Masonic Boys - Apprentice Monroe - Chapter 2 - The Calling
Download HD Video (1.6 GB)
The Order is a secret society, one that is woven within the margins of our world history. Members are the only ones who know the true nature of the organization, and of the needs of the fellows who drift toward it. When the Order calls for an apprentice, they don't do it with language. He might hear words, but meaning is conveyed in other ways, and by other senses. In the quiet, air conditioned hiss of his office, Tormentor Figata asked Apprentice Monroe whether or not he was attracted to men. It wasn't the first time Maxx had been asked such a question—Master Kamp had also posed this inquiry to the dude in his initial dialogue with The Order. Regardless of language, and regardless of his choice of words, the magnetism of his bod toward Figata's seize was as clear a answer as any. The boy's lips parted in appreciative release as the Tormentor unwrapped him of his belt, pants, and worries. Apprentice Monroe found fondness in being unwrapped by men… unquestionable fondness. He wished of being touched, stroked, kissed... and not just by any man, but by a fellow of power, and reverence. A fellow exactly like Tormentor Figata. Nicely-shaped on the master's face was the legacy and prowess of the Order, and with it carried the kind of heat that Monroe melted, and wished to melt, under. Tormentor Figata's gentle but rock-hard hands shoveled his all-but-willing apprentice throughout the office table. He grabbed Apprentice Monroe's rear in his palms. The dude squealed as his pallid cheeks were stretched apart. Figata's tongue darted in and out of his ass, and heavy-breathing him. He tasted the truth there; a trembling slot cannot lie. He substituted his tongue with a digit, and probed the boy's entrance for willingness, and flexibility. Monroe squealed incomprehensibly, wordless chokes that meant nothing in English, and everything to the Order. A single, domineering smack to the rear trained the dude far more than a direct order ever could have. It told him where to go, and what to do. On the floor, to his knees he fell. His lips, by instinct, found and lapped at the holy contraption of his master. His head bobbed up and down, cradled in the master's palm. His gullet worked tirelessly. The boy's tongue was slick, and his jaws wet, and eager. anxious to taste the skin of a fellow at the top of the Order, anxious for just a droplet of the wisdom and force that comes from up high. The nervous, self-conscious dude that came to his first dialogue was, in the hands of masters, achieving an understanding of his place within the Order. He was changing, slowly. And it was good—as supreme as the taste in his mouth. And when the Tormentor extracted and away, the dude was left breathless, panting, yearning. His bod and mind were incapable to process the fact that he had just given a gargle job to a man—and the honor, with it, of that fellow being the grizzled mountain Tormentor Figata. He processed lil' at all, in fact, beyond his place, and beyond the need to conform more. The Grandmaster, pleased that his apprentice's jaws had learned that its use was not to speak but to worship, then brought the dude back to his desk. He reamed him onto his abdomen and guided his dinky of skin toward the boy's cheeks. He probed to observe what else the apprentice had learned from his Calling. Monroe whimpered mildly at first. Then the Tormentor shoveled more, and more, and the further he went in, the louder his squeals grew. The world changed. Everything became the tempo of the elder man’s drilling his lil' fag bottom. Nothing else existed—not the office lights, not the worries of the world, not even himself. All that remained was Tormentor Figata's growls of pleasure, and the pulse of his thrusts. They had merged in pleasure, and found themselves finished by the rituals of The Order. Monroe found himself so complete, in fact, that when Tormentor Figata stopped crashing his big cock into his lil' slot and tossed him off the table, that, too, was heaven. The grip, the grunt of command, the obedience... those were pleasures. To be called—to have the Calling—those, too, were pleasures. When Tormentor Figata laid himself upon the table and ordered the dude to sit on his face, the fantasy to comply swelled in the boy's body, and filled his gullet with awkward, lovely immediacy. He instantaneously found himself sitting upon the elder's face without question or hesitance. He was not on top, but a toy, a mind-blowing toy for the Order to fiddle with. And Figata did fiddle so, along the boy's taint and pulverized hole, again and again.
The Order is a secret society, one that is woven within the margins of our world history. Members are the only ones who know the true nature of the organization, and of the needs of the fellows who drift toward it. When the Order calls for an apprentice, they don't do it with language. He might hear words, but meaning is conveyed in other ways, and by other senses. In the quiet, air conditioned hiss of his office, Tormentor Figata asked Apprentice Monroe whether or not he was attracted to men. It wasn't the first time Maxx had been asked such a question—Master Kamp had also posed this inquiry to the dude in his initial dialogue with The Order. Regardless of language, and regardless of his choice of words, the magnetism of his bod toward Figata's seize was as clear a answer as any. The boy's lips parted in appreciative release as the Tormentor unwrapped him of his belt, pants, and worries. Apprentice Monroe found fondness in being unwrapped by men… unquestionable fondness. He wished of being touched, stroked, kissed... and not just by any man, but by a fellow of power, and reverence. A fellow exactly like Tormentor Figata. Nicely-shaped on the master's face was the legacy and prowess of the Order, and with it carried the kind of heat that Monroe melted, and wished to melt, under. Tormentor Figata's gentle but rock-hard hands shoveled his all-but-willing apprentice throughout the office table. He grabbed Apprentice Monroe's rear in his palms. The dude squealed as his pallid cheeks were stretched apart. Figata's tongue darted in and out of his ass, and heavy-breathing him. He tasted the truth there; a trembling slot cannot lie. He substituted his tongue with a digit, and probed the boy's entrance for willingness, and flexibility. Monroe squealed incomprehensibly, wordless chokes that meant nothing in English, and everything to the Order. A single, domineering smack to the rear trained the dude far more than a direct order ever could have. It told him where to go, and what to do. On the floor, to his knees he fell. His lips, by instinct, found and lapped at the holy contraption of his master. His head bobbed up and down, cradled in the master's palm. His gullet worked tirelessly. The boy's tongue was slick, and his jaws wet, and eager. anxious to taste the skin of a fellow at the top of the Order, anxious for just a droplet of the wisdom and force that comes from up high. The nervous, self-conscious dude that came to his first dialogue was, in the hands of masters, achieving an understanding of his place within the Order. He was changing, slowly. And it was good—as supreme as the taste in his mouth. And when the Tormentor extracted and away, the dude was left breathless, panting, yearning. His bod and mind were incapable to process the fact that he had just given a gargle job to a man—and the honor, with it, of that fellow being the grizzled mountain Tormentor Figata. He processed lil' at all, in fact, beyond his place, and beyond the need to conform more. The Grandmaster, pleased that his apprentice's jaws had learned that its use was not to speak but to worship, then brought the dude back to his desk. He reamed him onto his abdomen and guided his dinky of skin toward the boy's cheeks. He probed to observe what else the apprentice had learned from his Calling. Monroe whimpered mildly at first. Then the Tormentor shoveled more, and more, and the further he went in, the louder his squeals grew. The world changed. Everything became the tempo of the elder man’s drilling his lil' fag bottom. Nothing else existed—not the office lights, not the worries of the world, not even himself. All that remained was Tormentor Figata's growls of pleasure, and the pulse of his thrusts. They had merged in pleasure, and found themselves finished by the rituals of The Order. Monroe found himself so complete, in fact, that when Tormentor Figata stopped crashing his big cock into his lil' slot and tossed him off the table, that, too, was heaven. The grip, the grunt of command, the obedience... those were pleasures. To be called—to have the Calling—those, too, were pleasures. When Tormentor Figata laid himself upon the table and ordered the dude to sit on his face, the fantasy to comply swelled in the boy's body, and filled his gullet with awkward, lovely immediacy. He instantaneously found himself sitting upon the elder's face without question or hesitance. He was not on top, but a toy, a mind-blowing toy for the Order to fiddle with. And Figata did fiddle so, along the boy's taint and pulverized hole, again and again.
Added: 2022-09-20 • Views: 20 • Duration: 27:10
Categories: Anal, Bareback, Big Dick, Blowjob, Handjob, Hardcore, Kissing, Office, Old Man, Rimming, Rough, Toys • Studio: Masonic Boys • Models: Apprentice Monroe, Grandmaster Figata
