Stephan Reisner
The thrift store smell had clung to the shirt, a faint phantom of mothballs and someone else's life. But a third washing had erased the past. Austin ran a hand over the soft, worn cotton, a dark blue button-down that was a definite upgrade from his usual t-shirts. The pants were a simple pair of black chinos, also thrifted, but clean and sharp enough. He looked at his reflection in the bus stop’s grimy pane of plexiglass. Not bad. He looked like he belonged somewhere, which was the entire point. The plan was simple, elegant in its directness: Find a man who needed a dick and had a place to fuck. Just thinking about it made Austin’s cock thicken. He glanced down. These pants were perfect; they enhanced his package, making him even more irresistible. Fuck Evan; Austin knew he was in control. The bus pulled up, and he was off.
The hotel was a monolith of glass and polished stone, rising from the meticulously manicured landscape of the golf course. It was a world away from the cracked sidewalks and overflowing dumpsters surrounding his apartment. He walked through the lobby, his shoulders back, his stride confident, projecting an aura of belonging. The low hum of expensive conversation, the clinking of ice in heavy glasses, the scent of money, it was all a familiar, if unwelcome, symphony. He followed the signs to the bar.
The air inside was thick with the smell of whiskey, cigars, and expensive perfume. Men in suits and women in dresses that probably cost more than his monthly rent laughed and networked. He scanned the room, his eyes assessing, dismissing, cataloging. Then he saw him. A broad, smiling face, a little sexier than he remembered, but unmistakable.
"Austin? Austin Boyd? Is that you?"
Austin’s eyebrows raised. Bruce Watson. A blast from the past, a ghost from the hallways of Northwood High. Bruce had been on the football team, popular, always surrounded by people. Austin had been… not. Although Austin had been one of the more handsome boys in high school, he was also white trash. And at Northwood, that put you in the undesirable crowd.
Austin had done his best to separate himself from the others in that group. He’d always taken PE class first thing in the morning so he could shower before the start of class. The guidance counselor knew his situation. Alcoholic mother, rumored to spread her knees for some cash. Austin’s teachers looked out for him. The coach let him wash his clothes with the athletic uniforms. He was on free lunch during the school year, and the hot meal in the park during vacation times. Bruce had never done anything to make him feel less of a person, but then he’d never done anything to make him feel included.
Austin forced a smile. "Bruce Watson. Holy shit. How long has it been?"
"Too long, man, too long," Bruce boomed, clapping him on the shoulder. His grip was strong, proprietary. "What are you up to these days? You look good. Real good."
"Just back in town for a bit," Austin said, the lie rolling off his tongue easily. "Thought I'd check out the conference."
"Yeah? What line of work you in?"
"Consulting," Austin said, another lie. Vague and impressive. All Bruce had to do was bring his car in for an oil change to find Austin trying to pick up men at Jerry’s Lube and Tune. Although, when you think about it, he did consult the men and women who brought their cars in to Jerry’s.
Bruce's eyes lit up. "No kidding! I'm just the barkeep here. I try take classes every now and then at City College. It's a grind, but it pays the bills. I’m about to start duty. Let me get you a drink, man. Rum and coke, right? I remember that from that one party."
Austin was surprised he remembered anything; he’d only been to one party, and he had crashed that one. "Yeah, thanks, Bruce." Austin followed Bruce to the bar and took a seat. Bruce went to the other side and mixed the drink. Austin watched him. He remembered how he’d wanted Bruce to be one of his friends, but Bruce was in a different league. Austin began to remember a fantasy he’d once had.
Bruce set the drink down in front of him, and Austin swept away his wandering thoughts.
The drink appeared dark and promising. Austin took a sip, the sweet burn of rum a welcome distraction. Bruce was already talking, a monologue about his still living at home, trying to juggle work with the few classes he was taking, and his lack of romantic entanglements, every now and then spending a day with the hotel manager as he tried to learn the ropes of hotel management.
Austin wasn’t sure, but Bruce seemed to be putting feelers out that he might want them to hang out. But, Austin wasn’t here to catch up with high school acquaintances. He was here to hunt.
"Anyway, man, I gotta get back to my job," Bruce said, glancing at his watch. "But it was great seeing you. Hey, enjoy the drink. Mingle. And the next time you’re in town, let me know. We’ll do something.”
"Thanks, Bruce. It’s good to see you."
Austin took his drink and headed for the sliding glass doors that led to the pool area. The early evening air was warm and humid, thick with the scent of sun block and night-blooming jasmine. He found a small, secluded table with a view of the turquoise water, illuminated from below. He leaned back in the wrought-iron chair, sipping his drink, and watched.
The pool was a stage. Men, mostly middle-aged, lounged on deck chairs or paddled lazily in the water. They were in various states of undress, their bodies telling stories of success—soft bellies from expense-account dinners, toned arms from weekend tennis, tans acquired on exotic vacations. Austin’s gaze was clinical, appreciative. He was looking for a specific type. A man alone, a man with a certain look in his eye—a blend of boredom, entitlement, and a flicker of predatory interest.
He took tiny sips from his rum and coke, a pleasant buzz softened the edges of his anxiety, when a man detached himself from a larger group and began walking slowly around the pool's edge. He was in his late fifties, maybe sixty, with silver hair combed meticulously back from a high forehead. He wore an expensive-looking bathing suit and a gold watch that glinted under the underwater lights. He wasn't handsome, but he carried himself with an air of absolute authority. He made one full circuit of the pool, his eyes sweeping the area, before his gaze settled on Austin. It was a look of assessment, of ownership. He had found what he was looking for.
The man approached the table, his movements smooth and deliberate. He didn't ask if the seat was taken; he just pulled out the chair opposite Austin and sat down.
"Evening," he said. His voice was a low rumble, like gravel turning over in a cement mixer.
"Evening," Austin replied, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"Waiting for someone?"
"Nope. Just enjoying the night."
The man nodded slowly, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "It's a nice night for it. Lots of… scenery." He let the word hang in the air, his eyes pointedly flicking down Austin's body and back up to his face. "You're not with the conference, are you?"
"I am, actually," Austin lied again.
"Really? Which firm?"
Austin hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Sterling and Howe."
The man's smile widened. "Never heard of it. But then, there are so many new players these days." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the scent of his cologne—a heavy, spicy, overwhelming fragrance—washing over Austin. "Let's cut the shit, kid. I've been running hotels like this for twenty years. I know the players, and I know the… entertainers. You're not a player."
Austin’s jaw tightened. He took a slow sip of his drink, his mind racing. He had been made.
"And that's fine," the man continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "There's a market for what you're selling. But you need to understand how things work here. I control the boys and girls who work this hotel, and the three others in the chain. You want to make money, you work for me. I provide the protection, I provide the clients. I take a cut. It's a simple, clean system. You try to freelance, you'll find yourself in a world of hurt. Are we clear?"
The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface of Austin's calm began to boil. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was the one in control, the one making the choices. He wasn't some piece of meat to be cornered and claimed.
"I think you've mistaken me for someone else," Austin said, his voice dangerously low. "I'm not a prostitute. My mother was the whore in the family. I’m just out for fun. Not money. When I have sex, it’s because I want to, not to pay the bills."
The man laughed, a short, harsh sound. "Right. You're just a handsome young man who enjoys the ambiance of expensive hotel bars alone. Kid, I've heard it all."
"Is there a problem here?"
A new voice cut through the tension. Austin looked up. A man stood beside their table, maybe in his early thirties. He was handsome in a clean-cut, wholesome way, with dark curly hair, intelligent eyes, and a friendly, open expression. He was holding a beer bottle, and he was looking directly at the older man, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
The older man scowled. "This is a private conversation."
"Doesn't sound private from where I'm standing," the younger man said easily. He looked at Austin, and his expression softened into one of genuine concern. "You okay, Austin? Is this guy bothering you?"
Austin saw his opening. He played his part. "I think he was just leaving."
“Actually,” said the man as he leaned down toward Austin, “I thought we might grab some dinner. I want to go up to my room and change my shirt first. You want to come or wait for me here?”
The older man’s face hardened. He looked from back and forth between the two men. He was weighing the situation.
"Yeah, I think I’ll go with you. Take a leak and wash my hands." Austin said, his heart still hammering against his ribs. Austin stood. They both watched the older man walk away.
“Thanks,” said Austin.
"Don't mention it. I'm Stephan, by the way. Stephan Reisner."
"Austin Boyd. How’d you know my name?"
“I heard the man at the bar use your name. I was watching you. I was hoping you were alone.”
Austin smiled. They shook hands. Stephan's grip was firm but not aggressive. “I’m not alone now.”
Stephan smiled.
"So, Austin. The hotel pimp thinks you’re a gigolo.”
Austin laughed. “Naw. Just a horny slut. Besides, I couldn’t charge; no one could afford what I’m worth.” He turned to look directly at Stephan. “Want to go up to your room and fuck?”
A grin spread across Stephan’s face. “Direct, aren’t you. That’s exactly what I want.”
Stephan's room was on the seventh floor, overlooking the sprawling, illuminated golf course. It was a standard double queen room, clean and impersonal, but with Stephan's personal touches scattered about, a book on astrophysics on the nightstand, a laptop open to a line of code, a garment bag with the name of a tech company hanging on the closet door.
"Beer?" Stephan asked, already heading for the mini-fridge.
"Sure."
He handed Austin a cold bottle and they sat in the pair of armchairs by the large window. For a few minutes, they just talked, the easy conversation a balm after the tense encounter with the pimp by the pool. Stephan was a software engineer from California, in town for the cryptography symposium. He was smart, funny, and genuinely interested in what Austin had to say, even though Austin's answers were carefully curated half-truths.
"So, what's your story, Austin?" Stephan asked, his tone casual. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but you don't exactly scream 'hotel bar regular'."
Austin looked out at the dark, silent fairways. "I'm just… passing through. Trying to figure out my next move."
Stephan nodded, accepting the vague answer without pressing. He took a long drink of his beer, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped, taking on a more intimate, hesitant quality. "Can I be blunt with you, Austin?"
"You can," Austin said, turning his gaze from the window to meet Stephan's.
"The reason I stepped in back there… it wasn't just because the guy was an asshole," Stephan began, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "It was because I saw you, and I was… interested. And then I saw what looked like him moving in on you, and it just pissed me off. The thought of him touching you…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Sorry. That's probably too much."
A slow smile spread across Austin's face. This was it. The shift. The power dynamic was changing, and he knew exactly how to ride the wave. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the empty beer bottle forgotten in his hand.
"No," Austin said, his voice a low murmur. "It's not too much at all." He held Stephan's gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting the unspoken invitation hang in the air between them. "You know what turns me on, Stephan?"
Stephan swallowed, his eyes wide and fixed on Austin's. "What?"
"Guys who are honest about what they want. What they need," Austin said. He saw a flicker of understanding, of excitement, in Stephan's eyes. "Guys who aren’t afraid to say it.”
Stephan didn’t move; he continued to stare at Austin. “I want you,” he said, quietly, but honestly.
Austin stood up, and in one fluid motion, crossed the small space between them. He leaned down, his hands bracing on the arms of Stephan's chair, and kissed him. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a hard press of lips that was a question that received an immediate answer. Stephan responded instantly, his mouth opening under Austin's, his hands coming up to grip Austin's biceps. The kiss deepened, hungry and raw, a clash of tongues and teeth. Austin could feel the thrum of desire vibrating through Stephan's body, the rapid beat of his heart against his chest.
After a moment, Austin pulled back, his breathing slightly heavy. He looked down at Stephan, whose lips were swollen and whose eyes were dark with lust. "On your knees," Austin commanded, his voice soft but firm.
Without a moment's hesitation, Stephan slid from the chair onto the plush carpet. He looked up at Austin, his expression one of utter surrender and anticipation. Austin undid his belt and the button of his chinos, the sound loud in the quiet room. He pushed the fabric down, along with his boxers, freeing his already-hard cock. He took it in his hand, stroking it once, twice, before guiding it to Stephan's waiting mouth.
Stephan took him in eagerly, his lips closing around the head, his tongue swirling over the sensitive slit. He was good at this, his mouth hot and wet, his movements confident. Austin tangled a hand in Stephan's dark curls, his fingers tightening, guiding the rhythm. He watched as Stephan's head bobbed, watched as his thick cock disappeared into that willing mouth, felt the head of his cock brush against the back of Stephan's throat. A low groan escaped Austin's lips. This was the feeling he craved, the absolute control, the complete surrender of another person to his will. He let the pleasure build, the tight, coiling heat in his groin, but he wasn't ready for it to end like this.
He pulled back, his cock slipping from Stephan's lips with a wet pop. Stephan looked up, panting slightly, a thin string of saliva connecting his lower lip to the head of Austin's dick.
"On the bed," Austin said, his voice rough with desire. "Face down."
Stephan scrambled to obey, rising to his feet and practically falling onto the bed farthest from the window. He landed on his stomach, his face turned to the side, his body taut with expectation. He was still wearing the swim trunks he must had put on earlier, a dark, simple pair of board shorts. Austin followed him, kneeling on the bed beside him. He ran a hand down the length of Stephan's spine, feeling the shiver that ran through him at the touch. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the trunks and pulled them down, just enough to expose the smooth, pale skin of his ass, the cleft between his cheeks.
Austin leaned over him, his body covering Stephan's, his chest pressing against Stephan's back. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against Stephan's ear. "I'm going to fuck you now," he whispered, his voice a low growl. "And I'm not going to be gentle. But it is the way you want it, isn’t it?"
Stephan let out a ragged breath, his hands fisting in the comforter. "Yes," he moaned. "Please."
Austin straightened up, his knees on either side of Stephan's thighs. He spat into his own palm, coating his rigid cock with the slick saliva. It was crude, primal, exactly what the moment called for. He positioned himself at Stephan's entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against the tight, puckered hole. He didn't wait for permission. He didn't ask if Stephan was ready. He just pushed.
The resistance was momentary, a tight clenching of muscle, and then he was inside, sinking deep into the heat of Stephan's body. A guttural cry was torn from Stephan's throat, a sound of pain and pleasure so intertwined they were inseparable. Austin didn't pause. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips flush against Stephan's ass, the feeling of complete possession washing over him.
He began to move, his strokes hard and deep from the very beginning. He set a punishing rhythm, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, his balls slapping against Stephan's skin with each thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of their fucking, the creak of the bed, the slap of flesh on flesh, the harsh, panting breaths of both men. Austin's hands gripped Stephan's hips, holding him in place, using his body for his own pleasure. He watched as his cock disappeared into Stephan's ass, watched the way the muscles in Stephan's back flexed and strained with each powerful thrust. This was what he wanted. This was what Stephan had wanted. The complete and total surrender.
He leaned down again, his mouth close to Stephan's ear, his breath hot against his skin. He could feel the sweat beading on Stephan's back, could hear the desperate, needy sounds he was making into the pillow.
"You like it, Mike?" Austin grunted. Austin hadn’t even realized that he had said it. “You like it hard and fast, don’t you.”
The name seemed to jolt Stephan, but his response was only to push back against Austin, to take him deeper. "Yes," he gasped, his voice muffled by the pillow. "God, yes."
The words were a catalyst. The raw, primal energy of the act. For a moment, Austin was fucking Mike. It was ugly and it was beautiful, and it was exactly what he needed. He could feel his own release building, an unstoppable tide gathering deep within him. His thrusts became erratic, more powerful, his body a piston of pure, unadulterated need. He was no longer thinking about the plan or the cold night waiting for him outside. There was only this: the heat, the tightness, the complete surrender of the man beneath him, and the fire burning in his own blood.
With a final, guttural groan, he slammed into Stephan one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. His body went rigid, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into Stephan's ass. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him, intense and all-consuming. He held himself there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against the sweat-slick skin of Stephan's back, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He could feel Stephan's own body trembling beneath him, a silent testament to the intensity of what had just transpired.
Slowly, carefully, Austin pulled out and collapsed onto the bed beside him, rolling onto his back. The cool air of the room felt good on his overheated skin. He stared up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. The anger was gone, replaced by a profound, sated emptiness.
For a long while, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing. Stephan remained face down on the bed, his body limp. Then, he stirred, slowly pushing himself up onto his elbows. He turned his head to look at Austin, his face flushed, his dark curls damp with sweat. His eyes were clear, though, and held no hint of regret, only a kind of weary wonder.
"Do you always fuck that violently?" Stephan asked, his voice hoarse.
Austin turned his head to look at him. A faint, self-satisfied smirk touched his lips. "Mostly," he said, his voice low and even, "especially when it's what the other guy wants."
Stephan didn't flinch from the directness of the answer. He studied Austin's face, his gaze searching. "Who’s Mike?"
Austin froze for a moment, and then he just shrugged, a small, dismissive gesture. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to analyze it, to pick it apart and examine its components. The moment was over. The magic, whatever it had been, had dissipated.
Stephan shifted, turning over to lie on his side, propping his head up on his hand. He looked at Austin with an unnerving intensity. "What about you and what you want?" he asked softly.
Austin's smirk vanished. The question was a pinprick on the bubble of his post-coital satisfaction. What he wanted? He wanted a hot shower and a hot meal. A safe place to sleep, without the dreams. He wanted to feel powerful, in control, never again to be the scared, helpless boy he had once been. He wanted a lot of things he could never have. He said nothing. He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, a silent wall going up between them.
Stephan seemed to understand that the direct approach wasn't going to work. He was quiet for a moment, then he tried a different angle, his voice gentle, almost hesitant. "Tell me about your first time," he said.
Austin's entire body went rigid. The shift in the atmosphere was immediate, palpable. The air grew thick and cold. He could feel the walls of his throat closing up, the old, familiar anger rising like bile.
Stephan, oblivious or perhaps just relentless, continued, his voice soft with a misplaced empathy. "Did he force himself on you?"
The question was a lit match thrown on a pool of gasoline. Austin's tone, when he finally spoke, was laced with a fury so cold and sharp it could cut glass. He didn't look at Stephan. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if he could burn a hole through it with his gaze.
"He was drunk," Austin bit out, each word a clipped, angry shard. "I wanted it, so he gave it to me."
The finality in his voice was a slammed door. There was nothing more to be said. The story wasn't a story; it was a verdict. A justification. A scar he had picked at until it had become a weapon.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, the sudden movement jarring the quiet of the room. He began to gather his clothes with quick, efficient movements. His pants, his shirt, his boxers. He dressed without looking at Stephan, his movements stiff and robotic. The vulnerability of the past few minutes had been stripped away, replaced by the hard, familiar shell of his own making. The encounter was over. The transaction, though not monetary, was complete.
He walked to the door without a backward glance. His hand was on the doorknob when Stephan's voice, quiet and laced with something that might have been pity, stopped him.
"Austin, wait…"
He didn't wait. He opened the door and stepped out into the brightly lit, impersonal hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing Stephan and his questions in the room. Austin didn't hesitate. He walked towards the elevator, his footsteps echoing on the patterned carpet. He didn't look back.
The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside, the mirrored walls reflecting his own impassive face back at him. He watched the numbers descend, his mind a blank slate. The lobby was just as he had left it, a hive of prosperous strangers. He glanced toward the bar and caught a glimpse of Bruce. He hoped Bruce hadn’t seen him. He forced himself to walk through it, and pushed through the main doors into the night.
The cold air hit him like a physical blow. It was a shock to his system, a brutal slap of reality after the heated, artificial atmosphere of the hotel room. He took a deep breath, the chill seeping into his lungs, clearing his head. He was alone again. The plan had been a partial success; he’d gotten laid. He’d taken control and flushed Ethan from his thoughts.
He started walking, away from the lights of the hotel, towards the shadows of the city and his own apartment. The anger was back, but it was different now. It wasn't a hot, explosive fire. It was a cold, hard knot of ice in his gut, and its name was Mike. That fucker Mike. That fucking handsome sexy asshole bastard. The thought of him was like a poison, and it spread through him with every cold step he took into the night.
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