Homeward Bound Ch. 06

I was a little smug with Stanford Dane at that point; his comment on the arrogance of youth held true. I had assumed that what I knew that he didn't made all of the difference—that I was going to New York with Alec Cotton. That Alec Cotton was my sponsor lover now and would take care of me. And Dane didn't even know about Alec Cotton. But Dane did know about Max Trudeau.

The first week in New York City was fine. Actually, it was awesome. And I'm not writing about the sex with Alec Cotton. That always had been a bit strange and hit or miss according to his muse—or lack of muse for the times he paid more than perfunctory attention to me in bed.

It was New York City itself that was awesome. I, of course, had never been to a city that large or cosmopolitan. Alec's rooms were in the Village, so each day he would take me out into the city in a different direction and would show me the city that he clearly loved.

I loved it too; its excitement nearly overwhelmed me. But only nearly. What meant the most to me at that point, however, was that Alec said that a major editor in publishing loved my book, The Boarding House, and wanted to help me get it into print—a work of mine that wouldn't have Stanford Dane's gilded signature and personality overwhelming it.

Well into our second week together in New York, Alec was facing another deadline on a novel he had nearly completed but couldn't quite top off, and he'd slipped into our old relationship to churn up his muse. He no longer took me out of his rooms. In fact, we didn't leave his rooms at all. A friend of his sporadically brought food into us, and I was trapped in his bed—to be there whenever Alec's brain locked up and he needed a boost of frenetic sex to break through the barrier.

All good and fair for Alec's writing. But what about mine, I increasingly was asking myself—until I couldn't help it anymore, and I asked Alec.

It was when I heard him curse and ball up the sheet of paper he was writing on and stand up and look over to me on the bed. I knew better than to break into his concentration after sex—that's when he had a chance to rejoin the threads of his novel, and there would be nothing but anger and frustration from him if I broke into the mood with concerns of my own.

But now, his muses were locked, and he was focused on me—he wanted me.

As he approached the bed, I held out my arms, not in welcome, but in a gesture of fending him off.

"No, sit first, Alec. We must talk."

"Talk?" he asked, in a fog of confusion at the breaking of a routine that worked for him so well.

"Yes. You are nearly finished with your work on this novel. But I am here because you said a famous editor wanted to work with my novel manuscript. When does this happen? When is my time?" I almost went as far as to point out that I was no less of a slave whore to him in this arrangement now than I had become to Stanford Dane at Oberlin—and that I hadn't come away with him for just more of the same exploitation without concern for my writing future.

"Trudeau is a very busy man. Praeger is a juggernaut in publishing—they churn out several books a day, and Max is at the center of that. He knows you're here. He will call for you when he's ready. And the time will not be long—it will be too short."

There was a catch in his voice, and I looked at him sharply. His face bore a sadder expression than I had ever seen before. And he was running his hand down my belly and then farther—and driving me crazy with his attentions. I shuddered, wanting to give into my own arousal and also wanting to take the sad expression off his face—and yet wanting an answer to my question.

His sad face and what he was doing with his hand won out.

And then when Trudeau did summon me to his offices two days later, the sad expression returned to Alec's face, and he seemed to be reluctant and to be dragging his feet in taking me to Trudeau. His hug and handshake as we stood in front of Trudeau's office door seemed more of a farewell than a beginning of a new phase of our lives.

I couldn't understand what his problem was. He had been the one to send my manuscript to his editor. He had shown no evidence beforehand of wanting anything less than literary success for me. He never before had portrayed a moment of professional competition or jealousy. Indeed, I assumed that when I was published, we would have a life of sharing each other's successes and playing off each other's revealed inspirations in discussions that benefited us both. That's what I'd been told could happen in writers' liaisons—the synergy of the muses of both enhancing the creativity of both.

All Alec said before he withdrew, leaving me alone with Maximilian Trudeau, was "Here he is, Charles Bairr," when we opened the door after a gruff voice answered our knock. We had walked to and stopped at the threshold of the dimly lit office stuffed with manuscripts and flecks of dust floating in the beam of light coming through one tall window some dozen stories off the ground and grimy with grease from the fumes of the horseless carriages bustling by on the narrow city street below.

I looked to the desk to the left of the door, but the "Come here and sit beside me" command came from the right. I turned there. A large man, perhaps pushing fifty, and obviously an avid and frequent diner on fine foods, was folded into a heavy, horse-hair-covered Chesterfield sofa that sat in front of a fireplace, blocking it, with towering bookshelves on either side stuffed with manuscripts. My first thought at seeing the piles of manuscripts strewn about was to wonder how Trudeau got to the furniture, the fireplace, or the shelves—or, indeed, how he knew where anything could be found on demand in the room. Intuitively, though, I knew that he could place his hands on anything in the room. Including, now, me. My second thought went back to when I first saw Stanford Dane in that dimly lit office at Oberlin, and I shuddered at the realization that this would be a déjà vu moment.

Alec had told me what working with Trudeau would require. In fairness, he told me before we left Oberlin. But letting men fuck me had become my lot in life. I wasn't a fool of my circumstances. My life had been moving from the cock of one patron to another, starting on an hourly basis and eventually moving to liaisons that had greater rewards for me. I appreciated that the progression was going in this direction.

But I was to learn that when Alec said I would be Trudeau's if he agreed to be my book editor, I had no idea how sweeping the reality of that would be—how much of a slave I would become or how exotic and cruel the man's technique would be.

Alec had mitigated what the contract would be, though. "When you prove out, as I now have, his interests will move to new authors. But he will stay with you professionally. Then the real author-editor relationship will become as gold."

"You let him fuck you?" I asked, in disbelief.

"Yes, of course. He won't take you on unless you give yourself completely—and unless he wants more than your manuscript."

"But, you aren't that way—you are the one who—"

"Life is a compromise, Charlie. You do what you have to to get where you want to go."

So, I can't claim I didn't know what would be expected of me.

"Ah, so young and beautiful," he said as I stood there, trying to take him all in. He was heavy, yes, but he also was tall and big boned, so the sofa had several reasons to be sagging a bit in the middle. "Alec had told me you were an angel. And such an accomplished writer too. Come. Come sit beside me."

I wasn't sure how "sit beside me" was going to be accomplished. He was taking up more than half of the sofa—the middle half. I chose the side more in the shadows at the inner-wall end. In fact, it was the only end available. When I came closer, I saw that there were several devices lying on the sofa beside him on the other side. I recognized the oversized leather dildo, but there were other devices I didn't recognize.

He immediately wrapped an arm around me when I sat down, and the palm of his hand rested on my chest.

"I know you are a good writer, my young Charles. Alec told me you would be. I wasn't sure, of course. But he proved to be right. And I am a great editor, Charles. One of the best in the business. Did Alec tell you that?"

"Yes."

"And did Alec tell you my conditions for taking on a new author?"

"Yes. At least some."

"Some? Was Alec telling me the truth when he said you were a male prostitute? You look too young and fresh. I certainly hope that Alec hasn't been lying to me. But then what you wrote in your book seemed so authentic and . . . interesting."

His direct reference to being a male prostitute took me aback. I had never heard it stated that baldly—and I certainly didn't think that baldly about it. I had done what I needed to do to survive. And I had been brought to it—and I loved being fucked whether or not there was money being exchanged for it. But then, Alec had told me Trudeau would be direct and bald about everything—and that when this concerned my manuscript, I would not be published if I was thin skinned about his instructions and assessments and did not fully, and genuinely accept that he was the expert or refused to rewrite and then rewrite again.

"Yes." I would be bald and straightforward with him, too. It was a fact; I was a prostitute—and when it wasn't money I was taking for it, it was other favors. The truth was I was here because of what Trudeau could give me, and both he and Alec were being up front about what I had to give in exchange for what Trudeau could give me.

"And that you have taken cock big?"

"Yes." I wondered if he was telling me he had some sort of channel killer of a cock. I would find it hard to believe that he could exceed either Samuel or Abe or Dane in that department.

"And have you ever taken two at once."

I didn't answer. The questions certainly were bald.

"Well, have you?"

"Yes. Once . . . or twice."

"Well, then, you know that we will have to test for compatibility and satisfaction before we talk of author and editor relationships, don't you?"

"Yes."

He had already started. When I'd entered the room, he was already "comfortable." His boiled white shirt was open as was the vest over it. He was wearing trousers, but he was in his sock feet.

But while he was quizzing me on my sexual experience, he also was starting to undress me with his hands. The hand of the arm he held me close to him with had been unbuttoning my shirt. And the other one had unbuckled my belt and was unbuttoning the fly of my trousers.

"I will unpeel you now," he said in a commanding voice. "Like an orange. We shall get right down to what is the pith of you." And he proceeded to peel off my clothes while he held me in a tight embrace.

"Stand up and face me."

I did so. We were more on my ground now. It didn't matter that he was an ogre. He was eyeing me with a lustful look that more than approved of me—that wanted to merge with me and have me. He may have been a god in the publishing industry, but he was still just a man, controlled by the engorging of his cock—something he couldn't keep from happening when he was looking at me posing demurely—falsely so—in the nude within arm's length of him.

"Ah, yes, an angel. Alec didn't lie."

He drew me into him, his face going into my crotch, where he drew in heavy breaths. He made me bend to him, and his nose and mouth went into my pits, one after the other, and he snuffled there and licked.

Then he pushed me erect and backed me up a couple of steps. "Ah the sweet smell of youth. I'm sure you drive the men wild. Suck me now, please."

I knelt between his spread thighs as he unbuttoned his fly and took out a surprisingly normal looking cock. Perhaps it thickened and lengthened overmuch in greater arousal I thought, as I began to sheath it with my mouth and he began making sounds both guttural and purring.

The surprise came immediately after I had made him come with my mouth and swallowed him down, still perplexed that his cock was nothing special in penetrating power.

I found that the toys he had on the other side of him on the sofa were special. And his positions were something I had never encountered before.

For this first time, he had me sit on his thighs, facing away from him. And in a movement that was far more rapid than I would have thought a man of his size could accomplish, he pushed my face to the floor with the palm of his hands on my back and brought both of his feet up and locked his heels behind my neck and flipped me down so that my head was trapped at the floor, facing the sofa. My legs were spread-eagled to the sides, and he somehow tied them off at the ankle at the arms of the sofa. I would have looked ridiculous if anyone had entered the office at that point—but the staff no doubt was well trained not to do that when Trudeau was "in session."

My buttocks was then exposed at the level of his chest, and Trudeau merely needed to lower his face—which he did—and palm my butt cheeks and spread them wide and he was feasting on my ass entrance. I writhed under his attentions and groaned and moaned deeply not only in shock but also because this was so arousing and different, his tongue seeming to be longer and thicker than his cock, that I had ejaculated on his bare belly in short order.

He merely laughed and began to work with the tools he had on the sofa: the leather dildo and then a chain of graduated balls and other large foreign objects that tested out that "have you had two?" question.

After my first ejaculation, though, he didn't let me have another. He worked on my ass forever. And each time I came close to coming again, he'd stop and hold me still until the urge to blow subsided. My balls began to ache and I begged him to let me come again—which must have been the signal he was listening for, because at this point the toys were discarded and he grabbed me by the hips and pushed my pelvis down toward the floor, and when it lifted again, it slid around his cock. He fucked me by moving my channel up and down on his cock with the force of his hands on my hips—until, with his permission, we both had ejaculated—the bulb of his cock not reaching farther inside me than my prostate, but not being any less effective in arousal and ejaculation value than if his cock had been able to reach into my stomach.

"Dress," he said when he'd released his heel hold on my neck and I'd tumbled to the floor. "And then come over to the desk and we begin. Your manuscript is perfect. It will need to be totally rewritten, though. Then we find an excellent French translator and introduce it to the French market. And when it has made waves in France—which it will—it will be introduced back into the American publishing underground—a subsidiary of Praeger—in the original English, declaring it as a translation of the French. It will sell well here, very, very well here. I have said it is so. Alec told you this already, did he not?"

"Yes," I answered in a breathless voice—still trying to recover from a cruel and possessive fuck such as I'd never experienced before.

"And then we go home and I fuck you properly."

I moaned. "Home?"

"Yes. You belong to me now. Alec is already taking your possessions to my home. We work and we fuck there. Maybe more fuck than work at the beginning." He laughed at his joke.

I didn't. I now knew why Alec was so reluctant for me to meet with Trudeau. Now Alec was on his own for stoking his muse when he had hit a writing wall.