Sex stories

My name is Thierry, 50 years old, perfect white hair, always impeccable in my posh 11th floor apartment. I take care of my body and my suits are luxury. That summer, my walls were begging for paint, but I didn't feel like it, so I placed an ad. There appeared Amir, a 23-year-old Egyptian, student in Paris, pure muscle.

When he opened the door, I freaked out: tall, brown skin, boxer's shoulders, biceps bulging under a dirty T-shirt. A man's face, shaved black hair, dark eyes that pierce you. He barely spoke French: "Yo Amir, paint, yes?" he said in a deep voice. I nodded, already spliced just looking at him.

Two days he painted at home. I spied him from the living room: strong torso, round ass in worn jeans, sweat on his neck. Quiet, discreet, but his straight macho air got me going. I fantasized about his package as I watched him work.

The second day was over, I rewarded him and he blurted out, "Me dirty, shower, ok?" I said yes, my throat dry. The water sounded and I imagined his body under the stream. He came back with a towel, naked torso, hard abs, water dripping down his skin. An Egyptian god.

He looked at me, smiled and dropped the towel. His cock, fat and stiff, was there. "You... suck?" he said, straight. That straight guy wanted to empty himself, and I was his tool. I knelt, swallowing his hot, salty cock. He grunted, grabbed my hair and fucked my mouth. His balls were bumping against my chin, and I loved it. He ejaculated fast, a hot spurt that I swallowed whole.

"Sunday, me come again," he said as he dressed, his ass perfect in his jeans. I nodded, hooked.

Since then, every Sunday is the same. Amir arrives, pure macho in tight clothes that smell of testosterone. I make him simple food, like tajine, and we eat quietly. He speaks little, just to practice French, but I don't mind. He doesn't come to chat. Then he lies down on the couch, spreads his legs and pulls down his pants. His cock, half hard, ready to unload. "Suck me," he grunts. I jump on it, suck it like crazy, he holds my head and jerks off in my mouth. He ejaculates hard, a river of cum that I swallow whole. He leaves without a word.

That's why he comes back: to empty himself quickly, without any fuss. I'm his outlet, and fuck, he blows me away. Every Sunday I wait for his doorbell, ready for his of raw manhood.