Finding a Niche

"That motel is a dive. I'd find it unbelievable that a professor at a Richmond college would stay there."

"I don't want to stay there. I'm staying somewhere else. I booked the room at the Ocean Shore after seeing you with those sailors. I plan to fuck you at the Ocean Shore. Where I have a room to sleep in wouldn't be wild about me taking an eighteen-year-old boy to my room."

"I see," I said. And I, indeed, did see. He didn't have to spell out his interest any more than that. That had been quite explicit—more so than most johns were, and he didn't seem to be one of the crude ones.

"I asked you what you wanted to do in the future, and you answered me," Grant said. "Now I'd like to know what you'd like to do—what you would do—for the next hour. Do you like it doggie style or missionary—so something more demanding? I'm more athletic than I look. We could do a cowboy if you want some control, but I mostly like to control the fuck myself."

"Whatever. John's choice," I said. "Or does it turn you off to be called a john?"

"John's fine for now. Lover could come later when and if we found a rhythm."

"Is that what you want with a lay?" I asked. "Finding a rhythm you both like?"

"As, I said, my long-term goal is to find a lover. Do you want another beer now, or would you like to walk over to the motel with me?"

"I need to get back to school in time to do some studying tonight," I answered, pushing myself up from the table. "So, I guess it's the motel now."

The sailors had fucked me. Matt made love to me. He brought to mind my first day of sex with men. The young sailor who fucked me up against the wall in the back corridor of The Wave had fucked me. The older sailor who took me to a hotel room later had made love to me that night—and he had fucked me the next morning. I fully understood now, as Matt Grant made love to me, undressing me, and kissing and caressing me all over, making me come even before the heavy sex started, the difference between lovemaking and fucking. I didn't reject either, but I know knew the difference between the two.

When we were both naked, I asked him if he wanted me to suck him off, but he said, "Only if you are fully comfortable with it and want to. First let me feast myself on you."

That was a good explanation of what he did, including eating my ass out before, sitting on end of the bed, he drew me to him, wrapped his arms around me, and took my cock in his mouth. His fingers were lubed up, and while he blew me, making me come in his throat, he was squeezing and spreading my butt cheeks with his hands and penetrating my hole with fingers from both hands and opening me up and spreading me. I understood why he was spending time doing that. He, surprisingly, was hung, both long and thick. As long as any man I'd had over the last ten months. Maybe the longest, I decided, when he was fully engorged. He was heavy, yes, thick around the middle, but he was so long that this would have no effect in achieving depth inside me. I began panting and moaning as soon as he was in full erection and was working me with his fingers. I writhed almost uncontrollably at first, but he was so good with his fingers that we fell into that rhythm he had talked about, me rocking on his hand. As well as heavy, he was hirsute, his chest, arms, and legs pelted with black curly hair.

"As you can see, I'm big—probably bigger than either of those sailors you were with—or both. Would you prefer to be drunk for this? I'm going to be stretching you," he asked, obviously sensitive about his weight and physical presence, but for the attention he was giving me and the expertise he exhibited in do so, he had no reason to be concerned.

"No," I answered. "I want to remember and savor every second of this."

He obviously was pleased with my answer and continued giving me close, sensual attention.

"You going to use a rubber?" I asked. "Or do you want to bareback me? You can, if you want."

"After seeing you with two sailors?" he said. "I don't think so. I'd like to be with you naturally if and when we become lovers. But we can wait for that."

For the first fuck, he remained seated on the end of the bed and, still squeezing my butt cheeks apart, lifted me and brought me into his lap, facing him. I wrapped my legs around him, crossing my ankles at the small of his back, and I groaned and panted hard, as he spent time positioning his bulb at my hole and them pulling me onto him.

He was sheathed with a condom, but I shuddered and felt a chill running up my spine when he murmured, as I was slowly sinking on him, "It is better raw. If you come to me in Richmond and will be exclusive, we'll be checked out, and then we can bareback. It's better raw. I do appreciate your offer."

When, ultimately, I was with him in Richmond, we did bareback, and it was true, it was better raw. With his thickness and length, there were only a few times that it was better in any way with another man as it was with Matthew Grant.

When he was fully sheathed, he was deeper into the core of me than any man had been before. He held there, kissing me on the lips and throat, making love to me, and whispering endearments and inflaming words of what we would do together, until I had fully adjusted to him. He was taking his time with me. It wasn't just a "slam, bang, thanks, good-bye" fuck. When he pulled away from the kissing, I had my turn, kissing down onto his chest, licking his nipples, making swirls with his curly chest hair with my tongue, giving him reason to pant and moan too and to engorge even further deep inside me.

For an endless time then, after I had fully opened to accommodate him, and him using the leverage of his feet and the pressure of his hands on my buttocks, he fucked me, pulling me on and off the shaft, first slowly, with an off rhythm of cadence and depth of stroke that had me groaning and shuddering and then faster and faster, deeper and deeper, setting in to a steady rhythm, until I grasped my cock and stroked myself off and he exploded inside me, and then again and again.

To me, he was old, so I assumed that was it—that the fuck was over. But that wasn't it. There was a cooling and recharging period in which he just held me close to him and we kissed and caressed each other's bodies with our hands, but then he put me through the paces of an evening of rolling fuck. When I felt him hard inside me again, he gently pushed my torso down toward the floor, with my arms streaming out on the carpet. He changed condoms, dropping the spent one by my face so that I could see how engorged with cum it was—how much cum he could produce—as he fucked me again. Then he pulled me on and off his cock again, with me stroking my own shaft, to another mutual ejaculation.

We showered and napped in each other's arms. He rolled over on top of me, gently coaxing my thighs open, and fucked me again in a missionary. We showered and he took me to supper at a steak house.

We came back, and he put video on of an older black man fucking a younger white one with a cock that rivaled Matt's, and he fucked me again to the loud moans and cries of little white guy being fucked by a black bull on the screen. He fucked me from behind in a doggie, bent over the side of the bed, my face turned toward the TV screen. Later, before we slept, he stretched out on his back and pulled me on top of him and I rode his cock in a cowboy. Still later, in the night, with me on my belly, he rolled over on top of me and rode me. In the morning, when I stumbled out of bed and headed for the toilet and shower, I picked up six used condoms, thick with cum as slugs, to keep from stepping on them.

When I came back from the shower, he was awake, on his back, grasping an erection. "Oh, you've already cleaned up," he said. I could hear the disappointment in his voice.

"I can always shower again," I said.

"Good." And he put me on my back and took me again in the missionary position.

"Well?" I whispered as we were stretched out on the bed on Monday morning. "Weren't you just going to fuck me once here and you were going back to your fancy hotel to sleep last night?"

"I liked it here. Come to Richmond after you've graduated at ODU. I'll take care of you through a year of the MBA, and I'll help you find your professional niche."

So, that's what I did, and it went fine.

* * * *

A year and a quarter later, I came back to Richmond after Arthur Ritchey, the friend Matt sent me to for a job interview after I'd completed my MBA, offered me a position in his Washington, D.C., management consultancy firm.

I met Matt at the Shagbark Restaurant in Carytown between the campus of the University of Richmond and his townhouse in the Fan District, where I had lived with Matt for my graduate school year. He hadn't come alone.

"Cory, this is Sean, my graduate student for this year," Matt said. And that explained everything that need be said. I wouldn't be asked to come to Matt's townhouse with him that night. "Arthur tells me you passed the interview with flying colors and have been offered a position."

"Yes, I did."

"And you'll be accepting it?" He looked a little tense, as if maybe I hadn't and expected him to find me another job.

"Yes."

"And it's all that you wanted?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"You don't sound fully enthusiastic. Is there something about the job that you don't—?"

"I will be required to sleep with Ritchey," I blurted out.

"Of course you will. What did you think I was training you to do? There is something about having sex with Arthur that you don't like?" Matt asked. "Did he bareback you?"

"Yes, after the first time."

"Well, then." He said it like that settled everything. I was with Ritchey now.

Sean sat there, looking down at the napkin in his lap, but he didn't react as if such arrangements were alien to him. If I had needed evidence that he had replaced me in Matt's bed, his nonreaction was all I needed. I didn't need to mince words.

"Yes, he's fine that way."

"Better than I am?" Matt asked, his voice teasing.

"No, not better than you are," I answered. I could see the little smile of satisfaction appear on Sean's face.

"But good enough?"

"Yes, good enough."

"Then what's the problem."

"I thought at some point I wouldn't have to prostitute myself," I answered.

"We all have to prostitute ourselves to make it in the world, Cory," Matt shot back. "There are just different ways people have to let others screw them to keep their positions."

"I suppose," I answered.

"There's no supposition to it. I told you I'd help you find your niche in life. I'm surprised it hasn't dawned on you yet that lying under older men is part of where you niche is. It isn't just the management jobs, it's also having a strong, wealthy, older man to dominate and control you. You were being fucked when I first saw you and assessed what your future could be. When I was looking for a position for you, that was an important element of what I was looking for. Part of your niche in life is to be kept and fucked by older men. I don't think that's an imposition for you. I think that is part of what you want and need in life."

When he put it that way. . . .

And I was right. He didn't invite me back to his house when he and Sean left. My education under him—literally—was over. But it hadn't been over until that night when it was brought home to me just what my optimum niche in life was to be.

Before I left him and Sean at the restaurant, I was in the men's room with Sean.

"Tell, me, Sean, is Matt barebacking you yet?"

He turned a look of surprise my way, but that changed to a tinge of smugness. "Yes, he is."

Proof that Matt had moved on, so I should as well.

* * * *

"Cory, I would like you to meet Dieter Schwartzman. He has a sports boat-building company in Annapolis and is considering using our consultation services. You need your drink renewed, Dieter. I have to greet the Wilsons, who had just arrived. Perhaps Cory can get you a fresh drink . . . or anything else you might need or want."

Arthur Ritchey left me with the tall man in his mid-fifties, who had movie-star looks, despite his age, stood ramrod straight, and was obviously an outdoor sportsman—wavy gray hair, but a deep tan, great musculature, manicured hands, and immaculate evening wear. He could have been a model for his age group in a catalog of very expensive men's wear—even underwear. Even though I was meeting him for the first time face to face, I, of course, knew much more about him and I knew why Arthur had introduced him to me at this evening patio party around the pool at Ritchey's Potomac Palisades mansion off MacArthur Boulevard.

When Arthur had told me he wanted me to attend this party he was hosting, he'd been very straightforward. "Schwartzman is gay. He's a top and he fucks young men, Cory. We need his business. If he fancies you—and I can't imagine why he wouldn't—you are to let him lay you and you are to tell him he's a god in bed." It had been well established why Arthur had hired me for his firm, and that I'd let him lay me had made clear what I'd do for ambition.

The house sat high above the Potomac River rapids west of the Washington, D.C., downtown and of the older Georgetown that had been here before the nation's capital was located in what once was a swamp. I was sure that the former German army officer also knew why we'd been introduced and Arthur had left us.

One of the things I knew was that the Germanic figure didn't mince words or waste time.

"I don't need a drink right now, but I do have a need for a men's room—preferably somewhere private," he said. He was looking into the house, to the well-lit and larger foyer and the sweep of the staircase to the second floor.

"Certainly. Let me show you to an upstairs bathroom," I said.

Arthur had told me what bedroom to use—a remote one at the end of a long hallway with two turns. It wasn't a room where anyone was likely to stumble into during the party. It had an en suite bathroom.

When Schwartzman went into the bathroom off the bedroom and went over to the toilet and unzipped himself, he left the bathroom door open. He clearly wanted me to see what he was packing. There wasn't much peeing, because he was approaching a full erection. He stroked his cock the rest of the way to that condition as I locked the door to the corridor, stripped, and stretched out on the bed.

"I prefer the dresser," he said when he came out of the bathroom. "Arthur told me you were athletic. He didn't tell me that you had such a beautiful body. Stand facing the mirror for the start. Then, I think, the splits, on the bureau top, ass toward the room rolled up. I would like to see your hole." He hadn't zipped himself up and he was still cradling his erection with one hand. He was speaking now in clipped military command cadence—all very straightforward, straight to the point.

"Yes, Oberst, as you wish," I said, coming off the bed and walking over to the low-topped dresser, standing there facing it, looking into the reflection of my nakedness in the mirror, as he came and stood behind me. He wrapped an arm around me and his lips went to the hollow on my neck on the left side. I heard the metallic sound of his belt being undone and the rustle of his silk trousers falling to the floor. My "yes, Oberst" wasn't lost on him and clearly pleased him. I had been told that he'd be authoritarian. Oberst was German for colonel, which he'd been in the German army. It also signaled that I knew he would be a disciplinarian and accepted that.

I suppose I also knew that he might not just drop his belt to the floor but would double it over and give me a couple of snaps on the buttocks with it first. That made me jerk and gasp and it made him laugh.

"Do you wish to leave or do you wish to please me?" he asked, nuzzling my throat with his lips. His teeth nipped at me there, and I jerked, but held steady. He laughed.

Knowing how straightforward he would be, I murmured, "Fuck me, sir. Put me on the cock. Punish me, Oberst." I wasn't responded this way just because Arthur wanted me to please him. I was curious about whether I would like this form of sex with a man.

"Yes, I will," he said. "First, give me suck."

There was no "Please." He turned me and pushed me to my knees. As I took his cock in my mouth, his cock perhaps being slightly longer and thicker than the average but nothing to gag on, he stripped off his jacket and threw it back onto the bed. He had diamond studs in his cufflinks, and he scraped one of them across my cheek, down from my temple to the corner of my mouth, leaving a red welt to remember him by for a week. I yelped and he laughed. It was going to be a rough fuck.

From where on the bed the jacket landed, I got the impression we wouldn't be using the bed, not least because he had directed me to the dresser, which, mercifully was cleared. And I was right. I sucked and licked as he undid his cufflinks and stripped off his shirt, bow tie, and undershirt, tossing them back on the bed. Looping the end of his belt through the buckle, he made a noose out of it, dropped it over my head, and tightened it on my neck while I sucked his cock.

Without explanation, he pulled me up from my knees and off his cock by pulling up on the belt leash, oblivious to the fact that he was choking me and I was clawing at the leather ineffectually when he did so; turned me; and pushed me down on to surface of the dresser, pressing my cheek into the large mirror behind it. I gasped and took deep breaths when he let the noose slacken. He slapped me on the buttocks.

After pulling my head back by tugging on the belt leash and choking me—to show he could be cruel, he pulled the noose over my head and struck me several times on the buttocks, back, and thighs with the belt before going down on his knees behind me.

"Jut your ass back; give me your ass," he growled, and I moved my feet back from the dresser and jutted my ass back, as he demanded. He proceeded to eating my ass out and pulling my cock through my legs, going from one to the other with his mouth and tongue. He dug up into my channel with his beefy fingers. I panted and moaned and sobbed for him, as I assumed he wanted me to do.

"Take me, Oberst. Do whatever you want," I let out in a gasp to let him know I was acceding to this, assuming he cared.

When he was ready, and not asking me if I was, he stood, gripped my legs, and pulled them up, putting my legs into the splits. I gripped the top of the dresser with the palms of my hands and pressed my cheek into the mirror, fighting to maintain my balance as my legs were streamed along the top of the dresser from either side of my hips. With one hand on the back of my neck, holding my head to the mirror and pressing in on the small of my back with the other to roll my buttocks up for his access, he entered me with one, two, three fingers, up to the knuckles. I gasped. All four fingers, straining. I thought the knuckles would breach the sphincter and he would fuck me with his fist, but he didn't. The hand was withdrawn, and he thrust his hard cock up inside me and began to pump. If he was wearing protection, I had no idea where the condom had come from or when he'd taken the time to put it on.

I didn't care. I took my protective pills regularly. If he was barebacking me, that only heightened the arousal for me. I had a regular scheduled checkup at a gay man's clinic where I paid my bill for laying down for one of the doctors.

As the fuck progressed, he gripped the hair at the back of my head and arched my head back so that I was looking straight into the mirror, watching him mounted on me from behind and fucking me and looking over my shoulder and into my eyes to watch my facial reaction to his hard, cruel pounding. The looped belt went over my head again and he tugged on the leash periodically to ride me like I was a horse and to choke me.