Snowboarder blues

by BRK   

Axel, a talented snowboarder, grumbles in frustration in his hotel room as two injured wrists prevent him from taking care of his mounting need.

It was supposed to be easy. I’m supposed to be Axel Riff, the baddest, crunkest snowboarder this side of anywhere. I’ve coasted down Mad River Glen and made mincemeat of Delrium Drive. I’ve sifted more powder than Pablo Escobar. I’m the guy with the moves that make the black diamonds look like bunny slopes. I’m the best, so how is it I’m stuck here in my rooms in the Serenity Deluxe ski resort hotel, in the middle of Gay Ski Week, with two busted wrists and no way to even get myself off?

I mean, come on. This is why I got into snowboarding in the first place. My dick needs action, and to me the only thing hotter than a hunk in a tight snowsuit is peeling it off of him after a hard, sweaty smash down the side of a mountain that definitely wants to kill you—if you let it.

It was such a rookie move, too, not that I’ll admit it if you ask me. It wasn’t even an expert slope. I’d made this bet with a cute bartender who had the nerve to be skeptical I could shave five seconds off the record for their fastest run, because I’m Mr. Cocky (and Mr. Cock—seriously, I’ve been called both). I went up, started zipping down, blood pumping, feeling the thrill—me, my board, the wind and snow, and all the speed I knew how to make. The run did a hairpin jog to the right, and I saw a shortcut gaping open through a stand of trees—barely fifty feet through from this side of the loop to where I’d rejoin it on the other side. So, yeah. Left the trail, all full of myself, and then… bam, the trail was full of me instead. The hard-pack collapsed and then I was plummeting—plummeting! I’ve never plummeted!—into this deep fucking crevasse no one even knew was there, full of sharp angles and sheer drops and these weird purple crystals piled up at the bottom that got fucking everywhere and dug into my damned skin. Board broken, me banged up, coulda got dead. Kind of exhilarating, to be honest, or it would have been if it weren’t from such a bonehead move.

Now I’m sitting here in the big comfy chair by the huge picture window showing me the bright beautiful day I’m missing. Endless vivid blue skies, happy tourists waiting to be impressed, and a whole lot of snowy mountain I couldn’t board down right now if I sucked off every pro in the state. I couldn’t manage to get more than my shirt off after they brought me back from the clinic, which means all I got going for me right now is my tight, slim, nicely defined torso; a brush of blond chest hair; two completely useless wrists in green synthetic casts; and a hard, uncut, desperate-to-be-wanked just-above-average dick I can’t even get fucking at, much less do anything about.

I close my eyes, pissed off and horny. My big brain tells me to use my willpower to tell my little brain not to be such a tool (ha, ha). Get with the program, keep calm and carry on, all that. But, see, I love my dick. I love my dick, my dick loves me, and I know it wants to be a tool. I can feel it twitching under my spare softshell snowboard pants, and my little heart swells with pride. My dick does, too, or would if it could. It squeezes confidently, filling out every micron of its fat, turtle-necked eight inches of hard, sensitive flesh as it strains and flexes, yearning for a bit of freedom and the firm grip of a well-trained fist or two.

My head falls back and I let the intense arousal flood through me unanated, heating up my skin and tightening my heavy balls into my groin. I shift my weight a bit in the big chair, arms splayed out uselessly along the armrests as my butt wriggles and my legs stretch. The fabric of the chair is smooth and resilient against my bare ass, which is better than grabby or cold, at least, but unless I fuck the chair it doesn’t do me much good. And how would I hold myself up if I did? Fuck!

I’m glad I’m naked, and yet—as freeing as it feels to be unencumbered by clothes, the truth is that being nude and not being able to do anything about the achingly hard, precum-spitting ten-inch tool I’ve got thrusting helplessly upward into nothing is way more frustrating than I thought possible.

Uggh. If only it were normal for hotel concierges and butlers to stop by and maybe help take care of their guests when they’re in need. Just a little strong, masculine helping hand as needed along with the steam press, raspberry confit, and nightly turndown service. A turn-up service! They’d do that, wouldn’t they? Offering a hand or two—for the guests with ripped, well-built fitness-model bodies and hard monster footlong pipes, at least? They totally do that. Right?

I’m wallowing in the genuine anguish of this unfulfilled fantasy, eyes closed, my fists and glutes clenching and unclenching in needy frustration as my cock jerks and drips, trying to get harder, when a firm rap at the door to the suite makes me smile wickedly. Without cracking my lids I call out, “Fucking come on in!”

Footsteps move around the suite for a moment, checking supplies and smoothing the still-made bed, before moving to stand in front of me. I feel even harder—twice as hard, for real, and twice as horny, too. Agitated, I open my eyes to see a lanky, quite handsome steward, a couple years younger than my 25, brunette with a smooth, sharp-jawed face and, either through genetics or expert shaving, absolutely no hint of stubble. He’s sporting the hotel uniform—black trousers and vest, crisp white shirt, sky-blue tie—and a very sexy smirk as well that manages to be both lascivious and professional. Nicely done, that, five stars. The shiny little nametag over his left pocket reads “Max”.

He nods politely toward my rigid equipment. “Would you like perhaps assistance with those, Mr. Riff?” the attendant asks in a low, cultured baritone that makes my balls churn.

I offer him as lazy a smile as I can manage under the circumstances. “Yeah? Is that a service you provide… Max?”

The handsome, well-built attendant rakes his brilliant green eyes over my powerful, thickly muscled body, lingering on my twin, tireless 14-inch tools. “I believe you meet the requirements of our platinum premium service… sir,” he says blandly.

I let my smile widen slowly, returning his leer as I flex my cocks for him, spattering a parallel trails of dewy precum over my thick, hair-dusted chest and chiseled abs. He’s looking quite impressive in the vest-and-no-shirt version of the house uniform that marks him as a room attendant, the lines of that classic sleeveless top emphasizing the bulk of his shoulders, the dark hairiness of his heavy pecs, and the delicious spread of his long, sexy lats. I nod once. “Then, by all means, go ahead,” I purr.

Max falls easily to his knees in front of me, and I let my legs spread a little wider for him to get close as I drink in his olive-skinned, shirtless upper body. His pecs are even bigger than mine, I note, and much furrier, and his traps and heavy delts are so alluring I curse my accident all over again for not letting me grip them hard while he pleasures me. I can only watch hungrily as his strong, wide-palmed hands wrap around both of my three-inch-thick steel-hard wangs and I yank in a breath, my nerves singing with the joy of his touch.

He begins to stroke, and my head falls back again, the pleasure so great it feels like a gentle delirium. At first he keeps a parallel, steady rhythm, but then some diabolical impulse inspires him to gradually vary the strokes—fast left, slow right; up left, down right—until I can’t even keep track. Even I haven’t managed such a virtuoso-level performance on myself, and when it comes to my instruments I am the best-trained and most practiced of experts.

Or—I was, at any rate, in my own estimation. Not any longer.

“Moooore,” I moan. Deciding to grant my plea he stops holding back and brings his other pair of hands into the fray. I slot my eyes briefly to admire his furry, stacked double row of pecs, and the easy grin he tosses me as he catches me looking. But concentration is impossible and my eyes soon roll back into my head, his four-handed pleasuring of my uber-sensitive 15-inch beasts driving me to levels of thrilling stimulation I’ve not yet experienced or imagined.

My fist-sized balls surge and the electric crackle of imminent climax ripples through me. My hands twitch, their inability to add to the rapture like an excruciating gift as I surrender myself to this talented, pleasure-giving man. “God, Max, please—I’m close,” I say, opening my eyes to stare my need into his. “Finish me off!”

Max gives me a wide double grin as he dives onto my cocks, still fisting them with all four hands as he swallows down the broad heads and a few inches of shaft. I force back a cry as my climaxes rise with alarming speed, my arms quivering from their resting places on the sides of the chair, out of the action. I’m truly desperate to grab his long, sexy hair and force his heads down onto my 15-and-a-half-inch monsters so I can cum down his throats like a fucking champion. Instead I let him do it all, wrenching the best double orgasm out of me I’d ever wanted as he pulls his damp fists away and shoves my cocks all the way down his tight, hot throats. Instantly I’m cumming hard, without any control or any sense of when it will stop.

He swallows, pulling slowly back as my release surges and peaks until I’m cumming against the back of his mouths instead of his throats. “Oh—oh god, oh Max,” I pant.

It’s long minutes before I stop cumming—I cum a lot, and this time it’s more than ever—but he keeps up with me, swallowing my seed and licking around my cockheads until my climax finally ebbs and I eventually have to tell him to pull off because they’re too sensitive to take it.

Max grins and sidles up into my lap, sharing an intimate double kiss that feels like above and beyond. I kiss him back languidly, wanting more.

Fortunately, I have the financial resources to open up some possibilities. “You know, I feel like I might need to lure you away from this place,” I murmur into one of his ears. “I’ve got an opening for a personal assistant, as it happens.”

Max’s eyes glint with a kind of fiery, cocksure lust I recognize, from seeing it every day in my bathroom mirror. “Indeed?” he says, his basso professional tone thrilling me to the core and making my red-tinged, cum-slicked cocks refuse to soften. “I am unsure, Mr. Riff,” he teases me. “As staff goes, I’m pretty expensive.”

“I can believe it,” I say, moving in for a deep, messy kiss with his left head while the right one mouths along my neck. I moan as his tongue curls around mine, my massive cocks gradually plumping anew from the pleasurable stimulation. I always recover quickly, and my balls are already sloshing with new cum. Yeah, I’m going to be going again in a minute—and I know Max will be ready.

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