It's sweltering. 4 p.m. in the middle of summer. A one bedroom apartment and a broken fan. My clothes stick to my body. And I crave cock.
I know who to call. I send the quick message. And pray with the dazed fervour only this heat can inspire that he is free. A reply five agonising minutes later: get ready.
I am already getting hard as I grind into the bed. Salivating. Wanting.
The next twenty minutes are agony in confirmed anticipation. When he finally knocks, I feel the first moisture escape me.
He enters (it's always unlocked for him). A hot draft wafts through the room. It's not just the outside. All his bulk comes to a stand in front of my bed. I look up at him. The tight navy-coloured uniform. The thick arms protruding. The heavy chest. That square, scruffy face, still with sunglasses on.
Hungry today, he says. I nod. He walks to the windows to close the shutters. I admire that round, tight arse. Want it naked.
He's back, right in front of my face. Beg, he says. Please, I say, looking up into his impassive face. The thick lips curve into a smile. Please, I don't want to beg today, I just need it, I'm upfront.
He nods, almost imperceptibly. He loosens his belt, undoes his shirt buttons, moves forward. I feel the heat from him in my face, am drawn forward. He unzips and lets his pants drop. I gasp at his heavy bulge in tight briefs. His thick shaft extends across to his hips. I reach out but he knocks my hands off. He grabs my head instead, burying it in his crotch. I sniff, feel myself drooling, feel the moisture of the fabric, see it darkened, from sweat and - I hope - his precum.
Finally he loosens his grip on my head and lowers the waistband. His cock pops out, and I feel myself leaking a second time. His perfect tool, long, curved and made for my mouth. Honey brown on its veiny shaft, shiny pink on its fat cockhead. I greedily stuff it in my mouth. Make it wet. Begin sucking.