Three on a Date

I gingerly pulled Fraser's arm from across my chest and slowly moved my hips forward to pull my channel off his now-flaccid cock. There was nothing wrong with the length of him—that was his most notable feature for someone looking for sex from another man. He could remain deep inside me flaccid after a side-splitting fuck like we had just had. He was the only man I'd had who could reach deep inside me in a side split.

There wasn't much wrong with his looks and body, either, when his age and work life were taken into account. He was some twenty years older than I was and, being a department head at the Smithsonian Institution who lived for his work, he was soft except where it mattered most in sex. He wasn't fat; he, in fact, could go all day without food in the excitement of a new find or a developing exhibit for the American History Museum on the national mall, which, over the years, had led to him appearing gaunt.

He was tall, dressed elegantly, had once been quite handsome, and was both glib and witty. He had taken me under his wing when I'd first come to the Freer Gallery, across the mall from his museum but also in the Smithsonian system, right after completing a doctorate in art history and museum curating at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland, Ohio. We met at an orientation meeting for new Smithsonian employees. I was straight out of the Midwest. I wasn't naïve in terms of sex. I was actively gay but without hookups yet in D.C.

Fraser had given several orientation lectures for new Smithsonian employees in which he'd been witty and erudite and oh so welcoming. From the first lecture, he seemed to be looking at me as he spoke. We were introduced to each other and spoke sporadically and shallowly in the revolve of a cocktail party at the American History Museum Stars and Stripes café after museum hours. In one of our brief conversation groups, the question arose of whether any of us had tried out a new restaurant in Georgetown. Everyone in the group had, except me. Fraser said I must go—and that I must go that night after the cocktail party. And he would take me there. He said he wanted to know more about the program at Case Western Reserve anyway.

He was sparkling at the restaurant. We had another cocktail while waiting for our food and wine with dinner and port afterward. The conversation was easy and he an expert interviewer. I have no idea when I told him I was gay, but I did. Or when I told him I was unattached and at loose ends so far in D.C. Or when he first put his hand on my thigh under the table. Or when I told him that, yes, I found him attractive.

But I let him drive me home to my small apartment near Dupont Circle, come up to my bedroom, and wow me with how long it took him to uncoil his cock from his trousers and with how far he could put it up my channel. I'd never gone with an older man before, but in the dark, there was just him holding me close from behind, and that long cock of his. He took me quickly and efficiently with little foreplay or postcoidal cuddling. And then he got dressed and went home to his wife.

The next day he took me to lunch, again to a high-end restaurant in Georgetown. He apologized for the previous evening, saying we'd both had too much to drink and that he'd found me overpoweringly attractive. He said his wife, who was a Smithsonian archeologist, was frequently in the field and that they had a marriage of convenience—one that they were both happy in. But, he admitted, he had needs and sometimes acted on them—especially when she was gone. She, in fact, had left that morning for a dig in Egypt.

I sympathized with him, and after lunch, before we returned to work, he fucked me deep with that thin but long cock of his in the missionary position on my bed in my conveniently nearby apartment. He took me quickly and efficiently once again. The previous night had been in the doggy position leaning over my bed. Today was missionary. He had one other position—the side split—and he religiously worked his way through that pattern—doggy, missionary, side split—on Tuesday and Thursday noontime breaks in my apartment. Little foreplay, quick and efficient taking, and not much cuddling afterward—except, when his wife was out of town, he'd sleep in my bed on Sunday nights—one fuck following the pattern and then spooned sleeping in the bed—and give me a lift to the Smithsonian complex on Monday morning.

He had a parking space in a museum garage. I didn't. I took the subway. The Monday morning ride seemed worth the night before. The best part was sleeping with a long cock up inside me.

This was a Sunday night. He'd taken me to dinner—he was quite generous with that perk—come home with me, fucked me once on my bed—in a side split—and gone to sleep with my back burrowed in close to his spare frame, his cock going flaccid inside me.

As long as he was plowing me with that long cock, the coupling was fine. It was so scheduled and vanilla, though, that I was getting restless. I'd been in Washington, D.C., for five months and no one else had fucked me—no one younger than forty or muscular or spontaneous in his approach and carry through, or playful or even cruel.

I had fantasies of rough and cruel.

I had grown restless. I had done research. Research was what I was trained to do. I'd found a specialized subscription gay male dating site on the Internet. And I had paid for a subscription on Saturday, yesterday.

After extricating myself from Fraser, I padded out to the small room that had been rented to me as a second bedroom but that was little bigger than a closet. I used it as a home office. I turned on the computer and opened the homepage of the specialized dating service I'd found. It was specialized because it set up dates of single men with male couples. Threesome dating. The service made no bones about the purpose of the date being sex, and it's profile descriptions emphasized that.

I'd shot my load in an introductory perusal of the site Saturday night just in reading the profiles.

I'd never gone with two men before in a threesome. I hadn't done much of anything kinky before. There were a hell of a lot of sexual arrangements I hadn't tried before. And as time passed with Fraser, being denied anything that wasn't scheduled, vanilla, and over before I had had time to become deeply aroused, I began to feel more and more left out of the excitement of life. Fraser didn't seem to care if I had an ejaculation or not, as long as he did. So, increasingly, it wasn't happening for me every time.

The Web site made no bones about the goal being just dinner and a good-night kiss. The questioning for the profile was detailed and intrusive, although it was formatted mostly in a series of images of this and that, asking me to click on a scale of how much I was interested in this and that. The questions delved deep into fantasies and were constructed so that I was pulling much more out of my concept of desires than I'd even dared give thought to before.

The primary fantasy it brought out of me was being with two men at once. That was enough of a surface desire that I had sought out the dating service in the first place. I didn't know that would attract me when I started to look for something different than I was getting, but I knew it was something that attracted me as soon as I uncovered the Web site.

The questionnaire also was detailed in personal attributes, including both clothed and unclothed photos. I didn't have any trouble responding to that—either technically because I had shared nude photos with men when I was in Cleveland or in the need to hide anything. I had every reason to be proud of my physique, appearance, and equipment. Whereas most of the Smithsonian curators either took long, fattening lunches or ate at their desks while they worked, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I grabbed a quick salad at the museum café and then went to my nearby club and swam laps. On Saturday I worked out. I had kept myself in shape—great shape—while most who worked in my field sank into a mound of work-obsessed, unexercised Jell-O. And everyone told me that I reminded them of that "young movie heartthrob whatshisname," so I felt confident on the looks side of things.

The deal was that singles and couples signaled their interest to the Web site on the basis of the profiles made up from the questionnaires. If matches were found, dates were set up through the Web site, and the couple paid for the hookup.

There weren't that many couples profiled on the Web site that hit all of my buttons. Many of them were older-younger pairs. There were a few, though, that had my cock bobbing, and that evening, while Fraser snored lightly in my bedroom, I pushed the "interested" button on four couples.

I closed down the computer and went back to bed. Fraser had turned over on his back. His flaccid cock curled along his thigh almost down to one of his knees. His legs were spread enough that I could sink between them. I had the strongest urge to do so and to give him a sensuous blow job he'd long remember.

But Fraser had made clear the first time that we fucked that he wasn't interested in such intimacy.

* * * *

The couple I was paired with were named Nash and Grant. Nash's profile was what attracted me first. Working as a horse breeder at a stables in the northern Virginia hunt country near Middleburg jumped right out at me. Beyond that I'd read biographies of the Kennedys. They'd kept a home in Middleburg so that Jackie could ride. I'd remembered that. I'd asked Fraser to drive me out there someday to see what the area was like, but he hadn't done so yet.

Of course both men were hunks—or I wouldn't have clicked on them. Nash claimed to be twenty-eight, two years older than I was. Grant listed at thirty-one. Nash was the muscle man. Blond; smooth-shaved all over, with a close-trimmed blond bush; cut (talking both body and cock here); rugged, chiseled features; just a couple of inches taller than I was; solidly built; an open, sunny smile. Big hands. Big dick. Not abnormally long, but really thick—what some term a Coke can cock. He wasn't erect in the photo, leading to the speculation on how he'd lengthen when aroused. Hefty balls, nestled close in under the cock.

His photos gave off the aura of aggressive stance, power, and straightforward honesty. I could see him working in the horse ring, shirtless, his muscular torso covered in a sheen of clean, musky-scented sweat.

Grant was quite a contrast to Nash. He was listed as an accountant and tennis club pro in Reston, an up-scale enclave township south of Washington, in Virginia, which had originally been built as a high-end self-contained city set down in the countryside. Since then, Reston had been swallowed up by suburban sprawl, but it fought hard to maintain its separate identity.

Where Nash was blond and built powerful and close to the ground, Grant was dark, tall and slim. He did have good muscular definition, but where Nash was sunny openness, Grant was sulky and sensuous, with a secretive aura. His hair was jet black and curly—and it covered much of his body—in arousing ways for anyone who liked hirsute men. And I did. If I had to characterize him in one word, it would be foxy. And I'd do so tapping various aspect of that word. He looked to be highly intelligent—and the degrees he listed supported that—but he gave off the aspect of having secrets and being much smarter than anyone else in the room—both thinking he was and actually being right about that.

His hair appeared to be designed. Nash was clean shaven; Grant maintained what seemed to be a perpetual five-o'clock shadow. His chest hair swirled in a perfect pattern around nipples that protruded out noticeably, and the hair descended to his sculpted jet-black pubes in a thin line down his sternum and flat belly. His thighs and calves were heavily matted, as were his forearms, the knuckles on his hands, and the joints on his toes.

He cultivated the foxy and sensual look, facing the camera with a sneery smile, seeming to have pointed ears, and unabashedly exhibitionist, leaning back on some sort of credenza, his pelvis jutting out and sporting a full, upturned erection, the cock long, the ball sac hanging low between spread legs. A gay sex site shot.

Nash was listed as a top; Grant as versatile. I, of course, had listed as a bottom. That had been what was at the base of the matchup. There were other obvious matchups. My profile had said I was seeking adventure, variety, and testing—none of which I had explicitly stated. That must have been extracted from my choices of voting the scale on images the questionnaire presented. Their profiles indicated they were looking for—me. Most notably, I saw, because all three of us were listed as being willing to fuck on the first date and all three showed interest in double penetration. I certainly hadn't directly said I was. I'd have to think about that over the course of the date. Yes, of course I had fantasized about it—apparently in the questionnaire phase.

And all three had expressed an interest in big cocks, sports events, movie house sex, and barebacking. How the questionnaire had arrived at these for me mystified me. Disturbingly, I had apparently gone wild in filling the questionnaire out, no doubt from frustration with Fraser, showing interest in being controlled, bondage, and even flogging—acts I don't remember ever even thinking of before—but I must have if the questionnaire had pulled the desires out of me. And black bulls, exhibitionism, and gang bangs.

There seemed to be no end to the fetishes I'd allowed the computer to think I was interested in. And I suppose I'd always been curious and the frustration with Fraser had brought out the wanton in me. I couldn't deny that it gave me a hard on to read the list—and to contemplate the possibility that any of that would happen on a day of dating. There certainly would be no time to do it all. And, just as the questionnaires had brought out exaggeration from me, I'm sure it brought it out of these other two also. I had been permitted to review the list. My hand did hover over the edit button. But I was just so frustrated with the vanilla of Jasper and the lack of other opportunities beyond this dating service. I let the profile stand.

They came for me—by car—at a restaurant on M Street in Georgetown, just over Key Bridge from Roslyn, on the Virginia shore of the Potomac. Nash was driving a new red Mustang. Grant was in the backseat. They were controlling the date. For a day they were going to be controlling me. I couldn't have driven anyway. I didn't have a car in Washington.

Grant ushered me into the backseat with him, and Nash drove up Wisconsin Avenue, turned left onto P Street, pulled over to the curb, and let the car idle, as Grant turned and put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close in beside him, and laid a hand on my package.

It was clear now and throughout the day that Grant was the leader and Nash the follower—and I the boy toy.

"So far so good," he said, "you're the same honey in the photos. But before we go any further, we need to establish what you'll do. If you don't stand behind the profile we bid on, we should know that now. You can get back out of the car here. We can get our money back for a date that doesn't get off the ground."

He was squeezing my package and I must have given him a pained, shocked look. I'd had no idea it would start this soon.

"You claimed interest in a whole lot of kinky stuff on your profile. You going to stand behind that? This isn't your normal date. Nash and I have paid a pretty penny for this. We will do a lot of what you showed interest in. We'll use you all day. We'll abuse you part of the day. If you don't want to deliver on your profile, it's good-bye here."

I was scared but I was exhilarated too. This was the jolt I had been seeking when I paid my $200 to register at the dating service. I didn't consciously know I wanted to experience these things listed in my profile.

But I did. Even if it was the only one time.

"I'll stay in the car."

"Have you done all that shit listed in your profile?"

"Just some of it," I answered. "The questionnaire pulling those out were about desires—what I want to try."

"You'll do it all?"

"I'll stay in the car."

"Strip your jeans and briefs off," Grant commanded. "Before Nash starts to drive, strip down."

"Excuse me?"

"Gotta know if you're shitting us or if you're serious. Strip your jeans and briefs off. We're starting out at a horse show outside Middleburg. The date starts now. I'm going to do you back here while Nash drives us out there. Don't want that, get out of the car."

"I'm not wearing briefs," I answered as I started undoing my belt buckle.

That set him back. He gave me a surprised look. In the front seat, Nash laughed and pulled the car away from the curb, heading back down Wisconsin to M Street and then over Key Bridge into Virginia.

Grant was kissing me hard on the lips and jacking my cock with a fist before we hit the Virginia shore.

* * * *

After the forty-five-minute drive into the Virginia countryside during which Grant jacked me, I gave him a blow job, and I rode his cock, facing him, my knees pressed into the fold where seat back met seat cushion on either side of his hips, several hours of the remaining day, with a single exception, were downright staid—just what anyone would expect on a first date.

Except that my date was with two randy men, not one or with a woman.

"You had expressed an interest in sporting events, and Nash breeds and trains horses, so we thought you'd enjoy seeing a horse show and auction." He'd seen the little smile I'd given when he'd said that as we got out of the backseat of the Mustang. Nash had popped out of the front seat and was striding toward a big horse barn with a riding ring behind it. Cars were parked haphazardly in the field Nash had parked in and people already were lining the rails of the riding ring. Beyond them I could see horses in the ring and handlers guiding them around.

"I see you reacted to Nash, horses, and breeding. Is that what attracted you to our profile on the dating service Web site? You clicked on interest in us first. We would have clicked on you—your photo and all of those kinks you were interested in—if you hadn't shown interest in us first. Your attention was arrested by riding and breeding and how Nash was hung?"

"I was attracted by how both of you are hung," I said. I surprised myself when I said that. I was determined to "get into" this date, even though it already was well outside my experience zone.

He laughed and drew me to him and gave me a sloppy kiss on the lips. I looked quickly around to see if we'd been observed, but all of the attention seemed to be concentrated on what was going on in the riding ring.

"Never fear as far as Nash is concerned," he said. "Before the night is done, he will ride you and breed you. We won you in an auction, and we're going to wear you out."

A shudder went up my spine—but one of anticipation and exhilaration.

By the time we got to the riding ring, Nash was already inside, leading a magnificent brute of a pure-white stallion around the ring. As they walked, the stallion must have seen a mare he wanted, because suddenly a thick pink tube of a cock started expanding between his hindquarters to become the definition of "horse-hung" cock. There were murmurs and snickers in the crowd, as Nash fought—and won—a struggle by the horse to get away from him and pursue its interests.

Two men, an older one and a much younger, were at the rail beside Grant and me. They were standing close, the older—obviously wealthy one—had a hand lightly pressed to the younger one's back. They were close enough to me that I could hear them converse.

"A magnificent beast," the younger one said, gesturing to where Nash was leading the stallion. "I'd love to ride that one."
"The stallion or the man?" the older one asked.

"They are both stallions, James," the younger one said, with a light laugh. "I was speaking of the horse. I've already been ridden by the man. A magnificent beast as well. Thickest cock I've ever taken. And he could ride all night."

The older man gave the younger one a sour look, turned away from him, and took a step away.

"Give over, James," the younger man said. "It was just a joke. Come back."

"Just a joke that Chuck Hastings has fucked you?"

"No, that part isn't a joke," the young man said. "Not a joke at all. Couldn't walk straight for two days."

The older man snorted and continued walking away.

So, his name wasn't really Nash, I thought. I guess I should have assumed that. I wasn't Ty either. I was Travis.

I turned back to watching Nash, if that's what he wanted to be called, in the ring. It was true that he was a magnificent beast. And to think that sometime in the next few hours he'd be fucking me. It caused me to go half hard and to tremble at the thought.

It didn't happen in the next few hours, though. After the auction, Nash went back to the car and brought a duffle bag from the trunk.

"There's someplace for us to change in the stable," he said, as he led us into a cavernous barn and on to a series of workrooms in a wing off the room with the horse stalls. The last in line was a well appointed office and tack room.

"Change?" I asked.

"Yes," Grant answered. "We going to play dress-up for the next stops."

The next stops.

We were all nearly naked and ready to put on the smart dinner clothes they were providing, knowing my sizes precisely—tailored trousers, light cashmere turtle-neck sweaters, and camel-hair jackets—when Nash, who I couldn't help but noticing was hard, muttered, "Fuck it, my balls ache from waiting," and pushed me down on my knees in front of him. "Suck it."

"Here? Won't we be seen? Does the stable owner—?" It wasn't that I was unwilling. It just was all so open.

"I own the stable, and who the fuck cares if we're seen?"

"You said you were interested in exhibitionism." The voice came from behind me. Grant. They'd read my profile closely. Maybe too closely, I thought.

It almost unhinged my jaw to take Nash in my mouth. But take him I did. I even took him when, like the stallion earlier, his cock elongated significantly as I gagged, trying to deep throat it. He placed his hands on the back of my head and guided the face-fucking motion. Grant came in close behind me, rubbed his hard cock on my neck and cheeks from behind, and reached down and twisted my nipples with his fingers, while I writhed between them and, after several minutes, took Nash's cum in my throat.

* * * *

Dinner was nearby, still in the Northern Virginia hunt club region, but in Paris. Not Paris, France. Paris, Virginia. We ate a gourmet meal in a former plantation house, turned country restaurant, the Ashby Inn. The host and waiter seemed to know Grant and Nash well—either that, or they were expertly trained to treat all guests that way. As they treated me well too, it might have been the latter.

We lingered over the meal, wine, port, and coffee. The discussion was about all things other than sex. I could have been out for an evening with well-heeled and well-informed museum colleagues with both an interest in and expertise in all things art, history, and sports. I wondered if, at the end of dinner, this will have been it and I'd be driven back to the city. I'd given them both sex. But, then, Grant had said that Nash would ride and breed me, which hadn't happened yet. But it already was getting late, past ten.

Nash had pulled the car off onto a dirt road through a grove of trees before we'd left the horse stable property.

This is it, I thought. They were going to fuck the shit out of me here and leave me for dead.

"Another change of clothes," Grant said as he was climbing out of the Mustang and Nash was popping the trunk. "We're going clubbing."

This time I was given tight leather trousers with a laced crotch flap that would drop and could be pulled all the way back through my legs and relaced on the waistband behind, leaving both equipment and hole exposed and accessible. The two men had identical pants. And all three of us had mesh athlete T-shirts for on top. And black leather boots. We were triplets. But we wouldn't be triplets for long.

Nash drove the Mustang back toward Washington, D.C., getting off Route 66 at the Route 28 access to Dulles International Airport. The club was in a warehouse district abutting a runway fence of the airport and down an industrial-district road. Everything in the area looked deserted except for the parking lot of the club, which turned out to be a full-scale gay club.

We saddled up to a bar in a big room where music was blasting, a dance floor was jiving and being bombarded with a laser light display, and off to the side, under a lower ceiling and clouds of smoke, several pool tables were in use.

As I drank the beer Grant handed me and leaned back into Nash's lap, he on the stool and me between his legs, I scanned the room. Nash held me to him possessively with his palm pressing where my groin met the inner top of my left thigh. My attention focused on two black bulls playing pool at one of the tables. Clothing was optional in the room, and neither one of them wore any. Their tall, big-boned, muscular frames were magnificent, their half hards were horse hung—even larger if there was something larger on that scale.

Grant, who was sitting on a stool beside us, facing us, a hand on my basket, sensed I was getting excited about something from what he could feel in my crotch. He scanned the room too. "Who do you see, Ty? Who out there do you want? Ah, those two black bulls at the pool table?"

"Yes," I answered in a whisper. I'd never been fucked by a black man before, let alone by a black bull.

"Maybe later," Grant said, "but we're going to the movies now."

"We're leaving the club already?" I asked.

"You sound so disappointed. No, we're not leaving the club. They have an old-style porn movie house right here."

And indeed they did, all with the old theater seating in front of a stage backed by a movie screen. The curved rows of theater seats were set with more than the usual room for legs—or whatever. As we entered, a dancer was just leaving the stage, carrying his feather boa and G-string in his hand, the lights were going down lower, and a movie was coming up on the screen.

A male-on-male-on-male heavy porn movie, of course.

Grant and Nash were sitting on either side of me in a row about half way to the screen. As the movie got under way, Nash was pulling my mesh T over my head and Grant was working the leather trousers down off my legs. So much for us being triplets in our clothes. I wasn't dressed in anything for the rest of the evening at that club.

"Nash is gonna blow you and then fuck you hard now," Grant whispered in my earn. I just moaned my acquiescence and anticipation.

I could barely see what was going on on the movie screen for what was going on in the seating row we were in. There were men—couples mostly—scattered about the room in various stages of cock sucking and copulation. Grant and Nash wasted no time in catching up with them—with me. They had their hands and tongues all over me. Their heads bobbed around between my line of sight and the movie screen until Nash had moved his face down my belly and his mouth onto my cock. Grant was up on his knees in the seat next to me, his arms around my neck, pulling my head back by grabbing and pulling on the hair at the back of my head, his face over mine, taking my mouth with his in deep, tongue penetrating kisses.

Nash sank to the floor between my legs—showing why there was extra spaces between the rows. One after the other, he lifted my legs and hooked them on the seat arms. His hands were clutching my buttocks, rolling my rump up to Nash's searching tongue, which had found my asshole. When his mouth left my cock, Grant's hand replaced it and he slow-stroked me.

"You listed a movie house fantasy," Grant whispered to me when he'd come out of the kiss. He was still holding my head and torso arched back, my head over the seat back with one arm around my neck while he stroked my cock with the hand of the other arm.

I winced as Nash's tongue at my hole was replaced with one search finger, then a second, then a third.

"Open to him. You'll want to be as open to Nash as you can be," Grant whispered. "Remember the white stallion we say. Think of Nash as that white stallion, putting all of that up inside you. Breeding you."

I could see in my peripheral vision that other men were gathering around now, sensing a show to come.

Grant was right. I wanted to be open to Nash even wider than I was when he rose up into a crouch, placed the bulb of his thick, thick cock at my rim and started working his way inside me. I writhed and cried out at the impossibly thick, increasingly long invasion, but they held fast, Grant at my head, Nash holding my legs up and out from the arms of the seat. Other men moved in to help him—to pull my legs up almost to beside my ears, pulling my body up the seat back, drooping my head more over the back of the seat.

Men helped pin my arms down, as Grant scrambled over the back of the bank of seats, cupped my ears with hands on both side, and slid his cock into my mouth.

In to the hilt now, deep inside, still expanding, channel-splitting wide, Nash started to pound my ass in long, deep slides. And then faster and harder thrusts. Grant continued to face fuck me. All around men were groaning and egging Grant and Nash on—and expressing interest in joining them.

I strained at taking Nash. I soared to the heights at taking Nash. To the extent I could, I met his thrusts with counterthrusts and we settled into a mutually satisfying rhythm that led to an ejaculation from each of us.

Nash slurped out of me and fell back into the seat next to mine. He was still fully clothed except for the open flap at the crotch from which his still-throbbing, now-gigantic cock protruded. Grant came down in the seat on the other side of him.

I could see that Nash's cock—of such circumference and length that I still was amazed I had taken it—was dripping with cum. To show him I'd appreciated the taking, I slipped down on the floor between his spread knees and cleaned his cock with my mouth.

"Thanks," he said, with a laugh, "but you're missing the movie."

I returned to my seat, but now I saw that Grant had his cock out and was holding it in his hand. I still didn't see the rest of the movie, because, with a hand on the back of my neck, Grant was forcing me to bend over the arm of the seat and slide my lips down his cock.

So, this is what a three-man date is like, I thought. Double the attention. As soon as one is finished, the other one wants attention. I could see how such a date would be highly taxing.

Grant left the theater before Nash and I did. It wasn't long before I found out why.

When Nash told me it was time for us to go and we exited the theater, he led me further into the club complex rather than back to the main bar room. We went down a corridor with doors to rooms on either side spaced at intervals to indicate same-sized rooms of about eighteen feet in width. The sounds I heard coming from inside the doors of some of these rooms left little doubt that these were rooms for private sex sessions.

The room Nash ushered me into was obviously that. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all a dull black. Prominent in the room were two blue vinyl cube platforms I knew to be called the Liberator—cubes with wedge shapes in the form that aided the angle of penetration during sex. Many such devices had restraints attached to them. These two did. The one in the center of the room was of an elaborate configuration. The one off to the side was simpler in surface structure.

These weren't the only prominent furnishings in the room. Grant, of course, was there. But so were the black bulls I had admired playing pool in the main room. That's where Grant had gone—to enlist the aid of the black bulls. I sensed that I might begin to hyperventilate, so I concentrated on light-pant breathing.

"Lay down on the center cube, Ty," Grant said.


"We're all going to fuck you. Your fantasy of black bulls and gang bangs—of bondage and double penetration—with the help of these big bruisers, we're going to fulfill several of your fantasies."

Double penetration. By black bulls. Oh shit.

"Or do you want the date to be over?" he asked. It was a challenge. At several junctures like that, I was offered an out. I would never know if they were serious with the offer, as I never took it. If this was going to be my one "do it all" day, I would suspend all fear and take it.

"Which way do you want me to lie on the cube?" I asked.

He showed me. I was on my back, my head toward the lower incline of a wedge shape and resting on a head rest attached at one end. My wrists went into restraints on the sides of the wedge. The other end of the cube flared out, with side pieces that, when my legs were strapped to them, were raised, spread wide, and bent below my knees, stretching, raising, and bending my legs. I felt like I was going to give birth—except I knew something very big was going to be going in rather than coming out. The edge of the wedge at that end inclined sharply so that my butt resting on it was rolled up.

Meanwhile, Grant was lowering his belly on the cube to the side, his arms and legs being strapped into restraints on the sides of the cube, his butt end at the top of a steeper incline at the back of his cube, which was lower in the middle. His torso was raised a bit on an incline in the other direction. He had been stripped naked. The black bulls already were naked, just as they were at the pool table, but now they were in full erection, licking their lips, moving around the room on the balls of their feet like gliding panthers, waiting for the action to begin, ready to pounce at a signal of release.

After Nash handed around bottles of lube and strings of Magnum packets, the fun began. Nash stripped, saddled up behind Grant, covered Grant's body with his, worked his cock inside Grant, and began to fuck him. I turned my head toward them and tried to concentrate on what they were doing rather than that there was a black bull between my legs working my hole with his lubed fingers and, as I writhed, huffed and puffed, and yielded an occasion expletive and scream, continually urged me to open to him.

"You wanna be more open for this, bitch," he muttered.

When I could feel the knuckles of his hand pressing at my rim, with the four fingers inside me, he seemed satisfied. I struggled against the restraints, arched my back, and cried out to the ceiling, as he worked his cock inside me. Thank god my first black bull was the lesser hung of the two—not that it made much difference.

When he was in and starting to pump, the other black bull came around to my head and dropped the headrest, causing my head to arch back. He grabbed my ears, forced, his cock inside my mouth, managing to get deep because of the angle of my head, and slow pumped my throat. I had to loosen my jaw to take him.

When he pulled out, I understood that relief wasn't in order, because he was smiling and rolling a Magnum onto his cock. He moved out of sight, I felt the other black bull pulling out of me, and the second took over fucking me. The first black bull went over to the other cube and relieved Nash. Nash came over to me and took up the face fuck station at my head. Reaching over my torso, he encased my cock in a hand and started jacking me off.

I came for him fairly quickly, being right on the top edge of arousal at what was happening.

After a good fifteen minutes of pumping inside me, the biggest black bull jerked and filled the bulb of his condom. He pulled out of me and went over to the other cube, where black bull one was still stroking inside Grant's ass. He grabbed Grant by the hair, lifted his head, and pushed his cock inside Grant's mouth. Grant deep-throated him for a few minutes and then pulled his mouth back and was sucking hard on the bulb. Both black bulls unloaded at nearly the same time.

Meanwhile Nash had freed me from the restraints and lowered the leg pieces, but he came up on the surface of the cube, pushed his knees under my buttocks, entered my now-gaping hole with his thick cock—which I could now take easily after the reaming by the black bulls—embraced me close, possessed my lips with his, and pistoned my channel hard. He wasn't wearing a condom, and I knew when he had creamed me deep inside.

"Whooee, love barebacking you, Ty," he murmured. "Glad you requested it."

I didn't remember requesting it. But it was glorious. I just hoped . . .

He left me and I lay there, exhausted and watching the other cube as the black bulls finished with Grant. When they had done so, they freed him, he hobbled off the cube, and the bigger of the two turned and said, "We're ready for him."

Ready for me?

Grant and Nash both moved me over to the other cube and the smaller black laid on it on his back, his cock hard again and jutting up to the ceiling.

"Ride the cock," Grant commanded, and I dutifully crawled over his waist, facing him, and, with Grant's help, lowered my channel on his cock.

I didn't have time for more than a dozen rises and falls on the cock, when he was enveloping me in his arms and pulling my chest down to his, which rolled my buttocks up . . . and which gave the other black bull the right angle to saddle up behind me and start working his cock into my channel on top of his buddies. He was the one who stroked me, while I went from weeping and crying out for mercy to whimpering and groaning to near semiconsciousness.

Afterward I lay there, sprawled on the cube, moaning and whimpering, while the four of them chatted, reviewed what they'd done, and said their good-byes.

The two black bulls left the room, and I moaned in reviewing what had been done to me in this room, both shocked and exhilarated by it. I'd done it. I'd taken two cocks at once. If I never did so again . . .

But then I realized that Grant and Nash were approaching me with big grins. Grant lay on his back at the end of the cube, his feet on the floor, me on top of him, facing away, my channel sheathing his cock. The palms of Grants hands were clutching my pecs. Nash approached from in front of me, reaching down and grabbing my ankles, wishboning my legs, pushing his pelvis between my thighs, screwing that thick, thick, thick cock inside me on top of Grants. And beginning to pump. As he pumped, he reached between us, fisted my cock, and began to stroke it in the rhythm of the fuck.

"Want you to remember DPing real good," Grant muttered.

* * * *

"Good for you. You passed the tests."

"Tests? What tests?" I asked Grant, turning my face to him. The three of us were sitting on the Liberator cube he'd been fucked on—that I'd been double fucked on. The incline wedges at either end of the cube had been lowered so that the surface was flat. We had showered in a bathroom connected to this room and put our party clothes back on—the leather pants and boots and the mesh T-shirts.

"You apparently are game for just about anything," he said. "You didn't flinch, even from the DP."

"I was curious," I answered. "And I've been frustrated with vanilla. It doesn't mean that I do this every day."

"You wouldn't be willing to do it again?" Grant asked, taking a sharp look at me.

"I didn't say never again," I answered, defensively.

"But has the date lived up to your expectations?"

"In spades, yes," I answered. "Are we driving back to D.C. now?"
"We could do that . . . unless you wanted to earn $400 for some more of the same and something even more tonight."

"You don't have to pay me, you know," I said. "The paperwork I signed said the date could go to dawn."

"We wouldn't be paying you. There's another club. They'll pay if you'll go on stage—let men use you in the act. It would be similar acts to the sex acts we've done. But on stage, with a select clientele watching."

"Ah, the exhibition part."

"That part and others. Something you haven't done yet. Perhaps even something you've never thought of doing. Not life threatening, of course. If this is a one-time shot for you to experience it all, as you've told us was your interest in this date, you haven't experienced it all yet."

"$400 did you say?" That would cover my subscription to the dating site, my end of the bid on Grant and Nash, and another couple of bids if I decided to do this again before the subscription ran out. But what were the chances I'd do it again? It had been far more taxing and degrading than I had imagined it would be. I thought back to the sexual rut I'd been in before, how much pleasure and spilling of seed I had experienced already in acts I'd never considered doing before. "Just to dawn?" I asked.

"Just to dawn. The other club's about a thirty-minute drive from here. You'd be driven home."

The other club was a bit more than a thirty-minute drive, back to the Beltway around Washington, to the Maryland side, and then in toward D.C. again, from the north, on Wisconsin Avenue. Several blocks in from the Beltway, the Mustang turned right into what seemed to be an alley in a residential community of large mansions and then turned left into an underground garage. The garage was cavernous. As we'd entered, I looked at what was above it: extensive grounds, now cloaked in darkness, and an imposing Tudor-style mansion. The garage seemed to take up all of the ground under the entire property. The garage wasn't filled, by any means, but there were quite a few expensive cars parked there, most gathered around an elevator shaft.

When the elevator stopped rising and the doors opened, I realized, with a shock, that Grant didn't remind me of a fox after all. Grant was a form of satyr. The realization hit me because we were greeted in a marble foyer—floor, walls, and ceiling, all deeply veined ochre marble—by a pair of satyrs.

They were more like satyrs than Grant was, but he was close. All that he lacked were the small horns they had peeking out of their hair at the temples, goatees, horse tails, and the semblance of cloven feet. Grant shared with them the sensual, sneery smile, the pointed ears, the curved-up perpetual hard on, and the body hair, most notably the hairy legs, natural in Grant's case, a form of chaps in the case of the welcoming satyrs. The chaps were held up by a waistband which also provided the base for their horse tails. Their cloven feet were largely an illusion. They were wearing wedge heels, with the wedge being made out of clear acrylic. This forced them to walk on their toes in shoes fashioned like hooves.

"This is Ty, who has agreed to perform tonight. Please take him to Xavier." This was spoken by Grant.

Standing next to him, Nash put a hand on my arm and slid it down to take my hand. There was a calling card palmed in his hand, which I palmed, slid into a pocket of my leather pants, and later found to have a telephone number written on it. Our eyes met, and he said, "Good-bye, Ty. I really enjoyed you."

The two stepped back in the elevator, the doors closed, and they were out of my life for that evening.

"Please come with me, Mr. Ty," one of the satyr's said. He minced off toward a door on a side wall of the foyer, rather than the double doors that were directly across from the elevator, and I followed him.

I was taken to a dressing room. There were several dressing tables at one end of the room, with strong lights shining in bulbs all around the edge of a mirror covering nearly the entire wall. Clothes racks were spread around at haphazard angles with costumes on some of them—mostly satyr gear and hangers with skimpy shorts and vests in forest colors. Some of the racks had a variety of street clothes hanging from them, no doubt the clothes of the performers. In the middle of the space was a brown-leather divan. Like the cubes in the other club, there were restraints attached along the sides of the divan and there was a wedge at the end facing the dressing tables and mirror walls that rose to near the bottom edge of the divan. In the space before the end of the divan were circular depressions. It didn't need much imagination to know that knees went in there.

"Xavier will be with you shortly," the satyr said. As he withdrew from the room, he added, "Strip all of our clothes off, please. Receive Xavier naked, standing up, full frontal to the door. You are being judged." I could hear the sound of an audience cheering and clapping somewhere in the not-too-far distance, as he exited and closed the door behind him.

"Shortly" was almost immediately. The satyr who entered nearly filled the room by his presence. This was an impossibly tall—surely almost seven feet tall—big-boned, and muscular satyr. Thus far all of the satyrs I'd seen had been small or regular-sized men and more willowy of figure than muscular. This one stood out as a symbol of power and strength, and, from the size of his erect, upturned cock, imposing equipment. Xavier.

"You look good. Let us see how well you will perform," he said, as he strode to me and manipulated me, despite my shocked and ineffectual attempt at struggling or at least slowing down the inevitable. He pushed me down onto the divan, bound my wrists to the sides and my ankles as well. My buttocks was rising toward the end of the divan.

There was no ceremony or preliminary, and I soon was too busy crying out and grunting and groaning to try to reason with him. He came up on the divan, his knees going into the circular depressions, his hands pressing down on the hollows where my arms met my trunk, and his cock thrust inside my ass, lifting me up off the surface of the divan as far as the restraints would allow, and with a cry to the ceiling, he began pumping me immediately in long, strong strokes. I could feel on my knees and see in the mirror that his long horse's tail was swishing back and forth to the rhythm of his stroking.

He took me swiftly, brutally, never decreasing the pistoning of his stroke, occasionally lowered his face to mine for a brutal kiss on the mouth and then down to chew my nipples, as I strained against the restraints and moaned. But after that first shocked scream of the mammoth cock striking deep inside me, I steeled myself against begging for mercy or letting him hear me cry out.

He stroked me off expertly and quickly with a fist while he fucked me and muttered, "Good, a strong arc," when I came for him.

He barebacked me, and when he came, with a jerk and a lurch and a little cry of his own, his tail went wild in its swishing. He blasted me six times—a rear back, a thrust inside, a blast of cum, a frantic swish of the tail, a rear back, a thrust inside, a blast of cum, a frantic swish if the tail, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and again. By the fourth blast, I had collapsed, and just lay there, murmuring, "Oh, God yes. Give it to me," begging "Again. Again," with each creaming.

I didn't pretend that I didn't love what he'd done to me.

Immediately after the last blast, he gave me a big grin, rose off my body, slapped me on the belly, muttered, "Excellent," and went to the door. He turned to me and said, "You are one of the rare ones who takes it stoically. Bawling and cursing is entertaining, but our audiences like to see our forest boys react differently. Still, one tip: Be entertaining and it will go better for you. Giving into it gradually out there will create an illusion the audience will love."

He turned away from me and opened the door. "He will do fine," he said to whoever was on the other side. "Clean him up, dress him, and bring him to the stage."

The dressing room was a flurry of the smaller-sized satyrs then—releasing me from the restraints; helping me off the divan, with no apparent concern that Xavier's cum was flowing down my thighs when I stood; and taking me to a bathroom with a communal shower, instructing me to clean myself out well—and quickly. I was needed on stage.

It seemed that all of the staff members of the club were outfitted as satyrs. I half expected to be dressed that way too. But I wasn't. I was outfitted with not much of a costume at all—soft brown suede ankle boots with pointed toes; a Lederhosen-style pair of shorts in a flimsy material that I could see had breakaway seams and that I assumed—rightly, it transpired—wouldn't be on me for very long; a skimpy brown leather vest that didn't meet across my chest and was held in place with laces; brown leather bicep bands; a thin strap around my waist that sent a leather strip down each crease of my groin and attached to a harness at the base of my cock, holding the cock out, pressing tight enough to keep me hard, and squeezing my balls into a tight ball; and a Robin Hood-style forester cap.

This obviously was what Xavier had meant by forest boys, I thought.

Then I was led to the darkened wings of what looked to be a lit-up stage. Beyond the flying buttress curtains I could see brown columns toward the back of the stage. These were decorated as trees, with dense green foliage in the branches. Also in the branches, though, I could see figures. Not satyrs but man monkeys. Tails and monkey masks and not much else on. They were moving through the branches acrobatically and in slow motion to the sound of jungle music.

But nearer to that, positioned at the edge of the stage, stood Xavier. He turned, and one of the satyrs handed me over to him with the comment, "As you have tested, the substitute for the third performer, Xavier."

Xavier held a hand out to me and said, "Come."

I couldn't help but notice that he had a flogger whip in his other hand, with many long, thin leather strands.

I let him take my hand and lead me out onto the stage of a small auditorium. The artificial grove of trees with the man monkeys swinging in the branches lined the back of the stage. At the front of the stage, a platform jutted out into the audience area, which was a semicircle of raised rows of banquettes behind small, circular-top tables. Most of the seating was occupied. I couldn't make out much in the audience because of the dim light there and the blinding light turned toward the stage, but it gave the impression of a teeming mass of men, in various stages of attention to what was going on on the stage, stages of dress, and stages of cock sucking and copulation. Satyr waiters moved among the levels with trays of drinks. The bar appeared to be at the back of the auditorium, at the top-most level.

The projecting platform was a square. Set in the middle of it, though, was a circular revolving stage. In the middle of this was a flat, leather-covered Roman-style divan, probably a later model than the one in the dressing room. This was unoccupied—for the moment.

Satyrs were roaming over the stage—big men, although not as big as Xavier. By quick count I located six of them. When picking them out I also for the first time saw the two acrylic X frames set at either side of back stage at the edges next to the wings. Like the center, projecting stage, each of these was set on a revolving circle.

Hanging from these frames, by wrist and ankle restraints on the four arm extensions, the cross of the X being at the level of the shoulder blades, were two young men. Both were dressed just as I was, except that their shorts had already been pulled away. Each was being fucked in the ass by a satyr standing behind them and flogged on the chest and thighs by another satyr when they revolved around to full frontal.

Now that I knew they were there, I could separate the sounds they were making from the other sounds around me. The one on the right side of the stage was writhing to the extent his bonds permitted and was crying out and bawling like a baby. The one on the left side of the stage just hung forward on his X frame, head lowered toward the ground and whimpering.

Xavier led me out to the footlights of the platform projecting into the auditorium, where two tall, muscular satyrs were waiting for me between the footlights and the revolving inset. With a sneery smile at me, Xavier handed me over to the two satyrs. To a cheer from the portion of the audience that was paying attention, they whipped my shorts off, exposing my half hard cock, which the two, coming close to either side of me alternated working with a hand with kneading my buttocks and opening my hole with lubricated fingers. Both were sheathed with condoms—there was a profusion of both condom packets and used condoms littering the floor of the stage.

Remembering Xavier's advice, I struggled ineffectually with them, refused to turn as they wanted until they'd slapped my thighs, butt, and cock, and generally acted as if I wasn't there by my own free will.

There, after a period of preparing me—working my cock and ass, taking turns in kissing me and pushing me down on my knees to suck their cocks, before pulling me up for more work on my hole, they lifted me off the floor, sandwiched me between them, and fucked me together, one entering me from the front and the other from the rear as I writhed between them, my legs hooked on the hips of the satyr facing me.

I wasn't being stoic about this. I was screaming my bloody head off. A good part of that was ecstasy. The black bulls—even Grant and Nash—had been bigger inside me. The audience was noisy too, voicing its approval and egging the satyrs on.

When they were done, they guided me onto the revolving stage and then to the divan, where I was laid on my back and my wrists and ankles were bound by long leather leads to the sides of the couch. The two satyrs left me then, trading off with the pair of satyrs assaulting the young man on the X frame to the right of the couch.

Those two new satyrs came to the divan. One worked his way under my back, lifted my hips, and set my channel down on his up-curved cock. The other satyr moved in between my spread legs, thrust his cock inside me above that of the first satyr, and the approving audience was entertained with yet another form of double fuck.

I took this with a little less histrionics than the first double fuck. Some of that was put on. I kept thinking of Xavier's "Be entertaining" tip. As long as they thought they were taxing me to my edge of endurance maybe they wouldn't be prompted to come up with something more painful. And if I reacted with a bit less strain with each taking, maybe the audience would appreciate that. I was that much interested in the exhibitionist aspect of this experience now that I was wholly into it.

When the third set of satyrs came to me from the other X frame, I was unbound, Turned face down, my channel skewered on the cock of a satyr now lying on his back under me on the divan, rerestrained, and sixth satyr came in behind me, thrust his cock inside me above that of his comrade, and pumped me to an ejaculation.

This time, I moved my hips with them, throwing my head back and screaming "Yes. Fuck me. Fuck me! Drill that hole," joining in the spirit of the fuck. The audience went wild at seeing me become actively involved in the act.

After the three exhibitions of a double penetration fuck for a appreciative audience, I was half comatose; blubbering, but not necessarily in a bad way; and had come with each separate taking. Each time the satyrs had managed to turn me toward the audience so that it could see me spout, which was met with a cheer each time.

The three "taker" performers were rotated, with me, first, on the X frame to the right of the stage, and then to the left, as each of the other two young men were taken—a second time, I surmised—through the succession of double fucks. Throughout the performance, Xavier walked around the stage, swishing his flogger, and punishing any performer, forest "boy," satyr, man monkey who was within distance of the flick of his whip.

While the third forest "boy" was being taken on the divan, the four satyrs fucking and flogging the other forest "boy" and me withdrew and the men monkeys came down from the trees and tormented us, pinching our nipples; slapping our cocks; squeezing, distending, and crushing our balls; fingering our asses; and fucking us from behind.

I was the finale. The satyrs carried the forest "boys" off the stage and to the showers. The men monkeys swept off as well, leaving just Xavier and me on the divan, under a single strong spotlight, where he fucked me interminably in a variety of exotic positions that had the audience on its feet and clapping.

When I was dressed again in the party clothes I'd worn to the club, I was led, walking very gingerly to an office, where Xavier, now in a silk robe sat behind a desk.

"Please sit," he said, as I was led in. With some effort I lowered myself in a chair facing his desk.

"You did very well tonight . . . Ty, is it? The procurers selected and prepared you well."

The procurers. So, Grant and Nash weren't just a pair of randy and kinky men looking for a third on the dating service. They had set out to procure a performer for the show here at this club from the beginning. I tried to build up a resentment, but I couldn't. This had been the fulfillment of a fantasy. I was in pain now, but I had been aroused beyond my wildest dreams and couldn't separate the pain from the pleasure. I didn't want to separate the pain from the pleasure. I would relive this for some time to come. I might even seek it out again.

He was handing over five hundred-dollar bills. I'd only been promised four hundred, but I wasn't about to quibble over an overpayment. I don't know if I would have carried through with this added offer if Grant had told me all that it entailed.

"This show goes on every Saturday night," he said. "You did well enough to be a permanent performer—for as long as you like."

"I don't know . . . I don't think—"

"We pay $1,500 a night," he said.

$1,500, I thought. So those fuckers maybe kept $900 for themselves for tonight. But then there had been expenses in getting me here—and in finding me on the dating service.

"Just sign this contract, and I'll have someone drive you home. You live near Dupont Circle, don't you? And a car will pick you up there at 1:30 a.m. next Saturday."

When I entered my apartment, I went straight to my computer and brought up the dating service Web page. I was denied access to Grant and Nash's page. I wasn't surprised. I knew that capability came with membership. I knew they didn't have to recruit me a second time. But I had wondered if they might want to take me out on a date separate from the satyr club deal sometime. I can't believe that all we had done together was just a job to them.

The satyr club experience had been the icing on the cake—all of those acts I said I was curious about and I hadn't mentioned being fucked by satyrs. It was quite some experience, though.

And the date before that with Grant and Nash had been something too. But now I couldn't . . . but, yes, I could. I could contact Nash, at least. He had slipped me his telephone number. Maybe one of these days . . .

* * * *

Sunday night was missionary position night with Fraser. The obligatory fuck went as always, although I yearned for more than just the long cock deep inside me—especially now that I'd experienced so much more.

We stretched out on the bed, me cuddled into his front, his arm over me, his cock flaccid inside me, as always. And as always, after I heard his breath setting a regular pattern, I lifted his arm off me, slipped out from underneath him, and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
When I returned, he had turned on his back, and as before, I had the urge to come down between his spread legs and take his cock into my mouth. "Fuck it," I said. Tonight would be a little bit different. There was no reason not to try to break this out of its routine. Fraser was quite attractive and sexy enough—especially in the semidark—and he had that impossibly long cock. He was worth the effort.

I came down between his thighs, slid my mouth down the length of his cock as I glided my hands up to this nipples, and started to suck. He responded to me. Moaning even before he came awake. Reaching down and guiding my head as I gave him deep head. Groaning and moving his hips in the rhythm of the fuck.

I rose up his body, saddled myself on his cock, and rode him as he grew thicker, longer, harder inside me and started to buck back. He was groaning and telling me how good it was, luxuriating in the exotic—for him—fuck until he couldn't take any more. With a roar, he pushed me off him, ran an arm under my stomach, lifted me up, pushed his knees under my buttocks, and snaked his cock back up into me, while, being supported by his arm encircling my waist, I cantilevered backward, arms dangling at my sides and head thrown back, concentrating all of my sensations on the cock thrusting again and again up into my passage and his hand fisting and stroking my cock. Seeking, working toward, a found mutual ejaculation.

Afterward, embracing me from behind, he declared what a surprisingly good fuck that was and how aroused he was by the variety of it. Could we fuck like that more often?

I assured him that we certainly could, myself fully satisfied with him for the first time and looking forward to progress in that direction.

He leaned his lips to my ear and whispered, "We've never done it before, but what I really would like now—"

"Yes you can fuck me again," I answered, turning my face away from him so that he couldn't see my wide grin.

three date

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