“Yeah? I can’t wait to hear it. But in the meantime—don’t you notice anything different about me?”
“Oh, sure, the haircut. Looks good. Now you look like a man.”
Remi was a bit disappointed; he’d expected a more enthusiastic response. But he realized that Guiche was preoccupied.
“What’s up?” Remi asked, uneasily. “Is something wrong?”
“No, on the contrary. Listen. Can you keep your mouth shut?” Guiche demanded. “When you’re not using it to suck a cock? I mean, can you keep a secret?”
“Sure,” Remi replied. “What’s got you so worked up?”
“We’ve got a guy who wants a threesome. Today! The call came right after you called me. I just finished talking to the john. He’s from Toronto, but he’s here in town on business, staying at a hotel downtown. He wants a late-afternoon session, after he’s done with his business meetings for the day.”
“Well, I guess I have to make my debut, sooner or later. I still don’t understand what you’re so excited about. I thought this sort of thing was pretty routine, for you.”
“It is, as a rule. But this guy isn’t your average john. You can’t tell anybody about this, Remi—about us having sex with him. I’m serious.”
“Who the hell do you think I’m going to tell? My grandmother? All right, already! Calm down. I solemnly swear I will never, ever tell anybody that I had sex with you and another guy for money. Now are you satisfied?”
“I hope I can trust you. You see, this guy is a celebrity, and he’s in the closet. So he’s paranoid about his image as a macho straight man, and he’s terrified that somebody might find out he’s secretly gay. He’ll pay us extra to guarantee our discretion.”
“How much extra?”
“Plenty. I talked him up to five hundred.” Guiche paused, for dramatic effect. “Five hundred for me—and five hundred for you.”
“Jesus! For that amount of money, I’ll fuck this guy, whoever he is—and his fan club! So, who is he, exactly?”
“He’s a hockey player. I had quite a long talk over the phone with him, so I think I have a pretty good idea of where his head is at. You’ll recognize him when you see him. But my advice is, pretend you don’t. Act as though you don’t have any idea who he is. Don’t ask him any questions about himself, not even to be polite—and don’t mention sports in general, let alone hockey in particular, unless he brings up the subject. When in doubt, just take your cue from me. He doesn’t want a lot of conversation, I suspect. He just wants to fuck. So, for this amount of money—we’re going to do everything we can to oblige him. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Look on the bright side. This dude is good-looking, and he’s got a hot body. There shouldn’t be any need for us to fake it. This ought to be a lot of fun.”
“I only hope I don’t screw it up.”
“You won’t. You’ll do fine. It’s just sex, remember. Pretend the guy is just another horny number out on the prowl, who picked us up in a bar—at CityBoyz, say. And one advantage of the short notice is that you’ll have less time to start getting nervous.” Guiche checked his watch. “We’d better shower. You go first. The clothes you have on will do just fine. And I do like the haircut. It suits you. It’s sexy. I’ll treat you to a late lunch, on our way there. No reason why we shouldn’t fuck on full stomachs.”
After getting ready for their rendezvous and stopping for lunch, the two young men reported to the hotel.
The hotel, a modern high rise, struck Remi as quite luxurious.
“This place is really ritzy,” he whispered to Guiche, in the lobby.
“Yeah. I’ve been here before.”
“To see a customer?”
“What else? You think I can afford to stay here? Even the coffee shop, over there, is outside of my price range. Act natural. We don’t want to do anything to call attention to ourselves.” Guiche pulled out his cell phone. “We’ll probably lose reception in the elevator. I want to give the guy a heads-up.”
Their john answered the call right away.
“We’re downstairs,” Guiche reported to him. “Yeah—coming right up.” He hung up. “He sounds eager,” he told Remi. “Always a good sign.”
They rode up in the elevator, and found the room. When Guiche tapped on the door, it was opened immediately.
Guiche maintained a carefully cultivated bland, poker face; and Remi did his best to imitate his example. But Remi recognized the man who opened the door at once.
He wasn’t just any professional ice hockey player—he was a star, at least there in Canada. His name was Marc Olivier Tremblay, and he was a French Canadian, who played as a left winger for Team Canada. He was a big man, impressively attired at the moment in an expensive-looking bespoke suit, although he’d loosened his Italian silk tie. He was no pretty boy. Dark-haired, he had a big nose which had been broken and reset more than once, and a scar on his lower lip—both souvenirs of brawls with rival players during games. Still, he was considered good-looking.
Shit! Remi thought. This dude makes, what, a salary which must be in six figures a year? No wonder he can afford to hire whores by the pair! He’d just better be a damn good tipper.
He’s got this big reputation as a playboy and a ladies’ man. He dates all these glamorous women—socialites, debutantes, actresses, fashion models! Is that all a cover-up, a farce? Is he bisexual, or is he gay—and the biggest closet case and hypocrite in Canada?
“Well, guys, come right in,” Tremblay invited them, with complete self-possession. “I know you from your photos, of course. Guiche—and Remi. Right?”
“Right,” Guiche said.
“Call me Marc Olivier. Everyone does.”
No kidding! Remi told himself. Dude, you’re a frigging household word!
“So, you two are lovers?” Marc Olivier asked.
“That’s right,” Guiche assured him. “Remi’s my boyfriend. Isn’t that right, Remi?”
“Ah, right.” Remi remembered that, officially, they weren’t supposed to know who their john was. Accordingly, he forced himself not to behave as though he was tongue-tied or star-struck. “How about you, Marc Olivier? Do you have a boyfriend?”
It occurred to him, even as he said that, that it was a potential faux pas. But, to his relief, Marc Olivier burst out laughing—and Guiche, taking his cue from the hockey player, smiled.
“Yeah,” the athlete said, mockingly. “I have a guy stashed away in every city I visit. And they’re all guys like you two. Hot, and for hire. It’s an expensive hobby!”
Remi wondered whether this was entirely a joke. Perhaps it had some basis in truth.
Marc Olivier had made himself at home in the elegant hotel room, which was untidy, with clothes and personal articles strewn about, and two open, half unpacked suitcases on display, one on the floor, the other on the built-in desk. The drapes were closed, shutting out the view and the late-afternoon sunlight, and the bed was turned down. The bed was flanked by a pair of nightstands, also built into the wall. On one nightstand were set out preparations for sex—a large tube of lubricant, obviously brand new and not yet used; a box of condoms; and one of the hotel’s thick, luxurious, pristine white terrycloth towels, neatly folded.
On the other nightstand, out in plain view, were drug paraphernalia—a little vial, presumably containing cocaine; a small mirrored square; a razor blade; and an ordinary plastic drinking straw, cut into three shorter lengths.
Marc Olivier had commandeered part of the desk as his personal mini bar. Next to a coffee maker, provided by the hotel, were lined up several bottles of water, energy drinks, and wine and liquor, along with an ice bucket—recently filled—and a stack of plastic drinking glasses. One of the glasses had been used: it contained some melting ice, and an inch of an amber-colored liquid.
“Make yourselves at home,” Marc Olivier invited the two hustlers. “I just got out of my last meeting. What a bore! I needed a drink, badly, after that ordeal. I’m having scotch. Join me?”
“Sure,” Guiche said.
“Help yourselves to whatever you want. If you don’t see it, I can have room service send it up. I don’t like to rush things,” the hockey player added. “Like I said when we were talking, before—?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Guiche assured him. “No problem. We’re here for as long as you want us. I’m going to have some of this wine. How about you, Remi?”
“Ah—yeah, I’ll have the same. Pour me one, please,” Remi replied.
Still a little ill at ease, he drank the wine, gratefully. Marc Olivier, he noticed, was putting away plenty of the scotch, although it didn’t seem to have had any adverse effect on him.
Marc Olivier took off his suit jacket, which he tossed carelessly over the back of a chair. Then he unlaced his expensive leather shoes and kicked them off, exposing big feet, in black silk socks.
“That’s better,” he said, sitting on the bed and wriggling his toes. He sipped his scotch. Guiche and Remi, drinking their wine, had seated themselves in two armchairs, with a small table between them, in front of the closed window drapes. Marc Olivier smiled at them. “So—you’re both versatile?” he inquired.
“Very,” Guiche bragged.
Feeling a need to speak up, Remi chimed in: “Yeah, I like all sorts of sex.”
“Nothing ‘gay for pay’ about either of you, I assume?” Marc Olivier asked.
“Hell, no,” Guiche said, with a laugh. “We couldn’t be more queer if we tried.”
“I like men,” Remi agreed, by way of considerable understatement.
“So do I—obviously. Is it warm enough in here for you guys?” Marc Olivier asked.
“I’m fine,” Remi said.
“Yeah, I’m comfortable,” Guiche agreed.
“Then we might as well get really comfortable,” Marc Olivier suggested. “Let’s strip down. And then—” He gestured toward the nightstand with the drug paraphernalia. “Let’s do some coke.”
Quickly, all three men got naked.
Marc Olivier had a build which was typical of hockey players, with thick legs and a broad behind, giving him a low center of gravity. His arms were rounded with bulging but not excessively large muscles, like those of a compact bodybuilder. He was very hairy, which Remi found intriguing—and exciting. And the athlete was quite well hung. Nor did he seem to have any issues with erectile dysfunction. He was already rock hard, ready for action.
They snorted the coke, which took effect quickly and efficiently. It was high quality stuff.
“Guiche, I want to fuck your boyfriend,” Marc Olivier declared. “I want Remi’s ass. Is that all right with you?”
“You bet. Go ahead and fuck him, Marc Olivier,” Guiche invited the hockey player. “He’s a pretty hot little number, isn’t he? I don’t mind sharing him with you. That’s what I brought him here for.”
That was all the encouragement that Remi needed. He flung his arms around the professional athlete’s sculptured neck and kissed him boldly on the mouth, grinding his smaller, lighter body against Marc Olivier’s more massive hard muscularity. A colossal hard-on pressed into Remi’s groin from below. Remi couldn’t believe his luck. There he was, naked in a hotel room, and high, getting ready to have sex with two attractive, well-hung men. Better yet, he was going to be paid for this! He congratulated himself on his good fortune.
He threw all sense of shame to the four winds of heaven, and became utterly brazen. He broke the kiss before he’d given Marc Olivier more than a tantalizing taste of his mouth. Turning around quickly, Remi seized the tube of lubricant from the nightstand and squirted a generous amount of the slippery gel onto the palm of his hand.
Then, as the well-hung hockey star stroked Remi’s hips and felt for his cock and balls, and Guiche watched the two of them with a slight smile, Remi lubricated his asshole by wiping his slicked-up hand between his ass cheeks. He dropped the tube on the bed and he thrust his ass back toward Marc Olivier with an imperious cry of “Fuck me, man!”
It was the kind of invitation that no horny gay man in his right man would have been able to refuse; and Marc Olivier complied, shoving his big body forward and jabbing his cock eagerly between the young hustler’s smooth buttocks, in an impatient quest for his hole.
“Not so fast, stud. Put a rubber on it first,” Remi insisted. “If you can find one big enough to fit that horse cock of yours!”
“Sorry. I was getting a little ahead of myself. That pretty little butt of yours is getting me too excited. I can’t think straight.”
“I don’t want you to think straight,” Remi retorted. “I want you to think like a horny gay guy.” They’d been standing beside the bed; but now Remi climbed up onto the mattress, positioning himself on his hands and knees. Shamelessly, he pushed his butt back and up, presenting it to the john.
Marc Olivier quickly took care of business, encasing his dick in a latex condom and slicking it up with a swipe of the gel lube. Then he got into position to attempt the penetration again, moving behind Remi and aiming his cock at the boy’s ass.
This time the coupling was successful. Remi cried out with a delirious, drug-enhanced combination of pain and pleasure when he felt his big, handsome customer strain to possess him, the huge head of that cock squeezing tightly, and with effort, through the rim of his anus and pressing inward to fill the bottleneck completely with hard male meat.
“Fucker!” Remi howled. “Oh, you dirty fucker, you! Could that thing of yours be any bigger? Jesus, man! How the hell do you expect me to take it?”
“It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it,” Guiche, observing them from close nearby, quipped. “Come on, Remi. Man up. Stop whining and take that cock up your ass. Fuck him, Marc Olivier. Fuck him good! Break him in. Make a man out of him.”
“I don’t know,” Marc Olivier gasped. “He’s got a really tight ass! Like a little boy’s.”
“Yeah, he’s practically a virgin,” Guiche claimed—an outrageous fib, of course.
“I bet you’ve fucked a lot of little boys,” Remi said. “I wouldn’t put it past you, you big-dicked bastard!”
“Watch your mouth, punk,” Marc Olivier warned.
“Watch your cock! Damn! It’s tearing me apart.”
“Shut the fuck up, both of you,” Guiche interjected. “Stop talking and start fucking. Fuck him, Marc Olivier. Fuck him!” Guiche barked, obviously turned on by the sight of their john humping his recruit, who was now—for all his protestations—bending over and spreading his butt cheeks with a whorish abandon, the better to accept the john’s plowing hard-on. “Fuck that little prickteaser right up his ass! Take that hole!”
“Yeah! Yeah! Fuck me, man, fuck my ass!” Remi gasped out from between clenched teeth as he lowered his head and shoulders to the bed, arched his back, and shoved his butt backward to facilitate the athlete’s conquest of his ass.
He screamed once in sudden, unfeigned pain; but then he relaxed and spat out every lewd expression he knew in both French and English, cursing in an indiscriminate mix of the two languages, as that enormous cockhead of Marc Olivier’s pushed its awesome, remorseless way deeper inside his anal canal. It was followed by inch after inch of tough, inflexible, throbbing phallic hockey stick. Christ, the dude was hung!
Despite his conscious efforts to stay calm and let his body accept the invader, Remi’s asshole couldn’t help itself from reacting violently. His anal muscles involuntarily clamped down and constricted repeatedly in their attempt to force out that titanic dick—or at least to prevent it from entering him any further!
“Bitch,” Marc Olivier grunted. “Tight-assed little whore bitch! Stop resisting. Don’t fight it, kid. Open your ass and let me get all the way in there!”
“Looks like you’re already in there as far as you can go, big guy,” Guiche commented, cynically. “Man—does that sweet hole of his ever look hot, wrapped around your thick hard dick!”
“Oh, please,” Remi begged. “Take it easy! Don’t fuck me so rough. The son of a b
itching thing is killing me!”
“You can take it,” his fellow escort said.
“Yeah, he can take it, all right,” Marc Olivier insisted. “And he’s going to start right now!” Frustrated, the hockey player wrapped his strong arms around Remi’s waist and squeezed him hard, almost crushing the boy’s ribcage. He shoved the rest of his hard, turgid fuck tool up into that tight, hot anal passageway, taking it by brute force!
“Fuck me, stud!” Remi screamed.
“That’s more like it, kid. Take it, punk,” Marc Olivier advised him. “Get fucked by my big, fat, hard dick!”
Remi screamed again, his piercing outburst of anal pain echoing gruesomely off the hotel room’s walls. Then he went limp, as his tortured flesh resigned itself to the inevitable.
His fucker clapped his palm over his mouth to shut him up. “Keep it down, baby,” Marc Olivier warned. “We don’t want my neighbors to hear you and know you’re getting your ass fucked, now, do we? It wouldn’t do to have the hotel manager come up here to investigate a complaint, and spoil all the fun.”
“I’ve been in this hotel before, with other guys,” Guiche informed Marc Olivier, with a whore’s professional attention to detail. “We made a lot of noise, but there never seemed to be any problem. The walls must be pretty thick, and well soundproofed. But you can always gag Remi while you fuck him, to shut him up. Hell—tie him down on the bed, if you want to.”
Marc Olivier laughed. “I’m not into kink,” he claimed. “I just like your basic hot, wholesome, man to man sex!”
“Fuck me,” Remi mumbled, against the man’s hand, which he abjectly licked with his tongue, like a puppy. “Oh, fuck my ass with your big, hard prick, you stud!”
He needed only a few more moments in which to get used to the sense of distension in his anus. It felt as though his asshole was a second condom stretched tightly over the athlete’s cockshaft, and that the fleshy rubber was shrinking—while the cock inside it was swelling larger! But now, when Marc Olivier began to thrust his manhood up and down inside that tightly gripping anus, Remi felt only a fierce pleasure—a pleasure that was worth any amount of pain!
CityBoyz Page 10
