Third Floor, A Short Story
by Simon Mohr
All Rights Reserved
Erotic Gay Fiction This story is for adults only. If this story is illegal where you live, or if you are a minor, please do not read it. The material is fiction. There is no reference to any person, living or otherwise, or to any specific business or place intended. Please donate to the Nifty Archive, using the donation information on this site.
I cannot pinpoint the date and time I first met Robert.
Leo had already decamped to San Francisco, lured by someone younger, cuter, and a good deal more prosperous than I.
The place, however, was that elegant Manhattan bar over on Van Dyke Street, not far from Harrison, a rather short trip depending on traffic. The bar had been renovated forty years ago, decorated in the latest marble and glass style at the time,
It was a cold watering hole that attracted no one who would 'see' you if unless you dressed to be 'seen.'
I was bartending there because the pay was good. The bar equipment a little better than average, most of the customers well-heeled, and the alcohol policy relaxed. The customers appreciated and tipped well for the generous amounts poured.
Most of the receipts were credit card-based, rather than cash, but the tips were evenly divided between cash and cards. The owner allowed us to scrape the tips out of the registers if the customer added them to the credit card total.
We saw the owner only between his vacations and flights to warmer climates in his Gulfstream.
He officially had but one sales channel for the Van Dyke location: the bar. He had two payment methods on the second floor also: cash and credit cards. The business upstairs on second and third wasn't advertised, but anyone in the know, well, they knew. Word of mouth had been a primary marketing tool for centuries. The part of the owner's business on the third floor relied on that tool.
Mr. Smithson didn't advertise his best cash cow on TV, radio, social media, sign twirlers, or by print media. He didn't need to. That cow milked itself and fed itself and to beat the metaphor to death, it fucked itself, too.
Gentlemen didn't speak about the business away from the premises, except enough of them did so that business was excellent. Alex gave generously to the Benevolent Fund of the NYPD and made sure every precinct captain and sarge was comped after work if they wanted to be comped. He also invited them and their partners and kids to an elegant Family Ball every December at the Manhattan Armory. The wives and other partners could dress up and drink and be entertained by a first-class dance band and singer. Some even danced.
In some cases, Alex contributed to their kid's college fund, mostly if they were fathers of handsome teen boys. Alex had an eye for those, although he never crossed the line, He wasn't stupid, knew not to endanger his business and invested in their futures think of them, ostensibly, as future customers.
Mr. Smithson had been a trust fund baby to begin. His mother's mother (OK, maternal grandmother) had left this world at age 77. Still, her $180 million stayed behind, directed expressly to her favorite grandson, my boss, Alex Smithson, now balding, trim, impeccably dressed, pleasant, with a facial tic (right cheek muscle, mild). His net worth had doubled a few years after starting the bar and, ahem, associated services.
The bar served alcohol and a fair amount of fantastic food, all Tex-Mex, serving up Mexico's authentic flavors.
The food was cooked in the kitchen on the premises by genuine, mostly legal immigrants from Oaxaca and Quintana Roo (think Cancun), but the food wasn't named anything a real Mexican would recognize. No one that lived in Mexico ate this way at home. The flavors, however? Straight from the homeland.
The names would have sold well in Dallas and Fort Worth; they certainly did sell like crazy on Van Dyke street in Manhattan.
Chimichangas, tacos, tostadas, empanadas, and enchiladas all got scarfed down with tequila or some other neurotoxin. Food (lots of it) and beverages (in limited amounts) were also provided on the second floor, never on the third floor.
The main attractions, however, were served on the third floor.
Since the bar opened ten years ago, a gentleman's club had existed on the second and third floors of the building. The club had no name. The bar's name, downstairs, was forgettable and the street appearance equally so. For a nameless club with no marketing, money passed to the owner like water flows over and through a dam in flood season.
The main attractions on third floor, never spoken about in the bar by employees downstairs were illegal.
The legal gentleman's club on second floor sported one enormous single room, a lounge, a gateway to bliss. Thick Aubusson carpets covered hardwood floors. Original old European art masterpieces hung here and there on dark, mahogany-paneled walls.
Elaborate soundproofing shut out the sound of the honking New York taxis. No one on the second floor heard the ambulances and sirens on the street below. Enormous HVAC equipment on the roof controlled the temperature and humidity on second floor; the winter chills and summer heat waves did not penetrate to the second floor.
The vast room bathed in absolute quiet. An occasional guy cleared his throat or reacted to alcohol going down the wrong pipe, a rarity. Scotch at this price wasn't usually gulped but sipped slowly. Several large wood-burning fireplaces crackled each evening to improve the view and provide some radiant warmth in winter. No music ever played and no one cracked their knuckles or laughed aloud or spoke aloud. A noise of any kind, fart or stomach rumble, would bring an attendant's glance or sometimes an invitation to visit the men's room on the same floor.
An attendant in the men's room kept order and handed everyone a freshly laundered towel to dry their hands after using the facility and/or shower. That attendant made sure only one customer attended one stall at a time and summoned a physician or a bouncer as needed to keep the peace. The owner wanted no odors or bugs upstairs and provided showers and products that helped the second-floor customers smell their best. Smoking wasn't permitted on the second floor.
No fewer than 60 overly stuffed wingback chairs made of the best grades of a dark cowhide, some with footstools, were spaced around the second-floor lounge in a carefully organized 'random' way. No customer faced another directly and a customer entering the room saw only the back of all that furniture. Chair hopping and conversation were not permitted in the interest of customer privacy. Beside each chair sat a small side table and lamp for reading and featured the requisite ports and power sockets for laptops.
Sideboards lined the walls, covered with chafing dishes full of food heated by candle warmers. Customers typically loaded plates with calories and took them to their chair's side table, covered by a damask cloth for the purpose and cloth napkins served up by the waiters, ever alert for tips. Business tycoons and other wealthy types frequented the second floor. The place had seen princes, oligarchs, and the occasional sheikh or raj descendant.
A wireless router, ultrahigh broadband, provided an optical link to the Manhattan branch of the Internet's backbone. No cameras were allowed above the first floor, no smartphones either. All cell phones were checked in at the coat check alcove near the entrance and silenced. A ringtone on second floor wasn't an embarrassment. It was a summons for a friendly cop on the beat to escort the offender off the premises. No exceptions. This rule was posted just outside the second-floor entry and gently mentioned by the bouncer staff on duty there.
On the average day or evening, well-dressed men (only--and indeed there was a dress code) quietly sat reading, eating, surfing, napping, or just waiting. Some men wore a tie or jacket loaned to them by the attendants to enable the new customer to stay. Various newspapers and magazines were available to read and/or use to hide behind. Attendants had packs of small mouthwash spray if a customer desired them. They also carried Tylenol and Aspirin and Pepcid. Gentlemen didn't clip their fingernails on second floor.
Tuxedoed waiters took orders for drinks, a few alcoholic drinks included. None of the waiters were shy about limiting the alcohol to the customer's condition and coordinating with the bouncers if a gentleman had one too many. No drunk customer ever saw third floor; a fair number of well-lubricated customers did enter paradise on the that floor, however.
The waiters also took orders for third-floor activities from those who wished to enjoy the delights there. A discreet numbered ticket was given to the customer.
The customer would present a credit card that entered a portable card reader connected to the Internet, funds withdrawn and sent to the owner's account in advance not only for the food and drink on the second floor but also for the festivities on the third floor. The customer's bank card account was charged to 'Van Dyke Bar and Cafe.'
One could scarce expect to exit the club without a minimal expenditure of $600 considering entertainment on third floor plus food and drinks on the second floor. This amount went up rapidly if an overnight stay with a friend or rented friends from the third floor was purchased. The overnight included room service (extra) and a breakfast served in or out of bed by handsome waitstaff either clothed or minimally so (frisky services extra).
Waiting on second floor tended to heighten expectations. No one went to this club in a hurry, and no one left in a hurry. Beepers and phones had no business on the second or third floor. Customers were informed that this was not a fast-food establishment and that good things come to those who wait. That message was crystal clear and no customer sighed loudly over the wait or slouched in their chair to demonstrate outrage. It just wasn't done.
The isolation from family, church, and work became near absolute to deal with the intensely awaited pleasures. Women and journalists were not allowed.
The club on Van Dyke was the only male brothel in Manhattan that was civilized. There were plenty of clubs on the island that catered to a crowd with different desires. This one, clean to a fault, cheerful, with handsome young men ages 18 through 28 working all shifts as hosts on the third floor, and taking turns in the hotel above, suited everyone who used the service because it was designed to meet their wants and needs. Pain, kink, and leather didn't happen here. This place served only one flavor: vanilla.
OK, OK, employees weren't supposed to use the service while on duty in the bar downstairs. The bartender, under some circumstances, could bring the drinks up to the second floor. That's where I met Robert Portman, Rob for short.
I had been asked to bring up a cherry Coke for the gentleman. At any one time, there were 60-80 hosts on the third floor and the time limit for one customer was two hours, some of which were break times for the working boys, their meal breaks, shower and rest time, etc. The number of waiters on the second floor varied.
If three were busy escorting a customer out the door or checking him into a room into the hotel located on floors four through nine, the bartenders on the first floor were sometimes asked to run up and serve a drink.
Overnights were permitted subject to room availability, advance payment required usually but exceptions for good customers happened. Several thousand dollars was usually sufficient to secure a room for one's self and a friend. For an extra hefty fee, a host would join the customer in an overnight stay. Some of the hosts were South American, others from a recently closed facility in Barcelona, along with others from the cornfed heartland states of Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, and Missouri, strapping lads, all muscle and cock and bubble-butt equipped. Of the latter, Alex only hired jocks fitted with the above physical charms plus brains, preferably open-minded brains. He hired them as 'actors', reporting that category to the IRS and the New York State tax authority.
I charged up the stairs with the drink, was directed by a waiter to the correct chair (yeah, they were numbered), and was stunned to see a customer my age with flaming red hair, a body to die for, and an attractive face . . . well, when he looked at me, he studied me. Not just a brief turn of the head. He actually held my gaze for a bit, looked down my body, looked back up, and smiled. His smile was not a smirk. It was obviously genuine.
I got the impression that he saw me and liked me. That kind of a guy. Like the daddy from heaven, sort of. Not the kid-thwarting, 'eat your broccoli or no dessert, Andy' kind of dad that I'd had. Not at all like the same daddy I'd had as a kid that beat me with kindling on the back porch for sassing him or not helping him in the shop or even because mom had told me during the day 'you wait until your dad gets home, young man' instead of letting me read or play the piano.
No, this guy was perfect. I was pretty sure about that.
Bartenders, some of them, get to be reasonably good at quickly categorizing people. They have to have some skill in that department. It's not all mixology, though that helps too.
So, Robert and I, a few years later, still talk about our 'meet-cute' as 'the look over the cherry Coke.'
I handed him a note inviting him over to my place since my shift was over. He nodded and followed me out. The taxi took us to my rent-controlled loft in Tribeca. My building had no doorman, but plenty of space, a gourmet kitchen, a tobacco-free zone since I was allergic to tobacco smoke.
I was pretty proud of my bathroom also. Think large, with overhead heat lamps, fans, a walk-in shower, all glassed-in and shit, a boatload of marble, fully tiled.
My bedroom had substantial walk-in closets, and a good, warm, plush bed with a mix of firm and fluffy pillows on a queen-sized bed with a warm comforter. Several dressers, all old, respectable, one of them antique perhaps, sat on carpeting so thick that newcomers had to work to avoid stumbling when they walked on it. A small, certified Rodin sculpture sat on the oldest dresser, an original from the master himself, my trust fund gift from my paternal grandfather.
Before he passed, I wasn't his favorite grandchild, not adding heirs and being 'queer and all,' but either he felt some guilt for his homophobia or couldn't find anyone else to take it or perhaps decided I wasn't that bad after all or even, I had fantasized, more like him than he ever cared to admit.
I never knew. Grandfather never said. I never asked.
I hadn't wanted the pain of family rejection then in high school. I already had enough pain just being in high school with peers.
I had responded by embracing school and promised myself I would show the bastards just who was the smart one and beat them at the work of life, which I assumed to be getting good grades and a great job and making money hand over fist.
We arrived at my apartment and wobbled up the stairs, 'alcohol friends' already. Robert took my clothes off just before I returned the favor. He graciously accepted my offer to wash his back and other things in the shower, and while there, we fooled around. By the time we reached the bed, further plans for action were in visual evidence, high and hard.
I had scoped out his world-class ass and he had lubricated one of my working parts nicely. I had lubricated part of him well enough for me to hear happy noises from him. The end result (no pun intended) was that I got to sink my working gear right up where the sun doesn't shine into an active, pleasant guy who liked me.
The night just unfolded spectacularly after that. I had been told at an impressionable age that people usually like the people that genuinely want them. Humans just gravitate to others who like them.
Finally, we slept between 3 and 7 a.m. on that Sunday morning, in shifts, one of us getting up at a time for the necessary, waking to gaze on the sleeping beauty who laid there, planning breakfast, pacing a bit on the balcony, trying to reconnect with yesterday's memories in case the night had been an invention of dreams.
My cock was just sore enough from all the friction to convince me that it hadn't been a dream.
Also, waking with a gorgeous guy under the sheets, undressed, sleeping . . . was hardly the stuff of a dream, except for the kind of fantasies I had quite often, which didn't involve finding those findings the next morning.
I decided that dreams which involved cherry Coke couldn't precisely be seditious either. The stuff was as American as apple pie, for all the phosphoric acid it might contain, and for all its caffeine. Caffeine, I knew, was a xanthine chemical related by chemical class and by effect to theobromine in chocolate and theophylline in tea.
I remembered my college chemistry professor telling us that xanthines temporarily increased the concentration of blood glucose regardless of whether any sugar was added to the drink.
The side effects of these chemicals that people repeatedly took them for were brain stimulation and gut stimulation. The substances made most people pee and wake up and shit reliably.
Also, xanthines dilated bronchioles in the lung and were used in the past to treat asthmatics.
Now, tea and coffee were prized for self-medication as well. People always feel better when they can breathe a little better, getting more oxygen and expelling more carbon dioxide. It has a tendency to awaken people.
I remember Dorothy, my BFF in college. She raised her hand in class one day in a junior chemistry class, much feared by juniors, Organic Chemistry 316, sometimes referred to by the chemistry majors as 'Organic Hell'.
Mr. Ludovic called on her, and she asked him how the chemicals made people pee. The students tittered, he turned red and told us the amount of fluid in the solution was a factor. Moreover, the chemicals stimulated the kidney's nephrons to work like crazy to make more urine per minute. They pushed the heart to beat faster, forcefully increasing the kidney's glomerular filtration rate, and voila, more pee.
I remember thinking that Mr. Ludovic, a sensitive proud man, wasn't impressed by my next question. "Do you have any evidence for those claims, Mr. Ludovic?"
It was only the silence in the stunned classroom that enabled me to hear the grim answer. When it hit me, I realized that I had changed my future from physicist to bartender in the space of fewer than two minutes. Considerably fewer.
"Well, George," answered Mr. Ludovic, "If you had read the reading assignment for today, I imagine you would already have your answer." I'll never forget the sudden drop in the pit of my stomach, considering my upcoming grade in the class.
I'll always remember Dorothy's little giggle, quickly stifled.
It really didn't matter that I made up for some of the humiliation in Sophomore Composition Honors.
Later that day, I correctly and swiftly identified John Donne as the author of the Eclogue for the Marriage of the Earl of Somerset.
That answer was 'C' in the quiz, the letter I always checked for an answer if I had no idea what the correct answer was.
Assuming correct answers on quizzes were randomly distributed among letters like that, a strategy of marking one letter every time made sense if the teacher was lazy or had forgotten to adjust the quiz to un-randomize the correct answers. If one marked C every time in a random situation of letters A through E for instance, then marking C each and every time would guarantee that 20% of the time the correct answers belonging to C would be scored. That worked for all the letters if the correct letters were random.
Since they rarely were random for unknown reasons, C was still best in unknown situations.
The Eclogue was written after Queen Elizabeth I died, ending the Elizabethan era, between 1590 and 1630. The author, John Donne, was by birth Catholic and became a poet and scholar. He fathered 12 kids after a secret marriage, landing him in the famous Fleet Street prison in London for a time, along with the priest that performed the ceremony. Mr. Donne was forced by King James I to become a Church of England priest and in later years became Dean of St. Paul's cathedral (yeah, the one with the dome), and buried these lines in one of his inexplicably beautiful pieces.
The section began, "Now, as in Tullia's tomb, one lamp burnt clear, Unchanged for fifteen hundred year, May these love-lamps we here enshrine, in warmth, light, lasting, equal the divine. Fire ever doth aspire, And makes all like itself, turns all to fire, But ends in ashes; which these cannot do, For none of these is fuel, but fire too. This is joy's bonfire, then, where love's strong arts Make of so noble individual parts One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts."
Idios, in the Eclogue, had wanted to burn the lines, but Allophanes told him, "No." Allophanes had begun the exchanges with Idios in a bleak, cold December in England when he met him, probably surprised that any sane man wouldn't be in warmer climes at that time of year.
Considering the fact that King James I (yeah, that King James as in KJV) was way out of the closet, perhaps his poem had more significance at the time and even yet.
"But undiscerning Muse, which heart, which eyes, In this new couple, dost thou prize, When his eye, as inflaming is, As hers, and her heart loves as well as his? Be tried by beauty, and then The bridegroom is a maid, and not a man; If by that manly courage they be tried, Which scorns unjust opinion; then the bride Becomes a man. Should chance or envy's art Divide these two, whom nature scarce did part, Since both have the inflaming eye, and both the loving heart?
Donne had touched, in this ersatz English Lit rant, on the subject of gender-bender marriage in the same piece, referring to the Equality of Persons in Section II of the Eclogue:
Oh, yes, and that was the same King James that authorized the King James Bible, the same King whose lifelong affairs with men distinguished his reign, open secrets at the time and to this day. Mind you, all this when his loyal subjects, the general population, would suffer and sometimes die for the same 'crime.'
As late as World War II, Alan Turing suffered for his gender preference; before that, Oscar Wilde was imprisoned and sentenced to hard labor for sodomy, a private consensual act.
It was then I remembered that I had probably lost my good grade in Organic Hell. I had maintained my 'A' in Sophomore Composition-Honors, which was great. My goal was to be a physicist, and chemistry was the essential background to an important school. Grades in high school didn't count beans toward an occupation in life. College grades determined what prestigious schools one found themselves in, and those schools decided the career, for good or bad.
That day at the club, I had straight 'A's dumped in my lap in the form of a ginger-haired lover, more than making up for the loss of my first love to those greener pastures in San Francisco.
Robert told me about the second-floor antics at the Van Dyke bar over breakfast. I already knew all of them since I worked there but he wanted to talk about the subject. We were eating omelets with avocados sprinkled with grated Mexican cheeses, feta cheese, and sliced scallions along with hot sauce and home fries and fresh squeezed orange juice. I kept both Cholula and Tapatio handy for meals such as these. These were my favorites, my 'go to' hot sauces.
I guess Robert figured I didn't already know, but I didn't want to be a good listener, so I listened and filled in the blanks to myself from experience, as compared to what he thought he knew about the third floor. He told me that the electronic boards placed around the second-floor lounge would display the next 'victim's' number, and the customer would walk up to a desk and hand their ticket to the clerk.
The clerk would walk them over to a locked elevator, unlock it, push the button for the third floor, and hopefully, everything rose at the right time. On the third floor, a small, curtained alcove housed the customer for five minutes or so to allow the next group of hosts to freshen up or the beds to be made or the bathrooms cleaned or whatever. The housekeeping staff on third floor were paid well.
They were worked to death. Working in teams of 4, those housekeepers could turnaround a room in four minutes or less, hardly long enough for the hosts to 'turn around.' Yes, Robert's boss had filled Robert in, step by step.
The upstairs master would escort the customer to a room with a sparkling-clean, king-size bed, and an en-suite bathroom with a shower. After the client paced or sat in the room to acclimate a bit, the door would open after a discrete knock.
Perhaps four fabulous guys would walk in and introduce themselves. They didn't have much on at that point, so a visual inspection was easy enough. Each would introduce themself, "Hi, I'm Dirk (insert any first name), and I hope you like what you see and choose me." An appropriate amount of pinching and prodding and touching occurred, and they filed out.
The master would come back in and ask for a choice of partner, one or more. If more, the credit card would be swiped again to accommodate the extra charges and tips before service was provided. The host(s) would come back in, take their clothes off while the customer did, and then a lot of scandal and noisy fun happened.
Afterward came the shower for one and all, hugs and invitations to return anytime, and that was that.
Robert told me that his boss visited just about every night, and that's how he knew about the place. His boss had threatened him with dire consequences if the news leaked any further, the quickest way, of course, to make sure the information traveled.
Initially, Robert didn't seem to mind the missed experience. He had worried about catching HPV, a viral disease related to sex that can cause warts and different kinds of cancer that condoms can sometimes prevent.
Rob, as I soon came to call him, liked food, all kinds. He was especially interested in plant-based nutrition and loved my kitchen, where I could find him evenings and weekends trying out another recipe. To this day I giggle when I think about 'plant-based.' In the context, I remember his swallowing what I had to give to him and that certainly wasn't plant-based. In some sense, it more resembled cannibalism, let alone meat-eating. I didn't mind and got what meat I needed at work. Robert continued his real estate work and actively participated in his investments.
Neither of us wanted to travel a lot and were homebodies mostly. Both of us loved to fuck. He was a consummate active bottom, and I do mean busy. I sometimes wondered who was doing whom.
As I became more acquainted and knew him better, I think I began to fall in love with him. I liked him from the start, loved being with him, and took some time to fall 'in' love with him. He was indifferent to music and literature, hated opera and symphony, couldn't care about symposiums or self-improvement classes.
We matched as progressive liberals politically; neither of us was an activist, but we voted and were active on social media. He didn't drink to excess and didn't smoke anything, and hated drugs.
And then came the day. The day in question began as usual for us. We sat at supper with our new puppy looking up at us from the floor, expecting something to come falling off the table, I guess. It turned out to be a metaphor for what I had expected from our relationship.
Robert asked me how I felt we were doing. The cold chill, the frisson that traveled right down my spine, alerted me that this was to be a 'conversation.'
I told him. He told me he'd been 'thinking.' Another frisson. "I've been thinking we need some variety, that we've fallen into a rut in a way." I looked at him, stunned by an idea I didn't understand or expect.
"Can you tell me what you mean by 'variety'?"
"When we first met on the second floor, I was just ready to step off into the great unknown. Sex with a stranger. It was a big step for me."
"I can imagine it was."
"I'm happy with what we have and happy with you. And . . . I want to go back to the third floor."
Robert looked down, stirred his lasagna, festooned with eggplant and soy cheese, with his fork. He dropped the fork on the tablecloth. "Would you be mad or come with me or kick me out or . . .?"
I was shaken but not stirred. "Robert, if you need that, it's not my right to say you can or can't."
"Don't," he snapped. "Don't patronize me. I need you to validate my sense of what I need. I love you and your goodwill, your support, and your advice are important to me. Please be on my side on this. I am happy with you and I want to stay that way."
For the first time, I realized that I had expected Robert to be my kind daddy, but I hadn't taken any significant steps to be his. I didn't want to be left out, and I didn't want to share his ass. I was a little afraid he might like what he found to the exclusion of me. What if someone decided to make a run for him? He had looks, money, was kind, had a great job, was a good cook. Jeeze, where had I been all this time?
"I'll go with you. It has to be on a night I'm not working. Is it OK to say that I'm not wild about some other guy deep inside you, kissing you, making you feel good . . . someone other than me."?
"I understand. I just don't want to live my whole life before I marry you and become this faithful drudge or something and not know what else is out there that I missed. I want to know that you are the best, not just suspect it. I haven't told you enough just how I feel about you, how much I value you, how important you are to me."
"I almost felt like a daddy the first few months we were together, and now I really do for sure. I know we're the same age, but you feel for some reason like a son. How crazy is that? When you take me, it feels like my son is . . ." He didn't finish the thought.
Robert didn't go up to the third floor that night or any night after that until last week. We both went, together.
I had a night off. We chose two trim but muscular hunks with big cocks out of the four very interested guys that came in the door that night.
I didn't say that Robert was the brightest bulb in the drawer in some ways. But I can tell you he had fucking skills that could have gotten him elected to Senator from somewhere had they translated into political skills.
My chosen partner for the evening stared in admiration at Robert and his temporary man, Gerald, who was giving Robert the bum-fuck of his life, er of the night, I mean. Gerald wasn't gentle. He did lubricate the object of his desire, then with a swift strike plunged himself to depth, so fast that Robert didn't have time to shout. Robert took a deep shuddering breath and groaned, a sound that made my own cock sit up and listen.
Gerald's passion was the rabbit-fuck. He had an ability to keep it up until the cows came home and made no secret about how much he enjoyed the process. He was unable to hide his orgasm and at the last second brought awesome firepower and volume, Gerald's aimed his cock, fresh removed from his condom, fired directly into Robert's mouth, nearly drowning him.
I noticed that Robert came with Gerald at the same moment and in high volume. I stared, enjoying my partner's mouth on me. Their orgasm nearly brought mine, but I also noted Gerald had a cock about twice the size of mine, both in girth and length.
My own partner that night had a splendid hole, hairless, perfect. I told him that I was going to stretch it and fill him with regular. He shivered and after I impaled him, he moved his body, rubbing up and down, back and forth, until I exploded.
I later learned that Gerald, Robert's partner, had worked there for a couple of months. I also looked at his employment record when the boss was out and discovered that he was two weeks shy of his 18th birthday the day I looked. I casually mentioned the fact to the master on the third floor. He blanched, and I offered to employ Gerald in my household.
So, Gerald lost one job and gained another in a single day. I spoke to him and suggested better pay and benefits, mentioning that Robert and I enjoyed his company and wondered if he would consider applying for that 'job.' Gerald got the drift. I mentioned that he could live at our place until he didn't want to anymore and asked him over for supper the next day to surprise Robert.
He happily accepted. The doorbell rang the following evening. As I recall, Robert and I were smack dab in the middle of finishing our spaghetti and were preparing to take on some mango cheesecake. I answered the door and brought Gerald into the room. Robert, speechless, quickly regained his voice. "What the hell . . .?"
"Gerald has quit his job at the club, Robert. I have taken the liberty of offering him the position of administering our home. a combination of butler, footman, delivery man, janitor, and jack-of-all-trades. While he's at it, we could ask him to keep us warm in bed on cold winter nights and cool on those hot summer nights and to assume necessary positions there too."
"As you are doubtless aware, he's a great top and might consider being a bottom some time if coached by a great bottom. I wouldn't mind a crack at that ass someday. He knows that we started this relationship and have a primary connection between the two of us. He also knows that he won't be a third party, but a full partner with us if he wishes."
Robert flushed, looked at me, and shook Gerald's hand. "You're hired. No contract. Stay as long as you like. I feel like I've gained another son!"
To say the adjustments were easy would be inaccurate. Watching those two get it on was often bittersweet, often moving, but seeing Robert satisfied and fulfilled (literally) was always stimulating.
When Gerald was done fucking Robert, I sometimes had fun doing Robert while Gerald recharged. I didn't have to take the time to prep and lube him. His ass was always dilated and lubed after Gerald was done with him. Then it was Gerald's turn to do me. The first time, I was stunned. Since his cock was so large, I felt stretched to the max. With time, my internal muscles stretched permanently, and his cock felt really good.
The day did come when I got to break him and take his ass. That was wonderful.
Gerald was an enthusiastic lover with tons of energy and buckets of cum to spare. I continued to fuck Robert as usual when we were alone, which wasn't often. The three of us became a throuple, a triad of lovers, and we lived together for nearly 30 years until Robert died a year ago.
Gerald moved to Los Angeles then. I went back to bartending in another establishment in Manhattan, slower paced, more sedate, with older clients.
Last night a decent-looking silver-haired guy sat at my bar nursing a rum and Coke, and I got to thinking about the good old days. The customer told me his wife of 50 some years had met some guy who was richer and better looking and way younger . . . I knew how he felt. Shades of Leo. She had jumped ship in the middle of the ocean, so to speak, and he grieved.
I told him he looked pretty good to me, and I wouldn't kick him out of bed. He started to say something, stopped, then he looked up and met my eyes. He actually looked at me. "You look and sound like my daddy," I said.
"I'm a full time heterosexual," he said. "At least, I think I am. Never been with a man. Never needed to think about it, I guess. You sound like a nice guy. Is the sex as much fun with a guy?"
"Is Mt. St. Helens a volcano?"
He grinned. "Maybe some time I'll try it."
"Why wait. I'm off in twenty minutes. Come home with me and I'll fix you a steak and really awesome French fries."
"Now that's a line. I'll bet you say that to all your boys."
"Just the ones with silver hair and then only if they have blue eyes. I admit I like to feed hungry guys."
He hesitated a little and buoyed by the gin perhaps, he said he didn't want to be alone that night.
Joe came into my ass and my life that night and stayed. He liked everything I cooked, the meat, the potatoes, not a vegetable in view, and the things Robert didn't like, the music, the arts, self-improvement, all that. His cock was just long enough to do something electromechanical to my prostate and thick enough to make me sit up and take note that a real man was fucking the hell out of me.
That's my daddy still. I'm a bottom now and I like it. Joe's a happy fucker, never more pleased than when I'm riding him. Watching him have an orgasm inside me is a pleasure. I'm learning how to be an active bottom and Joe says he's more than satisfied with my progress in that department. All the same, I told him to bring a 19-year-old home for supper and a party sometime. I can't wait to see him long-dicked by raw energy on a stick . . . as long as I get to join in.
Joe isn't suffering for money since we share my trust fund. Although we both are drawing Social Security, he also is drawing down his 401-K and a pension from his work. We own the condo outright in Pompano Beach and rent out our Portland condo. He receives a monthly check from his ex.
She married quickly on arrival in SF and her bedazzled elderly husband failed to have her sign a prenuptial agreement. When he divorced the gold-digger a month later, she took him for some of his millions and a judge told her she had to pay her back alimony to Joe. We have enough to pay taxes, don't have any bills, have enough to eat and travel a little, mostly cruises out of Port Everglades.
Curt, the 19-year-old, actually came home with Joe one day. I surprised Joe a little by my enthusiasm for his choice. He survived it and now Joe, Curt, and I live together and play as lovers.
Our 'boy' wanted to be a vintner and we bought him a vineyard in Washington County, Oregon, have started selling the odd bottle and crate to visitors and are selling grapes in bulk to larger wineries. We've plans for another vineyard further up the Columbia Gorge near Hood River and plan a lavender farm and pear orchard to go with it.
Curt is a sight in those new 'topless' overalls, working on the vines that draw us back time and again to hang out, work alongside him and share a glass. The three of us sneak up to the top floor of the winery often to unlock the small room with the king-sized bed and a bathroom with a shower that houses all of us. The grapes and the wine aren't in a hurry, so we take our time too. We switch back and forth on our versatile daddy and son roles. We laugh a lot.
Love and life have blossomed in Manhattan and Portland and Pompano Beach once again for all three of us, our throuple!