Gay Erotic Stories

I needed a heavier jacket than this leather vest. It was almost Christmas and once again I had failed to migrate to Florida for the winter. I must remember to berate my social secretary for failing to schedule that. A bulky jacket wouldn’t work as well, but if I froze to death, it wouldn’t matter what I was wearing. The worst of winter was coming on. I definitely needed a warmer jacket than this.

I heard the slamming of a door back in the alley, and in a few moments I heard his lumbering steps. Just like clockwork at this time. I’d decided a long time ago that the guy must work someplace back there that stayed open late. Wherever he worked, it fronted on the street behind me and I hadn’t had the curiosity yet to check it out.

“Hi,” he said, as he hit the head of the alley. A big-boned guy somewhere in his thirties. Always looking hangdog when he came out of the alley. But it was after 1:00 a.m., so that was understandable. A big lug. Clumping feet, big hands, a head with hair that had a mind of its own. Cauliflower ears and a bent nose. He looked like he’d been in a lot of fights—but not fights of his choosing because he had sort of a teddy bear demeanor. But not fights that he’d lost either.

I said “Hi” back as he passed and huddled my arms into my chest again, looking up the street, not at him.

I’d been staked out here since late summer and we’d only gotten to the “hi” stage. Of course, I only saw him here once a day, if even that. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I was someplace else when he came out of the alley. I did look forward to the “hi,” though. It’s about the only thing anyone said to me that wasn’t just demanding something they wanted.

I watched him lumber up the street, and I had turned my head, looking for slowing cars coming from the other direction, before realizing that he had turned and come back at me.

“You look cold,” he said.

I turned my head, surprised. “My fur coat’s in a storage vault in Boca Raton,” I said. “I’d meant to be down there for Christmas, but you know how it is when business gets crazy.”

“Mine is too,” he answered with a little laugh. “In a storage vault somewhere. Just can’t remember where the storage vault is. But seriously, you look cold and like you need to warm up someplace. You got a place?”

“Yeah, my mansion’s back there in the alley. The second cardboard box on the right.”

I wasn’t being snotty on purpose. I couldn’t be seen standing and talking with someone who liked like he might be a john but wasn’t while a real one might be just about to cruise by.

“You hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

He stood there for a moment, in silence, like he was thinking something over. I desperately wanted him to move on, but he was the only guy who said “hi” to me, so I reined myself in. There weren’t any cars moving on the street anyway.

“What the hell,” he said. “I had a good night. Thursdays are always light. And I’m not feeling like eating alone. My place isn’t far from here. It’s warm and I don’t feel like eating alone. Come on up and I’ll fix you something to eat and you can warm up before coming out on the street again.”

“Well . . .” I couldn’t think of a way to say no without hurting his feelings and I’d gotten used to hearing that “hi.” He looked like such a teddy bear. And there weren’t any cars cruising down the street.

“You look like you could use a shower too. When was the last time you had a shower? You got any clean clothes back there in that cardboard box mansion? And I could throw these in the washer and dryer while you have a meal. Come on. Winter’s coming on is a lonely time, especially in this season if you don’t have someone special to spend it with, and there’s nothing on the television late Thursday nights I like to watch.”

“Well . . . . OK, thanks. Give me a minute.” Still looking frantically down the street for the hint of a john promising a better opportunity, I backed into the alley and headed for my stash. Someone special to spend Christmas with, I thought. Yeah, I wish. I’ll bet this guy wishes too.

We were walking the couple of blocks to where he said his apartment was and he was slowing down while we walked and not saying anything when he abruptly stopped by the door of an all-night bodega.

“Just a minute,” he said, his voice a little nervous. “I remembered I needed something in here. I’ll be just a sec. You can wait out here.”

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he entered the mom and pop store. He was acting nervous enough that I half thought he was going to hold up the place. But he went down an aisle and stopped right where I sometimes stopped in this store. With a knowing little sigh, I turned and propped my back on the support column next to the bodega window, lifted my cowboy boot with the biggest hole to the wall behind me, hooked my thumbs in my jean pockets, and looked up the street while he picked out what brand of condom and lube he wanted.

I knew how I was going to pay for the shower and dinner. I had gone naturally into “the pose,” because there always was a chance that something more promising would be cruising by in a flashy car.

At the street door to his apartment building, not much more than a tenement, he stopped and turned to me and, in an earnest voice, said, “My name’s Art.”

That put us past the “hi” stage. “I’m Jimmy,” I answered. I’m not Jimmy, of course, but it’s a good enough name for johns—more often than not more than enough—and a lot easier for them to remember than my own name.

His place was small, but clean, and actually had a separate bedroom, with a brass head-boarded double bed, and bath, in addition to the room that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen. The poor excuse for a Christmas tree he had propped up in a corner was pathetic looking, and made me feel sorry for him—which may have been the tone he had been going for when he leaned it into that corner. The apartment was toasty warm, though, which made all of the difference. And he had a compact washer-dryer unit and was washing the clothes I had been wearing and fixing some dinner as I showered.

He’d shyly looked away as I’d taken my clothes off, and I had to clear my throat for him to reach out a hand to take them. I made no effort to cover myself. I knew he intended to fuck me—that he was just slow in working up to it.

After the time I’d spent out on the street, the apartment was actually a bit more than toasty warm, and when I came out of the bedroom after my shower, I was just wearing low-rise jeans and a flannel shirt over my shoulders that I didn’t bother to button. I hadn’t put on any briefs or socks and shoes, either. I knew the score here.

His eyes went big when he saw me pad out into the living room, and the skillet he held in his hand wavered for a moment. But then he smiled and said, “Spaghetti OK? From a can? I’m not much of a cook. Got some store-bought Christmas cookies we can have for dessert, though.”

“Spaghetti’s fine,” I said.

“I do have some Chianti to go with it,” he continued. “If you . . .”

“Yeah, that would be good. I’m old enough.”

He smiled a little smile and I saw him relax noticeably. I knew what he’d actually been asking. The way he was playing this he couldn’t very well come right out and ask for ID. The johns rarely did, although with me they probably should. One of my “come ons” was that I looked so young.

We didn’t talk much over dinner. We both sat at the table with the chairs reversed and our arms reaching over the backs like we were in some sort of macho man mode—denying what we both knew we were going to do afterward. I wasn’t much for chit chat, and I could tell that he was nervous. Probably had never picked a rent boy up off the street before. Half way through his meal, he looked up and saw that I had wolfed my food down and, without asking, got up and opened another can of spaghetti. He was walking on eggs and doing everything he could to be nice to me. Very much the teddy bear. Big and lumbering and looking like a bouncer in a club, but a shyness and gentleness in him as well.

Time to put him out of his misery.

“So, are you going to fuck me now?” I asked after my plate was clean and my Chianti glass empty, doing my best to keep anything out of the tone of my voice that would be hurtful to him.

“I . . . I . . .” He looked almost frightened. “The dessert . . . Christmas cookies.”

“It’s OK. I saw what you bought in that bodega. I expected it. Unless, of course, you don’t like men.”

“Uh . . . I don’t know what . . . what you get for . . .”

“You’re giving me more than enough,” I answered. “You’re being very nice to me. I’m good with a fuck . . . if you’re interested. So, are you going to fuck me now?”

“Yes,” he said in a small voice as if it was a revelation to himself, “I’m going to fuck you now. Shall we . . . should we . . . ?”

“On the bed’s fine with me. Or the floor if you don’t want to use your bed that way.”

He sat on the side of the bed, his thighs spread, and I was standing, facing him, between his legs. Before he had collapsed on the bed, we’d both been standing there, plastered against each other and rocking back and forth while he kissed all over my face and neck and brushed my shirt off my back. I pulled his T over his head and took the measure of his bulging, hairy pecs, and then ran my hands down his torso and unzipped him and fished his cock out. He was horse hung. God, maybe more than horse hung. What’s bigger than a horse’s dick? An elephants? The bigger-than-life proportions of the rest of him held true with his equipment. I held him, needing two hands to make the effort worthwhile, as he engorged and went into a frenzy of kissing down my neck and mouthing and sucking on my nipples as his butt slowly descended to the mattress and his lips went down to my belly.

I had let loose of his dick on his way down, and just placed my hands on his head and ran my fingers into his hair.

He tongued and sucked on my belly, making little guttural sounds deep inside him, with one hairy arm encircling my waist and the hand of the other one working hard on the buttons of my jeans fly. That open and spread, his mouth went lower and swallowed my cock and started to give me slow head, while I worked my fingers in his coarse, mussy hair and arched my back.

I wasn’t used to a john taking this much time with me. Of course a lot of this was him working himself up to doing something he’d probably rarely done before.

I let him suck me for a good ten minutes until I felt I couldn’t take any more without coming—he seemed content to continue working the cock in his mouth and he seemed to be gaining expertise there with each passing minute—and then, slipping out of his mouth, I went down on my knees on the floor between his thighs, took his cock in my mouth, and started showing him what an expert blow job was like.

I was more interested now. The guy’s cock was huge. I’d become jaded with the homeless rent boy stuff to the point that it took a really thick and long cock to impress me, and this was one that I knew would stretch me to the limit and let me know I’d been fucked.

I placed a palm on his belly and gently encouraged him to lay back on the bed, wanting to convey that we were going to be doing this for a while, and then I gripped both of his wrists in my hands, to give him the symbolic sensation that he was mine and under my control now, and I sucked on. He lay docilely back on the bed and shuddered and moaned.

When I stood up, deciding he was engorged and throbbing enough, I held our cocks together for a few minutes, stroking them lightly and looking down into his face. His expression was one of lust and wonder and more than a touch of fear. I knew that, at that moment, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. Was I going to push my cock into his hole? It was right there. He was in position. I could tell that he wasn’t sure who was going to get fucked—and that he was so far gone that he would have taken it if I’d nailed him.

But then I reached over for the plastic bag on top of his night stand and took out the box of condoms and opened it. He had gotten Magnums. At least he knew what he needed. I wondered, though, for a second or two whether there was a size larger than that.

When I was rolling the condom down on his cock and spraying it with lube, I could see any fear in his eyes was being pushed out by the look of arousal and anticipation.

He groaned and grunted and reached for my waist with his big hands as I straddled his torso with my knees right there next to his thighs and with his legs over the side of the bed, and, holding the root of his cock in a hand, working my channel down on the staff.

Once he was bottomed—which was one hell of a job for me to accomplish—he seemed to begin thinking in terms of him being the big man and me being not much more than a boy. He also showed that he had stamina. I started the rise and fall rhythm, but increasingly he was using his hands to lift and lower me on the cock. Slow at first, and he murmured, almost apologetically, “Am I hurting you? Should I—?”

“Do it. Fuck me harder, fucker,” I hissed through clinched teeth. “Make me feel it. Give me a Christmas present.”

He answered by jerking me up and slamming me down on the cock, harder and harder, faster and faster. With me flopping around on top of him, letting him control the frenzy of the fuck.

It was a monster cock, filling and stretching me, and I came quickly, spouting up his belly.

Taking that as a signal to take full control, he turned and moved both of our bodies up onto the bed, placing me on all fours, crouching over my hips, and fucking me hard, deep, and fast in a doggy fuck, until spasming and jerking his cock out of me and ripping the condom off, he ejaculated up my back.

He collapsed to the side on the bed, turning me as well and pulling me into his belly. We lay there, both panting, him nuzzling his scratchy chin into the hollow of my neck.

“I’m sorry. I lost control. I’m—”

“Do it again,” I growled. And I meant it. I hadn’t been touched like this for some time. It really was a good Christmas present. I liked being fucked, but I’d done it so often, so routinely, that it took a fuck like this to remind me that I wanted it. He’d been a pleasant surprise.

I remember being aware that light was coming in the bedroom window. It was daylight already. We had been fucking for how long? But not that long if you took into account that it had been after one thirty when he picked me up and we’d messed around a lot before getting to the bed. I didn’t normally overnight with johns. We usually fucked where that wasn’t possible, and it was usually wham bang good-bye. This wasn’t really overnight, though. The guy worked someplace where it was practically the night shift. It probably almost always was getting light before he went to bed.

This wasn’t anything like overnight. Nothing special at all, I thought, wanting to denigrate it so that I wouldn’t miss not having it when it was over, as I drifted off to sleep. Nothing special here at all. Warmth for a few hours, a nice big cock, and a nice guy really, but nothing . . .

When I woke we were both still stretched out on the bed, on our backs. But not touching. Art was sitting up against the headboard, a couple of pillows propping up his back. He was smoking a cigarette and looking at me. His cock was in full erection.

“What time is it?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“Ten in the morning—but still early for me . . . for us. Go back to sleep.”

“What is this?” I asked, reaching for and enclosing his erect cock. “This isn’t sleeping.”

“I was thinking of you. How sweet you are and what a great fuck. But I brought you up here . . . not thinking to . . . at first . . . well, when I first asked you if you wanted to come up. What are you doing?”

What I was doing was turning over on top of his thighs, my face next to the erect cock, my arms running up his torso, palms laying on his hairy pecs, the pad of my index fingers on his nipples.

“I’m going to give Willy what he wants and then I’m going to put him—and you back to sleep. You need your sleep.”

His voice was thick and low. “I can’t let you . . . you’re not just giving it away, I know. I can’t expect . . .”

“You’re going to let me shower again and you’re going to feed me breakfast, aren’t you? Even if it’s in the afternoon. You aren’t going to throw me out on the street again right away, are you?”

“No, I’d never throw you out,” he murmured, and then, in a guttural voice, “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.”

I had swallowed his cock and was giving him slow head. He writhed a bit under me and told me it was time for me to pull off him so he could fuck me, but I held him there and sucked on him until he’d ejaculated in my throat. Then I laid my cheek on his stomach, with his cock under my chin, and we both found sleep.

The next time I woke, the clock on the nightstand showed 1:15 in the afternoon. He’d said his shift started at 4:00 p.m. He worked in a music club called the House of Blues as the bartender and the manager most of the time. He’d be the bouncer too, he said, but it wasn’t usually that sort of club. He’d worked those clubs—which I could tell from his battered face—but, he said, had gotten tired of that sort of stuff.

He wasn’t in the bed. The shower was going. I leaned over to the nightstand and fished for the box of Magnums. There were fewer left than I would have thought.

He had his back to me, standing in the shower, when I entered the bathroom. I wrapped my arms around him. He gave a jerk and a low, guttural sound when he realized I was rolling a condom on his cock. I’d encased his staff in both hands—it took both of them—and had started slow stroking. He’d gone hard immediately. While, still standing behind him, helping the cock fill out inside the condom with one hand, I soaped up every surface of his skin with the other one.

After that he took charge, turning me in the small shower and lifting me and settling my channel on his cock. With my shoulder blades against one wall and my knees bent and my feet flat on the opposite wall, he palmed and squeezed and separated my buttocks cheeks with those big hands of his, crouched between my thighs, and fucked me under the stream of hot water, to a mutual ejaculation.

At breakfast, after a silence during which I put away three fried eggs and a mess of bacon, he said, “I want you to stay here, with me, not out in that alley. At least until you can find something better. It’s getting too cold for you to be out there.”

“You’d let me turn tricks during the day and stay here at night?” I asked, looking up at him and raising my eyebrows.

“If that’s what you want. But it would be OK if you stayed here—just with me. I know I’m not—”

“You’re just fine. And your cock and your fucking are more than fine. Your eggs could stand a bit longer on the grill and more salt, though.”

We both laughed; he nervously.

“What do you say? You stay with me, and I’ll take good care of you.”

“You wouldn’t ever say anything if I just didn’t show up for a while?”

“No, I wouldn’t. Whatever it took to get you warm and dry and well fed.”

“And riding your cock?”

“Yes. I won’t lie to you. I’m smitten with you. And, to be blunt, you are for sale.”

“I don’t know. It wouldn’t be a great deal for you and I couldn’t ask you to give me money. I’d have to turn tricks to get some money.” I had no intention of saying yes. I liked my independence and he was uglier than a fence post—I always imagined a movie star daddy. But, there was a lot to say about a warm, safe place to come back to, and boy could he fuck—and the equipment he had to do it with . . .

“You could work where I do,” Art said. “We need someone to bus the place and to serve tables when we get busy, which isn’t often. You could go and come with me, and you’d be warm. Come with me tonight. Hiring is my decision. We can bring your stuff into the club when we get there and just bring it back here after we close. We can set it right over there, ready to go whenever you wanted to take it. You could take it and leave whenever you want. What do you say?”

“Sounds like a sweet deal,” I said, half meaning it, half feeling a bit trapped. “You must really want me bad, though.”

“I do. You know I do.”

What the hell. He was a nice guy, this place was nicer than my cardboard box in the alley, and he had a cock to die for. I wouldn’t have chosen being a rent boy if I didn’t want to ride fine cock.

* * * *

“He sounds good, don’t he?”

I turned my head at the sound. I’d been so mesmerized by the smooth saxophone playing, though, that I hadn’t heard what Art said. I gave him a glazed look.

“I said he makes a good sound with that saxophone, don’t he?”

“He sure does,” I answered. Beyond good. So good, it made me go hard. Smooth jazz got to me that way. Of course, the saxophonist was part of that package. A bit morose and thuggish looking—and older—but that was a turn on for me. Something about him drew me in. Like there was something deep and deliciously illicit inside him.

Art was behind the bar at the House of Blues, cleaning glasses, getting himself ready for the crowd that would appear later in the night. The club didn’t normally start to fill up until nearly eleven, the peak was at midnight, and it was deserted again at closing time at one. Mostly regulars showed up—and then just for an hour or two to get their fix. It was Friday night. Lenny’s night to shine on the saxophone, with piano backing. Other nights Lenny was playing somewhere else. He was so good that Friday night was the big night at the House of Blues.

I was standing in front of the bar, drying the glasses as Art washed them. He’d noticed I’d stopped drying as soon as Lenny started playing.

He’d come in only about ten minutes earlier, right before his first set at eight. A young blond guy, probably a college student, and probably rich from the looks of his preppy clothes, had come in with him. The ebony-black piano player, with the look of the ages about him, Thaddeus, who provided the regular backing throughout the week, had started playing an hour earlier. Lenny just sauntered in, the college guy following him, and slouched onto the stool next to the piano, took the sax out of its case, and worked his way naturally into the tune that Thaddeus was playing. The blond sat at a table in the first row, leaned an elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, and listened, instantly transported. He look clean, vulnerable, and innocent sitting there, with the gnarled black and the somewhat sinisterly jaded-appearing musician in the background.

The young blond sat, mesmerized by the music, just as I was, as if it didn’t appear that he had temptation sitting on his shoulder. I had never heard music that smooth and sexy before in my life.

Lenny was supposed to play forty-minute sets with twenty-minute breaks backstage, which I was to find he sometimes stretched out to as much as an hour and got away with it. There was really no management that showed up here outside of Art, and at peak hours in the club Art didn’t have time to keep track of what the musicians were doing. Thaddeus, the ancient, substantially sized very, very black man, didn’t seem ever to take breaks, though—as long as Art regularly walked over with a fresh beer for him.

At the first break of this Friday, Lenny got up from his stool and stretched. It was then that, without his sax hanging from his neck in front of him, I got my first full look at the physicality of him. He was butt ugly—at least on the first look. But looking at him longer brought everything into balance and he suddenly was charismatic and arousing. He was of above-average height and was lean and wiry. His arms were well-muscled and so lean that I could see the blue of the veins popping out and running close to the surface—at least on one arm. The other one, his right, was covered with a swirling, multicolored tattoo that ran down to his wrist and then v’d down on top of his hand to swirl around his middle finger. His fingers were long and sensuous. He wore a tight muscle T-shirt that v’d deep in front. His pecs bulged prominently as did his crotch in his tight, worn-nearly-white low-rise jeans. He had a gold chain choker necklace, and he was as bald as a billiard cue.

His face was craggy and he looked exactly like someone who had been singing the blues for years. In stark contrast, his eyes were a milky blue and whenever they fell on me, I nearly melted on the spot. So did the college student when Lenny looked at him.

After he’d stood up, I saw him look at the blond guy and incline his head and then turn and walk back to the beaded-curtain covered doorway at the back edge of the small stage. The blond stood up from his table and followed Lenny into the back.

Not more than fifteen minutes later, Art sent me into the back for another tray of glasses. The door was open to the break room as I passed and I was so surprised by what I saw that I stopped, withdrew into the shadows across the corridor from the door, and continued to look, trying to figure out what was going on.

Both Lenny and the blond were naked, facing each other, and straddling a bench. The blond was leaning back against a wall, his shoulder blades on the wall. His hips were rolled up so that the small of his back was supporting his weight on the bench. His left leg, the one toward the door was bent and his foot was on the floor. The ankle of his right foot was hooked on Lenny’s shoulder. He was lithe, but looked like an athlete, well muscled. Definitely pampered.

The tattooing I’d seen on Lenny’s right arm extended all the way down his right side. And he was as lean as I thought, and hard bodied.

I’d seen plenty of guys fucking before—and preparing to fuck—but this scene caught my attention because of what Lenny was doing with his hands—and with their cocks. Their cocks were docked and Lenny was holding them with his left hand. When I looked closer I saw that they were connected. There was a metal rod running from inside Lenny’s piss slit to inside the blond’s, and Lenny was slowly moving his cock back and forth, piss slit fucking them both with the metal rod. I’d heard of this before—it was called sounding—but I’d never seen it. And I never would have imagined it could be done like this with two guys. I saw a cloth laid out on a small table at the other side of the bench and that other rods, which I knew were called wands, were laid out on that. And not just wands. A hypodermic syringe was laying on the cloth too.

The tattooed middle finger of Lenny’s right hand was slowly finger fucking the blond’s ass channel. The blond had a bottle of poppers in his hand and was taking a hit like every minute or so.

I was feeling myself go hard just from the wildness and unexpectedness of the scene and couldn’t focus on what to concentrate on, the sounding of the cocks, Lenny’s tattoos, the expression on the blond’s face, or that tattooed finger appearing and disappearing in the blond’s hole.

I managed to break away, though, when I heard Lenny say it was time to go out and do another set but that the blond should stay there and wait for him. I ran and got the tray of glasses and rushed back to the bar with them before Lenny could get his clothes back on. Art gave me a long look when I got back, I’m sure wondering why I was gone so long. But he didn’t say anything. Art always wasn’t saying anything, not rocking the boat.

You can bet that I found a reason to go into the back when Lenny’s next break came up.

The blond was stretched out on his back on the bench, pretty much gone to the world, his head propped up against the wall behind him and his arms dangling off the side of the bench. Lenny, naked again, was straddling the bench, facing the blond. The college guy’s thighs were spread and resting on top of Lenny’s thighs. Lenny’s cock was inside the blond’s passage and he was moving his hips back and forth in the rhythm of the fuck. One of his hands was encasing the blond’s hard cock, which had a sounding rod running down into the urethra channel.

The syringe I’d seen earlier was on the floor next to the bench.

As I watched, Lenny pulled the wand out, chose one of a bigger size from the cloth on the table, and slowly ran that down into the blond’s piss slit. The blond moaned and I saw his cum burble up around the sides of the wand and dribble down the sides of his cock.

I turned and fled back to the club room, where the crowd was beginning to thicken. I stayed busy the rest of the evening and did what I could not to think of what Lenny had been doing to the blond college guy in the back room.

If anything Lenny’s saxophone sounded sweeter and sexier as the night progressed. I strong sense of sweet and sour rolled over me as I listened to Lenny making love to his saxophone, and I shivered in the arousal of that sensation. I had never . . . never would want to . . . That sounding business. But . . . The young, blond guy seemed so lost to it . . . to be slow dancing on the clouds to it.

I was busy helping Art clean up after closing, so I didn’t see either Lenny or the blond leave. But along about 1:15 in the morning, I was taking trash out to the dumpster in the alley when I saw a flash car stop at the head of the alley. Out of habit, I went out to the street to see if it was a john looking for me. It was a new red Camaro. I bent over and stuck my head in the open passenger window.

Lenny was sitting in the driver’s seat. “Well, don’t just stand there; get in,” he said.

Just like that. Who did he think I was?

* * * *

I was flat on my back on an upholstered bench in a living room high up in a high rise, with full-wall windows on two sides. My wrists and ankles were spread over the sides of the bench, reaching to a thick carpet and tied to the legs of the bench.

Lenny had said it was for my own good.

His thighs were under mine and he was facing me, straddling the bench. He was naked. He had an impossibly long, if not terribly thick cock, which was laying in the crease where my thigh met my groin on one side and was curled over onto my lower belly.

I watched, trembling, and babbling a bit as, holding my hard cock upright with one hand, he slowly inserted the wand into my urethra canal. I moaned and then groaned as he slowly twirled it. His own cock was hardening as he worked mine.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “I know you’re interested in it. You came with me willingly, knowing I was going to fuck you. And I saw you watching me do this to Ben. I knew you wanted it too.”

“Please,” I moaned. Not even I knew what I was asking for with the “please.”

Releasing my cock with his hand but leaving the wand in my cock channel, he moved his forearms under my thighs, raised them a bit, moved his pelvis closer in between my thighs, and penetrated my channel with his now-rock-hard cock. I held my breath as he moved up inside me, and arched my back on the bench and let my head drop over the top edge.

The focus of my senses was split between the sensations of the cock way up inside me and the wand buried in my own cock.

“Oh, god, fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me,” I whimpered.

And then he did. At great length. Without a condom. Bathing my insides deep when he came.

* * * *

I didn’t walk back into Art’s apartment until after noon on Saturday. He was sitting at the table, in the same clothes he had worn the night before, with a newspaper in front of him. An ashtray overflowing with butts sat next to an empty coffee cup. The haphazardly flung string of lights was out on the Christmas tree. I wondered if that was a sign of his mood. He’d kept them on all the time I was there before. The apartment looked extra forlorn with the tree dark. Art didn’t look up at me when I first walked in. The expression on his face was more sad than angry or anything else. He looked tired.

I went into the kitchen area and opened the refrigerator. He was the first one to speak.

“You haven’t eaten? I’ll fix you something.”

“Haven’t eaten, no. Didn’t have any money.”

“Sorry. I can give you what you earned yesterday . . . and can pay you right away for any days you work.”

“I’d like that. I’ll fix myself something. And I was thinking that maybe I’d do more of the cooking around here for us. I think I probably can do it better than you can.”

He perked up at that—and I felt even more like a heel than I had when I was walking up the stairs, wondering what I’d tell him about just leaving before closing and not coming back all night.

“I brought your stuff—your sleeping bag and your other stuff back . . . home,” he said, gesturing over to the space in front of the radiator. “I pulled out the clothes and they’ve been washed, dried, and folded and are layin’ over there on the end of the sofa. You need more clothes. And a coat . . . for the winter. You need to shower?”

“No thanks, I’m good.”

I took a swig from the milk carton and chewed off a section of a cheese slice. It had gone quiet and I looked over at Art, who was sort of hunched down into himself again. I’d told him something he didn’t want to hear by telling him I didn’t need a shower. It told him I’d been somewhere other than the alley I’d come from. I came in looking pretty scrubbed—which I’d had to do double hard to get the smell of Lenny off me. It told him I’d been with a john. Not quite, but I didn’t want to tell him who I’d been with. God, I felt like a bastard. I put the milk carton and the unfinished slice of cheese back in the refrigerator.

“Art.”

“Yes?”

“Can you take me to the bedroom? I need you to take me to the bedroom.” I couldn’t think of anything else to do to stop making me feel like such a heel.

He fucked me standing next to the bed, me lying on the bed below him. It was all him. I wanted him to know that it was all him. He was standing, facing and hunched over the side of the bed, his hands gripping me on each side where my buttocks curved down into the small of my back.

My weight was on my shoulder blades on the surface of the bed and my arms extended out on the surface of the bed, my fists clutching at the bedspread, bunching it up and releasing it in the rhythm of his pumping. My cheek was against the scratchiness of the chenille bedspread, and I was crying out how big and stretching he was and how much I was loving his dicking. And I wasn’t lying.

My legs were wrapped around the small of his back and he was pulling and pushing my channel on his cock with the strength of his hands.

Afterward we lay stretched against each other, me on my side inside the embrace of one of his arms. I traced his solid, big-boned nakedness with the tips of my fingers, moving up to his face and his lips. My own lips replaced the fingers and we engaged in what probably was the first long, lingering kiss we’d had. I could feel him shuddering and a sob escaped him from around my lips. I moved a hand down his torso and buried my fingers in his pubes and rubbed and pulled lightly on his thick, curly hair down there. I could feel that he was reengorging. He started to turn over me, to cover my body and then remount me. But I gently pushed him back onto his back.

“Shhh, be still,” I whispered. “There’s plenty of time for that. You need to sleep now. I’ll take care of you and then you sleep.”

He sighed as I handed his cock and began to slowly masturbate him.

“You’re so good to me, Art,” I whispered.

He made a low, guttural sound. His pelvis was starting to move in rhythm to my jacking. But my jacking wasn’t enough for him. He turned, coming over on top of me. I surrendered to him. It was what he wanted. I spread my legs and raised my knees, placing my feet flat on the surface of the bed, rolling my pelvis up to give him a good angle for the slide of his cock. He was between my thighs, his big, hardened cock poking at my lower belly. I reached over to the nightstand for a condom packet.

“One thing is for sure,” I said, as I reached between our bodies and rolled the Magnum on.

He huffed a “What?”

“We’re going to need more condoms real soon.”

His answer was to start working his cock into me, while he embraced me closely and buried his face in the hollow of my neck. Panting hard and trying to spread my legs farther apart and raise my buttocks more to him, I turned every ounce of my attention to trying to open to him. It was like this each time, working hard to open to the hard thickness of him. The deep, deep penetration. And I loved it each time.

Then he began to pump and I lost all thought of anything.

Thinking came later as I sat at the table, eating. I’d left Art asleep at last on the bed, a smile on his lips.

My thoughts were convoluted and went back to the night before. In Lenny’s king-sized bed beside the full-wall window overlooking the lights of the city. Lenny’s back was propped up on pillows against the headboard of his bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms embracing me as I lay stretched out on top of him, pointed to the ceiling.

Most of his long cock was up my channel. It may have been the longest one of any man who’d had me. We were both looking down the line of my trembling torso, with me panting shallowly, by his instruction, as he slowly twirled the third, larger wand into the piss slit of my cock with the same hand that he was holding it erect with.

With every fiber of my being I was concentrating on holding steady, when I wanted to yowl and set my hips in motion in response to the filling penetration of two of my orifices.

“You’re good with this,” Lenny murmured. “A natural. You wanted it bad, didn’t you?”

“I heard about it,” I answered. “I was curious, yes. I’ve tried most everything.”

“And this. Good is it?”

“When you do it, yes.”

“Nothing more possessing, one man of another, than this.”

“Yes.” I moaned as he slowly twirled the wand out and reached for a thicker one. A few moments of heavy breathing from both of us and deep moaning from me, as the fourth wand worked its way in. His cock was throbbing inside me, and hard as a rock. This was as arousing to Lenny as it was to me.

“Now, right now, you are fully mine.”

“Yes.”

“From what Art tells me—and more from what he doesn’t say—you are a whore.”

“Yes.”

“You going to be my whore?”

“Yes.”

He laced his legs through mine and raised up and out, giving him leverage to start pumping up into my channel with his cock.

I felt his thumb press at my lips as he began to pump me with his cock. I opened my mouth to the thumb and started sucking on it, as he moved it in and out. He possessed me and was fucking me in every orifice. Complete, total possession. I felt the release of my cum rising up around the embedded wand and flowing down the sides of my cock, into my pubes. He ejaculated not long afterward in a strong spurt deep inside me. No condoms for Lenny. He lived on the edge. He didn’t particularly care if his partner didn’t want to—and I, for one, hadn’t objected any more than that young blond guy probably had. With Lenny, that Lenny wanted you was enough.

I woke up on the bed in the morning, naked and sore all over. He’d fucked me twice more in the night. I was alone, but it didn’t take long to realize that what woke me was the sweet sound of the saxophone.

I showered and dressed. He was still playing the sax when I came out into the living and dining area. His apartment was so much more than Art’s was. But I wasn’t really comfortable in it. Everything was just too expensive looking, too slick. I didn’t think of it at the time, but it was as too slick as Lenny himself was.

It didn’t hit me until the last day that I walked out of that apartment, forever, that, as expensive as his stuff was, Lenny’s apartment was sterile. He didn’t even have a Christmas tree up. Not even one as good as Art’s. I gained a whole new appreciation for that bedraggled Christmas tree of Art’s.

He was sitting, naked, on a dining room chair next to a glass-topped table. His body was beautiful—not in a bodybuilder’s way but sensual, hard, reflecting a hard-living life that went with the blues sounds he was pulling out of the sax. His tattooing mesmerized me. I suddenly came to some sort of realization that it wasn’t just random swirls. It was trying to tell a story. Maybe his life story? I just couldn’t read it. I couldn’t read Lenny. Even in the intimacy—and having a guy sound you and fuck you at the same time couldn’t become more intimate—Lenny remained a cypher to me. Remote. I wanted more from him . . . with him, though. I wanted to merge with him. I ached for him to fuck and sound me again, to play me like he was playing that sax.

On the table beside him was a hypodermic syringe and a small glass bottle. The bottle appeared to be empty.

Lenny didn’t even know I was there. I didn’t bother to go into the kitchen. I walked to the entrance to the apartment and closed the door quietly beyond me. Lenny wouldn’t have known if I had slammed it.

For a while I didn’t know where I was going, but my feet carried me back to Art’s apartment.

* * * *

I was so deep into remembering what I allowed Lenny to do with me—what I wanted him to do to me—as I sat at Art’s table that I only slowly was aware the hulking club bouncer was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, dressed, his hair wet from the shower. The look he was giving me was unguarded, and I instantly felt the heel again from the love and desire I saw in his eyes.

“Guess it’s about time for me to go to work again.”

“If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll shower and dress and go with you,” I said.

He beamed at me. “We got time to stop and buy you some more clothes, if you’d like.”

“Yes, I’d like that. And maybe we can stop at the bodega and get some beer and one of those boxes of chocolates they have in the window for Christmas . . . and get a couple more boxes of those Magnums too.”

He beamed again.

We were happy and domesticated through the rest of the week, right through Christmas and moving toward New Year, settling down into a pattern. And I’d been right. My cooking was a lot better than his was.

* * * *

Lenny was crouched over me, his weight borne on a hand propped next to my head, as I lay flat on my back on the padded bench in his living room, my hands clutched and digging into his biceps, my heels digging into the carpet on either side of the bench, toes tense, pointed up, crunching in rhythm with his rocking. His other hand was between our bellies, cupping both of our docked cocks, the cocks linked by a metal rod penetrating both of our piss slits.

I moaned deeply, completely transported, not knowing why I found this so arousing, so satisfying. But not caring, as long as he continued doing this to me.

He was slowly rocking his cock back and forth, narrowing the distance between our bulbs of the exposed metal, forcing more of the wand into each of our cocks, fucking both of the urethra channels.

I was panting hard, perpetually close to coming, and watching his eyes closely, only now and then casting a gaze down my torso to the two docked cocks. He’d told me what the goal was. There was still two and a half inches of rod to be seen between our bulbs.

“It usually takes forever for a guy to learn to take this,” Lenny murmured. “You learn fast. You love this. My own little fuckin’ whore.”

He rose up momentarily, reaching for a bottle of poppers. “Here, take another drag on this,” he said, waving it under my nose. When I had, my eyes followed the bottle back to the surface of the adjacent table, where the wands were laid out on a table. Next to them was the hypodermic syringe and the other bottle. I shuddered in fear of that.

Lenny went back to moving his cock, swallowing more of the wand at his end, penetrating my urethra canal more with the wand at the other end. I felt the tip of my bulb kiss the tip of his. With a little jerk I came. And so did he, our cum colliding and mixing. He wrapped an arm around my waist, raising my pelvis to his, his continuing to sway back and forth, sending the wand connecting our cocks shimmering. My torso was arched back toward the surface of the bench, my head thrown back, my arms dangling at my side. His lips went to the hollow of my neck and then descended to my nipples.

Swaying back and forth, back and forth. I had had cum in reserve and gave it to him now. The same with him.

“Nice” he said, stopping and holding. Then, “I’m taking you to the bed now and fucking your lights out.”

“I can’t stay the night,” I murmured. But he wasn’t listening to me.

That was the first thing I’d said to him too that second Friday night when I was putting the garbage in the alley dumpster along about 1:15 a.m., as Art and I were closing up the House of Blues.

The red Camaro had shown up at the head of the alley and I’d dipped my head to the passenger window and told Lenny, “I can’t stay the night.”

Art and I had had a good, solid week of settling in when Friday night rolled around again and it was Lenny’s regular gig to play at the House of Blues.

He’d brought the blond college kid with him and, once again, the kid had followed Lenny beyond the beaded curtain into the back of the club after Lenny’s first set. And once again Lenny took his sweet time on his break and the blond didn’t come back into the main room with him.

And once again Lenny’s playing was mesmerizing. He played just like he was playing for me and was playing my body as smoothly and sweetly as he was playing that sax. Art just let me moon. He knew I’d make up the work time during Lenny’s breaks and that this was only once a week.

I have no idea if Art knew that it had been Lenny I was with the previous Friday night or not. All I know is that Art said nothing, showed nothing other than a bit of concern in the way he saw me mooning over Lenny and his music. I don’t know, maybe if Art had shown more jealousy . . . but then maybe not. I knew I was like a skittish colt, ready to break and run back to a life on the streets the first sign of possessiveness from Art.

Which was kind of funny, really. That’s what attracted me to Lenny. His complete possession of me.

I got busy toward 10:00 p.m. and didn’t see whether the blond guy came back out to the main room the rest of the night.

On Lenny’s bed that night, he was on top of me, fucking me from behind, and I was belly to the bed, when he went up on his knees between my thighs and pulled me up on my knees in front of him. I could vaguely see our reflection bouncing off the window overlooking the city. He was holding me against his chest with one arm embracing mine.

I watched—and whimpered—as he reached over beside us with the other hand and picked out a wand—thicker than I’d taken before—and, cupping my hard cock, began to work the wand into my piss slit, twirling it as it descended into me. Then he pushed my torso down again, so that I was on all fours, and began pumping me seriously with his cock. His hand was still cupping my cock and holding it so that, as my body lowered more from the onslaught of his ass fucking, the bulb of my cock pushed into the surface of the bed—or, rather, the end of the wand did.

As his strokes pushed my hips down lower, the wand was slowly penetrating deeper into my urethra canal. Lenny took his hand away and I was then forcing the deeper penetration myself, pushing down a bit more each time before drawing back. When it occurred to me that I was now fucking my own cock with the wand, I was overcome with arousal and ejaculated. Sensing that I had, Lenny laughed and came inside me too.

He pushed me all of the way down on the surface of the bed, with his body covering mine.

The last thing I remember saying before I drifted off to an exhausted sleep was, “I can’t stay the night.”

I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of soft sax music from the living room. I turned over on my back and realized from the swollen soreness feeling in my cock that the wand was still in it. Just the thought of that made me start going hard again. I rolled onto my back and grasped the bulb at the end of the wand and, slowly, started to pull it out. I moaned at the feel of it moving inside. I’d pulled it three-quarters of the way out when, without thinking, I slowly twirled it back down to half way. I arched my back from the pleasurable feel of it. Out . . . and then back in. Out and in, out and in. I was groaning and moaning at the forbidden pleasure of it. When I pulled it all of the way out, it was to leave my ejaculation unimpeded.

I lay there, thinking what a slut I was and knowing that I repeatedly had said I couldn’t stay the night, knowing that Art would be sitting at the table in his little apartment, smoking cigarette after cigarette, pretending to read the newspaper, probably doing my laundry, and worrying about where I was. The lights of his Christmas tree turned off . . . because I wasn’t there.

With a sigh, I rolled out of the bed, took a shower, dressed, and walked out into the living room. As before, Lenny was lost to my presence, making love to his saxophone, the syringe and empty drug bottle next to him on the glass-topped table.

* * * *

When I walked into the apartment early Saturday afternoon, Art was sitting at the table again, but he was eating his breakfast. He was wearing a robe over pajama bottoms. No overflowing ashtray, no mauled newspaper. No lights beaming on the Christmas tree, though. I’ll admit there was more than a glint of concern in his eyes, which gave me a twinge of guilt. But he was none the worse for wear. I had been gone overnight on a Friday and had come back to him. He was trustful—and simple enough—to believe I’d come back to him the next Saturday morning too. I had, of course, but this level of trust in him gave me a little concern.

Which was ironic, as I was the one causing the concern.

“You missed the excitement of last night.”

I gave him a hard look. I hadn’t missed any excitement last night. Lenny had given me just about more excitement than I could handle. But I could see that Art wasn’t being sarcastic.

“What excitement?”

“One of the customers—that young college kid who followed Lenny around like a puppy dog. Right at closing I found him in the break room at the back of the club.”

“Did you have to roust him out?”

“No. He was dead. He’d OD’d. On heroin, the medical examiner thought likely. Back there in the break room sometime during the evening. He was naked and everything, his body just lying on that bench back there, stiff as a board.”

“God, the cops and everything came?” My mind was racing. Lenny. Did he know? Had he known all that time he was sounding and fucking me last night. And offering me poppers? And with the hypo needle next to us. And the one next to him this morning?

“Yeah, they did. And they want to talk to as many of the people in the audience we can identify and Lenny too. They didn’t show much interest in talking with Thaddeus, though. I told him that I’d never seen Thaddeus away from the piano. The guy must have a cast-iron bladder or bag or something.”

“Me?” I asked, still in shock and not listening to much else Art was saying.

“They don’t know about you. And there’s no reason they need to unless someone else mentions you. I thought with what you’d been doing before and all and then you and Lenny—”

“Thanks, but I’ve never been picked up,” I said. “I hadn’t been out on the street all that long.” I had gasped inwardly at his reference to Lenny and me. So, he knew it was Lenny who was shagging me the nights I didn’t come home . . . to Art’s home. And he hadn’t mentioned it. Well, if he wasn’t going to mention it, neither was I.

Art smiled a little smile like my statement that I had worked the street for long made him happy. Although, considering what else I was doing, that seemed an empty satisfaction. Of course Art was grabbing at whatever illusions made life easier for him—just as I was. I watched him rise from the table and go over and switch the Christmas tree lights on.

“But it’s fine with me if they never hear about me,” I added.

I didn’t know the blond from Adam, so I didn’t have too much grief to spare on him. But Lenny. Now I was scared of—and for—Lenny. I wouldn’t go with him again.

“You hungry?” Art asked.

“Yes, but I’ll fix something.”

“Need to take a shower?”

I hesitated, knowing I’d just had one at Lenny’s place. “Yeah, that would be nice. But you look like you haven’t had yours yet yourself. Maybe we could do it together.”

I fucked myself on his cock, with him standing against a wall of the shower and me draped on his front, fists locked behind his neck and hanging off him, my feet leveraging off the wall out wide from his waist, and pumping my channel on his cock.

We had to stop at the bodega for a couple more boxes of the Magnums on our way to work that afternoon—and more beer. And the rest of the week went just fine. I could feel myself in the groove and the panic of being in a groove like this dissipating with each day.

I’d had a scare and a brush with something I couldn’t control. But now I was in control. If the cops didn’t get at me and wear me down, I’d just bypass Lenny from now on. Let him spiral down by himself if that’s where he was headed.

* * * *

Late, late Friday night, New Year’s Eve, the two of us facing each other, both straddling the padded bench in his living room, our foreheads touching, sweating, each of us watching our own cock and that of the other, the two almost touching, as we each sounded ourselves. Lenny was way ahead of me in wand thickness. His looked like a baseball bat.

“Here, let me,” he whispered. He took hold of my cock and pulled the wand out. Then he pulled the much thicker wand out of his cock and pressed the end of it at my piss slit.

“No, Lenny, I don’t think . . . it’s much too thick.”

“This will help you.”

“Oh, god, no Lenny. I don’t.”

But the needle was already piercing a vein in my arm. “Just a little. Just enough to relax you, to loosen you up. To help you take this. I want to see this in my little whore.”

“No, Lenny, no . . .” The drug was already working on me. The room was swirling around me. I leaned back on my elbows on the bench and watched that seven inches of baseball bat beginning to be inserted into my urethra. I felt the thickness of it and yet again I didn’t. I was floating and laughing. No cares at all as, inch by inch, the wand disappeared into my cock slit.

“Nice. Fucking time.” There was an edge of excitement in his voice.

Lenny was standing, still straddling the bench and lifting my pelvis up to him with hands gripping my waist. My torso was arched back toward the surface of the bench, my weight on my shoulder blades, and my arms dangling uselessly down the sides of the bench. I was looking at a smiling, almost leering, Lenny up the line of my arched torso, beyond my erect and throbbing cock with three inches of wand showing—but now not even that. I could feel myself drawing the wand inside me. Maybe only two inches showing now. How long had it been? Six, seven inches? Oh, shit, oh, jesuzzz. Not more than one inch now. My cock hungrily swallowing it. Lenny in double, triple now. Smiling, his cock penetrating deep, deeper. Pumping me, pumping, pumping, pumping. I’m laughing, crying out to him how wonderful I feel, how I want him to fuck me forever.

Lenny’s fingers gripping the last half inch of the wand as he fucks me. Drawing it almost all the way out. Pushing it back in. Twirling it. Out, in, twirl. Out, in, twirl.

“My little whore,” I hear him say.

Out, and I watch my cum splash all over his belly . . . his bellies . . . there are multiple of them.

I feel him come too, in a flood, the flood of all time. I’m laughing.

“To the bedroom,” the three Lenny’s say, in unison and harmony.

Fucking, fucking, fucking. All Friday night long fucking me. Fucking me from one year into the next. Lights flashing on and off, all colors, all night long. The bedroom window wall melting and the bed floating out over the city. Fireworks going off across the city. Fireworks going off in Lenny’s bedroom—on Lenny’s bed. And then . . . nothing.

The mother of all headaches when I woke up Saturday morning—the next year. In Lenny’s bed. No saxophone music to wake me this morning. I rolled over, placed my feet on the floor, waited for a few minutes to gather my strength and intent, and then shakily stood and gingerly padded to the bathroom to take a shower.

No shower today, though, not here. Lenny was curled up on the floor of the bathroom, a syringe beside him, dead as a doornail.

I couldn’t pull on my clothes and get out of there fast enough. I literally ran the ten blocks to Art’s apartment and busted through the door. Art was sitting at the table.

“God, Art, I need you. Take me to the bedroom and fuck my brains out. God, I need you.”

Not asking any questions, not then, not later, Art did just as I asked.

No connection was ever made. I couldn’t be happier to be settling down with Art and working with him at the club. There was a little twinge of regret when he pulled the Christmas tree down, but I no longer needed the lights on the tree. Now, content, I felt the light of Art inside me.

The sleeping bag and a dwindling pile of my “stuff” from my earlier life are still sitting there next to the radiator, symbols of a choice I still can make.

I’m happy with the choice I’ve made, though. I didn’t get a winter coat until the next winter. You don’t need a winter coat in bed. We did, though, have to find a cheaper and higher volume supplier of Magnums than the bodega near the House of Blues.