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"I wanted to fuck you at the urinal at the hotel bar," he whispered.
"Yes," Gene whispered.
"I want to fuck you here, now, at the urinal," Blackburn said.
"Yes," Gene answered.
Blackburn kissed him on the neck, took his hand away from Gene's belly long enough to wedge his sheathed cockhead in Gene's channel entrance, and then moved his hand back. He pressed in on Gene's belly while he thrust up into Gene's channel with his hard cock. Gene grimaced, but he took the penetration without jerking. He knew it was Sunday for no other reason than he'd had a cock up his ass for most of the day. He wasn't complaining, though.
As he slow pumped Gene's ass and stroked off his cock, the older man whispered in Gene's ear, "Thank you. I so wanted to do this back in the bar."
"I was dying for you to do it there too," Gene murmured.
"You are completely submissive to me."
"Yes," Gene answered.
"I like that. I'll make it worth your while."
When they had both come, Blackburn went into the shower and Gene returned to the bed.
That was Sunday in Chicago, he mused to himself as he drifted off, contented, satiated, and encouraged that his writer career was already taking off, close in the embrace of the book publisher, Kenton Blackburn.
Gene didn't give much thought at all to having deserted Oscar Oliphant back at the bar. Instead, he felt the exhilaration of having greater control of his own life. He had burned his bridges before.
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