Marking the Decades

"We've already discussed you," Ted interjected. "Cliff wants you for the night. And you can get some pointers from him on the walk over to Times Square to share with your class."

Ken reddened. The instruction was quite clear. He had been contracted through the night, to lie down for whoever Ted designated. He was overwhelmed.

"Who is your creative writing professor at Columbia?" the author asked as they rode down in the elevator.

Ken was almost hyperventilating from being in an elevator with a famous author—and one as hunky and self-assured as Clifford Langston was, but he managed to answer, "Ellen Daniels, sir."

"Ah, I know Ellen. She does good work. And you can call me Cliff. 'Sir' is much too stuffy for what we'll be doing together for New Year's."

This remark didn't mitigate Ken being on the edge of hyperventilating in the least, and if that one put him on edge, the next remark floored him.

"Tell me, do you prefer missionary or doggy?"

Ken paused to catch his breath. "Whatever the client prefers," he answered. Langston laughed.

Down on the street, on West 53rd, Ken stopped to get his bearings.

"Come. It's at Broadway and 7th Avenue. This way," Langston said briskly.

"But I thought you didn't know your way there."

"Everyone in New York knows how to get to Times Square from anywhere else in New York. Come, we don't want to miss the dropping of the ball." He laughed as he linked arms with Ken and started off in the direction of the Hudson River.

As promised, Langston gave Ken some zinger quotes he could share with his creative writing class, assuming he could remember them for four days for the next class. They didn't miss the dropping of the ball ushering in the decade of the 1990s. As the decade rang in, Langston was gathering Ken into him close, bending him over, and French kissing him, taking Ken's breath away.

Still holding Ken in the clutch when they came out of the kiss, Langston put his mouth close to the young man's ear and spoke. He still had to almost yell because of all of the boisterous celebrating around them, but no one else could hear him anyway. "I want to fuck you," He said. "Ted said he ordered you up especially for me and that I could fuck you. You're a luscious young man. But I'll only do it if you'd consent whether or not you were being paid. I don't want it just to be part of your job."

"Yes," Ken answered, thrilled.

"Excuse me. It's too noisy here."

"Yes, YES, YES! I want it." Ken cried out.

Langston laughed. "First we'll party some. I wish for both of us to savor what is to come." They kissed again, as Langston started guiding Ken through the crowd in the square. No one noticed the two men together—there were a lot of single-sex couples and ones with wide age differences kissing and partying in the square. Langston was taking a direct route. He knew exactly where he was going.

They weren't going far. Langston was a member of the Gentlemen Jim's men-only club on the sixtieth through sixty-second floors of a high rise building at 8th Avenue and 43rd Street. The sixtieth floor contained the dining rooms, bars, and dance floors. Here they joined in the dancing on a crowded dance floor until 1:00 a.m., Langston touching Ken intimately here, there, and everywhere and Ken lightly panting in anticipation.

He wasn't an in-control rent-boy this evening. He was a young man being played by a master like a violin.

The private bedrooms were on the upper floors. Langston had reserved one, and by 1:30, both men were naked on the bed and Langston was fucking Ken in a missionary. Ken was on his back on the bed, his arms raised over his head, his fists clutching at the headboard and his legs spread, his knees hooked on the tall, older, well-muscled forty-three-year-old author's hips, and his pelvis raised to give the long, thick, steel-hard cock straight and deep access. Langston was hunched over the small, young man's body, his knees pushed under Ken's buttocks, one hand gripping the young man's waist, and the other cupping Ken's head, as Langston dipped his head, kissing Ken on the lips, the throat and the nipples, as he fucked him in long, slow, deep slides.

"So, nice, so nice. So sweet," was Langston's whispered mantra as Ken trembled and panted, slowly rocking his hips with the older man's slow, long thrusts. He wasn't a rent boy now; he was an innocent seduced and used by a master.

The rhythm picked up and Ken lowered his arms, his fingernails digging into the lanky author's shoulder blades, his head arched back, his eyes staring out of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking 8th Avenue, his mouth yawning open, all of his senses concentrating on the thick cock of the famous novelist slowly churning deep inside him.

Langston started chewing on his nipples as he revved up the thrusts, fucking faster and deeper.

"Yes, yes, fuck me hard. Yes, yes. Oh FUCK!" he set the muscles of his passage walls squeezing and rippling over Langston's shaft.

Langston raised his torso off Ken's, arched back, and thrust harder and faster. "Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" he cried out as he tensed and jerked and shot a load; tensed, jerked, shot a load; tensed . . .

"Oh, my GAWD!" Ken cried out as he joined in the fountain works.

They stretched out against each other, ran their hands over each other's bodies, and shared hand stroking.

At 2:30 a.m., Langston rolled out of the bed and padded into the bathroom. When he came out, Ken was standing at the window, looking down into 8th Avenue, where the New Year's partying was still going on. He was leaning into the window with his forehead on his forearm, pressed into the window. He turned his head and saw that the author was in magnificent erection again. He had a great body for a man in his mid-forties.

Langston came to Ken and saddled up behind him, putting his hands on the young man's waist and pushing his erection under Ken's balls. He leaned in and kissed Ken on the ear and then nuzzled his face into Ken's throat. "Widen your stance; jut your ass back into me."

"Yes, do it, Daddy," Ken whispered. "Fuck me again."

Langston did, moving the head of his cock into place with one hand, while, following his command, Ken jutted his hips back and lifted his tail. The shaft slid up into him, and, holding him there leaning into the window and watching the traffic flow sixty-one floors below on 8th Avenue, Langston fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

They slept the night in the room at Gentleman Jim's, the first time Ken had spent the entire night with a man. As dawn was breaking, Ken woke to the feel of one of Langston's hands moving over his body and the heel of the other one was pressed under Ken's balls and a finger was in his ass.

"Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, as Langston, pulled him into his stomach, the two spooned together, Langston's front to Ken's back. The cock slid into Ken's passage and the two rocked against each other to a peaceful flow of juices. Both slept.

The young man woke later to the sensation that he was moaning. And he was hard, his dick standing straight up. He was on his back, with his legs spread and bent, his feet on the mattress. He had a hand on Cliff's erection. Ken don't know if the older man put him in this position or if Ken had moved with the author's wishes in his sleep—but Ken knew they were going to fuck again, and that was quite all right with him.

"Yes, yes, yes," he murmured, and Cliff rolled over on top of him, between his thighs.

"I think you might like the missionary best," Langston murmured.

The cock head went into position, and Cliff clutched Ken's buttocks cheeks with his hands, squeezing and spreading them as he penetrated an already well-worked passage and slid in deep. Fully saddled, he held there, staring down into Ken's face, as the younger man slowly woke and realized that the older man was inside him, deep, but wasn't moving. The cock was throbbing, and Ken's passage muscles were undulation over the shaft.

But Langston was holding. Ken clutched at the older man's sides and moaned. The moans turned into whimpers. "Fuck me. Fuck me, Daddy," he pleaded. Langston held, with a low laugh, until Ken began to move his hips, fucking himself on the shaft. Then and only then Langston began to stroke him. They rocked their bodies against each other, Ken moaning deeply, as the rhythm of the fuck was attained. God the man was randy and had great stamina, Ken thought. At the moment of climax, Langston held again, staring down into Ken's eyes. He tensed and flowed. Ken arched his back and sighed. Langston tensed and released again. Still with cum to give.

When Ken woke again later in the morning, at the sound of the door to the room opening and a waiter rolling in a breakfast cart, he was all alone in the bed. There was no sound from the bathroom either and the door to that was open.

The tray was set for one.

The waiter left the room but returned immediately with two video cameras on tripods. As Ken ate his breakfast in bed, the waiter set both up facing the bed, one pointed to the foot of the bed and one at the side.

"Mr. Langston is providing breakfast," the waiter said, looking at Ken, naked in the bed, but giving no reaction that he didn't see this at the club every morning, which he probably did. The waiter was as young as Ken and almost as sexy. He was dark—ebony dark—and muscular. "He has booked for late checkout and has provided, in case you're interested, an extra tip for me—a large one—in case you are interested . . . He said you were highly sexed. He wants something to remember your night by. He said he has left $500 on the dresser over there in case you are willing to be included in a video for his pleasure. I do this professionally. And I understand you are for rent. It's all been paid for. Unless you aren't interested."

He mentioned the money Ken would receive for filming the video. He was impressed.

The waiter's hand was cupping his basket, which promised a huge, black cock.

He fucked Ken in a doggy, with Ken on all fours on the bed, and the waiter mounted high on his tail and giving him as many thick inches as Langston had done the previous night. The camera was placed to record the fuck from both the rear and side, taking in the black cock mining Ken's hole and Ken's hand stroking his own cock.

After the waiter had finished Ken, Ken turned over on his back and said, "I hope that was worth whatever ever you were paid."

The waiter took a long look at Ken, and then rolled off the bed, padded around and turned off the cameras, and then grabbed Ken by the ankle and dragged him onto the floor. There, he put Ken under him, cameras off and turned away; covered him; mounted him; penetrated him; and screwed the hell out of him there again on the floor.

"Does that answer whether or not I enjoyed you?" the waiter said, rising off a moaning and mumbling Ken and strutting off to the shower.

When Ken was alone again and going to take a shower and dress for a New Year's Day walk back to Ted and Jeff's apartment because they had paid for the two-day holiday, he saw the wad of bills on the dresser. He counted out $1,000—$500 more than he was paid to let the black bull waiter top him on film. He felt glorious up to that point. He'd been fucked by a famous author. When he saw the extra money, though, it hit him that he was just a paid rent-boy to Clifford Langston. The man had fucked him and left him, without saying anything about seeing him again. And what he considered a souvenir of the night, the first night in the decade, was of a video of another man, a black bull, fucking Ken, not an invitation to a repeat of the night with Langston himself.

On New Year's Eve, he'd been fucked by a literary agent, a publisher, and a famous author. He'd started getting hooked up in the publishing industry just like his high school English teacher had told him he should do. But so far, the only one who had been screwed was him.

The black waiter had been a very nice interlude, though—more enjoyable as there was nothing to gain from him in the long term but the working of his big, black shaft. When Cliff had said Ken couldn't get enough of it, he hadn't been wrong.

Oh, well. He was here in New York to learn to be a writer—for as long as he could manage tuition and maintenance at Columbia.

And to these men he was, after all, just a rent-boy. He ached for them to think of him and respect him as a novelist in his own right. For now, it was primarily his body men were interested in. It was a start, though. He would have to earn the respect for anything else.

* * * *

"Did you give him good service?" Ted Sullivan and Ken Curtain were sitting across from each other on sofas jutting out from the wall of windows over West 53rd street in Ted's condo living room. Two black-clad servants were flitting around on the dining end of the large room, setting the table for lunch. The condo had been a mess when Ken had left with the best-selling author, Clifford Langston, not more than eleven hours previously. In the interim, it had been thoroughly cleansed and put back into Architectural Digest condition. Ken didn't think that Ted Sullivan, sitting across from him in a black silk robe with green dragons embroidered on it and not much else and smoking a cigarette had done much of the cleaning.

As they sat there, one of the rent-boys hired for the previous evening came stumbling down the staircase. He was dressed in his evening clothes but was a bit dishabille, like they'd been pulled off him roughly and had lain in a crumpled pile beside the bed during the night, which they very likely had. He looked over to Ted and Ken and gave Ted a little smile.

"Ciao bella," Ted called out. "I'll call for you sometime again." Ted and Ken watched the young man leave the apartment before they resumed their conversation.

The question of whether Langston had enjoyed Ken's attentions had appeared abruptly while they were talking about the weather and how big the crowd had been on Times Square for the New Year's celebration. Ken knew he was being asked about Clifford Langston.

"I don't know," he answered. "He took me to his club for dancing and fucking after we left Times Square."

"You knew, of course . . . before you left the apartment with him."

"Yes, I knew," Ken answered. You had made the situation quite clear. "And he made it quite clear too as soon as we left. It was fine."

"So, he didn't abandon you there and he did . . . how many times did he fuck you?"

"Four times, I think. The man's virile for his age. And he had a video done of a black waiter fucking me. But when I woke up in the room he'd engaged, he was gone. I don't know if—"

"If he fucked you four times then he was enjoying the servicing," Ted said.

They were interrupted at that point by Russ Jackson appearing at the balcony rail of the cross hall above them. He was naked and looked tousled. The condo was two stories, one long room, kitchen at one end and dining area at the other end on the first floor, with stairs, behind which were the powder room and the entrance foyer, going up to a landing on the second floor. The first floor living area rose two stories. There were two bedrooms upstairs, each with bath, one over the dining area and the other over the kitchen area. The outside wall was a sheet of glass ascending both stories.

Russ looked like he was contemplating coming downstairs to join Ted and Ken, but before he could decide, Jeff Malone came out of the master bedroom, which he and Ted shared, came in behind Russ, and encircled the young mixed-race theater arts student with his arms. Like Russ, Jeff was naked. He pulled Russ back into the master bedroom.

"You know that Jeff wants to fuck you too," Ted said. And then when Ken didn't respond, he said. "Perhaps another weekend, though. He appears to be occupied at the moment."

"You knew Mr. Langston was taking me from here for the night? That I wasn't coming back here last night for you—or Mr. Malone," Ken said, as they resumed their conversation. "He didn't need help getting to Times Square. He told me that you had given me to him for the night."

"Yes, that's right."

"So, you didn't like my servicing—of you, earlier yesterday?"

"You were fine, and will, I hope, be fine again later today. But when I contracted with your escort agency, it was for two days, for me to use as I wished. I wished to combine business with pleasure."

"Business?"

"Langston is a best-selling author who has put the word out that he's not fully satisfied with his current literary agent and publisher. I'm a literary agent. I'm trying to land him. He wanted a young man to fuck last night. I provided one. I covered your fee. I'm betting that Langston gave you a generous tip, as well."

"Yes, he did. Am I to give that to you?"

"No, of course not. You can keep it. And the one for this afternoon from Jason Mason, as well?"

"Jason Mason?"

"Yes, the editor with Harper and Row. I'm trying to influence him to take on a couple of my authors. He hinted strongly that he enjoyed you yesterday. I've invited him back for lunch today."

"So, I am to—?"

The doorbell rang and one of the black-clad servants moved toward the entrance to the condo and let Jason Mason in.

After lunch, Mason fucked the stuffing out of Ken in the condo's second bedroom. Ted Sullivan watched. The first position was one that Mason called The Flying Dutchman and had the mountain of a man sitting on the edge of the bed with Ken's ass attached to his crotch, skewered on his erection and Ken's torso cantilevered over the carpet beside the bed, with Mason fisting Ken's wrists to hold Ken in place jutting out from Mason's body. Ken's legs were streaming back around the fat man's hips, and Ken's toes were pressed into the bedspread, providing leverage for Ken to rock on the buried cock.

In a second taking, Mason lay on the bed like a beached whale, and Ken rode his cock in a cowboy position from all angles until he was exhausted and then and only then did the publisher's editor cream him deep with his cum.

Ken lay, exhausted, on his belly, on the bed, one arm dangling over the side of the bed, as he heard Mason and Ted talking and laughing downstairs as Mason, obviously pleased and asking questions about the authors Ted was trying to peddle to him, was leaving the apartment.

When Mason was gone, Ted appeared in the bedroom, smiled and said, "That went well," stripped down, and, as Ken moaned, mounted the bed and then mounted Ken's ass and took his pleasure.

Ken had lost track of how many times—by how many men—he'd been fucked in the previous twenty-four hours. Welcome to the 1990s. He had an inkling that his life would now be like this until his body had lost its attraction to men. It was a good thing he liked having a man's cock inside him.

Ken had gotten his slice of extra benefit from the day beyond the hefty fee he'd be getting from the escort agency. At lunch Mason had offered him a part-time job at the publishing house, apparently not realizing that there was nothing he need do to get Ken into bed with him.

"I'm allowed a few part-time assistants and I can choose them myself, within reason," he'd said. "You would pass muster with the finance office because you're in a creative writing program at Columbia."

"I have a job and I have to concentrate on my studies," Ken had said.

"You won't learn nearly as much about the business in a classroom than you would in a publishing house, even while doing fetch-it work. Half days two or three days a week would give you experience your fellow students in your program would open their veins to have."

Ken had no trouble understanding it wasn't his veins he'd have to open—it was his legs and his passage. Mason had made quite clear that there would be long lunch hours involved and that his apartment was a short walk from the Harper and Row offices.