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I followed him off the subway and up to the street. He went into a parking structure and up some stairs. When I turned the corner on the 3rd floor, there he was, waiting for me at the landing, shirt up and pants unzipped. My eye didn’t know where to go first. His chest was so defined there was a gap between each four pack. You could wash clothes on his abs, for gods sake. Then there was that incredibly iliac crest that looked like it was carved into his pelvis, and the tip of his cock nestled right at the base framed in dark cropped hair. I whimpered and bit my lip. Why was he hiding under baggy clothes? When was the last time someone properly paid tribute to that, cause goddamn!

I took off my shirt and used it to cushion my knees from the hard cement. I knelt in front of him and replaced his hands holding up his pants with my own. After pressing little kisses to the base of his dick, I made my way up his treasure trail and his abs, flicking my tongue into his bellybutton. He murmured approval and slid his fingers through my hair.

"I knew when I saw you on that train I knew you were hungry for a man’s attention," he chuckled, "I’m never wrong."

I removed his trapped penis from the confines of his pants. It was hard to tear my eyes away from his handsome face to admire my prize. It fleshly, substantial and veiny. He was a shower, not a grower, but I was determined to get another inch out of him. I slowly ran my tongue over the thick ridge of his cut glans then wrapped my lips around the tip and pushed my tongue into the thin slit. He was going to say some other smart-ass comment, but as I worked he quickly forgot how speak and his eyes rolled back in his head. It’s hard to smirk with a cock in your mouth. I wonder if he even noticed I was doing it.

Text is fictional. The model and stud is Franco Klein.

(Source: mercuryjones, via thehomosexuallyfrustrated)