The Order is a secret society, one that is woven within the margins of our world history. Members are the solely ones who know the true nature of the organization, and of the needs of the males who drift towards 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, Master Figata asked Apprentice Monroe whether or not this guy was attracted to guys. It wasn't the 1st time Maxx had been asked such a question—Master Kamp had too posed this inquiry to the guy in his initial interview with The Order.
Regardless of language, and regardless of his choice of words, the magnetism of his body towards Figata's clutch was as clear a response as any. The boy's lips parted in thankful release as the slaver naked him of his thong, panties, and worries.
Apprentice Monroe discovered fondness in being exposed by men… undeniable fondness. He dreamed of being touched, stroked, kissed... and not just by any guy, but by a guy of vigour, and reverence. A dude exactly like Master Figata. Chiseled on the master's face was the legacy and knowledge of the Order, and with it carried the kind of heat that Monroe melted, and wanted to melt, underneath.
Master Figata's gentle but firm hands shoved his all-but-willing apprentice across the office table. He clutched Apprentice Monroe's rear in his palms. The lad groaned as his pale cheeks were widen apart. Figata's tongue darted in and out of his gazoo, and weakened him.
He tasted the truth there; a quivering gap cannot lie. He replaced his tongue with a digit, and tested the boy's entrance for willingness, and flexibility. Monroe groaned incomprehensibly, wordless gasps that meant no thing in English, and anything to the Order.
A single, authoritative slap to the rear instructed the lad far greater quantity than a direct order ever could have. It said him where to go, and what to do. On the floor, to his knees this chab fell.
His lips, by instinct, discovered and lapped at the holy instrument of his corporalist. His head bobbed up and down, cradled in the master's palm. His face hole worked tirelessly. The boy's tongue was slick, and his face hole soaked, and desirous. Eager to smack the flesh of a stud at the top of the Order, desirous for just a drop of the wisdom and strength that comes from up high.
The nervous, self-conscious chap that came to his 1st interview was, in the hands of masters, achieving an understanding of his place within the Order. He was changing, lazily. And it was good—as worthy as the smack in his face hole.
And when the Master pulled out and away, the chap was left breathless, panting, yearning. His body and mind were unable to process the fact that that guy had just given a blow job to a man—and the honor, with it, of that fellow being the grizzled mountain Master Figata. He processed little at all, in fact, beyond his place, and beyond the need to serve greater quantity.
The Grandmaster, cheerful that his apprentice's face hole had learned that it is use was not to speak but to worship, then brought the chap back to his desk. He splayed him onto his abdomen and guided his knob of flesh towards the boy's cheeks. He tested to watch what else the apprentice had learned from his Calling.
Monroe whimpered softly at 1st. Then the slavemaster poked greater amount, and greater quantity, and the further this guy went in, the louder his groans grew.
The world changed. Everything became the rhythm of the mature man’s fucking his petite homosexual bottom. Nothing else existed—not the office lights, not the worries of the world, not even himself. All that remained was Master Figata's growls of enjoyment, and the pulse of his thrusts. They had merged in fun, and discovered themselves completed by the rituals of The Order.
Monroe discovered himself so complete, in fact, that when Master Figata stopped crashing his large dong into his small aperture and threw him off the table, that, also, was heaven. The grasp, the grunt of command, the obedience... these were pleasures. To be called—to have the Calling—those, also, were pleasures.
When Master Figata laid himself upon the table and ordered the chap to sit on his face, the want to obey swelled in the boy's body, and filled his mouth with awkward, cute immediacy.
He just now discovered himself sitting upon the elder's face out of question or hesitance. He was not on top, but a toy, a nice-looking plaything for the Order to fiddle with. And Figata did fiddle so, along the boy's taint and ravaged gap, another time and again…

Format: mp4
Duration: 27:10
Video: 1920x1080, AVC (H.264), 7735kbps
Audio: 311kbps

File size: 1.6 GB