I can’t say I was surprised, but I was running on disappointment anyway when the two johns came down the staircase into the lobby of the Holston House Hotel in Nashville. Both were in their fifties. One was Richard Gere dreamy with a good build, a movie-star handsome face with a winning smile, and a healthy head of wavy gray hair. The other one was on the pudgy side, a bit gawky in his height, weak chinned, and bald as a billiard ball. The bald one, of course, was for me. The movie star was for Andy, who occasionally worked the escort agency dating service with me when I was in Nashville. Both looked pretty spiffy in their tuxedos, but I knew that Andy and I looked like the grade A young, twenty-something male hookers that we were.
I wasn’t where I wanted to be. I wanted to be in New York, working the gay clubs, and going home with sugar daddies with luxury Manhattan penthouse and silk sheets on their king-sized beds. That wasn’t anything like working the Mississippi cruise boat world. The best I could say was that it was a start to where I wanted to go.
The johns had paid for dinner, an escort to some ceremony and performance at the nearby Ryman Auditorium, and an “afterward” in their hotel rooms until 2:00 a.m. It wasn’t an overnighter. I had to be in Clarksville by 6:00 a.m. to make the riverboat, the American Queen, for my other job, in this case a nine-day run up to St. Louis on the Mississippi.
They dined us well at the Southern Steak and Oyster restaurant on 3rd Avenue. The guys were nice to us and we chatted freely about safe topics like sports and travel. Both of them, Baldy introducing himself as Mark and Mr. Dreamy as Ian, were well-traveled and well-spoken. I had traveled a good bit too, much of it on riverboat cruises, and they were interested in knowing I played the piano and sang and did a bit of stage dancing. They both were in the entertainment industry too, they said. Andy was a bit out of the discussion. He was a construction worker and hadn’t gotten beyond the Nashville area. He worked evenings as a stage hand at the Ryman for the Grand Ole Opry. But he was a real hunk, so he didn’t need anything more than his looks and his flexibility in opening his legs for a man. Ian and Mark were good about including him in the discussion but it was clear they were more comfortable talking with me, Ian in particular.
Ian was sitting next to me at the table and at a couple of points I felt his hand on my knee and him squeezing it. The smiles we exchanged told me he wanted me as much as I preferred him to Mark. I wondered if he regretted as much as I did that Andy rather than I was his escort for the evening. The look I gave him said as much and was an offer for any swapping of dates he wanted to do and could arrange.
I had no idea what the ceremony at the Ryman was all about, other than it had something to do with entertainment and clubs. Ian and Mark were well known in the crowd and were greeted and chatted up a lot. They included Andy and me in these brush-by chats, and no one seemed at all surprised that their dates were young, hunky men. Ian was particularly good about smoothly introducing Andy and me to other men. It was some sort of awards ceremony, interspersed with on-stage musical revues, some of which were drag queens. I didn’t think any of them were better than I could do, though.
The theater wasn’t even half full, but it was a large-capacity venue, famous for having hosted the Grand Ole Opry performances for decades. Nearly all in the audience were men, and some of those who looked like women were really men, I could tell, after taking a good look. Everyone there seemed to be comfortable with this. I didn’t know what it was all about, but I was only there so other men knew Mark and Ian were going to get lucky with young honeys, so I just smiled, let men ogle and touch me as we chatted in small groups, and went with the flow.
A few asked if I was Mark’s steady or might be available. I gave those guys the escort agency’s business card. None of those who asked looked sugar daddy well healed. If they had, I had business cards of my own I could give them.
After that, the guys took us to what looked, on the outside, to be a warehouse across the river on Davidson Street. Inside, it was a gay stripper club. We sat at a banquette table in the middle of tiers up from the stage and watched guys, most of whom paled in relationship to Andy and me, dance poles and strip. I was sitting plastered to Mark and the stage performances made him hot and frisky. He had his hands all over me.
“You could be up there on stage better than those guys,” he breathed into my ear.
Been there and done that, I thought, although I just murmured a thanks. I was trying to work my way up from those beginnings.
We were both unzipped, released, handed, and rocking our hips before the guys agreed that it was time to go back to the hotel. I don’t know what Ian and Andy were doing because I was too busy being friendly but not being raped on the spot by Mark.
In his hotel room, Mark did what he didn’t get done in the stripper club. I gave him head, kneeling between his thighs as he sat on the foot of the bed. When he couldn’t take that longer without coming, he rose, turned me onto the bed, on my knees, my legs spread, and my chest and cheek pressed to the bedspread, watching us in a conveniently positioned mirror above a bureau at the side of the bed. For a few minutes he knelt behind me, hands gripping my wrists to keep me under his control, and tongued my hole before rising, hovering over me, mounting and penetrating me, and fucking me.
No problem, although I was wishing it was Ian instead. He opened me well and I took the penetration and sinking of his shaft without difficulty. The service came with the cost of the escort package.
He had a good cock and a strong stroke. I writhed under him, telling him all the things a male hooker needed to tell a john about how well he was being fucked. But, in fact, I was being fucked good. He stretched and filled me and he set up a good rhythm. I went with it, rocking back on the cock in the cadence he set and murmuring, “Yes, Daddy, screw me. Fuck me good, just like that. Oh, Daddy, Daddy.” It did give me a better-than-average john experience being able to watch him do me in the mirror.
I wouldn’t have add the escort agency work to my entertainment job if I didn’t like to sub under men.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering how much better if would have been to see that divine body of Ian’s—or what I assumed his body looked like, great even in his fifties—standing behind me, gripping my hips, and banging the hell out of me. While Mark was fucking me, I was wondering what Ian was doing with Andy in his hotel room, just down the hall from this one.
Before he finished, Mark turned me and did me in the Missionary position, with my ankles on his shoulders and my fingers running through his chest hair and playing with the nipples on his bulging chest.
“Fuck me, Daddy. Yes, just like that. Deep. Screw me deep. Yesss!”
Where he lacked for hair on his head, he made up for it with what was on the rest of his body. The light in the room was dim enough that I didn’t dwell on his paunch or his lack of chin definition and managed to give him the climax he was paying for.
“Oh, fucking yess. I’m coming!”
At nearly precisely 2:00, the end of the contract, I came out of Mark’s hotel room door, showered and back in my tuxedo, leaving him on his back on the bed, where I had ridden his cock in a second fuck in a Cowboy position, dozing and smiling. Andy was coming out of a door further down the hall. He was smiling and purring. He gave me a thumbs up, which meant he’d given and had had a real good time. I managed a smile, but, God, I wished it had been me in there under Ian.
At the elevator, Andy interrupted his humming long enough to say, “That man was a god. He’s got some moves I’ve never done before—and a cock to die for.”
I can’t say that helped my disposition one little bit.
* * * *
I rode down to the lobby perplexed. It was after 2:00 in the morning. I had to be in Clarksville, fifty miles away, by 6:00 to make my river cruise obligation. I went to the reception desk, not really knowing myself what they could do to help. I certainly wasn’t going to spring for a hotel car for that journey. A taxi wasn’t much better, but I didn’t have much choice. I asked whether there were taxis available nearby or if they could call one for me—and were taxis even running at this time of the morning?
The people at the reception desk weren’t dummies. They knew I was a hooker.
“I can drive you to Clarksville—for a hundred bucks . . . or consideration.”
I turned and saw a big—really big—black guy in a white uniform. I knew what “consideration” meant, but it certainly was something I had to seriously consider in this circumstance.
“This is DeVon,” the man at reception said, referring to the guy who offered me a ride—for big money or a ride on what likely was a big cock. “He’s just delivered fresh laundry to us. He has a van.” The man was almost sniggering, knowing what the deal being proposed was.
What choice did I have.
DeVon fucked me in the back of his van, on piles of clean and dirty laundry in the nearly empty parking lot of a Dollar Store across South Riverside Drive from the marina on the Cumberland River in Clarksville, where the American Queen was berthed.
As I surmised, he was big—thick and long and jet black. I lay on the laundry, folded towels jutting my pelvis up, legs spread and bent, feet flat, with big, black DeVon on top of me, heavily pinning me to the floor of the van, sneering down into my face, one hand clutching my throat, holding me down and controlling my breathing and the other arm under my waist, elevating my hips, giving him an open straight shot into the quick of me. Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, with me spreading my thighs as much as I could to take the stretch of him. He was big inside me, as big as they get. I lay there, fingernails digging into his bulging guns, moaning, panting, enduring as he did what he wanted to do to me.
“Take it, bitch; take it, whore,” DeVon kept muttering. “Take my dick.”
And I took it. At that point, I had no other option. He fucked me with the anger of some unspoken hurt. Good thing I actually was an experienced whore. He certainly treated me like I was, and he was one big, black bull. I had gone from a plush room at the Holston House, with a rich man in a tuxedo, to being rough fucked in the back of a van in a Dollar Store parking lot.
He was bigger than Mark was—much, much bigger—and more vigorous . . . and crueler. But at least Mark had opened me enough that, although I suffered, taking DeVon’s shaft didn’t kill me. But it had me writhing and bouncing up and down in the laundry, the van rocking on its shocks, and me ending my night so that, although I made it to the American Queen well before my 6:00 last call, I was hobbling and moaning what the fifty-mile trip had cost me.
Good thing I was a pro at this and did this because I liked being fucked, or I don’t think I would have survived the back of DeVon’s van. I’d have gone out in glory, though. He was one big, black bull.
OK, so I liked being fucked by DeVon, and the next time I was in Nashville I sought him out and he bully fucked me again. And, yes, I asked him to do it in the back of his laundry van again.
* * * *
Larsen was stretched out behind me on his berth in the bowels of the American Queen. He was about twice as big as I was, a big Norwegian, and muscular, so he had no trouble controlling me—not that I was giving him any struggle. My writhing was because of how big he was inside me, stretching me to the heavy pant setting. One beefy arm was wrapped around my stomach. The hand of the other was opened over my face, smothering me and stifling as best he could any sounds of total taking I might make that would permeate through the walls of the cabin into the corridor and the other crew quarters around us. They could have told by the thumping on the walls in the narrow confines of the berth that fucking was going on, though.
My arms were immobilized by the hold he had on me, but I could reach my own cock with one hand and was stroking myself off in cadence with his thrusts deep inside my anal passage. With harmonizing grunts and groans, working together to try to come together, we finished close to each other, and, maintaining his embrace of me on the berth in his tiny cabin, the Norwegian dozed off and began to snore. He was in for the night, and I was in here for as long as he had his arms around me. The confines of the narrow berth occupied by the two of us was stifling. It was a good thing I wasn’t claustrophobic.
That was OK. Stieg Larsen was the second mate on the American Queen. Although his cabin was miniscule, it was all his, alone, which was a luxury accorded only the officers on a cruise boat. The man himself would have been deemed too large to comfortably maneuver the tight spaces on the ship if he weren’t an officer mostly appearing in the public areas. I had a cabin not much longer this, and I shared it with two other members of the crew.
We were on a nine-day cruise from Nashville, Tennessee, to St. Louis, Missouri, on the Cumberland, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers. Day three was moving into day four, with day four being a stop in Paducah, Kentucky.
I was part of the entertainment on the American Queen. My main territory was the piano in the Engine Room Bar at the stern of the boat, behind the Grand Saloon, on the Cabin Deck. Here I tinkled the keys and crooned seven afternoons of the nine days from 4:00 p.m. into the 7:00 p.m. second dinner seating call. I also performed in a review on the Grand Saloon stage three nights during the cruise, adding dancing to my repertoire. I had boat safety drill station responsibilities and I ran the bingo and/or trivia games on three of the mornings. Doing, preparing, and practicing all of this filled out my work week on board. It was a long way from here to Manhattan clubs, but it was a start.
There was a side, more lucrative, job too, and this was where Stieg Larsen came in. I didn’t let him fuck me just because he was a big-dicked stud, which he was. He was the ship’s pimp. Some in the crew, both male and female, were here in special hospitality roles. We had cruise jobs but we were also here for cruisers of both genders. We were hookers. We either fell into hookups with paying passengers ourself or Larsen arranged sessions.
Cabins 221 and 222 on the Cabin Deck, in the stern, next to the Engine Room Bar, were kept open for liaisons. Outside their doors were tags that were changed from green to red when the cabin was in use. The crew quarters were entirely inappropriate. Few had private cabins, and it sometimes was inconvenient to meet up in the passenger’s own cabin. Quite often the john had an unknowing or unapproving spouse or boyfriend sharing his cabin. Larsen kept book on who got laid for how much and the whore got half and the pimping operation got half. Accounting was loose, so the prostitute could fiddle it—but probably only once or twice before Larsen caught up with it, and then there would be more hell to pay than it had been worth. He often said that anyone crossing him would fall overboard on a wide stretch of the river, and I, for one, wasn’t about to challenge that assertion. Larsen was a mean sonofabitch.
Since we were nearly half way into the cruise, I was surprised during happy hour the next day, as we were pulling out of Paducah and entering the Ohio, that I saw him enter the bar with a young man not much older than I was. I was surprised to see Ian, the dreamboat from Nashville, on the riverboat at all. I’d told him I was working these river cruises when we were at dinner in Nashville. He didn’t reveal that he’d be on the next cruise I was working on.
I was being rushed by two other men, apparently together and maybe a couple, Stan and Jerry, who were in their forties and not beautiful, but they were nice looking enough for me to take their money and they were built fine, and pretty openly revealed they had dirty minds and intentions.
Stan was white; Jerry was black. The piano had three high stools positioned around the sounding board, and Stan and Jerry had been there, feeding me with tunes they said they wanted to hear. They were joined by another, older guy on the third stool, Tex, who was more rugged looking and beefed up than they were and who was fitting in despite Stan and Jerry requesting Broadway show tunes, and Tex, dressed cowboy style, wanting Country and Western.
I enjoyed the challenge and managed it all.
Ian and the younger guy, who obviously was salivating after Ian, came in later, at about 6:00, and sat away from the piano. I know Ian recognized me. He smiled and saluted when he saw he’d caught my attention and then sat and listened to the music, chatting with the younger guy, who was posing in ways I knew to attract sexual interest. I wondered if he’d already been fucked by Ian or was making a bid to be. I could tell that he wanted to be bedded by the movie-star handsome man. What kept going through my mind was Andy telling me at the hotel elevator in Nashville that Ian had had sex act moves Andy had never known before while looking a bit gawgaw and walking funny afterward.
If Ian hadn’t spiked the young guy he was with yet, the young guy apparently was in for a treat, a treat I ached to have for myself.
In a lull of the attention I was getting from the three guys at the piano, Ian came over, smiled at me, and stuffed a fifty-dollar-bill in my tip glass.
“You really can play and sing them,” he said.
“If there something I can play for you?” I asked. I really was asking if I could lie down for him. I hoped he got that message. I wanted to think that the fifty he’s put in the jar was a proposition.
“What you’ve been playing is just fine,” he said. “But we’ve got to go now. We have a 7:00 dinner call. Hope to see and listen to you again.”
“Not as much as I hope for that,” I answered, giving him my “Cover me and take me to heaven” look.
He smiled and left. Soon after that, my set was concluding and, not too surprisingly for me, Stieg Larsen was suddenly there. Tex had left the piano and I saw him talking with Larsen in the corridor by Cabin 222. Larsen came into the bar and drew Stan and Jerry aside for another short conversation. He handed them cabin cards, they came back to the piano and stuffed my tip jar with hundred-dollar-bills, and I didn’t really need Larsen to tell me that I was about to do a threesome in Cabin 222.
It wasn’t a threesome. It started off that way, with me kneeling on the end of the bed, naked, with Stan standing behind me, also naked, hands clutching my hips and doing me in a Doggy, while Jerry sat off in a chair, naked, and pulled on his black cock. Then Jerry did me in a Missionary at the foot of the bed, with me panting and moaning more for him than I did for Stan. He was thicker and more demanding. Stan sat, beating himself off, and watching.
Both were sheathed, but neither came when they were working solo. They saved that for when they were doing me together, Stan on the bottom, facing up, me on top of him, facing down, and Jerry behind me, holding my hips. They both got in there, inside me, and worked me together. It was obvious this was a team event they often did. I didn’t often do it, but I was a pro now. More than the usual use had made me wider and more pliable there. There wasn’t much I hadn’t done. And now I took a double penetration—and well-orchestrated one. All three of us came.
I was lying on the bed on my back, panting and recovering, thinking we were done here, waiting for them to shower and dress and starting to wonder why they were just milling around and beginning to get that they were just recovering for another go at me when the cabin door opened and Tex came in.
For a good fifteen or twenty minutes, I was on my back at the foot of the bed again, with Stan holding my left leg raised and spread Jerry holding my right leg raised and spread, while Tex hovered between my thighs, leaning over and working my pecs with his hands and mouth, while he fucked me. The other two got pride of place in that arrangement again before they were done, had showered, and were gone.
I didn’t go to Larsen’s cabin that night. I stayed right there, on the bed, in Cabin 222, recovering, and even then, I didn’t go far. I only went as far as the adjacent bar. It was the middle of the night and I sat at the piano, playing slow, smokey songs and singing softy.
It took me a while to realize I wasn’t alone. Ian had come in. He didn’t come to the piano but sat where we could see each other. He helped himself to a snifter of brandy from the bar, getting me one too. This was an all-inclusive cruise, so he wasn’t stealing anything.
“You look a little washed out. Have you had a rough evening?”
“Stan, Jerry . . . and Tex,” I said. “The three guys were sitting at the piano when you were here earlier . . . with . . .”
“Sean,” Ian said. “Sweet Sean.”
“I noticed.” He knew I was a hooker. He knew his friend, Mark, had fucked me for pay in Nashville. Mark had probably told him all about it. He maybe even showed him some photos; he’d taken some with his cellphone while he was pumping me. There seemed to be no need for pretense. And that was just fine for me.
“All three?” he asked.
“Yes, all three.”
“At once.”
“Yes.”
“Consecutively or simultaneously.”
“Round-robin simultaneously,” I answered. No need for pretense on what I’d do for money. “You are interested in such details?” I asked.
“I am kinky and demanding,” he answered. “Yes I’m interested in what you did—and what else you’re willing to do. What you are capable of doing. Mark told me he thought you were capable of it, and it’s a fetish of mine. If you can do doubles . . .” He didn’t finish that thought but took his wallet out of his pocket and placed it on the piano next to the tip jar.
“I do like something special,” I said, looking at the wallet. I’d go to a god like him for the sheer enjoyment of it, but I’d never turn down money.
“Anything else? They were both at least normal size?”
“Yes. Above normal. Each.”
“And you opened to it?”
“Yes.”
“Did they fist you?”
“You have a specific interest in fisting?”
“Yes.”
“Not quite,” I answered. He seemed to be in to the scenario. He was breathing a little heavily.
“My, my, my. Must have been taxing and a little painful. Now wouldn’t be a good time for a go, would it? I require athleticism and stamina.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “Andy told me . . . Andy, in Nashville.”
“Perhaps tomorrow night then?”
“I do a show in the Showboat Saloon at eight.”
“So, hook up after that?”
“You’d best schedule with the second mate, Steig Larsen. Monetary arrangements and all.”
“I’ve already met and spoken with Larsen. Sean and all.”
“Yes, of course. Sean. I hope that you’re not disappointed about tonight—that Sean—”
“Sean is a bit indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“A bad case of ‘Can’t Close My Legs and Stop Moaning?’ I was so bold as to ask.”
“Something like that,” Ian said and laughed. “He’s a flexible lad, but he wasn’t a gymnast or dancer in college. He’d never been fisted before. It wasn’t very satisfactory for either of us.”
I let that sink in as he continued. “You told me in Nashville that you were a gymnast. I hope that doesn’t frighten you. I have my needs, though. I’d prefer a gymnast or dancer.”
“And fisting?” I asked. “That’s not supposed to frighten me?” He just smiled, so I continued, “Only in a good way. The gymnastics angle. It frightens me only in a good way. I’m looking forward to it. I find it refreshing to be able to be so open about this,” I said. “I hope that doesn’t put you off.”
“The openness turns me on,” Ian said. “I am so looking forward to fucking the hell out of you and making you dance on my cock.”
“And your fist?” I couldn’t resist asking.
He just smiled. “Mark gave you high praise. Can you play something for me—water music if you can think of any.”
I played and crooned “Oh Shenandoah,” “Dock of the Bay,” and “Cry Me a River” before I looked up to realize he was gone. His wallet was gone too, but there were ten hundred-dollar bills fanned out on top of the piano. I was smart enough to know they were for a future dance and ride on the pommel horse rather than for my medley of water songs.
Fisting. He’d mentioned fisting. He didn’t just mention it; he specified it. I shuddered.
* * * *
We fucked for more than an hour without even getting to the bed, and, for Ian’s part, his inventiveness and testing was proved out, and, for mine, so was my gymnastic ability. For a man his age, he was built and strong. For a man my age, I was incredibly flexible and willing to go with the demand. As a rent-boy, I had become bored with the standard Missionary and Doggy positions. Ian didn’t bore me.
He did, however, drill me real good. And, yes, he fisted me.
As a rent-boy, a single man rarely impressed me anymore. Doubling was more interesting. Fisting was downright fascinating.
We started out in a chair with arms, with Ian slouched in the chair, grasping my wrists, and me sitting on his cock, facing away, cantilevered over the carpet, legs bent and feet on the chair arms, rising and falling on his long, thick cock. He was bigger and stronger than I was, and we transitioned from here into a position he called the Sitting Cannonball, in which he grabbed me under my thighs, I gripped the top of the edges of the chair behind his head, and he completely controlled the fuck, moving me around on the cock as he thrust upward.
“So flexible, so sweet,” he was murmuring as he moved me around on the cock.
“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. You’re so big,” was my plaintive response.
“You want to calm it down?” he asked.
“Hell, no!” I responded. I’d never been fucked with a dildo while a guy’s cock was in there. Well, not before now.
Leaning forward, lowering my shoulder blades to the floor in front of the chair, and raising his legs so that his ankles were hooked on where the arms joined the back of the chair on either side, he transitioned into what he said was the Soaring Eagle. My legs were spread and bent over the front part of the chair arms. This was a more athletic position for him in which he, practically, was doing down-inclined pushups on my body with his arms stiff and his hands pressed into the carpet on either side of the back of my head. But he managed it without difficulty. In this position my hands were free and I stroked myself off for my first ejaculation of the session.
Before he finished and took me to the floor beside the bed for a rest before resuming the session, he stood up from the chair, taking me with him, and, standing on the carpet in his cabin, he finished with a Standing Cannonball, holding me in front of him, facing away, his hands supporting and separating my thighs, my wrists locked behind his neck, my torso bowed forward, and he bounced me up and down on his shaft. He came in the bulb of his Trojan Magnum in this position.
“You did that like a pro porn actor,” I murmured when he’d taken me to the bed, let me down, and stretched out behind me, embracing me.
“Maybe that’s because I am a professional porn actor,” he said. “Does that surprise you that I’m actively doing gay porn films this late in life?”
“No, of course not. You do them well. You live expensively, though. I didn’t realize there’s that much money in doing porn.”
“There isn’t. I own a couple of gay strip clubs in New York and New Jersey too.”
“And that’s what you were doing in Nashville? There was some sort of gathering of strip club owners?”
“Yes, and of the gay porn industry. Mark is a film director. Mark Sandridge. You may have heard of him. He’s a big name in gay movies.”
I hadn’t heard of him. I didn’t follow gay movies. If I had, I’d probably have recognized who Ian was in that world. I didn’t respond, but Ian didn’t need me to. He continued. “Mark told me he’d like to get you into films. I’d like to get you entertaining at my clubs.”
“It was quite a coincidence that you were booked on this cruise starting the night after engaging Andy and me as escorts in Nashville.”
Ian laughed. “Not a coincidence at all. We picked you out of the escort service photos as a great looker who played the piano, sang, and danced as well. You were recommended to us by a guy who works in the industry and who had heard you play and sing and had done you. We decided to try you out. We thought you wouldn’t suspect you were being auditioned if we included another hooker in the date.”
“Auditioning? I was auditioning?”
“Yep. It was best if you didn’t know.”
“I was auditioning for your fisting clients?” I asked.
“No. That is a private fetish of mine.”
“So, why was I Mark’s date and not yours?”
“I was the one coming on this cruise. I could fully check you out here. Mark was going back to New York and wanted to do his assessment quickly. You checked out on everything with just needing to know how much stamina you have. In our business you have to be able to stand up to frequency and intensity. You have to be able to take more than one guy a night.”
“And how did I do on that test?” I asked. I wasn’t angling for a job. I wasn’t actively auditioning here, but I was curious.
“Still testing on that,” he said.
“Are you saying that you set those three guys up to do me yesterday?”
“Yep, and you passed that test.” he said, whereupon he turned me onto my stomach, covered me from above, wrapped an arm around my throat, putting his cheek to mine, penetrating me from above and behind, and fucked the stuffing out of me, riding me like he was a jockey and I was his thoroughbred.
“Lift your tail,” he barked, and I did so. This is the Bulldog position, he said as he continued to fuck. He was already training me to the positions, so I guessed I was auditioning well. He moved to what he called the Arch, turning me to my back, running his thighs under mine, and leaning back, arms braced behind him, as I lay before him, my thighs over his, his cock pumping up inside me, and me stroking myself off again with my hand.
We rested again after he’d filled a second condom bulb.
“So, will you come to New York?” he asked.
“Are you offering me a job?”
“Yes, at twice whatever you make here on the riverboat. But I’m offering you more than that. Live with me in New York. I’ve lost my partner. That’s why I went on the crawl. Try it out with me for a while.”
“I don’t know. I like variety.”
“I’m not giving you enough variety?”
We both laughed. “I like the surprise of escorting.”
“Continue to do that as you like—knowing you have clubs to play in and a shared bed in New York to go to as well.”
“How well am I doing on the endurance test?” I asked.
“So far, great,” he answered, pulling me on top of him, facing the ceiling. “This is called the Crab.”
I groaned. But it was a satisfied groan.
Later I started to roll away from him to go to the bathroom to shower the night of sex off me, but he grabbed my wrists and said, “You don’t want to do that. It will get more messy from here.”
“What? Oh, fuck.”
He had come off the bed, was pulling latex gloves on his hands, and brought out a big bottle of lubricant. He got all drill sergeant on me, a much more serious aspect of Ian. We were seriously into Ian’s fetish now.
“Move your ass to the foot of the bed. Put those pillows under your lower back to lift your pelvis. Spread your legs and dig your heels into the edge of the mattress.” He was barking out the orders, and, panting and moaning, I followed the commands.
I was groaning heavily, my arms outstretched, dug into and gathering up handfuls of bedspread, and wildly moving my head back and forth, gasping and whimpering when he commanded, “Dig your heels in. Arch your back. Lift your tail.”
He’d had four well-lubricated fingers inside me up to the knuckles and now he was forcing the thumb in as well.
He’s taking me to New York. More money. More exposure. He’s taking me to New York. I kept repeating the mantra in my mind.
Then I gasped and cried out, “Oh, SHIT! Oh, God, Ian. Oh, shit. FUCK!”
He was in to the wrist and was starting a slow pump.
“FUCKKK!”
“Dig your heels in. Raise your tail higher. Rock on the fist. Fuck yourself.”
Panting hard and whimpering, I rocked my hips on the fist shoved up my ass to his wrist.
I’m going to New York. I’m going to New York.
