Fan Male Ch. 01

"Yeah, I guess," Kit acknowledged.

"So why not do it on a more regular basis? You're a gorgeous hunk. Men love redheads... and those eyes of yours. That you can keep up in an intellectual conversation and yet follow a man's directions and arouse him in bed make you a natural--especially at the level of my escort agency."

"I couldn't take the physical demands--like what you've just told me about the fetish and bondage sex with the fat Arab. And I know you take worse--I've seen you taking worse. You've been protecting me from getting the worst, haven't you?"

Toby laughed. It was a natural "you caught me" laugh. "Well, yes, of course. You're at the beginning of this. It's something you have to train yourself to take. But it's where the big money is. And after a while--"

"I think it might be the 'after a while' that turns me off," Kit said. "I have sex with men because I like it. Sex is fun for me. Even the gigs you've taken me on have been an adventure, and I think you've been making sure that I haven't been thrown in with ogres. I've seen you grimace in pain from some of the things men do with you."

"Pain, yes, but pain goes with ecstasy and passion. Pain will take you higher in sexual satisfaction. It will go further in making you feel complete and one with the other man--giving it all to the other man, for that moment becoming totally his, letting him take you across the threshold of dying for him. Almost always it leads into the man being apologetic and prompting him to be more tender, more attentive to your needs--and, to be honest, to a bigger tip. There's nothing that will make a john feel more guilt and try to make up for it than to cause his boy pain."

"Just the johns, Toby? You live with a guy here. I've seen his photo. He's a cop and he's a muscle man, a real thug by the look of him. He looks like he'd be brutal, but he must not be for you to stay with him. Does he inflict this pain you speak of?"

"Yes, of course he does. As much if not more than most of the johns I go with. The escort agency ensures they'll have limits. Hardesty has no imposed limits and sometimes we get carried away--we. Not having limits is part of the arousal of being fucked by Hardesty I've had my most satisfying orgasms with him--with the pain he inflicts and the passion he pulls out of me. And it isn't just me. All of the guys I know want to go with him--and then they want to go with him again after the first time they've been with him. I've gotten some of my best send offs as atonement for a bit of pain I had to endure. That's what the poets call the orgasm, the completed ecstasy, you know--the Petit Mort, the little death. You want to go with him too, don't you? You more than half hoped he'd be here today and would give you a tumble, didn't you?"

"I don't know about that," Kit said. "I can't see feeling higher levels of sexual satisfaction in letting another man do whatever he wants with me--to cause me pain."

"You don't have pain from a cock inside you, even when you're working as one, a well-oiled fuck machine?"

"Yes, of course, but it's all relative."

"Relative to what? Would you prefer a big cock inside you or a little one?"

"Big, of course. But much of that is psychological, taking a big one, being able to do it."

"Yes, but it's also the pain of the bigger one--the pain is connected to the passion and ecstasy of being fucked. Pain tells you you've made a commitment--that you're alive. The pain is integral to the satisfaction of having it all. You'll see, if and when you have a man who uses you fully, who you've given yourself to completely. That's psychological too, knowing you are being complete used. Pain, ecstasy, passion. You'll see one of these days. And it helps, as a prostitute, to be able to cross over into this world easily. Your job is to give the man pleasure, but there's every reason to train yourself to take the pleasure for yourself too. The Arab today was fat and demanding, but I took pleasure as well as money from him--because I trained myself to do that. It's all in the attitude you take."

"I don't want to get into a position where I have to do it to pay my rent or cover my next meal."

"What you do now... what I send your way... helps you pay the rent, doesn't it?" Toby asked. "You were struggling to cover your share of the rent with that old boyfriend of yours, weren't you? That's why I sent shared assignments your way to begin with."

"Yes, that's right. But that takes us back to them being shared assignments and ones you've obviously selected for me that won't tax me too much. That isn't what you're offering me, is it? It isn't going out with you every time, seeing that I get the less-taxing guy, and being there for us to hang together--to protect each other. I don't--"

"The man's got a point, Toby. I hope you listen to him."

Both Kit and Toby turned to the low baritone sound of another man entering the space--Kit turning with surprise--Toby less so. Toby's roommate, the D.C. vice cop, Hardesty, was coming out of his room, rubbing his eyes and his stubble of head hair and otherwise looking only half awake. He wore only a knotted bath towel around his midsection, setting off his beautiful, solid body-builder's physique, still hard and muscular in his mid-forties, to great advantage. The man was toned, exuding an aura of danger, but also of authority and self-confidence. He was sexy, but clearly in a fully masculine, mature way. His body was scarred and he looked the borderline thug. He made Kit go hard just looking at him. His age showed in the gray struggling with the black of his buzz cut and in the close-cropped mustache and beard. And he'd had a hard life, as evidenced in rugged features and a nose beaten slightly off kilter. But he was one sexy dude.

It was like Toby and Kit had just been saying--Hardesty had obviously had a hard life, but Hardesty was hard bodied and he promised to take his young men hard. There were young men who wanted it this way. Despite the doubts Kit had been expressing, he knew he wanted it that way too.

Toby introduced him to Kit, saying, "This is Kit Drake, who I've told you about. We met in a course at the National Gallery of Art, where he works."

"Hi, Ken," a sleepy Hardesty said, catching the "who I've told you about" rather than the name. If Toby, in turn, heard the misspoke name, he didn't respond. He was more concerned with Hardesty's disheveled look.

"You had a hard night at the clubs?" he asked, giving Hardesty a smirky smile. Hardesty hadn't been home, in bed, with him, the previous night, so Toby had slept in his own room. Hardesty was out for the count and snoring when Toby got up that morning to make his assignment at the Alexander Hotel. It usually was Toby sleeping in late and Hardesty up and at 'em in the morning.

"Called in on nightshift last night. It was an all-hands on deck shift, with the hope we could run a bastard to ground," Hardesty said, more awake now and closely assessing Kit with penetrating looks. Kit had already gone hard being this close to the god whose photo he'd been masturbating to, and, being a redhead, he blushed to a discernible degree. Hardesty had noticed that and given him a "yes, I'd like to get into that" look. "A maniac is on the loose out there again," he continued. "He's picking off small, slim, blond rent-boys--like you, Toby," he said almost accusingly. "As your friend here was saying, it's dangerous, especially for guys looking like you, to be pulling down tricks alone these days."

"We've been over this before, Hardesty," Toby said. "I don't work the streets like most of the guys you're concerned with. I'm on the high end. The escort agency vets the clients. We fuck only in the best beds. I'm not in as much danger as the guys are you pick up at clubs when you're cruising. What's happening to these rent-boys who are attacked? Do I know any of them?"

"There have been just two so far, but the MO is the same for them both. And they're beaten up pretty bad. Beats me if you know the guys. They're from the streets, so you probably don't. No deaths yet, but it's probably just a matter of time before we get there--if we can't catch this guy and stop him. So, you be sure you--"

"Always," Toby answered. "I'm covered. And Kit here would be too if... uh, hold on. That's my phone." Toby walked back into his bedroom, to the corner of the apartment, where glass edge met glass edge and he seemed to be hovering over Crystal Drive with a commercial jet coming down into Ronald Reagan airport at nearly the same level as the nose-bleed floor of their apartment building.

Hardesty looked down at Kit and said, "So you're good to go, Ken? Toby told me you were good to go."

Looking confused, Kit only had time to respond with a "Huh, I'm not sure--" when Toby was coming out of the bedroom, saying, "A quick trick call. The lobbyist we did together up on MacArthur Boulevard. Gotta go. Stay and eat your salad, Kit. It's over there on the kitchen counter, all ready. And consider what I said--both the job and the attitude. If and when you can break through the pain/ecstasy/passion thing, your life will become golden."

"Uh, Toby," Kit said, looking at Hardesty.

"Feel free to do what you want," Toby said. "I know you want to." In another minute, he was gone and the two of them, Kit perched on stool at the kitchen island, and Hardesty, standing close to him only in a bath towel, were alone.

"So, Toby said you wanted it from me bad, Ken, and that you give it to guys," Hardesty said, thickness from lust showing in his voice. "You're here and I'm here. You're looking supremely fuckable, so let's get it on."

"My name's Kit, not Ken," the blushing redhead responded.

"Does that mean you don't want to fuck?"

How did Toby know I had such a hard-on for his boyfriend, Kit was wondering. He didn't have time for more than that thought, though, before Hardesty had leaned over and taken Kit's lips in his. One hand unknotted his towel and let it slip to the floor and he was pulling the hem of Kit's polo shirt out of his waistband with the other. Hardesty was in magnificent erection. The shirt came up and off as Hardesty pushed Kit down on his knees on the floor in front of him. Kit, shocked but more than willing, opened his mouth over the thick, long, and hard cock that was presented to him, and he clutched Hardesty's meaty buttocks in his hands as Hardesty cupped his head and guided him in the suck.

Hardesty fucked Kit on his bed, with Kit trussed up in a hogtied spreader bar strap, a solid bar, keeping the young man's legs spread, with restraint loops around his wrists and ankles, keeping the right wrist trapped to the right ankle and the left wrist to the left ankle. Kit was pitched forward on the bed, his cheek and chest flat on the mattress and his buttocks waving in the air, his hard cock jutting out toward the mattress. After he'd eaten Kit's ass out; worked the channel open with a flexible, black, ten-inch Ragin' D dildo; rolled on a Magnum XL condom; lubed up Kit's now-gaping hole; and was climbing up on the bed and mounting Kit's ass, Hardesty said, "This is what Toby said you were begging for from me, so here goes."

Kit, moaning and groaning, couldn't otherwise say anything, as Hardesty had silenced him with a ball gag. He was completely defenseless to do anything either. He was trussed up totally; he was completely at Hardesty's mercy. He crouched there, trembling and writhing as best he could, as Hardesty stuffed his thick nine inches in him and fucked the shit out of him.

When he was done, Hardesty freed Kit and took the ball gag out of Kit's mouth. "There you go. Was that what you wanted, Ken?" He was pulling a plow belt out of his closet and showing it to Kit.

"Yes, but how did you know and why are you calling me Ken? I'm Kit. Kit Helms."

"Kit Helms? You're not Ken Kale? That's who Toby said wanted me to fuck him like this."

"No. I'm Kit Helms. I didn't ask for this, but--"

"Well, shit. I'm sorry, dude. I thought you were--" he dropped the plow belt to his side like he was trying to hide it.

"--but it's exactly what I wanted from you. What's that?" Kit asked, pointing to the plow belt, a four-foot length of eighteen-inch wide leather, with handles on each end. "What do you do with that?"

"Want to see what I do with this?"

"Yes."

"Want to get fucked again?"

"Yes."

Hardesty rolled off his spent condom and pulled on and lubricated a new one. Then he pulled Kit off the bed; turned him, so he was in front but facing away from Hardesty; grabbed the two handles of the plow belt; flipped the leather strip over Kit's head and down to the young man's belly; and lifted the young man and flipped him over so that Kit's arms reached for the carpet and his feet lifted off the floor. Kit yelped involuntarily from surprise at being upended, but then he was grunting and groaning as Hardesty thrust up into Kit's still gaping hole with his renewed erection and fucked the stuffing out of him again.

When Kit was able to emotionally fall into the rhythm of the fuck, he began fantasizing on how he could describe these two sex-toy fuckings by the god of a muscle man in his short stories. And he had to admit that he understood what Toby had been saying about pain, passion, and satisfaction.

* * * *

Angelo was trembling and whimpering, but he wasn't objecting or trying to get away.

"It's a very delicate procedure," Brett whispered into Angelo's ear from behind. "It's incredibly sensual, but you have to hold perfectly still. The ultimate fuck. Being fucked in two holes at once. Come, sit on it, in my lap." The young Italian groaned as the older man pulled him onto his lap with one arm encircling the young man's waist and the other positioning his own erection for full penetration as the small blond descended into the American's lap and his passage yielded to the thick phallus.

As he struggled to accommodate the shaft inside him, Angelo looked down at what Bret held in one hand and shuddered. The fingers of one hand thrummed one of Angelo's nipples; the other held leather restraints.

"Are those necessary?" Angelo whimpered.

"You'll find you want them," Bret answered. "You must hold very still or you'll be ruined. And I want you to give yourself totally to me. You will be my captive prisoner. Your very life will be in my hands and at my disposal."

The young Italian was bound at his wrists, his arms flung up and the wrists bound behind Bret's neck, and at his ankles, his legs trapped behind Bret's closed legs. He was totally immobilized and stretched out on the American's muscular body. The fuck began, Bret grasping and squeezing Angelo's buttocks apart for maximum penetration and raising and lowering the young Italian on the sinking cock. When the depth of the possession was complete and Angelo was groaning the working of the shaft in his soft, yielding core, Bret held. He drew the young man's attention to what he now held in his hand. "These rods are called wands," the American whispered. "The sex act is called sounding. Have you ever seen--?"

Angelo's long, plaintive moan covered the question, which was rhetorical in any event, as, in shock and horror, he pressed his blond head, the hair reaching to his shoulders, the silky smoothness of it a pleasure to Bret against his bare chest, into the hollow of Bret's shoulder. Holding Angelo's erection steady with one hand, the American was pressing the rounded tip of the smallest wand to the shaft's urethra opening. Angelo groaned, panted, and whispered, "Oh, fuck," as Bret twirled the wand slowly into the penis passage. He fucked Angelo's shaft with the wand. In, out, in deeper, twirl.

"Hold steady," Bret commanded, and Angelo did to the extent the alien invasion of his penile passage permitted. He cried out in glorious violation as, having nearly reached his ball sac, the small wand was twirled out.

"Oh, god, Bret," he whimpered as the American held up the next largest wand for Angelo to see before it too twirled into his cock head.

The story had posted the previous evening, but Kit wanted to give it one more review before starting the stories his muse was now pressuring him to write. He quickly reviewed the story and exited the site.

He was back at his apartment late in the afternoon after the glorious, if misunderstood, fucking by Hardesty, the hunky D.C. vice cop. Kit had never been taken like that before. The man had been a thug. A built and hung thug. He'd taken what he wanted, how he wanted to have it, and had been rough and cruel about it. Kit had loved every stroke of it. He wanted to have it again and again. He envied Toby for getting it repeatedly. The man was a sex god. He increasingly was understanding what Toby had said about the pain, ecstasy, passion combination taking you to new sexual satisfaction heights. He couldn't deny there had been pain from taking nine thick inches and the extreme bondage, but he'd do it again gladly anytime Hardesty wanted. Hardesty had laid out a hand whip, and Kit had shuddered in anticipation of that, but it hadn't been used. Maybe...

He had been in the middle of writing a series of sounding stories based on the character patterned after small and platinum blond Toby Drake, but what he really wanted to write now were stories based on what he'd heard and experienced today--Toby's cross-dressing sex story with the Arab and Hardesty's sex-toy-assisted brutal fuckings. The observations and experiences were coming quickly now. If he continued with the sounding series, he might never remember what he wanted to write of the new experiences. He wanted to rush on with those.

It was coming on dinnertime, though. He'd close out the story site, check his e-mails, and come back to the writing later. He clicked on his e-mails.

Hey, Sandman. Your biggest fan here. As big as you can take. As big as you WILL take when we meet. D.C.'s interesting, except for the traffic. I don't know how you cope with that without pulling your pubic hair out. I'll be happy to pull your blond, almost white, pubic hair out for you, if you like. You can sit on my lap, on my ten-inch cock, while I do it. Answer this. Tell me where you are. I'm here, somewhere near you. I got ten inches for you, babe. Love your stories. We can do that, whichever position you want. All of them. What's your favorite? Tell me where you are. I'm hard and aching for you, babe. Until you call me, I have to get relief as I can get it. Don't make me wait. Even more eager Danny.

Kit's hand went to his crotch. He wouldn't delete this one. The guy was crazy. Kit wouldn't have anything to do with him. But his e-mails made Kit go hard. There was a story in this too--a story of a crazy stalker of a guy posting fetish porn stories to the Internet. Kit would have to think of the angle needed to write that up--after he finished writing up the stories his contact with Toby and Hardesty gave him.

Ted Franklin, Kit's roommate, came home from his classes at GWU as Kit was finishing his dinner. Over dinner, the sex positions he'd been in earlier in the day kept running through his mind, which put him in high heat again. He left his dirty dishes in the sink and walked to Ted's room. Tonight would, he hoped, be one of those nights for Ted and him. But when he got there, his roommate, a tall, trim, solid-looking New Yorker, self-confident and obviously well-heeled, was dressing to go out again.

"So, you're going out tonight?" Kit asked. "I sort of hoped we could--"

"Yep, night at the clubs for me," Ted answered, giving Kit a big smile.

Kit was on the cusp of suggesting something else or proposing that they go together, when his cellphone rang. It was Toby's escort service. Toby had given them his name. They had an emergency. A visitor from Hong Kong wanted an escort to an art opening at the Foundry Gallery on 8th Street with drinks afterward. Maybe or maybe not something after that. The client said he'd decide later, but he'd paid up front for whatever he wanted. They'd just credit him if he decided he didn't want more than the outing and a drink. He wanted someone who knew art. Toby had told the service dispatcher that he had a friend who worked at the National Art Gallery who occasionally took gigs. Kit, indeed, was on the escort agency's "sometimes" list. Would he take the assignment on short notice?