Codys on Call

By jeff Hamby

Published on Mar 7, 2021

Gay

This story is an original work. It should not be reposted or reproduced in whole or in part without the author's consent. Copyright 2021 by Jeff Hamby. All rights reserved.

Warning: This story contains sexual acts between adult males and. If you do not enjoy this type of material, or if it is illegal in your country or place of residence, please stop reading immediately. This story is not in any way an accurate depiction of reality, and any relationship to real persons or acts are unintentional. This story is fiction.

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Cody's On-Call

The night is hot, and my knees are sore from the concrete. I am at the back door of Cody's apartment, kneeling on the ground next to the sliding glass door in the dark, waiting on him to arrive home. Except for a jockstrap, I'm naked. A thick leather collar is around my neck, fastened with a heavy padlock. I don't have the key to the padlock, so once the collar is on, it's there until Cody decides to remove it.

Fortunately, each apartment has a partial privacy fence around the small patio area, so I am mostly shielded from anyone walking by. Mostly. There is no gate, though; just an opening in the fence, so I could be seen if someone happened to walk by. What is worse: the apartments are two-story townhouses, so any of Cody's neighbors who happen to look out the window will be able to see me clearly. Every time I do this, I say a little prayer no one will spot me and call the cops.

My clothes are folded neatly and put away in a wooden chest on the far side of the patio, the same chest where Cody keeps the collar and padlock. The chest is too far for me to grab my clothes quickly if someone should happen to see me, but that doesn't matter. There is an extra padlock kept in the chest, which I use to secure it once my clothes are inside. Once I'm stripped and my clothes locked away, I'm committed, my service to Cody assured. That's how he insists on it. Cody doesn't need to tell me what he wants me to do. He did that the very first time: strip to a jockstrap and lock my clothes in the chest; kneel next to the door, legs spread wide, head down, arms behind me. And wait until called for, no matter how long that took.

The hot, humid night air, combined with the stress of maintaining the position on the concrete is making me start to sweat, but I don't dare move, nor change position. Cody could be home at any moment, and will be furious if I'm not exactly where and how I am supposed to be. One time, my knees were very sore from kneeling for over an hour waiting on him to arrive, so I sat on my butt for just a minute to relieve the pain. That's when Cody walked in the front door and saw me through the sliding glass door, on my ass. That was the first time he used his belt on me. It was a week before I could sit without pain. No matter how badly the concrete hurts my knees, I know better than to move.

Cody works late. He usually gets off at 11:00 pm, but sometimes later; then he has to drive home. It doesn't matter; when I am told to report, I am expected to be in place by 11:00 pm sharp. Occasionally, Cody is already home, and my punctuality, or lack of it, is noted. Most times, though, it is like this: I strip, kneel, and wait for as long as it takes him to arrive.

You see, I'm Cody's on-call ___. Fill in the blank. Cocksucker, foot massager, cum dump - whatever he wants. He calls, and I come running for the chance to serve him.

Cody's biggest problem is that he's really busy. He's a full-time student at the local college, attending on a partial baseball scholarship, so he has classes and ball practice to deal with. It's a smaller school though, and his scholarship doesn't cover full tuition or living expenses, so he also works as a cook at a restaurant. Between the two, it doesn't leave him a lot of time to go on dates.

So, Cody keeps me around - the fag at his beck and call. He took my phone number the first night. Since then, whenever he wants me, I get a text. The text is always very simple: a report time. Nothing else. No chat, no instructions - just a time. Most of the time it's like tonight: "11." As simple as that. He beckons, and I'm here on my knees, waiting for him.

Sometimes the text just says, "Now," which means I have to drop what I'm doing and come over immediately. It doesn't matter to Cody if I have plans. He doesn't ask, and doesn't care. When he wants me, he expects me to come running, no excuses. On those occasions, my wait outside is usually mercifully short, but no less stressful, since often those messages come during daylight hours, so I am even more exposed, kneeling there behind his apartment, both my body and my need to obey on display for anyone who happens to see me.

Sometimes those are the worst, though. Once, the text said "Now," so I drove over immediately. I live about 20 minutes from Cody's apartment. When I arrived, I could see Cody through the sliding glass door, sleeping on the couch. He was wearing just a pair of athletic shorts, nothing else. I was already stripped down and in my required position by the time I saw him. I knelt there, looking at him sleeping, fearing at any moment someone would see me and report me to the police. But I didn't move. And I didn't dare disturb him by knocking on the door. I waited, the hot sun beating down on my exposed flesh, sweat dripping off of me, the concrete slowing digging further and further into my vulnerable knees, while Cody napped, peaceful as a babe, in air-conditioned comfort ten feet from me on the other side of the glass. I was like that for 45 minutes, but it seemed like days, the constant risk of being seen by his neighbors making every minute seem like an hour. When Cody finally stirred, he got up off the couch and looked at me through the sliding glass door. Then the turned and went to the kitchen, leaving me there to suffer longer. A while later he returned with a sandwich and a beer and settled down to watch TV, ignoring the desperate faggot kneeling, collared and mostly naked, on his patio. I moaned in frustration; my little dick as hard as a rock in the jockstrap. Cody does things on his own schedule, always. When he finally decided to unlock the door and let me inside, I was so overwhelmed with relief I immediately began kissing his feet in appreciation of his kindness, forgetting in the moment he was the cause of my suffering in the first place.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity in the hot summer night, I see a light come on inside Cody's apartment when he opens the front door and walks into the living room. He is wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his usual work attire. He glances out and sees me, but makes no motion to open the door to allow me inside. Instead, he goes to the kitchen, retrieves a beer from the refrigerator, then sits down on the couch and picks up the TV remote, a young jock relaxing after a very long day. After about 15 minutes, he finishes his beer and gets another one from the kitchen. On his way back to his spot on the couch, Cody flips the lock on the sliding glass door. That's all he ever does. He doesn't open it, nor invite me in, just flips the lock and sits back down. That's my signal to slide the door open and crawl inside.

Cody is far from what you might expect. He's not some hulking macho muscle jock. Quite the opposite. He's not that big -- about 5'8" and only weighs about 130 pounds. He's lean, with defined, but not bulky, muscles. He ran track in high school, as well as playing baseball, and he still has his runner's build. He has short brown hair, green eyes, and a bright, winning smile. He looks like a typical college student, and a nice, normal guy at that. Looks, of course, can be very deceiving. When Cody smiles that warm, sunny smile of his, you'd never suspect the depths of cruelty that lie behind it.

Cody is straight. He likes girls, and fucks them every chance he gets. But like I said, he's a busy guy, and doesn't always have time for romance or dating. Sometimes, young guys just need a willing hole to unload in. That's my job: Cody's cum dump.

Cody is cute, but not extraordinary to look at. That is, until he takes off his clothes. His cock is a work of art - breathtaking, really. I'm always stunned when a small guy like Cody pulls a huge cock out of his pants. It's so unexpected, but there it is, in all its glory: almost ten inches, and so thick Cody can barely encircle it with his hand. His cock is tightly cut, a thing of beauty, with a large head on the end that's even wider than the shaft. His balls are big, shaved, and hang low and loose. Cody keeps his pubes trimmed quite short, just enough to tickle my nose when his cock is buried down my throat.

The first time I saw Cody's cock, I couldn't believe I'd gotten so lucky. It was so long, thick and beautiful; I couldn't wait to get it inside me. I quickly learned to be careful what I wished for. Like a kid whose eyes are bigger than his stomach, I rapidly came to learn that yes, some cocks can be just "too big."

He rarely speaks to me. Not because he's the silent type; he just doesn't think I'm worth talking to. Mostly he points or snaps his fingers, and expects me to interpret what he wants. When he does speak, it's usually just a word or two: "suck" or "lick" or maybe "bend over."

Tonight, Cody points to his shoes, an old pair of very dirty white Nike Air Force sneakers. They are the ones he wears at work in the kitchen. I know this because they are always especially nasty, with splatters of food, grease, and other things I dread to even think about. Every time he comes home from work, they're filthy. By the time I leave, they are immaculate, washed with my spit, cleaned and shined with my tongue. I sometimes spend hours just tongue-scrubbing Cody's shoes while he watches TV. There are lots of stains tonight; it must have been a busy night in the kitchen. My tongue tastes a variety of substances: a hint of tomato, a drop of some sort of gravy, a lot of grease; all flavored with old shoe leather and the smell of Cody's sweaty feet.

Cody crosses one foot over the other, kicking off his shoes in the process. He makes himself comfortable, ignoring me completely. He expects me to work around his comfort and convenience, even if it makes things harder for me. Now that his shoes are off, I'm left licking his socks, sucking on his cloth-covered toes, trying to suck all the sweat out of his socks which has built up there throughout the day. Cody's feet smell ripe, but I don't complain. I don't dare.

Once, I made the mistake of asking Cody to wash his feet. They were especially nasty. Perhaps he hadn't washed them that day or something. I don't know, I just know that as soon as he took off his shoes, it was an assault on my nose. I couldn't stand the smell, and the thought of licking such nasty feet made me gag.

Cody hadn't said a word when I asked, just got up and went into the bedroom. When he returned, he grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back so fast I didn't have time to resist. Cody is a small guy, but he's quick, and surprisingly strong. He had a pair of handcuffs. Real ones, from the feel of them. He cuffed me, then left me there on the floor, helpless, while he walked back into the bedroom. This time when he came back, he was carrying his belt. He'd hit me with it before, enough for me to dread the sight of it. Cody held the buckle in his hand, wrapped it once around his hand so he'd have a good, secure grip, then starting whipping me with the loose end. He hit me all over my back, ass, and legs while I rolled around on the floor, trying desperately to get away from his cruel leather strap. At one point I managed to scramble to my knees, but he pushed me back down, then kicked my legs apart. Cody stepped in between my knees, forcing me to spread my legs even wider. He took his belt and began to beat my inner thighs and ass, even managing a few licks on my balls, though whether those were intentional or accidental I can't say. Once his anger was spent (or once he figured I'd learned my lesson), Cody walked up to my head and shoved his stinking foot under my face. I was crying from the pain by that point, but the message was clear. I stuck out my tongue and began to lick his smelly feet, my tears and tongue providing the only washing his feet would get that night. I learned my lesson. And I learned to fear Cody's displeasure.

I am allowed to suck the sweat out of Cody's socks for a while as he flips through channels on the TV. Finally, he reaches down and peels off his socks, tossing them aside, his eyes glued to the screen, oblivious to the desperate faggot at his feet.

Since I've known him, Cody has managed to silently communicate to me exactly how he sees me: two holes that relieve the pressure in his balls, to help him relax after a long day. A sex toy -- more functional than a Fleshlight, but of no more consequence. Useful for certain needs, to be put away until needed again. I've grown used to being ignored, and I concentrate on why I'm there -- to give him pleasure.

His feet are sweaty. I wonder if he showered after practice today, before he headed to work. The smell is strong. I worship his feet, sucking each of his toes, cleaning the sweat from in between them, licking the soft, downy hairs on the tops of his feet. My tongue caresses the arch of each foot, running slowly across the callouses on the balls of his feet, soothing them after a long, hard day. I grovel below him on the floor, my head down and ass up, sucking his toes the way I hope to suck his cock. I worship my young jock god, while he, impassive, sits comfortably above me, relaxed for the first time today, slowing clicking through channels on the TV, nearly oblivious to the faggot below, so desperate to please him. He takes no more notice of me than he would a dog in the same position.

I never know what Cody wants when he summons me. Occasionally, he shoves his massive cock up my ass, leaving me sore and walking funny for a few days afterwards. More often, he uses my mouth, relaxing and allowing me to please him. Once or twice, he just wanted his feet massaged and licked clean, either because it was a long day, or he changed his mind after I arrived. I have no idea. It's not my place to know what he's thinking, and not my right to ask him questions about his intentions. Cody has made that very clear. My job is simple -- I obey.

After almost an hour, my back gets sore from being bent over licking Cody's feet, but I don't move, because he prefers it this way. This position -- head down on the ground, licking his toes, my legs spread, ass up in the air - pleases him. It shows my devotion and respect. It's uncomfortable for me, though. I'd much rather be lying on the ground with Cody's feet on my face; or, even better, lying on a nice, soft bed with him, making him feel good. But I know what I want doesn't enter in to the equation. The idea of even asking what I'd like is completely foreign to Cody, and I know better than to bring it up. So, I shift as much as I can to manage the cramps in my back. I know my knees will be sore the next day -- they always are after a visit with Cody, between kneeling on the concrete outside and then on his floor, often for several hours without relief.

Finally, Cody shifts in his seat. I dare a glance up, and there it is: the biggest cock I've ever seen. No matter how many times he puts it in me, I'm still mesmerized by the sight of it. It's already standing up, stiff and throbbing, demanding to be satisfied. I want it. I want it so badly I can barely breathe, but I know better than to stop what I'm doing. Cody hasn't given me permission, and I don't want to get backhanded across the face. The first time I opened my mouth and reached for it, tried to suck it without permission, Cody slapped me, hard - hard enough to leave me feeling disoriented for a few moments, then called me a "greedy faggot." I learned then, just like I've learned the other painful lessons Cody has taught me: wait for permission.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of me licking his feet while trying to watch his cock throbbing above me, Cody snaps his fingers. Just once. That's all it takes, and I'm on his huge cock, the head of it filling my mouth as I try to get it wet enough to slide into my throat. Soon enough, it's slick, and I begin the long journey down to the bottom of his shaft, until the entire length is lodged firmly in my throat, my nose buried in his pubes, the smell of his sweat filling my nose the way his cock fills my mouth. I stay there, impaled on his dick as I flex my throat, massaging his shaft with my neck muscles. I can feel the bulbous head of his cock like a second Adam's apple in my neck, and wonder if the outline of it is visible to Cody, if he can see his dick making my throat swell to accommodate his size. Since his cock curves downward, it fits perfectly down my gullet, its girth and length the real challenge. I stay that way as long as I can, breathing him in, swallowing him completely, until I am desperate for more air, and finally pull back, his knob slowly emerging from my throat and back into my mouth, where I slather it with my tongue. I use my tongue on it constantly, even when its down my throat and I'm just licking the thick base of his cock where it meets his pubic hair, because Cody likes being licked. I swallow it repeatedly, stretching myself around his massive member, because Cody likes the feel of it taken deep. This, here, is my true worship -- his pleasure, my sacrifice, where I do my best to convince him it's worth his time to continue using me, continue calling me, continue letting me abase myself for his enjoyment.

Over and over, I swallow it; over and over, my tongue swirls and caresses his flesh as it emerges, only to be swallowed again. I use my hand to cup Cody's big, pendulous balls, filled with his cum which I hope I will soon have inside me, a blessing from my young jock god. I feel Cody's hand on the back of my head. He uses it to guide me, direct the pace of my worship, to hold me down on his cock well past the point where I need relief and air, holding me down to the point where my throat isn't just massaging his cock, its spasming, trying to eject this intruder plugging my airway. Tears are running down my face and falling into Cody crotch, wetting his pubic hair as I slowly choke on his beautiful, perfect member. In that moment, I am his, completely, totally. Undecided if I want to live, or to die there on his cock, as much a part of him as I can ever be, having him completely and absolutely in control of me and my existence.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, but really only seconds, he pulls me up by my hair, the air rushing into my lungs as his cock slides out and on to my lips while I gasp for breath. That's when it is hardest not to touch myself, my dick throbbing painfully inside my jockstrap, untouched and unused. Ignored because Cody insists I concentrate only on him. This is about him, completely. Nothing else matters.

Cody fucks my face, slowly at first, then faster. My hand massages his balls while my tongue and throat massage his cock, until, finally, his balls draw up, and the head of his cock swells in my throat. Cody lets out a long, low groan as he pumps his load into my mouth, then rams his cock and cum into my throat and holds me down, filled and gagging, until he's done and I have swallowed it all. Slowly, his fingers untangle themselves from my hair, and I am allowed to pull back, sucking the last drops of his precious cum from his dick as it begins to soften. I hold it in my mouth, softly, not sucking or licking, just letting it sit there in the warmth of my mouth, soaking in the heat from his cock as any stray drops of cum dribble out, letting Cody catch his breath and bask in the much-needed release.

Cody doesn't move for a while. Perhaps he has fallen asleep with his cock in my mouth, leaving me there on my knees, my hard dick tenting my jockstrap and soaking it with my own precum, desperate for release. My knees and back hurt, but I will stay in this position, his perfect cock in my mouth, as long as he will allow it. All night, if he's asleep? I'll certainly try. I don't dare wake him up, and I cherish every moment I'm allowed to spend with his cock; like a junkie with a fix, I can't get enough.

He stirs, then pushes his hand against my forehead, shoving my mouth off his cock and my head out of his lap. I immediately bend down and start lavishing kisses on his feet, silently thanking him for the opportunity to service him, to worship his body, to taste his sweat and cum. Cody allows it for a moment, then stands up and tucks his cock and balls back into his jeans. He walks to the sliding glass door, then out to the patio. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his keys and unlocks the padlock on the wooden chest that holds my clothes, then comes back inside and unlocks the padlock on my collar. Without a word, he disappears upstairs.

That quickly, I am forgotten. I crawl to the patio door, then stand up and walk over to the chest. My dick is still rigid and throbbing, so hard its painful. My balls feel swollen and heavy, like lead weights between my legs, aching from the frustration and neglect. My knees are already sore and stiff, and my throat hurts, making it painful to swallow. I remove the collar, carefully placing it back in the wooden chest, then quickly get dressed. I look back into the apartment, hoping for one last glimpse of Cody, but he is nowhere to be seen. Closing the chest, I padlock it, then limp back to my car - horny, humiliated, sore. I think the entire way home about how I was used, and what he may do to me next time.

All the while I am silently hoping, praying, that there will be a next time.

*************************************************************************** I love to hear from readers! Please contact me at jeffhamby1025@gmail.com

Next: Chapter 2


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