Hotel-Side Assistance

This undoubtedly was the best suite in the Denver Westminster Marriott Hotel, a sixth-floor corner suite facing the Rocky Mountains Range, with floor-to-ceiling glass wrapping around from the front to the side wall. The effect made me feel as if the bed was hovering over the northern cityscape of Denver, Colorado, with the Rocky Mountains looming in the background. And I was here for free for the week, or that was the way Clark had explained it to me. No money was going from me to the hotel, certainly, but no money was coming back to me for what it turned out I had to do to have this room.

I lay on my belly, naked on top of a tangle of sheets, my face looking out toward the Rockies. I dare not roll over because Danberry had wanted to take me in a doggie. The man was a regular bunny. He'd begun doing that before he decided he had to go to the can, which was after I'd given him a blow job and he'd pawed me to get me hard and to keep himself that way. Frank Danberry was a senior investor in the franchise for this hotel and could book this suite at will. He'd come to Las Vegas occasionally where I worked and caught the dance revue I was in there and connected with Clark. So, when I was sent here, to Denver, for a week to do shows at the Boyztown nightclub, Clark and Danberry got together on a deal. I was both the beneficiary and prize.

The trip here was, I was sure, a campaign by Clark to keep me from leaving his Chippendales-style revue in Las Vegas—an early show mainly for the girls and a later show for the men. I got a trip out of town to a fresh venue, a week in this nifty hotel room, time on my own to explore the Denver area when I wasn't on stage or at after-show parties, and I had a nifty paid rental car, a BMW convertible, downstairs in the hotel parking lot, for my own use.

Clark was afraid I was going to leave him. It wasn't the show, my place in the song and dance line in a revue, that was important to me. It was Clark. Or it had been Clark. I don't know how or why he had become worried about that. I hadn't even started to wonder that our relationship might be unraveling. Now I had to consider it. If Clark's attempt was to try to keep me in Las Vegas, I'm not sure that sending me off to Denver for a week best served that goal. I was mulling everything even now as I was stretched on my belly, waiting for Frank Danberry to return to the bed from the can and to mount me and fuck me. No big deal there. I'd been fucked by a whole lot of men.

Going with men for pay didn't cause problems in my relationship with Clark. He didn't mind if I was a prostitute as well as a dancer as long as he got it for free.

Danberry had attended the show at Boyztown that night and had drunk a good bit. I'd had to do the driving. Clark had told me what two nights this week to keep open for Danberry. He had a big-ass Lincoln Continental, which was almost too much car for me to handle, especially since Danberry was plastered to my side, pawing at me. He was still three sheets to wind when we got to the hotel suite, weaving back from the john almost as badly as he'd gone there, having already pumped my ass for several minutes without an ejaculation from either of us to show for it.

And then he was here, standing by the bed, smoothing another condom on his dick. He was hard—just average. And just an average top, as well. But it was a very nice hotel room, it was normal for me to give it up for a stranger almost daily, and I had the room for a week—in exchange for just two visits to the room by the hotelier, who was pushing fifty and wasn't in the greatest shape. But he wasn't any less presentable than some of the high-rollers I sometimes ended up with after a show in Las Vegas, most of them by arrangement with Clark.

"Give me your ass again," Danberry rather roughly said, and I pushed up a bit on my knees. "You're such a honey," he added, which took the edge off the prostitution feeling I had. He slapped me on the buttocks, though, that put me back in my rent-boy place.

He knelt between my thighs and I gave him a deep groan as he put his cock in position, his bulb just inside my rim, slapped me on the ass again, and grabbed my hips. Then I moaned and shuddered, as I knew he'd like—as all men seemed to like in knowing I was submitting to him—as he buried his cock inside me and immediately started to pump. He wasn't appreciably big, but he hadn't spent much time preparing me, and even an average-sized cock is a large, alien object when taken without sufficient preparation. I had a lot of experience opening fast for a guy though.

I panted and he groaned, "So nice; so tight," he muttered, giving me another hard slap on the rump. "Give it to me; let me in. Take it, take it, take it. Yeah, baby," Danberry muttered through groans as he fucked me and slapped my ass; fucked me and slapped my ass.

"Yes, yes. Like that. Do me. Do me hard; do me deep. Oh, shit, yes. You're a stud," I answered as he pumped me. He moved a hand around my waist, grabbed my cock, and milked me as we fucked. It was nice for a guy to give me the attention. They usually made me get myself off.

We moved into a standard fuck, nothing special. But we both got off, so it was satisfying enough. Immediately after coming and ripping the condom off, he'd rolled over on his back next to me and was snoring. I went off to the very nice, commodious bathroom and took my time showering. When I returned I stretched out in the comfortable lounge chair, with ottoman, right next to the window showing the blue ridgeline of the Rockies front range against the near-black of the sky some fifteen miles to the west and dozed off, knowing I'd be awake and back in the bed for Danberry to paw me again in the morning and for me to give him a blow job before he showered, dressed, and left. There was no agreement that he'd fuck me again in the morning, but if he wanted to, I'd let him. I didn't want to make waves and it wasn't like I didn't get fucked several times a week by a john. Before, he'd tucked away a hundred by the ice bucket on the credenza when he left. I knew it wasn't for the room maid. He didn't have to do that. I assumed he do that again in the morning. Every little bit was welcome.

Danberry had announced that he couldn't stay the night, but of course he did. It wasn't just the attraction of me. He had a lot of alcohol in his system to burn off. I had no idea what he'd tell his wife about staying out all night, but that was his problem, not mine. I presume he had her convinced that there were problems that came up at the hotel at night that he had to monitor.

I had plans to be a sightseer the next day—either the botanical gardens or a tour of the Coors beer plant in Golden, depending how I felt when I was ready to leave. I wanted to just play tourist tomorrow and forget that I was a dancer, stripper, and singer in a gay male revue—and, when necessary, a prostitute for some high-roller who had seen the show and couldn't resist me for the price.

* * * *

The hotelier didn't stay around for extended privileges the next morning. He woke with a snort near dawn and rolled off the bed with a "Shit, what time is it?" comment. I had barely gotten back in the bed to make him believe I'd been there all night, cuddling with him and cooing for the "privilege" of having his cock inside me again. It didn't seem to matter. I might as well not even have been there the morning after. His focus was entirely elsewhere. I was just a stick of furniture.

It wasn't that I didn't like having a man's cock inside me. I wouldn't have opted to be a male stripper in gay revues if I didn't like having men ogle me and do more with me. But I increasingly chaffed at having those decisions made for me—just being a piece of meat to be bartered for other men's privilege and then tossed in the trashcan along with his condom. I probably still would have tried to do something with the singing, but I'll have to admit that I made more and garnered more followers by combining it and dancing, mostly naked, with the stripping. It wasn't anything I was doing, other than watching my diet, exercising, get my hair curled at the hairdressers that made men want my body. But there was no reason why I couldn't take advantage of being desirable to men who went with men—as long as I retained my looks.

But then Danberry noticed me and went into indecision on whether to get on the road or back on the bed. He stood beside the bed, half hard and sucking in his gut from embarrassment of not paying enough attention to what probably once was a very decent body, looking from me to the bathroom door to the rising sun's reflection off the Rockies, indecisive. Eventually, self-preservation won, and he stumbled off to the showers. He was dressed and gone in twenty minutes, muttering his options on building an alibi about being out all night before his wife could start checking around on her own. He didn't do more than turn at the door and say, "That was hot. Again Tuesday night," and he was gone. I guess since we were scheduled for another go at it, he didn't see the need to say good-bye. It was nice he'd complimented what had been more lukewarm than hot, though. If nothing else, it meant I didn't have to put anything special out on Tuesday night—just lay there and let him bounce on my body.

He'd left the now-expected tip of a hundred by the ice bucket, so all had gone well in his estimation.

After the hotelier left, I turned the upholstered chair and ottoman toward the window and the reflection of the rising sun off the Rockies toward the floor-to-ceiling sheet of glass, sank into the chair, and watched the day approach and the streets below wake up to a new day. I spent the time contemplating what I wanted. Danberry hadn't satisfied me. I like to fuck, but I like to be satisfied, not just get the other guy off and all aglow over having fucked a stripper who had his own Las Vegas revue act. I wanted choice and some control. It's not that I didn't want to be dominated, but that it was my choice that I would be and my choice who would do it. I didn't just want to be part of Clark's favor exchange system.

My thoughts turned to what I wanted to do today until ten that night when I had to be back at the Boyztown nightclub for my three-hour stint before going off with some man who had paid for me for the night. I already knew that the nightclub had sold me for the night. I didn't go cheaply, so I knew I'd be in the lap of luxury while some old man fondled and fucked me.

I wanted to do something really different today—something that was touristy and didn't relate to my work. Either the Coors brewery tour or the botanical gardens, I thought. And, as I began to doze, I was thinking that maybe I'd meet some guy on the tour, some guy with a big dick and muscles, some guy I picked out myself. A young guy for a change, with drive and stamina, one who didn't have to sneak off and pop a pill to keep it up. And maybe I could get a fuck that satisfied me later in the afternoon before having to get ready to go to the nightclub. That thought took me into sleep, which was something I did best alone without worrying about what some other guy in the bed might want or do.

* * * *

I woke up to a beautiful summer day. Not a cloud in the sky, which wasn't necessarily a "good thing" for the local residents, who were in a perpetual drought late in the summer after the winter's snow melt was a long-distant memory. That decided what I'd do that day, though—it was too nice to be inside a windowless beer brewery if the alternative was the botanical gardens. I ate a hearty, but very expensive—at least for Frank Danberry—buffet breakfast in the hotel restaurant and headed out to the parking lot in my nicely coordinated and close-fitting T-shirt, shorts, and open-toed sandals, with the sunscreen and sunglasses in the men's French purse suspended from my shoulder. Most men wouldn't be caught dead with one of these French purses no matter how handy they are because they are considered a gay guy thing—but since I was a gay guy and didn't particularly care if anyone knew it, I availed myself of the convenience. It didn't mean I was a pansy. I wasn't the limp-wristed sort of gay guy. I was the "if you don't like it, shove it" sort of gay guy. When I moved in my dance in the stage revue, I moved like a man, not a girl.

Out I went to the car park, my mind wondering if I should go all the way and put the top down on the black BMW 328i M-sport convertible Clark had arranged for me from Denver's Classe Auto Rentals almost for free. All I'd had to do was give the company's owner a blow job in his office and bend over the desk for him the day I took a taxi from the airport to the car rental lot. I didn't have long to think about top or no top because, when I was approaching the BMW, I clearly could see that the left front tire was flat.

So much for the botanical garden. I called the Classe Auto Rentals, got someone only marginally interested in my plight, which surprised me because it was their very expensive BMW that was stranded somewhere other than their lot. When I dropped the owner's name, though, I was put through to help pronto. My idea was that they deliver another car to me by someone who could change the tire and take the unreliable vehicle away. I'd already discovered that the spare was a mini-temporary tire I could have carried around in my pocket, I knew it would take a power tool to get the lugs off the flat, and I hadn't brought a power tool with me in my luggage from Las Vegas. They also hadn't provided one in the trunk of the BMW.

The Classe Auto rental owner's idea was that he'd send a roadside assistance service to change the tire to one of those small donut emergency tires, and anytime I wanted I could drive the crippled BMW back to the rental lot. He'd then give me a replacement car—after I'd bent over his desk again. He didn't give me any other options. I felt like I already was bent over his desk, but what could I do?

"How soon can someone get here?" I asked.

"Within the hour. The company we work with is GoodJackRoadsideAssistance. An hour, tops, and he will be there."

I called again after an hour and a half. The owner wasn't there, but the only partially interested clerk originally must have been told I was a special client, because he went off line to check and came back with "Jack's just coming off another job. He'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Great. It obviously was a one-man company, at least in employees who actually did the on-the-street work.

Soon after I'd called Classe Autos for hotel-side assistance, the car parked next to the BMW on the driver's side pulled out and I positioned myself there, leaning up against the driver's door, my smart phone play toy in hand, so that I could keep the space clear to give the tire-changing guy from GoodJackRoadsideAssistance extra room to work in changing on the tire. From there, I got a good view of Church Branch Road, running from highway 36, north to Boulder and south into Denver. I assumed the tow truck would come from the direction of the highway and that I'd recognize it from some sort of logo on its side and make sure he could find me.

It was hot as hell out there in the open, though, and I pulled my T-shirt off to give me ventilation. That may or may not have been a good thing in the circumstances, as a middle-aged guy in a pickup truck slowed down to almost a stop as he passed me in the parking lot. He gave me an ogling look and a smile, and he popped his tongue in his cheek. I knew sexual interest and a pickup attempt when I saw it. The way I was standing, leaning up against the car and shirtless, could, I have to admit, have been taken as advertising. I smiled and moved to the side to show him that it was a tire problem. He saluted, smiled, and moved on. He wasn't any more up to changing a tire and then humping than I was to watch him change the tire and then letting him hump me.

If he'd changed the tire to something I could drive away on, though, I would have let him hump me. But that would have meant he'd have to have a nice tire that fit the BMW in the back of his pickup.

Another guy, younger, but still a couple of years older than I was, came out of the hotel and went to the car on the other side of the empty space I was guarding. He could clearly see as he approached that I had a tire problem. He too gave me a familiar smile, and he was built and a looker, so I instinctively smiled back.

"Need someone to change that tire for you?" he asked. What he didn't ask was why I couldn't change it as well as he could. But I guess he figured out quickly that I was a submissive. I could tell that he was dominant just from the swagger he was using in approaching us. He had a red Camaro. There was every indication he was a player.

"Thanks, but I don't have anything that would take the lugs off—it will take a power tool—and it's a rental car, and all I have to change it to is this emergency tire I wouldn't trust to drive across the parking lot. I don't live in Denver. I've called the company and they're sending someone."

"You staying at this hotel?" he asked. "My name's Ron. I'm here for two more nights."

"Yes, I'm staying here. I'm Beau. Here for four more nights." Why were we registering how long we were staying here? Screw that; I knew why.

"I have a tennis date, but would you like to get out of the sun and come along?" he asked. "We could stop somewhere for a drink afterward. Your day wouldn't be completely ruined. Hell, if you want, I could cancel the tennis and you and I could do something."

I was sure I knew what the "something" would be. OK with me. His smile was nice. His body looked great. He was easy on the eyes. I didn't miss that he lowered a hand toward his crotch, leading my eyes to the line of a well-hung cock inside his tennis shorts. He was tall and slim in the hips, with curly black hair and olive skin—sort of Italian looking. He wore his tennis outfit well and looked very comfortable in his skin. Tight black curls matted his forearms and thighs lightly. I liked that in a man.

I regretted what my reality here really was. "I have to stay put here, I'm afraid. The guy the rental company sends will need me to point out the car and do whatever he needs to have me here for. As far as I know, I'm the only one with the key."

"But if you didn't have to stay with the car—?"

"Yeah, a ride in a Camaro would be nice." Picking out my own guy for a change would be nice, I was thinking. That he was young, good looking, built, and hung would be very nice.

"If you aren't going to be able to get away, there's a restaurant in the hotel."

"Yeah, I know there is. I'd planned to go to the botanical gardens and may still be able to do that if the tow truck guy shows up soon. He's already taken longer than they said he would."

"And you have plans for dinner?"

"Not now. I hadn't thought that far in advance."

"There's always the restaurant in the hotel," he said, smiling again.

"Yes, there is." There didn't seem to be any more to say. He lingered a bit at his open driver's door as if there might be, and I wouldn't have been surprised if he had asked me if I took cock and would take his, but he didn't go that far. In the end he smiled and shrugged.

"Have a good tennis match," I said. "Beat the hell out of the other guy."

"I can be rough with guys. I like to win," he said, with a grin.

"I kind of like winners myself—and dominators," I answered. No reason not to find out if he was a player. He gave me a broad smile, and again I thought he was going to ask the big question, but he didn't. One last smile and he folded himself into his sports car and drove away.

It was then that I noticed that it had been over two hours of my hour wait and I called Classe Autos again to get a "fifteen more minutes" answer. When I rang off, I determined that if the tow truck wasn't here in another half hour and I got as good an offer to change the tire as dreamy Ron had given me, I'd take the offer. Fuck Classe Autos. I'd just abandon their car here. Clark had ordered it up, not me.