I heard the doorbell ring then, seconds later, the front door swing open.
I heard muffled, indistinct voices. Then, less distantly, my host say: "He's in here."
A second man spoke--from the bedroom doorway, or just inside it: "Goddamn! How old is he?"
A shrug? "College age. 18...19, 20. Something like that."
"I can see his asshole," the visitor declared. "Sweet! Should I undress?"
A laugh. "You're gonna have to, aren't you?"
The man, still behind me, spoke from my left side: "He's tied up. And blindfolded."
"He prefers it that way. Enhances the experience, he says."
"For both of us," the visitor added. "Like a slave. Have you fucked him?"
"You mean...ever?" My host seemed to find this question amusing.
"A while ago," he lied. In fact he'd just finished cumming in me a half hour earlier. Or less.
"You cum in him?"
"Always."
"Sloppy seconds...," the visitor mused.
"There's condoms in the drawer, if you're squeamish about it."
"I hate those things!" the second man practically spat. He'd moved directly behind the bed. "Is he healthy?" His voice sounded familiar. Vaguely.
"Vaccinated." Another lie. There was no HIV vaccine. Or ones for STDs for that matter.
A curious question: "How long's he been on his hands [elbows actually] and knees like this?"
A probable shrug. And another lie: "He's young. He can stay like this for hours."
In fact, up until the doorbell rang, I'd been lying flat in bed's center, on my belly. Before pushing upward on my elbows and then drawing my knees up, and spreading them, assuming the classic bottom position. All the while with my hands clasped and my wrists bound by white nylon rope to the headboard.
I'd stayed in this position after my host pulled out of me, after cumming, until, emerging from the bathroom, he told me I could relax until the next guest arrived.
"How many today?" I wondered.
"Three."
"Three including you or...?"
"No. Three in addition to me. Supposedly. We'll see if they all show."
"But they all paid, right?"
"They always pay. A deposit. Doesn't necessarily mean they're gonna show."
"You think any of 'em will tip?"
"No idea." A sudden laugh. "We should put a tip jar on the lamptable, next to the lube." The condoms were in the table's lone, wide, flat drawer. And they always went unused.
Usually two or three guys would come over on a Saturday afternoon. The record was five, stretching into the early evening. That had been a bit much. By the time the fourth (it may've been the third) guy fucked me he was pumping the commingled sperm out of my hole and down my crack to my little shaved balls, where it dripped to the sheet below creating an ever-expanding grey wet spot.
After the last guest left my host had me pull the sheets off the bed and carry them to the washing machine out in his humid garage--after first removing the blindfold and untying me, of course.
"You set a record today," he beamed.
"I believe it."
"How do you feel?"
"Fine. A little stiff."
"I mean your sweet little hole."
"Fine." Actually my host had fucked me before the first guest arrived. So that made six.
Usually only two or three guys came over, however. They answered my host's ad, on the sex personals, and paid a $50 deposit online. Then $50 in cash upon arrival. My host and I split it and, depending on tips, if any, I might take home upward to $200 on average, every Saturday. It beat making minimum wage at the campus bookstore. Plus it was pleasurable, though sometimes boring, depending on the visitors, the size of their cocks, their love-making skills, and the wait time between them.
After a guy came, in me, he always seemed in a big hurry to dress and leave. Bisexual, I guessed. And married, perhaps with kids. But that was none of my concern.
Some guys never spoke a word while they fucked me; others liked to talk.
"You do this every weekend?"
"Pretty much."
"So you're a little slut, huh?"
No response.
"A whore?"
"I don't see myself that way."
"How do you see yourself?"
