Oliver’s alone time

by BRK   

There’s one pastime Oliver likes to indulge in when he gets some time to himself, and over the years he’s gotten really good at it.

The first thing anyone meeting the dapper socialite and hotel scion Oliver Salinas tended to notice, after his reassuring demeanor and calming self-assurance, was that he was unusually hairy all over, from the lush, always-trim beard to the chest hair bursting out of his shirt collars to the carpet of thick, silky brown hair covering his sinewy forearms. If he wore short-sleeved shirts he found that people wanted to touch his arms without asking, the way gawking randos felt compelled to feel up the pecs of heavyweight bodybuilders, and for the same reason—they wanted to know how it felt. Oliver didn’t seem to mind people using their hands to marvel at the softness of the manly pelt that seemed to emerge gradually from below his wrists and disappear up his loose shirt sleeves. He usually drew the line, though, at strangers caressing his velvety walnut-brown beard, or carding through the wavy hair he had to keep short if he were to keep any control over it at all.

The next thing a new acquaintance might observe was how wiry he was. Oliver was 19 and of average height but small-framed, with long limbs and a flat, oblong torso that looked a little like the model for his construction might have been made with pipe cleaners and tongue depressors. A closer look suggested the better comparison was to cable than to wire. Though not muscular in the conventional sense, he looked strong, like a trapeze artist, and every so often he’d let cocky meatheads play up to expectations by submitting to arm-wrestling contests and then quietly wiping the floor with them before vanished into the crowd.

The comparison to circus performers didn’t end there. Spend any time with Oliver and you learned how unusually limber he was. Sometimes it would arise naturally; Oliver would be sitting with you in an outdoor café and casually stretch his arms, and you’d realize he was bending them back behind his head more than you expected the human body to be capable of doing. Watching it your mind went to strange places, and you could almost imagine his shoulders were mere brass pins stapling limbs to thorax, and the arms had free movement to spin in a full 360 like a pinwheel.

Most of the time, though, it was Oliver being egged on to display his ability by various members of his social group. Friends in restaurants and bon vivants at charity soirées begged him to bend his fingers backward or send his right hand behind his neck to grab his left shoulder, to the delighted groans of his audience. Words like “double-joined” and “hypermobile” passed in whispers around him. Only a few snapshots existed of him going further, but they were well distributed and easily found if you knew where to look; favorites included the one of him at a small party somewhere resting on his chest while placing his bare, hairy feet on the soft carpet in front of him, and of course the stolen shot of him shirtless in a beanbag chair easily snicking his ankles into place behind his head at a friend’s house, when he thought no one was around.

Of course, this always led to the same question, whether spoken aloud or kept inside to feed a fevered imagination. Anyone bold enough to ask, whether primed by alcohol or by sheer nosiness and lack of propriety, was generally a little nonplussed by his response. People expected an eye-roll, or a boast, or a polite, preprogrammed nonanswer; what they got was a small, secretive smile and nothing else, clearly hinting there was something the rude questioner didn’t know and would never find out.

Which was true. Oliver’s unvoiced answer to the perennial “If you’re so limber, does that mean you can suck yourself?” was always the same: “Limber has nothing to do with it.”

There was one thing about Oliver that strangers, friends, and all but a very few trusted intimates never learned, which was that abnormal bendiness, thickness of body hair, and an affinity for complicated dance moves like the tango weren’t his only gifts. Thanks to a rare genetic abnormality that kept certain cellular and hormonal instructions going long past puberty like a faucet built with a missing stopper, a certain part of Oliver’s anatomy had kept growing, minutely but steadily, since puberty. This had a few consequences, major and minor, but the primary upshot was that Oliver’s long, steel-hard cock had been in reach of his mouth for a while now even without the capacity to fold himself like a stack of laundry.

Not that bendiness didn’t have its uses, Oliver thought with a smirk as he looked over the ritzy party being thrown in honor of his 20th birthday. The music was going, the well-boozed, expensively suited and frocked crowd seemed to be entertaining itself, and Oliver had eased away into a shadowy corner of the grand rooftop space without being observed. He was craving a more private form of festivities, a one-man shindig with its own kind of cocktails and pyrotechnics.

A strong need surged in him—he wanted to be alone with himself. His wiry, lanky frame felt strong and supple under his fitted tux. He had never felt more limber and in control of his body. And… after years of staring and coaxing, his long, three-finger-thick cock had finally reached his collarbone, depositing its very first drop of precum directly in the notch above his sternum only the night before. If that wasn’t a milestone worthy of prolonged and sensual celebration, he thought wryly, he didn’t know what was.

Just then the lavish fireworks started going off, exactly on schedule, and Oliver took that as his cue. While the well-kitted attendees oohed and ahhed at skilled displays of red hearts, green starbursts, and purple dragons, Oliver slipped down the back stairs and into the building proper, undoing his black bowtie as he went.

His suites in this hotel were extensive, luxurious, and very private. After pulling heavy drapes across windows and balconies looking out over a glittering city, engaging all the security protocols, and turning all the locks, Oliver could relax. He emptied his pockets unhurriedly and then undressed, folding the components of his tuxedo loosely on a side table for later dry cleaning. Making himself a rosé spritzer at the bar, he looked down at himself in critical appreciation. The uniformity of hair coverage over his defined, wiry frame had always made him think he looked like Early Man—though the depictions of primitive homo sapiens one usually found didn’t normally include a thick, sausage-like cock hanging most of the way down the thigh in front of a fist-sized scrotum, he reminded himself with a twist of the lips. And that didn’t even tell the whole story—Oliver was a grower, not a shower, a fact for which he had always been more than grateful when it came to not causing more talk and social obsession than he already got. The organ in question flexed under his loving scrutiny, already filling with blood and eager to achieve its huge and wondrous final form. Oliver was as hungry as it was for the transformation.

Lowering the lights, cheeks warm and heart thumping with anticipation, he found one of the lush blue towels they used here and went over to his favorite chair—his selfing chair, as he thought of it. It was a thousand-dollar McKinnon Jester lounge chair (with ottoman): olive in color, fairly low with a wide, curved seat and a relaxed, reclined position, solid and comfortable. The moment he had seen it in a catalog he’d pictured himself in it going down on himself, and not just in the usual way. Now he had one in every home and every hotel, always in a room only he could ever access.

There had been a few guys he’d let help now and then over the years, licking and stroking as he worked, but he was so used to his own self-indulgence that most times the assistance had been as distracting as it was gratifying. To him, this was a pleasure only he alone could ever truly know.

Draping the soft, extra-large towel over the entire seat—no point in ruining the fine upholstery with cum stains and sweat—Oliver put his drink on the little side table and settled into the chair with a happy sigh. His cock was mostly hard already, and as he stroked it with both hands it quickly reached its full iron-bar hardness, curved in a very gentle arc over his torso to stand motionless three inches off his hair-covered chest, the reddening head pointing directly at his saliva-welling mouth.

Oliver gazed at the thing in pure, loving fascination for a long moment, letting it flex as though the bobbing of his immense prick were the thing reacting to his stare, the one-eyed beast nodding a polite hello to its biggest and only fan. He could smell his distinctive aroma, faint but present, and the hint of precum, too, sliding up the long shaft like supplies sent up a sky elevator to the top of the heavens.

The spectacle—this giant cock looking at him, poised in reach of his hot, lusty mouth—was enough to turn him on all over again, heat rushing through him and his round, hefty balls pulled taut against his taint, already aching with cum. He’d thought of photographing or filming it a thousand times, like you would any natural wonder, but always pushed the thought away. It wasn’t the danger of the clip going viral (which it would) so much as that this was something that needed to be experienced, not merely seen. It was a convergence of five senses in a single perfect act, and no pile of pixels could ever match that.

Oliver couldn’t wait anymore. He leaned forward and took the head and upper inches slowly into his hot, welcoming mouth.

Immediately, Oliver moaned. There was nothing better than this—nothing. He let his lips and tongue worship the hard, mighty organ as he gently slid the flat of his wide cockhead along the further reaches of his soft palate, drops of precum falling slowly onto the back of his tongue and sliding down his gullet. He went on like this for a long time, relishing every sensation gleaned from the simple technique, his fists at his sides as he let the many surfaces and muscles of his mouth take care of everything. He’d need his hands later when it was all flying toward orgasm and he needed to stroke hard and maul his nuts to maximize his explosive climax, but for now it was about two things: mouth and cock.

After a long time wallowing in this warm, raw ecstasy he needed to escalate, stacking his pleasure. Shifting in his sturdy, well-contoured chair, he used his well-trained abdominal muscles to lift his hips and legs until his feet were directly above him, knees bent loosely, ready for the next command. Oliver gazed up at his legs, smiling around his shaft. It was so easy for him to do this, he sometimes had trouble believing it wasn’t a normal thing everyone could do. Drawing a breath in through his nose, he lifted his shoulders and let his legs take position behind them, the ankles crossing behind his neck as he swallowed more and more of his impossible dick.

There had been a certain amount of trepidation in realizing that the steady growth of his raging tool meant that mouthing his cock, as he had been doing before, would be increasingly challenging. Instead of despairing, Oliver had done the logical thing to prolong his nightly invocation of what could only be the best possible human experience: he had started training his throat to take his giant dick, first the tip and then inch by inch, until it suddenly became as eager as his mouth to take as much of his mighty, barely-pliable prick as it possibly could.

Throat-fucking was a revelation. He’d thought sucking his cock felt good, but without fucking his throat it felt almost like foreplay. Even the natural curve of his dick lent itself to being shoved past his tonsils and into his thorax.

This was him. He was built for this. This greatest, purest pleasure was throat-fucking, and he was made for it. What was the point of this wiry, freakishly bendable body if not the ability to shove as much of his collarbone-high cock into himself as possible?

He paused his pushing in of more cock and let himself just feel the experience of his long, flat dick so far inside himself. His sensitive cockhead and shaft quivered with excitement, and as he swallowed around his prick his pleasure surged—fuck, he was already close.

Should he touch his butt? Kick it up another notch? It was right there, up in the air, ready for a finger. Or a tongue. Maybe he should call a friend after all? It would have to be a text at this point, he thought with a mental snort of amusement.

No, this time he wanted it real. That big, looming orgasm-storm he had building and that would break over him any minute—it was all about mouthfucking and nothing else.

Gently, he started rocking his hips, feeling the hot, tight, incredible motion against his dick up most of its length, from the weeping cockhead to the inches of shaft sliding forward and backward along his shifting lips. A long moan vibrated through his cock, adding to the sensations, and he started rocking a little more urgently. His orgasm was starting to strain against him, and holding it back was taking real effort.

He kept going. The euphoria was building across multiple vectors. Lips, tongue, palate, shaft, head. It was too much. He fucked himself until the orgasm would be held back a second longer, then all at once he freed his legs and pulled completely out of his throat and mouth, grabbing his cock with both hands as his feet his the floor and jerking the slippery shaft for barely five seconds before he was exploding cum all over his face and chest. Wiping his eyes and laughing he quickly shoved his head and upper shaft back into his mouth and swallowed as best he could as he came and came. Finally he couldn’t keep up and let his cock out of his mouth, collapsing into the chair as he kept gushing hot cum over his face, neck, and hairy chest.

Oliver floated in pure bliss as his climax slowly waned, barely conscious of anything but a universe of hot, sparkling ecstasy. Eventually he came to and found himself slumped languidly in his special chair, his half-hard cock draped across his torso with the head nestled in his cum-sodden chest-hair. He felt the cum inside him and all over his face and upper body, and the pleasant stretching his slightly sore insides had gotten from his dick being so deep within him.

He wallowed like this for a while, feeling the need for shower and food as promises of minor extra pleasures he could add onto this single, all-consuming one. He smiled, licking his bruised and buzzing lips—they were already wanting more. He felt loose and boneless and sated in every possible way. There really was nothing better than this—unless it was doing it again, and again. That would be cool, too.

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