Weekend on Fire Island

"Hold still. Focus on holding the pose I gave you, Jeffery... please."

"Sorry, Colette," I said, putting a hand on my hip and leaning into the ship's wheel that was almost as tall as I was. I was wearing low-rise white bellbottom trousers from the coming nautical line for The Edge New York fashion house--and nothing else other than a nautical hat and a neck scarf; I even was barefoot. This was a photo shoot for the posters that would be hung in young men's clothing departments where the clothes would be sold. It was the sex as much, if not more, to be attention getting and sold as the clothes. My torso had been buffed up; my nipples had been puffed up and airbrushed.

To make my way through theater school in New York City, I worked part time as a male Abercrombie and Fitch model. The agency did sexy ads for clothes lines like the ones The Edge sold. That's why I was posed now barefoot and just in the white bell bottoms, a scarf around my throat and a captain's hat on my head. The bellbottoms had a button-up fly, with the top two buttons suggestively undone, a hit of curly pubic hard just visible if you looked hard--and you were invited to look hard. The ship's wheel and I were posed in front of a blank wall. Through the wonders of sophisticated photoshopping, I would be standing on the polished-teak deck of a yacht and there would be an Italian harbor town behind me when the poster was finished.

I didn't really have trouble holding a pose. Modeling had been included in my schooling along with acting, singing, and dancing. I was well into the acting and singing program; dancing was being a struggle, but I was determined to find my range. I was twenty-one and had been enrolled in the school for nearly two years. I already was holding down another part-time job playing the piano and singing in a small gay nightclub in Chelsea three nights a week. Seeing Edge come into the room where they'd set up the photo studio was what had distracted me.

Edge was Edgerin Gordon, who everyone addressed as "Edge" who didn't call him Mr. Gordon and the owner and the creative spirit behind The Edge fashion house--hence the house's name. He was a tall, charismatic black man in his late forties, I surmised, from having seen a timeline on the history of the fashion house, but he was one of those ageless handsome men who could pass as a decade younger than he was. Everything about him was model groomed. He had come to New York from Jamaica, where I gather his family was quite wealthy. He was slender but well muscled and, in keeping with the success of the house and personalization of the brand, was always elegantly and sexily dressed in his house's men's fashion designs and moved like a dancer. He was the sort of man who dominated the room, with all eyes following him and wanting to be there beside him.

That's what had happened when he came into the room to check on the photoshoot. He obviously knew all about such advertising of his clothing lines; he appeared in many of the commercial work for The Edge himself. There was no distinction between Edgerin Gordon in public purview and The Edge fashion house.

Those doing the technical work paused when Edge entered and even Colette, the fashion house's chief of advertising, did so. The three male models wearing his clothes and being photographed gazed at him longer. Aston and Leonard sought his attention as much as I did, but those two weren't in the current shoot, so I had been the one Colette had to bring back to earth.

Edge wasn't helping. He was looking directly at me--singling me out and smiling. I know I was blushing, understanding what could be behind that smile. Gordon owned this narrow, ten-story building in the Garment District near the corner of 8th Avenue and West 38th street. His apartment took up the top two floors. I had been working on this photoshoot for four hours in the afternoon for the past week. After I was finished the previous day, Edge had invited me up to his apartment for a drink. The "what can I get you to drink?" had segued into "I want to lay you," and then he had and I learned that being hung and being very, very good at cock mastery went with his legend. I don't think I had ever been touched and worked so deeply or well before. I had been late to my classes this morning, not leaving here until after the fashion house had opened for the day. I was nearly hobbling when I left, but I was purring.

I must have pleased him, for he stayed in the studio while I finished up with the white bellbottoms shoot and intercepted me, putting a manicured hand, with long, sensuous fingers that had made me shudder and shimmer and arch my back in his bed the previous night as I rocked my pelvis on them, on my arm to make me pause. Everyone in the studio was surreptitiously looking at us while trying to make it seem they weren't. They all now knew Edge was laying me, and I know my stock went up significantly with them--as would their cattiness about me--as he leaned over to smile at me and whisper. Edge didn't cultivate anyone for very long. I'm sure those watching us were calculating my demise already.

"I have a beach cottage on Fire Island where I like to go for the weekend," he said. "I like to get away from all the hustle and bustle of the week and live the simple life and think. I have some of my most creative inspirations on Fire Island. I plan to go this weekend, but I really don't want to go alone."

"Are you asking me to--?"

"Yes," he said.

"I would be delighted," I answered. I must have pleased him in bed the previous night. It had been quite an experience for me. I didn't have much time for sex. I did sleep with older men as they were the most helpful to me--but black men? And black men who were highly experienced and who were hung like gods and were virile, attentive, and good for hours at a time? Edge was the first of those. After Edge I never said no to a fit black man who wanted to lay me--and I never was disappointed. I like to think that I wasn't a disappointment for any of them either.

* * * *

I cried out as the black bull entered, entered, entered me again, going deep, holding there as, stretching, I accommodated him. Then I panted and groaned as he reset the rhythm of the fuck. He was no thicker than the thickest of men who had gotten their shafts me, but he was impossibly long. No one had reached this far into my core and ravished me there.

I was stretched out on my belly in the queen-sized bed in the larger of the two bedrooms in Edge Gordon's cottage on the beach on Fire Island on Saturday morning. We had arrived after dark from the city after driving the some sixty miles in an hour and a half, the traffic coming out of the city being heavy on a summer Friday evening and taking a ferry out to the island from the Long Island shore. I hadn't been in a car in ages, and Gordon put the top down on his Audi TT Roadster. He'd stopped for carryout as soon as we hit the island and we waited for the water taxi that would take us on to near his cottage. We'd gobbled the food up after he'd shown me around the cottage, which didn't take long, and then he'd taken me into his bedroom, stripped me, and laid me--and then laid me again--and again--snaking that extraordinarily long cock deep into my inner core, slaying me there again and again, me clutching his biceps, rubbing his hips with my knees, and whimpering, Yes, yes, yes" to his deep penetration as I rocked on his shaft.

This had gone on periodically all evening and night. The man was making the most of his weekend treat. And now, on Saturday morning, I had a bolster under my belly, rolling my buttocks up to his sport. My arms were raised above my head, my hands were fisting the brass rungs of the headboard, and Gordon was stretched on top of me, on his toes in a straight-line pushup position, his fists grasping my wrists, his face buried in the hollow of my neck, although rocking back and forth, the beads of his dreadlocks clicking together, and what must be eleven inches of an erection were moving in and out inside me, fucking me as vigorously as he had done periodically through the night.

It was quite clear why I was there this weekend and whose need and sport were paramount. This wasn't lovemaking or anything like that. It certainly wasn't mutual satisfaction sex. This was sports exercise--for Edge Gordon. I was just exercise equipment to him. Still, he had a godawful long cock and he knew what to do with it--how to sink it into my core and how to work me there.

I worked an arm free of his clutch and moved my hand underneath my belly, grasping my cock, and stroking myself off.

He was deep inside me, his cockhead rubbing and kissing me where no man had gone before. "Oh, shit, yes," I murmured. "Yes, yes, work me deep." I moved my free hand to cup his face, but he brushed it away and continued a steady rhythm of the stroking. He merely grunted in response, seemingly wanting me to just lie there docilely and take it.

But then the compliment. "Shit you can take it deep. You're a slut for it."

When I shuddered and came, the black stud didn't stop pumping me. He rolled me over on my back, grasped my legs under my knees, and raised and split them, forcing his knees under my buttocks, thrusting inside me, and continuing to fuck me hard and deep to his own ejaculation.

When he'd come, he kissed me on the mouth, lowered his face to kiss and tongue me on my nipples, and then rolled off me and went to the bathroom to shower, closing the door. He called out "Scrambled eggs and a bagel, I think, for breakfast. I think I exercised enough to justify the bagel."

"Just toast and coffee for me, I think," I called back.

His returned, "Don't scramble my eggs too hard," informed me who was cooking the breakfast.

That's obviously what I was here for this weekend--to give a big, black bull exercise and sport. I also understood that I was here to do the cooking and whatever cleanup there was to do. Someone had stocked the cottage with enough food for the weekend--I'm sure that Edge didn't do that himself, that it was some employee of his at the fashion house. He had spent long enough in showing me around the cottage, a modified A-frame, probably built in the fifties, facing the Atlantic Ocean directly on the beach off Neptune Walk in the island's older town of Ocean Beach for me to catch on to my duties. He made sure I knew where the sweeper and cleaning supplies were.

I was to clean it by the end of the weekend to have it ready for whoever he brought out here the next weekend to endure him going deep diving in their channel.

The cottage was compact, but more than adequate. Downstairs, the living area, with deck reaching out over the sand dunes fronted on the ocean. Behind that were a kitchen and dining alcove and behind those ran the hallway to the front door, with a bathroom on one side and a small bedroom on the other. The bigger bedroom was in a loft above, with a bathroom toward the island and a balcony above the living room with a view beyond a wall of glass of the public beach and the ocean.

While he was showering I rolled out of the bed and noticed that his laptop, on top of a desk set in the slope of a side wall, was still on. I couldn't help but notice that it was open to his e-mail account--and to an e-mail setting up a weekend here the next weekend with one of the other male models on his summer clothes line shoot, Aston.

I had a pang of jealousy, even while realizing there was no commitment involved in what I was doing. I had let Edge Gordon fuck me because he was a powerful man who could give me privilege and because he was a beautiful black stud. Those were the reasons I'd gone to his apartment with him for "a drink," knowing that it likely was going to end up in his bed, although it was a surprise that he could keep it up and use it all night. I came here with him for the weekend because he was monstrously hung and knew how to use it. Once he had spiked me, I also gave to him because he reached deeper inside me than any man before him had been able to do.

But it did make a difference that there was no way this was leading to something more long-lasting then a casual weekend of constant sex.

I went downstairs, quickly showered in the other bathroom, pulled on a Speedo since I planned to use the beach now that we were here, and went to the kitchen to fix our breakfasts. I was fully prepared that the weekend would be a rotation of fixing our meals, opening my legs for his gigantic cock, taking it deep, fixing our meals, opening... and so forth. Maybe we'd wedge in some beach time. I doubted he'd be going out on the beach with me.

So, maybe only I would wedge in some beach time. Edge Gordon was a workaholic. For the rest of the morning he had his nose moving from his computer to coordinate work at the fashion house from afar and a drafting board set in the living room where he quickly sketched clothes design ideas as they came to him. After lunch he returned to doing that. He didn't need me for any of that. When I saw him settling in at the drawing board again, I announced that I was taking a towel and going out on the beach. I don't know if he even latched into my declaration, but that didn't stop me from going.

The beach here was as wide as it got on the island. It wasn't crowded, though, because this was a long section of houses that had been here since the island first became popular as a middle-class, and then an iconic gay, retreat from the city. I walked the beach in both directions. Some families were spread out on the beach outside Edge's house, so when I settled, I did so six or seven houses toward the west. I went into the ocean and swam beyond the surf until I got tired and then came out of the water and lay down on my back on my towel.

Exhausted from the night of sex with Edge, I went to sleep and didn't wake again until it was dark. Several sensations brought me back into wakefulness. First, a party had started up in the house behind where I was stretched out. And it must already be spilling out of the house, as there were figures on the sand around me on the sand, under the moonlight dimly lighting up the area. The beach was alive. Men were necking and some were fucking. All men. This was the tradition of the island--where gay men came to be gay. The line of men stretched back to the house and filled it with loud talk and raucous laughter. It was all men. It was a gay men's party.

The other sensation that awakened me was that somehow I'd been folded into the party. A naked man, a bald, tattooed bodybuilder type with a magnificently muscled body--maybe in his late twenties or early thirties--had pulled the waistband of my Speedo to under my balls and had grasped my cock and was stroking it. I was hard, my dreams having been of Edge Gordon and me fucking. The tattooed bodybuilder was hard too. As he leaned over and took my mouth with his, he came over me enough to frot our erections together and stroke them. He wasn't long, but he was beer can thick.

I didn't push him away. My arms went around him and my fingernails dug into his shoulder blades as he hovered over me, his eyes looking intensely down into my face. I felt his beefy fingers going to my ass, pushing into the crack, one of them entering me. I pushed my pelvis up into his hand and rocked on, first, one finger and then two.

"You gonna do this?" he growled. "You gonna let me screw you?"

"Do it," I murmured. Irrationally racing through my mind was, OK, this is to show Edge Gordon. If he wants to treat me like furniture and as just exercise, there are guys who can't get enough of me.

"Three of us?" he asked.

Three? God, three? That raced through my mind, but before I could answer, there were, indeed three--all muscular, swarming over me, devouring me. The first one remained over me, working my ass with his fingers. A second one leaned in from the side, taking my cock in his mouth. The third was knelt at my head, lifting my shoulders in meaty hands with tattooing across the knuckles. My head arched back and found a hard cock pressing at my lips. I opened to it, took it into my throat, and gave it suck. A finger was added to those in my ass. He was up to his knuckles there. I rocked on the hands--and I came for the guy giving me head.

The hand came out of my ass and I was being turned, momentarily losing the cock in my month, but regaining it when I was on all fours on the towel. I yelped when the first guy, the bodybuilder with the beer can cock, mounted my tail and worked his shaft into me. I panted hard and moaned deep at the challenge of the stretching for the thickness of him, going through a mantra of "relax, take it; relax, open up," until and I had, and, with a grunt, he was in and began to pump.

The second and third guys exchanged positions at my head while the first one plowed me and slapped me on the buttocks while he pumped. The guy at my side was running his hands all over me, a hand settling on grasping my balls, lacing them through his fingers, and distending and squeezing them.

The first guy came, withdrawing to deposit his cum on my rump. He was replaced by the second and then the third. I was thrice fucked on the beach.

Apparently thinking I was invited to the party--if anyone who was there had been invited--after the three, calling themselves Phil, Dan, and Ed, all gym rat buddies, fucked me, they pulled me up from the sand and frog marched me up to the house, where, upon entering, Phil announced to the house that I took a train. I was offered a drink and some pills. Already groggy, used, and declared the party punch, I accepted both.

I wasn't underdressed by being only in a Speedo. Many in the house weren't wearing anything at all. I fit right in, especially after the pills made me go a bit glassy eyed. I heard about the wild gay lifestyle parties that had been held on Fire Island for several decades, going back to the 1950s. This party was as wild as I could have imagined they would get.

I found myself very popular. I was a twenty-one-year-old Abercrombie and Fitch model after all, and if I hadn't been casual and promiscuous before, I was now. Also, thanks to Edge Gordon and his black, something like eleven-inch dick and Phil's beer can shaft just now, I could take any guy's cock--or any two guy's cocks at once--with little trouble, not too much pain, and with a good deal of pleasure.

That's what I did in the party house that Saturday night. I got blotto enough that I danced on a table and the guys in the house found me a bed in a bedroom, put me on my back, held my legs open, and stood in line to get their cocks inside me singly and in doubles, fresh cocks penetrating me as soon as the previous ones had withdrawn. Well, no big deal, I thought. I'd taken Phil, Dan, and Ed on the beach. What are a couple... or three... or ten more?

Apparently taking the pills and liquor I was offered put me in a world of being able and willing to take all comers.

* * * *

I woke on a bed that wasn't the one I'd been gangbanged on and wasn't in the room where I'd half-consciously been in. The wall toward the ocean was all glass and light streamed in, the reflection off the ocean beaming strong. The walls were pristine white plaster, the bed a king-sized one with silken sheets. Everything tasteful, sparse, expensive. I smelled coffee brewing and heard the humming of a man on the level below me. I was lying on my back, my legs spread and bent, my feet pressed to the mattress.

Had I been fucked on my back in a missionary after I'd been moved here from--from wherever? This clearly wasn't the house the party had been held in. That one was a rundown, old, wooden beach house. The bedroom I'd been in had been small, the double bed taking up most of the room, so that the dozen or so men in the room with me were crowded together, looming over me, sneering, touching, taking. This house was new, solid concrete, and expensive. The same beach and ocean opened up beyond the window, though.