What Friends Do

If Ropo had come with Manon and was staying here as well, that would indicate a closer relationship than normal for employer and driver. Ropo had said the two shared. A chill of anticipation went down my back.

I picked out one of the other bedrooms and unloaded the clothes I'd been given downstairs.

At nearly 5:00 p.m., I was sitting on a living room sofa facing north and picking out monuments over near the Washington Mall through the plateglass window. As suggested, I was wearing only the cobalt-blue silk sleeping shorts, which fit me, but were designed to ride low on the hips and high above the knees.

I turned my head toward the door to the apartment when the lock was turned and it opened and then I sucked in breath as Christopher Manon entered. He was all that his press photographs promised: tall; slender; perfectly proportioned; gray hair; slight beard; everything perfectly trimmed; elegantly dressed; carrying himself like the model that he obviously had been throughout his life.

He smiled, said hello, and noted in a honey-toned voice, "You must be my date for tonight. Cole Stevens, is it? I'm Christopher Manon." A patrician English accent. The type that was used in TV commercials to assure buyers that the product was both sophisticated and worked a charm.

You most certainly are, I thought, and stood up from the sofa, as he moved across the room toward me, giving me an appraising scrutiny as he moved, his smile indicating that he liked what he saw—which I assumed he would. As a modern ballet dancer, I kept myself finely honed. It was quite an effort to do so.

"I see you've settled in. I hope you like the clothes that were picked out for you."

"Yes, thanks, I did . . . I do," I answered.

"And Ropo tells me he fucked you in the back of the limousine and that you're quite a good lay."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I remained silent, slightly off kilter. Manon didn't seem to notice or to care that I hadn't responded, though. He continued speaking in a matter-of-fact tone.

"It's been a busy day so far. We'll have to be on our way at seven. But we have time for a drink. I'm having red wine. What would you like?"

"Just sparkling water, if you have it," I answered. "If not, just ice water, thank you."

"Ah, I do suppose that a dancer is like a model—that you have to continually watch your figure."

He said that while he was in the kitchen getting the drinks. When he came out, he handed me a glass of sparkling water, took a sip of his wine, and sat down close beside me on the sofa.

"And I could continually watch your figure as well. Very good shape you're in, I'm happy to say. Do you mind if a check what I'm paying for?"

"No, of course not," I answered in a breathy voice. It was so matter of fact. I'd never actually taken the role of call boy or paid escort, although I'd occasionally been paid for sex. I wondered if the john was always so straightforward and bald in these sorts of arrangements. Once again, I tried to see Jay in this position—and couldn't. I could see him bolting for the door. This was especially so because, with the wine glass in one hand, Manon had the other high up the inside of one of the legs of my sleeping shorts, weighing my balls and fondling my engorging cock.

"Nice, very nice," he said. He leaned his face over into mine and, getting the message, I moved my lips to meet his. The red wine was luscious on his lips. I regretted that I hadn't asked for that myself. It didn't really matter; I was getting the essence of the taste of it now. The kiss otherwise was very nice too. Slow and sensual, his tongue parting my lips but then only invading a fraction of an inch, flicking a bit, promising more. His hand was stroking my cock, which was filling out fast to his touch.

But then he had pulled away, sat up, and took another swig of his wine. I let my body, twisted on the sofa, recline back on the arm of the sofa.

He sat there, making small talk, asking me about the ballet and how it was like working there and whether I'd ever modeled before—and whether I acted the escort often, being visibly pleased to hear that I was new to it. Just a normal conversation, if you didn't take into account that he was slowly jacking me off inside the silk sleeping shorts.

When I came close to coming, I told him I would if he didn't stop. "I want you to," he said, simply, and then when, with a jerk and a sigh, I did, he continued stroking me, slathering my staff with my own cum and giving it slippery strokes. But it was a signal, I guess for his next question. "Did you bring the medical certificate?"

"Yes, it's on the dining room table," I answered. Weinstein had made me get a complete checkup, saying that Manon would want to bareback.

He sat there, looking down at me for maybe a full minute, both of us holding place other than his hand that still was stroking my cock inside the sleeping shorts. He had a thumb on the bulb and I was producing precum again, which he was spreading around on the cock head. The front of the silky shorts was slick and wet with cum.

"You look so innocent, so inviting, lying there like that," he said.

"I can be anything you want," I answered.

Letting loose of my cock, he put his wine glass down and stood. "I'm going downstairs and shower and get naked. When I come back I'll take you for a spin. We have time before we have to be ready for the program. Ropo said you were cleaned out at the spa. Correct?"

Still matter-of-fact, almost clinical. "Yes."

When he was gone, I sat up and drained his wine glass, looking hungrily at the kitchen counter to see of the bottle was out and to gauge if I could sneak a refill before Manon got back. He was going to fuck me before the program and then, undoubtedly, again afterward. He was going to make me work for the $1,500.

An hour and forty-five minutes before pickup now, I thought. But I was wrong about fucking me twice.

I was lying across the cushions of the sofa when he came back, my back against the arm, my legs bent and spread, my feet on the seat of the sofa. I gasped when he came back, fully naked. His body was beautiful. Not beautiful in the powerful, primitive way Ropo's was, but like a classic Italian statue. Perfectly formed on a tall, thin frame. Full chest, but narrow hips. A dick that wasn't thick, but was impossibly long. And half erect.

He caught me eyeing his cock. "I was thinking about you," he said in the smooth voice of his. "And what position to ride you in the first time."

He looked at his now-empty wine glass and gave a little laugh, but rather than refill it, he came down on top of me between my legs. I hadn't seen the velvet handcuffs before then, but I felt his hands gliding up my arms, forcing my arms over my head, and then snapping on the cuffs around my wrist, the lead going around a sturdy floor-to-ceiling pole lamp column next to the sofa arm so that my arms were immobilized above my head.

Then he began eating up time by exploring every inch of my body with his mouth and hands, gliding over every curve, exploring every crevice—until he had me moaning and begging for his cock.

When he entered me, I was well open to him, having been prepared with his fingers and tongue. He fucked me slow and deep for well over a half an hour before he released his seed inside me. When he was finished, we now were late and had to scramble to shower and dress in our tux.

I wasn't given a moment to contemplate how long and completely I'd been taken.

What would Jay have done in this situation? Of course, once I'd been bound to the pole lamp, there wasn't much I could do—other than come for the man two more times.

* * * *

Christopher Manon was every inch the suave English gentleman and impressive celebrity as we exited the limousine, driven by a uniformed Ropo, by the red carpet outside the entrance of the Capitol Hilton. The hotel fronted on 16th Street, just two blocks up and within sight of the north portico of the White House. And he didn't have me slinking about in the shadows. He handed me out of the limo and had an arm around my shoulder as we strutted into the Hilton and over to the elevators leading to the ballroom, where a raised walk had been erected for the models who would be showing his fall collection.

I guess when you are a men's clothes designer of international reputation, being overtly gay is fully acceptable to the public. At no time before in my life was I so openly presented as the male date of a male celebrity.

He was not only personable to everyone about him throughout the fashion show and then at the dinner afterward but he was closely attentive to me, as well. It was as if I was some treasure perched on a pedestal and that he was courting me. No one would have known that just a couple of hours earlier he was fucking me on a sofa in his Washington apartment—or that he planned to resume doing so after all of the partying was over.

He introduced me to other celebrities, making no bones about saying I was a principal dancer at the Washington Ballet—and I was surprised at how many people this seemed to impress—and he was continually whispering to me who this or that was and little vignettes of his working relations and of the triumphs and travails of putting together his fall fashion collection. In public, he treated me like a friend and date on the same level as he was and with as much reason to be there as he had. He had treated me with respect on the sofa, but at no time had there been a misunderstanding of our respective positions—he on top and me on bottom—or that I was there to serve his pleasure and that a mere finger touch on my inner thigh was to be responded to by my opening my legs to his cock.

Whenever he got the chance, he'd point out to others that the tux I was wearing was also from the fall collection, and he'd fish for and always received compliments on how well I looked in it. It was as if we were a standing couple, not that we'd only met that afternoon and that I was mostly here to give him sexual release at a price—a full-service escort; a male prostitute.

By the time we got back to the apartment, I'd forgotten that I wasn't Cinderella and that Manon wasn't Prince Charming. I was quickly brought back down to earth on that score, though.

"Shall we cap the evening with a drink?" he asked when we entered the top level of the penthouse apartment. "And this time I think you need champagne, not just sparkling water. You'll exercise it off. You did very well tonight."

I accepted the champagne, and we stood at the wall of glass, looking in the direction of the lit-up Capitol building and monuments on the Mall, making small talk about the evening's events. He seemed to be completely relaxed. I was increasingly keyed up, as I knew that this was the point at which he'd bed me again. The afternoon session had been exhausting but fully satisfying. My mind was running wild on what he would do with me tonight. As wild as the possibilities that I entertained, though, they came nowhere close to reality.

"It's time to go downstairs," he said as he took my empty champagne glass from my hand and placed it, with his, on the kitchen counter. "You will be in my bed tonight."

It wasn't lost on me that he hadn't said I would sleep in his bed that night. I presumed I wouldn't be getting much sleep in that bed. He was right.

I stopped dead still in shock when we entered the master bedroom, Manon behind me and with a possessive arm around my chest. The bed already was occupied. Ropo, naked, stretched out, and working his cock with a beefy hand, was reclined there, facing the door.

"I believe Ropo told you earlier that we liked to share," Manon murmured, as he hands started unbuttoning, unfastening, and unzipping my tux.

My clothes were neatly folded on one chair, and Manon was sitting in another one, facing the bed, only the fly to his tux open and his cock exposed and hard to his stroking touch as Ropo placed me on all fours on the bed and mounted on and crouched over me, fucked me hard. At some point I collapsed underneath him and he rolled me onto my side, facing him, my thigh over his, and his cock buried in my channel and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

I watched—while being fucked by Ropo in this position—Manon slowly disrobe; place the pieces of his tux in the closet and drawers, as appropriate; climb up on the bed behind me; grab my hip with a hand; and start working his long cock in above Ropo's in my channel, as I writhed, groaned, and gasped.

They worked me together, bareback, and came inside me almost simultaneously. Then, sandwiching me between them, their arms entwined and binding me to the bed, they both drifted off into a sleep of light snoring. It took me longer to go to sleep. And I didn't sleep for long, as they, in turn, woke during the night, and individually fucked me again.

In the morning, I was awakened by Ropo, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, in his chauffeur's uniform, and holding two cups of coffee. One was for me, and while I drank it, he told me that Manon was already up and out; that he, Ropo, had a pay envelope for me; and that he would drive me home.

"Can you drop me off at the Washington Ballet instead," I said. "I have a performance to give this afternoon." I tried to be as nonchalant as he was being. It was just a day and night of escort and prostitution work. I wouldn't put any more thought or concern into what had happened over the last twenty-four hours than Christopher Manon and his chauffeur had. It was just a successful doing of a favor for a friend, substituting for what it didn't bother me to do but that probably would have devastated him.

I put it all out of my mind—or convinced myself I had—until the middle of the performance of Petite Mort that day, when, in a moment out of the spotlight on stage, I looked out into the audience and found Christopher Manon there.

I received a dozen red roses in the dressing room after the performance. I didn't have to guess who they were from. And then there was Ropo at the door, saying, "Mr. Manon be out in the car. He wants that you come to the apartment with him. He will make it worth your while." I didn't take it as a request. I didn't need for it to be a request.

It was just Manon and me in the bed; me on my belly, arms over my head and cuffed to the headboard; and him saddled on my hips and fucking me slow and deep.

Afterward, as I lay in his arms, he murmured, "I wanted to see you—to be inside you—one more time. I only wish that—"

"No you don't," I interrupted—gently, not angrily. "Commitment and permanence aren't in either one of our natures," I continued, guessing rightly what he was going to say. "You've been straightforward and honest with me to this point. Don't tell me you want a more permanent arrangement. You don't, and neither do I. This is fine—this is glorious—but it's only for now."

"I suppose you're right," he acknowledged. "But I'll pay you for this, for today."

"You don't have to," I said. "This was as much for me as for you. I probably should be paying you."

This made him laugh, but I could tell that he appreciated it. He probably had been only on the paying end of everything in life for some time.

"Nonetheless, I'll pay you for your time. And I'd like to engage you the next time I come to Washington. Is that too much commitment for you?"

"No, I answered," pleased in my turn. "I would like that."

"There's something else I'd like," Manon said. "You were a real hit, wearing my tux last night. And you're in perfect shape for a model. I want to contract you as a model for my shows on this side of the Atlantic."

"I have a job," I answered—somewhat with regret, because the offer certainly was enticing.

"It wouldn't take much of your time. You could easily juggle the two. You do that now with another dancer, Jay Gold, I understand. I could sign him as a model too and you two could trade off in both jobs."

"Jay? You know of Jay?"

"Yes, of course. He was who Sam first told me about as an escort. I was given a file on him—and then on you. There seemed to be little difference between the two of you."

Once more my thought went back to Jay. No, Manon wouldn't find us at all alike. First, Jay would not have fallen in with Manon's and Ropo's attentions as I had. And if he'd succumbed to Manon's charm and talents, he would want the commitment that neither Manon nor I required. I didn't tell this to Manon, though. Both he and Jay had escaped that discovery.

After we had both showered and were dressing, Manon stuffing banknotes in my pocket over my weak objections, he said, "Ropo will drive you home."

"Thank you," I answered. "If you don't mind, though, he won't be back too quickly."

Understanding, Manon gave me a small smile and said merely, "Yes, of course."

* * * *

When I next called on Jay at his apartment, I found his door open, and so I walked in. I heard the sound of sex coming from one of the bedrooms and was drawn there—to find Samuel Weinstein on his back on the bed, naked, and Jay, also naked, saddled on the older man's hips, facing his head, and riding Samuel's cock.

Jay's expression was dreamy eyed, and I had to conclude that in the week I'd been working on being Christopher Manon's escort, Jay had overcome his grief at the passing of Dalton and decided that Weinstein could be his next sugar daddy. This no doubt was all laid out by Weinstein as the best opportunity for Jay and Weinstein had promised some sense of permanence in the arrangement.

I must admit that it neatly solved the rent problem—except that Weinstein may now be making money from all sides of the situation, including, from what I'd gathered, the previous weekend pimp service for Manon. I didn't mind Jay turning to Weinstein as a replacement for Dalton, but I wanted to make sure that Weinstein's cut out of either of us was pared down to something fair.

I knew of one way to declare to Weinstein that I was watching and expecting a recount. I stripped off my clothes, mounted the bed and Weinstein's chest, in front of Jay, and presented my cock to Weinstein for sucking. He was happy to comply.

Behind me, Jay covered my pec with his hands, and I turned my face to him for a kiss. We didn't fuck, but we did kiss and hug.

It was all going to work out. I had carried through with a solution that benefited us all—and especially my friend Jay. I was glad to do it. That's what friends do for each other.