Finding a Niche

Before either of us had come, he turned me, facing me up toward the ceiling. I was propped over the bureau on my arms. My torso was levitating out over the carpet at the front of the dresser, and Schwartzman was standing between my thighs, fucking me, while I wrapped my legs around the tops of his thighs, and he supported me with his left hand under the small of my back. He stroked me off with his right hand. When I had come for him, arcing my jism high over my belly, he came inside me. He hadn't worn a condom this time, and, while his cock was not extraordinary in size, the volume of jism he produced and the length of time he took to get it all released was prodigious. I panted hard, emitting a "Yes" with each spurt. He let me collapse on the carpet, pulled the noose over my head, and gave me a few more snaps of the belt on my back and rump.

The next morning at breakfast on the terrace by the pool—I had spent the night at Ritchey's, but he didn't call me to his bed. I assume he had someone else there—Ritchey informed me that Schwartzman had enjoyed the evening and we had won the bid to evaluate the management conditions at his company in Annapolis.

"He wants you to conduct the survey," Ritchey said. Well, of course he does, I thought, letting the residual pain of the welts on my back and around my throat drift up into my consciousness.

"He was very impressed with your flexibility and cooperation," Ritchey said. How wonderful, I thought.

After two weeks of going over Schwartzman's boatworks, I easily came up with recommendations of changes that would clearly improve the procedures, mostly streamlining of paperwork the employees had to do, and the facilities, the most obvious and inexpensive one of putting in large, clear-glass skylights in the roof over the shop floor to bring in light and lift the employees' spirits and let them actually see what they were working on. I discussed these with a cross-section of the employees and got nothing but agreement and signs of relief. It was obvious that Dieter Schwartzman wasn't the easiest man to work with or the most sensitive to the needs of others.

From my experience with him, I wasn't a bit surprised.

I presented the report to Schwartzman, and he smiled—to the extent that the man smiled at all—put the report to the side without even leafing through it, and told me he had a luncheon reservation for us. He also had a hotel room reservation, and he took me to the hotel room and fucked the shit out of me over and on the toilet in the bathroom, choking me as he fucked me until my eyes bugged out. It was still evident that he used a bed only for sleep, not for sex.

I went back to my home office. A week later Schwartzman invited me back to his company premises. I assumed it was to discuss the report I had assembled until he said that he wanted to take me out for a test sail on one of the most recent small yachts his company had built, so I was to come dressed for sailing. I still told myself that perhaps he was going to use the new yacht to show me how he had instituted some of the changes in my report.

When I got to the boatyard, there was no evidence that any of my recommendations had been instituted, even ones that could be established at no expense and great savings by a single word from Schwartzman.

I saw no evidence that the new yacht had benefited from any of the recommendations. Schwartzman took me out on the boat alone, motoring out into the Chesapeake Bay; putting the anchor down; securing the ship's wheel; lashing me to the wheel, facing out; hooking my legs on his hips; and fucking the hell out of me.

After wearing me and himself out there on the wheel, he unleashed me and moved me down to the cabin, where he conveniently had located a hook in the ceiling of the middle of the space with wrist restraints hanging down from them. I remember wondering if the restraints came standard with that model of sports boat—bringing a whole new meaning to sports boat—or if it was optional equipment. He left me and started up the yacht again, moving it to another location, taking whatever time he needed to recover his libido. Then he returned, whipped me for a while with a leather hand whip, and then saddled up behind me, lifted my legs straight out from my hips, put me on the cock, and fucked me to a mutual ejaculation.

When we returned to land, I thanked him for his attention and told him how masterful he was.

"I enjoyed the day with you, Oberst," I said, casting my eyes down in the subservient way I knew men like him wanted.

"I want you to stay with me for the night," he said.

I answered, with regret in my voice, that I had an engagement I couldn't change for that night, but if he cut the check for the services we'd rendered and gave it to me right then, I'd go back to my office, look at my schedule, and let him know when I might be able to come back.

When I returned to D.C., Schwartzman had already called Richey. "He wants to buy your contract, Cory. He wants to make you a manager in his company. Are you interested? I would hate to lose you, but the offer is quite lucrative for both of us."

"I'm not interested, and really don't want to make the move, Arthur," I said.

"He's too rough in sex, is he?"

I didn't answer that. What I said was, "He hasn't implemented anything we recommended. And I don't want to be a manager in the company as it is."

"Ah," Arthurs said. He understood recommendations made by our company just being ignored by a client. "I can understand why your niche wouldn't be with Schwartzman then."

"And, no it's not because of the rough sex," I said. And it wasn't. I had been aroused by the German's authoritarianism and dominance. I had long thought about being taken as he did me. I appreciated that the man who did it left nothing to my decision. I felt no guilt for what I wasn't given a choice in. He had provided that one decision point—when he said I could leave the bedroom in Arthur's house. When I didn't, and when I called him Oberst, I had lost all choice in the matter.

"We'll just have to look for another project for you then," Arthur said. "How is your calendar for tonight? I'd like you to stay for dinner, and maybe for the night."

I stayed the night. He held me tenderly in his arms and fucked me slow and deep. He still wanted me and he hadn't insisted on me going with Schwartzman. I had escaped a bullet there—or at least I was showing some control over the trajectory of the bullets. Weeks later, when I appeared at Schwartzman's office door with a leather strap dangling from my hand, locked the door behind me, and smiled at Schwartzman, the Germanic authoritarian learned that he didn't control everything in our explosive relationship—a relationship that continued for some time, just not entirely on Schwartzman's whims.

* * * *

"Was it today you were coming? James Trumball, is it?"

He looked harried and not the least bit pleased to see me, and we were being interrupted left and right. I could tell that all was chaos at Kevin LaCross's men's fashion house in Baltimore, overlooking the Baltimore Harbor.

"No, I'm not James Trumball. I'm Cory Gilbert. But I'm from Ritchey Consultants in Washington, D.C. James couldn't make it. He skied down the wrong hill out at Aspen last weekend and is still in a hospital out there with his leg immobilized."

"Pity that," LaCross said, "but as you can see, we're overwhelmed here. We have a show coming up in a week and it's not in hand—it's definitely not in hand. Maybe we could reschedule a reviewing for some time—"

"Actually, this would be the best of times for me to be doing reviewing, Mr. LaCross. You're considering hiring us precisely because you are in chaos like this. If it's OK with you, I'll just sit over here at the side and take some notes. I can give you some ideas when you have a few moments."

"That might not be until 2022 when the business has gone down the chutes," LaCross said. But then he gave me a little smile—other than being up to his neck in frustration, he was a handsome, enticing guy of thirty-one, I knew, with a model's face and physique, curly black hair, and a sexy French accent and smile. I knew him to be a French Canadian with a flair for designing men's wear. I also knew he was actively gay and a top.

I was here because Jim Trumball had messed his leg up. When we had an office meeting in the wake of that, Arthur had to redirect Jim's files. It was clear he wouldn't be back on track for a while. I went through them and picked out the one on LaCross Men's Fashions.

"Why that one?" Arthur asked. "He hasn't shown an interest in what you specialize in."

"The men's fashion angle," I said. "I did some male modeling in high school and college. The fashion industry interests me and I did some looking into it."

"The case is yours then," Arthur had said. "It should be a vacation from what you usually are doing."

It wasn't, though—thank god.

"I don't think there's anywhere that's out of the way on the cutting floor," LaCross said, with exasperation. He looked like he was about to explode, but then he stopped, gave me a wan smile, and said, "But you're right. I obviously need help. And I called your company for help. My office area is over there in the corner. And I've got the company books open on the desk there. Why don't you settle in at that desk? You can watch the action from there and also look through the books. Any help you guys can give me in getting all of this straightened out is to the good. We can discuss this over dinner unless you have another engagement—although I have no idea when I can get to dinner."

"Dinner would be good, if it works out. A chance for us to introduce ourselves to each other. If not, no problem. I can pick something up at the hotel later. Don't worry about me; just do what you have to do here."

I got out of his hair and went over to his desk. In truth, this proved to be the very best conditions in which to do my work. I watched him all afternoon. It was obvious that he wasn't delegating enough authority. I also wondered why he was preparing a show for here in Baltimore. The best buyers were in New York. And I could see, with just a little bit of checking, that his show was set for the same day and time as a Louis Vuitton runaway show in New York. I also could see that his employees were devoted to him and that there wasn't any job going on out there on the cutting room floor that was below him. By the end of his day, which wasn't until 9:00 p.m., and it became obvious that he'd be the last one to leave, I was smitten by this handsome, graceful man and determined to help him make a go of his failing business.

It wasn't until I saw him kiss one of his male models and palm his basket as the young man was leaving that I had any hope of having anything with Kevin beyond business.

"So, is there hope for me?" LaCross said as we settled into our late-night meal at the Explorers Restaurant in my Baltimore Harbor waterside hotel, the Royal Sonesta Harbor Court.

"There's always hope for a business like yours," I answered. He had chosen to sit beside me rather than across from me, and we were both facing a view of the inner-city harbor. It might have been just my imagination—but I thought not—that he was calm now and was being very attentive to me.

"Of course you're right. There's always hope for a business that has a solid product. But it wasn't really the hope I was referring to," he said, laying a hand on my forearm as I had the menu open in front of me. I had noticed from the way he floated around the cutting room that he was quite the touchy feelie guy. I also noticed how many of his employees were good-looking, young men and that he was as touchy feelie with them as with the women. "You know you're a very attractive young man. You carry yourself like a model."

"I have done some modeling," I said.

"You have walked the catwalk?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Then you obviously are the right fit for this consultancy—and perhaps for me personally, as well." His hand went to the top of my thigh under the surface of the table. "Am I embarrassing you? Arthur Ritchey told me that you were gay—actively gay—and that you lay under men."

I'll just bet he did, I thought. "No, not embarrassing me at all. I'm flattered," I answered.

"But are you attracted."

"You have your hand on my thigh. I haven't moved to remove it." I moved my hand to lay on top of his.

"Or maybe I'm rushing you? I'm sorry, days like this make me tense, and I have my favorite ways of releasing tension. Am I upsetting you?"

"More surprising me, I think. You may put that hand somewhere else if you like and are curious."

He did, and he found that I was hard. He left it there and, again, I made no move to remove it. His fingers traced me through the material.

"Speaking of that, of the catwalk," I said, purposely changing topics as his forwardness was a complete surprise to me, although certainly not unwelcome—but it wasn't what I was here for, "I saw the brochure for your coming show. Is there a reason you're having it in Baltimore and at the same time as the Louis Vuitton show up in New York City?"

"I have to compete with that fashion house, don't I?"

"Not directly, I wouldn't think. The raw truth is that Vuitton is firmly established and you're not. You have to compete, but not directly, not as a direct challenge to Vuitton. I would think your best bet would be to show in New York City as Vuitton is, but to ride on its coattails. Have your show near enough to Vuitton's in place and time for buyers to attend both. Build up your reputation using Vuitton rather than fighting against him or directly challenging him."

"That's an interesting idea," LaCross said, giving me a smile. "I'll be all ears on other suggestions you have. The waiter approaches, though. Are we ready to order? Do you know what you want to have?"

"Yes, I've chosen. Do you know what you fancy?"

He turned his smile on me again. "I know who I fancy. When I have a tense day like this, I tend to make snap decisions and take risks."

"And do you have success with that? Do you find you are happy with such decisions the next morning?"

"I rarely have a problem with a quick decision on what I want," he answered.

"It just might be on the menu here," I said.

"One can always hope," he countered. "Are you going to let me fuck you, Cory, or are you just teasing me here?"

"Perhaps." I answered.

He gave me a wry smile. "Which?"

"Both," I answered. "The meal first, though. We have to feed our energy levels."

During the meal, we talked around the issue of being actively gay. We started off talking around that, but he was relentless about getting to that point. I didn't resist very much or for very long. He was a god in both personality and body. Once I knew he was pursuing me, I was lost. This hadn't been part of this particular contract, but it was all the more enticing for not having been a given. Once I'd said he could fuck me, all tension was out of our interaction. He became more free and intimate with his touches, limited only by where we were and who was around us. He was taking liberties with even that, though. It would be assumed by those watching us that we were lovers—a thought that made me laugh when he next spoke.

Over coffee he asked, "Do you mind me asking if you have a lover?"

"No, I don't. Not anyone special I care about." Arthur didn't count. I enjoyed having him inside me, but I felt no commitment to him. I didn't get the impression that he felt a commitment to me either. Schwartzman, who was still manhandling me on occasion at that point, was just an athletic "walk on the wild side" indulgence. We had already reached the understanding that LaCross was a top and I was a bottom.

"Are you experienced? And do you engage in casual sex? Are you promiscuous?"

"Those are pretty intrusive questions," I said.

"Yes, they are. I like to know all that is on offer before I indulge, though."

"Are you wanting to know if you can risk barebacking me?"

"Yes. Arthur tells me you take the drugs that permit that. I want to hear you pledge it."

"You want to bareback me? That's important to you?"

"Yes, it is."

"Yes, I take care of that."

"You want me to bareback you?"

I was pleased that he bothered to check what I wanted. "Yes. What else do you want to know."

"Nothing else, I guess. I have said that when I've had a tense day, I tend to go directly for what I want. I have no complexes. I can survive a 'no.' There are clubs near here that I can go to for second best."

"You think it would be second best? Foregoing having a bareback go at me and going to a club for relief and release?"

"I'm sure of it," he answered, giving me a level look. He wasn't going to back down. I sensed that he would banter like this for much longer.

"Well, then, my responses are yes, yes, and yes."

He put his coffee cup down, decisively enough to let me know that the meal was at an end. "I've not been in any of the rooms in this hotel before," he said. "Do you have a nice one?" Both of us knew what he was cutting to the calisthenics on the bed phase.

"Yes, it's very nice. It has a full view of the harbor. It's like the bed floats over it."

"I would like to see that."

"You certainly can, if you like. I'll take you up there and show you the room."

"I'd like to experience the sensation of floating on the bed over the harbor," he said. "I also like the feel of flesh on flesh, raw penetration, breeding."

"Yes, I understood what you were asking. You may do that as well."

"This isn't just casual. I wanted to bed you, Cory. I wanted to make love to you, to be one with you, inside you. Raw, flesh on flesh, both of us experiencing and savoring the release. I was thrilled when Arthur told me you'd take it without a condom. I've been straight with you. I was going to lay someone tonight. I suggested having dinner with you because I wanted it to be you. If it wasn't going to be you, I needed to get on with the hunt. This is my town. I know where to find what I need."

"But you couldn't count on being able to safely bareback someone else tonight."

"No, I couldn't."

"So, it's going to be me."

"Yes, it's going to be you." We were well beyond the "will he or won't he" phase, but we were savoring the mutual seduction.

"You knew when you invited me to dinner that you wanted to fuck me—to bareback me?"

"Yes. You got me hard when you walked into the office. My body makes quick decisions. I wanted to fuck you then. You were part of what became a tense day for me. I want to fuck you now. What does your body tell you? Are we going to have a great fuck?"

"Yes," I answered. "That's what I want too."

And fuck me he did. And he fucked me totally. He was every inch—over eight inches—the god I had imagined he would be. We did everything in foreplay with each other that two male lovers would do and then he laid me on my back, my face looking out over the harbor, hovered over me, and entered me strongly and deep—raw, flesh rubbing flesh. I raised my pelvis to him, rolling it up to take him at a straight shot deep inside the core of me, opening quickly and completely to him. I surrendered to him in a way that let him know I was completely open and vulnerable to him, and he used his talented cock to completely conquer and totally use me. As he had said he wanted, we became one, fused together in one rocking, fucking machine, until, after I had ejaculated, he released inside me again and again and again, as I jerked and rocked against him, exclaiming the "Again!" to the ceiling on each release. "Yes! Breed me! Flood me!"

He did, and he did it quite nicely. I'd never been one like this—totally fucked, supremely loved and vanquished—with another man this totally. I couldn't hope that he felt the same, but then he indicated that he did.