Fan Male Ch. 02

Ian Marcus had barely finished his tuna salad sandwich and Coke when he saw the red Lexus coupe pull out of the Crystal City apartment house garage and head west. He revved up the Dodge Ram and followed the car. Catching sight of the platinum blond hair of the driver, Marcus was sure that he was following his pretty little guy again--Sandman. It was sort of a headscratcher, though, why he'd been at the apartment for such a short time and who the redheaded hunk was he met in front of the building. Maybe this was the redhead's apartment, not the blond's and Ian hadn't run what he'd found to be an ideal punch to ground yet. The redhead looked as fuckable, in Marcus's special ways, as the blond did. But he wasn't blond. Maybe him too. But the blond first.

It had been a fluke that led him to the blond in the first place. He'd been in a bar near the Alexander Hotel, wondering what he'd do if the storyteller didn't respond to his e-mails, when he overheard two men talking at a table. A guy in Arab dress was being set up by another guy, a pimp of some sort, but one who was dressed like a banker. Marcus got the idea that this was a high-drawer sex setup. They were discussing the male whore the Arab was being set up with and the description of him the banker-type gave along with a description of what special things this blond trick would do for the Arab clicked with Marcus. The sex act described was one he'd recently read on the Sandman site.

"Yes, he'll be wearing red silk panties and bra," the pimp said. "Breath play is fine, yes."

And the description of the young man matched the one Sandman gave of himself. Marcus had followed them to the lobby of the Alexander Hotel and when the young blond whore showed up, Marcus decided he might be the one and stayed around and followed him afterward.

Toby Drake, in the red Lexus, didn't pick up on the renewed tail as he switched over to the George Washington Parkway before reaching the Pentagon and took the parkway up along the southern bank of the Potomac River. To save time and traffic, he'd take the parkway all the way out to the Capitol Beltway, take the Cabin John bridge on I-95 across the Potomac into Maryland, and then turn back toward D.C. to MacArthur Boulevard on the bluffs above the northern bank of the Potomac River. The cascades on the river below MacArthur Boulevard made D.C. and its earlier, incorporated, town of Georgetown the last navigable link on the Potomac to the Chesapeake Bay and then the Atlantic Ocean on the river. Rapids started at Great Falls, just above Georgetown. He wasn't monitoring the traffic behind him. He was thinking about the assignment he'd been called in to on short notice. It was a repeat client and a special one at that.

The defense industry lobbyist Jason Jarvis was in town, and he was horny--and he was horny in his special way that called for Toby, in particular, to assuage his lust. Assuage his lust for a big fee, of course.

Jason Jarvis didn't live permanently in the D.C. area, although his job lobbying congressmen brought him here frequently. He lived in Chicago. The house on MacArthur Boulevard wasn't his, either. It belonged to a consortium of firms with lobbyists wheedling at Congress in the firms' interests, and the house--a party house--was occupied by those coming into town by reservation. It wasn't a large house, but it was an expensive one, with winter views down to the river and the privacy sought by those accustomed to entertaining important people who didn't necessarily welcome being seen in the company of the lobbyists who virtually owned them. The bedrooms were big and well appointed--not just with toys but with well-hidden restraints as well.

If only those walls could talk.

Jarvis was a peculiar bird, sexually. He was a bald, robust, florid former professional football player in his early fifties. He was quite noticeably of significant size--in all proportions--and with fetish sexual tastes that dictated that he usually had to pay big fees to be satisfied. He had a special proclivity for small, androgynous, young and gorgeous platinum-blond men. He got off on stretching them to--and, if circumstances were right, beyond--the limit. The party house played no favorites. It was amenable to those of any sexual taste, and its services included, if needed, discreet removal services. Toby fit Jarvis's bill precisely while being able to take what the big man had, and thus Toby often was called in to do him service when he was in town.

Toby took a sharp left, without giving a turning signal, into the driveway. It rose sharply uphill beside the driveway of the house located in front of, and lower down on the hill than the more private home Jarvis had reserved. Both sat above the Potomac shore and the lower house was part of the compound, housing the crew that serviced the party house above.

Ian Marcus almost missed that the coupe had turned and overshot the driveway, spending considerable time finding a spot where he could park the truck and walk back and, as inconspicuously as possible, creep up through the bushes bordering the steep drive. He correctly assumed the lower house was part of the compound and was occupied and was careful to avoid being seen. He reached the house's parking apron, where the Lexus perched, as Toby was entering the house, and pulled back behind a tree until he determined the coast was clear. Then he started checking the house out for approaches and a place from which he might be able to see what was going on inside.

Jarvis met Toby at the door in a black silk robe and nothing else. His need was quite apparent, in his thick, upcurved erection peeking out of the division in the robe.

"Come in and upstairs. Want you to see the story that posted today," he said in a husky voice, laced with his need. Toby, starting to undo his clothes, followed the man upstairs. The call had said the man was in emergency need. Toby knew that he was revved up and ready to blow. There wouldn't be much in the way of foreplay, but the man was addicted to the stories appearing on a gay male porn Internet story site. He was hooked on stories by a writer named Sandman, who, since Jarvis had been engaging Toby's services, wrote about a rent-boy with Toby's characteristics who specialized in exotic fetishes.

"Come over here and look at this," Jarvis said in a tremulous voice as they entered an upstairs bedroom. A computer was on at a desk near the bed. Toby recognized the Web site setup and saw that a Sandman story was showing. He looked at the passage on the screen.

"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 Brit'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. "The rods are called wands," the American whispered. "The sex act is called sounding. Have you ever seen--?"

Toby had gotten stripped down to his silk bikini briefs by the time they'd reached the bedroom. Jarvis came in close behind him, putting his arms around the young blond's chest.

"So nice. So very nice," the man whispered.

Signaling "whatever you want," Toby's arms were raised, his fingers lacing behind the man's neck, his head nestled into the hollow of Jarvis's shoulder. Jarvis's robe was open, his erection pressing into the small of Toby's back as Toby read the passage showing on the screen. The open box of sounding wands lay beside the computer monitor on the desk top--and the wrist and ankle restraints beside that.

"There. That's what I want to do with you," Jarvis whispered in Toby's ear. "It's uncanny how much you are alike with the character Sandman calls Angelo in this story."

Understanding what Jarvis wanted, Toby shuddered. But he didn't say no and there was no need for him to say yes. He was here to please the man and do what he wanted--for big bucks.

Jarvis, massive and muscular--heavy but not paunchy--sat, naked, on the side the bed. Toby was draped along the line of Jarvis's torso, his arms raised up the man's bulging chest muscles and his wrists restrained and resting behind Jarvis's thick neck. The young man's ankles were similarly restrained together behind Jarvis's calves. Six of Jarvis's eight thick inches were stuffed up Toby's anal passage. Toby, panting low, his channel at full stretch as Jarvis liked it, was taxed more by the thickness than the length.

Toby's body and what turned it on were well known to the lobbyist. He knew his cock stretched Toby's passage to the limit. He knew of the gecko tattoo on the side of the young man's lower belly, and its secret--that it covered the rent-boy's erogenous zone and, when rubbed properly, took Toby beyond his prostitute moves to genuine sexual response. There was nothing like the feel of a stretched tight channel dancing wildly on the shaft.

The gecko was receiving attention from one of Jarvis's thick thumbs. He stroked it and, in response, Toby was writhing and panting and crying out and gyrating as his bonds allowed him to on the massive cock inside him, his hips in vigorous motion, rising and falling and bouncing on the thick cock. This wasn't the pretense response of a prostitute. This was genuine passion from a delicious young man, and Jarvis appreciated the difference in Toby's response to his taking.

With his free hand, Jarvis grasped the rent-boy's cock and jacked him off. This all had to happen before the sounding began. Once Jarvis was twirling the rods into Toby's urethra channel, both of them would have to be holding very, very still. But for now, Jarvis was enjoying having the luscious little blond writhing on his cock. Toby was the best male whore Jarvis had engaged from an escort service, especially as, with the right attention, the young man could transcend being a whore to being luscious putty in a man's hands. A cock inside Toby when he was at his most responsive was paradise.

They paused briefly, both panting, both having released their seed in the fuck, a fuck that both knew was preliminary to the main event. Both were able to recover quickly, although even with them recovering, they held there, entwined, panting, with Jarvis burying his face in the hollow of the small blond's throat while his hand roamed the perfect little body, avoiding touching the gecko now. He would fuck Toby again, but not by taking advantage of that. He didn't want Toby in sexual heat. He wanted him helpless and taxed to his limit. The work of his hands was making the young man go into erection again. Never having withdrawn his shaft from Toby's passage, he was hardening again too.

"Now, we begin again. Hold steady. Now for something exotic."

Toby shuddered as Jarvis reached over to the open box of sounding wands that lay on the bed beside them and selected the thinnest one. The young man was moaning and trembling as Jarvis held Toby's erection steady in one hand and maneuvered the rounded tip of the wand to Toby's piss slit with the other hand.

The young man tensed and gave a little cry as the tip of the wand penetrated his piss slit.

"No, relax. Hold steady and relax. It's going to be a long, delicious afternoon," Jarvis whispered.

Toby held, moaned, and whimpered as the wand went in, was pulled back, went in deeper, was twirled, withdrew, went in deeper yet, twirled, and was pulled all the way out.

Toby released his breath and whispered, "Oh, shit. Fuck."

"We have all afternoon," Jarvis murmured and then to the young man's answering whimper, "Yes, you'll want to breathe regularly. And hold very steady," Jarvis said, as he exchanged the wand for the next thicker one.

"Fuck," Toby exclaimed as the next larger wand twirled into his urethra.

"Yes, fucking you both in the ass and the cock," Jarvis said, with a little laugh. "Isn't this fun?"

Toby moaned deeply. Toby wasn't a paid pro now in Jarvis's mind. He was a young man Jarvis had picked up, seduced, and was now getting far more than he had bargained for. Toby played the role to the hilt.

The bedroom had a balcony looking down into the Potomac and French doors out onto the balcony. The curtains over the doors were open. Ian Marcus had found a silent way to rise to the balcony and to position himself so he could view the action in the room without the two men, closely focused on their own activity, being able to see him. He also could see the computer screen and that what was showing was the text of a Sandman story, a story the big man and the young whore were acting out. He was more sure now that before that he had found Sandman.

He licked his lips, trembled, gave a little smile, and released his cock and masturbated as the sounding continued into the afternoon to the twelfth thicker wand, when neither Toby nor Jarvis could take any more without releasing. Toby's cum burbled up around the twelfth, thick, buried wand and down the side of his shaft, while, with a little cry, Jarvis tensed and released, tensed and released deep in Toby's anal passage.

Jarvis paid extra for the barebacking. It required special pills and medical certification by both parties but the escort service provided for all of that discreetly and quite effectively. Jarvis could afford the extra arousal of skin stretching skin taut and the feel of breeding the young man he was inside.

* * * *

The private bedrooms were on the upper floors. Langston had reserved one, and by 1:30, both men were naked on the bed and Langston was fucking Ken in a missionary. Ken was on his back on the bed, his arms raised over his head, his fists clutching at the headboard and his legs spread, his knees hooked on the tall, older, well-muscled forty-three-year-old author's hips, and his pelvis raised to give the long, thick, steel-hard cock straight and deep access. Langston was hunched over the small, young man's body, his knees pushed under Ken's buttocks, one hand gripping the young man's waist, and the other cupping Ken's head. Langston dipped his head, kissing Ken on the lips, the throat and the nipples, as he fucked him in long, slow, deep slides.

"So, nice, so nice. So sweet," was Langston's whispered mantra as Ken trembled and panted, slowly rocking his hips with the older man's slow, long thrusts. He wasn't a rent-boy now; he was an innocent seduced and used by a master.

The rhythm picked up and Ken lowered his arms, his fingernails digging into the lanky author's shoulder blades, his head arched back, his eyes staring out of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking 8th Avenue, his mouth yawning open, all of his senses concentrating on the thick cock of the famous novelist slowly churning deep inside him.

Langston started chewing on Ken's nipples as he revved up the thrusts, fucking faster and deeper.

"Yes, yes, fuck me hard. Yes, yes. Oh FUCK!" The young man set the muscles of his passage walls squeezing and rippling over Langston's shaft.

Langston raised his torso off Ken's body, arched back, and thrust harder and faster. "Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" he cried out as he tensed and jerked and shot a load; tensed, jerked, shot a load; tensed...

Ted Franklin closed down the computer in his bedroom in the apartment he shared with Kit Cane. Shit, that guy can write. Just the right mood for cruising on the town. His rich and raunchy uncle had given him a gift certificate to a high-end Washington gay male escort agency for his birthday, and he was using it tonight. Neither of them had told Kit about the gift. Ted had decided it was his uncle's weird, yet amusing statement--both sentiments describing his uncle well--that the old man accepted Ted for what he was. The uncle accepted Ted for what he was but that didn't mean he appreciated Ted having a live-in lover. He'd given Ted the gift certificate with the hope it would cause a rift with his roommate.

Kit had just suggested they might get it on this evening, which would have been fine with Ted if he hadn't already ordered up a high-class rent-boy, who he'd be meeting at Freddie's Beach Bar in Crystal City--the rent-boy's choice, a little raunchier of scene than Ted would have chosen--later in his bar crawl.

But, boy, could his roommate write a good story to stroke to. He did know that Kit wrote as Sandman, not that he'd broadcast the news. He just wished that Kit was as uninhibited in the bedroom clutches as his little blond cutie was in his stories. Ted had made certain of what he'd get by requesting someone matching the frequent small, platinum-blond, androgynous cuties who appeared in Kit's--Sandman's--stories.

After giving his regrets to Kit on not staying in and fooling around this evening, Ted started walking from their 19th Street apartment to the Dupont Circle area to start his bar crawl and mood building at The Fireplace. He'd retrieve his Mustang from their apartment house garage later and he would cross the river to Crystal City.

It was a bit before 10:00 p.m. before Ted got to Freddie's Beach Bar in Crystal City, although the bar scene and main event entertainment wouldn't start for another hour or so. His rent-boy, Todd, had messaged to meet him there at 10:00, though. A small blond guy was dancing the pole to recorded music when he went in and there were men scattered around at the tables, some men watching the dancers, some doing a make on each other, and one big bruiser sitting alone at a table in front of a beer and a computer. As Ted passed this table, he noticed that the guy had the monitor open to the story site Kit wrote to as Sandman. He stopped and looked over the bruiser's shoulder. The story was Kit's most recent.

"See this? Isn't this great. God, I'd like to spike this guy," the bruiser said. "See what he's writing about? I've seen very little about this shit. It makes me hard." Ted could readily read the passage on the screen:

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.