The Window Cleaner Ch. 02: Drake

Gene made a big deal of control, and so it wasn't that long before I wanted to control guys as well. He helped there. He took me to a male brothel on the edge of town, where men came to be bound and fucked—and often flogged and whipped. A strapping young man like me with a great body and a black dick on a white body became a favorite, and I took right to controlling men and fucking them bound.

Never with Gene, though. He always did the riding and all I contributed was a hard shaft. My mother eventually caught us at it, though, and we both had to leave Abbeville. I don't have a fuckin' notion where Gene went, but I came North, to disappear, to be absorbed as a nobody into the fabric of the big city, New York. I'd been a couple of things before taking this fuckin' job as a window cleaner on high-rise buildings, although none of them seemed to be a step up over the last one. That was just my day job, though. At night, I tracked down young men who needed to be broken and controlled, and I took care of them. I took care of them good. Fuckin'-A bang, bang, boom. Screwed 'em good. And they always wanted more. They always left smilin' and walkin' taller and wantin' more from me.

* * * *

Fuckin'-A bingo. That apartment did belong to the blond hotee. By rushing over there to start the day on the window washing, I got cranked down to the fifteenth floor in time to see the fuckin' hot blond wake up. He was stretched out on his bed, naked, and workin' his dick slowly despite not being fully awake yet.

It was time to see if I could control him through the window. I took a couple of swipes at the window just to establish that I was here on business and then I gave him something to look at. I opened my shirt, pulled it out of my waistband, and let it fall open so he could get a good look at my "sex" pack. (I know, others call it a six pack. I get right down to it.) Nothin' turns a man on more than a look see at a great sex pack, I'd learned. Then I unzipped myself, flared my pants—I'd gone commando this morning—and started working my shaft. No reason why we couldn't start off the day doin' the same fuckin' thing.

It worked a charm. He came awake seeing me on the other side of the window and realizing he had been making love to himself. I had him groggy and confused. I did what I could to entice him to come to the window, and fuck if that didn't work too.

First time I had sex with a plate glass window between me and the other guy. In the end, we had to jack ourselves off, but we did it with the connection of foreheads and the palm of a hand touching through the window, and we did it good. The trick was to keep his attention and to guide him in what to do, from cock sucking to butt fucking to jacking off, without him realizing I was controlling it all.

The payoff was, when it was over, he was wanting me to come in and screw him—and was willing to pay me to do it. A hundred dollars. He wrote out a sign giving me his apartment number and flashed two fifties at me. I had him then, fuckin'-A bingo. But to slam home that I did—that I controlled—I winched myself up to the roof and, rather than coming down to his apartment and doing him, I sat on the roof and smoked two Camels and shot the fuckin' shit with Vince, who was avoiding work too, for a couple of hours before winching back down to the blond's floor. By then he was gone, and I did his window, except for the spunk I'd left on it, right on this side of the glass from the cum he'd deposited. I was going to screw him, and I was going to get that hundred dollars, but, to show him who was in control, I'd make him wait for it—and I'd get it on my own terms.

I wouldn't make him wait long, though, because I was horny for him.

After work I went back to my room and changed, but I got some gear together in a bag to use later, if I had the opportunity. I changed my clothes and came back and staked out his apartment house. If he went anywhere this evening, he'd have a tail. And if I had an opportunity, I'd climb his tail, get his butt between my thighs, mount him good, and screw the fuckin' stuffing out of him.

Opportunity knocked. Fuckin'-A bingo. About 8:30 he came out of the building with a folder under his arm and set off on foot toward Chelsea. I stayed behind him for more than twenty blocks, thinking he'd catch me out, but he didn't. He walked like a zombie. A fuckin' sexy little zombie, though. I was hard thinking of what I was going to do to him, when he entered a homo club in Chelsea, Barracuda, on 24th Street.

I went in like gangbusters. The best way to do a guy who was bent on keeping control was to overwhelm him and keep him off balance. I nudged up to Boyd—we exchanged names, at the bar, as soon as he'd entered and ordered a drink. I crowded him and put my hand on him. He brushed that off, but he didn't brush off the rough kiss I pulled him into, holding him in the kiss, doing the tongue-fucking-tonsils routine—letting him know I'd have my dick in him soon enough—until I felt him give in, surrendering to me. I put my hand back on the same place, his bicep, that he had brushed it away from before just to establish my control. He left it there.

I was movin' into taking him back to his place and screwin' the shit out of him when, fuckin'-A, another dude showed up. Maury turned out to be Boyd's boss, and Maury also obviously was a rich son of a bitch. He wasn't something I'd throw out of bed either. Looked like some fuckin' movie star—one in his just-graying forties maybe, but very well put together and taken care of. He was frisky with his hands, letting me know he would like me to dick him, and when he offered two hundred for the dicking, I put Boyd on hold. Boyd was primed and I could pluck him at will. Maury was wanting it now and had two big bills out and pressing them down into the crotch of my jeans. Fuckin'-A bingo, bang, bang. He was ready to go.

Maury was kinky, bringing back my memories of Gene and the brothel on the outskirts of Addeville. We had the big backseat of the '64 Cadillac Fleetwood all to ourselves as he had his driver cruise a couple of laps around Central Park. The back windows were both tinted and steamed. To show him who was boss, I put his face in my lap, with my dick out and hard, having worked itself up over the prospect of screwin' the blond hotee, Boyd. He started driving the shaft hard with his soft mouth, while I pulled clothes off both of us, tossing them left and right.

"Fuck me hard, you big stud," he called out as he slammed his channel down hard on my dick, making me cry out in pain when he slung a leg over my lap, coming down facing me. "Just the cock; I just need the cock," he growled. "Just sit there and let me have the cock." He was riding me hard. I put my hands on his waist, but he pushed them away, grabbed my shoulders, lowered his face to mine, and took my mouth in his. His tongue invaded, and he moved it in and out, fucking my face with his tongue until I relaxed, tensing up shortly thereafter and blasting him deep with my ejaculation.

He came right off me, kneeling on the floor of the car between my thighs, taking my dick in his mouth again, and cleaning it thoroughly.

I saw his gaze go up to, first, one place above the door on one side and then the other door and then right overhead. The man had had restraints put in the backseat of his car.

Nearly a whole circuit of Central Park was spent with him sitting in the middle of the backseat, legs raised and split, ankles bound in the restraints hanging from above the door windows on either side, his arms raised above his head, the wrists bound in restraints hanging from the ceiling. I was crouched over him, between his legs, pounding his ass for all I was worth, while we kissed and he chewed on my nipples. Fuckin'-A, bang, bang, banged him, I did. Screwed him right into the plush of the car's backseat. He screamed bloody murder, egging me on to thrust hard, deeper, faster.

"Give it to me. Give it to me. Give me your cum!" he cried out above the sounds of traffic on the roads bordering the park and of car horns.

I screwed him good. I had his driver drop me a block away from my rooming house, holding the two big bills in my hand that he'd given me for the sex.

Maury rolled down the back window and handed me a business card. "We'll have to see about a tailor, a grooming consultant, and voice counselor."

"A voice counselor?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm giving you a job. Contact the person on the business card sometime after Tuesday if you want a job. The voice counselor is because your mouth needs to be cleaned up if you are working for me."

"Fuckin'-A," I muttered.

"Precisely," he said. "That phrase has to go. Remember. Sometime after Tuesday. You'll like the job, and the clients will like you."

It was only after the Fleetwood had rolled away that I realized that he had controlled it all—and was bidding to continue to control me. Money talks. Big money talks big, I thought, as I looked at the easily earned two hundred dollars. He'd been a good lay. Enthusiastic, kinky. A great, well-worked body for a man over forty. A soft but inventive mouth. I'd come three times in that waltz around the park. So had he. He could take it thick and deep. Swallowed me right up and humped me to fuckin' heaven.

But why was I on edge? Why wasn't I fully satisfied? It was because he was in full control. He would have swallowed my dick as soon as we got in the car even if I hadn't nudged his head down. He controlled the lap fuck fully. His eyes were even what had made me see the restraints. I put them on him just as he directed. I fucked him the way he wanted to fucked. I came when he told me to.

I was standing out here on the street holding the money he'd paid me for sex and a business card that would put me under his control if I made a call after next Tuesday.

I was keyed up and fuckin' mad. I had to take control back. I had to fuck someone good—on my terms. I went up to my room, stuffed some toys into a bag, and came back out, starting to walk fast, with determination, toward the high-rise at 47th Street and 10th Avenue.

* * * *

He opened the door to me—the hotty blond, Boyd. I saw him eyeing me through the peephole. He wouldn't have opened the door to me if he didn't want to be fuckin' screwed. And I screwed him good, standing up, just inside the door, taking full and immediate control. The element of surprise and confusion. Once he'd taken the dick, that first time, he was mine. Fuckin'-A bingo, bang, bang. He was just wearing sleeping shorts—and not them for long. I had him by more than forty pounds and seven inches in height. I subdued him with my mouth and my hands, turned him, mounted him, gave him eight thick inches, and pounded him into submission.

But that wasn't enough. I wanted the surrender to be total. I put him out with my thumbs digging into his throat, pulled bed restraints out of my bag of tricks, and bound him to the bed, facing up. A ball gag took care of any interest from the neighbors—I'd really have preferred to hear what he had to say—and a black rubber Big Guy dildo kept his ass open for me while he was out.

Then, when he came to, it was just a matter of screwing him again and again until he was soft and fully yielding to me, until his passage held open to my specifications and the muscles of his passage walls rippled over the sliding dick and he purred for me. It took a while. During breaks I explored his apartment, finding out about him, what made him tick, what he liked that he could admit to in public, what sort of beer he drank.

When I was satisfied and felt completely in control again, I went digging for the hundred dollars he'd promised me for the fuck and, as an afterthought, took his door key off his key chain. He was a superior lay. I wanted to screw him again . . . and again. I wanted him to know that I'd be doing that, so I waited for him to be awake again to show him I was taking the key. Then I climbed up on the bed, made him suck and clean my dick one last time and put his lights out again so I could take the restraints off and get gone without a fuss.

I came back the next night, drawn to him. I got into the apartment with the key I'd taken, but it was dark. He wasn't fuckin' there. It was late enough at night that he fuckin' should have been there. I tried the next night too, and he wasn't there. My confidence was beginning to waver. Had he fled, not wanting me? He sure as hell fuckin' acted like he wanted me.

The third night, late, he was there, sleeping like a baby, in those sleeping shorts. Lying on his back, lightly snoring, looking fuckin' delicious. He didn't wake when, after stripping down, I pulled the shorts off his legs. He didn't wake when I parted his legs, either, or even when I encased his cock in my hand and slow stroked it while I lay there between his legs, working my own cock up. He moved a bit and sighed when I put my lips to the bulb of his cock, but it was to raise his pelvis to me.

He did wake, wild eyed and exclaiming a "What the fuck?" when I lowered myself between his legs and pinned him to the bed with my bulk, grabbing his wrists and forcing and trapping his arms over his head. He struggled with me, but I sensed it was indecisive, like he was only doing it for form. And it was ineffectual. I had him by surprise and by weight. I had my knees between his thighs, pushing them wide. I took his mouth in a probing kiss, working it to feel him give in to me, which he was doing.

Pulling off his mouth, I muttered, "Give it up. Roll your pelvis up to me." He failed to respond, so trapping his wrists together in one fist—a hold he probably could have broken if he now wanted to—I placed my other hand on the small of his back and tilted his buttocks up. He whimpered something, I wasn't sure what, as I pressed the bulb of my dick inside his rim and held there. He was panting hard and moaning in a low tone.

"Yes, yes," he whimpered. "Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me. Screw me to the bed." I cupped his buttocks in both hands and lifted and spread them, taking, with no opposition from him, full control. "Give it to me," he murmured in a strangled voice.

Then I gave him all of it, in a swift, deep stroke. His eyes bugged out, his mouth opened in a wide O, with a gasp of air and a primeval cry coming out of him. He was painfully tight, and I held there, waiting for him to open to fully accommodate me, which, slowly, he did. He had gone slack and trembling under me, his arms collapsing back on the bed, going into a fully open "take me" position, as I released my hold on his hands. Still I held, as he opened, the muscles of his passage shimmering over my dick. The memory of my cock took over in his passage, and he went soft, spongy, yielding to me, gloving the cock to a perfect fit, drawing me in to the hilt, the walls of the passage rippling along the length of the shaft. Completely vulnerable to me.

I waited for him, staring down into the side of his face, turned from me, his mouth still slack open, panting and moaning low. He turned his face to me and I lowered my mouth to his. He opened his lips to me and I pressed my lips beyond his and then my tongue. His arms came up, the palms of his hands clutching my shoulder blades and the heels of his feet coming over unto the backs of my calves.

He was making a purring sound deep in his throat.

Then and only then did I start to pump him, slowly and shallow at first. Then faster, harder, deeper. He was holding me close to him, nipples rubbing on nipples, his heels rubbing my buttocks, his hands moving from clutching my shoulder blades to clutching, squeezing, rolling my buttocks, as we writhed against each other, pounding our pelvises against each other's, him fucking himself on my shaft as much as I was screwing him into the bedspread. Bucking, bucking, bucking against each other, until, with a mutual cry we shot our loads together.

We lay there, panting, fused together, my dick still slow stroking him, kissing. I'd never had it like this—being one, precisely coordinated fucking machine. The guy being as open, soft, and vulnerable to me, his passage caressing and making love to my dick as I screwed him.

He was putty in my hands. I rolled him over on his stomach, muttered, "Give me your fuckin' ass," and, with just a low whimper, he raised up on his knees. I mounted him high, grabbed his waist on both sides, slid inside, and fucked for several minutes. Immediately responding to my command, he rolled away from me as I turned and sat on the bed, came down into my lap, facing me, sheathed himself on my cock, and moved with me in deep, instinctively coordinated rolls of our pelvises to give each of us the maximum depth, stroke, and pleasure of the dick. Once again we came together in a massive explosion.

I rolled him over onto his back and stretched along his body, running my hand over his fuckin' gorgeous curves and crevices. "I want to screw you on the dining table; I want to screw you bent over the toilet," I murmured.

"Anything you want," he answered back, his voice tired, but meek in total surrender.

"Just kidding," I said. But I sighed with satisfaction. He had opened completely to me, not fought me a bit for control once I'd gotten my dick in him. He was fuckin'-A, bingo, bang, bang, fully mine.

On Wednesday I called the number on the business card Maury had given me.

"Yes, I was told you would call," the male voice on the other end of the line—definitely not Maury—said. "When can you come in for in-processing?"

"In-processing? No interview or nothing?"

"No. You're hired."

"Hired for what?"

"A model. Mr. Rivers is designing an ad campaign around you."

"A model? I'm no fuckin' model."

"Mr. Rivers thinks you are. To the tune of $20,000 a year."

"$20,000 a year to stand there and let guys take pictures of me?"

"Yes. You can come in later today, if you want. Just let me know when. Mr. Rivers wants me to get the tailor, grooming consultant, and voice counselor set up for you."

Fuckin'-A Bingo, bang, bang, boom.

* * * *

The next night my key didn't work in Boyd's door and he didn't answer my knocks. I was excited about the job—moving from window cleaning to standing in front of a camera at four times the salary—but he wasn't there. I knew it wasn't because he wasn't mine. He couldn't possibly have been more vulnerable, open, and soft to the stroking of my cock inside him. I tried not to stew about it—not to allow myself to be confused—but they cleared it up for me at the office. Boyd had been scheduled for a vacation and had gone to Florida. He'd be gone for two weeks or more.

It was just as well. I had a job to secure. I applied myself to the job and to Maury, both of which were more demanding than I'd originally been led to believe. Maury didn't just want it hard; he wanted trapeze-swinging athletics. I decided he didn't need to go to the gym to stay trim; he took care of that in the bedroom.

I stood in front of the camera a few times a day in beefcake poses. Two sets of prints were taken—one with clothes, one without. Maury said he had separate sets of clients. I didn't give a shit as long as the checks cleared. There were various campaigns going for the commercial marketing. I got to sit in on the design meetings for these, and I turned out to have pretty good ideas, they thought. I got to weigh in more than just as the model.

But I spent more time in Maury's private areas at the office. He wasn't just into public advertising. He was into dirty homo movies and photos for special clients too. For $100 per photo and $1,000 per film, I went on display and screwed guys to the floor. And, what I found was down Maury's alley, because I also moved in with him and screwed him bound at night, in these movies I also bound guys, hung them on hooks, and whipped and flogged them as well as screwing them. It was great money. I didn't think twice about taking it. It was fun too.