Eric's anus still felt a little raw. Not a bad feeling, not painful, just a bit raw, used. He also felt like the ghost of a penis was still inside him. And no wonder. How many men had he entertained last night? How many had fucked him?
Eric had never been with more than one man at a time before. Last night had been a breakthrough, however. At the time he'd enjoyed it less than he was now, enjoying the memory, as he turned under the hot--very hot--shower water, his slender, hairless body, once soaped up, now clean of it. Clean of everything. He'd voided the residual, commingled sperm just minutes ago, and now he felt pure again. Positively wholesome.
After drying off Eric pulled on a pair of fresh panties--a bikini cut, microfiber, patterned with a colorful abstract swirl. Similar to the pair he'd worn last night. Since being fucked made him feel oh-so feminine--effeminate--Eric also painted his lovely Cupid's mouth the same shade of crimson he'd worn to the party--before sucking several cocks had rubbed it mostly off.
Eric then ventured out of his bedroom, down the hallway, to the kitchen. Where his roommate Cristoff looked over at him, smiled and put his hands together. "It's about time! It's nearly noon!"
Eric would've blushed but he was out of them. He'd blushed a thousand times last night as he made the rounds, this or that serving tray in front of him, the compliments and groping hands following. "So cute!" "What a pretty boy!" "Why're you wasting your time with Cristoff?"
Cristoff rarely served his young charge--the relationship was the other way around--but today he grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, adding in a dash of cream, no sugar. He held it out to Eric. Prior to coming to live with Cristoff Eric had never drunk coffee. It was something his mother did. Now, however, he consumed two, sometimes three mugs, every morning.
As Eric sipped, Cristoff reached around and squeezed Eric's pantied ass. "How do you feel?"
"Fine."
"Fine?"
Eric nodded. What else was there to say? Eric's blonde locks, which Cristoff now stroked, were still damp from the shower. Cristoff said--informed him--abruptly:
"We cleared eight hundred dollars last night."
Eric frowned above mug's lip. "What?"
"I'm telling you. We cleared eight hundred dollars. That's without subtracting the party expenses," Cristoff went on to add.
"How?"
"You. The money my guests paid me to be with you. A hundred each."
Eric was confused--flabbergasted. He'd seen some cash exchanging hands last night, in this same kitchen...but in order to be with Eric? Alone with him in his bedroom? A blowjob and then sex--fucking?
"You charged them?"
Cristoff grinned. "What do you think the party was all about? I told you I threw lots of parties. You were the...party favor."
As Eric stood there blinking, the enormity of what happened last night beginning to sink in, Cristoff added: "I put my party expenses at about three hundred. That leaves five. I'll split it with you: three hundred for me, two hundred for you."
That's not an even split, Eric said to himself.
"It's my house, my party, my guests...I deserve a little more."
And it's my ass, thought Eric. My mouth and my ass.
"Did any of them tip you?"
"Tip me?"
"Give you cash afterwards?"
"No. Nobody."
Cristoff turned with a flourish. "We'll have to put a tip jar by your bed next time. And I'll have to make it known to our guests: tips appreciated. You get to keep the tips," informed him, looking back.
What tips? Eric wondered. All he got as reward were a few slaps on the ass. In fact, he could still feel them. Eric said:
"I didn't know they were paying you. I just thought..."
Cristoff read his mind: "They did. They all wanted to be with you. But there's a cost for a forty or fifty-something year-old man sleeping with a nineteen-year-old. They should be willing to--they do--want to pay. It's a privilege for them," Cristoff declared.
Eric set his mug down and himself turned this time, head down. "Now I feel like a whore..."
"Not a whore, just an entrepreneur. Or would you rather be back working at the campus bookstore, making eight-fifty an hour?"
Eric did the math. Eight men, a half-hour each on average. Four hours total, two hundred dollars...
Cristoff filled in the blank: "You made about fifty dollars an hour. The going rate around town these days, I think. But the word will get around and pretty soon we'll up it to one-twentyfive. Inflation," Cristoff joked.
Eric said, in a voice of mild protest: "I did all the work, you get the majority of the money."
"Expenses," Cristoff shot back, "as I said. Plus without me, my contacts, there is no party. There are no horny old men with cash to burn." Cristoff held out a hand: "If you don't want the money..."
Not that Eric had received any yet anyway. Eric bowed his head again.
"We'll do it better in a couple of weeks. I'll make it clear in my email invites that tips are not just accepted but expected. And I'll raise the rate--you're worth it--to one-twentyfive. So let's say there are eight of them again. Eight out of ten like last night. That's...a thousand dollars gross profit. Do you know what gross profit is? Plus let's say each guest tips you twenty dollars. After expenses," Cristoff announced brightly, "you'll make out better than I will! Feel better now?"
Eric was still having his doubts. Cristoff was prostituting him out to other men. Wealthy strangers with money to spare. Eric was then taking them, each of them, in his mouth and up his hole, their bare cocks, and they were ejaculating their load of semen in him. Condoms had never been discussed--not once. Not by one of them. They just lubed up and put it in and went to work. A few had joked about "sloppy seconds." Although it was more like thirds and fourths and fifths...
Eric said: "When you invited me to come live with you...you told me about the parties...But you didn't tell me I'd be, like, the resident...whore."
"That's why I kept the part about the money exchanging hands to myself yesterday. I wanted to break it to you gradually."
Then Cristoff brushed past his pantied companion, opened a cabinet door and took down a metal lock box, a skeleton key in the front slot. Cristoff opened the box. It was full of money--cash. Bristling with it. Cristoff counted out two hundred dollars, folded the wad in half, and tucked it inside panty's thin waistband. Eric couldn't help himself. He was getting an erection. The touch of the money--a lot of money by his previously impecunious standards, rubbing against his bare skin.
