I could tell what they thought when they saw us out and about together: the old wreck and his toy boy. I could see it in their eyes, that they felt sorry for...and perhaps a little disdainful of...him. That's why I haven't gone out with him in public for months now. But now it is even worse. He goes out alone, and each and every time, I agonize all the time he is gone that this is the day he wouldn't return. And life wouldn't be worth living then. No, I must admit it. Life won't be worth living then, because there's no doubt in my mind that Rob is leaving me. And soon. There is such a tension between us now. I always knew that he would leave me; that he was using me. No, that's not fair. I've always known, rather, that he knew I was using him and that he would stand for it for only so long.

I was younger...and much more virile...always ready to go, when I first found him. I was out running the river trail that first day and there he was, under one of the bridges, nearly out of sight between a concrete pillar and the bank of the river, dirty and hungry and half drunk from the cheap wine he had in that paper sack. I had assumed he was a child and only approached him because of that...because a child should not be living in such conditions. But he declared he was nearly nineteen. Still, he looked so desperate that I offered to buy him a meal. We mounted the stairs running down to the river trail and walked the short distance to a hamburger joint, where I bought him enough cheeseburgers to choke a horse and sat there at a patio table and watched him wolf them down. I don't know when it hit me that I wanted him; I'm sure that hadn't been in my mind until sometime while we were chatting and he was chewing. His open smile and his easy banter melted me.

I offered him a shower and some better clothes, and I'm sure from the look he gave me he knew what I was interested in getting for those. He agreed readily enough, and I took him home, and he showered and sat at my kitchen table, where we both drank my far-better-quality wine until we could both excuse whatever we did next as influenced by the drink, if we needed an excuse. And then I fucked him on the top of the kitchen table. He showed no reluctance, knowing better than I did, I'm sure that there was a price for what I was doing to improve his living conditions. But even though he'd obviously done this before, probably in the same circumstances, he still moaned and cried for me like no one had stretched him or reached the depths of him like I was doing. Even while I was doing it, I knew that he'd never really be mine, that he was doing just what he had to do to survive, that he'd always hate me for what I was taking from him.

I gave him the shred of dignity when asking him to stay that he could use the pool house rather than staying with me in the main house. And we initially played a game of the unspoken deal. By day, I'd kept my hands off him and taken him around to the shops and the open air cafes just as if he was some visiting nephew I'd agreed to benefactor. Late into the evening, he'd retire to the pool house. After his lights went out, I'd sit for an hour by the pool, sipping wine, and struggling with my desires and intentions. And then I'd creep to the door of the pool house through the shadows and stand there, watching him sleep, naked, on the bed in the moonlight. After I no longer could take the tension, I'd silently come to him in the bed and muffle his mouth with one of my hands and take him deeply and rapidly as if I were an intruder. He'd writhe and moan under me as I fucked him relentlessly until near dawn, and then I'd leave him. When he appeared for breakfast on the terrace in the morning, we'd pretend nothing had happened. But I knew he was doing it just for the shelter and food I was providing. And hating me all the while.

Such was his desperation that on the third night when he started out to the pool house, I simply told him that we'd be sleeping in my bed that night, and he docilely followed me up the stairs and I had my way with him in my bed in every position that pleased me. After that, there was no pretending. I wanted him more intensely than ever and I wanted him more often with each passing day. So I fucked him whenever and wherever the mood struck me. He never complained. He took all of my fine clothes and food and nightclubbing...and he took my dick pounding his ass relentlessly. But I knew. I knew he was just enduring what he had to and that he'd leave me just as soon as he could.

It wasn't long before I began to see the sordidness of it all and my own desperation in trying to keep him with me. I saw it in the eyes of people on the street. I could see it in their knowing looks. And worse, I could see how the other men ogled Rob. I'd groomed him to perfection, and I could see that others wanted him too now that I had made him visible again. And many of them were young, Rob's age or slightly older. It was obvious where he would go if he could. If I didn't hold him in thrall with my money and manipulation.

The tension got to me so badly that I had a minor heart episode. I was old enough to expect that even though I'd kept myself in tip top condition, at least until the episode and until the eyes on the street forced me to retreat to the house, from whence I only rarely emerged hereafter.

But after the second episode, Rob started going out without me in the evening. And I couldn't prevent him from doing so. And I know he is going out there and getting laid...getting fucked by men much younger and more desirable than I am. Finding a new benefactor.

My hold on him is loosening. I know he's going to leave me. He barely tolerates me; he rarely talks to me now, and there's such a tension in the air between us. I have fucked any relationship we every might have had by fucking him as I have. He's just not going to come back one of these evenings. And when he doesn't, I know what I'll have to do. I love him so; I can't live without him.


I am so scared that I don't know what to do. I'm terrified that Kenneth is going to die or, worse, is going to toss me back out on the street. It seems inevitable, and I have no idea where to go or what to do, when, because it's surely coming, I can read it in everything he does...that happens. It's like walking on glass. But I don't care about the 'tossing out on the street' part. I couldn't bear for him to send me away.

I've loved him from the moment he approached me there under the bridge, when everyone else was just looking right through me, and offered to feed me and clean me up and to give me the nurturing I so craved. And I was in heat for him from that first conversation while he fed me cheeseburgers. He was a man of the world; he was so refined and had a terrific sense of humor and was drop-dead gorgeous. All I could think of was 'take me home and fuck me.' And somehow my vibes must have been conveyed with super strength, because that's exactly what he did. And, gawd, was he a mighty cocksman. He had a girth and length and endurance that I'd never experienced before. And I just opened my legs for him when he laid me on the kitchen table, and I yodeled to the fancy plaster ceiling my delight at his master fucking. I'm sure he had to have sensed I was his totally if he wanted me, whether or not there were food and shelter in the arrangement.

At first, though, I had the greatest fear that I displeased him, that he wouldn't keep me with him now that I'd found the man of my fantasies. He sent me off to the pool house. and I thought that I had given him such a dissatisfactory fuck on the kitchen table that this was the end of it; that I'd be gone the next morning. But he came to me that night, and I cried through his love making, willing him to keep me, to hold his throbbing cock deep inside me. The next morning he pretended nothing had happened between us, however, and once more I was thrown into confusion and frustration...and fear. This went on for the first three days until that glorious night that he took me to his bed and screwed me silly. Thereafter I did whatever I could to entice him to make love to me during the day as well, wherever and whenever it seemed I could convince him to be in the mood. It was all because of my insecurity. I was so sure he was going to send me away from him, and I couldn', I can't...endure the thought of that.

I love him with every fiber of my being. I loved going out into public with him. I loved the looks of envy I got from other guys on street and at the cafes for what Kenneth and I had together...that I had Kenneth and they didn't. At least yet. At least not if I could prevent it. But I sensed he was getting bored. We went out increasingly seldom and he was so keyed up when we did. He was keyed up at home for that matter too, and I despaired of pleasing him. I couldn't find convincing ways of telling him the depth of my love and appreciation for him.

I was scared shitless when he had that first heart attack. My whole world fell apart. After that, he refused to go out with me and I refused to go out without him, and we both just stayed cooped up in that big mansion of his. The sex tapered off, and I pretended that I didn't care. I wanted his dick inside me, but I was as afraid as he seemed to be, even if he wouldn't admit it, that fucking would kill him.

After the second heart attack, I decided that part of the tension gripping him was being closed up with me all of the time, and I finally responded to his entreaties that I go out evenings by myself. I now go out a couple of evenings a week, but I drive the Merc just around the corner, and I sit there, panicked, for hours, being sure that this will be the evening that I return to find him dead on the floor. And when that it inevitably will happen...I know what I'll have to do. I love him so; I can't live without him.



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