The Jacket

Yes, you damn well can "ficken" me, I thought. And then, what the hell, I said it too.

I took him back to my apartment and he "fickened" me all afternoon . . . and he was damn good at it.

* * * *

Jacket Found

I was walking down the street from my apartment in Paris to the café where I'd been twice lucky in getting laid. I was having a horny day, having taken the morning off from the international export firm where I'd recently been reassigned to Paris from the Mediterranean to attend a meeting of the models in a coming runway production. I'd come to Paris because I also was trying to make it as a male model and this was a center for that industry. I had a show coming up of swimwear, and we'd been shown and had tried on what we'd wear. What we'd wear was close to nothing, and all of us were horny from looking at each other before we left. Unfortunately, most of the male models were submissives, like I was, so I had to go shopping for relief, if I was going to get any.

I was hoping to pick up another young hunk at the café for a dalliance this afternoon.

Instead, as I passed a barber shop, a strong hand reached out, clamped on my wrist, and pulled me inside the shop. Before I had any idea what was happening, I was in the embrace of a big bear of a man, who planted a kiss on my lips—and not just a friendly peck. He gave me tongue.

I pulled away from him, feeling bewildered and looking bewildered too, I was sure. "Rene. What was that for?" I asked.

It wasn't like I didn't know the man. I'd come to him to cut my hair twice since I'd been in Paris. He did a great job and I was quite careful about my appearance and what I wore. He also gave great shoulder and neck massages in the barber's chair that made me purr.

I'll have to say he gave a great kiss too, and he was a handsome brute of a man—tall; hirsute, with dark hair, graying at the temple; and thick bodied without being fat really. I'd gone hard in the chair when he gave me the shoulder and neck massages—and the temples too.

"You kissed me earlier this week . . . when I gave you back the jacket you had left in the shop," he said. "You didn't do that just because I found your jacket and returned it, did you?" His accent when speaking English was pretty heavy, but he must have a lot of English-speaking clients, because his English was quite good—certainly better than any French I could manage, having found on short notice that I was coming to France.

In fact, that's exactly why I thought I did it—why I had kissed him. Because I was so happy to see my expensive jacket again that I was afraid was lost forever. The kiss was impromptu, not that I hadn't been thinking about doing it. He had very sensitive hands and an intoxicating male scent, and he was very close to me when he was cutting my hair. I was highly sexed. I looked at every man I encountered with a "would I?" or "wouldn't I?" comparison going on in my mind. Rene, although older than me by at least fifteen years and a big bear of a man, was one I'd already categorized as "I would."

"It was an expensive jacket. I'd looked everywhere for it. I was just delighted that it had been found."

"And you're grateful that I saved it for you and gave it back to you?" Rene said, turning and looking at me expectantly. He'd been busy flipping the shop sign to "closed" and lowering the blinds.

"Yes, of course I was grateful—am grateful—to you, Rene."

"And you only kissed me because I found your jacket and returned it to you?"

"Yes . . . well . . ." I had to pause. Was that the only reason I'd kissed him? Hadn't I thought about kissing him before? Hadn't I thought about doing more than that with him? I'd been so randy since I'd arrived in Paris. I'd just earlier this week taken French and German studs home and let them fuck me on back-to-back days. That's where I was going today—back to the café where I'd picked them up, with the hope of picking up another hung stud. I'd been looking at all of the men as possible sex partners. I hadn't been put off when I'd thought of Rene as a sex partner. When he'd been cutting my hair, I'd taken glances at his basket, wondering if he was as big there as his feet looked and as I knew his hands to be.

Rene took the pause to mean more than I had meant it to mean at that point. "You kissed me because you like me, I think. You go hard in my chair when I'm touching you. I've seen you checking my crotch out. You're—what is the word?—your penis—same as French, I think, your pénis—likes my massages. It gets big for me. You like me, yes, I think. I like you too."

"Well, yes, I like you fine, Rene," I admitted. I saw no reason to deny that. And then my mind started to whirl. Wasn't I on the street today to find a stud to cover me? Did I really have to go all the way to the café to get that going? I took another hard look at Rene. He was older, but he was a big brute—who knew just how big? And he might be big where it counted most. And he seemed to be panting for me.

"Then maybe you would like to go with me, lay under me." Rene said. "You tell me you have a modeling job."

"Not my main job, Rene. Just something I'm doing on the side. But I don't see—"

"All French models are whores. Everyone knows that. Women models lay down for men and men models lay down for men. I mean no disrespect. Whores are fine in Paris," Rene said, and the way he said it made it sound like it must be true. I'll have to admit that I'd often thought the same myself. "The men on the street say you are a whore—that you go to the café to find men to take back to your apartment. The men in the street who like men all say they want to fuck you. Jacques, the student, says he's fucked you and that you fuck good, like a whore. He told his German friend about you, and the German said you were a good fuck too. He said you were a good whore. The Italian bicycle boy says he is in heat for you too. He described the sexy young foreigner in the fancy wool and leather jacket, and I knew in an instant he was talking about you."

"The Italian bicycle boy?" I murmured, my eyes glazing over. Hmm, the Italian bicycle boy—who could that . . .? Well, yes, I'd let him fuck me. Well, shit, I thought. I'd heard that Paris was just a small town covering a lot of territory. So everyone in Paris does know everyone else's business?

"I'm not a whore, Rene. I just do the modeling on the side. I'm a respectable businessman." That sounded a bit hollow even to me. Could I be a whore? I'd been fucked by two different strangers already this week and here I was, out looking for more of it. But I wasn't being paid for it. Maybe that made me just a slut.

"A respectable businessman who likes men and whose pénis gets big when I give him a shoulder massage," Rene said, and then gushed on before I could decide what to say to that. "That is fine in France. Respectable businessmen are expected to have a piece on the side. Some have women. Some have men. It makes no difference—well, little difference. It is still best to be the one who gives cock. But there have to be women and men who take it too. I like men too. I give cock. I like you. I've heard that you take cock. When you are in my chair, I think it's clear that you like me too—that you would take my cock. I have a very nice cock. When I returned your jacket and you kissed me, I had no question that you liked me a lot. I think very much that you would like to be under me—that you would like to have some of this cock." He took my hand and plastered it to his basket. He was hard and huge . . . and, yes, I'd like something like that very much. It was what I'd come looking for this afternoon. I was looking for it from a younger man, but . . .

"You like men this big inside you? Yes?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, involuntarily, but it was the truth. And although he'd taken his hand away from holding mine to his crotch, I didn't take my hand away.

He cupped the back of my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. I didn't try to draw away from that either. And the kiss was quite sensual. When he pulled back, our eyes locked and I couldn't hide that I was melting to him.

"I have a lot of experience with men. I will cover you good. You told me when you were last in my chair that you had a model job coming up. In less than a week I think. Swimsuits, you said. You said you'd have to shave your body for it."

Had I said that? Had I been so open to Rene about my life while he was cutting my hair? I must have been for him to know this. And, yes, I was a bit worried about having to shave myself all over. I'd done it before, but it was a chore and had its dangers when I couldn't afford to have any nicks.

"Yes, but—" I responded, but not with a lot of conviction.

"I have a deal for you," he said. Even as he spoke, though, he was unbuckling my trousers and pulling my zipper down. He was that sure of himself. And that was the key to me—a man who would take command. "I will shave you—all over—and give you a good massage. I have a table in the room behind the shop. I'll do a good job. In exchange, you will let me fuck you. I will do a good job of that too." He already was encasing my cock in his hand and stroking it.

He fucked me in the barber's chair, the chair reclined back, me slouched down in the chair with my legs spread and hooked on the arms of the chair. He was standing on the foot rest, crouched over me, his hands gripping the arm rest under my knees, and fucking me with a very nice, thick, long cock.

It's what I'd come out to find this afternoon, if not where I had thought I'd find it. And I was going to get a nice body massage and a free all-over shave, as well, a task that had been facing me and I was antsy about doing myself.

What a deal. What a cock. What a fuck! He was a power fucker, hard, deep thrusts. Just what I was after.

* * * *

Rene hadn't lied to me. He did have a back room with a massage table in it. I nearly melted when I saw that the table had wrist and ankle restraints on it and I turned to him as he was taking out the lotions and razors he was going to use and gave him a pleading look.

"You want to have these used? You want the full body massage before the body shave? And you want me to tie you down and have my way with you in the process?"

He'd already fucked me in his barber's chair—sucked my cock as I sucked his, eaten me out, held me close, taken me hard and deep, licked his cum off my ass. There wasn't much in the way sexual intimacy we hadn't experienced already. And he was looking like he might shoot off in excitement at the prospect of controlling me to that degree.

"Yes, please."

"You are a whore," he muttered, with a laugh. "On your back on the table." It was an authoritative command now. He'd gotten the message that I liked to be dominated. "I see you are hard for me again—as I am hard for you. Get up on the table. Now."

Giving me a sensual, deep-tissue massage after he had restrained my ankles and wrists at the four corners of the table, being careful to give me enough in the leads to writhe under his attentions, which I did in no uncertain terms, he concluded the "on my back" portion of the massage by stroking me off, and, eventually, blowing me to an explosion while he penetrated me with his fingers and worked my prostate. The "on my stomach" portion ended with him straddling my hips and riding my ass to his own second ejaculation.

We rested and I, still on my back and bound to the table, moaned as he explained what would happen in the body shave.

"Not my head, please," I whimpered.

"No, not your fine head of hair. Everything else, though. Off with the hair."

The foam used was edible, and he'd be cleaning the cream off with his tongue as he went along. As I lost body hair, he'd be sucked, I'd be sucked, and I'd be fucked again. At the end, he promised, I'd have a hairless body other than on the head, and I'd be sexually exhausted.

That all sounded quite nice to me.

Whereas before, during the full body massage, I had strained against the bonds and, at his direction, tried, ineffectually, to struggle against him, I knew that now, when he shaved me, I wanted to be as docile and relaxed as possible. That wasn't easy when, from the start, he hovered over me from the top of the table, with my head arched over the end, my mouth open to take the whole of his cock deep into my throat while he creamed my chest, shaved it, licked the cream off, and slowly face fucked me. It was only I who was being shaved clean. Rene was hirsute. His curly pubes tickled my nose as I took him deep in my throat.

He took extra time cleaning up the cream in my armpits after he'd shaved them and had me groaning as he hovered over me in reverse, shaved my pubes and my thighs while I sucked his cock, and then sucked mine in a sixty-nine after tonguing off the cream from my crotch and thighs.

"You may have noticed I hadn't finished around your nipples nor had I done your face," he whispered, as he climbed off of me. "I saved those for last."

"Stubble on the face should be fine for the catwalk," I answered. But I admit I hadn't noticed that he hadn't finished my chest.

"I like to do a complete job."

"I've noticed," I responded. He'd done a complete job on me twice already.

"And you are mine to do with as I wish," he growled. "I have you tied up. I could do anything to you I wanted to." To make his point, he cupped my scrotum and rolled the testis in them around while I writhed within the bindings and emitted yips and precum. Then, humming, he very delicately shaved my balls while I held very, very still.

I moaned for him on that assertion of control.

He came back up onto the table below me, on his knees; lifted, bent, and spread my legs; and scooted into me, running his knees under my buttocks, lifting my pelvis. He slapped his cock on my belly and thighs for a few seconds, making it go rock hard.

"Are you—?" I started to ask.

"Yes, I am," he answered. And then he did. His cock invaded my channel for the third time and he slow stroked me while I lay as quiet as I could and he wielded the razor on my face and the rest of my chest. He licked the remaining cream off, threw the razor to the side, grabbed my hips with his hands, and fucked me vigorously and with a fury that had me bouncing around under him, straining at the restraints again, and crying out in passion and ecstasy, while he fucked me to a mutual explosion.

Afterward, as he, off the table, glided his hands over my body while we both cooled down, he said, "Such a beautiful body. As long as you maintain your beauty, you will be desirable to men. You can make good money with this body."

"Become a prostitute? A whore?" I asked.

"As I told you, to be a prostitute in France is not a disgrace. To have a body like this and not let others worship it—that would be a tragedy in France. And as far as being a whore"—here he gave me an exaggerated shrug—"you can buy many nice things—like that fancy jacket you thought you'd lost—if you are going to be giving it away anyway, and the deal you made with me was a full body shave for fucking. You have already whored yourself. Do you feel any worse for having done so?"

I couldn't disagree with him. The deal had been very satisfying. Just the other day I'd considered paying for sex that had been far less exotic and satisfying—well, no, the sex the other day had been very satisfying—than this.

"Ah, so I think it's not too bad you feel about being a whore," Rene said and laughed. "I will make another deal. I will cut your hair and give you massages and body shaves whenever you wish it in exchange for letting me use your body when I am in heat for you. You will be a whore if you agree to that. Deal?"

"Deal," I said. And, no, I didn't feel any different in thinking of myself as a whore.

I almost forgot my fancy jacket again at the door, and Rene had to tell me to remain there and went back for it. I rewarded him with a kiss for finding and returning it to me just as I had the first time. This time he copped a feel, though. Our relationship certainly had progressed—and for the better, I thought.

In the downstairs vestibule of my apartment building, I had to stop momentarily as another resident moved his bicycle out of the way. It was the young Italian hunk who lived in the apartment at the back on the ground floor. He was wearing tight bicycle shorts and a pullover shirt, pads on his elbows and knees, leather riding gloves that left the fingers exposed, and a bicycle helmet.

The Italian bicycle boy. It was, I was sure, the one Rene said was in heat for me.

He was a hunk and the look he gave me there in the vestibule more than hinted that he was, indeed, in heat for me. I smiled, reached a hand forward, and traced the line of his dick in the tight Spandex shorts. He smiled back, making no move to disengage my hand—rather, he thrust his pelvis forward, into my hand—and going noticeably—and quite satisfactorily—hard.

I didn't have to know how to speak Italian and he didn't have to know how to speak English.

I turned and moved up the steps to my apartment, two flights up. The Italian boy followed me, close behind me. On the landing, he cupped one of my butt cheeks with a hand. I wiggled my butt for him as I climbed the remaining steps. His hand slipped deeper between my thighs, and he was palming my basket from the rear.

Inside my apartment door, he reached out, gently took my fancy jacket off me, pulled me to him, and roughly took my mouth into a kiss while pulling down the zipper of my trousers.

There would be no money exchanged. I didn't have to be a whore all of the time. Some of the time I could be just a young man with a toned body and fine face who needed and wanted another young, handsome man's cock inside him.

One thing I thought of, though, when I was on my back on my bed and Sergio was on top of me, his fists trapping my wrists over my head, showing every glorious sign of wanting to take me hard and rough and his thick cock already pushing up inside me, thick and demanding. I must remember to wear my fancy, attention-getting jacket on the street more. And maybe, just maybe, if I was careful and clever enough, I could manage, on occasion, to lose the jacket where I knew it would be found and returned to me by a hung stud.

I was already scheming to hang it on Sergio's bicycle, which he kept in the apartment house vestibule as a signal that I wanted him again. And, god, as he pounded me hard, I was sure I would want him again . . . and again and again.