“That’s one sweet ass. You are one sexy piece of ass.”
“I can sing too, and will look good in front of your band,” I said, trying to keep the focus on why I was there, in the sleazy hotel room, tinted red by the “O” and the “L” of the flashing neon sign just outside the window.
I wondered if he could hear the pain in my voice, although chances were that he’d be proud that he’d put it there. Phil Gauteau, the huge French Canadian of the trendy band of the same name currently playing the Chelsea Bathhouse, had his back propped up on pillows against the headboard. He was smoking a cigarette and had an open bottle of bourbon and a water glass on the nightstand beside him. He hadn’t offered me either. There was a small pile of Magnum condom packets on top of the nightstand as well. One of the packets was split and empty, the used condom now on the floor beside the bed, fat as a sea slug with his cum.
I vaguely wondered if there was a smear of blood on the condom, as well. He was a monster of a man, with a cock to match. It wasn’t appreciably long but was one of those known as a beer can dick. I’d never had a man that thick inside me before, and he had given me little time to prepare for it and had fucked me mercilessly, seeming to have enjoyed my cries of distress immensely.
I wanted something from him and he knew it. So, I was in no position to ask for more consideration.
I was stretched along his side, my right leg bent, the sole of my foot pressed into the surface of the thin mattress. I was doing what I could to keep from squeezing my anal channel shut, which was throbbing and was swollen, I was sure. I’d felt the opening for tears and found none, but the channel had been reamed wide open and hadn’t closed yet.
I had no illusions that it would close anytime soon. He’d taken me hard and fast, missionary style, as soon as we’d entered the room, him saying that he’d hardly been able to keep his hands off me until we got into the room--a good sign for what I was after.
“I don’t know what it is about you that’s so sexy,” he’d said. “You were born to be fucked.”
I couldn’t explain it either, but it had been my experience through life--for men to want to fuck me. None as cock big as he was, though.
I’d had no idea he’d be that thick--although his height and burliness should have given me a clue--and I’m sure anyone in the hotel at the time could hear my screams and grunts and groans as he spiked me, the sound backed by the rhythmic thump of the headboard against the wall and the squeaking of the springs as he pounded my ass.
I half thought he’d listened to the beat of the headboard and the squeal of the springs to set a rhythm. That’s what he did in the Phil Gauteau Band, in addition to putting the musicians together--my interest at the moment. He was the band’s drummer and manager. I was a singer--a singer badly in the need of a job and a breakthrough.
Moving from running my fingers through his chest hair, I let my hand drift down his belly and into his thatch. The cock fascinated as well as frightened me. It wasn’t just because it was so thick--surely nearly as thick as a beer can--but also because it was almost jet black. The skin of both his cock and his gigantic balls were black. There was no sign of blackness in him otherwise, but the color here bespoke of an interracial mix. I encircled the shaft with my hand, barely being able to touch my fingers together. It began to swell instantly.
He laughed. “Ready for it again? So soon?”
Not hardly, I thought. But I wanted this gig badly. My way to standing in front of the band in the Chelsea Bathhouse and singing like Frank Sinatra went straight through this monster dick. Gauteau had made it quite explicit what I had to do to get the chance. And that it was an audition of long duration.
I bent over his belly and, while still encasing the base of the cock with a hand, opened my mouth wide over the bulb and began to suck. He groaned for me, which was a good sign, and after a few minutes, during which the shaft engorged so much that I had to unhinge my jaw to keep it in my mouth, I felt a nudge on my shoulder. I looked up to see that he’d split open another condom packet.
“Crown me. Then we’ll go to town again.”
Every ounce of my attention was on the baseball bat moving inside my passage, as he gripped my wrists, my torso cantilevered over his legs, my legs running up the side of his torso, his pelvis jerking back and forth as he pulled my body on and off the thick shaft. Grunting and groaning, I kept my eyes plastered to the red neon flash of the “O” and the “L” outside the hotel window and counted the strokes as he surely came closer to ejaculation and my liberation for now. The flashing sign was red; the tint of the atmosphere in the room was red, my swollen passage walls were red--my whole world was red, as I concentrated on surviving the fuck without split channel walls.
And then, slowly but relentlessly, I opened to him and the pleasure of the fuck--the satisfaction of accommodating a monster cock--flowed in, and I was crying out for it. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard!” and he was increasing the pull, striving for deeper penetration, crying out, “Take it, baby, take it!” as he filled the bulb of his rubber.
Later, our breathing having calmed down and his cigarette crushed out on the scarred top of the nightstand, the bottle of bourbon nearly spent, I felt him snuggling in behind me, his arms embracing me, his hand going to cupping and fondling my cock and balls.
“Such a sweet lay. I could fuck you for days.”
It seemed to me that he had.
The fireplug of a cock was pressed into the small of my back. I couldn’t tell if it was hard or not--I certainly hoped not. My passage was throbbing and, I could tell, was gaping open.
“So, is it set, then?” I asked tentatively, in a whisper. “Will you give me a chance to sing with the band at the baths?”
“One thing is sure,” he muttered in a low-throated voice, “You’ve got one sweet, tight ass. You must sweat arousal juice.”
I began to tremble as I felt his hand fumbling between the small of my back and his groin. There was no mistaking it, he was rolling on another condom.
I moaned deeply as he turned me on my stomach and came down on my back. I opened my mouth in a silent scream and my eyes bugged out as he began to enter me again. pulling my knees up, I raised my buttocks and spread my legs, trying to be as open to him as I could be.
“Oh, shit, of fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I moaned, my eyes latching onto the blinking neon “O” and “L” outside the window as he began to pump again--in rhythm to the blinking neon lights.
I couldn’t help myself. I begged for more of what he was giving and set my hips in motion, meeting his thrusts with counterthrusts.
“Oh, baby, baby. Yes, baby. Give it to daddy.”
“Yes, YES! SHIT YES! FUCK ME!”
* * * *
We were celebrating in our small loft room at the edge of Chelsea--well, in Zane’s small room. I was still living off of what little of a startup fund I’d brought to New York with me from Delaware. Somehow Zane, an aspiring actor, and I had hit it off well after meeting at one of those “aspiring artists” roving parties in Manhattan, getting half drunk, and coming back here for Zane to spike the night away on my ass. He too had remarked on how fuckable I was; I was beginning to think it was my only asset. I’d been sleeping here since then, on his nickel, and eating my principle meal of the day here, too, at his sufferance.
He’d said it was worth sharing the meal with me if I cooked it--that he would burn half of whatever he tried to cook anyway.
Zane had come back to the room with the news that he’d gotten the young hunk supporting role in an off-Broadway play, and I, of course, was full of the news that I was going to begin that weekend singing with the Phil Gauteau Band in the Chelsea Bathhouse. It really was a gay male bathhouse, but these had become trendy lately as places of entertainment as well. Some had gone so far as to be attractive to heterosexuals, but the Chelsea Bathhouse was still all gay male, with much open sex going on even in the main room during the shows. Certainly no women would chance it and a good-looking straight man would be raped in no time flat. The Phil Gauteau Band had gained a “to see” reputation as well, and it worked in the band’s favor that, unless you were willing to take in a gay venue, you’d have to pay big bucks for a private gig. The underground press loved advertising largely forbidden venues and limited-access bands.
For the first time, that night, both Zane and I felt that we were “on our way” at last.
I had wanted to celebrate by sharing a bottle of cheap wine, but I was at a disadvantage with this, as Zane would have had to buy the wine. Zane, instead, wanted to celebrate our familiar, costless way--costless because Zane didn’t believe in condoms and this was the early seventies, before the scourge of AIDS set in. Neither one of us could have afforded the cost of the condoms we would have needed anyway. Sex was nearly our only form of affordable entertainment in those days.
Zane couldn’t keep his hands off me when we were together.
Both naked, we were sitting on Zane’s air mattress on the floor, me encased in his arms, facing away from him, between his legs. That was the bedding we had: two camping blow-up mattresses on the floor, with sleeping bags on top of them, although mine was rarely used, as Zane liked to sleep with his dick in me. Between the two, they took up nearly all of the floor space in the room, where a kitchenette took up one wall and the only other room was a small bathroom, with a tight shower.
That was the major regret that Zane expressed about the small apartment--that it was physically impossible for us to shower together.
Zane was a real hunk--a Nordic blond, with a perfectly formed athlete’s body that placed him squarely in the romantic “second man” love-interest roles--not always too bright, but always a hunk--in plays. In contrast, I was smaller, dark complexioned, Jewish, and with a sleek, young-man’s body that was well proportioned enough, just not muscle bound. And there must have been something to that “scent of sex” thing men talked about when they were with me, because it was so often mentioned and I never was without propositions. Phil Gauteau had admitted that his arousal with me had been both a scent thing and the image of stuffing that beer can cock of his into the hole of a man as small as I was. It was a wonder to me as well that he had managed it earlier that evening--three times. Sometime during the third time, I’d adjusted to it well enough to have hoped for a fourth.
Zane had his arms around me, with one hand stroking my cock. His lips were buried in the back of my neck. What he had rising up the small of my back was getting harder and harder. His cock wasn’t thick, but he was what we termed a “foot long” in length. Not nearly a foot long, of course, but close enough--it certainly seemed as long when it was inside me.
“Such a coincidence for both of us to get good work on the same day,” I murmured.
“Yes, isn’t it? I’m ready to celebrate. How about you?” Zane asked, his voice dreamy. He coaxed my head to turn with cheek pressure from his sexy five-o-clock shadow beard that he perpetually groomed. I opened my mouth to his, feeling the heat and insistence of him.
I wasn’t sure I was ready for this. My passage still throbbed from Gauteau’s beer can cock assault earlier in the evening. I didn’t know if I could have sex again for a day or two.
But then I was having sex, whether I thought I could or not. With his mouth still in possession of mine, he slowly pitched my torso forward, raising my buttocks to him. The cock slid right in. If he had any sensation that I’d been reamed huge and still hadn’t closed, he gave no reaction. His intent was to make me come before he took his pleasure. It was what he always wanted.
I moaned and writhed within his grasp as he invaded with his cock only far enough for his glans to reach my prostate and start to work that, while his hand stroked my cock. Where I expected pain, I was getting only pleasure and the slow, sure buildup to an ejaculation.
“Oh, God, Zane. Yes. There. Just like that. Oh shit, FUCK!”
I shot my wad out across the mattress and collapsed in his arms, as his long, thin cock now began its journey deep up inside me. My passage walls constricted over the familiar shaft and began to shimmer. No pain--nothing left over from the rougher, near-splitting attention of Phil’s cock. I set my pelvis in motion, riding back on the cock as it moved ever deeper--reaching for my stomach. He began to pump me deep, and I moaned and moved my lips back to his for a deep, all-tongues kiss.
I went down on my elbows onto the mattress, my cheek pressing into the mattress in front of me, the surface of the mattress slick from the cum I’d shot off there. Zane went up on his feet, crouched over me, gripping my waist with his hands, pumping me hard and deep, his golden pubic hair mingling with my silky, black curls, in to the hilt, reaching for my tonsils.
And then, with a “Oh shit, Mike. I’m gonna come,” he did so in three long, wet spoutings deep inside me.
We both, panting, fell off to the side, him embracing me with his arms, still sheathed deep inside me.
“Congrats, Mike,” he whispered.
“Same to you, Zane,” I whispered back. “I hope you didn’t have to sleep with the director to get the part.”
I felt him stiffen. I don’t know what had made me say that. Guilt, I guess, considering what I’d had to do to get my gig. I didn’t have any reason to think he’d had to get the part this way. I was the one getting my job that way. He’d mentioned before times when it seemed he was expected to let a man fuck him to get a part, but there was no evidence he’d done so. He was a top. It would take serious consideration for him to submit to a man.
It hadn’t taken that much for me to decide to do so to get ahead. But then I was a submissive. And I’d never had trouble giving it to a man with a good body and a stiff cock. Ever since my senior year in high school, starting with the former Marine living next door on the first day I could give consent, I’d willingly opened my thighs for any muscular, half-good-looking man demanding entry.
“No, of course not,” he said defensively. “Besides the director is a woman.”
“A good-looking woman?” I asked, digging myself even deeper.
“Yes, she is.”
“So, are you going to fuck her?”
“If I can. But I didn’t do it to get the part.”
“But does she react to you like she wants you to fuck her?”
“OK, OK, I’ve fucked her, OK? But it was after she told me I got the part.” He pushed me away from him and sat up on the floor next to the mattress.
It had been somewhat of a raw edge between Zane and me. He was bi. He fucked women too. He was fine--or least showed as such--about having me stay here and mooch off him. But he didn’t rely on me for anything and was as easy sticking it in a woman’s box as in my ass. I was the one who had needed him.
“And, how about you?” he asked, each word separately enunciated, like rifle shots. “This Gauteau drummer who gave you the job. He’s got a monster dick, doesn’t he?”
“Excuse me? I didn’t sleep with anyone to get the singing gig.”
“Really? You want to go with that? How many times did he fuck you? Did you think you’d come to me open enough for a Mack truck to drive up in there and I wouldn’t notice?”
“Three times,” I admitted meekly. “It was excruciating. Dick as thick as a baseball bat.”
“But you’ve had a lot of dicks, haven’t you?”
“Not that many,” I said defensively. “I’m not a slut.” Then, after a pause, “None that thick.”
“But you’ll take him again, won’t you? to keep the job.”
“And you’ll enjoy it, won’t you? Now that you’re reamed to his size. You are such a slut.”
“Yes,” I shot back. “Now that I could take a Mac truck, there’s no reason not to take him again. He fucks really, really well.”
It was true. It had been painful, until half way through the third time when I just relaxed and went with it fully, already reamed to the drummer’s needs. I already was thinking of having Phil Gauteau inside me again. Then, after a pause, “Quite the pair, aren’t we?” I murmured.
But I’m not sure Zane heard me. He had risen from the floor and stumbled off to the bathroom.
By now it was late in the night. I turned on my side, away from the bathroom door and, with a low sob, closed my eyes to try to fool sleep to overcome me. I didn’t want to think about what I’d had to do--what I’d had to give.
I felt Zane’s body come down on the mattress behind me, stretching along mine. A hand clasped my right leg, low on the thigh, and I allowed him to raise the leg. I jutted out my buttocks and sucked in air as his cock invaded my ass and slid deep inside me.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” He murmured in my ear, before sticking his tongue in my ear and swabbing it.
“You just want to have your way with me,” I said, making it sound like a whimper. “You just want to get your dick in me again.”
“Yes, I just want to get my rocks off again,” and then, more seriously, “we’re quite a pair, but we’re going to make it, you and I.”
I sighed as his tongue started fucking my ear in the same rhythm as his cock was slow pumping my ass deep, sliding freely in the cum he’d deposited there earlier. I clamped my passage as tight as I could, my channel muscles undulating over his pumping cock, eliciting a moan from him that I harmonized with an octave higher.
“Fuck me, Zane. Fuck me hard.”
I groaned as the cock picked up plowing speed.
* * * *
It was uncanny. Every time I looked out into the audience, he was looking at me. This despite having two young men hanging off him. And I knew that look. He wanted me. With all the young men at the Chelsea Bathhouse who were available to him, he wanted me.
Cole Temple was a legend at the bathhouse. He was even a bigger legend than just in the New York bathhouse scene. He was one of the foremost political novelists of our age. A lion of a man, the body of a Zeus into his forties and movie-star good looks, he famously was perhaps the most openly narcissistic and egotistical public figure in America in the current era. He was bigger than life, flamboyantly homosexual in an Oscar Wilde way before that became any sort of fashion and able to bring it off while still being acceptable in the halls of power and entertainment. His was the only opinion that mattered when he was holding court at a gathering. He sucked all of the air out of the room and still everyone there willingly laid down and opened their legs to him--emotionally, certainly, but also physically when he demanded it.
And he demanded servicing daily--often nearly hourly.
His father had been a major baseball player, his mother a raving beauty, whose father, a U.S. senator, had been the head of a political dynasty. Cole was related to a first lady on this side of the pond, and multiple royal houses on the other side. He was the last person leading families wanted to invite to gatherings, but he was the first one they wanted to hear give a acid-tongue riff on other members of the family. Therefore, he never was left off the guest list.
His homosexual affairs with novelists and actors and more than one royal when he was barely legal were legendary. And he had become a major novelist and political commentator and book reviewer in his own right.
He had shown up at the Chelsea Bathhouse from the day it had opened, and was reputed to have fucked at least one young man at the bathhouse and taken another one home each night. He was both insatiable and ever hard. A joke was making the rounds that a molding of his cock was going to be marketed as a dildo.
And now he was sitting at a table in the first row as, I, wearing only a gold lamé G-string, wrapped myself around a pole on the stage in front of the Phil Gauteau Band and sang my little heart out.
Two young men bracketed Temple at his table. One was naked and had his face plastered to the side of Temple’s head. The other, as good as naked, sat on the other side of Temple, who was only in silky boxer briefs, and had Temple’s cock pulled through the fly of the briefs and was stroking it. As was obvious from Temple’s reputation, the man was hung. From what I could see, a thick vein running the length of it, I could readily believe that it would be modeled for a dildo.
Despite the attention he was getting from the two young men, Temple had his eyes on me. When he was sure I was looking, he even smiled directly at me and cupped his package--a sure declaration of intent in the bathhouse. I shuddered and felt myself going hard.
It had been a euphoric four weeks since I’d been fronting the Phil Gauteau Band at the Chelsea Bathhouse. I had made a splash, yielding great reviews in all of the underground newspapers. I felt that now men were coming to the shows at the bathhouse to see and listen to me.
He wasn’t the first one declaring he’d come to fuck me. And there had been patrons who had done just that, leaving me fat tips. I had never received action like this before. I decided I craved almost constant cock.
Having Temple sitting there, with his eyes on me, was some sort of peak I had achieved. Temple was the biggest catch of them all--not just at the Chelsea Bathhouse, but in New York and beyond.
I needed the boost. I’d gotten two whammies earlier in the day. I’d walked in on Zane fucking a woman in our room that afternoon. In the last four weeks, life had looked up for both of us. We both had real beds in the room now. But it also was becoming obvious that we were on the cusp of a change in living arrangements. We each could afford better now. But we hadn’t had the conversation about whether we would relocate together or go our separate ways at this point.
We had had the conversation about bringing others back to the room, however. I might have managed if I’d caught him in the room with another man, but I still wasn’t comfortable with his bisexuality.
The woman was considerably older than he was, but still was trim and with shapely legs that went on for miles. Zane’s pelvis was inserted between those legs and he was holding one of them raised from her body, which was arched back, her head hanging over the side of the bed and her long, straight, blonde hair swishing on the floor to the rhythm of the fuck. From the door into the room, I had a clear shot of his “foot long” taking long strokes inside her. I turned and left. This wasn’t what we’d agreed too. I realized that this probably was the director of his play and he was just solidifying his run in the part, but I thought we had an agreement that neither of us would bring someone else back to the room.
At the same time, I realized that this was his room, not mine. He didn’t need anything from me--certainly not permission to bring anyone to the room to fuck. He had brought me to the room to fuck. It had been my need that had brought us together. It was obvious, though, that the time for new digs had arrived--and that they would need to be separate digs. The thought depressed me; I had been avoiding it.
And then, when I had arrived at the bathhouse and sought Phil Gauteau out, I found him in his dressing room, fucking a young man on a divan. Later, when we rehearsed, and the young man showed up standing behind the keyboard, I realized that I no longer was the last person Gauteau had auditioned for a job in the band.
Inevitably, I was being moved down a notch and would be receiving less attention than before from that beer can dick I now had learned to crave--if at all. I just hoped that the next young man Gauteau auditioned wasn’t another singer. My reviews gave me some hope, though, that he wouldn’t be releasing me any time soon.
When I returned from a break and started into a new set of songs, I noticed that Temple no longer was at the table in the front row. If legend held, he was off fucking one of the young men I’d seen him with and had the other one in reserve to take home.
I was wrong, though. When I left the stage door that evening, a Cadillac coupe was taking up most of the room in the alley. As I passed it, the driver’s side window rolled down. I saw the face of Cole Temple through the open window.
“Get in,” was all he said.
Feeling numb and hopped up at the same time, I went around to the passenger side of the car and climbed in. I had reached a milestone. The famous novelist, Cole Temple, was taking me home to his bed.
Temple lived in an oversized penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park. We rode up in the private elevator to the top without a word. Inside the foyer, he turned to me and said, “The bedroom is in that direction. Take a shower and clean yourself out,” and I walked, feeling like I was walking on air, down a long hallway to what had to be the master bedroom.
I wasn’t all the way down the hall, though, before I heard his doorbell ring and him opening the door to a large, boisterous gaggle of people. They streamed into his living room with much noise.
I took a shower, padded out to the bedroom, which was dominated by a bed that had to be nearly twice the size of a king-sized bed, and slipped between the covers. I could hear a raucous party going on down the hall--a party I wasn’t being invited to.
At length, I dozed off, only to be awakened in the dark sometime later, with Temple pulling up the sheets, climbing into the bed on top of me. He pushed my legs apart with his knees and stuffed a pillow under the small of my back. He covered me close from above, and, half awake, I began to gasp and groan as his cock forced itself inside me. It was as all-consuming as the legends foretold.
He was both Phil Gauteau and Zane in one--both thick and long. I writhed under him, moaning and begging him to go slow, as his cock relentlessly dug deeper and deeper, ignoring my wishes completely. It was all about him. Cole Temple taking his pleasure on the body of a young man. On one level, being a submissive, I reveled in not being given any consideration. Struggle was useless. He was too big and strong for me, and what resistance I did try to give he took as a coy game and enjoyed breaking down, grabbing my wrists and forcing my arms above my head as he drove the cock ever more vigorously.
For a forty-year-old man, he had remarkable stamina and vigor. He fucked me for nearly an hour straight. I ejaculated twice while he was pumping me deep.
When he came, in a flood, I realized that condoms were not in his repertoire.
I was still lying there, panting, with him going flaccid, but still big meat, inside of me, him laying full length on top of me, asleep and snoring.
I woke in the light of morning, on my belly, Temple lying full length on top of me, with his dick pumping me deep again.
I’d never had it so thick and long together. With a moan, I raised up on my knees a bit to give him even deeper purchase and began to move my pelvis in rhythm with his thrusts.
Once again he fucked me for more than a half hour, not finishing before I had ejaculated into the sheets and collapsed onto the bed.
He rolled off me and sat on the side of the bed. “I’m taking a shower. There should be everything you need in the kitchen to make breakfast. I prefer regular coffee in the morning to decaf. I trust you can cook.”
My mother had died in childbirth when I was ten and I had two younger brothers, so, yes, I could cook.
Naked and hobbling, bowlegged, I padded out to the living area while he was in the shower. The living room was a mess from the party the night before. I couldn’t resist bringing some order to it--replacing cushions on couches, uprighting lamps, and collecting butt-filled ashtrays--on my way to the kitchen.
All I could think of while I was moving about was how he had pinned me to the bed with that monster cock of his--and how I ached for him to do it again.
When he came out, his beautiful body only half covered with a robe that was gaping open, with him scratching his balls as he moved, he gave the living room an appreciative look. While breakfast was simmering, I’d had time to tidy up even more.
It was obvious that he appreciated the cheese and mushroom omelet I’d worked up as well.
“I demand absolute quiet between 10:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.,” he said as I watched him eat the omelet. If he wondered what or when I’d eat breakfast, it didn’t occur to him to ask. He lived up to the legend of his self-centeredness. “That’s when I’ll be in my study writing. Phones turned off; no answering the door. Tiptoe around beyond my hearing.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, confused on why he was telling me this. What did I care what his daily routine was? His legend held that, although he took a young man home every night, it was a different young man every night. I’d had my Temple fuck--and a fuck to remember it was.
“I’m lunching at the Plaza today. Expecting a plumber, though. The household money is in the kitchen drawer by the stove. Don’t tip him lavishly. Don’t tip him at all if he leaves grease on the floor.”
“Yes sir.” So I was expected to stay until the plumber had come and gone.
“You can use the bedroom behind the kitchen,” he said, “although I want you waiting in my bed every night unless I tell you otherwise.”
So, he expected me to be here beyond the plumber. He wanted me in his bed again. I suppressed a moan as I went hard again.
I probably should have asked him what the hell was going on here. But he’d pushed my buttons. I was a total submissive. As long as he told me what I was to do and didn’t ask my opinion, that’s what I’d happily do. It aroused me. It made me go hard. There was no hiding from him that it did.
“Do you give a good blow job?” he asked, brushing his robe more open as he sat on the stool at the kitchen counter. He was in magnificent erection.
“Um, I . . .”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Suck me off,” he said, pulling me to him with a grip on my arm and forcing me down on my knees before him.
Afterward, after he’d told me to hold off twice because he didn’t want to come then, he guided me into the living room, turned me over the arm of a sofa on my belly, and fucked me hard for some twenty minutes, cupping my chin and arching my torso back cruelly as he mined my passage deep and slathered my passage again with his cum.
He finished at nearly the strike of 10:00 a.m. “Remember, not a peep out of you until after 1:00 p.m.,” he said. “My luncheon appointment is for 1:45. There’s a number for a grocery service on the refrigerator door. Call for whatever ingredients you’ll need for supper.”
He left me there, draped over the sofa arm and moaning from the thickness, length, stamina, vigor, and prodigious cum of him.
I didn’t return to the Chelsea Bathhouse that night--or the next--or ever again.
Although he didn’t live up to his “every night” legend after that, he didn’t completely change his spots. He still went to the Chelsea Bathhouse some nights--unabashedly telling me he did--and fucked a young man, a new one each night, there--again having no embarrassment in telling me he had--and he still occasionally brought a young man home to fuck--rousting me out of his bed to do it, but bringing me back after he was finished and had sent the young man home and with me waking every morning in his bed with his dick pinning me to the mattress.
He also frequently held court in the living room to a gaggle of raucous guests before coming to me at night, and he never invited me to the party.
I would have thought that I was just his housekeeper if he didn’t keep me so well fucked. I wondered what he’d done for a housekeeper and cook before me, but I never had the nerve to ask.
* * * *
“What have we become, Cole?” I asked, beyond frustration. Not at all comfortable, at least at this moment, of where Temple had taken our relationship after ten years.
“You didn’t say no to it,” he retorted.
“When have I ever said no? When have you ever shown the least regard for what I think or want? Do you realize I’ve been with you for ten years now and you’ve never let me out of the bedroom to meet any of your friends?”
“You couldn’t hold your own with any of my friends,” Cole spat out. “They would make mincemeat of you. They had razors for tongues; I’ve protected you from them. You are fulfilling the role you can handle. I would toss you out otherwise.”
He was standing beside the bed, nude. The young black man who had been in bed with us and who I’d just sucked off as Cole fucked me missionary style at the side of the bed, rolled off the other side of the bed and headed for the bathroom.
We had come a long way in our sexual activity since the early years.
“Toss me out? Just like that? Like I meant nothing to you? Like I haven’t given up everything to cater to your every need?”
“You’re getting what you want, what you need.”
“I don’t think so,” I answered, angrily. I started to rise from the bed, but he pushed me back down with a fist to my sternum.
“This is what you’re good for. This is what you stay here for,” he retorted, wagging his cock at me. “Here, suck this. You want to.” Grabbing a fistful of hair he jerked my head forward to his groin.
Sobbing, I opened my mouth to his cock and took as much as it in as I could, gagging, as he released my hair only to grab my head between his hands and face fuck me.
“Here, up on the bed,” he commanded, as he pulled out of my mouth and scrambled up on the bed onto his back. Pulling at me, he demanded, “You want my cock. Ride it. Fuck yourself.”
Still sobbing, I dutifully threw a leg over his hip, positioned the head of his cock on my entrance, descended on the shaft, and started rising and falling on the thick, long cock that I couldn’t get enough of.
The black man padded back out of the bathroom.
“You want Nate’s cock too, don’t you? Be honest. Tell me. You live for the cocks.”
“Yes, yes, I want Nate’s cock too,” I answered, with a sob. And I did. I’d just passed thirty and nothing had become of my life other than serving Cole Temple’s needs. And I’d done it all for his cock. I wasn’t getting any younger. He seemed suspended in time. He’d started bringing more young men home--and then had moved to bringing them into bed with me, moving from them fucking me in sequence to sharing my ass passage. How soon would it be before he pushed me out his bed, and his apartment, and his life? And I’d given the entire ten years to him, my chance at a singing career--any career--had been choked off in the first night he’d brought me home.
How much longer would he keep me in his home?
“You want us both together, Nate and me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered, fearful of what would happen the first time I said no. And this wasn’t the first time in the last year I’d said yes to two cocks at once.
“Nate, catch,” Cole commanded, as the well-muscled and hung black man came up behind me and straddled Cole’s legs. What Nate caught was a condom packet. In the years since Temple had first fucked me, we’d come face to face with the threat of AIDS. Unwilling to declare monogamy when I was willing to, he bowed to the needs for protection, although neither of us were pleased with the loss of the feel of barebacking. Nate had fucked me earlier in the night, as Cole watched and beat his own meat. Increasingly, Cole had wanted variety and had wanted me to participate--and to provide him entertainment.
I cried out as the black cock started working its way inside me above Temple’s already-buried staff. Nate wrapped his brown arms around my chest and his lips went to the hollow of my neck.
“Such a sweet, tight hole,” he murmured, which took me back years to what Phil Gauteau had said about my channel’s reception of his black cock.
“Oh, God, oh shit,” I muttered, shuddering at the invasion of the second cock, but managing it. “Fuck me, fuck me.” How much longer would any man want to fill me like this? How could I deny that I wanted this as long as possible. I couldn’t. “Fuck me hard, both of you,” I muttered, with a moan. “Yes, fuck me, YOU STUDS!”
Temple laughed. “Yes, you want it. It’s what you’re here for,” as, moaning, I began to rise and fall on the two buried cocks.
“Yes, shit, work me, work my ass!” Someday I would have to do without. But not today.
* * * *
“So, here you are at last, Mike.”
I felt arms going around me in the shadow of the wings of an auditorium stage. Cole Temple was on stage, sitting in a wing-back chair, and conversing with a microphone with another political pundit on the implications of the recent national elections. The auditorium was nearly full. People always came out to hear Temple. He was known to be not only scathing and controversial in his pronouncements but on the mark as well.
“Zane,” I exclaimed, turning my face back to the man who was standing close behind me. “My God, I haven’t seen you in years.”
“Not since you disappeared from the face of the earth,” Zane said. “Although I and others knew where you were--that you were being held prisoner in Cole Temple’s apartment.”
“Hardly a prisoner,” I answered.
“What would you call it? One day you were the toast of the town as a singer for the Phil Gauteau Band, and the next day you were gone, only to be found in Temple’s bed. Nate Jackson tells me that he and Cole fucked you together. I might add that one day you were rooming with me and the next day you were gone.”
“I’m sorry. Events took over.”
“What happened to your life, Mike? Is Temple’s cock worth giving up everything for?”
“It was my choice,” I said, defensively.
“Was it? Was it really, Mike? I know Temple. I know it’s all about him and he has the power over people to make it all about him.”
“It’s a good cock,” I answered, trying for flippant. “Even after ten years. It’s a great cock. it’s the greatest. His cock is legendary. They’ve made a dildo from it.”
“And I think more men have ridden the real one than the rubber one,” Zane shot back. He calmed down immediately, though and spoke in a softer voice, “I’ve missed you, Mike.”
“Have you really? Your career really took off. I thought you were in Hollywood now.”
“I am, but I’m in town for a premier. I’m footloose tonight, though, and I have a hotel room nearby. How about a toss in the sheets for old time’s sake?”
“I can’t. Cole will need me after he’s finished with this program.”
“Do you really think so? I bet it doesn’t matter to him a jot that you’re here. He’s preening for the public. Just look at him out there, in his element. I heard him propositioning a stage hand before he went onstage. Are the two of them going to fuck you together tonight?”
I just grunted in answer. I wondered which stage hand he meant. There were hunky ones and there were some not so presentable. Some were thuggish. I couldn’t help but shudder at the prospect.
“I bet you could come away with me and he won’t even know you’re gone,” Zane continued. “Does anyone else fuck you now, Mike? I know you need regular attention.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Anyone else beside who Temple brings to bed? I know that he’s become increasingly jaded over the years. Anyone you’ve chosen for yourself?”
I couldn’t answer that in the affirmative. “I’ll need to be here when he’s finished with the program,” I said. But there was a catch to my voice. Zane was running his hands over my body in the shadow of the stage wings. He was clutching my cock through the thin material of my trousers.
“You’re hard. You’re hard for me, Mike.”
I actually was hard for the image he’d brought up of a stage hand coming home with us, but I didn’t say that. I let Zane continue his silky seduction. It seemed important to him, and it had been years since a man had tried to seduce me. I could be hard for him, so it wasn’t really wrong.
“I bet we can go back to my hotel room and Temple won’t even know you were missing.”
“Of course he will.” I was panting lightly, though. I couldn’t hide the pull of my former lover now that he was rubbing my cock through my trouser material, and my mind went to that “foot long” cock of his, which I could feel hardening at the small of my back.
“You can’t win the bet without testing it,” Zane whispered in my ear. “Remember how fast I can make you come. You will come to my hotel with me, now.”
Well, when he put it as a command . . .
* * * *
“Oh, God, oh God, oh God,” I chanted, panting, as I lay on my back at the foot of the hotel room bed, with Zane standing on the floor between my legs, my right leg running up his chest, and the bulb of his cock rubbing across my prostate.
“Oh, shit, I’m going to come,” I cried out and then I did. I cried out then as he went deep with the cock.
“Bet I can make you come again before I do,” he muttered. And he did.
“That was as good as of old,” he murmured, hunched over me, his kisses covering my face, pecs, and nipples. “But, no, not quite as good,” he added. “It will never be as good as when we could bareback.”
“No, not that good,” I admitted. “But very good.”
“As good as Temple can do?”
I didn’t want to lie, so I didn’t answer. Nobody had the talented cock that Cole did.
“Come to California with me, Mike. Leave him. He’s cruel to you. You’ve become a nonperson. You deserve better. We can be monogamous. I can bareback you again.”
“He needs me.”
“I’m sure he does. But I’m sure he doesn’t know it. You’ve given him too much, too easily.”
“I have to go,” I said, rolling over and away from him, and reaching for my clothes. “He’ll wonder where I am.”
“I have bet he won’t,” Zane said.
Zane won that bet. When I got back to the apartment, Cole wasn’t there--and hadn’t been there. I showered and, naked, slipped under the covers of the bed. Well after midnight I heard the mob arrive and move into the living room. Cole’s voice rang out over the hubbub, so I knew he was home. I drifted off to sleep, and when I woke, all was quiet. But Cole wasn’t in the bed.
I came out of the bed and padded into the living room. The place was tossed into the usual chaos after one of Coles’ frequent parties, but he wasn’t there, or in the kitchen, dining room, or study. Absentmindedly, I put the living room back in order. On my way back to bed, I heard them in one of the guest rooms. Cole was covering a young blond missionary style. I recognized the blond as an apprentice stage hand at the lecture--not one of the thuggish, seasoned stage hands I had fantasized about.
Both were grunting like rutting animals. The young blond was rubbing Cole’s buttocks with the heels of his feet in tune with the rhythm of Cole’s thrusts--something I’d never done before. Cole was grunting like he enjoyed it. I stood there and watched for a bit, but I knew that Cole could fuck for longer than I could stand watching. The two began bouncing up and down wildly on the bed, the young blond crying out at the hard taking. I turned and went back to the bed in the master bedroom.
Near dawn, Coles came to bed, nudged my thighs apart with his knees, and fucked me in the same position he’d used on the young blond and just as vigorously, bouncing our bodies up and down on the mattress. I even rubbed his buttocks with the heels of my feet as he thrust hard inside me, again and again and again. If he related the heel rubbing to what I’d seen the young blond doing, he didn’t remark on it.
If I’d said all was right with the world because Cole, in the end, had come back to me, I would have been lying. Zane had been right. Cole showed no hint of having known that I’d left the auditorium during his program. He couldn’t have come looking for me afterward--he’d gone looking for the stage hand apprentice. He was completely innocent to any thought of where I’d been or how I’d gotten home.
I doubt he’d even have cared if I told him that I’d let Zane fuck me.
And, worse than that, the young blond’s name was Jared. He was twenty-one and gorgeous, and when I woke the next morning and went out to the kitchen to make coffee, he was still in the guest room, once more being fucked by Cole--making enough noise that I knew he was being fucked good by Cole.
* * * *
“We meet again. That’s quite a pile of packages. Doing your Christmas shopping?”
I turned to see that Zane was there, at my side, in the Third Avenue Bloomingdale’s department store. It had been five days since I’d slept with him in his hotel room. I had assumed he’d finished his business and gone back to the West Coast. He hadn’t. I’d also spent the five days mulling over his request that I go to California with him.
It gave me a little thrill to know he hadn’t left New York yet. I’d already decided that if he asked me to his hotel room again, I’d go.
“I’m doing Cole’s Christmas shopping,” I answered.
“I could have guessed,” Zane said. “So, did he miss you the other night?”
“No,” I said. I almost added something, but didn’t. Zane noticed that.
“There is more to that, isn’t there?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Yes you do. He didn’t come home alone, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“The young, blond stage hand--picked out for Cole and not for you?”
“And the next night, yet another young man--younger than you? Fucking him longer than he fucked you?”
“That one’s name is Sean Runion. He’s the new singer in the band now playing the Chelsea Bathhouse,” Zane said. “Temple has been fucking him for over a month now. He’s twenty-three.”
“Everyone knows, Mike. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. But it adds to my reason to ask you to come home to California with me. Temple is all about Temple. He won’t make an honorable break with you. He’ll just follow his dick on to new conquests and let you slowly fade away--in the end just using you as his housekeeper. It’s a miracle that you’ve been with him for ten years. Runion stayed the night, did he?”
“He’s still there after four days,” I said, almost choking on the words. “He’s rarely been out of bed ever since.” At least the blond stage hand had only been a one-night stand.
“In bed with him. For the first time I’ve known him, Cole isn’t keeping his strict writing hours. He fucks me too, but not as often as he’s fucking Sean--even when he should be writing.”
“Come to California with me, Mike. I’ll treat you right.”
“He needs me.”
“Apparently not enough.”
“If he’d just admit that he needs me.”
“Cole Temple admit that to anyone? It’s not going to happen. What are you going to do now?”
“No, about us. Are you going to come back to my hotel room with me?”
“You don’t know how badly I wanted to do this back in that room we shared,” Zane told me as he pushed my belly against the tiles of the shower in his hotel room bathroom and fucked me from behind under the cascading water. “You remember that the shower wasn’t big enough. I did fuck you over the sink once, though.”
“Yes you did. I remember,” I murmured, as I widened my stance, wanting him to reach ever higher inside me.
“And over the toilet.”
“And on the floor. We were young and wild. We could at least be wild again.”
“Could we?” I dearly wondered if that was possible again. And, yet, here we were in his shower, with him covering me from behind.
* * * *
The doorbell woke me. I turned over and moaned. I couldn’t close my legs. Zane had fucked me through the night as if had he’d taken that long dick of his out of me, I might have escaped and bummed my way back to the East Coast. Despite the soreness deep inside me--the feel of his accumulate cum--what, four, five times in the night?--since Zane’s answer to safety was regular checking and a pledge of monogamy rather than condoms, I found myself reaching for him, missing the possession of my channel by his cock.
Somewhat of a revelation had hit me between the second and third fuckings, though. I was tired then and told him so. I begged for a respite. It didn’t matter to him. He’d slapped my legs apart, pinned me to the mattress with his cock, and pumped me hard. This was about him and what he wanted. He thought no more about me and my needs than Cole did. I was as much just a trophy ass channel for him as I had been for Cole. With Zane, it was all about Zane too. Could I help it if I aroused men like this--even at my age? Was it all about sex?
I reached out for him, as interested in a cuddle as a fuck. He wasn’t there, though. That’s when it caught up with me that there had been a doorbell ringing.
I heard him call up the staircase from the foyer of his Hollywood Hills mansion. “A visitor for you, Mike. I’ll put him in the living room and go make coffee.” His voice sounded flat, like he was of two minds on whether to let me know someone was here to see me. I had no idea who it might be.
I quickly pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals and clumped downstairs.
“I had a hell of a time finding you.” Cole’s voice sounded hurt, on the edge of anger. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have put it that way,” he continued, visibly calming down, forcing himself to release tension. “I just was worried as hell.”
“I couldn’t talk to you about it, Cole,” I answered. “We never seemed to be able to talk to each other about it.”
“I need you, Mike. I need you to come back. My life is all fucked up. You gave it order.” His voice was choked up and I could see the glisten of tears in his eyes. Feigning such an emotion was beyond his capability, I believed. I must take him seriously. This was well beyond the natural arrogance of Cole Temple.
“That’s something you’ve never said before, Cole,” I said.
There was a catch in his voice when he answered. “I know. You know me. You’ve been everything to me for the past decade. I couldn’t function without you. I can’t function without you.”
“Do you mean that Sean can’t cook or clean house?”
“Sean is gone. I realized that you misunderstood about him.”
“What’s to misunderstand? Sean is young; his body is supple. He is in awe of you, which we both know is something you must have. Do you mean you’re giving up fucking men in the baths and bringing them home?”
He gave me a blank look. He didn’t have the foggiest notion he was doing anything out of the ordinary--for him.
“No, you can’t stop doing that, can you?”
“You’re different,” he said. “You’re above all of that. Those are just casual lays. I’ve kept you with me for a decade. We’ve been together for a long time. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“It tells me that I can’t expect you to change, certainly, but I can expect something else from you.”
“What? Whatever it is, I’ll say it, do it. I need you. I need what you give me, what you are to me. I can’t function without you. What is it that I need to say or do?”
“You just did,” I said, with a sigh. “I can’t expect you not to be the great, legendary Cole Temple, I guess, but we’ll have to work on a little more recognition of that need you are talking about.”
Temple rose from his seat and extended his hand. “Let’s go home, Mike. Life isn’t perfect, but we can work at it.”
When Zane came into the room with coffee cups on a tray, he found the room deserted, the front door yawning open, and Cole Temple and me gone.