Easy Sunday Cities

Chicago

A tower bell of a church somewhere beyond the hotel on Chicago’s North Side was peeling off the call to a service, and it seemed that Ricardo was coordinating his thrusts with the bell tolling. The hunky Brazilian was on top of Gene, doing him in a missionary, on the king-sized bed in Oscar Oliphant’s sixth-floor Armitage Hotel room. He was hovering over the younger male model, his knees between Gene’s bent legs, his hands pressing the young man’s upper arms to the mattress, his face close enough to Gene’s, a look of determination in his eyes, that his loose, shoulder-length black hair was tickling Gene’s throat and the tops of his bare shoulders as it moved with the hard, big-cock thrusts of his pelvis. Ricardo was intent on getting every bit of pleasure from the friction of his thrusts inside the young model that he could get before releasing his seed.

With a moan, Gene raised his buttocks from the mattress, giving the Brazilian deeper access, which the man took advantage of, thrust a few more time, tightened and jerked, filled the bulb of his condom, and rolled off to the right of Gene, onto his back. He was snoring within a minute. But he had a contented smile on his face. Gene was one of the best lays he’d ever had.

Gene wasn’t finished with his servicing responsibilities, though. Oscar Oliphant had been lying on his side to the left of Gene, facing him, stroking Gene’s cock with his hand while Ricardo fucked Gene. Oscar had had first fuck with Gene, taking him in a straightforward missionary, with Ricardo sitting on the side of the bed and helping to guide the thrusts with a hand on Oscar’s bare buttocks. Having shot his load, Oscar had rolled off to the side of the bed, while Ricardo moved over on top of Gene for his turn.

While Ricardo took over the fuck and Oscar was stroking Gene’s cock with one hand, the fashion designer had a marijuana joint in his other hand and was puffing on that. He loosened the hold of his hand and Gene kept moving his hips, fucking up into the loose sheath of Oscar’s folded fingers until, with a sigh, he came. Oscar moved the joint to Gene’s mouth, and the young man took a couple of puffs before, his mind becoming clouded, he brushed it away, crawled out from between the two men, and went to the hotel room window.

He could see the church bell tower beyond a park, on West Webster Avenue, which would dead end in three blocks into Lakeshore Park fronting on Lake Michigan. They weren’t in a high-rise part of the city, but they weren’t far from the city center. The hotel was a bit seedy and off the beaten path, but that was natural for a building with a gentleman’s club, the Stag Club, on the eighth, top, floor and a bar of ill repute on the ground floor. They were in town to peddle one of the House of Oliphant’s men’s fashion lines to retailers. Gene and another male model, Chip, were there to model the clothing, much of it sexy wear for adult boutiques and gay male online retailers, in a fashion show this afternoon in the Stag Club. Ricardo Faria, once a star soccer player in Brazil who had been sidelined by a leg injury, was there to keep Gene and Chip under control and in line.

Gene had been with the House of Oliphant for nearly six months. Before that he was with the House of Havlos and was being shared between the fashion house’s maven, Helene, and her Serbian nationalist husband Victor Macek. Gene had been with Victor when the man had been blown away by Helene’s jealous hairdresser. Although both Helene and Gene continued with their arrangement for several months, the specter of Victor, who Gene had been taking writing classes from at Columbia University and who was the model for a Yugoslavia freedom fighter in the novel Gene was writing, remained in both their minds. When Ricardo seduced Gene and Oscar wanted Gene to model for his fashion house, Gene made the move to Oscar’s fashion house. The move still rankled a bit, both because Ricardo had been duplicitous in seducing Gene and Gene had seen money exchange hands in the change of his modeling contract. He couldn’t help feeling a whore in multiple dimensions. That Oscar and Ricardo regularly shared Gene in a threesome, sometimes doubling him by both being inside him at once, only drove home this feeling.

He could clearly see the park—Oz Park—from here, and he ached for the freedom to be there, to walk free, and, if he fell into a hookup, this being Sunday, a day he felt wanton, it would be one of his own choice. He’d been told he wouldn’t only be modeling on this trip—that some of the more important retailers coming to the fashion show expected accommodation by the models. He had complained to Ricardo, who had laughed and said, “You and Chip will be taking care of the tops. I’ve got to service the bottoms myself. Don’t complain to me.”

Oscar joined Gene at the window, coming in behind him and holding him close. They both were naked, and Oscar, an older man, but slim and hard of body and elegant of manner, was in erection, his already-sheathed cock pressing at the small of Gene’s back. He reached around Gene with both hands. One palmed Gene’s sternum and the other offered the joint to Gene again. The young man took a couple of puffs. Oscar took another puff himself and then placed the joint in an ash tray on top of the bureau next to the window. That hand now went to Gene’s chin, pulling Gene’s head back toward into his chest. His other palm glided down Gene’s torso to his belly, and gently pulled back.

“Present to me,” Oscar whispered.

With a sigh, Gene changed his position, widening the stance of his legs, pushing his buttocks back and raising them, and pressing the palms of his hands on the window. His eyes watered briefly and he yawned his mouth open at the penetration of the cock, but he gave no sound other than beginning to pant and his breath going ragged as Oscar forced his cock up into the young man’s passage deep and began the rhythm of the fuck.

Gene stared out into space, fixating on the park beyond the next block—Oz Park—thinking of being there, free to do as he liked—to pick up men of his own choice. Oscar’s attentions were getting to him, though. He took men’s cocks not just because he needed the money. He took men’s cocks because he enjoyed being shafted—especially on Sundays. And Oscar had a very nice cock and an expert fuck technique. He made love to every inch of Gene’s channel. Gene took both Oscar’s and Ricardo’s cocks together because it was a sense of pride that he could and it was a sense of power that two such beautiful men could have such passion for him at the same time.

He sighed and began moving his pelvis with the deep, slow thrusts. He didn’t want to be this easy, but he couldn’t help it.

“Yes, yes, right there, like that,” he murmured. “Yes, fuck me. Like that.”

Ricardo Faria gave out a snort in his sleep from across the room. Oscar contributed a little laugh and continued moving his hips as Gene sighed. In, out, in deeper, hold . . . sigh . . . out . . . in . . .

The church bell had started chiming again. Oscar’s thrusts were right on the beat. He had moved his hand to Gene’s cock and was stroking him. Oscar had long, elegant fingers and soft hands. On the last strike of the church bell, Gene shot his cloudy load against the lower panel of the window, watching the glob dribble down the glass, as Oscar’s cum, the fashion designer having pulled out and stripped off the condom before ejaculating, dribble down Gene’s inner thighs.

Oscar pulled away from Gene and headed toward the bathroom and the showers, while Ricardo came over, took Gene in an embrace, kissed him on the lips, and led him back to the bed, where, bending the young man over the mattress and forcing Gene’s arms over his head with a firm grasp on both of his wrists, Ricardo mounted him and began the dance of the fuck one more time.

* * * *

Gene sat at the desk in his third-floor hotel room, going over a chapter of his novel draft. He was taking the manuscript with him everywhere he went these days and whenever he had a few minutes to spare, he worked on it. It was his escape from his nearly sex slave existence in the world of fashion, albeit how submissively and willingly he acquiesced to it. The novel almost was just the way he wanted it, and his mind kept going to what he could use as an escape after it was done. He always could write about the reality of a male model in the fashion world, but that wouldn’t provide him an escape from this world, a world of pleasure, yes, but of almost unbearable intensity and lack of control. Thus, he kept tinkering with the book he had. He knew that the danger at this point was to overmassage it, to suck all of his own voice out of it. He barely touched it these days without the thought of “first do no harm.”

The knock at the door jolted him out of the fantasy world he was in—and the memories of Victor Macek—when he had his nose in the manuscript.

“We should be up there already.” Chip was at the door. “It will start in fifteen and we need to be ready to walk off the first ensemble.”

“I’m already dressed, Chip,” Gene answer. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

He, in fact, was already dressed—in black. The first pass on the catwalk would be making an all-black, dangerous leather statement. He was wearing a mesh muscle athletic T-shirt over tight black leather jeans, with a drop codpiece at the crotch. Black boots. The hand whip was already set up in the Stag Club, behind the stage. He had a black beret to put on too. He had to remember to swagger down the catwalk in this. The clothes were tight, sexy. It was the most coverage of his body that there would be on him for this show. The buyers were looking for sexy—and easily removed. This wasn’t the usual set of buyers—these men, mainly men, mainly men who wanted other men—were buying for gay sex clubs and online catalogs.

Gene came out first. Chip, a little older than he was and darker and more pouty and more muscular, followed on the catwalk behind him in the same black leather jeans but bare-chested with a black leather harness. He was wearing black leather gloves and also carried—and swished as he strutted—the hand whip.

The room was long and narrow, like the one at Punto, in New York, that Helene often used for House of Havlos fashion shows. But it was a smaller room than Punto’s catwalk room was. The crowd was smaller too, but it looked like a lot of people from Gene’s position on the catwalk as he took the long walk down and then off to the slightly wider raised platform at either side at the end, where he went one direction and Chip the other and where both did their turns to the snapping of the cameras before returning to the backstage for the quick change down into something ever skimpier as they moved toward the end of the show.

Most of the patrons were men, although there were some hard-looking women too, who ate the models up with their eyes as much as any of the men did. Gene had encountered some of them before—women who reveled in getting a gay boy hard, of coaxing him inside her, and then snapping her steel trap of a cunt shut and milking him as he screamed at the brutality of her taking. He’d made the mistake of going with one of these women after a show like this, a woman who proved she was stronger and more experienced than he was and who held him captive in position, as she milked him again and again, until his balls ached and he cried out for a mercy she didn’t grant him.

Luckily, there would be none of those staying on after the show for the after-event special treatment given to the high rollers who wanted to stay and who were good for big orders of the clothing. At the end, Gene and Chip were down to lacy panties only, with slits in front and back and opaque pouches that clearly revealed what they were packing.

Four men, three middle-aged, hefty, and no beauties, and one highly acceptable one, remained when the crowd cleared and Gene and Chip had been called back out on the catwalk by Oscar Oliphant, standing at the lectern on stage and Ricardo Faria, standing with the four men and refereeing what followed.

Two of the men fucked Gene, with one of the men leaning back into one of the catwalk extensions and pulling Gene’s buttocks into his crotch. The better looking of the two athletically crouched, feet on the catwalk, in front of Gene and fed his cock into Gene’s mouth. The middle-aged man pulled Gene’s passage into his cock through the slit in the back of Gene’s panties, raised and spread Gene’s legs and fucked him hard. The man remained dressed and Gene was still in his panties. The slit in the back of them, though, gave the man’s cock full access to Gene’s hole. His cock was thick, the capability of his reach deep. The saving grace for Gene at first was that the man at his head was the best looking of the retailers. He managed to move an arm back under his buttocks and stroke Gene off as he face fucked him and the other man fucked Gene in a doggie. The good-looking guy was in great shape and athletic.

The better-looking of the buyers grew bored with the facing fucking and the tableau moved into double penetration, with the good-looking one hoping off the catwalk, moving to between Gene’s legs, and lifting and spreading them more than the man under Gene had done. He entered Gene’s passage above the already buried cock and began to stroke. The man was good looking, his kisses were sweet, neither of the men were bulls—and Gene had done this before—so he went with it and took them both, giving them both the good time Ricardo had promised them.

Both Gene and Chip had, of course, known that servicing the key buyers would be part of the show, and both were being appropriately compensated.

The other two men had Chip bent over the seat of one of the guest chairs, with one man doggie fucking him and the other face feeding him.

If any of the retailers availed themselves of Ricardo’s cock, Gene didn’t see that happen, so he figured that Ricardo had just fed him a line of bull about that rather than sympathy.

The two models escaped back to their separate rooms and their showers and bottles of mouth wash, while Oscar took the clothing orders from the satisfied retailers.

But Gene only thought he had escaped. When he got back to the room, there was a knock at the door.

“My order was extra big,” the more presentable of the retailers said when Gene opened the door. “He told me what room you were in and said for you to let me come in.”

Dipping his head, Gene took a step back to let the not-so-old, and in-great-shape retailer in the room. They fucked on the bed initially. The retailer was almost tender at first. As Gene had already known, he had a nice cock. And he knew how to use it. Gene sighed for him as the man covered him on the bed and took him half way to heaven in a missionary. For an encore, though, the man challenged Gene’s flexibility with “swinging from the chandelier” challenging sex positions that used the whole room and that had Gene groaning deeply and panting hard.

Gene didn’t mind all that much. Sunday was his slut day. But he still would like to be making these decisions for himself—and taking any profit there was for them rather than the bulk of that going to Oscar and Ricardo. It turned out, though, that it wasn’t that bad. The man cocked him very well, and he left a generous tip on the bureau, both of which Gene marked as profit on Sundays.

* * * *

Gene showered again after the retailer had left his room. He sat at the desk and returned to working on his manuscript. He couldn’t hold his concentration on that, though. He and the retailer had been in synch in their first fuck. It was the fuck that Gene ached for, while the second, wild fuck was what he generally got. Once the connection had been made that first time, the man was inside him, and they were rocking their bodies together, Gene fell into the rhythm, digging his fingernails into the man’s plump buttocks, going with the pattern of the thrusts, and flexing and releasing his fingerholds to the beat of the man inside him, responding to the man whispering in his ear how sweet and tight he was.

The second fuck was much more demanding and vigorous, but the man was an expert. He had brought Gene off three time and he’d left him a tip. Gene couldn’t ask for any more—especially on a Sunday.

But then he knew he could ask for more—that he could want more. He could have had control of himself and his body. In this encounter in his room, as with everything else that had happened so far that day, Oscar Oliphant—backed up by Ricardo Faria—had had control. Even this evening that would happen. Oscar said they’d be eating dinner with the biggest vendor of the House of Oliphant adult men’s line of clothing, who had seen photos of Gene and wanted to fuck him. He’d been too important to come to the fashion show, but he was here in Chicago and he wanted to fuck Gene. So, at Oscar’s declaration, the four of them, Oscar, Ricardo, Gene, and the retailor, named Harold, would sit down to dinner in the bar on the first floor and at the end of dinner there would only be Gene and Harold. Then there would be this hotel room. Gene was warned that Harold was rough. If that hookup hadn’t been planned, Chip and Gene would have been put in the same hotel room.

Gene felt the walls of the room closing in on him. Everywhere he turned, Oscar’s control was there. And Oscar had bought him—his contract—from Helene, so Gene felt he was no more than Oscar’s trained monkey. And, worse, he, Gene, was weak. Whenever he was ready to blow, Oscar was there, stroking him, gathering him in, fucking him—and once again reminding Gene that he was weak in the face of the constraints and control being applied to him.

He had to get out of here. He had to be somewhere and do something that was of his own choice. He’d brought athletic gear. He exercised every day to stay in model shape. He dressed in a jock strap, athletic shorts and T-shirt, and running shoes, without socks. He grabbed a water bottle and hand towel and slipped out of the hotel. He gave no thought to where he was headed, but he found himself in Oz Park, running the pathways.

Gene nearly exhausted himself in the mindless run on the park’s paths. Near the center of the park, he collapsed on a bench, toweled his face and neck off, and took a deep swig of the water. That was better. He was feeling better. He was feeling more in control. He knew it was a false sense of control, but then he thought maybe not, when he noticed that a rangy, gangster-looking black guy had passed the bench for the third time, each time turning toward him and giving him “the eye.”

He looked like a bad side of Chicago thug. He was tall and thin, wearing baggy shorts, riding low on his narrow waist, with a long silver chain hanging, looped off a heavy leather belt barely holding the shorts up. His athletic T was cut deep at the sides and the neck, showing bulging biceps and pecs and considerable tattooing. He looked mean as hell.

He was just the type of guy Oscar wouldn’t want Gene to go with.

On the third pass, the thug stopped, turned, gave Gene a wide smile and a wink and popped his tongue in his cheek. He grabbed his crotch and gave it a shake. He inclined his head toward the opening of a smaller path going deeper in the park’s foliage. Then he turned and slowly started walking down that path. This wasn’t like the hookups Gene had engaged in in New York’s Central Park. This was more primeval, dangerous, raw.

Gene rose from the bench and followed him.

They had reached the fuck stage in the bushes off that path when they froze at the sound of a couple of women, speaking loudly, and an unknown number of squealing children dancing around them moving down the path toward the two men.

Gene was standing, but crouched over, his head pushed toward the soil under the bushes by a strong black hand pressing on the back of his neck. Gene’s wrists were bound behind his back with the chain that had been hanging from the black thug’s belt. The black guy was folded over Gene’s body, his free hand palming Gene’s belly. Gene’s athletic shorts were puddled around his ankles, as were the black thug’s around his. The black guy’s cock, possibly the longest Gene had ever taken in his throat before; they were beyond the preliminary now—was inside Gene’s ass, moving deeper, as Gene writhed and huffed and puffed through the wadding of his athletic shirt that was stuffed in his mouth.

They weren’t just preparing to fuck; they already were fucking.

At the sound of the approaching women and their bevy of urchins, the thug pulled his dick out of Gene, hissed for Gene to follow him further into the foliage, jerked up his shorts, whipped the chain off Gene’s wrists, and turned and pulled Gene away with him. Gene, whimpering, barely had time to pull his shorts up before he was being pulled into the bushes.

He was pushed and pulled to a derelict stone building, with a pitted and overgrown pathway leading to it from who knows where. The door was covered by a steel sheet, but the thug had no trouble pushing that aside and pulling Gene into what turned out to be an abandoned restroom.

Gene was pulled into a toilet stall, the door of which had been ripped half off and was leaning open.

They started from the beginning again, the thug pushing Gene down onto his ass on the toilet, grabbing his wrists and forcing his arms over his head, the wrists against the porcelain tiles of the back wall, and feeding his long cock down Gene’s throat. Gene gave him good head, which made the thug grunt his satisfaction, withdraw his cock, pull Gene up and around, putting him on his knees. He slammed Gene’s head against the back wall a couple of times to hear Gene yelp and then sob and to completely subdue him. He strapped Gene on the back and buttocks a few times with his leather belt for effect, bound his wrists behind his back with the chain again, mounted his ass, and fucked him vigorously and cruelly in a doggie fuck to the thug’s ejaculation.

When the black bull had shot his load, Gene realized that he wasn’t sheathed, that he had barebacked him and was creaming him deep with multiple plasterings of hot cum. Gene cried out in ecstasy at the total taking.

He was left on the floor of the abandoned restroom, curled up in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, and . . . humming.

It had been exhilarating. It had taken his breath away. The thug had been an expert cocksman and had one of the world’s longest cocks. He’d reach into the soft core and jerked climaxes out of Gene such as the young man had never felt before. Gene had been ravished and mastered, fucked dirty and raw, and it had made him feel alive.

And he had chosen it—the choice of being taken brutally like this had been under his control—not Oscar’s or Ricardo’s or Helene’s or the dead Victor’s. And Oscar had not benefited in any way from the ravishing of his sex slave.

This was a Sunday to remember.

* * * *

Gene did what he could to hide the superficial wounds he had suffered—if “suffered” was a fair word to be used for what was done to him to soar his arousal into the stratosphere—before he went down to the hotel bar for a drink and a light supper. A long-sleeve shirt, despite the steamy summer temperatures in Chicago, took care of the chain chaff marks on his wrists. He had a diaphanous shirt that highlighted his fine torso but that had thick wrist cuffs. The welts on his back and buttocks were barely noticeable—or so he believed—and they wouldn’t show during supper. He’d rubbed a bit of blemish-masking cream on them and would just make sure the lights were low when he took the retailer back to his room.

The cut on his forehead from having his head bounced off the wall behind the toilet was something else. But the bruise would be worse tomorrow than tonight. He had makeup he could use to minimize that. And he could hope the lighting in the bar would be low.

The lighting in the bar area was low, the effect of the stage lit up where there was a pianist and singer making it even dimmer where the audience sat, but Oscar was eagle-eyed enough to notice the makeup on his model’s forehead and he rose and met Gene at the door of the bar. Marred skin was anathema to a fashion model.

“Whatever happened . . . what did you do this afternoon?” he asked in a hiss.

“I fell. I’m sorry. I don’t think my brow is what this john of yours will want to play with,” Gene answered. “Is he here yet?”

“Yes, he’s here. And don’t even joke about calling Mr. Salisbury a john. His first name is Harold. And you are to do for him anything he wants from you.”

“Oh, I can see where you wouldn’t want to call him a john then,” Gene said. His afternoon had made him feisty. Oscar saw the flash in the young man’s eyes and bit off what he might have said. He would deal with this later. He put on a fake smile and guided Gene back to the table in a dark corner of the room.

Gene’s spirits took a nosedive as they approached the table. The man was a sweaty toad. He seemed nervous at the situation, although anxious to get at Gene too—his eyes lit up when he saw Gene approaching. He was fifty if he was a day and at least 250 pounds. And ugly as sin. He looked disheveled and his suit didn’t fit him at all well, which was an unfortunate surprise considering that he was important enough in the clothing distribution industry to command his own whore boy from a fashion designer.

But this was the job. Gene slid in beside him and gave him a sexy smile. He didn’t even flinch when a big hand gripped his knee painfully under the table. The introductions went OK until Gene lifted an arm at one point and his sleeve pulled back enough for Oscar to see the burn marks on his wrist. Oscar gave Gene a venomous stare at that point, but luckily the waiter arrived for their drink and dinner orders, and when he was finished and walked away from the table, the pianist and singer had returned from their breaks and started another set.

Gene did what he could to maintain conversation and the required flirting with Harold Salisbury, while the clothing distributor fairly slobbered over him in anticipation of getting him alone. When he could, Gene looked around at the other tables. In doing so, his eyes met with a man across the room who seemed to be as uncomfortable with his dinner companions as Gene was and who showed all of the attributes that Gene would have liked to see in a man he’d been hooked up with to bed him later. The man was probably in his early fifties, just as Salisbury was, but he was trim and handsome in a rugged way, and he wore his tuxedo like he too was a male model. His eyes sparkled when his gaze met Gene’s and he had an engaging smile. He was bearded, with salt and pepper hair, but the beard was close cropped and expertly trimmed.

Increasingly, Gene found his attention drifting away from his table to elsewhere in the room. He frequently went back to looking at the gentleman across the room, and when he did, he found the man was watching him. It occurred to him that, from their relative positions, the man could tell that Salisbury had a hand on Gene’s thigh under the table—and then his inner thigh, and eventually his basket. Oscar had told Gene that the hotel bar was well known as a gay hookup venue, too, so it didn’t take much imagination for the gentleman across the room to assume that Gene was a rent-boy.

Dinner was nearing its completion and Gene knew that Oscar and Ricardo would make excuses at any moment about leaving while suggesting that Salisbury and Gene remain for another drink—afterwards, of course . . .

Feeling a bit panicked, needing to bolster his courage, and having an urge to piss, Gene excused himself for the opportunity to go to the men’s room before the real event started. The eyes of the gentleman across the room followed him to the door.

And when Gene was in the men’s room and standing at a urinal and pissing into it, he found that the gentleman followed him there too. They stood side-by-side for longer than necessary, both with their dicks out, each man’s cock in view of the other man. Gene was pleased to see that the man was hung. The man smiled—not into Gene’s face—but looking down at his cock, so it was evident that he liked what he saw too. Both had completed their urination, but they both just stood there, waiting for something.

The man moved first. He pulled away from his urinal. Gene felt the disappointment of the loss of him, but only for a second or two because the man didn’t leave. In a whisper behind Gene, the man said, “Is your time for sale, and are you available?”

Gene murmured a “Maybe, for the right man.”

“Could I be the right man?”

“Yes.”

The man came in close behind Gene and embraced him, one hand going to Gene’s belly and the other fisting his cock.

“Do you mind?” he whispered in Gene’s ear. “I want to make you come, and I want to fuck you. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Gene murmured and he leaned a bit forward, placing the palms of his hands against the tiles of the wall behind the urinals. He nearly laughed at the similarity between this afternoon in the abandoned park restroom and here. The circumstances were so different and yet his arousal was the same.

The man was stroking Gene’s cock off. His face was buried in Gene’s neck. He kissed the young man, blew in his ear, and whispered, “If I’m going to be fucking you, we should know each other’s names. I am Kenton. Kenton Blackburn. And you are Beautiful and Submissive Young Man. That’s the name I will know you by. You are submissive, aren’t you?”

Gene laughed, a low guttural laugh. “Yes, I’m submissive. I’m Gene. Gene Worth. From New York.”

“You’re one of the models who came in for the fashion show up in the Stag Club earlier today, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and you’re going to make me come quickly if you don’t stop jacking me off,” Gene said.

“That’s the plan. Fire when ready. And I want to fuck you then. I could fuck you right here, but we could be discovered at any moment. The danger of that is arousing in itself, though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, it is, and it’s going to make me come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I am coming.”

And then he did, splashing his spunk against the back wall of the urinal. He turned his face to the man’s—to Kenton Blackburn’s face—and they kissed.

“Is your name really Kenton Blackburn?” Gene whispered.

“Yes. Half the arousal is knowing that it really will be Kenton Blackburn fucking you. Are you really Gene Worth of New York City?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for being honest. I saw a program from the fashion show today. I knew you really were Gene Worth. I like that you were honest with me. I do want to fuck you—and to save you from that ogre at your table. You don’t really want to be there, do you? You are going with that loser because Oscar Oliphant wants you to—that Oliphant will profit from you doing so, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you will go with me instead and lay under me, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be fooled by appearances. I will be rough.”

“That will be fine. I’ll have to admit that I’ve become jaded to vanilla sex.”

“I will test you. I know a back way to get to the hotel lobby without going back to the bar. I could get a room here.”

“I already have a room here,” Gene whispered.

* * * *

Blackburn was riding him high on the bed in a doggie. Gene’s chest was pushed into the mattress and his arms were flung out to the side, his fists gripping bunches of the bedspread. He was raised on his knees, his tail high in the air, and the older man was riding him hard, leaning over him, smashing Gene’s cheek into the bedspread with one hand and whipping his exposed buttocks and thighs with his belt with the other as he thrust hard inside him, again and again.

Gene was loving the intensity of the ride.

Despite the check on whether Gene would take the fuck rough, that it was an extra-rough fuck had arisen from a misunderstanding, but Gene hadn’t corrected the impression Blackburn had gotten. After standing and kissing and fondling each other, pulling their cocks out while still dressed and stroking each other to high arousal, they had undressed each other and laid on the bed. There was only one table lamp on, and that was across the room, so it was dim where the bed was.

Blackburn had started off making tender love to Gene, kissing him all over and running his hands on the young man’s curves and into his crevices. While he did so, though, he discovered the light welts on Gene’s buttocks and back and the burn marks on his wrists.

“You’ve had it rough recently,” he remarked. He was kissing and licking the welts down from Gene’s back and onto his buttocks.

“Yes,” Gene whispered.

“And you liked it rough,” Blackburn said.

“Yes,” Gene admitted.

“But you’ll take it even rougher than that?”

“Yes.” He gave a little cry because Blackburn then flipped him over on his back, laced his arms through Gene’s thighs, and raised and spread them. The cry was because the man had gone immediately for his hole with his tongue and teeth. He backed off occasionally, biting Gene on his tender-skin inner thighs. And then he was kneeling between Gene’s thighs, shoving his knees under Gene’s buttocks. There had been little preparation and his dick was big. Still, while he was binding Gene’s wrists together over his head with Gene’s belt, he was working his cock inside the young man’s channel.

Gene writhed under him, panting hard, and crying out “Fuck, shit, fuck!” but Blackburn gave him no quarter, as he assumed Gene wanted. In short order, with Blackburn deep inside Gene, they established a coordinated rhythm of the fuck and Gene was crying out for the thrusting. Somehow Blackburn had managed to sheath himself before penetrating Gene’s ass and when he came, he pulled away from Gene, ripped the spent condom off, arced three prodigious gobs of cum on Gene’s heaving belly, and managed to dunk toss the condom in the wastebasket beside the bed.

They lay there, tangled up with each other, both panting hard.

“Hot damn,” Blackburn murmured.

“Fuckin’ A right,” Gene whispered. Blackburn released Gene’s wrists from the binding of the belt and flicked it against Gene’s flanks. The younger man scooted down the bed and took Blackburn’s cock in his mouth and sucked it hard again. When the older man was fully erect again, Gene sat up and looked down into his face and smiled. Blackburn smiled back and then backhanded Gene across the cheek, sending the young man sprawling back on the bed in surprise.

That’s when Blackburn positioned Gene for the doggie and mounted and fucked his ass, while he strapped him lightly with the belt.

Afterward they lay stretched out beside each other on the bed, each working at bringing their heavy breathing under control.

“Did I do it right?” Blackburn whispered.

“You did it great. But you should know that I don’t usually have it that rough. Earlier was just something unusual.”

“I’m sorry then. I don’t usually give it that rough. Maybe I didn’t—”

“It was great. I’d like to have it that way from time to time. It makes me feel alive. As I said, I take men’s cocks so often that it can become boring vanilla sex. I felt alive with you.”

“Will I see you again—fuck you again?”

“If you live in New York or come to New York.”

“I live here in Chicago. But I go to New York sometimes.”

“I have address cards over on the desk,” Gene said. “I’m going to go take a shower now, but you can take one of my cards and call me when you come to New York. I’d like that.”

“Let me shower first,” Blackburn said, rolling off the bed. It was a command, not a request. He was asserting full control.

The knock at the door—more like a bang—startled them both. The voice of Ricardo boomed out. “Are you in there, Gene? Open up. Where the fuck did you go?”

The bang rang out again but then was followed by a more gentle knock. Oscar Oliphant this time. “You there, baby? Don’t be scared. It’s OK. I know he is a toad. It’s OK. We closed the deal anyway. I see that you’ve been hurt, though. Open up, baby. Tell me what happened.”

With a sigh, Gene rolled over and sat on the side of the bed, but Blackburn gestured for him to stay there. He was already standing half way to the door. He leaned down, scarfed up his briefs, pulled them on, and went to the door. He opened it. Oscar and Ricardo were on the other side, out in the corridor. Their faces showed surprise and then narrowed into a frown. They backed up as Blackburn moved into the corridor and pulled the door nearly shut behind him.

Gene heard voices from the other side of the door, Ricardo talking in anger at first but the tone calming down. Gene couldn’t hear what they were saying. He opened the drawer to the nightstand and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, extracted one, and lit it up. His hand was shaking, but he didn’t know whether that had been from the rough sex or the appearance of Oscar. He was aware he’d let Oscar down. He was more aware that he didn’t give a shit that he had. He sensed that his Oscar and Ricardo period might be coming to an end.

Blackburn reentered the room, raised a finger to stave off questions, rummaged around in the separate parts of his tux on the carpet and came up with a checkbook and a pen from the inside pocket of his tux jacket. He went back into the corridor. When he returned, he walked over to stand in front of where Gene was sitting. He tossed the checkbook and pen on the nightstand, gently took the cigarette out of Gene’s mouth, took a puff himself, and ground the cigarette into the ashtray on the nightstand. He cupped Gene’s face with his hand and came in for a kiss.

Coming out of the kiss, he looked into Gene’s eyes, and said, “It seems you are mine now. Bought and paid for. You weren’t cheap and I always get my money’s worth.”

Gene was totally surprised by the slap. Blackburn backhanded him across his cheek, sending him flopping back onto the bed. Blackburn stripped off his briefs, grabbed Gene’s ankles in his fists, wishboned the young man’s legs, and dove between them. He thrust inside Gene hard and deep, and the young man arched his back and his head and grabbed for Blackburn’s hair, hanging on for dear life and writhing, panting hard, and groaning his total surrender, as the older man pistoned him to a bareback creaming. The frame of the bed shimmered and complained as their pelvises bounced up and down, Blackburn driving hard, and Gene meeting him in counterthrusts. They came almost simultaneously, both in a joyous shout.

Pulling out of him, Blackburn said, “OK, you can shower first this time.” He took a cigarette from the pack Gene had left on the nightstand, lit up, and went to the window, turned away from Gene, while Gene groaned in the effort to rise from the bed and stumble to the bathroom. Despite the groan, he couldn’t help having a little smile on his face. God, the man could fuck.

When Gene came out of the bathroom, he found Blackburn, dressed again, sitting at the desk, reading his manuscript.

“Is this yours? Did you write this?”

“Yes,” Gene said. “I’m studying to be a writer.”

“Well this is good—no, it’s very good. I’m a book publisher. Here in Chicago. That’s what I do. I know good when I see it. I would publish this. No, if you let me, I will publish this.”

“You really think its publishable?”

“Yes. You have to stay in Chicago for a while. You have to come home with me. Tonight. We have to start work on this. Sign contracts. Get started.”

“You’re not just trying to get me into your bed, are you?” Gene asked.

“Well, yes, but I want your book too.”

“You want to fuck my book?”

“No, I want to publish your book. And I want to fuck you too. Pack your bag. My car is in the hotel garage.”

Blackburn’s car was a sleek BMW 7 series. His mansion was nearly an hour west in a wealthy suburb. He wasn’t married. They fucked in the first bedroom they came to. The bed was huge. And despite his age Blackburn was able to get it up, stick it in, and fire it off two more times before the grandfather clock in his foyer downstairs struck midnight.

Gene rolled off the bed and walked for what seemed to be a mile before he got to the voluminous master bedroom. Once there, he took a shower and then stood at the urinal—the bathroom was fancy enough to have a urinal as well as a toilet and even a bidet—and took a piss. Blackburn, naked, came into the bath. He moved in close behind Gene, palmed Gene’s belly with one hand, and encircled the young man’s cock with the other. Gene leaned in, stiff arming and palming the wall behind the urinal, letting Blackburn hold his cock for the finish of the urination. The older man didn’t take his hand away then, though. He began stroking Gene’s cock.

“I wanted to fuck you at the urinal at the hotel bar,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Gene whispered.

“I want to fuck you here, now, at the urinal,” Blackburn said.

“Yes,” Gene answered.

Blackburn kissed him on the neck, took his hand away from Gene’s belly long enough to wedge his sheathed cockhead in Gene’s channel entrance, and then moved his hand back. He pressed in on Gene’s belly while he thrust up into Gene’s channel with his hard cock. Gene grimaced, but he took the penetration without jerking. He knew it was Sunday for no other reason than he’d had a cock up his ass for most of the day. He wasn’t complaining, though.

As he slow pumped Gene’s ass and stroked off his cock, the older man whispered in Gene’s ear, “Thank you. I so wanted to do this back in the bar.”

“I was dying for you to do it there too,” Gene murmured.

“You are completely submissive to me.”

“Yes,” Gene answered.

“I like that. I’ll make it worth your while.”

When they had both come, Blackburn went into the shower and Gene returned to the bed.

That was Sunday in Chicago, he mused to himself as he drifted off, contented, satiated, and encouraged that his writer career was already taking off, close in the embrace of the book publisher, Kenton Blackburn.

Gene didn’t give much thought at all to having deserted Oscar Oliphant back at the bar. Instead, he felt the exhilaration of having greater control of his own life. He had burned his bridges before.