The Window Cleaner Ch. 02: Drake

Lunchtime took me down 48th Street, almost to the docks, in the Hell's Kitchen area of Midtown Manhattan West. I was looking for more than a sandwich and a beer. I was fuckin' horny. So I was in a homo dive I knew about. I'd forgotten that it was mostly for shittin' fairy types, though, and had just finished wolfing down my burger and beer and had lit up a Camel when I saw him standing just inside the door and looking like he had no idea why he was there or what to do next.

Fuckin'-A gorgeous to me he was. Just what the doctor ordered. He wasn't withdrawing to the street, though, so I decided he wanted to be there, wanted something to happen, wanted my dick inside him, but was too scared and raw to know what to do. When his eyes swept the room, they lingered on me. Yeah, he fuckin' wanted me. The others flitting around the room, mostly white bent-wristed fuckin' store clerk types going "honey" this and "sweetie" that weren't paying much attention to him. He wanted a power driver. He wanted a man.

He was colored and fuckin' cute. Slight of build. What you'd call willowy. Couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty, four or five years younger than me. But he obviously didn't have any mileage much, if at all, on him even if he was fuckin' built for it and ready to rev his engine. He looked like he needed to be broken in. Just what I'd fuckin' come for on my lunch break from cleaning windows on the all-glass high-rise at the corner of 10th Avenue and 47th Street. I was in the fuckin' mood to break someone—someone just like the colored cutie standing at the door full of indecision. I felt myself going fuckin' hard. He was the one.

He looked at me again and registered shock. He knew what I wanted. He backed a step toward the door and I could tell that he was going to bolt—that he didn't want to but that he was going to anyway. I took a last drag on the Camel, stubbed it out on the hamburger plate, slapped my money down on the counter, and, as he went out through the door, I dismounted from the stool at the counter and followed him.

I caught up to him at the entrance of the alley next to the building the homo bar was in. When I reached forward and gripped his elbow, he turned around and looked at me with a fuckin' panicked look in his eye. I towered over him and had him by a fuckin' good seventy pounds. Just with the grip on his elbow, he wasn't going anywhere I didn't want him to. He seemed to realize that.

"Hold up, buddy. I want to show you something."

"No . . . I can't . . . I'm not—"

"Yes, I fuckin' think you can and are," I said in a commanding voice. "I got eight inches here for you." This made him moan.

Control. That was my thing. Get them under my fuckin' control fast, before they can put thought into it. Then fast in and fast out before they fuckin' knew what hit them. Always the best for first timers. And then if we both like it, take them again . . . slow. "Come on back we me in the alley. I want to show you something."

"No, please. I don't want—"

"Yes, you fuckin' do want; you want all eight inches; you are achin' for eight fuckin' inches," I said, pulling him into the alley, deep in the alley, behind a line of dumpsters. He came with me. With some resistance, but he stayed on his feet and shuffled back into the dim light with me. I had him now. He fuckin' wanted it or it wouldn't have been so easy to get him back here. He didn't think he wanted it, but he did—just the way I was going to give it to him. Quick and total, getting him over that fuckin' hurdle with a minimum of fuss. I was doing the sucker a favor. And I was going to do the fuckin' sucker. My good deed for the day. And a present to myself.

"I saw you come into that homo dive. You fuckin' want it. I'm going to help you fuckin' get it over with."

"No, please. I—"

I cut him off with my lips pressed into his, him backed against the gritty brick wall of the building behind the dumpsters in the dimly lit alley. He had his arms trapped between my chest and his. I could feel the pounding of his heart—and the pounding, as he was able, of his fists on my chest, as I pressed hard on his lips, forcing them to open to me. I reached between us with one of my hands, the other one gripping the back of his neck to keep his head trapped in the kiss. I quickly unbuttoned and spread my shirt, so that what his fists would be beating on was flesh, my hard-bodied pecs. Putting fuckin' flesh on flesh was halfway to winning the battle. Not giving them time to back away was most of the rest.

This is what I did. I was damn good at this—breakin' them in. Them who wanted it and didn't have the courage to go after it themselves.

I pulled my mouth away from his and he gasped for air. His eyes were looking wildly into mine in a "why me?" look. I could see what else was there, though. The fuckin' want and need. Fuckin'-A bingo. I had him, bang, bang, bang.

"Why you?" I asked. "Because you fuckin' want it. Because you want it so bad you're gonna give it to me—right here and now."

I dove in with my mouth again while his was open and took advantage of that to keep his lips pressed open with mine. I slipped my tongue into his mouth. He gasped and moaned. And I could feel him starting to give in. His fists opened, his hands palming my pecs. I got my knees between his thighs and lifted his slight body off the ground, spreading my legs so that his thighs were draped over mine.

My tongue was darting in and out of his mouth, pressing deeper, giving him the image of what was to come—my tongue fuckin' his mouth like my dick was gonna be workin' his channel. Fuckin'-A bingo fucking him. He was moaning and giving in to me.

I pulled my mouth away, and he whimpered, "Oh, god, oh, shit." When I came in for the kiss again, he received me hungrily. I fuckin'-A had him now. I was moving my pelvis against his. I was fully erect. He could feel that, I'm sure. I felt him relaxing, the tension going out of his body. The battle was over. Fuckin'-A bingo, bang, bang, bong.

"You wanna leave? If so, just walk away now. I won't stop you." He didn't move a muscle. "Didn't think so," I said, with a laugh.

I pulled away from him, turned him, pulling his arms up and placing the palms of his hands on the brick wall. His cheek was to the wall. "Fuckin' leave them there," I growled. He was mewing and whimpering, but he complied. I palmed his belly and pulled his butt away from the wall. "Jut it out for me," I commanded. He did so, and I knelt behind him, pulling his baggy shorts and bikini briefs down and off his legs. He hesitated and mumbled some trembling objection when I commanded him to step out of them, but he did.

"Please . . . I'm scared."

"Of course you're fuckin' scared. But you want it. You want to be freed. I'll treat you fuckin' right." I was trembling too. I was going to nail a virgin. I just thought I'd be getting my rocks off. But this is what I wanted too. Spiking a virgin. Fuckin'-A bingo.

And then it was all moans and groans as I palmed his belly with one hand, put the other one through his spread legs to milk his dick, and buried my face between his crack.

He came for me quickly. I rose, stuffed his mouth with his bikini briefs, holding a hand over his mouth to keep them there and to stifle what surely would be screams from his first fucking; saddled up behind him; slowly mounted him, getting his hips trapped between my thighs, still holding him to me with my other hand palming his belly; slowly working my cock inside, and then quickly, expertly, in ever-more-rapid slides of the cock, cured him of his virginity. Fuckin'-A bingo, bang, bang, bong. He writhed at first, trying to move away from me, but he was fuckin' too small, too light, and too scared to break my grip. And he wanted it.

"Fuckin' relax," I growled in his ear. "I'm inside you now. It will be less painful if you relax and fuckin' give it up to me." I drove in deep, giving him all eight inches, to convince him he was conquered, and he did relax for me then, his passage yielding, stretching to accommodate me.

Fuckin'-A bingo, bang, bang, bong.

"There now, fuckin' nice," I murmured, pulling my dick back half way, as he panted and moaned. I had mercy on him, giving it to him shallow, just enough to reach his prostate and show him how much pleasure could come of that. As I felt he could take it, had opened to me, I increased the rhythm of the thrusts. I had trouble holding off, he felt so fuckin' good and yielding now in my embrace, but I knew I'd take him again.

When I pulled the briefs out of his mouth, I turned his face to mine and we kissed again. His kiss wasn't as hungry this time, but it was yielding.

"There, it's done. You fuckin' wanted it done, didn't you?" I murmured.

"Yes," he admitted in a pained murmur.

"You can leave now, or I can do you again, slower, deeper, letting you know the pleasure it can be. Which do you want?"

I fucked him on his back on top of a wooden pallet a bit further back into the alley. I made him suck me to an erection first. As with the anal, he didn't want to do it at first and struggled against me initially. But I had him on his back on the pallet with me straddling his chest and fisting his wrists. He didn't have much choice. He also changed his attitude when he saw what I had for him to suck.

"It's black," he said, with surprise. "You're—"

"One quarter, yes. Take it."

He did, then, much better, I think, than he would have thinking I was a white man and screwing him in just one more way in this world. It seemed to make a difference to him that he wasn't being fucked by a white man. I was three-quarters white, but that wasn't the statistic that mattered. I found that to be true with some other men, as well.

He was under me in a missionary, one of my arms cradling his neck, the hand of the other one working his dick, his legs hooked on my hip, as I pumped slow and shallow to begin with and then, as we both became heated and he started to buck against me, deep, hard, and fast. We were whole hog fucking.

He was fuckin' tight at the beginning, but not as tight as the first time, and the shaft slid more easily, helped by the lube of the previous cum, not just the spit I'd had to use to begin with. And the more into it he was, the softer and more yielding he went for me, so that, at the finish, as thick as I was, he was taking me like a fuckin' champ, bucking against me and murmuring, "Yes, yes, fuck me."

"Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah. Nailin' you good," I answered, slapping him on the bare buttocks a couple of times to tell him he was enjoying himself.

I screwed him real good. He'd be OK in the future. He opened well and quickly. As his inhibitions melted he'd take a dick, no matter how fuckin' thick, like a champ. And he'd have his admirers. Such a small, lithe body. Pert butt cheeks. The pleasure the man would have when he discover the little colored honey could take a thick shaft and could fuckin' buck on it with the best of the rent-boys.

He came again before I did, and then just lay back, fully open to me as I thrust, thrust, thrust and filled him deep with my cum.

His eyes were looking at me in awe and wonder as I finished him. One of his hands was palming one of my pecs and the other had worked its way up under my blue workman's shirt, in the same blue cotton material of my flared trousers, and was clutching one of my shoulder blades. He was clutching me close to him. Yes, indeedy, he fuckin' wanted me inside him. Fuckin'-A bingo.

That was the way to do it. That's how I did it.

"There, was that what you fuckin' wanted?" I asked, as we lay there in the same position in which I finished him.

"Yes," he answered in a small voice.

"You gonna be able to give it to a man now?"

"Yes."

"You did fine. You want to have me again sometime?"

"Yes, oh yes."

"What's your name?"

"Duane," he said. No last name, but I think he was too in awe of the situation to lie about the first name.

"I'm Drake. You did fuckin' good. You got a phone number?"

"I don't have a phone. But I work in Ebitt's Grill up on 10th Avenue. You can find me there. Anytime . . . anytime at all."

I watched him walk out of the alley, pert little butt twitching. He seemed to be standing taller, walking with more confidence than before I'd pulled him into the alley. Ebitt's Grill on 10th Avenue. I'd have to remember that. Would like to have another dip in that nice piece, yes indeed I would.

* * * *

I'd been gone on the nooner longer than I anticipated. It was late when I got back to the high-rise on 10th and 47th. I was the last man back and was two floors behind the other guy on my side of the building. I climbed onto the platform on the roof, hooked up my safety belts, and cranked the platform down to the sixteenth floor. Those windows done, I cranked on down to the fifteenth.

There I stopped. There were no curtains closed on that apartment and lights were on inside, illuminating the one-room apartment against the dimming late-afternoon light behind me. I started washing the window, trying to ignore what I could see inside, but I couldn't ignore it.

There was a portable massage table set up in the middle of the room, but what was happening on the table had gone way fuckin' beyond a massage. A beefy Wop kind of a guy was lying on his back on the massage table, keeping perfectly still, while a really—Really!—sexy-looking blond guy was doing a rodeo bit on the Wop's dick, facing away from the Wop's head and grasping the guy's raised knees with his hands. Talk about goin' to town on a shaft. He was fuckin'-A amazing. Up, down, lean to the left, lean to the right, rotate, slammin' down real hard, rising up and slamming down again, siskcumba, rah, rah. Fuckin'-A-mazing.

The great-looking blond—not beefed up and not big, but perfectly proportioned and handsome as the devil—was taking all of the fuckin' dick in long, vigorous and fast, rising and falling. His tongue was hanging out and a look of fuckin' ecstasy was on his face, and his own dick was hard as a fuckin' rock, slappin' against the Wop's thighs on the down slam.

With the other guy holding steady and holding off as he was, it was clear that blondy was demanding full control. This was enough for me to want him—to want to break him—to make him give up control to me. There was no question that I wanted to screw him. His body was fuckin' luscious. He was fucking himself on the Wop's dick with abandon. I wanted him on my dick. I wanted to give him a fuckin'-A ride like he'd never forget, like he'd never demand having control like that again.

The blond rider turned his head and noticed me for the first time. For the longest couple of seconds, we remained there, staring at each other, assessing and, I know, him fuckin' wanting me as much as I wanted him. He was still fucking himself on the Wop's dick as our eyes locked, if with less abandon, but then I saw his head turn, looking back into the apartment, looking for a fuckin' refuge of escape from my gaze, I thought. I pushed the hydraulic lift on my platform and started the ascent back up to the roof.

That was it for the day. It was getting dark anyway. I'd still be on the job tomorrow. Maybe he'd be on the lookout for me then—and, if so, I knew I had him.

* * * *

What kept waking me up that night other than the sound of the fuckin' traffic outside my Garment District rooming house nearly on top of the approach to the Lincoln Tunnel wasn't the cute little colored trick, Duane. It was that fuckin' hot blond riding the Wop on the massage table in the apartment I was last hanging outside. The more I thought about him, the more I thought he had a thing about control and the more I fuckin' wanted to control him—to break him, to use him mercilessly, and to laugh at him for wanting me to use him. It wasn't until I was eating breakfast, ready to go out and wash windows again since rain wasn't in the forecast, that I considered that maybe the apartment belonged to the fuckin' Wop, not the blond honey pot. Maybe I'd never see the blond again. Maybe I wouldn't get a fuckin' chance at breaking him.

His loss, that. But I couldn't let it go. I had to do something about it.

I found I couldn't finish my breakfast. I had to know. I had to get back on the platform outside that fifteenth-floor apartment.

Control. That was a thing with me too. The blond needed to have control. So did I. I had been raised to the fuckin' need to control. My control was more important than his. I couldn't get past the need for him to know that, to accept that.

My first man had been my mother's boyfriend, Gene, back in Abbeville, a town in central Georgia half way from fuckin' nowhere to nowhere else, almost smack dab in the middle of the state. I'd made the mistake of not going anywhere after barely making it through high school. My mother had wanted me to go into the service and make a man of myself. I went to mechanic school instead and became useful right there in Abbeville. There weren't any men in Abbeville who didn't know that I was a man. But I stayed liven' at home, with my mother and her fuckin' boyfriend, even knowing that Gene was there to get at me, not my mother. I tried telling my mother that, but she just wouldn't listen.

I can't say I was raped or anything at nineteen. I'd wanted it from Gene for some time. I was obsessed with my dick in those days. It was black, me inheriting it through a line where my mother's mother was colored and had been knocked up by a fuckin' white boy just passing through Abbeville on a train. And then my mother had been knocked up too, by the son of the fuckin' local owner of half of the town, who would have owned the likes of me if the Civil War had turned out differently. It's my daddy who went to war—to World War II—and didn't come back. He didn't marry my mother, who had a beauty parlor attached to our house, but he sent her money to take care of me. So did his family while my father was at war, but they fuckin' cut that off as soon as the death notice from the war came in.

By the 1-percent law I was black, but I passed as white in clothes as long as I kept a buzz cut, which I did for the school football team anyway. It's only when I was naked that my black dick and kinky pubic hair betrayed me. But I was intrigued by being black down there—and big too, both thick and long. I liked to see how thick and long it could be, so I did a lot of playing with myself to make it fuckin' big. And to make it cum.

When I was eighteen and Gene moved in with us, it didn't take Gene long to catch me at it. And it didn't take me long, just past my next birthday, to let him touch it as well—and to make it big, at first with his hands and then with his mouth. Gene became fuckin' obsessed with my black dick too. He didn't want to just play with it. He wanted it inside him. He wanted to sit on it. When it came to that, I didn't mind one fuckin' bit, although in the back of my mind I didn't think this was right to do to Mama.

But Gene had another quirk. He had to have control. When he'd gotten me all hot and bothered on having it inside him, he came up with a condition. "But I want to fuck you. I don't want you to fuck me. I want you to give me full control. I don't want you to put it in me; I want to put it in me myself. And there's only one way we can do that."

"Yeah, what?" I asked. When he told me, I agreed. So, I wasn't fuckin' raped or anything. I agreed to it. Besides, it was Gene who took the dick, not me.

He bound me to the bed at the four corners. Then he fuckin' hand jobbed and sucked me big, climbed on me, and fucked himself, telling me all he wanted me to do was to stay hard and to cum inside him.

So, when I'd seen blondie riding that fuckin' Wop on the previous afternoon, it just took me back to my first time—a time I had fuckin' agreed to.