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Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Dirk Cameron had become the King of Manhattan. As public attention went, he’d attained a hat trick. It didn’t hurt that he was a gorgeous, well-educated, glib young man of twenty-seven, with a perfectly proportioned, fit body, movie star good looks, golden-blond hair, and a dreamy smile. Everyone wanted know him and be with him, and everyone wanted him to succeed. This Friday was the day he did very publically succeed, his fame and talent spread across the media. Everything he touched turned to gold. Everyone he looked at smiled at him.

Managing to become a top male model while he was putting himself through art college and earning a fine arts masters degree, he had, separately, established himself in the fashion industry. The lunch-time runaway show of his season’s fashions launching on 38th Street in Manhattan’s Garment District had been such a guaranteed success that contracts were signed with the H for the moment this black bastard was. If that’s what the dude wanted, that’s what Dirk would give him. Panting and whimpering, he unzipped the man and fished out a honking big mambo of a black cock on its way to rock hard.

He gave the guy choking head for a few minutes, but the black dude wanted more. So did Dirk, and he said so, “Yes, yes. More than that. Fuck me.”

With a low, guttural laugh, the black dude put his hands under Dirk’s armpits and lifted him up, turning him cheek to the cinderblock wall.

“You want more, you’ll get more. Be my bitch. Jut your ass out to me,” came the command. And it was a command. Whimpering, no longer alone at the top, Dirk did as commanded. The man reached around, unbuckled and unzipped him, and jerked Dirk’s pants down to his knees. He wasn’t wearing briefs, which made the black guy laugh.

“Knew it. Just a bitch looking for tricks.” He grasped Dirk’s wrists and raised his arms, pressing the wrists against the wall above. “Keep them there,” he growled. It was a command, to be obeyed, by someone higher on the command pyramid than Dirk was. When it came to sex.

The young man gasped as the black stud grasped his butt cheeks in his hands and squeezed and separated them. He slapped Dirk hard on the buttocks and the young man flinched and moan. The butt cheeks were manipulated–squeezed and spread several more times before Dirk heard the snap of the condom. Then one black hand palmed his belly to keep his pelvis jutted back and the other moved the head of his cock into position, the shaft slapped on Dirk’s buttocks Ankara Turangüneş Eskort a few times and the underside of it rubbed over the moaning submissive’s hole before it was put in position.

Dirk yelped as the man entered him, but he held steady, panting and whimpering. Ten hard, deep strokes and it was done, The black dude tensed, released, tensed and released again, and then let loose a deep sigh as he relaxed.

“That’s a good little bitch,” he growled.

The condom was slipped off and dropped beside Dirk’s foot, and the black man had turned, zipped up, and melted out of the alley. He’d been excited about what Dirk would and did give him.

Dirk held in place for a few minutes. Everything had come a bit back into balance. But just a bit. He’d been King of Manhattan today. He needed to be brought down. This had started the descent. There was at least one big, black bull, with confidence by bad fashion sense, who was there on the pyramid above him. But it had been a big day. Dirk was still feeling alone, at the top.

He could have turned and gone back to his apartment now, ready to face another day at the top in the morning. His TV interview would run in the morning. But he didn’t go home. He still felt so alone at the top of a false pyramid. This wasn’t him. He was scared. It was lonely up here.

Putting his clothes back into order, he stumbled back onto the street and continued the journey toward 52d Street.

* * * *

He entered The Falcon, a gay leather club and Turkish bath on 52d, where he was recognized as a member at the reception cage in the club foyer and, after marking a short check-off list, was waved through to the bar.

He went into the smoke-filled bar and nosed around there, looking over who was there that night and letting them ogle him as well. Very few of the men who came into this club would have any idea who Dirk was in the high-rise world of Manhattan. Here it could just be his body that got attention. And Dirk’s body got a lot of attention here.

Three muscle men in black leather, chains, and harnesses surrounded him at the bar, front side, and back, and folded his body into theirs, making free with their hands–and he melded to their demands. They ordered beer and put it on Dirk’s tab. As they fondled him, the three whispered how their night was going to go with him, and he didn’t object. For a submissive, all command would be given over to dominators Ankara Büyükesat Eskort at The Falcon. That was why he was here–to work his way to the bottom of the pile for balance. To keep his sanity.

He was one of The Falcon’s favorite submissives. He did what was asked and took what was given.

While they drank their beer and worked Dirk’s body between them, the four watched two pole dancers on stage and two guys fucking on an ottoman between them. The three guys felt him up in the bar. They could have laid him right there in the bar, but they didn’t. That wasn’t on the menu for the bar.

Others in the room were humping and being humped. Most were watchers, but some were giving or taking it all. The little guy on the ottoman at center stage was still being fucked by a big, black brute looking a lot like the dude who had covered Dirk in the Hell’s Kitchen alley. The pole dancer at one side had come to the edge of the stage for men in the audience to load up his jock strap with banknotes and to cop a feel. A guy had come on stage and was fucking the other pole dancer from behind as he continued to sway on the pole to the cadence of the loud bump and grind music oppressing the room.

One of the three manhandling Dirk drew his attention to a beaded-curtain doorway in the wall next to the door. They’d finished their beer. Dirk knew where the doorway led. Upon command, he submissively unfolded from between them and headed for the door. They followed him into the locker area for the Turkish bath section of the club, where he had a locker holding gym clothes and an assortment of Speedos. As he was stripping down in the locker room and pulling a Speedo out of his locker, one of the muscle men said, in a gruff voice, “You won’t be needing that.”

“I’m not ready yet for–“

“Yes, you are, cutie,” a second muscle man said, and he pulled his hand back and slapped Dirk across the face, both in one direction and the other, bruising one cheek around the young man’s right eye, and sending a surprised, naked Dirk down on his knees in front of the third leatherman, who had his cock out. He grabbed Dirk by the hair and arched his head back. Giving a mean stare down into Dirk’s face, he growled. “Understand, bitch? You’re going to be our bitch.”

Whimpering, Dirk responded, “Yes, sir.” The man slapped Dirk’s face twice more, and, with that, the pecking order was established. The leatherman engorged while Dirk gave Ankara Çankaya Eskort him head and the other two crouched beside Dirk, their hands on him to show he wasn’t going anywhere.

They laid him on his back on the narrow bench in front of the lockers, with his head arching over one end. The leatherman who had slapped him grabbed his ankles, wishboned his legs, slid in between his thighs, worked his cock into Dirk’s asshole, and fucked him. A second leatherman grabbed Dirk by the hair, arching his head painfully over the end of the bench, forced Dirk’s lips open with the head of his plump cock, and fucked his throat. The third one crouched beside Dirk, tweaking his nipples and running his hands over the young man’s writhing body.

After a few minutes of this, the three picked him off the bench, carried him into the communal shower and, one after the other, the two who hadn’t ass fucked him before did so, one standing behind him and bending him over, Dirk grasping his ankles while the leatherman doggy fucked him, and the other pressing Dirk’s back against the tiled wall, with Dirk’s knees hooked on his hips, fucking him up against the soap-slicked wall under cascading water.

With a “See you again, later,” they left Dirk collapsed there on the shower room floor when they were done.

This would have been the point at which Dirk, earlier in the evening having been anointed King of Manhattan and now being shown as just a leathermen’s bitch, would drag himself back out of danger.

But this was what Dirk had come here for.

Returning to the locker room, he checked out his face in a mirror. The bruise wasn’t too bad. He could cover that so that no one would notice at the art gallery the next day. And, thankfully, he didn’t have a gig to walk the fashion runway for a couple of weeks. He pulled on a Speedo, grabbed a towel, and entered into the Turkish bath section, which, indeed, was decorated like a Turkish palace bathing area with a large tile-lined pool in which men were sitting and moving around, singly and in groups. A lot of the men were old and heavy. Some were young and fit, like Dirk. The young and fit ones were the center of attention. The heavy men mostly were watchers, hopers, and one-hand strokers. When he entered the chamber and sank down into the pool, Dirk received more attention than most and the swirling of men gravitated to him.

Men weren’t just sitting around in the pool or swimming slowly around in a desultory way. That obviously wasn’t what the men were in the pool for. Some were also there to watch; enough were there to be watched.

Taking a swim or a look wasn’t what Dirk was here for either. The King of Manhattan didn’t want to be at the top of the chain tonight. Dirk wanted to be the used bitch of commanding, dominating, hung muscle men.

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