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 third 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.
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I came to New York to investigate universities, to see which of two or three excellent institutions would best suite my needs. My needs, as if my needs were academic, intellectual. I could stay in Mississippi and receive an excellent education. Martin did, and he went on to law school at Columbia University. He is a success, one of the top attorneys in his field and I know I could do the same. The problem with anyplace other than New York is that Martin is not in any of those other places. He is in New York and I must be here as well.
I have told myself that I want him on whatever terms he'll allow. But deep in me there's more, 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 to surrender completely to him. 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?
I couldn't tell Dave or Monty about the need I feel, the need to give myself completely to Martin. I knew they would not understand. They might be frightened by my admissions. They could easily be repulsed.
But what would Martin's reaction be if I could muster the nerve to tell him of my need? Does he still regard me as an innocent teenager, a mere boy whom he must protect? Would he, too, be repulsed by my dark needs? I hope not, but I don't know.
There is more. When he fucked me yesterday afternoon for the third time I was demanding, urgent. I wanted him to fuck me hard, to torture my tinder ass, driving into me with all his manhood, with all the his power of his muscular body. There is that need for him to hurt me, to give me pain. I don't understand it but I need it and I fear it. I ask myself again, will he turn away if he knew, will he be repulsed?
Last night after we had showered, together again, he turned on the whirlpool and we sat in it for half an hour. My body ached but in the hot, swirling water I was slowly revived. He opened a bottle of fine old wine and let me have a little. It was bitter and I didn't like it at first. But as I took small sips, letting it rest on my tongue as he instructed, then let is slide slowly down my throat, I began to feel it's magic and enjoy its rich taste. Martin moved over beside me, pressing close enough that his leg touched mine. He worked his hand behind me and began to slowly stroke my shoulders and my back.
"Um," I moaned, "that feels great."
"You've had a busy day, young man," Martin said as he brought his lips to mine. "You know, one result of my having said it once is that now I want to say it all the time."
"You can practice as much as you want," I beamed, so happy that he had now gotten over his hesitancy to articulate his feelings for me.
"I love you, Tim," Martin said, his voice low and rich. I knew for him it was a statement of great significance.
"Thank you, Martin. I don't think you can even imagine how happy you've made me."
"I only wish I'd been able to say it sooner."
"It's the best gift you could give me. You know how much I love you."
"No, I guess I really don't know, but I intend to find out."
"Do you want to have sex again, here in the whirlpool?"
"You, my beautiful young lover, are insatiable." He kissed me again and then stood in the bubbling water. "Right now we need to get dressed and head out so you can begin to meet my world."
Knowing our evening involved meeting friends for dinner, I suddenly discovered that I was ravenous. My stomach cried out for food but my body cried out for still more sex.
"This is New York, Timothy," he teased me as we stood naked, side by side, shaving in his incredible bath. "You did bring a suit."
"Yes, Dad bought me a new suite. It's the first one I've ever had. I brought slacks and a sport coat, too."
"Tonight we're venturing into suit country. White shirt, dark tie."
"Yes, sir." I responded, teasing, but loving the sense of his control.
My father had insisted on a dark suit, charcoal gray, almost black. It was a good choice and it fit me perfectly. I wore a white shirt, also new for the trip, and a black tie with a small gold diamond pattern. Martin was obviously pleased with my new wardrobe.
He was truly elegant in a dark blue suite and equally conservative shirt and tie. It was cool, but not cold, so we wore no coats as we walked a few blocks south and then west toward Broadway.
As we walked along, Martin took my hand in a tender and protective way. "You know," he said, "you're going to be meeting some of my closest friends. I don't want to make you ill at ease, but this is a little like taking your boy friend home to meet your parents."
"I won't be ill at ease, Martin, not as long as you're there with me. You've made me feel very proud that you'd want them to meet me."
"It cuts both ways, Tim. I want you to meet them as well." We walked on a bit and he began again. "If we're both serious about our relationship we had better come to terms with a few realities, Tim."
"Okay, such as?"
"You know there will be questions about your age, my age. You know what I'm saying."
"The difference in our ages?" I asked.
"That." I realized he was ill at ease. It made me feel all the more proud that he was taking me to meet friends he really cared about, friends with whom he wanted me to be comfortable, and whose approval was important to him.
"Do your friends know how old I am?"
"No, not really. Well, sort of. They know you're here to look at universities."
"So they may think I'm a year older than I am. Most kids my age haven't begun looking seriously at schools yet. They'll wait `till their last year in high school."
"You're saying they'll think you're eighteen."
"Martin, I didn't want to spring this on you yet, at least not until I knew how you felt, but my dad suggested that I talk to people here at the universities we visit about skipping my senior year at Greenwood and applying for early admission to university."
"Could you do that?"
"Yeah, I could. It would mean giving up my last year of high school football but my grades are very good and I've already taken all the required classes for university admission. I can `CLEP' out of several college classes right now."
"You said your PSAT was very high as well."
"Yeah. I don't want to boast, but it was high enough to get the attention of all three of the universities you want me to visit."
"Am I getting this wrong, sir, or are you proposing?"
I grinned and squeezed his hand. "I sort of thought it would be your job to propose. I'm just saying I could be in college next fall."
Martin stopped our progress and held me back. "Tim, if you decided to go to Columbia, you know it's within walking distance of my apartment."
"Yeah, you told me."
"You could live with me and attend Columbia, as early as next fall!"
"Maybe even sooner. As an early admission, they might suggest I start in June, just six or seven months from now. I could take two or three courses and get comfortable with the University. There's a good chance I could also be a `walk-on' for freshman football and practice starts early in August."
"I going to have to rethink a few things, young man." He drew me into a recessed doorway and kissed me gently on the lips. As we broke apart he added, "I will also have to revise the way I introduce you tonight."
When we reached the restaurant it was just eight o'clock. I understood from what Martin had said that we were meeting friends, so was not surprised when we were led to a table at which four men and two women were already seated. The men rose as Martin made the introductions. When he'd finished, he added, much to my surprise, "I've told all of you about Tim. He knows less about you, so try to get to know him this evening. I expect all of you to tell him only good things about me." Everyone chuckled as Martin went on. "You all understand that it was important for me that you all get to know Tim. I'm sure you will soon discover what a remarkable young man he is. You're my best friends here in New York. It's looking more likely that Tim will become a significant part of my life, and it's therefore all the more important to me that you all love him as much as I do."
Our six dinner companions already had drinks. They raised their glasses to a cry of "Here, here," as if Martin's statement had been a formal toast. As we took our seats, Martin spoke to the waiter.
I began the process of sorting out the group. The Comptons, husband and wife, were both attorneys and both worked in Martin's firm. Allen Bridges also worked there and was one of the senior partners of the firm. His wife, Nancy, seemed to be at least ten or fifteen years younger than Allen. She worked in the corporate support office at Lincoln Center. The other two men, Jim Knight and Roger Good, were a couple, and also both attorneys at Martin's firm. They were a handsome and intelligent group and despite the difference in our ages, they made me feel very welcome. It was clear Martin had told them all about me and they continued to find ways to include me in the conversation as the evening progressed.
"Your usual, Mr. Cutler," the young man said as he placed a martini before Martin. "And Perrier for the gentleman," he said as he placed a stemmed glass of ice and a small bottle before me."
"I don't want you drinking anything sweet, Tim, not before dinner. The food here is as good as you'll ever experience anyplace and your usual cola would take the edge off your pallet."
I nodded and poured half the bottle into the glass.
"Squeeze in a little lime," Martin said, leaning over to speak just to me. "I think you'll like it."
I took the wedge from the rim of the glass and squeezed it into the bubbling water.
The waiter returned and unfolded huge menus before each of us. "Look it over, Tim," Martin said. "If you need help let me know."
My high school French was hardly adequate to the task, but I was able to figure out most of the dishes and made a couple of choices. I had been told my accent was quite good, so I guess I was able to sort of bluff my way through.
I asked Martin about his intentions and then ordered for myself; Potage aux Morilles, followed by Escalopes et Ris de Veau. There had already been discussion of soufflé for dessert, which would be served for the entire table, so my choices were simple enough. I knew from what Martin had said that the food would be excellent.
"I had no idea you spoke French," Martin said in a half whisper, leaning over toward me.
"Only a little," I assured him, but I could see he was rather proud of my efforts.
The meal was wonderful and the conversation quite instructive. It was clear that Martin was held in both personal and professional esteem by his friends.
"Will you be moving to New York, then, Tim?" Roger asked as we were waiting for the soufflé.
"If not to the city, close by," I said.
"Tim is looking at universities." Martin said, but I was sure they all knew that. "We're going up to New Haven tomorrow afternoon and down to Princeton on Tuesday."
"Princeton is a long way," Jim Knight said.
"Closer than Mississippi," I replied, which earned a chuckle for them all. Even Martin seemed amused.
"Which school are you looking at most seriously?" Compton asked.
"Columbia," I said without hesitation.
"Reasons?" Compton replied. He sounded more like an attorney than any other in the group.
"Good pre-law. It's in the city and the football coaches like my high school record," I fired back with equal speed.
"Good man," Compton smiled. "I'm a Columbia man myself."
"Undergraduate and law school?"
"Is Martin considered a Columbia alumni?" I asked Compton, but addressed the question to the table at large.
"Oh, we let him slip by, Old Miss undergraduate counts for something, even around here, and he was first in his law school class at Columbia," Compton responded.
"Really, Martin? I didn't know that," I said, loud enough for all to hear.
"Well, you have your secrets. I guess I can have a few as well," Martin smiled.
"I'm interested that you'd opt for Columbia over Princeton or Yale," Roger spoke up again.
Sensing that he might have a personal loyalty to one or the other school, I responded as diplomatically as possible. "All three are first rate schools," I started. "I've been reading up on all three. The proximity issue is important, though and I must admit, I do look good in blue."
They all laughed and Jim said, "proximity?"
"If Tim goes to Columbia, he'd be living with me," Martin stated matter-of-factly, as if daring anyone to press the issue. There was a pause and when no one said anything more, Martin went on. "Tim is just here for a week this trip. He'll be flying home a week from tomorrow afternoon. I think a little send-off might be in order, so will you all try to keep next Saturday evening free?"
The entire group agreed they'd be available.
"Great, my place, seven o'clock, buffet and drinks."
The soufflé and coffee arrived, were served and duly appreciated by all.
It had been an interesting evening.