Le Semeur : Part 1

If you did not know where Le Semeur was, it is unlikely that you would ever find it. It was in San Francisco, up a few winding alleyways, as everything in that city is. The building itself looked like a small storefront chapel. It was all unmarked, except for a plaque on the outside that read:

“‘In the morning, sow thy seed, and in the evening, withhold not thine hand…’ – Ecclesiastes 11:6.”

You would enter through this door, at which you would find a receptionist in formalwear. The receptionist would ask for a password. (Hint: “banana.”) You would be admitted if you knew the word, or if the receptionist recognized you – I don’t have to say that we had a rather regular clientele – and once you gave the cover charge. The cover charge ranged from $100 to $500, depending on which ones of our boys were inside. The high price kept the looky-loos out on the street and kept the place classy. Then the receptionist would ask you, “Swallow or swaddle?” If you said “swallow,” you would get a white silk handkerchief. If you said “swaddle,” you would get a red one.

You would go through the door that had an ornate wooden sign on it that had “Le Semeur” engraved on it (French for “The Sower of Seeds”). This door led to a smaller antechamber, which served as a coat room and was just as dimly lit as the reception room. From here, the guests would enter the main room.

Here in the main room, you could see that our building was far deeper than it was wide. It was very posh, very plush inside, with Victorian armchairs circling twelve round tables that were spaced all around the room. Butlers and maids circled the chairs, each with a tray – some to offer champagne and hors d’oeuvres to the guests, others to take up used glasses.

On each of the twelve tables, there was a wooden chair with very comfortable cushions on the seat and back. Each of the chairs had a young man in it – always older than eighteen, never older than twenty-five – in the top physical shape of his life, stripped completely naked. A pair of hooks hanging above the chair had a wooden plaque (Le Semeur was big on wood) that had his name on it. They all took the names of powerful gods: we had a Dionysus, an Ares, a Thor. The arms of the chairs had special holsters on them: one held a small, corked crystal vial of the young man’s choice of lubricant or lotion; the other, a snifter also made of crystal.

One of the chairs is vacant. A young man of about twenty or twenty-one comes into the room through a long, swishy red curtain that comes from a room marked: “Les Semeurs – Studs Only.” He has his blond hair in that shaggy surfer look, with an A-shirt to match and skinny jeans. The A-shirt exposes his massive arms, fifteen inches around, his bulging shoulders to match, and his all-over tan. He strides to the vacant chair, exuding self-confidence, with his nameplate under his arm. Climbing onto his table, he hooks the sign onto its position above the chair.

This one is Poseidon.

Poseidon is one of the well known ones. His real name is Justin, but the Semeur clientele doesn’t need to know that. Poseidon is just like a stage name. Poseidon is so well known that he gets applause as he enters.

He puts a tiny vial of his preferred lube (Wet brand) in the left holster, and he sees that the right holster that should be holding the snifter empty. He snaps at one of the butlers, who instantly gives him a clean snifter from the tray of other glasses. A few months ago, Poseidon’s glass-holster actually was empty on accident, but now the event is recreated every time he steps onto the table, just so that his voyeurs can see him order another man around. Poseidon is every inch the alpha male.

He strips off his shirt and his viewers gasp. His muscles sit firmly on his body like a suit of armor. He grabs a hand of one of his viewers and runs it along his perfect pectorals and abs that would shame a Greek god. It is here that the first turgid cocks of some of the viewers come out and get wrapped in condoms. The rule at Le Semeur is that any woman can masturbate without restriction while watching one of the Studs, but men can only masturbate if they wrap up in a condom first. It cuts down on the mess to clean up.

His pecs swell as he breathes in and out, preparing to start the feature presentation. He unbuttons the fly of his jeans and takes down the boxers, stepping out of the clothing that previously imprisoned his lower body. As the boxers go down, the monster flops out. Wispy, trimmed blond pubes crown the flaccid penis that hangs halfway down his thigh, and the heavy, ready testicles that are about the size of a walnut each.

He then proceeds to say the only (intentional) words that he will say all evening: “Handkerchiefs?” in his warm baritone. The handkerchiefs of everyone around the table go up, but a brunette, thirty-year-old woman's red handkerchief goes up a nanosecond before everyone else's. Poseidon takes this handkerchief, sniffs it, and smiles at the woman. Like an animal in the jungle, Poseidon beats his fists on his chest to psych himself up before sitting down, uncorking the vial, and pouring some of the lube into the palm of his hand.

His eyes focus on the endless loop of porn that plays on the flatscreen above him, positioned so that only the Stud can see. He jerks on the monster between his legs until it inflates to its full nine and a half inches. He exhales heavily, closing his eyes and biting on his lower lip before looking at the porn again.

This goes on for a couple of minutes, then the fist-fucking begins in earnest. Poseidon knows how to put on a show. He struts around the table like a runway model, making sure everyone can get their money's worth in a good look. He stands with one leg up on the chair so that the testicles can swing free below, like a fuzzy pendulum. He flexes the massive bicep on his free arm, licking the peak – and one of the men watching him cums. He sits and massages his testicles. The lube-covered head of his gargantuan penis gleams like a weapon ready to do battle. With the tips of his fingers, he grazes the veins that lie in thick knots on his cock – and one of the women around the table starts to gasp in orgasm.

Bracing his penis from the base with his left hand as he jerks with his right hand, he starts to whisper to himself: “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...shit, that's good...” One of the men around the table, an eighteen-year-old youth on the more voyeuristic side whose ID needs double-checking, grips his own condom-clad penis as he says under his breath, “Yeah, yeah, dude...knock her up...” The woman from whom Poseidon took the handkerchief gets tapped on the shoulder by one of the maids, who tells her, “You are the luckiest woman in the world,” motioning to Poseidon, red-faced with lust as he bucks his hips, pushing and pulling his huge erection in and out of his double fists.

The game is about to end. Poseidon's scrotum gets so taut that if it got any tighter, his balls would burst out. He must feel the hot spunk building in his crotch, because he grabs the glass in the right holster and positions the head of his penis at its mouth. Poseidon's hard, short, manly strokes on his dick continue for a half a minute, then warm, white, sperm-laden semen shoots out of the head of his penis like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. Seven more splashes of cum fill the glass with the young man's fresh semen. After squeezing and milking the still-hard cock to make sure that every last drop of seed has been emptied into the glass, Poseidon hands the glass to the lucky woman whose handkerchief he took.

The woman takes the glass, then reaches up, kisses him, and runs her hand along his tight chest (a breach of protocol at Le Semeur that can be overlooked easily). One of the maids hands the woman a blunt syringe from a silver tray and escorts her into a small adjoining room. At Le Semeur, if a white handkerchief is taken, that means that the snifter of fresh-squeezed sperm can be swallowed by its recipient as part-fashionable gourmet treat, part-communion with the object of one's voyeurism. If a red handkerchief is taken (always from a woman), it means that the spunk is intended to be used for insemination – an arrangement that makes Le Semeur something of a sperm bank that puts an accent on the erotic part of baby-making.

The creation of a new life is what Poseidon's sperm were destined for tonight. He always gives a better performance when he's trying to get a woman pregnant; he enjoys it more. Completely spent, Poseidon slumps in the chair, his monster slowly shrinking. His viewers clap for him. He blows them a few kisses. After a moment, he gathers up his clothes. He stops and looks after the small room where the brunette went with his seed. She comes back in the room. Poseidon leaps off the table, kisses her, and says, “Tell me if it takes.” He pats her on the belly and leaves, bare-assed, through the red curtain with a touch of arrogance.