an excerpt from the Novel The Price of Dick By Dan Skinner
He walked nude all the way back through the unlit wooded path behind the apartment buildings. I photographed the entire journey, following his chlorine-rich trail, catching the shadows and light as they tattooed his flesh. If any of the neighbors had looked out their back windows, they’d have had a glimpse of one beautiful naked man walking past in the nightglow.
Time for the second part of the story. I left most of the details up to him to improvise for me. My camera would be obedient to his movements. I’d be his secret admirer from the pool house who had followed him home, hidden in the blackness of evening outside his bedroom window to spy upon him… I’d be his voyeur.
I listened as he made his way in and through the apartment to the bedroom. I stood waiting just outside the room’s window. Blinds opened, followed by the window so he could hear my instructions. I could still smell the pool on him coming from inside the room. This would be his stage. A small lamp cast weak light from the corner and illuminated the room, bathing him in dim, blue outlines. I checked my readings. The shots would be artistic, deep with mystery. Just as if someone was clandestinely observing him.
He found an edge of the bed facing me, making sure he’d be fully in my view. I began shooting as he leaned back, resting on an elbow, his free arm allowed a hand to move just beneath his balls, tugging them upward so his index finger could find the dark half-moon of his crack. I could see hair curl around the finger as he slowly began to probe inward. Leaves rustled in the trees above me. I stopped, worried that someone had moved behind me, but it was just my heated imagination.
Looking back through my lens, Dick had fallen prone onto a pillow, a balled fist showing me white knuckles tugging at his pubes, pulling back both dick and balls so his finger had clear access to the rosy diamond hidden in loops of blond fur. I couldn’t see the actual penetration, but its psychic imprint was in the furrows of his face and the moan that came once a finger had burrowed inside him. The sound from his continuously moving lips was that thrilling mixture of pain and pleasure. I moved closer to the window screen. The masculine aromas wafted through to me on a light breeze moving through the room.
I zoomed in past the focus on the mesh of the screen and back onto the recumbent, bare Goliath finger-fucking himself on my bed. My lens sought and found the head of his cock, the jewel shining at its peak. It pooled and then ran tremulously down the side of his dick like a twinkling tear. I followed its trail downward past the spiral of veins in the flesh and onto the wrinkled folds of his balls. My hand shook. The camera jarred, the shift suddenly bringing his chiseled face into the lens. Craft (my personal shorthand for when a model is being particularly “crafty”) bent his head sideways, cheek almost on his shoulder, the look of the anti-Lothario. A seducer of men.
My heartbeat felt bubble-wrapped as I watched a second large finger push in between the mass of ass cheeks and then burrow itself deep inside him. This time the moan was mined from his core, prolonged; strong enough to arch his back off the bed, turning him to the side. He wanted me to hear it. Snare drums banged behind my eyes as I saw him pump his fingers past the skin-tight resistance. The blue light of the room made his shadows an erotic wall tapestry behind him.
“How’s that look?” his voice rasped from the bed.
My mouth was dry. I swallowed hard and replied, “Great.” The torrent of blood in my head threatened to blind me.
“You know how mad my dad would be if he knew I was playing with myself? Stirring up this precious seed in my life-giving balls?” I could always count on him for bizarre, but memorable commentary.
I was having a surreal moment watching him through my lens. That jarring clash when fantasy has merged with reality. When the genie-granted wish becomes tangible. You feel you’re there but you’re not. Long fingers slipped out. He brought them to his face and sniffed their manly bouquet. They wound around his dick for that well-practiced full stroke from base to tip, soliciting a spark from every nerve along the way. All his muscles seemed to dance independently from the rhythm being conducted by his hand.
“I probably got enough in these nuts to give birth to a whole city of Catholics tonight.” Mischievousness spread across his entire face. “Where do you want me to put it for you? On my belly? On my leg? I can put it on my thigh, but it’ll run down onto the bed.” He used his dick to point to each spot as he mentioned it.
I gulped; hard. “Belly is fine,” I said, crouching down lower in the window. I was trying to regain my balance after the virulently spreading dizziness in my head.
“I can do a hard pop that will go high, or a slow pop that will get it down by my navel and run into my pubes.” He was still wanting instructions from me, and I could barely muster a whisper. “Which will look better?”
“Slow. Take your time.” The idea that he could actually control his cum flow seemed superhuman. Most of us are involuntary victims of our own pleasure.
“Good deal. My balls will come up all the way and kind of disappear on a slow pop, but I can ease it out in nice long streams,” he explained. “You want me to spell my name?” That question came with a snort.
I think I laughed at the mental picture of his name spelled in cum.
“Okay, here we go. Start clicking.” His voice was commanding.
He parted his knees wider, aiming his center directly at me. The moment I pressed up close against the brick wall to zoom in, I realized I was rock hard myself. Wet spots of excitement stuck bits of my underwear to me.
He shifted on the bed, revealing different contours of the masculine vista. His hand cupped himself.
“Get ready. We’re about to kill some future Pope here!” And with that, there was an exhalation, his hand slowed. Long, thick ribbons began flowing in a continuous stream from him, coating the soft part of his belly beneath his navel.
Moans were measured out as he carefully drizzled his orgasm on himself like icing a cake. Balls danced happily along the shaft. I was impressed at how artfully he played it out. I heard a boyish giggle.
Unconsciously, I continued my camera’s clicking. The quiet noise rallied me from the spellbinding spectacle. I took my finger off the shutter button as he looked up at me. All the hard lines of his face looked softened, serene.
“How was that?” he asked, voice low, contented.
Replenishing my air, I said, “Great.”
He rose up from the bed, and wiped himself clean with one of the sheets. He came close to the screen to look into my face. I could smell the bleachy-scent of fresh sperm.
“Maybe next time I can do it with your friend, Mike,” he said. “Do you think Mike would like it if I fucked him?”