Langston was barebacking him—breeding him. Ken didn’t care.
When Ken woke again later in the morning, at the sound of the door to the room opening and a waiter rolling in a breakfast cart, he was all alone in the bed. There was no sound from the bathroom either and the door to that was open.
The tray was set for one.
The waiter left the room but returned immediately with two video cameras on tripods. As Ken ate his breakfast in bed, the waiter set both up facing the bed, one pointed to the foot of the bed and one at the side.
“Mr. Langston is providing breakfast,” the waiter said, looking at Ken, naked in the bed, but giving no reaction that he didn’t see this at the club every morning, which he probably did. The waiter was as young as Ken and almost as sexy. He was dark—ebony dark—and muscular. “He has booked for late checkout and has provided, in case you’re interested, an extra tip for me—a large one—in case you are interested . . . He said you were highly sexed, and that you do it for pay. He’ll pay for it. He wants something to remember your night by. He said he has left $500 on the dresser over there in case you are willing to be included in a video for his pleasure. You’ll get more through the escort agency for what you’ve already done. I do this professionally. And I understand you are for rent. It’s all been paid for. Unless you aren’t interested.”
He mentioned the money Ken would receive for filming the video. Ken was impressed.
“You’ve done porn before?” the waiter asked.
“Yes,” Ken answered. “No big deal—for good money, of course.” So much for being worried about being posted to the Internet with a dick inside you. “Do you do this for Clifford Langston often?” he asked.
“Often enough,” the black waiter answered. Ken wasn’t all that pleased to hear that. But it was something kicky to do on the first day of a new decade. And, god, the waiter looked like a god. Ken lay back in the bed, spread and bent his legs, placed his feet on the mattress, and jutted his pelvis up. The waiter needed no more assurance than this that Ken was good to go on both the fuck and the video.
“Do you have a name?” Ken asked.
“Yes,” the waiter said, but, pointedly, he didn’t tell Ken what it was. He didn’t ask Ken for his name, either. This was just an assignment, and Ken was just a rent-boy. The waiter’s hand was cupping his basket, which promised a huge, black cock. He unzipped himself and let it fall out—delivering on the promise.
He made his own choice on position, fucking Ken in a doggie, with Ken on all fours on the bed, and the waiter mounted high on his tail and giving him as many thick inches as Langston had done the previous night. The camera was placed to record the fuck from both the rear and side, taking in the black cock mining Ken’s hole and Ken’s hand stroking his own cock.
After the waiter had finished Ken, Ken turned over on his back and said, “I hope that was worth whatever you were paid.”
The waiter took a long look at Ken. “I’d do you for free,” he said. “I had a ball balling you. And I sense you want more, that you want it nastier.” He then rolled off the bed, padded around and turned off the cameras, and then grabbed Ken by the ankle and dragged him onto the floor. Taking leather restraints from on top of the bureau, he bound Ken’s ankles and wrists and forced a ball gag in his mouth. He put Ken under him, cameras off and turned away; grasped the hand whip and gave Ken four snaps on the buttocks and thighs, more an anticipation of what could be, what more the black bull could take from Ken if he wished, and a gasp of the hint of pain that so easily could be more. Laying the whip aside, the black bull covered him; mounted him; penetrated him; and screwed the hell out of him there again, powerless, on the floor.
“Does that answer whether or not I enjoyed you?” the waiter said, rising off a moaning and mumbling Ken and strutting off to the shower. After he’d returned and dressed, he released Ken, who just lay there, panting and watching the black waiter move about the room like he owned it—and Ken.
“Do you have anything to complain about?” the waiter stood over Ken and asked, before he left the room. “Because if you do, I’ll say you asked for what you got. And do you think they’ll believe me or a prostitute brought into the club to give what he got? One of the cameras was rolling when you said you were fine about doing a porn scene.”
“No, I have nothing to complain about,” Ken responded. He had gotten around to becoming a whore, even if it wasn’t with Langston.
When Ken was alone again and going to take a shower and dress for a New Year’s Day walk back to Ted and Jeff’s apartment because they had paid for the two-day holiday, he saw the wad of bills on the dresser. He counted out $1,000—$500 more than he was paid to let the black bull waiter top him on film. He felt glorious up to that point. He’d been fucked by a famous author—after he’d been fucked by someone in publishing who might help him in the business. Then he’d taken black cock in the rough. A good night’s work. When he saw the extra money, though, it hit him that he was just a paid rent-boy to Clifford Langston. The man had fucked him and left him, without saying anything about seeing him again. And what he considered a souvenir of the night, the first night in the decade, was of a video of another man, a black bull, fucking Ken, not an invitation to a repeat of the night with Langston himself.
So, he’d been a whore with Langston too after all.
On New Year’s Eve, he’d been fucked by a literary agent, a publisher, a famous author, and a black bull. He’d started getting hooked up in the publishing industry just like his high school English teacher had told him he should do. But so far, the only one who had been screwed was him. Conversely, he was collecting a whole lot of experiences to inform his writing.
The black waiter had been a very nice interlude—more enjoyable as there was nothing to gain from him in the long term but a bit of nastiness and the working of his big, black shaft. Ken had had no idea how the anticipation of helplessness and a little pain would raise him to new heights of arousal. When Cliff had said Ken couldn’t get enough of it, he hadn’t been wrong.
Oh, well. He was here in New York to learn to be a writer—for as long as he could manage tuition and maintenance at Columbia.
And to these men he was, after all, just a rent-boy, a whore. He ached for them to think of him and respect him as a novelist in his own right—and maybe as a courtesan. For now, it was primarily his body men were interested in. It was a start, though. He would have to earn the respect for anything else.
* * * *
“Did you give him good service?” Ted Sullivan asked. He and Ken Curtain were sitting across from each other on sofas jutting out from the wall of windows over West 53rd street in Ted’s condo living room. Two black-clad servants were flitting around on the dining end of the large room, setting the table for lunch. The condo had been a mess when Ken had left with the best-selling author, Clifford Langston, not more than eleven hours previously. In the interim, it had been thoroughly cleansed and put back into Architectural Digest condition. Ken didn’t think that Ted Sullivan, sitting across from him in a black silk robe with green dragons embroidered on it and not much else and smoking a cigarette, had done much of the cleaning.
As they sat there, one of the rent-boys hired for the previous evening came stumbling down the staircase. He was dressed in his evening clothes but was a bit dishabille, like they’d been pulled off him roughly and had lain in a crumpled pile beside the bed during the night, which they very likely had. He looked over to Ted and Ken and gave Ted a little smile.
“Ciao bella,” Ted called out. “I’ll call for you sometime again.” Ted and Ken watched the young man leave the apartment before they resumed their conversation.
The question of whether Langston had enjoyed Ken’s attentions had appeared abruptly while they were talking about the weather and how big the crowd had been on Times Square for the New Year’s celebration. Ken knew he was being asked about Clifford Langston.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “He took me to his club for dancing and fucking after we left Times Square.”
“You knew, of course . . . before you left the apartment with him—that he was going to fuck you—that he wanted to.”
“Yes, I knew,” Ken answered. “You had made the situation quite clear. And Langston made it quite clear too as soon as we left. It was fine. He fucks like a bunny.”
Ted laughed. “So, he didn’t abandon you there and he did . . . how many times did he fuck you?”
“Four times, I think. The man’s virile for his age. And he had a video done of a black waiter fucking me.”
“Ah, the black waiter ploy,” Ted said, obviously aware of this particular fetish of Langston’s. “A sign that he liked you.”
“But when I woke up in the room he’d engaged, he was gone. I don’t know if—”
“If he fucked you four times, then he was enjoying the servicing,” Ted said.
“Why? Is it important to you that he had a good time with me?”
They were interrupted at that point by Russ Jackson, another one of the rent-boys from the previous evening—the one in acting school—appearing at the balcony rail of the cross hall above them. He was naked and looked tousled. The condo had two stories, one long room, kitchen at one end and dining area at the other end on the first floor, with stairs, behind which were the powder room and the entrance foyer, going up to a landing on the second floor. The first floor living area rose two stories. There were two bedrooms upstairs, each with bath, one over the dining area and the other over the kitchen area. The outside wall was a sheet of glass ascending both stories.
Russ looked like he was contemplating coming downstairs to join Ted and Ken, but before he could decide, Jeff Malone came out of the master bedroom, which he and Ted shared, came in behind Russ, and encircled the young mixed-race theater arts student with his arms. Like Russ, Jeff was naked. He pulled Russ back into the master bedroom.
“You know that Jeff wants to fuck you too,” Ted said. And then when Ken didn’t respond, he said. “Perhaps another weekend, though. He appears to be occupied at the moment. And they’ve been in there all night. There might be a stamina issue. Who, knows, though; it’s a new decade. Maybe this is Jeff’s Superman decade.”
“You knew Mr. Langston was taking me from here for the night? That I wasn’t coming back here last night for you—or Mr. Malone,” Ken said, as they resumed their conversation. “He didn’t need help getting to Times Square. He told me that you had given me to him for the night. So, you essentially hired me to service him.”
“Yes, that’s right. I said that too in your hearing.”
“Oh, that’s right. You did. So, you didn’t like my servicing—of you, earlier yesterday?”
“You were fine, and will, I hope, be fine again later today. But when I contracted with your escort agency, it was for two days, for me to use as I wished. I wished to combine business with pleasure.”
“Business?”
“Langston is a best-selling author who has put the word out that he’s not fully satisfied with his current literary agent and publisher. I’m a literary agent. I’m trying to land him. He wanted a young man to fuck last night. Over the time I’ve known him, I’ve learned what he liked in a young man. I provided one. I showed him some photos of the men I use, all ones I thought he’d like. He picked you. I covered your fee. I’m betting that Langston gave you a generous tip, as well.”
“Yes, he did. Am I to give that to you?”
“No, of course not. You can keep it. And the one for this afternoon from Jason Mason, as well.”
“This afternoon? Jason Mason?”
“Yes, the editor with Harper and Row. I’m trying to influence him to take on a couple of my authors. He hinted strongly that he enjoyed you yesterday. I’ve invited him back for lunch today.”
“So, I am to—?”
The doorbell rang and one of the black-clad servants moved toward the entrance to the condo and let Jason Mason in.
* * * *
After lunch Mason fucked the stuffing out of Ken in the condo’s second bedroom. Ted Sullivan watched. The first position was one that Mason called The Flying Dutchman and had the mountain of a man sitting on the edge of the bed with Ken’s ass attached to his crotch, skewered on his erection, and Ken’s torso cantilevered over the carpet beside the bed, with Mason fisting Ken’s wrists to hold Ken in place jutting out from Mason’s body. Ken’s legs were streaming back around the fat man’s hips, and Ken’s toes were pressed into the bedspread, providing leverage for Ken to rock on the buried cock.
The man was a walrus, but he knew his exotic positions. He knew how to make sure his girth didn’t disadvantage the length of his erection.
In a second taking, Mason lay on the bed like a beached whale, and Ken rode his cock in a cowboy position from all angles until he was exhausted and then and only then did the publisher’s editor cream him deep with his cum. Ken’s contract had included a condom-optional clause and thus far for these New Year’s celebration, all of the clients had barebacked him. January 2nd was going to include a trip to the gay men’s clinic.
Ken lay, exhausted, on his belly, on the bed, one arm dangling over the side of the bed, as he heard Mason and Ted talking and laughing downstairs. Mason, obviously pleased with his session on the bed and asking questions about the authors Ted was trying to peddle to him, was leaving the apartment.
When Mason was gone, Ted appeared in the bedroom, smiled and said, “That went well,” stripped down, and, as Ken moaned, mounted the bed and then mounted Ken’s ass and took his pleasure—barebacking him.
Ken had lost track of how many times—by how many men—he’d been fucked in the previous twenty-four hours. Welcome to the 1990s. He had an inkling that his life would now be like this until his body had lost its attraction to men. It was a good thing he liked having a man’s cock inside him.
Ken had gotten his slice of extra benefit from the day beyond the hefty fee he’d be getting from the escort agency. At lunch Mason had offered him a part-time job at the publishing house, apparently not realizing that there was nothing he need do to get Ken into bed with him.
“I’m allowed a few part-time assistants and I can choose them myself, within reason,” he’d said. “You would pass muster with the finance office because you’re in a creative writing program at Columbia.”
“I have a job and I have to concentrate on my studies,” Ken had said.
“You won’t learn nearly as much about the business in a classroom than you would in a publishing house, even while doing fetch-it work. Columbia would be delighted for you to have such a part-time job. They’ll work with you on scheduling. Half days two or three days a week would give you experience your fellow students in your program would open their veins to have.”
Ken had no trouble understanding it wasn’t his veins he’d have to open—it was his legs and his passage. Mason had made quite clear that there would be long lunch hours involved and that his apartment was a short walk from the Harper and Row offices.
“You wouldn’t have to work like a dog,” Mason said. “You could get experience by also taking the first read of manuscripts coming in over the transom. You’ll learn what merits getting past that first barrier; it will do wonders for your own writing.”
Ken, of course, had said yes. Mason’s remark had made him muse that not having to work like a dog didn’t mean he wouldn’t have to take the position of a dog for Mason to cover during those long lunch hours. But he said yes. To the extent he was going to continue as an escort, Mason had moves to teach him. His practical education and networking beyond what Columbia could give him in formal classes was about to begin. He knew he had to be grateful for that even with what he’d have to give to Mason. The man was a giant slug, but he knew how to fuck; was introducing Ken into exotic positions that were both arousing and would be useful in Ken’s work with the escort agency, which he had no intention of giving up even in the face of the offer of other work; and the man had a big cock.
* * * *
They were both reaching climax. “Let’s try to shoot off together,” Clifford Langston hissed through heavy panting. He was doing Ken in a side spilt on the bed in a different room at Gentleman Jim’s than they’d used on New Year’s Eve. He was holding Ken close to him, the young man’s right leg raised and bent to give Langston’s thick dick full access to his hole. Langston was stroking the young man off to the same rhythm he was fucking him in.
They both concentrated on timing their ejaculations, keeping each other apprised of where they were in losing control. They managed to come together. Collapsing back on the bed, each had a surge of a sense of accomplishment. It was only their second session at Gentleman Jim’s and already they could come together. Langston pulled his arm out from underneath Ken, turned the youth on his back, and kissed down the small boyish torso, taking Ken’s cock in his mouth and sucking him off to a secondary ejaculation. Ken ran his fingers into the author’s wavy salt-and-pepper hair and moaned his total surrender.
Giving Ken’s cock one last squeeze, Langston laughed, rolled off the bed, and padded over to the chair where he’d left his folded clothes and a briefcase. He took a manuscript out of the briefcase and tossed it on the bed beside Ken as he passed on his way to the bathroom. “Here, read this. This is your first novel.”
Ken had worried that his first night with Langston, four days earlier, on New Year’s Eve into New Year’s Day, had been a one-time deal, but he needn’t have worried. When he went to his first creative writing class in the new year, ready to tell the class that he’d met the best-selling novelist, Clifford Langston, and gotten some writing tips from the man, Langston was there, already, at the front of the class, talking with the professor, Ellen Daniels. Langston gave Ken a wink when Ken entered the classroom.
So, there he was in the flesh to give the class pointers directly. Professor Daniels, of course, was all aglow when Langston told her he’d met one of her students on New Year’s Eve who had told him about the class studying Langston’s work and Langston then decided to drop into the class himself. It had all been true. He didn’t say that the student had told him all of this while Langston was fucking the shit out of him.
Langston stopped Ken in the hall after class. “I thought I could take you to lunch after class,” he said.
“Just lunch?” Ken had asked.
“No, not just lunch,” Langston responded. “I want to take you back to Gentleman Jim’s. I’m not sure what the arrangement should be. Should I call the agency and sign up for your time? Or should I pay you directly and let you work it out with the agency—or not?”
“If I go with you—after lunch—I don’t want it to be for pay. I want it to be because it’s what we both want.”
“Is it what you want—without being paid for it?”
“Yes, it’s what I want.”
Langston smiled, clearly pleased, and Ken had the sensation that he had passed some sort of test.
So, Ted didn’t have to worry about whether Langston had enjoyed Ken’s servicing of him on New Year’s Eve.
Ken rode Langston’s cock to almost ready for liftoff at Gentleman Jim’s in a cowboy ride and then they made a successful attempt at coming together in a side split.
“It’s a detailed outline for a novel,” Ken said after picking up the manuscript and looking at it. “The notes relate it to Tom Wolfe. It’s a parallel storyline or something.”
Langston had stopped at the door to the bathroom and turned, leaning into the doorframe. He looked really good for his age—tall and wiry, his muscles hard but lean, his cock thick and hanging low, projecting out of trimmed auburn-haired pubes that were yet to be touched with the gray on his head, his close-cropped beard, and in the light swirling on his pectorals, descending in a thin line down into his groin. He trimmed his pubes. He made the effort to still look good in the nude.
“Yes, yes, it is—a parallel story to Tom Wolfe’s early life in Asheville, through the controversy of writing the secrets of his home city, to his success in writing. I’ve tentatively entitled it ‘Homeward Bound.’ I’m giving it to you. If you’re studying Wolfe in your class, you could get double duty out of it.”
“But this is your prospectus.”
“Which I don’t have time to write. On New Year’s Eve you told me that the writing was the easy part for you—and Ellen has shown me some of your writing and it’s promising—that your difficulty is in coming up with themes and storylines. When you told me that your class was studying Tom Wolfe this semester and you had to do something about him for a project, I immediately thought of this storyline I’ve had sitting around, knowing I’d probably never write it up. It doesn’t excite me anymore.”
“And you need to be excited to write a novel.”
“I need to be excited in whatever I do. You excite me.”
Ken acknowledged the compliment but went back to talking about the manuscript. “But this is yours. I didn’t come up with this idea. This would be cheating if I turned this in for a class assignment.”
“No one but you and I need ever know it isn’t all yours,” Langston said. “Nothing is original under the sun anymore. Work on it; make it yours. Do whatever you want with it for the class assignment but also consider it as a first novel idea. As I understand your assignment, it’s to write up a prospectus for a work. You don’t have to deliver a completed manuscript. Read it. Think of yourself as writing it—of what themes you would want to pursue with it.”
He went into the bathroom. He didn’t close the door, though, and he gave Ken a full view of him standing at the toilet, holding that big cock of his out and taking a piss, coming out of the shower, not bothering to wrap the towel around his waist when he’d dried off, and brushing his teeth, combing his hair, and trimming his beard at the basin. This would be what life would be like if they lived together, Ken thought—all natural sexuality. He wondered if Langston was thinking that too. It was at this point that Ken realized that he was contemplating such a life. Langston was humming and, while working at the basin, he was stroking himself into an erection with one hand. Ken knew their session on the bed wasn’t finished.
Ken was right. When Langston came out of the bathroom, he was still fully naked and in erection. Walking over to the bed, he took the manuscript out of Ken’s hands and laid it aside. “It’s time to thank Daddy,” he said, putting an arm around Ken’s waist and dragging the young man to the foot of the bed, he put Ken on his knees, grasped the young man’s cock with one hand and positioned his own cock head at Ken’s still-open hole with the other hand, mounted and penetrated him, gave him that long, fat cock Ken had melted to, and fucked him to yet another ejaculation.
Yes, Ken thought he could live with this in a permanent arrangement. Daddy would keep him humming and well fucked. He’d look at the manuscript and see how and whether he could use it. To do otherwise would be to insult the man who was becoming a mentor as well as a lover.
* * * *
Ken found that he liked the “step-and-fetch-it” part time work at Harper and Row. Jason Mason was all business at work and he made the effort to let Ken get a taste of all of the functions at the publishing house while the young man did work that no one else wanted to do. For his part, Ken appreciated the look into real publishing he was getting and was conscientious with his work. Jason Mason had also become so busy with his own work that there were few of the long lunches he’d told Ken about where they would go to Mason’s nearby apartment and he would show that a fat whale of a man could orchestra some exotic sex positions that left Ken, who had to go back up town to Columbia University to take in classes after lunch, exhausted and gasping. Among others, the young man found the Standing 69 and Superman positions were interesting and arousing.
Where Mason didn’t flirt with Ken at work, another editor, junior to Mason and in his late twenties, still working on building a successful stable of authors, did. Nathan Horowitz, a dark, sultry young man on the make recognized Ken as a submissive quickly and took the young man under his wing, helping him to learn the ways of a working publishing house below the level Mason worked at—and slowly worked on getting Ken into his bed.
Ken, in turn, recognized the nature of Horowitz’s basic interest in him and didn’t discourage it. For the first few weeks their encounters consisted only of longing and meaningful looks and light touchings as they passed in the corridors of the publishing house. At first Ken engaged in these to encourage Horowitz’s support at work, but he increasingly came under the other man’s sexual spell. Then one day they both went to a supply room at the same time and kissed and fondled each other. They moved from here to the private bathroom of an absent associate publisher and to a mutual hand job and Horowitz sitting on the toilet, as Ken knelt before him and gave him an expert blow job.
“I want more,” Horowitz murmured. “I want to be with and inside you.”
“I don’t want anything less, either,” Ken answered.
“So, you will go with me? You will let me—?”
“Whenever you want.”
The next time Mason had to beg off on a scheduled lunch session, Horowitz, whose apartment was no further away from the Harper and Row offices than Mason’s was, stepped in with an invitation of his own. Horowitz sat in a dining room chair, naked, and the two did a lip lock as Ken, also naked, sat in his lap, facing him and rose and fell on Horowitz’s cock. Horowitz took over the stroking, clutching, squeezing, and separating of Ken’s buttocks cheeks as he thrust up. Surrendering totally to him, Ken arched back, his torso draping toward the floor, his arms stretching out in a sacrificial stance. “Yes, like that. Breed me. Give me your cum,” Ken whispered.
Horowitz did. Ken didn’t know if Nathan realized that the sacrificial stance Ken had taken symbolized his total surrender to the other young man—that Horowitz could have him whenever, however he wanted him. But Ken realized that, and it scared him. He had already given himself to Clifford Langston this way. He couldn’t afford to give himself to too many men this way.
By that time, Ken had done some work on the Tom Wolfe parallel novel, using the structure Clifford Langston had given him. He thought he’d done enough on it to at least pretend it was his own work. He showed it to Horowitz, who at least pretended to be impressed with it so that he could move Ken from the dining room the next lunchtime they could meet to his bedroom. Ken did not reveal whose work it basically was. Horowitz promised to do what he could to bring the book into the publishing house. Of course, he was too much in heat the next time they lunched in his apartment to take Ken to his bedroom. He fucked him on the dining table.
On the strength of Nathan Horowitz’s expressed interest in his Tom Wolfe manuscript—and genuine interest to be fucked by a man younger than most he was sleeping with—Ken went to the bedroom with Nathan that rainy lunchtime after Nathan did him on the dining table, and, with Ken gripping the top of a standing wardrobe, his body streaming back over the carpet and Nathan standing between his thighs, grasping his hips, and fucking him from the rear, Ken experienced how a younger man than Mason did a Superman position.
Two weeks later, Nathan was busy preparing to be transferred to the London office of the Collins publishing house, which was in the process of merging with Harper and Row to become HarperCollins.
Ken didn’t have time to worry about what that meant in terms of his manuscript, though, because there had been a fire in his dormitory at Columbia University and, although there was only a bit of smoke damage in his room, the building was being closed down and he needed to find other accommodations. This was a disaster for someone who lived as close to the financial margins as he did.
It was Clifford Langston to the rescue, though. He was waiting for Ken outside the young man’s creative writing classroom the afternoon after the fire. Nathan Horowitz had put Ken up the previous night—and fucked him through the night—but beyond the exhausting prospect of staying with Nathan longer, Nathan was moving to London, so that wasn’t an option beyond the near term. Ken did not want to live with Jason Mason for even one night and didn’t tell him about the fire.
“Elaine tells me you are out of a home,” Langston said when they met in the hallway outside the classroom. They held there while the other students, giving Langston worshipful looks, streamed around them and the hallway cleared.
“I’ll find something,” Ken said, not all that hopefully.
“The manuscript I gave you and you are working on wasn’t lost, was it?”
Ken looked around to make sure no one heard about the manuscript. “No. My room didn’t burn. Just some smoke. But they’ve kicked us all out and closed the building. I’m competing with a couple of hundred other students in finding a room near the university in the middle of the school year.”
“I live near Columbia University,” Langston said. “I have a brownstone on West 109th Street, near Morningside Park and within walking distance of Columbia. My wife is in Paris and likely to stay there. I have plenty of room.”
“You do?” Ken didn’t want to ask. He didn’t know what he’d have to give up.
“I also need a part-time assistant. I know you’re doing some work for Harper and Row. And there are your classes. But you could work for me too—and live in the house. The third floor is servant quarters I don’t fully use. We could work it out.”
“What would I have to do?”
“You know what you’d have to do. I’d have full-access privileges anytime I wanted them—that didn’t interfere with your classes and work at the publishing house.”
“I work for an escort agency too.”
“You’d have to give that up, but you’d have a steady income, enough to live on and go to school. And working for me will give you experience and networking in publishing that the escort agency can’t give you. I like to think I can keep you well exercised and satisfied sexually as well.”
Ken realized that Langston essentially already had full-access privileges for his ass.
His quarters at the West 109th Brownstown were two rooms on the third floor—a living area where he could do his studying, with a small kitchenette, and a bedroom, reached through that, with a bath attached. It was all he needed and more than he ever hoped he could have while he was in college.
Langston came to his room that first night, laid Ken on the bed, his tail at the foot of the bed, grasped his ankles and spread and raised the young man’s legs, moved in between Ken’s thighs, and penetrated and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.
“You can be vocal, if you like,” Langston said. “The servants are accustomed to my ways, and I like my young men to be vocal.”
I just bet you have it all worked out, Ken said. Langston fucked him hard—harder and more cruelly than he ever had before. Ken was vocal. None of the servants appeared to save him.
