"That was a good game. I've asked you to check the wiring in the Penzance Boulevard guest house, Logan, and I know you have to stay here and work, Brandon. So, Anton and I can go to the clubhouse for a drink and then to clean up and I'll drive him back to Logan's house."
It wasn't really a suggestion. Sam Reynard, an inherited-wealth man, was accustomed to being in charge, and he had no trouble taking command. They had gotten the court time at Fort Meyers's Heritage Palms Golf and Country Club because of his pull in the club rather than because his young live-in, Brandon Brantley, was the tennis pro there. This was phase one of Sam's plan, and he wanted it to go smoothly.
Sam Reynard came from generational wealth in Fort Meyers, Florida, on the west coast of the peninsula. He did dabble in publishing—of gay male novels—but not for profit. It was more to put himself up against young gay male writers. He picked on writers because he assumed they were anxious to get steamy experiences to put into their novels, and Sam was happy to help them with that.
He was a well-preserved fifty-five, tall and thin, but hard bodied and still with a healthy mane of hair, although it had turned gray. His eyes were gray too and complimented the silvery-gray head hair. He otherwise was smooth-skinned and toned, having the best the money could buy in a personal trainer—with twenty-four-year-old blond, blue-eyed, All-American Brandon an added workout partner. Brandon wasn't only the club tennis pro here; he also was one of the stable of Sam's novel writers—and one who Sam had kept close to him, giving Brandon a room of his own in the three-bedroom guest house of the house recently completed on nearly ten acres of ground on Penzance Boulevard near the Heritage Palms club. He also gave Brandon material for his books. Sam was athletic despite his age. He knew a lot of nifty and challenging sex positions from an aggressive submissive's stance.
Where Logan Hanon, forty-eight, hirsute, burly, and quite fit and handsome, fit into the picture beyond the foursome tennis match Sam and Brandon had won on the strength of Brandon's tennis talent was that he had been the contractor for the Penzance mansion and still was fiddling around with leftover issues on perfecting a perfect house. And even beyond that, he was here today and of interest to Sam because of the houseguest he'd brought along to fill out the foursome.
Anton Ajuria, whose stage name was Jolt, which was precisely how men interested in men responded to him upon first sight, twenty-two and a walking dark, sultry god, was half Cuban. His father had been Canadian. Anton was in the states because he had been a promising baseball player. That career avenue had not materialized, and Anton now was a well-paid exotic dancer with the Florida Thunder men's revue troupe based north of Fort Meyers at Tampa Bay. Sam had brought Anton down for Christmas and New Year's programs at Rapture, the gay nightclub he had a financial interest in, and he was keeping Anton in Fort Meyers for an extended period, although Anton could easily get up to Tampa for his regular stripper's duties at Florida Thunder when he was needed.
The "plan" Sam Reynard was working on that this was phase one of was to move Brandon along without losing him as an author but to replace him in Sam's bed with Anton. The three-million-dollar Penzance house almost having been finished off, Sam didn't much care what Logan would think of losing Anton, but Sam had seen the looks Logan gave Brandon while they played tennis—all four men played shirtless and none of the four had any reason not to be proud of their physiques—and he now saw how phase two of his plan could be worked out.
Sam badly wanted Anton to fuck him. That wasn't a problem. Anton was a male prostitute, and Sam had more money than he'd ever need. The problem was establishing a more permanent arrangement, hopefully without upsetting anyone. Sam didn't like conflict.
Sam didn't mind taking the initiative, though.
Heritage Palms was an exclusive club. Instead of one, general men's locker room, it had individual changing rooms with adjoining shower and bathrooms. Sam had signed in for one when booking the tennis court. None of the other three had. Logan Hanson left directly from the tennis court. Brandon had private lesson sessions booked on the court, so he had no need to shower and change yet—and he had his own dressing room at the club. Only Anton Ajuria, the Cuban male stripper hunk, didn't have his own facilities. That was no problem. Sam was quite happy to share his.
"You can use the shower first," Sam magnanimously offered when they were in the small dressing room and he'd shut the door and started undressing. He wanted Ajuria to see how well preserved he was—but, most of all, he wanted to see how well hung the Cuban was, which was very well hung, indeed, thank you very much.
"No, please. You first," Ajuria said, but he was pulling his tennis togs off as well—and he wasn't making any effort to hide himself. He was no dummy; he did this for a living, and he know both how important Sam Reynard was and what the looks Reynard had been giving him across the net on the tennis court meant. Sam made everything quite obvious. The last thing Sam did before entering the shower was to take three hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and place them on the neat stack of clothes Ajuria had put on a chair. There was no question the bills were being misplaced. Ajuria gave a little laugh when he saw the money that had been placed on his clothes.
Sam went into the shower, turned the water on, and soaped himself up. He only had to wait for a couple of minutes until he felt the Cuban rent-boy enter the shower behind him. They were much of the same height, but the Cuban was much more muscular—and hung—than Reynard was.
Reynard felt Ajuria's fingers touch his hips on either side, and, as the Cuban lightly stroked his flanks, Reynard gave a long sigh, and leaned back into Ajuria's chest. There was no question what Reynard wanted. One beefy arm went around Sam's chest under his arms from behind, a thumb firmly pressing into one of Sam's nipples, and the other came around his hips. Ajuria cupped the older man's balls and he pressed a thumb on the top of Sam's cock at the base, where a vein entered the shaft. Sam gasped and went immediately hard.
Ajuria was good with thumbs.
"Good. You have virility," the Cuban whispered, his lips in the hollow of Sam's neck. "Do you fuck or are you fucked."
"I want you to do me," Reynard whispered.
"You've seen me. Do you need—?"
"I can handle it. All of it. Rough as you please."
"Do you have . . . or . . ."
"Bareback me. I have been checked. I know the Florida Thunder procedure on that."
"Do you want the cock right away?" Ajuria had already taken the hand away from Reynard's cock and, after stroking the older man's buttocks cheeks with his fingertips and rubbing the bulb of his cock between the cheeks and over the hole, had inserted two of his fingers inside Reynard's channel and, as Reynard groaned, began to open him up.
"No, not right away," Reynard answered, pulling forward, out of the Cuban's grasp, twisting around, going down on his knees under the cascade of the water, and taking Ajuria's cock in his mouth—and then in his throat, as the young man held the gray head between his hands and moaned at the expert blow job he was receiving.
When they resumed the position of both of them standing, Ajuria embracing Reynard from behind, the Cuban murmured, "Jut your ass back and lift it," as he palmed the older man's lower belly to help him go into position. "You'll want to be as open to me as possible." Reyard complied and yelped and shuddered as Ajuria entered, entered, entered him.
The Cuban fucked the older man from the rear against the slick tiles of the shower wall, with Reynard's cheek and chest pressed to the wall, his arms raised, with hands palming the wall, and his buttocks jutting out from the wall. Giving the older man his money's worth, after stroking, with effort, inside in for several minutes, Ajuria knelt behind him, separated his butt cheeks with his hands, and ate out his hole until Reynard's channel was open enough to accommodate the thrusts better of the Cuban's exotic-dancer-worthy cock. Then Anton rose, grasped Reynard's hips between his hands as Reynard widened his stance, worked his cock in to the hilt, and rapid-thrust fucked the hell out of the gasping and groaning fifty-five-year old, giving him no quarter for age. It was the way Reynard cried out he wanted it, though. Reynard's knees went wobbly and he sank to the slick tiles, on his knees, his chest and cheek pressed to the tiles, and his arms stretched out sacrificially from his sides. The Cuban rode him down, readjusted to being mounted high on his ass, and continued fucking him.
Ajuria was young, virile, and experienced in covering patrons, and Reynard was grateful for a good ride. Neither was bothered by the circumstance or the role he was taking. It was just a paid fuck. Ajuria did this quite often and Reynard had no qualms about paying a stud to do him.
As they were dressing, Reynard broached a subject that he hoped would come across as innocuous and that followed up on something he thought he'd heard Anton tell Logan Hanson during a break in the tennis match, but which was quite important to his plan. "I'd like to meet with you again. Sometime next week perhaps?"
"I can't next week. I have gigs to do in Tampa. How about the week after that?"
Yes! screamed through Reynard's brain. Another piece had fallen into place. "Good then. I'll e-mail you to coordinate something for the week after next." Neither one of them bothered to mention that the other one supposedly was hooked up with someone in Fort Meyers already.
* * * *
Sam paused momentarily at the entrance into the pool terrace by the guest house of the Penzance estate to watch his Hispanic houseboy, Hermilo, flirting with Brandon Brantley while delivering a drink. It was obvious that Brandon was fucking the houseboy. Sam wasn't surprised, but that didn't mean that he was happy that Brandon was spreading it around. That undoubtedly was one reason the older man had grown disenchanted with his sponsorship of the tennis pro and book author he'd set up in his guest house.
The Penzance guest house was an all-purpose facility. The Olympic-sized pool was on the terrace outside the lanai of the house. That led into an entertainment area, with a home gym off to one side and dressing rooms for the pool off to the other side. Straight back was a hallway with three bedrooms and two baths off it. Brandon had been given one of these for his bedroom, although he spent many of his nights in Sam's bed, doing his calisthenics on Sam's body. One of the other bedrooms had been given over to him to do his writing. He was a good writer. His gay male novels had substance to them; they weren't just cover-to-cover sex, although the sex that was there was hot. Some of it had been tested out with Sam, which was a major reason Brandon got invited to live here to begin with. That Sam orchestrated inventive positions and scenarios was a big reason Brandon stayed with him.
Brandon, lying in a skimpy Speedo on a lounge bed in the sun between the shade of the guest house lanai and one end of the swimming pool, was just lifting his hand to palm the short, slim houseboy's buttocks through the silky material of the young man's athletic shorts he'd been wearing to clean the pool when he spied his benefactor, Sam Reynard, approaching. He deftly moved his hand to pick up the frosty glass of beer Hermilo had just delivered and turned his golden smile on Sam.
