Friday Nights with Lenny

"Yes. I won't lie to you. I'm smitten with you. And, to be blunt, you are for sale."

"I don't know. It wouldn't be a great deal for you and I couldn't ask you to give me money. I'd have to turn tricks to get some money." I had no intention of saying yes. I liked my independence and he was uglier than a fence post—I always imagined a movie star daddy. But, there was a lot to say about a warm, safe place to come back to, and boy could he fuck—and the equipment he had to do it with . . .

"You could work where I do," Art said. "We need someone to bus the place and to serve tables when we get busy, which isn't often. You could go and come with me, and you'd be warm. Come with me tonight. Hiring is my decision. We can bring your stuff into the club when we get there and just bring it back here after we close. We can set it right over there, ready to go whenever you wanted to take it. You could take it and leave whenever you want. What do you say?"

"Sounds like a sweet deal," I said, half meaning it, half feeling a bit trapped. "You must really want me bad, though."

"I do. You know I do."

What the hell. He was a nice guy, this place was nicer than my cardboard box in the alley, and he had a cock to die for. I wouldn't have chosen being a rent boy if I didn't want to ride fine cock.

* * * *

"He sounds good, don't he?"

I turned my head at the sound. I'd been so mesmerized by the smooth saxophone playing, though, that I hadn't heard what Art said. I gave him a glazed look.

"I said he makes a good sound with that saxophone, don't he?"

"He sure does," I answered. Beyond good. So good, it made me go hard. Smooth jazz got to me that way. Of course, the saxophonist was part of that package. A bit morose and thuggish looking—and older—but that was a turn on for me. Something about him drew me in. Like there was something deep and deliciously illicit inside him.

Art was behind the bar at the House of Blues, cleaning glasses, getting himself ready for the crowd that would appear later in the night. The club didn't normally start to fill up until nearly eleven, the peak was at midnight, and it was deserted again at closing time at one. Mostly regulars showed up—and then just for an hour or two to get their fix. It was Friday night. Lenny's night to shine on the saxophone, with piano backing. Other nights Lenny was playing somewhere else. He was so good that Friday night was the big night at the House of Blues.

I was standing in front of the bar, drying the glasses as Art washed them. He'd noticed I'd stopped drying as soon as Lenny started playing.

He'd come in only about ten minutes earlier, right before his first set at eight. A young blond guy, probably a college student, and probably rich from the looks of his preppy clothes, had come in with him. The ebony-black piano player, with the look of the ages about him, Thaddeus, who provided the regular backing throughout the week, had started playing an hour earlier. Lenny just sauntered in, the college guy following him, and slouched onto the stool next to the piano, took the sax out of its case, and worked his way naturally into the tune that Thaddeus was playing. The blond sat at a table in the first row, leaned an elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, and listened, instantly transported. He look clean, vulnerable, and innocent sitting there, with the gnarled black and the somewhat sinisterly jaded-appearing musician in the background.

The young blond sat, mesmerized by the music, just as I was, as if it didn't appear that he had temptation sitting on his shoulder. I had never heard music that smooth and sexy before in my life.

Lenny was supposed to play forty-minute sets with twenty-minute breaks backstage, which I was to find he sometimes stretched out to as much as an hour and got away with it. There was really no management that showed up here outside of Art, and at peak hours in the club Art didn't have time to keep track of what the musicians were doing. Thaddeus, the ancient, substantially sized very, very black man, didn't seem ever to take breaks, though—as long as Art regularly walked over with a fresh beer for him.

At the first break of this Friday, Lenny got up from his stool and stretched. It was then that, without his sax hanging from his neck in front of him, I got my first full look at the physicality of him. He was butt ugly—at least on the first look. But looking at him longer brought everything into balance and he suddenly was charismatic and arousing. He was of above-average height and was lean and wiry. His arms were well-muscled and so lean that I could see the blue of the veins popping out and running close to the surface—at least on one arm. The other one, his right, was covered with a swirling, multicolored tattoo that ran down to his wrist and then v'd down on top of his hand to swirl around his middle finger. His fingers were long and sensuous. He wore a tight muscle T-shirt that v'd deep in front. His pecs bulged prominently as did his crotch in his tight, worn-nearly-white low-rise jeans. He had a gold chain choker necklace, and he was as bald as a billiard cue.

His face was craggy and he looked exactly like someone who had been singing the blues for years. In stark contrast, his eyes were a milky blue and whenever they fell on me, I nearly melted on the spot. So did the college student when Lenny looked at him.

After he'd stood up, I saw him look at the blond guy and incline his head and then turn and walk back to the beaded-curtain covered doorway at the back edge of the small stage. The blond stood up from his table and followed Lenny into the back.

Not more than fifteen minutes later, Art sent me into the back for another tray of glasses. The door was open to the break room as I passed and I was so surprised by what I saw that I stopped, withdrew into the shadows across the corridor from the door, and continued to look, trying to figure out what was going on.

Both Lenny and the blond were naked, facing each other, and straddling a bench. The blond was leaning back against a wall, his shoulder blades on the wall. His hips were rolled up so that the small of his back was supporting his weight on the bench. His left leg, the one toward the door was bent and his foot was on the floor. The ankle of his right foot was hooked on Lenny's shoulder. He was lithe, but looked like an athlete, well muscled. Definitely pampered.

The tattooing I'd seen on Lenny's right arm extended all the way down his right side. And he was as lean as I thought, and hard bodied.

I'd seen plenty of guys fucking before—and preparing to fuck—but this scene caught my attention because of what Lenny was doing with his hands—and with their cocks. Their cocks were docked and Lenny was holding them with his left hand. When I looked closer I saw that they were connected. There was a metal rod running from inside Lenny's piss slit to inside the blond's, and Lenny was slowly moving his cock back and forth, piss slit fucking them both with the metal rod. I'd heard of this before—it was called sounding—but I'd never seen it. And I never would have imagined it could be done like this with two guys. I saw a cloth laid out on a small table at the other side of the bench and that other rods, which I knew were called wands, were laid out on that. And not just wands. A hypodermic syringe was laying on the cloth too.

The tattooed middle finger of Lenny's right hand was slowly finger fucking the blond's ass channel. The blond had a bottle of poppers in his hand and was taking a hit like every minute or so.

I was feeling myself go hard just from the wildness and unexpectedness of the scene and couldn't focus on what to concentrate on, the sounding of the cocks, Lenny's tattoos, the expression on the blond's face, or that tattooed finger appearing and disappearing in the blond's hole.

I managed to break away, though, when I heard Lenny say it was time to go out and do another set but that the blond should stay there and wait for him. I ran and got the tray of glasses and rushed back to the bar with them before Lenny could get his clothes back on. Art gave me a long look when I got back, I'm sure wondering why I was gone so long. But he didn't say anything. Art always wasn't saying anything, not rocking the boat.

You can bet that I found a reason to go into the back when Lenny's next break came up.

The blond was stretched out on his back on the bench, pretty much gone to the world, his head propped up against the wall behind him and his arms dangling off the side of the bench. Lenny, naked again, was straddling the bench, facing the blond. The college guy's thighs were spread and resting on top of Lenny's thighs. Lenny's cock was inside the blond's passage and he was moving his hips back and forth in the rhythm of the fuck. One of his hands was encasing the blond's hard cock, which had a sounding rod running down into the urethra channel.

The syringe I'd seen earlier was on the floor next to the bench.

As I watched, Lenny pulled the wand out, chose one of a bigger size from the cloth on the table, and slowly ran that down into the blond's piss slit. The blond moaned and I saw his cum burble up around the sides of the wand and dribble down the sides of his cock.

I turned and fled back to the club room, where the crowd was beginning to thicken. I stayed busy the rest of the evening and did what I could not to think of what Lenny had been doing to the blond college guy in the back room.

If anything Lenny's saxophone sounded sweeter and sexier as the night progressed. I strong sense of sweet and sour rolled over me as I listened to Lenny making love to his saxophone, and I shivered in the arousal of that sensation. I had never . . . never would want to . . . That sounding business. But . . . The young, blond guy seemed so lost to it . . . to be slow dancing on the clouds to it.

I was busy helping Art clean up after closing, so I didn't see either Lenny or the blond leave. But along about 1:15 in the morning, I was taking trash out to the dumpster in the alley when I saw a flash car stop at the head of the alley. Out of habit, I went out to the street to see if it was a john looking for me. It was a new red Camaro. I bent over and stuck my head in the open passenger window.

Lenny was sitting in the driver's seat. "Well, don't just stand there; get in," he said.

Just like that. Who did he think I was?

* * * *

I was flat on my back on an upholstered bench in a living room high up in a high rise, with full-wall windows on two sides. My wrists and ankles were spread over the sides of the bench, reaching to a thick carpet and tied to the legs of the bench.

Lenny had said it was for my own good.

His thighs were under mine and he was facing me, straddling the bench. He was naked. He had an impossibly long, if not terribly thick cock, which was laying in the crease where my thigh met my groin on one side and was curled over onto my lower belly.

I watched, trembling, and babbling a bit as, holding my hard cock upright with one hand, he slowly inserted the wand into my urethra canal. I moaned and then groaned as he slowly twirled it. His own cock was hardening as he worked mine.

"You'll be fine," he murmured. "I know you're interested in it. You came with me willingly, knowing I was going to fuck you. And I saw you watching me do this to Ben. I knew you wanted it too."

"Please," I moaned. Not even I knew what I was asking for with the "please."

Releasing my cock with his hand but leaving the wand in my cock channel, he moved his forearms under my thighs, raised them a bit, moved his pelvis closer in between my thighs, and penetrated my channel with his now-rock-hard cock. I held my breath as he moved up inside me, and arched my back on the bench and let my head drop over the top edge.

The focus of my senses was split between the sensations of the cock way up inside me and the wand buried in my own cock.

"Oh, god, fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me," I whimpered.

And then he did. At great length. Without a condom. Bathing my insides deep when he came.

* * * *

I didn't walk back into Art's apartment until after noon on Saturday. He was sitting at the table, in the same clothes he had worn the night before, with a newspaper in front of him. An ashtray overflowing with butts sat next to an empty coffee cup. The haphazardly flung string of lights was out on the Christmas tree. I wondered if that was a sign of his mood. He'd kept them on all the time I was there before. The apartment looked extra forlorn with the tree dark. Art didn't look up at me when I first walked in. The expression on his face was more sad than angry or anything else. He looked tired.

I went into the kitchen area and opened the refrigerator. He was the first one to speak.

"You haven't eaten? I'll fix you something."

"Haven't eaten, no. Didn't have any money."

"Sorry. I can give you what you earned yesterday . . . and can pay you right away for any days you work."

"I'd like that. I'll fix myself something. And I was thinking that maybe I'd do more of the cooking around here for us. I think I probably can do it better than you can."

He perked up at that—and I felt even more like a heel than I had when I was walking up the stairs, wondering what I'd tell him about just leaving before closing and not coming back all night.

"I brought your stuff—your sleeping bag and your other stuff back . . . home," he said, gesturing over to the space in front of the radiator. "I pulled out the clothes and they've been washed, dried, and folded and are layin' over there on the end of the sofa. You need more clothes. And a coat . . . for the winter. You need to shower?"

"No thanks, I'm good."

I took a swig from the milk carton and chewed off a section of a cheese slice. It had gone quiet and I looked over at Art, who was sort of hunched down into himself again. I'd told him something he didn't want to hear by telling him I didn't need a shower. It told him I'd been somewhere other than the alley I'd come from. I came in looking pretty scrubbed—which I'd had to do double hard to get the smell of Lenny off me. It told him I'd been with a john. Not quite, but I didn't want to tell him who I'd been with. God, I felt like a bastard. I put the milk carton and the unfinished slice of cheese back in the refrigerator.

"Art."

"Yes?"

"Can you take me to the bedroom? I need you to take me to the bedroom." I couldn't think of anything else to do to stop making me feel like such a heel.

He fucked me standing next to the bed, me lying on the bed below him. It was all him. I wanted him to know that it was all him. He was standing, facing and hunched over the side of the bed, his hands gripping me on each side where my buttocks curved down into the small of my back.

My weight was on my shoulder blades on the surface of the bed and my arms extended out on the surface of the bed, my fists clutching at the bedspread, bunching it up and releasing it in the rhythm of his pumping. My cheek was against the scratchiness of the chenille bedspread, and I was crying out how big and stretching he was and how much I was loving his dicking. And I wasn't lying.

My legs were wrapped around the small of his back and he was pulling and pushing my channel on his cock with the strength of his hands.

Afterward we lay stretched against each other, me on my side inside the embrace of one of his arms. I traced his solid, big-boned nakedness with the tips of my fingers, moving up to his face and his lips. My own lips replaced the fingers and we engaged in what probably was the first long, lingering kiss we'd had. I could feel him shuddering and a sob escaped him from around my lips. I moved a hand down his torso and buried my fingers in his pubes and rubbed and pulled lightly on his thick, curly hair down there. I could feel that he was reengorging. He started to turn over me, to cover my body and then remount me. But I gently pushed him back onto his back.

"Shhh, be still," I whispered. "There's plenty of time for that. You need to sleep now. I'll take care of you and then you sleep."

He sighed as I handed his cock and began to slowly masturbate him.

"You're so good to me, Art," I whispered.

He made a low, guttural sound. His pelvis was starting to move in rhythm to my jacking. But my jacking wasn't enough for him. He turned, coming over on top of me. I surrendered to him. It was what he wanted. I spread my legs and raised my knees, placing my feet flat on the surface of the bed, rolling my pelvis up to give him a good angle for the slide of his cock. He was between my thighs, his big, hardened cock poking at my lower belly. I reached over to the nightstand for a condom packet.

"One thing is for sure," I said, as I reached between our bodies and rolled the Magnum on.

He huffed a "What?"

"We're going to need more condoms real soon."

His answer was to start working his cock into me, while he embraced me closely and buried his face in the hollow of my neck. Panting hard and trying to spread my legs farther apart and raise my buttocks more to him, I turned every ounce of my attention to trying to open to him. It was like this each time, working hard to open to the hard thickness of him. The deep, deep penetration. And I loved it each time.

Then he began to pump and I lost all thought of anything.

Thinking came later as I sat at the table, eating. I'd left Art asleep at last on the bed, a smile on his lips.

My thoughts were convoluted and went back to the night before. In Lenny's king-sized bed beside the full-wall window overlooking the lights of the city. Lenny's back was propped up on pillows against the headboard of his bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms embracing me as I lay stretched out on top of him, pointed to the ceiling.

Most of his long cock was up my channel. It may have been the longest one of any man who'd had me. We were both looking down the line of my trembling torso, with me panting shallowly, by his instruction, as he slowly twirled the third, larger wand into the piss slit of my cock with the same hand that he was holding it erect with.

With every fiber of my being I was concentrating on holding steady, when I wanted to yowl and set my hips in motion in response to the filling penetration of two of my orifices.

"You're good with this," Lenny murmured. "A natural. You wanted it bad, didn't you?"

"I heard about it," I answered. "I was curious, yes. I've tried most everything."

"And this. Good is it?"

"When you do it, yes."

"Nothing more possessing, one man of another, than this."

"Yes." I moaned as he slowly twirled the wand out and reached for a thicker one. A few moments of heavy breathing from both of us and deep moaning from me, as the fourth wand worked its way in. His cock was throbbing inside me, and hard as a rock. This was as arousing to Lenny as it was to me.

"Now, right now, you are fully mine."

"Yes."

"From what Art tells me—and more from what he doesn't say—you are a whore."

"Yes."

"You going to be my whore?"

"Yes."

He laced his legs through mine and raised up and out, giving him leverage to start pumping up into my channel with his cock.

I felt his thumb press at my lips as he began to pump me with his cock. I opened my mouth to the thumb and started sucking on it, as he moved it in and out. He possessed me and was fucking me in every orifice. Complete, total possession. I felt the release of my cum rising up around the embedded wand and flowing down the sides of my cock, into my pubes. He ejaculated not long afterward in a strong spurt deep inside me. No condoms for Lenny. He lived on the edge. He didn't particularly care if his partner didn't want to—and I, for one, hadn't objected any more than that young blond guy probably had. With Lenny, that Lenny wanted you was enough.