Need to Be Needed

Two young men bracketed Temple at his table. One was naked and had his face plastered to the side of Temple's head. The other, as good as naked, sat on the other side of Temple, who was only in silky boxer briefs, and had Temple's cock pulled through the fly of the briefs and was stroking it. As was obvious from Temple's reputation, the man was hung. From what I could see, a thick vein running the length of it, I could readily believe that it would be modeled for a dildo.

Despite the attention he was getting from the two young men, Temple had his eyes on me. When he was sure I was looking, he even smiled directly at me and cupped his package—a sure declaration of intent in the bathhouse. I shuddered and felt myself going hard.

It had been a euphoric four weeks since I'd been fronting the Phil Gauteau Band at the Chelsea Bathhouse. I had made a splash, yielding great reviews in all of the underground newspapers. I felt that now men were coming to the shows at the bathhouse to see and listen to me.

He wasn't the first one declaring he'd come to fuck me. And there had been patrons who had done just that, leaving me fat tips. I had never received action like this before. I decided I craved almost constant cock.

Having Temple sitting there, with his eyes on me, was some sort of peak I had achieved. Temple was the biggest catch of them all—not just at the Chelsea Bathhouse, but in New York and beyond.

I needed the boost. I'd gotten two whammies earlier in the day. I'd walked in on Zane fucking a woman in our room that afternoon. In the last four weeks, life had looked up for both of us. We both had real beds in the room now. But it also was becoming obvious that we were on the cusp of a change in living arrangements. We each could afford better now. But we hadn't had the conversation about whether we would relocate together or go our separate ways at this point.

We had had the conversation about bringing others back to the room, however. I might have managed if I'd caught him in the room with another man, but I still wasn't comfortable with his bisexuality.

The woman was considerably older than he was, but still was trim and with shapely legs that went on for miles. Zane's pelvis was inserted between those legs and he was holding one of them raised from her body, which was arched back, her head hanging over the side of the bed and her long, straight, blonde hair swishing on the floor to the rhythm of the fuck. From the door into the room, I had a clear shot of his "foot long" taking long strokes inside her. I turned and left. This wasn't what we'd agreed too. I realized that this probably was the director of his play and he was just solidifying his run in the part, but I thought we had an agreement that neither of us would bring someone else back to the room.

At the same time, I realized that this was his room, not mine. He didn't need anything from me—certainly not permission to bring anyone to the room to fuck. He had brought me to the room to fuck. It had been my need that had brought us together. It was obvious, though, that the time for new digs had arrived—and that they would need to be separate digs. The thought depressed me; I had been avoiding it.

And then, when I had arrived at the bathhouse and sought Phil Gauteau out, I found him in his dressing room, fucking a young man on a divan. Later, when we rehearsed, and the young man showed up standing behind the keyboard, I realized that I no longer was the last person Gauteau had auditioned for a job in the band.

Inevitably, I was being moved down a notch and would be receiving less attention than before from that beer can dick I now had learned to crave—if at all. I just hoped that the next young man Gauteau auditioned wasn't another singer. My reviews gave me some hope, though, that he wouldn't be releasing me any time soon.

When I returned from a break and started into a new set of songs, I noticed that Temple no longer was at the table in the front row. If legend held, he was off fucking one of the young men I'd seen him with and had the other one in reserve to take home.

I was wrong, though. When I left the stage door that evening, a Cadillac coupe was taking up most of the room in the alley. As I passed it, the driver's side window rolled down. I saw the face of Cole Temple through the open window.

"Get in," was all he said.

Feeling numb and hopped up at the same time, I went around to the passenger side of the car and climbed in. I had reached a milestone. The famous novelist, Cole Temple, was taking me home to his bed.

Temple lived in an oversized penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park. We rode up in the private elevator to the top without a word. Inside the foyer, he turned to me and said, "The bedroom is in that direction. Take a shower and clean yourself out," and I walked, feeling like I was walking on air, down a long hallway to what had to be the master bedroom.

I wasn't all the way down the hall, though, before I heard his doorbell ring and him opening the door to a large, boisterous gaggle of people. They streamed into his living room with much noise.

I took a shower, padded out to the bedroom, which was dominated by a bed that had to be nearly twice the size of a king-sized bed, and slipped between the covers. I could hear a raucous party going on down the hall—a party I wasn't being invited to.

At length, I dozed off, only to be awakened in the dark sometime later, with Temple pulling up the sheets, climbing into the bed on top of me. He pushed my legs apart with his knees and stuffed a pillow under the small of my back. He covered me close from above, and, half awake, I began to gasp and groan as his cock forced itself inside me. It was as all-consuming as the legends foretold.

He was both Phil Gauteau and Zane in one—both thick and long. I writhed under him, moaning and begging him to go slow, as his cock relentlessly dug deeper and deeper, ignoring my wishes completely. It was all about him. Cole Temple taking his pleasure on the body of a young man. On one level, being a submissive, I reveled in not being given any consideration. Struggle was useless. He was too big and strong for me, and what resistance I did try to give he took as a coy game and enjoyed breaking down, grabbing my wrists and forcing my arms above my head as he drove the cock ever more vigorously.

For a forty-year-old man, he had remarkable stamina and vigor. He fucked me for nearly an hour straight. I ejaculated twice while he was pumping me deep.

When he came, in a flood, I realized that condoms were not in his repertoire.

I was still lying there, panting, with him going flaccid, but still big meat, inside of me, him laying full length on top of me, asleep and snoring.

I woke in the light of morning, on my belly, Temple lying full length on top of me, with his dick pumping me deep again.

I'd never had it so thick and long together. With a moan, I raised up on my knees a bit to give him even deeper purchase and began to move my pelvis in rhythm with his thrusts.

Once again he fucked me for more than a half hour, not finishing before I had ejaculated into the sheets and collapsed onto the bed.

He rolled off me and sat on the side of the bed. "I'm taking a shower. There should be everything you need in the kitchen to make breakfast. I prefer regular coffee in the morning to decaf. I trust you can cook."

My mother had died in childbirth when I was ten and I had two younger brothers, so, yes, I could cook.

Naked and hobbling, bowlegged, I padded out to the living area while he was in the shower. The living room was a mess from the party the night before. I couldn't resist bringing some order to it—replacing cushions on couches, uprighting lamps, and collecting butt-filled ashtrays—on my way to the kitchen.

All I could think of while I was moving about was how he had pinned me to the bed with that monster cock of his—and how I ached for him to do it again.

When he came out, his beautiful body only half covered with a robe that was gaping open, with him scratching his balls as he moved, he gave the living room an appreciative look. While breakfast was simmering, I'd had time to tidy up even more.

It was obvious that he appreciated the cheese and mushroom omelet I'd worked up as well.

"I demand absolute quiet between 10:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.," he said as I watched him eat the omelet. If he wondered what or when I'd eat breakfast, it didn't occur to him to ask. He lived up to the legend of his self-centeredness. "That's when I'll be in my study writing. Phones turned off; no answering the door. Tiptoe around beyond my hearing."

"Yes, sir," I said, confused on why he was telling me this. What did I care what his daily routine was? His legend held that, although he took a young man home every night, it was a different young man every night. I'd had my Temple fuck—and a fuck to remember it was.

"I'm lunching at the Plaza today. Expecting a plumber, though. The household money is in the kitchen drawer by the stove. Don't tip him lavishly. Don't tip him at all if he leaves grease on the floor."

"Yes sir." So I was expected to stay until the plumber had come and gone.

"You can use the bedroom behind the kitchen," he said, "although I want you waiting in my bed every night unless I tell you otherwise."

So, he expected me to be here beyond the plumber. He wanted me in his bed again. I suppressed a moan as I went hard again.

I probably should have asked him what the hell was going on here. But he'd pushed my buttons. I was a total submissive. As long as he told me what I was to do and didn't ask my opinion, that's what I'd happily do. It aroused me. It made me go hard. There was no hiding from him that it did.

"Do you give a good blow job?" he asked, brushing his robe more open as he sat on the stool at the kitchen counter. He was in magnificent erection.

"Um, I . . ."

"Well, don't just stand there. Suck me off," he said, pulling me to him with a grip on my arm and forcing me down on my knees before him.

Afterward, after he'd told me to hold off twice because he didn't want to come then, he guided me into the living room, turned me over the arm of a sofa on my belly, and fucked me hard for some twenty minutes, cupping my chin and arching my torso back cruelly as he mined my passage deep and slathered my passage again with his cum.

He finished at nearly the strike of 10:00 a.m. "Remember, not a peep out of you until after 1:00 p.m.," he said. "My luncheon appointment is for 1:45. There's a number for a grocery service on the refrigerator door. Call for whatever ingredients you'll need for supper."

He left me there, draped over the sofa arm and moaning from the thickness, length, stamina, vigor, and prodigious cum of him.

I didn't return to the Chelsea Bathhouse that night—or the next—or ever again.

Although he didn't live up to his "every night" legend after that, he didn't completely change his spots. He still went to the Chelsea Bathhouse some nights—unabashedly telling me he did—and fucked a young man, a new one each night, there—again having no embarrassment in telling me he had—and he still occasionally brought a young man home to fuck—rousting me out of his bed to do it, but bringing me back after he was finished and had sent the young man home and with me waking every morning in his bed with his dick pinning me to the mattress.

He also frequently held court in the living room to a gaggle of raucous guests before coming to me at night, and he never invited me to the party.

I would have thought that I was just his housekeeper if he didn't keep me so well fucked. I wondered what he'd done for a housekeeper and cook before me, but I never had the nerve to ask.

* * * *

"What have we become, Cole?" I asked, beyond frustration. Not at all comfortable, at least at this moment, of where Temple had taken our relationship after ten years.

"You didn't say no to it," he retorted.

"When have I ever said no? When have you ever shown the least regard for what I think or want? Do you realize I've been with you for ten years now and you've never let me out of the bedroom to meet any of your friends?"

"You couldn't hold your own with any of my friends," Cole spat out. "They would make mincemeat of you. They had razors for tongues; I've protected you from them. You are fulfilling the role you can handle. I would toss you out otherwise."

He was standing beside the bed, nude. The young black man who had been in bed with us and who I'd just sucked off as Cole fucked me missionary style at the side of the bed, rolled off the other side of the bed and headed for the bathroom.

We had come a long way in our sexual activity since the early years.

"Toss me out? Just like that? Like I meant nothing to you? Like I haven't given up everything to cater to your every need?"

"You're getting what you want, what you need."

"I don't think so," I answered, angrily. I started to rise from the bed, but he pushed me back down with a fist to my sternum.

"This is what you're good for. This is what you stay here for," he retorted, wagging his cock at me. "Here, suck this. You want to." Grabbing a fistful of hair he jerked my head forward to his groin.

Sobbing, I opened my mouth to his cock and took as much as it in as I could, gagging, as he released my hair only to grab my head between his hands and face fuck me.

"Here, up on the bed," he commanded, as he pulled out of my mouth and scrambled up on the bed onto his back. Pulling at me, he demanded, "You want my cock. Ride it. Fuck yourself."

Still sobbing, I dutifully threw a leg over his hip, positioned the head of his cock on my entrance, descended on the shaft, and started rising and falling on the thick, long cock that I couldn't get enough of.

The black man padded back out of the bathroom.

"You want Nate's cock too, don't you? Be honest. Tell me. You live for the cocks."

"Yes, yes, I want Nate's cock too," I answered, with a sob. And I did. I'd just passed thirty and nothing had become of my life other than serving Cole Temple's needs. And I'd done it all for his cock. I wasn't getting any younger. He seemed suspended in time. He'd started bringing more young men home—and then had moved to bringing them into bed with me, moving from them fucking me in sequence to sharing my ass passage. How soon would it be before he pushed me out his bed, and his apartment, and his life? And I'd given the entire ten years to him, my chance at a singing career—any career—had been choked off in the first night he'd brought me home.

How much longer would he keep me in his home?

"You want us both together, Nate and me, don't you?"

"Yes," I answered, fearful of what would happen the first time I said no. And this wasn't the first time in the last year I'd said yes to two cocks at once.

"Nate, catch," Cole commanded, as the well-muscled and hung black man came up behind me and straddled Cole's legs. What Nate caught was a condom packet. In the years since Temple had first fucked me, we'd come face to face with the threat of AIDS. Unwilling to declare monogamy when I was willing to, he bowed to the needs for protection, although neither of us were pleased with the loss of the feel of barebacking. Nate had fucked me earlier in the night, as Cole watched and beat his own meat. Increasingly, Cole had wanted variety and had wanted me to participate—and to provide him entertainment.

I cried out as the black cock started working its way inside me above Temple's already-buried staff. Nate wrapped his brown arms around my chest and his lips went to the hollow of my neck.

"Such a sweet, tight hole," he murmured, which took me back years to what Phil Gauteau had said about my channel's reception of his black cock.

"Oh, God, oh shit," I muttered, shuddering at the invasion of the second cock, but managing it. "Fuck me, fuck me." How much longer would any man want to fill me like this? How could I deny that I wanted this as long as possible. I couldn't. "Fuck me hard, both of you," I muttered, with a moan. "Yes, fuck me, YOU STUDS!"

Temple laughed. "Yes, you want it. It's what you're here for," as, moaning, I began to rise and fall on the two buried cocks.

"Yes, shit, work me, work my ass!" Someday I would have to do without. But not today.

* * * *

"So, here you are at last, Mike."

I felt arms going around me in the shadow of the wings of an auditorium stage. Cole Temple was on stage, sitting in a wing-back chair, and conversing with a microphone with another political pundit on the implications of the recent national elections. The auditorium was nearly full. People always came out to hear Temple. He was known to be not only scathing and controversial in his pronouncements but on the mark as well.

"Zane," I exclaimed, turning my face back to the man who was standing close behind me. "My God, I haven't seen you in years."

"Not since you disappeared from the face of the earth," Zane said. "Although I and others knew where you were—that you were being held prisoner in Cole Temple's apartment."

"Hardly a prisoner," I answered.

"What would you call it? One day you were the toast of the town as a singer for the Phil Gauteau Band, and the next day you were gone, only to be found in Temple's bed. Nate Jackson tells me that he and Cole fucked you together. I might add that one day you were rooming with me and the next day you were gone."

"I'm sorry. Events took over."

"What happened to your life, Mike? Is Temple's cock worth giving up everything for?"

"It was my choice," I said, defensively.

"Was it? Was it really, Mike? I know Temple. I know it's all about him and he has the power over people to make it all about him."

"It's a good cock," I answered, trying for flippant. "Even after ten years. It's a great cock. it's the greatest. His cock is legendary. They've made a dildo from it."

"And I think more men have ridden the real one than the rubber one," Zane shot back. He calmed down immediately, though and spoke in a softer voice, "I've missed you, Mike."

"Have you really? Your career really took off. I thought you were in Hollywood now."

"I am, but I'm in town for a premier. I'm footloose tonight, though, and I have a hotel room nearby. How about a toss in the sheets for old time's sake?"

"I can't. Cole will need me after he's finished with this program."

"Do you really think so? I bet it doesn't matter to him a jot that you're here. He's preening for the public. Just look at him out there, in his element. I heard him propositioning a stage hand before he went onstage. Are the two of them going to fuck you together tonight?"

I just grunted in answer. I wondered which stage hand he meant. There were hunky ones and there were some not so presentable. Some were thuggish. I couldn't help but shudder at the prospect.

"I bet you could come away with me and he won't even know you're gone," Zane continued. "Does anyone else fuck you now, Mike? I know you need regular attention."

"Yes, of course."

"Anyone else beside who Temple brings to bed? I know that he's become increasingly jaded over the years. Anyone you've chosen for yourself?"

I couldn't answer that in the affirmative. "I'll need to be here when he's finished with the program," I said. But there was a catch to my voice. Zane was running his hands over my body in the shadow of the stage wings. He was clutching my cock through the thin material of my trousers.

"You're hard. You're hard for me, Mike."

I actually was hard for the image he'd brought up of a stage hand coming home with us, but I didn't say that. I let Zane continue his silky seduction. It seemed important to him, and it had been years since a man had tried to seduce me. I could be hard for him, so it wasn't really wrong.