The Hardest Thing

bottle again. Lucky fucking bottle. I grabbed his tie and pulled him toward me, sticking my knee between his legs. Not subtle, but he wasn’t looking for conversation.
    “Got a place?” he asked.
    “Way uptown,” I said. We’d go there if he paid the cab fare. Obviously he didn’t want me messing up his neutral carpets and suede wallpaper, or whatever guys like him have these days. Perhaps he just didn’t want to fuck in the matrimonial home.

    “Okay.” He scratched his chin; there was enough stubble since this morning’s shave to make a crackling noise. I was starting to want him almost as much as he wanted me; I’ll never be able to do this for a living, I thought. “How about we get a room?” he asked.
    “Serious?”
    He shrugged. “Sure. Why not? I don’t meet guys like you every day.”
    Ten minutes later we were in the lobby of an upscale flophouse, or “budget hotel,” whichever you prefer; I got the impression that my new friend had used it before. There was a ratty old parlor palm in a beat-up brass pot, a smell of disinfectant and cigarette smoke. The guy on the desk barely looked up as he handed over a key.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Dan.” I guess I should have given an alias, but the whiskey was working. “Yours?”
    “Scott.”
    “Okay, Scott.” We were halfway up the stairs by now. “You got some condoms in that attaché case?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “You got plenty?”
    “Yeah. Why?” We were at the door.
    “Because I’m going to fuck that pretty ass of yours all night long.”
    Color flushed his cheeks. “Er…okay.”
    “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” The key was in the lock.
    “Sure. Just…you know. Don’t hurt me.”
    Bit late for that, I thought, as he closed the door behind us. You’re the one who picked up the ex-marine in a bar. I grabbed his wrists—I may have been drunk,
but I could still move fast—and pinned his hands above his head, pressing them against the tacky brown paint-work of the door. “I’ll do whatever I fucking want with you, Scott.” I kissed him hard on the mouth. “You’re mine now.”
    And for the next five hours he was.
    He didn’t just have condoms in his case: he had poppers and a bottle of vodka alongside the files and the iPad. I don’t usually touch vodka, but when he passed me the bottle, still wet from his lips, I took a long swig.
    And Scott got it all. All the anger that had been building up since that snotty blond brat picked a fight in the line outside the Panther Club, all the frustration of the last two years working in security jobs and living like a bum in a one-room apartment in Harlem, all the shame of losing my job, the grief of losing…someone… I pumped it all up that preppy white ass, and he took it, every inch, every thrust, every smack on the cheeks, every rough word. He took it on his back, with his legs resting on my shoulders or held wide apart in my hands. He took it on all fours, pushing his ass back as I slammed mercilessly into him. He slicked it up with lube and sat on it, sliding up and down like he was on an amusement park ride. I’ve fucked a lot of ass in my time—it was never in short supply in the USMC, whatever the stupid laws said—but I’ve never before met a man so happy to have a dick inside him. I swear to god, if I’d had two dicks, he’d have taken them both and wanted more.
    I made him come once, jerking himself off as he straddled me, shooting his load over my hairy belly. He climbed off, went to the bathroom to wipe his ass, then
he lay back on the bed, threw his legs in the air and steered me in. I made him come again that way, and when I felt his ring tightening around me I started to shoot inside him, coming so damn hard that I saw stars in front of my eyes. It still wasn’t enough. He took me to the shower, flushed the condom down the toilet and started sucking me under the hot running water; within fifteen minutes, he was rolling another rubber down my dick and bracing himself against the tiled wall as I skewered him from behind. We watched ourselves in the dirty mirror, saw my thick dark cock pumping into his pale sculpted butt. His personal trainer had done a good job. Between them, they’d created the perfect fucking machine.
    Finally, after I’d come twice and he’d come four times, the last time without emission but with the kind of expression on his face that I’ve only previously seen in field hospitals, we lay side by side on the bed as daylight