The Window Cleaner

Lunchtime took me down 48th Street, almost to the docks, in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Midtown Manhattan West. I was looking for more than a sandwich and a beer. I was fuckin’ horny. So I was in a homo dive I knew about. I’d forgotten that it was mostly for shittin’ fairy types, though, and had just finished wolfing down my burger and beer and had lit up a Camel when I saw him standing just inside the door and looking like he had no idea why he was there or what to do next.

Fuckin’-A gorgeous to me he was. Just what the doctor ordered. He wasn’t withdrawing to the street, though, so I decided he wanted to be there, wanted something to happen, wanted my dick inside him, but was too scared and raw to know what to do. When his eyes swept the room, they lingered on me. Yeah, he fuckin’ wanted me. The others flitting around the room, mostly white bent-wristed fuckin’ store clerk types going “honey” this and “sweetie” that weren’t paying much attention to him. He wanted a power driver. He wanted a man.

He was colored and fuckin’ cute. Slight of build. What you’d call willowy. Couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty, four or five years younger than me. But he obviously didn’t have any mileage much, if at all, on him even if he was fuckin’ built for it and ready to rev his engine. He looked like he needed to be broken in. Just what I’d fuckin’ come for on my lunch break from cleaning windows on the all-glass high-rise at the corner of 10th Avenue and 47th Street. I was in the fuckin’ mood to break someone--someone just like the colored cutie standing at the door full of indecision. I felt myself going fuckin’ hard. He was the one.

He looked at me again and registered shock. He knew what I wanted. He backed a step toward the door and I could tell that he was going to bolt--that he didn’t want to but that he was going to anyway. I took a last drag on the Camel, stubbed it out on the hamburger plate, slapped my money down on the counter, and, as he went out through the door, I dismounted from the stool at the counter and followed him.

I caught up to him at the entrance of the alley next to the building the homo bar was in. When I reached forward and gripped his elbow, he turned around and looked at me with a fuckin’ panicked look in his eye. I towered over him and had him by a fuckin’ good seventy pounds. Just with the grip on his elbow, he wasn’t going anywhere I didn’t want him to. He seemed to realize that.

“Hold up, buddy. I want to show you something.”

“No . . . I can’t . . . I’m not--”

“Yes, I fuckin’ think you can and are,” I said in a commanding voice. “I got eight inches here for you.” This made him moan.

Control. That was my thing. Get them under my fuckin’ control fast, before they can put thought into it. Then fast in and fast out before they fuckin’ knew what hit them. Always the best for first timers. And then if we both like it, take them again . . . slow. “Come on back we me in the alley. I want to show you something.”

“No, please. I don’t want--”

“Yes, you fuckin’ do want; you want all eight inches; you are achin’ for eight fuckin’ inches,” I said, pulling him into the alley, deep in the alley, behind a line of dumpsters. He came with me. With some resistance, but he stayed on his feet and shuffled back into the dim light with me. I had him now. He fuckin’ wanted it or it wouldn’t have been so easy to get him back here. He didn’t think he wanted it, but he did--just the way I was going to give it to him. Quick and total, getting him over that fuckin’ hurdle with a minimum of fuss. I was doing the sucker a favor. And I was going to do the fuckin’ sucker. My good deed for the day. And a present to myself.

“I saw you come into that homo dive. You fuckin’ want it. I’m going to help you fuckin’ get it over with.”

“No, please. I--”

I cut him off with my lips pressed into his, him backed against the gritty brick wall of the building behind the dumpsters in the dimly lit alley. He had his arms trapped between my chest and his. I could feel the pounding of his heart--and the pounding, as he was able, of his fists on my chest, as I pressed hard on his lips, forcing them to open to me. I reached between us with one of my hands, the other one gripping the back of his neck to keep his head trapped in the kiss. I quickly unbuttoned and spread my shirt, so that what his fists would be beating on was flesh, my hard-bodied pecs. Putting fuckin’ flesh on flesh was halfway to winning the battle. Not giving them time to back away was most of the rest.

This is what I did. I was damn good at this--breakin’ them in. Them who wanted it and didn’t have the courage to go after it themselves.

I pulled my mouth away from his and he gasped for air. His eyes were looking wildly into mine in a “why me?” look. I could see what else was there, though. The fuckin’ want and need. Fuckin’-A bingo. I had him, bang, bang, bang.

“Why you?” I asked. “Because you fuckin’ want it. Because you want it so bad you’re gonna give it to me--right here and now.”

I dove in with my mouth again while his was open and took advantage of that to keep his lips pressed open with mine. I slipped my tongue into his mouth. He gasped and moaned. And I could feel him starting to give in. His fists opened, his hands palming my pecs. I got my knees between his thighs and lifted his slight body off the ground, spreading my legs so that his thighs were draped over mine.

My tongue was darting in and out of his mouth, pressing deeper, giving him the image of what was to come--my tongue fuckin’ his mouth like my dick was gonna be workin’ his channel. Fuckin’-A bingo fucking him. He was moaning and giving in to me.

I pulled my mouth away, and he whimpered, “Oh, god, oh, shit.” When I came in for the kiss again, he received me hungrily. I fuckin’-A had him now. I was moving my pelvis against his. I was fully erect. He could feel that, I’m sure. I felt him relaxing, the tension going out of his body. The battle was over. Fuckin’-A bingo, bang, bang, bong.

“You wanna leave? If so, just walk away now. I won’t stop you.” He didn’t move a muscle. “Didn’t think so,” I said, with a laugh.

I pulled away from him, turned him, pulling his arms up and placing the palms of his hands on the brick wall. His cheek was to the wall. “Fuckin’ leave them there,” I growled. He was mewing and whimpering, but he complied. I palmed his belly and pulled his butt away from the wall. “Jut it out for me,” I commanded. He did so, and I knelt behind him, pulling his baggy shorts and bikini briefs down and off his legs. He hesitated and mumbled some trembling objection when I commanded him to step out of them, but he did.

“Please . . . I’m scared.”

“Of course you’re fuckin’ scared. But you want it. You want to be freed. I’ll treat you fuckin’ right.” I was trembling too. I was going to nail a virgin. I just thought I’d be getting my rocks off. But this is what I wanted too. Spiking a virgin. Fuckin’-A bingo.

And then it was all moans and groans as I palmed his belly with one hand, put the other one through his spread legs to milk his dick, and buried my face between his crack.

He came for me quickly. I rose, stuffed his mouth with his bikini briefs, holding a hand over his mouth to keep them there and to stifle what surely would be screams from his first fucking; saddled up behind him; slowly mounted him, getting his hips trapped between my thighs, still holding him to me with my other hand palming his belly; slowly working my cock inside, and then quickly, expertly, in ever-more-rapid slides of the cock, cured him of his virginity. Fuckin’-A bingo, bang, bang, bong. He writhed at first, trying to move away from me, but he was fuckin’ too small, too light, and too scared to break my grip. And he wanted it.

“Fuckin’ relax,” I growled in his ear. “I’m inside you now. It will be less painful if you relax and fuckin’ give it up to me.” I drove in deep, giving him all eight inches, to convince him he was conquered, and he did relax for me then, his passage yielding, stretching to accommodate me.

Fuckin’-A bingo, bang, bang, bong.

“There now, fuckin’ nice,” I murmured, pulling my dick back half way, as he panted and moaned. I had mercy on him, giving it to him shallow, just enough to reach his prostate and show him how much pleasure could come of that. As I felt he could take it, had opened to me, I increased the rhythm of the thrusts. I had trouble holding off, he felt so fuckin’ good and yielding now in my embrace, but I knew I’d take him again.

When I pulled the briefs out of his mouth, I turned his face to mine and we kissed again. His kiss wasn’t as hungry this time, but it was yielding.

“There, it’s done. You fuckin’ wanted it done, didn’t you?” I murmured.

“Yes,” he admitted in a pained murmur.

“You can leave now, or I can do you again, slower, deeper, letting you know the pleasure it can be. Which do you want?”

I fucked him on his back on top of a wooden pallet a bit further back into the alley. I made him suck me to an erection first. As with the anal, he didn’t want to do it at first and struggled against me initially. But I had him on his back on the pallet with me straddling his chest and fisting his wrists. He didn’t have much choice. He also changed his attitude when he saw what I had for him to suck.

“It’s black,” he said, with surprise. “You’re--”

“One quarter, yes. Take it.”

He did, then, much better, I think, than he would have thinking I was a white man and screwing him in just one more way in this world. It seemed to make a difference to him that he wasn’t being fucked by a white man. I was three-quarters white, but that wasn’t the statistic that mattered. I found that to be true with some other men, as well.

He was under me in a missionary, one of my arms cradling his neck, the hand of the other one working his dick, his legs hooked on my hip, as I pumped slow and shallow to begin with and then, as we both became heated and he started to buck against me, deep, hard, and fast. We were whole hog fucking.

He was fuckin’ tight at the beginning, but not as tight as the first time, and the shaft slid more easily, helped by the lube of the previous cum, not just the spit I’d had to use to begin with. And the more into it he was, the softer and more yielding he went for me, so that, at the finish, as thick as I was, he was taking me like a fuckin’ champ, bucking against me and murmuring, “Yes, yes, fuck me.”

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah. Nailin’ you good,” I answered, slapping him on the bare buttocks a couple of times to tell him he was enjoying himself.

I screwed him real good. He’d be OK in the future. He opened well and quickly. As his inhibitions melted he’d take a dick, no matter how fuckin’ thick, like a champ. And he’d have his admirers. Such a small, lithe body. Pert butt cheeks. The pleasure the man would have when he discover the little colored honey could take a thick shaft and could fuckin’ buck on it with the best of the rent-boys.

He came again before I did, and then just lay back, fully open to me as I thrust, thrust, thrust and filled him deep with my cum.

His eyes were looking at me in awe and wonder as I finished him. One of his hands was palming one of my pecs and the other had worked its way up under my blue workman’s shirt, in the same blue cotton material of my flared trousers, and was clutching one of my shoulder blades. He was clutching me close to him. Yes, indeedy, he fuckin’ wanted me inside him. Fuckin’-A bingo.

That was the way to do it. That’s how I did it.

“There, was that what you fuckin’ wanted?” I asked, as we lay there in the same position in which I finished him.

“Yes,” he answered in a small voice.

“You gonna be able to give it to a man now?”

“Yes.”

“You did fine. You want to have me again sometime?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Duane,” he said. No last name, but I think he was too in awe of the situation to lie about the first name.

“I’m Drake. You did fuckin’ good. You got a phone number?”

“I don’t have a phone. But I work in Ebitt’s Grill up on 10th Avenue. You can find me there. Anytime . . . anytime at all.”

I watched him walk out of the alley, pert little butt twitching. He seemed to be standing taller, walking with more confidence than before I’d pulled him into the alley. Ebitt’s Grill on 10th Avenue. I’d have to remember that. Would like to have another dip in that nice piece, yes indeed I would.

* * * *

I’d been gone on the nooner longer than I anticipated. It was late when I got back to the high-rise on 10th and 47th. I was the last man back and was two floors behind the other guy on my side of the building. I climbed onto the platform on the roof, hooked up my safety belts, and cranked the platform down to the sixteenth floor. Those windows done, I cranked on down to the fifteenth.

There I stopped. There were no curtains closed on that apartment and lights were on inside, illuminating the one-room apartment against the dimming late-afternoon light behind me. I started washing the window, trying to ignore what I could see inside, but I couldn’t ignore it.

There was a portable massage table set up in the middle of the room, but what was happening on the table had gone way fuckin’ beyond a massage. A beefy Wop kind of a guy was lying on his back on the massage table, keeping perfectly still, while a really--Really!--sexy-looking blond guy was doing a rodeo bit on the Wop’s dick, facing away from the Wop’s head and grasping the guy’s raised knees with his hands. Talk about goin’ to town on a shaft. He was fuckin’-A amazing. Up, down, lean to the left, lean to the right, rotate, slammin’ down real hard, rising up and slamming down again, siskcumba, rah, rah. Fuckin’-A-mazing.

The great-looking blond--not beefed up and not big, but perfectly proportioned and handsome as the devil--was taking all of the fuckin’ dick in long, vigorous and fast, rising and falling. His tongue was hanging out and a look of fuckin’ ecstasy was on his face, and his own dick was hard as a fuckin’ rock, slappin’ against the Wop’s thighs on the down slam.

With the other guy holding steady and holding off as he was, it was clear that blondy was demanding full control. This was enough for me to want him--to want to break him--to make him give up control to me. There was no question that I wanted to screw him. His body was fuckin’ luscious. He was fucking himself on the Wop’s dick with abandon. I wanted him on my dick. I wanted to give him a fuckin’-A ride like he’d never forget, like he’d never demand having control like that again.

The blond rider turned his head and noticed me for the first time. For the longest couple of seconds, we remained there, staring at each other, assessing and, I know, him fuckin’ wanting me as much as I wanted him. He was still fucking himself on the Wop’s dick as our eyes locked, if with less abandon, but then I saw his head turn, looking back into the apartment, looking for a fuckin’ refuge of escape from my gaze, I thought. I pushed the hydraulic lift on my platform and started the ascent back up to the roof.

That was it for the day. It was getting dark anyway. I’d still be on the job tomorrow. Maybe he’d be on the lookout for me then--and, if so, I knew I had him.

* * * *

What kept waking me up that night other than the sound of the fuckin’ traffic outside my Garment District rooming house nearly on top of the approach to the Lincoln Tunnel wasn’t the cute little colored trick, Duane. It was that fuckin’ hot blond riding the Wop on the massage table in the apartment I was last hanging outside. The more I thought about him, the more I thought he had a thing about control and the more I fuckin’ wanted to control him--to break him, to use him mercilessly, and to laugh at him for wanting me to use him. It wasn’t until I was eating breakfast, ready to go out and wash windows again since rain wasn’t in the forecast, that I considered that maybe the apartment belonged to the fuckin’ Wop, not the blond honey pot. Maybe I’d never see the blond again. Maybe I wouldn’t get a fuckin’ chance at breaking him.

His loss, that. But I couldn’t let it go. I had to do something about it.

I found I couldn’t finish my breakfast. I had to know. I had to get back on the platform outside that fifteenth-floor apartment.

Control. That was a thing with me too. The blond needed to have control. So did I. I had been raised to the fuckin’ need to control. My control was more important than his. I couldn’t get past the need for him to know that, to accept that.

My first man had been my mother’s boyfriend, Gene, back in Abbeville, a town in central Georgia half way from fuckin’ nowhere to nowhere else, almost smack dab in the middle of the state. I’d made the mistake of not going anywhere after barely making it through high school. My mother had wanted me to go into the service and make a man of myself. I went to mechanic school instead and became useful right there in Abbeville. There weren’t any men in Abbeville who didn’t know that I was a man. But I stayed liven’ at home, with my mother and her fuckin’ boyfriend, even knowing that Gene was there to get at me, not my mother. I tried telling my mother that, but she just wouldn’t listen.

I can’t say I was raped or anything at nineteen. I’d wanted it from Gene for some time. I was obsessed with my dick in those days. It was black, me inheriting it through a line where my mother’s mother was colored and had been knocked up by a fuckin’ white boy just passing through Abbeville on a train. And then my mother had been knocked up too, by the son of the fuckin’ local owner of half of the town, who would have owned the likes of me if the Civil War had turned out differently. It’s my daddy who went to war--to World War II--and didn’t come back. He didn’t marry my mother, who had a beauty parlor attached to our house, but he sent her money to take care of me. So did his family while my father was at war, but they fuckin’ cut that off as soon as the death notice from the war came in.

By the 1-percent law I was black, but I passed as white in clothes as long as I kept a buzz cut, which I did for the school football team anyway. It’s only when I was naked that my black dick and kinky pubic hair betrayed me. But I was intrigued by being black down there--and big too, both thick and long. I liked to see how thick and long it could be, so I did a lot of playing with myself to make it fuckin’ big. And to make it cum.

When I was eighteen and Gene moved in with us, it didn’t take Gene long to catch me at it. And it didn’t take me long, just past my next birthday, to let him touch it as well--and to make it big, at first with his hands and then with his mouth. Gene became fuckin’ obsessed with my black dick too. He didn’t want to just play with it. He wanted it inside him. He wanted to sit on it. When it came to that, I didn’t mind one fuckin’ bit, although in the back of my mind I didn’t think this was right to do to Mama.

But Gene had another quirk. He had to have control. When he’d gotten me all hot and bothered on having it inside him, he came up with a condition. “But I want to fuck you. I don’t want you to fuck me. I want you to give me full control. I don’t want you to put it in me; I want to put it in me myself. And there’s only one way we can do that.”

“Yeah, what?” I asked. When he told me, I agreed. So, I wasn’t fuckin’ raped or anything. I agreed to it. Besides, it was Gene who took the dick, not me.

He bound me to the bed at the four corners. Then he fuckin’ hand jobbed and sucked me big, climbed on me, and fucked himself, telling me all he wanted me to do was to stay hard and to cum inside him.

So, when I’d seen blondie riding that fuckin’ Wop on the previous afternoon, it just took me back to my first time--a time I had fuckin’ agreed to.

Gene made a big deal of control, and so it wasn’t that long before I wanted to control guys as well. He helped there. He took me to a male brothel on the edge of town, where men came to be bound and fucked--and often flogged and whipped. A strapping young man like me with a great body and a black dick on a white body became a favorite, and I took right to controlling men and fucking them bound.

Never with Gene, though. He always did the riding and all I contributed was a hard shaft. My mother eventually caught us at it, though, and we both had to leave Abbeville. I don’t have a fuckin’ notion where Gene went, but I came North, to disappear, to be absorbed as a nobody into the fabric of the big city, New York. I’d been a couple of things before taking this fuckin’ job as a window cleaner on high-rise buildings, although none of them seemed to be a step up over the last one. That was just my day job, though. At night, I tracked down young men who needed to be broken and controlled, and I took care of them. I took care of them good. Fuckin’-A bang, bang, boom. Screwed ’em good. And they always wanted more. They always left smilin’ and walkin’ taller and wantin’ more from me.

* * * *

Fuckin’-A bingo. That apartment did belong to the blond hotee. By rushing over there to start the day on the window washing, I got cranked down to the fifteenth floor in time to see the fuckin’ hot blond wake up. He was stretched out on his bed, naked, and workin’ his dick slowly despite not being fully awake yet.

It was time to see if I could control him through the window. I took a couple of swipes at the window just to establish that I was here on business and then I gave him something to look at. I opened my shirt, pulled it out of my waistband, and let it fall open so he could get a good look at my “sex” pack. (I know, others call it a six pack. I get right down to it.) Nothin’ turns a man on more than a look see at a great sex pack, I’d learned. Then I unzipped myself, flared my pants--I’d gone commando this morning--and started working my shaft. No reason why we couldn’t start off the day doin’ the same fuckin’ thing.

It worked a charm. He came awake seeing me on the other side of the window and realizing he had been making love to himself. I had him groggy and confused. I did what I could to entice him to come to the window, and fuck if that didn’t work too.

First time I had sex with a plate glass window between me and the other guy. In the end, we had to jack ourselves off, but we did it with the connection of foreheads and the palm of a hand touching through the window, and we did it good. The trick was to keep his attention and to guide him in what to do, from cock sucking to butt fucking to jacking off, without him realizing I was controlling it all.

The payoff was, when it was over, he was wanting me to come in and screw him--and was willing to pay me to do it. A hundred dollars. He wrote out a sign giving me his apartment number and flashed two fifties at me. I had him then, fuckin’-A bingo. But to slam home that I did--that I controlled--I winched myself up to the roof and, rather than coming down to his apartment and doing him, I sat on the roof and smoked two Camels and shot the fuckin’ shit with Vince, who was avoiding work too, for a couple of hours before winching back down to the blond’s floor. By then he was gone, and I did his window, except for the spunk I’d left on it, right on this side of the glass from the cum he’d deposited. I was going to screw him, and I was going to get that hundred dollars, but, to show him who was in control, I’d make him wait for it--and I’d get it on my own terms.

I wouldn’t make him wait long, though, because I was horny for him.

After work I went back to my room and changed, but I got some gear together in a bag to use later, if I had the opportunity. I changed my clothes and came back and staked out his apartment house. If he went anywhere this evening, he’d have a tail. And if I had an opportunity, I’d climb his tail, get his butt between my thighs, mount him good, and screw the fuckin’ stuffing out of him.

Opportunity knocked. Fuckin’-A bingo. About 8:30 he came out of the building with a folder under his arm and set off on foot toward Chelsea. I stayed behind him for more than twenty blocks, thinking he’d catch me out, but he didn’t. He walked like a zombie. A fuckin’ sexy little zombie, though. I was hard thinking of what I was going to do to him, when he entered a homo club in Chelsea, Barracuda, on 24th Street.

I went in like gangbusters. The best way to do a guy who was bent on keeping control was to overwhelm him and keep him off balance. I nudged up to Boyd--we exchanged names, at the bar, as soon as he’d entered and ordered a drink. I crowded him and put my hand on him. He brushed that off, but he didn’t brush off the rough kiss I pulled him into, holding him in the kiss, doing the tongue-fucking-tonsils routine--letting him know I’d have my dick in him soon enough--until I felt him give in, surrendering to me. I put my hand back on the same place, his bicep, that he had brushed it away from before just to establish my control. He left it there.

I was movin’ into taking him back to his place and screwin’ the shit out of him when, fuckin’-A, another dude showed up. Maury turned out to be Boyd’s boss, and Maury also obviously was a rich son of a bitch. He wasn’t something I’d throw out of bed either. Looked like some fuckin’ movie star--one in his just-graying forties maybe, but very well put together and taken care of. He was frisky with his hands, letting me know he would like me to dick him, and when he offered two hundred for the dicking, I put Boyd on hold. Boyd was primed and I could pluck him at will. Maury was wanting it now and had two big bills out and pressing them down into the crotch of my jeans. Fuckin’-A bingo, bang, bang. He was ready to go.

Maury was kinky, bringing back my memories of Gene and the brothel on the outskirts of Addeville. We had the big backseat of the ’64 Cadillac Fleetwood all to ourselves as he had his driver cruise a couple of laps around Central Park. The back windows were both tinted and steamed. To show him who was boss, I put his face in my lap, with my dick out and hard, having worked itself up over the prospect of screwin’ the blond hotee, Boyd. He started driving the shaft hard with his soft mouth, while I pulled clothes off both of us, tossing them left and right.

“Fuck me hard, you big stud,” he called out as he slammed his channel down hard on my dick, making me cry out in pain when he slung a leg over my lap, coming down facing me. “Just the cock; I just need the cock,” he growled. “Just sit there and let me have the cock.” He was riding me hard. I put my hands on his waist, but he pushed them away, grabbed my shoulders, lowered his face to mine, and took my mouth in his. His tongue invaded, and he moved it in and out, fucking my face with his tongue until I relaxed, tensing up shortly thereafter and blasting him deep with my ejaculation.

He came right off me, kneeling on the floor of the car between my thighs, taking my dick in his mouth again, and cleaning it thoroughly.

I saw his gaze go up to, first, one place above the door on one side and then the other door and then right overhead. The man had had restraints put in the backseat of his car.

Nearly a whole circuit of Central Park was spent with him sitting in the middle of the backseat, legs raised and split, ankles bound in the restraints hanging from above the door windows on either side, his arms raised above his head, the wrists bound in restraints hanging from the ceiling. I was crouched over him, between his legs, pounding his ass for all I was worth, while we kissed and he chewed on my nipples. Fuckin’-A, bang, bang, banged him, I did. Screwed him right into the plush of the car’s backseat. He screamed bloody murder, egging me on to thrust hard, deeper, faster.

“Give it to me. Give it to me. Give me your cum!” he cried out above the sounds of traffic on the roads bordering the park and of car horns.

I screwed him good. I had his driver drop me a block away from my rooming house, holding the two big bills in my hand that he’d given me for the sex.

Maury rolled down the back window and handed me a business card. “We’ll have to see about a tailor, a grooming consultant, and voice counselor.”

“A voice counselor?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m giving you a job. Contact the person on the business card sometime after Tuesday if you want a job. The voice counselor is because your mouth needs to be cleaned up if you are working for me.”

“Fuckin’-A,” I muttered.

“Precisely,” he said. “That phrase has to go. Remember. Sometime after Tuesday. You’ll like the job, and the clients will like you.”

It was only after the Fleetwood had rolled away that I realized that he had controlled it all--and was bidding to continue to control me. Money talks. Big money talks big, I thought, as I looked at the easily earned two hundred dollars. He’d been a good lay. Enthusiastic, kinky. A great, well-worked body for a man over forty. A soft but inventive mouth. I’d come three times in that waltz around the park. So had he. He could take it thick and deep. Swallowed me right up and humped me to fuckin’ heaven.

But why was I on edge? Why wasn’t I fully satisfied? It was because he was in full control. He would have swallowed my dick as soon as we got in the car even if I hadn’t nudged his head down. He controlled the lap fuck fully. His eyes were even what had made me see the restraints. I put them on him just as he directed. I fucked him the way he wanted to fucked. I came when he told me to.

I was standing out here on the street holding the money he’d paid me for sex and a business card that would put me under his control if I made a call after next Tuesday.

I was keyed up and fuckin’ mad. I had to take control back. I had to fuck someone good--on my terms. I went up to my room, stuffed some toys into a bag, and came back out, starting to walk fast, with determination, toward the high-rise at 47th Street and 10th Avenue.

* * * *

He opened the door to me--the hotty blond, Boyd. I saw him eyeing me through the peephole. He wouldn’t have opened the door to me if he didn’t want to be fuckin’ screwed. And I screwed him good, standing up, just inside the door, taking full and immediate control. The element of surprise and confusion. Once he’d taken the dick, that first time, he was mine. Fuckin’-A bingo, bang, bang. He was just wearing sleeping shorts--and not them for long. I had him by more than forty pounds and seven inches in height. I subdued him with my mouth and my hands, turned him, mounted him, gave him eight thick inches, and pounded him into submission.

But that wasn’t enough. I wanted the surrender to be total. I put him out with my thumbs digging into his throat, pulled bed restraints out of my bag of tricks, and bound him to the bed, facing up. A ball gag took care of any interest from the neighbors--I’d really have preferred to hear what he had to say--and a black rubber Big Guy dildo kept his ass open for me while he was out.

Then, when he came to, it was just a matter of screwing him again and again until he was soft and fully yielding to me, until his passage held open to my specifications and the muscles of his passage walls rippled over the sliding dick and he purred for me. It took a while. During breaks I explored his apartment, finding out about him, what made him tick, what he liked that he could admit to in public, what sort of beer he drank.

When I was satisfied and felt completely in control again, I went digging for the hundred dollars he’d promised me for the fuck and, as an afterthought, took his door key off his key chain. He was a superior lay. I wanted to screw him again . . . and again. I wanted him to know that I’d be doing that, so I waited for him to be awake again to show him I was taking the key. Then I climbed up on the bed, made him suck and clean my dick one last time and put his lights out again so I could take the restraints off and get gone without a fuss.

I came back the next night, drawn to him. I got into the apartment with the key I’d taken, but it was dark. He wasn’t fuckin’ there. It was late enough at night that he fuckin’ should have been there. I tried the next night too, and he wasn’t there. My confidence was beginning to waver. Had he fled, not wanting me? He sure as hell fuckin’ acted like he wanted me.

The third night, late, he was there, sleeping like a baby, in those sleeping shorts. Lying on his back, lightly snoring, looking fuckin’ delicious. He didn’t wake when, after stripping down, I pulled the shorts off his legs. He didn’t wake when I parted his legs, either, or even when I encased his cock in my hand and slow stroked it while I lay there between his legs, working my own cock up. He moved a bit and sighed when I put my lips to the bulb of his cock, but it was to raise his pelvis to me.

He did wake, wild eyed and exclaiming a “What the fuck?” when I lowered myself between his legs and pinned him to the bed with my bulk, grabbing his wrists and forcing and trapping his arms over his head. He struggled with me, but I sensed it was indecisive, like he was only doing it for form. And it was ineffectual. I had him by surprise and by weight. I had my knees between his thighs, pushing them wide. I took his mouth in a probing kiss, working it to feel him give in to me, which he was doing.

Pulling off his mouth, I muttered, “Give it up. Roll your pelvis up to me.” He failed to respond, so trapping his wrists together in one fist--a hold he probably could have broken if he now wanted to--I placed my other hand on the small of his back and tilted his buttocks up. He whimpered something, I wasn’t sure what, as I pressed the bulb of my dick inside his rim and held there. He was panting hard and moaning in a low tone.

“Yes, yes,” he whimpered. “Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me. Screw me to the bed.” I cupped his buttocks in both hands and lifted and spread them, taking, with no opposition from him, full control. “Give it to me,” he murmured in a strangled voice.

Then I gave him all of it, in a swift, deep stroke. His eyes bugged out, his mouth opened in a wide O, with a gasp of air and a primeval cry coming out of him. He was painfully tight, and I held there, waiting for him to open to fully accommodate me, which, slowly, he did. He had gone slack and trembling under me, his arms collapsing back on the bed, going into a fully open “take me” position, as I released my hold on his hands. Still I held, as he opened, the muscles of his passage shimmering over my dick. The memory of my cock took over in his passage, and he went soft, spongy, yielding to me, gloving the cock to a perfect fit, drawing me in to the hilt, the walls of the passage rippling along the length of the shaft. Completely vulnerable to me.

I waited for him, staring down into the side of his face, turned from me, his mouth still slack open, panting and moaning low. He turned his face to me and I lowered my mouth to his. He opened his lips to me and I pressed my lips beyond his and then my tongue. His arms came up, the palms of his hands clutching my shoulder blades and the heels of his feet coming over unto the backs of my calves.

He was making a purring sound deep in his throat.

Then and only then did I start to pump him, slowly and shallow at first. Then faster, harder, deeper. He was holding me close to him, nipples rubbing on nipples, his heels rubbing my buttocks, his hands moving from clutching my shoulder blades to clutching, squeezing, rolling my buttocks, as we writhed against each other, pounding our pelvises against each other’s, him fucking himself on my shaft as much as I was screwing him into the bedspread. Bucking, bucking, bucking against each other, until, with a mutual cry we shot our loads together.

We lay there, panting, fused together, my dick still slow stroking him, kissing. I’d never had it like this--being one, precisely coordinated fucking machine. The guy being as open, soft, and vulnerable to me, his passage caressing and making love to my dick as I screwed him.

He was putty in my hands. I rolled him over on his stomach, muttered, “Give me your fuckin’ ass,” and, with just a low whimper, he raised up on his knees. I mounted him high, grabbed his waist on both sides, slid inside, and fucked for several minutes. Immediately responding to my command, he rolled away from me as I turned and sat on the bed, came down into my lap, facing me, sheathed himself on my cock, and moved with me in deep, instinctively coordinated rolls of our pelvises to give each of us the maximum depth, stroke, and pleasure of the dick. Once again we came together in a massive explosion.

I rolled him over onto his back and stretched along his body, running my hand over his fuckin’ gorgeous curves and crevices. “I want to screw you on the dining table; I want to screw you bent over the toilet,” I murmured.

“Anything you want,” he answered back, his voice tired, but meek in total surrender.

“Just kidding,” I said. But I sighed with satisfaction. He had opened completely to me, not fought me a bit for control once I’d gotten my dick in him. He was fuckin’-A, bingo, bang, bang, fully mine.

On Wednesday I called the number on the business card Maury had given me.

“Yes, I was told you would call,” the male voice on the other end of the line--definitely not Maury--said. “When can you come in for in-processing?”

“In-processing? No interview or nothing?”

“No. You’re hired.”

“Hired for what?”

“A model. Mr. Rivers is designing an ad campaign around you.”

“A model? I’m no fuckin’ model.”

“Mr. Rivers thinks you are. To the tune of $20,000 a year.”

“$20,000 a year to stand there and let guys take pictures of me?”

“Yes. You can come in later today, if you want. Just let me know when. Mr. Rivers wants me to get the tailor, grooming consultant, and voice counselor set up for you.”

Fuckin’-A Bingo, bang, bang, boom.

* * * *

The next night my key didn’t work in Boyd’s door and he didn’t answer my knocks. I was excited about the job--moving from window cleaning to standing in front of a camera at four times the salary--but he wasn’t there. I knew it wasn’t because he wasn’t mine. He couldn’t possibly have been more vulnerable, open, and soft to the stroking of my cock inside him. I tried not to stew about it--not to allow myself to be confused--but they cleared it up for me at the office. Boyd had been scheduled for a vacation and had gone to Florida. He’d be gone for two weeks or more.

It was just as well. I had a job to secure. I applied myself to the job and to Maury, both of which were more demanding than I’d originally been led to believe. Maury didn’t just want it hard; he wanted trapeze-swinging athletics. I decided he didn’t need to go to the gym to stay trim; he took care of that in the bedroom.

I stood in front of the camera a few times a day in beefcake poses. Two sets of prints were taken--one with clothes, one without. Maury said he had separate sets of clients. I didn’t give a shit as long as the checks cleared. There were various campaigns going for the commercial marketing. I got to sit in on the design meetings for these, and I turned out to have pretty good ideas, they thought. I got to weigh in more than just as the model.

But I spent more time in Maury’s private areas at the office. He wasn’t just into public advertising. He was into dirty homo movies and photos for special clients too. For $100 per photo and $1,000 per film, I went on display and screwed guys to the floor. And, what I found was down Maury’s alley, because I also moved in with him and screwed him bound at night, in these movies I also bound guys, hung them on hooks, and whipped and flogged them as well as screwing them. It was great money. I didn’t think twice about taking it. It was fun too.

I did, though, quickly clean up my talk, getting rid of most of the “fucks” and such and learned to groom myself and wear the most fashionable clothes. Maury said I had to, as being a major model for the agency now, I also was the face of the business.

Maury frequently said I was a fast learner. Maybe too fast. When Boyd returned from his Florida vacation, he seemed like I had slipped with him in control and his immediate response to my being one of his coworkers now was a bit of pique.

I could see why he was surprised, coming back to find me at the conference table, being included in the discussions, my face and half-naked torso plastered all over the year’s ad campaign. He could barely look at me during that first morning conference, and he wouldn’t talk to me.

I couldn’t work there if I had to struggle with him for control again. It was bad enough that I was giving control over to Maury. I had to control someone too. Boyd had been the only one to have gone soft in the sex and showed his vulnerability that last time we’d screwed. He’d done something to me; he meant something to me.

I didn’t let it fester. The first chance I could find, I grabbed him and pulled him into a dark storage room. We struggled, but I outweighed him, and his resolve wasn’t there. I softened him up with French kisses, turned him to the wall, managed to get his trousers and briefs down to his knees and the bulb of my dick inside his rim.

He surrendered, with a sigh, his arms above his head, palms and cheek against the wall.

“You want it all, I know you do,” I muttered. “Jut your ass out for me. I’m going to screw you deep.”

When he moved his legs back, jutting his buttocks out to me, I knew I’d won. I gave him all eight inches and began to pump. He started working his hips with me, taking me deep, his passage walls stretching open, shimmering, the muscles undulating over my dick. We were back in the grove.

I moved in with him the next day. I didn’t stop fucking Maury from time to time--at least not for a few months before he decided to move on--but it was Boyd and me now. I got promoted to head of the division, which didn’t set right with Boyd, but we worked it out on the bed. And we moved to a bigger apartment, in the same building Maury lived in, Maury helping with the bill. Maury maintaining control in his own way.

* * * *

It was hard to believe that a small brown body like this could take the dick, but take it he was--although there was quite a pained expression on his face. He was cheek to sheet, arms outstretched, and fists bunching up wads of sheeting, on the hotel bed. His torso was raised on his knees in an incline from his chest pressed into the mattress; and his pelvis was rolled up to me, as I had directed; and he had dutifully responded, to give me a straight, deep shot with my dick.

Moving in and out of him, stroking hard and deep, as he lay there, moaning, gasping for air, and blowing bubbles with his mouth. In and out, in and out. Who could have told that the hole of such narrow hips and slight buttocks cheeks could take a beer can cock? But he was taking me . . . until, with a sigh, his thin legs gave way and he collapsed, flat, on the bed.

I rode him down, stroking, stroking, stroking. Pushing my knees under his, I managed to elevate his buttocks a bit and then to bury all eight inches in him again at the down stroke. I tensed and so did he. Then I jerked and dropped my load in him. He sighed and turned his head to receive my kiss. He had come several minutes earlier.

Giving him a slap on a butt cheek, I rolled over the side and onto my back, pulling myself up so that I could prop up my back on pillows at the headboard of the bed. I reached over for the pack of Camels and lit up, looking down the line of my body to the black dick, still half hard, slick with my cum. I smiled, starting to think “fuckin’-A bingo” but stopping myself before I could finish any variation of that silly phrase. The voice counselor was managing to ban that phrase from my vocabulary.

Duane lay there, on his stomach, cheek to bed, giving me a worshipful look with his eyes.

“You know I’ve been fucked since then, but nowhere as good as you can do,” he whispered.

“Glad to oblige,” I said. I almost said, but didn’t, that he was one of the best lays I’d had too. He was so giving, so open to me--and there was the miracle of such a small, brown body taking such a big dick. There was added pride in having been the one to initiate him--to have popped his male cherry.

I had gone looking for him on a whim. I kept thinking of having cured him of his virginity and what a nice little piece he was. I wanted to know he was doing OK. He’d told me he worked at Ebitt’s Grill on 10th Avenue, not exactly a dive.

“I thought you were a waiter or something here,” I had said, as I stood in the doorway of the restaurant’s kitchen. “I had to describe you to find out you were a cook here. A real cook?”

“Yes, a real cook,” Duane had said. “Trained and everything.”

“I guess you’d have to be to work in a swank restaurant, like this.”

“A busy swank restaurant,” Duane had answered. I had surprised him--and scared him a little too, I bet. I could understand that he was afraid that I’d say something like, “This is the guy I fucked the virginity out of in the ass in the back of an alley next to a homo bar,” where the others in the kitchen could hear me.

“When do you get off work?” I asked. “Don’t want to interrupt your work, but I’d like to talk to you.”

“Talk to me, like you said you had something to show me the last time we met?” he asked.

“Yes. That, exactly, I said.” I don’t know why I told him I wanted to fuck him. I guess I knew that’s what I wanted before I went looking for him. I was getting antsy. I had Boyd under control, but Maury was giving me the business. I guess I thought if I could screw another guy I could keep controlled, it would strike some sort of balance.

He told me a time. I told him I’d be back to pick him up. I half expected him to be gone when I returned. But he wasn’t. He came out of the back of the restaurant, shyly looking around as I stubbed out the Camel I was smoking.

“Where? Here? Here in the alley?” he asked.

“No, I’ll get a hotel room. We’ll do it right,” I said, although I think he would have let me screw him here, in the alley, behind a dumpster, just like last time, if I wanted to. The feel of the power of control was pumping me up--making me hard. “I’ve come up in the world since we last met.”

I took him to a fleabag hotel that rented by the hour and screwed the stuffing out of him. It made me feel like a complete man.

He rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. Turning to me, he asked, “Are we . . . again?”

“In a minute,” I answered.

“I’ll just be gone a minute,” he said, standing. “Gotta take a piss.”

I watched his thin little body move to the bathroom. I’d gotten all eight inches in that ass, I thought. The thought made me harden again. I stubbed out my cigarette and followed him into the bathroom. I watched him standing in front of the toilet, holding his small dick, and pissing into the bowl.

He turned and saw that I was hard and holding my black dick with a hand.

“You want--?”

“Yes, I want,” I said. I screwed him over the toilet, him on his knees on the toilet seat, me fisting the hair on his head and arching his chest back to me. Then, before coming again, I carried him out to the bed, lay him on the small of his back at the foot of the bed, and finished him, taking him hard in a missionary position. At no time in the hour and more that I was screwing him did he fail to give me whatever I demanded of him.

“Duane, do you just cook, or can you clean too?” I asked as I was propped up on the bed, scratching my balls and smoking another Camel while he dressed.

“I can clean,” he said.

I took him home. Boyd and I had been talking about getting a houseboy to clean and cook. We could afford it now.

Boyd came into the bedroom, finding me nailing Duane to the mattress. I pulled him into the bed and screwed them together, at one point with Boyd lying on top of Duane, both of their asses hanging off the end of the bed, and me screwing both of them, taking turns of which hole I was stroking.

Boyd acted like he didn’t like it, but I bullied him, watching to see if he’d knuckle under it--give me full control in the matter--and he did. I’m not sure I didn’t set the whole thing up just to check on whether Boyd would remain under my control.

He gave himself so fully, openly, vulnerably that night, though, that I felt a little guilty. I also had been thinking about Maury and how much control he was asserting successfully.

“Boyd,” I whispered as we were stretched out against each other and cooling down. “Are you happy here?”

“I’m happy as long as you’re here,” he answered. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the city. Maybe we’re getting bored with it. And I’ve noticed that you’ve been irritable at work recently.”

“It’s Maury. He wants me to do stuff. I know he does movies on the side. I don’t know if you’re aware of that. But he’s pressuring me to do his movies.”

“We don’t need Maury, you know?” I said, steering the conversation away from those movies. I’d starred in several, and I didn’t think that Boyd would want to know what happened in some of them. “We could start our own ad agency somewhere, you know?”

“It would be rough getting started,” Boyd answered. “But . . .”

“But it’s something to think about,” I said.

“Yes, it’s something to think about. But right now could you fuck me again?”

Not a single word about my bringing Duane into our bed--just because I wanted to. I tested him. “Duane’s gone back to the kitchen. Go get him and bring him back in.”

I could see from the expression on his face that he didn’t like the idea. But he started getting off the bed.

“Never mind,” I said. “Roll over here. Just you and me for the rest of the night.”

* * * *

I sat there, in the living room, the brandy bottle nearly empty, the last of the cigar supply depleted, my full attention on whatever was going on behind our bedroom door.

“Give him whatever he wants,” Maury had said of the Chicago publisher, Sidney Sterne, whose ad account we were trying to land. It would be a major account.

“What does he want?” I asked.

“He wants Boyd as part of the deal,” Maury had answered. “Boyd was on the proposal team that went to Chicago, and Sterne has taken an interest in him.”

“He wants Boyd to be some sort of liaison with his Chicago office?” I asked.

“He wants Boyd’s ass,” Maury answered. “Sidney is a member of the club--the club we make our films and photographs for. He wants Boyd in his bed. He wants to sample him when he comes to New York to discuss the deal.”

“A member of the club? He’s a sadist? He likes to bind them and beat them?”

“Yes. And don’t stick up your nose at that. You do it for money,” Maury answered. “Sidney does it for pleasure.”

“But Boyd . . .”

“It’s time,” Maury said. “I’ve always thought of using him for the movies. He would be great as a sub . . . for as long as he lasts. He’s getting older. It’s time anyway.”

Somehow this was hard for me to swallow. I’d conditioned Boyd by using the restraints and toys, but I hadn’t done that to him since then. And I’d just done it to ensure I had control of him.

“Who is going to tell Boyd?” I asked.

“You are. You control Boyd. He’ll do what you tell him to do. Tell him how badly we need this account.”

I control Boyd, I thought. Yes, just like you control me, Maury. And it’s because of that that I’ll tell Boyd what he has to do.

Thinking back on that discussion and being in the here and now, I was suffering. That was a surprise to me. Having full control should mean that I didn’t care. But I did care.

I’d told Boyd to give Sterne whatever he wanted, and Boyd had dutifully said, “Yes, sir.” And I’d told Sterne to do whatever he wanted.

Initially, not long after they’d gone in the bedroom, I heard Boyd crying out in pain and surprise. I’d stood up then, ready to go into the bedroom. But I’d stopped myself. I’d told Boyd to give the man what he wanted and I’d told the man to take what he wanted and I wouldn’t interfere. The sound had toned down, though. I wasn’t hearing anything now. Boyd was just being screwed normally, I was sure. Sterne was in his fifties, and heavy. He didn’t look like he could get it up more than once in a night. But why was he the member of a sadism club then? And why were they in there so long? Had Sterne dribbled his cum and then went off snoring?

I couldn’t help myself. I got up, went to the bedroom door, and quietly opened it. I expended air in relief and smiled. They were screwing, but it was quite normal screwing. Sterne had Boyd in a missionary position on the end of the bed, Boyd holding his ankles in a wide, spread stance, and Sterne, tall and broad of shoulders, but thick in the waist, legs, and butt, and hairy as a bear, crouched between Boyd’s thighs and screwing him.

Boyd didn’t look like he was in distress. His tongue was hanging out, he was moaning, and his eyes were darting around the room. He saw me and gave me a “god, am I being fucked” look. It surprised me. Sterne must be hung, I thought. That was a surprise. His hairy back was to me, so I couldn’t tell.

It sure had taken him a long time to get inside Boyd, I’d thought at the time. It was only later that I learned that it wasn’t the first time he had screwed Boyd that night and that, indeed, he was unusual thick and hung--and demanding.

But everything looked better than it might have been. I quietly turned and went back to the living room, expecting them to be done soon, and Sterne to be gone. Then I’d have to tell Boyd that Maury wanted him to go out to Chicago for the deal signing and to give Sterne what he wanted again.

Twenty minutes later and still they weren’t coming out of the bedroom. Thirty minutes later Boyd’s muffled screams and loud sobs--and the begging for mercy--started. I couldn’t go in. I’d told Sterne I wouldn’t. Maury expected me not to. I sank low into the sofa, finally taking a couple of sofa pillows and holding them against my ears. The muffled cries went on for a half an hour. Then silence for forty more minutes. It had been over an hour since I’d checked on them. It had been nearly an hour before I had checked in the first place.

Sydney Sterne, dressed, his hair wet from a shower, stepped out of the bedroom door and shut it behind him.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, as I stood from the sofa. “The young man was more than satisfactory. Tell Maury that I wish to have him at the formal signing and that he needn’t be booked in a hotel. He will be staying with me.”

I couldn’t get him out of the apartment fast enough. I was as polite as I could be, but all I could think of was Boyd and how he was. I ran from shutting the front door to the bedroom door.

I couldn’t see Boyd. What I could see was a tussle of sheeting and bedspread on the bed cascading over the far side onto the floor. The toys from the bottom drawer of my nightstand, ones I had not used on anyone in this apartment yet, were scattered about. Restraint leashes, dildos, graduated beads, ball gags, tit clamps. Even the hand whip was there, on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I heard the sobs from the other side of the bed, rushed around it, and knelt beside Boyd’s body. Both his ankles and his wrists were tied together and I worked frantically to release them. He winced at my touch and I realized that his back and buttocks had been whipped raw.

I gingerly picked him up, laid him on the bed, and propped him up from behind, holding him in an embrace that tried to avoid the welts on his back.

“Is he gone?” Boyd asked, with a sob.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.” But then, of course, I did know. I’d even told him where he could find the restraints and toys.

But Boyd didn’t challenge me. “What did he say? Was he satisfied?”

“Yes, Boyd, he was very satisfied. The deal will go through. But have you considered what I said to you about leaving Maury? Going someplace, probably Atlanta. Atlanta is up and coming. If the ad agency didn’t work out, I could always be a window cleaner,” I said, trying to make Boyd smile, and succeeding. “Atlanta’s going to have some high-rises soon, I’m sure.”

“Brad, the photographer, and Grace in admin--both have said they are interested in starting a new firm,” I continued. “I think it’s time.”

“You think it’s time?” Boyd asked in a whisper.

That gave me a jolt. It reminded me of what Maury had said--that it was time to use Boyd in the movies--as long as he lasted, Maury had said. He said it like I wouldn’t care. I didn’t think at the time that I would care. But I did fuckin’ care, dammit.

“Yes, I think it’s time for us to go, Boyd,” I said.

I was rocking him in my arms and murmuring sweet nothings to him. I could see now that he was hard. I was hard too. Could he really have sex after what he’d just been through. Did he want me so bad that he’d have sex as worn out and beaten as he was? I could screw him, of course. I was always ready to screw him.

But I’d let me make this decision. I could just sit here and rock him forever if that gave him comfort. Whether we would screw now, I’d leave up to him. If we did, I knew it would be best possible pleasure the two of use could share and pull out of each other.

But I’d let him control that. I’d give control to him on that.