Different Strokes Ch. 01

"Yes, I guess I can do that," I said. Yep, I knew we were going to fuck. He knew it too.

"Say the Surfer's Point Bar at the Sheraton Laguna at 6:30? I'll have to stay to closing at the clinic."

"Yes, that's fine," I answered. "6:30." We weren't going to fuck at his house then—or, at least, we weren't going to have the obligatory preliminary drink and waltz around each other at his house.

He turned to leave but then turned back. "Are you going to break my heart, Keith?"

Yep, we definitely were going to fuck. "I don't know," I answered. "We'll have to see."

"You know what I want," he said.

"Yes, I know what you want."

We had two drinks at the Surfer's Point Bar and a bit of conversation. Prentice was an Australian, on Guam because after doing his internship in the poorer areas of Sydney, he wanted to go the free clinic route. The job had opened up here and he'd been here for fifteen years.

"And what brought you to Guam, Keith? You're not from here, are you?"

"No, I'm from the States—South Carolina. A southern boy. I heard the surf was great here and I'd read about Gauguin and his retreat to Tahiti to paint in peace. I also heard that living was cheap here—and, all cards on the table, I heard that sailors took shore leave here."

I looked at him to see if this would make him get up and leave, but he didn't, so I continued. "I guess Guam is the poor boy's Tahiti. And I was a poor boy when I came here. I'm basically a free spirit, I think. My father has often said I'm a hippie born too late."

"Are you still a poor boy, Keith?"

"I make do. I sell some paintings. I intend to sell more." I'd dropped the hint, but I didn't want to say straight out that it was the paid sex that sustained me here. He probably knew I was a rent-boy, but I didn't want that to be between us from the beginning—the beginning of what I didn't want to think about.

But then he obviated the need to think about it. He placed a hand on my forearm and said, "I've taken the liberty of booking a room upstairs in the hotel. Will you go upstairs with me?"

I looked into his searching eyes. "Yes. You already knew I would."

"I'm versatile, but—"

"So am I. I usually bottom, though."

He smiled. "I should warn you. You are a small young man. I'm built big."

"I've done all sizes."

"Enough so that . . .?"

"I can handle just about anything."

"I'm not sure I brought . . ."

"I did. Never leave home without them is my motto." And that was that. I followed him up the stairs in the hotel. He didn't want to be seen using the elevator.

"Built big" was an understatement. He wasn't as long as Lee Houser was, but close. He had to be ten inches hard. But where Houser was thin, Prentice was thick, and that more than made up for the difference. And he was virile. He could shoot, recharge, and score again within the span of fifteen minutes.

We held there on the bed in the hotel room, each of us, I know, counting the ejaculations, as he pumped cum again and again into the bulb of the condom deep inside me. I was arched back on the bed, my weight on my shoulder blades, my legs running up his muscular chest, and him kneeling between my legs, holding my buttocks up with his strong hands. He was buried ten inches inside me.

One, two, three . . . four my mind screamed as I counted each clutching of his buttocks, jerk, and huff as he pumped cum inside me.

He let my hips down easy, pulling only a couple of inches back, leaned his face down to mine, and we went into a deep kiss.

"That was nice, very nice. I've been wanting to do that to you since I saw you at the bar in Denial," he said when we'd come out of the kiss. Although going mostly flaccid, he was gently moving his cock in and out of me, still deep. keeping us both aware he was still inside me.

His hands went to my hair, which was down, and he ran his fingers through the strands, straightening out the knots.

"Yes, that was nice," I responded. "If I knew you were that big, though, I would have been scared."

"I did warn you."

"Yes, you did."

"That's why I didn't pursue you at Denial. You looked too small to take me."

"What changed your mind?" I asked.

"When I saw you in the fashion show I knew you could take it."

"How did that tell you so?"

"You were modeling for Lee Houser. Lee fucks all of his models. He's fucked you, hasn't he?"

"Yes." I saw no reason to deny it.

"I know how long Lee is. I knew you could take me then."

"You're a lot thicker than Houser is," I said.

"And you took it, didn't you?"

"Barely."

"Enough. Yes, enough. You're big too, especially for the size of your body."

"And you want—?"

"Yes, it's my turn." He rolled off me and then, crowned me with a condom, and climbed back on top of me, positioning my cock at his hole and slowly, breathing hard and letting his breath out in puffs, descended on my cock. I held onto his waist—thick but manly, his abs sculpted like the armor of a Roman soldier—as he rode my cock. His dick bounced up and down on my stomach, until I grasped it and stroked it as he rode me to my ejaculation—not as dramatic or copious as his was. When I'd come, he leaned his face down to mine and we kissed deeply again.

"You don't mind that I'm a . . ." I couldn't finish that.

"A rent-boy?"

"Yes, a male whore."

"Yes, I mind very much. I want you all to myself." He said it in a joking manner, but I later realized I should have taken it more seriously. "But right now, I want to possess you again—make you all mine, if just for now."

"A request," I said.

"What?"

"Could you open the windows? I'd like to be able to hear the surf from the ocean. Maybe you could try to match the rhythm of the sound of the surf with your thrusts?"

He laughed, bounding off the bed to open the windows. And then, putting me on my knees, cheek to pillow, he mounted my hips, invaded me deep, and slow pumped me to the rhythm of the surf. Even his spasm of release matched the rhythm of the surf.

"I want you to come back to the clinic with me," he whispered in my ear as we lay there, me in his embrace, both listening to the sound of the surf, both fondling the cock of the other.

"When? Why?"

"Now."

"The clinic will be closed."

"Not to me. I'm the senior doctor there."

"Why?"

"I want to give you an HIV test."

"I had one four days ago—at your clinic. But why anyway? We used rubbers."

"How many men have fucked you since you had that test?"

"Three. No, four. You've fucked me too and I haven't asked you to test."

"I do test. I will test tonight too. I want you to take the test because I have to have you bareback, and I want to fuck you a certain way, at the clinic. I want it to be natural with you. I can do the test. It won't take long."

We both tested negative—according to him.

He fucked me on an exam table, with my legs spread and raised and my feet in stirrups. This was the special way he wanted to fuck me—bound to one of his medical tables, vulnerable and totally open and captive to him. My arms were pulled down the side of the table and restrained there. He told me that binding his partner heightened his arousal. I admitted that being bound heightened mine as well. I was completely at his mercy. He took advantage of that, taking me hard and rough. I loved it.

He wore an open white lab coat for effect—and nothing else. I was naked. He stood between my spread thighs, ran his long, thick cock up into my ass, and leaned over me, his hands pressed into my pecs, his thumbs thrumming my nipples, his eyes locked on mine as he fucked, fucked, fucked me in long, deep slides, raw, throbbing cock flesh stretching undulating passage walls and, one squirt, two squirts, three and four squirts seeded me deep inside.

He kept murmuring, "You are mine, helpless to me, taking my cock whether you want to or not. Taking my cum. I own you." I got caught up in the role play. I writhed under him as much as my bindings permitted, crying out my passion and the totality of being taken to the walls of the deserted clinic. I went totally quiet, though, and passive as I felt him tense and counted in a shaky voice the number of times he jerked and released: one, two, three, four.

I had been royally fucked and bred, flesh rubbing directly on flesh. I had been his captive slave and he my conquering master. I wasn't a rent-boy with him. Rent-boys maintain some form of control. He'd stripped all of that away from me and I had surrendered totally to his lust.

* * * *

We slept, him on top of me, on a bed off the staff break room at the clinic, rousing an hour before dawn to be out of the clinic before the staff started to arrive and it opened. There wasn't much sleep to be had. He couldn't get enough cum into me, fucking me for fifteen minutes of every forty-five. If I were a woman I'd be having sextuplets in another nine months. He reveled in the barebacking. So did I.

"You've told me you go surfing at dawn," he whispered.

"Is that what you want to do? To watch me surfing at dawn?" I asked.

"Yes, now, please."

I took him to my beach, making him go down to the beach while I retrieved my board and towels from my shack. He sat on a towel on the beach, just in his briefs, as I surfed the sun up over the ocean. When I came out of the water and walked toward him, I saw that he had his briefs off and was in massive erection again. I took him to a secluded place on the beach where a sandy patch was surrounded by rocks near the face of the cliff above the beach. He fucked me there again. He went down on the towel cross-legged, and I sat in his lap, on his cock, facing him, my ankles hooked behind him above the curve of his buttocks, and we embraced and just rocked back and forth, our rocking motion moving his unsheathed cock inside me until his warm semen flowed deep in my core once more.

"You found a surfboard somewhere," he whispered. "Do you live near here?"

"Yes, just at the top of the beach," I said. "Do you want me to show it to you?" I'd never brought a man home to my shack—certainly not a man who was fucking me. I'd kept my rent-boy activities entirely separate from my private life.

"Are there examples of your artwork there?"

"Yes, it's my studio too."

It took him no time at all to find the painting I'd done of him—imagined—in the nude. I, of course, hadn't done his genitals anything close to justice.

"It's of me," he said, his voice full of awe, as he stood in front of the painting.

"Yes, I'll have to fix that," I said, pointing to the cock in the painting.

"You know what that makes me want to do, don't you?" he said.

"I'm sore. I bet you are too. And don't you have to go to work? Aren't there patients at the clinic who need you to go to work today?"

"Tonight then. Come to the clinic at 6:30 and we'll go someplace."

The someplace was a room at the Sheraton Laguna again. The next day's someplace was here, at my shack. The someplaces from then always were somewhere other than where he lived. After a week, it had become just the clinic after hours and my shack. We were, of course, still barebacking, and that was nice. But I was getting itchy, without really understanding why.

When he popped the proposal, I understood why.

"I don't want you to have to be a rent-boy anymore," he said.

"I'm not a rent-boy because I have to be," I said. "I am a male whore because I choose to be. It frees me to be what I want to be."

"I want you to be mine—exclusively," he said. "Don't you like the barebacking? If it's just me, we can bareback to our heart's content. We don't have to take the tests all the time."

"Yes, the barebacking is nice, but—" I didn't fill in what the "but" was, but it struck me that the "but" was that it took variety from me and it put me in the control of one man. I would become Paul's mistress—exclusively Paul's. Just another of Paul's possessions.

"I want you to be—I don't know what they call a man who is one—I want you to be my mistress. Exclusively mine. I'd pay all your bills. You could paint and surf to your heart's content and you wouldn't have to open your legs for any other man."

"It's something to consider," I said, knowing that, in fact, it wasn't.

When he left, I found a wad of bills on the counter beside my painting of him. $500. I hadn't asked him for money the entire time we'd been together. Somehow it cheapened what we had together. It was no different from taking money from anyone else fucking me, of course, but it put Paul in the same league—buying my time. Buying me, my body. Making me just an object of his obsession.

I got a call from Lee Houser the next day. "I'd like you to come over—to spend the night. I have someone here who I'm trying to make a deal with. I think you'd like him. I'll pay you well, of course."

I went. The friend was black and big, a bull of a man. I don't know what the deal was other than that it included me from Houser's side. The black bull fucked me on a bed in the guest room for an hour, snorting like the bull he was and pounding away inside me with a big black cock, giving me no quarter, slapping me around when I struggled with him. It was exactly what I needed, what I'd missed after a week of Paul.

Afterward Houser took me to his bed and gave me a foot of cock. That job was gloriously welcome. They'd both barebacked me. I no longer was exclusively Paul's on the strength of the last HIV test he'd given me. I was what I was in Guam to be—a rent-boy.

When I left the house there was a big black limousine parked beside my Jeep. As I came around to the driver's side of my Wrangler, the back passenger side window of the limo slid down and the black man who had fucked me earlier in the day showed his face.

"I like to think I haven't finished with you, young man," he said. "Come into the car and drive to my hotel with me. I'll take you to dinner there and then I'll pay you $1,000 for the use of your body through the night."

The use of my body. No "make love to you." Not even "fuck you." I don't know why, but that sounded so real to me, so expressive of the impersonal nature of the business I sought—not intruding on my surfing or painting even a bit.

"I have my car here," I said, shrugging my shoulders.

"And is that the only reason you won't go with me?"

I thought about that. Turning him down hadn't been my first reaction. That was somewhat of a revelation. Until then I'd assumed that I'd be taking Paul Prentice up on his offer of a more permanent, exclusive relationship. But I hadn't hesitated in accepting Lee Houser's summons to come entertain someone he had a business deal with. I'd known what that entertainment would entail. I also had known that, once at Houser's house, I'd let him fuck me again too with that snake of his—if he wanted me. And I would have been disappointed if he hadn't wanted me. I'd been disappointed that he had chosen that Tyler kid last time as well as me. I realized I looked forward to a foot of Houser's snake inside me.

"Yes," I said. "That's the only reason I couldn't come."

"The price is right and the service expected acceptable?"

"Yes, there's just the logistics involved."

"I have an extra man in front here. Would you let him drive your car to the hotel? He'd pay for valet parking for it. I'm at the Dusit Thani Resort."

Ah, five stars and on the ocean, I thought. But I'm not sure my old Wrangler would be acceptable there.

"Can you hear the surf of the ocean from your room?" I asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. A private joke."

"Yes, I can hear the sound of the ocean from my suite," he said. "Does that help you to decide to accept my offer?"

He wanted me. He wanted me enough to essentially plead with me to come to him. I wondered, though, why I couldn't just drive my own car there. I didn't ask, and it's just as well that I didn't. He wanted me in the limo because he wanted to start using my body immediately.

The driver took the long route to the hotel, because the man buying my body—after telling me his name was Kwame and he was from Nigeria—pulled me onto his lap, had my trousers off while he was pawing me and his own fly open, and had me bouncing on his thick cock, yodeling, and bareback seeded once again before we reached the hotel. The driver had taken twenty minutes for a ten-minute drive. Kwame took his time fucking a man.

He fed me at the hotel's Aqua buffet restaurant, winking at me and telling me to eat hearty to keep my strength up. Once in his room, which indeed was an ocean-front suite, and where, indeed, I could hear the sound of the surf crashing on the beach, he held me in the bed for eight hours, fucking me with his big black bull cock for a half hour every two hours. He didn't just want to fuck me. He wanted me to resist until overpowered, which he easily could do. And he wanted to slap me around. And he wanted to bind my wrists together with leather cords and take it from me. For $1,000 I let him do what he wanted. And most of the time I enjoyed the intensity and variety of it—and that big black cock that nearly dislocated my jaw when he made me take it in my mouth.

Yes, I could be in the big time if I let Houser set up trysts like this.

When I finally was able to get off the bed to go to the shower, I squished inside while I staggered from all the Nigerian cum inside me. He fucked me in the shower too.

He paid me the $1,000 and threw in a 100-dollar tip. I called Lee Houser to report on the encounter and to hope it helped him with his deal.

"I'm glad you went with him," Houser said. "Yes, you've helped me with my deal." He still didn't tell me what the deal had been and I surmised I really didn't want to know. The Nigerian looked like a thug and he fucked like a thug. I certainly had been well and cruelly fucked—I'd even say ravished. "That can be the first of many such lucrative arrangements for you," Houser went on to say. "You won't have to work the streets anymore if you let me take care of you."

I disconnected with that phrase in my mind—"if you let me take care of you." Suddenly there were two men who wanted to own me. Is that what I came to Guam to do? Is that what being an out-of-period hippie was all about?

One thing I knew I'd have to do. The next time Paul Prentice came sniffing around me I'd have to tell him that he wasn't the last man who had barebacked me, bred me, and filled me to overflowing with his cum.

* * * *

Paul hadn't missed me. He'd had to make an emergency trip to the States with a patient. He came to my shack for a nooner two days after I'd been bareback laid by Houser and the Nigerian thug. I had to tell him that we'd have to use a condom until he checked me again unless he wanted to take the risk.

"You what? We're supposed to be exclusive," he said, exploding.

"I haven't promised to be exclusive yet," I answered. "And you know Lee Houser. He thinks he owns me." I came close to pointing out that Paul thought he owned me too and didn't have a bill of sale on me any more than Lee Houser had. I had not meant for this rent-boy business to be this complicated. I'd thought it would be pretty straightforward. I didn't see it as having these pitfalls.

Paul still wanted to lay me, and groused, but he accepted that we'd use a condom, which we did. He fucked me on my bed, which is only a three-quarters, taking me in a side split. Although I could feel him tense and jerk several times, with the condom I couldn't be precise enough with the blasts of cum to count them.

We lay there, me in his embrace, him still inside me, and, starting with noticing a water spot in the ceiling, he started ticking off improvements he'd pay for to make this a neat little love nest for us.

"It's not the same now that we've barebacked," he groused, no longer talking about the deficiencies of my place.

"No, it's not," I admitted.