The Window Cleaner

[This is a completed, three-chapter novella, which will complete posting by 20 December 2017.]

I had waited patiently through three watered-down drinks in the downstairs club on Chelsea’s 22nd Street, waiting for him to come out to dance the pole. I had glimpsed him coming out to do his number the last time I’d been in the bar. But it had been late and I was leaving, needing to get a good night’s sleep for the ad campaign presentation the next morning. It seemed he always was on late, because it was past time now that I should have left.

Fortuitously, he came to the pole right above the counter where I was seated. He came in with his eyes on me, moving his gaze from my eyes to the cash I was clutching in my right hand, like he knew I was his john for the evening. Still watching me, performing directly for me, he danced slowly, sensuously. He was wearing one of those sock thongs that only the well-hung dared to wear. Most of the pole dancers in this club were on the young and willowy side. He wasn’t. He was more of an aged-out beefcake Chippendale dancer--the other side of thirty, but just over that line, maybe four years older than I was, and still solid and hard bodied. A body builder, but he hadn’t overdone it. The square-jawed, rugged-bodied type, accentuated in his case by construction boots, with heavy woolen socks peeking out of their tops, being the only thing he was wearing other than a gold chain around his neck and the thong pulled down in front by the weight of heavy balls and a thick rod to expose the curls of his auburn pubic hair. He looked like he’d be a rough rider.

I liked that he had hair on his body. He was honest about what he offered; he wasn’t pretending anything.

This was only belied by the head hair, which was frosted in rambunctious curls, but the hair swirling around his nipples and descending in a tight line down into his pubes was auburn, as was the light matting on his forearms and thighs. His arms and thighs were muscular, and I could imagine him getting a vice grip on another man with his strong thighs and subduing him until the hunk could force himself inside. The club color coded the dancers’ thongs, the blue being for bottoms, which most of the dancers were, and they were getting the most attention from the club clientele, mostly sailors tonight. The blue-thonged dancers were young, smaller of stature, and lithe. Obviously most of the men watching the dancers were tops. The guy I was watching wore a red thong, one of only two dancers to do so, and the other one in a red thong was a younger, thin black guy, but whose sock thong hung almost down to his knees. You’d have to want some serious cock to go under him.

I also liked the contrast of my guy’s tattoos. All of the dancers in this club were tattooed. Most had done it randomly. Some looked like they’d done it themselves, which was a turnoff for me. His was purposeful, artfully done and contained to one area of his body, but a riot of color there. His left arm, from the wrist up was covered in a swirling Oriental scene of greens, blues, and reds that rose up in a sleeve and covered his left pec in front and his left shoulder blade in back. He otherwise was uncolored--or so I believed at the time. I wasn’t a tattoo man, but I found the tightly controlled pattern of his tatting intoxicating, and, while he danced, his tattoo undulating on his body, I tried to discern the story of his sleeve.

I think I was attracted to him because he looked like a man who insisted on control, who gave it rough, but he now was in a role of being at my beck and command. He kept looking hungrily and expectantly at the cash I clutched in my hand, me fully controlling when and whether to dole it out to him or one of the other dancers.

He was dancing just for me. It was late and most of the men still in the bar weren’t gravitating to him. They were showing more interest in the effeminate, blue-thonged dancers at the other poles. No one was taking the challenge of the thin black guy in the red sock thong. I was interested in something else. I wanted to be in control, but, still, I wanted to be topped; I wanted it thick and long. And I wanted the man to have to give up his natural role of controlling to have what I could give--the cash clutched in my hand. The dancer had few options other than whatever I wanted from him. He obviously was aware of that, as he was working me solely.

I rose a bit out of my chair, leaned forward, and stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his waistband. Seeing that I had higher-denomination bills in my hand, he accelerated his attention to me, shimmied up the pole, slowly rode it back down, holding it close into his body, and giving me the eye, came off the pole and crouched down in front of me, dick at my eye and mouth level, and moved his pelvis back and forth languidly. Putting a hand under his silky red pouch tube, he elevated and pointed his dick at me. He wanted me to know he was long and thick. His eyes and the expression on his face invited me to touch. So I did, running my fingers up the side of his shaft as I lifted another ten spot between two fingers up to his waistband.

He gave me an air kiss and reached out a thick-fingered hand to cup my chin. I frowned at that, though, and pushed his hand away. He just shrugged, but gave me a “no hard feelings” look and smiled as I took my time moving my cupped hand back down his sheathed shaft.

The music in the room was reaching a crescendo. This wouldn’t go on much longer. The time to strike a deal or go home was fast approaching.

My eyes went to his forearm, liking that I could see a vein bulging as it ran up his arm, prominent because his muscle tone gave no way for the vein to run through fat. My mind went to wondering if there was such a vein running the length of his cock. I already knew the shaft was thick and long.

His eyes went to my hand that still held bills--two twenties and a fifty.

He leaned down and whispered, “Another twenty now, give the big guy standing at the side of the bar the other twenty, and then follow me into the back and I’ll give you a private session for the fifty. Whichever way you want it, as hard and deep as you can take it.”

I stuffed a twenty in his waistband, and he remained crouched there in front of me, undulating to the music, while I moved the hand back down to encase his cock in the tube loosely, as he move the shaft back and forth in my loose grip, noticeably filling out. I was already giving him a hand job, but we both knew the fifty would get me more.

The music stopped, he rose and turned to walk to the end of the stage, down a few stairs, and then through a beaded curtain-covered doorway into the back, as I walked over and handed the remaining twenty to a goon sprawled on the side of the bar.

The dancer was standing in a doorway, leaning provocatively into the doorframe when I entered the dimly lit hallway. As I brushed by him and into a small room painted black, he reached out to pull me into his body and a kiss, but I gently pushed him away. “No, I don’t want you to touch me or to take the initiative. I want to control,” I said in a low voice.

“Sure, anything you want,” he said, as I handed him the fifty, and he added that to what he took out of his waistband, pulled the thin gold chain with a key on the end of it off his neck, walked over to a nightstand, and locked the money in a drawer.

He stood there, waiting for instructions, as he pulled the chain over his neck again.

“Sit over there, on that couch,” I said. There was both a small couch and a bed in the small room. Both were covered in black vinyl, easily swabbed down after a client had gone. I slowly undressed, neatly folded my clothes, and stacked them on the bed. When I turned to him, in erection, he whistled. “Nice. I don’t usually get them with bodies this good. What do you want me to do with you?” His voice was deep and soft.

“Take the thong off. Get hard for me,” I said. He pulled the thong off, tossed it aside, and fisted his cock. There were no surprises there. He was horse hung and already half hard.

We remained there, him sitting on the couch, me standing more than an arm’s length away from him, both of us slowly beating our meat, until I went down on my knees as he widened his stance, fisted the root of his cock, and ran my tongue down the length of it. The vein was there, as I imagined, but I was surprised to see a bright green snake tattoo curling around the shaft. He had been covering that with his hand as he beat off.

He groaned and put his hands on the back of my head, but I reached up and brushed his hands away, muttering, “Don’t touch me.”

“Whatever,” he said, and leaned back, with a sigh, and crossed his wrists behind his neck, as I swallowed his cock and ran my tongue around the shaft’s bulb. He grunted and began a swaying motion with his hips, pressing his cock into my mouth, pulling it back, and pressing it in again. But I grabbed his hips and signaled that he was to hold steady, and he stopped his movement, giving all control over to me.

“All I want is your hard cock,” I said. “Otherwise you aren’t here. I’m just paying to use your shaft.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, as if he’d heard that a hundred times before, which I doubted that he had.

When I sat in his lap and rode his cock, taking my time settling on the long, thick, throbbing rod, it was all me. Me rising and falling on the shaft, me rubbing my chest against his. We did kiss, but it was me, burying my fist in the hair at the back of his head and pulling his face to mine, biting his lip when he put pressure on mine and started to work his tongue into my mouth. Him giving in to me as my tongue entered his mouth and swabbed his inner cheeks. When I’d set up a rise/fall rhythm on his cock, I sucked the key from his gold chain into my mouth and pressed my forehead to his, capturing his eyes with mine, as I fucked him.

I made him sit there, all pent-up but unexpended power. Larger, heavier, more muscular than I was, but me in full control. He came when I told him he could, deep up inside me, and then I rose off him and made him sit there, head back, while I jerked off and spouted my cum on his chest and face.

Then, without looking back, I turned, pulled on my clothes, and left the room.

* * * *

I lived in the thick of everything, in Midtown Manhattan, not far from Times Square. I could walk or take the subway from my fifteenth-floor, glass-clad studio apartment overlooking 47th Street at the corner of 10th Avenue to everywhere I wanted to go--to my job as an ad man at a Madison Avenue ad agency, rising to there in the agency from classic blond male model and riding on a wave of success in the boom time that was the mid 60s, and into Chelsea for the gay bars and clubs for entertainment. I liked the city. It had all of the amenities and yet was impersonal, nonjudgmental. I could live as I liked and control everything, all of my interactions with others. I was comfortable and satisfied, if not fully satiated, sort of gliding along in a bubble.

My sexual tastes were peculiar. I’m not sure where I got them from except that I was an only child, my parents indulgent with everything but affection. I looked up to my father. He was a short but powerfully built and handsome man--well groomed and expensively dressed. A sportsman and very much in control of his environment. But his father had died young, and, not knowing having a father, he didn’t seem to have any idea how to be one. He seemed uncomfortable with me being any closer than an arm’s length to him. He and my mother didn’t get along too well, and she was bitchy about it. I found myself siding with my father, but he didn’t seem to be aware of that or to care. I’m not sure that he would have cared if he had known how much I worshipped him, what I would have done for him if he had asked. But it was my mother I went with in the divorce--kicking and screaming.

Still, when I had sex, as I had done the previous night in using the aging-out Chippendales hunk in the 22nd Street club, I conjured up the image of my father and the times I’d seen him bent over the back of the taller, more muscular college boy who mowed our lawn, fucking him, totally in control, in the garden shed. Brian had bullied me in high school when he was a senior football team hero and I had barely made JV. It was good seeing him being dominated like that in the garden shed by father, and I admired my father for his insistence to control. I so wanted to be like him. When I was being completely honest, I admitted I so wanted to be under him.

My first man wasn’t someone like my father, though. It was a cruel monster of a black bull construction worker who followed me out of a gay bar I had tentatively entered looking for something but not yet aware exactly what that was or how to go about getting it. He had taken that choice away from me, following me out of the bar, pulling me into an alley, behind a line of dumpsters, pinning me to the ground with his muscular bulk, and fucking me roughly and hard, making me suck him big and then thrusting again and again, hard and deep inside me. He had totally humiliated and controlled me, holding me there immobile in his powerful arms, belittling and threatening me after the first time and then fucking me again, laughing at me as I whimpered that I wanted it but could he go slower? Fucking me harder and faster then.

I had liked the dick pinning me to the ground and churning inside me, and I didn’t mind losing my virginity to a man--even being intrigued and aroused at being taken by a hung black bull, my mind hyperventilating at the thought of that fat black cock of his inside me--but I railed at the lack of choice--at being given no control. And I had vowed not to lose control to a man again.

So, now I went for the bruisers but only if they let me control. For that reason, I paid for most of the sex I got. Most bruisers cruising bars for one-night, no pay hookups didn’t willingly give up control.

* * * *

I opened the door of my apartment to Tony, who I had a regular, at-home massage appointment with every other late Friday afternoon unless I had something else on before the evening, which I rarely did. I could build up a lot of tension during the work week. We had some of the bigger ad accounts targeted at certain types of women’s and men’s magazines. For these magazines, we handled Reynolds Tobacco, a line of men’s cologne products, and Ford automobiles, among others. But competition was stiff, both inside and outside the office. The agency head, Maury Rivers, was a hard taskmaster, he was capricious and bitchy, and his disapproval was the kiss of death in this business.

He liked me well enough and had raised me up from modeling for ads to designing them for a good salary, but I always felt a little disadvantaged around him. He liked to surround himself with gay young men, but, as our preferences were the same, I thought that some of the other guys had a leg up on him, so to speak. Just because he didn’t want to fuck me didn’t mean that he didn’t want to own me.

I had engaged Tony, who was quite expensive, mainly because Maury used him too. He gave a total, relaxing and releasing massage, and Maury liked to be told how I used Tony’s cock in athletic positions. I always suspected that he then tried those positions himself with Tony and invariably told me how good he’d been at it, this being his own form of emotionally fucking me too.

The main reason for using Tony for a full-body massage was that, although he was a power top, for what I paid him he let me control the inevitable fuck.

He set up his table in the center of the main room, which was living, dining, and bedroom all in one, although the room was large enough to comfortably accommodate all of that. The kitchen was on one side of the entry corridor at the interior of the apartment and the bathroom on the other side. The outer wall, toward 47th Street, though, was a floor-to-ceiling sheet of glass, so the apartment was well lit. I hadn’t gotten round to buying heavy curtains and had settled on gauzy ones that defused, but did not obliterate the view. The apartment wasn’t large, but it was expensive. My salary didn’t come anywhere close to covering the cost. It was a good thing that I had family money, but Maury also covered some of the rent to keep me aware that he owned me. That was fine with me; otherwise he would have found more obtrusive ways and probably less beneficial ways to assert himself.

Tony, a bald, Italian, muscle-bound personal trainer in his mid twenties, gave a good, deep-tissue sports massage. But he gave more than that. He was pretty much finished with both my back and my front, when I took his oiled hand in mine and moved it to my erect cock, giving him direction. He obligingly worked my cock with his hand, and when I reached up and pulled gently on his bicep, he brought his mouth down and sucked my cock to completion.

It was while he was holding very steady on his back on the massage table, his legs bent and feet flat on the table, and I was riding his cock in a reverse cowboy, my ankles on his shoulders and my hands gripping his knees, that I realized we weren’t alone.

I should have remembered. There had been a note from the super about it, wedged under my door, the previous night.

A platform had come down from above beyond the wall of glass and a window cleaner was outside my window, not fifteen feet from where I was rising and falling on Tony’s cock on the massage table. The cleaner, of course, wasn’t actively washing the window. He was standing outside the window, staring at us. And now I was staring at him, although I had barely broken stride in my slide on Tony’s cock. Tony had his head turned away. He was doing his best to do as I had instructed him to do--not to touch me; just to lay there, as inert as possible other than maintaining a hard cock until he came, letting me use his cock to come a second time myself.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the window cleaner. He was everything I looked for rolled into one package--dark and sultry and the physique of a Marine, the image coming to me immediately because of the Marine cut of his hair, the sense of power he exuded, and the rugged, square-chinned aspect of his face, not to mention the broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and the pronounced guns on his arms, where he had the short sleeves of his soft blue shirt--matching his close-fitting trousers in color and material--rolled up to his shoulders.

He was giving me a knowing, saucy gaze from steel-blue eyes. He had started wiping the window, but he hadn’t gotten too far before he saw us on the massage table. I was in no position to extricate myself and go draw the gauzy curtains--through which the window cleaner, in any event, could have seen enough of us to know what we were doing and to get a good view of our bodies doing it--of what I was doing in controlling the masseur. Tony was just lying there, letting me borrow his hard cock. He wasn’t even aware we were being observed. There was no way to hide from the workman outside the window that I was fucking myself on Tony’s cock and had been in a state of ecstasy doing it.

I did recover enough then to think about moving--not to pull the curtains, which would have brought me, naked and full frontal, to within a foot of him on the other side of the glass, but back, retreating to the bathroom. But before I was able to climb off Tony, who was tensing up, nearly ready to blow, I looked back at the wall of glass to find that the window cleaner had engaged the lift of the platform and was rising above my floor, leaving my windows unfinished. Darkness was falling anyway. It must have been time for him to quit.

I had frustrated visions of him in a bar that night, telling his buddies what he’d seen, controlling me even though I wasn’t there by having me defenseless in the face of being the butt of their jokes.

“Now. I’m comin’ now,” Tony called out, and I returned my attention to him, holding him close, rising once and then pushing down hard and deep, as he spasmed and filled my channel with his cum. Without a word, I climbed off of him and went into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving him to fold his table and vacate the apartment before I finished taking a shower.

I didn’t sleep all that well that night. I kept thinking about seeing the window cleaner there just on the other side of the glass. And it wasn’t just the surprise of someone being there when I was in an embarrassing position. It was that he was such a hunk. Dark and sultry and muscular. Manly. Obviously a man of power and in control. And he had seemed to be amused at seeing us, not shocked. I did fall sleep eventually toward morning despite a grinding sound intruding on my dreams. But, as people are prone to do, I managed to fold the sound logically into the dream. After I had awakened, I could remember how I had covered for it, but then I had something else altogether to occupy my attention.

I woke up thinking wet dream thoughts, which included both the pole dancer from earlier in the week and the window cleaner, merging the two. The window cleaner was riding the pole for me. I was thinking of him naked and erect for me. As I came awake in the morning light streaming in the big plate glass window, I had my hand on my cock and was slowly masturbating. My cock was almost fully in erection. I had gone to bed naked and was lying on top of the sheets and blanket.

As I became more conscious, I became more fully aware that the grinding and grating noise hadn’t gone away. And the light coming in from the window was broken up with shadows. I turned my head to the window to discover that the platform had been winched back down to my floor--and that the window washer was back.

He had his eyes on me again, watching me masturbate. And he wasn’t just being benign about it. He had his shirt pulled out of his trousers and gaping open. His dark-tanned torso was magnificent--muscular and cut, with hard, bulging pecs, cut six-pack abs, and the inguinal ligaments, running diagonally down into his groin at the top of his thighs on either side, clearly discernible because his trousers were unzipped and flared. This aspect of the male anatomy, undergirding the abdomen and drawing the attention down into the groin, was particularly arousing to me. His body was even better than my dreams had painted it. He had a meaty cock out and in his hand and was masturbating it, facing the window, just as I was doing to my cock, as I lay, naked, on top of the bed.

Once more he had caught me in a compromising, needy position.

His steel-blue eyes were boring into me, there was a sensual smile on his face, and I almost fell out of the bed when I looked at his cock. It was a deep chocolate brown, conjuring up my arousal for black cocks from my very first taking. The hair of his trimmed pubes was black and kinky. He wasn’t a black bull, but there was black in him. And he undoubtedly was a bull. I realized that I was panting at the visage of him, unable to take my hand from my throbbing cock.

His eyes and a certain magnetism about him were pulling me out of the bed and toward the window. He didn’t show the least bit of surprise or shock that he, once more, had caught me in a compromised sexual position. He had every reason to be there, outside my window, late the previous afternoon. There had been a notice from the building super. He’d had every reason to suspend washing my window as it got dark. And he had every reason to be back here this morning to resume the job.

But he obviously didn’t want to resume the job just now, although the window was cleaner than it had been last night. He must have been cleaning it as I slept, my hand on my cock, naked, lying on top of the bed.

He pressed his body to the window--his palms to the glass on raised and spread arms, his lips pressed to the glass, his belly pressed to the glass, his cock pressed to the glass. His eyes bored into me, drawing me to him.

Like a sleepwalker, I moved, naked, to the window. I pressed my palms to his, separated by the coolness of the glass, and my lips to his. My belly to his. My cock to his. We tongued through the glass. In my peripheral vision, I saw him take a hand off the glass and motion downward. Understanding, I went down on my knees, licking down the glass on the other side of his chest and belly as I descended. And I opened my mouth to the press of his cock to the glass. Undulating his pelvis, he moved his cock head back and forth on the glass where my mouth was. Closing my eyes, I allowed the vibration of the glass to emulate me taking the cock into my mouth.

After a few moments, he tapped on the glass with a hand and when I looked up at it, revolved the fingers. Understanding, I stood, turned, and pressed my buttocks to the glass where his cock was. I spread my buttocks cheeks with my hands, pressing the rim of my hole to the glass. I could feel the vibrations of the glass again as he slid his cock up and down where my crack pressed into the window. I could see the two of us in the reflection of a mirror across the room, the tall hunk of a man, his torso exposed and his palms pressed into the glass on either side of my head, moving his crotch against the glass at the crack of my buttocks, flattened against the window.

Looking into the mirror from this perspective, I was being fucked by the window cleaner. I let my mind run with that image.

I both heard and felt the bang on the glass and turned to find him in a half crouch on those powerful legs of his, leaning into the glass, one hand on his magnificently erect, black, slightly up-curved cock, pumping it hard, and the palm of his other hand raised and pressed against the glass. He eyes looked insistently, commandingly at me. The palm of my left hand went to match his right hand on the other side of the window. I too crouched, our foreheads pressed together through the glass, our eyes locked on each other’s. I worked my cock hard with my right hand. I could hear his grunting through the glass, lower in tone to what I was giving back. We were having sex despite the barrier. Cum was building up inside me, as I had to believe it was in him. We were making each other come.

The glass was melting away, the two of us becoming one, coordinated jerk off machine, until, with a cry, I came. My cry was met with a deep laugh from the other side of the pane, and I looked down in time to see his cum splash on the glass on the other side of where I had just deposited mine.

I moaned at the imagery of the man fucking me without the barrier of the glass. I broke away, hurried to my desk, and, finding a magic marker and a piece of paper, wrote “1509”--the number of my apartment--on the paper, dug around in my wallet, brought out two fifties, and returned to the window, slapping the paper and the two fifties against the glass for him to see . . . and understand.

He laughed, zipped up his trousers, buttoned up his shirt, took a stab at a button on a box attached to the railing of the platform, and rose up out of sight toward the top of the building.

I waited for two hours--long after I should be at work--for him to come to my door, but he didn’t do so. I was sure he understand what I was asking and offering. Over the two hours, as my head cleared and my libido cooled down, I realized he just had been toying with me. It was just as well, I thought, that he didn’t follow up. I didn’t see any likelihood that he would give full control to me. Only in hindsight did I realize that he had been signaling his wants and the next move we were to take and that, through lustful need, I had knuckled right under. I had somehow thought that the barrier of the glass left me in control, but it hadn’t. He had me panting for him, letting him call of the shots. That wasn’t the way I wanted it.

* * * *

The window cleaner followed me for twenty-four blocks from Midtown Manhattan down into Chelsea that evening, although I didn’t latch into being followed by a tall, muscular man in a camouflage jacket until he slid onto a stool next to me at Barracuda’s, a biker’s bar on 24th Street. Under the jacket he was wearing just tight jeans, construction boots, and a skin-conforming black mesh athletic T that accentuated rather than hid his cut torso.

Maury had been his usual flighty self that day, suggesting strongly that I take the files for a 1965 Ford Thunderbird commercial home to work on that weekend and then, after I got home, calling and saying that he wanted to have the file that weekend himself.

“I’ll run it over to your place,” I said. Maury lived in a swank apartment on Park Avenue. Like me, he could live nicely in Manhattan because of family money. Unlike me, though, he had piles and piles of family money.

“I won’t be there this evening,” he had answered. “I’ll be at the Barracuda. I trust you know where that is. You can take the file there. 9:00 p.m.”

“Sure,” I said. And sure I knew where the Barracuda was--twenty-four blocks from where I was. Trust Maury, with his chauffeured Cadillac Fleetwood, to be able to glide easily between Park Avenue and Chelsea without a thought and to think it was a breeze for me to meet him twenty-four blocks from my apartment in an hour.

But I welcomed it. I was keyed up from the bizarre sexual experience with the window cleaner that morning and had been contemplating hitting the gym to work out the kinks and tension that evening. I could have taken the subway to Chelsea, but the twenty-four-block walk was just the exercise I needed. I walked fast, building up a good heart rate. That’s probably why I didn’t notice the guy in the camouflage jacket at all--that and the fact that servicemen were normally invisible to me. I honed in on men of expensive fashion. He was keeping up with me, although holding back nearly a whole block. I was so busy going over the new Ford commercial layout in my brain, though, that it didn’t register that I was being followed, and certainly not who it was who was following me.

“Buy me a fuckin’ drink,” he said gruffly as he mounted the stool beside me at the bar. I shuddered at the sight of him, visions of him mounting me as smoothly and confidently as he did the stool racing through my mind--nonchalantly raising and moving a muscular leg over my waist and holding me in a vice grip with his thighs while he entered me with his hard cock. Just the way he saddled the barstool, taking full possession of it, was sensual and manly. Image yourself as this stool he was projecting to me, and I did exactly that. He didn’t sit full frontal to the bar; he was turned to me, legs spread to relieve the strain of the material over his bulging crotch. He latched onto one of my biceps with a strong grip. Instinctively, I shrugged the grip off, but with a low laugh, his hand went to the back of my neck, gripped me hard, and pulled my face into his for a kiss.

He held me there, possessing my lips, until I yielded to him, softened my response, and parted my lips to the invasion of his tongue. He wasn’t just kissing me on the mouth. His tongue was moving in and out, reaching down to the back of my throat, causing me initially to try to draw away from him, but yielding to his insistence. This was a precursor of his dick moving in my passage. We both understood that. We both knew I was, eventually, going yield to that as well. When he released my mouth, his hand went back to its original grip on my bicep and, in meek surrender, I left it there. The die was cast. If he wanted to fuck me--on his terms--he would.

Other than admiring glances, no one in the bar showed surprise. It was that kind of bar.

The bartender had arrived, and the window cleaner turned his face that way, gave the barkeep a smile, and said, “I’ll have a Bud. On this guy’s tab.” The bartender turned to me, and I just nodded curtly. I was drinking scotch rocks.

“I’m Drake,” the window cleaner said, turning back to me as he took a packet of Camel cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, lit up, and offered the one he’d lit between his lips to me, showing that he had others in the package. “And you?”

I hesitated, nodding away the offered cigarette and inhaling both air and the puff of smoke he produced with the thought of how sexy he looked with a cigarette held at an angle between his lips. The thought of sharing saliva with him again had almost prompted me to take the cigarette even though I didn’t smoke. He quickly honed in. “Come on, we’ve had sex. You’re going to pay me a fuckin’ hundred dollars to have sex again--to fuck you rough. You can fuckin’ tell me your name.”

“Boyd. I’m Boyd,” I said, stammering, nonplussed enough not to give him a fake name. “I’m meeting someone here,” I added, throwing up defenses. He moved fast. And he was asserting control--god, no, he’d asserted control and I had surrendered to him already. He could have forced me to the floor right there and fucked me; I would have let him. The other guys in the bar would have let him. They would have just stood around us and egged him on.

That wasn’t in my preference--my tolerance--pattern. Total frustration. I would simultaneously love it and hate it. I wanted him on my terms. I knew he would take me on his terms or would just tease me, establish that he could have me any way he wanted to, and then would abandon me--just like he hadn’t come to my apartment that morning when I’d signaled him to and offered him money to do so.

“I wasn’t thinking of fucking you here, on top of the bar,” he said, with an easy “just kidding” laugh. “We can fuckin’ screw at your place. You gave me the address.”

How transparent was I that he could so easily discern my thoughts? I opened my mouth to respond, without any idea what I would say, when I was saved by Maury, who had bellied up to the bar on the other side of Drake.

“Who’s your luscious friend, Boyd?” He asked, his hand went to the small of Drake’s back. I was grateful I hadn’t given Drake a fake name.

Drake turned from me to Maury, and his hand slid off my arm and went to Maury’s butt. It was like the window cleaner’s attention had snapped away from me to Maury. That wasn’t surprising. Maury wasn’t that old--in his early forties--and he was movie-star handsome, in good shape, and dressed elegantly and expensively to style, this time in a safari suit that was a bit ahead of its time for mid-sixties men’s fashion unless you took into account that it broadcast that Maury had actually been on safari and could afford to do so. Drake was just a window cleaner; of course he’d go with the money.

“Not a friend, really,” I said lamely, noting that Maury was looking into Drake’s eyes rather than mine as he spoke to me. I could also tell from the slight lurch in Drake’s body that one of Maury’s hands was being intimate. That wasn’t unusual for the atmosphere in Barracuda. No one, including the bartender, had done a double take when Drake had tongue-fuck kissed me for what seemed like a full minute.

“Who the fuck is this?” Drake asked me nodding at Maury. He asked it in a friendly, not a belligerent voice.

“He’s my boss,” I answered.

“Not a friend?” Maury said. “I saw how he was kissing you when I came in. If he’s not a friend, then you won’t mind me showing interest, will you?”

“No, of course not,” I said, going for a tone of sarcasm. “Be my guest.” In fact, it wouldn’t have mattered to Maury even if I had objected. If he saw what he wanted, he took it. And, with his money and looks, he could have pretty much whatever he wanted. He certainly could have it from me; he signed my paychecks; he paid part of my rent; if we weren’t both bottoms, he’d be fucking me, and I’d let him. He fucked me mentally and emotionally constantly.

“Boyd and me are friendly enough,” Drake said. “We’ve had sex already, haven’t we, Boyd? And he was going to pay me a hundred dollars to fuckin’ screw him on top of this bar.”

“Only a hundred?” Maury asked. “I’ll pay you two hundred for a ride. My car’s outside. I have a driver and a big backseat. You put this in me and I’ll ride you around Central Park.” I now knew where Maury had put his hand. “That is if Boyd doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” I said, suddenly very much minding even though we both knew it wasn’t an option. It wasn’t so much, I tried to tell myself, that I had intentions to have sex with this window cleaner now. He was too fast for me and obviously wouldn’t give up control, with maintaining control being my overriding rule. But I wished that, just once, a guy would say no to Maury.

“Sure, I’ve got the time if you’ve got the fuckin’ money,” Drake said.

“You got the Thunderbird commercial files?” Maury asked me, looking at me for the first time over Drake’s shoulder now that he’d managed to cut in. I meekly turned the portfolio over; watched them strut for the exit, arm in arm, Drake towering over Maury and my eyes going to the perfect, tight orbs of his buttocks; and turned back to the bar to down my scotch in one go and to cover my tab.

Out on the street, Drake was handing Maury into the backseat of Maury’s sleek 1964 black Cadillac Fleetwood sedan, ostentatiously too large for the streets of New York City. He had a cigarette in his mouth again and was palming Maury’s butt. Maury had no trouble being controlled in sex, I knew, as long as he held all of the deeds in other matters. Neither of them looked at me, as I trudged toward the subway stop. I didn’t feel like doing the twenty-four-block walk back to Midtown Manhattan.

* * * *

I had no intention of opening the apartment door to the 11:00 p.m. knock, particularly as I’d already gone to bed and was in just my sleeping shorts, but I wanted to know who had the balls to be at my door at this time of night and I made the mistake of looking through the peephole. When I saw who it was, I had to open to him.

“I thought you’d be with Maury now,” I said as I opened the door and Drake pushed himself in, shutting the door behind him, and grabbing for me and pulling me to him. He was carrying a small bag with him that he let fall to the floor next to the door as his hands went to my body.

“He got his fuckin’ two-hundred-dollars’ worth,” Drake growled. “You can do a lot in the backseat of a land boat like he’s got. Kinky guy. Let’s not fuckin’ talk about Maury. I want it from you now. I wanna fuckin’-A screw you into next week.”

We didn’t talk. And he took it from me in a straightforward manner right there by the door, standing. He turned me to where my buttocks were pressed into his crotch, the hardness of him already evident and screaming his need and intent to me. One hand was palming my belly, holding me into him and the other was cupping my chin, turning my face to his for a deep possession kiss. He was already dry humping me with thrusts of his pelvis.

“Take it easy,” I pleaded. “Let’s not just . . .”

But then, asserting and demonstrating his complete control, he did “just.”

“Can’t fuckin’ wait for it. You want it,” he declared in an all-knowing voice. And he must have been right, as I gave it to him without a struggle.

Bending me forward and coaxing my legs spread after he’d brushed my sleeping shorts down my legs and unbuttoned his fly and released his hard, up-curved cock, he slowly entered me, made difficult in the dryness, other than spit on his hand, of the invasion and of his thickness. He was crude, a Philistine, nothing like the rich, refined men I usually went with--but very much like the rugged men whose cocks I bought to fuck myself on. He intuitively knew I’d melt to him fucking me fully dressed in his slutty cruising duds and wearing construction boots. He took the time he needed, though, huffing in my ear of all the things he was going to do to me alternating with possessing my mouth. I moaned my want. I couldn’t help myself.

The surprise attack, the quickness and power of it, had me completely undone. He gave me no idea that asserting any control would be permitted me. It was all his. As I had dreamed, all it took for him to gain control was to move a leg over my rump and pull my bare buttocks into his crotch with the power of his muscular thighs. I panted as he worked his cock inside me.

When he was fully saddled, he growled in my ear to fuck myself on his cock like he’d watched me do with Tony, the masseur. Whimpering, I did so, moving my channel back and forth on the hard, deep-seated cock, until, with a laugh, he lifted my feet off the floor, holding me there into his crotch, and took over the stroking, increasing the intensity of it until--thrust, flow; thrust, spurt; thrust, spurt--he had me totally. My hand pulling on my shaft, I came nearly simultaneously with him, my legs rubbery. I would have collapsed on the floor if he hadn’t been holding me off the floor with a beefy arm under my belly.

No time was given for appreciation or remonstrance, though. Both of his hands went to my throat when he set me back on the floor, fingers digging in, and I blacked out.

I came to spread-eagled on my bed, my arms and legs spread and restrained by some sort of tethering device installed under my mattress, with leads coming out at the four corners. My mind went to the little bag Drake had brought into the apartment with him. He’d brought toys. My mouth was immobilized by a ball gag. There was more give from the restraints in my legs than in my arms. My pelvis was elevated by pillows and my legs were bent at the knees, my feet flat on the mattress. I felt my channel filled and looked down to see the grip of a black rubber dildo sticking out of my ass.

Drake, naked, was roaming around the main room of the apartment, lifting framed photographs and looking at them and opening drawers to see what was inside. He had a cigarette between his lips again at that sexy angle. His body was magnificent, his up-curved, incongruously black erection was mesmerizing. I involuntarily moaned at the cruel, manly beauty of his body, and he turned and smiled at me. Then, making me wince, he stubbed his cigarette out in an expensive porcelain bowl I kept on my dresser top to hold loose change. He moved, with arousing graceful stride, back to the bed.

“Ah, back in the land of the living?” he said. “Fuckin’ ready to be screwed again?” As he spoke, the last puff of the cigarette wafted out of his mouth and I inhaled the scent of it. Forever after, when I got the whiff of Camel smoke, I’d think of this moment.

I gasped as he pulled the dildo out, crouched over me, and slid his cock up into my channel. He had already reamed me to his specifications and had used the dildo to keep me open. He immediately began to pump, and, unable to help myself, I matched the rhythm of his strokes with thrusts of my own pelvis.

When he had come, he reached up with his hands to my throat, pressed in with his fingers, and I blacked out again.

When I came back again, my leg restraints were gone, I’d been flipped, with my arms crossed above my head, still immobilized, and my ass was elevated with pillows under my belly. Drake was mounted on my ass and stroking my channel deep. His accumulated cum was lubricating his strokes, making a sucking noise, and I felt the wetness of him dribbling down my thighs. I had no idea how many times he had come inside me, but I knew that each one came in several distinct spurts. The man was as virile as he was vigorous.

After he was finished, I watched him pad over to the refrigerator, liberate a beer, and drink it as he moved about the apartment. He found my wallet and extracted two fifties, showing them to me, and saying, “As you offered. And a fuckin’ good time was had by all. Fuckin’-A bang, bang, bong.” He stuffed the bills into the pocket of his jeans, laying in a jumble with his jacket and T-shirt at the door. There were no briefs. He had gone commando. He fiddled around with the keys on my dresser, and I saw him extricate my door key from the keychain and stuff that in his jeans pocket as well. I wouldn’t be left without; I had other sets tucked away, but still . . .

He came up on the bed above me, on his knees, released my mouth from the ball gag, and, taking my head between his hands and forcing my face down on his cock, muttered, “Give me a fuckin’ good one, no teeth, and I won’t leave you bound.”

I gave him head, mesmerized and aroused by the blackness of the cock, until he’d come again, in my throat. I was still gagging from that when his fingers went to my throat. When I came to, he was gone from the apartment, taking the restraints and other toys with him. I was stretched out on my belly on the bed, moaning in--I’ve got to admit--fully satiated pleasure.

It didn’t seem real. I had to know, to reassure myself. I dragged myself off the bed and walked over to the window, searching for it--for them. They were still there. His splotch of cum on the outside of the window and mine on this side, covering his. I could have cleaned mine off, of course. I still could. His wouldn’t come off until a storm went through or another window cleaner came down the side of the building on a platform. I was in no hurry to obliterate either, though. They were assurance that I wasn’t dreaming the whole thing.

I did make a mental note to have the lock changed on my apartment door. I was off to Denver on Monday morning for a presentation on an ad campaign, though, so I’d have to ask the building super to arrange that when I came back. I couldn’t just change the lock myself. There were building rules and the super had to have a key.

The night after I returned from Denver, Drake let himself into the apartment in the dark of night, not waking me until, naked, he lowered himself between my thighs, nudging them apart with his rough, workman’s hand, and pinned me to the mattress with his muscular, heavy body. My eyes shot open as he was crouched over me, invading my asshole with his thick, spit-thick fingers.

“You gonna fuckin’ give it to me nicely?” he asked.

“Does it matter? You’ll take whatever you want,” I murmured, and he laughed.

We were on almost equal ground now, though, and I made a last-minute bid to retain my pride. I wasn’t bound, although I was groggy. I could struggle with him for control--not that I didn’t want him inside me, but that I wanted it to be on my terms, him doing my bidding. I did struggle with him, but he had the advantage on me in surprise and weight--and in my own need for him. I fought without all that much conviction to roll to the side away from him, but his arms were there to embrace me and his knees were between my thighs, holding them open. I writhed as he entered me, me breathing heavy and clawing at his pecs and his shoulder blades, and sank his hard, up-curved cock in deep. When he was saddled, I moaned and collapsed under him while he held there.

He was too much for me; I fully surrendered to him.

“Yes, yes,” I whimpered. “Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me. Screw me to the bed.” His hands cupped my buttocks and lifted and spread them and I just groaned and gave him full control. With the new angle, he was able to sink in to where his kinky black pubic hairs merged with my silky, trimmed blond ones. His face lowered to mine, and I hungrily opened my lips to his searching tongue as he began to pump, his cock possessing, stretching, punishing my passage walls. It was all him now. All his control, taking what he wanted, however he wanted. And he wanted it all--full possession.

“Give it to me; fuckin’ open up,” he demanded, and I did so. I opened entirely to him, going soft, completely yielding, relaxing my passage muscles to stretch and stretch and shimmer over his plowing shaft as he thrust hard and insistently into the soft vulnerability of my core, cruelly and gloriously filling, stretching, and pumping hard and fast, deep, interminably.

We fucked like wild men, me writhing under him, sucking and biting his nipples, crying out for him to take me hard and deep while he was doing just that, drawing him inside me as deeply as I could, clutching his buttocks with my hands, bucking with him. Bucking, bucking, bucking, until we both came in a flood of cum and he melted away from me for the moment, but not pulling out of me, lying there in one fused body, until I felt him going hard again.

He changed our position, me going with wherever he wanted me positioned, and moved more slowly, languidly, thickly deep inside me, seeding me again in a gentle, filling flow. Holding me there in a dozing, possessing embrace and then leaving me the next morning, waking with my legs spread open and my hand stroking my cock, half thinking that it had all been a wishful dream. Or maybe a nightmare of my losing control of myself with this man.

Panicked at where the man was taking me, where I was going with him, I had the lock changed on the door the next day.

* * * *

The two-week vacation I went off to then to Key West, Florida, was just what I needed to recenter myself. I came back relaxed, rested, tanned, well fucked, and with new confidence. There had been no shortage of men interested in flirting with me with the hope of fucking me in Key West, nor any shortage of massive hunks who usually were in full command but were willing to give all control over to me for money. I came home fully confident again in my sense of control of my body and of the sex I engaged in.

All of this floated away in the air as I entered the office of my advertising firm to be accosted with posters on easels of the ad campaigns that had been revved up in my absence. They all were packaged around a single, new male model. Drake. Both Maury and Drake had been very busy in my absence.

As I entered the reception area, my eyes were accosted, on the right, by a large poster of Drake, bare chested except for a black leather jacket loosely draped on his frame and a motorcycle hat on his head, looking all James Dean, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth at the sexy angle I already had melted to. A woman was draped on his back, her chin on his shoulder, and hand palming his sternum, but all eyes were meant to go to Drake. Mine certainly did. It wasn’t an accident. A line of our ads was targeted to certain women’s and men’s magazines bought by those turned on by the male torso--with a hint of what was on offer below. The ad was for Camel cigarettes, a Reynold’s product.

To the left, as I continued down the hall toward the conference room, was a poster of Drake hiking a boom on a small, expensive-looking sailboat. His torso was bare; he was wearing boxer trunks and his thighs were at an angle to invite the viewer to look just a bit further up the gap between his thigh and the material of the loose boxers. The obligatory blonde was draped on his back. It was an ad for Ipana toothpaste.

The third poster had Drake, only in short shorts, draped across the hood of a new 1965 Ford Thunderbird convertible, holding a hose over the hood of the car like he was in the process of washing it. How suggestive is that, I wondered. A young, nearly naked stud splayed out on a metallic surface with a hose in his hand.

Drake himself, all spiffed up in model magnificence, was sitting next to Maury at the head of the conference table when I walked in for the morning meeting. It didn’t take a genius to know how Maury and Drake were getting along or how Drake had so quickly become the young male hunk model for the products we advertised. Drake captured my eyes with his as I sat down, willing me to submit to him and the new situation.

Just like that, all of the self-confidence building that I had done in Key West evaporated into the air. I lowered my eyes to him in submission. An hour later Drake was fucking me against the back wall of a dark storage room from behind, with my buttocks jutted out to him, the palms of my hands and my cheek pressed into the cool cinder-block wall, and his hands gripping my hips.

“I will fucking come to you again tonight,” he growled in my ear after he flooded my passage with his cum. “I’ll fucking screw you good.”

I meekly handed him a new key to my apartment door.

He screwed me good that night--and the next.

* * * *

Drake gripped my wrist as I stood to answer the ring at the apartment door--our apartment door--our one-bedroom apartment in a swank high-rise on 7th Avenue, rented by Maury for Drake. And for me. It had been six months since I walked into that ad campaign featuring Drake. The campaign had been great--and lucrative for Maury and Drake alike. They no longer were a couple--I, not Maury, was in Drake’s bed now--but they were still close in business. Maury didn’t stick with any one man sexually for long, but he recognized and took advantage of talent in his business. Drake was the division chief over me now. Over me at the office and over me in his bed. The second went down better with me than the first. But he was a gifted manager and still a hunk and a half. Neither Maury nor I ever mentioned that Drake had been a window cleaner seven months earlier. I’m not sure that Maury even knew--or cared. I certainly didn’t tell him. Now Drake was the “Camels Man.”

The houseman moved from the kitchen where he’d been preparing the meal and went to the door as Drake held my wrist by the sofa. “Give him whatever he wants, Boyd. We need this account.”

“All right, if he wants anything at all,” I responded.

“He wants you. Back when we first pitched him in Chicago, he asked if you would be on the account if he went with us. I pinned down with him what he meant by that.”

“If that’s what you want,” I answered, dully, making clear I wasn’t keen about it.

“It’s what both Maury and I want,” Drake said. Then, as Sidney Sterne strode into the apartment, Drake turned on a smile, rose from the sofa, and went to the door.

Sterne was the publisher of a series of magazines we wanted an advertising account with. He was a tall man. He also was a large man--both in stature and in what he had hanging on his bones. He exuded power and control, in keeping with his business position, but he wasn’t young and he wasn’t trim, and he was more rugged and “interesting” in facile features than handsome. He also was nearly bald on top, with just a fringe of dark hair going to gray. He was at least in his early fifties. Although he was losing it on top, he otherwise hinted at being hirsute. His eyebrows were glowering and bushy and there was hair on the knuckles of his chubby-fingered hands. There was an edge of crudeness, double dealing, and new, questionably begotten money about him.

He smiled at Drake during their introductions, but when he looked beyond Drake to me for an introduction, he was beaming. I couldn’t doubt then that Drake was right about what role Sidney Sterne wanted me to play in this dance of account negotiations.

He was sitting across me at a narrow, glass-topped table for dinner, with Drake beside me. Drake and Sterne were having a discussion, mainly about the slant Sterne would want to be taken on advertising, which obviously was right up Drake’s alley--sexy, with an emphasis on the sensuality and dark desires of the male model. While they talked, though, Sterne was eyeing me.

“You could be one of the models,” he said.

“That’s how I started in the business,” I answered. “But I’m not bulked up as is popular now,” I added.

“I’m sure there are those who would prefer your body type,” the publisher said. “I like the trimmer body style like you must have.”

With a body like yours, a body like mine would be crushed and breathless, I thought, in response, clearly not thinking ahead.

“We’ll have to do a photo shoot of Boyd to include in the ad campaign possibilities,” Drake said. “Boyd does look fucking good in a Speedo.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Sterne said, giving me the “I could eat you alive” gaze.

It was then that I felt his socked foot on my ankle, his toe searching for and finding the hem of my trousers and pushing up underneath onto my socked shin. He’d have to rise quite high, I thought, to reach flesh, if that was what he was after. Like most businessmen then, I was wearing knee-highs with garters under the knee.

I felt Drake nudge me in the side. I turned my eyes to him to see him looking down, taking in that foot toed up under the hem of my trousers through the glass of the table top. He inclined his head and I caught the signal. All the while he was chattering on with Sterne, who was taking it all in, I’m sure, without seeming to notice.

The houseman, a young black who Drake liked to spike in a threesome with me, having never consulted me, of course, on how I felt about threesomes, passed out brandy in snifters to all of us and cigars to Drake and Sterne and took the dishes away from the table. I still didn’t smoke, although I enjoyed the smell of tobacco on Drake during sex. He had moved up to cigars from Camels in private, regardless of the fortune the Camels were making for him.

“You may go now, Duane,” Drake said to the houseman. “Good meal, thanks. You can take care of the cleanup tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir,” the houseman said. Although he returned to the kitchen, he was out of the apartment within six minutes. The three of us were alone--two men with plans for me, here to seal a deal, and me without any alternative plan and now, finally, apparently with no control over my life and preferences.

I was smart enough to recognize reality. I had prostituted myself for the advertising firm before--never with my live-in boyfriend sitting next to me and egging me on, however.

I leaned down, as if I were scratching my leg, gripped the ankle of the foot Sterne was toying with my shin with, and lifted it to my crotch. Sterne gave me a surprised, but appreciative look and slid down in his chair a bit further, so he could dig in harder with the foot. I massaged it with one hand as we sipped our brandy.

Sterne was nearly purring, his conversation freer now, his discussion of the ad possibilities more expansively talking of the type of men and women who read the line of magazines we were bidding to put advertising in--homosexual men and cougar women. His references to places to visit, clubs to go to, activities to engage became increasingly homoerotic. He and Drake were exchanging notes on the types of men they liked to spike. Late twenties, handsome, blond, on the small side, with good, but not overblown, physique, who could--and would--sheath thick cocks without fainting were what they agreed on. Fancy that, I thought, that’s me they’re describing. The fix was in now. Sterne knew he would be fucking me in a matter of minutes. His eyes, his gaze concentrating on me, were glazed. He was breathing heavily.

Thrusting the deal home, at Drake’s suggestion that I show Sterne how good a model I could be for his purposes, I removed my shirt. Sterne sucked in air. For good measure, I unzipped my trousers, hooked the waistband of my bikini briefs under my balls, and rubbed his foot on my cock. With the dishes now cleared, there was no hiding that all three of us could see what I was doing through the glass-topped table.

“Shall we take our drinks and cigars to the living area?” Drake asked.

“It’s fine right here,” Sterne answered in a strangled voice, “Unless . . .”

“Would you like to see the rest of the apartment?”

Or do you want to do me here on the dining room table, I thought.

“Yes,” Sterne croaked. His answer obviously would do for both the spoken and unspoken questions.

“Boyd, why don’t you show Sidney the bedroom?”

As they were walking behind me, me inside the bedroom door and them just outside, I heard Drake whisper to Sterne, “I’ll leave the two of you in here alone. I’ve heard you like it really rough. You can screw the shit out of him if you like. He’ll take it; if I hear anything to the contrary, I’ll leave you to it. There are restraints and other toys in the bottom drawer of one of the nightstands if that’s your kink. Rubbers in the top drawer, if you want. Not necessarily if you like it raw.”

* * * *

“Stand there and undress for me. You can keep the stockings and garters. I’ll keep mine on too. I like it that way.”

We were in the bedroom, just the two of us. Sterne was sitting at the foot of the bed, his hairy knuckles pressed into the mattress on either side, his thighs parted, his breathing heavy. No “please” or seduction or foreplay. He knew he was going to fuck me. He knew I knew he was going to fuck me. The commanding presence of the publisher of major publications was coming out now. Let’s get on with it being the rule now. With every passing second, I saw the command and power of him building. He was going to dominate me. He was going to ravish me. If he wanted to break me, Drake had said he could do so. I was trembling in that knowledge--and he had the size and weight to do it.

My only saving grace was his age and obesity. Once should do it. Maybe five minutes and done. It would be a rough five minutes, though. And the buildup to it could be very painful.

“Yes, just as I thought. You’ll do great in ad layouts for my clientele. And like this, for my private clients. Take it in your hand. Stroke it for me.”

I did so as he undressed down to his stockings and garters, folded and lay his clothes on a chair nearby, and returned to sitting on the foot of the bed. All of the time he had his eyes on me. As I had suspected, he was matted with hair, a real bear--curly salt-and-pepper hair everywhere, with less of the gray in the hair as it descended down his sternum, across his pot belly, and to his bushy pubes. He was both muscular and fat, the fat mostly in the torso, thighs, and buttocks, with the pecs still being hard, not sagging, the whole aspect of him somehow not being obscene--giving me more the sensation of being swallowed up by him, fully possessed by him, by breath being squeezed out of me, when he was fucking me. The balls hung low, were massive, and covered with hair. The cock probably was longer than it looked peeking out of the bush of the pubes, but it was unusually thick--what they referred to as a beer can cock. Still, barring length, it seemed manageable.

Maybe he would come just from the thought of fucking me, I let wander through my mind, and then would be finished for the night.

“Kneel for me. Suck my cock.”

I knelt between his legs and took his cock in my mouth, almost having to unhinge my jaw to manage him. I gasped and came close to hyperventilating as he immediately began to grow even more in length. He was holding my head in a firm grip between his hands and forcing me to deep throat him. My gagging didn’t seem to have any effect on him whatsoever. I kept running Drake’s “give him what he wants” as well as his “take what you want” remark to Sterne through my mind.

Make him come with just a blow job, I kept running through my mind, like a mantra. Suck all of his cum out of him and neutralize his libido. Make him want sleep more than sex.

What Sterne wanted was his own pleasure, although he certainly gave me pleasure too when he pulled me up onto my knees wedged up into his hairy pits and, holding me up with a firm grip on my arms, sucked me to an ejaculation. The vision of both of us naked, his rotundity growing on me with time, other than the knee-high stockings and garters on both of us was an arousing image that helped take me to an ejaculation.

I had come first. The man wasn’t a neophyte and he was fully in control. I moaned from the thought that he would be fucking me--at least once.

But I couldn’t deny that he was giving me pleasure too and had me begging for the cock, regardless of how thick and long it was, as he had me bent over the bed, knelt on the floor behind me, and expertly ate my ass out.

Drake surely could hear my cries of pain mixed with passion as Sterne crouched over me from behind, with me bent over the bed, trapped my hips between his beefy thighs, and huffed and puffed the forced invasion of my hole with that beer can cock of his with a stretched-to-the-max journey of the shaft up my passage. But there was to be no relief for me from Drake. “Give him what he wants; give him what he wants” repeated in my mind as a protective mantra. I bowed my back, giving him more of a depression to press his pot belly into, with the result that he reached deeper inside me with his cock. I cried out in both pain and want. “Deeper, deeper,” I gasped.

He wanted to leave me an exhausted, broken wreck. I wanted to know how big a cock I could take. Concentrate on the cock, I kept telling myself. The cock is good. The cock is great.

I was fully under Maury’s and Drake’s control to be here, prostituting myself to a client the firm wanted to land. And I was completely under the control of this old, fat, power driver who was pounding my ass masterfully without so much as a please or a thank-you.

As he pumped ever harder, I relaxed and went with him, pounding him back, opening to him, taking him thick and deep, reaching back with the hand that wasn’t stroking my own cock and gripping and rolling and squeezing his balls as his moans and grunts merged with my groans. Turning my mind completely to the cock inside me. Big, thick, vigorous. A victory to take. The promise of prodigious cum. All for me. All worship of my body.

Who cared if he was old, fat, and ugly. He was powerful and his body lusted after mine and he needed to be inside me. And he was hung, filling, satiating.

What did it matter that I wasn’t in control, that I was being used? What did it matter that a window cleaner had mastered and was using me? Drake gloriously fucked me. I was being used and gloriously fucked and mastered now as well--by an old, fat, hairy man.

Who the fuck cared about anything anymore?

He flooded me deep with his cum and held there, panting hard, all of his weight on my back, breathing heavily through his mouth. Snorting. Putting his mouth on the back of my neck, applying slobbering kisses there, his cock going flaccid inside me, but having me at a stretch even when flaccid. Suddenly not the greatest catch in the sea. Me wondering why, somewhere in the middle of it, I went beyond “give him what he wants”--to begging him for the fuck.

I’d done that. I’d begged him to fuck me, to pound me harder, deeper. And he’d done so. I hadn’t done it just to land an account.

“You’re so nice. Tight. Beautiful young body,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

The first hint of appreciation. I guess to a man over fifty, twenty-seven seemed young. But then I froze.

“I could fuck you all night. Maybe I will fuck you all night.”

Surely not. He was an old man. Fitter than the fat indicated, but still, an old man. Surely he can’t . . . oh, shit, yes he can. He was going hard again, filling and stretching me again. I began to pant, writhe, and whimper as he gripped me tighter, ready to go again.

He turned me to facing him, moving me into a missionary position. His belly was pressing into mine, pressing on my internal organs and taking my breath away, but he was still inside me thick and deep, getting thicker, going deeper. Thinking only of the cock inside me and Drake’s “give him what he wants,” I crossed my ankles below his bulbous buttocks; ran my fingers into the hair on his back, clutching at his shoulder blades; and began to move my pelvis in the rhythm of his thrusts.

“Yes, yes, fuck me. Punish me,” I murmured. And, strangely enough, I meant it. He emitted a low, guttural laugh and his thrusts came harder, faster. I raised and spread my legs, gripping my ankles with my hands and rolling my pelvis up, opening totally to his deeper, harder thrusts. “Do what you want with me,” I murmured in a sob of total, willing surrender to his control and desires.

I caught a glimpse of Drake--the window cleaner--at the door to the bedroom. He smiled in approval and turned away, disappearing from view.