Columbus  Avenue
Chapter Two

By John Yager

The following story is a work of gay erotic fiction dealing with a sexual relationship between an adult man and a boy of high school age.  If such stories are not to your liking or if you are not of legal age to read such stories in your jurisdiction, please exit now.

Again, special thanks to Andrew for his proofing and editorial assistance with this story.

This is a work of fiction and in no ways draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. Any similarity to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the author.  The story is assigned to the Nifty Archives  under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be  copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.

This is the second chapter of a story titled Columbus Avenue, which is a sequel to the series titled Montgomery Hall and the story titled Cutler House.  While it is expected that the individual stories will stand independently,  they should be more enjoyable if read as a group.

If you wish to receive  e-mail notification of subsequent posting,  please let me know by sending your request to the e-mail address below.

jvoyager@hotmail.com

Martin's apartment is rather grand.  I had expected it to be nice, even luxurious, but it turned out to be bigger and grander than I had imagined.  It is on the sixth floor of an older building, on Columbus Avenue between Seventy-seventh and Seventy-eighth.   It has high ceilings and tall windows looking east into the grounds of the American Museum of Natural History, so it is a little like being in a very fancy tree house looking down into the woods around it.  Most of the trees across the street are bare now and you can see all the way to Central Park.  In the summer, Martin says you look out on the tops of the trees and the towers and turrets of the old Victorian buildings of the museum.

The living room is larger than our living room at home.  I guess I expected New York apartments, even nice ones, to be cramped.  This one sure isn't.  There is a full kitchen, which is small, but has everything.  I didn't realize Martin loves to cook.  It seems odd to think I didn't know that about him.  But one look at his kitchen and you'd know.  He has the best appliances you can find and every gadget ever made.  There is a formal dining room, a huge master bedroom and bath and a smaller guest room which also has it's own bath.  All told, the place is magnificent.  The furniture is mostly old, not just old, but fine, important antique pieces.  There are a lot of paintings on the walls of every room, three of them by artists I actually knew.  That surprised me, too.  I guess I just thought every painting by a famous artist was  in some museum.  It didn't occur to me that some might still be owned by individuals.  My favorite is a little landscape by Frederic Church.  It's of a wide river at sunset and the sky and water seem to glow with golden light. I wouldn't have known if it was dawn or sunset but Martin told me it was a view of the Hudson above Yonkers, looking west toward the setting sun and it was painted in 1861.

Despite all the wonderful things Martin owns, his apartment isn't in the least bit stuffy.  The minute I walked in, when he brought me from the airport, I felt at home.  It was obvious he has a maid, or at least a someone who comes in to clean a couple of times a week.  But despite the general orderliness of the place, there are stacks of books on the coffee table and a pile of briefs Martin brought home to read over the weekend.  Somehow I don't think he'd going to get that job done.

His bedroom just seems to scream sex.  The walls are cream with slightly lighter raised panels and wainscoting.  The bed is king size, of course, with enough covers and spreads and duvets and cushions to adequately furnish three beds.  On the walls are a series of black and white photographs of naked men.  Mapplethorpe, Martin told me.  They are erotic but in no way pornographic.  But I could feel my body respond as I looked at them.

Beyond the master bedroom is the most amazing bathroom I have ever seen.  There is a huge whirlpool  tub and a big shower, easily large enough for two people, but not as big as the one in Dave and Monty's room.  There are two wash basins in a long marble dressing table and a separate alcove with enough workout equipment for a professional gym.  There is a Bowflex, which I have never used, but Martin tells me he uses it three times a week and will help me get started on it.

I guess I don't need to tell you that we spent most of yesterday in Martin's bed.

As soon as we got here he showed me around and offered me something to drink.  "Maybe later,"  I said, "I had juice and a sort of weird breakfast on the plane."

When we reached the bedroom Martin said he assumed I'd want to sleep with him, but if I preferred, I could have the guest room.

"Here,"  I said without hesitation, "but right now what I really want is a shower."  I felt sort of grubby from the flight and the airport and the taxi and, more importantly, I wanted to get naked and in bed with Martin as soon as  I could.

"We'll just leave your bags here," Martin said, putting the two he was carrying down by the door.  "Come on, the bathroom is through here."

"Wow, Martin,"  I said, "the whole apartment looks like a movie set, but this bathroom is unbelievable."

"Thanks,"  he said as he handed me a huge towel.  "Enjoy, I'll be in the living room when you finish."

"I was sort of hoping you'd scrub my back."

"You were, were you?"  he grinned.  It was obvious he knew what I was up to, but he sort of played along.  I  started undressing and he just watched.

"Aren't you going to join me?"

"I was just enjoying the performance,"  he laughed.

"This is no performance.  I'm just getting undressed.  "But if you want a performance, I can give you one."

"I bet you could," he grinned and started unbuttoning his shirt.

We did shower, really, washing each other, him lathering up my crotch and my ass, getting his fingers into me, being sure I was clean.  I did the same to him, rediscovering how wonderful his body feels, how familiar it is and yet so new, discovering again every little curve and ridge, the way his perfect muscles come together, moving under his perfect golden skin.

Once scrubbed and shampooed, we dried each other and with no further discussion, moved to the huge bed.  Martin kissed every part of my body, bringing me to such a state of arousal that when he reached my ass I thought I'd come.  He licked and rimmed, kissed and probed, working into me with his tongue and then with fingers, one, two, three, opening me, claiming me.

I thought he'd fuck me then, but no.  He rolled me over on my back and devoured my pulsing cock.  In one sudden motion he engulfed me, taking my full length deep into his throat.  Within seconds I was over the edge, exploding, erupting.  Martin managed to take every drop, although he did tease me later about my abundance of my teenage output.

Then he fucked me, rolling me over, hoisting my hips up, stroking me until I knelt like a quivering bitch in heat, crying out for his cock.  It was a good as I remembered, better.  I whimpered as he rammed into me, cried out for more, wanting to be pierced, impaled.  When he had worked his cock into me a dozen times, a hundred, I don't know, I was out of my mind with lust, he pulled out and moved off the bed to stand at the foot looking at me like some all-possessive god.  I would have done anything for him, given him anything.  I just wanted him in me again, wanted his seed puling into me, needing to feel myself filled, consumed by him.

"Turn over," he said.  I did so.  "Lie on your back and hold your knees up against your chest."  I did as he demanded.  "Wider, spread your legs.  Show me your ass."  I did so, feeling exposed, vulnerable, willing to do anything, suffer anything, humiliate myself, debase myself.  "Now stay like that.  Don't move.  He moved back onto the bed, kneeling between my splayed legs.  I felt the head of his cock  press against my ass, felt him press into me, felt my body tremble, quicken, welcome him.  "Don't move.  Don't you dare touch yourself.  Don't say anything, not a whimper, not a sound."

He  grasped my ankles and held them high above me.  In one smooth motion he moved in, sliding his beautiful cock deep into me, filling me.

Yea, yes, I thought, but, of course, I didn't dare say it.

With the precision of a surgeon, he found my prostate and moved over it, in and back, out and back again, each time sending me into such as state of sexual bliss that I knew my body would explode.  He sensed my impending orgasm and withdrew, leaving only the head of his cock in me, stopping all motion, suspended over me, waiting.  I regained control, felt my body relax a little, back off a little from the abyss.  Then when he sensed that I was again in control, he began again, to move, to fill me.

Three times he brought me to the edge, three times he backed off and let me regain control.  I understood then why he'd blown me first.  I could never have gone so long if he hadn't.

By the forth time I knew I could never come down from that high again without detonation.  He knew it, too.  As we both approached the edge that fourth time, he nodded once, his eyes fixed on mine, and my penis jolted as if it had experienced an electrical shock.  My semen shot from me, landing in long ropes across my chest as he experienced his first orgasm that day, sending his seed deep into me, filling me.

Only when we were both spent did he bind over me.  With gentle kisses he claimed every drop of my seed, cleaning my chest and belly, leaving me as fresh as if I'd just stepped from the shower.  Then he brought his body down onto mine, letting me feel his weight, his solid body pressing into mine.

I think we dozed but not for long.  Very soon he was in me again.  This time moving more slowly, gently filling me, again bringing me to such highs I thought I couldn't  fail but go over the edge.  But it was only when I was  nearing exhaustion that he rolled me onto my side and lay against me, coming into me from behind.  In that position he reached around me to stroke my cock, bringing us both to climax again and then lying against me, still in me while we both sunk into an exhausted haze.

The third time he fucked me was in response to my pleading.  He had started to pull out but I begged him to stay in me, to keep his cock in me.  I was able to get him hard again by flexing the muscles of my ass, reviving him and then  coaxing him to take me again, to take me hard and fast and make me feel his power.  He did as I asked, filling me again with his seed.

But as we laid together, before and after that final assault, I told him more about Dave and Monty and me.  I told him how they had allowed me to lead them into new sexual territory, how I had watched them touch and stork and bring each other and me to blissful climax in the shower.  But I also told him that I didn't see them as gay, not like I am gay.   I suspect they might become lovers for life, going on to claim their destinies.  I think they will marry and father children, take over their family interests and live lives their lives as solid, respected leaders in their community and state.  And through it all, if I am not too wrong, they may still find time to be together alone, to nurture and love each other, brothers, lovers, their whole lives long.  Perhaps before this week is over I will share that perception with Martin.

But there is more I need to share with him, more I need to  say about my love for him.  I told him that I feared saying too much to Dave and Monty.  I feared it might frighten them, even repulse them.  But I must find a way to say it all, to make Martin understand.  That frightens me, as well.  I want him to love me, not to be repulsed by me, by the dark reaches of my love for him, my lust for him.

I know I want him on whatever terms he'll allow.  But deep in me there's something sinister and needy, a part of me that desires to be given over to him.  It's in those dark chambers of my love that I want surrender.  I want to be possessed, utterly, to be made his slave, his captive, his bitch.  I need to be debased, to be mastered, to be conquered by him.  Do I dare tell him so?