Easy Sundays Ch. 03: Chicago

They weren't just preparing to fuck; they already were fucking.

At the sound of the approaching women and their bevy of urchins, the thug pulled his dick out of Gene, hissed for Gene to follow him further into the foliage, jerked up his shorts, whipped the chain off Gene's wrists, and turned and pulled Gene away with him. Gene, whimpering, barely had time to pull his shorts up before he was being pulled into the bushes.

He was pushed and pulled to a derelict stone building, with a pitted and overgrown pathway leading to it from who knows where. The door was covered by a steel sheet, but the thug had no trouble pushing that aside and pulling Gene into what turned out to be an abandoned restroom.

Gene was pulled into a toilet stall, the door of which had been ripped half off and was leaning open.

They started from the beginning again, the thug pushing Gene down onto his ass on the toilet, grabbing his wrists and forcing his arms over his head, the wrists against the porcelain tiles of the back wall, and feeding his long cock down Gene's throat. Gene gave him good head, which made the thug grunt his satisfaction, withdraw his cock, pull Gene up and around, putting him on his knees. He slammed Gene's head against the back wall a couple of times to hear Gene yelp and then sob and to completely subdue him. He strapped Gene on the back and buttocks a few times with his leather belt for effect, bound his wrists behind his back with the chain again, mounted his ass, and fucked him vigorously and cruelly in a doggie fuck to the thug's ejaculation.

When the black bull had shot his load, Gene realized that he wasn't sheathed, that he had barebacked him and was creaming him deep with multiple plasterings of hot cum. Gene cried out in ecstasy at the total taking.

He was left on the floor of the abandoned restroom, curled up in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, and . . . humming.

It had been exhilarating. It had taken his breath away. The thug had been an expert cocksman and had one of the world's longest cocks. He'd reach into the soft core and jerked climaxes out of Gene such as the young man had never felt before. Gene had been ravished and mastered, fucked dirty and raw, and it had made him feel alive.

And he had chosen it—the choice of being taken brutally like this had been under his control—not Oscar's or Ricardo's or Helene's or the dead Victor's. And Oscar had not benefited in any way from the ravishing of his sex slave.

This was a Sunday to remember.

* * * *

Gene did what he could to hide the superficial wounds he had suffered—if "suffered" was a fair word to be used for what was done to him to soar his arousal into the stratosphere—before he went down to the hotel bar for a drink and a light supper. A long-sleeve shirt, despite the steamy summer temperatures in Chicago, took care of the chain chaff marks on his wrists. He had a diaphanous shirt that highlighted his fine torso but that had thick wrist cuffs. The welts on his back and buttocks were barely noticeable—or so he believed—and they wouldn't show during supper. He'd rubbed a bit of blemish-masking cream on them and would just make sure the lights were low when he took the retailer back to his room.

The cut on his forehead from having his head bounced off the wall behind the toilet was something else. But the bruise would be worse tomorrow than tonight. He had makeup he could use to minimize that. And he could hope the lighting in the bar would be low.

The lighting in the bar area was low, the effect of the stage lit up where there was a pianist and singer making it even dimmer where the audience sat, but Oscar was eagle-eyed enough to notice the makeup on his model's forehead and he rose and met Gene at the door of the bar. Marred skin was anathema to a fashion model.

"Whatever happened . . . what did you do this afternoon?" he asked in a hiss.

"I fell. I'm sorry. I don't think my brow is what this john of yours will want to play with," Gene answered. "Is he here yet?"

"Yes, he's here. And don't even joke about calling Mr. Salisbury a john. His first name is Harold. And you are to do for him anything he wants from you."

"Oh, I can see where you wouldn't want to call him a john then," Gene said. His afternoon had made him feisty. Oscar saw the flash in the young man's eyes and bit off what he might have said. He would deal with this later. He put on a fake smile and guided Gene back to the table in a dark corner of the room.

Gene's spirits took a nosedive as they approached the table. The man was a sweaty toad. He seemed nervous at the situation, although anxious to get at Gene too—his eyes lit up when he saw Gene approaching. He was fifty if he was a day and at least 250 pounds. And ugly as sin. He looked disheveled and his suit didn't fit him at all well, which was an unfortunate surprise considering that he was important enough in the clothing distribution industry to command his own whore boy from a fashion designer.

But this was the job. Gene slid in beside him and gave him a sexy smile. He didn't even flinch when a big hand gripped his knee painfully under the table. The introductions went OK until Gene lifted an arm at one point and his sleeve pulled back enough for Oscar to see the burn marks on his wrist. Oscar gave Gene a venomous stare at that point, but luckily the waiter arrived for their drink and dinner orders, and when he was finished and walked away from the table, the pianist and singer had returned from their breaks and started another set.

Gene did what he could to maintain conversation and the required flirting with Harold Salisbury, while the clothing distributor fairly slobbered over him in anticipation of getting him alone. When he could, Gene looked around at the other tables. In doing so, his eyes met with a man across the room who seemed to be as uncomfortable with his dinner companions as Gene was and who showed all of the attributes that Gene would have liked to see in a man he'd been hooked up with to bed him later. The man was probably in his early fifties, just as Salisbury was, but he was trim and handsome in a rugged way, and he wore his tuxedo like he too was a male model. His eyes sparkled when his gaze met Gene's and he had an engaging smile. He was bearded, with salt and pepper hair, but the beard was close cropped and expertly trimmed.

Increasingly, Gene found his attention drifting away from his table to elsewhere in the room. He frequently went back to looking at the gentleman across the room, and when he did, he found the man was watching him. It occurred to him that, from their relative positions, the man could tell that Salisbury had a hand on Gene's thigh under the table—and then his inner thigh, and eventually his basket. Oscar had told Gene that the hotel bar was well known as a gay hookup venue, too, so it didn't take much imagination for the gentleman across the room to assume that Gene was a rent-boy.

Dinner was nearing its completion and Gene knew that Oscar and Ricardo would make excuses at any moment about leaving while suggesting that Salisbury and Gene remain for another drink—afterwards, of course . . .

Feeling a bit panicked, needing to bolster his courage, and having an urge to piss, Gene excused himself for the opportunity to go to the men's room before the real event started. The eyes of the gentleman across the room followed him to the door.

And when Gene was in the men's room and standing at a urinal and pissing into it, he found that the gentleman followed him there too. They stood side-by-side for longer than necessary, both with their dicks out, each man's cock in view of the other man. Gene was pleased to see that the man was hung. The man smiled—not into Gene's face—but looking down at his cock, so it was evident that he liked what he saw too. Both had completed their urination, but they both just stood there, waiting for something.

The man moved first. He pulled away from his urinal. Gene felt the disappointment of the loss of him, but only for a second or two because the man didn't leave. In a whisper behind Gene, the man said, "Is your time for sale, and are you available?"

Gene murmured a "Maybe, for the right man."

"Could I be the right man?"

"Yes."

The man came in close behind Gene and embraced him, one hand going to Gene's belly and the other fisting his cock.

"Do you mind?" he whispered in Gene's ear. "I want to make you come, and I want to fuck you. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Gene murmured and he leaned a bit forward, placing the palms of his hands against the tiles of the wall behind the urinals. He nearly laughed at the similarity between this afternoon in the abandoned park restroom and here. The circumstances were so different and yet his arousal was the same.

The man was stroking Gene's cock off. His face was buried in Gene's neck. He kissed the young man, blew in his ear, and whispered, "If I'm going to be fucking you, we should know each other's names. I am Kenton. Kenton Blackburn. And you are Beautiful and Submissive Young Man. That's the name I will know you by. You are submissive, aren't you?"

Gene laughed, a low guttural laugh. "Yes, I'm submissive. I'm Gene. Gene Worth. From New York."

"You're one of the models who came in for the fashion show up in the Stag Club earlier today, aren't you?"

"Yes, and you're going to make me come quickly if you don't stop jacking me off," Gene said.

"That's the plan. Fire when ready. And I want to fuck you then. I could fuck you right here, but we could be discovered at any moment. The danger of that is arousing in itself, though, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes, it is, and it's going to make me come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I am coming."

And then he did, splashing his spunk against the back wall of the urinal. He turned his face to the man's—to Kenton Blackburn's face—and they kissed.

"Is your name really Kenton Blackburn?" Gene whispered.

"Yes. Half the arousal is knowing that it really will be Kenton Blackburn fucking you. Are you really Gene Worth of New York City?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for being honest. I saw a program from the fashion show today. I knew you really were Gene Worth. I like that you were honest with me. I do want to fuck you—and to save you from that ogre at your table. You don't really want to be there, do you? You are going with that loser because Oscar Oliphant wants you to—that Oliphant will profit from you doing so, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"But you will go with me instead and lay under me, won't you?"

"Yes."

"Don't be fooled by appearances. I will be rough."

"That will be fine. I'll have to admit that I've become jaded to vanilla sex."

"I will test you. I know a back way to get to the hotel lobby without going back to the bar. I could get a room here."

"I already have a room here," Gene whispered.

* * * *

Blackburn was riding him high on the bed in a doggie. Gene's chest was pushed into the mattress and his arms were flung out to the side, his fists gripping bunches of the bedspread. He was raised on his knees, his tail high in the air, and the older man was riding him hard, leaning over him, smashing Gene's cheek into the bedspread with one hand and whipping his exposed buttocks and thighs with his belt with the other as he thrust hard inside him, again and again.

Gene was loving the intensity of the ride.

Despite the check on whether Gene would take the fuck rough, that it was an extra-rough fuck had arisen from a misunderstanding, but Gene hadn't corrected the impression Blackburn had gotten. After standing and kissing and fondling each other, pulling their cocks out while still dressed and stroking each other to high arousal, they had undressed each other and laid on the bed. There was only one table lamp on, and that was across the room, so it was dim where the bed was.

Blackburn had started off making tender love to Gene, kissing him all over and running his hands on the young man's curves and into his crevices. While he did so, though, he discovered the light welts on Gene's buttocks and back and the burn marks on his wrists.

"You've had it rough recently," he remarked. He was kissing and licking the welts down from Gene's back and onto his buttocks.

"Yes," Gene whispered.

"And you liked it rough," Blackburn said.

"Yes," Gene admitted.

"But you'll take it even rougher than that?"

"Yes." He gave a little cry because Blackburn then flipped him over on his back, laced his arms through Gene's thighs, and raised and spread them. The cry was because the man had gone immediately for his hole with his tongue and teeth. He backed off occasionally, biting Gene on his tender-skin inner thighs. And then he was kneeling between Gene's thighs, shoving his knees under Gene's buttocks. There had been little preparation and his dick was big. Still, while he was binding Gene's wrists together over his head with Gene's belt, he was working his cock inside the young man's channel.

Gene writhed under him, panting hard, and crying out "Fuck, shit, fuck!" but Blackburn gave him no quarter, as he assumed Gene wanted. In short order, with Blackburn deep inside Gene, they established a coordinated rhythm of the fuck and Gene was crying out for the thrusting. Somehow Blackburn had managed to sheath himself before penetrating Gene's ass and when he came, he pulled away from Gene, ripped the spent condom off, arced three prodigious gobs of cum on Gene's heaving belly, and managed to dunk toss the condom in the wastebasket beside the bed.

They lay there, tangled up with each other, both panting hard.

"Hot damn," Blackburn murmured.

"Fuckin' A right," Gene whispered. Blackburn released Gene's wrists from the binding of the belt and flicked it against Gene's flanks. The younger man scooted down the bed and took Blackburn's cock in his mouth and sucked it hard again. When the older man was fully erect again, Gene sat up and looked down into his face and smiled. Blackburn smiled back and then backhanded Gene across the cheek, sending the young man sprawling back on the bed in surprise.

That's when Blackburn positioned Gene for the doggie and mounted and fucked his ass, while he strapped him lightly with the belt.

Afterward they lay stretched out beside each other on the bed, each working at bringing their heavy breathing under control.

"Did I do it right?" Blackburn whispered.

"You did it great. But you should know that I don't usually have it that rough. Earlier was just something unusual."

"I'm sorry then. I don't usually give it that rough. Maybe I didn't—"

"It was great. I'd like to have it that way from time to time. It makes me feel alive. As I said, I take men's cocks so often that it can become boring vanilla sex. I felt alive with you."

"Will I see you again—fuck you again?"

"If you live in New York or come to New York."

"I live here in Chicago. But I go to New York sometimes."

"I have address cards over on the desk," Gene said. "I'm going to go take a shower now, but you can take one of my cards and call me when you come to New York. I'd like that."

"Let me shower first," Blackburn said, rolling off the bed. It was a command, not a request. He was asserting full control.

The knock at the door—more like a bang—startled them both. The voice of Ricardo boomed out. "Are you in there, Gene? Open up. Where the fuck did you go?"

The bang rang out again but then was followed by a more gentle knock. Oscar Oliphant this time. "You there, baby? Don't be scared. It's OK. I know he is a toad. It's OK. We closed the deal anyway. I see that you've been hurt, though. Open up, baby. Tell me what happened."

With a sigh, Gene rolled over and sat on the side of the bed, but Blackburn gestured for him to stay there. He was already standing half way to the door. He leaned down, scarfed up his briefs, pulled them on, and went to the door. He opened it. Oscar and Ricardo were on the other side, out in the corridor. Their faces showed surprise and then narrowed into a frown. They backed up as Blackburn moved into the corridor and pulled the door nearly shut behind him.

Gene heard voices from the other side of the door, Ricardo talking in anger at first but the tone calming down. Gene couldn't hear what they were saying. He opened the drawer to the nightstand and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, extracted one, and lit it up. His hand was shaking, but he didn't know whether that had been from the rough sex or the appearance of Oscar. He was aware he'd let Oscar down. He was more aware that he didn't give a shit that he had. He sensed that his Oscar and Ricardo period might be coming to an end.

Blackburn reentered the room, raised a finger to stave off questions, rummaged around in the separate parts of his tux on the carpet and came up with a checkbook and a pen from the inside pocket of his tux jacket. He went back into the corridor. When he returned, he walked over to stand in front of where Gene was sitting. He tossed the checkbook and pen on the nightstand, gently took the cigarette out of Gene's mouth, took a puff himself, and ground the cigarette into the ashtray on the nightstand. He cupped Gene's face with his hand and came in for a kiss.

Coming out of the kiss, he looked into Gene's eyes, and said, "It seems you are mine now. Bought and paid for. You weren't cheap and I always get my money's worth."

Gene was totally surprised by the slap. Blackburn backhanded him across his cheek, sending him flopping back onto the bed. Blackburn stripped off his briefs, grabbed Gene's ankles in his fists, wishboned the young man's legs, and dove between them. He thrust inside Gene hard and deep, and the young man arched his back and his head and grabbed for Blackburn's hair, hanging on for dear life and writhing, panting hard, and groaning his total surrender, as the older man pistoned him to a bareback creaming. The frame of the bed shimmered and complained as their pelvises bounced up and down, Blackburn driving hard, and Gene meeting him in counterthrusts. They came almost simultaneously, both in a joyous shout.

Pulling out of him, Blackburn said, "OK, you can shower first this time." He took a cigarette from the pack Gene had left on the nightstand, lit up, and went to the window, turned away from Gene, while Gene groaned in the effort to rise from the bed and stumble to the bathroom. Despite the groan, he couldn't help having a little smile on his face. God, the man could fuck.

When Gene came out of the bathroom, he found Blackburn, dressed again, sitting at the desk, reading his manuscript.

"Is this yours? Did you write this?"

"Yes," Gene said. "I'm studying to be a writer."

"Well this is good—no, it's very good. I'm a book publisher. Here in Chicago. That's what I do. I know good when I see it. I would publish this. No, if you let me, I will publish this."

"You really think its publishable?"

"Yes. You have to stay in Chicago for a while. You have to come home with me. Tonight. We have to start work on this. Sign contracts. Get started."

"You're not just trying to get me into your bed, are you?" Gene asked.

"Well, yes, but I want your book too."

"You want to fuck my book?"

"No, I want to publish your book. And I want to fuck you too. Pack your bag. My car is in the hotel garage."

Blackburn's car was a sleek BMW 7 series. His mansion was nearly an hour west in a wealthy suburb. He wasn't married. They fucked in the first bedroom they came to. The bed was huge. And despite his age Blackburn was able to get it up, stick it in, and fire it off two more times before the grandfather clock in his foyer downstairs struck midnight.

Gene rolled off the bed and walked for what seemed to be a mile before he got to the voluminous master bedroom. Once there, he took a shower and then stood at the urinal—the bathroom was fancy enough to have a urinal as well as a toilet and even a bidet—and took a piss. Blackburn, naked, came into the bath. He moved in close behind Gene, palmed Gene's belly with one hand, and encircled the young man's cock with the other. Gene leaned in, stiff arming and palming the wall behind the urinal, letting Blackburn hold his cock for the finish of the urination. The older man didn't take his hand away then, though. He began stroking Gene's cock.