest, six-pack abs, sinewy legs, firm biceps, compact buttocks, and a sculpted back. I couldn't help but observe that he also had a long, thick cock, even when it was flaccid, as now.
"Uh."
George's moan stirred me from my reverie. I hastened to him, kneeling beside his fallen form on the cold, hard tile.
"George? Can you hear me?"
He turned his head toward me, grimaced, and nodded. "I tripped over the shower stall's doorsill."
"Are you all right? Should I call 9-1-1?"
He shook his head, before wincing again. "No. I'm okay."
"What can I do?"
Grimacing, he tried to sit, but failed. "Help me up," he said.
"I'm not sure I should move you," I replied, hesitating.
"Help me," he entreated. "Please."
I sighed, telling myself not to do so. I should call 9-1-1 and let the professionals assist him--and bear the financial liability if anything should go wrong. Instead, I took his wrists in my hands, pulling, and helped him to gain his feet. I put one of his arms over my shoulder and walked him to the bed we shared, easing him down, onto the mattress.
"What else can I do?" I asked him.
He winced. "Stop the bleeding."
Of course, I told myself. What a fool I was. I hastened to the bathroom and snatched a fresh towel from the rack. Hurrying back to George, who lay upon his back, his cock lolling upon his golden thighs, I seated myself on the edge of the bed, beside him, and staunched the bleeding. Thereafter, I cleaned the wound, which, although it had bled copiously, was not serious, after all. Then, I found a Band-aid in George's suitcase and dressed the cut.
"How's that?" I asked him.
"Great."
I started to rise.
George took my hand in his.
I paused, giving him a quizzical look.
"There's something else you can do for me," he said, smiling.
That's how our relationship had become one involving lovers rather than one involving simply an employer and an employee.
Since then, we have been intimate many times. I especially enjoy making love to George in the parked limousine. The vehicle's windows are heavily tinted. In addition, the glass allows the limousine's occupants to see out, but no one can see inside. Sometimes, when we are on a long-distance drive and I become bored with the newspaper, my cache of financial magazines, and various books on tedious business topics, I open the privacy partition between the driver's and the passengers' compartments and invite George to pull over, park, and join me. We have a drink or two over a bit of small talk. Then, we undress, neatly folding our clothes and stacking them out of the way.
Although I have seen George naked many times since that first night that I saw him lying naked upon our hotel room lavatory, wet from his shower and bleeding from the gash he'd received in his forehead after tripping on the shower stall's doorsill and falling, I enjoy seeing his brawny, tanned physique again each time that he reveals his wide shoulders, powerful chest, washboard abs, bulging thighs, chiseled back, compact buttocks, sinewy arms, thick cock, and big balls. The sight of his nude body always enflames my passions. We start kissing, and our hands caress one another's nakedness. Sometimes, George is the more active and aggressive, or masculine, partner; other times, he is the more passive and submissive, or feminine, partner. We are both "versatile," as the sex ads put it, able to give or receive pleasure--and, occasionally, pain.
I love trading roles with George. He has a lovely ass. Smooth as silk, the arching mounds of his buttocks are soft, but firm, and it is a delight to flatten them before the rapid, forward thrusts of my hips as I repeatedly drive my thick, hard penis through the tiny ring of his anus, deep into his rectum. At the same time, I usually toy with his cock and balls, masturbating him as I lunge and plunge into his bottom. When orgasm seizes me, I withdraw my lurching, straining cock from his bowels to let it spew its thick, warm, white seed over George's back and buttocks. It's wonderful to see my brand upon his flesh. Of course, I also enjoy it when he is the aggressor, as it were, and I am his prey. George is young and strong, vigorous and robust, with seemingly inexhaustible stamina. Once he skewers my asshole with his nine inches, I know that I am in for a fantastic, merciless fuck. His glans presses at my anus. Although my sphincter offers stout resistance, it widens before the mounting force of his unrelenting member, opening, slowly but surely, to admit his manhood, and I feel an inch or two penetrate the ring of muscle and slide into my bowels. Sometimes, my asshole flutters frantically about his invading organ, as if to evict this rude trespasser. Usually, when this happens, George waits patiently, enjoying the frenzied spasms. When the contractions subside, he feeds another inch or two of his cock through my impaled anus, slowly filling my backside with his thick, hard prick, and, after what seems forever, I finally feel the bump of his scrotum as he squashes his balls against the lower curves of my ass. He rides me slowly at first, pulling out until only the purple tip of his reddened cock remains within the circle of my anus, pausing for a moment, and then plunging the full length of his rigid penis into my rectum and flattening my buttocks before his driving pubes. Again and again, he rams his cock into the wide-stretched asshole between the sleek mounds of my buttocks, burying his organ inside my posterior all the way to his balls. His rhythm increases each time that he again slams his cock into my behind until he is fucking me with the intensity of a piston pumping inside an automobile's engine. Eventually, he is gripped in the throes of passion, and he empties his balls inside my ass, filling me with the warm pulses of his thick, viscid semen. He remains inside me until his cock, still oozing sperm, dwindles, softening and shrinking, and eases its way out of my gaping anus, trailing his seed along the cleavage of my buttocks and over my perineum and thighs.
More and more often, it seems, I am taking a hiatus from the pressing demands of my career in favor of joining my chauffeur on a long road trip. New sights, fresh scenery, and unfamiliar faces are always pleasant, but, most of all, I enjoy having sex with George as we park under the stars, deep in a mountain forest; among the drifting dunes of a remote desert; or alongside a coastal highway, near the eternal ebb and flow of the great, wide sea. I have begun to recount these adventures, treasuring them not only in my heart but also as entries to a journal that, in accordance with my will, shall be published upon my demise, so that all men who love other men may share these wonderful escapades.
At such times, I am always thankful of the blizzard that interrupted our journey east and forced George and me to stay the night together in Frostburg.
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