Cover Stud Obsession

"Yes, Parker and I go way back. We share desires and information. I guess you could say we spot for each other."

"You spot for each other?"

"Yes, he says you are one of his young men . . ."

He has a stable of young men? I wondered. I was just one of a stable for Parker?

". . . and that you are a great lay."

Parker is willing to pimp me?

"I want to fuck you."

So, yes, Parker was pimping me.

"Your Hardesty character fucks rough," Westgate continued. "You write his scenes as if he's fucking you, the narrator. I want to fuck you rough too. I would enjoy reenacting some of the positions you describe in your books."

Before I could respond to that, the publisher of the Flescher imprint had descended upon us. "Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but there's a book reviewer I need for G. P. to meet. You don't mind if I—?"

"No, not at all," Westgate said with a tight smile. "I'll use the young man later."

I don't think the publisher heard that last sentence as he guided me off toward the dining room at the back of the house. For my part, I don't think I would have known what to say to Westgate if we hadn't been interrupted. Embarrassingly, I knew what I would have done. I would have taken him upstairs to the bedroom I was borrowing and let him do whatever he wanted with me. His was a commanding presence, and I was a total submissive. My mind was already spinning him into a character for my books—not for a Hardesty book, though. Sebastian Westgate was a strong enough character to star in his own book series. I even was mulling a name for his unit of male prostitutes at the Agency. "The Candy Store" sounded like a good name. And not Westgate, but something close—maybe Winterberry. I wouldn't use Westgate too closely as a model for my Candy Store unit chief. He was a real spy and looked to be formidable. I wouldn't risk writing too close to the reality lines. I'd just try to capture the essence of his presence in a storyline.

As I was talking with the book reviewer, I saw that Doug James had arrived. He hadn't come alone, though. A young, beautiful woman, with long, straight blond hair, and long legs, glimpsed almost to her beltline through a slit in her skirt, was standing with him, close to him, the two appearing to be intimately chatting. He looked over at me, though, as if he'd divined that I had picked him out in the crowd. He smiled, recognizing me, and I smiled back. He looked like a million dollars, all muscles and form-fitting clothes, carrying himself as the model he was.

The book reviewer asked me a question and I turned my attention on him. When I tried to locate James in the crowd again with my eyes, he was half way up the stairs to the first of two bedroom levels. Again he turned and smiled at me. I took that as a signal. It took me another ten minutes to disengage from the book reviewer and a Flescher editor who showed up to try to add glowing coals to my authorial "goodness" in the discussion. When I could gracefully pull away, I too went up the stairs to the level where the master bedroom and another large guest room facing the street were located.

They were in the guest room, on a king-sized bed. Doug James, was on top of and inside the blonde beauty. Both were naked. James was vigorously fucking the woman. He still looked magnificent—more magnificent naked than dressed. But somehow the edge of the arousal and obsession I'd been harboring for months was dimming.

Parker appeared at my side. "He's straight, Nick. Completely straight, I believe. I knew you were obsessed with him. Better you find out this way. I hope it doesn't tamper down the sexuality of your Hardesty books. I know you use him as an inspiration for those. I didn't tell you over the phone because I was afraid you wouldn't come to New York then. I've provided compensation."

He turned his head and I followed the direction he was looking in. Sebastian Westgate as standing at the top of the stairs. "He's very rich and powerful," Parker said. He turned and walked to Westgate, gave him a nod, and then descended the stairs.

Westgate was upon me before I could react in any way. The taking started immediately and there was no pause for permissions. He didn't need permissions. He knew he didn't. He gripped my throat with his right hand, pushing my back against the hall wall, and lifting me almost off the floor. Struggling for breath, I had to stand on my toes to accommodate his stretch. Just with that, I was completely in his control. His mouth came to and possessed mine. He unzipped me with his left hand, roughly pulled my cock and balls out. He squeezed my balls, making my eyes water and causing me to whimper within his muffling control of my mouth. I squirmed ineffectually in his grasp but settled down almost immediately and raised my knees to hook on his hips as his hand went to my cock and he stroked me off. I was so overpowered and keyed up that I shot my load quickly.

Pulling out of the kiss, Westgate growled, "I understand you are Parker's guest here. Where is your bedroom?"

"Next level up," I whimpered.

There, he pushed me over onto my belly on the bed, naked after he'd stripped me. I panted, watching him pull the belt out of my trousers and then his. He beat me on the rump with my folded belt and then used them both, one each to tie the wrists of my spread arms to the headboard of the bed. He put me on my knees on the bed, my wrists bound to the headboard, chest and cheek pressed to the bedspread, with one of his hands palming my head and holding me down. He mounted my hips in a crouch, thrust up inside me, and fucked the hell out of me.

When he was gone, leaving me moaning, groaning—and purring—I already was beginning to weave story plots of a master American spy and his cruel sexual tastes and exploits. I now had a specific name in my mind for the protagonist. I'd call him Sam Winterberry. I couldn't very well call him Sebastian Westgate in the books. He'd be a master CIA spy, heading up a unit of prostitutes, gathering secrets the old-fashioned way—by giving the marks what they most wanted and then blackmailing them.

He'd left me, whispering in my ear, "I wish to use you occasionally in my operations. Give it thought. Think of the stories you could gather and tell. Tell Parker, if you're interested."

How could I not be interested?

* * * *

I lay on my back on the lounge bed next to my swimming pool in Shepherdstown, West Virginia, on the Potomac, half way between sleep and wakefulness, dreaming of all of the paces Sebastian Westgate had put me through the previous weekend, fucking me for more than two hours, in various demanding and controlled positions, strapping me with the belts more for the arousal of the snap of them than for the pain. Fucking me hard and then fucking me harder, employing many of the positions I had included in my books. My mind went to his relationship with Parker. Parker saying he was a master spy for the United States. Pulling in Parker's house and the Russian oligarch who had willed it to him—and the questionable death of the Russian. Had the Russian known Sebastian Westgate too? Is that perhaps why the Russian died—because he had been talking with Westgate? Was Parker one of Westgate's male whores? The possibilities for stories here were endless.

I was listening to the drone of the mower in the background, but not really fully aware of it until the sound was gone. Plots of American spying, manipulated by a man named Sam Winterberry—tall and slim, ruggedly handsome even at nearly sixty. Mesmerizing and commanding. Hung like a bull, virile, demanding, cruel. Keeping his young male agents in control with the cruelty of his cock. Other plots—of Hardesty and the D.C. cops wove in and out too, but they were receding in my mind, with the spy unit plots filtering in. Always there were the men, showing me their cocks, mounting me, fucking me—Parker and Doug James, Steve of the Shelter Cove cruises and Sebastian. And my very own black beauty, Ev Jones.

I had slipped my Speedo off and had my hips raised, stroking my cock in a half sleep as the plot lines of the Hardesty and Winterberry series wove in and out of my mind—and of cover images of the books. Doug James, certainly, for the Hardesty books. I'd already won the battle on that. But the obsession for James receding. For the Winterberry books? Winterberry would always be there, but in the background, in that series. So, for the cover a different man each time—someone who was a main character in each separate book. The first one, a black Adonis recruited by Winterberry at the Virginia training facility, The Farm.

A hand brushed mine away from my cock, a fist encircled the root. I felt the moist warmth of lips sliding down the sides of my shaft. I started to gently rock up inside the warmth of the mouth, my eyes slitting open, my hands palming the tight, black curls on his head. I moaned a, "Yes, yes, fuck me."

"Open your thighs to me," Ev Jones murmured as he came up onto the lounge bed on his knees between my legs. He palmed my buttocks and pulled me onto his hard cock—entering, entering, entering me. His voice was commanding, demanding. I was the total submissive. I could do no other than open my legs to him and let him take whatever he wanted.

"Yes, yes, fuck me. Take me. Do it now," I cried out.

He did. He did all of it.

As we lay in each other's arms afterward, panting, I asked, "Have you ever thought of posing for the cover of a book, Ev?"