Blake Hart
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International Manwhore – Part 5
🕑 Added 2025-09-28 15:30:03 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
The embassy's copy room was a beige purgatory, humming with fluorescent lights and the drone of machines. I stood there, pretending to be a trainee—because that's what I was, officially—feeding stacks of meaningless memos into the copier. Boring as hell, but it beat sitting around. Click, whir, spit out copies. I zoned out, thinking what a joke this was. Might as well copy my dick and balls for fun, staple them to Dad's desk as a memo: "Urgent: Your son's life sucks." I chuckled to myself, aligning the next page.
I was honestly too close to actually doing it, when footsteps clicked down the hall—sharp, purposeful. Leona appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand, her eyes flicking over me. "Tucker," she said, voice like a whip. "My office. Now."
I straightened, grabbing the stack. She paused, scanning my new look—the Zegna shirt, tailored slacks, loafers that didn't scream "frat party." "Nice upgrade," she added, almost approving. "You clean up well. Less American tourist, more international player."
"Thanks," I muttered, following her.
Her office was sparse—desk, chairs, a flag that looked judgmental. She shut the door, motioning me to sit. "Adrien's yacht party's moved up. He's docking in Monaco sooner than expected—the same venue we planned for your meet. You need to be ready. We've got paperwork and... prep."
"Prep?" I echoed. "Like what, more charm school with Asher?"
Her laugh was dry. "Something like that. But first, more NDAs."
I groaned. "I've already signed a bunch of those."
"Yes," she said, sliding another folder my way. "But we need just a few more. To move forward to the next stage."
I flipped through: more pages of legalese, clauses about "enhanced interpersonal training" and "confidential performance consultations." I signed, pen scratching like nails on a chalkboard, thinking how this whole thing was buried under paper trails.
Next came the "consultancy" contracts—euphemisms galore. "Independent contractor for cultural immersion services." "Facilitated interpersonal dynamics training." I snorted. "This is basically a hooker contract without saying it."
A lawyer type in the corner cleared his throat, face reddening. "Mr. Tucker, we do not condone sex work in any form. This is purely for training purposes—psychological coaching, role-play simulations. Any... physical components are voluntary and framed as performance enhancement."
Leona shot him a look, then turned to me. "Ethics theater, Tucker. We have to say it. But off the record? It's to ease you in. You need to be comfortable, convincing. Adrien won't buy a hesitant straight guy."
I leaned back, arms crossed. "So, what, you're hiring a coach? Like a sex therapist?"
She nodded. "Sexual performance coaching. Keeps it professional. No literal prostitution—just an expert to guide you through the basics. We've vetted him: clean, discreet, an OnlyFans creator with a following. Name's Jules. Feminine vibe, which might help bridge the gap for you."
I raised an eyebrow. "Feminine? Like a femboy?"
"Exactly. Thought it might make the transition smoother. You're straight, we get that. This is about getting you mission-ready without the awkwardness."
The lawyer slid over more papers—expedited medical tests: STI panels, blood work, all rushed through some private lab. "Sign the waiver," he said. "And the disclaimers: 'Participant acknowledges potential psychological impacts' and 'Agency not liable for emotional distress.'"
I laughed, bitter. "Ridiculous. Like a gym membership for blowjobs."
Leona's lips twitched. "Believable, though. Sign, and we'll get you tested quick. Then the suite."
The medical exam happened in a sterile side room—swabs, blood draw, but the physical was handled by a nurse who could've walked off a magazine cover. Mid-20s, full lips painted red, curves straining her scrubs in all the right places, dark hair cascading in loose waves despite the ponytail. Her eyes met mine with a professional gleam, but something flirtatious lurked underneath. "Mr. Tucker," she said, voice smooth as velvet. "Drop your pants for the visual and hernia check."
I complied, hooking thumbs into the waistband of my new Celine boxer briefs, sliding them down with the pants. She looked low-key looked impressed by my size as I stood exposed, her eyes widening just a fraction, lips parting slightly before she composed herself. The latex of her gloves snapped as she approached, fingers cool and methodical, tracing along my thighs first, lifting and inspecting with gentle care. She circled the base, probing folds and creases, skin sliding under her touch, the pressure firm yet gentle, sending a subtle throb through me. "Everything looks healthy," she chirped, her breath close enough to feel on my abdomen, perfume wafting up—vanilla and spice, intoxicating in the clinical air.
Then: "Cough." Her palm cupped below, fingers splaying to hold my balls, pressing upward with steady pressure, rolling them lightly between thumb and forefinger as she tested left, then right. When she cupped my nuts, I swear she had this smirk, eyes flicking up to meet mine, that honestly got me almost semi—the warmth of her hand, the slight squeeze, her breasts brushing my arm in the tight space, soft and yielding. Blood thickened, lengthening under her gaze.
She smiled faintly, professional but knowing. "All clear. You're fit." As she stepped back, she handed me a prescription slip. "And start on this PrEP regimen today—daily pill, for protection during training."
“Sure,” I said entranced as I pulled up my pants, adjusting the ever growing semi, mind racing. Couldn't help but think—was she actually a nurse, or hired because of her looks? Or both? Either way, it proved my point: women did it for me, no question.
Results pinged back fast: clean bill. Leona nodded. "Good. Now, the real prep."
They escorted me to a secured hotel suite nearby—neutral ground, embassy-adjacent but off-books. The room was plush: king bed with silk sheets that whispered against the skin, dim lighting casting shadows like secrets, a bottle of lube and condoms on the nightstand like room service. The air carried a faint jasmine scent, heavy and inviting, clinging to the velvet curtains and thick carpet underfoot.
Jules waited inside, lounging on the couch in a sheer robe that hinted at lace underneath, the fabric shifting with each breath to reveal glimpses of smooth, curved lines. He was honestly feminine perfection—slender build like a dancer's, soft features framed by waves of hair that fell just right, long lashes over hazel eyes that sparkled with knowing playfulness, painted nails tapping a rhythm on his thigh. His lips curved in a welcoming smile, full and glossed, promising expertise without a word. I froze, stunned—prettier than half the girls I'd dated, all delicate angles and allure that hit like a curveball.
"Bryson, right?" he said, voice smooth and light, standing to greet me. The robe parted slightly as he moved, teasing the eye with pale skin and delicate contours. "They filled me in. Straight guy easing into this? Relax—it's just coaching. No pressure. Think of it as a tutorial."
I hovered by the door, hands in pockets, feeling the room's warmth press in. "Yeah, well, I'm straight. Expecting zero reaction here."
Jules chuckled, a sound like silk rustling, gesturing to the bed. "That's fine. We can use Viagra if needed, but let's try without first. A mouth's a mouth, you know. Sit. Get comfortable."
I perched on the edge, the mattress dipping under my weight, silk cool against my palms. He knelt between my legs, robe slipping to reveal more—smooth thighs, a jockstrap framing his ass in black straps that hugged tight, the pouch bulging subtly. God damn, that ass was perkier than almost any girl's, and so smooth, rounded cheeks flawless like polished marble, the straps digging in just enough to accentuate the curve. His fingers traced my belt, unbuckling slow, eyes locked on mine with a teasing glint. "You've really got that masculine edge huh? Strong jaw, broad shoulders. Bet you turn heads." The belt came free, zipper next, his nails grazing fabric in light scratches that prickled.
He tugged my pants down inch by inch, exposing thighs, the air brushing bare skin. "Nice legs too," he said, voice dipping lower, fingers skimming upward, mapping muscle with feather-light pressure. "Firm, powerful—like you know what you're doing." I shifted, the praise landing heavier than expected, a warmth spreading in my chest—I hated to admit it, but the worship got me going, feeding my ego like fuel.
He paused, palms flattening against my quads, squeezing gently, admiring the flex. The jasmine mixed with his scent—something sweet, floral—filling my lungs, the room's dim glow highlighting the curve of his back, skin so smooth it gleamed like satin. "And these thighs... thick, muscled. All man." Fingers danced closer, teasing the edge of my briefs, building anticipation with light tugs at the fabric.
He pulled the briefs down gradually, revealing me bit by bit, his gaze appreciative as my dick flopped free, heavy against my thigh, balls hanging loose below. "Impressive—thick shaft, prominent veins snaking along the length, head flared wide." He wrapped one hand around the base, fingers barely meeting, stroking with languid pulls, thumb circling the ridge of the head in soft swipes, the friction dry at first, skin dragging against skin. Spit gathered in his mouth, drooling a thick strand onto the tip, letting it dribble down the shaft, slicking the glide as he pumped, hand twisting at the crown to spread the wetness. Just like I loved.
Jules knelt there, eyes locked on mine with that teasing glint, his breath still warm from the laps he'd traced along my length. He reached for the foil packet on the nightstand, tearing it open with his teeth in a slow rip, the sound sharp in the jasmine-thick air. The condom unfurled from his fingers, latex glistening under the dim light, and he positioned it at my tip, the ring hovering just above the flared head.
"Watch this," he whispered, lips curving into a sly smile, before lowering his head. His mouth enclosed the head again, but this time with purpose—lips parting wide to grip the condom's edge, tongue pressing flat against the underside to hold it steady. He pushed down gradually, the latex unrolling inch by inch as his mouth descended, warm saliva easing the slide, the ring stretching over veins and girth. His cheeks hollowed slightly, suction aiding the roll, while his hands steadied my thighs, fingers digging into muscle with firm squeezes.
The sensation was a mix of pressure and wetness—the condom's tight sheath expanding as his lips forced it lower, saliva dripping down the shaft in thin trails, pooling at the base where his fingers waited to smooth it flat. He took me deeper with each bob, throat relaxing to accommodate, the latex fully sheathing me by the time his nose brushed my abdomen. He pulled back slow, lips dragging up the now-covered length, leaving it slick and ready, his hazel eyes flicking up with triumph.
"See?" he said, wiping a stray droplet from his chin. "All set. Now, let's make it count."
"See? Easy," he whispered, lips hovering near, exhaling in warm puffs that tingled across the glistening head. "Just let it happen." He dipped lower, tongue darting out in soft laps along the length, tracing those veins with wet trails, enjoying each inch before retreating, saliva pooling at the base. His free hand cupped my balls, fingers rolling them with gentle kneads, lifting and massaging the sack, thumbs pressing into the sensitive underside.
The compliments kept flowing, sharper now. "This dick... so masculine, heavy in my hand, balls full and tight. You're built for this." The words hit like sparks, my body responding despite myself, lengthening under his grip, the praise making me swell faster—I hated how it fueled me, ego further inflating with each word.
The room narrowed to that point of contact—his mouth finally descending, lips parting to enclose the head, tongue flattening underneath in broad sweeps. Cheeks drew inward with suction, pulling deeper in incremental swallows, throat opening to take more, the wet glide filling the space with slick sounds. Hands synchronized, one at the base twisting in corkscrews, fingers squeezing the shaft's girth, the other lifting my balls higher, tongue extending to lap at them mid-pull, saliva dripping down to coat everything in a messy sheen. "You're responding so well... all that muscle tensing under my hands." He pulled back briefly, strings of spit connecting his lips to the head, then dove again, lips tightening further, tongue flicking the slit in quick darts, drawing out beads of fluid.
My fingers dug into the sheets, the silk bunching, as the intensity ramped—his lips sealing tighter, suction drawing harder, tongue lashing in frantic patterns. Laughter bubbled up absurdly—here I was, straight as an arrow, unraveling under this guy's spell. "Didn't think you'd... yeah," I managed, voice rough, hips shifting forward unbidden.
He nodded approval, accelerating the rush. Just about two minutes blurred into frenzy—his hands and mouth working in sync, pressure twisting tight, until it snapped, spilling into the condom in forceful surges, body arching off the bed.
Jules eased off, tying the condom with a wink, wiping his lips. "See? A mouth's a mouth. You're a natural."
I lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling as the jasmine air thickened around me. Jules was a damn cheat code—no question. That didn’t make me gay. Not even close. Anyone with a mouth like his could get a guy off in two minutes. It was the curves, the softness, that face—practically a woman’s. And that nurse earlier? Total rocket fuel. Still straight. Definitely. Ninety-nine percent, minimum.
Comments
Jon
I love that he’s still 99% straight. Really liking the way this story is headed. 🔥🔥
Garrick
Wow! That was a super hot read!
