Places: New York
By John Yager

This is another in the series of stories collectively titled Places.
Andrew, as always, thank you for much needed help with proofing and editing.

This work is copyright © by the author, 2006, and may not be reproduced in any form without specific written permission from the author. It 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.

All my stories can be found under my name in the NIFTY Prolific Net Authors section.

A few small clouds floated lazily off toward the northeast. Otherwise the sky was a clear blue dome.  It was the first Friday in April and I was on my own in one of my favorite cities.

I'd been in New York since the previous Monday night and had only been out of the hotel twice, each time for rich, expensive meals at overrated restaurants.  Apart from those two excursions, it had been hotel food and a solid run of meetings.  I was tired, not physically tired, just tired of being cooped up, and tired of one dull session after another.

It hadn't really mattered that we'd been held up in hotel rooms and conference rooms for most of the last few days.  The weather had been awful.  There had been a slow, chilling rain when I landed at La Guardia on Monday evening and it hadn't stopped until the pre-dawn hours of Friday morning.  It was as if winter had been determined to make one last stand.  Then, suddenly, winter had admitted defeat as spring arrived victoriously.

I don't mean to say I don't sometimes enjoy professional meetings. They are necessary and some can be quite informative. Many of my professional colleagues had become good friends over the years.  We tended to see one another a couple of times a year at meetings like the ones which had just ended.  I liked most of them and some were close friends. In fact, a few of them had occasionally shared my bed.

At four that Friday afternoon I'd retreated from the last session, changed from a business suit into running garb and headed out to enjoy a jog and the sun in Central Park.  In less than half an hour after the meetings ended I was going through the hotel lobby, feeling a bit conspicuous in shorts, T-shirt and running shoes.

In front of the hotel I spotted Jack Ramsey and Ted Clark, two of the men who'd been at the meetings, both of whom, at one time or another, I'd fucked.  Jack and Ted were still in business attire but I was obviously much less modestly dressed. I couldn't help noticing that they both looked me over as we stood by the taxi stand saying one last goodbye.

They were sharing a cab to the airport where they would go their separate ways.  I was glad to be staying on after the others left, looking forward to a relaxing weekend before heading home late Sunday afternoon.

Leaving the hotel, I ran north on Seventh Avenue, then east to Fifth, north again and into the park. It is interesting how quickly Central Park can fill with claustrophobic New Yorkers when the weather takes a sudden sunny turn.  I jogged by the Pulitzer Fountain, where kids played in the water in defiance of parental orders.

Around the Pond other children were launching model sailboats.

I slowed as I passed a cluster of chess players and headed off around the Sheep Meadows.  A few men were trying unsuccessfully to launch kites in the light air. Their children looked on with a mixture of boredom and amusement.

Just east of Strawberry Fields I found an empty bench and stopped to rest and watch the ebb and flow of city dwellers enjoying the sun.  Spring seemed to have finally arrived with a sense of certainty.

A few children played on swings and sliding boards.  A group of teenage boys, a couple of whom were quite good looking, busied themselves with some sort of ball game, the rules of which I couldn't comprehend.  Their shirtless torsos glowed in the warm spring air.  All told, I couldn't have wished for a more perfect afternoon.

I spread my legs, stretched my arms along the backrest of the bench, and leaned back, letting the warm sunshine fall on my face.  It was one of those times when I felt at one with the world and with everyone around me, even though they were all strangers.

I must have dozed. It may have only been a minute or so but perhaps it was longer. I woke with a start, roused from a very erotic dream in which Ted Clark lay naked and panting beneath me as I fucked him without mercy.  No matter how hard I rammed into him, he begged for more.

It had been the slightest movement of the bench which wakened me. I realized at once that another man had joined me, sitting not more than three feet to my left at the end of the bench. I no sooner realized that another man was there, within close proximity, than I also realized that I was quite visibly aroused.  The dream had done its work and my cock was fully hard in my running shorts.  It stretched my jock strap, tenting the thin fabric of the shorts themselves.

"Nice day," my new neighbor said.  I realized he was staring overtly at my crotch.

"Amazing," I agreed.

"I love spring in the city."

"Yes," I agreed, thinking of the song, "April in Paris has nothing on April in New York."

He chuckled, turning a bit to look more fully at my face.  His eyes were steel blue.  In an instant I sensed connection and wondered if he felt it, too. "Do you live around here?"

"No, I'm an out-of-towner, actually."

"Tourist?" There was a chuckle in his voice.  The connection was there; I knew it and he knew as well, the little, insistent flashes and sparks of recognition.

"Well, no, not exactly.  I've been at business meetings all week."

"Good you could break free for a run"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Or are you playing hooky?" he chuckled again.

I found his laugh was quite pleasant, contagious.

"Actually, the meetings ended earlier this afternoon and everyone else headed home."

"Oh," he smiled. "But you stayed on?"

"Until Sunday afternoon."

"Well, I hope you enjoy the city." There was an unmistakable undertone in his voice now.  The words carried more than their surface meaning.

I turned a little, no longer so embarrassingly hard, wanting to get a better look at him.

He was a bit older than me, distinguished, lean, a full head of gray hair, rather short, a bit wavy.  He was deeply tanned and wore chinos, a polo shirt and deck shoes.  The shirt looked expensive but well worn, comfortable.  A tuft of gray chest hair was visible where his unbuttoned shirt collar hung open. There was something nautical about him; an amateur sailor or yachtsman, perhaps.

"My name is Terrance Witherspoon," he said, extending his hand. "Terry for short."

His arms were lean, muscular, tan, bristling with an abundance of dark, graying, curly hairs.

"John," I said, shaking his hand, "John Yager."  We both smiled and a further spark of understanding passed between us.  He held my hand just a bit longer than usual and I was quite happy to extend the easy, friendly physical contact. "Do you live near here?" I asked.

"Um, yes," he said nodding toward one of the big apartment blocks across Central Park West. "I come here a lot, usually to walk our dog. My wife and I have a very spoiled Sheltie.  Today, though, I'm watching my granddaughter." It was more information than he needed to share but I took it as a sign he wanted to let me know a bit about himself, his life.

"Which one is she?"

"The towhead," he said, pointing to a girl who must have been six or seven.  She waved from the top of a sliding board before launching herself down the shiny steel slope. "My daughter lives in Rye.  She and Sophie come in every week or so to do some shopping.  Anne and my wife are spending the day together and I get to baby-sit."

"Cute kid," I said.

"Yes, but what grandchild isn't?"

"I suppose," I laughed.

"Is she your only grandchild?"

"Yes, first and most likely the last."

We talked easily for a while.  He asked me about my meetings, where I was from, about my own family.

Terry, it seemed, had property, some warehouses in Queens and buildings in the garment district.  "They were my grandfather's" he said. "Sweatshops sixty or seventy years ago, now lofts."

"So are you retired?" I asked.

"Well, not really.  I look after the property and set my own schedule.  There aren't many demands on my time, if you want to know the truth, but I stay as busy as I want." He paused, checking on the girl, who seemed content to play alone.  "We have a place on Sanibel. We go there for three or four months each winter."

"Do you sail?" I asked.  It seemed as if he should.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"You look like a sailor."

"Well, something of a sailor," he said, chuckling again. "I have a beautiful little Moody in Florida and I'm part owner of a thirty-six foot sloop moored up at Mamaroneck."

"Isn't that near Rye, where you daughter lives?"

"Yes," he smiled, pleased that I knew a bit about the geography of New York and Long Island Sound. "Our son-in-law is a gynecologist.  His practice is up there and it's with Bob and two of the other doctors in his group that I share the sloop."

"Do you race her?"

"Oh, yes, not very successfully, but we give it a brave try."

It was then that the girl abandoned the slides and came over to us.

"This is Mr. Yager, Sophie" Terry said.

She extended her small hand and shook mine.  "Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Yager," she said.

"Pleased to meet you as well, Sophie," I said, impressed with her poise.

"May I have an ice cream, Grandpa?" she asked politely.

"Certainly, sweetheart," Terry said, pulling coins from his slacks pocket. "Would you like anything, John?" he added.

"Well, not ice cream," I smiled.

He smiled back.

"Where did you say you were staying?" he asked as the girl went off to a vendor who'd parked his cart near the play area.

"The Sheraton," I said, "Room ten-o-two." It was bold, even brazen, giving him my room number, but I saw no reason for subtlety.

"The Sheraton on Seventh Avenue?"


"What are your plans for this evening?"

"No plans, dinner, maybe a film."

"Would you like company?"

"Yes," I smiled, "certainly, but aren't you busy with your wife and daughter?"

"No, Anne will be leaving soon, heading back to Rye.  My wife has a meeting.  She won't be home until quite late.

"Well then," I said, "what time should I expect you?"

"Would seven be good?"


"I'm sure we can find something interesting to do."  His muscular hand grasped my thigh, lingering there a moment.

"I'd better finish my run."

"Don't wear yourself out," he smiled.

Back at my room I showered and shaved.  I felt a bit like a teenager getting ready for a date.  When I finished I pulled on a pair of loose fitting sleeper shorts, turned the covers back on the big bed and shoved condoms and a tube of KY under the pillows. I stretched out and again dozed a bit.

Promptly at seven there was a soft knock at the door.

When I opened the door he stepped in and stopped, looking at my scantily clad body.  His expression was blank and I had the sudden fear that I'd presumed too much. Maybe all he expected was dinner and a film.

I felt a wave of embarrassment and turned to grab my slacks.  "Sorry," I said, "I should have been dressed."

"No, please," he said quietly as he closed the door. Then with a sly grin he added, "You look like you're ready for some fun and games?"

"I didn't mistake your interest?"

"If any thing you underestimated it."  He smiled again, broadly this time.  There was no mistaking his intentions.

"What did you have in mind?" I whispered, reaching by him to lock the door.

He answered by taking me in his arms.  There were no preliminaries.  We both knew there was no need for them and we just relaxed and let our natural instincts lead us.

We kissed, softly at first, but soon with growing passion.  My lips parted, letting his tongue explore.

"Let's get you out of those clothes," I growled when we finally separated for a moment.  We were both breathing very hard.

He was wearing a dark blue blazer over a white open collared shirt.  In moments I had him stripped to the waist and was running my hands over his well defined chest.  Like his arms, it was covered with a thick mat of salt and pepper hair.  I bent forward and nuzzled his chest, finding his left nipple and biting it between my exposed teeth.

It was his turn to growl.

I knelt and loosened the belt holding his light gray slacks, which slid down, exposing white boxer shorts. They bulged with his growing erection.

In seconds I had them down and took just the head of his cock in my eager mouth, feeling the shaft fill and pulse. He was only a little longer than me, but considerably thicker, cut and very wet.  As he became fully erect I found the thickness of his shaft was more than my mouth could accommodate.  I pulled back and looked more closely at his cock.  The head was large, rounded, bell-shaped. Behind it, the shaft swelled suddenly to an almost impossible diameter.  I was excited by it, but also a little fearful.

I bent forward again and took the bulbous head between my lips, swirling my tongue around it, sucking, kissing, making love to it.

"Easy, Tiger," he moaned, holding my head between his hands.  "We have plenty of time."

He pulled me up and stepped out of his tangled clothes and was completely, gloriously naked.  As we moved to the bed I shed my shorts and soon we were stretched out side by side, facing each other.

We kissed again, softer now, as our hands explored, fondled.

"I want you to know I don't often do this sort of thing," Terry said softly as he nibbled my ear. "In fact, I've not been with a man for a long time."

"How long?" I asked, rolling over on my back.

"Four years no five."

"You don't seem to have lost any skills," I smiled, lifting my head to kiss him again.

"Like riding a bike," he chuckled.

"So you only have sex with your wife?"

"Yes, never other women."

"Do you consider yourself Bi."

"Yes.  What about you?"

"Bi, definitely," I said, "probably a three or four on the Kinsey scale." He didn't respond immediately and I added, "but tonight I guess I'm a five."

"Me too," he laughed, "tonight, definitely a five."

"Bi, but you obviously get into doing it with guys."

"Definitely, but it really has been a long time."

"Do we need to take precautions?" I asked.

"I've not been with anyone but my wife and I was tested six or eight months ago when I had my annual physical."

"Me too," I murmured between kisses, "no need for precautions."

"That's a relief," Terry whispered as his wet tongue invaded my left ear, sending waves of sexual excitement through my entire body. "Condoms are a problem."

"I'm not surprised. You must be too thick, even for the super-sized."

"They usually split when things really get going."

He rolled over on top of me and my body rose to meet this.  My arms went around his torso and my legs around his legs, locking him to me.

We kissed again, deeper, our tongues thrusting, wanting greater access.

As we moved together, thrusting, pressing against each other, our legs entwined and my hands roamed freely over his shoulders and back and buns.  He had a sinewy body, hard, defined, but not bulked. His back was an interlocked matrix of muscles.  His shoulders were hard and lean.

Our bodies moved together, our rigid cocks, trapped between us, leaking a bounty of sticky fluid.  I don't know how long it went on, but it was quite a while and there were several moments when I knew I'd explode, only to feel him steady us, giving us time to regain control.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he rose up and positioned himself over me.  Without a word spoken, his eyes asked and my own responded.

He ran his fingers over my stomach, raking up the sticky fluid we'd produced.  He used it to coat the head of his thick cock and, when he'd lifted my legs to his broad shoulders, to gently lube and probe my pulsing ass.

"Is this okay, John?" he asked.

"Oh, god, yes," I moaned.

Terry held the shaft of his cock as he placed its bulbous head against my hole and slowly pressed in.  My ass strained to accommodate him, but he wasn't able to gain entry.

"We need more lube," he groaned.

"Under the pillow."

He rummaged around and withdrew the condoms and KY.

"Be prepared," he grinned.

"I really was a Boy Scout," I laughed.

He squeezed a liberal amount of the clear jel onto the palm of his hand and spread it over his massive cock, being sure that the point of his bulbous head was especially well lubricated.  Then, with more jel, he began to work his fingers into my hole.  He was patient, thorough, and in minutes I felt myself open a bit.

Terry positioned himself again and pressed in.  It was slow going, but gradually his thick tool slipped into me with no real pain and only a little discomfort as the thick shaft stretched my sphincter.  He was very gentle, taking his time. As I was able to relax more, I felt his coming into me was more my doing than his.  It was as if my ass consumed his cock, taking it, devouring it, making him one with me.

Terry was caring, gentle, but my body shuddered with shock as his thick prong nudged my prostate and his hard belly eventually pressed against mine.

When he was fully in me, he rested, giving me time to accept our joined state, our total bonding.  I gave myself all the time I needed and then began to rock my body beneath him as if I were the gently moving sea and he some great, grand ship afloat on me.

He began to move slowly but was soon driving into me, his body colliding with mine, sending such waves of energy and pleasure through me that I cried out with lust for more and more and more.

I demanded more, begging him to take me, possess me, drive himself into me with superhuman force.  I wanted all of him, all his being overpowering me.

The hotel room was filled with the sounds and odors of rampant sex.  Our bodies were wet with sweat. Our hair matted to our heads.  I was convulsing beneath him, my body almost levitating off the bed, wanting nothing more than to be still more fully filled with him.

Terry drove into me like some powerful, precision machine, piston in cylinder, each well oiled part moving together. My ass was throbbing but I didn't want him to stop.  I didn't want this to end, yet knew it must.

I felt a wave of passion building in my belly and felt myself slide toward climax.  Just as the barriers broke, Terry convulsed in me.  I felt his body go rigid and then explode.  He growled like a wounded beast and his cock seemed to swell even more in my pulsing hole. My own climax hit me with such force that I felt as if I'd die, die willingly, die content, complete.

"Yesssss," he hissed and collapsed on me.  I was too spent to hold him as I wanted. My arms went limply around him and my hands slowly stroked his drenched back.

We dozed, eventually roused and showered together, ordered sandwiches and beer from room service, and consumed our meal naked, in the big bed.

Still later, after the remains of our supper had been laid aside, things started up again.  We rolled and cuddled like puppies.  Finally, when we were both fully aroused, he pressed me onto my back and knelt over me, reaching back to hold my cock and move it slowly along his crack as my sticky stuff coated him.

"We don't have to do this," I said, not really meaning it. "We aren't keeping score."

"This isn't tit for tat," he laughed, retrieving the KY and giving himself and me an extra bit of lubrication.

"Obviously not," I agreed. "Maybe cock for ass would be apt."

"Whatever we call it, I want it, John, I really want it," he said as he slowly impaled himself on my willing shaft.

It was wonderful, slow, easy, the ride of a lifetime.  We'd come once already and this time there was no haste, no urgency.  He rode me with abandon, rising, falling, whimpering like a bitch in heat.

My hands roamed over his chest and arms, down over his belly to grasp his stiff cock, stroking him as he buried my cock deep in his hot, wet ass.

At times he leaned forward to retrieve sly kisses from my lips, letting his tongue run over them, then dart to my nose or an eye or an ear.  For a while we both lay transfixed, neither of us moving, just feeling the power of our joining, reveling in being male, a man with another willing man.

At some point, long after he'd speared himself with my cock, as if by some unspoken agreement, our lusts took over and the speed quickened.  He rose and fell on my shaft.  We were both panting, groaning, growling, urging each other on until the end.

Terry came first, and with considerable force, sending his seed in long, white strands, up over my chest, falling in globs on my cheeks and lips, where I retrieved it with my darting tongue.

In seconds I followed, flooding his ass with my cum.

"Yeah, John," he growled, "feed me, baby, fuck me full of  your stuff."

It was after eleven when he left and I fell, exhausted, into the rumpled bed.

At eight the next morning, while I was still asleep, my phone rang and I scrambled to reach it.

Terry's mellow voice greeted me. "Morning, stud," he purred.

"Hey, Mr. Witherspoon," I said, suddenly awake.

"Anne called to say she and Bob needed a babysitter unexpectedly while they ran errands and have dinner this evening with friends."


"Yes, and my wife just left for Rye, the devoted grandmother, always happy to help out.  She will stay over and come back to the city tomorrow evening."

"So I guess you're free," I said, rolling over and setting on the side of the bed.

"Well, not free," he laughed, "but cheap."

"What do you have in mind?

"Breakfast for starters, how about half an hour?"

"Great, but let's eat out so the maid can clean my room."

"Oh, is it a little disorderly?"

"You could say that," I laughed. "The bed's a mess and, not to be too indelicate, the whole place smells like shit."

Terry's laugh was rich and genuine. "I'll meet you in the lobby at eight-thirty."

"Better make it nine," I said. "Give me time to shower and shave."

"See you then."

We spent the day and night together, and much of the next day.

April in Paris has nothing on April New York!

The end.