Fan Male Ch. 01

[This is Chapter One of a completed five-chapter mystery novella, which will finish posting within two weeks of the first chapter posting. ]

Chapter One: Embarrassing Misidentification

Angelo involuntarily sucked air when he saw the tableau. It wasn't because he was shocked at seeing Guido being lap fucked by the Greek, although that, indeed, was a surprise. It was because of what was sticking out of Guido's hard, erect cock. The end of a thin steel rod protruded from Guido's piss slit. The Greek was holding the young man's back to his hairy chest with one hand cupping Guido's chin. The Greek's other hand was manipulating the steel rod, revolving it a bit in Guido's piss slit and slowly pushing it in and then pulling it a bit out and then back in, perhaps a little deeper than it had been before. A rolling table had been pulled up on the other side of the pair beside their legs. Angelo could see that there were other, graduated-in-size steel rods arranged neatly on the table top.

Seeing that Angelo had entered the chamber, Bret spun the rod out of Guido's shaft, gestured Guido off his lap, and, smiling at the newly arrived young Italian, said, "Come, Angelo, come to me where Guido has been." With hesitant steps, Angelo approached as Guido pulled away and scurried out of the room.

Kit Helms wanted to push on with writing the sounding story, but he was already late in going to Toby's apartment for lunch. With luck, Toby's hunky boyfriend, the D.C. vice cop Hardesty, would be there too. Hardesty--and Toby, for that matter--had provided many a scenario for the stories Kit wrote for the Internet gay male porn sites and published through Amazon. This writing was becoming quite a nice supplement to Kit's salary as an assistant curator at the National Gallery of Art on the Mall. God, I wish Hardesty would give me a spin, Kit thought, as, just before he closed down his computer, he checked the e-mails on his author's account.

Hey, there, Mr. Sandman: Fuck, you had me hard and jacking off with "Searching For It." We gotta meet. I gotta do you, sound you like that and then fuck you hard. Get back to me. We gotta get together. I think you're somewhere in D.C. I can be there fast, anywhere you want. I got eight inches for you. Eager Danny

Fat chance of that, Kit thought, as he pushed the "delete" button. This Danny dude had gotten really persistent of late. It was great that guys who read his stories got turned on by them--that's why he wrote them. But to take it all so literally, to think that he did all of that himself, or even half of it--although he wished, of course, and Toby's guy, Hardesty, came to mind when he was wishing--was really something. Still, it made Kit go hard to get fan mail like this over-the-top e-mail from this Danny dude. He wondered if this Danny guy was a built and hung dude--half of what he'd claimed in his e-mails--but Kit just couldn't see that being the case.

If only he got half of what he wrote about getting... and got it from a real hunk...

As he closed down the computer, Kit had a jab of regret that he'd deleted this Danny's message. It was just the sort of arousal jolt he liked to come back to and read again. It was just this sort of message that gave him inspiration for the stories he wrote. But this Danny guy was taking it a bit far--and somehow he was narrowing in on where Kit lived. That was a bit scary. It was scary to think that the guy was even trying to do that--assuming he wasn't just blowing smoke about it.

Kit had derived his gay porn author name, Sandman, from his own physical features, while trying not to make much of a connection. At twenty-three, he was a good-looking, well-built young man, whose distinctive feature was his sandy-blond hair, reddish with blond highlights, and the freckles that went with such coloring. His eyes, an emerald green, set the look off quite well, making him arousing to women and men alike. His choice was men, though, and, not promiscuously--in general--but he had determinably been gay since he'd been fucked by his prom date's brother on high school prom night. He'd recently finished an MA in modern art critical and curatorial studies at Columbia University, in New York, and had landed a paid graduate curatorial internship at the National Gallery of Art, in Washington, D.C.

He was on his way in the art world, but he wasn't willing to give up his darker imaginings yet.

Fortuitously, Ted Grant, who had fucked Kit's anal virginity out of him on prom night on Long Island, was taking a doctorate in governmental administration at George Washington University, and the two managed to find a one-bedroom apartment to share on 19th Street near Dupont Circle. And, luckily, Ted, who now worked for a defense contract lobbyist firm in town, came from a wealthy family and Ted was still on his dad's support system. The two still fucked on occasion, but not often enough to be considered boyfriends or to be insulted when the other slept with someone else.

Sleeping with someone else, though, was how Kit had gotten linked up with Toby Drake, who was near his age, and who was a high-end male hooker, living in a Crystal City, Alexandria, high-rise apartment overlooking the runways of the Ronald Reagan airport across the Potomac from D.C. The kinky add-on was that Toby was living with a hunky D.C. vice cop. When Kit arrived in D.C., Toby was taking one of the art curator courses at the National Gallery--just for kicks--and the two had become friends there. Part of why they had so easily become friends was that there wasn't any sexual tension between them. They had quickly established that, though both actively gay, they both were submissives.

The two had discovered they were likeminded when they both attended a New Year's Eve party in the Potomac Palisades home of Ted's defense contractor lobbyist boss. Both were there as party favors, Toby on escort agency assignment and Kit invited through Ted. Ted had told the lobbyist about his roommate, Kit, who wrote gay erotica stories for a Web site that Ted saw the lobbyist liked to read.

"You say he writes it," the boss asked. "Does that mean he fucks too?"

"I fuck him," Ted said.

"He takes cock?"

"He takes mine."

"Just yours?"

"Neither of us is exclusive."

His boss then was anxious for Ted to bring Kit to one of his parties.

The lobbyist and a client fucked the two young men together on a king-sized bed, the lobbyist fucking Toby in a doggy and the client doing Kit in a missionary. The two bottoms held hands across the bed and smiled at each other as they were being fucked. They had been close ever since. Seeing Kit's potential as a prostitute and hearing that he could use extra money, Toby had invited Kit to go on other party assignments with him. The lobbyist had ridden Toby like he was a thoroughbred racehorse, saddled high on the young man's hips and flogging Toby's buttocks while he rode him. Kit had been both shocked and surprised at viewing this, but it had helped him respond well to the older man covering him in a missionary and had featured in one of Kit's stories. Kit was flattered that the lobbyist, Jason Jarvis, read the stories Kit wrote under the name Sandman.

Kit had occasionally--very occasionally--gone with Toby to other parties since then, collecting a fee for the outing, which helped a lot in covering his share of his apartment. And this had led Kit, who enjoyed writing as much as art collecting and was very good at it, to write more of his enhanced-action short stories for the Internet and for the on-line marketplace based on his experiences with men. The stories went as far beyond the actual experiences as his imagination would take him, which was far, and which had attracted a large, paying fan base.

He didn't consider himself a prostitute. He considered the rare gigs he'd gone on with Toby to be research. He took the money, but he just thought about that as supporting his writing career just as the sexual experience did. Most of the experience, really, was in watching Toby perform with a man. Although a couple of years older than Kit, Toby was still young, at twenty-six, but looked five years younger. He was small, blond--almost platinum blond, the hair falling to his shoulders when he let it down--fun to be with, movie-star handsome, with a trained channel that fit his clients, no matter how big they were, like a glove. This took effort and superb muscle control, but Toby had taken the effort to learn the trade--and the tricks of the trade.

He was of a body type and wealth of sexual experience that were in high demand by well-heeled men, especially ones with special needs. He was accustomed to demanding fetish sex partners, wanting services Kit didn't think he'd ever be comfortable with or capable of giving.

When he wrote about Toby as a character in his stories, readers were prone to drool in fan mail and express the wish to do with Toby exactly what the men in the stories did. They also almost always assumed that Kit was writing about himself, himself having Toby's physical characteristics, and his own preferences and willingness when he wrote the Toby character.

If only I were that brave and talented, Kit thought, while, at the same time, disclaiming that Toby's world ever could be his as well.

When Kit asked Toby about his living arrangements and whether he had a steady boyfriend in addition to his paying gigs, Toby had produced photos, including naked and erection shots, of a guy named Hardesty, who he claimed was a vice cop with the D.C. police. When Kit challenged him on there being a vice cop that hunky and sleeping with a high-end male prostitute, Toby had just laughed and said that was Hardesty's way. He got his job done, but he dipped his wick while he did it. Rent-boys who slept with him were kept within limits in their activities but also enjoyed some protection in what was a high-risk job. Kit could easily see sleeping with Hardesty from the photos he saw, even not having met him yet. Hardesty was a big-cocked body-builder thug in the photos--a real bad-boy look, despite being identified as a cop, and he had featured as a character type in several of the stories Kit had written.

Toby had promised to introduce Kit to Hardesty someday--and, no, he didn't care if they were attracted to each other and fucked. Kit was warned, though, that Hardesty was a "take no prisoners" rough cocksman. Yes, he did make extreme demands on Toby, the young prostitute admitted, and he sometimes left marks. But if and when Hardesty saw whip marks on Toby after servicing a client, that was the only time he let his ire show. Toby had to refuse to tell Hardesty who the client was. Hardesty would be quite surprised, though, if he knew some of the men in D.C. who made the most testing demands on Toby.

Toby had plenty of Hardesty photos and he quite willingly let Kit have one of them--a full-body nude, with erection. Kit kept the photo in his nightstand drawer and masturbated to it a couple of nights a week. The man looked like a mean thug--a divinely hung and muscled-up thug. Kit had no idea he would melt to such a man, just from a photo, but he did melt to the photo of this man. When Toby had invited him to the Crystal City apartment, with the possibility that Hardesty might not have left for work yet when Kit was there, Kit accepted the invitation, which he knew would come with an assignment proposal, without hesitation.

* * * *

Toby Drake was no stranger to the exclusive, small, men-only Alexander Hotel on Massachusetts Avenue, near Dupont Circle. It would be quite safe to say that he was an extension of that hotel's services. His escort service and his name were on their concierge's speed dial. Thus, little notice was taken of him when he entered the hotel at 9:30 that morning, dressed casually but expensively and quite attention getting as a figure, and walked to the concierge desk. He spoke briefly with the concierge, who guided him over to the lobby bar, where he was pointed to a substantial figure of a man, standing out and grabbing attention as he was of large size and was outfitted fully in Arab dress. He wore a sparkling white robe, called a thawb, an equally sparkling white head scarf, the ghutra, and black rope band on the headscarf, the egal. The man was hawk nosed, with a close-cropped black beard and piercing black eyes. He most likely was in his late forties, and his meaty- and -hairy-toed feet were bare in expensive brown-leather sandals.

As Toby approached and the concierge retreated, the Arab--no name given then or later--gestured Toby to sit at the low cocktail table. Toby did so and they drank coffee and conversed briefly before the Arab rose and preceded Toby to the elevator. The hotel staff paid the two no heed, but a man sitting at the other end of the lobby, reading a newspaper, had come to attention when Toby entered the hotel and had watched the young man progress across the lobby, speak to the concierge, and be guided toward the Arab. He continued watching the two as they moved to the elevator. When they entered the elevator and the door closed on them, the man folded the newspaper, rose, exited the hotel, and went across the street and sat, on watch, in a late-model white double-cab Dodge Ram truck.

Upstairs, in room 208 of the Alexander Hotel, the naked Arab, his nearly obese but muscular body pelted with black, curly hair, lay on his back on the bed, his arms raised over his head and restrained by red silk restraints helpfully provided at all four corners of the bed. Toby, now in a red silk slip, with red bra and panties--a convenient slit in the back of the panties--straddled the Arab's hips. Toby was palming the Arab's beefy pecs, leaning back over the man's thighs, and riding the man's erection. At the Arab's barked command, Toby rose enough on his knees to allow the Arab to fuck up into him and moved his hands back to grasp the man's knees. The Arab first found the ring in Toby's navel and lifted his head to give that suck. Next, though, when the real action started, he found the gecko tattoo that had been drawn into Toby's erogenous zone at one side of his lower belly. The Arab found the secret of rubbing that and then just held on tight as Toby cried out in passion and writhed on the cock in wild gyrations that always caught his clients' attention and attraction.

After a while the two changed positions, with Toby, sans slip, on his back on the bed, his wrists restrained above his head by the silk restraints and his legs spread and raised by his own efforts. The Arab's hands were busy choking Toby's throat and engaging in breath control, while he knelt between the young man's thighs and vigorously thrust up inside the young man's channel with his shaft in rhythm to the choking and release of his thick fingers on the young prostitute's throat.

Forty-five minutes later, having showered and left the Arab asleep and snoring like a beached whale on the bed, Toby checked the wad of money the man had left for him on the dresser in the bedroom of the suite. It wasn't his fee. That would appear on the Arab's hotel bill in a cooperation arrangement between Toby's escort service and the hotel. This was a tip, and a generous one at that. Toby had found Arabs to be the best tippers, and although the man's fetish was unusual, it wasn't a particularly demanding one. The bra had chafed until the man pulled it off him and started to knead his pecs and worry his nipples like they were women's breasts, but that hadn't been anything like some other clients demanded of him. With his relative small size, willowy build, androgynous look, and shoulder-length blond hair, though, the fetish was one he frequently was engaged to serve. It wasn't a fetish for him, though. That service was just a job for him.

Toby left the room and descended to the hotel lobby. He exited the front of the hotel and walked around to the covered garage next to the hotel, retrieving his distinctive 2019 red Lexus RC sports coupe, and drove back across the Potomac River to his high-rise Virginia apartment house building in Crystal City, Alexandria. He didn't notice--there was no reason why he would--that he was being followed by a white Dodge Ram double-cab truck.

As he pulled into the parking garage next to his apartment house that went with the building, the man in the white Dodge Ram saw him roll down his window and wave to another young man--a good-looking redheaded man of much the same age as the willowy blond. He was motioning the young man to remain where he was, near the entrance to the apartment house. After a few minutes Toby came out of the garage, spoke to the redheaded guy, and they entered the apartment house.

The man in the white Dodge Ram found a parking place on the street within sight of the entrance of the apartment house and the garage and settled down to wait, reaching down to the passenger-side floor and coming back up with a wrapped gas-station tuna fish salad sandwich and a plastic bottle of Coke.

* * * *

Not being the least shy, Toby invited Kit into his bedroom while, shedding the more conventional surface clothing, he changed out of the red silk slip, bra, and slit panties. Kit watched with astonishment. There was so much he had to learn about Toby's world. Toby was inviting him into it, but what he'd seen of it so far was overwhelming. And this guy had a vice cop as a roommate?

Toby's bedroom was the master bedroom of the two-bedroom luxury apartment with floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall glass overlooking the Ronald Reagan airport runways and the Potomac River and tidal basin beyond, centered on the phallic tower of the Washington Monument. On occasion, Toby did business in this bedroom, riding a client's cock on the massive king-sized bed that appeared to be suspended over the power center of the country. The bedroom was a temple to sexual pleasure for the wheeler-dealers of Washington, so it was much better appointed than the adjacent, smaller bedroom Hardesty lived in, which was furnished far more shabbily and comfortably. That said, Toby usually slept in Hardesty's bed, with him.

While Toby changed, he gave Kit a rundown about the sexual servicing of the Arab at the Alexander Hotel, and a bug-eyed Kit noted it all in the back of his mind as a scenario to write in one of his stories.

Sexual servicing of middle-aged Arabs being the topic, Toby launched immediately into what he'd wanted to talk to Kit about as they walked back into the large, continuous space of kitchen, living room, and dining room. The space was one expensively furnished room rolling into the next with little in the way of barriers, rooms with many interesting surfaces on which Toby could lie while a client was fucking him. Reaching the kitchen area, Toby foraged around in the refrigerator for the salad works he'd previously put together before going out on assignment that morning.

"The escort service has openings, and you'd be great. If I put in a word for you, I'm sure they'd take you on. The money's good, and it could work around your National Art Gallery job. The agency would be pleased to have that on your résumé--not too explicitly stated, of course. It's a high-class operation. The clients love young men who are working in the arts like that. They especially like dancers, like me... the flexibility, you know."

"Yes, I know. I've seen you in operation," Kit said, as he perched on a stool on the other side of the kitchen island from where Toby was putting their lunch together. "But I don't think so, thanks. An occasional gig like you get for me is fine, but I'm not cut out to be a prostitute, I don't think. I can't see putting it out a couple of times a day and being able to pretend like each one was the ride of my life."

"You do it. You're already a prostitute," Toby said, smiling to show that he wasn't attacking Kit for it. "It's not a matter of how much you do it. If you trade sex for money, you're a prostitute."