Fan Male

[This is Chapter One of a completed five-chapter mystery novella, which will finish posting within two weeks of the first chapter posting.]

Angelo involuntarily sucked air when he saw the tableau. It wasn’t because he was shocked at seeing Guido being lap fucked by the Greek, although that, indeed, was a surprise. It was because of what was sticking out of Guido’s hard, erect cock. The end of a thin steel rod protruded from Guido’s piss slit. The Greek was holding the young man’s back to his hairy chest with one hand cupping Guido’s chin. The Greek’s other hand was manipulating the steel rod, revolving it a bit in Guido’s piss slit and slowly pushing it in and then pulling it a bit out and then back in, perhaps a little deeper than it had been before. A rolling table had been pulled up on the other side of the pair beside their legs. Angelo could see that there were other, graduated-in-size steel rods arranged neatly on the table top.

Seeing that Angelo had entered the chamber, Bret spun the rod out of Guido’s shaft, gestured Guido off his lap, and, smiling at the newly arrived young Italian, said, “Come, Angelo, come to me where Guido has been.” With hesitant steps, Angelo approached as Guido pulled away and scurried out of the room.

 

Kit Helms wanted to push on with writing the sounding story, but he was already late in going to Toby’s apartment for lunch. With luck, Toby’s hunky boyfriend, the D.C. vice cop Hardesty, would be there too. Hardesty—and Toby, for that matter—had provided many a scenario for the stories Kit wrote for the Internet gay male porn sites and published through Amazon. This writing was becoming quite a nice supplement to Kit’s salary as an assistant curator at the National Gallery of Art on the Mall. God, I wish Hardesty would give me a spin, Kit thought, as, just before he closed down his computer, he checked the e-mails on his author’s account.

 

Hey, there, Mr. Sandman: Fuck, you had me hard and jacking off with “Searching For It.” We gotta meet. I gotta do you, sound you like that and then fuck you hard. Get back to me. We gotta get together. I think you’re somewhere in D.C. I can be there fast, anywhere you want. I got eight inches for you. Eager Danny

 

Fat chance of that, Kit thought, as he pushed the “delete” button. This Danny dude had gotten really persistent of late. It was great that guys who read his stories got turned on by them—that’s why he wrote them. But to take it all so literally, to think that he did all of that himself, or even half of it—although he wished, of course, and Toby’s guy, Hardesty, came to mind when he was wishing—was really something. Still, it made Kit go hard to get fan mail like this over-the-top e-mail from this Danny dude. He wondered if this Danny guy was a built and hung dude—half of what he’d claimed in his e-mails—but Kit just couldn’t see that being the case.

If only he got half of what he wrote about getting . . . and got it from a real hunk . . .

As he closed down the computer, Kit had a jab of regret that he’d deleted this Danny’s message. It was just the sort of arousal jolt he liked to come back to and read again. It was just this sort of message that gave him inspiration for the stories he wrote. But this Danny guy was taking it a bit far—and somehow he was narrowing in on where Kit lived. That was a bit scary. It was scary to think that the guy was even trying to do that—assuming he wasn’t just blowing smoke about it.

Kit had derived his gay porn author name, Sandman, from his own physical features, while trying not to make much of a connection. At twenty-three, he was a good-looking, well-built young man, whose distinctive feature was his sandy-blond hair, reddish with blond highlights, and the freckles that went with such coloring. His eyes, an emerald green, set the look off quite well, making him arousing to women and men alike. His choice was men, though, and, not promiscuously—in general—but he had determinably been gay since he’d been fucked by his prom date’s brother on high school prom night. He’d recently finished an MA in modern art critical and curatorial studies at Columbia University, in New York, and had landed a paid graduate curatorial internship at the National Gallery of Art, in Washington, D.C.

He was on his way in the art world, but he wasn’t willing to give up his darker imaginings yet.

Fortuitously, Ted Grant, who had fucked Kit’s anal virginity out of him on prom night on Long Island, was taking a doctorate in governmental administration at George Washington University, and the two managed to find a one-bedroom apartment to share on 19th Street near Dupont Circle. And, luckily, Ted, who now worked for a defense contract lobbyist firm in town, came from a wealthy family and Ted was still on his dad’s support system. The two still fucked on occasion, but not often enough to be considered boyfriends or to be insulted when the other slept with someone else.

Sleeping with someone else, though, was how Kit had gotten linked up with Toby Drake, who was near his age, and who was a high-end male hooker, living in a Crystal City, Alexandria, high-rise apartment overlooking the runways of the Ronald Reagan airport across the Potomac from D.C. The kinky add-on was that Toby was living with a hunky D.C. vice cop. When Kit arrived in D.C., Toby was taking one of the art curator courses at the National Gallery—just for kicks—and the two had become friends there. Part of why they had so easily become friends was that there wasn’t any sexual tension between them. They had quickly established that, though both actively gay, they both were submissives.

The two had discovered they were likeminded when they both attended a New Year’s Eve party in the Potomac Palisades home of Ted’s defense contractor lobbyist boss. Both were there as party favors, Toby on escort agency assignment and Kit invited through Ted. Ted had told the lobbyist about his roommate, Kit, who wrote gay erotica stories for a Web site that Ted saw the lobbyist liked to read.

“You say he writes it,” the boss asked. “Does that mean he fucks too?”

“I fuck him,” Ted said.

“He takes cock?”

“He takes mine.”

“Just yours?”

“Neither of us is exclusive.”

His boss then was anxious for Ted to bring Kit to one of his parties.

The lobbyist and a client fucked the two young men together on a king-sized bed, the lobbyist fucking Toby in a doggy and the client doing Kit in a missionary. The two bottoms held hands across the bed and smiled at each other as they were being fucked. They had been close ever since. Seeing Kit’s potential as a prostitute and hearing that he could use extra money, Toby had invited Kit to go on other party assignments with him. The lobbyist had ridden Toby like he was a thoroughbred racehorse, saddled high on the young man’s hips and flogging Toby’s buttocks while he rode him. Kit had been both shocked and surprised at viewing this, but it had helped him respond well to the older man covering him in a missionary and had featured in one of Kit’s stories. Kit was flattered that the lobbyist, Jason Jarvis, read the stories Kit wrote under the name Sandman.

Kit had occasionally—very occasionally—gone with Toby to other parties since then, collecting a fee for the outing, which helped a lot in covering his share of his apartment. And this had led Kit, who enjoyed writing as much as art collecting and was very good at it, to write more of his enhanced-action short stories for the Internet and for the on-line marketplace based on his experiences with men. The stories went as far beyond the actual experiences as his imagination would take him, which was far, and which had attracted a large, paying fan base.

He didn’t consider himself a prostitute. He considered the rare gigs he’d gone on with Toby to be research. He took the money, but he just thought about that as supporting his writing career just as the sexual experience did. Most of the experience, really, was in watching Toby perform with a man. Although a couple of years older than Kit, Toby was still young, at twenty-six, but looked five years younger. He was small, blond—almost platinum blond, the hair falling to his shoulders when he let it down—fun to be with, movie-star handsome, with a trained channel that fit his clients, no matter how big they were, like a glove. This took effort and superb muscle control, but Toby had taken the effort to learn the trade—and the tricks of the trade.

He was of a body type and wealth of sexual experience that were in high demand by well-heeled men, especially ones with special needs. He was accustomed to demanding fetish sex partners, wanting services Kit didn’t think he’d ever be comfortable with or capable of giving.

When he wrote about Toby as a character in his stories, readers were prone to drool in fan mail and express the wish to do with Toby exactly what the men in the stories did. They also almost always assumed that Kit was writing about himself, himself having Toby’s physical characteristics, and his own preferences and willingness when he wrote the Toby character.

If only I were that brave and talented, Kit thought, while, at the same time, disclaiming that Toby’s world ever could be his as well.

When Kit asked Toby about his living arrangements and whether he had a steady boyfriend in addition to his paying gigs, Toby had produced photos, including naked and erection shots, of a guy named Hardesty, who he claimed was a vice cop with the D.C. police. When Kit challenged him on there being a vice cop that hunky and sleeping with a high-end male prostitute, Toby had just laughed and said that was Hardesty’s way. He got his job done, but he dipped his wick while he did it. Rent-boys who slept with him were kept within limits in their activities but also enjoyed some protection in what was a high-risk job. Kit could easily see sleeping with Hardesty from the photos he saw, even not having met him yet. Hardesty was a big-cocked body-builder thug in the photos—a real bad-boy look, despite being identified as a cop, and he had featured as a character type in several of the stories Kit had written.

Toby had promised to introduce Kit to Hardesty someday—and, no, he didn’t care if they were attracted to each other and fucked. Kit was warned, though, that Hardesty was a “take no prisoners” rough cocksman. Yes, he did make extreme demands on Toby, the young prostitute admitted, and he sometimes left marks. But if and when Hardesty saw whip marks on Toby after servicing a client, that was the only time he let his ire show. Toby had to refuse to tell Hardesty who the client was. Hardesty would be quite surprised, though, if he knew some of the men in D.C. who made the most testing demands on Toby.

Toby had plenty of Hardesty photos and he quite willingly let Kit have one of them—a full-body nude, with erection. Kit kept the photo in his nightstand drawer and masturbated to it a couple of nights a week. The man looked like a mean thug—a divinely hung and muscled-up thug. Kit had no idea he would melt to such a man, just from a photo, but he did melt to the photo of this man. When Toby had invited him to the Crystal City apartment, with the possibility that Hardesty might not have left for work yet when Kit was there, Kit accepted the invitation, which he knew would come with an assignment proposal, without hesitation.

* * * *

Toby Drake was no stranger to the exclusive, small, men-only Alexander Hotel on Massachusetts Avenue, near Dupont Circle. It would be quite safe to say that he was an extension of that hotel’s services. His escort service and his name were on their concierge’s speed dial. Thus, little notice was taken of him when he entered the hotel at 9:30 that morning, dressed casually but expensively and quite attention getting as a figure, and walked to the concierge desk. He spoke briefly with the concierge, who guided him over to the lobby bar, where he was pointed to a substantial figure of a man, standing out and grabbing attention as he was of large size and was outfitted fully in Arab dress. He wore a sparkling white robe, called a thawb, an equally sparkling white head scarf, the ghutra, and black rope band on the headscarf, the egal. The man was hawk nosed, with a close-cropped black beard and piercing black eyes. He most likely was in his late forties, and his meaty- and -hairy-toed feet were bare in expensive brown-leather sandals.

As Toby approached and the concierge retreated, the Arab—no name given then or later—gestured Toby to sit at the low cocktail table. Toby did so and they drank coffee and conversed briefly before the Arab rose and preceded Toby to the elevator. The hotel staff paid the two no heed, but a man sitting at the other end of the lobby, reading a newspaper, had come to attention when Toby entered the hotel and had watched the young man progress across the lobby, speak to the concierge, and be guided toward the Arab. He continued watching the two as they moved to the elevator. When they entered the elevator and the door closed on them, the man folded the newspaper, rose, exited the hotel, and went across the street and sat, on watch, in a late-model white double-cab Dodge Ram truck.

Upstairs, in room 208 of the Alexander Hotel, the naked Arab, his nearly obese but muscular body pelted with black, curly hair, lay on his back on the bed, his arms raised over his head and restrained by red silk restraints helpfully provided at all four corners of the bed. Toby, now in a red silk slip, with red bra and panties—a convenient slit in the back of the panties—straddled the Arab’s hips. Toby was palming the Arab’s beefy pecs, leaning back over the man’s thighs, and riding the man’s erection. At the Arab’s barked command, Toby rose enough on his knees to allow the Arab to fuck up into him and moved his hands back to grasp the man’s knees. The Arab first found the ring in Toby’s navel and lifted his head to give that suck. Next, though, when the real action started, he found the gecko tattoo that had been drawn into Toby’s erogenous zone at one side of his lower belly. The Arab found the secret of rubbing that and then just held on tight as Toby cried out in passion and writhed on the cock in wild gyrations that always caught his clients’ attention and attraction.

After a while the two changed positions, with Toby, sans slip, on his back on the bed, his wrists restrained above his head by the silk restraints and his legs spread and raised by his own efforts. The Arab’s hands were busy choking Toby’s throat and engaging in breath control, while he knelt between the young man’s thighs and vigorously thrust up inside the young man’s channel with his shaft in rhythm to the choking and release of his thick fingers on the young prostitute’s throat.

Forty-five minutes later, having showered and left the Arab asleep and snoring like a beached whale on the bed, Toby checked the wad of money the man had left for him on the dresser in the bedroom of the suite. It wasn’t his fee. That would appear on the Arab’s hotel bill in a cooperation arrangement between Toby’s escort service and the hotel. This was a tip, and a generous one at that. Toby had found Arabs to be the best tippers, and although the man’s fetish was unusual, it wasn’t a particularly demanding one. The bra had chafed until the man pulled it off him and started to knead his pecs and worry his nipples like they were women’s breasts, but that hadn’t been anything like some other clients demanded of him. With his relative small size, willowy build, androgynous look, and shoulder-length blond hair, though, the fetish was one he frequently was engaged to serve. It wasn’t a fetish for him, though. That service was just a job for him.

Toby left the room and descended to the hotel lobby. He exited the front of the hotel and walked around to the covered garage next to the hotel, retrieving his distinctive 2019 red Lexus RC sports coupe, and drove back across the Potomac River to his high-rise Virginia apartment house building in Crystal City, Alexandria. He didn’t notice—there was no reason why he would—that he was being followed by a white Dodge Ram double-cab truck.

As he pulled into the parking garage next to his apartment house that went with the building, the man in the white Dodge Ram saw him roll down his window and wave to another young man—a good-looking redheaded man of much the same age as the willowy blond. He was motioning the young man to remain where he was, near the entrance to the apartment house. After a few minutes Toby came out of the garage, spoke to the redheaded guy, and they entered the apartment house.

The man in the white Dodge Ram found a parking place on the street within sight of the entrance of the apartment house and the garage and settled down to wait, reaching down to the passenger-side floor and coming back up with a wrapped gas-station tuna fish salad sandwich and a plastic bottle of Coke.

* * * *

Not being the least shy, Toby invited Kit into his bedroom while, shedding the more conventional surface clothing, he changed out of the red silk slip, bra, and slit panties. Kit watched with astonishment. There was so much he had to learn about Toby’s world. Toby was inviting him into it, but what he’d seen of it so far was overwhelming. And this guy had a vice cop as a roommate?

Toby’s bedroom was the master bedroom of the two-bedroom luxury apartment with floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall glass overlooking the Ronald Reagan airport runways and the Potomac River and tidal basin beyond, centered on the phallic tower of the Washington Monument. On occasion, Toby did business in this bedroom, riding a client’s cock on the massive king-sized bed that appeared to be suspended over the power center of the country. The bedroom was a temple to sexual pleasure for the wheeler-dealers of Washington, so it was much better appointed than the adjacent, smaller bedroom Hardesty lived in, which was furnished far more shabbily and comfortably. That said, Toby usually slept in Hardesty’s bed, with him.

While Toby changed, he gave Kit a rundown about the sexual servicing of the Arab at the Alexander Hotel, and a bug-eyed Kit noted it all in the back of his mind as a scenario to write in one of his stories.

Sexual servicing of middle-aged Arabs being the topic, Toby launched immediately into what he’d wanted to talk to Kit about as they walked back into the large, continuous space of kitchen, living room, and dining room. The space was one expensively furnished room rolling into the next with little in the way of barriers, rooms with many interesting surfaces on which Toby could lie while a client was fucking him. Reaching the kitchen area, Toby foraged around in the refrigerator for the salad works he’d previously put together before going out on assignment that morning.

“The escort service has openings, and you’d be great. If I put in a word for you, I’m sure they’d take you on. The money’s good, and it could work around your National Art Gallery job. The agency would be pleased to have that on your résumé—not too explicitly stated, of course. It’s a high-class operation. The clients love young men who are working in the arts like that. They especially like dancers, like me . . . the flexibility, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen you in operation,” Kit said, as he perched on a stool on the other side of the kitchen island from where Toby was putting their lunch together. “But I don’t think so, thanks. An occasional gig like you get for me is fine, but I’m not cut out to be a prostitute, I don’t think. I can’t see putting it out a couple of times a day and being able to pretend like each one was the ride of my life.”

“You do it. You’re already a prostitute,” Toby said, smiling to show that he wasn’t attacking Kit for it. “It’s not a matter of how much you do it. If you trade sex for money, you’re a prostitute.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Kit acknowledged.

“So why not do it on a more regular basis? You’re a gorgeous hunk. Men love redheads . . . and those eyes of yours. That you can keep up in an intellectual conversation and yet follow a man’s directions and arouse him in bed make you a natural—especially at the level of my escort agency.”

“I couldn’t take the physical demands—like what you’ve just told me about the fetish and bondage sex with the fat Arab. And I know you take worse—I’ve seen you taking worse. You’ve been protecting me from getting the worst, haven’t you?”

Toby laughed. It was a natural “you caught me” laugh. “Well, yes, of course. You’re at the beginning of this. It’s something you have to train yourself to take. But it’s where the big money is. And after a while—”

“I think it might be the ‘after a while’ that turns me off,” Kit said. “I have sex with men because I like it. Sex is fun for me. Even the gigs you’ve taken me on have been an adventure, and I think you’ve been making sure that I haven’t been thrown in with ogres. I’ve seen you grimace in pain from some of the things men do with you.”

“Pain, yes, but pain goes with ecstasy and passion. Pain will take you higher in sexual satisfaction. It will go further in making you feel complete and one with the other man—giving it all to the other man, for that moment becoming totally his, letting him take you across the threshold of dying for him. Almost always it leads into the man being apologetic and prompting him to be more tender, more attentive to your needs—and, to be honest, to a bigger tip. There’s nothing that will make a john feel more guilt and try to make up for it than to cause his boy pain.”

“Just the johns, Toby? You live with a guy here. I’ve seen his photo. He’s a cop and he’s a muscle man, a real thug by the look of him. He looks like he’d be brutal, but he must not be for you to stay with him. Does he inflict this pain you speak of?”

“Yes, of course he does. As much if not more than most of the johns I go with. The escort agency ensures they’ll have limits. Hardesty has no imposed limits and sometimes we get carried away—we. Not having limits is part of the arousal of being fucked by Hardesty I’ve had my most satisfying orgasms with him—with the pain he inflicts and the passion he pulls out of me. And it isn’t just me. All of the guys I know want to go with him—and then they want to go with him again after the first time they’ve been with him. I’ve gotten some of my best send offs as atonement for a bit of pain I had to endure. That’s what the poets call the orgasm, the completed ecstasy, you know—the Petit Mort, the little death. You want to go with him too, don’t you? You more than half hoped he’d be here today and would give you a tumble, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know about that,” Kit said. “I can’t see feeling higher levels of sexual satisfaction in letting another man do whatever he wants with me—to cause me pain.”

“You don’t have pain from a cock inside you, even when you’re working as one, a well-oiled fuck machine?”

“Yes, of course, but it’s all relative.”

“Relative to what? Would you prefer a big cock inside you or a little one?”

“Big, of course. But much of that is psychological, taking a big one, being able to do it.”

“Yes, but it’s also the pain of the bigger one—the pain is connected to the passion and ecstasy of being fucked. Pain tells you you’ve made a commitment—that you’re alive. The pain is integral to the satisfaction of having it all. You’ll see, if and when you have a man who uses you fully, who you’ve given yourself to completely. That’s psychological too, knowing you are being complete used. Pain, ecstasy, passion. You’ll see one of these days. And it helps, as a prostitute, to be able to cross over into this world easily. Your job is to give the man pleasure, but there’s every reason to train yourself to take the pleasure for yourself too. The Arab today was fat and demanding, but I took pleasure as well as money from him—because I trained myself to do that. It’s all in the attitude you take.”

“I don’t want to get into a position where I have to do it to pay my rent or cover my next meal.”

“What you do now . . . what I send your way . . . helps you pay the rent, doesn’t it?” Toby asked. “You were struggling to cover your share of the rent with that old boyfriend of yours, weren’t you? That’s why I sent shared assignments your way to begin with.”

“Yes, that’s right. But that takes us back to them being shared assignments and ones you’ve obviously selected for me that won’t tax me too much. That isn’t what you’re offering me, is it? It isn’t going out with you every time, seeing that I get the less-taxing guy, and being there for us to hang together—to protect each other. I don’t—”

“The man’s got a point, Toby. I hope you listen to him.”

Both Kit and Toby turned to the low baritone sound of another man entering the space—Kit turning with surprise—Toby less so. Toby’s roommate, the D.C. vice cop, Hardesty, was coming out of his room, rubbing his eyes and his stubble of head hair and otherwise looking only half awake. He wore only a knotted bath towel around his midsection, setting off his beautiful, solid body-builder’s physique, still hard and muscular in his mid-forties, to great advantage. The man was toned, exuding an aura of danger, but also of authority and self-confidence. He was sexy, but clearly in a fully masculine, mature way. His body was scarred and he looked the borderline thug. He made Kit go hard just looking at him. His age showed in the gray struggling with the black of his buzz cut and in the close-cropped mustache and beard. And he’d had a hard life, as evidenced in rugged features and a nose beaten slightly off kilter. But he was one sexy dude.

It was like Toby and Kit had just been saying—Hardesty had obviously had a hard life, but Hardesty was hard bodied and he promised to take his young men hard. There were young men who wanted it this way. Despite the doubts Kit had been expressing, he knew he wanted it that way too.

Toby introduced him to Kit, saying, “This is Kit Drake, who I’ve told you about. We met in a course at the National Gallery of Art, where he works.”

“Hi, Ken,” a sleepy Hardesty said, catching the “who I’ve told you about” rather than the name. If Toby, in turn, heard the misspoke name, he didn’t respond. He was more concerned with Hardesty’s disheveled look.

“You had a hard night at the clubs?” he asked, giving Hardesty a smirky smile. Hardesty hadn’t been home, in bed, with him, the previous night, so Toby had slept in his own room. Hardesty was out for the count and snoring when Toby got up that morning to make his assignment at the Alexander Hotel. It usually was Toby sleeping in late and Hardesty up and at ’em in the morning.

“Called in on nightshift last night. It was an all-hands on deck shift, with the hope we could run a bastard to ground,” Hardesty said, more awake now and closely assessing Kit with penetrating looks. Kit had already gone hard being this close to the god whose photo he’d been masturbating to, and, being a redhead, he blushed to a discernible degree. Hardesty had noticed that and given him a “yes, I’d like to get into that” look. “A maniac is on the loose out there again,” he continued. “He’s picking off small, slim, blond rent-boys—like you, Toby,” he said almost accusingly. “As your friend here was saying, it’s dangerous, especially for guys looking like you, to be pulling down tricks alone these days.”

“We’ve been over this before, Hardesty,” Toby said. “I don’t work the streets like most of the guys you’re concerned with. I’m on the high end. The escort agency vets the clients. We fuck only in the best beds. I’m not in as much danger as the guys are you pick up at clubs when you’re cruising. What’s happening to these rent-boys who are attacked? Do I know any of them?”

“There have been just two so far, but the MO is the same for them both. And they’re beaten up pretty bad. Beats me if you know the guys. They’re from the streets, so you probably don’t. No deaths yet, but it’s probably just a matter of time before we get there—if we can’t catch this guy and stop him. So, you be sure you—”

“Always,” Toby answered. “I’m covered. And Kit here would be too if . . . uh, hold on. That’s my phone.” Toby walked back into his bedroom, to the corner of the apartment, where glass edge met glass edge and he seemed to be hovering over Crystal Drive with a commercial jet coming down into Ronald Reagan airport at nearly the same level as the nose-bleed floor of their apartment building.

Hardesty looked down at Kit and said, “So you’re good to go, Ken? Toby told me you were good to go.”

Looking confused, Kit only had time to respond with a “Huh, I’m not sure—” when Toby was coming out of the bedroom, saying, “A quick trick call. The lobbyist we did together up on MacArthur Boulevard. Gotta go. Stay and eat your salad, Kit. It’s over there on the kitchen counter, all ready. And consider what I said—both the job and the attitude. If and when you can break through the pain/ecstasy/passion thing, your life will become golden.”

“Uh, Toby,” Kit said, looking at Hardesty.

“Feel free to do what you want,” Toby said. “I know you want to.” In another minute, he was gone and the two of them, Kit perched on stool at the kitchen island, and Hardesty, standing close to him only in a bath towel, were alone.

“So, Toby said you wanted it from me bad, Ken, and that you give it to guys,” Hardesty said, thickness from lust showing in his voice. “You’re here and I’m here. You’re looking supremely fuckable, so let’s get it on.”

“My name’s Kit, not Ken,” the blushing redhead responded.

“Does that mean you don’t want to fuck?”

How did Toby know I had such a hard-on for his boyfriend, Kit was wondering. He didn’t have time for more than that thought, though, before Hardesty had leaned over and taken Kit’s lips in his. One hand unknotted his towel and let it slip to the floor and he was pulling the hem of Kit’s polo shirt out of his waistband with the other. Hardesty was in magnificent erection. The shirt came up and off as Hardesty pushed Kit down on his knees on the floor in front of him. Kit, shocked but more than willing, opened his mouth over the thick, long, and hard cock that was presented to him, and he clutched Hardesty’s meaty buttocks in his hands as Hardesty cupped his head and guided him in the suck.

Hardesty fucked Kit on his bed, with Kit trussed up in a hogtied spreader bar strap, a solid bar, keeping the young man’s legs spread, with restraint loops around his wrists and ankles, keeping the right wrist trapped to the right ankle and the left wrist to the left ankle. Kit was pitched forward on the bed, his cheek and chest flat on the mattress and his buttocks waving in the air, his hard cock jutting out toward the mattress. After he’d eaten Kit’s ass out; worked the channel open with a flexible, black, ten-inch Ragin’ D dildo; rolled on a Magnum XL condom; lubed up Kit’s now-gaping hole; and was climbing up on the bed and mounting Kit’s ass, Hardesty said, “This is what Toby said you were begging for from me, so here goes.”

Kit, moaning and groaning, couldn’t otherwise say anything, as Hardesty had silenced him with a ball gag. He was completely defenseless to do anything either. He was trussed up totally; he was completely at Hardesty’s mercy. He crouched there, trembling and writhing as best he could, as Hardesty stuffed his thick nine inches in him and fucked the shit out of him.

When he was done, Hardesty freed Kit and took the ball gag out of Kit’s mouth. “There you go. Was that what you wanted, Ken?” He was pulling a plow belt out of his closet and showing it to Kit.

“Yes, but how did you know and why are you calling me Ken? I’m Kit. Kit Helms.”

“Kit Helms? You’re not Ken Kale? That’s who Toby said wanted me to fuck him like this.”

“No. I’m Kit Helms. I didn’t ask for this, but—”

“Well, shit. I’m sorry, dude. I thought you were—” he dropped the plow belt to his side like he was trying to hide it.

“—but it’s exactly what I wanted from you. What’s that?” Kit asked, pointing to the plow belt, a four-foot length of eighteen-inch wide leather, with handles on each end. “What do you do with that?”

“Want to see what I do with this?”

“Yes.”

“Want to get fucked again?”

“Yes.”

Hardesty rolled off his spent condom and pulled on and lubricated a new one. Then he pulled Kit off the bed; turned him, so he was in front but facing away from Hardesty; grabbed the two handles of the plow belt; flipped the leather strip over Kit’s head and down to the young man’s belly; and lifted the young man and flipped him over so that Kit’s arms reached for the carpet and his feet lifted off the floor. Kit yelped involuntarily from surprise at being upended, but then he was grunting and groaning as Hardesty thrust up into Kit’s still gaping hole with his renewed erection and fucked the stuffing out of him again.

When Kit was able to emotionally fall into the rhythm of the fuck, he began fantasizing on how he could describe these two sex-toy fuckings by the god of a muscle man in his short stories. And he had to admit that he understood what Toby had been saying about pain, passion, and satisfaction.

* * * *

Angelo was trembling and whimpering, but he wasn’t objecting or trying to get away.

“It’s a very delicate procedure,” Brett whispered into Angelo’s ear from behind. “It’s incredibly sensual, but you have to hold perfectly still. The ultimate fuck. Being fucked in two holes at once. Come, sit on it, in my lap.” The young Italian groaned as the older man pulled him onto his lap with one arm encircling the young man’s waist and the other positioning his own erection for full penetration as the small blond descended into the American’s lap and his passage yielded to the thick phallus.

As he struggled to accommodate the shaft inside him, Angelo looked down at what Bret held in one hand and shuddered. The fingers of one hand thrummed one of Angelo’s nipples; the other held leather restraints.

“Are those necessary?” Angelo whimpered.

“You’ll find you want them,” Bret answered. “You must hold very still or you’ll be ruined. And I want you to give yourself totally to me. You will be my captive prisoner. Your very life will be in my hands and at my disposal.”

The young Italian was bound at his wrists, his arms flung up and the wrists bound behind Bret’s neck, and at his ankles, his legs trapped behind Bret’s closed legs. He was totally immobilized and stretched out on the American’s muscular body. The fuck began, Bret grasping and squeezing Angelo’s buttocks apart for maximum penetration and raising and lowering the young Italian on the sinking cock. When the depth of the possession was complete and Angelo was groaning the working of the shaft in his soft, yielding core, Bret held. He drew the young man’s attention to what he now held in his hand. “These rods are called wands,” the American whispered. “The sex act is called sounding. Have you ever seen—?”

Angelo’s long, plaintive moan covered the question, which was rhetorical in any event, as, in shock and horror, he pressed his blond head, the hair reaching to his shoulders, the silky smoothness of it a pleasure to Bret against his bare chest, into the hollow of Bret’s shoulder. Holding Angelo’s erection steady with one hand, the American was pressing the rounded tip of the smallest wand to the shaft’s urethra opening. Angelo groaned, panted, and whispered, “Oh, fuck,” as Bret twirled the wand slowly into the penis passage. He fucked Angelo’s shaft with the wand. In, out, in deeper, twirl.

“Hold steady,” Bret commanded, and Angelo did to the extent the alien invasion of his penile passage permitted. He cried out in glorious violation as, having nearly reached his ball sac, the small wand was twirled out.

“Oh, god, Bret,” he whimpered as the American held up the next largest wand for Angelo to see before it too twirled into his cock head.

 

The story had posted the previous evening, but Kit wanted to give it one more review before starting the stories his muse was now pressuring him to write. He quickly reviewed the story and exited the site.

He was back at his apartment late in the afternoon after the glorious, if misunderstood, fucking by Hardesty, the hunky D.C. vice cop. Kit had never been taken like that before. The man had been a thug. A built and hung thug. He’d taken what he wanted, how he wanted to have it, and had been rough and cruel about it. Kit had loved every stroke of it. He wanted to have it again and again. He envied Toby for getting it repeatedly. The man was a sex god. He increasingly was understanding what Toby had said about the pain, ecstasy, passion combination taking you to new sexual satisfaction heights. He couldn’t deny there had been pain from taking nine thick inches and the extreme bondage, but he’d do it again gladly anytime Hardesty wanted. Hardesty had laid out a hand whip, and Kit had shuddered in anticipation of that, but it hadn’t been used. Maybe . . .

He had been in the middle of writing a series of sounding stories based on the character patterned after small and platinum blond Toby Drake, but what he really wanted to write now were stories based on what he’d heard and experienced today—Toby’s cross-dressing sex story with the Arab and Hardesty’s sex-toy-assisted brutal fuckings. The observations and experiences were coming quickly now. If he continued with the sounding series, he might never remember what he wanted to write of the new experiences. He wanted to rush on with those.

It was coming on dinnertime, though. He’d close out the story site, check his e-mails, and come back to the writing later. He clicked on his e-mails.

 

Hey, Sandman. Your biggest fan here. As big as you can take. As big as you WILL take when we meet. D.C.’s interesting, except for the traffic. I don’t know how you cope with that without pulling your pubic hair out. I’ll be happy to pull your blond, almost white, pubic hair out for you, if you like. You can sit on my lap, on my ten-inch cock, while I do it. Answer this. Tell me where you are. I’m here, somewhere near you. I got ten inches for you, babe. Love your stories. We can do that, whichever position you want. All of them. What’s your favorite? Tell me where you are. I’m hard and aching for you, babe. Until you call me, I have to get relief as I can get it. Don’t make me wait. Even more eager Danny.

 

Kit’s hand went to his crotch. He wouldn’t delete this one. The guy was crazy. Kit wouldn’t have anything to do with him. But his e-mails made Kit go hard. There was a story in this too—a story of a crazy stalker of a guy posting fetish porn stories to the Internet. Kit would have to think of the angle needed to write that up—after he finished writing up the stories his contact with Toby and Hardesty gave him.

Ted Franklin, Kit’s roommate, came home from his classes at GWU as Kit was finishing his dinner. Over dinner, the sex positions he’d been in earlier in the day kept running through his mind, which put him in high heat again. He left his dirty dishes in the sink and walked to Ted’s room. Tonight would, he hoped, be one of those nights for Ted and him. But when he got there, his roommate, a tall, trim, solid-looking New Yorker, self-confident and obviously well-heeled, was dressing to go out again.

“So, you’re going out tonight?” Kit asked. “I sort of hoped we could—”

“Yep, night at the clubs for me,” Ted answered, giving Kit a big smile.

Kit was on the cusp of suggesting something else or proposing that they go together, when his cellphone rang. It was Toby’s escort service. Toby had given them his name. They had an emergency. A visitor from Hong Kong wanted an escort to an art opening at the Foundry Gallery on 8th Street with drinks afterward. Maybe or maybe not something after that. The client said he’d decide later, but he’d paid up front for whatever he wanted. They’d just credit him if he decided he didn’t want more than the outing and a drink. He wanted someone who knew art. Toby had told the service dispatcher that he had a friend who worked at the National Art Gallery who occasionally took gigs. Kit, indeed, was on the escort agency’s “sometimes” list. Would he take the assignment on short notice?

The man’s name was James Teng. He was half Chinese and half English, from a rich “way back in history” Hong Kong trading family. He was here to buy art. He was tall and thin, probably in his early fifties. He was distinguished looking and he certainly did know his art. He dressed expensively. He had a fine head of salt and pepper hair. Kit would have believed he was a college professor or a corporation CEO from his demeanor.

They hit it off at the Foundry Gallery. Kit knew some of the artists showing who Teng didn’t know about but whose works he liked. Kit was aware of what the National Gallery and other major galleries were buying from new artists and was able to steer the collector on what was good, what was better, and what probably would appreciate the best. Teng bought several works to be delivered to his hotel—the Alexander Hotel on Massachusetts Avenue.

The drinks afterward also were in the lobby bar at the Alexander Hotel. Afterward, in the third-floor suite next to the one where the Arab had fucked Toby that morning, Teng, who proved to have great stamina, to be hung, and to be very, very cruel, royally fucked Kit for two hours. They started with a missionary, with Teng holding Kit’s ankles on his shoulders and choking him in breath play just as Toby had described the Arab did earlier that day—giving Kit the experience of what he’d been told about. While the Hong Kong importer choked Kit, he fucked him in long, deep thrusts. The older man’s leather belt lay ominously on the bed beside them as they fucked. Teng’s own breather then was lying on his back with Kit riding his cock in a cowboy. They went on to what Teng called the Flying Dutchman, with Teng sitting on the edge of the bed, Kit skewered on his cock and cantilevered over the carpet by the bed, his legs streaming around and behind the older man’s hips, Kit staring down at the carpet, and Teng grasping Kit’s wrists and pulling him on an off the cock. To his own surprise Kit was crying out “Yes, yes, YES!” as he got fucked hard, fast, and deep.

It was a shock to Kit that he melted and went to higher realms of arousal with rough fucking. He’d gotten his first taste of it that afternoon. Now he was getting it again. Teng let loose of Kit’s wrists and grabbed his waist between his hands as Kit sank toward the carpet, barely able to get his hands out in front of him before his head plowed into the floor. Teng stood up from the bed without losing purchase of his long, long, if not terribly thick, shaft in Kit’s channel. He was in as deep as Kit could recall any man reaching and Kit went soft and spongy for him at the core. Teng encircled Kit’s waist with one arm to hold the young man in place while he continued to plow him. With the other hand, he reached out and grabbed the belt, looping it, fisting the belt buckle. He raised his arm high.

Kit was soon to know what it would have felt like if Hardesty had used the hand whip on him earlier that afternoon.

The first few lashes were a shock and caused Kit to yip and groan, but they sounded more taxing than they felt, and Kit found himself going harder still. “Fuck! Shit! Yes! Yes, punish me! Use me hard!” Kit cried out in ecstasy, pain, and passion, as, welded by a gaunt, but wiry and hard-bodied man, the belt slashed down on his back, arms, and buttocks, again and again and the shaft inside him thrust, thrust, thrust. Kit couldn’t believe that it possibly could be him crying out for the pain and ecstasy, but it was. “Yes! Fuck, yes! Again!”

The man was fully dominating him, taking it all, using him totally. For this moment in time Teng was his god, his angel, everything to him—his master and his deliverance to the greater realm of completion, total sexual satisfaction. He was giving it all to Teng and the man was taking it all.

With another cry of release, Kit spouted his seed out over the carpet—and not just one release. He fired off again and again, draining his balls. Teng fucked and flogged on. “Yes, yes, yes,” a spent Kit, freed and allowed to settle to a fetal position on the carpet when Teng tensed and released, tensed and released, whimpered as the belt continued to snap and he jerked and moaned from the impact.

Pain, ecstasy, passion, all coming together, lifting Kit higher and higher. He was going hard again, cum churning inside him once more. Being completely used by another man. Now he understood what Toby was trying to say about that. With a cry, Kit came again in a flood . . . and again . . . and again. Teng turned him over onto his back on the carpet with his foot, slapped his legs open, and came down between his spread thighs with his knees. He encircled Kit’s waist with an arm, raising the young man’s pelvis. Entering him again, Teng once more began the penetration and rhythm of the fuck. Stretching his arms straight from his body in a sacrificial pose and arching his back, Kit moaned low in his chest, accepting the cock deep, understanding and accepting it all now.

It wasn’t just Teng. It could now be any other man who Kit chose to give himself to completely. He knew how to reach this stage with a man, and he was open now to the magic of the combination of pain, ecstasy, and passion.

To Be Continued.