Floating

Alain's pleasure was coming for the architectural perfection that surrounded him in the room rather than from what he was doing to himself or what he anticipated the big, commanding man to be doing to him shortly.

At length, with a heavy sigh, the big man left the sofa, came over to the chair, pulled up the ottoman that went with the chair, and sat down in front of Alain. With a "Here, let me," He brushed Alain's hand away from the young man's cock and replaced it with his own mouth. He also brushed Alain's fingers away from his hole and replaced them with his own fingers. Giving no resistance, Alain arched his back and moaned, as the fingers penetrated him and searched for, and found, the young man's prostate.

Alain rocked on the hand, groaning, his eyes still focused on the stairway and its architectural intricacies and perfection of balance. Hodges hovered over the young man, capturing Alain's eyes and attention with his own at last, while he fingered Alain's hole and Alain stroked his own cock with his hand. Watching Alain's eyes closely, Hodge saw the young man slowly and briefly come into focus and show arousal as he came close to an ejaculation. There was a flash of something in the young man's eyes as he tensed, arched his back, and released his seed. Hodges watched the response smolder and die in Alain's eyes then. He wasn't disappointed, though. Alain wasn't here for emotional conversation; he was here to be fucked and possessed. He was there to be added to Hodges's trophy case of beautiful young men in exchange for patronage. Hodges rather liked the Gretta Garbo approach to sex the young man was taking.

When the heavy man straddled the arms of the chair, putting Alain's ankles on his shoulders, Alain grimaced and groaned as Hodges worked to penetrate him with his thick, beer-can cock. But Alain took the cock, putting his arms around Hodges's bull neck and nestling his face between the man's muscular pectorals, rocking against the thrusts and murmuring low in monotone phrases the man could barely hear and didn't care to hear in his effort to fill and stretch and plow the blond angel's passage.

At the height of his own arousal, Hodges wrapped an arm around Alain's waist and stood up in front of the chair, with Alain's knees gripping Hodges's hips and his torso spilling back toward the chair seat, his arms dangling sacrificially toward the carpet, while the man huffed through his last minute of thrusting, tensed, jerked, and came, tensed, jerked, and came.

Later, Alain's eyes followed the treads of the staircase as Earl carried him upstairs, to the master bedroom, lowered him to the king-sized bed, the construction mogul now undressed, climbed up on the bed; grasped Alain's ankles, raising and spreading the perfectly formed legs; knelt between them; thrust his shaft inside Alain again; and fucked him to a second ejaculation. Later in the night, he rolled Alain, who gave no resistance, over on his belly, straddled the young man's hips, and fucked him again.

In the morning, Alain lay there on the bed, on his belly, languidly watching Hodges shower in the adjoining bathroom and dress in fresh clothes. Neither of them spoke until, at the door to the bedroom, Hodges said, "I have to go to work. You can leave anytime this morning. If you leave the apartment, the door will lock behind you, so don't leave until you're ready to go. Do you need cab fare?"

"No, I'm good," Alain answered in a faraway voice.

"Yes, you were. Very good. Very submissive. You did just as I told you to do. I like that. A very sweet lay. I've left two hundred dollars for you over there on the bureau. I'm not sure about the scholarship. Perhaps you can convince me next Saturday night?"

"Yes, please," Alain said, the only indication that he had enjoyed the evening—but he had—or that he fully understood why he had come here and let the man fuck him three times. But of course he did understand why he was here.

"I'll contact Professor Chesterton. He'll let you know when I'll be here to let you in next Saturday."

"Yes, please," Alain reiterated. And then he closed his eyes and went to sleep, escaping back inside himself, his thoughts running over images of the magnificent architectural details he had seen in this building and apartment. He had respect for Hodges—but for his appreciation and use of art, not for his beer-can cock and what he did with it. Alain would accept the one to get to the other, though. As long as Alain had a body that men wanted to possess and were willing to rent in exchange for favors, Alain was willing to lay down and open his legs to them. He was indifferent to sex. His passion was architecture.

* * * *

On Sunday morning Alain stopped at St. Peter's catholic church on West Madison en route to the apartment where he rented—or at least occupied—a room in the apartment his friend, Chris Matthews, rented. Alain slipped into the church, at the back, near the end of the mass, and remained there afterward for some minutes in meditation. Try as he might, though, he wasn't able to surface any deep thoughts. At most, images of the architectural art details he'd seen and sketched the previous day ran through his mind. He also could clearly see in his mind the motifs woven in iron in the railings of the staircase as Hodges carried him upstairs the previous night to a certain fate. No images of what happened afterward, when Hodges laid him on his back and grasped and raised and spread his legs, came into his mind, though—certainly no guilt about how he had submissively given in to that, raising his tail and sighing for the penetration.

He realized he was just floating along in life. He had a mild interest in completing his undergraduate work and going on to graduate school to qualify for good work in industrial art—but he wasn't quite sure even what his interest was in industrial art, or anything else in life other than architectural detail. The motifs in the staircase in Hodges's apartment had been inspiring—the sex the staircase led to, not so much.

He realized he was prostituting himself to float along in life and to move toward goals of increased creativity and independence, but he didn't feel all that motivated by anything now. At the same time, he didn't feel repulsion at lying under men—even older, heavy men like Hodges. He was rather indifferent to being fucked—as long as the other man was making all of the effort and all he had to do was lie there, build up to a release, and ejaculate. He felt no guilt or reluctance to letting men use his body. The men got what they wanted; he gave them whatever they wanted from him. He searched his mind for evidence of guilt in earning his way on his back, but he didn't find any—so, he stopped trying to, rose from the pew, left the church, and continued his journey by foot to his—no, Chris Matthew's—apartment, near the university, on South Ada Street in Little Italy. He knew that, rather than pulling back from using his body for advancement, this was only the beginning.

"You stood me up last evening," Chris said when Alain entered the apartment. "And you've been out all night."

"Sorry," Alain said, his voice distracted. "Chesterton wanted me to entertain Hodges."

"Ah, yes, of course," Chris said, a bit bitterly, but not surprised, not really. He'd had designs on that scholarship himself. But he was a realist. He knew the professor was promoting Alain's cause, and he knew why, as well. His roommate was an Apollo, an angel. Chris couldn't compete with him in looks, and he wouldn't try to compete with him in willingness to lie under men casually. He would have to be content that Alain readily opened his legs for him too.

Alain didn't look at Chris as he moved through the apartment, back toward the one room he could call his own, the one he supposedly paid rent for but that he didn't—the room Chris took compensation for by putting Alain on his back.

"We got a telephone bill," Chris said. "It's high. Don't worry, I'll pay it all."

"Thanks," Alain said, stopping to look at the mail on the dining table en route to his bedroom. He slipped a hand into his pocket to assure himself that the two-hundred dollars Hodges had given him was still there. It was. He could pay his half of the telephone bill. He didn't take the money out of his pocket, though. Chris was content in taking Alain's share of the bills by putting Alain on his back. Alain didn't mind. Chris, his first black, was intriguing in bed.

"I paid the electricity bill too."

"Thanks," Alain responded, and then he turned and said, "Sorry. You want to come back to my room?" Both of them knew this was how Alain would pay his share of the bills Chris was enumerating to him.

Yes, Chris wanted to come back to Alain's room.

They fucked on Alain's bed, lotus style. Chris knelt, his butt resting back on his calves, his knees pressed under Alain's buttocks. Alain sat in Chris's lap, facing him, his knees pressing into Chris's hips and his calves streaming behind him. Alain was arched back, toward the mattress, his head pointed to the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, moaning low. His arms dangled at his side, ever the innocent angel being taken for the first time. Chris's arms were wrapped around Alain's waist, loosely, allowing Alain to arch back. Chris's fists were locked and he was using the leverage of those to pull Alain's passage on and off the buried cock.

Blond, handsome, small, angelic Alain, moaning low with a throbbing black bull's cock up his gut, lying sacrificially in ebony, muscular body-builder Chris's loose embrace, floating along, physically but not fully mentally there, paying the bills, getting fucked—again.

Both young men were content with the arrangement.

* * * *

"No, leave the portfolio. I haven't really had time to look at your work."

"Does it really matter?" Alain asked.

"Yes, it matters. I do think you have a talent for this," Professor Chesterton said. "I wouldn't be promoting your cause if I didn't think you would do the school proud in your career. You just need to stop floating on the surface and dive deep into it."

Alain shrugged and put the portfolio of art designs down beside Chesterton's desk, as the professor continued. "Take the Pulaski stop on the Blue Line this time. We shouldn't repeat the same path twice. Let me go first, the train before yours. But if we get on the same one, we should go to different carriages."

It was a different fleabag hotel on a different street, West Floumoy Street, just two blocks west of the station, but the room was the same, the furniture was the same, the chipped linoleum and leaking shower in the tiny bathroom were the same, and the thumping against the wall in the room next door was the same.

The fuck was the same too—Alain exchanging his body for favors.

The neon sign through the one window that Alain looked at while Chesterton had his tongue in Alain's ass was even the same. Chesterton sat on the bed, naked, and had Alain sit on his erection, facing him, and then Chesterton, not fully pleased with how docile and "somewhere else" Alain was, pressed a hand on Alain's sternum, and the young man reclined backward, his torso streaming down between Chesterton's spread legs, his arms stretched out in a sacrificial position, and his legs extending past the older man's hips. He turned his head and stared through the window at the space above the street, four stories down, his attention floating in space, as Chesterton alternated pulling Alain's hips back and forward, on and off the cock, while stroking Alain's cock with one hand and inserting his fingers inside Alain's hole beside his buried cock to open Alain up more.

"So nice. So yielding. You have a beautiful body, a tight, but blossoming passage," Chesterton murmured. "I love using you."

"Yes," Alain agreed in a distracted voice, his thoughts going to the drawings in the portfolio he'd brought for his professor to look at.

Alain panted, arched his back, and gave a little cry, the only evidence he was awake, enjoying a few seconds of sexual elation, when he ejaculated. Chesterton fucked on to his own release. They held, both panting a bit, neither saying anything, while Chesterton contemplated the next position and recovered his erection.

Would Alain come to and come for Chesterton like this, in a place like this, if and when he got the Hodges scholarship, Alain wondered. Yes, he probably would, he decided. He liked being fucked when he didn't have to put the effort out for it. Chesterton would still figure in his training and grades—through graduate school, if Alain got the scholarship. And it was easier just to continue floating along like this than to make the decision and take the effort to change anything.

When Chesterton turned him, face down on the bed, Alain laid his cheek on the Chenille bedspread, reached out to the sides to grab bunches of material, and closed his eyes, as the professor grasped the young man's hips, positioned himself, penetrated, and began the fuck again.