Different Strokes Ch. 01

It was a test of how much pain a guy was willing to endure for the high of knowing he'd taken something that big and of just how much a submissive wanted cock. He convinced me I wanted cock.

He had a friend who was a men's fashion designer and another one who shot porno films, and he was doing a combination day. One of his regular models was AWOL, given to accepting offers of week-long jaunts to Hawaii or Australia, and I was offered a last-minute fill-in slot—for $1,000, plus any tips I got. That would do me for more than a month of living my way on Guam.

But I had to be clean. They'd want to bareback.

While I was waiting for the test, my attention went to a white-coated doctor walking across a doorway to the clinic's examination rooms. I might not have noticed him if he hadn't stopped in mid-walk and stared at me. It was the man who had been at the table across the room at Denial the previous night—the man I'd established "you're interesting" eye contact with before the bruiser took me back to the Ypao Breeze Inn and humped me into submission.

He came out into the waiting room, but he didn't come over to me. He had a short conversation with one of the receptionists, but he kept looking my way. When I left after taking the test—but not seeing him again when I was back in the guts of the clinic—I stopped at the receptionist's desk and asked who he was.

"Dr. Prentice," she said, cheerily. "Dr. Paul Prentice. He's the senior doctor here. Do you need to make an appointment to see him? Were you referred?"

"No, thanks," I said. "I just thought I'd seen him before."

"Probably in the papers. He does a lot of work with charities."

Charities. That's what Lee Houser was running the fashion show at his house for—for a free gay man's clinic in the slums of Tumon. The porn filming later in the day wasn't acknowledged anywhere in the publicity. Nor was it acknowledged that an hour with each of the models was being auctioned off, although Houser said that money was going to the clinic too. In fact, it was the bulk of the money the clinic would get. The models would get 25 percent of the auction price.

So, three days later—three delightful days of surfing and painting, one of the paintings coming out to be a nude of my vision of Dr. Paul Prentice—I was at Houser's multimillion dollar house hanging out over the ocean on a cliff north of Tumon and, having arrived with a clean test certification in hand, I was modeling tuxes, suits, casual wear, beach wear, and, last, micro thongs best suited for the bedrooms of a bordello. There were four of us who were walking the runway—two smaller guys, including me, and two muscled-up hunks. The other smaller guy, Tyler, was a near duplicate of me—small, blond, willowy, androgynous, slim hipped, and sexy, if I do say so myself.

He was not for me, of course, as it was obvious we swung the same way. I'd seen him at the beach before, riding a board, same as me. I had been told the four of us would pair up for the porno films later in the day. I eyed the two muscular guys, trying to figure out which one would be mine. They were both body and face beautiful. One looked more dangerous than the other, though. It could have been because he was part Chinese and had a colorful dragon-scene tattoo that covered his left breast, around to his shoulder blade, and down his left arm to his elbow.

The catwalk was out on the wide, deep deck hanging out over the cliff head. The walkway came out of a bedroom at one end of the house—where we changed—and went around in front of the living room, dining room, and kitchen, and entered into a den, from whence we ran back across the interior of the house to the bedroom to change for the next pass.

The buyers, having been fed lunch, came out onto the deck and sat in chairs strung down between the cat walk and the railing overlooking the ocean.

Dr. Prentice was there. That threw me for a loop when I first came out, in a tuxedo, and passed by him on the catwalk. But then, while I changed for the suit walk, I reasoned that that made sense. I figured he was gay. I'd seen him at Denial, and we'd shared gazes of unmistakable interest. The interest was there in his eyes at the clinic three days previously as well. And he was a doctor and was known to support charities. This was a charity event for a clinic. It aroused me to see him there, in the audience, but I had a job to do, money to earn, and I settled down to trying to do the modeling as professionally as the others did.

A walrus of a man in his late fifties won me in the auction of models. I was thrilled to see that Prentice bid on me—and none of the other guys—although he dropped out when the expense got into nosebleed territory. The walrus bidder fucked me—or rather, I rode his cock—on the bed in an upstairs bedroom, with the windows open to the sound of the angry surf below the cliff.

He lay there like a beached whale, not really gross other than his rotund stomach, and, for starters, I lay below him, between his spread legs, and sucked his cock, which was presentable, and played with, sucked, and distended his huge balls, which were interesting enough that, stroking myself at the same time, they enabled me to harden so that, when I moved up his body and saddled over his chest, my butt resting on the great mound of his stomach, I was able to convince him I was aroused as he took my cock in his mouth and sucked me to an ejaculation, which he willingly and happily took in his throat.

I gave him what would pass as a sexy massage then, kneading his muscles, of which he did have some, no doubt maintained on the golf course, and his rolls of fat, and stroking his cock hard again. To his sighs and moans, I mounted his hips, facing away from him, took him inside me, and, gripping his knees with my hands and arching my torso over his thighs, rode his cock to his barebacking completion. Then I leaned down and licked his legs and ankles until he had rehardened and I rode him again. He was virile for an out-of-shape man in his fifties. I didn't know if I could pull a third ejaculation out of him in the hour, but I did—and he produced a prodigious wad of cum each time.

I didn't know what his winning bid had been in the auction until the accounting came in later and I'd earned an extra $150—which meant he had bid $600 for my services—but he left the bedroom happy, leaving me a $50 tip. Houser had passed the word to treat him right, no matter what, and have him leave happy. I was more interested in making Houser happy, so I did what I could.

The walrus asked for my card, so chances were good I was adding a big spender to my client list. For an even $500, I'd let a whale fuck me.

I had pulled the tattooed part-Chinaman for my porn film partner that evening, which was fine with me. The movie was filmed in an upstairs bedroom of the cliffside mansion. Ours was the second of two sessions. Tyler was still lying on his back on the bed, legs open, arms akimbo, and looking dopey and well worked over when I arrived. His hole was gaping and leaking cum. A couple of guys were standing there, holding sheets and waiting for Tyler to come to enough to vacate the bed so that they could change the sheeting when the half-Chinese guy, who was named William, and I were taking our instructions on what the scene would be.

My film partner pointed to Tyler and laughed. "See that," he said. "I'm going to leave you as fucked silly as that guy is."

I laughed at his joke, but it wasn't a joke, and he did just that, although he came at it from a different angle. Tyler looked like he'd been brutalized. On the whole, the half-Chinese guy loved me to death.

The scene described to us had almost no plot, of course, but, in spite of our disparate sizes and perhaps for the surprise of it, it was to be a romantic scene. The director of the film, half something black, trouserless, and his dong erect, probably from a successful earlier filming, gave us direction in a half pant and told us to get right to it. "Just leave the little guy well fucked," he said.

"No problem," my film partner responded.

"If I don't think you've fucked him good enough, I'll do it myself." the director said.

"You'll do it anyway, won't you?" the big guy shot back.

"Probably," answered the director. "It's the second shoot. So I can shoot when it's done. They saved the cutest one for last." They both laughed. I didn't particularly like them standing there talking about me like I wasn't standing there too, so I didn't join in the laughter.

We entered the room in the thong swimsuits from the fashion show and with towels over our shoulders, like we'd just come from the pool. We opened with standing kissing and petting. William pressed down on my shoulders and, taking the hint, I knelt in front of him and gave him prolonged head. His cock was very nice. He gently laid me on the foot of the bed, my legs dangling down to the floor and spread, and spent several minutes while the video whirred eating my ass out and finger fucking it with good camera angles, while he sucked me. We did a couple of minutes of sixty-nining on the bed, him stretched over me, and then he took me in his arms, maneuvered me into a position where the camera could get a prolonged shot of his thick cock invading and conquering my puckering, small hole, showing me opening to the thick shaft, and then he fucked me for twenty minutes in positions that showed his domination but also highlighted the romantic pleasure we both were getting from the fuck.

William was an expert at porn films. I wasn't, but I was totally submissive to him, which is what I understood was wanted, and I think I did fine. He had whispered to me, "Just try to ignore the cameras and pretend that we're long-term lovers." That seemed to work OK.

The director must have thought I did fine too, because when the end of the shot was announced, with both William and me on our backs, beside each other, shooting our loads one after the other, and William had rolled off the bed, the director came onto the bed, separated my thighs with his hands, hunched over me, thrust inside me with his big black cock, and pistoned me to his release. He didn't ask my permission. I wanted to impress Houser, so I didn't make any waves. I'd been barebacked, so I was both open and well lubricated, and he just slid in and did me. To the director, I'm sure, porn actors were just slabs of meat to be consumed when and as they wished.

He wasn't anything close to being as gentle as William was with me, but bouncing around in the bed under the director, meeting his thrusts with countermotions with my pelvis, I met him heat for heat.

I did like to be barebacked when that was in the cards, and I had been barebacked by three nice cocks—a white one, a half Chinese one, and a black one. And I was being paid more than a month's worth of support in one day too.

The next morning I came awake in a big bed in yet another of the mansion's bedrooms. The windows were open and I wakened slowly to the sound of the surf below. As a devoted surfer, I could hear no more pleasant sound than that of the surf meeting the shore. I was sore, but I was satisfied.

Lee Houser was standing at one of the windows, looking out at the ocean. He was smoking a reefer and had a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. He had a silk kimono on his back, but it was open, showing a lean, well-muscled physique. Two more mugs were on a tray on a nightstand next to the bed. I didn't know why there would be two, but I didn't give it much thought. They both were steaming now, apparently having just been delivered by one of the Filipino servants who padded around Houser's mansion, but I figured it would be cold before I could get to it.

Houser's nearly foot-long, relatively thin cock was sticking out in full erection.

"Ah, good, Keith. You're awake."

I spread and bent my legs, stuffing a pillow under the small of my back as he put the smoke and coffee mug down on the nightstand, shrugged off his kimono, and climbed up on the foot of the thick-mattressed bed. He hovered over me, propped up by stiffened arms on either side of my shoulders and smiled down into my face, as he started the long, long, long slide into me. I grasped his shoulder blades in my hands and gasped and gulped as he possessed me as no other man had done, sinking deep into my gut—nearly twelve inches of throbbing, raw-skinned cock. The muscles of my walls were going wild again—he had fucked me at least three times during the night; I had passed out at one point—fighting to close up on the relatively thin cock, rippling over the flesh-on-flesh shaft, grasping and squeezing it and pulling it deep inside me. I moaned deeply, moving my hands to grasping his buttocks, as he began to pump, deep, deep inside me. Allowing my head to turn to the side, cheek to pillow, I opened my mouth in a gaping yawn; my eyes glazing over; panting lightly, moaning deeply; and reveled in a slow, deep fuck that no john had ever been able to give me before. My walls had struggled to spread open to a man before, but they were equally exercised to close on and undulate over the long, thin one.

Slow thrust up into my gut; shuddering thrust of my pelvis down to meet it. Slow thrust up into my gut . . .

There were times when I was an in-control, cynical rent-boy. This wasn't one of those times. For this time I was a small, young man, covered by an experienced, masterful man with an impossibly possessive monster cock and being laid out and totally fucked—for the fourth time in the span of eight hours. And Houser knew it. He held there, hovering over me, having released his seed deep inside me for the fourth time, my cum slathered on his body, and looked down into my eyes, his smile almost a leer. He knew he had conquered me, that I had surrendered fully to him, that I was his slave to use as he wished.

"Turn over," he said. "Turn over and go up on your knees."

"Enough. No more," I whined.

"Turn over. Turn over and go up on your knees," he repeated.

Groaning, almost sobbing, I rolled out from underneath him, went up on my knees, my cheek pressed to the pillow, my arms straight out from my sides in a cruciform form of surrender, and, crouching over me like a horse jockey, he mounted my hips, invaded my ass, and began the dance of the fuck again.

It was one of the few times I've been fully satiated, but it scared the beezeeges out of me. I had become a rent-boy with the understanding that I could maintain control, that I didn't need the sex, that I could hold myself above it all, do it but not be controlled or consumed by it.

I groaned as he slid inside me again, deep, pressed his fists into my shoulder blades to keep my chest flat on the bed, and once more began to pump. Tears came to my eyes in the realization that I wanted him inside me—needed him inside me.

About the time it struck me that I'd been the one chosen to spend the night under him, memory clicked in. It hadn't been just me, which explained the additional cup of coffee. The other small blond from the fashion show, Tyler, came out of an adjacent bathroom and climbed up on the bed, stretching out beside me, but at a distance, as it was a huge bed. Houser turned from me to Tyler. His hand went between Tyler's thighs, and he coaxed them open.

"Push your hips up for me, baby," Houser murmured, and when Tyler did, Houser rolled over between his legs, spiked his ass and began to pump him. Tyler turned his face to me, giving me a glassy, "He's inside me now" stare, like we were playing some sort of "who's his favorite" game that I wasn't interested in playing.

I rolled out of the other side of the bed and went for a shower, taking one of the mugs of now-tepid coffee with me.

I went home $1,400 richer—Houser had sweetened the pot by $200 and promised to use me as a model again—and went straight to bed and slept through the day. I was up before dawn the next day, though, and out in the surf—just me and the ocean—with memories of that foot-long cock churning inside me. I was sore as hell deep inside—and the soreness wasn't all physical. Moving with the high-rollers was hard work.

* * * *

Maria, my Filipina cleaning lady, who I splurged to have not only because, although I appreciated neatness, I was incapable of sustaining neatness myself but also because I enjoyed the normalcy of her company in my solitary life, had arrived at the shack and was cleaning when I came home from Lee Houser's house. She was intensely cleaning, which wasn't like her. And her greeting had been perfunctory.

"What's wrong, Maria?" I asked. You're not yourself today.

"It's not your concern, Mr. Evans," she said, her words clipped.

"Have I done something to upset you?"

"No, no, of course not. You aren't like those other whites."

"What other whites?"

"Like that retired Navy officer who lives in that big house down the road. The one who, with his wife and all of their bratty children, think they are better than anyone else."

"What have they done now?"

"Ferdinand. Their pool man. One of the Filipino community. They fired him."

"Fired him? What did he do wrong?"

"He fell by their pool and busted up his arm."

"Did they take him to the doctor?"

"No, they fired him. Told him to get out. He left holding his arm, as I was coming to work. I got him a taxi to go back to his house."

"He didn't go to a doctor?"

"He can't afford a doctor here. Doctors are for snotty white people like that retired Navy officer."

"Where is he, Maria?"

"At his big house down the street, probably. Swimming in his big pool. I think they wanted an excuse to fire Ferdinand, because he's gotten old."

"No, I mean, Ferdinand, Maria. Where is Ferdinand?"

"At home probably. Putting ice on his arm."

"He may need more than ice. Come on. Get in the Jeep. We'll go check his condition out."

An hour and a half later we—Maria, Ferdinand, and I—were at the free clinic on South Marine Corps Drive. Paul Prentice was the doctor who came out to take a look at the arm. He did a bit of a double take when he saw that I was with Ferdinand and Maria.

"What seems to be wrong?" he asked, looking somewhere between the three of us rather than at Ferdinand, standing there holding an obviously broken arm.

"It's his arm," Maria said. Ferdinand was too much in shock still to say anything. I have to admit that so was I—for different reasons.

"Let me take him in the back and take a look at it," Prentice said. A half hour later, he came back out. "I've done what I can, but it's a bad break. He needs to go to the hospital. And he's in shock. They'll need to keep him for observation for that. I've put a splint on it until he can get to the hospital."

"Thank you, doctor. We'll take him home," Maria said, her jaw set.

"He needs to go to the hospital," Prentice said.

"He can't afford to go to the hospital," she stubbornly responded.

For the first time Prentice looked at me fully, and it was the first time I was able to look fully back at him.

"Tell me which hospital to go to, and if you'll call them to expect him, I'll take him there . . . and pay for the treatment," I said in a low voice. I was already touting up in my mind how many sailors that would be, but what the hell? It was just sex.

Prentice gave me a long look. "I'll do better than that," he said. "I'll go with you and talk to the doctors there in person. And I'll share the cost with you."

After Ferdinand had been carted up to a ward at the hospital, Prentice turned to me and said, "That was a generous thing you did for that man. I'm Paul Prentice, by the way."

"I know who you are," I answered. "I'm Keith Evans."

"I know who you are too," he said and smiled at me. I smiled back. He reached out and touched my forearm and I knew then that we would fuck.

"I appreciate what you did as much as Ferdinand will, Keith. I run a free clinic to help as many as I can, but sometimes more needs to be done than I can do. When that's the case, it breaks my heart. Perhaps you'll join me in a drink this evening so I can show my appreciation."