The Calling - Apprentice Monroe - Chapter 2
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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 dudes 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, ...In the quiet, air conditioned hiss of his office, Sir Figata asked Apprentice Monroe whether or not he was attracted to men. It wasn't the very first time Maxx had been asked such a question—Master Kamp had also posed this inquiry to the boy in his initial dialogue with The Order.Regardless of language, and regardless of his choice of words, the magnetism of his assets toward Figata's capture was as clear a answer as any. The boy's lips parted in grateful pull out as the Sir disrobed him of his belt, pants, and worries.Apprentice Monroe found fondness in being disrobed by men… undeniable fondness. He dreamed of being touched, stroked, kissed... and not just by any man, but by a boy of power, and reverence. A boy exactly like Sir Figata. Defined on the master's face was the legacy and expertise of the Order, and with it carried the kind of warmth that Monroe melted, and dreamed to melt, under.Master Figata's tender but stiff forearms shoved his all-but-willing apprentice via the office table. He grasped Apprentice Monroe's rear in his palms. The boy screamed as his pallid cheeks were opened up apart. Figata's tongue darted in and out of his ass, and weary him.He tasted the truth there; a quaking crevasse cannot lie. He substituted his tongue with a digit, and studied the boy's entrance for willingness, and flexibility. Monroe screamed incomprehensibly, wordless chokes that meant nothing in English, and everything to the Order.A single, imperious slap to the rear trained the boy 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 instrument of his master. His head bobbed up and down, cradled in the master's palm. His jaws worked tirelessly. The boy's tongue was slick, and his gullet wet, and eager. anxious to taste the skin of a boy at the top of the Order, anxious for just a glob of the wisdom and power that comes from up high.The nervous, self-conscious boy that came to his very first dialogue was, in the forearms of masters, achieving an understanding of his place within the Order. He was changing, slowly. And it was good—as good as the taste in his mouth.And when the Sir let out and away, the boy was left breathless, panting, yearning. His assets and mind were incapable to process the fact that he had just given a fellate job to a man—and the honor, with it, of that boy being the grizzled mountain Sir Figata. He processed little at all, in fact, beyond his place, and beyond the need to conform more.The Grandmaster, sated that his apprentice's gullet had learned that its use was not to speak but to worship, then brought the boy back to his desk. He expanded him onto his abdomen and guided his chisel of skin toward the boy's cheeks. He studied to witness what else the apprentice had learned from his Calling.Monroe whimpered mildly at first. Then the Sir shoved more, and more, and the further he went in, the louder his yells grew.The world changed. Everything became the rhythm of the older man’s pulverizing his lil fag bottom. Nothing else existed—not the office lights, not the worries of the world, not even himself. All that remained was Sir Figata's growls of pleasure, and the pulse of his thrusts. They had merged in pleasure, and found themselves ended by the rituals of The Order.Monroe found himself so complete, in fact, that when Sir Figata stopped crashing his massive wood into his lil crevasse 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 Sir Figata laid himself upon the table and ordered the boy to sit on his face, the dream to conform swelled in the boy's body, and crammed his jaws with awkward, nice immediacy.He instantly found himself sitting upon the elder's face without question or hesitance. He was not on top, but a toy, a beautiful toy for the Order to fiddle with. And Figata did fiddle so, along the boy's taint and poked 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 dudes 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, ...In the quiet, air conditioned hiss of his office, Sir Figata asked Apprentice Monroe whether or not he was attracted to men. It wasn't the very first time Maxx had been asked such a question—Master Kamp had also posed this inquiry to the boy in his initial dialogue with The Order.Regardless of language, and regardless of his choice of words, the magnetism of his assets toward Figata's capture was as clear a answer as any. The boy's lips parted in grateful pull out as the Sir disrobed him of his belt, pants, and worries.Apprentice Monroe found fondness in being disrobed by men… undeniable fondness. He dreamed of being touched, stroked, kissed... and not just by any man, but by a boy of power, and reverence. A boy exactly like Sir Figata. Defined on the master's face was the legacy and expertise of the Order, and with it carried the kind of warmth that Monroe melted, and dreamed to melt, under.Master Figata's tender but stiff forearms shoved his all-but-willing apprentice via the office table. He grasped Apprentice Monroe's rear in his palms. The boy screamed as his pallid cheeks were opened up apart. Figata's tongue darted in and out of his ass, and weary him.He tasted the truth there; a quaking crevasse cannot lie. He substituted his tongue with a digit, and studied the boy's entrance for willingness, and flexibility. Monroe screamed incomprehensibly, wordless chokes that meant nothing in English, and everything to the Order.A single, imperious slap to the rear trained the boy 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 instrument of his master. His head bobbed up and down, cradled in the master's palm. His jaws worked tirelessly. The boy's tongue was slick, and his gullet wet, and eager. anxious to taste the skin of a boy at the top of the Order, anxious for just a glob of the wisdom and power that comes from up high.The nervous, self-conscious boy that came to his very first dialogue was, in the forearms of masters, achieving an understanding of his place within the Order. He was changing, slowly. And it was good—as good as the taste in his mouth.And when the Sir let out and away, the boy was left breathless, panting, yearning. His assets and mind were incapable to process the fact that he had just given a fellate job to a man—and the honor, with it, of that boy being the grizzled mountain Sir Figata. He processed little at all, in fact, beyond his place, and beyond the need to conform more.The Grandmaster, sated that his apprentice's gullet had learned that its use was not to speak but to worship, then brought the boy back to his desk. He expanded him onto his abdomen and guided his chisel of skin toward the boy's cheeks. He studied to witness what else the apprentice had learned from his Calling.Monroe whimpered mildly at first. Then the Sir shoved more, and more, and the further he went in, the louder his yells grew.The world changed. Everything became the rhythm of the older man’s pulverizing his lil fag bottom. Nothing else existed—not the office lights, not the worries of the world, not even himself. All that remained was Sir Figata's growls of pleasure, and the pulse of his thrusts. They had merged in pleasure, and found themselves ended by the rituals of The Order.Monroe found himself so complete, in fact, that when Sir Figata stopped crashing his massive wood into his lil crevasse 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 Sir Figata laid himself upon the table and ordered the boy to sit on his face, the dream to conform swelled in the boy's body, and crammed his jaws with awkward, nice immediacy.He instantly found himself sitting upon the elder's face without question or hesitance. He was not on top, but a toy, a beautiful toy for the Order to fiddle with. And Figata did fiddle so, along the boy's taint and poked hole, again and again…
Added: 2023-07-29 • Views: 11 • Duration: 27:10