The Window Cleaner

He turned and saw that I was hard and holding my black dick with a hand.

“You want—?”

“Yes, I want,” I said. I screwed him over the toilet, him on his knees on the toilet seat, me fisting the hair on his head and arching his chest back to me. Then, before coming again, I carried him out to the bed, lay him on the small of his back at the foot of the bed, and finished him, taking him hard in a missionary position. At no time in the hour and more that I was screwing him did he fail to give me whatever I demanded of him.

“Duane, do you just cook, or can you clean too?” I asked as I was propped up on the bed, scratching my balls and smoking another Camel while he dressed.

“I can clean,” he said.

I took him home. Boyd and I had been talking about getting a houseboy to clean and cook. We could afford it now.

Boyd came into the bedroom, finding me nailing Duane to the mattress. I pulled him into the bed and screwed them together, at one point with Boyd lying on top of Duane, both of their asses hanging off the end of the bed, and me screwing both of them, taking turns of which hole I was stroking.

Boyd acted like he didn’t like it, but I bullied him, watching to see if he’d knuckle under it—give me full control in the matter—and he did. I’m not sure I didn’t set the whole thing up just to check on whether Boyd would remain under my control.