Finding a Niche

I found quite early in my experience—and, eventually, career—that being able to bareback in sex with a man was a means to please him to the extent that he would commit to me—financially and with favor, if not romantically. I found that it took me to higher levels of satisfaction too. So, after initially letting myself be taken that way out of naivete, I researched the issue and found a means to combine drugs and checkups to be able to offer myself that way, if I chose to do it with a particular man. It has served me well through the years and has given me my own niche.

* * * *

The glass top of the patio table in the lanai between the glass sliding doors into the house and the pool was cold on my bare butt, but that was hardly noticeable in contrast to the hard cock that was deep up inside my ass, willing me to open to it fully. Arthur Ritchey was standing between my spread thighs, his silk robe open and hanging loose at his sides as he embraced me, his arms wrapped around my torso, the fingers of his right hand buried in the hair at the back of my head, grasping the curls of my hair, arching my head back so that I was staring up at the blue wavy effect of the light reflecting off the swimming pool in the ceiling of the lanai. His left hand was palming my buttocks, holding me close into him there, and his index finger was inside me, giving added thickness to his cock.

He had his lips buried in the hollow of my throat and he was making little huffing sounds. I was filled and stretched and moaning, every nerve ending in my body focused on the hard shaft and finger inside me, working their magic. And it was magic to me. I loved having a man lost to me, needing me so badly he had to be inside me, wanting me so badly they couldn't control themselves.

I had anticipated that this interview would come to this. I'd known when he met me at the door just wearing the silk robe and holding an open champagne bottle that there would be this last hurdle after weeks of interviewing and inspections of his various projects.

The index finger running down into my crack provided pressure and guidance, wanting me as close into his groin as possible for the greatest possible penetration. I rolled my pelvis up, giving the shaft even deeper penetration, moving my heels to the tops of his buttocks on each side, over the silk of his robe. He was taking me expertly, and I felt myself relax, going with him, opening up entirely to shaft. We got the rocking motion in synch, moving together in the fuck.

"Yes, yes, now," I murmured, giving the final acquiescence. He was already deep inside me, throbbing, waiting for me to open fully to him. I had done so. "Give it to me," I moaned "Release your seed. Breed me."

His lips came up to capture mine. He was in great shape for a man of fifty—trim, hard-bodied, muscular. Handsome as the devil and commanding as a man in his business—the business I aspired to—almost had to be. Holding me firmly in his embrace, he continued moving inside me, pulling back, gliding forward, pulling back, sliding forward, pulling back, thrusting forward. I opened even more, the muscles of my passage wall shimmering, clutching at the cock, searching for and perfectly melding with the rhythm of the fuck. "Yes, yes, yes," I murmured.

Time was suspended. There was no passage of time, just the rhythm of the fuck.

Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. Faster, harder, deeper.

I pulled away from the kiss, arching backward.

"Do it! Do it now!"

He retained me in the embrace, but let me arch back, his lips moving down my throat to, one after the other, my nipples. Licking, sucking, nipping. And his rock-hard cock thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. I was panting and groaning. "Yes, yes, yes. Like that. Fuck me. Fuck me. FUCK ME! Give it to me!" My right hand went between us, grasping my cock and stroking. "Now. Now!"

Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. "Oh, Shit. Oh, fuck. I'm going to come!" And then I did, up between our bellies.

"You. You too!"

Arthur continued to thrust and thrust and thrust. He wasn't unusually thick, but he was long. And he was surprisingly hard and vigorous for a man his age. I had thought from early on that this was what he would want—and Matthew had warned me this probably would be required of me—but I had no idea that he would be this virile. That he could be this hard, that he would reach into me this deep, keep it up this long. He was fucking me in my soft, spongy core. His breathing became labored and ragged. I knew he was close.

"Yes. Now!" he exclaimed, pulled out of me, and jerked the condom off his cock. He let me slowly fall back onto the surface of the patio table, although he continued to cradle me with one arm. His other hand glided down my torso, squeezed my spent cock and my balls, and grasped his cock for the final stroking. I palmed his heaving pecs as he crouched over me, vigorously stroking his cock.

With a cry, he tensed and jerked, muttered, "I'm coming," and arced cum on my flat belly, the cream merging with what I had already deposited there. "Yes, yes, give it to me," I cried out, as he managed a secondary ejaculation. Spent, he came down on top of me, capturing my lips with his again.

The last hurdle. If I didn't have a job with Ritchey Consultants of Washington, D.C., now, it was unlikely I'd ever have one. But there was one other level to go to to assure his commitment to me.

Catching his breath after coming out of that kiss, he murmured, "That was nice. Matthew's right, you're a sweet lay."

"You know you can come in me . . . bareback me," I said. "They make drugs for that now. I take them."

"Were you disappointed?"

"Never. There are higher levels than perfection, though. I want you to bareback me next time. I want to have that experience with you—to give myself to you totally."

He smiled at me. "Can you stay the night?"

"Whatever you want," I responded, "You're the boss," hoping that that was going to be the case and wondering if he would be able to get it up again that night.

I needn't have wondered if he would be able to fuck me again that night in his bed—or that he would bareback me. And when he had barebacked me and we both lay there, next to each other, each of us savoring his release deep inside me, I knew I had him.

* * * *

Matthew Grant was the one who started focusing me in finding my niche in the world. Until I met up with him, I was hurling through space at a purposely double step but had little idea where I was headed. I knew I wanted to get wherever I was going quickly; I just didn't have a vision of where that was exactly. I cut through my high school years at high speed, finishing at sixteen, with honors and with credits against a year into college as well. I had no trouble with studies. A month shy of nineteen I was nearly finished with college at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia, still without knowing what I wanted to do other than I liked working with management issues in companies, And I'd had some pleasant work as a male model of sports clothes and liked the loose and sassy world of men's fashions, where many I had worked with were unapologetically gay. I admired that even though I wasn't ready at the time to openly declare. Not declaring didn't mean I hadn't been laid on occasion. My mind was more on making it in the business world than being made in the commercial modeling world, though. I'd worked on some hypothetical cases in a business class at ODU and had enjoyed it.

I also was rushing ahead on sexual maturity. Norfolk is a major naval port for the U.S. Navy. Not more than a month after my eighteenth birthday, I met a guy in the Old Dominion library who turned out to be a Navy sailor. I hadn't known it, but I sat at a table that was a pickup spot. I was interested in guys and the sailor was squared away and talked a good line, but I had no idea where that was leading until I'd agreed to go to a nearby club with him, called The Wave, let myself get drunk, and was fucked up against a wall in dimly lit corridor at the rear of what turned out to be a gay club.

It was the first time I'd been fucked anally. Luckily, the sailor wasn't built large, so I wasn't turned off by first-time significant pain. It was more a feeling of filling and mutual-need possessing, and fusion of two hot bodies. Most notable was that he took me raw, and it never was quite as good after that if I didn't take the risk to bareback. I rarely took the risk after that first night of multiple couplings, though, unless I wanted a commitment of some sort from the other man. It just was so much more satisfying when I did.

I never saw that sailor again, but later that night I was offered money by another sailor and was fucked in a nearby fleabag of a hotel again that night. He was a bit longer and thicker, while not producing pain that outstripped the pleasure and novelty of the experience. I was experiencing a favorable progression into the world of a bottom. He barebacked me too. I didn't know any better that first day.

I had more slipped into water than leaping into the fire in initiation, being fucked by two different men in my initial anal outing. The initial encounter with the sailor I met in the library, who wasn't much older than I was, had been a hurried, fully dressed fumble in the dark. The sailor who took me to a hotel later that night was older, more experienced, and demanded value for his money. Little did he know how inexperienced I was. He was intent on taking his pleasure, though, and gave me little thought.

That night I received and gave my first blow jobs. I got naked with another man and experienced a man's hands and lips on me everywhere for the first time, and I learned both what a close-hold fast and furious doggie-style fuck was and that I could have my legs spread wide and high while on my back in a missionary position, and both give and take pleasure in watching my partner's facial reactions as he fucked me slow and deep. I saw that the expression on his face was one of almost a spiritual experience when he ejaculated deep inside me.

One night and the cum of three men inside me. Quite a beginning. I was to wise to the science of it only later, but it had been established that men had a deeper connection with me when I allowed them to bareback me.

After that I started developing an appreciation for older men—at least ten years older than I was. The first fuck with a guy near my age had been awkward and fumbling. The older sailor worked my body, taking and giving pleasure with expertise. He took his time, worshipping and caressing my body that night until I was begging him for it. His ejaculation deep inside rolled on and on. Then, in contrast, he woke me up the next morning by rolling over on top of me and fucking the hell out of me. He put me on my knees and mounted me from behind and above like we were going to the races. While he fucked me, he slapped my buttocks with one hand and grasped the curls on my head with the other and arched me painfully back toward his chest. I should have hated that, but I didn't. I would have paid him—if I'd had the money—for giving me the release and the training. Instead, I left the hotel room the next morning with $150 in my pocket I didn't have before and a line on a way to ease my way to college graduation financially. So what if I was walking a little funny and painfully. I knew that would change, with more experience. And it did.

I didn't know at the time that my first two were not hung studs. I was going to learn that there were such men, but not before I'd gained some experience of my own.

I didn't mind the fucking, and, in fact, found it more exhilarating than I had thought it would be, and it released me of confusion and pressure that had been building up in me. And I had fallen into a much-needed revenue stream. I was at ODU on scholarship, but I didn't have nearly enough support money coming in. I found that doing the rounds of the gay clubs that Navy sailors, temporarily in port, frequented allowed me to earn a couple of extra hundred bucks during the weekend and helped hone my sexual skills as well. Luckily, I had good genes—I was trim and lightly muscled without putting any effort into it, and both of my parents, now both gone in an automobile accident, had been lookers and had passed on to me a good mix of youthful features and a mop of curly auburn hair, with golden highlights, and pale hazel eyes and a half-decent "ah, gosh" smile.

It didn't take me long to know what rubbers were for and why I'd want them used. It never was quite the same with them, though, and I found a way not to need them if I wanted more from a guy than just a casual tumble in the hay.

* * * *

When I first laid eyes on Matthew Grant, it was through a dirty picture window of a room at the Ocean Shore Motel in Virginia Beach, one of those beachfront motels from the fifties that had not yet been knocked down for a snazzy high-rise condominium. Stinger and Buddy, at least that's the names the sailors had given me at The Garage bar that afternoon, had failed to close the curtains over the window, and Matt had been walking by and stood, transfixed for a brief moment, looking into the room and at me being fucked by two sailors, before moving on.

I was on the bed on my back. Buddy was below me, between my thighs, holding my legs raised and spread with his fists, his pelvis moving back and forth as he fucked me in the ass. Stinger was knelt on the bed, his cock in my mouth, getting it engorged for his turn with my ass. He was at such an angle that I had a view of the uncovered motel room window even with a cock in my throat. The meeting of the eyes between me and Matt was very brief, but it was enough for us both to remember it and for there to be no need for Matt to discover what I was and what I would do when we met later that afternoon.

The Navy guys were gone when I next encountered Matt. They'd checked out of the motel, and I was pausing at an open-walled café facing the beach, catching lunch and a Coke on an early Sunday afternoon before finding a bus back to the Old Dominion campus. I had my backpack on the ground beside me. I always carried the toiletry necessities, including lube and condoms now, and a change of underwear and T-shirt with me in case I got an overnighter like the previous night. Both of the sailors were muscle hunks and had given me quite a workout for the money.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

I looked up to see that it was the man—an older man, a bit pudgy, but not bad looking, and dressed pretty expensively—who had been startled seeing me on the bed through the motel room window with the two sailors.

"Yes, sure," I said, looking around to make sure that there were other tables available, which there were. "I mean, no, I don't mind," I clarified. That there were other tables available told me what this probably was about. I had studying to do today. Final exams of my final year were just around the corner. But money in was money satisfying a need. He was a little heavy and had to be beyond forty-five, but he looked clean and had a good smile.

"Can I buy you a drink?" He asked.

"Sure. Another Coke, I guess."

"Wouldn't you rather have a beer?"

"Sure, I would. But I'm not old enough. I'm nearly nineteen, but not old enough to be buying beer." I wanted to establish what I was legal for and what I wasn't.

"You wouldn't be buying the beer. I would be, and there's no one to say I wouldn't want two for myself."

I said nothing, so he ordered two. When they came, he nudged one over to me. I'm sure the waiter saw, but no one said anything, so I took a swig out of the bottle and then another one. I'm sure the waiter had a good idea what was going down here, and underage drinking was a mild aspect of it. Not any of the waiter's business, though.

There hadn't been any trouble with the beer the previous night. Sailors drank like fish, and for some reason they all seemed to think that the rent-boys they took up with had to be drunk to take them. I didn't get drunk, but I didn't mind being high when a sailor was fucking me. Sailors tended to fuck rough. I'd been slapped around a bit; it always was easier to take half looped. Sailors always seemed to think they had to beat their prey into submission.

"That's good, thanks," I said, giving him a smile.

"There's more where that came from," he said.

"You trying to get me drunk?" I asked.

"Could be. Would you mind?"

"No, probably not, but I usually like to be aware of what's happening if I am enjoying it."

He laughed. "So, I don't look that much like a toad and hard to take sober?"

"No, certainly not. But I do have to study for exams today," I added.

"Exams? You finishing up high school?"

"No, college. I go to Old Dominion, over in Norfolk. I graduate this year."

"Graduating college at eighteen? Impressive," he said.

"I will have turned nineteen when I graduate. But I guess you could say I'm in a hurry. But maybe in a hurry to go nowhere. I'm not sure what I want to do."

"Besides going with men?" he said, giving me a smile—establishing that he'd seen me with the sailors.

"Yes, besides going with men," I answered, giving him a level look. "I do what I have to do to pay for school."

"But you hate doing it?"

"No, I don't hate doing it," I answered. This was all part of establishing the playing field. I'd been through feeling each other out and negotiating before. "I like doing it."

"My name is Matthew Grant," he said. "My friends call me Matt. I know about Old Dominion University. I'm here attending a seminar there this next week. I teach at the University of Richmond—I'm a professor in the business management program there. And I mentor graduate students in finding their niche in professional life. What's your name?"

"I'm Cory. Cory Gilbert," I said. I don't know why, but I gave him my real name. I didn't usually do that with potential johns. But then potential johns didn't usually give me the details about themselves that he was doing, assuming it was true. It sounded true. It may all be bullshit, but it was unnecessary to be giving me bullshit at this point. It wasn't like he didn't know that I would lay down for a man—or even two of them at once. He had a hand on my knee under the table, and I was leaving it there, although I looked down at it through the glass top of the table and then back up into his eyes so he knew I hadn't missed the maneuver.

"How about another beer, Cory? You've finished that one quickly."

"Sure, why not?" I asked.

"Have you thought about what you'd do after you graduate?" he asked when a full bottle of beer had been exchanged with the empty.

"No, not really. I'm mostly thinking about passing the exams for this one."

"What are you majoring in?"

"Business management."

"Perfect. Did you know that you really need an MBA to find a good professional niche in that field?"

"So I've heard."

"Where are you thinking of going for your MBA?"

"I haven't thought of going for an MBA. I don't have the money. I thought maybe I'd manage a McDonald's or Target store for a while—if I was lucky. Maybe I'd try studying for the MBA at night."

"Prostitution isn't lucrative?"

"Not on the scale that I do it." If he was going to be bald about it, so was I. Both of us knew that if he offered me enough money, I would let him cover me.

"Do you have a lover, Cory, or just a stream of anonymous johns?"

"I don't have a lover."

"That's what I want, Cory, is a lover. A young lover. In exchange I could sponsor that lover through an MBA—at the University of Richmond—and could help him find a professional niche in this world. I would want an exclusive during that time."

"You'd buy a lover without sampling the goods first?" I asked.

"I've seen you in action. I'd be happy to pay $200 for an audition—this afternoon. I have a room at the Ocean Shore Motel—where I saw you this morning."