Sugar Daddy for the New Year

He'd forgotten, at least for now, the thought of needing to call Herman Kahn about the wad of cash he'd included with the clothes he'd already told Frankie were his Christmas present. There was time enough for that later. For now, there wasn't much time for him to take his pleasure on Christmas Day with the young man who meant so much to him but, being as poor and struggling as Frankie was, wasn't going to be the answer to Frankie's need for a sugar daddy. They'd slept late and Frankie only had an hour or so before he went on to his next prospect to fill that role.

* * * *

"No, don't put your work clothes on yet. Come to daddy first and give me some sugar. You knew why I asked you to come early."

By "some sugar" thirty-eight-year-old southern writer and New School creative writing professor Nelson Weeks meant a blow job. And, yes, Frankie knew that just as he knew why Weeks had asked him to show up for his duties at Weeks's Greenwich Village apartment early for his Christmas Day reception. The reception wasn't just to bring together some of Weeks's creative arts friends and colleagues but also to honor the visiting Hollywood publishing agent, Richard Janney, who had been giving a series of lectures at the New School the previous week.

The apartment was the entire second floor of an old village brownstone mansion on East 8th Street. It was a two-bedroom, two-bath place, one bedroom large and one small, and a large room, with kitchen at one end and two fireplaces at the other end, one in the living room area and the other in a library extension off to the side. Frankie didn't know if Weeks owned it or rented it. He suspected he rented it, as the man, slender, dark to the point of suspecting some black in his background, and hirsute, reminding Frankie of a fox, had come to the New School from the creative writing program at Georgia Southern University, and, by the way the man clung to his southern ways, probably planned to return there.

Either way, he had to have money from somewhere else other than a university teaching position to afford an apartment like this. Perhaps, Frankie thought, the novels he wrote of the antebellum south, with their sexually ambiguous male characters, paid well. The man himself was sexually ambiguous too. He squired women, but Frankie well knew that Nelson Weeks fucked men.

Frankie had only been with him a couple of times in this apartment, but it had been often enough for Frankie to consider whether Weeks might be the sugar daddy he was looking for. Weeks had fucked him in the living room, library, both bedrooms, one of the bathrooms, and in the kitchen. Weeks was a regular little bunny and they both enjoyed finding inventive places and ways of doing it. The problem there was that Frankie didn't think there was enough commitment on his writing professor's part for such a relationship to develop. Weeks seemed to be into very casual sex, including both young men and women.

Today, Christmas Day, at least before the party, it was Frankie. Upon arrival at the party, three hours before the party time and an hour and a half before the caterers arrived whose Job it would be for Frankie to supervise during the party, he'd gone to the second bedroom, far smaller than the master bedroom but one Frankie had looked at as a possibility to be his if a more serious relationship developed between him and Weeks. Here he was changing into the uniform he was to wear at the party marking him as staff and was down to his briefs and undershirt when Weeks came into the room, sat on the bed, and demanded a blow job. Frankie dutifully went down on his knees between the man's thighs and sucked him off.

As Frankie gave attention to Weeks's cock, the professor ran his hand over the younger man's body, getting his undershirt and briefs off. He'd come into the room just in a silk robe that he had opened and brushed to the side. He was hard-bodied and pelted with dark, curly hair. His cock, not especially oversized, was cruelly curved up in a way that Frankie had felt before, the mushroom cap kissing his passage walls as it stroked inside him. At the moment it was kissing the roof of Frankie's mouth as he sucked on it.

"You know that Richard Janney is the guest of honor this afternoon, Franklin," Weeks murmured as he bent over Frankie, glided his hand down the young man's back, and ran his index finger into the cleft of the Frankie's buttocks, searching for, finding, and penetrating his entrance.

"Ummm, umm," Frankie murmured as he sucked on the cock.

"And you know from the classes you attended where he spoke that he's an agent, out in Hollywood, for books and movie screenplays. He's quite famous and rich."

"Ummm."

"I gave him the play you wrote last semester for my class."

"Did you?" Frankie's mouth came off the cock, and he looked up into Weeks's eyes, interested now.

"He said your script was intriguing. He wants to meet you. It's not just your play he's interested in. He remarked on how good-looking you are to me after a class of his you attended."

"Good looking?"

"He said 'sexy.'"

"And he wants—?"

"I think it would be a good idea if you walked him back to his hotel, the Walker Hotel at 13th Street and 6th Avenue, after the party today. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think so," Frankie said. This pretty much put Nelson Weeks out of the running for sugar daddy, if he so easily would give Frankie to someone else. Frankie wondered what Weeks was getting out of pimping him to the Hollywood agent. But then he remembered Weeks mentioning that he'd gotten a Hollywood agent to handle the movie optioning of his next novel. He'd said there was more money on optioning a book for filming, whether or not it actually got filmed, than there was in the print profits. Obviously, that agent was Janney. Frankie shuddered. Janney was a large, robust man, full of himself and very commanding. He was craggy faced and so ugly that he was arousing in a thuggish way.

"I think you should be very grateful to me," Weeks said.

"Yes, yes, I am. Thank you."

"I think you should show me how grateful you are. Now."

Frankie showed him, allowing himself to be raised up and settled into Weeks's lap, skewered on the man's cock. Frankie's legs were bent, his knees on either side of the professor's hips, and he arched his torso toward the floor, his arms stretched out on the carpet in a sacrificial cruciform position, while, grasping the young man's hips, Weeks pulled him on and off the cock to his eventual ejaculation.

* * * *

Janney had surprised him. He had become forceful and commanding. He had Frankie on his back on the bed, his head arched over the side. Frankie had been stunned by two backhanded slaps across the face and was winded when Janney put him on his back, leaning over him, his monstrously thick and long cock lodged in Frankie's throat, the man's fists pressed into the hollows of the young man's shoulders, holding him pinned to the bed. Frankie's eyes were watering and he was gagging from taking the erection in his throat. In, out, in out, insistently.

It hadn't started out this roughly. Standing close to each other, they'd kissed and then kissed more deeply as their hands started to roam, undressing each other, Janney fisting their cocks together, stroking them together as they made out. Both of them knew where this was heading. They knew before they'd left the Christmas party at Nelson Weeks's apartment.

They'd gotten on quite well at the party, although Frankie had had to break away frequently to check on the caterers. Janney had been patient. He'd waited for Frankie to come back and take up the conversation from where they'd left it. Janney had read the play script Frankie had written and, although he said he'd liked it very much and obviously had read and spent some time with it, he did have some questions and a few suggestions on how it might be improved. This didn't put Frankie off. It impressed him and was far better than if the man had claimed to love every word of it just to get into Frankie's pants.

It was clear from the outset that Janney wanted to get in Frankie's pants. There hadn't been any pretense on what Janney wanted in that way. He'd given Frankie deep looks and smiles and had touched him here and there and the conversation was increasingly intimate when it went beyond the play script and the classes at the New School.

"Nelson told you I wanted to meet you from when I saw you in a class?"

"Yes," Frankie said.

"I want you to know those are two separate interests?"

"Two separate interests?"

"I'm genuinely interested in your work. That's quite separate from . . . I'm genuinely interested in you too."

"In me? Interested?"

"In being with you, laying you, laying you out and fucking you good." And when, shocked at the directness of him, Frankie didn't respond right away, he said, "Excuse the directness, but I'm only here for a few days—and there is your play to discuss as well. We don't have much time. Nelson tells me he fucks you, but that it's just casual, that there's nothing serious between the two of you. I want to fuck you too. You're a sexy little piece. But if you don't let me fuck you, I'll have to look to my entertainment elsewhere. Taking time to do that might mean I don't have time to read deeper into your play either."

So much for saying that his interest in the script and in Frankie were two different issues. The deal being proposed was obvious. He was being quite honest and open about it. He had his hand on Frankie's buttocks, and Frankie wasn't moving away.

"That is direct," Frankie said. He thought he should be offended being called a "little piece," like he was a slab of meat, but instead that had aroused him.

"Have I offended you—by letting you know directly what effect you have on me and what I want to do about it? You do open your legs for men and take their cocks, don't you? Nelson tells me he isn't the only one, and you write so sensually—and homoerotically, I must say. Surely you see that in your writing. You write from the perspective of a submissive. You're gay and you want men to fuck you. Nelson says he fucks you and that you take it like you want it."

"Yes, I see that in my writing." Frankie admitted. And he was impressed that Janney saw it too. He also was impressed with Janney, the man, beyond what he admitted he saw in Janney as a probable sex partner and even a possible sugar daddy. He also clearly was an "in command" man. Frankie liked the role of submissive. His fantasy was to be taken by force—completely. He would get his wish before the night was out.

"Nelson says you will walk me back to my hotel. If you still are willing to—"

"There's a lock on the door to the second bedroom here," Frankie said.

On the bed in that room, on top of guests' coats, although commanding, Janney had been tender and worshipful, putting Frankie on his back, crouching between the young man's spread thighs, and holding him in close embrace as he entered him slowly, giving Frankie the time he needed to accommodate and stretch for the shaft, even though Janney was built so thick and long that it would have been a chore to take him under any circumstances. But Frankie did take him then, hugging the man's hips with his knees, arching his back and head, and staring at the wallpaper across from the bed, his mouth in the silent scream of a yawn and his eyes flashing, as the monster cock invaded, stretching him, and moved inside him. Every nerve of Frankie's body was honed in on the shaft working inside him, Frankie toiling hard to coax the gates of his channel to open up and stretch to accommodate the possessing cock.

They weren't naked then, knowing that they had to be quick, that someone could need his or her coat at any moment. Janney being clothed, though, and exposing that big, rock-hard cock, made the shaft seem all that much more commanding. Time wasn't available for Frankie to slowly open to the demands of the monster cock, but Janney didn't care. He'd rip it out of Frankie if need be. Frankie's trousers and briefs were off, but he otherwise was clothed, including the knee-high socks, held up by black garters. Janney was fully clothed except for being unzipped and his fly flared.

The coupling had been quick, both of them having been in high heat, both of them concentrating on Frankie opening enough for Janney to reach down into his soft core and rip his surrender out of him, both of them coming quickly once Janney had. And it had been raw, neither wanting to take the time to bother with a condom.

When it was over, Janney murmured, "I'd still like you to—"

"Yes, I'll walk you to the hotel."

"I want you to stay the night."

So, Frankie wound up in Janney's hotel room and in the man's standing embrace, as they kissed and undressed and fondled. And then, as Janney changed—when he became forceful and demanding and rough, slapping Frankie around a bit, winding the young man, and putting him on his back and making him deep throat the cock—Frankie became all the more submissive to him, until he snapped.

Confused and a bit frightened—although highly aroused as well—Frankie kicked up with his legs and buttocks and managed to roll off the bed. Naked now, as Janney was, Frankie didn't necessarily head for the door out to the corridor or even to where his clothes were. He more just squared off a few steps away from the panting, crouching, big and muscular older man. It was more a "slow down, not so rough" maneuver.

Janney didn't give him time to regroup, though. He took three steps toward Frankie, grinned at him, and backhanded him again, sending him sprawling onto the carpet.

"I know what you want," the man growled. "And I'm just the one to give it to you—to take it from you."

He reached down and pulled Frankie up, slammed his back against the wall next to the door to the corridor, grasped Frankie under his thighs with his beefy hands, and lifted and spread the young man's legs. He pressed Frankie's back to the wall with his muscular chest, put his cock head in position, and thrust up inside Frankie's channel. Frankie was still dilated from the earlier fuck in Weeks's apartment. Still, he cried out at the thick, deep penetration. Janney thrust up again and again and again, grunting his own exertion and pleasure each time.

"Take it, bitch. Take it!" Janney growled again, in deep rut.

The older man searched bruisingly for Frankie's lips with his own, forced the young man's lips open and pushed his tongue in. Frankie surrendered to the fuck, grasping the older man's shoulder blades and digging in with his fingernails. He hugged Janney's hip with his knees. Frankie was fully open to the invasion of the cock now, able to take it all and to take it deep. Pulling away from the kiss, if only briefly, he cried out, "Yes! Yes! Fuck me, Daddy!"

Daddy fucked him. He fucked him against the wall, and he pulled him off the wall and threw him on his belly onto the bed. He slapped the young man repeatedly on the bare buttocks, eliciting yelps and making the cheeks blush, before mounting him from behind and fucking him there. He palmed Frankie's belly with one hand and cupped his chin with the other, arching Frankie cruelly back into his chest, the back of Frankie's head buried in the hollow of his shoulder, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him, while Frankie panted hard and groaned at the total taking.

Janney fucked Frankie on the bed through the night in multiple demanding positions and Frankie surrendered to it all, crying out time and time again, "Yes! Yes! Fuck me, Daddy!" Frankie had never been fucked this roughly and totally before. Frankie had never before realized what a turn-on and satiating it could be.

The next morning, Boxing Day morning, when Frankie woke up with a groan, Richard Janney was standing in front of a mirror on the bureau, putting his cufflinks in. He had showered and shaved and looked fresh and ready to go. Frankie, sprawled out on the bed on his back, arms flung out and legs bent and spread, a couple of pillows under the small of his back, his hole still dilated to Janney's specifications, the rim red and raw, moved to roll over and sit up on the side of the bed. But with a grunt and a groan, he fell back into place.

"Your play script is here on the dresser," Janney said. "I've marked it up. I suggest you work in some of the changes today while I'm lecturing at your school. I'll want to take it back to Hollywood with me and start shopping it. It needs to be a clean version then."

"Yes, sir," Frankie answered. He was dancing on the clouds. The man hadn't told him he liked the play just so Frankie would let Janney fuck him. Janney had already read the full script and marked it up. Frankie groaned. It didn't feel like he let the man do anything. It felt like the man took what he wanted. He was magnificent—so commanding.

"I'll tell Nelson you won't be able to come to class today."

"Thank you, sir." He'd have to call to bug out of the dance classes as well—and Herman Kahn. He had promised to act as a clothes dummy for Herman that evening.

"I'll be here two more nights. I want you to spend those nights here."

"Yes, sir." Frankie groaned at that. How would he survive? Somehow he had to. The man was a master. Frankie had to have whatever he gave.

"And I think you should go out to the West Coast with me. There will be a big New Year's Eve party at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Everyone who needs to pass on your play will be there."

"Yes, sir."

"You should go back to sleep. You look like you've been run over by a train. You are too good-lucking a young man to let yourself look rundown. It's your looks that are going to make you a fortune and keep you from being just another impoverished playwright, if you play your cards right."

"I have been run over by a train," Frankie answered. But Richard Janney didn't hear him. He already was out of the door, whistling and strutting toward the elevator.

It was highly possible that Richard Janney would be a good option, financially, as a sugar daddy, but Frankie wasn't sure he could survive the experience. Beyond that Frankie was terrified at the realization that he had thoroughly fallen for the man's cruel possession. He couldn't say "no" to the man. Janney probably would kill him if he did.

* * * *

Frankie woke to a hand, from behind, running between and inside his legs, high up. He wasn't fully awake. He sensed he was in a bed, in an unfamiliar room. A hotel room? A well-appointed one. The sheets were lush to touch and tussled, as if there'd been a wrestling match in them. A warm body was stretched out along his back. He was on his side. The hand coaxed his left leg to bend, the knee going up into his chest. The fingers of the other hand were rubbing, pinching, and prodding one of Frankie's nipples. He'd had no idea he could be so sexually sensitive there. The man's face was buried in his throat, kissing and licking him there. His hole was being fingered. The sponginess of a cock blub was rubbing against the hole, and he was opening to it. He knew, from the internal feel, that he been filled and pumped recently—sometime in the night. From the way he felt, drowsy and hung over, maybe much of the night.

He knew the cock would slide in easily. It had been there before. The man could thrust to the quick and resume his full possession of Frankie.

* * * *

Where was he? Where was this. Los Angeles. A ritzy hotel. New Year's Eve. A big party. Lots of celebrities. Feeling very much out of his element, except some of the men Richard Janney was introducing him to were no different from many of the men he met in New York—assessing, on the make, on the make for young men.

And Janney was selling him to these men, assessing who would be most helpful to Frankie—or maybe who would be most helpful to Janney—and talking up how luscious and submissive Frankie was in bed. Obviously, that had spun out to Frankie having been sold to someone for the night. Sex was so openly talked up here in Hollywood.