Hotel-Side Assistance

This undoubtedly was the best suite in the Denver Westminster Marriott Hotel, a sixth-floor corner suite facing the Rocky Mountains Range, with floor-to-ceiling glass wrapping around from the front to the side wall. The effect made me feel as if the bed was hovering over the northern cityscape of Denver, Colorado, with the Rocky Mountains looming in the background. And I was here for free for the week, or that was the way Clark had explained it to me. No money was going from me to the hotel, certainly, but no money was coming back to me for what it turned out I had to do to have this room.

I lay on my belly, naked on top of a tangle of sheets, my face looking out toward the Rockies. I dare not roll over because Danberry had wanted to take me in a doggie. The man was a regular bunny. He’d begun doing that before he decided he had to go to the can, which was after I’d given him a blow job and he’d pawed me to get me hard and to keep himself that way. Frank Danberry was a senior investor in the franchise for this hotel and could book this suite at will. He’d come to Las Vegas occasionally where I worked and caught the dance revue I was in there and connected with Clark. So, when I was sent here, to Denver, for a week to do shows at the Boyztown nightclub, Clark and Danberry got together on a deal. I was both the beneficiary and prize.

The trip here was, I was sure, a campaign by Clark to keep me from leaving his Chippendales-style revue in Las Vegas—an early show mainly for the girls and a later show for the men. I got a trip out of town to a fresh venue, a week in this nifty hotel room, time on my own to explore the Denver area when I wasn’t on stage or at after-show parties, and I had a nifty paid rental car, a BMW convertible, downstairs in the hotel parking lot, for my own use.

Clark was afraid I was going to leave him. It wasn’t the show, my place in the song and dance line in a revue, that was important to me. It was Clark. Or it had been Clark. I don’t know how or why he had become worried about that. I hadn’t even started to wonder that our relationship might be unraveling. Now I had to consider it. If Clark’s attempt was to try to keep me in Las Vegas, I’m not sure that sending me off to Denver for a week best served that goal. I was mulling everything even now as I was stretched on my belly, waiting for Frank Danberry to return to the bed from the can and to mount me and fuck me. No big deal there. I’d been fucked by a whole lot of men.

Going with men for pay didn’t cause problems in my relationship with Clark. He didn’t mind if I was a prostitute as well as a dancer as long as he got it for free.

Danberry had attended the show at Boyztown that night and had drunk a good bit. I’d had to do the driving. Clark had told me what two nights this week to keep open for Danberry. He had a big-ass Lincoln Continental, which was almost too much car for me to handle, especially since Danberry was plastered to my side, pawing at me. He was still three sheets to wind when we got to the hotel suite, weaving back from the john almost as badly as he’d gone there, having already pumped my ass for several minutes without an ejaculation from either of us to show for it.

And then he was here, standing by the bed, smoothing another condom on his dick. He was hard—just average. And just an average top, as well. But it was a very nice hotel room, it was normal for me to give it up for a stranger almost daily, and I had the room for a week—in exchange for just two visits to the room by the hotelier, who was pushing fifty and wasn’t in the greatest shape. But he wasn’t any less presentable than some of the high-rollers I sometimes ended up with after a show in Las Vegas, most of them by arrangement with Clark.

“Give me your ass again,” Danberry rather roughly said, and I pushed up a bit on my knees. “You’re such a honey,” he added, which took the edge off the prostitution feeling I had. He slapped me on the buttocks, though, that put me back in my rent-boy place.

He knelt between my thighs and I gave him a deep groan as he put his cock in position, his bulb just inside my rim, slapped me on the ass again, and grabbed my hips. Then I moaned and shuddered, as I knew he’d like—as all men seemed to like in knowing I was submitting to him—as he buried his cock inside me and immediately started to pump. He wasn’t appreciably big, but he hadn’t spent much time preparing me, and even an average-sized cock is a large, alien object when taken without sufficient preparation. I had a lot of experience opening fast for a guy though.

I panted and he groaned, “So nice; so tight,” he muttered, giving me another hard slap on the rump. “Give it to me; let me in. Take it, take it, take it. Yeah, baby,” Danberry muttered through groans as he fucked me and slapped my ass; fucked me and slapped my ass.

“Yes, yes. Like that. Do me. Do me hard; do me deep. Oh, shit, yes. You’re a stud,” I answered as he pumped me. He moved a hand around my waist, grabbed my cock, and milked me as we fucked. It was nice for a guy to give me the attention. They usually made me get myself off.

We moved into a standard fuck, nothing special. But we both got off, so it was satisfying enough. Immediately after coming and ripping the condom off, he’d rolled over on his back next to me and was snoring. I went off to the very nice, commodious bathroom and took my time showering. When I returned I stretched out in the comfortable lounge chair, with ottoman, right next to the window showing the blue ridgeline of the Rockies front range against the near-black of the sky some fifteen miles to the west and dozed off, knowing I’d be awake and back in the bed for Danberry to paw me again in the morning and for me to give him a blow job before he showered, dressed, and left. There was no agreement that he’d fuck me again in the morning, but if he wanted to, I’d let him. I didn’t want to make waves and it wasn’t like I didn’t get fucked several times a week by a john. Before, he’d tucked away a hundred by the ice bucket on the credenza when he left. I knew it wasn’t for the room maid. He didn’t have to do that. I assumed he do that again in the morning. Every little bit was welcome.

Danberry had announced that he couldn’t stay the night, but of course he did. It wasn’t just the attraction of me. He had a lot of alcohol in his system to burn off. I had no idea what he’d tell his wife about staying out all night, but that was his problem, not mine. I presume he had her convinced that there were problems that came up at the hotel at night that he had to monitor.

I had plans to be a sightseer the next day—either the botanical gardens or a tour of the Coors beer plant in Golden, depending how I felt when I was ready to leave. I wanted to just play tourist tomorrow and forget that I was a dancer, stripper, and singer in a gay male revue—and, when necessary, a prostitute for some high-roller who had seen the show and couldn’t resist me for the price.

* * * *

The hotelier didn’t stay around for extended privileges the next morning. He woke with a snort near dawn and rolled off the bed with a “Shit, what time is it?” comment. I had barely gotten back in the bed to make him believe I’d been there all night, cuddling with him and cooing for the “privilege” of having his cock inside me again. It didn’t seem to matter. I might as well not even have been there the morning after. His focus was entirely elsewhere. I was just a stick of furniture.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like having a man’s cock inside me. I wouldn’t have opted to be a male stripper in gay revues if I didn’t like having men ogle me and do more with me. But I increasingly chaffed at having those decisions made for me—just being a piece of meat to be bartered for other men’s privilege and then tossed in the trashcan along with his condom. I probably still would have tried to do something with the singing, but I’ll have to admit that I made more and garnered more followers by combining it and dancing, mostly naked, with the stripping. It wasn’t anything I was doing, other than watching my diet, exercising, get my hair curled at the hairdressers that made men want my body. But there was no reason why I couldn’t take advantage of being desirable to men who went with men—as long as I retained my looks.

But then Danberry noticed me and went into indecision on whether to get on the road or back on the bed. He stood beside the bed, half hard and sucking in his gut from embarrassment of not paying enough attention to what probably once was a very decent body, looking from me to the bathroom door to the rising sun’s reflection off the Rockies, indecisive. Eventually, self-preservation won, and he stumbled off to the showers. He was dressed and gone in twenty minutes, muttering his options on building an alibi about being out all night before his wife could start checking around on her own. He didn’t do more than turn at the door and say, “That was hot. Again Tuesday night,” and he was gone. I guess since we were scheduled for another go at it, he didn’t see the need to say good-bye. It was nice he’d complimented what had been more lukewarm than hot, though. If nothing else, it meant I didn’t have to put anything special out on Tuesday night—just lay there and let him bounce on my body.

He’d left the now-expected tip of a hundred by the ice bucket, so all had gone well in his estimation.

After the hotelier left, I turned the upholstered chair and ottoman toward the window and the reflection of the rising sun off the Rockies toward the floor-to-ceiling sheet of glass, sank into the chair, and watched the day approach and the streets below wake up to a new day. I spent the time contemplating what I wanted. Danberry hadn’t satisfied me. I like to fuck, but I like to be satisfied, not just get the other guy off and all aglow over having fucked a stripper who had his own Las Vegas revue act. I wanted choice and some control. It’s not that I didn’t want to be dominated, but that it was my choice that I would be and my choice who would do it. I didn’t just want to be part of Clark’s favor exchange system.

My thoughts turned to what I wanted to do today until ten that night when I had to be back at the Boyztown nightclub for my three-hour stint before going off with some man who had paid for me for the night. I already knew that the nightclub had sold me for the night. I didn’t go cheaply, so I knew I’d be in the lap of luxury while some old man fondled and fucked me.

I wanted to do something really different today—something that was touristy and didn’t relate to my work. Either the Coors brewery tour or the botanical gardens, I thought. And, as I began to doze, I was thinking that maybe I’d meet some guy on the tour, some guy with a big dick and muscles, some guy I picked out myself. A young guy for a change, with drive and stamina, one who didn’t have to sneak off and pop a pill to keep it up. And maybe I could get a fuck that satisfied me later in the afternoon before having to get ready to go to the nightclub. That thought took me into sleep, which was something I did best alone without worrying about what some other guy in the bed might want or do.

* * * *

I woke up to a beautiful summer day. Not a cloud in the sky, which wasn’t necessarily a “good thing” for the local residents, who were in a perpetual drought late in the summer after the winter’s snow melt was a long-distant memory. That decided what I’d do that day, though—it was too nice to be inside a windowless beer brewery if the alternative was the botanical gardens. I ate a hearty, but very expensive—at least for Frank Danberry—buffet breakfast in the hotel restaurant and headed out to the parking lot in my nicely coordinated and close-fitting T-shirt, shorts, and open-toed sandals, with the sunscreen and sunglasses in the men’s French purse suspended from my shoulder. Most men wouldn’t be caught dead with one of these French purses no matter how handy they are because they are considered a gay guy thing—but since I was a gay guy and didn’t particularly care if anyone knew it, I availed myself of the convenience. It didn’t mean I was a pansy. I wasn’t the limp-wristed sort of gay guy. I was the “if you don’t like it, shove it” sort of gay guy. When I moved in my dance in the stage revue, I moved like a man, not a girl.

Out I went to the car park, my mind wondering if I should go all the way and put the top down on the black BMW 328i M-sport convertible Clark had arranged for me from Denver’s Classe Auto Rentals almost for free. All I’d had to do was give the company’s owner a blow job in his office and bend over the desk for him the day I took a taxi from the airport to the car rental lot. I didn’t have long to think about top or no top because, when I was approaching the BMW, I clearly could see that the left front tire was flat.

So much for the botanical garden. I called the Classe Auto Rentals, got someone only marginally interested in my plight, which surprised me because it was their very expensive BMW that was stranded somewhere other than their lot. When I dropped the owner’s name, though, I was put through to help pronto. My idea was that they deliver another car to me by someone who could change the tire and take the unreliable vehicle away. I’d already discovered that the spare was a mini-temporary tire I could have carried around in my pocket, I knew it would take a power tool to get the lugs off the flat, and I hadn’t brought a power tool with me in my luggage from Las Vegas. They also hadn’t provided one in the trunk of the BMW.

The Classe Auto rental owner’s idea was that he’d send a roadside assistance service to change the tire to one of those small donut emergency tires, and anytime I wanted I could drive the crippled BMW back to the rental lot. He’d then give me a replacement car—after I’d bent over his desk again. He didn’t give me any other options. I felt like I already was bent over his desk, but what could I do?

“How soon can someone get here?” I asked.

“Within the hour. The company we work with is GoodJackRoadsideAssistance. An hour, tops, and he will be there.”

I called again after an hour and a half. The owner wasn’t there, but the only partially interested clerk originally must have been told I was a special client, because he went off line to check and came back with “Jack’s just coming off another job. He’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Great. It obviously was a one-man company, at least in employees who actually did the on-the-street work.

Soon after I’d called Classe Autos for hotel-side assistance, the car parked next to the BMW on the driver’s side pulled out and I positioned myself there, leaning up against the driver’s door, my smart phone play toy in hand, so that I could keep the space clear to give the tire-changing guy from GoodJackRoadsideAssistance extra room to work in changing on the tire. From there, I got a good view of Church Branch Road, running from highway 36, north to Boulder and south into Denver. I assumed the tow truck would come from the direction of the highway and that I’d recognize it from some sort of logo on its side and make sure he could find me.

It was hot as hell out there in the open, though, and I pulled my T-shirt off to give me ventilation. That may or may not have been a good thing in the circumstances, as a middle-aged guy in a pickup truck slowed down to almost a stop as he passed me in the parking lot. He gave me an ogling look and a smile, and he popped his tongue in his cheek. I knew sexual interest and a pickup attempt when I saw it. The way I was standing, leaning up against the car and shirtless, could, I have to admit, have been taken as advertising. I smiled and moved to the side to show him that it was a tire problem. He saluted, smiled, and moved on. He wasn’t any more up to changing a tire and then humping than I was to watch him change the tire and then letting him hump me.

If he’d changed the tire to something I could drive away on, though, I would have let him hump me. But that would have meant he’d have to have a nice tire that fit the BMW in the back of his pickup.

Another guy, younger, but still a couple of years older than I was, came out of the hotel and went to the car on the other side of the empty space I was guarding. He could clearly see as he approached that I had a tire problem. He too gave me a familiar smile, and he was built and a looker, so I instinctively smiled back.

“Need someone to change that tire for you?” he asked. What he didn’t ask was why I couldn’t change it as well as he could. But I guess he figured out quickly that I was a submissive. I could tell that he was dominant just from the swagger he was using in approaching us. He had a red Camaro. There was every indication he was a player.

“Thanks, but I don’t have anything that would take the lugs off—it will take a power tool—and it’s a rental car, and all I have to change it to is this emergency tire I wouldn’t trust to drive across the parking lot. I don’t live in Denver. I’ve called the company and they’re sending someone.”

“You staying at this hotel?” he asked. “My name’s Ron. I’m here for two more nights.”

“Yes, I’m staying here. I’m Beau. Here for four more nights.” Why were we registering how long we were staying here? Screw that; I knew why.

“I have a tennis date, but would you like to get out of the sun and come along?” he asked. “We could stop somewhere for a drink afterward. Your day wouldn’t be completely ruined. Hell, if you want, I could cancel the tennis and you and I could do something.”

I was sure I knew what the “something” would be. OK with me. His smile was nice. His body looked great. He was easy on the eyes. I didn’t miss that he lowered a hand toward his crotch, leading my eyes to the line of a well-hung cock inside his tennis shorts. He was tall and slim in the hips, with curly black hair and olive skin—sort of Italian looking. He wore his tennis outfit well and looked very comfortable in his skin. Tight black curls matted his forearms and thighs lightly. I liked that in a man.

I regretted what my reality here really was. “I have to stay put here, I’m afraid. The guy the rental company sends will need me to point out the car and do whatever he needs to have me here for. As far as I know, I’m the only one with the key.”

“But if you didn’t have to stay with the car—?”

“Yeah, a ride in a Camaro would be nice.” Picking out my own guy for a change would be nice, I was thinking. That he was young, good looking, built, and hung would be very nice.

“If you aren’t going to be able to get away, there’s a restaurant in the hotel.”

“Yeah, I know there is. I’d planned to go to the botanical gardens and may still be able to do that if the tow truck guy shows up soon. He’s already taken longer than they said he would.”

“And you have plans for dinner?”

“Not now. I hadn’t thought that far in advance.”

“There’s always the restaurant in the hotel,” he said, smiling again.

“Yes, there is.” There didn’t seem to be any more to say. He lingered a bit at his open driver’s door as if there might be, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had asked me if I took cock and would take his, but he didn’t go that far. In the end he smiled and shrugged.

“Have a good tennis match,” I said. “Beat the hell out of the other guy.”

“I can be rough with guys. I like to win,” he said, with a grin.

“I kind of like winners myself—and dominators,” I answered. No reason not to find out if he was a player. He gave me a broad smile, and again I thought he was going to ask the big question, but he didn’t. One last smile and he folded himself into his sports car and drove away.

It was then that I noticed that it had been over two hours of my hour wait and I called Classe Autos again to get a “fifteen more minutes” answer. When I rang off, I determined that if the tow truck wasn’t here in another half hour and I got as good an offer to change the tire as dreamy Ron had given me, I’d take the offer. Fuck Classe Autos. I’d just abandon their car here. Clark had ordered it up, not me.

But then there was a red jeep nudging its way into the empty space I’d been protecting, and I pushed off the fender of the BMW to fend the guy off, pointing to the flat tire and calling out to him that I was trying to leave space for the guy who would change it to work.

“I’m the guy who’s going to change it,” he called back through the window. “I’m from GoodJackRoadsideAssistance. I should have plenty of room, and me parked there will protect my back while I work.”

I pulled back as he pulled into the empty space. I was caught off guard, having expected some sort of marked truck and thinking he needed the extra room to change the tire, but if he thought he could do it with his Jeep beside where he had to work, that was OK with me. I’d let a guy take charge if he wanted to, and my flash impression of this guy was that he clearly could take charge.

My first impression, looking through the Jeep window and across to the driver’s side, was that he was a compact, solid Marine type of mixed race. He was bullet-headed with buzz-cut dark hair and a receding hairline back from both of his temples and, like Ron, he was olive skinned. But he was more Mexican than Mediterranean and more blue collar than Ron’s stockbroker look. He also was older, upper thirties, I thought, to Ron and my mid-twenties. He gave me an interested grin, though, his eyes focused on my exposed pecs and torso.

He came out of the Jeep quickly and was all business. He was in Western jeans and honest, worn cowboy boots and, now that I saw him standing up straight, proved to be muscular and thick bodied and maybe an inch or two shorter than I was. I could see that he was wearing a T-shirt with his business logo on it.

“You got the keys, Beau?” he asked.

I did and gave them to him, taken aback that he called me by name. But I guessed that the rental company had given him my name in case he had to ask for me at the hotel reception desk. He must have known the car he was looking for. He’d driven right to it in the parking lot.

“The rental company told you my name?” I asked.

“The rental company told me all about you,” he said, a grin on his face. And was that a wink with his eye? Well, shit. It’s like I was wearing a billboard or something here in Denver.

He plunked the power drill down beside the flat tire and moved around to the trunk, popping it open with the key fob.

“Ah, good, you brought something that can get the lugs off,” I said, somewhat idiotically. “I could have changed the tire myself if I had a tool like that. Of course, the spare they provided isn’t much good.” I suppose he was so macho that I wanted to establish that, except for the tightness of the lugs that power tools caused, I could have—and would have—changed the tire myself. “These days, without power tools—”

He took it another direction at first. “I never go anywhere without my power tool,” he said, giving me a wicked grin. “I’m a power tool kinda guy.”

“Good to know,” I answered.

He segued back to safer ground. “We’ve gone to puttin’ them on with power tools to control the business. It lets me meet the clients,” he said, with a “just kidding” grin, as he came back from the trunk with a disappointingly small temporary tire. I almost swallowed my tongue and couldn’t say anything smart back to him because he’d stripped off his T-shirt while he’d been back at the car trunk, and he was a hunk and a half magnificent. He could have held his own in a Las Vegas stripper line. We always tried to have a rough trade guy on the line. He could have been that guy.

He had a full left-arm sleeve colorful swirly-pattern tattoo and also covered his left pec, and when he went down on his knees, turned from me, to work on the wheel, I saw that his upper back was spanned with an angel’s wing tattoo as well. He had a body-builder’s physique. Definitely rough trade. I had my rough trade moods. This could be one of those.

“You’re right. This puny tire isn’t going to do you any good. Good thing they told me what kind of tires they have on this baby.” He put the emergency tire back in the BMW’s trunk and hauled a real tire out of the back of his jeep. He looked up at me and grinned. “I don’t do this for just anybody.”

“But the rental company told you I wasn’t just anybody,” I said. I knew I was being flippant.

“Got that right” came zinging back at me.

He worked quickly, occasionally looking up at me and grinning. As he worked, I put my T-shirt back on, feeling that the two of us topless out here seemed almost obscene, although I’d been thinking of having sex with him from the moment I saw him through the window of his Jeep.

When he was done, had put the flat tire in the Jeep trunk, saying, “Big ole nail in it. Had to have been picked up sometime yesterday. You’re lucky it went down here in a parking lot and not on the highway,” and was pulling his T-shirt back on, I thanked him and tried to give him a twenty. I’d already worked out with the owner of Classe Auto Rentals that they’d cover his bill and the owner would cover me.

“Not necessary, thanks,” he said, not taking the twenty. “I feel like I should be paying you.” Rather than explaining that, he rushed on to say. “I could use a beer, though. Does this hotel have a bar?”

“Yes, and I’d be happy to treat, but can you take the time?” I asked. “You don’t have another call to make?”

“It’s lunchtime and I’m Jack—Jack of the GoodJackRoadsideAssist name,” he said. “I can take off all afternoon, if I want to.”

Ah, so, he did own the roadside assistance company. “In that case, it’s lunchtime now,” I said, not wanting to let loose of him. “The hotel’s got a restaurant. How about having lunch with me—on me.”

“On you?” he said, grinning. We both laughed. “I did say I could take off all afternoon, if I wanted to,” he repeated. “There are all sorts of things I’d like to do on you.”

Well, that certainly broke the ice.

“So, I don’t have to do any more dancing around on what you like to do,” I said.

“Nope. I dance lead, just so you know. Any guy as fit and good-lookin’ as you who wants a guy to do him, I’m the man for the job.”

“Good to know.”

* * * *

When Jack and I had entered the hotel, he shied away from the restaurant, seeing that it was upscale.

“Uh, maybe . . .”

“They’ll serve the same food in the bar,” I said. “We can go in there.”

“You really want me to stay?” he asked.

“I really want you to stay. And I’m paying. You changed my tire.”

“That was what I’m paid to do. That’s my job.”

“OK, how about you rev my engines. I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

He laughed. “That will do nicely. I thought maybe I came on too strong out in the parking lot.”

“I have an appetite for strong men. Let’s have some lunch.”

We went into the bar and ordered. We were the only ones there. A Djokovic-Cilic tennis match was showing on the screen, and I immediately thought of the red Camaro guy, Ron, and the prospects of the two of us fucking. I was in heat. Ron would be smooth. This guy with me now would be rough. Which did I want? I think both.

We sat at a high-top table, with Jack sitting right next to me, our thighs touching, and my thoughts immediate went back to Jack. He was muscular and compact. I wondered if he was hung. I liked my men thick and long. I wanted to be fully possessed. I could tell that Ron was long, at least.

“You look a little flushed. I think you were out in the parking lot, waiting for me too long. Sorry I had trouble with the tickets before you.”

“I’m in heat,” I said. I let my calf rub against his. “I need a strong man between my thighs.”

It was his turn to look a little flushed. He diverted from my straightforward pathing. I, in fact, was very much in heat. Sexual heat. “You’re lucky this happened in the hotel parking lot, Beau,” Jack said again when we’d settled and had our beer and burgers.

“I guess they must have given you my name at the rental car place,” I said. “Guess they told you how I got a nice car like the BMW out there.”

“I knew your name already,” Jack said in a low voice.

“You did?” I showed my surprise.

“I was at Boyztown last night. I saw your act.”

“Ah.”

“I was there with Howard. He told me he’d rented one of his sports cars to you.”

“Ah.”

“He told me that you took cock from him when he gave you the car—that you’re a real sweet lay.”

“Ah, so what did you say to him then?”

“I said I wanted to get up on stage and lay you right then and there. I wanted me some of that sweetness.”

“Ah.”

So, he was on the straightforward path too. Just not moving as fast as I had. But when he got ready, he went directly down the path. I didn’t say anything to that right away. I took several bites of the burger and swallows of the beer and looked up at the tennis match on the screen.

“When your flat tire call came in, he called me and asked me if I wanted to take the call. He said that, if I played my cards right, there might be more in it for me than just the tire changing fee. He said that for such a sexy guy, you were an easy lay.”

“And you said yes?” I asked, turning my full attention. “You took the call because you wanted to fuck me too?”

“That was quite an act you put on at Boyztown,” he said. “Yes, of course I wanted to fuck you. You’re a male stripper. You show it all on stage. You demonstrate up there how you could use it. You give out to men, don’t you? If I’m wrong, just tell me. You’ve been signaling hard to me. I’m not so dumb I can’t read a guy offering himself to me.”

“Are you hung, Jack? Howard at the rental car place isn’t hung. I like my men big and long.” Without waiting for him to answer, I put my hand on his crotch and gave him a good feel.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

“Eat up and let’s go up to my hotel room,” I said. A man I had picked out myself. Screw the botanical gardens. For that matter, screw me—upstairs in my hotel room. Screw me hard. Be rough trade for me—with me, on me, in me.

* * * *

As a power top, Jack was a surprise—but a pleasant one. He was all I could have wanted in a top and more. In my line of work, cocks come—and come—and go, and one becomes much like the one before it, with some pleasant surprises in size, vigor, and completion and some not-so-pleasant experiences just to endure until the next one penetrated. But Jack fucked me. I felt it with him.

The first time he fucked me, he kept his cowboy boots on and had me bent over the side of the bed in my hotel room, holding me close, immobile, and totally captive and completely his, kissing me in the hollow of my neck, and pumping me slowly, deeply with a magnificently thick and long cock.

He fucked me like a lover rather than a casual lay, which I would not have expected from the rough-worker look of him. He held me securely, but cradled in his arms, as he worked his cock deep inside me. He had his own condoms and lube, so he was a player. But he didn’t just take. He entered, entered, entered me, wanting us both to feel the tightness of his thick, hung cock, but then held, when he was buried, until I had opened to him.

“Take it, take it, baby,” he murmured, and he paid attention to my needs and how I was doing with it. “You got it, baby. Oh, so good. You OK? You doin’ fine?”

Yes, I was.

From there, we worked together, both of our hips in coordinated motion. He reached around with a hand and stroked my cock while he was stroking his inside me, holding it in a loose sheath so I could fuck his hand. All the time he was holding me with strength, making sure I knew he was in charge. After I’d come, he continued in a strong, rhythmic beat. He was in top physical shape.

After he’d come, he held me there, cradled in his arms, kissing the back of my neck and my shoulder blades—and my mouth when I turned it to him. His lips were gentle but insistent and tender, not at all what I expected from such a man. I felt him tense and ejaculate and go soft inside me, if only briefly, and then harden again. He turned me under him and fucked me the second time in a missionary position, with my knees hooked on his hips. He was as tender and long lasting that time as the first.

Not at all the rough trade I’d expected. Better than that.

As the afternoon wore on, he pulled me up onto the bed, slipping off his cowboy boots and made total, deep love to me, reaching as deep as any other man had, opening me up completely to him, fucking me in my core. A lover, not a john.

When he’d done me totally this time, he pulled me up onto the bed, stretched out beside me, and pulled my body possessively into his in an embrace. I felt safe and satisfied in his arms.

“Did I do you good?” he said. “I understand you’ve had a whole lot of experience with what a good fuck would be.”

“You did me perfectly,” I responded.

“I’ll drive the BMW back to the rental office and you can follow me in the Jeep,” he whispered. “They’ll give you a replacement car there,” he added.

“Not straight away,” I said. “I won’t turn down the offer on going to the office, but I think it will take a while there before I’m given a replacement car.”

“So, it’s true Howard will expect you to let him fuck you to get a replacement car?”

“Yes, that’s how it works. I’m just a male whore.”

“Do you want him to fuck you? Do you like his cock more than mine?”

“You know the answer to that question, I’m sure.”

“Then I’ll be the one fucking you for the replacement car, not Howard. I’ll be there with you. Howard and I have an understanding. We’ll get the car and I’ll follow you back here in the Jeep. OK?”

“More than OK,” I answered, snuggling down into his embrace. And that’s what we did, but not before he fucked me again in a side split and we’d showered together.

After we’d returned from Classe Auto Rental, me in a Porsche 911, he fucked me for the fourth time that afternoon. The dude had the stamina and cock of a bull. He left me moaning and was gone before I had a chance to tell him I wanted to have him inside me again—and again after that.

* * * *

I slept after Jack left my hotel room. I had to; he had exhausted me. In Las Vegas I sometimes took two or three men in quick succession after my nightclub act. I’ve had experience taking two together. Jack made me feel like I’d taken four. But, God, was it a good feeling. He looked like a rough fucker, and I could get off on those, but he was a lover. He had been as attentive to my needs as his own, and he taken me fully.

I woke satisfied, sassy, and as much in heat as I’d been when I’d taken Jack to my hotel room. That was a quirk of mine—a handy one if you are a stripper and whore. Sex begets the need for more sex with me. It was too late to do any sightseeing and I didn’t feel like going downtown for dinner before my evening at Boyztown started at 10:00 p.m., so I decided to try a restaurant in the town center across Church Branch Boulevard from the hotel. I was itching to try out the Porsche 911. At the same time, I was nervous about blowing another tire.

I took the elevator down to the lobby and looked into the bar on my way to the hotel exit. Ron’s face lit up into a smile and he waved to me. I remembered then that there had been a possibility of dinner and something else with Ron. I walked into the bar.

“You remembered,” he said.

“Barely, I’m afraid,” I answered, sitting down across a cocktail table from him, on a banquette. “But not because I hadn’t been thinking about you,” I added so he wouldn’t be deflated. I wanted him inflated. I had this immediate need and he seemed immediately available. He moved to a chair beside me and draped an arm along the top of the banquette behind my head.

“Did you get your tire issue resolved satisfactorily?”

“Very. Very, very,” I answered. I was thinking of what came after with Jack, but I didn’t necessarily want to share that. “I exchanged the BMW for a Porsche.”

“Neat. Nearly worth having the flat, I’ll bet,” he said. We ordered drinks and chitchatted a bit until they came. He wanted to make quite clear to me that he had money. He was here on business but he lived in LA and was high up in a family corporation there. And it turned out his Camaro was rented from Classe Auto Rental, as well.

“I have expensive tastes,” he said. “I’ll bet you do too. We share an interest in sports cars and some more exotic and erotic interests as well.”

“Possibly, but that’s rather a leap, isn’t it?—from exotic to erotic.”

“Not all that much if good research is done,” he said. “Just an exchange of an ‘R’ for an ‘X,’ although I’m partial to Xs. XXX has a nice ring to it.”

That was a new one. I’d never heard that one before. I was impressed.

He put his free hand on top of my thigh under the cocktail table. I left it there. “Is it just me or were you showing interest in me out in the parking lot this morning? You seemed willing to have dinner with me.”

“You seem like a nice guy—and interesting,” I said. “And, as you say, we seemed to have the same interests.”

“Like in men?” he asked? He moved his hand to inside my thigh.

“I got a certain vibe, yes,” I answered.

“And one of a matched pair, I hope,” he responded. “I’m a power top. I pray you’re a submissive bottom.”

“If I say yes, where is that hand going?” I asked.

“Where it’s going unless you say no,” he answered, and he started stroking my hardening cock through the material of my shorts with a thumb. I opened my stance more to his attentions. “I think I’ve discovered that you are interested,” he murmured, his lips momentarily close to my ear. He gave me a little kiss there before pulling away. I gave him a little smile. He knew we were going to fuck. I had known that as soon as I’d seen him in the restaurant.

“You mentioned having done research. You researched me today? You have some reason to be both confident and forward like this?”

“When I come to Denver, I like to go to the Boyztown nightclub. I haven’t been there yet on this trip, but I went to the Web site. Your picture is there as a guest celebrity.”

“Ah.”

“I called a friend on the staff there. He said you took cock too—at a price.”

“Ah,” I repeated.

He took out five one-hundred-dollar bills and fanned them out on the table. “For after dinner. I’ll take you to dinner and, if you want these five Benjamin Franklins, I’ll take you up in your hotel room—or mine. Better yours, though, as I don’t think you’ll be moving for a while after I’ve done you.”

Such confidence—and arrogance. I perhaps should have given some thought to the cockiness of the man. He was obviously high class and he was gorgeous, but he turned out to be cruel and rough with the fuck—he gave me the manhandling that I had expected from the rougher-looking Jack. Ron was rough trade.

He slapped me around; he made me gag on his cock; when he fucked me, he smashed my cheek against the glass overlooking the Rockies; he jutted my buttocks back toward him, with his hand palming my belly; and he forced himself deep up into me without giving me enough time to adjust to him. He treated me like a Vegas pole-dancer whore. I was a bit higher on the prostitute chain than that, but sometimes I liked to slum. He made me want to slum this time. Luckily, although he was long, he wasn’t nearly as thick as Jack had been, and it hadn’t been that long since I’d been fully opened up by Jack.

Once Ron got a rhythm going, he grabbed my hair, running his fingers into my scalp, bowed my head sharply back into his chest, and rode me hard. Before he left, he made me ride him too in a cowboy.

I earned the five hundred dollars. But an extra five hundred dollars is always a nice thing to have.

The makeup artists had their work cut out to hide the bruises when I’d dragged myself into the nightclub to start my shows that night. I wasn’t going to complain about the rough sex from Ron. It paid well, and I did occasionally like that. I had expected it from Jack that day. It didn’t interfere with my act. I easily bounced back from one sexual encounter to being ready for the next.

It was a good thing I was so resilient, because when I got to the nightclub, I was informed that a rich local guy identified to me only as Walt, in his late fifties, would be taking me to another supper at 2:00 a.m. and would keep me for the night. I was assured I’d be smothered in luxuries.

When I’d changed, into expensive evening cloths provided by someone other than me—I didn’t ask—at the end of my nightclub stint, I was told that a black limousine was waiting for me at the street end of the alley the stage door accessed. I never made it to the limousine, though. Jack was standing in the alley, looking hopeful, and holding one red rose.

“I rather hoped—” he started to say as I approached him.

“Yes,” I said, “but block me from view from the limousine on the street as we leave.”

We took the Porsche. Jack said he could get back to his Jeep later, but what he wanted now was to get me into bed at my hotel.

After he fucked me, we lay in each other’s arms.

“You’re going to hate me,” he said.

“Not until we’ve done it a dozen more times,” I said.

“No, really. I have a confession. It’s serious. I really did the dirty.”

“You put the nail in the BMW tire last night when it was in the hotel parking lot,” I said.

“Shit. How did you figure that out?”

“You told me it was a nail before you dug it out of the tire, and you knew just where it had gone in, although the puncture wasn’t easy to find.”

“Well, fuck,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, please,” I answered.