In His Own Time

"Cam, come over here and meet our guest. Jordan, this is—or was—my prize pupil, Cameron Williams. He likes to be called Cam. He now provides private lessons for some of our students—both piano and voice. He's truly gifted. Oh, there are the Thompsons at the door. I'll have to greet them. I'll leave the two of you to chat. Jazz, it's all about Jazz. All that jazz." Hannah Brandt laughed a deep-throated laugh, turned, and hauled her zaftig, floral caftan-clad body off in a cloud of perfume.

It was fairly obvious to both men that she was throwing them together.

Cam stood there, left alone with the visiting conductor from Philadelphia, fully suspecting that this was one of Hannah's setups. She was always trying to help Cam move along in his goal to become a premier jazz musician and composer—and, knowing he was gay, she was equally intent on finding him a sugar daddy to promote his professional goals and personal needs. Seeing Jordan Smallwood in person and up close now, and the way in which Hannah had thrown the two together, caused Cam's antenna to go up. Hannah, his former high school music teacher, was the department head for music at Baltimore's School for the Arts, the city's special performing arts high school.

Jordan Smallwood was a tall, elegantly dressed, and commanding-presence man who probably was in his early fifties. He had a probably cultivated air of English don about him. He was dressed for the part of the conductor of Philadelphia's Jazz Orchestra—in flamboyant style, with elegant black silk shirt and trousers and a red-silk-lined black cape. He sported a wavy mane of gray hair and a classically handsome face that bordered on the effete and handled a gold-headed walking cane more as a theatrical prop than a walking aid. He was slender and held his body in the manner of a runway model. It was clear to Cam that the man was gay, but he carried it off with an air of authority—the most interesting man in the room. He'd still be the most interesting man in the room if this wasn't just a reception at Hannah's apartment for her students after Smallwood had given a lecture in conducting jazz at the high school.

Cam, a half black Baltimore inner city youth of nineteen, had attended the performing arts school on a gifted student scholarship. Hannah Brandt had seen his extraordinary talent in both piano and voice and had taken him under her wing. He was out of high school now and working part time in the piano bar of a gay-friendly hotel near Patterson Park as well as giving private lessons to students Brandt sent his way. She wanted to get him into a good music college and Cam wanted that too. That was going to take time and effort, though. Cam didn't want to be beholden to anyone. He wanted to do it on his own, in his own time. He was determined that a young man with one foot in the Baltimore black ghetto and the other in the high, white society of the DuPonts in Wilmington, Delaware, could make it in the music world on his own efforts.

"Hannah tells me she's trying to sell you the idea of going to the University of Arts in Philadelphia for a BA and Master's in music," Smallwood said after Brandt had wafted off. "It's a good school. Your jazz piano performance at the school today was phenomenal. I have no doubt you could get in. She's asked me if I could help you get a scholarship there. I was skeptical until I heard you play and sing today. You have a natural talent for jazz. I'm sure we could get you in."

"We?" Cam asked.

"Well, you know I conduct the Philadelphia Jazz Orchestra."

"Yes, I know," Cam said.

"I teach at the University of the Arts too."

"I have work here in Baltimore. Philadelphia is an hour and a half away, and I don't have a car. I'd like to go to the Philly arts university, but—"

"You could move to Philadelphia. Hannah says you have students here. You could do that in Philadelphia as well—and I understand you play in a piano bar. We have piano bars in Philadelphia. And I could give you work in the jazz orchestra."

The man sounded serious in his proposal. Cam was infused with a glimmer of hope, but he'd been disappointed relying on others before. He knew he should feel elated at the possibilities being raised here, but the response he was getting from his body was more one of going on guard and throwing up defenses against false hope. He'd been raised in the Baltimore ghetto with a few heart-breaking visits to the manicured lawns of Wilmington, where he and his mother were received as relatives of one of the house servants, even by his natural father.

Smallwood had a hand on Cam's arm and the look he was giving Cam indicated that his interest in the young man went beyond music. Cam was a handsome young black man. He wasn't tall, but he was solidly built—muscular and movie star handsome, the Jamaican black features melding with French ancestry providing a sensual mix. He was a chocolate brown, with full lips and velvety brown eyes. His dreadlocks, tipped with gold beads, made his exotic looks extremely attractive to women and some men as well—men like Jordan Smallwood.

"Did Hannah tell you that I conduct a jazz orchestra in New York City too—the Queer Urban Orchestra?" Smallwood asked. He was stroking Cam's arm and had pulled in close to him. "I hope the name doesn't shock you."

"No, not at all," Cam answered. Was this some sort of check on his preferences, he wondered. Surely Hannah had fully explained his orientation to the man—especially if she was trying to hook them up. Smallwood's orientation was quite obvious.

A head taller than Cam, the man was looking down into Cam's face, hovering over him, asserting a stance of control and intent that was not to be questioned. Cam shuddered, which Smallwood no doubt felt. He didn't pull away from the conductor, though—which Smallwood also was clearly aware of.

Hannah Brandt surely had told Smallwood more about her prize student and his needs than just about his musical abilities. Cam wasn't promiscuous, but immediately after graduating from the performing arts high school, he had taken up with one of Brandt's male teaching colleagues, a man in his fifties. The affair hadn't lasted long, but Brandt had been well aware of it and not only that Cam would go with an older—and white—man but also that having a mature male lover had served to focus Cam better on his music. Since Cam and Roger had broken up, she had been on a campaign to settle Cam down again with an older man—preferably a rich one. And one from the music world. Hannah knew Cam wouldn't be interested in a man who didn't understand and appreciate good music.

"New York?" Cam asked.

"Yes. There are even better music colleges there I'm sure you could get into—with a scholarship," Smallwood said. "We'll have to talk more about the possibilities."

At that point, Hannah returned to them. "Jordan's staying at the Renaissance Baltimore Harborplace Hotel for a couple of nights, Cam. I could call him a taxi, but it's such a nice night out, and it's on your way back to the Patterson Park area. Perhaps you could walk him to his hotel on your way."

"I suppose I could," Cam said, fully realizing what Hannah was up to here, but having no idea if Smallwood was of the same mind. The man didn't seem to be the walk-on-the-city-streets type. He was more of the hired limousine variety.

But Smallwood quickly indicated he was interested in taking a walk with Cam. "We could have a drink in the bar there and discuss possibilities," Smallwood said.

"I'm not old enough to drink in a bar," Cam said.

"You look old enough. And you work in a bar. I'm sure it will be fine." Smallwood touched Cam on the arm again with long, sensuous fingers and added, "You'll be with me," which seemed to convey more than just access to an alcoholic drink. "We could talk more about the music opportunities in Philadelphia, and I'd really like you to have a drink with me."

That was sort of silly, Cam knew. They were at a party. Drinks were being served here. "Well, sure, if you'd like that," he answered. He found he wanted to go with the man—and for more than a discussion of music or his training possibilities.

Hannah Brandt stood at her living room window, sounds of a successful party swirling around her. She'd lost interest in the party, though. The reason she'd had it was gone now. For her, success was reflected more in the two men leaving the apartment building, one tall, white, and middle-aged, elegantly dressed, and the other, young, black, achingly beautiful, dreadlocks gently swaying as he moved, the gold tips picking up light coming off the building's security camera. She sighed when she saw the older man put his arm through the younger one's and guide him down the sidewalk. She would love it if she could have Cam Williams for herself, but she knew that wasn't in the young man's nature. Success to her was matching him up with someone like Jordan Smallwood who would appreciate the young man's talent and help it to blossom. She wasn't naïve. She knew there would be a price to be paid for that.

* * * *

Smallwood was masterful and experienced, and his expertise in bed belied his effete persona in public. He controlled from the bottom. He initiated the kissing and the fondling in his hotel room—and the slow peeling off of clothes. From the beginning, Cam realized that he was in the hands of a master. Smallwood was the first to take the cock of the other in his mouth, and he was the one to maneuver Cam onto his back on the bed and to mount the young man's loins, impale himself on Cam's cock, take the shaft deep, and ride the young man in a cowboy position. He did so with the fluid motions of a professional dancer. There was no question who was in control.

When Cam was inflamed enough and comfortable enough with the fuck that he wanted to be more assertive, Smallwood rolled onto his back, taking Cam with him and let the young man ride him in a missionary. But even then the older man was controlling the fuck and was ensuring that they both got a maximum of pleasure from the copulation. His hips were as vigorously into the rocking motion of the ultimate sexual connection as were Cam's. His channel muscles were expert in grabbing and rippling over the cock and in pulling it in—and, when the time came, in milking it.

He crossed his legs on the small of the back of the perfectly formed milk chocolate youth to hold him in place, Cam's cock deep up inside Smallwood's channel, and alternated between digging his fingers in the young man's shoulder blades, gliding his fingernails down the well-muscled shuddering back, and clutching and squeezing Cam's buttocks cheeks, as the young man buried his face in the older man's throat and rode him hard. Smallwood rode him back, putting his hips into motion and working in complete harmony with the thrusts and withdrawals of the thick shaft. They became one smoothly moving, synchronized fucking machine, both taking maximum pleasure from the thrusting rod. But it was Smallwood who was milking Cam.

Cam had never been so expertly and totally fucked and drained before. He truly was in the hands of a master. None of the johns Cam went with in his job at the hotel have ever worked and drained him like this.

It was Cam's cock that was inside Smallwood's channel, but it was highly questionable who was fucking who. They barebacked. They moved so quickly and smoothly into the clutches and then into the fuck that wearing protection hadn't had time to be raised. When Cam arched his back and cried out in a series of off-beat thrusts and releases of cum, Smallwood didn't let him withdraw.

"Holy shit!" Smallwood exclaimed, clutching the younger man tightly, arching his back, and rocking against Cam's groin as the black stud released his cum in several deep thrusts and jerking flows. "Fuck! Oh, shit!" the older man cried out. "Hit me again!" And Cam did—again and again, young, virile, fit, the muscles of Smallwood's channel milking and draining the shaft. Cam's senses soared to the heights. He'd never barebacked a man before, and he was riding on the clouds from the response of the fuck master that Smallwood was.

Smallwood rolled them again, putting Cam on his back, keeping the young man inside him, letting him go flaccid but sticking with him, massaging his pecs and bending down and sucking on the young man's nipples as Cam hardened again and then riding Cam's cock to another ejaculation from the virile young black stud. At the end, Cam just held there, rigid, moaning, every nerve concentrating on Smallwood's marshaling of the muscles of his channel walls to caress, ripple over, and milk every last drop of cum out of the young man's cock. It was Smallwood taking all he wanted from Cam as long as to.

Smallwood was such a master of this that he was able to time their ejaculations this time—his first—to go off simultaneously, and it was like a fireworks display for both of them.

They lay there, side by side, Cam in Smallwood's arms, both of them working to calm their breathing, both of them aware that they still were trying to come into synch with each other, they still were working as one.

Smallwood had done this many times before. To Cam, this coming together was new. It was a revelation to him that this could be done—that two men could spiral up into heaven together like this—that the other man could control and manipulate him as well as Smallwood could and did—to use him completely. This fuck Cam would remember.

Without realizing that was what he was doing, Jordan Smallwood was the one to break the mood. "I want you to come to Philadelphia with me. I can get you into the University of the Arts there."

He had no idea how fixated Cam was on "I want to do this myself—in my own time." His words were a mood breaker. He thought that in completely conquering and possessing the young man's body as he had done, he now owned every aspect of Cam. He didn't.

"I haven't thought of that as an option," Cam said. "It would be moving too fast for me."

Smallwood didn't zero in on where Cam was on this. He wasn't saying "no," but that's what Smallwood seemed to have heard. "You have talent. I want to polish that and make it all it can be. Come to Philadelphia. You can live with me. I'll get you a job as well as get you into the music college. We'll—"

"The sex was that good?" Cam asked. He was, in fact, surprised that it was that good for Smallwood. The man was such an expert at the fuck and Cam obviously inexperienced in that department, that surely, Cam thought, this hadn't been the glorious experience for Smallwood that it had been for him.

"Excuse me?"

"You want me to come to Philadelphia and be your sex toy in training—to wear a collar maybe, and have you put me through my paces every evening?" He didn't say it angrily. The sex had been phenomenal for him. If Smallwood wasn't putting the rush on him, Cam would be thinking of possibilities himself and of moving to Philadelphia. "You've had me now. You know now I am out of your league in this. You don't want to just move on to the next young guy with little experience in this?"

"The sex was great—among the best I've ever had," Smallwood said. "But that's beside the point. It's your talent that is important. I'd like to have you near me—in my bed—yes, but the part of the music college and the honing of your talent—that's because you have talent—phenomenal talent. I work with people with talent every day. Yours is a standout among the others."

"It's something to think about," Cam said. He couldn't fail to appreciate what the man was saying; it wasn't only to get into Cam's pants. The man had gotten into Cam's pants and taken whatever he wanted. And Cam knew he'd let Smallwood take him again whenever the man wanted to. Indeed, the man had regained an erection and his gliding hands on Cam's body were bringing the young black man into season again.

Cam's response, as his breathing became labored again and he arched his pelvis up into Smallwood's stroking hand wasn't a "no," but Smallwood was not used to his young men failing to jump at the opportunities he provided—and, no, Cam wasn't the first Smallwood would take under his wing and develop both professionally and sexually.

They fucked again, and this time, with Smallwood sitting in Cam's lap and on the young man's folded legs, facing him, and Cam arched back, supporting himself with hands dug in the mattress behind him and the older man encasing his waist with an arm as Smallwood languidly rocked on Cam's buried cock, bringing them both to the brink of send-up and then backing off, only to climb the mountain of release again. At Smallwood's manipulation, the shared release was dynamite. The pleasure for them both was as glorious as the previous couplings had been.

They had fucked for over an hour. The younger of the two was exhausted. Smallwood gave the impression he could have worked Cam's body like this for another hour and a half without breaking a sweat.

"Well, I have to take a pee. I'll shower while I'm in there," Smallwood said after he'd ensured they came together again. He rolled to the side the bed and stood, letting Cam collapse back on the bed with a deep sigh of satisfaction. He reached down for his trousers and took his wallet out of a pocket. "We'll talk when I come out. Then you can get cleaned up too. You can stay the night here. I'd like that." He extracted an address card and several fifty-dollar bills, folded the banknotes, and dropped them on a dresser. "Here's something for you. I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of you."

There was, of course, no question that Smallwood had taken advantage of Cam—or that he had given Cam a masterclass in one man fully fucking another man. Cam fucked men, but none had given him the attention and drawn out the fuck like Smallwood had done. He made it an art, not just a physical act.

Smallwood's seduction technique had worked with young men before, but, once again, Cam wasn't other young men. When Smallwood came out of the bathroom, the room was empty—and the wad of money was still on the dresser. Smallwood was encouraged to see, though, that the young man had taken his address card.

* * * *

Lost in the moment, Cam Williams was pounding out the keys on the baby grand in the bar of the Harris Hotel on Baltimore's Foster Avenue. The tune was a complicated, rambunctious one, the "Yardbird Suite." He wouldn't have played a jazz classic like this for the bar patrons, except there weren't any bar patrons there at the moment, this being the 1:00 a.m. dead time near the end of his shift. When there were men in the bar—almost always men, as this was a gay male boutique hotel between Baltimore Harbor and Patterson Park, the center of the city's gay district—he kept to light jazz tunes and what Cole Porter would play and Nat King Cole would sing. Cam's voice was reminiscent of Nat King Cole's—rich, subdued, smooth, and soothing, like languidly pulled taffy. Even then, the men usually were so engrossed in each other that he was akin to elevator music in maintaining their attention.

Sometimes, though, Cam was the most attractive young man in the bar of an evening, and a man staying at the hotel, but not staying here with anyone or not having found anyone to bring back to the hotel, would end his day in the bar, sitting near the piano, and giving Cam his undivided attention. Cam had a bowl set out on the piano's sounding board, where men dropped tips, sometimes substantial ones.

This was the time of night when a man who had been paying close attention to Cam might even drop a copy of his room key. The Harris Hotel was both discreet and accommodating. Cam had been hired to be one of those accommodations. Even the single-registered male guests received two key cards for their rooms at check-in, and although there was a security man on duty monitoring everyone entering the lobby, it was quite clear that he exercised no memory retention, and the elevator doors were not in the line of sight of the reception desk. The nearby Patterson Park was teeming with young men willing to be brought back to the hotel, and the hotel itself provided opportunities for guests seeking company. Guests were subtly made aware of this at check-in. "You need only tell the room boy if he or we can provide you special services."