Three on a Date

I gingerly pulled Fraser's arm from across my chest and slowly moved my hips forward to pull my channel off his now-flaccid cock. There was nothing wrong with the length of him—that was his most notable feature for someone looking for sex from another man. He could remain deep inside me flaccid after a side-splitting fuck like we had just had. He was the only man I'd had who could reach deep inside me in a side split.

There wasn't much wrong with his looks and body, either, when his age and work life were taken into account. He was some twenty years older than I was and, being a department head at the Smithsonian Institution who lived for his work, he was soft except where it mattered most in sex. He wasn't fat; he, in fact, could go all day without food in the excitement of a new find or a developing exhibit for the American History Museum on the national mall, which, over the years, had led to him appearing gaunt.

He was tall, dressed elegantly, had once been quite handsome, and was both glib and witty. He had taken me under his wing when I'd first come to the Freer Gallery, across the mall from his museum but also in the Smithsonian system, right after completing a doctorate in art history and museum curating at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland, Ohio. We met at an orientation meeting for new Smithsonian employees. I was straight out of the Midwest. I wasn't naïve in terms of sex. I was actively gay but without hookups yet in D.C.

Fraser had given several orientation lectures for new Smithsonian employees in which he'd been witty and erudite and oh so welcoming. From the first lecture, he seemed to be looking at me as he spoke. We were introduced to each other and spoke sporadically and shallowly in the revolve of a cocktail party at the American History Museum Stars and Stripes café after museum hours. In one of our brief conversation groups, the question arose of whether any of us had tried out a new restaurant in Georgetown. Everyone in the group had, except me. Fraser said I must go—and that I must go that night after the cocktail party. And he would take me there. He said he wanted to know more about the program at Case Western Reserve anyway.

He was sparkling at the restaurant. We had another cocktail while waiting for our food and wine with dinner and port afterward. The conversation was easy and he an expert interviewer. I have no idea when I told him I was gay, but I did. Or when I told him I was unattached and at loose ends so far in D.C. Or when he first put his hand on my thigh under the table. Or when I told him that, yes, I found him attractive.

But I let him drive me home to my small apartment near Dupont Circle, come up to my bedroom, and wow me with how long it took him to uncoil his cock from his trousers and with how far he could put it up my channel. I'd never gone with an older man before, but in the dark, there was just him holding me close from behind, and that long cock of his. He took me quickly and efficiently with little foreplay or postcoidal cuddling. And then he got dressed and went home to his wife.

The next day he took me to lunch, again to a high-end restaurant in Georgetown. He apologized for the previous evening, saying we'd both had too much to drink and that he'd found me overpoweringly attractive. He said his wife, who was a Smithsonian archeologist, was frequently in the field and that they had a marriage of convenience—one that they were both happy in. But, he admitted, he had needs and sometimes acted on them—especially when she was gone. She, in fact, had left that morning for a dig in Egypt.

I sympathized with him, and after lunch, before we returned to work, he fucked me deep with that thin but long cock of his in the missionary position on my bed in my conveniently nearby apartment. He took me quickly and efficiently once again. The previous night had been in the doggy position leaning over my bed. Today was missionary. He had one other position—the side split—and he religiously worked his way through that pattern—doggy, missionary, side split—on Tuesday and Thursday noontime breaks in my apartment. Little foreplay, quick and efficient taking, and not much cuddling afterward—except, when his wife was out of town, he'd sleep in my bed on Sunday nights—one fuck following the pattern and then spooned sleeping in the bed—and give me a lift to the Smithsonian complex on Monday morning.

He had a parking space in a museum garage. I didn't. I took the subway. The Monday morning ride seemed worth the night before. The best part was sleeping with a long cock up inside me.

This was a Sunday night. He'd taken me to dinner—he was quite generous with that perk—come home with me, fucked me once on my bed—in a side split—and gone to sleep with my back burrowed in close to his spare frame, his cock going flaccid inside me.

As long as he was plowing me with that long cock, the coupling was fine. It was so scheduled and vanilla, though, that I was getting restless. I'd been in Washington, D.C., for five months and no one else had fucked me—no one younger than forty or muscular or spontaneous in his approach and carry through, or playful or even cruel.

I had fantasies of rough and cruel.

I had grown restless. I had done research. Research was what I was trained to do. I'd found a specialized subscription gay male dating site on the Internet. And I had paid for a subscription on Saturday, yesterday.

After extricating myself from Fraser, I padded out to the small room that had been rented to me as a second bedroom but that was little bigger than a closet. I used it as a home office. I turned on the computer and opened the homepage of the specialized dating service I'd found. It was specialized because it set up dates of single men with male couples. Threesome dating. The service made no bones about the purpose of the date being sex, and it's profile descriptions emphasized that.

I'd shot my load in an introductory perusal of the site Saturday night just in reading the profiles.

I'd never gone with two men before in a threesome. I hadn't done much of anything kinky before. There were a hell of a lot of sexual arrangements I hadn't tried before. And as time passed with Fraser, being denied anything that wasn't scheduled, vanilla, and over before I had had time to become deeply aroused, I began to feel more and more left out of the excitement of life. Fraser didn't seem to care if I had an ejaculation or not, as long as he did. So, increasingly, it wasn't happening for me every time.

The Web site made no bones about the goal being just dinner and a good-night kiss. The questioning for the profile was detailed and intrusive, although it was formatted mostly in a series of images of this and that, asking me to click on a scale of how much I was interested in this and that. The questions delved deep into fantasies and were constructed so that I was pulling much more out of my concept of desires than I'd even dared give thought to before.

The primary fantasy it brought out of me was being with two men at once. That was enough of a surface desire that I had sought out the dating service in the first place. I didn't know that would attract me when I started to look for something different than I was getting, but I knew it was something that attracted me as soon as I uncovered the Web site.

The questionnaire also was detailed in personal attributes, including both clothed and unclothed photos. I didn't have any trouble responding to that—either technically because I had shared nude photos with men when I was in Cleveland or in the need to hide anything. I had every reason to be proud of my physique, appearance, and equipment. Whereas most of the Smithsonian curators either took long, fattening lunches or ate at their desks while they worked, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I grabbed a quick salad at the museum café and then went to my nearby club and swam laps. On Saturday I worked out. I had kept myself in shape—great shape—while most who worked in my field sank into a mound of work-obsessed, unexercised Jell-O. And everyone told me that I reminded them of that "young movie heartthrob whatshisname," so I felt confident on the looks side of things.

The deal was that singles and couples signaled their interest to the Web site on the basis of the profiles made up from the questionnaires. If matches were found, dates were set up through the Web site, and the couple paid for the hookup.

There weren't that many couples profiled on the Web site that hit all of my buttons. Many of them were older-younger pairs. There were a few, though, that had my cock bobbing, and that evening, while Fraser snored lightly in my bedroom, I pushed the "interested" button on four couples.

I closed down the computer and went back to bed. Fraser had turned over on his back. His flaccid cock curled along his thigh almost down to one of his knees. His legs were spread enough that I could sink between them. I had the strongest urge to do so and to give him a sensuous blow job he'd long remember.

But Fraser had made clear the first time that we fucked that he wasn't interested in such intimacy.

* * * *

The couple I was paired with were named Nash and Grant. Nash's profile was what attracted me first. Working as a horse breeder at a stables in the northern Virginia hunt country near Middleburg jumped right out at me. Beyond that I'd read biographies of the Kennedys. They'd kept a home in Middleburg so that Jackie could ride. I'd remembered that. I'd asked Fraser to drive me out there someday to see what the area was like, but he hadn't done so yet.

Of course both men were hunks—or I wouldn't have clicked on them. Nash claimed to be twenty-eight, two years older than I was. Grant listed at thirty-one. Nash was the muscle man. Blond; smooth-shaved all over, with a close-trimmed blond bush; cut (talking both body and cock here); rugged, chiseled features; just a couple of inches taller than I was; solidly built; an open, sunny smile. Big hands. Big dick. Not abnormally long, but really thick—what some term a Coke can cock. He wasn't erect in the photo, leading to the speculation on how he'd lengthen when aroused. Hefty balls, nestled close in under the cock.

His photos gave off the aura of aggressive stance, power, and straightforward honesty. I could see him working in the horse ring, shirtless, his muscular torso covered in a sheen of clean, musky-scented sweat.

Grant was quite a contrast to Nash. He was listed as an accountant and tennis club pro in Reston, an up-scale enclave township south of Washington, in Virginia, which had originally been built as a high-end self-contained city set down in the countryside. Since then, Reston had been swallowed up by suburban sprawl, but it fought hard to maintain its separate identity.

Where Nash was blond and built powerful and close to the ground, Grant was dark, tall and slim. He did have good muscular definition, but where Nash was sunny openness, Grant was sulky and sensuous, with a secretive aura. His hair was jet black and curly—and it covered much of his body—in arousing ways for anyone who liked hirsute men. And I did. If I had to characterize him in one word, it would be foxy. And I'd do so tapping various aspect of that word. He looked to be highly intelligent—and the degrees he listed supported that—but he gave off the aspect of having secrets and being much smarter than anyone else in the room—both thinking he was and actually being right about that.

His hair appeared to be designed. Nash was clean shaven; Grant maintained what seemed to be a perpetual five-o'clock shadow. His chest hair swirled in a perfect pattern around nipples that protruded out noticeably, and the hair descended to his sculpted jet-black pubes in a thin line down his sternum and flat belly. His thighs and calves were heavily matted, as were his forearms, the knuckles on his hands, and the joints on his toes.

He cultivated the foxy and sensual look, facing the camera with a sneery smile, seeming to have pointed ears, and unabashedly exhibitionist, leaning back on some sort of credenza, his pelvis jutting out and sporting a full, upturned erection, the cock long, the ball sac hanging low between spread legs. A gay sex site shot.

Nash was listed as a top; Grant as versatile. I, of course, had listed as a bottom. That had been what was at the base of the matchup. There were other obvious matchups. My profile had said I was seeking adventure, variety, and testing—none of which I had explicitly stated. That must have been extracted from my choices of voting the scale on images the questionnaire presented. Their profiles indicated they were looking for—me. Most notably, I saw, because all three of us were listed as being willing to fuck on the first date and all three showed interest in double penetration. I certainly hadn't directly said I was. I'd have to think about that over the course of the date. Yes, of course I had fantasized about it—apparently in the questionnaire phase.

And all three had expressed an interest in big cocks, sports events, movie house sex, and barebacking. How the questionnaire had arrived at these for me mystified me. Disturbingly, I had apparently gone wild in filling the questionnaire out, no doubt from frustration with Fraser, showing interest in being controlled, bondage, and even flogging—acts I don't remember ever even thinking of before—but I must have if the questionnaire had pulled the desires out of me. And black bulls, exhibitionism, and gang bangs.

There seemed to be no end to the fetishes I'd allowed the computer to think I was interested in. And I suppose I'd always been curious and the frustration with Fraser had brought out the wanton in me. I couldn't deny that it gave me a hard on to read the list—and to contemplate the possibility that any of that would happen on a day of dating. There certainly would be no time to do it all. And, just as the questionnaires had brought out exaggeration from me, I'm sure it brought it out of these other two also. I had been permitted to review the list. My hand did hover over the edit button. But I was just so frustrated with the vanilla of Jasper and the lack of other opportunities beyond this dating service. I let the profile stand.

They came for me—by car—at a restaurant on M Street in Georgetown, just over Key Bridge from Roslyn, on the Virginia shore of the Potomac. Nash was driving a new red Mustang. Grant was in the backseat. They were controlling the date. For a day they were going to be controlling me. I couldn't have driven anyway. I didn't have a car in Washington.

Grant ushered me into the backseat with him, and Nash drove up Wisconsin Avenue, turned left onto P Street, pulled over to the curb, and let the car idle, as Grant turned and put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close in beside him, and laid a hand on my package.

It was clear now and throughout the day that Grant was the leader and Nash the follower—and I the boy toy.

"So far so good," he said, "you're the same honey in the photos. But before we go any further, we need to establish what you'll do. If you don't stand behind the profile we bid on, we should know that now. You can get back out of the car here. We can get our money back for a date that doesn't get off the ground."

He was squeezing my package and I must have given him a pained, shocked look. I'd had no idea it would start this soon.

"You claimed interest in a whole lot of kinky stuff on your profile. You going to stand behind that? This isn't your normal date. Nash and I have paid a pretty penny for this. We will do a lot of what you showed interest in. We'll use you all day. We'll abuse you part of the day. If you don't want to deliver on your profile, it's good-bye here."

I was scared but I was exhilarated too. This was the jolt I had been seeking when I paid my $200 to register at the dating service. I didn't consciously know I wanted to experience these things listed in my profile.

But I did. Even if it was the only one time.

"I'll stay in the car."

"Have you done all that shit listed in your profile?"

"Just some of it," I answered. "The questionnaire pulling those out were about desires—what I want to try."

"You'll do it all?"

"I'll stay in the car."

"Strip your jeans and briefs off," Grant commanded. "Before Nash starts to drive, strip down."

"Excuse me?"

"Gotta know if you're shitting us or if you're serious. Strip your jeans and briefs off. We're starting out at a horse show outside Middleburg. The date starts now. I'm going to do you back here while Nash drives us out there. Don't want that, get out of the car."

"I'm not wearing briefs," I answered as I started undoing my belt buckle.

That set him back. He gave me a surprised look. In the front seat, Nash laughed and pulled the car away from the curb, heading back down Wisconsin to M Street and then over Key Bridge into Virginia.

Grant was kissing me hard on the lips and jacking my cock with a fist before we hit the Virginia shore.

* * * *

After the forty-five-minute drive into the Virginia countryside during which Grant jacked me, I gave him a blow job, and I rode his cock, facing him, my knees pressed into the fold where seat back met seat cushion on either side of his hips, several hours of the remaining day, with a single exception, were downright staid—just what anyone would expect on a first date.

Except that my date was with two randy men, not one or with a woman.

"You had expressed an interest in sporting events, and Nash breeds and trains horses, so we thought you'd enjoy seeing a horse show and auction." He'd seen the little smile I'd given when he'd said that as we got out of the backseat of the Mustang. Nash had popped out of the front seat and was striding toward a big horse barn with a riding ring behind it. Cars were parked haphazardly in the field Nash had parked in and people already were lining the rails of the riding ring. Beyond them I could see horses in the ring and handlers guiding them around.

"I see you reacted to Nash, horses, and breeding. Is that what attracted you to our profile on the dating service Web site? You clicked on interest in us first. We would have clicked on you—your photo and all of those kinks you were interested in—if you hadn't shown interest in us first. Your attention was arrested by riding and breeding and how Nash was hung?"

"I was attracted by how both of you are hung," I said. I surprised myself when I said that. I was determined to "get into" this date, even though it already was well outside my experience zone.

He laughed and drew me to him and gave me a sloppy kiss on the lips. I looked quickly around to see if we'd been observed, but all of the attention seemed to be concentrated on what was going on in the riding ring.

"Never fear as far as Nash is concerned," he said. "Before the night is done, he will ride you and breed you. We won you in an auction, and we're going to wear you out."

A shudder went up my spine—but one of anticipation and exhilaration.

By the time we got to the riding ring, Nash was already inside, leading a magnificent brute of a pure-white stallion around the ring. As they walked, the stallion must have seen a mare he wanted, because suddenly a thick pink tube of a cock started expanding between his hindquarters to become the definition of "horse-hung" cock. There were murmurs and snickers in the crowd, as Nash fought—and won—a struggle by the horse to get away from him and pursue its interests.

Two men, an older one and a much younger, were at the rail beside Grant and me. They were standing close, the older—obviously wealthy one—had a hand lightly pressed to the younger one's back. They were close enough to me that I could hear them converse.

"A magnificent beast," the younger one said, gesturing to where Nash was leading the stallion. "I'd love to ride that one."