"That was a good game. I've asked you to check the wiring in the Penzance Boulevard guest house, Logan, and I know you have to stay here and work, Brandon. So, Anton and I can go to the clubhouse for a drink and then to clean up and I'll drive him back to Logan's house."
It wasn't really a suggestion. Sam Reynard, an inherited-wealth man, was accustomed to being in charge, and he had no trouble taking command. They had gotten the court time at Fort Meyers's Heritage Palms Golf and Country Club because of his pull in the club rather than because his young live-in, Brandon Brantley, was the tennis pro there. This was phase one of Sam's plan, and he wanted it to go smoothly.
Sam Reynard came from generational wealth in Fort Meyers, Florida, on the west coast of the peninsula. He did dabble in publishing—of gay male novels—but not for profit. It was more to put himself up against young gay male writers. He picked on writers because he assumed they were anxious to get steamy experiences to put into their novels, and Sam was happy to help them with that.
He was a well-preserved fifty-five, tall and thin, but hard bodied and still with a healthy mane of hair, although it had turned gray. His eyes were gray too and complimented the silvery-gray head hair. He otherwise was smooth-skinned and toned, having the best the money could buy in a personal trainer—with twenty-four-year-old blond, blue-eyed, All-American Brandon an added workout partner. Brandon wasn't only the club tennis pro here; he also was one of the stable of Sam's novel writers—and one who Sam had kept close to him, giving Brandon a room of his own in the three-bedroom guest house of the house recently completed on nearly ten acres of ground on Penzance Boulevard near the Heritage Palms club. He also gave Brandon material for his books. Sam was athletic despite his age. He knew a lot of nifty and challenging sex positions from an aggressive submissive's stance.
Where Logan Hanon, forty-eight, hirsute, burly, and quite fit and handsome, fit into the picture beyond the foursome tennis match Sam and Brandon had won on the strength of Brandon's tennis talent was that he had been the contractor for the Penzance mansion and still was fiddling around with leftover issues on perfecting a perfect house. And even beyond that, he was here today and of interest to Sam because of the houseguest he'd brought along to fill out the foursome.
Anton Ajuria, whose stage name was Jolt, which was precisely how men interested in men responded to him upon first sight, twenty-two and a walking dark, sultry god, was half Cuban. His father had been Canadian. Anton was in the states because he had been a promising baseball player. That career avenue had not materialized, and Anton now was a well-paid exotic dancer with the Florida Thunder men's revue troupe based north of Fort Meyers at Tampa Bay. Sam had brought Anton down for Christmas and New Year's programs at Rapture, the gay nightclub he had a financial interest in, and he was keeping Anton in Fort Meyers for an extended period, although Anton could easily get up to Tampa for his regular stripper's duties at Florida Thunder when he was needed.
The "plan" Sam Reynard was working on that this was phase one of was to move Brandon along without losing him as an author but to replace him in Sam's bed with Anton. The three-million-dollar Penzance house almost having been finished off, Sam didn't much care what Logan would think of losing Anton, but Sam had seen the looks Logan gave Brandon while they played tennis—all four men played shirtless and none of the four had any reason not to be proud of their physiques—and he now saw how phase two of his plan could be worked out.
Sam badly wanted Anton to fuck him. That wasn't a problem. Anton was a male prostitute, and Sam had more money than he'd ever need. The problem was establishing a more permanent arrangement, hopefully without upsetting anyone. Sam didn't like conflict.
Sam didn't mind taking the initiative, though.
Heritage Palms was an exclusive club. Instead of one, general men's locker room, it had individual changing rooms with adjoining shower and bathrooms. Sam had signed in for one when booking the tennis court. None of the other three had. Logan Hanson left directly from the tennis court. Brandon had private lesson sessions booked on the court, so he had no need to shower and change yet—and he had his own dressing room at the club. Only Anton Ajuria, the Cuban male stripper hunk, didn't have his own facilities. That was no problem. Sam was quite happy to share his.
"You can use the shower first," Sam magnanimously offered when they were in the small dressing room and he'd shut the door and started undressing. He wanted Ajuria to see how well preserved he was—but, most of all, he wanted to see how well hung the Cuban was, which was very well hung, indeed, thank you very much.
"No, please. You first," Ajuria said, but he was pulling his tennis togs off as well—and he wasn't making any effort to hide himself. He was no dummy; he did this for a living, and he know both how important Sam Reynard was and what the looks Reynard had been giving him across the net on the tennis court meant. Sam made everything quite obvious. The last thing Sam did before entering the shower was to take three hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and place them on the neat stack of clothes Ajuria had put on a chair. There was no question the bills were being misplaced. Ajuria gave a little laugh when he saw the money that had been placed on his clothes.
Sam went into the shower, turned the water on, and soaped himself up. He only had to wait for a couple of minutes until he felt the Cuban rent-boy enter the shower behind him. They were much of the same height, but the Cuban was much more muscular—and hung—than Reynard was.
Reynard felt Ajuria's fingers touch his hips on either side, and, as the Cuban lightly stroked his flanks, Reynard gave a long sigh, and leaned back into Ajuria's chest. There was no question what Reynard wanted. One beefy arm went around Sam's chest under his arms from behind, a thumb firmly pressing into one of Sam's nipples, and the other came around his hips. Ajuria cupped the older man's balls and he pressed a thumb on the top of Sam's cock at the base, where a vein entered the shaft. Sam gasped and went immediately hard.
Ajuria was good with thumbs.
"Good. You have virility," the Cuban whispered, his lips in the hollow of Sam's neck. "Do you fuck or are you fucked."
"I want you to do me," Reynard whispered.
"You've seen me. Do you need—?"
"I can handle it. All of it. Rough as you please."
"Do you have . . . or . . ."
"Bareback me. I have been checked. I know the Florida Thunder procedure on that."
"Do you want the cock right away?" Ajuria had already taken the hand away from Reynard's cock and, after stroking the older man's buttocks cheeks with his fingertips and rubbing the bulb of his cock between the cheeks and over the hole, had inserted two of his fingers inside Reynard's channel and, as Reynard groaned, began to open him up.
