Fly Me

After exiting the taxi and paying my fare, including a tip rather larger than I could afford, I took a moment.

Standing on the sidewalk, I looked up, past the towering palms, at the expansive white facade festooned with balconies and towers. The latter's red, conical roofs projected, brick-red, against mountainous clouds in the otherwise azure sky.

The Hotel del Coronado was glorious! I'd like to have contemplated it longer, but it wasn't wise to keep Harrison Porter waiting, not if I'd judged AltRom's owner correctly.

On our way from Seattle, we'd sat next to one another in the 747's first-class section. After watching a movie, Mr. Porter had offered me his hand, introducing himself as the owner of AltRom.

"An airline?" I'd asked, supposing "Alt" might stand for "aviation."

Porter had smiled. "Not 'Alt dot com,'" he'd corrected me. "AltRom." He'd stressed the second syllable: "Rahmmm."

I remembered the rush of warmth to my cheeks as I'd blushed, feeling stupid. "Oh, I see," I'd replied, although I hadn't seen.

It was only when Mr. Porter had added, "We publish alternative romances, mostly LGBT lines" that I'd understood. "Digital and print."

Foolishly, I'd asked, "Is there much of a market for that?"

"We do pretty well."

Of course, he did. Mr. Porter was traveling first-class, wasn't he? Of course, so was I, but only because I had claustrophobia and couldn't fly coach. Reluctantly, my employer paid the difference, when it was absolutely necessary for me to fly.

"What line of work are you in? Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

I'd blushed again. Like a nitwit, I'd forgotten to introduce myself. "Andrew Lane," I'd said. "Journalism's my game."

Opening my briefcase, I'd removed a copy of The Washington Standard-Tribune and showed him the article I'd written last week for my column, "American Lives." It was only after I'd returned the newspaper that I'd remembered what I'd hidden beneath it. I shoved the newspaper back in place and glanced at Mr. Porter. If he'd seen anything untoward, he hadn't let on.

"What takes you to sunny southern California, Andrew?"

He'd called me "Andrew," while I'd called him "Mr. Porter." We were nearly the same age. I might have been a few years younger, but something about Mr. Porter seemed to demand my respect.

"I'm writing a feature story about the Hotel del Coronado. Victorian beachfront, wood, historic, it opened in 1888 and has hosted presidents, royalty, and celebrities." Realizing I was gushing, I'd broken off my guidebook spiel.

"I know it well," Mr. Porter had said. "In fact, I'm staying there while I'm in San Diego." He'd paused, then said, "If you'd like to write a feature article on the AltRom business, give me a ring while you're in town. I can work you into my schedule." He'd drawn a business card from his vest pocket. After writing something on the face of the card, he'd passed it to me.

Without looking at it, I'd slipped the card into my shirt pocket. "Thanks, Mr. Porter. I'll do that."

I'd had no intention of doing any such thing at the time I'd made that comment. I'd just wanted to be polite. I'd never see Mr. Porter again after we'd disembarked at the San Diego International Airport. I'd go my way, while Mr. Porter went his. It had been sheer chance we'd met on our way to California, although I'd wanted to believe it was fate. There was something about Mr. Porter—his good looks, his commanding mien, his success, his obvious wealth?—that I'd found attractive.

Now, impossible though it seemed, here I was, on the fourth and last day of my trip, standing before a beautiful, fantastic hotel as real as the beach, the palms, and the sky but a place that still seemed, somehow, a dream.

I took Mr. Porter's business card from my shirt pocket and read the information the AltRom owner had written on the face of it while we'd been winging our way west. I read it twice to make sure it still read what it had when I'd examined it an hour ago, before calling Mr. Porter. Sure enough, he really had written, "Suite 3318, Hotel del," followed by his own personal cell phone number.

"There's no need to check in at the desk; just come straight up," Mr. Porter had told me after I'd worked up the courage to call his number to ask whether he was still interested in my writing a feature article on AltRom.

As he'd directed, I took the elevator straight to his floor.

"Excuse me, Andrew," Mr. Porter called, as he answered my knock.

I looked away, not knowing whether to feel angry, shocked, embarrassed, or some combination of these emotions. Mr. Cooper was stark naked, rivulets of water running down his deep chest, six-pack abs, and muscular thighs. A small puddle had collected on the floor at his feet.

"Sorry. I was in the shower."

"I can get a cup of coffee and come back in fifteen minutes or half an hour," I suggested.

"Nonsense, Andrew!" he opened the door wider, careless as to whether a passerby should see him from the hallway. "Come in, pour yourself a drink, relax. There's a bar in an alcove off the living room. I'll be with you in a minute or two."

I stepped past him, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead. I'd already seen more of him than I cared to see—not that he had a bad body, not at all. He was buff, trim, and fit as an athlete, and, I couldn't help but to have noticed, he was "well-endowed," to put the matter delicately.

I poured a scotch on the rocks and drank it in a single gulp. I needed it, after seeing Mr. Porter naked. The fiery liquor seemed to blossom inside me, its warmth radiating through my belly and loins. I poured a second and was sipping it, as I sat in an armchair, when Mr. Porter, attired in a silk robe, a gold Rolex on his wrist, entered the living room, a snifter of brandy in hand.

"I have a confession," he told me. "I didn't invite you here, to my hotel suite, to discuss your writing a feature article about AltRom." His gaze passed over my physique, as if his eyes were a pair of hands.

I sipped my scotch. "Why am I here?" I suspected I knew, but I wanted everything to be clear.

"I'm looking for a vice-president," he said, "someone I can put in charge of publicity. The fact that you're a feature writer for The Washington Standard-Tribune impressed me, and I've had my people check you out."

I didn't much like the sound of that, and I let my tone of voice express my displeasure, as I declared, "I trust you weren't disappointed."

"If I were, you wouldn't be here."

I didn't know what to say, so I said, "I'm flattered."

"If things work out, at some point, you'd be promoted from VP to partner." He paused. "When I say 'partner,' I mean my business partner," he explained, "and my domestic partner."

I set my glass down. "Mr. Cooper, I—"

He laughed, holding up his hand. "You're not that kind of a boy? Andrew, I saw the novel in your briefcase, the one you'd stored under the copy of the newspaper containing the feature article you'd written a week ago."

I blushed, thinking of the cover of Gordon Merrick'snovel, which showed two shirtless, tan, well-built, good-looking young men, one dark of hair, the other light, seated together, snifters of brandy before them, pink and red chrysanthemums and the blue Mediterranean Sea, fronting a jagged sandstone ridge, behind them. The blond rested his head upon the brunette's left shoulder, sleeping in the sun, as his pensive lover looked past him. The title Perfect Freedom was introduced by the caption, "He never knew freedom . . . until he found love." "He" was the dark-haired man, who had the same hair color as Mr. Porter, and whose appearance was similar enough to Mr. Porter's own for my host to have modeled for the artist who'd painted the figure, just as I might have sat for the blond leaning on the brunette's shoulder.

Mortified, I stammered, "I-I d-don't know wh-what to say."

Mr. Porter sipped his drink. "Say you'll consider my offer," he suggested. "I'm a very wealthy man, Andrew. Instead of your reading about the good life, you and I could be living it together. We can go all the places the characters in Merrick's novels go, do the things they do."

I blushed, thinking about the "things" Merrick's characters do. "I'm surprised you've read his books."

"I'm not only rich, Andrew; I'm educated, cultured."

He stretched his bare legs, and his robe parted across the chest, revealing his tan, chiseled pecs. I averted my eyes, but my gaze returned.

"When I was younger, I wanted to fuck every good-looking twink I came across—" he chuckled at the pun—"but, now that I'm approaching forty, I'm more interested in a monogamous relationship than I am in one-night stands. Promiscuity can be exciting, but it's also dangerous, and, I've found, of late, ultimately unsatisfying. I prefer to live the lifestyle featured in Merrick's novels than the one chronicled in John Rechy's Numbers."

I hadn't read Rechy. I'd never even heard of him until Mr. Porter mentioned him. I've since read the novel, which is not one of my favorites. The protagonist, Johnny Rio, fears he's losing his sex appeal as he ages. To prove to himself he's still desirable, he seeks to have sex with as many other men as possible within ten days, visiting all-night theaters, gay beaches, and city parks frequented by sleazy men cruising for sex. The story's depressing as hell, but it was a best-seller, in its day, 1967, nevertheless.

I was familiar with Merrick's work, having read several others before purchasing Perfect Freedom. His books were more optimistic. His characters actually had a shot at self-acceptance, even happiness, as gay men, after the period of doubt and initial self-loathing the publishers of the day seemed to require of gay couples. Merrick's own life was like one of his novels. At age forty, in Paris, he met the man who'd become his lifetime companion, twenty-seven-year-old dancer and actor Charles Huse. They lived together in France, then on the island of Hydra, Greece, and later in Sri Lanka. By all accounts, their relationship was satisfying and successful. Some of the Mediterranean locations appear in Merrick's novels. Had Mr. Porter's acquaintance with Merrick's life's story or his reading of his novels given Mr. Porter the idea of seeking a life's companion for himself, now that he was nearing the same age at which Merrick had taken a domestic partner?

I considered his invitation. "Why me?"

"It may not be you, but it could be. That's why I'm offering you a position with AltRom, as my vice-president in charge of

publicity. We'll see how things go, both in business and in pleasure. If it works out, we'll get married."

"With a pre-nuptial agreement?"

Mr. Porter shook his head. "No pre-nup. You'd be an equal partner, both in my business and in our marriage."

"And if things don't work out?"

"We go our separate ways, you, with a generous severance package."

"How generous?"

"Five million."

"You're willing to risk a lot. I mean, you don't even know anything about me."

"I know enough." He sipped his brandy, eyeing me over the rim of the glass. "What do you say to my proposal, Andrew? Are you interested?"

"If we're compatible."

"You mean in bed?"

Blushing, I nodded.

"Fortunately, we can determine our compatibility in short order, right now, if you like."

I almost declined. Things were moving too fast. Much too fast! I needed time to think, time to consider, time to decide, time to—but, no, I was just afraid to take the chance. It was, after all, the chance of a lifetime. What if I failed? As Mr. Porter's VP? As his lover? I took a deep breath. "Okay," I said, quaking inside, but managing, just barely, to conceal my trepidation. "I mean, yes, I'd love to."

"You sure you don't want something to eat first? Dinner? We can order room service."

"I'm not hungry, sir, but if you—"

"I'd rather have sex." He stood. "Follow me."

He led the way into the bedroom.

At the bed, he removed his robe and draped it over the back of an armchair. I couldn't help but to admire his physique, openly this time. I gazed at his broad shoulders, his barrel chest, his six-pack abs, his narrow waist, his muscular arms and sinewy legs. He was as muscular and as fit as an athlete, and his cut, semi-erect cock had to be at least seven inches; fully erect, it would be a monster. His balls were big, too, filling out his scrotum. I wasn't a virgin, but I'd never been stuffed with a dick the size of Mr. Porter's manhood.

As I admired his body, I undressed. Although I'm not nearly as toned as Mr. Porter, I'm fit, with a respectable build, and my cock, which is circumcised, is a decent seven-and-a-half inches in its erect state, as it was now. Although my balls aren't nearly as large as Mr. Porter's testicles, he didn't seem to mind.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, his thighs apart. His cock was harder now, and stiffer, its thick shaft red, its gumdrop-shaped glans purple. "Let's see how well you suck cock, Andrew."

Through the sliding-glass door leading onto the balcony beyond him, I could see breakers wash over the white sands of the beach as gulls wheeled overhead, against an azure sky. I could almost smell the salt of the sea.

This is the life to which I'm signing on, if I became Mr. Porter's business and domestic partner, I thought.

The wrought-iron rail at the edge of the balcony superimposed itself upon the shore, the water, and the sky, as I knelt on the carpet by the side of the bed. I turned my attention to the rigid, standing cock jutting from Mr. Porter's groin. It was as huge—and as magnificent—as I'd hoped it would be. It would be a pleasure—an honor and a privilege—to suck such a gorgeous prick.

I bowed before the stiff, standing erection, parting my lips to admit the thick member. My lips closed on the rigid shaft. Slowly, I lowered my rounded lips down, down, down his long erection, loving the feel of the taut, smooth flesh sliding past my oral embrace. As I withdrew, the slick, wet shaft of Mr. Porter's cock sliding through the circle of my lips, I paused. Only the purple crown of his cock in my mouth, I nursed it, as if I were suckling the nipple of a woman's breast. Then, I licked the acorn-shaped glans. Flicking it rapidly, but lightly, with the tip of my tongue. The deep moan that my action elicited from Mr. Porter told me he was enjoying it, and I licked harder, driving my tongue against not only the gumdrop-glans, but also along the underside of the shaft of his cock. He moaned again, more loudly and more deeply.

Holding the base of his cock in my fist, I pumped my mouth up and down, rapidly, upon his prick, while, with my right hand, I caressed his balls through the tight, risen, silky pouch of his scrotum. This time, Mr. Porter gasped. I was pleased that I pleased him.

Some men are born to lead. Mr. Porter is one. Others are natural-born followers. I was one. Knowing and accepting the fact that I was, at best, a beta male, I found fulfillment in servicing and pleasing alpha males. In doing so, I confirmed my inferior status and their superior station. It found it comforting to know my place.

I curled my thumb and fingers around the top of Mr. Porter's dick, just below his glans, and twisted it gently, left and right, as, at the same time, I pumped the taut flesh lightly up and down, all the while continuing to suck his thick and rigid manhood. He writhed on the bed, squirming and flexing his legs. Another moan escaped his lips.

His moans, his twisting, his frantic breathing had made me erect. My own cock jutted, thick and rigid, from my groin. My balls ached. I ignored my own desires, fervent though they were, concentrating on pleasuring Mr. Porter. All that mattered was that the alpha male be satisfied, fully and completely.

I trailed my open mouth down one side of Mr. Porter's cock, over the dome of his glans, and up the opposite side. Taking one of his balls into my mouth—it was so big it barely fit—I held it there, in the warm, wet embrace of my liquid mouth, an act that I knew most men loved, because it demonstrated my utter submissiveness and willingness to please while, at the same time, exhibiting my lover's dominance. Mr. Porter was entitled to any service he cared to have me perform, sexually or otherwise. Releasing his testicle, I took its twin into my mouth and held it there, showing that my submissiveness was not occasional, but constant. He could rely upon my pleasuring him in this, or any other, manner. I would have no will but his own.

Sensing that he was not far from orgasm, I released his testicle and began to lick the shaft of his cock again.

"Stop," Mr. Porter ordered.

Although puzzled by the unexpected command, I complied instantly, hoping I had not misread the telltale signs of imminent orgasm.

"I want to finish inside your ass," he told me.

Of course, I was only too happy to accommodate him.

I climbed into bed with Mr. Porter. "How do you want me, sir?"

"Belly down."

I assumed the position.

"Lie flat."

I flattened.

A minute passed. I waited, eyes closed. Then, I felt the mattress shift and dip as he straddled my left leg, setting his right knee between my parted legs. His hand pressed my right buttock, the weight and force of his arm and spread fingers parting one of my ass cheeks from the other, as he inserted his cock into the cleavage between my buttocks.

I felt his thick, slick organ slide past the inward-curving mounds of my bottom and through the portal to my bowels. I realized what he was doing during the minute's wait after he'd commanded me to flatten myself on the bed: he'd been lubricating his erection. Probably, he'd donned a condom as well. Mr. Porter seemed much too careful to risk unprotected sex with someone he'd met only yesterday.

I rolled my hips, adjusting to his invasion. His hand upon my right buttock, he pushed his prick deeper. He leaned forward, taking his weight upon his spread palms, which he placed away from my sides. The elevation allowed him the space he needed to penetrate me further, and he continuously thrust into me, withdrawing his cock a few inches before ramming it home again. He rode me with a steady rhythm, the king-size bed's thick mattress bouncing beneath me.

Neither of us had spoken since he'd entered me, but Mr. Porter and I both moaned and gasped, and I felt sweat, even in the air-conditioned suite. Compared to Mr. Porter, I did very little—he seemed to prefer me to lie still. He must be sweating profusely, I thought.He seemed to enjoy being active, assertive, aggressive. Obviously, he was as much an alpha male in bed as he was behind his executive's desk at AltRom, which was fine with me. I admired and respected strong men who seized what they wanted, especially if what they wanted was I.

He continued to fuck me, driving his slick, hard cock into my ass with the same deliberate, fluid movements of his hips. Each time he slammed his cock home again, it was as if he'd entered me anew; each time he withdrew, pulling his prick back through my sphincter, I felt distressed, as if, in his momentary retreat, he were abandoning me. Only when he plunged his prick back into my bowels was I reassured again—for the moment, at least—that he had not deserted me.

Each time he thrust into me, the fronts of his thighs shoved into the backs of mine, my hips were driven forward, before his lunging groin, my erect cock pressed and slid on the sheet beneath me, and my upper body bounced upon the jiggling mattress. His motion made me move, his passion igniting my own, his need answering mine.

He lowered himself, lying atop me, and I felt his thighs upon mine, his pubes and abdomen upon my impaled buttocks and my naked back, his chest atop my shoulder blades, his cheek lolling against the side of my face. His cock, all the way to his balls, was buried deep inside my rectum. Jiggling his hips up and down, he sent his cock back and forth within my bowels, keeping me full and stretched as he fucked me. My own cock strained beneath me, and my balls, high inside my taut scrotum, seemed ready to explode. I loved the sensation of his cock inside me and the feeling of being stuffed full with his long and swollen manhood. I felt as if he owned me, as if I were wholly and irrevocably his.