Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

It was uncanny. Every time I looked out into the audience, he was looking at me. This despite having two young men hanging off him. And I knew that look. He wanted me. With all the young men at the Chelsea Bathhouse who were available to him, he wanted me.

Cole Temple was a legend at the bathhouse. He was even a bigger legend than just in the New York bathhouse scene. He was one of the foremost political novelists of our age. A lion of a man, the body of a Zeus into his forties and movie-star good looks, he famously was perhaps the most openly narcissistic and egotistical public figure in America in the current era. He was bigger than life, flamboyantly homosexual in an Oscar Wilde way before that became any sort of fashion and able to bring it off while still being acceptable in the halls of power and entertainment. His was the only opinion that mattered when he was holding court at a gathering. He sucked all of the air out of the room and still everyone there willingly laid down and opened their legs to him—emotionally, certainly, but also physically when he demanded it.

And he demanded servicing daily—often nearly hourly.

His father had been a major baseball player, his mother a raving beauty, whose father, a U.S. senator, had been the head of a political dynasty. Cole was related to a first lady on this side of the pond, and multiple royal houses on the other side. He was the last person leading families wanted to invite to gatherings, but he was the first one they wanted to hear give a acid-tongue riff on other members of the family. Therefore, he never was left off the guest list.

His homosexual affairs with novelists and actors and more than one royal when he was barely legal were legendary. And he had become a major novelist and political commentator and book reviewer in his own right.

He had shown up at the Chelsea Bathhouse from the day it had opened, and was reputed to have fucked at least one young man at the bathhouse and taken another one home each night. He was both insatiable and ever hard. A joke was making the rounds that a molding of his cock was going to be marketed as a dildo.

And now he was sitting at a table in the first row as, I, wearing only a gold lamé G-string, wrapped myself around a pole on the stage in front of the Phil Gauteau Band and sang my little heart out.

Two young men bracketed Temple at his table. One was naked and had his face plastered to the side of Temple's head. The other, as good as naked, sat on the other side of Temple, who was only in silky boxer briefs, and had Temple's cock pulled through the fly of the briefs and was stroking it. As was obvious from Temple's reputation, the man was hung. From what I could see, a thick vein running the length of it, I could readily believe that it would be modeled for a dildo.

Despite the attention he was getting from the two young men, Temple had his eyes on me. When he was sure I was looking, he even smiled directly at me and cupped his package—a sure declaration of intent in the bathhouse. I shuddered and felt myself going hard.

It had been a euphoric four weeks since I'd been fronting the Phil Gauteau Band at the Chelsea Bathhouse. I had made a splash, yielding great reviews in all of the underground newspapers. I felt that now men were coming to the shows at the bathhouse to see and listen to me.

He wasn't the first one declaring he'd come to fuck me. And there had been patrons who had done just that, leaving me fat tips. I had never received action like this before. I decided I craved almost constant cock.

Having Temple sitting there, with his eyes on me, was some sort of peak I had achieved. Temple was the biggest catch of them all—not just at the Chelsea Bathhouse, but in New York and beyond.

I needed the boost. I'd gotten two whammies earlier in the day. I'd walked in on Zane fucking a woman in our room that afternoon. In the last four weeks, life had looked up for both of us. We both had real beds in the room now. But it also was becoming obvious that we were on the cusp of a change in living arrangements. We each could afford better now. But we hadn't had the conversation about whether we would relocate together or go our separate ways at this point.

We had had the conversation about bringing others back to the room, however. I might have managed if I'd caught him in the room with another man, but I still wasn't comfortable with his bisexuality.

The woman was considerably older than he was, but still was trim and with shapely legs that went on for miles. Zane's pelvis was inserted between those legs and he was holding one of them raised from her body, which was arched back, her head hanging over the side of the bed and her long, straight, blonde hair swishing on the floor to the rhythm of the fuck. From the door into the room, I had a clear shot of his "foot long" taking long strokes inside her. I turned and left. This wasn't what we'd agreed too. I realized that this probably was the director of his play and he was just solidifying his run in the part, but I thought we had an agreement that neither of us would bring someone else back to the room.

At the same time, I realized that this was his room, not mine. He didn't need anything from me—certainly not permission to bring anyone to the room to fuck. He had brought me to the room to fuck. It had been my need that had brought us together. It was obvious, though, that the time for new digs had arrived—and that they would need to be separate digs. The thought depressed me; I had been avoiding it.

And then, when I had arrived at the bathhouse and sought Phil Gauteau out, I found him in his dressing room, fucking a young man on a divan. Later, when we rehearsed, and the young man showed up standing behind the keyboard, I realized that I no longer was the last person Gauteau had auditioned for a job in the band.

Inevitably, I was being moved down a notch and would be receiving less attention than before from that beer can dick I now had learned to crave—if at all. I just hoped that the next young man Gauteau auditioned wasn't another singer. My reviews gave me some hope, though, that he wouldn't be releasing me any time soon.

When I returned from a break and started into a new set of songs, I noticed that Temple no longer was at the table in the front row. If legend held, he was off fucking one of the young men I'd seen him with and had the other one in reserve to take home.

I was wrong, though. When I left the stage door that evening, a Cadillac coupe was taking up most of the room in the alley. As I passed it, the driver's side window rolled down. I saw the face of Cole Temple through the open window.

"Get in," was all he said.

Feeling numb and hopped up at the same time, I went around to the passenger side of the car and climbed in. I had reached a milestone. The famous novelist, Cole Temple, was taking me home to his bed.

Temple lived in an oversized penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park. We rode up in the private elevator to the top without a word. Inside the foyer, he turned to me and said, "The bedroom is in that direction. Take a shower and clean yourself out," and I walked, feeling like I was walking on air, down a long hallway to what had to be the master bedroom.

I wasn't all the way down the hall, though, before I heard his doorbell ring and him opening the door to a large, boisterous gaggle of people. They streamed into his living room with much noise.

I took a shower, padded out to the bedroom, which was dominated by a bed that had to be nearly twice the size of a king-sized bed, and slipped between the covers. I could hear a raucous party going on down the hall—a party I wasn't being invited to.

At length, I dozed off, only to be awakened in the dark sometime later, with Temple pulling up the sheets, climbing into the bed on top of me. He pushed my legs apart with his knees and stuffed a pillow under the small of my back. He covered me close from above, and, half awake, I began to gasp and groan as his cock forced itself inside me. It was as all-consuming as the legends foretold.

He was both Phil Gauteau and Zane in one—both thick and long. I writhed under him, moaning and begging him to go slow, as his cock relentlessly dug deeper and deeper, ignoring my wishes completely. It was all about him. Cole Temple taking his pleasure on the body of a young man. On one level, being a submissive, I reveled in not being given any consideration. Struggle was useless. He was too big and strong for me, and what resistance I did try to give he took as a coy game and enjoyed breaking down, grabbing my wrists and forcing my arms above my head as he drove the cock ever more vigorously.

For a forty-year-old man, he had remarkable stamina and vigor. He fucked me for nearly an hour straight. I ejaculated twice while he was pumping me deep.

When he came, in a flood, I realized that condoms were not in his repertoire.

I was still lying there, panting, with him going flaccid, but still big meat, inside of me, him laying full length on top of me, asleep and snoring.

I woke in the light of morning, on my belly, Temple lying full length on top of me, with his dick pumping me deep again.

I'd never had it so thick and long together. With a moan, I raised up on my knees a bit to give him even deeper purchase and began to move my pelvis in rhythm with his thrusts.

Once again he fucked me for more than a half hour, not finishing before I had ejaculated into the sheets and collapsed onto the bed.

He rolled off me and sat on the side of the bed. "I'm taking a shower. There should be everything you need in the kitchen to make breakfast. I prefer regular coffee in the morning to decaf. I trust you can cook."

My mother had died in childbirth when I was ten and I had two younger brothers, so, yes, I could cook.

Naked and hobbling, bowlegged, I padded out to the living area while he was in the shower. The living room was a mess from the party the night before. I couldn't resist bringing some order to it—replacing cushions on couches, uprighting lamps, and collecting butt-filled ashtrays—on my way to the kitchen.

All I could think of while I was moving about was how he had pinned me to the bed with that monster cock of his—and how I ached for him to do it again.

When he came out, his beautiful body only half covered with a robe that was gaping open, with him scratching his balls as he moved, he gave the living room an appreciative look. While breakfast was simmering, I'd had time to tidy up even more.

It was obvious that he appreciated the cheese and mushroom omelet I'd worked up as well.

"I demand absolute quiet between 10:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.," he said as I watched him eat the omelet. If he wondered what or when I'd eat breakfast, it didn't occur to him to ask. He lived up to the legend of his self-centeredness. "That's when I'll be in my study writing. Phones turned off; no answering the door. Tiptoe around beyond my hearing."

"Yes, sir," I said, confused on why he was telling me this. What did I care what his daily routine was? His legend held that, although he took a young man home every night, it was a different young man every night. I'd had my Temple fuck—and a fuck to remember it was.

"I'm lunching at the Plaza today. Expecting a plumber, though. The household money is in the kitchen drawer by the stove. Don't tip him lavishly. Don't tip him at all if he leaves grease on the floor."

"Yes sir." So I was expected to stay until the plumber had come and gone.

"You can use the bedroom behind the kitchen," he said, "although I want you waiting in my bed every night unless I tell you otherwise."

So, he expected me to be here beyond the plumber. He wanted me in his bed again. I suppressed a moan as I went hard again.

I probably should have asked him what the hell was going on here. But he'd pushed my buttons. I was a total submissive. As long as he told me what I was to do and didn't ask my opinion, that's what I'd happily do. It aroused me. It made me go hard. There was no hiding from him that it did.

"Do you give a good blow job?" he asked, brushing his robe more open as he sat on the stool at the kitchen counter. He was in magnificent erection.

"Um, I . . ."

"Well, don't just stand there. Suck me off," he said, pulling me to him with a grip on my arm and forcing me down on my knees before him.

Afterward, after he'd told me to hold off twice because he didn't want to come then, he guided me into the living room, turned me over the arm of a sofa on my belly, and fucked me hard for some twenty minutes, cupping my chin and arching my torso back cruelly as he mined my passage deep and slathered my passage again with his cum.

He finished at nearly the strike of 10:00 a.m. "Remember, not a peep out of you until after 1:00 p.m.," he said. "My luncheon appointment is for 1:45. There's a number for a grocery service on the refrigerator door. Call for whatever ingredients you'll need for supper."

He left me there, draped over the sofa arm and moaning from the thickness, length, stamina, vigor, and prodigious cum of him.

I didn't return to the Chelsea Bathhouse that night—or the next—or ever again.

Although he didn't live up to his "every night" legend after that, he didn't completely change his spots. He still went to the Chelsea Bathhouse some nights—unabashedly telling me he did—and fucked a young man, a new one each night, there—again having no embarrassment in telling me he had—and he still occasionally brought a young man home to fuck—rousting me out of his bed to do it, but bringing me back after he was finished and had sent the young man home and with me waking every morning in his bed with his dick pinning me to the mattress.

He also frequently held court in the living room to a gaggle of raucous guests before coming to me at night, and he never invited me to the party.

I would have thought that I was just his housekeeper if he didn't keep me so well fucked. I wondered what he'd done for a housekeeper and cook before me, but I never had the nerve to ask.