Viva Las Vegas

* * * *

I slept until dinnertime, went to a nearby old-fashioned chrome Airstream trailer-like diner for a burger and chips, and then came back to the room and changed into gym gear, clearing out my duffle bag except for a change of clothes. I picked up the taxi card that Manny had left and considered it briefly but then decided otherwise—I might never make it to the gym and I had different muscles to work than those I'd work with Manny—and had a car from the hotel drive me the short distance to Hawk's Gym.

Manny had been right. It clearly was a gay guys' cruising gym. There was serious bodybuilding going on there, but there also was some dedicated body cruising going on. I liked being ogled, so that was fine with me. Yes, I was narcissistic. What good-looking gay guy isn't? I want to be worshipped. I want to be wanted, to be covered and held close. I want to be possessed. I want a man who wanted to be inside me so much that he'd take me by force. When I can't raise that sort of want in another guy anymore, I'll just let myself go to pot and sit in the shadows. I certainly won't be going to a gym anymore.

I was stripped to just athletic shorts and gym shoes like all of the guys who were there to display themselves were doing—and there were a lot of them—and I went about my business of exercising mixed with ogling other guys, posing for them so they could ogle me, and doing a bit of flirting. My vodka TV commercials came up constantly, and I readily owned up to them. More than one knew about the porn movie too, and referred to it loud enough that others heard. That didn't bother me. In the process I learned that I wasn't the only male porn actor working out here. This was a center of hedonism after all.

I was both shopping and being shopped.

There were no small, young blonds there that evening, but there was a guy a few years older than I was who was good-looking, with a reddish crew cut and a bit of red fuzz on his torso, and who had a great, younger-guy's willowy build. He moved about in his exercises, broken up by batting his long eyelashes at other guys, including me.

Once in passing me, he murmured, "Have you seen Daddy's Little Boy?" I assumed that was a porn movie he'd been in and that, hearing I'd been in one, he wanted to establish a connection. I hadn't heard of it, but I didn't reject the notion of establishing a connection.

His hips were extraordinarily narrow and his butt was bubbled and firm. I imagined how it would be moving my hard cock into his crack, and I decided he'd be good enough for me. There were more than enough muscle-bound hunks, who obviously spent all of their time in the gym, who I decided would do as tops. I wanted to fuck, but I didn't care all that much which position I took. I'd already had it both ways that day. Anything that happened now was just gravy.

One particularly gorgeous muscle boy, about my same age, was sculpted perfectly. His black body glistened under the lights of the gym floor and other men moved around him, giving him deference like he was a god. I liked being done by black studs. I had nothing against being done by a god. My research indicated that the rumor was true—that, on average, they were a lot bigger than the average white, Asian, or Hispanic guy was. I'd also found that they were more self-centered, concentrating on getting themselves off and being in control—and, generally, they were rougher. I got off on a guy roughly concentrating on his own needs and using me to the max.

And he was a god. He was a black bull, which I could clearly see. All he was wearing were tight gym shorts. The curve of his monster cock, long and thick, could clearly be followed under the tight material, nestled in his groin, moving across his pubes from right to left.

His eyes followed me around the gym floor, and when he had his opportunity, he took it. I was exercising on the rings, which I knew I did well, lifting my body off the floor—the rings weren't set to be working much higher than I could stand—pulling my legs straight up, with my pointed toes going over my head, pulling up into a Maltese Cross, doing a few flips. Yes, I'd been a competitive collegiate gymnast.

"Very nice," I heard in a smooth baritone voice. It was the black god. "You need someone to spot you?" he asked.

"Sure," I answered. What I was looking for was someone divine to fuck me.

He stood behind me. When I went into the splits, legs straight out from my body, he nestled in behind me, his groin, now with a hard on, pressed into my buttocks, the erection moving into the crack. He was gripping my waist between his hands. If we didn't both have gym shorts on, he'd have been bulb deep in my hole. As it was, I could tell the cockhead was there, pressing into the rim. One of his hands glided to my belly, and other cupped my basket. Guys were watching us, but surreptitiously. This was what they came here to see. They didn't want us to notice them watching us and stop what we were doing.

"Do you always spot this close?" I asked.

"You complaining?" he responded.

"Not in the least."

"I can spot closer if you like."

"I like." He palmed my belly with a beefy hand, pulling my butt close into his groin. He moved his pelvis, almost imperceptively, but enough to make me pant and groan at the feel of his erection pressing into my butt crack. If we hadn't had gym shorts on, he'd be fucking me. Guys around us noticed, of course, but they kept their distance, ogling us in our dance of mutual seduction. Both the black stud and I knew this would end with him fucking me. The question was whether we'd do it in private, semiprivacy, or right here on the gym floor if the gym staff let us. He was probably a regular here; I wasn't. I'd let him take the lead on where we did it and when—as long as we did it.

"Steady there," he said in a low voice. We were in that position way longer than we needed to be even if he had sensed I was slipping and he was helping me recover. He was rocking me back and forward, dry humping me.

He put his mouth to my ear and whispered, "I saw you in the movies. I want to fuck you."

"I get that," I answered. "Whatever you want; wherever you want it."

"Go to the sauna after you've exercised." Then he backed away from me and moved to another area of the floor, not looking at me again while, trembling, I completed my routine of floor exercises . . . and went to the sauna.

In the sauna four men, in pairs, were having sex. On one side wall of benches, one older, thin guy—the guy with the red crew cut I'd flirted with briefly on the gym floor—was kneeling on a lower bench between the spread thighs of one of the muscle-bound guys, sitting on a higher bench, and was giving him head. On the opposite side a muscle guy had a young Hispanic guy in his lap, facing away, and on his cock and was fucking him. I hadn't remembered seeing the small Hispanic guy on the gym floor. He was sort of cute. He was limber and knew how to take cock.

I went to the bank of benches at the top on the wall opposite the door and lay along the bench, a towel around my waist. The black god came into the sauna and sat on the benches on the door wall. He came in wearing a towel around his middle, but he folded that back and watched the action in the sauna while he pulled on his gigantic black cock. His muscular body glistened with sweat. I found myself trembling in anticipation.

I felt fingers touch my stretched-out left foot. The red crew cut guy was sitting below me. I raised and spread my legs, bending them and putting my feet flat on the bench, my towel opening to give Red Crew Cut a good look of my goods. I heard him gasp and felt his hand on my left calf as he scooted closer to me. The small Hispanic was on the move too. He came over and sat on the bench below mine beside my head. His hand was gliding over my torso, and he leaned over and took my lips in his. Red Crew Cut was licking up my legs, onto my thighs, kissing and licking my inner thighs on both sides. He cupped my balls in a hand and then, unknotting my towel and flipping it open, he took my cock in his mouth and was giving me head.

I looked over to the black god. He smiled and nodded at me. He wanted to watch me giving or taking it before he took it from me. I could do that.

I lifted the Hispanic guy up and set him down crouched over my face. I started eating out his ass, preparing him. He was moaning and whispering, "Sí, sí." I sensed movement in the sauna and looked over, hoping to see the black bull making a move. But it was one of the other muscle men who was coming up on my bench—one who had touched me on the gym floor and who I had just smiled at, letting him know I wouldn't reject him. He pushed Red Crew Cut aside, grasped my hips between his hands, moved into position, slid inside me, and started pumping me slowly. I arched my back and moaned to let him know he had privileges to do that. I looked over to the black god who smiled and nodded again.

I moved the Hispanic guy down to where he was straddling my lower belly. He babbled, "Sí, joder me," as I pulled him down onto me, forcing his passage to sheath my shaft, and I raised and lowered him, fucking him as he had begged me to do, while the muscle guy below me fucked me. After a few minutes of this, I felt the muscle man being moved aside and there he was, at last, the black bull, entering me, thicker and longer than the muscle guy. Fucking me.

I finished with the Hispanic guy, and he was replaced by red crew cut and still the black bull fucked on.

God, I liked a good group fuck.

Later, in the dark of night, on my bed in the Gaylords Hotel, I lay on my back, back arched, moaning deeply, while the black bull, crouched over me, knees pressed in under my buttocks, hands holding my hips, thrust and thrust and thrust.

When he had come, not long after I had, with him beating me off, he went into the bathroom and took a shower, leaving the door open so that light spilled out across the floor toward the bed. I lay there, panting lightly and luxuriating in having been well fucked. He came out of the bathroom, dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt. He looked at the bed, hesitating like maybe he would come back and fuck me again. If he had, I would have been happy. Then he turned and opened the door to the outer corridor.

"Wait, what's your name?" I asked. We'd been fucking half the night and I didn't even know what his name was. I didn't know anything other than he was a black bull god who could fuck forever.

He hesitated again, facing away from me. He was turned enough toward the mirror beside the door, though, that I could see in the mirror, with the help of light streaming from the bathroom, that he had a little smile on his face. I was sure he'd heard me. He didn't answer, though. He walked into the corridor and clicked the door shut behind him.

I looked at the travel clock on the nightstand beside the bed. It was 3:30 in the morning. Conference session at the Excalibur Hotel all the way back to toward the airport would start at 9:00 a.m. Groaning, I tried to close my legs, finding I couldn't—that I didn't really want to. I wanted the black bull between them again. I flopped back on the bed and went into an exhausted sleep.

* * * *

"You're a half hour late. The seminar started at 9:00. It's 9:30."

It took me a moment to recover. The man who slid into the seat beside me in the Excalibur Hotel ballroom was the black bull from the previous night. "I had trouble getting up," I finally whispered back.

"Funny, you didn't have trouble getting it up last night," he answered. We got a shush from in front of us for that, and I turned my face forward. He put a hand on my thigh, and I trembled. He'd had his hand higher than that the previous night, and I had been naked then. The man intimately knew me—every square inch of me. Some of the inside of me too—my passage, my throat. He'd wanted the same deep-throat head, my head hanging over the foot of the bed, giving his cock a long, straight angle to slide in, that the taxi driver had gotten. He'd seen the sequence in Happens in Vegas too. He'd gotten what he wanted. I'd given him everything he wanted. He'd been both refined and demanding in what he had wanted.

The shusher got up and changed seats.

"My name is Craig. Craig Feld," the black bull whispered then. "And I'm thinking you aren't really Juan Mortime."

"Juan Mortime?" I asked.

"The name in the credits for Happens in Vegas. I presume you were working under an assumed name."

I laughed, as muted as I could manage with a speech droning on at the front of the hall. "I'd forgotten that name was used. Rest assured I didn't come up with that name myself. I'm Julio Souza," I answered. There, now he knew even more about me. I gave him my real name. He already knew me totally. There didn't seem a reason to lie. He could find out from the conference records. "Are you an accountant too?"

"Sadly, yes," he answered. "And more sadly I'm an accountant here in Las Vegas, for the firm running this conference. So, I have to go off and work on the conference now. Be out front of the Excalibur at 5:15 at the end of today's session, and I'll take you on an adventure. I'll be in the Ford 150 truck."

"The Ford 150 truck," I asked. "There probably are a couple of thousands of them here in Las Vegas."

He laughed. "It's red and it has a 'Fuck you' sticker on the back window—and inside will be the guy who fucked you last night, and will fuck you again tonight unless you didn't enjoy it last night."

"Does it have a backseat?"

"Yes, it's a four-door."

"Will you fuck me in the backseat?"

"I'll fuck you in the truck bed, if that's what you want."

"I'll be there," I said.

And I was.

When I climbed into the truck, Craig said, "I have plans for this evening but I can't wait." He didn't explain, but he didn't have to. He drove into the Excalibur garage and found an isolated spot where the cars on either side obviously hadn't been moved for some time judging by the sheen of dust on them. He pulled my face down into his lap and I gave him a blow job while he reached down, unzipped me, and beat me off to an ejaculation . . . all in the front seat.

We ate at a steak house and, leaving there after dark, he drove to the area where he said there was a gay nightclub called Piranha, on Paradise Road. We didn't stop there, though. He drove on up the street and parked and we walked back into an alley, where there was a door with a neon sign over it flashing "Barracuda" at us.

"It's a raunchier place than Piranha, but it's a subsidiary of Piranha," Craig explained as we approached it. "If guys get too frisky in Piranha, they just send them over here. It has a dance review mimicking the Chippendales dancers, but there are a couple of troupes of them, featuring different body styles, and, of course, they aren't as classy at the Chippendales. They can be taken to the rooms upstairs, though, and used. That's what we'll do."

"We'll take a dancer upstairs and use him together?" That didn't sound half bad to me.

"That's what I was thinking, yes. You said you flip-flop."

That's what we did do. We watched the dancers until Craig could see which one interested me and aroused me the most. He was, of course, small, with narrow hips, and blond and blue eyed. He couldn't have been more than nineteen, but he was limber, a good dancer, and he made and maintained eye contact with me, seemingly knowing I would pick him and he would be glad of it.

He suffered for it, both Craig and I being bull hung, but he at least pretended to love it. I fucked him on a bed in a small room with the beat of the music and dancers coming through the floor. I took him in a missionary. Then Craig fucked him in the crab position, with the little blond stretched on top of Craig's body, pointed at the ceiling and held tight by Craig, while the young man rose and fell on Craig's cock. Before Craig finished, he directed me to climb up on the bed between their spread legs, which I did, and while the rent-boy babbled and groaned, I slid my cock in on top of Craig's and we doubled him, until the young guy cried out and came.

Craig left the young guy to me then, completely malleable and docile, letting me move him however I wanted, and I bent him over the bed and fucked him in a doggie. He cried out and put his hand to my thigh, signaling me to stop. I did so, waiting for him to stretch to my needs. He murmured, "Too big. You both are too big." But we'd already both been inside him, together. The pain must have caught up with him, or the angle of the doggie took more of me inside him. But then I saw that he had a bottle of poppers there on the bed beside him. He'd been fortifying himself. I opened it and ran it under his nose. He inhaled, and I sensed him opening more to me. He sighed and began to rock on my cock, fucking himself. I no longer was too big for him.

Craig came in behind me and fucked me while I fucked the dancer. The dancer claimed to have loved the evening and, as we left, asked me if he hadn't seen me in a movie. I said yes, told him the name and that I also was in the vodka commercials that he then remembered having seen. He went off, cash in hand, to brag to his buddies that he'd been fucked by the Brazilian stud in Happens in Vegas.

Craig came back to the hotel with me. He pulled me into a crab position, like the one he'd fucked the dancer in, and he brought a hand around and beat me off while I fucked myself on his shaft. Then I fucked myself riding his cock cowboy style, with him on his back on the bed and me straddling his hips and rising and falling on the shaft. At 3:00 a.m. we were both sitting yoga style on the bed, facing each other, embracing, my legs wrapped around his waist, the two of us rocking together, his cock deep inside me.

We were both asleep by 3:30 a.m., but we both were a half hour late to the 9:00 accounting seminar at the conference the next morning.

* * * *

"Let's get out of here and go to the bar."

"I thought you'd never suggest it," I said. Craig had come into the ballroom an hour after lunch, crept up to where I was sitting, and saved me from the wrap-up speeches at the accounting convention. We went to the hotel's Sports Book Bar. It looked like there were more conventioneers in here than were still in the ballroom listening to the closing speeches. We got our drinks at the bar and found an empty table.

"So, have you gotten a lot out of this convention?" Craig asked.

"I've gotten fucked well and I have fucked well," I said, with a smile.

"I meant out of the convention itself."

"Are you asking as a representative of those putting the convention on or to hear me groan?" I asked.

"I have better ways to get a groan out of you." We both laughed. "But I wondered how you'd like to be part of putting these conventions on. My firm does this every year. As a commercial model you'd be smash hit as eye candy in putting on something like this."

"Would I?"

"And you're an accountant. You could come work for our office here in Las Vegas."

"Is this a marriage proposal?" I made it sound flippant, but I was beginning to wonder what Craig was after here.

"Hardly. I'm not the marrying kind. I like my men casual and frequently changed."

"So do I," I said, retreating from possibilities. I hadn't really thought about it, though, and chances were very good I thought the same as he was saying he did. No, I didn't think I was drifting into something more permanent with Craig. I came to Las Vegas to let loose, not to get bogged down.

"I do like to revisit old victories from time to time, though," he added.

"Good to hear," I responded. And it was good to hear. I wasn't ready to settle down to one man, but I certainly wouldn't turn down periodic performances with Craig.