Fridays at Battery Park Books

[This is the first chapter of a three-part, completed story set in Asheville, North Carolina during the 2018 Christmas season.]

“Sure, I’ll drive you home. But do you really want to go home just to sit around a do nothing or would you like to come with me downtown to the Battery Park Book Exchange for some stimulation?”

Trent had just put in eight hours at the University of North Carolina Asheville Ramsay library, checking out books at the circulation desk, and more time with books today was not his idea of stimulation. “Stimulation?” he asked.

“Stimulation of the intellectual kind, at least while we’re at the bookstore,” Julian Carter, director of the Special Collections at the library, answered, giving Trent a little knowing smile like Trent might be thinking of another kind of stimulation. And to show that Trent was on the right track, Julian added, “and if you are interested, other stimulations later in the evening.”

And Trent, in fact, was thinking of stimulation more in the sexual sense at the moment, having been well taken care of sexually when he was working on his masters and not having gotten any since he arrived at this job in Asheville, North Carolina, a month previously. He had completed his masters of library science at UNC Chapel Hill at the end of the summer and taken until late November to get settled in this job.

He didn’t think that Julian Carter, seven years older than he was at twenty-two, was personally offering sex, though. It was clear to them both that they were both submissives, Julian flamboyantly so, piercings and changing-colored hair streaking and all, and Trent small of stature but more all-American handsome and sleek bodied. They had seen it in each other early on and had been open in discussing their preferences and experiences. But no matter how much Trent was aching for it, he made pains not to show either his orientation or his need to everyone else.

“The book exchange isn’t like any other book store, it’s an experience, and a revolving group of us meet there on Friday evenings for a couple of hours after work for arts and literature discussions and champagne and then going on to ‘whatever’ afterward. You’d be a very welcome addition to the group. It includes highly intelligent men of art and literature. You say you haven’t had time to explore Asheville yet and the Christmas holiday time is a great time to do that. The book exchange is in a corner of the Grove Arcade, which is at the heart of the downtown area.”

“Men, you said.”

“Yes, exclusively men. Most of them are middle aged but they are intellectual giants of Asheville, including theater and art and museum gallery directors and even an executive chef up at the Grove Park Inn and a novelist. Very stimulating conversationalists. You have said that you mix well with older men, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Trent answered. And he had. He wouldn’t have made it through his library arts masters without the financial and emotional support of two older men, one after the other. He had merged well with both, one because he had kept in top shape and the other because of his physical endowments—but both because they had the wealth and willingness to support him through graduate school. So, no, he didn’t shy away from older men.

Conversely, he was sexually curious. All of his relationships heretofore had been with older men. He sensed there was something else out there—something more exotic, and maybe something more taxing, and that maybe younger, more vigorous and athletic, and maybe a bit cruel sex partners, would raise the arousal of sex with men. That’s partly what led to him moving to an entirely new town to restart his life—the possibility that there was more out there while he was young and good-looking than what he’d been getting. He was open to possibilities.

“I can see how you, as the university library Special Collections director would fit in with that crowd,” Trent continued. “But I just got out of library school and work at the circulation desk.”

“That’s what I think you need, baby—to get into circulation. After our gatherings we disperse to dinner and other activities. This would give you an opportunity to circulate with the literati of Asheville, such as they are, and you could see the Christmas offerings in Asheville and dine at someone else’s expense. And you’d be a hit with these men.”

“I still don’t—”

“You’re a handsome, young submissive, Trent Ashton. The group needs a continuous infusion of candy, and, quite frankly, you’ve been increasingly fidgety and cranky. I think what you need is to be covered.”

Trent thought so too, but he didn’t say it. “You’re saying these men are all gay?”

“And tops, and the ones who have had me are proficient at it. And they are good conversationalists, treated like royalty in this sophisticated town, and they have money—at least enough to show you a good time in Asheville. I think this is a match born in Nirvana—a high-brow gay discussion group and a sweet young submissive like you. Even I do quite well in the group. You’ll be a smash.”

“It’s a Friday group?”

“Every Friday, with regulars at the center and others who float in and out, rarely more than eight at a time. We have reserved placement in the bookstore from 5:00 to 7:00. The conversation is freewheeling, and afterwards is whatever you make of it. It’s raining. You asked for a ride home from work. I can do that, or you can go to the Fridays at the Battery Park Book Exchange group meeting with me today . . . now. I don’t think you’ll regret it if you come with me. It’s the perfect way for guys like you and me to insert ourselves into the Asheville lifestyle.”

* * * *

The Battery Park Book Exchange, indeed, wasn’t what Trent had envisioned it would be. It was a used bookstore, specializing in books you wouldn’t normally find in a Barnes and Noble, but it also was a bar and coffee shop and music venue. There were three levels to the store, which was set in a corner of the Grove Arcade, an elegant old shopping mall building that had been meant as the base of a skyscraper that never materialized beyond the first five stories set in multiple classical European architectural styles.

The book exchange was entered from outside the arcade. It had three levels that meandered around. The first level had a bar and a platform where music was played—tonight a classical guitarist—to the left of the door and a lounge area to the right, set with deep sofas and chairs on Oriental carpets, with bookshelves lining the walls. Up a wide set of stairs from this was a mezzanine level, with an antique Chinese canopied platform bed in the center, serving as a table, and four overstuffed sofas around it. Again, the walls were lined with bookcases and the floor with a vibrantly colored Oriental rug.

The third level featured an open balcony on one side overlooking the bar and music platform below. Bookcases divided this space into three, one of which was a bar, the other two gathering spaces. The Friday Group had a reserved gathering space for Friday nights, with eight overstuffed chairs gathered around a Chinese Chippendale mahogany table, set on a red-dominated Oriental carpet. The arms of the chairs were broad enough for extras to sit on if more than eight appeared, but Julian proved to be correct. There always seemed to be eight, and only eight, present, and as one or two drifted away, they were magically replaced until past 7:30, when they slowly faded into the bookcases.

The bar only served coffee and champagne to drink and a standard cheese and nut tray. The Friday Group drank only coffee or Heidsieck and Company Monopole champagne, two or three glasses each tops, which somehow got paid for on a revolving system that only the regulars seemed to know how to keep equitably covered and that never included the group’s submissives, like Julian and Trent. Cheese trays magically appeared along with champagne refills, served by black-clad book exchange staffers who were also experts on where to find what on the book shelves. The books were available for sale at astonishingly reasonable prices. And, as the name “exchange” implied, they could be returned for recycling to other buyers at a discount on future purchases.

Trent and Julian fairly blew into the front entrance on a gust of cold rain-laden wind on the last Friday in November, which also was the last day of November. They immediately were in an area bounded by stuffed book shelves, with a bar directly in front of them and guitar music coming from over to the left. A handsome man in black, maybe in his early thirties, muscular and square cut with reddish-brown hair, was looking directly at Trent when they entered and were attempting to tame their umbrellas. He had a slight smile on his full lips, and Trent got the impression he was being assessed on preference. Of course he was with the screamingly flamboyant Julian, who was jabbering about the Friday Group meeting upstairs here, and Julian no doubt was a regular, so the guy, who appeared to be on the book exchange staff had every reason to know Trent’s leaning. Trent blushed, though, finding the man enticing and gauging the man’s interest to be sexual. But, then, Trent was in high heat or he wouldn’t have come on this adventure to begin with.

As they got their umbrellas closed and Julian guided Trent to the right, where there was a two-story-high room that looked like a library, with comfortable chairs, a sofa, and filled bookcases and pointed to the wide staircase across the room that went up the mezzanine, the man in black came around from behind the bar, with a ice bucket in one hand, cuddling a bottle of champagne, and two champagne flutes balanced on a tray in the other. He fell into step behind Julian and Trent as they headed for the stairs to the mezzanine.

“You with the Friday Group,” the man asked in a rich baritone voice.

It took Trent a couple of seconds to realize he was speaking to him. “Yes, I think so. I’m with Julian here.”

“My name is Art. Art Hilliard,” the man in black said. “A couple of the men are already up there. The bathroom is back in that alcove,” he said as they walked around the Chinese platform bed and sofas to the stairs to the next level. He continued before Trent could respond, although Trent was glad to know they had a bathroom and where it was located, as it wasn’t marked other than with a neon green stylized moon sliver on a luminescent aquamarine door. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I’m new—new to Asheville,” Trent said. “And my first time here to this bookshop and group.”

“Well, you take care with these guys,” Art said, as they reached the first floor which opened into the room where the Friday Group met. “Maybe I’ll see you around. Maybe I’ll see all of you.” The attendant continued on into one of the other rooms on this floor with his champagne and flutes after giving Trent a smile and a wink. Did he have “submissive” written all over him, Trent wondered. But if the hunky guy was on the staff here, he probably knew what the Friday Group was all about. Trent wasn’t sure he knew the all of that, though, himself yet.

Miraculously, when Julian and Trent had arrived at the third-level meeting circle, they were attendees seven and eight. There were two chairs empty next to each other at the table, and Julian motioned Trent to one of them and stood in front of the other momentarily. “Here he is,” Julian said, gesturing to Trent. “I have delivered, as promised.”

That was news to Trent—that he was expected, and that he’d been promised. If he wasn’t horny as hell, he’d be upset and leave. The six men sitting at the table, five from their late forties to something around sixty were mostly presentable. Surprisingly, though, one of them was in a priest’s cassock. He looked like the oldest of them, but he was an almost-skeleton-bodied man, an ascetic, handsome and regal of face and with a healthy mane of silver-gray hair. One of those at the table was as young as Trent was—candy like he was, Trent wondered.

Julian didn’t sit down until he’d made introductions. “This is Trent Aston, a new arrival in Asheville, just out of library science graduate school in Chapel Hill and working in the university library here with me. He is a virgin to the Asheville sites and glories. I’m sure he’d be grateful for being shown the glories of the Christmas season here. To your right there, Trent, is our features newspaper editor, of the Citizen-Times, just next door, fittingly on OHenry Street, Jerry Morgan.” Morgan was a beefy, no-nonsense-looking bald man appearing to be in his late forties. He smiled at Trent as he rolled a black poker chip around in his fingers. He was drinking coffee rather than champagne.

Seeing that Trent was looking at the coffee cup, Morgan lifted it and, as if apologizing for not drinking champagne, said, “Unfortunately, still on duty and soon to have to leave for a bit.”

“Next to Jerry, who will disappear after about an hour to check on tomorrow’s edition, is the artistic director of our quite professional community theater, Cyril Birch.” Birch was tall, in his late forties or early fifties. He was handsome, and elegantly dressed, and emoted in sweeping gestures indicating he knew he was both. He was drinking champagne, as was the young man sitting next to him, who Julian introduced as a UNC undergraduate student, Keven Dundee, who was a more flamboyant and somewhat bent-wrist version of Trent himself. He, like Trent, was blond and blue-eyed, of smaller than normal stature, but perfectly formed. His hair was frosted, though, as opposed to Trent’s natural golden-blond, and, like Julian, but not Trent, he had piercings, but more so—small silver rings in the lower lip, an eyebrow, and in a nostril. His T-shirt was so tight that Trent could tell his nipples had small rings pierced in them too. He was drinking champagne and looking very Bette Davis pleased with himself. Trent was surprised and intrigued that he had a purple poker chip in front of him on the table by his champagne coaster.

“And this man trying to look like Hemingway is our resident novelist, Bernard Raskin,” Julian was saying, moving on to the left of the college student trying to look cool and succeeding in looking young and available, which he probably was, no more than nineteen or twenty, and most certainly available. Raskin, who Trent had to agree was trying to look like a macho Hemingway, was, in fact, quite macho—dark and sultry and hirsute, with flashing black eyes. He was studiously scowling and looking lost without a cigarette in this no-smoking environment. He was drinking champagne. A blue poker chip rested on the coaster under the base of the champagne glass, but, as Trent was being introduced to him, he flipped the chip over to in front of Trent on the table.

“Next is Brad Haywood, the development director of the Asheville Art Museum. That’s being totally renovated and will open again next spring. This is probably the busiest time for Brad is getting the museum open again. He’s attending galas left and right to raise development money. But if you can carve out some of his time, he’s probably the best guide of the city you can get, and quite stimulating, I can attest to.” Haywood, also drinking champagne and, like Raskin, with a poker chip, this time green, under the base of his flute, was in the same assured, ruggedly handsome, tall and trim vein as Cyril Birch was, although older, perhaps in his mid-fifties.

“And last so far this evening, is Monsignor Emeritus Antoni Skileri of the nearby Catholic Basilica of Saint Lawrence. Antoni is our resident classicist, reminding us that no topic we discuss is in any way new to the world—and able to identify what came before it. I presume, since Bernard is here this evening, that we’ll be talking about Thomas Wolfe and his autobiographical novel Look Homeward Angel and how the residents of Asheville snubbed him for writing what he did about this town until he became famous enough to the celebrated and to bring in the tourists and Monsignor Antoni will again relate examples of the exact same things happening to writers in Athens and Rome.”

Julian sat in the chair to Trent’s right and the priest’s left, as everyone laughed, but, in fact, that was where the general conversation went. There were side conversations, though, first observed between the priest and Julian, during which Trent saw Monsignor Antoni put a white poker chip in front of Julian, which Julian picked up and put in his shirt pocket.

The table in general quizzed Trent on his background and his interests while still managing to breeze through topics of art and literature at a deeper level, including what some of the attendants were working on at the moment. There were undercurrents of homosexuality in the discussion, though, that, at one point became raunchy when the novelist, Raskin, pulled a Tenga Egg masturbation toy out of his pocket when the discussion was centering on people who could be depended on, and Raskin made the crack that the egg was what he could depend on the most. He looked directly at Trent when he said it and smiled. Everyone laughed, a few a bit nervously, and the question of the dominant architecture of the Grove Arcade was flipped out for discussion.

Trent found it all very stimulating, including the homosexual undertones, and the time passed quickly. He was a novice on all topics that were worked over, but so was the UNC student, Kevin Dundee, and neither one of them was patronized or denigrated—or excluded from the conversation. When Art, the waiter, who Trent was to find out was an assistant manager, dropped off Trent and Julian’s first flute of champagne, he bent down by Trent’s ear and whispered, “Remember to keep both of your feet on the ground,” before wafting off. Trent mulled that for a few seconds but was immediate swept up in the discussion again. When the second flute of champagne was delivered by Art, Trent looked down to see that there were three poker chips—a black one and a green one in addition to the blue one the novelist had flipped across the table—in front of him. When Art saw those, he laughed. Trent was just confused, but the conversation picked him back up again.

The spell was broken by a delivery guy, muscular, black, and cocky, who paused long enough in moving from the stairs to the bar in the other room with a heavy carton of champagne bottles in his arms, hefted with no apparent effort, to give Trent a pointed stare and a sneery smile before moving on. He made two trips through the room with cartons of champagne and gave Trent “the stare” each time.

The spell of the discussion broken, Trent went to find the bathroom Art, the bookstore staff member had pointed out to him on the mezzanine. When he came out, there was Art, standing by as if he was waiting for Trent, and perhaps he was.

“You do know what those old guys come here to get, don’t you?” Art said.

“I have some idea, yes,” Trent answered.

“It looks like you’ve turned them on. Three poker chips. Take care of yourself. Some of them are more taking than their age would imply. You want something younger, though, you know where to find me.”

Trent focused on the offer, which was the best one he’d gotten in Asheville so far, that he didn’t even think to wonder what the remark about the poker chips meant. When he got back to the Friday Group table, Julian and the priest were gone and another older man had taken Julian’s chair. He introduced himself as Daniel Park, the director of the Asheville Music Hall. He brought himself up to speed on who Trent was and was moving into more intimate questions when Brad Haywood called over to him to ask him questions about some scaffolding the two venues were going to split the cost on. While he was turned away, the newspaper editor, Jerry Morgan, touched Trent’s arm from his left to get the young man’s attention.

“I have to go back to the office for a while to put the paper to bed, but I can come back . . . if . . .” He was fingering the black poker chip in front of Trent. “Julian says you—”

“Speaking of Julian,” Trent said, a chill running up his back because the beefy newspaperman was running his fingers up Trent’s forearm, “where is he? He’s my ride home.”

“He left with Monsignor Antoni,” Morgan said. “But if you come over to the newspaper office—just turn right at the bookstore entrance. The Citizen-Times building is just across the street from there—I’ll be happy to drive you home when the paper is in bed. I told Julian I would. He didn’t abandon your need altogether. And if you bring this black poker chip with you, well, you know.”

Trent didn’t know, but he didn’t want to seem to be a dummy, so he didn’t say anything. He picked up the black chip, though, which made Morgan, who rose from his chair smile. “Well, later then,” Morgan said, and left.

As he was leaving, Cyril Birch, the community theater artistic director, and the UNC student, Kevin Dundee, were also standing and pairing up to leave together. Dundee was holding Birch’s purple poker chip. Haywood had pulled the music hall director, Daniel Park, over to his side of the table to continue their discussion on scaffolding, which only left the novelist, Bernard Raskin, somewhat drunk, sunk into his chair, glowering at Trent.

Trent looked at his watch. It was nearly 7:00, time, he understood, to be moving on, so it was natural that the group was breaking up. The conversation certainly had been stimulating. He’d thought he might be leaving with one of these men, and they all seemed to be worth the spin, but none, other than the bookstore staffer Art, who was working, had made an offer. Oh, well, maybe when he’d become more part of the group. He hadn’t been sure he’d come back to the group again, but it had been a fascinating evening. These were really interesting men—and Julian had said that he wouldn’t have any trouble being dined and shown around by these guys.

But for tonight it was time to pack it in. The newspaper man—quite a hunk for his age—said he’d drive him home. Trent slipped away from the table and headed down the two flights of stairs to the ground level. On the strip of covered walk outside the entrance door, he found that it was raining harder than when they’d come in, and the rain was mixed with ice. The newspaper office was supposed to be just off to the right and across the street, but Trent wasn’t sure his umbrella could withstand even a dash in that direction. It looked like he was going to get soaked. He decided to wait for a few minutes to see if the rain would let up.

A car horn blared and he looked up. A 4x4 truck, with a covered bed, had pulled up to the curb in front of him. The passenger window came down. “You need a ride somewhere?” a voice boomed out.

The delivery man who had given him the leery sneer in the bookstore.

“Someone’s giving me a ride home,” Trent called out. “But it’s raining too hard for me to get to where he is. I’ll have to wait for the rain to let up.”

“Get in. I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks, no. I’ll wait.”

“Fuckin’ get in the truck,” the man commanded.

Trent was good with taking commands and the black guy was arousing, in a brutish way. He got in the truck.

His name was Gus. Gus Sawyer. He didn’t take Trent home. He pulled over into an alley behind a strip of closed shops, turned off the truck’s engine, and reach over and pulled Trent to him, his mouth going to Trent’s, an arm embracing the young man, and his other hand gripping Trent’s piece through the material of his basket. Trent struggled a bit, but not much. He was in need, and Gus, who pulled off Trent’s mouth only long enough to laugh, could feel that he was hard.

Gus pulled away from momentarily to pull his T-shirt over his head, unzip and flare the fly of his jeans, and hook the waistband of his briefs under his balls. He was in massive erection, and Trent trembled at the tattooed ebony beauty of the man’s torso. Out of the black man’s grip, Trent turned to open the passenger door and escape, but Gus reached over and backhanded him on the cheek, sending Trent reeling back against the door and then turned on the safety locks of all four doors.

Trent lay back against the edge of the passenger at the door panel, his eyes wide in surprise, panting, and raising a hand to the bruised cheek. He didn’t have long to think about how to react, though, as Gus was pulling his shirt off him, cupping the back of his head, and forcing Trent’s face down into his lap. The slap had stung, but Trent had gone hard, aroused by the roughness. Trent took Gus’s thick, jet-black cock in his mouth and gave the man good head, not struggling anymore.

Gus pulled Trent’s mouth off his cock before he came and lifted the young man’s head and stared into his face. The sneery smile was back. “You are hungry for it, ain’t you? You done that real well. I’m good and hard now. What will we do with you now?”

“Fuck me. Please fuck me. Put it in me,” Trent whined. He encased Gus’s shaft with his hand and stroked him.

“In the back,” Gus growled, and he lifted and hauled Trent over the tops of the front seats into the backseat of the truck, following him over and landing on top of the young man. Trent struggled to get out from underneath the muscular man, to gain some semblance of control, but Gus backhanded him across the face again, and, whimpering, Trent fell back into the corner of the backseat.

“Don’t fight me, baby,” Gus growled. “Relax and take it. You want it. You want this dick inside you.”

Trent did want it. His want was obvious.

“Tell me you want it,” Gus growled.

“I want it.”

Trent let himself go limp with Gus crouched over him, a knee planted between Trent’s thighs. The black man expertly stripped off Trent’s trousers and briefs and was on top of him between the young man’s legs.

“Spread ’em and show me your hole.”

With a sigh of surrender, Trent spread and bent his legs and raised his pelvis up for Sawyer to penetrate, go deep, and begin to pump him. Trent dug his fingernails in the black man’s shoulder blades and rocked his pelvis against the thrusts of the cock, going with the fuck. It was all about getting it off with a muscular man between his legs now—a primeval need to be fucked, to be breeded, to release and to get the man on top of him together, to work together in the fuck. And he was black. Trent had had fantasies about hung black men.

Any sense of denial or struggle was past now. The two men were fucking. Thrust and counterthrust. Heavy breathing. Thrust. “Yes, yes, fuck me,” whimpered by Trent. He gasped and flexed and unflexed his fingers on the man’s muscular back as the thick black shaft went deep and held, throbbing, in Trent’s soft core, Trent’s passage muscles rippling over the steel rod. “Fuck me hard. Do it now,” Trent hissed. “Come in me.”

Gus wasn’t sheathed and they were well beyond worrying about that now.

“You want it,” the black man growled. “You want my cum.”

“Yes, I want it,” Trent sobbed. “Oh, shit. FUCK!” he cried out as Gus started to pump him.

Gus was digging his fingernails deep into Trent’s butt cheeks, squeezing them, separating them, spreading them to give himself deeper penetration.

“Yes. YES!”

Thrust, thrust, thrust.

Mooaan. The first time under a man since he’d arrived in Asheville. And it wasn’t just any man. It was a forceful, muscular, hung, cruel, black stranger.

When he was done, Gus rolled off Trent and pitched himself back over into the front seat, retrieving his clothes and pulling them on. “Where is home? Where do you want me to drive you?”

“I live up near the university campus, on Salem Avenue.”

“Fuck, man. I didn’t know you lived way up there. I’m not fuckin’ going up there tonight. The rain’s let up anyway. Where were you going for this other ride?”

“To the Citizen-Times building on OHenry, across the street from the Grove Arcade, where you picked me up.”

“Come up here and get dressed and I’ll drop you there. And make it snappy or I’ll put you out of the truck naked.”

Gus dropped Trent in front of the Citizen-Times building and Trent found that the features editor was still there, putting the finishing touches on putting the morning newspaper to bed. Trent’s name had been left at the front desk to clear him to be shown where Jerry Morgan’s office was.

“Where do you live?” Morgan asked.

“Up by the university, on Salem Avenue. I know it’s far, but—”

“No problem. Did you bring the black poker chip?”

“No, I . . . yes, here it is,” Trent said. He’d slipped it in his shirt pocket and it hadn’t come out when Gus had pulled his clothes off him.

“Splendid,” Jerry Morgan said.

Morgan fucked Trent on the young man’s own bed in the basement one-bedroom apartment in the house of Salem, within a short walk of the university library.

Morgan was beefy, but solid, stocky, but with a good thick cock. He had been around both the block and the world a couple of times. He knew how to fuck a young man. He was good at it.

He fucked Trent in a missionary, lying between the young man’s legs in essentially the same position that the black man, Gus, had fucked Trent in the truck. But this fuck was less hurried and in less cramped quarters. Morgan took his time, preparing Trent first by fondling and running his hands all over the young man’s body and by kneeling below him and working Trent’s hole with his tongue and teeth while he stroked the young man’s cock off. For such a beefy man, with a gruff personality, to work another man’s body so sensually before fucking him surprised Trent, especially with what he’d just experienced in Gus Sawyer’s truck.

When Trent came, moaning, his throbbing shaft in the grip of Morgan’s fist, the older man rose over him, gently spread Trent’s thighs wider by gliding his hands up the young man’s inner thighs.

“Open for me, baby,” Morgan whispered. “You’re so nice. Let’s make music together.”

Trent went with him, sighing and groaning, bending his legs, pressing his feet into the mattress and pushing his pelvis up to receive the long slide of the hard shaft inside him.

Long slide in; then all the way out to the glans resting just inside the hole. Slide in, stretching the channel walls as the muscles there rippled over the iron-hard shaft.

“Yes, baby. So nice. So sweet. You take it like a champ. You’re so sweet and tight. We’re gonna do this right.”

A long, deep sigh from Trent, tightly gripping the butt cheeks of the newspaper editor. Withdrawal. A groan and murmur of loss from the young man. Slide and withdrawal.

“Stay with me, baby. Let’s do this.”

A more powerful thrust. Then again and again. Faster, harder, deeper. They were going like one, synchronized machine now. Trent’s hands went to the man’s shoulder blades and dug in, his legs wrapping around the man’s buttocks, holding him close. Rocking and bucking. Trent arching his back and his head, crying out to the ceiling in passion, as the stocky man thrust and thrust and thrust.

“Yes. Yes! YESS! Oh, God, you’re good. Fuck. Shit. FUCK ME! YESSS!”

Morgan had great stamina. Trent gripped the older man’s butt cheeks in his hands, holding Moran close into him and rocking his pelvis hard against Morgan’s groin as the beefy newspaper editor thrust and thrust and kept on thrusting . . . and filled the bulb of his condom. Trent exploded again with him.