The Oldest Lifeguard

(The travails of aging out of summer gay lifestyle)

Rob stood up in the lifeguard's chair and stretched his body, flexing his muscles and giving his best deadpan John Wayne expression. Most of the lifeguards wore T-shirts, but Rob was vain that way. He was shirtless, his torso deeply tanned, his muscles glistening in the late afternoon sun, thanks to a film of sweat and a light lathering of suntan lotion. He looked good--even at the age of thirty-two--and he knew he looked good. He worked out an hour or two a day--religiously. It was about as close as he came to a religion--the worship of good body definition--his own body definition. He was pushing 200 pounds, but had a fullback's body. All hard muscle and cut definition. Still, the body of a Zeus now rather than an Apollo.

The lifeguard chairs extended all the way down the ten-mile stretch of the Ocean City, Maryland, beach from the inlet to the Delaware line, the stands set at intervals of five city blocks. Rob held court at 95th Street, on the beach side of the Pyramid condo. It was a choice spot, as well it should be, because, after sixteen years as a lifeguard on this beach, Rob, by far the oldest lifeguard ever on the Ocean City Beach Patrol--OCPB--had the most seniority. By rights he should be chief of the guards now and work in an office and occasionally drive between the stands on the beach in a dune buggy to check on the guys. But Rob had never wanted to be in an office. He'd always wanted to be out here on the beach.

Of course there was more money to being chief and working in the office, but Rob didn't do this for the money. This was what Rob wanted to do in life, and he was a little concerned that his application for a seventeenth year hadn't come back approved yet. It was mid-September, nearly the end of the OCPB coverage season. He didn't know what else he'd do over the summers if it wasn't this.

He looked down and saw that one of his regulars, Eric Someoneorother, had a hand on his bare foot and was looking up at where he stood in the chair, his gaze seeming to be more focused up the leg opening of Rob's shorts than up into his face.

"Hi, there, Rob," said Eric, a short and thin nineteen-year-old with reddish blond hair and not a bad build. Rob knew the young man was good on a board and that he'd been here off and on all summer--this being his first summer out here. Rob also knew him to be one of his regulars now. Probably not a resident of Ocean City, but living not too far away. And Rob knew the guy had money.

"How's it goin', Eric?" Rob called down to him. They seemed to appreciate it if he remembered their names.

"Wondered if maybe . . . whether you . . . ?"

"Will you be at Randy's later?" Rob asked. "No can do before that. I'll be spinning them at Randy's after 8:30, though."

"See you then," Eric said, backing away from the stand reluctantly and returning to the group of other young, well-cut guys he was with. All the good-looking young guys on the beach seemed to congregate around Rob's stand. As long as they did, Rob continued to believe that he had it--had what it took to hold down this lifestyle.

Rob's lifestyle had pretty much stopped in time fifteen years previously. He'd become a lifeguard at sixteen, one of the youngest accepted into the OCPB at the time. His parents had split up and he'd gone with his dad for the summer. His dad had rented a place in an old "hodge-podge" complex of wooden buildings put together in the early 1950s around Baltimore and 6th, one block off the ocean-side boardwalk and three blocks off the bay. They hadn't any better place to be, so the father bought the two-bedroom walkup with a view of an alley and had left it to Rob when he died seven years later.

He had left Rob some money too, but Rob saved the earnings from this to help finance his beach bum trips to the Caribbean seven months out of the year. To augment the work he picked up in bars and the tourists he picked up on the beach. For his months here, he lived off the skimpy lifeguard salary, which he augmented by disk jockeying at Randy's a couple of hours most nights, pimping to tourists--a source of income that had gone down over the past six years--and his "other pursuit."

Ocean City was not gay friendly, at least on the surface. There was only one gay-friendly bar, the Underground, in Ocean City proper. This had always worked to Rob's advantage, though. There were gays vacationing in Ocean City, whether the city was friendly to them or not. And they didn't want to be deprived while they were here. Rob had always helped them not be deprived--for a price. At some point, fewer men were willing to pay for it and Rob had to either give it away or seek it out himself. But he wasn't at the stage of paying for it himself--yet.

Where Rob did most of his extracurricular activity, including hooking up, was at Randy's, which was the short name for Randy's Flight Club, which was on the mainland across the Route 50 causeway from Ocean City, in a growing area known as Ocean City West. The club was in what had once been an airplane hangar next to the airport off Stephen Decatur Highway. This was where Rob hung out most evenings, sharing DJ duties and hooking up with guys in various ways.

Eric's need would have to wait for Randy's this evening--and could only come after Rob's own itch was scratched.

Meanwhile, Rob finished his stretches and sat back down on the lifeguard stand seat. Another hour, and it would be 5:30, the lifeguard stand-down for the day. Another week and a half of this, and another summer season would be chalked up. The beach was more and more deserted with each passing day now--except for the hopeful group of young men congregating around his stand and using the presence of a volleyball net to cover their real purpose for gathering here. Attendance would flare up on the weekends through the rest of September, but be pretty dead during the week.

Rob looked down at the group of young men milling around below and around his stand. Best-looking tail on the beach, he decided. He looked them up and down real good, trying to decide if there was one of them above the age of eighteen that he hadn't already fucked. At first scan he couldn't identify a single one who hadn't already writhed under him.

But then, yes, his eyes lit on the quiet one--the toned black guy, Cal. He'd shown up on the last four weekends and had come into Randy's one Saturday night too. That must mean that he was approachable, Rob thought. Could be a top, though. Rob couldn't think of any reason he was sticking with the crowd unless he was cruising or seeking. In either department Rob could take care of him--and would like to. But then maybe he was a top too. Rob had managed to turn his share of tops, but there was something determined and stubborn about Cal that indicated he wasn't likely to change.

* * * *

Eric fought to focus on Rob's ass as the older man rose from the bed and moved toward the bathroom. He didn't know what was in those white pills Rob had given him beyond the base of Caberlin-brand dopamine, medically used for Parkinson's Disease but used in Erick and Rob's circles for sustained erections and multiple ejaculations.

The young mainline Philadelphian had had the multiple ejaculations and, still having a long, thick erection, he was looking forward to a couple more ejaculations when Rob got back from the john. The drug was what Eric had come home with Rob from Randy's the previous night to obtain--the Caberlin and the Ecstasy, barbiturates, amphetamines, and even the pot. The whole line of goods that Rob supplied to the young men who came to Ocean City and sought him out.

Eric had just started at Swarthmore and had come back to Ocean City the second weekend because he believed he couldn't maintain the pace of university studies or get in good with the math professor who had made a pass at him after his second class without the help of the drugs. And there were some other students he wanted to impress off the bat. So, although he thought the experimentation, guided by the older lifeguard, Rob, all summer was just a summer thing, he was hooked now.

The major kicker to the arrangement was the expense--and not just what Rob charged him for the drugs--but that Rob took an extra cut out of the service each time by getting Eric high on the drugs he had to buy and that, while he was high on sexual enhancers, Rob fucked him.

"No fuckee, no drugee," was one of Rob's favorite expressions.

Eric lay there on Rob's bed in the semidarkness of the light shining through the open bedroom door from Rob's living room. His eyes focused--as well as they could from the haziness and heart palpitations induced by the drug, which wouldn't wear off for hours--on Rob rising from the bed. Eric trembled at the muscular perfection and deep tan of the lifeguard as he moved to the bathroom, the whiteness of his plump buttocks against the deep tan of the rest of his body providing a sharp focal point. And then he moaned as Rob returned from the john, the same slash of whiteness at the hips and groin providing stark visual centering on the man's gigantic erection and trimmed pubic bush.

Rob was long and thick without enhancing drugs, and he didn't usually take them. But he had tonight, and they'd held him in monstrous erection for the past three hours, during which he'd fucked Eric two times already.

As Rob came down on the bed on his knees, reached under Eric's erection, and slid two fingers into his gaping hole, the younger man groaned; spread his legs, which were bent with the heels of his feet digging into the mattress; and raised his buttocks to give Rob's hard cock a straight shot up into him as he was remounted for a third fuck. Drugs or no drugs, Eric was amazed at the stamina of this guy who was more than ten years older than he was.

Rob didn't thrust inside him, though. Pulling his fingers out of Eric's hole, he continued climbing over Eric's body until he was hovering over his torso, with his knees pushed into the mattress on either side of Eric's waist. Rob grabbed two fists full of red hair on the back of Eric's head and raised the younger man's face to him. With a moan, Eric opened his mouth wide just in time for his lips to slide up Rob's shaft. He gagged as Rob pumped his throat. It wasn't long, though, before Rob climbed off his body; ran an arm under the small of his back; flipped his smaller, slender body over; and coaxed him up on his knees and elbows.

Rob mounted Eric's hips; thrust inside him; and, as Eric reached for his own throbbing, drug-provided erection; fucked him hard and deep for the third time that night.

Eric lay there, on his back, trapped under a beefy arm thrown over his chest, and waited for the dawn. He struggled with himself in his mind on whether what he had to do to get a stash of drugs from Rob--on top of paying through the nose for them--was worth the rough fuck Rob always demanded. Eric didn't mind being fucked, and Rob was a hunk. But this through-the-night business was almost too taxing.

It almost was like the guy was having a last hurrah. He wasn't young. He was still in tip-top physical condition, but he couldn't hold that for long. He must be at least thirty, Eric thought. He must be the oldest lifeguard on the Ocean City beach. He couldn't sustain this much longer. And maybe he knew that. Maybe that was why he was such a cruel taker.

And tonight he had hinted that, in the future, the supply might also depend on Eric bringing him more business. There was a guy in the group that was hanging around Rob on the beach, the black guy, Cal, who was the only one Eric knew who wasn't already a customer. But there was something about that guy . . .

Eric would have pursued that thought if he hadn't been distracted. But Rob was awake again, and still hard. He turned Eric over on his stomach, mounted his buttocks again, and worked his cock inside for the fourth fuck of the night.

The sensation-enhancing drugs had worn off. This was going to be a raw fuck. "Oh, shit. Oh fuck. OH FUCK!" Eric cried out as the cock bottomed inside him and the rhythm of the fuck commenced.

* * * *

"How many of the stands have you picked up now?" Frank, captain of the OCBP, asked Hank when the latter entered the lifeguard station headquarters.

"They're up from the inlet up to 15th Street. Sure there's enough room for them in the warehouse?"

"There always has been," Frank answered. "You just have to pack them in tight." He was sitting at his desk, writing the reports closing out the season. It had been a good summer. Some injuries, but no drownings. And no shark attacks like were being reported elsewhere along the coast. The sharks must find the bathers up on the New Jersey beaches more to their taste, he thought, with a chuckle.

"What's funny?" Hank asked.

"Oh, nothing," Frank answered. Hank wouldn't like the joke. He was from New Jersey. "Anyone assigned to pull the trash barrels up to the dunes? There's a surf surge warning out. Storm's coming."

"Gabe is handling that. He's gotten farther up the beach than the stand pickup has gotten. That should take us the rest of the week, longer if the storm lasts for very long."

Hank was standing next to the desk and reached down and picked a paper up from Frank's in basket. "Still got Rob Styles' application for next year in your in basket, I see."

"Yes," Frank said, with a sigh. "I was hoping he wouldn't reapply. We've never let a lifeguard go that long."

"You don't think he can hack it anymore?"

"It isn't that. He's still in great shape and he could handle the job in his sleep now. That's not the real problem. I've got to let him go, and I don't know how to break it to him."

"What's the problem then? Because he's gay? Because he spikes a lot of the young guys hanging around the beach for the summer? The 'keep them out of Ocean City' campaign getting to you?"

"No, it's not that. Live and let live on that, I say. It's drugs. I think he's been pushing them. And I've gotten hints that the narcs were nosing around late in the season. I don't want the new season to open up with that over my head."

"OK, so he's got to go. You can just tell him he's too old. So, what's the problem that has this application sitting here collecting dust?"

"Mickey Bugoti's the problem. Not sure I want to tangle with him. If Styles is into drug pushing . . ."

"Ah, bad news that one. Well, let me know when you are going to lower the boom on Styles. I'll plan to be at the other end of the beach for that. And you gotta do something in the next week. The whole operation is shutting down again. He has a right to know before we're closed down."

"Yes, I know," Frank said, looking down at the pile of paperwork on his desk, his eyebrows knitted. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't taken the chief job, though--that I'd stayed out on the stands."

"That still would make you only the second-oldest lifeguard, wouldn't it?" Hank asked, with a laugh. "Rob's still got you by a couple of years, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does. And still he's in better shape than I am. I don't know how he does it."

"Maybe you should spend time fucking younger guys, like he does," Hank responded.

"Maybe so. Fucking older women doesn't seem to have kept me as toned at Rob is."

* * * *

Rob lay in bed and watched Eric, groaning, rise and hobble to the bathroom. He waited until the young redhead had come out of the bathroom and dressed in front of him. Rob always found it more erotic to watch the young men dress than undress. They moved more stiffly, reminding him of the vigor with which he had taken them. They also tended, like Eric was doing now in the early morning light filtering through the gauze curtains on the bedroom window, to give Rob a wide berth and to look at him apprehensively. It gave him a sense of power and control. There always was the fear--based more on weariness and soreness than lack of lust--that Rob would reach out for them, pull them back on the bed, and fuck them again. He hadn't done that for a couple of years, but his reputation lived on.

This also gave Rob a sense of accomplishment and sustained virility. He turned on his side and moved closer to the edge, closer to where Eric stood, dressing. And he gave a low laugh when Eric stumbled a couple of steps farther from him, with a hint of panic running across his face.

Rob felt the power. If he wanted to fuck Eric again, Eric would let him. The young redhead hadn't received what he'd come up to Rob's apartment with him the previous evening to get. Until he did, Rob knew the young man was in his power.

To test Eric Rob extended an arm beyond the side of the bed and said, "Come'her."

With a sigh, still just in his briefs and T-shirt, Eric moved to him. Rob ran his hand up through a leg hole of the briefs and grabbed Eric's cock. The young man twitched, but he didn't resist. The cock was flaccid--and probably sore, Rob reasoned--having been hard on the effects of the dopamine pills most of the night. He pushed the foreskin down the shaft with his fingers and placed a thumb on Eric's piss slit, being rewarded with a low moan but also a look of concern on the young man's face.

"You want me to fuck you again, don't you?" Rob asked.

There was a hesitation, but Eric dutifully responded with a "Yes," in a low voice. In fact, he was conflicted. Eric liked being fucked. And he liked being fucked by Rob. He liked older guys, especially tanned muscle men like Rob. But Rob fucked him like he possessed him, and each time he fucked Eric to exhaustion. When Eric was high on drugs, it was ecstasy to be fucked by Rob--the first or second time. But it wore Eric out and at some point it became too much. That point had been reached this morning, especially as the drugs wore off. Eric's ass was sore, and he knew he wouldn't leave the apartment walking a straight line.

And now Rob wanted to ream him again. Now all Eric wanted was the drugs he both paid for and earned on his back--and, for that matter, some of which both he and Rob had already used--and to go back to his hotel room, soak in the tub, and then sleep the sleep of the dead.

But then he remembered what he was going to ask Rob. Not that this was the best time. He felt his dick engorging despite himself. He began to pant lightly as Rob rubbed his precum around on his cock helmet. Maybe he was up for another fuck by this voracious hunk after all.

Rob was just toying with Eric, though. When he felt Eric relax, his cock harden, and heard the low pants, Rob knew he could have Eric again if he wanted to. If he could manage it. But he wouldn't do that. What he was trying to hide from Eric was that he was exhausted too--and stiff and sore. This had been coming on so slowly over the years that he had taken a long time to become aware of the evidence that he was aging. He still could get it up almost on command--especially with some help from some poppers--but his body didn't have the "never stop" stamina it once had. His muscles and joints complained and didn't let him forget when he overused them.

Maybe that's why he took them hard like he did Eric last night. He had no idea when that ability would desert him, and he lived in fear that it would do so suddenly--and increasingly he feared that it would happen soon.

But he liked his life the way it was. He didn't want to grow up--or grow old. And he was only thirty-two.

Rob pulled his hand out of the leg hole of Eric's briefs and reached around and gave the young man a slap on the rump. "Got things to do today or else I'd fuck you again until you screamed."

Maybe it was just the drugs, but Eric thought Rob had already fucked him last night until he screamed.

"Well, uh, the stash you're selling me. Could you get it and then I'll be on my way?"

Was that relief Rob heard in the young man's voice. Irritation set in. They once jumped at the opportunity to squeal from his fucking, no matter how many times he poked them in quick succession. And the mention of drugs--the suspicion that that was all Eric had come for.

"It's in the center drawer of the desk by the front door. You can get it yourself on the way out." He already had his money, which he'd managed to hide while Eric was in the bathroom after Rob had fucked him on the living room sofa and before taking him the second time on the bed.

"Well, there's something else," Eric said, as he pulled on his shorts. "You'd said if we brought a new buyer to you, there'd be something extra in it for us."

"Yes, I did say that."

"There's another guy you've seen around, I'm sure. A black guy named Cal. He's hinting around that he needs some stuff. So, if you want me to get you two together--"

"I'll be at Randy's tonight from 8:30 to about midnight," Rob answered. "You can introduce us there. But if he wants something--and you want something more--you'll need to snarf it up soon. I'll be heading down to the Caribbean in a couple of weeks. And I'm not going to have any inventory stashed until I get back."

"And the finder's fee?"

"Gets found as soon as--and based on--the referred customer buying."

Eric left then, and after he was sure the young man was gone, Rob started to work on getting out of the bed and hobbling to the bathroom himself. No way he was going to let any of the young guys hear him moan and groan on getting his overworked muscles and joints to work after a fuck session. They must continue to believe he was invincible in that department.

* * * *

Rob moved real slow in getting ready for the day after Eric left his apartment. This wasn't just because doing drugs and pulling a whole-night fuckfest took a greater toll on his body now than it had as little as a year earlier. It also was because he was at loose ends. His lifeguard job was over for the summer, and now he had to get ready to fly down to the Bahamas--without having anything set up there to go to. In his twenties he would have an offer by now from a daddy to come down and stay with him. But this year there hadn't been any. There had been fewer daddy types even here in Ocean City this summer to help cover his expenses. They still came here, and they still showed up at Randy's, but they were hitting on guys in their early twenties, not their early thirties.

He had enough to cover himself down in the islands--especially if he could pick up some DJ or bartender work, which still was coming his way at his age. But there was very little he needed to do to prepare for the trip. And it was two weeks off.

His drug supplier, Al, called to check up on him after lunch, but he didn't stay on the line for long. Rob had enough supplies, he thought, to last for the two weeks. As it was, he might have to sell them short in the days before he traveled. He couldn't have any that could be connected to him floating around here for seven months--and he couldn't use them all himself. He certainly couldn't take them on the plane with him.

He hoped Eric would bring Cal, the black guy, in as a buyer tonight. With luck he might take the rest of the stash Rob had. With more luck maybe he was a bottom after all and Rob could get some extra mileage out of the transaction. Cal was cute and good looking.

Rob got antsy after lunch. The one thing still hanging that bugged him constantly was signing his OCBP contract for next summer. For some reason Frank seemed to be holding off on that. Rob definitely wanted that pinned down before he flew out of here. His lifesaver job was the rock his lifestyle was built on.

He walked over to the OCBP station, but it was deserted. Frank must be off helping to get the stands into storage, he thought. He waited around, walking the boardwalk, thinking Frank would be back at any moment. One of the older guys--as in being about twenty-four--of those who had gathered around Rob's beach stand in hopes of some drug action, saw him walking the boardwalk and fell into step beside him.

"Good to see you out here, Rob," Tim said, "I was hoping to see you out here today. I wonder--"

"What is it you want, and how many?"

"Got any of the blue pills--say six? Just to hold me till I can get to Dover. They'll take me on in helping to maintain the track there."

"And you've got a connection there, have you?" Rob asked. He liked to ensure that his regulars had coverage. "You know that I leave for warmer waters in a couple of weeks."

"Yeah, sure. That's all I can afford anyway. I just want to be steady when I show up for work at the racetrack. Same price as last week . . . I hope."

"For you I can do that," Rob answered. "You'll have to come back to my apartment for them."

There was a slight hesitancy there, and then a sigh of resignation. Tim knew what Rob usually demanded to go with the price of the drugs.

But today Rob didn't demand that. He told himself that was because he wanted to get back to the OCBP office to check with Frank. But the truth was that he was exhausted from the all-nighter with Eric. He just didn't want to admit that he couldn't keep going like he had in his twenties.

As it turned out, though, it didn't matter that he hurried the transaction up. When he got back to OCBP office, Frank had come and gone again and the office obviously was buttoned down for the day. Rob returned to his apartment dejected. He drank enough beer before 8:30 rolled around when he was due at Randy's that he had a buzz on and was wound up tighter than a drum when he arrived for his stint there that evening.

It was a Friday night, and Randy's was crowded, most of the guys coming from the surrounding rural areas of Maryland. There wasn't much of a gay scene in this region, and those with such an interest had to congregate where they could. A lot of farmer and trucker types mixing in with the beach boys. The tanned and trim beach boys didn't stand a chance. In one of the back rooms, where Rob changed from his jeans and T-shirt into his DJ uniform--tight gold lamé trousers with a blousy shirt open almost down to his navel over them--he had to work around a burly trucker who had a young surfer sitting, naked, on the dressing table, his back against the mirror, his ankles on the trucker's shoulders, while the trucker pumped his tight little ass with a plump cock.

Rob had to lean around to the side to adjust his DJ costume in the mirror. The outfit showed off his tan and highlighted his sun-bleached blond hair. The young surfer reached out and grabbed the edge of Rob's open shirt and gave him a "this was more than I bargained for" look of appeal. Rob cupped the guy's head in a hand to keep it from bouncing against the mirror and brought his face in for a deep kiss. He let a hand glide down the surfer's smooth chest and encase the surfer's cock.

The young surfer settled down and went with the fuck with his mouth hungrily responding to Rob's kiss and his cock throbbing under Rob's stroking. The trucker continued pumping him hard and deep, not either responding or objecting to Rob's help. When the young man ejaculated, Rob stepped away, with a laugh, to avoid the splash, and reached into the bag he'd brought with him. He came up with a couple of capsules, which he broke and inhaled, and then he was good to go out into the main room. As he left the changing room, the trucker was turning the surfer guy over, belly to dressing table top and face smashed into the mirror, and starting pumping him again from the rear.

In the hallway, Rob encountered a more romantic setting--two thin and wiry guys, one looking like a blond hayseed and the other being one of the Hispanics Rob saw on the beach occasionally. The two were standing, melding together, against the wall, face to face, one of the Hispanic's legs hooked on the farmer's hip, the shorts and briefs of both of them in a puddle around their ankles. It was only the moaning that the Hispanic was doing and the rhythmic forward and back motion of the hayseed's bare buttocks that told Rob the Hispanic was being fucked.

It's going to be quite a night, Rob thought, as he pushed aside the beaded curtain separating the hallway and the main bar room. And, as far as he was concerned, he didn't know the half of it.

* * * *

The drug kicked in as Rob mounted the raised platform where the DJ equipment was positioned, and the room was noisy and aswirl with men moving around, checking each other out and propositioning and being propositioned. Still, as he got his music selected and the platters spinning, Rob did pick up on two activities of interest. One was a pug of a man, in his fifties, who entered the club with two bodyguards, one of whom moved ahead and cleared a table near the back corner with just a challenging look at the table's disappearing occupants and the other one who cleared a path to the table for the short but solid--not fat really--man with a gray pompadour and the look of danger and Mafia about him. What arrested Rob's attention was that the man paused half way to the table and turned to give Rob a hard look. Rob had a feeling he should know the man, but he did a brief inventory of all of the daddies he had latched onto and served in the last fifteen years and came up blank.

The other attention getter for Rob was that Eric was there, with the black hunk, Cal, the two sitting at a small table near the DJ's rostrum. Eric looked nervous and fidgety. Cal reclined in his chair and was gazing around the room like he owned the joint. When he saw Rob enter the room, though, he leaned over and, looking at Rob, said something to Eric. Eric nodded his head, but he didn't look too happy to be here.

After Rob had gotten his play order in hand, Eric and Cal rose from their table and approached him.

"Hi, Rob," Eric said. "This is Cal. He knows about you and . . . um . . . your services, and he wanted me to introduce him to--"

"Mr. Styles," a louder and more commanding voice broke in. "When you have a moment, which should be now, Mr. Bugoti would like to have a word with you at his table. Please come with me."

Such was both the authority and menace of the statement by the bulky and brutish bodyguard of the older man who had just entered the bar that neither Eric nor Cal said a thing about the rudeness with which their own introductions had been interrupted.

Rob didn't say anything either. He'd sunk into a visceral fear when he'd heard the name Bugoti. Mickey Bugoti was the godfather of all things organized crime and gambling in the region. What in the hell could he want with me, Rob was thinking as he meekly followed the bodyguard to Bugoti's table.

"Sit," the bodyguard growled as Rob reached the table. So Rob sat.

"Fancy gold threads. Nice chest. Gotta get me a tan like that," Bugoti said as Rob sat down. Rob suddenly felt naked. His mind was racing on whether he'd heard of Bugoti's sexual proclivities, but nothing came up. He began to sweat at the thought that he might have overstepped his bounds in Bugoti's town in the little drug business he'd eased into over the years. Maybe he wasn't supposed to be doing that on Bugoti's turf without the man's say so.

"Um, thanks," he managed to say. "Got the tan honestly on a lifeguard's stand."

"I know," Bugoti said, curtly, which but impressed and scared Rob.

"I've had my eye on you for a while," Bugoti continued. "Like what I see. I'm bored tonight and thought you might like to come up to my place for a drink. What'yer say?"

What could he say? "Sure, I'd like that. My DJ gig is over at--"

"There are two of you. They can call in the other guy. I'm thirsty now."

"Sure thing. Just let me change and--"

"I like what you're wearing now. Marco will go in back and gather your things." He snapped his fingers, and Marco trudged off toward the back of the room, Both Eric and Cal turned their heads away from him as he passed, obviously not wanting to become involved in any of this.

The sedan was long and black--some foreign make that probably cost more than Rob would ever make put together. The two bodyguards sat in front and Bugoti and Rob sat in back. Bugoti was half turned, looking at Rob and smiling a little smile. Rob mustered a nervous smile to return, but his gut was telling him that he might be on the last ride to a public dump somewhere. It was storming when they came out of the bar and into the car, which was pulled up onto the sidewalk, presumably with the thought that Bugoti might melt if he was touched by water, and the pelting rain and blustery wind matched the fluttering in Rob's stomach precisely.

Bugoti reached over with a hand, laid it on the top of Rob's thigh, and squeezed it like he was checking on whether Rob was done yet. Rob was having trouble controlling his trembling. This was something he wasn't used to. He was the one who always was in control. He went with older men like this, but he was the one to make the moves, to control what was going to happen. He felt so helpless. God I hope he just wants me to fuck him, Rob was thinking. Then he hiccupped nervously at how crazy that sounded.

The sedan pulled up under the covered entrance to the Antiqua, a fifteen-story residential condo on the beach at 85th Street, and Rob gave his first sigh of relief. This didn't look like a one-way trip to the public dump. Leaving one of the bodyguards to drive the sedan away, the other one ushered them into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourteenth floor, which was the penthouse level, because the condos were two stories each at this level. They entered an apartment with a wide span of windows overlooking a stormy and noisy surf, fourteen floors below.

"Tell Marco what you want to drink," Bugoti said, as he headed down a hallway off the living room. "I'm changing into something more comfortable."

Lacking imagination and audacity in the circumstances, Rob just asked for a beer. He was still nervous enough when Marco handed it to him and bade him sit down on a long sofa facing the wall of glass, that he had to hold it with both hands, and his first drink was a gulp.

Bugoti returned just in a robe, loosely sashed at his waist. Although he was short and gave off the vibe of being portly, Rob could see that he actually was in pretty good shape for a man his age. He was all Italian, with a swarthy complexion and considerable body hair, including general coverage of his chest in curly salt-and-pepper hair that cascaded out of the neckline of the robe.

Marco handed him a martini, and as he sat down on the sofa closer to Rob than was needed on such a long couch, he told Marco, "You can go back to your room now. We'll be fine."

When Marco was gone, Bugoti turned to Rob and said, "Do you know why you're here?"

Rob tightened up. Here it comes, he thought. It's about my drug pushing and not cutting him in on the profits. "Sorry, I don't have the slightest idea," he answered, hoping that was the truth.

"I find that hard to believe," Bugoti said, but he was using a pleasant tone, so Rob wasn't worried enough to pee his pants--at least yet. "I've heard you make yourself available to older men."

"Yes, sometimes," Rob answered, relieved now where this was going. "Sometimes I service men--for a price."

"Meaning? Servicing men, I mean."

"Sometimes men hire me as an escort and for other services."

"What other services? You mean they pay you to let them fuck you?"

"Not exactly. I fuck them."

"That's not the way it's gonna work here," Bugoti said. There was an edge to his voice. "I'm gonna try you out--as a courtesy by you--and then maybe I'll put you on retainer. But let's be clear. I do the fucking."

That was a shock. Rob hadn't let a guy spike him before. How was he going to get out of this? He turned his face toward Bugoti to explain that he was solely a top, but he didn't get that far. Bugoti had him by the throat and was pushing his head back against the sofa and came in for a quick kiss. Shortly thereafter, however, he'd moved his strong, beefy hand to the back of Rob's neck and pulled Rob's face down into his lap, where he'd let his robe part.

While a dutiful Rob sucked him off, Bugoti pulled the gold lamé shirt off Rob and was running his hands over Rob's back and underneath on his pecs. Bugoti's cock wasn't long in erection, but it was extra thick, and Rob's eyes watered and he had to breathe through his nose as he serviced the cock.

Bugoti didn't let this go on for very long, though, before he pushed Rob down onto the sofa at full stretch and was taking his turn playing Rob's cock with his mouth and using his hands to explore Rob's torso down to his buttocks and hole. At length, he had Rob on his belly, with his chest on an arm of the sofa, his arms dangling over the end, his eyes plastered on the raging storm outside the fourteenth-floor window, and his rump raised on his knees. He had his legs as spread as he could to accommodate the thick cock pumping his ass.

He made most of the sounds any guy would on being reamed by a telephone pool for the first time, although he did what he could to suppress them. The first fuck wore him out, but he could think back on what he had done to Eric just a bit earlier when he thought Bugoti was finished with him only to find out that the action was moving to a bedroom.

When he left the next morning, the storm had abated, but he couldn't walk a straight line.

At the door, Bugoti said, "I understand you leave for the Caribbean within two weeks."

"Yes," Rob answered.

"Until then, you will stay here. And when you come back from the Caribbean, you will return here--if I still want you to."

There was no arguing with that, Rob knew. With just that, he'd lost his freedom and independence. But at least he would still be able to go the Caribbean. He had no doubt that if he didn't come back, though, he'd be hunted down. There also had been no mention of being paid for his services. He wouldn't be the one to bring that up.

He felt trapped and deflated. And he felt that this was a turning in his life--from solely a top to whatever the other guy wanted. He intellectually knew this would happen some day, when he got older and less desirable. But this was much too soon for him, he thought.

If he knew all that was going on, though, he wouldn't be so quick to be depressed.

* * * *

"Is he satisfactory, sir?" Marco asked as he served Mickey Bugoti's breakfast.

"Quite so, Marco," Bugoti answered. "I decided not to tell him yet, though, that he's been working for me all along--that his supplier is from my operations. I like him better when there's that edge of fear in him."

"You can trust me. I won't tell him either."

"I want you to take care of a few things," Bugoti continued. "That narc who has been trying to entrap him--the black guy going by the name of Cal . . ."

"The man you sent me over to pull off of Styles last night?"

"Yes, that's him. I don't want Styles arrested. Do whatever you need to keep him off of Styles before Styles leaves for the Caribbean."

"Salvo and I could take him for a ride."

"Nothing that drastic, if you can avoid it. We don't want the FBI down on our shift. Put him sniffing on some other dead end for ten days. Or give him what he'll think is an accident to hang him up. A broken leg or something. And that other matter."

"It's already taken care of, sir. I made the visit earlier this morning while you were . . ."

Bugoti laughed. "You should have seen Styles' face when I tied his wrists off at the headboard and rode his ass like a cowboy. He didn't know I had another poke in me this morning. God, he has a sweet ass--and such a tight hole. I'll have that opened real good for him before he leaves for the islands, though."

"Yes, sir. But he doesn't know how lucky he is that you decided to acquire him."

* * * *

"Hey, I see that you've signed Rob Styles' application for next year," Hank said as he entered the OCBP station office to report that all of the stands were tucked away in storage. He had picked Rob's application from the out basket.

"Yes, I decided that this wouldn't be his last summer--that he could be the oldest lifeguard for another year."

"You're just an old softy," Hank said.

Frank didn't give an answer to that, but he certainly had a thought about it. He'd had no intention of signing off on the approval for the application--not until this morning when that big bruiser of an enforcer for Mickey Bugoti visited him and told him he'd be giving Rob Styles any accommodation the oldest lifeguard wanted.



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