Tgif in Lexington

I stood on the observation balcony and watched the people deplaning off the commuter jet at the Roanoke, Virginia, airport. It would take the baggage long enough to make it on the carousel in the arrivals hall that I could play my little game here and have time to get down there before this Metgev guy would be looking for me. That was the name I'd been given and that I'd have neatly printed in large, bold letters on the placard I held in my hand. Paul Metgev. That wasn't really his name, but then that was part of the game.

He'd come from London to Dulles, up near Washington, D.C., and then had to get on a commuter flight to get down to Roanoke. So he'd be bedraggled. There weren't that many on the flight, and a few of them were women—dressed in business suits, so undoubtedly on business of some sort. Of the men, only a few were likely. There were college students—a couple of tennis players. I don't know if they were from Virginia Tech or either of the two colleges in Lexington, fifty miles to the northwest, the Virginia Military Institute or Washington and Lee. They looked too casually dressed to be from VMI. That's where I was taking this guy—to Lexington. So, he had another fifty miles of road trip, with a couple of viewings scheduled on the way. He'd be too tired to be a handful.

A couple of the other men looked possible. There was a tall, beefy guy, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, who looked interesting and somehow familiar. But he wasn't dressed for the part. The dude who had these kind of services from the real estate firm and who was looking at the type of property I was showing him today and tomorrow morning had money. The beefcake guy was wearing torn jeans, fitting his muscular legs tightly, and a loose, plaid wool shirt over a white, long-sleeved Henley. The coverage indicated he'd come from a colder climate than southern Virginia, and that tempted me to keep him in the mix for the game, but he just didn't fit. No. As usual, I was looking for someone middle aged, overweight, and expensive looking—but probably a bit hung over, out of sorts, and rumpled because of the tandem flights from London and the time change.

I picked out two, did an eeny, meeny, miny, moe between them, and decided what my reward or punishment would be on which it was. If I'd picked a loser—and as prospects, both were closer to loser than god—my punishment would be to show him a very good time. If I won, more of my fee for this job would go toward that Fiat Spyder 124 convertible I wanted than I'd settled on in my mind. And I'd be getting a pretty penny for this job.

The passengers had entered the building under the observation deck where I was standing, so I made haste to the baggage claim area. I stood on the periphery holding my sign, along with others holding signs. The passengers were more interested in retrieving their luggage from the carousel, which seemed still to be trundling baggage around the metal oval from a previous flight, than they were in meeting up with anyone. The two men I had in the bet weren't looking over where the sign holders were standing. But someone else was as he came out of the men's room and strode past the carousel, carrying a heavy leather suit bag over his shoulder with little apparent effort. I hadn't given him much of my attention when they were deplaning on the tarmac, but, yes, he was carrying a suit bag then. He must not have checked any bags.

As he walked, he was scanning the crowd, and when he saw the sign I was carrying, he nodded in recognition. I recognized him now, and a few things clicked—and my body reacted . . . in a good way. The Paul Metgev I was looking for was really Sergey Baseyev, a gold-plated striker forward for England's Liverpool Football Club. I was somewhat of a European football nut, but Baseyev was hard not to recognize, considering the number of sponsors he had who used him in their television commercials. A good reason for that, beyond his sports star status, was that he was knock-down gorgeous and was in great shape. He also was the scruffily dressed guy I'd discounted on the tarmac.

And, boy, was he big. He was at least a head taller than I was and wide-shouldered, barrel-chested, and thin waisted. But then he was a fast-moving, heavy-hitting soccer player. Of course he was in shape. And of course he could afford the services he was going to get today, Friday, and into tomorrow morning.

"Townsend Properties?" he asked, as he approached, pointing to the sign I held, not too steadily now.

"Yes. Mr. Metgev?" I asked.

"Are you the man sent to serve me?" he asked. His accent was heavily Slavic and his word choice not entirely spot on, although both were quite understandable. Under the circumstances, though, I was aroused at the word choice. Yes, I most definitely was here to serve him, in whatever way he wanted. He was a robust, handsome fellow in a god's body.

"Yes, my name is Cody," I answered, although we both knew my name wasn't really Cody any more than his name was Paul Metgev. "I have a car not far out those doors over there. And I have two properties to show you before we get to Lexington—although we can stop somewhere near here for a meal, if you are hungry."

"They fed me recently and well on the plane," he answered. "I am very much liking to see the horse farms you have listed."

He gave me a smile. It was a bit warmer smile than he'd given me as he was walking past the baggage carousel toward me. It wasn't quite as big a smile, though, as he gave the jet-black, late-model Chevy Corvette convertible I took him to. I gave a little shudder when we exited the terminal, because he'd placed a beefy hand on the small of my back. I was close to hyperventilating when we entered the shadows of the parking garage, because the hand dropped to my buttocks. As easily as that he was taking possession, marking his territory. We both knew he was going to fuck me as often as he wanted and anyway he wanted for the next two days.

"I will drive. You will show me where to go, but I will drive." There was no hint of a request or question in the way he said it. He would as easily and smoothly take control of driving me as he was the Corvette.

I hesitated just a moment. I'd rented the car under instruction, but I hadn't been told that the client would be driving it. Did he have an international driving license? It didn't seem to be a good idea to ask him.

"I always drive, and I drive hard," he said, squeezing my butt cheek and giving me a pointed look. Yes, indeedy, he was going to drive me hard too.

He was laying rubber before we'd left the cover of the garage—but there was no doubting that the man could drive.

* * * *

"What is it about this town?"

"Concerning what?" I asked. We were sitting at an outdoor café on Lexington's Main Street, in a rose-covered trellised alcove. Despite what he'd said when he came off the plane, the man we were calling Paul must have been hungry, because he'd ordered nearly everything on the menu and devoured it all. On our way up the bottom of the Shenandoah Valley from Roanoke, with the Blue Ridge Mountains on our right and the Allegheny range on our left, we stopped to look at two properties. They were small horse farms, with stately mansions set in rolling hills horse country and with miles and miles of white-painted fences. Neither spread was large—less than fifty acres each—but both were mucho expensive. Just this lightning, end-of-the-workweek property inspection trip was very expensive for the client. Just my "anything goes" contract was setting him back ten grand.

"The names," he said. "All over the place. Jackson this, Jackson that. And Stonewall. What in the hell does Stonewall mean?"

I laughed. "That would be Stonewall Jackson. The Stonewall was a nickname, given him because of his stiff resistance. He was a southern general in our Civil War, a hundred and fifty years ago. He lived here. He was a professor at VMI—the Virginia Military Institute—over on that hill over there before going into the war. He died in the war. You've heard that we had a civil war here?"

"I know all about civil wars," Paul said. It was more like he almost spit it out, his face, otherwise sunny and expressive, clouding up. I thought he was going to say something else—that he both wanted to and didn't want to talk about it.

"Although your English is excellent, you don't seem to be from England." I shouldn't have gone there. It was strictly against our rules to pry into the client's background, but he seemed to be disturbed.

"Chechnya. I am originally from Chechnya. And I certainly know about civil wars." I thought he was going to continue, but he changed gears abruptly. "You have said before that this military college, VMI, is here in Lexington. Is that where you are a student? I was told that I'd be escorted by a college student."

"No," I laughed. "I go to Washington and Lee, another old college, which also is in town. The two campuses run into each other. I'm a freshman. I'll be nineteen in a couple of weeks." There, that was over with. He hadn't asked before, and they usually do ask, with me. Sometimes they are skittish enough to require my flashing the fake driver's license the office provides me—and those kinds of men were always delighted to know I was on the edge, legal but looking younger. Age almost always got laid out there on the table at some point. "The students at VMI are like soldiers. We're a lot more casual at W and L. And a lot more adventuresome." I gave him a shy smile and placed my hand on the back of his.

I wasn't really a student at Washington and Lee, or any other college. And I was older than almost nineteen. I just looked younger. I was only in Lexington for a couple of weeks myself, trying to unload some expensive properties down here for a special-services New York agency.

"Was there another property we were to see this afternoon?" he asked, abruptly standing up and standing close to me. I looked around to ensure that no one was looking and then I rubbed my cheek against his crotch, the bulge there leaving no question that he was hard. He'd come so close to me when he didn't have to that I knew that was what he wanted me to do. I knew where this was heading. It was an "everything goes" contract.

He briefly held my head to his crotch by palming my cheek, and he turned my face to where I was mouthing the line of his cock in his trousers. When he did that I dutifully and carefully closed my teeth over the thick cylinder inside the material. There was no doubt—I couldn't show any doubt—about what he could have from me and when and where. But then he pulled me up from my chair and kissed me. We were in the shadows in a nook, so there was little risk of being seen. I opened my mouth to his kiss, letting his tongue in, and palmed his crotch.

What he could have was established. That was fine with me. He was gorgeous and built, and whether or not we'd established it, an international sports star. He also obviously was rich. On top of that he was personable. We'd had a very pleasant time driving up to Lexington and viewing the two properties. The interest he showed in the properties indicated he was a serious buyer. I'd asked him why he was looking here for a horse farm and he'd answered that he'd always wanted to have horses, he'd been in this area before, and he was looking at someplace as far away from what he'd previously known as possible. Now that I knew that he had somehow been involved in the Chechen war with Russia, I understood where he was coming from. The verdant rolling hills of the Lexington region certainly would be as far away from Chechnya as one could get.

He'd been friendly, but, until the moment in the café, in no way aggressive or suggestive since that walk into the airport parking garage, during the drive or the viewing of the properties. Now he was signaling interest in getting all that he was paying for. I was more than ready to accommodate him.

I rose and said, "Yes. It's a great property we'll see this afternoon. I think you'll love the master bedroom."

He laughed, a low, guttural laugh, and put his hand on my butt as we left the café. As we got closer to the car, he brought the hand up to my waistband, descended this time inside my trousers and briefs, running a finger into my crack, and lodging the tip of it at the rim of my hole.

Oh, yes, he was going to have me. And soon, I was sure. The man was in heat, which was putting me in heat too. I looked around the parking lot to see whether we could be observed if he lapped me in the Corvette and fucked me. But he didn't do it. He was building up to it, though. I was afraid that when he exploded I was going to be overwhelmed. But he was a god; anything he wanted he could have.

* * * *

The cock was thick and long and I gagged on it as I knelt between Paul's spread knees and he guided my head between his long, thick-fingered hands laced in my black curls, forcing me to deep throat him. He was sitting in a chair in the window-surrounded bay of the master bedroom in the house I was showing him that afternoon. We were both naked, our clothes scattered about the center of the room, where we had come together, explosively, as we entered, pulled clothing from each other's body, and I had sunk to the floor to take his cock in my mouth. His body was all that I had imagined—muscular and hirsute, his cock full and long, his scent musky, manly from the hours of flying across the ocean. He leaned over me and ran his hands down my back and flanks and inward, grasping my butt cheeks and squeezing. The index finger of each hand searched for, found, and breached my rim. I moaned and then groaned, as he spread my hole and jittered the tips of his invading fingers. I felt my passage relaxing, loosening, giving in to whatever he wanted from me.

He lifted me and sat me in his lap, my thighs astride his spread thighs, thick and muscular, as a professional footballer's legs would be. I leaned in for a kiss and he frotted our cocks together, eventually docking them, holding the glans together, my cock cut, his uncut, and pushed the foreskin of his cock over my glans. As we kissed, he stroked our cocks together. He knew and employed sexual fetishes most of my clients didn't know about. I wondered just how sophisticated and kinky his tastes got.

I had warned him, in whispers, that I came quickly for those I'd been lusting for, but that there would be more, with a slow buildup. It was a technique I used to convince clients I found them irresistible. I didn't have to pretend that with this man.

He'd laughed and said, "I will ride you a long time before I come." He said he'd come eventually but then would quickly have a second hardening and fuck, as well—and, indeed, he later exhibited far more stamina than one would expect from a man who had flown nonstop from England that day. "And, I have to apologize in advance, but I lose control; I need to be rough at the height. I will hurt—"

"Shush," I'd interjected, laying a finger on his mouth. "Take it as you need to. Take what you want." He'd paid for the "everything goes" contract.

I groaned, pulled away from the kiss, warned that his docking of our cocks was pulling the cum out of me, gave a little lurch, and shot my first load, lathering up our joined bulbs within the sheath of his foreskin.

Laughing, he lifted me up, positioned his cock head at my hole, and pulled me down on his cock as I groaned at the thickness of his penetration despite having been prepared. When he was several inches in, he immediately started pulling me up and down, with long, deep strokes, on his shaft, taking me a bit deeper with each thrust. It was raw sex here, barebacking, nothing guarding skin from skin. It was in the contract, both of us tested yesterday, the data shared. Anything he wanted.

I cried out when I felt his cock tense and jerk and his cum blast me deep inside, and I went to pull up from him. But he laughed and held me tight, his cock tensing and jerking and releasing cum again—and then again. God the man was virile. I was bathed in his cum now.

When he had ejaculated, we held there. I leaned down for a kiss, but then leaned back, grasping his knees while his mouth went to my nipples, one after the other, and he sucked them and teased them with his teeth. When he leaned back again, I ran my hands over his torso.

I looked at him quizzically, my right hand having run over rough scars on his shoulder and on his side. "Bullet wounds?" I asked, quietly. "Chechnya?"

"I went back to Grozny too late," he answered in a low voice. "Ours was a branch family of one of the rebel leaders and thus was viciously targeted. I stayed on—to avenge in anger. At some point the bloodshed got to be too much. I became no better than—"

"Shush," I whispered, closing off what I sensed would be a flood of words that he would want to take back. But it had gone too far already. I could feel the tension in him and the trembling of his body. He was hard again. He rose abruptly from the chair, taking me with him, and holding me in front of him, started into a standing fuck. He grasped my waist between his hands, as I wound my arms and legs around his body, and lifted and slammed me down on his cock, again and again.

"Fight me for it. I need you to fight me for it," he growled, as he pulled out of me and dumped me on my back on the foot of the bed. He left me for a few seconds, but then he was hovering over me again, eyes wild with lust and anger, his belt in his hand. I barely had time to turn over, my back to him before the belt slashed down, once, twice, three times, on my back. The surprise and snapping sound of it was more ominous than the pain of the blows landing.

He flipped me over, grabbed my wrists, and deftly bound them over my head with the belt, before his weight was on me, between my spread thighs, and his dick had thrust back inside me. He had me by the throat with his hands, and I thrashed about, ineffectually fighting him, until his cock was in deep and he had begun a rhythmic stroke. He felt longer and thicker than before. He was choking me enough to control my breathing, but not enough for me to believe he was completely out of control. I was frightened, of course, of this introduction of rougher fetishes, but I understood that he was reliving something, working his anger and lust out. I also was lost to him. I wanted the fucking he was giving me. None of the usual vanilla sex I experienced with middle-aged clients. This one was going to work me over well. I was going to feel and remember this fuck.

The thrusts came stronger and faster. We were bouncing up and down on the bed. He was climbing to the top, but so was I. I relaxed and opened, completely, to him, letting him fill and work the soft core of me. I came again, up his belly, but then so did he, deep inside me.

He collapsed on me and a hand went up and released my wrists. My hands immediately went to his shoulder blades and stroked him there. It had been a glorious fuck.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I just have to . . ."

"I understand. Anything. Take anything. Take anything you want," I answered in a low, purring voice. Not wanting to go any further into what was behind all of this, though, I rolled out from underneath him, sat up on the bed and said, "We can shower now and then I have one more property to show you today."

"But the mess we're leaving," he said. "This is someone's home—their bedspread, their bath towels."

"All will be cleaned up after we leave. Townsend anticipates everything." And indeed I had foreseen that this would be where we'd have our first sexual encounter. I just hadn't anticipated just how totally dominating and satisfying an encounter it would be.

* * * *

"Did you find anything today that you liked?"

"Yes, most certainly," the man not named Paul answered with a broad smile. He reached across the table and took my hand. I looked around, but no one was watching us, so I didn't take the hand away. We were on the terrace of our digs for Friday night, the House Mountain Inn, in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains west of Lexington. I had picked the wood and glass B&B, with nine rooms, on the slopes of the mountains not only for its privacy and reputation but also because it had horses. When I booked, I'd figured that a client interested in buying a horse farm might be interested in riding one in the downtime during his visit. This man's interest in riding had gone to another direction. That was OK with me too. We were at the only table on the terrace overlooking Lexington in the distance. They didn't serve dinner here, but I'd arranged to have one catered for us.