Leather, Erect, Chest Feel, Sex, kissing, Hustling, Executive, Letter
DAVID 541
Dear Sir,
I apologize for not having the nerve to walk up to you and address you in person, but put quite simply, I just don’t have the guts to look you in the face and ask for what I want. In the financial world, my power is frightening. But next to you, I am a trembling beggar…a mouse. I hope you don’t think it perverse, but I’ve been watching you for some time. I am the president of one of the software companies headquartered in the 1100 Park Place Tower directly across the park. In the evenings I see you ride your motorcycle into the park, and one night I noticed that you enter the park, but you don’t seem to exit anywhere. On a whim, I came down very late one night, crossed the street, and saw you straddling your motorcycle, conversing with another man under a light
I will never forget that night. My breath caught in my throat when I saw you. I felt a feeling of dread, knowing that I was eventually going to lose all control and do what I am doing now even though it goes against every shred of reason in me. I was just awestruck by the size and power of your body and later by the incredible classic handsomeness of your face. Night after night I was drawn down to the park, whenever I heard the roar of your motorcycle. And night after night I crept closer, hiding in the bushes.. Every night I saw you I would lie awake wondering why you weren’t taking Hollywood by storm or reigning as the undisputed king of bodybuilding. Every night I’d tell myself that what I saw was not nearly the paragon of masculine perfection I thought I’d seen, and then the next night, when I saw you again, I realized that I was right…you were not the epitome of masculinity. You were beyond it…a redefinition of the ultimate sexual male.
I am twice divorced and make it a point to be seen in the company of the most eligible young ladies of high society. My male friends and I frequent private clubs, country clubs, and the mansions of the movers and shakers of the city, state, and country. I have homes in the Hamptons, Hawaii, and Switzerland, among other places. Social outings consist of golf, sailing, or car shows. In short, a bare-chested bodybuilder who rides a motorcycle would appall my friends. Someone like me who practically lives in three piece suits would have little to do with a man like you…at least my friends would think so.
But secretly, I love men. Big men. Athletic men. Muscular men. Bodybuilders. Dangerous men. “Bad” men…the very type my friends look down upon. Masculine men. Hairy chested men. Football players, not tennis players. Alpha males. I have never had the nerve to go to a gay bar and proposition anyone. But when I saw you all my fear was drowned by all my want.
I want to be taken. It’s my fantasy. I’ve dreamt of a big, handsome, muscular man…shirtless, hairy, wearing nothing but boots and torn jeans and maybe a motorcycle hat, coming on to me in a bar and not taking no for an answer. I want to try to walk away and have him prevent it. I want him to grab me. I want him to hold me down. I want him to unbutton his jeans and slide his big, hard, dripping cock between my thighs, pump his hips, and tell me that the fabric of my expensive suit feels so good. I want him to rub his cock all over me. I want him to take my head in his big paws and rub my face in his hairy chest. I want him to force me to lick every sensitive spot on his body. I want him to manhandle me. I want him to show me that he knows perfectly well the effect his body has on people and to tease me with it. I want him to play with me like a cat plays with a mouse. I want him to strip my suit off and then tear my shirt and underwear off. I want him to lie on top of me and have his way with me. I want him to fuck me, and make me cum, over and over again.
Please do this to me. I can pay you handsomely…anything you want. All I ask is one thing. Please don’t tell anyone. If even a hint of scandal leaked out, I would be ruined and then any future business relationship would be over. One more thing…my heart is beating so fast as I write this. I still do not know if I will have the nerve to drive up to you and hand this note to you, but if I do, it’s because I want all that I have described to happen. My fear is that, later, I will lose my nerve. Please promise me that if we ultimately meet and I run, you’ll catch me…if I beg you to stop, don’t…no matter what I say. Promise me that when next I see you, I can know deep down that my fate is sealed…that I am a hairy-chested muscle biker’s toy for the evening and that my virginity to a man is about to be, not given, but taken.
If you are amenable to this please write down how much you want for your services and put it in an envelope. Place the envelope under the windshield wipers of the limo parked in the alley behind Parrish St. I have instructed my driver to leave it there and take the day off. I will retrieve the envelope and have the amount ready. I will prop the service door by the delivery bays open slightly. Come in through there after 8 o’clock. Take the service elevator up to the 12th floor. My office is on the right at the end of the hall. My name is Robert Wayne.
2012