Private sale

by BRK   

A catalog contains a lot of options for anyone interested in a cock upgrade.

It looked like another piece of junk mail: a clothing catalog very much in the style of International Male, complete with a lithe and well-muscled model in swim trunks on the front cover, baring (in addition to his impressive chest) a friendly, white-toothed grin. It was sealed in plastic as magazines and catalogs usually are these days, so I couldn't flip through it as I made my way back up to my third-floor apartment from the mailboxes in the lobby; I figured the model was hot enough that it was worth opening up once i got inside, just to see what other kinds of boys they'd thought to include, before I tossed it.

So after I poured myself a Coke and dispensed with the rest of the junk mail I opened up the wrapping and pulled out the catalog, glancing over the cover. At the top it said, “Jacob and Johnson—PRIVATE SALE.” Along the side of the humpy model were such cover-lines as “You won't believe how little it costs to get what you've always wanted!” I smiled. I am not someone who has “always wanted” a pair of leopard-skin (tan-through) swim trunks, or a sheer cobalt-blue paisley mock tee, for that matter, and I was sure I'd see both inside. Just because I had the body to pull them off didn't mean I thought they looked good!

I turned the page and inside was a loose sheet of white paper: a letter. It read: “Dear future customer: Congratulations! A very few Jacob and Johnson catalogs are printed each year, and you've made the list! Be sure to thank the generous friend who recommended you. Jacob and Johnson isn't like any other store. We provide quality goods you won't find anywhere else, just the way you've always dreamed, and at stunningly reasonable prices. No matter what you have now, we have something for you. Welcome to the club! Signed, Joshua Johnson.”

I snorted, amused at Joshua's presumption that I was sure to be a future customer and that I'd always wanted what he offered. I set the letter aside and glanced at the catalog.

Right away I noticed this catalog was unusual after all: The models on the first two-page spread were all naked. They were all doing typically fake model things—leaning against boulders at the beach, bending down to tak to golden retrievers, ironing—but the weren't actually modeling anything. They were all beautiful, of course, with long-limbed, well-muscled bods, godlike faces, winning smiles, and (as I could now see) excellent cocks as well. Who forgot to put clothes on these boys? My own cock started to swell in my jeans, intrigued.

There was sales copy alongside each picture. The first one started: “A. The J & J Standard. Perfect for bringing yourself up to the norm, or as an everyday alternative to your party model. Only $19.99 + S&H.”

Wait—are they selling what I think they're selling? My left hand strayed to my still-growing cock as I turned a page with the right.

Next to a picture of a tall, lanky, pale blond with a very long, not-too-thick flaccid cock hanging partway down the leg: “E. The Viscount. Elegant and sophisticated, this model tells everyone you're into the finer things…”

Below that was a surfer boy type (though with bigger pecs than most surfers) building a sand castle, his forgotten erection—tall and very wide but tapering toward the top, so that it looked a lot like a surfboard—jabbing at his abs: “F. The Beach Bum. Take a ride on this board, a sure-to-please winner with classic lines and a California flare. Cowabunga!”

At this point I had to free my own (thick but very ordinary) cock from the suffocating confines of my jeans. I hauled it out and started stroking it absently. My mouth filled up—I had to swallow suddenly. I quickly flipped the page. There were page after page of the most beautful cocks I'd ever seen, in all shapes—long and flutelike, round torpedos, wide and flat—and growing progressively larger. I was stroking harder now, fascinated and totally immersed. Suddenly, consumed with curiosity, I flipped to the back pages.

On the next to last page there were three models, all with impossibly large cocks. One dark-haired fellow with a fine matte of chest hair bore a cock that rose in hard thick tube straight up and out, as high as the bottoms of his heavy pecs. The middle one, a willowy blond, had a cock of similar length but wide and flat. The third was like the second—in fact the gorgeous models looked like twins—but the long, wide cock extended beyond the collarbone. The boy had lowered his head and extended a startlingly long tongue to just graze the tip, as if licking off a bit of precum. My hand was wet with my own precum—this was much better than the porn tape I'd bought the week before.

I turned the page, my hand trembling very slightly.

There was one picture left on the page. His whole body was beautiful, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted and ideally proportioned; but his cock was a work of art. It wasn't merely huge—though it was, hiding most of the god-boy's trim abs and jammed hard into the crevice between his pecs. It was sculpted from marble, a Michaelangelo's vision of a huge, beautiful cock, and the wavy-haired boy looked serene. There was no text at all, just a order number at the bottom.

Lost in the image I barely realized I was cumming until my whole body exploded with orgasm. Hot cum shot out of my cock, landing on my cheek, where it dribbled into my gaping mouth.

I knew what I had to do.

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