I straddle his face, one hand working his nipples, the other pressed against the wall above the bed for balance. I’m always cautious with face-fucking until I get a sense of how active someone’s gag reflex is, both because I’m trying to avoid getting puked on and also so I don’t have to deal with someone choking on their own vomit. But his hunger for cock seems limitless so I keep pounding his face, my balls slapping against his chin.

He hadn’t mentioned anything in advance about rimming, but as he releases my dick from his mouth, he grabs my hips and pulls me forward to bury his tongue in my hole. I grab the poppers from the table and hold them under his nose, urging him to take first two, then three, and eventually four hits. He pulls my ass back over his face again and goes back to work. I’m struggling to keep my balance but his arms are super strong and I eventually just lean back and let him take my whole weight as he keeps to rim me.

The position we’re in means I’ve been facing his upper body this entire time. Catching a glimpse of us in the mirror, I have a tiny moment of shock, having almost completely forgotten his disability. Observing his heavily muscled arms holding me up, in relation to his atrophied legs, I find myself falling back into my Florence Nightingale persona, giving myself an invisible pat on the back for feeling like I’m offering a life-changing experience.

We’ve still got a lot of time left, but his tongue in my ass is getting me close to shooting.

“You want my cum?” I ask.

He grunts a yes and I shift my hips back to reveal his face, jerking myself until I shoot into his mouth with a moan. After using the tip of my dick to slide the few stray drops of cum on his cheeks past his lips, I roll off him, stretching out on the bed. The moment between when you cum and when a client cums can be a little awkward — you’re trying to seem like you’re still into it as your dick is getting visibly soft. But he’s made it clear that’s not part of the deal so I just cuddle up next to him, my fingers running through his chest hair.

Trying to prompt a little pillow talk, I casually ask about his plans for the next day. Normally he works from home, but tomorrow he’s heading to the office, because his cleaner is coming and he’d rather be out of the house. In the evening, he’s got a lot of internet research to do. He’s planning a trip to South Africa over the winter and needs to figure out his accommodations.

As we continue to chat, I’m surprised to realise he’s somewhat of a globetrotter. His current job comes with a fairly substantial vacation package and he normally aims to be out of town as much as possible when he’s off. Last year he did a five-city tour of South America. The year before he spent three weeks in Thailand.

As was talk more, I start to get a clearer picture of his life, one that’s radically different from what I’d imagined. Of course his disability presents certain challenges. But that doesn’t mean he’s stopped living. Along with his travel schedule, he’s got a super active social life. He and his gay posse still hit the bars occasionally. Last fall they went to Antwerp to see Madonna.

Hearing more about the life he’s leading, my Florence Nightingale self-image finally shatters. It dons on me that I’m not special. I’m the guy who remodelled his kitchen. I’m the kid who shovels the sidewalk in front of his house. I’m the woman who cleans his bathroom. Sure, what I give him is a little different than what the other folks he hires can provide. But I don’t occupy some special position in his life. In the greater scheme of things, I’m just another service provider offering him something he wants.

Noticing the clock has ticked past our appointed hour, I excuse myself to the washroom to freshen up. When I come back, he’s returned to the kitchen, fully dressed and has poured himself another glass of wine. There’s a stack of bills on the table and I lean in to give him a final kiss as I sweep them up. He gazes at me as I walk down the hall and I offer him a final wink before I step out the door.

Biking home, I’m left struggling with the biases I’ve just had to confront. I know that limit doesn’t mean lack. Yet I’m still struck by both the richness of his life and the relative smallness of the role I might play in it, despite my hugely inflated sense of self-importance. While it’s a valuable service, serving a disabled client doesn’t mean being a savoir. It’s not about changing lives. It’s just about giving someone something they need. But despite the fact you can’t claim to be saving the world, it’s still a job you can feel good about doing.

 

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