I don’t know where they come from. Hot guys who crave mouthcock find me. They email me by accident, somehow mistyping an old flame’s completely different email address. They move into my understated apartment complex and knock on my door, looking for advice on local restaurants or the plumber’s phone number. They break down on a lonely road just where I’m about to drive past. I think my mischievous genie set this part up too. After all, a fat, hard, protruding mouthcock is wonderful to have, and it’s also wonderful to share.
So when that doorbell rings late on a stormy night, or I see a car on the shoulder ahead, hazards flashing, I reluctantly will myself soft with a moment’s well-trained concentration and present myself as I appear to be: a charming, smoldering-hot olive-skinned hunk ripped from a magazine devoted to the world’s hottest celebrity muscle bodies and ideal asses. When they see me, something happens deep inside them. Recognition, though they don’t know yet of what. I can see it in their eyes as they look up into mine, dazzling with desire. And I can see it in their pants, as they always bone up so quickly on meeting me they must feel lightheaded.
When I’m soft, which is mostly limited to these occasions and when I’m actually eating (which isn’t as frequent as it used to be—my new body is partly sustained by the same kind of magic that keeps the genie alive, another freebie I wouldn’t have even thought to ask for), my mouthcock reverts to being a tongue—mostly. The main difference is that it’s extra-sensitive, like a cock. Talking is stimulation, and I have to struggle to stay soft if that’s what I want.
It’s also a bit longer than your usual tongue.
Some guys notice my downstairs cock—thirteen inches and thick as a wrist, and iron-hard even when I’m keeping my mouthdick soft out of sheer inexhaustible exuberance—and figure that’s the treasure I have in store for them, the gift that I’m promising with my twinkling blue eyes. They’re drawn to kissing me, though, and they all have a premonition of what they’re in for.
And they always come when they get it. Always. The second their mouths fill with fat, hard cock—the second my massive, furnace-hot, rigid mouthflesh is shoving past their lips, along their wondering tongues and back toward their willing throats they blast their cum right in their pants, hard and sudden, over and over again. And then they make sweet fucking love to my mouth (the better ones remembering to minister to my desperately eager downstairs monster as well).
The strangest was when I woke to a noise and padded out to the darkened living room of my flat only to spy a well-proportioned young man in a dark hoodie and snug, dark jeans trying to unscrew my flatscreen off the wall! I stared at the thief, and noticing he was built the way I like them—bulging muscles but not huge, magnificent ass, tall but a couple inches shorter than me—I realized he had been drawn to me, or sent to me, just like the others. I softened my mouthdick with an effort, leaving my downstairs cock hard and rampant, and cleared my throat.
He whipped around and spotted me: naked, aroused, and exactly what he had dreamed of his whole life. His impressive cock swelled in his jeans to instant, painful hardness, and he had to reach in and straighten it right there in front of me, the top bit of it sticking out of his waistband once he withdrew his hand. He was extremely good-looking—in fact he might as well have come from the same magazine I’d stolen this body from. His eyes shone with want, but also with a hunter’s proprietary lust, as if he were sorting out exactly what it would take for him to bag this magnificent creature. Seeing that it was all I could do to keep my mouthcock from hardening on the very instant. Instead I nodded for him to come to me. He stalked over to me. He reached out his hand and caressed my raging thirteen-incher, almost dismissively—as if he knew somehow it was a decoy. He wrapped his other hand around my neck and drew me in for a hard kiss.
Not only did my mouthdick harden instantly, faster than it ever had before, at his heated, exquisite kiss, but I actually came uncontrollably just as he did, releasing jets of cum down his throat which he eagerly swallowed as he massaged the rigid organ in his mouth with a heavenly tongue. His kisses—our kisses together—were ten times as good as any kiss I’d ever had even since receiving this gift of unparalleled oral pleasure. We kissed, unstoppably, holding each other, grinding out slippery cocks against each other, and within mere moments we were cumming again, so powerfully and for so long I nearly passed out.
I guided him to my bed, or he did—I don’t know. We haven’t stopped kissing, not really. It’s been days—weeks!!—and we’re still kissing. The muscle twink that was in bed with me when Rafe first arrived to burgle my place tries to remain useful by sucking off one or the other of our enormous downstairs cocks as we minister to each other, but honestly we barely notice anything but out constant ravenous need to make out with each other. (Last week I think he started bringing in a friend from his fitness modeling agency to help—I can’t quite be sure.) Rafe even seems to take sustenance from my copious volleys of uniquely propertied jizz, which is just as well as I can hardly bear for him to pull away from my permanently surging mouthcock even for a few brief moments. We kiss, sleeping and awake, sometimes tender, sometimes rough and urgent, always punctuated by orgasms that seem even one better than the last.
Sometimes he draws back, just to smile at me and drink in the sight of me. And when he does I’m so taken all over again me of his stunning beauty that my two cocks strive to get even harder than the spurting, supermaximum hardness they’ve already achieved. Sometimes we transition to the shower, kissing there as we clean and groom each other, though we must separate to shave (and with him shaving next to me, aroused and glancing at me with burning eyes, I can’t soften my mouthboner even long enough to scythe off my own bristles).
We even go out, once every week or two, just to prove we’re still civilized men, though I always have to pull him aside into some darkened corner and cum down his throat between courses or during intermission if I’m to have a hope of lasting until we’re in the car home and all pretense is abandoned.