The Window Cleaner Ch. 01: Boyd

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"Stand there and undress for me. You can keep the stockings and garters. I'll keep mine on too. I like it that way."

We were in the bedroom, just the two of us. Sterne was sitting at the foot of the bed, his hairy knuckles pressed into the mattress on either side, his thighs parted, his breathing heavy. No "please" or seduction or foreplay. He knew he was going to fuck me. He knew I knew he was going to fuck me. The commanding presence of the publisher of major publications was coming out now. Let's get on with it being the rule now. With every passing second, I saw the command and power of him building. He was going to dominate me. He was going to ravish me. If he wanted to break me, Drake had said he could do so. I was trembling in that knowledge—and he had the size and weight to do it.

My only saving grace was his age and obesity. Once should do it. Maybe five minutes and done. It would be a rough five minutes, though. And the buildup to it could be very painful.

"Yes, just as I thought. You'll do great in ad layouts for my clientele. And like this, for my private clients. Take it in your hand. Stroke it for me."

I did so as he undressed down to his stockings and garters, folded and lay his clothes on a chair nearby, and returned to sitting on the foot of the bed. All of the time he had his eyes on me. As I had suspected, he was matted with hair, a real bear—curly salt-and-pepper hair everywhere, with less of the gray in the hair as it descended down his sternum, across his pot belly, and to his bushy pubes. He was both muscular and fat, the fat mostly in the torso, thighs, and buttocks, with the pecs still being hard, not sagging, the whole aspect of him somehow not being obscene—giving me more the sensation of being swallowed up by him, fully possessed by him, by breath being squeezed out of me, when he was fucking me. The balls hung low, were massive, and covered with hair. The cock probably was longer than it looked peeking out of the bush of the pubes, but it was unusually thick—what they referred to as a beer can cock. Still, barring length, it seemed manageable.

Maybe he would come just from the thought of fucking me, I let wander through my mind, and then would be finished for the night.

"Kneel for me. Suck my cock."

I knelt between his legs and took his cock in my mouth, almost having to unhinge my jaw to manage him. I gasped and came close to hyperventilating as he immediately began to grow even more in length. He was holding my head in a firm grip between his hands and forcing me to deep throat him. My gagging didn't seem to have any effect on him whatsoever. I kept running Drake's "give him what he wants" as well as his "take what you want" remark to Sterne through my mind.

Make him come with just a blow job, I kept running through my mind, like a mantra. Suck all of his cum out of him and neutralize his libido. Make him want sleep more than sex.

What Sterne wanted was his own pleasure, although he certainly gave me pleasure too when he pulled me up onto my knees wedged up into his hairy pits and, holding me up with a firm grip on my arms, sucked me to an ejaculation. The vision of both of us naked, his rotundity growing on me with time, other than the knee-high stockings and garters on both of us was an arousing image that helped take me to an ejaculation.

I had come first. The man wasn't a neophyte and he was fully in control. I moaned from the thought that he would be fucking me—at least once.

But I couldn't deny that he was giving me pleasure too and had me begging for the cock, regardless of how thick and long it was, as he had me bent over the bed, knelt on the floor behind me, and expertly ate my ass out.

Drake surely could hear my cries of pain mixed with passion as Sterne crouched over me from behind, with me bent over the bed, trapped my hips between his beefy thighs, and huffed and puffed the forced invasion of my hole with that beer can cock of his with a stretched-to-the-max journey of the shaft up my passage. But there was to be no relief for me from Drake. "Give him what he wants; give him what he wants" repeated in my mind as a protective mantra. I bowed my back, giving him more of a depression to press his pot belly into, with the result that he reached deeper inside me with his cock. I cried out in both pain and want. "Deeper, deeper," I gasped.

He wanted to leave me an exhausted, broken wreck. I wanted to know how big a cock I could take. Concentrate on the cock, I kept telling myself. The cock is good. The cock is great.

I was fully under Maury's and Drake's control to be here, prostituting myself to a client the firm wanted to land. And I was completely under the control of this old, fat, power driver who was pounding my ass masterfully without so much as a please or a thank-you.

As he pumped ever harder, I relaxed and went with him, pounding him back, opening to him, taking him thick and deep, reaching back with the hand that wasn't stroking my own cock and gripping and rolling and squeezing his balls as his moans and grunts merged with my groans. Turning my mind completely to the cock inside me. Big, thick, vigorous. A victory to take. The promise of prodigious cum. All for me. All worship of my body.

Who cared if he was old, fat, and ugly. He was powerful and his body lusted after mine and he needed to be inside me. And he was hung, filling, satiating.

What did it matter that I wasn't in control, that I was being used? What did it matter that a window cleaner had mastered and was using me? Drake gloriously fucked me. I was being used and gloriously fucked and mastered now as well—by an old, fat, hairy man.

Who the fuck cared about anything anymore?

He flooded me deep with his cum and held there, panting hard, all of his weight on my back, breathing heavily through his mouth. Snorting. Putting his mouth on the back of my neck, applying slobbering kisses there, his cock going flaccid inside me, but having me at a stretch even when flaccid. Suddenly not the greatest catch in the sea. Me wondering why, somewhere in the middle of it, I went beyond "give him what he wants"—to begging him for the fuck.

I'd done that. I'd begged him to fuck me, to pound me harder, deeper. And he'd done so. I hadn't done it just to land an account.

"You're so nice. Tight. Beautiful young body," he whispered. "Thank you."

The first hint of appreciation. I guess to a man over fifty, twenty-seven seemed young. But then I froze.

"I could fuck you all night. Maybe I will fuck you all night."

Surely not. He was an old man. Fitter than the fat indicated, but still, an old man. Surely he can't . . . oh, shit, yes he can. He was going hard again, filling and stretching me again. I began to pant, writhe, and whimper as he gripped me tighter, ready to go again.

He turned me to facing him, moving me into a missionary position. His belly was pressing into mine, pressing on my internal organs and taking my breath away, but he was still inside me thick and deep, getting thicker, going deeper. Thinking only of the cock inside me and Drake's "give him what he wants," I crossed my ankles below his bulbous buttocks; ran my fingers into the hair on his back, clutching at his shoulder blades; and began to move my pelvis in the rhythm of his thrusts.

"Yes, yes, fuck me. Punish me," I murmured. And, strangely enough, I meant it. He emitted a low, guttural laugh and his thrusts came harder, faster. I raised and spread my legs, gripping my ankles with my hands and rolling my pelvis up, opening totally to his deeper, harder thrusts. "Do what you want with me," I murmured in a sob of total, willing surrender to his control and desires.

I caught a glimpse of Drake—the window cleaner—at the door to the bedroom. He smiled in approval and turned away, disappearing from view.