Scott thought it was the whining that was getting to him—it certainly wasn't Chip's body. He leaned over that and ran his fingers along the rise of the little blond's butt cheek. Chip raised his buttocks in response, fully expecting Scott's fingers to move into the crevice.
Regardless of what Chip was preparing for, his attention was elsewhere. He was rattling on in that whiny little voice of us about the tension of the impending opening of the Broadway musical that he had a dancing role in.
How he was managing to segue that to his need for a car, Scott couldn't fathom. He almost found it amusing the many different ways Chip had been able to introduce the topic of cars since Scott hadn't bought him that red Camaro convertible he'd said he wanted for Christmas. He'd already gotten there now.
"The opening night party is at the producer's house out in the Hamptons, and I have no idea how I'm . . . uh, ohhh."
The fingers of one of Scott's hands had navigated the distance between the rise in Chip's firm buttocks to the hole in crevice between the tight orbs, and he was rubbing the opening, making it bud for him. His other hand had gone underneath Chip's raised pelvis and grasped the pert little cock it had found there. Chip jerked and moaned as Scott began to milk his cock and slipped a finger into his hole, but that didn't stop his litany of want.
"If this musical doesn't have legs, Tony told me of a dinner theater over in Jersey needing dancers. But I'd need a way of getting . . . emmufff."
Scott had taken his hand away from Chip's ass long enough to take hold of the mop of hair at the back of the blond dancer's head and maneuver his face to Scott's groin, where he forced the head of his cock between Chip's lips. This was the one sure way Scott had found to shut Chip's whining up.
In one sense Scott realized that his time with Chip had just about run its course. The sex was still good—Chip still made those little gurgling noises and cried out of being stuffed that Scott liked to hear when he fucked the dancer, and Chip had the flexibility to handle the athletic fuck positions Scott enjoyed—but Chip was about to get on Scott's last nerve with his incessant whiny for new toys.
Not that Scott couldn't afford them. His antique furniture reproduction business was going great guns, there was no end to the demand for what his carpenters turned out in New York City, and he was making money hand over fist. But what the hell was a Broadway dancer going to do with a sports car in the city anyway?
Scott wasn't blind. He could figure out what Chip and that stagehand, Tony, were doing behind his back. He knew it was Tony who wanted the car.
And, dammit, Scott had gotten the car. He would have had it to give to Chip at Christmas, but red Camaro convertibles were pretty scare and Chip would just continue to whine if he didn't get exactly what he ordered. So, it had taken longer than Scott figured it would to get the car.
Scott also was realistic enough that he hadn't had a name put on the title. He'd let Chip do that, and if Chip wanted to put Tony's name on the title, that would be OK with Scott. He'd try anything if he could get Chip back to just being the pleasant little, nonwhining, compliant fuck toy he'd been when Scott first found him.
Cruising bars for tail he liked—blond and boyish and flexible enough to take those enticing positions Scott had learned on a visit to India—was not something that Scott was prepared to do. He'd been lucky to have opened a bedroom door at a party and to see Chip with his shoulders and knees to the carpet and his butt in the air and an Indian writer reverse fucking down into him. Scott hadn't seen anyone able to do that since he'd left South Asia, and later the Indian writer agreed with him that Chip was the most flexible fuck he'd been able to find in New York himself.
And the writer had magnanimously put Scott in contact with Chip. Scott only later found out that the writer had grown tired of Chip's whining and badgering him for expensive gifts.
But Scott had gotten Chip the red Camaro, just too late for Christmas. His backup plan to give it to him for Valentine's Day almost backfired too. He only got the car parked in a garage off Madison Avenue, with the documents in the glove compartment, and a big white bow on top earlier today. Now he'd have to think of a clever way of giving the keys and directions to the garage parking place to Chip. He have to go out and maybe get flowers or a box of candy or something and have them delivered to the stage door tonight. But first . . .
"On the carpet, on your belly" he growled. Scott was no refined Manhattan Mogul. He'd come up through the construction and furniture-making business by way of the docks. He was a rough man underneath. When his sap was on the rise, he could take on the look and aspect of a gangster, and the positions he liked to put his fuck partners in were ones of control and dominance. He was not a man to deny or mess with when he was in high rut.
Chip dutifully rolled off the bed and onto the bedroom carpet, stretched out on his belly.
Scott came down on top of him, his head facing away from Chip's. As Chip gurgled and groaned how big and filling Scott was, he forced his cock down inside Chip's channel in the reverse of most positions, his knees under Chip's armpits.
"Lock your ankles behind my neck, and your fists at my belly," he directed.
Chip did so, raising his legs with his extraordinary flexibility, arching his back so that Scott's torso was cradled inside Chip's bowed body. Then, with the leverage of his knees, Scott rocked them to a mutual ejaculation, digging deep inside Chip's gut, listening to Chip's declarations of being on the edge of not being able to handle it, while knowing that Chip would handle it.
But with Scott realizing that there weren't many Chips around—not that many who could handle what put Scott into higher arousal heavens. And there was the rub.
Three hours later Scott was walking down Madison Avenue, still in a quandary about what to get to hold the Camaro keys and directions to the garage in when he was jostled on the street, and, in righting himself, looked up at the sign over a shop door and got his answer. "Leonidas Belgian Chocolates," the sign said.
The answer to Scott's question. He'd heard of those chocolates. They were world famous. And they had a shop right here on Madison Avenue. Somehow Scott thought you had to go to Belgium to get these chocolates, and he'd heard some of his clients say they did just that. That brand of chocolate must be enough to impress someone in the theater, like Chip. So, he'd put the keys and directions inside the lid of a box of chocolates. And if the shop delivered, he was in business.
He went into the shop, which was bustling with activity. That was natural enough; it was the day before Valentine's Day. The shop was small, but a big store wasn't need to display what was only about a dozen different types and sizes of candy boxes. Scott was pleased to see there were three different sizes of red velvet heart-shaped boxes on display.
He went up to the counter, where there already was a man in a cashmere coat—looking very prosperous and well groomed—talking with the clerk. The clerk looked a little frazzled, no doubt because this must be one of the peak selling days at a shop like this, but he still was looking very good to Scott.
The young man wasn't tall, but he was slender—Scott would say he was willowy. He was a spiked-hair blond, with blonder tips, watery blue eyes, long, dark eyelashes (belying any claim of being a natural blond), and sensuous, unnaturally red lips. His hands were expressive, with fingers that were dexterously going about their complicated dance of moving this paper there and punching out this figure and that on the cash register.
He dropped his pencil, and when he bent over to retrieve it, the man in line ahead of Scott pointed out that the pencil was well behind him. Scott drew in his breath when he saw that the young man just widened the stance on his legs, reached through them, and retrieved the pencil.
Images of the young man, naked, in all sorts of compliant and subservient fuck positions raced through Scott's mind. Bent double like that, his hands grasping Scotts ankles, as Scott stood behind him and plowed his ass. Scott's blood began to boil.
The transaction before his seemed a bit complicated. Scott heard the gentleman saying he wanted the box of chocolates—he was buying the one named the "Velvet Heart Large" for $45—to be sent to the address given on one business card but the receipt to go to the address given on another business card, saying he had an assistant who took care of all of his financial affairs.
The clerk wasn't able to give the man in the cashmere coat his full attention because a customer had brushed a couple of boxes to the floor from a display across the room, and the clerk glanced over there to watch her put them back. But his hands were still busy moving this slip of paper to there, so Scott thought he must be in control of the transaction.
When Scott moved up to the counter, the young man's face flushed, and he gave Scott a brilliant smile. Scott wanted to think it was because of him—he found the smile to be downright luscious—but he was sure it was just because so much was going on in the busy store. Still, the images of the young guy and him together had made Scott hard, and he rubbed himself gently against the front of the counter as he spoke to the clerk.
Scott patiently explained that he'd take one of the Velvet Heart Large boxes of candy too, but he wanted this key and set of directions put in the lid and for the box to be delivered to the stage door of the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre for Chip Harden. The little blond clerk wagged his head and his fingers were busy moving bits of paper and ringing up the sale, but his attention was focused on Scott, still giving him an endearing, sloppy grin.
Scott had the sensation that the clerk knew he was hard and rubbing against the counter that separated them—in his mind not having that separation; in his mind standing with the complaint clerk draped on his torso, wrists locked behind Scott's neck and ankles locked behind his waist, and mining the smiling blond's ass deep—and that gave Scott an extra little charge of arousal. He hadn't felt this charged up in months.
"You do deliver, don't you?" Scott asked. He was sure they did. The man before him was having his box of candy delivered too. But Scott suddenly didn't want to end the conversation. The young clerk was giving him the biggest sex boost he'd had for some time. That didn't happen often. Scott wanted to savor the moment.
"Yes, we do. We have a delivery man."
