Fan Male

Ian Marcus had barely finished his tuna salad sandwich and Coke when he saw the red Lexus coupe pull out of the Crystal City apartment house garage and head west. He revved up the Dodge Ram and followed the car. Catching sight of the platinum blond hair of the driver, Marcus was sure that he was following his pretty little guy again—Sandman. It was sort of a headscratcher, though, why he’d been at the apartment for such a short time and who the redheaded hunk was he met in front of the building. Maybe this was the redhead’s apartment, not the blond’s and Ian hadn’t run what he’d found to be an ideal punch to ground yet. The redhead looked as fuckable, in Marcus’s special ways, as the blond did. But he wasn’t blond. Maybe him too. But the blond first.

It had been a fluke that led him to the blond in the first place. He’d been in a bar near the Alexander Hotel, wondering what he’d do if the storyteller didn’t respond to his e-mails, when he overheard two men talking at a table. A guy in Arab dress was being set up by another guy, a pimp of some sort, but one who was dressed like a banker. Marcus got the idea that this was a high-drawer sex setup. They were discussing the male whore the Arab was being set up with and the description of him the banker-type gave along with a description of what special things this blond trick would do for the Arab clicked with Marcus. The sex act described was one he’d recently read on the Sandman site.

“Yes, he’ll be wearing red silk panties and bra,” the pimp said. “Breath play is fine, yes.”

And the description of the young man matched the one Sandman gave of himself. Marcus had followed them to the lobby of the Alexander Hotel and when the young blond whore showed up, Marcus decided he might be the one and stayed around and followed him afterward.

Toby Drake, in the red Lexus, didn’t pick up on the renewed tail as he switched over to the George Washington Parkway before reaching the Pentagon and took the parkway up along the southern bank of the Potomac River. To save time and traffic, he’d take the parkway all the way out to the Capitol Beltway, take the Cabin John bridge on I-95 across the Potomac into Maryland, and then turn back toward D.C. to MacArthur Boulevard on the bluffs above the northern bank of the Potomac River. The cascades on the river below MacArthur Boulevard made D.C. and its earlier, incorporated, town of Georgetown the last navigable link on the Potomac to the Chesapeake Bay and then the Atlantic Ocean on the river. Rapids started at Great Falls, just above Georgetown. He wasn’t monitoring the traffic behind him. He was thinking about the assignment he’d been called in to on short notice. It was a repeat client and a special one at that.

The defense industry lobbyist Jason Jarvis was in town, and he was horny—and he was horny in his special way that called for Toby, in particular, to assuage his lust. Assuage his lust for a big fee, of course.

Jason Jarvis didn’t live permanently in the D.C. area, although his job lobbying congressmen brought him here frequently. He lived in Chicago. The house on MacArthur Boulevard wasn’t his, either. It belonged to a consortium of firms with lobbyists wheedling at Congress in the firms’ interests, and the house—a party house—was occupied by those coming into town by reservation. It wasn’t a large house, but it was an expensive one, with winter views down to the river and the privacy sought by those accustomed to entertaining important people who didn’t necessarily welcome being seen in the company of the lobbyists who virtually owned them. The bedrooms were big and well appointed—not just with toys but with well-hidden restraints as well.

If only those walls could talk.

Jarvis was a peculiar bird, sexually. He was a bald, robust, florid former professional football player in his early fifties. He was quite noticeably of significant size—in all proportions—and with fetish sexual tastes that dictated that he usually had to pay big fees to be satisfied. He had a special proclivity for small, androgynous, young and gorgeous platinum-blond men. He got off on stretching them to—and, if circumstances were right, beyond—the limit. The party house played no favorites. It was amenable to those of any sexual taste, and its services included, if needed, discreet removal services. Toby fit Jarvis’s bill precisely while being able to take what the big man had, and thus Toby often was called in to do him service when he was in town.

Toby took a sharp left, without giving a turning signal, into the driveway. It rose sharply uphill beside the driveway of the house located in front of, and lower down on the hill than the more private home Jarvis had reserved. Both sat above the Potomac shore and the lower house was part of the compound, housing the crew that serviced the party house above.

Ian Marcus almost missed that the coupe had turned and overshot the driveway, spending considerable time finding a spot where he could park the truck and walk back and, as inconspicuously as possible, creep up through the bushes bordering the steep drive. He correctly assumed the lower house was part of the compound and was occupied and was careful to avoid being seen. He reached the house’s parking apron, where the Lexus perched, as Toby was entering the house, and pulled back behind a tree until he determined the coast was clear. Then he started checking the house out for approaches and a place from which he might be able to see what was going on inside.

Jarvis met Toby at the door in a black silk robe and nothing else. His need was quite apparent, in his thick, upcurved erection peeking out of the division in the robe.

“Come in and upstairs. Want you to see the story that posted today,” he said in a husky voice, laced with his need. Toby, starting to undo his clothes, followed the man upstairs. The call had said the man was in emergency need. Toby knew that he was revved up and ready to blow. There wouldn’t be much in the way of foreplay, but the man was addicted to the stories appearing on a gay male porn Internet story site. He was hooked on stories by a writer named Sandman, who, since Jarvis had been engaging Toby’s services, wrote about a rent-boy with Toby’s characteristics who specialized in exotic fetishes.

“Come over here and look at this,” Jarvis said in a tremulous voice as they entered an upstairs bedroom. A computer was on at a desk near the bed. Toby recognized the Web site setup and saw that a Sandman story was showing. He looked at the passage on the screen.

 

“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 Brit’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. “The rods are called wands,” the American whispered. “The sex act is called sounding. Have you ever seen—?”

 

Toby had gotten stripped down to his silk bikini briefs by the time they’d reached the bedroom. Jarvis came in close behind him, putting his arms around the young blond’s chest.

“So nice. So very nice,” the man whispered.

Signaling “whatever you want,” Toby’s arms were raised, his fingers lacing behind the man’s neck, his head nestled into the hollow of Jarvis’s shoulder. Jarvis’s robe was open, his erection pressing into the small of Toby’s back as Toby read the passage showing on the screen. The open box of sounding wands lay beside the computer monitor on the desk top—and the wrist and ankle restraints beside that.

“There. That’s what I want to do with you,” Jarvis whispered in Toby’s ear. “It’s uncanny how much you are alike with the character Sandman calls Angelo in this story.”

Understanding what Jarvis wanted, Toby shuddered. But he didn’t say no and there was no need for him to say yes. He was here to please the man and do what he wanted—for big bucks.

Jarvis, massive and muscular—heavy but not paunchy—sat, naked, on the side the bed. Toby was draped along the line of Jarvis’s torso, his arms raised up the man’s bulging chest muscles and his wrists restrained and resting behind Jarvis’s thick neck. The young man’s ankles were similarly restrained together behind Jarvis’s calves. Six of Jarvis’s eight thick inches were stuffed up Toby’s anal passage. Toby, panting low, his channel at full stretch as Jarvis liked it, was taxed more by the thickness than the length.

Toby’s body and what turned it on were well known to the lobbyist. He knew his cock stretched Toby’s passage to the limit. He knew of the gecko tattoo on the side of the young man’s lower belly, and its secret—that it covered the rent-boy’s erogenous zone and, when rubbed properly, took Toby beyond his prostitute moves to genuine sexual response. There was nothing like the feel of a stretched tight channel dancing wildly on the shaft.

The gecko was receiving attention from one of Jarvis’s thick thumbs. He stroked it and, in response, Toby was writhing and panting and crying out and gyrating as his bonds allowed him to on the massive cock inside him, his hips in vigorous motion, rising and falling and bouncing on the thick cock. This wasn’t the pretense response of a prostitute. This was genuine passion from a delicious young man, and Jarvis appreciated the difference in Toby’s response to his taking.

With his free hand, Jarvis grasped the rent-boy’s cock and jacked him off. This all had to happen before the sounding began. Once Jarvis was twirling the rods into Toby’s urethra channel, both of them would have to be holding very, very still. But for now, Jarvis was enjoying having the luscious little blond writhing on his cock. Toby was the best male whore Jarvis had engaged from an escort service, especially as, with the right attention, the young man could transcend being a whore to being luscious putty in a man’s hands. A cock inside Toby when he was at his most responsive was paradise.

They paused briefly, both panting, both having released their seed in the fuck, a fuck that both knew was preliminary to the main event. Both were able to recover quickly, although even with them recovering, they held there, entwined, panting, with Jarvis burying his face in the hollow of the small blond’s throat while his hand roamed the perfect little body, avoiding touching the gecko now. He would fuck Toby again, but not by taking advantage of that. He didn’t want Toby in sexual heat. He wanted him helpless and taxed to his limit. The work of his hands was making the young man go into erection again. Never having withdrawn his shaft from Toby’s passage, he was hardening again too.

“Now, we begin again. Hold steady. Now for something exotic.”

Toby shuddered as Jarvis reached over to the open box of sounding wands that lay on the bed beside them and selected the thinnest one. The young man was moaning and trembling as Jarvis held Toby’s erection steady in one hand and maneuvered the rounded tip of the wand to Toby’s piss slit with the other hand.

The young man tensed and gave a little cry as the tip of the wand penetrated his piss slit.

“No, relax. Hold steady and relax. It’s going to be a long, delicious afternoon,” Jarvis whispered.

Toby held, moaned, and whimpered as the wand went in, was pulled back, went in deeper, was twirled, withdrew, went in deeper yet, twirled, and was pulled all the way out.

Toby released his breath and whispered, “Oh, shit. Fuck.”

“We have all afternoon,” Jarvis murmured and then to the young man’s answering whimper, “Yes, you’ll want to breathe regularly. And hold very steady,” Jarvis said, as he exchanged the wand for the next thicker one.

“Fuck,” Toby exclaimed as the next larger wand twirled into his urethra.

“Yes, fucking you both in the ass and the cock,” Jarvis said, with a little laugh. “Isn’t this fun?”

Toby moaned deeply. Toby wasn’t a paid pro now in Jarvis’s mind. He was a young man Jarvis had picked up, seduced, and was now getting far more than he had bargained for. Toby played the role to the hilt.

The bedroom had a balcony looking down into the Potomac and French doors out onto the balcony. The curtains over the doors were open. Ian Marcus had found a silent way to rise to the balcony and to position himself so he could view the action in the room without the two men, closely focused on their own activity, being able to see him. He also could see the computer screen and that what was showing was the text of a Sandman story, a story the big man and the young whore were acting out. He was more sure now that before that he had found Sandman.

He licked his lips, trembled, gave a little smile, and released his cock and masturbated as the sounding continued into the afternoon to the twelfth thicker wand, when neither Toby nor Jarvis could take any more without releasing. Toby’s cum burbled up around the twelfth, thick, buried wand and down the side of his shaft, while, with a little cry, Jarvis tensed and released, tensed and released deep in Toby’s anal passage.

Jarvis paid extra for the barebacking. It required special pills and medical certification by both parties but the escort service provided for all of that discreetly and quite effectively. Jarvis could afford the extra arousal of skin stretching skin taut and the feel of breeding the young man he was inside.

* * * *

The private bedrooms were on the upper floors. Langston had reserved one, and by 1:30, both men were naked on the bed and Langston was fucking Ken in a missionary. Ken was on his back on the bed, his arms raised over his head, his fists clutching at the headboard and his legs spread, his knees hooked on the tall, older, well-muscled forty-three-year-old author’s hips, and his pelvis raised to give the long, thick, steel-hard cock straight and deep access. Langston was hunched over the small, young man’s body, his knees pushed under Ken’s buttocks, one hand gripping the young man’s waist, and the other cupping Ken’s head. Langston dipped his head, kissing Ken on the lips, the throat and the nipples, as he fucked him in long, slow, deep slides.

“So, nice, so nice. So sweet,” was Langston’s whispered mantra as Ken trembled and panted, slowly rocking his hips with the older man’s slow, long thrusts. He wasn’t a rent-boy now; he was an innocent seduced and used by a master.

The rhythm picked up and Ken lowered his arms, his fingernails digging into the lanky author’s shoulder blades, his head arched back, his eyes staring out of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking 8th Avenue, his mouth yawning open, all of his senses concentrating on the thick cock of the famous novelist slowly churning deep inside him.

Langston started chewing on Ken’s nipples as he revved up the thrusts, fucking faster and deeper.

“Yes, yes, fuck me hard. Yes, yes. Oh FUCK!” The young man set the muscles of his passage walls squeezing and rippling over Langston’s shaft.

Langston raised his torso off Ken’s body, arched back, and thrust harder and faster. “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!” he cried out as he tensed and jerked and shot a load; tensed, jerked, shot a load; tensed . . .

 

Ted Franklin closed down the computer in his bedroom in the apartment he shared with Kit Cane. Shit, that guy can write. Just the right mood for cruising on the town. His rich and raunchy uncle had given him a gift certificate to a high-end Washington gay male escort agency for his birthday, and he was using it tonight. Neither of them had told Kit about the gift. Ted had decided it was his uncle’s weird, yet amusing statement—both sentiments describing his uncle well—that the old man accepted Ted for what he was. The uncle accepted Ted for what he was but that didn’t mean he appreciated Ted having a live-in lover. He’d given Ted the gift certificate with the hope it would cause a rift with his roommate.

Kit had just suggested they might get it on this evening, which would have been fine with Ted if he hadn’t already ordered up a high-class rent-boy, who he’d be meeting at Freddie’s Beach Bar in Crystal City—the rent-boy’s choice, a little raunchier of scene than Ted would have chosen—later in his bar crawl.

But, boy, could his roommate write a good story to stroke to. He did know that Kit wrote as Sandman, not that he’d broadcast the news. He just wished that Kit was as uninhibited in the bedroom clutches as his little blond cutie was in his stories. Ted had made certain of what he’d get by requesting someone matching the frequent small, platinum-blond, androgynous cuties who appeared in Kit’s—Sandman’s—stories.

After giving his regrets to Kit on not staying in and fooling around this evening, Ted started walking from their 19th Street apartment to the Dupont Circle area to start his bar crawl and mood building at The Fireplace. He’d retrieve his Mustang from their apartment house garage later and he would cross the river to Crystal City.

It was a bit before 10:00 p.m. before Ted got to Freddie’s Beach Bar in Crystal City, although the bar scene and main event entertainment wouldn’t start for another hour or so. His rent-boy, Todd, had messaged to meet him there at 10:00, though. A small blond guy was dancing the pole to recorded music when he went in and there were men scattered around at the tables, some men watching the dancers, some doing a make on each other, and one big bruiser sitting alone at a table in front of a beer and a computer. As Ted passed this table, he noticed that the guy had the monitor open to the story site Kit wrote to as Sandman. He stopped and looked over the bruiser’s shoulder. The story was Kit’s most recent.

“See this? Isn’t this great. God, I’d like to spike this guy,” the bruiser said. “See what he’s writing about? I’ve seen very little about this shit. It makes me hard.” Ted could readily read the passage on the screen:

 

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.

 

“Yeah, that’s good stuff,” Ted agreed.

“You’ve been on this Web site before?”

“Yeah. I was just there earlier this evening.”

“Bet the guy who writes that is a real player.”

“Not to that degree,” Ted said.

“What do you mean?” the bruiser asked.

“I know him. I know Sandman. He’s my roommate.”

“You fuckin’ know him?” But Ted didn’t respond. He’d probably had enough to drink at earlier bar stops not to realize what he’d said—what it revealed about him. He had moved on toward the bar, where the guy who obviously was his rent-boy had arrived: Small, platinum-blond, prettier than most women Ted knew—and handling himself with more class and poise than most patrons of this dive of a bar would. He moved to the bar.

“Todd?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s me. You’re Ted?” Toby Drake, who was known as Todd by those engaging his services through the escort agency, turned and looked at the tall, handsome, almost-as-young as he was guy who had approached. He was a surprise for a client. Although well dressed, not many guys this young could afford the escort agency services. Most of those who could afford Toby had been beat up by life in accumulating their millions. Todd immediately categorized Ted as one of those instant Tech innovation guys who suddenly were millionaires and billionaires without half trying. He was pleasantly surprised, especially since this was his third gig of the day and the other two had been taxing. Maybe he could just let his hair down for this one. Conversely, maybe the good-looking guy was a sex maniac. He’d paid for a fuck, not just an escort to a public event, but he hadn’t signed up for anything special. One never knew, though, until you actually got with the john.

“I think there’s a nicer bar around here than this,” Ted said. “I’d really like to get acquainted with you somewhere quieter. I live over near Dupont Circle and there are some good places there. I have a car. And you?”

“I walked—from nearby,” Toby answered. Keeping to his safety rules, he didn’t say he lived nearby. “We can take your car.” He already was feeling more comfortable. The guy wanted to unwind with him first. He didn’t just want to go to someplace right away to bang the hell out of him.

Ian Marcus, the big bruiser Ted had talked to across the barroom, the guy who had been reading a Sandman story on his computer, watched the Ted-Todd meeting with great interest. Todd—Marcus had heard the name spoken—obviously was Sandman, he thought. He’d found him again. He was the same guy Ian had been stalking for a couple of days as being Sandman—the small, platinum-blond, androgynously gorgeous cutie who gave all of the great fetish fucks. In fact, both of these young blondies were cute. Maybe he’d do them both.

Marcus closed his computer and left the bar in the wake of Ted and Toby, watching them get into a sleek, late-model Mustang. He ran to the Dodge Ram and managed to pick up the tail of the Mustang, which headed out on the George Washington parkway on the Virginia side of the Potomac. Out almost to the Capitol Beltway, the coupe turned into the Turkey Run park abutting the river and backed into a remote trailhead. Marcus parked his Ram out of sight and approached surreptitiously on foot. He hid in the foliage from which he could see what was happening through the windscreen of the Mustang.

By the time he got there, they’d gotten naked, and the little blond who Marcus tagged as the Sandman was on his back on the reclined passenger seat. Marus could see the blond’s left foot pressed to the top edge of the windscreen where it met the frame of the passenger door and his left foot pressed into the ceiling of the car above the rearview mirror. Marus’s view was of the undulating muscles of naked back of the other guy, who was hovering over the little blond and fucking him. The little guy’s legs were flexing with the stroking of the fuck.

“What a little slut,” Marcus was thinking. He also was thinking of what he’d like to do to the little slut.

Marcus watched until they were finished, had dressed, and the Mustang was pulling out of its hiding place, exiting Turkey Run, and driving back toward the city on the George Washington Parkway. He was following the Mustang when it crossed the 14th Street Bridge into D.C. and headed up toward the Dupont Circle area.

* * * *

Ted and Toby had done enough talking in the Mustang as they drove through the federal section of D.C. and up Massachusetts Avenue toward Dupont Circle that they both knew this was only to be a night of casual pleasure. They’d already fucked once in Ted’s car at Turkey Run Park, with Ted saying he was so keyed up they needed to get right down to it. Toby was being paid for “anything goes,” so he went with sex in the cramped Mustang without objection. In all, he was just as happy they’d gotten rid of the “when will it be?” sexual tension off the top.

They had only one drink at The Fireplace, a rather sedate bar, albeit definitely gay friendly, before Ted mentioned that he lived close by—almost in walking distance, actually. “Would you like to come up to my apartment,” he asked.

“Now? Yes,” Toby answered, quickly enough that Ted’s face showed him that maybe he was thinking he meant, yes, let’s get this on again. “I mean I’m anxious to get on with this—get it on with you again—somewhere not as cramped as inside a Mustang,” Toby said. “I like you.” That made Ted smile. He’d been antsy about this whole “paid sex” deal even if it wasn’t him who was paying for it.

Toby was on his back on the bed, his arms raised over his head, his fists clutching at the headboard and his legs spread, his knees hooked on tall, well-muscled Ted’s hips, and his pelvis raised to give the long, thick, steel-hard cock straight and deep access. Ted was hunched over the small, young prostitute’s body, his knees pushed under Toby’s buttocks, one hand gripping the young man’s waist, and the other cupping Toby’s head, as Ted dipped his head, kissing Toby on the lips, the throat, and the nipples, as he fucked him in long, slow, deep slides.

“So, nice, so nice. So sweet. And I can get it in deep here,” was Ted’s whispered mantra as Toby, thinking the same—just a straight, sensual fuck, but a pleasant way to end the day—trembled and panted, slowly rocking his hips with the other, highly attractive young man’s slow, long thrusts. He wasn’t responding as a rent-boy now; he was an innocent seduced and used by a master. Nothing special, but, in that, special for Toby.

The rhythm picked up and Toby lowered his arms, his fingernails digging into the lanky young man’s shoulder blades, his head arched back, his eyes staring out of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking 19th Street, his mouth yawning open, all of his senses concentrating on the thick cock of the muscular young man slowly churning deep inside him. Suddenly Toby gave a little passionate cry. Ted had found the gecko tattoo, the one marking Toby’s erogenous zone, and was rubbing it. Ted had laughed, having found it, knowing of Kit’s stories, and amused to find this small, platinum-blond cutie shared that characteristic with the rent-boy Kit wrote about.

Quite a coincidence, he thought. The rent-boy shared several other attributes with Kit’s protagonist too, Ted found.

Toby’s increased arousal and animation energized Ted, who started sucking on the rent-boy’s nipples as he revved up the thrusts, fucking faster and deeper.

“Yes, yes, fuck me hard. Yes, yes. Oh FUCK!” Toby set the muscles of his passage walls squeezing and rippling over Ted’s shaft, which sank deep into Toby’s spongy core. He didn’t usually let johns inside his core—Hardesty lived there, of course, but he wasn’t one of Toby’s johns. When any man got there, though, Toby . . . had . . . been . . . fucked.

Ted raised his torso off Toby’s, arched back, and thrust harder and faster. “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!” he cried out as, young and virile, he tensed and jerked and shot a load; tensed, jerked, shot a load; tensed and shot a load.

After a short period of controlling his breath, Ted whispered, “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Toby answered, leaving, he was sure, the impression that this was just a hooker saying what was expected after laying down for john. But it was more than that to Toby. It was the nicest fuck he’d had all day—for several days. Not cymbals clashing like Hardesty did for him—just very nice, romantic even, lovemaking. It wouldn’t have been professional to explain that to the other young man, though.

“I should let you shower and leave,” Ted whispered. “You’ve probably had a rough day.”

You have no idea, Toby thought, but he said nothing. He turned Ted’s face to his and took his lips in a kiss. Toby rarely kissed the johns on the lips unless they insisted he do so, and he even more rarely initiated the kiss, usually only doing so with a man who couldn’t perform when push came to shove and who needed comforting and assurance. The kiss lingered and then intensified. Toby opened his lips to it, as he had done with his core to Ted’s cock, and Ted’s tongue slipped in. Ted broke the kiss but only to kiss down Toby’s throat and then to his nipples. He was still inside Toby and they both were aware that he was hardening again.

“Sorry, we should get up,” Ted said, embarrassed. He’d paid for a fuck and he’d gotten two. He shouldn’t presume further. He started to withdraw, but Toby clutched his butt cheeks, palming and squeezing them both and holding Ted inside him. Toby began to rock his hips against Ted, riding the cock, causing it to begin to stroke again.

“Fuck me again,” he murmured. “Not on the clock. Just do it.”

They quickly matched rhythms, their lips found each other again, and they fucked, this time gently, rocking with each other, Ted not daring to touch the gecko, realizing this was an entirely different coupling. This, he thought, must be why Toby was such a high-drawer hooker.

Ironically, Toby wasn’t thinking like a hooker in those moments at all.

Toby was at the door to the apartment and Ted had retreated to his bedroom, when a key was turned in the lock. It was a tossup who was more surprised to see each other at the door—Toby Drake or Kit Helms.

“Kit?” Toby said, recovering first.

“Toby?” Kit said louder.

“Shhh,” Toby said. “He thinks my name is Todd. He’s your roommate?”

“Yes.”

“You sleep with him?”

“Sometimes.” Kit meant it as indignantly as it sounded.

“I didn’t know that. And I didn’t track him down—certainly not because you are with him. It was an agency assignment.”

“I’m not with him. We just . . . sometimes. We’ve known each other since college. There’s nothing ‘only’ about us.”

“Good to know. Listen. It’s just a coincidence. He contracted with the escort agency. They sent me. I didn’t know you were involved in any way.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” Kit answered. And he recognized that it was all right—at least as far as Toby was concerned. Now as far as Ted paying for it when Kit was right there in the apartment . . .

“It might be best not to tell him we know each other,” Toby said as he edged into the corridor. “And not my real name. It was just on assignment.”

“Yes, I understand,” Kit said. And he did understand. They parted amicably, and after checking at Ted’s door, seeing that he was on the computer, and deciding that he was too upset to speak to Ted at the moment, Kit went into his own room, stripped, and, went to the shower.

Ted, who had seen Kit in the periphery of his gaze while he read a passage on his computer screen, hesitated. He was in high heat from his encounter with Toby, but seeing Kit so soon after Toby had left, he had a sudden fear that Kit had seen the prostitute and known he’d been here. It occurred to him that he hadn’t wanted that to happen, and thinking that made him consider also how he felt toward Kit.

He looked again at the screen. It was a short story, one that Kit had written.

 

Reynard went into the shower, turned the water on, and soaped himself up. He only had been under the water for a couple of minutes before he felt the Cuban rent-boy enter the shower behind him. Reynard had told the young man to wait in the bed until after he’d showered—that Reynard should shower as well. It was a surprise that the rent-boy came into the bathroom. They were much the same height, but the Cuban was much younger and more muscular—and lower hung—than Reynard was.

Reynard felt Ajuria’s fingers touch his hips on either side, and, as the Cuban lightly stroked his flanks, Reynard gave a long sigh, and leaned back into Ajuria’s chest. There was no question what Ajuria wanted—where he wanted to start earning his fee.

“Yes?” the Cuban whispered into Reynard’s ear. “Here first?”

Reynard shuddered at both the “here” and the “first.” “Yes,” he answered.

One beefy arm went around Reynard’s chest under his arms from behind and the other came around his hips and Ajuria cupped the older man’s balls. He pressed a thumb on the top of Reynard’s cock at the base, where a vein entered the shaft. Reynard gasped and went immediately hard.

“Good. You have virility—you harden fast,” the Cuban whispered, his lips in the hollow of Reynard’s neck. “Do you fuck or are you fucked.”

“I want you to do me,” Reynard whispered.

“You’ve seen me. Do you need—?”

“I can handle it. All of it. Rough as you please.”

“Do you have . . . or . . .”

“Bareback me. I have been checked. I know the Florida Thunder procedure on that.”

“Do you want the cock right away or do you want me to stroke you off first?” Ajuria had already taken the hand away from Reynard’s cock and, after stroking the older man’s buttocks cheeks with his hand and rubbing the bulb of his cock between the cheeks and over the hole, had inserted two of his fingers inside Reynard’s channel and, as Reynard groaned, began to open him up.

“No, not right away,” Reynard answered, pulling forward, out of the Cuban’s grasp, twisting around, going down on his knees under the cascade of the water. “I want to taste you first.” He took Ajuria’s cock in his mouth—and then in his throat, as the young man held the gray head between his hands and moaned at the expert blow job he was receiving.

When they resumed the position of both of them standing, Ajuria embracing Reynard from behind, the Cuban murmured, “Jut your ass back and lift it,” as he palmed the older man’s lower belly to help him go into position. “You’ll want to be as open to me as possible.” Reynard complied and yelped and shuddered as Ajuria entered, entered, entered him.

 

The man at Eddie’s Beach Bar had been right. Kit’s stories were so sensual. It revealed something inside Kit—not just passion and sensuality but also a need. A need to be taken hard. Did Kit realize that need? Did he, Ted, realize that Kit had what he wanted as well?

He could hear the shower running in Kit’s bathroom. He stood and stripped. He already was in erection.

Kit didn’t know Ted was in the shower with him, until Ted leaned into him from behind, buried his face in the hollow of Kit’s throat and touched him on the flanks, stroking him there with his fingertips—the same approach Kit had written about.

All of the resentment flowed out of Kit and he turned his face to receive Ted’s kiss. Kit leaned back into Ted’s chest. One muscular arm went around Kit’s chest under his arms from behind and the other came around his hips and Ted cupped his roommate’s balls and he pressed a thumb on the top of the young man’s cock at the base, where a vein entered the shaft. Kit gasped and went immediately hard.

“I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you hard,” Ted growled.

“Yes. Yes,” Kit murmured, “but first . . . I want to taste you first.” He twisted and went down onto his knees on the wet tiles and took Ted’s cock in his mouth. After he’d given Ted suck for a few moments, Ted reached down, took a hank of Kit’s hair and pulled him up and slammed him, face first, against the shower wall. Kit yelped in surprise and jolting pain. Encircling his waist with one hand while continuing to grasp a hank of head hair with the other, rhythmically thumping Kit’s head against the wall—not enough to damage him but enough to send the signals of jolts of low pain through his brain—Ted pulled back on Kit’s belly.

“Jut your ass back at me. Take the cock. Take all of it!” Ted commanded.

“Yes, YES! Fuck me hard,” Kit cried out, and then he yelped again as Ted, thick, hard, and long, thrust up inside him and began to pump.

Pain, ecstasy, passion. Kit was feeling it all. Kit was loving it all.

* * * *

“OK, OK, I’m coming,” Hardesty called out as he came out of his bedroom. He’d pulled on sleeping shorts, although he only used them to answer the door like this. He’d been snatching an hour here and an hour there in sleep. This was his day off, but there always was a good chance he’d be called back in at any time—if they hadn’t caught the bastard yet.

He looked up at the camera feed of who was out in the corridor. They had a fish-eye lens in the door, but only those who wanted a bullet in the brain would use those. The camera they actually used was hard for a stranger at the door to determine was there and was trained on them. It was a rent-boy he knew as Angel, although he’d heard that he wasn’t all Angel anymore.

“Yeah, Angel, what do you want?” he asked as he jerked the door open. Angel was a small, platinum-blond, cutie-pie pretty tranny dressed in a pink halter top covering melon breasts strongly indicating that he’d gone that far in going girl, a tight pink leather miniskirt, and black vinyl knee-high boots.

As he—or she—floated past Hardesty and into the apartment like this was home, Angel said, “I heard you yell you were coming and I wanted to get me some of that.” Then she added, “It’s Angelique now.”

“How much Angelique?” Hardesty asked, closing the door and turning around.

“You certainly can discover that for yourself, honey. You got license. You’ve been in me before.”

“Well, if that’s what you’ve come for, I’m probably about ready to be called in, so unless you want to confess to a crime—”

“Oh, I think there’s a crime, honey. And I think it’s going to be me if you don’t protect me.”

“How so?” He didn’t ask her to sit down, and she seemed comfortable enough standing there ogling his magnificent physique, most of it uncovered, and posing for him.

“You’ve heard about the freak out there molesting small, blonde ladies, I’m sure.”

“Yep. That’s why I’m not getting much sleep. It isn’t ladies he’s going after, though.”

“I think that’s what saved me.”

“What do you mean,” Hardesty asked.

“I think he came after me and would have done me if he didn’t discover I’d already been done post-op.”

“Again, what do you mean? I don’t have all night. Tell me and go.”

“I can’t go. He knows where I live.” Hardesty growled and waved a hand. “Well, I do a bit of advertising on the Net, with my photo and all, you know. Really good photo. Done right after I had my hair dyed platinum, and I’ve let it go to my shoulders as you can see.”

“Yes, I see. Very nice. Go on.”

“Well, this dude clicked on me and wanted to meet. I made the mistake of letting him pick me up where I live. Well, he turned out to be a big bruiser. Good-looking enough, if in a brutish way. He said he was from Baltimore and worked days in building security and nights as a bouncer at gay bars. He was thuggish enough to do it. Acted real weird. He was interested in my size and my hair. It went south when he asked me if I’d ever been fisted. Well, I couldn’t get out of his truck fast enough because the vibe was more than that. And I’d heard about a couple of the boys who’d been beaten up bad by a john like that. Some have been no use to a man after that fisting shit.”

“Is that all of it?”

“No. I let him feel me up and when he got in my panties, he went all crazy. He backhanded me and I fell out of the truck. If he’d gone slower, I would have told him before he got to the goods.”

“What kind of truck was it?”

“A white one.”

“Angel.” Hardesty obviously was exasperated.

“It’s Angelique. All I can say is it’s a big one. One with a backseat.”

“And you were in the backseat.”

“He was going to pay well.”

“OK, it sounds like you might have some information that’s helpful. Come on in to the unit tomorrow and we’ll take what you know down.”

“You know I don’t want to go into the police unit, Hardesty. You know none of us do. I came to you. And I can’t go back to my place tonight. He knows where I live. My information isn’t any good to you if he finds me and does me—and I mean does me in. And I don’t think I’ll remember anything without there being anything for me.”

“OK, you can stay here for tonight. And how much do you want for this information?” Hardesty had worked this room many times before.

“It’s not money I want, honey. You’re rough with the girls, a rough we like. We give it out so much that we have to have it rough to feel it. With you, we feel it.” She had stepped forward and was running the back of a long, pick-lacquered fingernail down his chest. Hardesty, again, had worked this room long enough to know what the room demanded and would hold out for.

“Just how much of a change have you made, Angelique?”

“That’s for you to find out, honey. We all got where you want to put it. And did I mention I like your style?”

Hardesty had her spread-eagled on his bed, bound at the four corners and her ass elevated on pillows when he discovered how far she’d gone. The halter had already come off and he had played with her tits as much as she had demanded he do. When he pushed her leather skirt up to her waist and had ripped away her panties, the only vestige of a male he found was a tiny penis crowning a yawning cunt.

“Fuck it. Fuck me!” she demanded. So, hovering over her, his fists buried in the mattress on either side of her shoulders, he muttered, “What the shit,” and he did fuck her. He’d fucked Angel before in the ass. There was little difference in fucking Angelique in her new cunt.

“Oh, baby, baby, YES!” she cried out as, not daring to plunge deep, he taxed her with his thickness. “You can go deeper. Go deeper!” she cried out. So, he did. He released her legs, still covered with her knee-high black boots, raised and wishboned her legs, moved in close, stroked her deeper. He fucked her good. She got what she came for.

“Holy shit,” she cried out.

“This is what you wanted.”

“Holy shit, Yes, yes. Holy shit! Come in me. Yes, YES!”

After he’d done her in her cunt, he did her like he’d done Angel before—he fucked her in the ass.

* * * *

He turned me on my back again, and I spread and bent my legs and lifted my pelvis to him, willingly, offering myself as a sacrifice, a sacrifice he accepted. He fisted me. Now I could take it after the reaming of his cock over the previous hour. I would give him anything, and he wanted—and took—it all. I panted and groaned as he penetrated me with a greased hand up to his wrist, taking his time.

“We have all the time in the world,” he murmured to assure me that I was completely in his control.

“Be good to me, Master,” I begged.

“You wish me to stop? You wish me to withdraw?”

“No. Have me as you like.” I was lost to him, wanting more, wanting it all. He wasn’t just a massive, big-bellied, middle-aged Indian. He was a sexual mystic, a master cocksman.

“Remember what I told you in taking a cock my size. You must do that for a large fist too.”

I remembered, willing myself to relax and open to him, to control my breathing—not to hold my breath—to concentrate on how fully we were fused, the pleasure I was giving my partner, the pleasure I could have as well if I fought through the pain. Already I was learning from Patel, a master. Wherever I went from here, I would have learned to please a man more fully—and to receive maximum pleasure myself.

And it was pleasure—the pleasure of knowing I could take it; that it was what my partner wanted from me and that I was in the position to give it all to him. The pleasure of knowing I could take a huge cock, even a fist, probably even two cocks at once.

I can take a fist; I can take a fist. I rolled this over and over in my mind as he was penetrating me with his hand. And then I had taken his fist. In to the wrist, he had the leverage of moving my pelvis, up and down, from side to side, with the power of his hand.

He was inside me. I felt his fingers stroke my channel walls, a thumb firmly planted on my prostate and rubbing. Driving me crazy. I bucked slowly, as if under water, against him, with him, as he fluttered his fingers inside my channel. He held my head to the mattress with the other massive hand on my throat and gazed into my face, reveling in my complete, whimpering surrender to him.

 

Ian Marcus lay back in the seat, savoring his completed jackoff into a handkerchief, and turned the computer off. His laptop batteries were getting low here in the truck. He had waited outside Ted and Kit’s apartment building on 19th Street in the white Dodge Ram double-cab until he got bored. Then he’d turned his laptop on and brought up the Sandman story he’d read the other night before picking up that T-girl. He hadn’t known it was a T-girl and he’d been angry when he realized that and he’d booted the fucker out of the truck. He’d wanted to try fisting, like he’d read in this Sandman story. He still wanted to try fisting. He’d do that soon, but he’d read a more interesting fetish since then. He wanted to try sounding tonight if he could get someone—someone small, blond, and pretty—but not a T-girl. No, definitely not a T-girl. He was sorry he hadn’t done more to the fucker than just push him out of the truck. There should be a law against those freaks, he thought.

He looked back across the street to the old Massachusetts Avenue apartment house. It didn’t seem like the willowy blond honey was going to come out so he could grab him. He was horny as hell, though. That’s when he remembered that another cutie, small and blond, had been working the pole at Eddie’s Beach Bar across the river in Crystal City.

He drove back. The cutie was still there, but he was working the room now. Marcus let the trick work him. After a couple of drinks and having flashed a wad of cash, the cutie let Marcus take him for a ride. Marcus drove along the river on the George Washington Parkway and pulled into Turkey Run Park, the small forested park on the banks of the river, where he’d watched the Sandman being done in a Mustang. That’s what brought him to the park now. There was a nighttime barrier bar across the asphalted entrance, but there was enough flat ground at the side of that for a truck to go around. They were in a truck.

Then, in a remote corner of the parking lot, they were in the backseat of the truck. They were both naked. The small, blond pole dancer was stretched out on Marcus’s seated body, the young man’s wrists bound and hooked behind Marcus’s neck and his ankles bound and trapped behind Marcus’s calves. For the money Marcus had laid out on the bench seat beside them, the pole dancer was good—but panting and groaning hard—to have his ass channel lowered on the man’s thick erection and for Marcus to raise and lower him on the shaft for several minutes.

When Marcus opened a box next to them and started taking out sounding wands and telling the pole dancer what he was going to do with it, though, the dancer started squirming and sounding off. He wasn’t able to writhe enough to dislodge the shaft inside him, though, or to escape his bonds.

Gripping the dancer’s throat and applying his thumb and index finger “just so,” the young guy blacked out long enough for Marcus to take up the smallest of the sounding wands and slowly twirl it into the dancer’s piss slit. The dancer regained consciousness and started to strain against the invasion. Marcus held him tight, telling him it already had begun, and he really, really needed to hold still. Marcus didn’t tell the guy this was Marcus’s first go at this technique. Maybe if he had the dancer would have fainted and been OK.

Marcus did explain to the lad how important it was for him to hold still while the wands were twirled down into his piss slit, but the young man didn’t seem to be interested in cooperating. He fought against it and writhed on Marcus’s lap. That didn’t stop Marcus from inserting the wands, though—or at least two more of them in succession—before the effort got messy. Marcus knew what he wanted to do and knew it would give him a sexual high, like he’d read in the Sandman’s story and seen in operation in the house up on MacArthur Boulevard. He just knew the theoretical procedure more than the actual one. It did give him a sexual high at first, but the pole dancer wouldn’t stop screaming and squirming and blood was getting all over the nice upholstery in the back of the Dodge Ram.

That made Ian Marcus mad.

* * * *

Toby returned to the Crystal City apartment well after midnight. He was dragging. It had been one demanding day. He let himself into the apartment. He saw that Hardesty’s bedroom door was open as he was passing to his own room. This was a night for sleeping alone. After the men he’d had today, he didn’t think he could survive what Hardesty might do with him if he climbed into bed with that big lug.

A dim light pervaded Hardesty’s bedroom. It wasn’t like him to either leave the door open or leave a light on in there at night. Toby looked into the room.

Hardesty wasn’t there. Angelique still was, though. Toby had a passing acquaintance with the rent-boy. He knew most of the men on the street. He’d been there one day himself. He instantly saw that what was rumored—that Angel had gone all the way—was true. The T-girl was stretched out on the bed, arms flung up and out at the top of the mattress and legs flung out similarly below. The restraints at the four corners were showing, but not attached. Her pelvis was elevated on pillows. Her breasts were perky melons. Her skirt was pushed up to her waist, her legs were still covered in her black boots. The puffy wings of her cunt confirmed she’d now gone all the way, although there was a vestige of a tiny penis where Toby would have expected the clit to be.

Angelique was asleep, with a beatific smile on her face, and she was snoring in a very unladylike way.

Well alrighty, Toby thought, too tired to either figure this out or to wake Angelique and ask her where she was hiding Hardesty. He just passed this mystery by and went to his own room and shut the door. He wouldn’t be passing the rest of the night in Hardesty’s bed—and certainly not with Hardesty.

To Be Continued.