tale-of-an-aussie-rubgy-bottom-6

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Anal

Subject: The Tale of An Aussie Rugby Bottom – Chapter 6 Author: Richard Saw Categories: Adult Friends, Athletics I’ve been a long-time reader of Nifty, adoring fan of so many writers. This story: The Tale of an Aussie Rugby Bottom was a book that I published via Amazon. I no longer sell it, but I decided that people here might like to read it, and the sequel that I never published. Characters in these stories do feature in my Holmes & Watson mystery novels (available on Amazon, search Richard Saw), so if you like a little mystery novel (with lots of sex and humour), please do look them up. But I promise that all of the good stuff will be in these stories. And yes, do send me fan mail. And more importantly, please remember to donations to Nifty (using link fty/). Your erections are in their hands! In this Chapter our hero finds a new sport, and a real friend The Tale of An Aussie Rugby Bottom, who also liked to Top – Chapter 6 The next Monday I went to a temp agency like Mat had suggested. Actually my experience was pretty much exactly what they were looking for and there was definitely work to be had. But I knew it wouldn’t be consistent nor would the money be good and certainly for the first couple of months, I would be proving myself. There was also an email from my landlord saying that I couldn’t get out of the lease for three months and another from the HR department telling me that they considered I still had a month’s notice to work through and I should report for work that day. I called the HR team back and said I was happy to meet as long as Jonathan was in the meeting as well. I got a call back later that day to say that there had been a misunderstanding and they would pay me for the rest of the month and call it `gardening leave’. I guess Jonathan had moved pretty quickly to protect himself, but it was amazing to also realise that he still had the ability to make me feel like his `wife’ and that we were divorcing. Still, that meant that the issue with my landlord wouldn’t be so bad. The next step was finding a gay-friendly sport. I had heard about gay rugby teams, but something told me that this was asking for trouble given my current attitude to the sport, so I found out about the London gay tennis group and went the following Sunday. I dug out my racket, bought a new pair of tennis shoes, found a pair of rugby shorts with pockets in them, put on a tight t-shirt and off I went. When I saw a group of about forty guys hanging around the indoor courts it was a breakthrough moment for me. `There are this many gay guys who play tennis?’ I remember thinking. Of course a few years down the track, a few Gay Games under my belt and all that, I look back and laugh at that moment that I realised I wasn’t the only gay guy who liked sport. I don’t say this to many people, but I thank gay tennis for making me feel good about myself. This was the first environment that I was ever in where I didn’t have to hide myself and that I could be friendly with gay guys who weren’t focused on having sex with me. Well not all the time… and I’m not saying they didn’t… but we’ll get to that in a minute. That first session brought back floods of good feelings for me. I loosened up, watched the ball, and had a few good hits. And after a drink and a pub dinner with a few of the guys, I went home, opened my laptop, and started to relive my childhood memories. All those nights as a kid staying up late to watch Wimbledon and the French Open. All those times escaping the baking hot summer sun by staying inside and watching the Australian Open. Even though I didn’t know it, this was the first step on my journey to that happier place that I’d dreamed about. Meanwhile the restaurant work was starting to roll in and I found myself filling shifts as a restaurant manager in all sorts of places. Occasionally it was ok. Mostly it was bad. Because I was new, I got the worst jobs and I had to prove myself by some sort of trial-by-duty. Pissed-off waiters, aggressive chefs and everyone trying to take advantage of a temporary manager who didn’t know the ropes. I quickly found I needed to learn some new tricks just to survive. A tight shirt that showed my biceps never hurt. The grumpier I looked and the less I gave compliments, the more people treated me seriously. The crux came when I didn’t even think twice of stepping in between a ragging 6ft 4 chef with a knife and a nasty bitch of a waitress and told them I didn’t care what their problems were, just to go back and do their jobs. Luckily that event seemed to cement my reputation and things got a little better after that. A company that owned a number of chain restaurants took me on full-time as a temporary manager, but it was like being a performer on stage — or a teacher! It wasn’t so much physically exhausting but mentally tiring. I would work two shifts a day, just to keep the money coming in. Except on Sunday. I needed my Sunday tennis to make me feel like I was a normal person once a week. Working as a restaurant manager put a dampener on my sex life — which was strange as it wasn’t like I didn’t have a lot of waiters offering me a blowjob in the storeroom to get the shift they wanted. I would have had to hold myself back if I wasn’t already so exhausted. Luckily there was Sunday night tennis. Julian was a tall lawyer with quite erect posture. He was arrogantly self-assured, opinionated and not a bad striker of the ball. His conversation however was entirely about the guys who blew him. It took a couple of weeks, but we blew each other in one of the disabled toilets at the centre. His cock was perfect in shape, length and he came with nothing more than a grunt. We never fooled around again but it didn’t seem to affect our topic of conversation. Mike was one of the first of a number of friendly fellow Aussies that I met. Tall, lanky, chatty and someone who would quickly become a mate before eventually leaving London. He was one of those great `friend fucks’. You meet up as friends, have a drink or dinner, go home as friends, and then jump into bed where the other guy rides your cock with great pleasure, you spend the rest of the night together and then it never happens again. Then there was an army of cute little blonde boys. Small, lithe, friendly, (though to be fair, not always blonde) but happy to blow you after a few drinks as long as no one you knew found out about it (why they wanted to be so discrete, I never knew). Then there where the older guys. Smart guys, head teachers, TV producers, whatever. Sometimes in relationships, mostly not. The sort of men who played clever tennis, were physically fit and able to run your best shots down. The sort of guys who take you out for dinner or the theatre and then afterwards you always end up at their place. Occasionally they wanted the big rugby top that I had enjoyed being for all those younger blonde guys but mostly they wanted to fuck me. And hey, I was definitely up for that. The most memorable encounter was with Sam. It’s not every day that you meet a 6ft 3 tall gay farmer. But he was the sort of guy with a huge tree-like serve and a `one-hit’ forehand that on the right day could break up the rhythm of better players. Plus he was unafraid of anyone or anything. He seemed to size me up in one go, jokingly asking if I had any tighter shorts when I bent over to pick up the ball when we played doubles together. In between conversations about work and tennis, he was the sort of guy who would place his hand on your arse and pat it, sending an unexpectedly warm glow through you. Sam asked me if I wanted to come and visit his farm out in Herefordshire for the weekend and play some tennis at his local club, that sort of thing. It was turning into an unseasonably warm summer and London can turn quite oppressive if the temperature goes much over 24 degrees Celsius. So I was happy to take him up on his offer. A long sticky train journey on a Friday evening after a long week of double shifts, meant I arrived at his train station a little after 8pm. The sun was still high in the sky and the forecast for the weekend was a stinker too. Sam was in the carpark, his big Ranger Rover waiting for me. “Good lad,” he said izmit escort bayan and ruffled my hair as I came over. “Ouff,” I blew out my face at the heat. “Take off your shirt,” he suggested as we got into the car. I agreed, only too happy to be rid of a layer of clothing and we were soon driving between fields. By the time we drove down the dirt track towards the farmstead Sam felt emboldened enough to lean over and play with my nipples. When we arrived, his dogs were waiting to greet him. He had two Rhodesian Ridgebacks and two Labradors, all excited to see both of us. Luckily I’ve always liked dogs and usually they liked me (though way too many people back home in Australia have Alsatians … I’m just saying) and we built an instant rapport. As much as I wanted to be with Sam as an equal, it was good to be a boy for a weekend, albeit a boy with privileges, so to speak. “House rule mate,” Sam said as we headed into the very comfortable farmhouse. “Suns out, guns out.” “huh?” “No shirt until you get back to the train.” “Oh right,” I laughed. “I can handle that.” Dinner was great, sitting outside on the patio with the dogs at our feet and a couple of bottles of great red wine to accompany it. Like many a man of solid stock, he could stack the liquor away quite easily. It impacted on me a great deal though, especially with the heat and if I had wanted to resist his advances, it would have been tough. Luckily I was more than happy to be helped upstairs and into a huge bath that was large enough for both of us. Sam then dried me with a big fluffy towel before doing something that no one else had ever done. Pick me up over his shoulder and carrying me to the bed. He launched me onto it and as I bounced, I found my legs immediately opening. So I guess I was ready for it! Sam hoisted my legs onto his back and dove down. His bushy beard tickled at first before the combination of that and his tongue sent me into the first of many waves of pleasure. Sam had stamina, that’s for sure. And with a little libation I felt fluid and loose. Now when I look back at this, damn I was a lazy bottom back then, so I’d like to publically apologise to Sam at this junction, I just didn’t know any better. Luckily I think at that time he was just happy to ride me — hard, fast — while I growled like cub being taking. I pushed back each time and flexed my arse muscles to take him in. We fell asleep soon afterwards and when I awoke the next morning, he was gone. I knew how farms work though, so like the well-brought boy I was, I got up, put on some shorts that rested just on the top of my arse and went downstairs. I found some coffee and filters and got the percolator starting. I found croissants, split them open, put ham and cheese in them before toasting them in the Aga (what the hell?) and I was just getting the eggs ready when Sam returned from milking the cows or whatever he’d been up to. “Bloody hell,” he laughed. “Sure you don’t want to be a farmer’s husband?” I came over to him, reached up and kissed him on the lips as his hand found its way down the back of my shorts. “At this point in my life, no.” He took my refusal in good humour. “To be fair, I think I would be more worried if you’d said yes.” We wolfed down breakfast and headed out into the day. I was happy to help Sam on his daily tasks — it was just great to be out in the country for one thing and he made sure I got plenty of rewards. Sam bred cattle, huge, muscle laden beasts whom he treated with the same affection he did his dogs — before he sent them off to be killed, but hey-ho. He had a couple of beautiful horses as well and despite my silent trepidation never having really ridden, he saddled them up and off we rode. It was great fun, a day spent shirtless lifting things, riding horses, and trying to push cattle around was fun, incredibly macho, and just made me want to get fucked again. There was a beautiful lake on his property and as we rode up to it, I could see the twinkle in Sam’s eyes. I’d never had sex outdoors and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. A couple of local lads worked for Sam as well and I’d seen them out and about with a tractor. What if they saw us? Obviously Sam didn’t care, and he jumped off his horse, ripped off his shirt and shorts, boots, and socks and dived in, before I’d barely had time to get off my horse. “Com’n,” he yelled. “Last one in’s a pussy.” I grinned and tied both the horses to a nearby tree, stripped off and dove in, surfacing just in front of Sam. I laughed as I shook my head of the water and then slipped into his arms, wrapping my legs around him and feeling his hard cock bounce against my hole. “How many guys have you done in this lake?” He laughed. “Not as many as you’d think. There are a few hot lads out here in the country but not many of them gay and definitely not enough willing to get fucked on a regular basis.” “So you import `em from the big smoke hey?” I laughed. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he didn’t want to admit the obvious. “You going to fuck me in the lake?” I asked. “You’ve never tried it before, have you?” He asked. I shook my head and he smiled. “Your arse is going to be as tight as a ducks behind. But don’t worry. I’ve got some stuff in my saddle bag that might help.” We swam back to the bank before Sam went and got a blanket and a well-used water bottle out of his saddlebag. He spread the blanket over the grass, and I obediently got down on all fours. “That lube?” I asked as he squirted some on his hard dick. “”I’ll fuckin’ tell you when I’m inside of you,” he grunted and before I had the chance to ask anything further, I felt his cock break through the wall and knock the wind out of me. I thought I was loose, but the riding and the water must have tightened me up. “Uggh, ah, ah, ah,” I moaned, “Yeah give it to me,” I growled. “Scream all you like boy!” Sam teased me. I tried to relax and push back but as soon as there was the tiniest gap he filled it. I started to feel a tear run down my cheek, but my pride wouldn’t let me beg for him to withdraw. He wiggled and pushed and eventually I felt it wasn’t so painful and I started to get into it. “Know what that fuckin’ lube is?” Sam eventually grunted. “Uhh, uhm?” Was about all I could say. “Horse cum,” he smirked, (I think) as I was being taken doggy style at the time. “What the fuck?” I bleated. “Yeah, fuckin’ wanked the stallions off this morning. Got a nice tube full of horse cum. Usually freeze it for the breeders but I reckon it’s bloody good lube.” I don’t know whether to be disgusted or turned on. But I guess if it’s been exposed to air for that long it’s basically just sticky sap. Still I was gunna want a bloody nice bath after all this was over. “Boss?” A voice interrupted us. I looked up in horror to see one of the local lads standing not far from us. I would have tried to get away were it not for the huge damn cock in me and Sam’s two big hands gripping onto my flank. “What?” Sam said as if he had been interrupted while watering the garden. “We’ve finished with back paddock. We’ll just feed t’ dogs and then we’re out of your hair.” “Good lad,” Sam said as I struggled to understand this crazy situation. “See you tomorrow.” The lad was young and blonde with a baseball cap on backwards, wearing a dirty polo shirt and his footy socks shoved into his work boots. He nodded to both of us as if what he saw was nothing out of the ordinary and headed off. “Ahh,” sighed Sam as he started to pound me again. He didn’t last much longer though. With one last shove which felt like it dove in deeper than I could have imagined, he came, and we collapsed together on the rug. “Damn that was good,” he whispered in my ear before he realised that even my strength was not able to handle his immense size. He slid out, rolled off and then helped me up. As soon as I got up I felt a flood of cum down my legs. “Shit,” I murmured to myself and waded back into the water. I was quiet on the way back and Sam sent me to bath straight away while he started dinner. I came down a bit later and my awkward smile convinced him he needed to reassure me. “Was that a bit too kinky?” I dunno,” I shrugged, a sign that it izmit escort might have been. “Umm.. your farm hands. Have you fucked them?” “What? Bumpkiss and Duffous?” Sam asked with a laugh. “God no.” “Oh. I just… I guess I just sometimes forget I’m out as a gay man and getting caught with a cock up my arse just feels…” Sam laughed and gave me an `Aww,’ look before coming over to hug me. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. That was bad of me.” “Look don’t get me wrong,” I hastily explained. “I’m probably gunna wank off to the thought of him watching when I’m back in town. I just need time to process it all.” “You are so the right boy to bring down here,” Sam declared. We had a great roast chicken dinner that night and Sam wanted to just sleep. But I disagreed, telling him that we didn’t have that much time together so we should get it on as much as possible. Sam seized the opportunity, lifting me up and impaling me on his cock. I rode him like a cowboy, this time not at all troubled by his size. We fell straight to sleep after that and the following morning after doing the basic chores, we went out to his local tennis club for some tennis. The grass courts were rougher than the ones I remembered from Australia but there was something in it that fed my aggressive desires and even though Rob could be a challenge in a doubles match back in London, here on a singles court where my left-handed serve could do great damage, I trounced him. Not that it really mattered. We stopped after a couple of sets and enjoyed a solid hit-around for another hour or so. We showered and headed off to a nice country pub for Sunday lunch. As he drove me to the train there was a melancholy feeling between the two of us. I would have happily come down on following weekends and done it all again, but it wouldn’t be fair on Rob to pretend that this was ever going to work out. We parted and like so many encounters over the years, we never spoke about it again, but we never lost our friendship. One time, over brunch at a tennis tournament it somehow came up and I remember saying, “Oh yeah we fucked. It was great fun,” and neither of us felt any shame. After all, why would we? Rob was the man who made me realise that I could have a physical and emotional intimacy with a man, which when it ended, didn’t have to affect our friendship. Back to my real life in London though and I was glad to be getting rid of the flat but finding a new place to live in was proving to be just as expensive. And that was when I met Jonas. And Carlos too as their stories are intertwined. But Jonas first. I met him at tennis, it was hard not to notice him. He was tall, muscled, blonde, had a cheeky smile and was absolutely useless at tennis. Not that this stopped everyone from wanting to play with him! He had an adoring group of Asian tennis players that followed him around and he seemed to love them back. He told me he used to look after private yachts in Monte Carlo during summer, so I asked him what he did in London, and he said he ran his own marketing firm. I’d always been a bit interested in marketing, so I asked him more. He wasn’t particularly forthcoming, but he did invite me to a house party he was throwing. It turned out to be a Saturday night when I had an early shift, so I was able to arrive by 11pm. The party was in full swing by then and I was stunned to see so many hot guys in one place. The flat was on the top of a block in Fitzrovia, near to Oxford St. Jonas didn’t answer the door but I could see him in the crowd, and he swanned over to greet me. It’s easy to get blinded by attractive people and this friendly crowd of handsome male models (it seemed) did a good one on me. On a day when I realised I had no money left in my bank account, it was hard not to feel envious of Jonas and his wonderful flat and his handsome friends. I caught up with him on the balcony after I’d been chatted up by two Czech guys who swore they were twins. “Mate,” I said clapping him on his shoulder, feeling on a high already. “How do you afford a place like this?” Jonas grinned. “You’re a clever lad,” he laughed. “You work it out.” I was too innocent for this stuff and even though I knew about drugs I never really knew how it all worked. “I’m sorry I’m a little dumb.” Jonas grinned, “I’m a prostitute mate.” “Oh,” I paused and checked him out. “For real? You’re not just saying that phrase just to mean you’re a slave to your salary?” Jonas laughed. “You’re too funny.” “Gee,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who is a rent boy before. How does it all work?” “I have a few ads in the right places. I have a few regular clients,” he shrugged. “Ever thought of doing it?” I laughed. “No,” I shook my head. “I’d be bad at it. I don’t think I’m very good at sex at all.” Jonas looked at me carefully. “No gay man should ever be bad at sex. You should come along on a night with me. You don’t have to do anything. Just get naked and wank off in front of a client. Easy money to start with.” “How much money?” I asked, immediately interested. Jonas gave me another grin that years later I would always associate with `A bad idea’. It was a grin that even right there told me that if I did there was no going back. But money troubles have a way of blotting out your most realistic thoughts. And there was something else that very few people talk about. If you’re at all lacking in self-confidence about your body then there can hardly be a bigger potential boost to your ego then to have men pay for the privilege of having sex with you. Luckily my natural reaction to something like this was always to be a little reluctant. But apparently Jonas had a great desire to bring me into the fold. Maybe I would have been his first step to him becoming a pimp, maybe he had a frequent user card that he needed stamped. Who knew? But as a result of my interest, Jonas seemed to think I needed some encouragement. He introduced me to his flatmate, a man — in his early 50’s I think — but looking fit for his age. I don’t recall his name as when we were introduced I didn’t imagine it would be that important. How foolish of me. The party that night — like most London house parties — got to that stage when people start to question how they will get home. Knowing that getting all the way back to Old St would be quite a trek, the thought of sleeping the night in another man’s bed was suddenly quite attractive but I wasn’t sure how to orchestrate it. The last few party goers were still around, and Jonas was deep in conversation with his flatmate in the kitchen when he suddenly declared that he was going to bed and “Todd. Are you coming?” I had barely got more than a kiss out of him, so it was a little bit of a surprise though not a bad one, to be dragged into his bedroom. Once we were inside he immediately shed his muscle-t to show that his chest and abs were as big as his arms. It is hard to describe how handsome Jonas really was. I think I’ve probably described many of the people I slept with as muscled or attractive. But Jonas was really up there and probably the most traditionally handsome guy I ever got into bed with (sorry future husband). Others were body builders, curvy, chunky whatever, but Jonas was the real deal. It was his size — both his height, 6ft 2 and broad shoulders skinny waist, defined calves and thighs, a carved butt that didn’t move and Nordic skin that seemed to glow golden brown and at that point I realised he obviously sunbathed nude. The blonde hair was short but styled and his face friendly yet un-revealing. If there had ever been a man who advertised the joys of prostitution, it was Jonas. I hadn’t been drinking that much recently and the couple of glasses of wine (ok more than a couple) I’d had at the party made me vulnerable to suggestion. I pulled my clothes off rapidly, only to feel somewhat self-conscious about my own bodies’ imperfections. Bad eating habits, long working hours and not getting to the gym enough had started to take their toll. Plus I had gone from a rugby-heavy training regime to lighter weights and more cardio, but I hadn’t scaled down the eating. And it was beginning to show. “Perfect,” Jonas whispered as he felt my izmit kendi evi olan escort biceps which, while they might have still been larger than his, didn’t have that definition he demonstrated. At that point I should have been more suspicious about his motives behind that compliment. Jonas pushed me onto the bed, grinning as he did. I was totally unaware at the time that he was drugged up to the eyeballs, my innocence was still so all encompassing. He seemed to grow in size before my eyes and then came down on top of me. I could feel his cock crushing against me — seeming to seek out my hole. I felt tight and suddenly defensive, not wanting to be taken like this. Jonas was as aggressive in bed as if I was a seal pup and he was a hungry killer whale. I couldn’t remember being overwhelmed by a man before. Even bigger guys like Jonathan had been gentle giants. Jonas was an aggressive top, he wanted to claim me, mark me as his own. Only now as I write this do I start to realise he maybe wasn’t the greatest lover. His kisses were bruising, bashing against my lips, forcing my mouth open. I squirmed under his control, twisting, and trying to get away from him to suggest that I needed time to prepare myself. But my cries of `Wait, wait…’ were lost. I soon found myself on my stomach, his powerful body bearing down on me. His legs forced me apart and with the advantage of that angle, his barely lubricated cock was able to push into me. I managed to force a condom on him, thought he obviously wanted to do me raw, something I think was part of the plan. I started to moan loudly, partly as a result of the alcohol, partly as if I felt I was a toy to be used. The difference between pleasure and pain was proving to be closer than I had imagined, each time he withdrew and dove back in I felt a loss, the bowel-clenching pain coming and going and then the tingling pleasure crushed by the assault. I felt unable to resist as Jonas dragged me up to my hands and knees and fucked me doggy style. My entire focus seemed to be on trying to stay in that position. I couldn’t tell if I was even erect or not at the time, all I could do was moan loudly. I was too tired, too drunk and to in awe of Jonas to think clearly. He then flipped me onto my side and continued the assault. All I could do was groan like the older spinster sister at her younger siblings wedding when she’s got too drunk and let the hot 23-year-old best man take her after the rehearsal dinner. Yes I have got a vivid imagination, I know… It was then that I realised we were not alone in the bedroom. His flatmate had crept in and was standing by the door. The light was bad, and I was tired, so it took me several times to see that he was really there. But I was shattered and tired and didn’t care how rough it was that night. The whole encounter did seem to convince him that I was perfect for the job — that I was an easy slut ready to be taken I guess. I fell asleep but throughout the night and into the next morning, Jonas continued his assault. He was too good looking for me to fight him off or even stop him and I was too drunk to prevent it. I woke up finally, late on Sunday morning with a killer hangover, a very sore arse, and a bad taste in my mouth. I tried to crawl out of bed, but Jonas dragged me back in and eventually I lay still and fell asleep again. When we eventually awoke, the conversation entirely revolved around him going to the gym and I realised it was time for me to leave. I was able to beg a quick shower and then I hurried out as he sat in his underwear and ate a bowl of cereal of which he hadn’t offered me any. But he did offer me a job. “You should consider it. £100 a time. Cash only. You’ll be good at it.” As I left the flat, the flatmate — or should I say landlord — as of course I had now realised what the set-up actually was, walked out in his underwear and pressed £50 into my hand. Apparently that was the price of such an act. I went home to my Old St flat. I needed to leave within a week, and I had nowhere to go and not enough money for a deposit. The only option was to go back to one of my sister’s friends out in Wimbledon. And then there would be no guys coming back to the flat, that’s for sure. Or I could see if Jonas could get me some real work and see if I could make the extra £300 or so I needed for that deposit. After a late lunch of bacon and cheese — all I had left in the fridge — I packed my tennis bag and headed off, still none the wiser as to what I should do. I felt awful but I just couldn’t wallow in my self-pity any longer. Jonas luckily wasn’t there and my second set featured Carlos as my doubles partner. I’d talked to Carlos the very first week I’d gone — well to be fair, he’d talked to me. I remembered him as a highly intelligent Spanish guy who worked in publishing. He wasn’t the favourite person of everyone at tennis — he had a habit of saying exactly what he thought — but I instantly bonded with him and after the night I had, I was sort of glad to see someone friendly. “You had sex last night!” he declared as soon as we walked on court. “Is it that obvious?” I couldn’t help but smile. No one else would dream of saying something like that. “Was it good?” he asked. “Yeah, yeah, I guess so,” I blustered, still not used to anyone being so forward. Carlos looked at me with eyes that sparkled with intelligence. “It was someone inappropriate wasn’t it? Wait… it was someone from tennis wasn’t it!” “Oh my God,” I laughed as we started the warmup. “You are really good at this game.” “It’s a gift,” he smirked. “So go on. Who was it?” I smiled. Usually at this point the other person will add, `You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.’ But Carlos just stared back, expecting his question to be answered. “Jonas,” I said. “It was Jonas. He had a party last night and I went there and got a bit drunk, and I slept over.” “Huh!” was all Carlos said as he gathered the balls on his racquet and went to serve. The conversation now became stop-start as we could only communicate between points. Carlos was a great scurrier with the added benefit of thunderous groundstrokes. Not so great when the ball came right at him and he had no momentum but when he was on the run, he feasted on the challenge. Watching his cautious volleying when dragged to the net, I couldn’t quite recall where I’d seen the style before. And then one day I was watching an old match from the mid-90’s and I saw the Croatian one-hit wonder Iva Majoli and thought, `Ah-hah!’ “I thought he only liked Asian guys,” Carlos said after I put-away an easy smash. “Really?” I asked before adding, “Yeah I thought so too. Maybe he was trying to recruit me. I realised that his landlord was watching me, and I got £50 for my trouble.” “Sounds like it,” Carlos nodded before directing a forehand return right at the feet of the incoming server. As we changed ends I looked at Carlos and for some reason opened myself up in a way that I rarely had to anyone else. “Actually he did offer me a gig. To go to a client, get naked and wank. £100 cash only. I’m not sure if anything else is expected. Probably. Anyway I’m starting to think about it. I need to move out of my flat next week and I don’t have enough cash for a deposit and…” I didn’t bother to say anything more. Carlos nodded his head and we continued to play tennis. He didn’t say anything further that wasn’t tennis related but I saw him look at me several times. I guess maybe there was a line I’d crossed about sharing information. One more time during the evening I happened to see Carlos looking at me. He was talking to another guy at the time, and I could almost feel their eyes burning into me. He didn’t seem to be gossiping but I was beginning to regret even mentioning my thoughts about working for Jonas. Finally just before the evening ended, Carlos suddenly arrived at my side. “So you really need somewhere to stay?” I nodded my head. “If I don’t find somewhere soon I’m going to have to move back in with my sister’s friends in Wimbledon and that’s just dire.” “Look, I have a spare bedroom. I’m travelling quite a lot so the place is empty much of the time and I could use the money,” Carlos said. “Do you fancy it?” I looked at him as if a weight had lifted off my shoulders. “Now don’t you go telling everyone I’ve suddenly gone all nice, ok?” he smirked. And that was how I never became a prostitute and how I ended up moving in with Carlos.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın