Chapter 4 – Chapter 4

I didn't walk back into Art's apartment until after noon on Saturday. He was sitting at the table, in the same clothes he had worn the night before, with a newspaper in front of him. An ashtray overflowing with butts sat next to an empty coffee cup. The haphazardly flung string of lights was out on the Christmas tree. I wondered if that was a sign of his mood. He'd kept them on all the time I was there before. The apartment looked extra forlorn with the tree dark. Art didn't look up at me when I first walked in. The expression on his face was more sad than angry or anything else. He looked tired.

I went into the kitchen area and opened the refrigerator. He was the first one to speak.

"You haven't eaten? I'll fix you something."

"Haven't eaten, no. Didn't have any money."

"Sorry. I can give you what you earned yesterday . . . and can pay you right away for any days you work."

"I'd like that. I'll fix myself something. And I was thinking that maybe I'd do more of the cooking around here for us. I think I probably can do it better than you can."

He perked up at that—and I felt even more like a heel than I had when I was walking up the stairs, wondering what I'd tell him about just leaving before closing and not coming back all night.

"I brought your stuff—your sleeping bag and your other stuff back . . . home," he said, gesturing over to the space in front of the radiator. "I pulled out the clothes and they've been washed, dried, and folded and are layin' over there on the end of the sofa. You need more clothes. And a coat . . . for the winter. You need to shower?"

"No thanks, I'm good."

I took a swig from the milk carton and chewed off a section of a cheese slice. It had gone quiet and I looked over at Art, who was sort of hunched down into himself again. I'd told him something he didn't want to hear by telling him I didn't need a shower. It told him I'd been somewhere other than the alley I'd come from. I came in looking pretty scrubbed—which I'd had to do double hard to get the smell of Lenny off me. It told him I'd been with a john. Not quite, but I didn't want to tell him who I'd been with. God, I felt like a bastard. I put the milk carton and the unfinished slice of cheese back in the refrigerator.

"Art."

"Yes?"

"Can you take me to the bedroom? I need you to take me to the bedroom." I couldn't think of anything else to do to stop making me feel like such a heel.

He fucked me standing next to the bed, me lying on the bed below him. It was all him. I wanted him to know that it was all him. He was standing, facing and hunched over the side of the bed, his hands gripping me on each side where my buttocks curved down into the small of my back.

My weight was on my shoulder blades on the surface of the bed and my arms extended out on the surface of the bed, my fists clutching at the bedspread, bunching it up and releasing it in the rhythm of his pumping. My cheek was against the scratchiness of the chenille bedspread, and I was crying out how big and stretching he was and how much I was loving his dicking. And I wasn't lying.

My legs were wrapped around the small of his back and he was pulling and pushing my channel on his cock with the strength of his hands.

Afterward we lay stretched against each other, me on my side inside the embrace of one of his arms. I traced his solid, big-boned nakedness with the tips of my fingers, moving up to his face and his lips. My own lips replaced the fingers and we engaged in what probably was the first long, lingering kiss we'd had. I could feel him shuddering and a sob escaped him from around my lips. I moved a hand down his torso and buried my fingers in his pubes and rubbed and pulled lightly on his thick, curly hair down there. I could feel that he was reengorging. He started to turn over me, to cover my body and then remount me. But I gently pushed him back onto his back.

"Shhh, be still," I whispered. "There's plenty of time for that. You need to sleep now. I'll take care of you and then you sleep."

He sighed as I handed his cock and began to slowly masturbate him.

"You're so good to me, Art," I whispered.

He made a low, guttural sound. His pelvis was starting to move in rhythm to my jacking. But my jacking wasn't enough for him. He turned, coming over on top of me. I surrendered to him. It was what he wanted. I spread my legs and raised my knees, placing my feet flat on the surface of the bed, rolling my pelvis up to give him a good angle for the slide of his cock. He was between my thighs, his big, hardened cock poking at my lower belly. I reached over to the nightstand for a condom packet.

"One thing is for sure," I said, as I reached between our bodies and rolled the Magnum on.

He huffed a "What?"

"We're going to need more condoms real soon."

His answer was to start working his cock into me, while he embraced me closely and buried his face in the hollow of my neck. Panting hard and trying to spread my legs farther apart and raise my buttocks more to him, I turned every ounce of my attention to trying to open to him. It was like this each time, working hard to open to the hard thickness of him. The deep, deep penetration. And I loved it each time.

Then he began to pump and I lost all thought of anything.

Thinking came later as I sat at the table, eating. I'd left Art asleep at last on the bed, a smile on his lips.

My thoughts were convoluted and went back to the night before. In Lenny's king-sized bed beside the full-wall window overlooking the lights of the city. Lenny's back was propped up on pillows against the headboard of his bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms embracing me as I lay stretched out on top of him, pointed to the ceiling.

Most of his long cock was up my channel. It may have been the longest one of any man who'd had me. We were both looking down the line of my trembling torso, with me panting shallowly, by his instruction, as he slowly twirled the third, larger wand into the piss slit of my cock with the same hand that he was holding it erect with.

With every fiber of my being I was concentrating on holding steady, when I wanted to yowl and set my hips in motion in response to the filling penetration of two of my orifices.

"You're good with this," Lenny murmured. "A natural. You wanted it bad, didn't you?"

"I heard about it," I answered. "I was curious, yes. I've tried most everything."

"And this. Good is it?"

"When you do it, yes."

"Nothing more possessing, one man of another, than this."

"Yes." I moaned as he slowly twirled the wand out and reached for a thicker one. A few moments of heavy breathing from both of us and deep moaning from me, as the fourth wand worked its way in. His cock was throbbing inside me, and hard as a rock. This was as arousing to Lenny as it was to me.

"Now, right now, you are fully mine."

"Yes."

"From what Art tells me—and more from what he doesn't say—you are a whore."

"Yes."

"You going to be my whore?"

"Yes."

He laced his legs through mine and raised up and out, giving him leverage to start pumping up into my channel with his cock.

I felt his thumb press at my lips as he began to pump me with his cock. I opened my mouth to the thumb and started sucking on it, as he moved it in and out. He possessed me and was fucking me in every orifice. Complete, total possession. I felt the release of my cum rising up around the embedded wand and flowing down the sides of my cock, into my pubes. He ejaculated not long afterward in a strong spurt deep inside me. No condoms for Lenny. He lived on the edge. He didn't particularly care if his partner didn't want to—and I, for one, hadn't objected any more than that young blond guy probably had. With Lenny, that Lenny wanted you was enough.

I woke up on the bed in the morning, naked and sore all over. He'd fucked me twice more in the night. I was alone, but it didn't take long to realize that what woke me was the sweet sound of the saxophone.

I showered and dressed. He was still playing the sax when I came out into the living and dining area. His apartment was so much more than Art's was. But I wasn't really comfortable in it. Everything was just too expensive looking, too slick. I didn't think of it at the time, but it was as too slick as Lenny himself was.

It didn't hit me until the last day that I walked out of that apartment, forever, that, as expensive as his stuff was, Lenny's apartment was sterile. He didn't even have a Christmas tree up. Not even one as good as Art's. I gained a whole new appreciation for that bedraggled Christmas tree of Art's.

He was sitting, naked, on a dining room chair next to a glass-topped table. His body was beautiful—not in a bodybuilder's way but sensual, hard, reflecting a hard-living life that went with the blues sounds he was pulling out of the sax. His tattooing mesmerized me. I suddenly came to some sort of realization that it wasn't just random swirls. It was trying to tell a story. Maybe his life story? I just couldn't read it. I couldn't read Lenny. Even in the intimacy—and having a guy sound you and fuck you at the same time couldn't become more intimate—Lenny remained a cypher to me. Remote. I wanted more from him . . . with him, though. I wanted to merge with him. I ached for him to fuck and sound me again, to play me like he was playing that sax.

On the table beside him was a hypodermic syringe and a small glass bottle. The bottle appeared to be empty.

Lenny didn't even know I was there. I didn't bother to go into the kitchen. I walked to the entrance to the apartment and closed the door quietly beyond me. Lenny wouldn't have known if I had slammed it.

For a while I didn't know where I was going, but my feet carried me back to Art's apartment.