Good Neighbor John Ch. 02

At 4:45 I decided to go out onto the balcony and wait for Sam to get home from work. I don't like face-to-face confrontations so I generally avoid them, but his snub of me this morning was eating away at my heart.

I wore navy blue nylon gym shorts and a matching cut-off tee shirt. Powder blue string bikini briefs underneath the shorts completed my outfit.

I screwed-up enough courage to sit on the chair directly in front of his glass door. There was no way he wouldn't be able to see me when he arrived home.

I sniffed my armpits. They were still fresh. Whatever happened with Sam, I would still have plenty of time to soak in a bubble bath before my seven o'clock in apartment 640.

4:50 -- no Sam. 4:55 no Sam. 5:00 -- no Sam. 5:05 -- no Sam. 5:10 -- no Sam. 5:15 -- no Sam. 5:20 -- no Sam. 5:25 -- no Sam. 5:30 -- no Sam.

I gave up at 5:35 and went inside with a heavy heart. Whatever I did to make him mad was bad enough for him to change his routine. He always comes home around five. Since I began doing it for him, he's never missed his five o'clock handy.

I sat at the computer and deleted many emails. To pick up my spirits, I opened 'Nicky and Daniel's Wedding Reception' file again and scrolled thru the photos.

My job had been cocktail server and my uniform consisted solely of a pink bowtie and a very tiny pink thong. It brought a smile to my face when I remembered how uncomfortable and agitated I became with that darn string between my asscheeks rubbing against my anus all night long.

There were actually quite a few photos of me serving the guests so I was able to follow the progression of my unruly prick that evening. Mister Halifax had been the wedding photographer so I guess it made sense he kept an eye on me.

The night started out normal enough. I went from table-to-table delivering tray loads of champagne. Many of the men couldn't resist patting and stroking my exposed buttocks but I was able to concentrate enough so my prick stayed flaccid.

Once the guests were finished with the light appetizers and snacks and I began delivering shots of Fireball, that was when things sort of spiraled out of control.

Many of the guests insisted I drink a shot of the cinnamon-tasting whiskey with them and they became very handsy -- boldly squeezing my butt and stroking my smooth thighs. Soon, my prick was at half-mast and the head was poking out the top of the thong.

That cunt, Little Timmy, was the one who did the most to embarrass me. He took advantage of my vulnerability every time I had a full tray of drinks and had to use both hands to carry it.

First, he rolled and pinched my nipples until they were hard -- a full inch in length. That caused my prick to stiffen further, but most of it was still tucked inside the thong.

I was becoming slightly inebriated and the next time around with the tray he stopped me and kissed me full on the lips ramming his tongue in and out of my mouth.

Well, that did it -- French kissing always does. My boner sprang to life and popped out into the open and I heard cheers and applause from the nearby tables.

I was going to set down the tray and adjust my hard-on back into the thong when Little Timmy whispered in my ear, "Don't you dare -- you're gonna walk around like that the rest of the night!"

So there I was with my prick jutting straight out bobbing ahead of me and my hairless balls swinging between my legs while I delivered drinks. Now the men kneaded and stroked my flesh in earnest.

The next time around when the last shot glass was gone from the tray, I had to sit next to a man, reach under the table and stroke his cock until it exploded. At some point, someone ripped the flimsy thong off me and I was totally nude the rest of the night. All pretense of civility was now gone.

I don't know how many under-the-table handjobs I gave that night. It seemed like every man there wanted at least one. Sometimes I was tightly sandwiched between two men and gave them double-fisted handjobs.

All I remember is when I got home, my hands, wrists and most of my legs were sticky with dried or drying sperm and semen and I never once shot a load of my own.

Of course, I took care of that problem the moment I went inside my apartment and went to bed.

***

I hadn't heard Sam come home so I decided to run a bath.

I carefully measured a cup of the special bubble bath liquid into the water. Not only did it have a nice fragrance, but it also contained a solution that removed my body hair. Two birds with one stone.

I carefully put on the shower cap. I certainly do not want to lose the hair on my head.

I flipped over the sand hour-glass and stepped into the tub. Mister Alderson had given me the hour glass, which was really a half-hour. He insists I sit in the sudsy water until the sand runs out.

After thirty-minutes, I pull the plug, and while the water is draining I stand under the hot shower rinsing the soap off my soft and smooth body.

In the bedroom I slide a clean white jockstrap up my legs. I stand before the mirror, pose with my hands on hips, and admire my bulge in the crotch of the jock. The small pouch gives me the illusion I have a 'manly package' and it makes me feel better about myself.

I slip into my standard work uniform: pink short-shorts, and the short pink tee shirt that exposes my flat, lower tummy and navel. I decide against wearing the pink socks. I'm sure Timmy the Cunt will strip me naked when I get there anyway. I slide the pink flip-flops on my feet and go back to the computer.

I fight the urge to go out on the balcony to see if Sam had come home while I was in the bathroom. I don't want to appear too desperate and needy.

I update my work schedule to include the new woman, 'Mistress Marcia' two nights from now.

That means I'll be working for Mistress Bernice tomorrow night and the new woman the following night. I am positive Mistress Bernice told the new woman about my distaste for going down on women which means for sure I'll have to eat cunt two nights in a row. YUCK!!

The job I am looking forward to the most is the 'modeling' shoot with Mister Halifax on Sunday. He said he found a cute, new boy named Manolo, and he and I have a lot in common, whatever that means.

***

At 6:50 I check myself in the mirror one last time then leave the apartment. As I walk up the stairs to the sixth floor my dick begins twitching inside the jock. It's like it has a mind of its own whenever I have a job in apartment 640.

Little Timmy is two-inches shorter than me heighth-wise, but two-inches longer than me dick-wise. He has a dominating personality that excites me, but I will never admit that to him or anyone else.

I rap three times on the door and soon am face-to-face with him. He is wearing simply black boxer briefs and his prick is tenting-out the crotch. He and Mister Hanson must have been making out on the sofa. I guess I stared too long at his bulge.

He laughed and said, "You be an obedient little boy tonight, Johnny, and I just might let you slide your pussy back-and-forth on my cock!"

I don't embarrass easily, but he has a knack for putting me in my place.

I see Mister Hanson smiling at me from the sofa. He is dressed only in a red thong and the purple head of his hard cock has escaped the waistband and laying flat against his firm belly. More than once I have wondered who the real bottom is in their relationship.

Once the door closes behind me, Timmy takes me in his arms and we kiss. I never resist him. An important aspect of my work is to appear to be an eager and willing participant no matter how distasteful I may find the job.

As usual, the French-kissing gives me a stone-hard boner. Timmy strips me between kisses and I stand there with a hard-on in my tiny white jock. With his tongue in my mouth, I feel his hands on my hips. He pushes the jockstrap to the floor. He breaks the kiss and joins Mister Hanson on the sofa. I am left standing naked and aroused, and out of breath gasping for air.

"Time for inspection -- come over here, boy!" he orders.

I am two-years older than him but he always calls me 'boy.'

"Yes, Timmy," I dutifully reply.

I stand naked before them with my hands on my head, and feet spread wide apart. I am completely exposed and at their mercy.

Timmy always takes his time when he runs his hands over my soft and smooth flesh searching for a stray hair or two. He, of course, won't find any but by the time he is done, my body will tingle and my prick will be throbbing.

"Good boy," he says then adds: "Now turn around and display your pussy to us!"

"Yes, Timmy," I reply and immediately turn my backside to them.

I know what they expect. With my legs spread as wide as possible, I bend over at the waist, reach back with my hands and pull apart my buttocks so they have a closeup and very personal view of my boypussy.

This is the most vulnerable and embarrassing aspect of my job. It also reminds me of the first time one of my sponsors, Mister Alderson had me bend over for him. He likes to hear me beg so I said, "Please fuck me in the ass, pleeeezzzzzzzz!"

He slapped my buttcheeks hard and admonished me, "Only real men have assholes -- boys like you have pussies!"

Timmy gives my erection a few hard strokes then I feel the soft leather of the scrotum strap as he cinches my balls. My heart sinks. The longer Timmy denies me a climax, the more excited I get.

I become so desperate to orgasm I turn into a mindless, lust-crazed sex boy eagerly obeying Timmy's increasingly humiliating demands. My balls become so swollen and full, their isn't any act of oral and anal sodomy I won't perform for Timmy and Mister Hanson.

"Get on your knees between his legs, boy, and suck his cock!" Timmy says firmly.

"Yes, Timmy," I reply and immediately obey his command.

***

Two-hours later I am stumbling down the stairwell. Mind shrouded in haze, legs weak and wobbly. The afterglow of my orgasm is overwhelming. I don't even realize I am wearing only the tiny jockstrap and carrying the rest of my clothes.

I somehow concentrate hard enough to open my front door. I go straight for the recliner and plop down on it. The sweet ache I feel in my boypussy reminds me how well Timmy and Mister Hanson fucked me tonight.

I must have given them three orgasms each but the one Timmy allowed me to have was so powerful and satisfying it made the entire night a major success.

A crashing noise on the balcony startles me. I go to the glass door and see a chair had been tipped over. I flip on the outside light and OH MY GOD -- I see Sam laying face down on the concrete. I turn off the light and hurry out to him.

As I kneel down to attend to him a very strong odor of alcohol assaults my nose. I gently turn him onto his back.

"Sam -- Sam, are you alright?" I frantically ask him.

I hear a deep groan then "Johnny, is that you?"

"Yes, I'm here for you...are you okay?" I ask again.

"Noooo..." he moans. "I'm not okay...I'm a...Johnny, I'm a faggot just like you!"

His words are slightly slurred. He is drunk.

"What are you talking about?" I ask him.

"I sucked your cock the other night -- that makes me a cocksucking faggot like you!" he said.

His words hurt, but I was more concerned with whether he had injured himself.

"That doesn't mean a thing," I said. "You were experimenting...a lot of guys experiment!"

"Noooooo..." he groaned. "I liked it too much...I loved having your dick in my mouth -- so hot and so smooth...I loved it when you came in my mouth -- it tasted great...I'm nothing but a worthless, cocksucking cum-eating faggot!"

Again, the words hurt but I pressed on.

"Sammy, do you think I'm 'worthless'?" I asked him.

"No, Johnny, noooo...I think I understand you better now," he said. "I know why you like to do it...I loved hearing you moan when I was doing it for you...and when you shot in my mouth it was so exhilarating that I was able to give you all that pleasure - in fact, it gave me a hard-on...my dick got sooo hard when I was swallowing your cum as soon as I went inside I had to jack-off...and I thought about your cock the whole time!"

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry so I took his confession as words from a guy out-of-his-mind drunk. I decided to change the subject.

"How was it at work? I'll bet you were pretty hungover," I said.

"I haven't gone to work -- I've been drinking for two-days!" he exclaimed.

"Sam, you have to go to work -- you have to take care of yourself!" I scolded.

"I'll prove it to you, Johnny -- take out your cock and I'll go down on you right now!" he said forcefully. "That's what faggots do, right? C'mon Johnny, whip it out -- I want to make you cum in my mouth again!"

"You need to get some sleep - I'm going to help you inside," I said softly.

He was dead-weight when I tried to help him stand.

"Sam, listen to me -- you have to give me some help -- take my hand and try to stand up!" I pleaded with him.

He grunted and groaned as he fought to get up and stand on his uncertain legs.

He fell against me but I managed to keep him upright. I opened his sliding door and almost had to carry him inside. I didn't think I could get him to his bedroom so I laid him down on his back on the sofa.

I went in search for a blanket to cover him. All I found were extra sheets so I laid one over him. It was warm in the apartment and I figured the sheet would be enough.

All I heard was his breathing so I thought he was asleep as I spread the sheet over him. He slightly shifted his body and I swear I heard him say very softly, "Johnny, I love you" then he passed-out.

I stood over him a long time listening to his snoring. I didn't know if I should be happy for me or sad for my confused, straight friend.

***

I woke up before the alarm went off and slid into orange gym shorts and plain white t-shirt. I went to check on Sam. The purpose was to wake him and get him off to work. I knew he was living on a very tight budget and couldn't afford to lose his job.

He wasn't on the sofa so I thought he may have made it to the bedroom sometime in the night. Surprise! He was nowhere to be found. There was a wet towel in the bathroom.

Amazing! As drunk as he'd been, he somehow managed to wake-up before me, take a shower and go to work. He had to have a one, wicked headache!

Went back to my place, made a cup of instant coffee, and brought my phone with me out on the balcony. I saw right away a text from the photographer, Mister Halifax.

"Moved up shoot -- this a.m. at 10."

Uh-oh, this screws-up my schedule. I went inside, fired-up the laptop and studied the days agenda. I shifted around a couple jobs. It was too early to call them about the changes but I did have to start sooner than originally planned so I took a quick shower then ate some toast with another cup of coffee, and was out the door at 8:00am.

***

I always find giving an early morning massage to be more difficult. While the coffee clears my head, my body isn't quite awake yet.

No matter, I tell myself, Peter the Perv isn't really interested in the massage itself. No, to him it's all about the happy-ending. As I enter one of the massage rooms next to the gym I wonder if today will be oral or the use of my hands.

True to form, Peter is already laying on his stomach on the table. Also true to form, he never has the decency to cover himself with at least a small towel. He is naked and his fat-ass pretty much takes up most of the table. A small towel wouldn't cover much anyhow.

As usual, the first thing out of his mouth is "You're late!" and I give him my usual reply "I'm right on time, sir!"

I don't bother stripping off my clothes with him. He doesn't care about looking at my body, and I don't get the least bit aroused massaging his flabby flesh so I never have to worry about pre-cum leakage staining my undies.

My hands go to work on his back but quickly move to the mud-flaps of his ass. He's only interested in feeling my hands on his huge butt and his stubby dick anyway.

After ten-minutes or so he says "Kiss my ass, boy!"

That's when I know he is ready to turn-over and have me work on his dick so I reply "Yes, sir!" and I plant a loud, wet kiss on the closest, shakes-like-jello ass-cheek.

He grunts with effort as he shifts on the table to his back. I have to restrain myself from giggling when I catch sight of his short, fat, stubby prick.

I massage his breasts for thirty-seconds then squeeze and knead his upper thighs.

I guess I kinda play a game with him. I won't move on from his thighs until he gets agitated enough to say "What are you waiting on, boy -- get to it!"

"Yes, sir," I reply and begin squeezing and stroking his pathetic dick with one hand while I massage his heavy scrotum with the other.

I always stare at his dick and wonder if he's ever fucked a woman with it and I always come to the same conclusion: No way -- no how -- not possible!

I massage his dick and balls and wait for his breathing to intensify. Only then will he tell me what type of happy-ending he wants.

He suddenly blurts out "I'm going to finish in your mouth, boy!"

I say to him "Yes, sir!" but my mind is screaming YUCK.

I wet my lips, slide them over his fat glans and begin using my tongue. I work feverishly on him. I always give him my 'Express BJ' to make him cum as soon as possible.

Within two-minutes his body begins shaking and I ready myself to receive my punishment.

I have to mentally prepare myself for the worst so I don't gag and choke on his awful gruel. I'm not sure what he stores in his balls but it is not normal sperm and semen. It's a thin and mucous-like liquid that has the flavor and consistency of smelly swamp water.

Oh well...a boys gotta do what a boys gotta do.

***

I rush home and run to the bathroom to use mouthwash. I have to gargle and spit three times before his taste is gone.

The only good thing about doing a job for Peter the Perv is it doesn't take much time. I have thirty-minutes until my next appointment so I make another cup of coffee.

I become aware of something in my peripheral vision. My eyes dart to the balcony and -- oh my God -- Sam is sitting out there! What the hell is he doing home so early?

I casually join him on the balcony and say "Hi Sam, why are you home already?"

"Hi" he replies. "Apparently, I got fired yesterday..."

"What are you talking about?" I ask him in surprise.

"Well...I must have had a blackout when I was drinking..." he said in a far-off voice.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means I don't remember my boss calling me and me telling him to fuck-off...he was pretty angry when I showed up today...."

"Oh my God, Sam, that's terrible!" I said.

I didn't know what else to say so I blurted out, "I'm surprised you were able to get up and go to work today at all...you were pretty wasted last night."

"Oh, did I see you last night?" he asked.

My heart became so heavy all I could say is, "Yeah, we talked for awhile."

"Damn," he muttered. "I gotta cut down on the booze...the blackouts are getting worse and worse...."

Wow, he doesn't remember telling me "I love you!" Now what? Should I say something? Nah, it wouldn't do any good. In fact, it might push him over the edge and he could start drinking again!

I moved next to him on the love seat and placed my hand on his upper thigh, smiled and said, "Want me to make you feel better?"

My heart took another painful blow when he pushed my hand away and replied, "No, that's okay, I'm not in the mood."

"Oh...uh, alright, I have a job at nine," I said and abruptly stood. "I'll be out here at five...if you want to, uh, talk."

"We'll see...." were his last words before I went inside heartbroken.

***

Old Man Donelly lives directly below my apartment. I go there four times a week to give him a thorough scrubbing, literally.