The Window Cleaner Ch. 01: Boyd

The surprise attack, the quickness and power of it, had me completely undone. He gave me no idea that asserting any control would be permitted me. It was all his. As I had dreamed, all it took for him to gain control was to move a leg over my rump and pull my bare buttocks into his crotch with the power of his muscular thighs. I panted as he worked his cock inside me.

When he was fully saddled, he growled in my ear to fuck myself on his cock like he'd watched me do with Tony, the masseur. Whimpering, I did so, moving my channel back and forth on the hard, deep-seated cock, until, with a laugh, he lifted my feet off the floor, holding me there into his crotch, and took over the stroking, increasing the intensity of it until—thrust, flow; thrust, spurt; thrust, spurt—he had me totally. My hand pulling on my shaft, I came nearly simultaneously with him, my legs rubbery. I would have collapsed on the floor if he hadn't been holding me off the floor with a beefy arm under my belly.

No time was given for appreciation or remonstrance, though. Both of his hands went to my throat when he set me back on the floor, fingers digging in, and I blacked out.

I came to spread-eagled on my bed, my arms and legs spread and restrained by some sort of tethering device installed under my mattress, with leads coming out at the four corners. My mind went to the little bag Drake had brought into the apartment with him. He'd brought toys. My mouth was immobilized by a ball gag. There was more give from the restraints in my legs than in my arms. My pelvis was elevated by pillows and my legs were bent at the knees, my feet flat on the mattress. I felt my channel filled and looked down to see the grip of a black rubber dildo sticking out of my ass.

Drake, naked, was roaming around the main room of the apartment, lifting framed photographs and looking at them and opening drawers to see what was inside. He had a cigarette between his lips again at that sexy angle. His body was magnificent, his up-curved, incongruously black erection was mesmerizing. I involuntarily moaned at the cruel, manly beauty of his body, and he turned and smiled at me. Then, making me wince, he stubbed his cigarette out in an expensive porcelain bowl I kept on my dresser top to hold loose change. He moved, with arousing graceful stride, back to the bed.

"Ah, back in the land of the living?" he said. "Fuckin' ready to be screwed again?" As he spoke, the last puff of the cigarette wafted out of his mouth and I inhaled the scent of it. Forever after, when I got the whiff of Camel smoke, I'd think of this moment.

I gasped as he pulled the dildo out, crouched over me, and slid his cock up into my channel. He had already reamed me to his specifications and had used the dildo to keep me open. He immediately began to pump, and, unable to help myself, I matched the rhythm of his strokes with thrusts of my own pelvis.

When he had come, he reached up with his hands to my throat, pressed in with his fingers, and I blacked out again.

When I came back again, my leg restraints were gone, I'd been flipped, with my arms crossed above my head, still immobilized, and my ass was elevated with pillows under my belly. Drake was mounted on my ass and stroking my channel deep. His accumulated cum was lubricating his strokes, making a sucking noise, and I felt the wetness of him dribbling down my thighs. I had no idea how many times he had come inside me, but I knew that each one came in several distinct spurts. The man was as virile as he was vigorous.

After he was finished, I watched him pad over to the refrigerator, liberate a beer, and drink it as he moved about the apartment. He found my wallet and extracted two fifties, showing them to me, and saying, "As you offered. And a fuckin' good time was had by all. Fuckin'-A bang, bang, bong." He stuffed the bills into the pocket of his jeans, laying in a jumble with his jacket and T-shirt at the door. There were no briefs. He had gone commando. He fiddled around with the keys on my dresser, and I saw him extricate my door key from the keychain and stuff that in his jeans pocket as well. I wouldn't be left without; I had other sets tucked away, but still . . .

He came up on the bed above me, on his knees, released my mouth from the ball gag, and, taking my head between his hands and forcing my face down on his cock, muttered, "Give me a fuckin' good one, no teeth, and I won't leave you bound."

I gave him head, mesmerized and aroused by the blackness of the cock, until he'd come again, in my throat. I was still gagging from that when his fingers went to my throat. When I came to, he was gone from the apartment, taking the restraints and other toys with him. I was stretched out on my belly on the bed, moaning in—I've got to admit—fully satiated pleasure.

It didn't seem real. I had to know, to reassure myself. I dragged myself off the bed and walked over to the window, searching for it—for them. They were still there. His splotch of cum on the outside of the window and mine on this side, covering his. I could have cleaned mine off, of course. I still could. His wouldn't come off until a storm went through or another window cleaner came down the side of the building on a platform. I was in no hurry to obliterate either, though. They were assurance that I wasn't dreaming the whole thing.

I did make a mental note to have the lock changed on my apartment door. I was off to Denver on Monday morning for a presentation on an ad campaign, though, so I'd have to ask the building super to arrange that when I came back. I couldn't just change the lock myself. There were building rules and the super had to have a key.

The night after I returned from Denver, Drake let himself into the apartment in the dark of night, not waking me until, naked, he lowered himself between my thighs, nudging them apart with his rough, workman's hand, and pinned me to the mattress with his muscular, heavy body. My eyes shot open as he was crouched over me, invading my asshole with his thick, spit-thick fingers.

"You gonna fuckin' give it to me nicely?" he asked.

"Does it matter? You'll take whatever you want," I murmured, and he laughed.

We were on almost equal ground now, though, and I made a last-minute bid to retain my pride. I wasn't bound, although I was groggy. I could struggle with him for control—not that I didn't want him inside me, but that I wanted it to be on my terms, him doing my bidding. I did struggle with him, but he had the advantage on me in surprise and weight—and in my own need for him. I fought without all that much conviction to roll to the side away from him, but his arms were there to embrace me and his knees were between my thighs, holding them open. I writhed as he entered me, me breathing heavy and clawing at his pecs and his shoulder blades, and sank his hard, up-curved cock in deep. When he was saddled, I moaned and collapsed under him while he held there.

He was too much for me; I fully surrendered to him.

"Yes, yes," I whimpered. "Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me. Screw me to the bed." His hands cupped my buttocks and lifted and spread them and I just groaned and gave him full control. With the new angle, he was able to sink in to where his kinky black pubic hairs merged with my silky, trimmed blond ones. His face lowered to mine, and I hungrily opened my lips to his searching tongue as he began to pump, his cock possessing, stretching, punishing my passage walls. It was all him now. All his control, taking what he wanted, however he wanted. And he wanted it all—full possession.

"Give it to me; fuckin' open up," he demanded, and I did so. I opened entirely to him, going soft, completely yielding, relaxing my passage muscles to stretch and stretch and shimmer over his plowing shaft as he thrust hard and insistently into the soft vulnerability of my core, cruelly and gloriously filling, stretching, and pumping hard and fast, deep, interminably.

We fucked like wild men, me writhing under him, sucking and biting his nipples, crying out for him to take me hard and deep while he was doing just that, drawing him inside me as deeply as I could, clutching his buttocks with my hands, bucking with him. Bucking, bucking, bucking, until we both came in a flood of cum and he melted away from me for the moment, but not pulling out of me, lying there in one fused body, until I felt him going hard again.

He changed our position, me going with wherever he wanted me positioned, and moved more slowly, languidly, thickly deep inside me, seeding me again in a gentle, filling flow. Holding me there in a dozing, possessing embrace and then leaving me the next morning, waking with my legs spread open and my hand stroking my cock, half thinking that it had all been a wishful dream. Or maybe a nightmare of my losing control of myself with this man.

Panicked at where the man was taking me, where I was going with him, I had the lock changed on the door the next day.

* * * *

The two-week vacation I went off to then to Key West, Florida, was just what I needed to recenter myself. I came back relaxed, rested, tanned, well fucked, and with new confidence. There had been no shortage of men interested in flirting with me with the hope of fucking me in Key West, nor any shortage of massive hunks who usually were in full command but were willing to give all control over to me for money. I came home fully confident again in my sense of control of my body and of the sex I engaged in.

All of this floated away in the air as I entered the office of my advertising firm to be accosted with posters on easels of the ad campaigns that had been revved up in my absence. They all were packaged around a single, new male model. Drake. Both Maury and Drake had been very busy in my absence.

As I entered the reception area, my eyes were accosted, on the right, by a large poster of Drake, bare chested except for a black leather jacket loosely draped on his frame and a motorcycle hat on his head, looking all James Dean, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth at the sexy angle I already had melted to. A woman was draped on his back, her chin on his shoulder, and hand palming his sternum, but all eyes were meant to go to Drake. Mine certainly did. It wasn't an accident. A line of our ads was targeted to certain women's and men's magazines bought by those turned on by the male torso—with a hint of what was on offer below. The ad was for Camel cigarettes, a Reynold's product.

To the left, as I continued down the hall toward the conference room, was a poster of Drake hiking a boom on a small, expensive-looking sailboat. His torso was bare; he was wearing boxer trunks and his thighs were at an angle to invite the viewer to look just a bit further up the gap between his thigh and the material of the loose boxers. The obligatory blonde was draped on his back. It was an ad for Ipana toothpaste.

The third poster had Drake, only in short shorts, draped across the hood of a new 1965 Ford Thunderbird convertible, holding a hose over the hood of the car like he was in the process of washing it. How suggestive is that, I wondered. A young, nearly naked stud splayed out on a metallic surface with a hose in his hand.

Drake himself, all spiffed up in model magnificence, was sitting next to Maury at the head of the conference table when I walked in for the morning meeting. It didn't take a genius to know how Maury and Drake were getting along or how Drake had so quickly become the young male hunk model for the products we advertised. Drake captured my eyes with his as I sat down, willing me to submit to him and the new situation.

Just like that, all of the self-confidence building that I had done in Key West evaporated into the air. I lowered my eyes to him in submission. An hour later Drake was fucking me against the back wall of a dark storage room from behind, with my buttocks jutted out to him, the palms of my hands and my cheek pressed into the cool cinder-block wall, and his hands gripping my hips.

"I will fucking come to you again tonight," he growled in my ear after he flooded my passage with his cum. "I'll fucking screw you good."

I meekly handed him a new key to my apartment door.

He screwed me good that night—and the next.

* * * *

Drake gripped my wrist as I stood to answer the ring at the apartment door—our apartment door—our one-bedroom apartment in a swank high-rise on 7th Avenue, rented by Maury for Drake. And for me. It had been six months since I walked into that ad campaign featuring Drake. The campaign had been great—and lucrative for Maury and Drake alike. They no longer were a couple—I, not Maury, was in Drake's bed now—but they were still close in business. Maury didn't stick with any one man sexually for long, but he recognized and took advantage of talent in his business. Drake was the division chief over me now. Over me at the office and over me in his bed. The second went down better with me than the first. But he was a gifted manager and still a hunk and a half. Neither Maury nor I ever mentioned that Drake had been a window cleaner seven months earlier. I'm not sure that Maury even knew—or cared. I certainly didn't tell him. Now Drake was the "Camels Man."

The houseman moved from the kitchen where he'd been preparing the meal and went to the door as Drake held my wrist by the sofa. "Give him whatever he wants, Boyd. We need this account."

"All right, if he wants anything at all," I responded.

"He wants you. Back when we first pitched him in Chicago, he asked if you would be on the account if he went with us. I pinned down with him what he meant by that."

"If that's what you want," I answered, dully, making clear I wasn't keen about it.

"It's what both Maury and I want," Drake said. Then, as Sidney Sterne strode into the apartment, Drake turned on a smile, rose from the sofa, and went to the door.

Sterne was the publisher of a series of magazines we wanted an advertising account with. He was a tall man. He also was a large man—both in stature and in what he had hanging on his bones. He exuded power and control, in keeping with his business position, but he wasn't young and he wasn't trim, and he was more rugged and "interesting" in facile features than handsome. He also was nearly bald on top, with just a fringe of dark hair going to gray. He was at least in his early fifties. Although he was losing it on top, he otherwise hinted at being hirsute. His eyebrows were glowering and bushy and there was hair on the knuckles of his chubby-fingered hands. There was an edge of crudeness, double dealing, and new, questionably begotten money about him.

He smiled at Drake during their introductions, but when he looked beyond Drake to me for an introduction, he was beaming. I couldn't doubt then that Drake was right about what role Sidney Sterne wanted me to play in this dance of account negotiations.

He was sitting across me at a narrow, glass-topped table for dinner, with Drake beside me. Drake and Sterne were having a discussion, mainly about the slant Sterne would want to be taken on advertising, which obviously was right up Drake's alley—sexy, with an emphasis on the sensuality and dark desires of the male model. While they talked, though, Sterne was eyeing me.

"You could be one of the models," he said.

"That's how I started in the business," I answered. "But I'm not bulked up as is popular now," I added.

"I'm sure there are those who would prefer your body type," the publisher said. "I like the trimmer body style like you must have."

With a body like yours, a body like mine would be crushed and breathless, I thought, in response, clearly not thinking ahead.

"We'll have to do a photo shoot of Boyd to include in the ad campaign possibilities," Drake said. "Boyd does look fucking good in a Speedo."

"I'll bet he does," Sterne said, giving me the "I could eat you alive" gaze.

It was then that I felt his socked foot on my ankle, his toe searching for and finding the hem of my trousers and pushing up underneath onto my socked shin. He'd have to rise quite high, I thought, to reach flesh, if that was what he was after. Like most businessmen then, I was wearing knee-highs with garters under the knee.

I felt Drake nudge me in the side. I turned my eyes to him to see him looking down, taking in that foot toed up under the hem of my trousers through the glass of the table top. He inclined his head and I caught the signal. All the while he was chattering on with Sterne, who was taking it all in, I'm sure, without seeming to notice.

The houseman, a young black who Drake liked to spike in a threesome with me, having never consulted me, of course, on how I felt about threesomes, passed out brandy in snifters to all of us and cigars to Drake and Sterne and took the dishes away from the table. I still didn't smoke, although I enjoyed the smell of tobacco on Drake during sex. He had moved up to cigars from Camels in private, regardless of the fortune the Camels were making for him.

"You may go now, Duane," Drake said to the houseman. "Good meal, thanks. You can take care of the cleanup tomorrow."

"Very good, sir," the houseman said. Although he returned to the kitchen, he was out of the apartment within six minutes. The three of us were alone—two men with plans for me, here to seal a deal, and me without any alternative plan and now, finally, apparently with no control over my life and preferences.

I was smart enough to recognize reality. I had prostituted myself for the advertising firm before—never with my live-in boyfriend sitting next to me and egging me on, however.

I leaned down, as if I were scratching my leg, gripped the ankle of the foot Sterne was toying with my shin with, and lifted it to my crotch. Sterne gave me a surprised, but appreciative look and slid down in his chair a bit further, so he could dig in harder with the foot. I massaged it with one hand as we sipped our brandy.

Sterne was nearly purring, his conversation freer now, his discussion of the ad possibilities more expansively talking of the type of men and women who read the line of magazines we were bidding to put advertising in—homosexual men and cougar women. His references to places to visit, clubs to go to, activities to engage became increasingly homoerotic. He and Drake were exchanging notes on the types of men they liked to spike. Late twenties, handsome, blond, on the small side, with good, but not overblown, physique, who could—and would—sheath thick cocks without fainting were what they agreed on. Fancy that, I thought, that's me they're describing. The fix was in now. Sterne knew he would be fucking me in a matter of minutes. His eyes, his gaze concentrating on me, were glazed. He was breathing heavily.

Thrusting the deal home, at Drake's suggestion that I show Sterne how good a model I could be for his purposes, I removed my shirt. Sterne sucked in air. For good measure, I unzipped my trousers, hooked the waistband of my bikini briefs under my balls, and rubbed his foot on my cock. With the dishes now cleared, there was no hiding that all three of us could see what I was doing through the glass-topped table.

"Shall we take our drinks and cigars to the living area?" Drake asked.

"It's fine right here," Sterne answered in a strangled voice, "Unless . . ."

"Would you like to see the rest of the apartment?"

Or do you want to do me here on the dining room table, I thought.

"Yes," Sterne croaked. His answer obviously would do for both the spoken and unspoken questions.

"Boyd, why don't you show Sidney the bedroom?"

As they were walking behind me, me inside the bedroom door and them just outside, I heard Drake whisper to Sterne, "I'll leave the two of you in here alone. I've heard you like it really rough. You can screw the shit out of him if you like. He'll take it; if I hear anything to the contrary, I'll leave you to it. There are restraints and other toys in the bottom drawer of one of the nightstands if that's your kink. Rubbers in the top drawer, if you want. Not necessarily if you like it raw."