Ready and Submissive

"You are too loose, too easily led, Troy. Submissive to about anyone. I don't see how we possibly can go on."

Those were Rupert's last words to me. He had nearly run me out of the townhouse in Georgetown after that. We'd been together for four years. It had been a good, symbiotic relationship—or at least I'd thought it was, right up to when he tossed me out. He owned the antique store and I loved scouting for "finds" for his store. I had gone to work with him and to live with him straight after a year at the design college. I'd never had to find a job or even to make decisions for myself. That was another thing he told me—that I let others make decisions for me, not always the best ones.

Obviously he didn't think that Jackson, the black fullback for the Redskins, was a good decision. But I think Rupert was the one taking too much for granted on that one. When I'd gone to live with him and to share his bed, I'd never said anything about being monogamous. Jackson wasn't the first, by any means, and Rupert hadn't made such a fuss over the others—the ones he found out about. There wasn't really any warning before he became so exasperated with me when he saw me on the Jumbotron at a Ravens game, with Jackson's arm possessively wrapped around me, and I found myself out on the street.

It's only because it was so abrupt that it seemed like I wasn't capable of making my own decisions on what to do then. I had made the decision to come skiing to Breckenridge with my brother, Tony, and his wife, Felicia, and their friends, another two couples, hadn't I? Or was it Felicia who said it was what I needed to do before I decided where to go from here?

Of course, Tony thought that where I should go from here was to crawl back to Rupert and ask him to forgive me—again. Felicia thought I should go back to college and get a degree that would actually lead to a paying job from someone who didn't just want to get into my pants. She had never liked Rupert. Truth be told, I don't think she's all that fond of me either. I know she keeps giving Tony worried looks as if my "condition" ran in the family—that it was just latent in him and could come out at any moment.

I just didn't know.

What I did know was that I was a fifth wheel with Tony and his friends on this skiing trip. They were all paired off nicely, and they were all concerned that I had nobody here at the ski lodge to be with. It was fine during the day. We were all out on the ski trails. It was only in the evening, like this, that it got awkward.

And it could get very awkward. Tony's friends kept pointing out groups of beautiful young girls who seemed to be here together, and many of whom seemed to be here on the make. Tony's friends kept trying to bring me together with one young woman or another—and the women seemed to be interested in their efforts. I'm sure that I looked like someone they'd come here to find—a Prince Charming to fall into a fairytale romance with them and to fulfill the stories they wanted to be able to tell of having found Mr. Wonderful at a Breckinridge ski lodge. They'd probably invested a sixth of their annual income from whatever administrative assistant positions they held down in Denver or over in Salt Lake City to come here, land a dreamboat, and be able to start living the dream family life.

Tony and Felicia kept trying to rein their friends in, but as long as they weren't brave enough to come right out and tell their friends that I—Tony's brother—was promiscuously gay, we were going to have this problem.

Or maybe we weren't. As we were all sitting in the fire pit well surrounding the large stone fireplace in the lodge's lounge, sipping our cocktails, and sharing our stories of the adventures of the ski trail that day, I caught the eye of a man sitting at the bar and staring at me.

He was maybe in his late forties or early fifties, just like Rupert. And he was tall and distinguished looking, also like Rupert. He appeared to have a very fit body and silver gray hair that caught the highlights of the lights behind the bar and framed his ruggedly handsome face invitingly. He had what I thought were gray eyes too, which I found interesting and that caused me to keep looking back at him—always to find that he continued to stare at me.

A very nice smile; hints of an easy laugh. His clothes screamed of money. He could be a male model or a romantic-lead movie star. In Breckinridge it was possible to run across a lot of famous people. So much like Rupert. Other than the gray eyes. Rupert's were hazel. They had been arresting too. That's what had made me go with Rupert that first time, when he came to lecture my interior decoration class at the Savannah Arts College. He'd looked at me with those hazel eyes and the decision was made.

Not my decision, of course. Rupert's. He'd signaled to me as class was breaking up, took me for a drink, and then took me back to his hotel room and banged me all night. That's one of the last things he'd criticized me for—being loose and submissive and letting others make decisions for me—but he'd taken advantage of that himself. Why did he think that I'd be different with any other attractive guy than I was with him?

And if I let Rupert bang me and this guy at the ski lodge was so much like him, why wouldn't I let this guy screw me too if he wanted to? I swear, some people have no sense of logic.

The decision of the eyes. Rupert's were hazel. Those of the guy eying me from the bar were gray. I was sure of it now. They were gray. Whatever. They were alluring and commanding.

I looked into the gray eyes again. The man smiled and inclined his head. He was nodding his head slightly toward the corridor to the lodge's bedrooms.

I have no idea how he knew. But as he stood down from the bar stool and looked expectantly, if only for a few seconds, as if that was all it took. I abruptly rose from the sectional sofa surrounding the fireplace and put my drink down on the coffee table. Roberta, one of Tony and Felicia's friends, had been sitting between me and one of the vacationing administrative assistants, who had been brave enough to come down into the fire pit. Roberta had been working hard at developing a conversation between me and the young woman.

I'd had no idea what either was talking about from the moment I'd noticed the gray-eyed man sitting at the bar.

He turned and walked deliberately, more sauntered, into the corridor leading back to the bedrooms. Didn't even look back.

Giving my terse excuses, I followed.

* * * *

I was bent over the bed, with my arms spread and my fists buried in the rich silk of the bedspread, in what must have been a suite. A fireplace with a roaring fire, probably gas logs as the pattern of the flames was a regular one, was across the room on the other side of the bed, directly in my line of sight. The only light in the room was that coming from the fireplace, where the flames were dramatically flaring and then backing off only to flare up again and briefly light up the center of the room, where the king-sized bed was positioned. A bed in the center of the room; we all knew what that meant. The honeymoon suite.

The sides and corner of the suite remained in shadows. Very atmospheric. How could I not let myself be fucked in such an enticing setting? I'll bet this suite had seen a whole lot of fucking.

The man—I hadn't asked him his name—was standing behind me, his body folded over mine. He was palming my bare belly with one hand and breathing heavily in my ear, mumbling, "Nice, so nice. It will be so good for both of us. I knew you wanted it."

He certainly seemed to know that my belly was a special erogenous zone for me. All a man need do was lay his palm on my belly and I was good to go.

We were both rocking gently, which caused the cock he had pressed up the small of my back to rub suggestively up and down. I moaned in anticipation of having it inside me. It was long and thick as I had discovered when I'd knelt before him just inside the door of the suite and took it in my mouth. I had been surprised then. A man his age, with a gold bead cock piercing. But I liked the way it clicked on my teeth when I sucked him.

That was a difference with Rupert. If anything, Rupert was on the under average size. I think that's what had led to me being with the black football player, Jackson, and all of the ones before him. They were hung. All of them. I hadn't cheated on Rupert with any man who wasn't hung. Rupert was comfortable as a living mate, but I preferred hung for serious sex, I guess. I wanted the sensation of accommodating all of that. It was OK with Rupert, but sometimes I just needed a big cock inside me. Rupert said I was loose and submissive. Maybe so, but he had to be horse hung.

This man—the man with the gray eyes—was horse hung. And then some. And he had a gold bead in his cockhead.

So, that was two erogenous buttons for me—being hung and palming my bare belly. This guy in the honeymoon suite pushed all my buttons.

He licked down my back, sending chills up my spine. Licking all the way down and kneeling behind me, running his tongue over the curve of my left butt cheek and into the crevice. I felt his wet lips between my butt cheeks and his tongue flicker into my hole. I groaned and widened my stance. His free hand pulled my dick between my spread thighs, and he gave as much attention to that and my balls with his mouth as he was giving to my hole.

"Oh god, please, don't make me wait," I whined.

He laughed a low, melodic laugh, "I knew it," he muttered, without explaining what that meant. He stood back up, hunched over me again, his mouth going to the hollow of my neck this time. I turned my head and we kissed, his tongue invading my mouth cavity, almost making me gag—as I almost had gagged at trying to take the length of him in my mouth earlier.

He had positioned his cock so that the underside was rubbing inside my butt cleavage and across my entrance. Up and down across my hole, letting the gold bead work my rim. I felt it opening to his touch, in anticipation of the size of him. Even my interior passage walls were loosening—the muscles rippling. Rupert didn't know it, but I'd been fucked often enough by big-cocked men for my passage to open right up for them. I shuddered and whispered, "Be good to me. Let me have it now."

"You may need more time to open to me," he whispered back. "You know I'm—"

"Yes, I know you're hung." How could I not know? I'd already had it in my throat. "I want it big and deep," I whimpered. "And now. I can take it. I take it big often."

Again the low, melodic laugh. "Yeah, I read you for a ready and submissive player," he said. He inserted fingers inside me—and not starting with one, either. Three. And they slid in easily. "You really are ready, aren't you," he murmured.

Again, I wondered how he had known. How he had read me for what he called, "a ready and submissive player," which, I guess meant he knew I'd just lay down when he smiled at me and take a cock his size.

Well, OK, so what? He seemed to like it. But how did he know and how had all of the others known? There had been no drawn-out seduction with any of the others either. Not even with Rupert. It had been wham bang; they decided, and then they were inside me. But the other ones—the ones other than Rupert. Now that I thought about it, they all had said they knew from the start that I wanted them big and that I wanted them now.

He put his mouth next to my ear and whispered, "I'm going to fuck you silly now. Are you on board with that?"

What if I said I wasn't? Who was he kidding?

How could I not be ready? This wasn't my decision. None of this had been my decision. I wanted him inside me so badly. That wasn't a decision; that was a need, a bowing to reality. "God, yes, fuck me. Stick that big cock inside me."

I was ready and submissive. What else could he want?

It seemed an eternity then, but when I heard the snap of the condom in place and felt the coldness of the lube, I knew it was show time.

And then it was.

"Oh shit. Oh fuck. That gold bead." The size of the cockhead—and of what followed.

He slid inside me with a murmured, "Nice, went right in." Sliding in and in and in, and filling me to where I gulped and widened my stance even further—and went down on my elbows on the surface of the bed. Reveling in how big it was; how it filled me. He had lowered his well-muscled torso with me and he latched onto the side of my neck with his teeth, not biting me, but holding me there. His hands went up to cover my pecs, with his thumbs pressed into my nipples.

"You're such a slut for it," he murmured.

Tell me something I didn't know, I thought. But I liked the way he said it. He said it like it was a good thing, something every young man he was fucking should be.

He latched onto my neck with his teeth again while he slow pumped me, but he let loose of the grip long enough to let out a sigh and whisper, "Nice, so nice. Such a little whore for it."

I nuzzled his cheek with mine to let him know that I thought it was more than nice. Such a big, filling cock. The pleasure-pain of a big dick inside me. Holding my breath and wincing, waiting for the pleasure to override the pain, which it quickly did, the pleasure flowing over me in waves as the muscles of my channel began to ripple against the throbbing shaft. The slight bend at the cockhead, causing that gold bead to kiss my walls all the way up inside me.

He began to pump more rhythmically. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster. He rose back up onto his feet, the palm of one hand going to my belly and the other grasping my cock and matching stroke for stroke with the thrusts of his cock, which were accentuated with the force of thrusting his hips forward, withdrawing, and then thrusting again. His bulb dragging along undulating channel walls, kissing them with the gold bead and being rewarded, in turn, with the rippling effect I had managed to master. He let out a long sigh of pleasure.

"Too much, too fast?" he queried, both of us knowing that the question was just pro forma, that he'd continue doing whatever he wanted and I'd continue letting him do it. Always ready; always submissive.

"No," I said with a gasp. "Give it me. Deep. Shit. That gold bead."

"Haven't had it like that before? From all those men I'm sure who've had you already? You're such a little whore." Again he made that sound like it was a great thing to be.

All I gave him in answer was deep panting.

I writhed under him and yelled whatever dirty words I could think of to keep him going. The pleasure-pain of a masterful fuck. The hand released my cock and he ran the hand into my curly hair, gripped hard, and pulled my head toward him, arching my back. He fucked on, more standing than crouching now to be able to rock on the heels of his feet and obtain a stronger thrust.

The fireplace was still doing its flaring "thing," and I could see now that the rhythm of the fuck was matching the flaring pattern of the gas fireplace. I wondered if those gray eyes were focused on the fireplace and he was purposely matching his thrusts with the flares.

"You're such a great fuck," he exclaimed. "I knew you would be."

He let loose of my hair and grabbed for my cock again. With an "ufff," I collapsed, my chest and cheek burying into the silk of the bedspread, while, although my legs felt like rubber, I remained standing on the floor beside the bed, raised on the soles of my feet, the man's thighs between mine as he continued to thrust.

His hand grasping my cock did it for me; I jacked out onto the silk bedspread. With a shudder and a jerk, he came soon thereafter.

We slept for a while on the bed, me encased in his arms.

When I woke I saw that he already was up. The fireplace had been turned down, lights in the room were full on, and he was circling the bed, taking photos of me with a jazzy-looking camera. I lay on my stomach, with my arms and legs spread all akimbo. As I drew myself into a ball, I said, "Hey, I didn't say you could take photos."

"No you didn't," he said, as if that was all he had to say about it. "It's what I do. I'm a fashion photographer. Your body is too beautiful not to be photographed."

"But I didn't say you could do that."

"No you didn't. It was my own decision that it needed to be done. You could be in one of my books."

"One of your books?" I let it pass that it had been his decision, not mine—that he didn't even hint that the decision was mine.

He walked over to the dresser and took up a large-size glossy book.

I had a bout of the goose bumps in watching him walk away from me. Broad shoulders, a slim waist for a man his age, tight buns, firm thighs. And then when he turned to walk back with the book, I sucked in air. Hard, bulging pecs, salt-and-pepper curly hair encircling his nipples and then running down his sternum, flaring out on his flat belly, and falling to a trimmed bush. He hadn't always had gray hair. His bush was auburn. But the show stopper was the cut dick, hanging low, low, low. And thick. The gold bead there, just at the underside of his cockhead, the bead looking mammoth now that I got a good look at it. I shuddered at the memory of it. As he walked, his eyes on me, I could see an erection start.

I wanted him again. He obviously knew that by the way my eyes slitted and I involuntarily moved up on my knees and let my tail lift in the air. Just like a bitch in heat. What was it they said? Ready and submissive? Who fucking cared?

He laughed, dropped the book he was carrying on the bed beside me, set the camera down there as well, and then mounted the bed, first, and then mounted my hips. I heard the snap of a condom being adjusted again, felt strong hands grip my hips, and then he was deep inside me again and pumping, both thrusting his hips and pulling mine back and forth on his cock. I opened my mouth in a big O and sucked in air, my eyes watering, and my fists gripping up big globs of sheeting. God, this was heaven. The pleasure-pain of a mastering fuck by a big cock. And that gold bead.

"You're perfect," he muttered. "I love it when they are loose and good to go on the drop of a dime. Such a perfect little slut for it."

Ready and submissive. Just one of his easy conquests.

Afterward he showed me the book, which contained glossy art shots of beautiful young men, naked, and in provocative poses. Some of the poses were beyond provocative.

"These guys are a lot better looking than I am," I said.

"Don't sell yourself short," he answered. "I could put you in a book like that tomorrow."

"If I said yes," I responded.

"I will put you in a book like that." He grabbed my chin and turned my head to face him so I could see that he meant what he said.

Once again, it sounded like a decision had been made—and that I wasn't needed in arriving at that decision. It was time for me to say no.

Instead, I closed the book and looked at the cover. "Jacques LeGrand. The author of the book. You don't look like a Jacques LeGrand."

"I'm not," he said, with a laugh. "These are my specialty studies. That's my name for the male studies. My real job is fashion photography of women for advertisements. Good money in that. Wouldn't be if people knew I photographed male nudes too—or fucked little whores like you."

"Must be good money in it," I said, looking around the suite. I could only imagine what this cost, knowing what I—or rather, Tony—was shelling out for a single here. "So, you haven't told me what your real name is—the name you use for fashion photography—and then the one you use in real life, if it's different."

"No, I haven't," he answered, without answering.

"My name is Troy," I said in the way of a prompt. At least he could give me a name. It didn't even have to be his real name.