Tool Of The NileTool Of The Nile


A dozen gym patrons watched admiringly as Andrew Gadbois squeezed out eight repetitions and racked the Olympic bar.

Big Al, the gym’s owner, shook his head in disbelief. “That’s three hundred-seventy-five pounds,” he said.

“What’s his body weight?” asked Al’s lifting buddy.

“One-eighty, maybe.”

Andrew enjoyed having the world by the balls. At age twenty-two, he wasn’t yet in his prime. He returned the plates to the weight rack, grabbed his gym bag, and headed for the exit.

“Nice lift,” called out a woman.

Andrew turned and smiled. “Thanks, Peg.”

Peg turned to her sister-in-law. “Did you see that body?” she whispered.

“Ah, yeah. I thought it was freaking Steve McQueen when he turned around.”

Andrew tossed his bag into the back seat of his Challenger SRT Hellcat, started the engine, then cranked the sound system as he pulled onto the Diagonal Highway. “Back in black, I hit the sack….”

He tapped the accelerator, and the car launched.

He’d gotten his first muscle car at age sixteen, a gift from his father, Andrew Sr., who was heir to a pharmaceutical fortune. A new vehicle followed every year. Made in America was the only catch. That suited Andrew just fine. After all, he was a patriot with an eye on becoming a Navy Seal. It would take grit, determination, endurance, and bravery, but he had those things and more. Yeah, though, Andrew, stepping on the accelerator, Hell week, underwater demolition training—bring it on.

The guardrails blurred as the Hellcat hit 110 mph, rushing by like picket fences. Maybe he’d become a navy fighter pilot instead of a Seal, a modern-day version of the Red Baron, who was one scary sonofabitch. He’d need to think about it.

He glanced at his watch, istanbul travesti 7:00 p.m. on the button. In another hour, he’d meet Monique. She’d lean on the check-in counter inside the Hyatt, waiting for him: Andrew Gadbois, aka, Tool of the Nile. She’d be wearing the outfit he’d requested, the one she’d worn on the cover of Vogue: a black fascinator, red lipstick, white cashmere waistcoat, Issy Miyake chiffon twist front top, Simone Parele minimizer bra, blue Valentino slacks, Manolo Blahniks.

When she saw him striding into the lobby, she’d bite her bottom lip in anticipation. Would he be gentle? That depended. Each woman had a unique setup. Monique’s clit worked with the front of her exquisite opening. She wanted him dipping the tool, teasing out her pleasure, just the head, and a couple more inches. Other women wanted as much as they could take. It was all good. Either way, he’d end up with an ass full of nail digs.

Fucking NFL wives were the worst. And they’d put him on the shitlist with half a dozen quarterbacks. But that was water under the bridge. Was it his fault when husbands couldn’t please their wives?


Speaking of wives, He’d been hanging around in his parent’s estate just a month before when he heard Trixie Philips’ Mclaren 720S pulling into the roundabout. Andrew watched from a kitchen window as Trixie killed the engine and slipped out of the driver’s seat. Calling her athletic was an understatement. Her tennis serve was a rocket…and so was her return. She’d worked the pro circuit and met her husband at the U.S. Open. The rest was history, as the saying goes. Trixie and her husband had moved to the neighborhood seven years ago. Trixie was of Nordic descent: flaxen blonde hair with feathered bangs, blue eyes, travesti istanbul perfect teeth, small, perfectly proportioned, and tight. Her ass was a song. She wore a jumpsuit with shoulder straps. The doorbell rang a moment later. Andrew pulled the door open and smiled politely.

“Hello, Mrs. Philips. What brings you out so early in the day?”

“I promised your mom I’d ride Night Train while she and your dad are in Guatemala. Well… aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Oh, sure, sorry, Mrs….”

“Trixie, call me Trixie. I don’t bite, you know,”

Andrew nodded his head and laughed, “Ms. Trixie.”

“Oh, stop that, Andrew.” She slapped him playfully on the chest. “Wow, somebody’s been hitting the gym.

“Ok, then, would you like something to drink?”

“I wouldn’t turn down a Red Bull,”

Andrew grabbed the drinks out of the refrigerator, and when he turned around, Trixie’s eyes dropped to his crotch. Whoops. He’d been knocking around the place in a pair of cut-off sweats and a tee. There was one other thing, Trixie’s pheromones had put him at half-mast. Even with his sweat pants cut just above his knees, it’d only take a couple more twitches, and it’d be “Hammer time,” his big ole’ tool hanging out his shorts, special delivery, for Trixie’s eyes only. Not that it mattered, but she could already see it through the threadbare sweats, especially the big flare of his cock head and veins.

“Wow,” Trixie said, giggling and covering her mouth to control her reaction. But it was too late. She burst out laughing. “Sorry,” she said, doubled over in laughter and holding out a hand. “Sorry,” she repeated, “But that thing is huge. Oh my god!”

But suddenly, Trixie’s expression changed. She looked Andrew in the eyes.

“Are istanbul travestileri the staff working today, Andrew?”

“It’s just Walt in the stables. Everyone else has Saturdays off.”

Trixie cupped an elbow at her waist and chewed a fingernail. Her eyes darted around the room.

“Can I see it?”

At that exact moment, Andrew’s tool, with its swollen head, dropped below the hem of his shorts.

“It’s ok,” Andrew said.

“Yeah?” Said Trixie with a huge smile.

She pulled a chair in front of Andrew, leaned over, and started rubbing her face on Andrew’s exposed cock head. “Oh, God, it’s warm, oh, yeah,” she repeated, smooching and licking the head. She grabbed his sweats and yanked them down. “What the fuck!” she exclaimed, startled and leaning back in her seat. “I don’t know if I can handle that, honey.”

“You’d be surprised what a woman is capable of,” Andrew said.

Trixie pulled the zipper on her jumpsuit and stepped out. She had a fine hairy bush. She even had that soft strip of pube fuzz that runs up to some women’s navels, but Andrew already knew Trixie’s cunt was beautiful; he’d spied on her when she’d stripped in the poolhouse during one of his parent’s lobster parties. He’d also stolen her panties. Hell, she’d been too looped to notice, and he’d jerked off for a year with the panties in his face, getting the right angle, so a couple of her embedded pubes tickled the inside of his nostrils. But then her scent faded, and it wasn’t the same. It was all good; he’d ask her for her panties when this was over. Mmm–suck that cock, Trixie!

Trixie grabbed a piece of the table and bent over. “Take it easy. Ah! Easy! I don’t know. I.. don’t…Oh, yeah, oh fuck. Mmmm, oh…ahhhh.


Andrew glanced at his watch again. It was 7:10 p.m., and his break was over. He’d nodded out. He rubbed his weary eyes and slouched forward off the breakroom couch. He was too old for this shit and too old for his spot on the widget assembly line.

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