HIS HELPER- PART 1

  A MAN, A MOUNTAIN, A MEETING

  BINK CUMMINGS

  His Helper- Part 1

  Copyright © 2023/2024: Bink Cummings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contact the Author:

  Email: BinkCummings@yahoo.com

  Editor: Mary Sittu-Kern

  Cover Designer: Bink Cummings

  Dedicated to those who don’t fit in.

  CONTENTS

  Author Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Next in the Series

  Note From Author

  Social Media

  Also by Bink Cummings

  AUTHOR NOTE

  This page is for those needing access to reading icks and triggers. If you have none, please skip this page.

  This book/series contains the following elements in varying degrees.

  Anal Fisting

  Sex Work

  ATM (in subsequent books)

  Open Relationships

  This is a work of fiction and does not depict any one person(s).

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t born this way. A freak. A misfit. More often than I care to admit to myself, let alone you, I conjure fantasies about joining normal dating sites and finding a beautiful, curvy woman who would love me for me. She’d appreciate my unusual desires and find my quiet, reclusive nature endearing. On the days we’re not absorbed in our careers, we’d hike through the mountainside, have picnics on our living room floor, and talk. Oh. We would talk about anything and everything. Our nights would be spent reading in bed after a hot and heavy session between the sheets.

  At forty, that’s not in the cards. Not anymore. I accepted my fate a decade ago. To be honest, I’ve had two girlfriends my entire adult life, both of which I scared away within months. Because I’m not normal. I’m an embarrassment. A man who lives in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. It’s quaint and well-kept, but it’s an hour from any town or village. No joke.

  I have no pets. No friends. Nor a single neighbor for miles. It’s just me. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what a man who lives in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere special, does to pay the bills? I write. I’ve always written. Since I was a boy, I was the weirdo with the glasses who spent more time reading, jotting down ideas, and living in his own fantasy world, so he never bothered to make friends. My family never knew how to deal with a unique child. Their words, not mine.

  In my opinion, I was a model son. I helped around the house, learned to cook by age ten, graduated with honors, and never did a single illicit drug. Why my parents cared if I had friends beyond those I bonded with between the pages of a book, I’ll never comprehend. I’m happy in my small slice of the world. Well, most of the time, when I’m writing and on a strict deadline for my publisher.

  It’s the spaces in between that leave me mildly unfulfilled, and so I indulge in the one thing that brings me the most pleasure… like now.

  Standing under the warm spray of the shower, I massage my heavy balls and watch as my dick stands at its full, thick attention. I glance over my shoulder to make sure what I need is ready. Suction cupped to the tub surround is my dildo. One of the many I own. This one’s medium in length and extra thick. I already lubed it before I got in.

  Backing up against the wall, I reach behind me and slip the phallus into my eager hole. The spray of the shower beats across my broad chest as I sink to the hilt and moan. Yes, this is what I need. What I crave the most. To be fucked. To have my prostate beaten.

  Slowly, I impale myself on the cock, feeling every inch and ridge fill my insides. Placing a foot on the side of the tub, I build speed until my cock is slapping my abs with every violent thrust. Closing my eyes, I let it take me. Let it stretch me and own my hole. I beg for it to fuck me harder. To give it to me good. And it does. It ruins me just how I need, never disappointing, never judging. Only pleasure.

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and watch precum fling from the tip of my cock. It begs for me to stroke it. Aching and twitching as I slam my hips back, fucking myself on repeat.

  “You don’t get touched,” I growl at him, because he only comes when my ass tells him to. When it allows.

  Breath labored, sweat drips down the sides of my face as steam rises. Hitting the sensitive spot inside me, I moan louder, fuck harder, and lose myself in ecstasy. Before long, my cock tingles. Everything tightens, and my eyes roll into the back of my skull.

  “Yes,” I hiss.

  That’s it.

  This is what I need.

  Fuck me.

  Fuck me harder.

  My abs contract as my hole squeezes around the cock. Blindly grabbing for the wall to keep me grounded, I let it have me, and it does. The world blanks, and for a suspended moment, I’m floating, every nerve ending firing in perfect, toe-curling tandem. Incoherent words tumble from my lips as cum shoots out of my dick in thick ropes, painting the white base of my tub as I shudder through an earth-shattering climax.

  Coming down from my high, I gulp a few deep breaths and watch my still-hard cock dribble the last of its spend onto the shower floor. It’s much easier to clean up in here than in bed.

  Stepping away from the toy, it falls from my hole, leaving a void, not only literally but figuratively. I hate when I have to stop. I hate when I can’t have it inside me. The longer it’s gone, the more I crave its presence. It’s been that way since I was young. I’ve always been what many would consider an anal aficionado. Hence my dating issues. Women prefer to get screwed into the mattress, whereas I prefer to be the one who gets fucked. The last time I tried dating, like going on dates, not a relationship, I endeavored to find a woman who was into pegging. Where I live, it’s impossible. Anytime we talked about sex, they asked what I liked. I was honest, and they immediately lost interest.

  Shaking my head to rid such unhelpful thoughts, I slip two fingers between my cheeks and probe my dilated hole, loving how supple and smooth it is. I glide the digits inside for a little post-coital prostate play, and my toes curl on contact.

  Ah. Yes.

  I love this.

  Knowing this could get me off a second time within minutes, I finger fuck my sensitive hole until a small squirt of cum shoots lazily from my cock, and I’m left with noodle legs. Washing up quickly, I stumble out of the shower and dry with a plush towel from the warming rack. I’m fond of modern amenities. Sure, I may live in a cabin, but it doesn’t lack in those fine, comforting upgrades.

  Not bothering with clothes, I drop the towel into the hamper and go about finding a snack. Coming twice in such a brief time takes a lot out of me. After I eat, I should probably get back to work. My latest novel is the tenth in my fantasy serial series about an elf and his quest to find the long-lost queen of his species. For those looking for adventure and suspense, you get that in spades. For those who love love with a dash of sex, I sprinkle that throughout. Each book, he takes a lover. A new one. I like to keep everyone on their toes.

  Anyhow, that’s enough about that. I don’t want to bore you with the details.

  Grabbing a plate from the cupboard, I pour on some trail mix I make from whatever I have on hand and a few strips of beef jerky I buy from a local farmer. Then I grab an apple from my fruit basket next to the sink and sit my bare ass down at my small, two-person, handmade table, a local artisan crafted. It’s live-edge wood with a flawlessly glossy top and an iron forged leg in the middle—rustic meets modern. A fantastic combination.

  Taking a bite from the apple, juice runs down the side of my mouth as I log into my laptop one-handed. Before I pull up my latest manuscript, I wipe the liquid away with a single finger, clean it off with my tongue, then check the forum I follow for men like me—males who crave anal sex. It’s explicit and hot as fuck. It’s also the place I’ve learned the most. Many of the men are married and have wives who meet their needs. Others are like me. The best thing is they speak candidly about their desires. They give pointers and offer toy suggestions. The drawer of sex toys I own is because of them and a submissive vlogger I follow who never wears clothes. This is where I go to feel less like a freak. It works most of the time—seventy percent-ish.

  Clicking on a thread I have pinned, I read through the latest comments about the helper everyone within a few hours of me raves about. He’s a male helper, as in, he takes care of his clients with toys, so we don’t have to do it ourselves. Basically, he’s a prostitute. But everyone loves him because he’s not into putting-his-dick-into-ass sex. He’s also discrete. One of the men gave me his number a few months ago, and I’ve been a coward, too scared to text, ever since.

  BigBoy1245: He came by last night. I cannot recommend this helper enough. I’ve never come so hard in my life. He was nice and patient. I’ve never felt so comfortable with someone.

  Sighing, I read through a handful of other praising comments.

  Alright.

  If I’m never gonna find a woman to do this, I might as well hire a professional. If you need your car fixed, you hire a mechanic. If you need good sex, you hire a sex worker. Seems logical to me.

  Leaving my computer open, I exit the kitchen in search of my phone. It’s on the charger in my bedroom, then I return to my seat. Pulling up the number I saved since the night the guy sent it, I open a fresh text thread.

  Would love to meet up. Got your number from an online forum. I live two hours outside your city. If that’s a problem, I understand.

  Send.

  There. It’s done.

  Sure, my heart is pounding a thousand miles an hour. My palms are clammy, and my dick is far too excited about this possibility, but that’s normal. Totally normal. That’s what I’m going with because I haven’t seen an actual human in close to a month. I pay a hefty delivery fee to have all my groceries delivered, so I never have to leave my house unless I’m going for a hike, which I often do alone.

  Forgetting my phone, my erection, and these weird, tumultuous emotions, I set about my normal business as I snack. For the next however many hours, I’m sucked into the work vortex. The words flow, and I’m jazzed about the character’s new love interest. Before long, it’s dark outside, so I turn on the small wooden pendant light above my table and get back to work. It’s just before midnight when I finally come back to reality and check my phone.

  His reply was sent twenty minutes ago.

  Hmmm… someone must be a fellow night owl.

  Helper: I am happy to travel. Before we set a time, I have a few things I need to go over with my clients to understand them more.

  I think I can handle that.

  Me: Sure.

  I close my computer and plug it in for tomorrow before I wash my plate in the sink and set it on the rack to dry. Guess I skipped dinner once again. It’s a common occurrence. It’s also why I’m so thin. Athletic and built, some would say, because my muscles are defined. That has more to do with genetics than it does anything else. I guess one could say I’m blessed in that department. Though, I wouldn’t consider myself that because I couldn’t care less how I look. Beyond general hygiene and maintenance, my actual appearance is of no consequence. When you live alone and socialize with almost nobody, you’d perhaps feel the same.

  Helper: Hey! I didn’t expect a reply so quickly. Here’s what I need.

  Do you identify as straight, gay, bi, or other?

  Are you single or in a current relationship?

  Do you have a preferred penetration position?

  How do you feel about physical touch and sex aftercare?

  Do you like dirty talk? Praise talk? Degrading/humiliation?

  Any specific kinks/requests I should be aware of?

  Disclaimers: I don’t offer mouth kissing, oral sex, or my penis in any way. I will remain clothed throughout the entire session. If you don’t prefer toys, my fingers are available to be used. I am happy to provide intimate touching and aftercare to your liking. My sessions are one to two hours. The first is always two hours for individual comfort reasons.

  Wow.

  I swallow hard, reading through the questions, not once, twice, but three times.

  That’s quite the list.

  Taking my phone to bed with me, I flick my nightstand lamp on, peel back my white duvet, fluff my pillows, and slip into my king-sized bed, naked. The view from the wall-to-wall picture window just feet from the foot of my bed is breathtaking tonight—orange-tinted moon and a sky full of stars. This view is exactly why I built my home high up on a mountainside, surrounded by woods, with a single, steep, rock-covered road to lead anyone in and out. I travel all the way to the bottom just to pick up my mail. But it’s worth it. This is the home I pictured as a child. My dream come to fruition. I had it built a little over a decade ago. Before that, I lived in a little vintage RV on this exact land. I saved for a long time to be able to afford my home debt-free. I had to publish a lot of books to get this view… and what a view it is. In the mornings, I sip coffee on the wraparound porch outside my bedroom. It doesn’t get much better than that.

  Snuggling down, I decide now is as good of a time as ever to reply to The Helper. Truth be told, I’m excited to speak to him. To open this channel to my innermost desires.

  Me: I’m up late most nights, so please feel free to reach out whenever is convenient for you.

  I’m straight.

  I’m single.

  Any penetration is good penetration. I haven’t had a lot of experience with various positions, but I am open to experimentation.

  It is undetermined how I feel about touching or aftercare, as I have no experience to draw from.

  See the two previous comments. I’m open to experimentation. No experience to draw from to know what I may or may not like.

  Apart from anal sex, I have no kinks that I’m aware of.

  Your disclaimers are appreciated and agreed to. I am seeking a sexual outlet and nothing further. Thank you for your consideration.

  There. I’ve disclosed more to him than I have most. Sure, I might not be a virgin in the technical sense, but I have little experience with sex, apart from what I do with myself. I’ve had intercourse with three women. The first, a girl from high school, two nights after graduation, in the back of her parents’ van. The second, a woman I dated for a few months in my mid-twenties. We had sex early on and quite a few times. She was disgusted with my need for prostate pleasure in order to come. The third and final was just after I turned twenty-nine. She was the longest relationship I’ve had, a whopping six months. Much like the second, she felt my inability to come from traditional penis-in-vagina penetration upsetting. Unfortunately, my dick doesn’t function that way. I don’t masturbate now. Nor did I then. Not in the conventional sense, anyhow. My dick doesn’t work like normal men. It doesn’t come from stimulation. I could jack it for hours, and he would remain hard, but he won’t ejaculate. If I could explain why I’m this way, I would. But I can’t. I’ve been this way for as far back as I can remember.

  I know, I know, you’re probably rolling your eyes, thinking how ridiculous I sound. That I just haven’t met the right woman. That there’s someone out there for everyone. I’m forty. I’ve been on dates. I’ve spoken to women. Plenty of women. Gorgeous, sweet, caring, amazing women. I’ve even joined fetish sites. Unfortunately, nothing has worked out.

  My last foray into the dating scene was two years ago. I got my hopes up again. Joined dating apps like the rest of the world does to find a partner. I went on three dates with three different women, all vastly different. None of which I jived with. There was no chemistry or spark. Pleasant encounters, sure, but nothing more. It was no different than speaking to my editor. Well, maybe a little. My editor knows me. Perhaps more than anyone else. We’ve been a pair for a little over a decade now. She’s the only person, if we weren’t work associates, I could ever call my friend. Plus, her dating diatribes are enough to push even the most positive person into depression. The woman is a magnet for unavailable losers.

  Plugging my phone in on the nightstand, I swap it for my latest book. For the next hour, I swim within its pages, fall in love with the worst of characters, and fight a dragon. When my eyelids finally begin to descend, I rest the hardback on the open side of my bed, where nobody sleeps, and succumb to my own dreams. As always, they’re teeming with sex and intrigue. Hope and love. Of want and desire… and for a fleeting moment, I feel less alone.

 

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