b. August 16, 1963 (63 years), Chicago Heights, Illinois
You lose yourself in cocksucking rhythm. Occasionally you’d hear the Congressman say, “Fuck, that’s good,” but mostly he just breathed heavily, taking pleasure in the nonstop jackhammer process of your work on his shaft, or the downward plunge to his cock’s base, where you’d grind your face into his short brown pubes to stretch your throat muscles and lick his engorged organ. He’d grab your skull with both hands and fuck your face then. “Suck that fucking dick, faggot,” he’d say, thrusting to the back of your throat and holding it there in the tight, warm darkness before resuming his assault on your mouth and throat. “Damn, you’re good at this,” he says, throwing himself back on the bed, allowing you to go back to the bottom’s business of servicing him.
“Get up, boy. We’re trading places,” the Congressmen said, climbing on top of you and lowering his parted ass cheeks onto your face. “That’s it, faggot. Get yourself some manhole.”
He jacked his big, fat dick while he rode your face, watching himself in the hotel room mirror as he did. He was muscular and hairy, going somewhat fat in his healthy aging, but he was still visibly strong, powerful. The retired Brigadier General. He was going to get his nut with your tongue up his ass, sucking his asshole until it was inside out. With a guttural moan he raised himself off of you and aimed the fat, inflamed head of his cock at your face. Moaning and gasping, he shot his load, ropes of precious white jizz flying out of him and into your open mouth, your cheeks, your eyes.
His still hard cock glistening with spit, mucous, and semen, the Congressman playfully slapped it on your cum drenched face. “See ya next time, faggot. Looking forward to doing it again.”
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