Fridays at Battery Park Books

Raskin sat at the foot of the bed, cupping Trent's chin with one hand and palming his belly with the other, as Trent crouched in his lap, his knees pressed to the edge of the bed on either side of the novelist's thighs; Trent's legs running behind Raskin's buttocks; and Trent, his hands pressed into Raskin's knees and facing away from Raskin, using the leverage of his knees to rise and fall on the buried shaft, fucking himself.

Before he came, Raskin changed the position, pushing Trent's chest to the floor below the bed, the young man's arms stretched out to his side to steady himself, and Raskin standing behind him, Trent's feet were hooked on the older man's shoulders, while the novelist fucked down into Trent's tight, restricted passage and the young man cried out the punishing filling and working of his channel.

Later, with the two of them stretched out against each other on the canopied bed, Trent asked, "Why a B&B? Do you live in hotels? You don't want to come to my place?"

"This B&B will be the setting for a scene in my novel," he answered.

"And will I be in the scene too?" Trent asked.

"Quite likely," Raskin answered, as he rolled Trent over on his belly, ran an arm under the young man's stomach and raised him to all fours, mounted him, thrust inside him, and fucked him again.

* * * *

Trent had no sooner walked home from work in a light snow the first Tuesday of December when there was a heavy knock on his door. He opened it to find Gus Sawyer pushing his way in. "You gonna invite me in?" he asked, as he strutted past Trent into his small living room-dining room combination.

"You're in already," Trent said. "How did you find where I lived?"

"I followed you home from the university library today. Get dressed into something sexy. I'm going to show you a side of homo Asheville at Christmas those high-brow dudes in that Friday club you go to won't show you."

Trent started to demur but then he saw the facial expression the black muscle man was giving and thought better of it. "Is this OK?" he asked, as he returned, wearing white, form-fitting jeans in a silky material and a red mesh athletic shirt that showed off his well-formed smooth-skinned chest. He was a blond beauty and Gus's wolf whistle told him he was dressed fine. Gus was dressed in bikers' black leather.

The place was a black bikers' club and sauna called Buxton's in a former warehouse in an area of former warehouses below the downtown area on, naturally, Buxton Avenue. Several of the other warehouses in the area had been turned into beerhalls and music venues. It was the sort of area that you didn't take your best car and paid a local boy to babysit the car you took. It was shockingly close to the high-brow downtown area of the small city.

The only white guys in the barroom were Trent and a young white guy on stage being royally fucked to grind music by a black bull. Either the white lad hadn't been fully briefed on what the act would entail or he was one great actor. Gus fit in with the patrons—black, muscular, mean looking, and clad in black leather bikers' gear. Many were topless, though, proud of their tattooed muscular torsos with every reason to be so.

Gus guided Trent over to barstools where they had a good view of the black-on-white debauching going on the small stage. Everyone seemed to know Gus, and he let all of the men who came by paw at, kiss, and manhandle Trent. Anything went, from multiple men, short of stripping Trent and raping him on the barstool. Gus sat by and watched the men play with Trent, who was almost hyperventilating between fear and arousal. A lot of joking went on about dragging Trent into the sauna and gang banging him, which both distressed Trent and caused chills of anticipation run up his spine. Gus was amused by Trent's mixed distress and curiosity.

When Trent had one black giant sitting on his stool with his cock out and the young white man in his lap, the black dude dry humping Trent from behind and another black guy bent over Trent from in front, French kissing him and rubbing Trent's basket, and a large wet spot developed at Trent's crotch, Gus laughed and drove Trent home.

Inside the door to Trent's basement apartment, Gus grabbed the young man by the hair and forced him on his knees. Gus unzipped, pulled his thick, black cock out, and made Trent gag on it. Trent was surprised and concerned to find Gus had a thick metal ring Prince Albert piercing in his cock head. He hadn't been wearing that when he'd fucked Trent in the truck. He had it now, though, and didn't take it out. Trent had never given a blow job for a guy with one and was concerned for his teeth, but despite the jarring sound and clicking against his teeth, Trent managed without breaking any of his ivories.

When Gus was hard and throbbing, he pulled Trent up by the hair with one hand and backhanded him across the face with the other, making Trent reel back toward the bedroom door. Trent struggled up and Gus backhanded him again, sending Trent to his knees at the bedroom door frame.

Gus picked him up by the hair and tossed him onto the double bed that took up much of the small bedroom. Trent struggled to rise and Gus punched him in the stomach and slapped him again.

"Stay there on your back and take it," he commanded as he pulled Trent's shoes and trousers off and tossed them aside. He pushed Trent down on his belly, pulled the belt out of the young man's white jeans, doubled it over, and gave Trent a few whacks on his bare buttocks, causing Trent to cry out in pain, with a bit of arousal mixed in. Gus didn't do enough damage to last into the night; Trent absorbed the possibility that the whipping could resume at any point, though, and it made him whimper and go hard.

Gus flipped Trent onto his back, grabbed the young man's thighs, spread them, and went down on his knees, immediately going to eating Trent's ass out. Trent lay there and moaned his surrender and embarrassed arousal. Crouching over Trent between his thighs, Trent completely open and vulnerable to him, Gus thrust inside him, deep, into Trent's soft core, and, not having removed the thick PA ring, ravished him there, brutalizing him with the prodding and sliding of metal deep inside Trent, taking full advantage of Trent's total surrender to him and the young man's arousal from the preparation at the club.

If he could have, Trent would let Gus know he loved the fuck, but he couldn't, because Gus was gripping Trent's throat as he fucked him, matching the rhythm of the punishing fuck with controlling Trent's gasping breathing. The cock churned deep inside Trent, finding and punishing every nook and cranny of the young man's core. He kept muttering, "Fucking relax. Open. Take it deeper; let it all in," and Trent did so, going completely soft and open for the cock and being punished for doing so.

When Gus had come once, slapped Trent around some more while he was building another hard, and then doggie fucked Trent on the floor at the foot of the bed, he picked Trent back up and threw him onto the bed again, straddled his chest, and made Trent make love to his cock again with his mouth and throat.

Gus left Trent moaning, stretched out, completely taken, and whimpering when he went back out into the gathering snow. Trent lay there on the bed for an hour, mentally taking the pulse of his vitals and checking for bruising and tears. He had never been taken as hard before. He was mortified that he could say that he'd never been so fully and satisfyingly fucked before either.

He recognized the danger of a man like Gus. He already was wondering when the next time he'd have him inside him again would be.

He had to admit Gus had been right—this had been a gay side of Asheville the men of the Friday Group at the Battery Park Book Exchange were unlikely ever to introduce Trent to.

He was ashamed to do it and never mentioned to anyone that he had, but on the next night, Wednesday, he found his own way back to Buxton's and this time let three black bulls carry him into the sauna and gang fuck ravish him, taking one black cock after the next in both throat and ass channel and then starting the rotation all over again.

They gang banged him, but they didn't double him. It wasn't that long before he experienced the more refined Friday Group version of gang banging, which did include double penetration.

* * * *

"You look like you've been beaten."

"Does it show? I thought I'd done a good job with the makeup," Trent told Julian on Friday evening after work, as they approached the door to the Battery Park Book Exchange in the corner of the Grove Arcade.

"I can tell, one submissive to another, but you've done a good job with the makeup. The men in here probably won't be able to tell. Do you have whip marks on your back and butt, though? That may become a problem for you later tonight. The men here aren't likely to want hard-used goods."

"No. Nothing like that," Trent answered. The marks of the belt on his buttocks had faded away.

"Where have you been to get the bruises?"

"I went to Buxton's on Wednesday night."

"Buxton's?" Julian exclaimed. "How did you find out about Buxton's? You are a needy slut, aren't you? You like it rough? You like taking black shafts?"

"Yes to all, I'm afraid," Trent answered.

Julian laughed. "I sure as hell didn't read you for that. If you like black cock, maybe Gael Blanton will be here tonight. He's black and he's got a shaft that will split you and make you yodel."

"Gael Blanton?"

"Yes, he's an executive chef up at the Grove Park Inn. French actually, from Morocco, but he's been in the States for ages. He can hold his own in literary discussions. He's the holder of the gold poker chip. I couldn't walk for a week the first time he dropped that in front of me."

Gael Blanton indeed was one of the power men who showed up to the Friday Group that evening. It was a mixed group, some who where there the previous Friday, including, in addition to Julian and Trent, Brad Haywood, the art museum development director, and the UNC student, Kevin Dundee. But miraculously the number added up to eight once again.

Regulars who hadn't been there the previous week, in addition to the Grove Park Inn executive chef Gael Blanton, were the director of the Asheville Music Hall, a funkily dressed, rather chunky, nearly bald guy in his fifties named Daniel Park; a suited-up, seriously looking attorney with horn-rimmed glasses in his well-toned forties, who, Trent was told, was on the board of directors of the Black Mountain College Museum, Patrick Hunt. Haywood had brought a guest, a tall, slim, military-bearing type Chinese-ethnic man in his late forties who was director of the Raleigh-Durham Art Museum, Ed Yuan. He was in town to check on the progress of the Asheville art museum reconstruction. He had piercing black eyes that honed in on what interested him. As soon as Julian and Trent arrived, Trent interested him, and Yuan maneuvered to have Trent sitting beside him. Haywood was on Trent's other side. Gael Blanton was sitting across from them, his eyes also boring into Trent.

Julian had schooled Trent into maneuvering the conversation to what he'd like a prospective partner to do for him before the poker chips came out—all, of course, to be couched in the general conversation. Luck would be on his side this Friday evening, as the conversation going on at the time they arrived was the Grove Park Inn, its place in American literature, and its expansion over the years. After having been gang banged by blacks at Buxton's earlier that week, Trent was intrigued about the claimed monster-cocked black French chef, Blanton, who was on the walrus side in size and not particularly beautiful. But there was that suggestion he could take a young man to heaven. Trent had been taken close to heaven a number of times in the previous two weeks, certainly closer to heaven than he'd gotten in Chapel Hill.

"There's a lot of major art on the walls up there, too," Brad Haywood was saying as Julian and Trent were settling. A poker chip was already out and in front the UNC student—a silver one, which indicated that the attorney from the Black Mountain College Museum was horny and had already staked his territory. The poker chip was silver. The student, Kevin Dundee, was rolling it around in his head, indicating he'd already accepted. The attorney said little in the conversation. He didn't need to. He'd come to hook up and that had been accomplished. The two of them left early, together, to be replaced by the newspaper editor, Jerry Morgan, and the theatre artistic director, Cyril Birch.

"Have you been up to the inn?" Haywood asked Trent directly.

"Only briefly," Trent answered, "and I didn't spend any time looking at the artwork."

"We have the annual gingerbread house competition on display too now," Gael Blanton said, turning his eyes to Trent. "If you are new to the city, you really need to see that. What they do with gingerbread is spectacular."

"I'd like to see that," Trent said, which earned him a gold poker chip—Blanton's color—flipping to in front of him.

"My guest, Ed Yuan, is staying at the Grove Park," the Asheville Art Museum official, Brad Haywood, chimed in. "You could drive up to the inn with us and see the display. What do you think of that, Mr. Ashton?"

"I think that would be lovely," Trent answered with a smile. A green poker chip, Haywood's color, landed in front of Trent.

"If you come up the inn this evening, I could treat you all to dinner at my restaurant, Vue 1913," Blanton said, still staring Trent down from across the table. "And after we're finished, I'd send you back to your home in a hotel car."

What would constitute "finished"? Trent wondered, but he didn't say it. He now knew that the poker chip protocol was making that obvious.

"I think it would be a splendid evening," Ed Yuan piped up to say. He had no poker chip, not being a regular, but he had his wallet out and had dropped four crisp hundred-dollar bills next to the two poker chips on the table.

"It sounds like a good possibility for the evening," Trent said, as he watched Julian and the novelist, Bernard Raskin, stand up from the table and move toward the stairs down to the mezzanine. Julian was holding a blue poker chip—Raskin's color. Trent's ire was raised a bit. The novelist had been so totally into Trent earlier in the week and now it was as if, Trent having given him everything he demanded, Raskin wanted to move on to a new conquest. That little irritant was probably what made him bold enough to take on three of the men.

"Excuse me, I need to talk to Julian for a moment," Trent said, rising from the table. He caught up with Julian on the mezzanine level next to the alcove leading to the bathroom. Julian waved Raskin on to the lower floor, saying he would join him there and they would go on to Carmel's Restaurant, next door to the book exchange in the Grove Arcade.

"I need to know the etiquette here," Trent said. "I've gotten two poker chips—and a monetary offer from the Asian guest."

"If you find any or all of them acceptable at some time, pick up their poker chips and play with them in your hand," Julian said. "Then drop any you aren't accepting tonight back on the table. That tells the ones you didn't keep that it was just a decision for that moment, that you weren't rejecting them. It helps to smooth over their feelings and encourages them to ask again."

"What if you're willing to accept them all?"

"At one time?" Julian asked. And when Trent didn't correct his question, Julian laughed and said, "You are a little slut, aren't you? If you'd take them all together, pick them all up. But if one of them indicates in any way that they didn't want to share, they'll indicate that some way. My experience with these men, though, is that they like watching someone else take his turn before they get theirs. It's also my experience with these men that you may have to take more than one cock at a time if you accept them all. Good luck," he added and then continued on down the stairs to the lower level.

While he was there by the bathroom, Trent decided to use it. When he was coming out, the book exchange assistant manager, Art Hilliard, was standing there, waiting for him.

"You are going to go with one of those old men again tonight, aren't you?" he asked.

"Maybe more than one," Trent said, with a smile.

Hilliard grimaced. "Do you really like old cock? Wouldn't you rather have young, vigorous cock?"

"I consider what's offered."

"I'm offering. Tell me you don't want to go with me."

When Trent wasn't quick to say he didn't want to couple with Art, Hilliard grasped his arms with both hands, guided him back into the bathroom, and locked the bathroom door. He fucked Trent up against the wall, pressing Trent's back against the funky wallpaper, having quickly stripped off the trousers and briefs of them both.

He was in magnificent erection. Trent said something nice about his young cock, Art said he could keep it up and move it as piston speed, and then he did so, holding Trent's thighs hooked on his hips, burying his face in the hollow of Trent's throat, and pushing Trent's body up and down the wall with the fast, powerful thrusts of his hard shaft. It was all over in seven minutes, with Trent gasping and emitting little mewing sounds as, barebacking him, Art exploded again and again and again inside him. Trent's arms had been around Art's neck, and while Art was releasing inside him, Trent cupped the back of the young man's head and brought their faces together for a deep, tongue-dueling kiss.

"That's just preliminary," Art whispered as they held there afterward. "You want more young cock, just let me know." Then he let Trent's legs down, picked his briefs and black trousers up, pulled them on, and zipped and buckled himself. With Trent puddled on the floor at the base of the wall, trying to bring his breathing under control, Art unlocked the bathroom door, and was gone.

Trent held there for a few minutes, reveling in the fast fuck. He indeed liked young cock.

When he returned to the Friday Group table, he scooped up both poker chips and the four hundred-dollar bills and said, "If you gentlemen would like to go on this adventure together, I'd be happy to see the gingerbread houses display up at the Grove Park this evening. I'd like to experience all that the famous hotel has to offer."

All three men knew what Trent was agreeing to. They stood, exhibiting grins that indicated they didn't mind at all share the evening—and Trent.

* * * *

Trent stood, naked, by the humongous bathtub in Ed Yuan's suite at the Grove Park Inn. The tub was big enough for several. It needed to handle three, giving them range to move. Haywood, tall, ruggedly handsome even in his mid-fifties, with a gray, lion-like mane of hair, pelt of salt and pepper hair on his chest, a more generous mix of dark hair in the gray bush at his groin, stood close behind Trent, his hands grasping the young man's hips. The older man's respectable-sized erection nestled between Trent's thighs, rubbing languidly on the young man's taint as the art museum official kissed Trent in the hollow of his neck and murmured how beautiful the young man was and how Haywood intended to use and enjoy his body to the fullest extent of Trent's endurance. Trent, himself hard as a rock in erection, sighed in anticipation of what was to come.

In the tub, reclining on his back, the long, sleek body of the Chinese ethnic Ed Yuan floated close enough to the surface that his long erection, with a screaming red oversized bulb rising out of a jet-black thatch of coarse pubic hair, rose above the soap-foamed surface of the water in the tub.

Classical music was floating on the air from the adjacent dimly lit bedroom suite, wafting into the generously sized bathroom. There was no question that Trent was going to be shared and fucked, but it would be unlike what he had experienced with Gus Sawyer or Bernard Raskin, or even Art Hilliard. This was going to be a prolonged, refined, total using of all of the young man's charms, skills, and body.