The Window Cleaner Ch. 01: Boyd

"Now. I'm comin' now," Tony called out, and I returned my attention to him, holding him close, rising once and then pushing down hard and deep, as he spasmed and filled my channel with his cum. Without a word, I climbed off of him and went into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving him to fold his table and vacate the apartment before I finished taking a shower.

I didn't sleep all that well that night. I kept thinking about seeing the window cleaner there just on the other side of the glass. And it wasn't just the surprise of someone being there when I was in an embarrassing position. It was that he was such a hunk. Dark and sultry and muscular. Manly. Obviously a man of power and in control. And he had seemed to be amused at seeing us, not shocked. I did fall sleep eventually toward morning despite a grinding sound intruding on my dreams. But, as people are prone to do, I managed to fold the sound logically into the dream. After I had awakened, I could remember how I had covered for it, but then I had something else altogether to occupy my attention.

I woke up thinking wet dream thoughts, which included both the pole dancer from earlier in the week and the window cleaner, merging the two. The window cleaner was riding the pole for me. I was thinking of him naked and erect for me. As I came awake in the morning light streaming in the big plate glass window, I had my hand on my cock and was slowly masturbating. My cock was almost fully in erection. I had gone to bed naked and was lying on top of the sheets and blanket.

As I became more conscious, I became more fully aware that the grinding and grating noise hadn't gone away. And the light coming in from the window was broken up with shadows. I turned my head to the window to discover that the platform had been winched back down to my floor—and that the window washer was back.

He had his eyes on me again, watching me masturbate. And he wasn't just being benign about it. He had his shirt pulled out of his trousers and gaping open. His dark-tanned torso was magnificent—muscular and cut, with hard, bulging pecs, cut six-pack abs, and the inguinal ligaments, running diagonally down into his groin at the top of his thighs on either side, clearly discernible because his trousers were unzipped and flared. This aspect of the male anatomy, undergirding the abdomen and drawing the attention down into the groin, was particularly arousing to me. His body was even better than my dreams had painted it. He had a meaty cock out and in his hand and was masturbating it, facing the window, just as I was doing to my cock, as I lay, naked, on top of the bed.

Once more he had caught me in a compromising, needy position.

His steel-blue eyes were boring into me, there was a sensual smile on his face, and I almost fell out of the bed when I looked at his cock. It was a deep chocolate brown, conjuring up my arousal for black cocks from my very first taking. The hair of his trimmed pubes was black and kinky. He wasn't a black bull, but there was black in him. And he undoubtedly was a bull. I realized that I was panting at the visage of him, unable to take my hand from my throbbing cock.

His eyes and a certain magnetism about him were pulling me out of the bed and toward the window. He didn't show the least bit of surprise or shock that he, once more, had caught me in a compromised sexual position. He had every reason to be there, outside my window, late the previous afternoon. There had been a notice from the building super. He'd had every reason to suspend washing my window as it got dark. And he had every reason to be back here this morning to resume the job.

But he obviously didn't want to resume the job just now, although the window was cleaner than it had been last night. He must have been cleaning it as I slept, my hand on my cock, naked, lying on top of the bed.

He pressed his body to the window—his palms to the glass on raised and spread arms, his lips pressed to the glass, his belly pressed to the glass, his cock pressed to the glass. His eyes bored into me, drawing me to him.

Like a sleepwalker, I moved, naked, to the window. I pressed my palms to his, separated by the coolness of the glass, and my lips to his. My belly to his. My cock to his. We tongued through the glass. In my peripheral vision, I saw him take a hand off the glass and motion downward. Understanding, I went down on my knees, licking down the glass on the other side of his chest and belly as I descended. And I opened my mouth to the press of his cock to the glass. Undulating his pelvis, he moved his cock head back and forth on the glass where my mouth was. Closing my eyes, I allowed the vibration of the glass to emulate me taking the cock into my mouth.

After a few moments, he tapped on the glass with a hand and when I looked up at it, revolved the fingers. Understanding, I stood, turned, and pressed my buttocks to the glass where his cock was. I spread my buttocks cheeks with my hands, pressing the rim of my hole to the glass. I could feel the vibrations of the glass again as he slid his cock up and down where my crack pressed into the window. I could see the two of us in the reflection of a mirror across the room, the tall hunk of a man, his torso exposed and his palms pressed into the glass on either side of my head, moving his crotch against the glass at the crack of my buttocks, flattened against the window.

Looking into the mirror from this perspective, I was being fucked by the window cleaner. I let my mind run with that image.

I both heard and felt the bang on the glass and turned to find him in a half crouch on those powerful legs of his, leaning into the glass, one hand on his magnificently erect, black, slightly up-curved cock, pumping it hard, and the palm of his other hand raised and pressed against the glass. He eyes looked insistently, commandingly at me. The palm of my left hand went to match his right hand on the other side of the window. I too crouched, our foreheads pressed together through the glass, our eyes locked on each other's. I worked my cock hard with my right hand. I could hear his grunting through the glass, lower in tone to what I was giving back. We were having sex despite the barrier. Cum was building up inside me, as I had to believe it was in him. We were making each other come.

The glass was melting away, the two of us becoming one, coordinated jerk off machine, until, with a cry, I came. My cry was met with a deep laugh from the other side of the pane, and I looked down in time to see his cum splash on the glass on the other side of where I had just deposited mine.

I moaned at the imagery of the man fucking me without the barrier of the glass. I broke away, hurried to my desk, and, finding a magic marker and a piece of paper, wrote "1509"—the number of my apartment—on the paper, dug around in my wallet, brought out two fifties, and returned to the window, slapping the paper and the two fifties against the glass for him to see . . . and understand.

He laughed, zipped up his trousers, buttoned up his shirt, took a stab at a button on a box attached to the railing of the platform, and rose up out of sight toward the top of the building.

I waited for two hours—long after I should be at work—for him to come to my door, but he didn't do so. I was sure he understand what I was asking and offering. Over the two hours, as my head cleared and my libido cooled down, I realized he just had been toying with me. It was just as well, I thought, that he didn't follow up. I didn't see any likelihood that he would give full control to me. Only in hindsight did I realize that he had been signaling his wants and the next move we were to take and that, through lustful need, I had knuckled right under. I had somehow thought that the barrier of the glass left me in control, but it hadn't. He had me panting for him, letting him call of the shots. That wasn't the way I wanted it.

* * * *

The window cleaner followed me for twenty-four blocks from Midtown Manhattan down into Chelsea that evening, although I didn't latch into being followed by a tall, muscular man in a camouflage jacket until he slid onto a stool next to me at Barracuda's, a biker's bar on 24th Street. Under the jacket he was wearing just tight jeans, construction boots, and a skin-conforming black mesh athletic T that accentuated rather than hid his cut torso.

Maury had been his usual flighty self that day, suggesting strongly that I take the files for a 1965 Ford Thunderbird commercial home to work on that weekend and then, after I got home, calling and saying that he wanted to have the file that weekend himself.

"I'll run it over to your place," I said. Maury lived in a swank apartment on Park Avenue. Like me, he could live nicely in Manhattan because of family money. Unlike me, though, he had piles and piles of family money.

"I won't be there this evening," he had answered. "I'll be at the Barracuda. I trust you know where that is. You can take the file there. 9:00 p.m."

"Sure," I said. And sure I knew where the Barracuda was—twenty-four blocks from where I was. Trust Maury, with his chauffeured Cadillac Fleetwood, to be able to glide easily between Park Avenue and Chelsea without a thought and to think it was a breeze for me to meet him twenty-four blocks from my apartment in an hour.

But I welcomed it. I was keyed up from the bizarre sexual experience with the window cleaner that morning and had been contemplating hitting the gym to work out the kinks and tension that evening. I could have taken the subway to Chelsea, but the twenty-four-block walk was just the exercise I needed. I walked fast, building up a good heart rate. That's probably why I didn't notice the guy in the camouflage jacket at all—that and the fact that servicemen were normally invisible to me. I honed in on men of expensive fashion. He was keeping up with me, although holding back nearly a whole block. I was so busy going over the new Ford commercial layout in my brain, though, that it didn't register that I was being followed, and certainly not who it was who was following me.

"Buy me a fuckin' drink," he said gruffly as he mounted the stool beside me at the bar. I shuddered at the sight of him, visions of him mounting me as smoothly and confidently as he did the stool racing through my mind—nonchalantly raising and moving a muscular leg over my waist and holding me in a vice grip with his thighs while he entered me with his hard cock. Just the way he saddled the barstool, taking full possession of it, was sensual and manly. Image yourself as this stool he was projecting to me, and I did exactly that. He didn't sit full frontal to the bar; he was turned to me, legs spread to relieve the strain of the material over his bulging crotch. He latched onto one of my biceps with a strong grip. Instinctively, I shrugged the grip off, but with a low laugh, his hand went to the back of my neck, gripped me hard, and pulled my face into his for a kiss.

He held me there, possessing my lips, until I yielded to him, softened my response, and parted my lips to the invasion of his tongue. He wasn't just kissing me on the mouth. His tongue was moving in and out, reaching down to the back of my throat, causing me initially to try to draw away from him, but yielding to his insistence. This was a precursor of his dick moving in my passage. We both understood that. We both knew I was, eventually, going yield to that as well. When he released my mouth, his hand went back to its original grip on my bicep and, in meek surrender, I left it there. The die was cast. If he wanted to fuck me—on his terms—he would.

Other than admiring glances, no one in the bar showed surprise. It was that kind of bar.

The bartender had arrived, and the window cleaner turned his face that way, gave the barkeep a smile, and said, "I'll have a Bud. On this guy's tab." The bartender turned to me, and I just nodded curtly. I was drinking scotch rocks.

"I'm Drake," the window cleaner said, turning back to me as he took a packet of Camel cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, lit up, and offered the one he'd lit between his lips to me, showing that he had others in the package. "And you?"

I hesitated, nodding away the offered cigarette and inhaling both air and the puff of smoke he produced with the thought of how sexy he looked with a cigarette held at an angle between his lips. The thought of sharing saliva with him again had almost prompted me to take the cigarette even though I didn't smoke. He quickly honed in. "Come on, we've had sex. You're going to pay me a fuckin' hundred dollars to have sex again—to fuck you rough. You can fuckin' tell me your name."

"Boyd. I'm Boyd," I said, stammering, nonplussed enough not to give him a fake name. "I'm meeting someone here," I added, throwing up defenses. He moved fast. And he was asserting control—god, no, he'd asserted control and I had surrendered to him already. He could have forced me to the floor right there and fucked me; I would have let him. The other guys in the bar would have let him. They would have just stood around us and egged him on.

That wasn't in my preference—my tolerance—pattern. Total frustration. I would simultaneously love it and hate it. I wanted him on my terms. I knew he would take me on his terms or would just tease me, establish that he could have me any way he wanted to, and then would abandon me—just like he hadn't come to my apartment that morning when I'd signaled him to and offered him money to do so.

"I wasn't thinking of fucking you here, on top of the bar," he said, with an easy "just kidding" laugh. "We can fuckin' screw at your place. You gave me the address."

How transparent was I that he could so easily discern my thoughts? I opened my mouth to respond, without any idea what I would say, when I was saved by Maury, who had bellied up to the bar on the other side of Drake.

"Who's your luscious friend, Boyd?" He asked, his hand went to the small of Drake's back. I was grateful I hadn't given Drake a fake name.

Drake turned from me to Maury, and his hand slid off my arm and went to Maury's butt. It was like the window cleaner's attention had snapped away from me to Maury. That wasn't surprising. Maury wasn't that old—in his early forties—and he was movie-star handsome, in good shape, and dressed elegantly and expensively to style, this time in a safari suit that was a bit ahead of its time for mid-sixties men's fashion unless you took into account that it broadcast that Maury had actually been on safari and could afford to do so. Drake was just a window cleaner; of course he'd go with the money.

"Not a friend, really," I said lamely, noting that Maury was looking into Drake's eyes rather than mine as he spoke to me. I could also tell from the slight lurch in Drake's body that one of Maury's hands was being intimate. That wasn't unusual for the atmosphere in Barracuda. No one, including the bartender, had done a double take when Drake had tongue-fuck kissed me for what seemed like a full minute.

"Who the fuck is this?" Drake asked me nodding at Maury. He asked it in a friendly, not a belligerent voice.

"He's my boss," I answered.

"Not a friend?" Maury said. "I saw how he was kissing you when I came in. If he's not a friend, then you won't mind me showing interest, will you?"

"No, of course not," I said, going for a tone of sarcasm. "Be my guest." In fact, it wouldn't have mattered to Maury even if I had objected. If he saw what he wanted, he took it. And, with his money and looks, he could have pretty much whatever he wanted. He certainly could have it from me; he signed my paychecks; he paid part of my rent; if we weren't both bottoms, he'd be fucking me, and I'd let him. He fucked me mentally and emotionally constantly.

"Boyd and me are friendly enough," Drake said. "We've had sex already, haven't we, Boyd? And he was going to pay me a hundred dollars to fuckin' screw him on top of this bar."

"Only a hundred?" Maury asked. "I'll pay you two hundred for a ride. My car's outside. I have a driver and a big backseat. You put this in me and I'll ride you around Central Park." I now knew where Maury had put his hand. "That is if Boyd doesn't mind."

"I don't mind," I said, suddenly very much minding even though we both knew it wasn't an option. It wasn't so much, I tried to tell myself, that I had intentions to have sex with this window cleaner now. He was too fast for me and obviously wouldn't give up control, with maintaining control being my overriding rule. But I wished that, just once, a guy would say no to Maury.

"Sure, I've got the time if you've got the fuckin' money," Drake said.

"You got the Thunderbird commercial files?" Maury asked me, looking at me for the first time over Drake's shoulder now that he'd managed to cut in. I meekly turned the portfolio over; watched them strut for the exit, arm in arm, Drake towering over Maury and my eyes going to the perfect, tight orbs of his buttocks; and turned back to the bar to down my scotch in one go and to cover my tab.

Out on the street, Drake was handing Maury into the backseat of Maury's sleek 1964 black Cadillac Fleetwood sedan, ostentatiously too large for the streets of New York City. He had a cigarette in his mouth again and was palming Maury's butt. Maury had no trouble being controlled in sex, I knew, as long as he held all of the deeds in other matters. Neither of them looked at me, as I trudged toward the subway stop. I didn't feel like doing the twenty-four-block walk back to Midtown Manhattan.

* * * *

I had no intention of opening the apartment door to the 11:00 p.m. knock, particularly as I'd already gone to bed and was in just my sleeping shorts, but I wanted to know who had the balls to be at my door at this time of night and I made the mistake of looking through the peephole. When I saw who it was, I had to open to him.

"I thought you'd be with Maury now," I said as I opened the door and Drake pushed himself in, shutting the door behind him, and grabbing for me and pulling me to him. He was carrying a small bag with him that he let fall to the floor next to the door as his hands went to my body.

"He got his fuckin' two-hundred-dollars' worth," Drake growled. "You can do a lot in the backseat of a land boat like he's got. Kinky guy. Let's not fuckin' talk about Maury. I want it from you now. I wanna fuckin'-A screw you into next week."

We didn't talk. And he took it from me in a straightforward manner right there by the door, standing. He turned me to where my buttocks were pressed into his crotch, the hardness of him already evident and screaming his need and intent to me. One hand was palming my belly, holding me into him and the other was cupping my chin, turning my face to his for a deep possession kiss. He was already dry humping me with thrusts of his pelvis.

"Take it easy," I pleaded. "Let's not just . . ."

But then, asserting and demonstrating his complete control, he did "just."

"Can't fuckin' wait for it. You want it," he declared in an all-knowing voice. And he must have been right, as I gave it to him without a struggle.

Bending me forward and coaxing my legs spread after he'd brushed my sleeping shorts down my legs and unbuttoned his fly and released his hard, up-curved cock, he slowly entered me, made difficult in the dryness, other than spit on his hand, of the invasion and of his thickness. He was crude, a Philistine, nothing like the rich, refined men I usually went with—but very much like the rugged men whose cocks I bought to fuck myself on. He intuitively knew I'd melt to him fucking me fully dressed in his slutty cruising duds and wearing construction boots. He took the time he needed, though, huffing in my ear of all the things he was going to do to me alternating with possessing my mouth. I moaned my want. I couldn't help myself.