He was being careful with her. Helene was bent over the foot of the king-sized bed in the bedroom alcove of her twelfth-floor Crescent City Suite at the New Orleans Marriott on Canal Street in the French Quarter, and the young male model, Gene Worth, was bent over her from behind. His hands were under her, cupping her pendulous breasts and working her nipples with their quarter-sized aureoles. Helene Havlos was proud of her large breasts and particularly liked it when Gene paid attention to them.
Her meaty thighs were parted, and Gene was inside her, pressing between her plump labia folds and slow pumping her. He wasn't far inside her, though, and was being quite careful with the heavy-set woman who was more than three times his age and who controlled his purse strings. He was able to stay hard while fucking her not only because he was young, at twenty-two, and highly sexed, but also by thinking of other lovers entirely while he was fucking her.
He wasn't working on bringing her to climax. He'd already done that. She'd been in the same position, bent over the bed, her arms raised over her head, her fingers rhythmically clawing at the bedspread as, crouched down behind her, in reverse, he'd had his head between her thighs. He'd worked her clit with his tongue and teeth and the folds of her labia and her cunt entrance with his tongue and the fingers of one hand while he stroked her flanks with the other hand. She had moaned deeply for him, shuddered, and then come for him--and then again and again, the climaxes rolling over her as he continued, relentlessly, to work her clit and cunt.
This subsequent act, the vaginal penetration, was for Helene too, but not to make her climax. She wanted to feel the power of making the young stud climax as well. The vaginal fuck was to assure herself that she could still make a man hard and come inside her.
Gene moved his right hand out from underneath her torso and brushed her artificially colored black, wavy hair up and away from the back of her neck. He dipped his lips to her neck and kissed her, his hips still swaying back and forth, fucking her at about half his length. She sighed and whispered his name. She also wiggled her buttocks slightly, signaling she was tiring and wanted him to release inside her. Helene took a man's ejaculation inside her as a self-perceived testament to her continued sensual appeal. Sensual appeal was important to Helene. Helene Havlos headed the House of Havlos, a major fashion and fragrance empire. Her world was built on sexual appeal.
Gene Worth was one of the house male models. He also was Helene's live-in boy toy.
He gave her the ejaculation she wanted, giving her another inch and groaning his release, all along imagining an entirely different partner exploding with him. He kissed her on the neck again, and she sighed. Then he patted her on her ample rump, rose off her, and padded off to his adjoining hotel room to shower and dress.
Helene turned her head and watched him walk away before she too went to her own shower. He was a beautiful young man--blond and trim of figure with enough muscling to escape being considered effeminate even though he moved like a dancer. It was his pale-blue eyes and the sunshine of his blond, nearly shoulder-length hair that arrested one's attention first, but it was the sunshine of his smile and his open, welcoming manner that gripped you. Helene, whose family was Greek, always thought of him as a young, lithe Alexander the Great and continually envisioned him wearing a gold-leaf breast plate, sandals, with straps snaking up his shapely calves--and not much else. She had closed a fashion show with him dressed like this once, and it had made that day's sales soar. She sighed at the sight of his plump, yet firm buttocks swaying slightly as he walked away from her.
Gene hadn't come into Helene's house and bed because of the allure of Helene, whether physical, financial, or a matter of ambition, although she would have said otherwise and had genuinely thought she was correct. He had done so because of her husband, now deceased, Victor Macek. Gene had been working for the House of Havlos before he met the couple and Helene had been vaguely--and favorably--aware of him before. But they had come together at a faculty-student cocktail party at Columbia University in New York City because Gene, as well as modeling and doing a bit of porn for his then-roommate, was studying creative writing at Columbia at night. Victor Macek, a political novelist and Serbian nationalist, who had been chased out of Eastern Europe and was teaching at Columbia, was, coincidentally, not only one of Gene's professors and Helene Havlos's husband, but also was gay and had seen Gene--under the stage name of Will Belayed--in a few of the porn films Gene had done.
Macek had already laid Gene regularly in a New York hotel outside of class before they chanced upon each other at the cocktail party. Helene had taken a shine to Gene and expressed as much to her husband of convenience and, in order to have Gene closer to home himself, unknown to Helene, Macek had proposed that Gene move in with them as an "assistant" to Macek in his writing. Gene, who wanted to write about Macek, the Serbian freedom fighter, had agreed.
Gene moved in, started his research of Macek's past, fucked Helene upon request, was, in turn, fucked by Macek, and benefited by having no housing and few food costs. It was all an adventure that Gene was contemplating using for an eventual novel of his own.
Months later, Macek had been shot dead by Helene's French-accented hairdresser, who was discovered actually to have been Ukrainian, and who immediately turned the gun on himself and was found slumped dead over the body of Macek. The newspapers had immediately latched on the hairdresser's political activist past as a motive for the Moscow-sponsored "assassination" of the Serbian nationalist novelist. Although being the only ones alive who knew that the hairdresser had shot Macek from sexual jealousy rather than romantic and intriguing political motives--he had found Macek in bed with Gene, a bed Macek usually occupied with the hairdresser--Helene and Gene had made a pact of misdirection: Gene had his first New York Times feature, a "the Serbian nationalist I knew" piece, under his belt; and the House of Havlos had added yet another intriguing legend to its history. Gene had found his taste of intrigue and adventure quite satisfying--and sexually arousing.
The two were now in New Orleans for an extravaganza of fashion house runway showings at the Marriott convention center in the French Quarter.
When Gene entered Helene's suite again, she was sitting at the vanity in her bathroom, laboriously applying the makeup to her face that took twenty years off her age, a chore she kept at even though her catty detractors said that taking two decades off the mid-seventies was hardly worth the effort. He came in behind her, leaned his chin on her shoulder to give her a dutiful sunshine smile in the mirror on the wall above the vanity desk, slipped his hands into her robe, and cupped her bare breasts. He knew working her breasts was the favorite attention he could give her. She looked at him in the mirror, gave a moan and a sigh, and smiled at him.
"You are so good to me," she murmured.
"You are better to me," he answered. They both were fully aware of what he did for her and why.
"Are you sure you can manage on your own today?" she asked. "I'm sure that even New Orleans is dead on a Sunday morning."
"I'll be fine," he answered. "Maybe I'll just walk around and take the atmosphere in. I'll stay out of trouble." He had no intention of doing much of the former and the latter was an intended lie. He had a taste for adventure and danger. Macek had brought that out in him. The hunky Serb had shown him higher levels of arousal than having dipped into the porn films had.
Gene's stint on the walkway at the fashion show had been the previous day. Only a small portion of the weekend had been allotted to men's fashion. They had talked briefly about him sitting with Helene during today's events, but they had both dismissed that possibilities during the runway events for reasons of their own. As much as Helene liked the thought of showing off her boy toy, she was even more sensitive to how his beauty diminished and aged whatever claim she still had to that. On Gene's part, contrary to the impression he'd given her, he had developed very explicit plans for today. Excepted from this was the gala dinner that evening in the hotel's ballroom.
"You're sure," she said, as she stood at the door, decked out in the height of fashion and looking pretty good for a hefty Eastern European woman of seventy-five.
"Yes, I'm sure," Gene answered with a sigh of resignation as if he faced a day of boredom without her.
"You'll remember to be back in plenty of time for the gala tonight?" she asked as she opened the door.
"Yes, I promise."
"You brought the tux from the house's spring collection?"
"Yes, of course." Above all else, Gene was there to serve and show off the House of Havlos fashions. There wasn't the least bit of misunderstanding about that.
* * * *
Gene didn't meander when he left the hotel. He walked, swiftly, across the French Quarter, northeast on Decatur, to the other side, to Baracks Street, running northwest from the Mississippi River, one street shy of Esplanade Avenue, the boundary between the Quarter and the warehouse area of the Faubourg Marginy district. He understood, just during this walk, what Helene had meant by Sunday morning not being the best time to be exploring the French Quarter. He could tell from the party debris on the streets, the drunks sprawled in the alleys, and the absence of life otherwise that New Orleans had barely gotten to bed and didn't intend to come out again on the day given over to the Lord. He certainly hoped the Lord was looking the other way today, but being the Lord and knowing New Orleans, he most likely was.
He wasn't here to sightsee, although Decatur did cross over the top of Jackson Square, the heart of the Quarter as well as the city, and he slowed down here. But then he hurried on, repeating in his mind the information he had of his destination--a door just inside an alley off Baracks Street with a neon sign saying "Phillippe's" over it, but you had to look carefully to find it. He'd been assured it would be open and serving even on a Sunday morning--if you didn't arrive much before noon--but as Gene walked the nearly deserted, confetti-infested streets, he lost a bit of confidence in what he'd been told.
He'd been told true, however. He did look carefully when he turned left from Decatur onto Baracks and there, sure enough, was a doorway just inside an alley entrance with a lit sign of "Phillippe's" over it. He entered the doorway, nodding to the doorkeeper sitting on a stool just inside the door, turned to the right in the darkened space, and followed the rising cloud of smoke and the sound of a saxophone and a husky voice singing in the style of Ella Fitzgerald down a set of stairs and then, turning left, into the club room.
The room wasn't large, and the crowd--some thirty men, sitting one or two to a small table--made it appear even smaller. The atmosphere was dark and smoky; the lights were directed at a platform in front of a small wood dance floor. The platform supported a black baby grand, with a hefty, sweating black piano player; an unoccupied drum set; a saxophonist perched on a wood stool; and a zaftig Hispanic singer in a puffy black wig, a sparkly red-sequined dress with a plunging neckline, and a husky voice that was satisfying and could almost convince you that the vocalist was female, although he wasn't. Two couples, all four of them men--indeed all of the patrons were men--were on the dance floor, partner in close clutches with partner, swaying against each other so intimately that, if they hadn't been clothed, they would have been having sex.
A young waiter--he and Gene probably being the youngest men in the room--guided Gene to a table just inside the edge of the area covered by the light of the spots and smiled at him. It wasn't lost on Gene that he was given a seat where all of the other patrons could see and ogle him. The waiter glided off before Gene could order a drink, but within two minutes he was back with two drinks, a beer in a glass mug, and scotch in a glass. Gene looked up quizzically at the waiter.
"The beer is compliments of the man over there," he said, pointing to a middle-aged white man in an expensively cut suit that almost hid his fifteen pounds too much. "And the other drink is from the divine man over there. Lucky you, doll, you got your pick between money and a wild ride." The waiter wafted off and Gene turned his head to see who had sent him the glass of scotch.
It wasn't really a contest unless Gene had come here for a good meal at a steak house rather than to get laid. But he came here to get laid. He smiled, stood, picked up the scotch glass, and moved to the table of the hunk.
And a hunk he was. He looked vaguely familiar, but Gene couldn't place him. He could have been a male model, though, as Gene was. If so, he was one well into his career, though. He appeared to be at least thirty. He was dark-skinned, but his features had a European cut to them. Wavy black hair, flashing dark eyes, a self-confident smile. What kept his face from perfect was that his nose was slightly broken, which gave him a hint of thugishness, danger, and mystery. His body--or the torso Gene could see--was perfect, though. He was muscular, straining the silkiness of his sport shirt, open three buttons down, revealing that his torso, as was one arm, was heavily tattooed in colorful swirls of some unrecognizable pattern. A gold medallion on a gold chain nestled between his beefy pecs. Gene's first impression was "gorgeous South American drug lord," but that didn't deter Gene. He was slumming, his need for a man having built up for the last two weeks.
"Would you have preferred bourbon?" the man asked when Gene reached the side of the table. "Sit, please. Do you want something else?" The accent was American English, but there was a hint of something else there--something foreign, something that went with the South American impression.
"No, thanks. This is perfect."
