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The middle-aged man in the suit was crowding me at the bar at Harvey’s in New York’s Chelsea district and talking dirty to me. I was smiling and nodding, but my eyes kept drifting over to the table, where a guy a bit younger and far better looking and built was giving me the eye. If he’d just been a bit more definite in his signaling, I’d have broken away from the suit and gone over to his table. It was the middle of the day, so traffic was light at Harvey’s. If I was going to eat that night, though, I was going to have to attract some paying action. I wasn’t really a pro at this, but there were a couple of days a month I was so stretched for cash that I had to turn a trick or two. This was one of those times. I needed to turn the freelance writing into something more steady, if I was going to hang on for much longer in New York. I wasn’t anxious to have to go back to New Orleans, where prospects weren’t much better.
I looked down at the twenty and five spots the suit was laying out on the bar. This—$25—and the beer was what he was offering for a blow job. I gave him another once over. He wasn’t so bad—pushing fifty maybe and could stand to lose a couple of pounds, but his face wasn’t too bad and his suit was clean and cut well. And he looked like he’d be easy to control.
“It will have to be here, in back,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere with you for twenty-five. And it will be quick.”
“Sounds good to me,” the suit said. I put my hand on the two bills, and the suit put a hand on top of mine. His nails looked like they’d been manicured. Maybe I was underestimating what it was worth to him. But a deal was a deal. I looked over to Craig, behind the bar, who I knew had one eye on us. He looked around the bar—you never knew when a vice cop would be sitting and watching, but the guy at the table didn’t look like a vice cop to me, or to Craig either, apparently. He gave a slight nod and inclined his head toward a beaded curtain-covered doorway to the corridor of rooms behind the barroom. Craig would get five of the twenty-five. I knew that back corridor well, as Craig knew what I needed when I came in here in an afternoon—never at night, as the clientele at night tended to be rough and the pros staked out their territory here at night.
Craig and I had an understanding. Once a month I showed up here at closing and drank a complimentary beer while he closed up. Then he took me into a room in the back and doggie fucked me. Once a month. For that and a small cut of my take he looked the other way and aided and abetted me—and gave me protection—when I had to come in here a couple of times late in the month to turn a trick or two to make it through the month.
This wasn’t a bar where blacks usually came—either bottom or top seeking—and thus I was a novelty here and probably attracted more favorable attention than the white rent-boys coming in here later in the day. But then I wasn’t full black, more what they called coffee and cream—with as many French, Dutch, and native South American features and ancestors as West African.
I pushed away from the bar—and out of the loose embrace the suit had me in, his hand on the arm around my back having dropped from my waist to my butt when I’d accepted the bills on the bar top. “Follow me through that door,” I said, “the one with the beaded curtain.”
The suit looked at Craig, who nodded at him.
As I moved toward the doorway, I looked over to the younger guy at the table. He was giving me a steady look, which I hoped meant “later.” If there was a later with him, maybe I wouldn’t have to come in here tomorrow. Maybe I’d make enough to see me to the receipt of the promised check from the Plenitude magazine. And if there was a later with the guy at the table, I wouldn’t mind it being more than a blow job.
The suit positioned me crouching on my knees, back to the wall, in the dimly lit corridor beyond the beaded curtain, with him standing in front of me, his arms extended to the back wall, boxing me in. This wasn’t my favorite position, as it gave the john more control over movement. I found it was the more experienced and demanding men who established this position rather than their back to the wall and me free to move in any direction I wanted or needed to anytime during the encounter. I had misjudged how easy this was going to be.
He established maximum control from the start, putting a hand against my bicep on either side, pressing me to the wall, while I unzipped him and took his half-hard cock out. He wasn’t particularly large, but he wasn’t small either. I did a double take, though, to find that he had a PA ring in his cut cock head. He was far from being a novice.
I cupped his balls and ran my tongue up and down the sides of his cock as it engorged and he whispered, “Yes, yes, take it. Good, good,” in a breathy voice. “Swallow it. Deep-throat it,” he growled.
I did, and everything was just fine for a while. I set up a rhythm of swallowing and then pulling back and sucking on the head, letting the PA ring click against my teeth so that we both could hear and appreciate the sound of it. But when he took his hands İstanbul Escort off my biceps and moved them to grab my head, I knew he was going to take this downtown—and he did.
We had about ten minutes of him face fucking me hard, him pulling my head into him as he thrust inside me, penetrating me deep and making me gag before he released. He only released when there was a danger of him coming; he wanted to get more than his money’s worth. When he came, he creamed my face, let loose of my head, and let me just sort of collapse down at the base of the wall, as he zipped up, turned, and pushed back through the beaded curtain.
I remained there for a few minutes, breathing heavily, licking his cum from around my mouth, and moaning slightly. In some ways that had been enjoyable, in others not so much. I liked giving up all control, but I didn’t like the back of my throat bruised quite that much or my teeth endangered by the click of the PA ring. I counted my lucky stars that he hadn’t been hung, but that wasn’t a twenty-five-dollar blow job. That was worth no less than fifty.
I went to the men’s room and cleaned up my face and straightened my clothes. He’d pulled my T-shirt over my head as I went down on my knees. I’d unzipped my shorts myself—and I’d beat myself off while he face fucked me, coming before he did. I had a little cleanup work to do on the front of my shorts.
When I felt presentable, I reentered the barroom through the beaded curtain. There was no evidence of the suit. He’d gotten what he wanted and had left. The man was still sitting at the table, however, his eyes going to me as soon as I pushed through the curtain. I’ll admit that my eyes had gone directly to his table too, hoping he’d still be there, and he was.
There were two beers on the table in front of him. I walked back to the bar, but before I got there, Craig gestured toward the room and said, “Guy at the table over there is buying you a beer if you’ll go sit with him.”
* * * *
“Jacques. You pronounce it just like J-A-C-K, but it’s spelled J-A-C-Q-U-E-S.” I didn’t see why I shouldn’t be open with him about my name—or anything else he wanted. He had a nice smile, and from what I could see of him, he had a good body. A great body if you took into account that he was probably in his mid-thirties. Although he was seated, I could tell that he’d be tall when he stood—big hands. He was starting to go bald, his forehead being quite high in the middle. But his honesty in not hiding that was fine with me. His face was good—his features rugged, but masculine. And, as I’d already noted, he had a nice smile—not predatory. Best of all, though, I had found that there was a hundred-dollar bill laying next to my beer glass when I sat down. That was worth me being open with him.
“I’m Phil. Jacques. That sounds French, but you don’t—”
“It is. My family is from Martinique, which was Dutch and French. And I’m here by way of New Orleans—a couple of generations back.”
“I could tell that you had some sort of accent. It sounds nice. Sexy.”
“And you could tell that I’m black, but not completely so. My people came to Martinique as slaves from Senegal, but, once there, they mixed with the Dutch and French. So, I’m quite a mix.”
“Quite a mix, indeed. The best of all the parts. You’re a beautiful young man, Jacques. I’m from Iowa. I guess if you shared so can I. Scandinavian before that, I guess. What brings you to New York from New Orleans, Jacques? I like saying that name. I’d think you would be perfect in a New Orleans setting. Not that you aren’t perfect right here too.”
“Thanks. I’m a writer. Or trying to be. It’s hard freelancing here in New York. I don’t know how much longer I can hang on here.”
“Fiction or nonfiction?”
“Newspaper and magazine features when I can.”
“Financial problems? That’s why you’re doing what you are here, in this bar? Why you went in the back with that man?”
“Yes.” He’d brought me back to earth and I was a bit irritated. “What is it you want, Phil? What do you want me to do for this hundred dollars laying here by my beer glass? Or did it just find its way on the table on its own?”
“You are quite direct, aren’t you?”
“I don’t have the time or privilege of being otherwise. There’s dinner to be paid for.”
“I’ll take you to dinner. I’m interested in your writing. I edit for the Gay City News. No, really I do.” I must have given him a disbelieving look. “We’re always looking for writing talent. I’d like to see some of your work.”
“Well, that’s a new come-on line. You’ll pay me hundred dollars to look at samples of my work?” There was a fifty-fifty chance he was shitting me about working for a newspaper just to get in my pants. If so, he was trying too hard. What I liked about him and that hundred-dollar bill was all he needed to fuck me.
“No, since you want to be direct. I’ll pay you hundred dollars to lie on your back and take my cock—twice, if I like the first time. Is that direct enough for you? And if I like your writing, I might give you a job. If you’re a good submissive, İstanbul Escort Bayan I might do both—give you a job—and pay to fuck you regularly. Deal?”
“Yes. Take me to dinner and then I’ll take you to my place, such as it is; show you samples of my writing; and let you fuck me.”
* * * *
“We have until midnight,” I said, as we reached the fourth landing of the old brownstone apartment house above a 29th Street Chinese restaurant. We were headed to the sixth floor. There was no elevator. “I have a roommate, but he’s a dancer and in the chorus of Hamilton. There’s a performance this evening and he won’t be home until at least midnight.”
Midnight was time enough for whatever we were going to do. I didn’t usually bring men home, but my apartment was close to where we had dinner and Phil Ames—he’d told me his full name over dinner and I’d told him mine, Jacques Rostoland—didn’t offer to take me to his place. So, he probably was married, I surmised. He told me he lived over in Brooklyn, close to the Gay City News office on Metrotech North and not close to where we were. He said he couldn’t wait as long as it would take for us to get there. That sounded like a nice excuse, at least. Plus, if he was on the up and up about being a newspaper editor and wanted to see a sample of my work, that would have to be at my place, where my laptop was.
He looked around, which didn’t take long, when we entered the studio apartment. It was essentially one room, with a bath, a kitchenette on one wall, and one window overlooking an alley and the brick wall of the building next door.
“There’s only one bed. You said you had a roommate.”
“Yes, one bed, and I have a roommate,” I answered. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” he answered and then gave a little laugh to cover the question he wasn’t asking. “You have samples of your writing to show me?”
“You want to do that first?” I asked, a bit incredulously. I already had pulled my T-shirt over my head and he’d given me a big smile. “OK,” I said when he seemed not able to stop looking to answer me. “The laptop is on the table over there.” I pointed to the small table with the two straight chairs pulled in under it. Other than that and the bed, we had a leather sofa and an easy chair. The large-screen TV was on the wall over the kitchenette appliances, the countertop refrigerator, stove, and the piece de resistance that justified the outrageous rent, a washer-dryer combination. “It’s just sleeping. I have a work in progress on it, but it’s far enough along to give you an idea of my writing. I did go to college in journalism—Southern University.”
“You went to college?” he asked, sounding a bit incredulous, as he sat down at the table, his attention away from me, and woke the laptop up.
“Yes, did I sound like I was a dummy?”
“No, you sound quite educated—with a kicky Louisiana accent. But you look like you are nineteen—at least I hoped you were. I was afraid to ask.”
“I’m twenty-two,” I said.
“Great genes then,” he answered, but his voice sounded a little distant. He was engrossed in reading my article draft I was freelancing for the Gay & Lesbian Literary Review. He left me fidgeting there for several minutes while he read.
“Yes. Very good. You can write.” He did some keying work on the computer and then said, “I’m serious when I say I edit for the Gay City News. Here’s our masthead. You can see my name. I’m also serious in maybe you working for us. What do you think—?” But then he stopped as he’d turned and looked at me. I’d stripped down and was standing there, naked. “Holy shit, you’re beautiful. And sexy as hell,” he said.
He forgot all about the laptop then and rose from the chair, stripping off his shirt as he did so, was close to me in two strides, went down on his knees, and took my cock in his mouth. His hands went to cupping my buttocks, which was a good thing, because he was so good at sucking me off that my knees turned to rubber and all that was holding me up was his grip on my buttocks and my hands gripping his head.
When I warned him that I would come if he didn’t let up, he let up and pulled his mouth off my dick. Then he stood as I went down on my knees; unbuckled and unzipped him; pulled his trousers and briefs down to his ankles, with him stepping out of them; and serviced his cock with my mouth. He was what you’d call a reddish blond on top, which got redder as the pattern of swirling tufts of hair covered his pecs and then descended in a line to his bush, which was a flaming red. His cock was long, at least seven inches, but not appreciably thick.
He was a considerate blow job subject, holding my head in his hands, crouching a bit to reduce his height to my convenience where I knelt, and moaning and whispering encouragement to me, letting me know what he liked and what he liked better, warning me when he might not be able to stem his coming and letting me back off and suck his balls until he signaled that I could swallow him again. I deep-throated him, but he let me control that completely, allowing me to pull off before I gagged Escort İstanbul on him.
He was attentive to me in the first fuck too. We were on the sofa, lengthwise, my back reclining against pillows jammed into the arm of the sofa, my ankles on his shoulders, as, on his knees on the sofa cushion, he worked his way inside me, his eyes capturing mine, speaking to me dirty in low tones, taking his time penetrating me to where his red pubic curlies mingled with my black ones.
Then, patiently, he held, fully sheathed inside me, more than seven throbbing inches of him, not seeming thick when I’d eyeballed his equipment, but feeling very thick inside me—and impossibly long, possessing me deep. We kissed deeply, and then he pulled his face away from mine, encircling my neck with his arms, holding me there in thrall, his cock throbbing deep inside me, as I built up the need for him. I writhed under him as much as his close embrace permitted, and, eventually begged him for the fuck. Then, with a low laugh, he started to pump me, with me primed to move my pelvis with him. He pumped me increasingly harder and faster, and I cried out in passion and went with him, my hand on my cock, stroking away to the same rhythm he was pumping me. With a cry I shot up his belly, and soon thereafter he stiffened, gave a low cry of his own, and filled the bulb of his condom.
“You’re very good,” he murmured afterward, still inside me, both of us concentrating on him going flaccid, but buried deep enough not to lose purchase. He was being considerate, bearing the weight of his solid six-something frame on top of my slim five-foot-eight on his knees and with his forearms resting on the arm of the sofa on either side of my chest, inside my own arms, which I had encircling his chest.
“You’re better,” I answered before he locked his lips on mine and we went into a deep kiss session, during which I felt his cock engorge again.
“You said there would be a second if you approved of the first,” I whispered as we came out of the kiss. “It feels like—”
“Yes, I want to fuck you again. Do you want it?”
“Not just because I am offering you a job?”
“No, because your cock is magic and you make me explode.”
He laughed, pulled out of me long enough to retrieve another condom from the pocket of his trousers and crown himself. I saw him pause and lift his eyebrows when he tossed the used condom in the wastebasket next to the bed and saw others there. But what did he expect? Neither Greg nor I were good at housekeeping. He returned quickly, turned me over so that my belly was over the sofa arm and my head and arms were hanging toward the floor, mounted me, and fucked the shit out of me. No long hold inside me to experience my buildup of need. He had his own need. He fucked me hard, fast, and deep, inclined like a board on top of me, the balls of his feet pressed into the sofa cushion, his hands gripping my waist, and fucking the hell out of me—making me explode.
“You want a beer?” I asked when we were done and he was back at the table, reading a finished article of mine on the laptop. We were both still naked.
“Do we have time?”
I looked at the clock on the nightstand, which showed that it nearly was 9:00 p.m. “We have time for that and more,” I said.
He laughed, but he continued reading on the laptop. “This is good, really good,” he said.
“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say, but then I did say, “You know I don’t offer a beer to a john after he’s fucked me unless I liked it.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” he said, but he continued reading for a while. I walked around the room, not being able to settle. I couldn’t stand being right there while someone was reading my work. It wasn’t like they were off somewhere else reading what already had been through editing, published, and paid for.
After several minutes, he turned and looked at me, and said, “You are so beautiful, and such a sweet lay. You want me to fuck you again? I want to fuck you again, but I wouldn’t pay for it. I’ve offered you a job. That should be enough for me to have privileges.”
I looked at the clock. 9:20 p.m. “Yeah, I want you to fuck me again. But shouldn’t you be getting home? Don’t you have a wife who’s expecting you home?”
“She knows I work all hours at the newspaper. It’s what newspapermen do; she’s used to it.”
No beating around the bush and pretending he wasn’t married. For some reason that made it better for me.
“We could use the chair this time,” Phil continued. “No mussing of the bed. Your roommate wouldn’t even know I’d been here.”
“I don’t give a fuck whether my roommate knows it or not.” If he didn’t care about his wife, why should I care about Greg? We weren’t married or anything.
He fucked me on the bed, more slowly and more sensually this time. I was stretched out on my belly and he was stretched out on top of me. He was fisting my wrists, holding my arms over my head, my fists wrapped around brass slats in the headboard. My legs were spread wide, held there by his. Both of us had our knees dug into the mattress, giving us leverage to move our hips. Our only moving parts were our pelvises, his rising and falling as he mined my ass deep, and me going with the rhythm he was setting. He had his mouth buried in the hollow of my throat and was whispering dirty words to me as he fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.
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