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A tower bell of a church somewhere beyond the hotel on Chicago’s North Side was peeling off the call to a service, and it seemed that Ricardo was coordinating his thrusts with the bell tolling. The hunky Brazilian was on top of Gene, doing him in a missionary, on the king-sized bed in Oscar Oliphant’s sixth-floor Armitage Hotel room. He was hovering over the younger male model, his knees between Gene’s bent legs, his hands pressing the young man’s upper arms to the mattress, his face close enough to Gene’s, a look of determination in his eyes, that his loose, shoulder-length black hair was tickling Gene’s throat and the tops of his bare shoulders as it moved with the hard, big-cock thrusts of his pelvis. Ricardo was intent on getting every bit of pleasure from the friction of his thrusts inside the young model that he could get before releasing his seed.
With a moan, Gene raised his buttocks from the mattress, giving the Brazilian deeper access, which the man took advantage of, thrust a few more time, tightened and jerked, filled the bulb of his condom, and rolled off to the right of Gene, onto his back. He was snoring within a minute. But he had a contented smile on his face. Gene was one of the best lays he’d ever had.
Gene wasn’t finished with his servicing responsibilities, though. Oscar Oliphant had been lying on his side to the left of Gene, facing him, stroking Gene’s cock with his hand while Ricardo fucked Gene. Oscar had had first fuck with Gene, taking him in a straightforward missionary, with Ricardo sitting on the side of the bed and helping to guide the thrusts with a hand on Oscar’s bare buttocks. Having shot his load, Oscar had rolled off to the side of the bed, while Ricardo moved over on top of Gene for his turn.
While Ricardo took over the fuck and Oscar was stroking Gene’s cock with one hand, the fashion designer had a marijuana joint in his other hand and was puffing on that. He loosened the hold of his hand and Gene kept moving his hips, fucking up into the loose sheath of Oscar’s folded fingers until, with a sigh, he came. Oscar moved the joint to Gene’s mouth, and the young man took a couple of puffs before, his mind becoming clouded, he brushed it away, crawled out from between the two men, and went to the hotel room window.
He could see the church bell tower beyond a park, on West Webster Avenue, which would dead end in three blocks into Lakeshore Park fronting on Lake Michigan. They weren’t in a high-rise part of the city, but they weren’t far from the city center. The hotel was a bit seedy and off the beaten path, but that was natural for a building with a gentleman’s club, the Stag Club, on the eighth, top, floor and a bar of ill repute on the ground floor. They were in town to peddle one of the House of Oliphant’s men’s fashion lines to retailers. Gene and another male model, Chip, were there to model the clothing, much of it sexy wear for adult boutiques and gay male online retailers, in a fashion show this afternoon in the Stag Club. Ricardo Faria, once a star soccer player in Brazil who had been sidelined by a leg injury, was there to keep Gene and Chip under control and in line.
Gene had been with the House of Oliphant for nearly six months. Before that he was with the House of Havlos and was being shared between the fashion house’s maven, Helene, and her Serbian nationalist husband Victor Macek. Gene had been with Victor when the man had been blown away by Helene’s jealous hairdresser. Although both Helene and Gene continued with their arrangement for several months, the specter of Victor, who Gene had been taking writing classes from at Columbia University and who was the model for a Yugoslavia freedom fighter in the novel Gene was writing, remained in both their minds. When Ricardo seduced Gene and Oscar wanted Gene to model for his fashion house, Gene made the move to Oscar’s fashion house. The move still rankled a bit, both because Ricardo had been duplicitous in seducing Gene and Gene had seen money exchange hands in the change of his modeling contract. He couldn’t help feeling a whore in multiple dimensions. That Oscar and Ricardo regularly shared Gene in a threesome, sometimes doubling him by both being inside him at once, only drove home this feeling.
He could clearly see the park—Oz Park—from here, and he ached for the freedom to be there, to walk free, and, if he fell into a hookup, this being Sunday, a day he felt wanton, it would be one of his own choice. He’d been told he wouldn’t only be modeling on this trip—that some of the more important retailers coming to the fashion show expected accommodation by the models. He had complained to Ricardo, who had laughed and said, “You and Chip will be taking care of the tops. I’ve got to service the bottoms myself. Don’t complain to me.”
Oscar joined Gene at the window, coming in behind him and holding him close. They both were naked, and Oscar, an older man, but slim and hard of body and elegant of manner, was in erection, his already-sheathed cock pressing at the small of Gene’s back. He reached around Gene with both hands. One palmed Gene’s sternum and the other offered Demetevler Escort the joint to Gene again. The young man took a couple of puffs. Oscar took another puff himself and then placed the joint in an ash tray on top of the bureau next to the window. That hand now went to Gene’s chin, pulling Gene’s head back toward into his chest. His other palm glided down Gene’s torso to his belly, and gently pulled back.
“Present to me,” Oscar whispered.
With a sigh, Gene changed his position, widening the stance of his legs, pushing his buttocks back and raising them, and pressing the palms of his hands on the window. His eyes watered briefly and he yawned his mouth open at the penetration of the cock, but he gave no sound other than beginning to pant and his breath going ragged as Oscar forced his cock up into the young man’s passage deep and began the rhythm of the fuck.
Gene stared out into space, fixating on the park beyond the next block—Oz Park—thinking of being there, free to do as he liked—to pick up men of his own choice. Oscar’s attentions were getting to him, though. He took men’s cocks not just because he needed the money. He took men’s cocks because he enjoyed being shafted—especially on Sundays. And Oscar had a very nice cock and an expert fuck technique. He made love to every inch of Gene’s channel. Gene took both Oscar’s and Ricardo’s cocks together because it was a sense of pride that he could and it was a sense of power that two such beautiful men could have such passion for him at the same time.
He sighed and began moving his pelvis with the deep, slow thrusts. He didn’t want to be this easy, but he couldn’t help it.
“Yes, yes, right there, like that,” he murmured. “Yes, fuck me. Like that.”
Ricardo Faria gave out a snort in his sleep from across the room. Oscar contributed a little laugh and continued moving his hips as Gene sighed. In, out, in deeper, hold . . . sigh . . . out . . . in . . .
The church bell had started chiming again. Oscar’s thrusts were right on the beat. He had moved his hand to Gene’s cock and was stroking him. Oscar had long, elegant fingers and soft hands. On the last strike of the church bell, Gene shot his cloudy load against the lower panel of the window, watching the glob dribble down the glass, as Oscar’s cum, the fashion designer having pulled out and stripped off the condom before ejaculating, dribble down Gene’s inner thighs.
Oscar pulled away from Gene and headed toward the bathroom and the showers, while Ricardo came over, took Gene in an embrace, kissed him on the lips, and led him back to the bed, where, bending the young man over the mattress and forcing Gene’s arms over his head with a firm grasp on both of his wrists, Ricardo mounted him and began the dance of the fuck one more time.
* * * *
Gene sat at the desk in his third-floor hotel room, going over a chapter of his novel draft. He was taking the manuscript with him everywhere he went these days and whenever he had a few minutes to spare, he worked on it. It was his escape from his nearly sex slave existence in the world of fashion, albeit how submissively and willingly he acquiesced to it. The novel almost was just the way he wanted it, and his mind kept going to what he could use as an escape after it was done. He always could write about the reality of a male model in the fashion world, but that wouldn’t provide him an escape from this world, a world of pleasure, yes, but of almost unbearable intensity and lack of control. Thus, he kept tinkering with the book he had. He knew that the danger at this point was to overmassage it, to suck all of his own voice out of it. He barely touched it these days without the thought of “first do no harm.”
The knock at the door jolted him out of the fantasy world he was in—and the memories of Victor Macek—when he had his nose in the manuscript.
“We should be up there already.” Chip was at the door. “It will start in fifteen and we need to be ready to walk off the first ensemble.”
“I’m already dressed, Chip,” Gene answer. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
He, in fact, was already dressed—in black. The first pass on the catwalk would be making an all-black, dangerous leather statement. He was wearing a mesh muscle athletic T-shirt over tight black leather jeans, with a drop codpiece at the crotch. Black boots. The hand whip was already set up in the Stag Club, behind the stage. He had a black beret to put on too. He had to remember to swagger down the catwalk in this. The clothes were tight, sexy. It was the most coverage of his body that there would be on him for this show. The buyers were looking for sexy—and easily removed. This wasn’t the usual set of buyers—these men, mainly men, mainly men who wanted other men—were buying for gay sex clubs and online catalogs.
Gene came out first. Chip, a little older than he was and darker and more pouty and more muscular, followed on the catwalk behind him in the same black leather jeans but bare-chested with a black leather harness. He was wearing black leather Otele gelen escort gloves and also carried—and swished as he strutted—the hand whip.
The room was long and narrow, like the one at Punto, in New York, that Helene often used for House of Havlos fashion shows. But it was a smaller room than Punto’s catwalk room was. The crowd was smaller too, but it looked like a lot of people from Gene’s position on the catwalk as he took the long walk down and then off to the slightly wider raised platform at either side at the end, where he went one direction and Chip the other and where both did their turns to the snapping of the cameras before returning to the backstage for the quick change down into something ever skimpier as they moved toward the end of the show.
Most of the patrons were men, although there were some hard-looking women too, who ate the models up with their eyes as much as any of the men did. Gene had encountered some of them before—women who reveled in getting a gay boy hard, of coaxing him inside her, and then snapping her steel trap of a cunt shut and milking him as he screamed at the brutality of her taking. He’d made the mistake of going with one of these women after a show like this, a woman who proved she was stronger and more experienced than he was and who held him captive in position, as she milked him again and again, until his balls ached and he cried out for a mercy she didn’t grant him.
Luckily, there would be none of those staying on after the show for the after-event special treatment given to the high rollers who wanted to stay and who were good for big orders of the clothing. At the end, Gene and Chip were down to lacy panties only, with slits in front and back and opaque pouches that clearly revealed what they were packing.
Four men, three middle-aged, hefty, and no beauties, and one highly acceptable one, remained when the crowd cleared and Gene and Chip had been called back out on the catwalk by Oscar Oliphant, standing at the lectern on stage and Ricardo Faria, standing with the four men and refereeing what followed.
Two of the men fucked Gene, with one of the men leaning back into one of the catwalk extensions and pulling Gene’s buttocks into his crotch. The better looking of the two athletically crouched, feet on the catwalk, in front of Gene and fed his cock into Gene’s mouth. The middle-aged man pulled Gene’s passage into his cock through the slit in the back of Gene’s panties, raised and spread Gene’s legs and fucked him hard. The man remained dressed and Gene was still in his panties. The slit in the back of them, though, gave the man’s cock full access to Gene’s hole. His cock was thick, the capability of his reach deep. The saving grace for Gene at first was that the man at his head was the best looking of the retailers. He managed to move an arm back under his buttocks and stroke Gene off as he face fucked him and the other man fucked Gene in a doggie. The good-looking guy was in great shape and athletic.
The better-looking of the buyers grew bored with the facing fucking and the tableau moved into double penetration, with the good-looking one hoping off the catwalk, moving to between Gene’s legs, and lifting and spreading them more than the man under Gene had done. He entered Gene’s passage above the already buried cock and began to stroke. The man was good looking, his kisses were sweet, neither of the men were bulls—and Gene had done this before—so he went with it and took them both, giving them both the good time Ricardo had promised them.
Both Gene and Chip had, of course, known that servicing the key buyers would be part of the show, and both were being appropriately compensated.
The other two men had Chip bent over the seat of one of the guest chairs, with one man doggie fucking him and the other face feeding him.
If any of the retailers availed themselves of Ricardo’s cock, Gene didn’t see that happen, so he figured that Ricardo had just fed him a line of bull about that rather than sympathy.
The two models escaped back to their separate rooms and their showers and bottles of mouth wash, while Oscar took the clothing orders from the satisfied retailers.
But Gene only thought he had escaped. When he got back to the room, there was a knock at the door.
“My order was extra big,” the more presentable of the retailers said when Gene opened the door. “He told me what room you were in and said for you to let me come in.”
Dipping his head, Gene took a step back to let the not-so-old, and in-great-shape retailer in the room. They fucked on the bed initially. The retailer was almost tender at first. As Gene had already known, he had a nice cock. And he knew how to use it. Gene sighed for him as the man covered him on the bed and took him half way to heaven in a missionary. For an encore, though, the man challenged Gene’s flexibility with “swinging from the chandelier” challenging sex positions that used the whole room and that had Gene groaning deeply and panting hard.
Gene didn’t mind all that much. Sunday Balgat Escort was his slut day. But he still would like to be making these decisions for himself—and taking any profit there was for them rather than the bulk of that going to Oscar and Ricardo. It turned out, though, that it wasn’t that bad. The man cocked him very well, and he left a generous tip on the bureau, both of which Gene marked as profit on Sundays.
* * * *
Gene showered again after the retailer had left his room. He sat at the desk and returned to working on his manuscript. He couldn’t hold his concentration on that, though. He and the retailer had been in synch in their first fuck. It was the fuck that Gene ached for, while the second, wild fuck was what he generally got. Once the connection had been made that first time, the man was inside him, and they were rocking their bodies together, Gene fell into the rhythm, digging his fingernails into the man’s plump buttocks, going with the pattern of the thrusts, and flexing and releasing his fingerholds to the beat of the man inside him, responding to the man whispering in his ear how sweet and tight he was.
The second fuck was much more demanding and vigorous, but the man was an expert. He had brought Gene off three time and he’d left him a tip. Gene couldn’t ask for any more—especially on a Sunday.
But then he knew he could ask for more—that he could want more. He could have had control of himself and his body. In this encounter in his room, as with everything else that had happened so far that day, Oscar Oliphant—backed up by Ricardo Faria—had had control. Even this evening that would happen. Oscar said they’d be eating dinner with the biggest vendor of the House of Oliphant adult men’s line of clothing, who had seen photos of Gene and wanted to fuck him. He’d been too important to come to the fashion show, but he was here in Chicago and he wanted to fuck Gene. So, at Oscar’s declaration, the four of them, Oscar, Ricardo, Gene, and the retailor, named Harold, would sit down to dinner in the bar on the first floor and at the end of dinner there would only be Gene and Harold. Then there would be this hotel room. Gene was warned that Harold was rough. If that hookup hadn’t been planned, Chip and Gene would have been put in the same hotel room.
Gene felt the walls of the room closing in on him. Everywhere he turned, Oscar’s control was there. And Oscar had bought him—his contract—from Helene, so Gene felt he was no more than Oscar’s trained monkey. And, worse, he, Gene, was weak. Whenever he was ready to blow, Oscar was there, stroking him, gathering him in, fucking him—and once again reminding Gene that he was weak in the face of the constraints and control being applied to him.
He had to get out of here. He had to be somewhere and do something that was of his own choice. He’d brought athletic gear. He exercised every day to stay in model shape. He dressed in a jock strap, athletic shorts and T-shirt, and running shoes, without socks. He grabbed a water bottle and hand towel and slipped out of the hotel. He gave no thought to where he was headed, but he found himself in Oz Park, running the pathways.
Gene nearly exhausted himself in the mindless run on the park’s paths. Near the center of the park, he collapsed on a bench, toweled his face and neck off, and took a deep swig of the water. That was better. He was feeling better. He was feeling more in control. He knew it was a false sense of control, but then he thought maybe not, when he noticed that a rangy, gangster-looking black guy had passed the bench for the third time, each time turning toward him and giving him “the eye.”
He looked like a bad side of Chicago thug. He was tall and thin, wearing baggy shorts, riding low on his narrow waist, with a long silver chain hanging, looped off a heavy leather belt barely holding the shorts up. His athletic T was cut deep at the sides and the neck, showing bulging biceps and pecs and considerable tattooing. He looked mean as hell.
He was just the type of guy Oscar wouldn’t want Gene to go with.
On the third pass, the thug stopped, turned, gave Gene a wide smile and a wink and popped his tongue in his cheek. He grabbed his crotch and gave it a shake. He inclined his head toward the opening of a smaller path going deeper in the park’s foliage. Then he turned and slowly started walking down that path. This wasn’t like the hookups Gene had engaged in in New York’s Central Park. This was more primeval, dangerous, raw.
Gene rose from the bench and followed him.
They had reached the fuck stage in the bushes off that path when they froze at the sound of a couple of women, speaking loudly, and an unknown number of squealing children dancing around them moving down the path toward the two men.
Gene was standing, but crouched over, his head pushed toward the soil under the bushes by a strong black hand pressing on the back of his neck. Gene’s wrists were bound behind his back with the chain that had been hanging from the black thug’s belt. The black guy was folded over Gene’s body, his free hand palming Gene’s belly. Gene’s athletic shorts were puddled around his ankles, as were the black thug’s around his. The black guy’s cock, possibly the longest Gene had ever taken in his throat before; they were beyond the preliminary now—was inside Gene’s ass, moving deeper, as Gene writhed and huffed and puffed through the wadding of his athletic shirt that was stuffed in his mouth.
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