tagGay MaleThe Window Cleaner Ch. 03: Maury

The Window Cleaner Ch. 03: Maury

bysr71plt©

If there was one thing I'd have to identify as Boyd Ames being the most useful to me it would be introducing me to Drake Simpson. The man was gorgeous and forceful just the way I like them—and cocky. That's just the way I like to break them. A control freak—just like I am—so a worthy challenge. I know a secret about control, having it and keeping it, though. It's not having a beer can cock. Drake had that, for sure. And it was a special one, I discovered. It was black. The blackness in him was a secret, not to be seen when he was clothed. Something to be discovered and savored. No, it wasn't having a proud cock. And it wasn't being handsome as sin and built like a god, although Drake was both of those things.

The secret to control and power is money. And it's the way, in the struggle for control with Drake or most other men, I win. I have money and they don't, unless they knuckle under to me. When I was introduced to Drake, he was about to go off with Boyd for money. I offered him twice that much and ten minutes later he was in the back of my Cadillac and I was sucking him off. Ten minutes after that I was lap dancing on his huge cock, and twenty minutes after that I was in paradise, trussed up, with him between my thighs finishing me off in a ride around Central Park. All that time I was in control, though. I was the one with the money.

He was so good that I just kept throwing money at him and he sank deeper and deeper under my control. I took to this Drake immediately, other than his incessant need to get the word "fuckin'" into every sentence. It wasn't just because he was a massive hunk, or that his cock was huge, or even that it was black, although that certainly was intriguing and a come on; it was because he was forceful and uninhibited and wasn't the least bit shocked when I signaled that I wanted to be trussed up in the back of the Cadillac, legs raised and stretched and restrained and arms pulled over my head, while he knelt between my thighs, slammed that baseball bat of a cock up inside me, and pounded me for all I was worth. He'd done this before, this cruelly fucking of a bound man. I immediately wanted him for my sadism movies and started scheming how to get him.

It wasn't difficult. I threw a high-paying job at him. I could use him as an ad model, yes, but it was as a dominator in my sadism films that I wanted him. And I wanted him to bind and dominate me too—but not to have control. No, I would have control over him. And I'd do it in the time-honored way. I'd buy him.

Some things would have to change, though. I don't know what sorts of jobs he'd been doing until now, but he needed to learn to groom himself better if he was going to model for the agency. A model for the ads was the face of the agency. He'd have to be refined. His language would have to go. Fewer of those "fuckin's," although I didn't want the ruggedness of him to be ruined. I already thought of him as the "Camels Man" and there were several other accounts he would be perfect for. Above all else, that "Fuckin'-A, bang, bang, boom" he cried out as he tensed, arched his back, and shot a prodigious load nearly into my stomach as I was bound in the backseat of the Cadillac would have to go.

I told him both he and his language would have to be cleaned up when I let him off on a dark street in Hell's Kitchen. I matched that statement with a well-paying job, and, true to form, money won the day.

I knew he left thinking he had controlled me, but I knew better.

I told him when he could come in to process in for the job, giving him a few days to think about it, and, just as I thought, he was there the first day. At the end of the sessions he had with admin, the camera crew, the tailor, the grooming consultant, and the voice counselor, I had him brought to me. It was after 7:00 p.m. It had been a long day for him, but already he looked more presentable.

"You must be hungry," I said. "Let me take you out to eat."

"Yeah, that would be fuckin' good," he said. "I could eat a moose after all that fuckin' fussing today."

I gave him a sharp look, and he changed that to, "Yes, thank, you sir, I would like that."

I took him to a steak house I liked, Ebitt's Grill, over on 10th Avenue. He kept looking around at the waiters like he expected to see someone he knew, but he said nothing about it. And he ate two steaks.

"Sorry," he said, when he'd come close to inhaling the second one, which he would finish before I did my first one. "Steaks are fuckin' good, and I was hungry" he said. "Those tiny sandwiches they serve in your photography studio for the models don't go very far."

"We feed the guys in the movie studio better." I said. It was time to sound him out on that.

"The movie studio?"

"Yes, I make gay male porn films on the side. I hired you to be in those as well. How do you feel about that?"

"Uh, I don't know. For the salary cited?"

"No. They pay on top of that. $1,000 for a film; $100 for each separate still shot. Use permission for anything I like included, of course."

"$1,000? That's a lot of money for a film."

"They are bondage and sadism films. Does that bother you?"

"I don't know about that."

"You'd always be the dominator. I don't think I'm wrong in tagging you as a user."

"That would be OK, then."

"You've done this before, haven't you—not necessarily for filming—but you done it before, haven't you?" I knew I wasn't wrong about that. He'd been too smooth into transitioning into what I wanted in the back of the Caddie.

"Yes, sir. I worked in that kind of fuck house for a while down in Georgia."

"Well, eat up your steak, Drake. We'll go to my apartment from here. I have a room you'll want to see. There I want you to bind, beat, and fuck me silly."

A grin spread across his face. "Do I get dessert first?"

"I will be your dessert, Drake. I can see it in your eyes. You want me for dessert."

"Yes, I fuckin' want you," Drake growled.

"And I don't know where you are living now, but I want you to move into my apartment—into my bed. I want you to bind me to the bed and fuck me every night. I want to experience every night like it is a rape."

"I can do that," Drake said, with a grin. And I found that he could.

In my special room in my apartment, by my choice—everything was by my choice whether Drake understood that or not—he put me in the stocks, me in the splits, my legs spread by an extender, and leaning over, belly on a rail and head and wrists trapped in the wooden stocks, bare buttocks waving in the air. I had him decked out in tight leather pants, open at the crotch, a leather harness on his torso, and a black mask. He had a short leather whip and a flogger and he laid into me good, at my insistence.

The walls of the room were covered with storage company padding. I could scream all I wanted without the neighbors hearing. And scream I did.

And cameras. Film was my bread and butter.

Eventually, I cried out, "Fuck me now. Fuck me hard now. Oh, god, give it to me hard."

Thrusting inside me, he pounded my ass to a mutual ejaculation. The only thing that took the edge off my pleasure was how, as he shot his load, he cried out "Fuckin'-A bingo, bang, bang, boom."

That was going to have to be dumped.

By the time he repeated that session on a small blond—someone looking much like Boyd, I thought—Drake had gotten rid of that phrase. The movie was great and sold very, very well.

Everything about Drake went very, very well. He was a fast learner without losing that rough, sexy edge he had. All of the ad campaigns featuring him took off like lightning and filled the company coffers. He quickly became part of the idea team, and within months he had become one of my division chiefs.

I like variety and didn't stay with many for more than a couple of weeks. Drake was in my bed for six weeks, which was some kind of records. But I was too restless for it to last. I still brought him in for a session in my special room from time to time, but I replaced him in my bed. He didn't seem to mind. That's what I appreciated about Drake. He took everything in his stride and he couldn't be embarrassed and didn't balk at anything I said I wanted.

Well, almost anything. Perhaps it was a mistake to get him set up in his own apartment in my building and to give him Boyd. He developed quite a soft spot for Boyd, which was counter to his personality. But what didn't change is that I controlled him—even with Boyd—and that money being the key to control never changed.

* * * *

I'm jackknifed on the bed, my arms pulled above my head, tied to the headboard, my ankles tied together behind Drake's neck, as he lies on top of me, between my thighs, crushing me with his bulk, staring down into my eyes to catch the expression of mixed pain and ecstasy in my face, and pistons my passage, his cock pumping on top of the dildo he's already stuffed me with.

I complain that he's crushing me and that both his cock and the dildo are too much. He laughs, puts more weight on me, grabs the handle of the dildo, and starts a counterthrust with it and his cock. I scream in pain-pleasure. He thinks he's in control, but he's not. He's doing exactly what I want him to do. He's taking me to new heights of pain-pleasure. I'm crawling the walls to the ceiling in passion, ready to blow.

I am in ecstasy. I release my wad between us, shooting up his flat belly, slathering our chests in my cum. He continues to plow me, his pecs sliding on mine through the lube of my cum, producing a sucking sound in stereo—there and in my channel, where he has come inside me twice before. His mouth goes to mine, and I open to his tongue, tongue fucking my throat as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts with his cock and the dildo. I come again in a weaker afterglow, keyed up to new levels by his continued pounding. He pulls his mouth from mine and laughs, falsely thinking he's controlling this fuck.

When he's done me and done me good, we lay stretched out against each other on the bed.

"It's time for Boyd," I say.

"Time for Boyd to do what?" he answers. His voice is defensive. I'd been thinking he was going too soft for Boyd of late, and now I'm sure of it.

"I want Boyd in the movies. It doesn't have to be with you, if you don't want to torture fuck him. But I've always wanted him in the movies and he's beginning to be too old for them."

"He couldn't take it."

"He could take it until he couldn't, and filming the point at which he was totally broken would make me a fortune. I've only kept him around this long to make this fortune off him. He'll do it for you. You control him fully."

I expect him to say "no," and to bring our own control issues to a head, but, instead, he asks, "Why? Why do you want him so much for it?"

Why indeed? I think. But I know the answer to that. Boyd was me at that age—or rather at a much earlier age. I had, as I said, let him go much longer than I had intended to.

My mind goes to me at eighteen, taken in as a model by the original owner of the ad agency, thirty years my senior. Needing the job. Also needing the attention he gave me. Not knowing then that the necessary arousal could be reached by anything short of being bound, beaten, and fucked repeatedly by that man and his cronies in what he said was SOM, a secret club—Sins of Men, a club I'd kept going. I hadn't been totally broken by them. I'd been too tough for that and had enjoyed the pain-pleasure too much. I'd always wondered what would have happened to me if they had broken me. Knowing nothing else, I now needed the bondage and sadism to be in ecstasy.

I wanted to see myself in that in movies. Boyd was me in an earlier life. I should have put him in the movies years earlier. It almost was too late to do so and to get full arousal value out of it—and my full money value out of it as well. That took precedence. Full money value. Though, unlike me, I think Boyd would break under the torture. I wanted to watch him being broken—to see what it would have been like if I'd collapsed under it.

"The why doesn't need to come into it," I say. "Sydney Sterne is coming into town next week. We need his Chicago publications account. He's a member of SOM and wants to use Boyd. I want you to deliver Boyd to him. Sydney will want to use Boyd in Chicago too when we sign the deal. When he comes back, I want to put Boyd into the movies and have him totally broken. I want you to see to that yourself. You don't have to be in the movies, but I want you to see to him being totally broken on film."

He isn't saying anything, but I can feel his body, close to mine, tense up.

"There's a fee of $20,000 in it for you," I say.

I can feel him relax. It's done. Money talks loudest.

* * * *

It had been nearly a week since Sydney Sterne was in town and I had yet to see or hear from Drake. Sterne had said it went well with Boyd—that he was pleased. But he'd said no more than that—and that he wanted Boyd to come to him in Chicago. I wanted details. I knew Sterne liked to use the lash. I wanted to know if he'd used it on Boyd—and how much. How often he'd fucked Boyd, and in what positions. He was reported to be horse hung. Was he? Did he fuck Boyd again and again? Did he make Boyd scream? Boyd was the younger me; I was too old to interest Sterne; I wanted to experience Sterne's using Boyd. I wanted to feel Boyd's pain and the stroke of Sterne's cock. Why hadn't I arranged to have cameras in the room?

I also I wanted to see Drake's ideas for the series of films that would break Boyd down after he returned from the Chicago deal signing.

Come to think of it, I hadn't seen Boyd around either. I'd been busy and had been out of town for a couple of days.

I buzzed my secretary. "Get Drake Simpson on the phone or in my office for me."

"Yes, sir," my secretary answered, but a half hour later he called back. "I can't find Mr. Simpson," he said. "No one's seen him in days."

"Well, get me Boyd Ames, then," I said, irritation showing in my voice.

No luck there, either, my secretary said when he called back. And I'd been told that my chief photographer and the deputy chief in admin were missing and untraceable, as well.

I was irritated, but not worried. I was in full control. I controlled them all with money. They'd all turn up with plausible explanations for being gone. Money was the ultimate controller.

- Fini -

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