There were four of them on the bed in the second-floor master bedroom of the Baccarat Hotel and Residence Condo building on Manhattan’s West 53rd Street, conveniently located near the Broadway theater district. The caterers were downstairs in the living area doing last-minute preparations for Ted Sullivan’s early-evening buffet dinner party. The party was to lead off the dispersal of his and Jeff Malone’s literary and theater circle friends to their individual ringing in the 1990s events.
Sullivan, a literary agent, and Malone, a Broadway producer and set designer, were a couple, but only loosely so, and at the moment they were celebrating the approach of New Year’s by coupling with a couple of rent-boys. They were doing so on the same bed, though, which permitted them to do some fondling and kissing of each other in the process.
Thirty-five-year-old tall, slim, and blond Ted Sullivan was fucking nineteen-year-old Columbia University creative-writing major freshman Ken Curtain on one side of the bed set against a twenty-ninth-floor full glass wall looking out on the Times Square area of Manhattan. He was sitting back on his calves on the bed, with Ken sitting in his lap, facing him and skewered on his cock, and leaning away from him, palming the bedspread in front of Ted’s knees. Ted was gripping the young, boyish-figured man’s narrow waist between his hands and pulling a moaning submissive on and off his cock.
Beside him, his apartment mate, Jeff Malone, was doing twenty-year-old Manhattan Arts Center student Russ Jackson in a missionary. The solidly built, muscular and dark-haired hirsute Jeff was standing on the floor at the foot of the bed, leaning over the small mulatto actor-to-be, lying on his back on the bed, his legs spread and raised, while Jeff, gripping the young man’s ankles, fucked him in long, deep slides. As they fucked their respective young male prostitutes, Ted and Jeff leaned into each other and did some lip locking with each other.
The two apartment mates were starting the festivities of ringing in the 1990s in lustful style. It was a premium pay night for Curtain and Jackson, and they were just happy that they had drawn studs rather than duds for the evening. Somebody at the escort agency must like them, they thought.
All four of the men were naked. Their clothes were scattered haphazardly around the bedroom. They’d had quite a romp getting into their respective fuck positions. As they had all been in similar black and white evening wear before the athletics had begun, it would take several minutes after they were finished cavorting to discern what item of apparel went with which man, and Ted and Jeff’s guests would be arriving soon. They needed to rush to climaxes. As if realizing this, Ted and Jeff stepped up their thrusts almost simultaneously. Russ, acting to the hilt, was crying out what a masterful stud Jeff was, raising his pelvis with the leverage of the feet Jeff had lowered to dig into the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed, and digging his fingernails into Jeff’s biceps as Jeff fucked him hard. At the same time, Ken had collapsed back onto the bed, streaming back in front of Ted, his arms dangling out from his body in a symbolic virgin sacrifice position and moaning, as Ted came up on his knees, bringing Ken’s pelvis up to his crotch, and pulled the young man on and off the cock in ever-quicker pulls. With a simultaneous cry of their own, both Ted and Jeff came, disengaged from their own conquered young man, and went off arm-in-arm to the master bathroom to shower together. They directed the two rent-boys to the en suite bath in the second bedroom of the two-floor condo.
Ken and Russ were just two of four rent-boys engaged for the early-supper party. The guests would be a mix of literary and theater folks, most of whom were gay, and the couple liked to provide easily approached and achievable eye candy at their parties. The young men were engaged from a high-end Manhattan escort service specializing in luscious young college students studying various aspects of the arts in and around New York City. Ted and Jeff had selected two from the portfolio as New Year’s gifts to each other to get an early start on their own New Year’s celebrations.
By the time Ken and Russ were cleaned up and dressed and coming down the staircase to the large combined living room, dining room, and kitchen below, the party was in full swing. Although the doorbell was ringing continuously, more than two dozen guests, rent-boys, and serving men and women were milling about downstairs. Most of those in attendance were men, although there was a smattering of woman, as well. Most of them floated around talking with authority and gusto on arts topics. Some of them were recognizable as celebrities in their field. Ken knew the other three rent-boys there that evening. The two who arrived later and weren’t topped by Ted and Jeff—at least before the party; Ted and Jeff did take pains to get their money’s worth on entertainment and the four rent-boys had cost a small fortune—were already being embraced and fondled by two hefty men who Russ whispered were Broadway producers.
After this identification, Russ wafted off to try to find a Broadway producer for himself, leaving Ken to wander on his own for a few minutes. Ken was much too good-looking to be wandering on his own for long, of course, and he was quickly snagged by a walrus of a middle-aged man who Ken had turned and looked at when he’d heard someone in a group the man was conversing with ask the walrus how sales were at Harper and Row. Ken would die to be published by Harper and Row. His hesitation under the walrus’s gaze caused the man to reach out and pull Ken into the small discussion group. Ken, aspiring fiction writer, was willingly snagged.
The younger escort agency rent-boys tried to hook up with someone influential in their chosen field at a party like this if they could and as soon as they could. The networking opportunities it provided were primary reasons they were selling their bodies. Everyone was on the make for getting established in New York. Ken had jumped at the offer to work this New Year’s Eve gig when he could have made more in painting the town on a visiting industrialist’s arm because Ted Sullivan was a literary agent. If the walrus worked in publishing, as the question about Harper and Row publishers posed to him had hinted, this party was earning double opportunity points for Ken.
Exposure of your talents to a person of influence was a step up in the networking world. If he was an older man and you were a younger man and he enjoyed using your body and you could stomach him doing so, that was an upward leap. Ken actually liked lying under older men if they weren’t grossly out of shape. They tended to be more experienced and more appreciative of being between a young man’s thighs than another young man did, and they usually demanded to have control. Ken liked being controlled. It made him feel like anything that was happening was on the other guy.
* * * *
“Have you tried writing a novel?” Jason Mason, the publishing company walrus, asked as he was working Ken toward the bed. He had the young man backed up to a column downstairs, there not being much in the way of solid walls on the first floor of Ted and Jeff’s twenty-ninth-story West 53rd Street condo, with an arm extended past Ken’s shoulder, but half of his mind was on maneuvering the young man upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Ken was a good four inches shorter than the walrus and over a hundred pounds lighter. Mason was holding a Martini glass in the other hand and alternating between making large gestures with it and touching Ken, where his nipples were under the material of his shirt, with the knuckles of the hand he was holding the stem of the glass with as he expounded on the publishing process and how important it was for new, young authors to have connections. By design, Ken’s tuxedo shirt material was so sheer that the nipples could be seen through it. Mason had become fascinated about being able to do so.
Ken had every reason to believe that Mason was fully aware his knuckle landed on a nipple each time. It was an obvious statement of interest. Mason would know that Ken was a rent-boy, there to please the real guests. Mason was a real guest.
“I’ve just started with the formal training in creative writing,” Ken answered. “My professor says I have promise, but I haven’t completed anything of my own yet. We’re looking at the techniques of various established authors.” Ken thought that maybe this was a mistake. He was worrying about networking too soon. He needed to have some writing under his belt before he started trying to cultivate men in the business like Jason Mason. He calculated what an editor at Harper and Rowe might make and decided that perhaps he should be cultivating a better-paid publisher at this point in his development.
And maybe one who wasn’t as big and fat as Mason was. The man looked sort of distinguished in a tuxedo, but Ken shuddered to think how he’d look naked. But Ken put that out of his mind. He was being paid not to be fussy about who fucked him at this party. Maybe someone more fit than this guy, though.
Ken moved forward from the column as if to start sliding out from the walrus’ clutches, but Mason was having none of that. He set his Martini glass down on an adjacent table and palmed Ken’s chest, pushing the young man back against the column.
“That’s understandable. You’ve just started in college, haven’t you? You’re how old?”
“I’m nineteen. This is my freshman year.”
“Sweet,” Mason said, giving the young man a bright smile. “I like young men. I mean it’s good to start working with a writer early. I could help you with the publishing process—guide you on how to direct your writing while your professor—who is he?—helps you with the actual writing. It’s never too early to start learning what sells.”
Ken had no trouble understanding that he sold well with men like Mason. The publisher’s editor pulled his hand away from Ken’s chest long enough to run the back of his fingers up Ken’s cheek, ostensibly putting a golden curl back in place, although both he and Ken understood it meant more than that. Mason was a tactile man. He was in luck, though. Ken was aroused by being intimately touched. The “start early” advice got across to Ken and he tilted his head to press his cheek into the hand before Mason pulled it away, noticeably trembled, and gave the man a shy smile, batting his eyelashes at the man. Maybe at this point, a publishing house editor was a good choice, Ken was deciding. Mason’s hand came down, but only to Ken’s chest. He palmed Ken’s left pectoral, a thumb firmly pressing into the nub. Ken, subtly, he hoped, pushed his chest into the man’s hand. The signal was clear. So was the response.
The deal was done. Mason was going to fuck him. It’s what Ken had been contracted to accede to during the party anyway—to let a guest or two fuck him if they wanted to. If any guest propositioned him, the cost was covered. He hadn’t been brought in just for Ted Sullivan to fuck.
Ken began to think of what positions were possible. A lot depended, he guessed, on how big Mason’s erection would be. A missionary would be difficult with that big belly of his. A doggie would be more possible. A cowboy might be the best—it would certainly keep the man’s weight off Ken and it would be a lot less exerting for the fat guy. A side split probably was out of the question.
“My professor is a woman,” he said. “Ellen Daniels. Do you know her?”
“I’ve heard of her,” Mason said, clearly relieved that the professor was a woman and not a man. A professor who told a luscious young man like Ken that they had writing promise early in the first semester of the course when the young man evidently hadn’t done much writing yet likely was a professor bedding the student—or working on doing so. Ken appeared to him to be an easy piece in addition to a luscious one. He obviously was a submissive to men. Ted had made that clear. So, a woman professor wasn’t competition—or it at least meant that the young man gave out to both men and women. He was a greedy little bastard more than willing to use his body to get to where he wanted to go. Mason could work with this.
What position would he take the young man in? He was a handsome devil. Mason would like to see the expressions on the guy’s face as he realized what Mason could do with his cock. He could get deep penetration in a doggie. The little whore could arch his back to give Mason a shelf to raise his belly and get it out of the way, but a cowboy, with the honeypot facing him might be the most enjoyable. He could see the facial expression turn from concern to sizzling pleasure as the shaft worked him. He could establish control best with a doggie, though. Maybe that to begin with.
“What authors are you studying initially?” he asked.
“Tom Wolfe for an American author and Graham Greene for English,” Ken answered.
“No one contemporary?”
“Yes. A few. Clifford Langston is my favorite of those.”
Mason laughed.
“That’s funny?” Ken asked.
“Only that Clifford Langston has just now arrived,” Mason answered.
“Just arrived? I thought he already was one of our most popular literary authors.”
“No, I mean he’s just now arrived at the party. He and his wife.” The hand that had returned to palming Ken’s chest to keep him in thrall was gesturing across the room. Ken gasped, for just as Mason had said, the best-selling author, Clifford Langston, and a somewhat older woman were being greeted at the door by both Ted and Jeff. Ken had seen photos of the man from the study his class was doing of the man’s work. Langston was the prize catch for the early New Year’s Eve party. The novelist, a tall, slim distinguished forty-three, looking every inch the successful, confident writer, was scanning the room, assessing who was there. His gaze paused briefly on Ken, and he smiled. Ken smiled back out of instinct. He otherwise was mesmerized.
“You say the woman with him is his wife?” Ken asked Mason when the couple had been escorted into the room and inserted into a discussion klatch.
“Yes. Vivian Fowler—of the department store Fowler’s. She acquired him early and nursed his career along until it took off. Protective coloring.”
“Protective coloring?” Ken asked.
“Yes. He likes young men and Vivian likes young women.” Mason laughed. He cut the laugh off, though, as he noticed that Ken’s eyes were following Langston around the room—and that Langston looked back at Ken more than once. Mason was seducing for himself, not pimping for Langston.
“Ted tells me that there are bedrooms up those stairs,” he said, pointedly looking up the nearby staircase. He gave Ken a meaningful look and his hand dropped to the young man’s waist.
“Yes, the bedrooms are upstairs,” Ken said, his eyes still turned to Langston. But sensing the pregnant silence, he turned his gaze on Mason’s face. The walrus’ expression was one of slight irritation. “Do you want to fuck me now?” he added. The question was baldly put, but Ken didn’t include any tone that would make light of it or suggest that Mason fucking him was a ridiculous idea.
Mason laughed. “Ted told me a young man would lay down for me at this party if I looked at a manuscript from one of his new authors. I was under the impression you were here for that purpose. True? You have already signaled yes to me, right?”
“Would you like me to show you what’s upstairs?” Ken asked.
“I most certainly would,” Mason said. “What I would really like you to show me, though, is how sexy you are in the buff—and whether you can please me sexually.” They both knew the deal had already been struck.
Mason, pantless, but still in his shirt and jacket, was bent over a fully naked Ken at the foot of the double bed in the second bedroom. Both were standing on the floor and Ken was doubled over the bed on his belly, his torso arched back by Mason’s cruel grip in the young man’s golden curls. Mercifully, the walrus was fucking Ken in a doggie rather than a missionary, as, though the man’s bulging belly pressed into the small of Ken’s back, little of the weight of it was taxing the much smaller young man. Ken was stiff-arming the mattress with one arm to hold himself in position. His other hand was under his belly, stroking his cock. He was muttering “Yes, yes. Fuck, yes” over and over again to assure Mason of his assent and surrender—and to suggest that he was enjoying the fuck. In fact, he didn’t mind it. Mason was experienced; he knew how to cock a man.
Mason’s cock, which was thick, was taxing Ken indeed, as the man was pounding him hard. He also was slapping Ken on the exposed buttocks to the rhythm of the stroking. Ken was grimacing and taking it. This was what he was here for. He wasn’t a rent-boy just for the money to help him through college. He chose this way of making money because he loved taking cock. And he liked being controlled and dominated. As long as Mason was behind him and Ken didn’t have to watch fat jiggle, he could appreciate a cock as thick and insistent as he was getting. If it wasn’t Mason, it would be some other middle-aged man. He’d already had a good fuck from a stud—from Ted Sullivan earlier in the evening. This was what Ken was being paid to be at the party for.
Besides, this man was in publishing. He may give Ken a leg up in getting published someday. For now, though, Mason was pushing them both up on the bed, putting Ken on his knees, his cheek plastered to the bedspread. Mason crouched over him, moving around to penetrate Ken’s ass from various angles, having the purchase to fuck him deep, showing dexterity Ken wouldn’t have guessed the huge man could have and the inventiveness of the sexual connoisseur.
Ken was in the big leagues now.
Mason stood over Ken on the bed, fucking down into him in reverse. He grabbed Ken’s ankles and raised the young man’s legs up his sides, hooking Ken’s ankles on his shoulders. This was about as exotic and athletic a fuck as Ken had ever had. All of the man’s weight was on his own feet, so this was fine with Ken.
Sensing they were being watched, Ken managed to turn his face toward the half-open door. The celebrated author, Clifford Langston, had paused while passing the door, heard the sounds of sex, and looked in. His interest was obvious. He turned his head and body this way and that to figure out the contortions of the fuck position. It was as if he was assessing the exotic position for how he could describe it on the written page. He wasn’t put off or embarrassed by what he was observing; he was intrigued. He was rubbing his own cock through the material of his trousers, although he didn’t go as far as to take it out and stroke it off. He remained there for a couple of minutes, watching, as the walrus lowered Ken, putting him on his knees again, remounting and riding him high, gripping the young man’s hair painfully, arching his naked torso back toward his massive chest, as he pounded, pounded, pounded the young man’s ass.
“Now, ride me in a cowboy, facing me,” Mason said, changing their respective positions. As he was doing so, Langston pulled away from the open door and moved on.
For some reason, Ken was a bit embarrassed that Langston had seen him being bully fucked like this and submitting to it. He was interested in Langston, yes, and not just as a best-selling author. He was interested in him sexually as well, but he felt at a disadvantage to be found willingly lying under a man like Mason, letting Mason use him as he was. Knowing that Langston had been watching the taking with almost clinical interest didn’t help.
Jason Mason knew what to do with a rent-boy. He would take full advantage of the opportunity as long as someone else was paying for it. He used Ken mercilessly.
* * * *
When Ken came back downstairs, he could see that the author, Clifford Langston was standing at the door to the apartment, with his coat on and speaking with Ted Sullivan. Ken regretted that the man was leaving—apparently as soon as his wife joined them at the door—but he needn’t have worried. Seeing Ken on the stairs, Ted waved him over.
“Ken, I want you to meet our distinguished author, Clifford Langston. Ken is a creative writing student at Columbia, Cliff.”
“Really, it’s a good program,” Langston said, turning a smile on Ken as they shook hands. The man had the left hand gloved already, but he held the right-hand glove in his left hand. The handshake was firm, but Ken shivered when he felt the man’s thumb fold under to rub against Ken’s palm. Ken didn’t know about Langston’s world, but in his, that maneuver was a signal of a seeking top. The gay world response of a submissive was to wrap fingers around the thumb before disengaging from the handshake, but Ken was too afraid and uncertain that Langston was purposely signaling to carry through. Langston held the handshake for several seconds longer than needed, and Ken, smiling shyly back at the man and dipping his head, was afraid he might have lost a communication opportunity. A dip of the head was also a signal of submission, though, so maybe that would convey enough, he thought. Langston’s smile broadened, so maybe so. Langston had watched him being fucked and now he was declaring his own interest. Langston hadn’t really needed the signal to be answered to know that Ken bottomed; he’d seen Ken being expertly bottomed. Ken was awed. Was it going to be this easy?
“But you don’t look old enough to be at the university,” Langston added.
“I’ve just started this year. I was put straight into the creative writing program.”
“You must be a talented writer then.” Langston’s smile remained in place. “Are you studying some interesting writers already?”
“Tom Wolfe this week,” Ken said, and then he blurted out, “and you.”
Langston laughed. “Do you think you’d impress your professor if I gave you a few interview points?”
“I’m sure,” Ken answered. “But you’re just leaving. I don’t want to hold you.”
“You could come with me. It’s after 11:00. I thought I could make it to Times Square for the lowering of the ball, but I’m not sure where we are now in relation to Times Square. Ted here was trying to tell me, but I’m all switched around. I’d hate to be all alone at the strike of the new decade anyway.”
“Certainly, it would be fine for Ken to go with you and show you the way, Cliff,” Sullivan said.
“But your wife . . .” Ken said.
“Oh, she’s already gone. She found someone else to snuggle up to for the turning of the decade. Tomorrow she’ll be gone, perhaps altogether. She has a new apartment in Paris to entertain herself with. Please, won’t you come and show me the way?”
Ken was aghast. “Of course you don’t have to ask me. If it’s OK with Ted—” Ken didn’t want to have to say that Ted was paying for his time this evening.
“We’ve already discussed you,” Ted interjected. “Cliff wants you for the night.”
“For the night?” Ken asked.
“It’s New Year’s,” Langston said, giving Ken a smile. “As I said, my wife is already gone. I don’t want to be alone in my apartment for New Year's, if I can help it.”
“And you can get some pointers from him on the walk over to Times Square to share with your class,” Ted interjected. “That’s fine with Jeff and me. It meets our expectations for you this evening. Cliff is a very special guests and we want to keep him happy.”
Ken reddened. The instruction was quite clear. He had been contracted through the night, to lie down for whoever Ted designated. Ted was telling him to lie down for Clifford Langston. “Cliff wants you for the night,” Ted had said. Ken was overwhelmed.
* * * *
“Who is your creative writing professor at Columbia?” the author asked as they rode down in the elevator.
Ken was almost hyperventilating from being in an elevator with a famous author—and one as hunky and self-assured as Clifford Langston was, one who undoubtedly would be fucking him before the night was over—but he managed to answer. “Ellen Daniels, sir.”
“Ah, I know Ellen. She does good work. And you can call me Cliff. ‘Sir’ is much too stuffy for what we’ll be doing together for New Year’s.”
This remark didn’t mitigate Ken being on the edge of hyperventilating in the least, and if that one put him on edge, the next remark floored him.
“Tell me, do you prefer missionary or doggie? I’m afraid I get much too involved with the fuck to move to the cowboy very quickly.”
Ken paused to catch his breath. “Whatever the client prefers,” he answered. The man was putting him in his place—a prostitute on duty. Langston laughed.
“So, it’s true what Ted told me—that you’re a rent-boy.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry if—”
“That’s fine. If Ted engaged you, you surely are a high-priced rent-boy. If you cost less, I suppose you would be called a john. I must remember to make that distinction when I write. Let’s see. If you cost more and were highly accomplished and accepted in society in your own right, I guess we’d call you a courtesan.”
“Yes, sir.” There didn’t seem to be anything Ken was expected to say, and Langston didn’t take that any further at the moment.
As the elevator reached bottom, though, Langston added, “As long as you’re good. And what you were doing with Mason was very good—almost dirty enough for you to be referred to as a whore in literature.”
He was definitely being put in his place, Ken decided. But he couldn’t resist saying, “And is dirty considered good?”
Langston laughed. “Yes, very good indeed.”
Down on the street, on West 53rd, Ken stopped to get his bearings.
“Come. It’s at Broadway and 7th Avenue. This way,” Langston said briskly.
“But I thought you didn’t know your way there.”
“Everyone in New York knows how to get to Times Square from anywhere else in New York. Come, we don’t want to miss the dropping of the ball.” He laughed as he linked arms with Ken and started off in the direction of the Hudson River.
As promised, Langston gave Ken some zinger quotes he could share with his creative writing class, assuming he could remember them for the four days until the next class. Not all of them were as loaded as the rent-boy/john/courtesan/whore distinction had been. They didn’t miss the dropping of the ball ushering in the decade of the 1990s. As the decade rang in, Langston was gathering Ken into him close, bending him over, and French kissing him, taking Ken’s breath away.
Still holding Ken in the clutch when they came out of the kiss, Langston put his mouth close to the young man’s ear and spoke. He still had to almost yell because of all of the boisterous celebrating around them, but no one else could hear him anyway. “I want to fuck you,” He said. “I want to take you home and fuck you all night. Ted said he ordered you up especially for me and that I could fuck you. You’re a luscious young man. But I’ll only do it if you’d consent whether or not you were being paid. I don’t want it just to be part of your job.”
“Yes,” Ken answered, thrilled.
“Will you be a whore for me?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me? It’s too noisy here.”
“Yes, YES, YES! I want it.” Ken cried out. “Take me anywhere you want and fuck me. Missionary, doggie, whatever you want. Make me a whore.”
Langston laughed. “First we’ll party some. I wish for both of us to savor what is to come.” They kissed again, as Langston started guiding Ken through the crowd in the square. No one noticed the two men together—there were a lot of single-sex couples and ones with wide age differences kissing and partying in the square. Langston was taking a direct route. He knew exactly where he was going.
They weren’t going far. Langston was a member of the Gentlemen Jim’s men-only club on the sixtieth through sixty-second floors of a high rise building at 8th Avenue and 43rd Street. The sixtieth floor contained the dining rooms, bars, and dance floors. Here they joined in the dancing on a crowded, men only, dance floor until 1:00 a.m., Langston touching Ken intimately here, there, and everywhere and Ken lightly panting in anticipation.
He wasn’t an in-control rent-boy this evening. He was a young man being played by a master like a violin—an author he admired and wanted to write like. If the man wanted him to be a whore tonight, that’s what Ken would be. Here, in the club, with other men around, though, Langston was treating him as if he were a courtesan. He didn’t keep from other men that Ken was with him for sex, not did any of the other club members seem to care. Most of them were giving Ken admiring looks themselves.
The private bedrooms were on the upper floors. Langston had reserved one, and by 1:30, both men were naked on the bed and Langston was fucking Ken in a missionary. Ken was on his back on the bed, his arms raised over his head, his fists clutching at the headboard and his legs spread, his knees hooked on the tall, older, well-muscled forty-three-year-old author’s hips, and his pelvis raised to give the long, thick, steel-hard cock straight and deep access. Langston was hunched over the small, young man’s body, his knees pushed under Ken’s buttocks, one hand gripping the young man’s waist, and the other cupping Ken’s head, as Langston dipped his head, kissing Ken on the lips, the throat and the nipples, as he fucked him in long, slow, deep slides.
“So, nice, so nice. So sweet,” was Langston’s whispered mantra as Ken trembled and panted, slowly rocking his hips with the older man’s slow, long thrusts. He wasn’t a rent-boy now; he was an innocent seduced and used by a master. This was an early stage, though, the whore part very likely might come later. Toys were laid out on the top of the bureau of the room they went to—restraints, dildos, leather gloves, a hand whip.
“You’re very good,” Langston murmured. “Very, very good.”
“You’re better,” Ken responded through clinched teeth, which was closely followed with, “Oh, fuck yes! Oh, fuck. Fuck! Yes, just like that.” Langston, as he took the rhythm off beat, taking Ken’s breath away with the unexpected change in the thrusts, was pleased. Ken didn’t sound like he was acting. Ken most certainly wasn’t acting. Langston was his second mature master of the evening.
The rhythm picked up and became a steady beat again and Ken lowered his arms, his fingernails digging into the lanky author’s shoulder blades, his head arched back, his eyes staring out of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking 8th Avenue, his mouth yawning open, all of his senses concentrating on the thick cock of the famous novelist slowly churning deep inside him. “Yes, yes. Shit, yes. Take it. Use me! Take me hard!”
Langston started chewing on Ken’s nipples as he revved up the thrusts, fucking faster and deeper.
“Yes, yes, fuck me hard. Yes, yes. Oh FUCK!” he set the muscles of his passage walls squeezing and rippling over Langston’s shaft.
Langston raised his torso off Ken’s, arched back, and thrust harder and faster. “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!” he cried out as he tensed and jerked and shot a load; tensed, jerked, shot a load; tensed . . .
“Oh, my GAWD!” Ken cried out as he joined in the fountain works.
They stretched out against each other, ran their hands over each other’s bodies, and shared hand stroking.
At 2:30 a.m. Langston rolled out of the bed and padded into the bathroom. When he came out, Ken was standing at the window, looking down into 8th Avenue, where the New Year’s partying was still going on. He was leaning into the window with his forehead on his forearm, pressed into the window. He turned his head and saw that the author was in magnificent erection again. He had a great body for a man in his mid-forties.
Langston came to Ken and saddled up behind him, putting his hands on the young man’s waist, crouching a bit at the knees, and pushing his erection under Ken’s balls. He leaned in and kissed Ken on the ear and then nuzzled his face into Ken’s throat. “Widen your stance; jut your ass back into me. I need to be inside you.”
“Yes, do it, Daddy,” Ken whispered. “Fuck me again.”
Langston did, moving the head of his cock into place with one hand, while, following his command, Ken jutted his hips back and lifted his tail. The shaft slid up into him, and, holding him there leaning into the window and watching the traffic flow sixty-one floors below on 8th Avenue, Langston fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.
They slept the night in the room at Gentleman Jim’s, the first time Ken had spent the entire night with a man. As dawn was breaking, Ken woke to the feel of one of Langston’s hands moving over his body and the heel of the other one was pressed under Ken’s balls and a finger was in his ass.
“You’re real,” he murmured. “Last night was so magical, I dreamed it was a dream. I want—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Ken murmured, “fuck me again,” as Langston, pulled him into his stomach, the two spooned together, Langston’s front to Ken’s back. The cock slid into Ken’s passage and the two rocked against each other to a peaceful flow of juices. Both slept.
The young man woke later to the sensation that he was moaning. And he was hard, his
Marking the Decades
(Chapter 1 of 5: New York: New Year’s Eve 1989)
There were four of them on the bed in the second-floor master bedroom of the Baccarat Hotel and Residence Condo building on Manhattan’s West 53rd Street, conveniently located near the Broadway theater district. The caterers were downstairs in the living area doing last-minute preparations for Ted Sullivan’s early-evening buffet dinner party. The party was to lead off the dispersal of his and Jeff Malone’s literary and theater circle friends to their individual ringing in the 1990s events.
Sullivan, a literary agent, and Malone, a Broadway producer and set designer, were a couple, but only loosely so, and at the moment they were celebrating the approach of New Year’s by coupling with a couple of rent-boys. They were doing so on the same bed, though, which permitted them to do some fondling and kissing of each other in the process.
Thirty-five-year-old tall, slim, and blond Ted Sullivan was fucking nineteen-year-old Columbia University creative-writing major freshman Ken Curtain on one side of the bed set against a twenty-ninth-floor full glass wall looking out on the Times Square area of Manhattan. He was sitting back on his calves on the bed, with Ken sitting in his lap, facing him and skewered on his cock, and leaning away from him, palming the bedspread in front of Ted’s knees. Ted was gripping the young, boyish-figured man’s narrow waist between his hands and pulling a moaning submissive on and off his cock.
Beside him, his apartment mate, Jeff Malone, was doing twenty-year-old Manhattan Arts Center student Russ Jackson in a missionary. The solidly built, muscular and dark-haired hirsute Jeff was standing on the floor at the foot of the bed, leaning over the small mulatto actor-to-be, lying on his back on the bed, his legs spread and raised, while Jeff, gripping the young man’s ankles, fucked him in long, deep slides. As they fucked their respective young male prostitutes, Ted and Jeff leaned into each other and did some lip locking with each other.
The two apartment mates were starting the festivities of ringing in the 1990s in lustful style. It was a premium pay night for Curtain and Jackson, and they were just happy that they had drawn studs rather than duds for the evening. Somebody at the escort agency must like them, they thought.
All four of the men were naked. Their clothes were scattered haphazardly around the bedroom. They’d had quite a romp getting into their respective fuck positions. As they had all been in similar black and white evening wear before the athletics had begun, it would take several minutes after they were finished cavorting to discern what item of apparel went with which man, and Ted and Jeff’s guests would be arriving soon. They needed to rush to climaxes. As if realizing this, Ted and Jeff stepped up their thrusts almost simultaneously. Russ, acting to the hilt, was crying out what a masterful stud Jeff was, raising his pelvis with the leverage of the feet Jeff had lowered to dig into the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed, and digging his fingernails into Jeff’s biceps as Jeff fucked him hard. At the same time, Ken had collapsed back onto the bed, streaming back in front of Ted, his arms dangling out from his body in a symbolic virgin sacrifice position and moaning, as Ted came up on his knees, bringing Ken’s pelvis up to his crotch, and pulled the young man on and off the cock in ever-quicker pulls. With a simultaneous cry of their own, both Ted and Jeff came, disengaged from their own conquered young man, and went off arm-in-arm to the master bathroom to shower together. They directed the two rent-boys to the en suite bath in the second bedroom of the two-floor condo.
Ken and Russ were just two of four rent-boys engaged for the early-supper party. The guests would be a mix of literary and theater folks, most of whom were gay, and the couple liked to provide easily approached and achievable eye candy at their parties. The young men were engaged from a high-end Manhattan escort service specializing in luscious young college students studying various aspects of the arts in and around New York City. Ted and Jeff had selected two from the portfolio as New Year’s gifts to each other to get an early start on their own New Year’s celebrations.
By the time Ken and Russ were cleaned up and dressed and coming down the staircase to the large combined living room, dining room, and kitchen below, the party was in full swing. Although the doorbell was ringing continuously, more than two dozen guests, rent-boys, and serving men and women were milling about downstairs. Most of those in attendance were men, although there was a smattering of woman, as well. Most of them floated around talking with authority and gusto on arts topics. Some of them were recognizable as celebrities in their field. Ken knew the other three rent-boys there that evening. The two who arrived later and weren’t topped by Ted and Jeff—at least before the party; Ted and Jeff did take pains to get their money’s worth on entertainment and the four rent-boys had cost a small fortune—were already being embraced and fondled by two hefty men who Russ whispered were Broadway producers.
After this identification, Russ wafted off to try to find a Broadway producer for himself, leaving Ken to wander on his own for a few minutes. Ken was much too good-looking to be wandering on his own for long, of course, and he was quickly snagged by a walrus of a middle-aged man who Ken had turned and looked at when he’d heard someone in a group the man was conversing with ask the walrus how sales were at Harper and Row. Ken would die to be published by Harper and Row. His hesitation under the walrus’s gaze caused the man to reach out and pull Ken into the small discussion group. Ken, aspiring fiction writer, was willingly snagged.
The younger escort agency rent-boys tried to hook up with someone influential in their chosen field at a party like this if they could and as soon as they could. The networking opportunities it provided were primary reasons they were selling their bodies. Everyone was on the make for getting established in New York. Ken had jumped at the offer to work this New Year’s Eve gig when he could have made more in painting the town on a visiting industrialist’s arm because Ted Sullivan was a literary agent. If the walrus worked in publishing, as the question about Harper and Row publishers posed to him had hinted, this party was earning double opportunity points for Ken.
Exposure of your talents to a person of influence was a step up in the networking world. If he was an older man and you were a younger man and he enjoyed using your body and you could stomach him doing so, that was an upward leap. Ken actually liked lying under older men if they weren’t grossly out of shape. They tended to be more experienced and more appreciative of being between a young man’s thighs than another young man did, and they usually demanded to have control. Ken liked being controlled. It made him feel like anything that was happening was on the other guy.
* * * *
“Have you tried writing a novel?” Jason Mason, the publishing company walrus, asked as he was working Ken toward the bed. He had the young man backed up to a column downstairs, there not being much in the way of solid walls on the first floor of Ted and Jeff’s twenty-ninth-story West 53rd Street condo, with an arm extended past Ken’s shoulder, but half of his mind was on maneuvering the young man upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Ken was a good four inches shorter than the walrus and over a hundred pounds lighter. Mason was holding a Martini glass in the other hand and alternating between making large gestures with it and touching Ken, where his nipples were under the material of his shirt, with the knuckles of the hand he was holding the stem of the glass with as he expounded on the publishing process and how important it was for new, young authors to have connections. By design, Ken’s tuxedo shirt material was so sheer that the nipples could be seen through it. Mason had become fascinated about being able to do so.
Ken had every reason to believe that Mason was fully aware his knuckle landed on a nipple each time. It was an obvious statement of interest. Mason would know that Ken was a rent-boy, there to please the real guests. Mason was a real guest.
“I’ve just started with the formal training in creative writing,” Ken answered. “My professor says I have promise, but I haven’t completed anything of my own yet. We’re looking at the techniques of various established authors.” Ken thought that maybe this was a mistake. He was worrying about networking too soon. He needed to have some writing under his belt before he started trying to cultivate men in the business like Jason Mason. He calculated what an editor at Harper and Rowe might make and decided that perhaps he should be cultivating a better-paid publisher at this point in his development.
And maybe one who wasn’t as big and fat as Mason was. The man looked sort of distinguished in a tuxedo, but Ken shuddered to think how he’d look naked. But Ken put that out of his mind. He was being paid not to be fussy about who fucked him at this party. Maybe someone more fit than this guy, though.
Ken moved forward from the column as if to start sliding out from the walrus’ clutches, but Mason was having none of that. He set his Martini glass down on an adjacent table and palmed Ken’s chest, pushing the young man back against the column.
“That’s understandable. You’ve just started in college, haven’t you? You’re how old?”
“I’m nineteen. This is my freshman year.”
“Sweet,” Mason said, giving the young man a bright smile. “I like young men. I mean it’s good to start working with a writer early. I could help you with the publishing process—guide you on how to direct your writing while your professor—who is he?—helps you with the actual writing. It’s never too early to start learning what sells.”
Ken had no trouble understanding that he sold well with men like Mason. The publisher’s editor pulled his hand away from Ken’s chest long enough to run the back of his fingers up Ken’s cheek, ostensibly putting a golden curl back in place, although both he and Ken understood it meant more than that. Mason was a tactile man. He was in luck, though. Ken was aroused by being intimately touched. The “start early” advice got across to Ken and he tilted his head to press his cheek into the hand before Mason pulled it away, noticeably trembled, and gave the man a shy smile, batting his eyelashes at the man. Maybe at this point, a publishing house editor was a good choice, Ken was deciding. Mason’s hand came down, but only to Ken’s chest. He palmed Ken’s left pectoral, a thumb firmly pressing into the nub. Ken, subtly, he hoped, pushed his chest into the man’s hand. The signal was clear. So was the response.
The deal was done. Mason was going to fuck him. It’s what Ken had been contracted to accede to during the party anyway—to let a guest or two fuck him if they wanted to. If any guest propositioned him, the cost was covered. He hadn’t been brought in just for Ted Sullivan to fuck.
Ken began to think of what positions were possible. A lot depended, he guessed, on how big Mason’s erection would be. A missionary would be difficult with that big belly of his. A doggie would be more possible. A cowboy might be the best—it would certainly keep the man’s weight off Ken and it would be a lot less exerting for the fat guy. A side split probably was out of the question.
“My professor is a woman,” he said. “Ellen Daniels. Do you know her?”
“I’ve heard of her,” Mason said, clearly relieved that the professor was a woman and not a man. A professor who told a luscious young man like Ken that they had writing promise early in the first semester of the course when the young man evidently hadn’t done much writing yet likely was a professor bedding the student—or working on doing so. Ken appeared to him to be an easy piece in addition to a luscious one. He obviously was a submissive to men. Ted had made that clear. So, a woman professor wasn’t competition—or it at least meant that the young man gave out to both men and women. He was a greedy little bastard more than willing to use his body to get to where he wanted to go. Mason could work with this.
What position would he take the young man in? He was a handsome devil. Mason would like to see the expressions on the guy’s face as he realized what Mason could do with his cock. He could get deep penetration in a doggie. The little whore could arch his back to give Mason a shelf to raise his belly and get it out of the way, but a cowboy, with the honeypot facing him might be the most enjoyable. He could see the facial expression turn from concern to sizzling pleasure as the shaft worked him. He could establish control best with a doggie, though. Maybe that to begin with.
“What authors are you studying initially?” he asked.
“Tom Wolfe for an American author and Graham Greene for English,” Ken answered.
“No one contemporary?”
“Yes. A few. Clifford Langston is my favorite of those.”
Mason laughed.
“That’s funny?” Ken asked.
“Only that Clifford Langston has just now arrived,” Mason answered.
“Just arrived? I thought he already was one of our most popular literary authors.”
“No, I mean he’s just now arrived at the party. He and his wife.” The hand that had returned to palming Ken’s chest to keep him in thrall was gesturing across the room. Ken gasped, for just as Mason had said, the best-selling author, Clifford Langston, and a somewhat older woman were being greeted at the door by both Ted and Jeff. Ken had seen photos of the man from the study his class was doing of the man’s work. Langston was the prize catch for the early New Year’s Eve party. The novelist, a tall, slim distinguished forty-three, looking every inch the successful, confident writer, was scanning the room, assessing who was there. His gaze paused briefly on Ken, and he smiled. Ken smiled back out of instinct. He otherwise was mesmerized.
“You say the woman with him is his wife?” Ken asked Mason when the couple had been escorted into the room and inserted into a discussion klatch.
“Yes. Vivian Fowler—of the department store Fowler’s. She acquired him early and nursed his career along until it took off. Protective coloring.”
“Protective coloring?” Ken asked.
“Yes. He likes young men and Vivian likes young women.” Mason laughed. He cut the laugh off, though, as he noticed that Ken’s eyes were following Langston around the room—and that Langston looked back at Ken more than once. Mason was seducing for himself, not pimping for Langston.
“Ted tells me that there are bedrooms up those stairs,” he said, pointedly looking up the nearby staircase. He gave Ken a meaningful look and his hand dropped to the young man’s waist.
“Yes, the bedrooms are upstairs,” Ken said, his eyes still turned to Langston. But sensing the pregnant silence, he turned his gaze on Mason’s face. The walrus’ expression was one of slight irritation. “Do you want to fuck me now?” he added. The question was baldly put, but Ken didn’t include any tone that would make light of it or suggest that Mason fucking him was a ridiculous idea.
Mason laughed. “Ted told me a young man would lay down for me at this party if I looked at a manuscript from one of his new authors. I was under the impression you were here for that purpose. True? You have already signaled yes to me, right?”
“Would you like me to show you what’s upstairs?” Ken asked.
“I most certainly would,” Mason said. “What I would really like you to show me, though, is how sexy you are in the buff—and whether you can please me sexually.” They both knew the deal had already been struck.
Mason, pantless, but still in his shirt and jacket, was bent over a fully naked Ken at the foot of the double bed in the second bedroom. Both were standing on the floor and Ken was doubled over the bed on his belly, his torso arched back by Mason’s cruel grip in the young man’s golden curls. Mercifully, the walrus was fucking Ken in a doggie rather than a missionary, as, though the man’s bulging belly pressed into the small of Ken’s back, little of the weight of it was taxing the much smaller young man. Ken was stiff-arming the mattress with one arm to hold himself in position. His other hand was under his belly, stroking his cock. He was muttering “Yes, yes. Fuck, yes” over and over again to assure Mason of his assent and surrender—and to suggest that he was enjoying the fuck. In fact, he didn’t mind it. Mason was experienced; he knew how to cock a man.
Mason’s cock, which was thick, was taxing Ken indeed, as the man was pounding him hard. He also was slapping Ken on the exposed buttocks to the rhythm of the stroking. Ken was grimacing and taking it. This was what he was here for. He wasn’t a rent-boy just for the money to help him through college. He chose this way of making money because he loved taking cock. And he liked being controlled and dominated. As long as Mason was behind him and Ken didn’t have to watch fat jiggle, he could appreciate a cock as thick and insistent as he was getting. If it wasn’t Mason, it would be some other middle-aged man. He’d already had a good fuck from a stud—from Ted Sullivan earlier in the evening. This was what Ken was being paid to be at the party for.
Besides, this man was in publishing. He may give Ken a leg up in getting published someday. For now, though, Mason was pushing them both up on the bed, putting Ken on his knees, his cheek plastered to the bedspread. Mason crouched over him, moving around to penetrate Ken’s ass from various angles, having the purchase to fuck him deep, showing dexterity Ken wouldn’t have guessed the huge man could have and the inventiveness of the sexual connoisseur.
Ken was in the big leagues now.
Mason stood over Ken on the bed, fucking down into him in reverse. He grabbed Ken’s ankles and raised the young man’s legs up his sides, hooking Ken’s ankles on his shoulders. This was about as exotic and athletic a fuck as Ken had ever had. All of the man’s weight was on his own feet, so this was fine with Ken.
Sensing they were being watched, Ken managed to turn his face toward the half-open door. The celebrated author, Clifford Langston, had paused while passing the door, heard the sounds of sex, and looked in. His interest was obvious. He turned his head and body this way and that to figure out the contortions of the fuck position. It was as if he was assessing the exotic position for how he could describe it on the written page. He wasn’t put off or embarrassed by what he was observing; he was intrigued. He was rubbing his own cock through the material of his trousers, although he didn’t go as far as to take it out and stroke it off. He remained there for a couple of minutes, watching, as the walrus lowered Ken, putting him on his knees again, remounting and riding him high, gripping the young man’s hair painfully, arching his naked torso back toward his massive chest, as he pounded, pounded, pounded the young man’s ass.
“Now, ride me in a cowboy, facing me,” Mason said, changing their respective positions. As he was doing so, Langston pulled away from the open door and moved on.
For some reason, Ken was a bit embarrassed that Langston had seen him being bully fucked like this and submitting to it. He was interested in Langston, yes, and not just as a best-selling author. He was interested in him sexually as well, but he felt at a disadvantage to be found willingly lying under a man like Mason, letting Mason use him as he was. Knowing that Langston had been watching the taking with almost clinical interest didn’t help.
Jason Mason knew what to do with a rent-boy. He would take full advantage of the opportunity as long as someone else was paying for it. He used Ken mercilessly.
* * * *
When Ken came back downstairs, he could see that the author, Clifford Langston was standing at the door to the apartment, with his coat on and speaking with Ted Sullivan. Ken regretted that the man was leaving—apparently as soon as his wife joined them at the door—but he needn’t have worried. Seeing Ken on the stairs, Ted waved him over.
“Ken, I want you to meet our distinguished author, Clifford Langston. Ken is a creative writing student at Columbia, Cliff.”
“Really, it’s a good program,” Langston said, turning a smile on Ken as they shook hands. The man had the left hand gloved already, but he held the right-hand glove in his left hand. The handshake was firm, but Ken shivered when he felt the man’s thumb fold under to rub against Ken’s palm. Ken didn’t know about Langston’s world, but in his, that maneuver was a signal of a seeking top. The gay world response of a submissive was to wrap fingers around the thumb before disengaging from the handshake, but Ken was too afraid and uncertain that Langston was purposely signaling to carry through. Langston held the handshake for several seconds longer than needed, and Ken, smiling shyly back at the man and dipping his head, was afraid he might have lost a communication opportunity. A dip of the head was also a signal of submission, though, so maybe that would convey enough, he thought. Langston’s smile broadened, so maybe so. Langston had watched him being fucked and now he was declaring his own interest. Langston hadn’t really needed the signal to be answered to know that Ken bottomed; he’d seen Ken being expertly bottomed. Ken was awed. Was it going to be this easy?
“But you don’t look old enough to be at the university,” Langston added.
“I’ve just started this year. I was put straight into the creative writing program.”
“You must be a talented writer then.” Langston’s smile remained in place. “Are you studying some interesting writers already?”
“Tom Wolfe this week,” Ken said, and then he blurted out, “and you.”
Langston laughed. “Do you think you’d impress your professor if I gave you a few interview points?”
“I’m sure,” Ken answered. “But you’re just leaving. I don’t want to hold you.”
“You could come with me. It’s after 11:00. I thought I could make it to Times Square for the lowering of the ball, but I’m not sure where we are now in relation to Times Square. Ted here was trying to tell me, but I’m all switched around. I’d hate to be all alone at the strike of the new decade anyway.”
“Certainly, it would be fine for Ken to go with you and show you the way, Cliff,” Sullivan said.
“But your wife . . .” Ken said.
“Oh, she’s already gone. She found someone else to snuggle up to for the turning of the decade. Tomorrow she’ll be gone, perhaps altogether. She has a new apartment in Paris to entertain herself with. Please, won’t you come and show me the way?”
Ken was aghast. “Of course you don’t have to ask me. If it’s OK with Ted—” Ken didn’t want to have to say that Ted was paying for his time this evening.
“We’ve already discussed you,” Ted interjected. “Cliff wants you for the night.”
“For the night?” Ken asked.
“It’s New Year’s,” Langston said, giving Ken a smile. “As I said, my wife is already gone. I don’t want to be alone in my apartment for New Year's, if I can help it.”
“And you can get some pointers from him on the walk over to Times Square to share with your class,” Ted interjected. “That’s fine with Jeff and me. It meets our expectations for you this evening. Cliff is a very special guests and we want to keep him happy.”
Ken reddened. The instruction was quite clear. He had been contracted through the night, to lie down for whoever Ted designated. Ted was telling him to lie down for Clifford Langston. “Cliff wants you for the night,” Ted had said. Ken was overwhelmed.
* * * *
“Who is your creative writing professor at Columbia?” the author asked as they rode down in the elevator.
Ken was almost hyperventilating from being in an elevator with a famous author—and one as hunky and self-assured as Clifford Langston was, one who undoubtedly would be fucking him before the night was over—but he managed to answer. “Ellen Daniels, sir.”
“Ah, I know Ellen. She does good work. And you can call me Cliff. ‘Sir’ is much too stuffy for what we’ll be doing together for New Year’s.”
This remark didn’t mitigate Ken being on the edge of hyperventilating in the least, and if that one put him on edge, the next remark floored him.
“Tell me, do you prefer missionary or doggie? I’m afraid I get much too involved with the fuck to move to the cowboy very quickly.”
Ken paused to catch his breath. “Whatever the client prefers,” he answered. The man was putting him in his place—a prostitute on duty. Langston laughed.
“So, it’s true what Ted told me—that you’re a rent-boy.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry if—”
“That’s fine. If Ted engaged you, you surely are a high-priced rent-boy. If you cost less, I suppose you would be called a john. I must remember to make that distinction when I write. Let’s see. If you cost more and were highly accomplished and accepted in society in your own right, I guess we’d call you a courtesan.”
“Yes, sir.” There didn’t seem to be anything Ken was expected to say, and Langston didn’t take that any further at the moment.
As the elevator reached bottom, though, Langston added, “As long as you’re good. And what you were doing with Mason was very good—almost dirty enough for you to be referred to as a whore in literature.”
He was definitely being put in his place, Ken decided. But he couldn’t resist saying, “And is dirty considered good?”
Langston laughed. “Yes, very good indeed.”
Down on the street, on West 53rd, Ken stopped to get his bearings.
“Come. It’s at Broadway and 7th Avenue. This way,” Langston said briskly.
“But I thought you didn’t know your way there.”
“Everyone in New York knows how to get to Times Square from anywhere else in New York. Come, we don’t want to miss the dropping of the ball.” He laughed as he linked arms with Ken and started off in the direction of the Hudson River.
As promised, Langston gave Ken some zinger quotes he could share with his creative writing class, assuming he could remember them for the four days until the next class. Not all of them were as loaded as the rent-boy/john/courtesan/whore distinction had been. They didn’t miss the dropping of the ball ushering in the decade of the 1990s. As the decade rang in, Langston was gathering Ken into him close, bending him over, and French kissing him, taking Ken’s breath away.
Still holding Ken in the clutch when they came out of the kiss, Langston put his mouth close to the young man’s ear and spoke. He still had to almost yell because of all of the boisterous celebrating around them, but no one else could hear him anyway. “I want to fuck you,” He said. “I want to take you home and fuck you all night. Ted said he ordered you up especially for me and that I could fuck you. You’re a luscious young man. But I’ll only do it if you’d consent whether or not you were being paid. I don’t want it just to be part of your job.”
“Yes,” Ken answered, thrilled.
“Will you be a whore for me?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me? It’s too noisy here.”
“Yes, YES, YES! I want it.” Ken cried out. “Take me anywhere you want and fuck me. Missionary, doggie, whatever you want. Make me a whore.”
Langston laughed. “First we’ll party some. I wish for both of us to savor what is to come.” They kissed again, as Langston started guiding Ken through the crowd in the square. No one noticed the two men together—there were a lot of single-sex couples and ones with wide age differences kissing and partying in the square. Langston was taking a direct route. He knew exactly where he was going.
They weren’t going far. Langston was a member of the Gentlemen Jim’s men-only club on the sixtieth through sixty-second floors of a high rise building at 8th Avenue and 43rd Street. The sixtieth floor contained the dining rooms, bars, and dance floors. Here they joined in the dancing on a crowded, men only, dance floor until 1:00 a.m., Langston touching Ken intimately here, there, and everywhere and Ken lightly panting in anticipation.
He wasn’t an in-control rent-boy this evening. He was a young man being played by a master like a violin—an author he admired and wanted to write like. If the man wanted him to be a whore tonight, that’s what Ken would be. Here, in the club, with other men around, though, Langston was treating him as if he were a courtesan. He didn’t keep from other men that Ken was with him for sex, not did any of the other club members seem to care. Most of them were giving Ken admiring looks themselves.
The private bedrooms were on the upper floors. Langston had reserved one, and by 1:30, both men were naked on the bed and Langston was fucking Ken in a missionary. Ken was on his back on the bed, his arms raised over his head, his fists clutching at the headboard and his legs spread, his knees hooked on the tall, older, well-muscled forty-three-year-old author’s hips, and his pelvis raised to give the long, thick, steel-hard cock straight and deep access. Langston was hunched over the small, young man’s body, his knees pushed under Ken’s buttocks, one hand gripping the young man’s waist, and the other cupping Ken’s head, as Langston dipped his head, kissing Ken on the lips, the throat and the nipples, as he fucked him in long, slow, deep slides.
“So, nice, so nice. So sweet,” was Langston’s whispered mantra as Ken trembled and panted, slowly rocking his hips with the older man’s slow, long thrusts. He wasn’t a rent-boy now; he was an innocent seduced and used by a master. This was an early stage, though, the whore part very likely might come later. Toys were laid out on the top of the bureau of the room they went to—restraints, dildos, leather gloves, a hand whip.
“You’re very good,” Langston murmured. “Very, very good.”
“You’re better,” Ken responded through clinched teeth, which was closely followed with, “Oh, fuck yes! Oh, fuck. Fuck! Yes, just like that.” Langston, as he took the rhythm off beat, taking Ken’s breath away with the unexpected change in the thrusts, was pleased. Ken didn’t sound like he was acting. Ken most certainly wasn’t acting. Langston was his second mature master of the evening.
The rhythm picked up and became a steady beat again and Ken lowered his arms, his fingernails digging into the lanky author’s shoulder blades, his head arched back, his eyes staring out of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking 8th Avenue, his mouth yawning open, all of his senses concentrating on the thick cock of the famous novelist slowly churning deep inside him. “Yes, yes. Shit, yes. Take it. Use me! Take me hard!”
Langston started chewing on Ken’s nipples as he revved up the thrusts, fucking faster and deeper.
“Yes, yes, fuck me hard. Yes, yes. Oh FUCK!” he set the muscles of his passage walls squeezing and rippling over Langston’s shaft.
Langston raised his torso off Ken’s, arched back, and thrust harder and faster. “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!” he cried out as he tensed and jerked and shot a load; tensed, jerked, shot a load; tensed . . .
“Oh, my GAWD!” Ken cried out as he joined in the fountain works.
They stretched out against each other, ran their hands over each other’s bodies, and shared hand stroking.
At 2:30 a.m. Langston rolled out of the bed and padded into the bathroom. When he came out, Ken was standing at the window, looking down into 8th Avenue, where the New Year’s partying was still going on. He was leaning into the window with his forehead on his forearm, pressed into the window. He turned his head and saw that the author was in magnificent erection again. He had a great body for a man in his mid-forties.
Langston came to Ken and saddled up behind him, putting his hands on the young man’s waist, crouching a bit at the knees, and pushing his erection under Ken’s balls. He leaned in and kissed Ken on the ear and then nuzzled his face into Ken’s throat. “Widen your stance; jut your ass back into me. I need to be inside you.”
“Yes, do it, Daddy,” Ken whispered. “Fuck me again.”
Langston did, moving the head of his cock into place with one hand, while, following his command, Ken jutted his hips back and lifted his tail. The shaft slid up into him, and, holding him there leaning into the window and watching the traffic flow sixty-one floors below on 8th Avenue, Langston fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.
They slept the night in the room at Gentleman Jim’s, the first time Ken had spent the entire night with a man. As dawn was breaking, Ken woke to the feel of one of Langston’s hands moving over his body and the heel of the other one was pressed under Ken’s balls and a finger was in his ass.
“You’re real,” he murmured. “Last night was so magical, I dreamed it was a dream. I want—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Ken murmured, “fuck me again,” as Langston, pulled him into his stomach, the two spooned together, Langston’s front to Ken’s back. The cock slid into Ken’s passage and the two rocked against each other to a peaceful flow of juices. Both slept.
The young man woke later to the sensation that he was moaning. And he was hard, his dick standing straight up. He was on his back, with his legs spread and bent, his feet on the mattress. He had a hand on Cliff’s erection. Ken don’t know if the older man put him in this position or if Ken had moved with the author’s wishes in his sleep—but Ken knew they were going to fuck yet again, and that was quite all right with him.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he murmured, and Cliff rolled over on top of him, between his thighs.
“I think you might like the missionary best,” Langston murmured.
The cock head went into position, and Cliff clutched Ken’s buttocks cheeks with his hands, squeezing and spreading them as he penetrated an already well-worked passage and slid in deep. Fully saddled, he held there, staring down into Ken’s face, as the younger man slowly woke and realized that the older man was inside him, deep, but wasn’t moving. The cock was throbbing, and Ken’s passage muscles were undulating over the shaft.
But Langston was holding, waiting for something. Ken clutched at the older man’s sides and moaned. The moans turned into whimpers. “Fuck me. Fuck me, Daddy,” he pleaded. Langston held, with a low laugh, until Ken began to move his hips, fucking himself on the shaft. Then and only then did Langston begin to stroke him. They rocked their bodies against each other, Ken moaning deeply, as the rhythm of the fuck was attained. God the man was randy and had great stamina, Ken thought. At the moment of climax, Langston held again, staring down into Ken’s eyes. He tensed and flowed. Ken arched his back and sighed. Langston tensed and released again. Still with cum to give.
dick standing straight up. He was on his back, with his legs spread and bent, his feet on the mattress. He had a hand on Cliff’s erection. Ken don’t know if the older man put him in this position or if Ken had moved with the author’s wishes in his sleep—but Ken knew they were going to fuck yet again, and that was quite all right with him.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he murmured, and Cliff rolled over on top of him, between his thighs.
“I think you might like the missionary best,” Langston murmured.
The cock head went into position, and Cliff clutched Ken’s buttocks cheeks with his hands, squeezing and spreading them as he penetrated an already well-worked passage and slid in deep. Fully saddled, he held there, staring down into Ken’s face, as the younger man slowly woke and realized that the older man was inside him, deep, but wasn’t moving. The cock was throbbing, and Ken’s passage muscles were undulating over the shaft.
But Langston was holding, waiting for something. Ken clutched at the older man’s sides and moaned. The moans turned into whimpers. “Fuck me. Fuck me, Daddy,” he pleaded. Langston held, with a low laugh, until Ken began to move his hips, fucking himself on the shaft. Then and only then did Langston begin to stroke him. They rocked their bodies against each other, Ken moaning deeply, as the rhythm of the fuck was attained. God the man was randy and had great stamina, Ken thought. At the moment of climax, Langston held again, staring down into Ken’s eyes. He tensed and flowed. Ken arched his back and sighed. Langston tensed and released again. Still with cum to give.