Part 4: In which every good thing must end with a come ...
My experience with Bruno dented and skewed my self-confidence. He'd used me. I'd let him use me. I'd willing allowed myself to be used. Then he betrayed me. But before Georgio threw me out, I'd laid my plans. I investigated his contact book. I know all about his gay friends. Now I follow up on the leads it indicates. Whittle the names down to a short-list of five possible contacts. Research them through internet profiles and the financial pages. From now on, I tell myself, when it comes to potential patrons – first I look at the wallet. From my list I select and focus in on just one name, a guy called Sergé. He's in future's consultancy, whatever that is, and he lives very well from it. So, once targeted, I draw up my schemes against him.
Stalk him. Observe him. Watch him coming and going. Reconnoitring my terrain. No sentiment this time. I've wised up. I've toughened. This is an astute commercial calculation, a career-choice. This is the switcheroonie – I've become the predator, me! Does he already have a boy? A partner or live-in 'friend'? No. He lives alone, in considerable luxury. I bide my time, then make my move. At the reception desk of his office I leave a 'For Your Eyes Only' manila-envelope containing a sheaf of the A4 photos taken at Luis' instigation. Moody black-and-white full-frontal nudes. And my mobile number. How can he resist? I'm a little disturbed to notice he has a smart attractive young male personal assistant. Is he giving him a good seeing to? No. I see him meeting a girl in a bar. She's all over him like a cheap tart.
Then, hesitantly, Sergé takes the bait. He calls me, unsure about my motives. He agrees to meet, no, not in the café near his office. He's known there. In the hotel-bar a block away. He's being discrete. That's good. He's not especially physically attractive, a dapper man of fifty wearing gold-rim spectacles, thinning strands of hair slicked cross-wise over the dome of his skull. He wears a tweed suit with matching grey-green tie and a small sapphire ring. But although he's small in stature too, I feel at ease with him. I start by smiling shyly, acting bashful.
I'm polite and respectful as I spin him my tales. 'Yes, I was with Georgio. But no (with a small sob of regret), we're no longer together. At the moment I have no gentleman to satisfy my healthy and natural needs and appetites. To guide and discipline my unruly desires.' Meeting his gaze with deep soulful eyes. 'Men have taken advantage of my gullible and trusting nature.' I start flirting with him, finding myself extremely turned on by the thought of acting like such a slut. This is my revenge on all the users and betrayers.
We click, he's had the forethought to book ahead and reserve a room in the hotel. That's good. But once there, as I prepare to get naked, to make sure he gets a sweet taste of what's on offer, I've no intention of making myself cheap. Act coy, as though to imply, I don't do this with just any guy (although, check my record, I pretty-much do!). I wear a T-shirt, it's hauled up and off. And tight distressed jeans, that slip down and off. There are a couple of memory-techniques I can use to produce an erection when required. The memory of my first double-date with the Belgian Hans, his friend, and fellow 'escort' Jean. That always turns me on. And the sordid incident with the truckers, as they take me from both ends as the guy walking his dog stops to watch the gay sex-action. In my line of 'work', it's a useful technique. So now, when I do a slow reveal for Sergé, taking my cupped hands away from my groin so he gets to feast his eyes on my hard-on, he gets the full benefit.
When he moans 'oh, dear boy,' with such emotion, I know he's mine.
Guys are so self-centred and egotistical they automatically assume your arousal is a direct result of your eager anticipation of sex with them. He spends a long time just feeling me up, squeezing and caressing, first with me standing, then jacking me off in long strokes as I lie on my back on the bed. He holds my cock as I ejaculate, bucking my hips to emphasise my pleasure.
'Gay spunk is one of the great wonders of the world', he breathes softly as he fastidiously wipes it clean with a monogrammed handkerchief, 'it's not intended for procreation. It exists purely for pleasure.' He ensures he detects and wipes up every trace of spilled semen, the intimate brush of the silky material on my already sensitised nerve-ends setting off exquisite ripples of sensations, before carefully folding the handkerchief and placing it on the coffee-table. It later occurs to me that he's doing it for analysis, checking me out for communicable infections. Although, at the time I'm more concerned I was going to be denied the opportunity to demonstrate my sexual expertise. He's remained clothed throughout, which is not exactly unprecedented, there are guys who get off on just tossing-off a comely boy. But this might be my one chance to be with him, to show what I can do.
Should I initiate...? Should I say 'you've given me pleasure, may I reciprocate?' But it's not necessary. Disappointingly when he undresses, his slight corpulence overhangs not hugely impressive genitals, yet we have spontaneous and satisfying sex. I make sure I'm good for him, working hard with all the skill and experience I've gained, to please. Sucking him deep, as though it's the one thing in the world I desire more than anything else. Smiling up at him adoringly with his sperm smearing my lips and chin, as though grateful and breathless with passion. Let me kiss it again, please. One more lingering suck. Now, if you please, my bottom requires attention, urging him to take me anally, bending to receive him, groaning a welcome as it slides all the way in. Making sure he can't help but notice my own fierce erection bobbing appreciatively. Saying 'Merci Monsieur' once he's done, as Luis had taught me. I can be convincing when I set my mind to it. I come again in long white strands up my gut as he humps me. He watches as I shower.
Two days later, as I'd anticipated (when the Lab-analysis of the handkerchief comes back), he phones me, asks me the question, and I move in with him. It's a warm perfect day as my new 'owner' drives me to his villa, somewhere beyond Arles in the Camargue. I'm overjoyed. I'm leaving my problems and bitter memories behind. This is the start of a new phase for me. Sergé has left his pa in charge of the business – Mr Bradley-Martin, and for the first month I spend in that luxurious villa I never wear a single item of clothing.
The climate is such that clothing is hardly necessary, and anyway, Sergé prefers me to be as naked as nature intended. That way he can watch as I sunbathe on the mosaic patio-area beside the ornate terra cotta arbours, or as I swim in the infinity-pool. All of which is much to the interest of the aged groundkeeper who leans on his hoe and also watches me keenly with bright beady eyes, my state of undress either reminding him of promiscuous adventures from his own distant youth, or else envying the freedoms I enjoy today. Let him look, let the sad wrinkled old perv dream.
And of course, my nudity means that when Sergé requires sex there's no encumbrance. It amuses him to casually reach out and masturbate me as and when the mood takes him, as I lie on my back on a lounger beside the pool. I give him a good show, writhing and bucking in response to his clumsy attentions, but never failing to rise to the occasion, lifting my hips so as to project further and always delivering a white-fountaining arc of ejaculation to make him chuckle. He traces the rounded curve of my bare bottom possessively with the palms of his hand, tracing the course of the valley between the soft cheeks with his trailing fingers.
'Your ass is mine' he's soft-voiced even as he leers 'bought and paid for, I say suck, you suck until told to stop, and not a moment earlier, I say bend over and part your legs, you do it, whenever, and for whoever I say, right?'
I smile my acceptance of his terms. After all, we both know that's what I'm here for. I'm always respectful, do his bidding as obediently as a good slut-boy should be, and call him 'sir'. I enjoy his luxury, and make a show of enjoying his sexual attentions. Even when he has me stand bent over to spank my bare bottom until it reddens, it's not really stressful. I guess I must look pretty cute and sexy-as-hell like that, on the pool-side with the round curves of my bum raised. He likes to watch my genitals bob with each smack. Of course, I'm already hard, the slightest attention has that effect on me, so it's no problem. And when he's finished those preliminaries and decides to ass-fuck me I'm more than ready, he goes up my ass as is his right, and my delight, but it's like having a stubby pencil inserted, or maybe a slender finger stuck into me.
I make all the required moans and 'yes-yes-yes, give it to me, oh, you're the best, you're the best' gasps of pleasure as he thrusts and sweats, but it falls way short of the experience I need. I think back wistfully to Bruno, and wish it was him giving me a full length. My time in the villa should have been a kind-of rest-cure, a rehab, a chill-out period with probable therapeutic benefits. We dine well. Sometimes – if infrequently, at an out-of-town bistro. More usually there's a lady who comes from the nearby village to cook, with a couple of female domestics. I avoid them. I learned by Madame Bovery's disapproval at Georgios'. They don't like Gay Boy-Toys. Maybe they see us a threat to female sexual power? While, how to describe my shifting moods? I'm incapable of analysing them. But to be honest, after the eventful sex-life I'd been used to, life here is a bit – whisper who dares, boring?
I swiftly realise what his major turn-on is, he's given to voyeurism. He likes to watch me with other guys. And that's fine too. At the end of the first week Bradley-Martin arrives in a red open-top sports-car. Idly, I watch him park. He's smartly dressed, in reflector-shades and suit, despite the heat of the day, his blonde hair close-cropped. He's here to update Sergé on the latest business developments, and they go indoors to spend hours together poring over detailed files and documents. None of which is any interest to me. I sunbathe beside the pool, naked, little knowing that it was to be a day of testing and discovery.
Eventually they emerge through the slide doors. Sergé is dressed in shorts and loose floral shirt. He sits on a lounger a little way opposite me. Bradley-Martin wears a kimono bathrobe with, as he unfastens the sash and opens it down the front, nothing underneath. He crosses to stand over me, his hands arrogantly on his hips.
