The Oldest Lifeguard

"It's in the center drawer of the desk by the front door. You can get it yourself on the way out." He already had his money, which he'd managed to hide while Eric was in the bathroom after Rob had fucked him on the living room sofa and before taking him the second time on the bed.

"Well, there's something else," Eric said, as he pulled on his shorts. "You'd said if we brought a new buyer to you, there'd be something extra in it for us."

"Yes, I did say that."

"There's another guy you've seen around, I'm sure. A black guy named Cal. He's hinting around that he needs some stuff. So, if you want me to get you two together—"

"I'll be at Randy's tonight from 8:30 to about midnight," Rob answered. "You can introduce us there. But if he wants something—and you want something more—you'll need to snarf it up soon. I'll be heading down to the Caribbean in a couple of weeks. And I'm not going to have any inventory stashed until I get back."

"And the finder's fee?"

"Gets found as soon as—and based on—the referred customer buying."

Eric left then, and after he was sure the young man was gone, Rob started to work on getting out of the bed and hobbling to the bathroom himself. No way he was going to let any of the young guys hear him moan and groan on getting his overworked muscles and joints to work after a fuck session. They must continue to believe he was invincible in that department.

* * * *

Rob moved real slow in getting ready for the day after Eric left his apartment. This wasn't just because doing drugs and pulling a whole-night fuckfest took a greater toll on his body now than it had as little as a year earlier. It also was because he was at loose ends. His lifeguard job was over for the summer, and now he had to get ready to fly down to the Bahamas—without having anything set up there to go to. In his twenties he would have an offer by now from a daddy to come down and stay with him. But this year there hadn't been any. There had been fewer daddy types even here in Ocean City this summer to help cover his expenses. They still came here, and they still showed up at Randy's, but they were hitting on guys in their early twenties, not their early thirties.

He had enough to cover himself down in the islands—especially if he could pick up some DJ or bartender work, which still was coming his way at his age. But there was very little he needed to do to prepare for the trip. And it was two weeks off.

His drug supplier, Al, called to check up on him after lunch, but he didn't stay on the line for long. Rob had enough supplies, he thought, to last for the two weeks. As it was, he might have to sell them short in the days before he traveled. He couldn't have any that could be connected to him floating around here for seven months—and he couldn't use them all himself. He certainly couldn't take them on the plane with him.

He hoped Eric would bring Cal, the black guy, in as a buyer tonight. With luck he might take the rest of the stash Rob had. With more luck maybe he was a bottom after all and Rob could get some extra mileage out of the transaction. Cal was cute and good looking.

Rob got antsy after lunch. The one thing still hanging that bugged him constantly was signing his OCBP contract for next summer. For some reason Frank seemed to be holding off on that. Rob definitely wanted that pinned down before he flew out of here. His lifesaver job was the rock his lifestyle was built on.

He walked over to the OCBP station, but it was deserted. Frank must be off helping to get the stands into storage, he thought. He waited around, walking the boardwalk, thinking Frank would be back at any moment. One of the older guys—as in being about twenty-four—of those who had gathered around Rob's beach stand in hopes of some drug action, saw him walking the boardwalk and fell into step beside him.

"Good to see you out here, Rob," Tim said, "I was hoping to see you out here today. I wonder—"

"What is it you want, and how many?"

"Got any of the blue pills—say six? Just to hold me till I can get to Dover. They'll take me on in helping to maintain the track there."

"And you've got a connection there, have you?" Rob asked. He liked to ensure that his regulars had coverage. "You know that I leave for warmer waters in a couple of weeks."

"Yeah, sure. That's all I can afford anyway. I just want to be steady when I show up for work at the racetrack. Same price as last week . . . I hope."

"For you I can do that," Rob answered. "You'll have to come back to my apartment for them."

There was a slight hesitancy there, and then a sigh of resignation. Tim knew what Rob usually demanded to go with the price of the drugs.

But today Rob didn't demand that. He told himself that was because he wanted to get back to the OCBP office to check with Frank. But the truth was that he was exhausted from the all-nighter with Eric. He just didn't want to admit that he couldn't keep going like he had in his twenties.

As it turned out, though, it didn't matter that he hurried the transaction up. When he got back to OCBP office, Frank had come and gone again and the office obviously was buttoned down for the day. Rob returned to his apartment dejected. He drank enough beer before 8:30 rolled around when he was due at Randy's that he had a buzz on and was wound up tighter than a drum when he arrived for his stint there that evening.

It was a Friday night, and Randy's was crowded, most of the guys coming from the surrounding rural areas of Maryland. There wasn't much of a gay scene in this region, and those with such an interest had to congregate where they could. A lot of farmer and trucker types mixing in with the beach boys. The tanned and trim beach boys didn't stand a chance. In one of the back rooms, where Rob changed from his jeans and T-shirt into his DJ uniform—tight gold lamé trousers with a blousy shirt open almost down to his navel over them—he had to work around a burly trucker who had a young surfer sitting, naked, on the dressing table, his back against the mirror, his ankles on the trucker's shoulders, while the trucker pumped his tight little ass with a plump cock.

Rob had to lean around to the side to adjust his DJ costume in the mirror. The outfit showed off his tan and highlighted his sun-bleached blond hair. The young surfer reached out and grabbed the edge of Rob's open shirt and gave him a "this was more than I bargained for" look of appeal. Rob cupped the guy's head in a hand to keep it from bouncing against the mirror and brought his face in for a deep kiss. He let a hand glide down the surfer's smooth chest and encase the surfer's cock.

The young surfer settled down and went with the fuck with his mouth hungrily responding to Rob's kiss and his cock throbbing under Rob's stroking. The trucker continued pumping him hard and deep, not either responding or objecting to Rob's help. When the young man ejaculated, Rob stepped away, with a laugh, to avoid the splash, and reached into the bag he'd brought with him. He came up with a couple of capsules, which he broke and inhaled, and then he was good to go out into the main room. As he left the changing room, the trucker was turning the surfer guy over, belly to dressing table top and face smashed into the mirror, and starting pumping him again from the rear.

In the hallway, Rob encountered a more romantic setting—two thin and wiry guys, one looking like a blond hayseed and the other being one of the Hispanics Rob saw on the beach occasionally. The two were standing, melding together, against the wall, face to face, one of the Hispanic's legs hooked on the farmer's hip, the shorts and briefs of both of them in a puddle around their ankles. It was only the moaning that the Hispanic was doing and the rhythmic forward and back motion of the hayseed's bare buttocks that told Rob the Hispanic was being fucked.

It's going to be quite a night, Rob thought, as he pushed aside the beaded curtain separating the hallway and the main bar room. And, as far as he was concerned, he didn't know the half of it.

* * * *

The drug kicked in as Rob mounted the raised platform where the DJ equipment was positioned, and the room was noisy and aswirl with men moving around, checking each other out and propositioning and being propositioned. Still, as he got his music selected and the platters spinning, Rob did pick up on two activities of interest. One was a pug of a man, in his fifties, who entered the club with two bodyguards, one of whom moved ahead and cleared a table near the back corner with just a challenging look at the table's disappearing occupants and the other one who cleared a path to the table for the short but solid—not fat really—man with a gray pompadour and the look of danger and Mafia about him. What arrested Rob's attention was that the man paused half way to the table and turned to give Rob a hard look. Rob had a feeling he should know the man, but he did a brief inventory of all of the daddies he had latched onto and served in the last fifteen years and came up blank.

The other attention getter for Rob was that Eric was there, with the black hunk, Cal, the two sitting at a small table near the DJ's rostrum. Eric looked nervous and fidgety. Cal reclined in his chair and was gazing around the room like he owned the joint. When he saw Rob enter the room, though, he leaned over and, looking at Rob, said something to Eric. Eric nodded his head, but he didn't look too happy to be here.

After Rob had gotten his play order in hand, Eric and Cal rose from their table and approached him.

"Hi, Rob," Eric said. "This is Cal. He knows about you and . . . um . . . your services, and he wanted me to introduce him to—"

"Mr. Styles," a louder and more commanding voice broke in. "When you have a moment, which should be now, Mr. Bugoti would like to have a word with you at his table. Please come with me."

Such was both the authority and menace of the statement by the bulky and brutish bodyguard of the older man who had just entered the bar that neither Eric nor Cal said a thing about the rudeness with which their own introductions had been interrupted.

Rob didn't say anything either. He'd sunk into a visceral fear when he'd heard the name Bugoti. Mickey Bugoti was the godfather of all things organized crime and gambling in the region. What in the hell could he want with me, Rob was thinking as he meekly followed the bodyguard to Bugoti's table.

"Sit," the bodyguard growled as Rob reached the table. So Rob sat.

"Fancy gold threads. Nice chest. Gotta get me a tan like that," Bugoti said as Rob sat down. Rob suddenly felt naked. His mind was racing on whether he'd heard of Bugoti's sexual proclivities, but nothing came up. He began to sweat at the thought that he might have overstepped his bounds in Bugoti's town in the little drug business he'd eased into over the years. Maybe he wasn't supposed to be doing that on Bugoti's turf without the man's say so.

"Um, thanks," he managed to say. "Got the tan honestly on a lifeguard's stand."

"I know," Bugoti said, curtly, which but impressed and scared Rob.

"I've had my eye on you for a while," Bugoti continued. "Like what I see. I'm bored tonight and thought you might like to come up to my place for a drink. What'yer say?"

What could he say? "Sure, I'd like that. My DJ gig is over at—"

"There are two of you. They can call in the other guy. I'm thirsty now."

"Sure thing. Just let me change and—"

"I like what you're wearing now. Marco will go in back and gather your things." He snapped his fingers, and Marco trudged off toward the back of the room, Both Eric and Cal turned their heads away from him as he passed, obviously not wanting to become involved in any of this.

The sedan was long and black—some foreign make that probably cost more than Rob would ever make put together. The two bodyguards sat in front and Bugoti and Rob sat in back. Bugoti was half turned, looking at Rob and smiling a little smile. Rob mustered a nervous smile to return, but his gut was telling him that he might be on the last ride to a public dump somewhere. It was storming when they came out of the bar and into the car, which was pulled up onto the sidewalk, presumably with the thought that Bugoti might melt if he was touched by water, and the pelting rain and blustery wind matched the fluttering in Rob's stomach precisely.

Bugoti reached over with a hand, laid it on the top of Rob's thigh, and squeezed it like he was checking on whether Rob was done yet. Rob was having trouble controlling his trembling. This was something he wasn't used to. He was the one who always was in control. He went with older men like this, but he was the one to make the moves, to control what was going to happen. He felt so helpless. God I hope he just wants me to fuck him, Rob was thinking. Then he hiccupped nervously at how crazy that sounded.

The sedan pulled up under the covered entrance to the Antiqua, a fifteen-story residential condo on the beach at 85th Street, and Rob gave his first sigh of relief. This didn't look like a one-way trip to the public dump. Leaving one of the bodyguards to drive the sedan away, the other one ushered them into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourteenth floor, which was the penthouse level, because the condos were two stories each at this level. They entered an apartment with a wide span of windows overlooking a stormy and noisy surf, fourteen floors below.

"Tell Marco what you want to drink," Bugoti said, as he headed down a hallway off the living room. "I'm changing into something more comfortable."

Lacking imagination and audacity in the circumstances, Rob just asked for a beer. He was still nervous enough when Marco handed it to him and bade him sit down on a long sofa facing the wall of glass, that he had to hold it with both hands, and his first drink was a gulp.

Bugoti returned just in a robe, loosely sashed at his waist. Although he was short and gave off the vibe of being portly, Rob could see that he actually was in pretty good shape for a man his age. He was all Italian, with a swarthy complexion and considerable body hair, including general coverage of his chest in curly salt-and-pepper hair that cascaded out of the neckline of the robe.

Marco handed him a martini, and as he sat down on the sofa closer to Rob than was needed on such a long couch, he told Marco, "You can go back to your room now. We'll be fine."

When Marco was gone, Bugoti turned to Rob and said, "Do you know why you're here?"

Rob tightened up. Here it comes, he thought. It's about my drug pushing and not cutting him in on the profits. "Sorry, I don't have the slightest idea," he answered, hoping that was the truth.

"I find that hard to believe," Bugoti said, but he was using a pleasant tone, so Rob wasn't worried enough to pee his pants—at least yet. "I've heard you make yourself available to older men."

"Yes, sometimes," Rob answered, relieved now where this was going. "Sometimes I service men—for a price."

"Meaning? Servicing men, I mean."

"Sometimes men hire me as an escort and for other services."

"What other services? You mean they pay you to let them fuck you?"

"Not exactly. I fuck them."

"That's not the way it's gonna work here," Bugoti said. There was an edge to his voice. "I'm gonna try you out—as a courtesy by you—and then maybe I'll put you on retainer. But let's be clear. I do the fucking."

That was a shock. Rob hadn't let a guy spike him before. How was he going to get out of this? He turned his face toward Bugoti to explain that he was solely a top, but he didn't get that far. Bugoti had him by the throat and was pushing his head back against the sofa and came in for a quick kiss. Shortly thereafter, however, he'd moved his strong, beefy hand to the back of Rob's neck and pulled Rob's face down into his lap, where he'd let his robe part.

While a dutiful Rob sucked him off, Bugoti pulled the gold lamé shirt off Rob and was running his hands over Rob's back and underneath on his pecs. Bugoti's cock wasn't long in erection, but it was extra thick, and Rob's eyes watered and he had to breathe through his nose as he serviced the cock.

Bugoti didn't let this go on for very long, though, before he pushed Rob down onto the sofa at full stretch and was taking his turn playing Rob's cock with his mouth and using his hands to explore Rob's torso down to his buttocks and hole. At length, he had Rob on his belly, with his chest on an arm of the sofa, his arms dangling over the end, his eyes plastered on the raging storm outside the fourteenth-floor window, and his rump raised on his knees. He had his legs as spread as he could to accommodate the thick cock pumping his ass.

He made most of the sounds any guy would on being reamed by a telephone pool for the first time, although he did what he could to suppress them. The first fuck wore him out, but he could think back on what he had done to Eric just a bit earlier when he thought Bugoti was finished with him only to find out that the action was moving to a bedroom.

When he left the next morning, the storm had abated, but he couldn't walk a straight line.

At the door, Bugoti said, "I understand you leave for the Caribbean within two weeks."

"Yes," Rob answered.

"Until then, you will stay here. And when you come back from the Caribbean, you will return here—if I still want you to."

There was no arguing with that, Rob knew. With just that, he'd lost his freedom and independence. But at least he would still be able to go the Caribbean. He had no doubt that if he didn't come back, though, he'd be hunted down. There also had been no mention of being paid for his services. He wouldn't be the one to bring that up.

He felt trapped and deflated. And he felt that this was a turning in his life—from solely a top to whatever the other guy wanted. He intellectually knew this would happen some day, when he got older and less desirable. But this was much too soon for him, he thought.

If he knew all that was going on, though, he wouldn't be so quick to be depressed.

* * * *

"Is he satisfactory, sir?" Marco asked as he served Mickey Bugoti's breakfast.

"Quite so, Marco," Bugoti answered. "I decided not to tell him yet, though, that he's been working for me all along—that his supplier is from my operations. I like him better when there's that edge of fear in him."

"You can trust me. I won't tell him either."

"I want you to take care of a few things," Bugoti continued. "That narc who has been trying to entrap him—the black guy going by the name of Cal . . ."

"The man you sent me over to pull off of Styles last night?"

"Yes, that's him. I don't want Styles arrested. Do whatever you need to keep him off of Styles before Styles leaves for the Caribbean."

"Salvo and I could take him for a ride."

"Nothing that drastic, if you can avoid it. We don't want the FBI down on our shift. Put him sniffing on some other dead end for ten days. Or give him what he'll think is an accident to hang him up. A broken leg or something. And that other matter."

"It's already taken care of, sir. I made the visit earlier this morning while you were . . ."

Bugoti laughed. "You should have seen Styles' face when I tied his wrists off at the headboard and rode his ass like a cowboy. He didn't know I had another poke in me this morning. God, he has a sweet ass—and such a tight hole. I'll have that opened real good for him before he leaves for the islands, though."

"Yes, sir. But he doesn't know how lucky he is that you decided to acquire him."

* * * *

"Hey, I see that you've signed Rob Styles' application for next year," Hank said as he entered the OCBP station office to report that all of the stands were tucked away in storage. He had picked Rob's application from the out basket.