The Window Cleaner Ch. 02: Drake

I did, though, quickly clean up my talk, getting rid of most of the "fucks" and such and learned to groom myself and wear the most fashionable clothes. Maury said I had to, as being a major model for the agency now, I also was the face of the business.

Maury frequently said I was a fast learner. Maybe too fast. When Boyd returned from his Florida vacation, he seemed like I had slipped with him in control and his immediate response to my being one of his coworkers now was a bit of pique.

I could see why he was surprised, coming back to find me at the conference table, being included in the discussions, my face and half-naked torso plastered all over the year's ad campaign. He could barely look at me during that first morning conference, and he wouldn't talk to me.

I couldn't work there if I had to struggle with him for control again. It was bad enough that I was giving control over to Maury. I had to control someone too. Boyd had been the only one to have gone soft in the sex and showed his vulnerability that last time we'd screwed. He'd done something to me; he meant something to me.

I didn't let it fester. The first chance I could find, I grabbed him and pulled him into a dark storage room. We struggled, but I outweighed him, and his resolve wasn't there. I softened him up with French kisses, turned him to the wall, managed to get his trousers and briefs down to his knees and the bulb of my dick inside his rim.

He surrendered, with a sigh, his arms above his head, palms and cheek against the wall.

"You want it all, I know you do," I muttered. "Jut your ass out for me. I'm going to screw you deep."

When he moved his legs back, jutting his buttocks out to me, I knew I'd won. I gave him all eight inches and began to pump. He started working his hips with me, taking me deep, his passage walls stretching open, shimmering, the muscles undulating over my dick. We were back in the grove.

I moved in with him the next day. I didn't stop fucking Maury from time to time—at least not for a few months before he decided to move on—but it was Boyd and me now. I got promoted to head of the division, which didn't set right with Boyd, but we worked it out on the bed. And we moved to a bigger apartment, in the same building Maury lived in, Maury helping with the bill. Maury maintaining control in his own way.

* * * *

It was hard to believe that a small brown body like this could take the dick, but take it he was—although there was quite a pained expression on his face. He was cheek to sheet, arms outstretched, and fists bunching up wads of sheeting, on the hotel bed. His torso was raised on his knees in an incline from his chest pressed into the mattress; and his pelvis was rolled up to me, as I had directed; and he had dutifully responded, to give me a straight, deep shot with my dick.

Moving in and out of him, stroking hard and deep, as he lay there, moaning, gasping for air, and blowing bubbles with his mouth. In and out, in and out. Who could have told that the hole of such narrow hips and slight buttocks cheeks could take a beer can cock? But he was taking me . . . until, with a sigh, his thin legs gave way and he collapsed, flat, on the bed.

I rode him down, stroking, stroking, stroking. Pushing my knees under his, I managed to elevate his buttocks a bit and then to bury all eight inches in him again at the down stroke. I tensed and so did he. Then I jerked and dropped my load in him. He sighed and turned his head to receive my kiss. He had come several minutes earlier.

Giving him a slap on a butt cheek, I rolled over the side and onto my back, pulling myself up so that I could prop up my back on pillows at the headboard of the bed. I reached over for the pack of Camels and lit up, looking down the line of my body to the black dick, still half hard, slick with my cum. I smiled, starting to think "fuckin'-A bingo" but stopping myself before I could finish any variation of that silly phrase. The voice counselor was managing to ban that phrase from my vocabulary.

Duane lay there, on his stomach, cheek to bed, giving me a worshipful look with his eyes.

"You know I've been fucked since then, but nowhere as good as you can do," he whispered.

"Glad to oblige," I said. I almost said, but didn't, that he was one of the best lays I'd had too. He was so giving, so open to me—and there was the miracle of such a small, brown body taking such a big dick. There was added pride in having been the one to initiate him—to have popped his male cherry.

I had gone looking for him on a whim. I kept thinking of having cured him of his virginity and what a nice little piece he was. I wanted to know he was doing OK. He'd told me he worked at Ebitt's Grill on 10th Avenue, not exactly a dive.

"I thought you were a waiter or something here," I had said, as I stood in the doorway of the restaurant's kitchen. "I had to describe you to find out you were a cook here. A real cook?"

"Yes, a real cook," Duane had said. "Trained and everything."

"I guess you'd have to be to work in a swank restaurant, like this."

"A busy swank restaurant," Duane had answered. I had surprised him—and scared him a little too, I bet. I could understand that he was afraid that I'd say something like, "This is the guy I fucked the virginity out of in the ass in the back of an alley next to a homo bar," where the others in the kitchen could hear me.

"When do you get off work?" I asked. "Don't want to interrupt your work, but I'd like to talk to you."

"Talk to me, like you said you had something to show me the last time we met?" he asked.

"Yes. That, exactly, I said." I don't know why I told him I wanted to fuck him. I guess I knew that's what I wanted before I went looking for him. I was getting antsy. I had Boyd under control, but Maury was giving me the business. I guess I thought if I could screw another guy I could keep controlled, it would strike some sort of balance.

He told me a time. I told him I'd be back to pick him up. I half expected him to be gone when I returned. But he wasn't. He came out of the back of the restaurant, shyly looking around as I stubbed out the Camel I was smoking.

"Where? Here? Here in the alley?" he asked.

"No, I'll get a hotel room. We'll do it right," I said, although I think he would have let me screw him here, in the alley, behind a dumpster, just like last time, if I wanted to. The feel of the power of control was pumping me up—making me hard. "I've come up in the world since we last met."

I took him to a fleabag hotel that rented by the hour and screwed the stuffing out of him. It made me feel like a complete man.

He rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. Turning to me, he asked, "Are we . . . again?"

"In a minute," I answered.

"I'll just be gone a minute," he said, standing. "Gotta take a piss."

I watched his thin little body move to the bathroom. I'd gotten all eight inches in that ass, I thought. The thought made me harden again. I stubbed out my cigarette and followed him into the bathroom. I watched him standing in front of the toilet, holding his small dick, and pissing into the bowl.

He turned and saw that I was hard and holding my black dick with a hand.

"You want—?"

"Yes, I want," I said. I screwed him over the toilet, him on his knees on the toilet seat, me fisting the hair on his head and arching his chest back to me. Then, before coming again, I carried him out to the bed, lay him on the small of his back at the foot of the bed, and finished him, taking him hard in a missionary position. At no time in the hour and more that I was screwing him did he fail to give me whatever I demanded of him.

"Duane, do you just cook, or can you clean too?" I asked as I was propped up on the bed, scratching my balls and smoking another Camel while he dressed.

"I can clean," he said.

I took him home. Boyd and I had been talking about getting a houseboy to clean and cook. We could afford it now.

Boyd came into the bedroom, finding me nailing Duane to the mattress. I pulled him into the bed and screwed them together, at one point with Boyd lying on top of Duane, both of their asses hanging off the end of the bed, and me screwing both of them, taking turns of which hole I was stroking.

Boyd acted like he didn't like it, but I bullied him, watching to see if he'd knuckle under it—give me full control in the matter—and he did. I'm not sure I didn't set the whole thing up just to check on whether Boyd would remain under my control.

He gave himself so fully, openly, vulnerably that night, though, that I felt a little guilty. I also had been thinking about Maury and how much control he was asserting successfully.

"Boyd," I whispered as we were stretched out against each other and cooling down. "Are you happy here?"

"I'm happy as long as you're here," he answered. "Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's the city. Maybe we're getting bored with it. And I've noticed that you've been irritable at work recently."

"It's Maury. He wants me to do stuff. I know he does movies on the side. I don't know if you're aware of that. But he's pressuring me to do his movies."

"We don't need Maury, you know?" I said, steering the conversation away from those movies. I'd starred in several, and I didn't think that Boyd would want to know what happened in some of them. "We could start our own ad agency somewhere, you know?"

"It would be rough getting started," Boyd answered. "But . . ."

"But it's something to think about," I said.

"Yes, it's something to think about. But right now could you fuck me again?"

Not a single word about my bringing Duane into our bed—just because I wanted to. I tested him. "Duane's gone back to the kitchen. Go get him and bring him back in."

I could see from the expression on his face that he didn't like the idea. But he started getting off the bed.

"Never mind," I said. "Roll over here. Just you and me for the rest of the night."

* * * *

I sat there, in the living room, the brandy bottle nearly empty, the last of the cigar supply depleted, my full attention on whatever was going on behind our bedroom door.

"Give him whatever he wants," Maury had said of the Chicago publisher, Sidney Sterne, whose ad account we were trying to land. It would be a major account.

"What does he want?" I asked.

"He wants Boyd as part of the deal," Maury had answered. "Boyd was on the proposal team that went to Chicago, and Sterne has taken an interest in him."

"He wants Boyd to be some sort of liaison with his Chicago office?" I asked.

"He wants Boyd's ass," Maury answered. "Sidney is a member of the club—the club we make our films and photographs for. He wants Boyd in his bed. He wants to sample him when he comes to New York to discuss the deal."

"A member of the club? He's a sadist? He likes to bind them and beat them?"

"Yes. And don't stick up your nose at that. You do it for money," Maury answered. "Sidney does it for pleasure."

"But Boyd . . ."

"It's time," Maury said. "I've always thought of using him for the movies. He would be great as a sub . . . for as long as he lasts. He's getting older. It's time anyway."

Somehow this was hard for me to swallow. I'd conditioned Boyd by using the restraints and toys, but I hadn't done that to him since then. And I'd just done it to ensure I had control of him.

"Who is going to tell Boyd?" I asked.

"You are. You control Boyd. He'll do what you tell him to do. Tell him how badly we need this account."

I control Boyd, I thought. Yes, just like you control me, Maury. And it's because of that that I'll tell Boyd what he has to do.

Thinking back on that discussion and being in the here and now, I was suffering. That was a surprise to me. Having full control should mean that I didn't care. But I did care.

I'd told Boyd to give Sterne whatever he wanted, and Boyd had dutifully said, "Yes, sir." And I'd told Sterne to do whatever he wanted.

Initially, not long after they'd gone in the bedroom, I heard Boyd crying out in pain and surprise. I'd stood up then, ready to go into the bedroom. But I'd stopped myself. I'd told Boyd to give the man what he wanted and I'd told the man to take what he wanted and I wouldn't interfere. The sound had toned down, though. I wasn't hearing anything now. Boyd was just being screwed normally, I was sure. Sterne was in his fifties, and heavy. He didn't look like he could get it up more than once in a night. But why was he the member of a sadism club then? And why were they in there so long? Had Sterne dribbled his cum and then went off snoring?

I couldn't help myself. I got up, went to the bedroom door, and quietly opened it. I expended air in relief and smiled. They were screwing, but it was quite normal screwing. Sterne had Boyd in a missionary position on the end of the bed, Boyd holding his ankles in a wide, spread stance, and Sterne, tall and broad of shoulders, but thick in the waist, legs, and butt, and hairy as a bear, crouched between Boyd's thighs and screwing him.

Boyd didn't look like he was in distress. His tongue was hanging out, he was moaning, and his eyes were darting around the room. He saw me and gave me a "god, am I being fucked" look. It surprised me. Sterne must be hung, I thought. That was a surprise. His hairy back was to me, so I couldn't tell.

It sure had taken him a long time to get inside Boyd, I'd thought at the time. It was only later that I learned that it wasn't the first time he had screwed Boyd that night and that, indeed, he was unusual thick and hung—and demanding.

But everything looked better than it might have been. I quietly turned and went back to the living room, expecting them to be done soon, and Sterne to be gone. Then I'd have to tell Boyd that Maury wanted him to go out to Chicago for the deal signing and to give Sterne what he wanted again.

Twenty minutes later and still they weren't coming out of the bedroom. Thirty minutes later Boyd's muffled screams and loud sobs—and the begging for mercy—started. I couldn't go in. I'd told Sterne I wouldn't. Maury expected me not to. I sank low into the sofa, finally taking a couple of sofa pillows and holding them against my ears. The muffled cries went on for a half an hour. Then silence for forty more minutes. It had been over an hour since I'd checked on them. It had been nearly an hour before I had checked in the first place.

Sydney Sterne, dressed, his hair wet from a shower, stepped out of the bedroom door and shut it behind him.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said, as I stood from the sofa. "The young man was more than satisfactory. Tell Maury that I wish to have him at the formal signing and that he needn't be booked in a hotel. He will be staying with me."

I couldn't get him out of the apartment fast enough. I was as polite as I could be, but all I could think of was Boyd and how he was. I ran from shutting the front door to the bedroom door.

I couldn't see Boyd. What I could see was a tussle of sheeting and bedspread on the bed cascading over the far side onto the floor. The toys from the bottom drawer of my nightstand, ones I had not used on anyone in this apartment yet, were scattered about. Restraint leashes, dildos, graduated beads, ball gags, tit clamps. Even the hand whip was there, on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I heard the sobs from the other side of the bed, rushed around it, and knelt beside Boyd's body. Both his ankles and his wrists were tied together and I worked frantically to release them. He winced at my touch and I realized that his back and buttocks had been whipped raw.

I gingerly picked him up, laid him on the bed, and propped him up from behind, holding him in an embrace that tried to avoid the welts on his back.

"Is he gone?" Boyd asked, with a sob.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I didn't know." But then, of course, I did know. I'd even told him where he could find the restraints and toys.

But Boyd didn't challenge me. "What did he say? Was he satisfied?"

"Yes, Boyd, he was very satisfied. The deal will go through. But have you considered what I said to you about leaving Maury? Going someplace, probably Atlanta. Atlanta is up and coming. If the ad agency didn't work out, I could always be a window cleaner," I said, trying to make Boyd smile, and succeeding. "Atlanta's going to have some high-rises soon, I'm sure."

"Brad, the photographer, and Grace in admin—both have said they are interested in starting a new firm," I continued. "I think it's time."

"You think it's time?" Boyd asked in a whisper.

That gave me a jolt. It reminded me of what Maury had said—that it was time to use Boyd in the movies—as long as he lasted, Maury had said. He said it like I wouldn't care. I didn't think at the time that I would care. But I did fuckin' care, dammit.

"Yes, I think it's time for us to go, Boyd," I said.

I was rocking him in my arms and murmuring sweet nothings to him. I could see now that he was hard. I was hard too. Could he really have sex after what he'd just been through. Did he want me so bad that he'd have sex as worn out and beaten as he was? I could screw him, of course. I was always ready to screw him.

But I'd let me make this decision. I could just sit here and rock him forever if that gave him comfort. Whether we would screw now, I'd leave up to him. If we did, I knew it would be best possible pleasure the two of use could share and pull out of each other.

But I'd let him control that. I'd give control to him on that.