Scott thought it was the whining that was getting to him—it certainly wasn't Chip's body. He leaned over that and ran his fingers along the rise of the little blond's butt cheek. Chip raised his buttocks in response, fully expecting Scott's fingers to move into the crevice.
Regardless of what Chip was preparing for, his attention was elsewhere. He was rattling on in that whiny little voice of us about the tension of the impending opening of the Broadway musical that he had a dancing role in.
How he was managing to segue that to his need for a car, Scott couldn't fathom. He almost found it amusing the many different ways Chip had been able to introduce the topic of cars since Scott hadn't bought him that red Camaro convertible he'd said he wanted for Christmas. He'd already gotten there now.
"The opening night party is at the producer's house out in the Hamptons, and I have no idea how I'm . . . uh, ohhh."
The fingers of one of Scott's hands had navigated the distance between the rise in Chip's firm buttocks to the hole in crevice between the tight orbs, and he was rubbing the opening, making it bud for him. His other hand had gone underneath Chip's raised pelvis and grasped the pert little cock it had found there. Chip jerked and moaned as Scott began to milk his cock and slipped a finger into his hole, but that didn't stop his litany of want.
"If this musical doesn't have legs, Tony told me of a dinner theater over in Jersey needing dancers. But I'd need a way of getting . . . emmufff."
Scott had taken his hand away from Chip's ass long enough to take hold of the mop of hair at the back of the blond dancer's head and maneuver his face to Scott's groin, where he forced the head of his cock between Chip's lips. This was the one sure way Scott had found to shut Chip's whining up.
In one sense Scott realized that his time with Chip had just about run its course. The sex was still good—Chip still made those little gurgling noises and cried out of being stuffed that Scott liked to hear when he fucked the dancer, and Chip had the flexibility to handle the athletic fuck positions Scott enjoyed—but Chip was about to get on Scott's last nerve with his incessant whiny for new toys.
Not that Scott couldn't afford them. His antique furniture reproduction business was going great guns, there was no end to the demand for what his carpenters turned out in New York City, and he was making money hand over fist. But what the hell was a Broadway dancer going to do with a sports car in the city anyway?
Scott wasn't blind. He could figure out what Chip and that stagehand, Tony, were doing behind his back. He knew it was Tony who wanted the car.
And, dammit, Scott had gotten the car. He would have had it to give to Chip at Christmas, but red Camaro convertibles were pretty scare and Chip would just continue to whine if he didn't get exactly what he ordered. So, it had taken longer than Scott figured it would to get the car.
Scott also was realistic enough that he hadn't had a name put on the title. He'd let Chip do that, and if Chip wanted to put Tony's name on the title, that would be OK with Scott. He'd try anything if he could get Chip back to just being the pleasant little, nonwhining, compliant fuck toy he'd been when Scott first found him.
Cruising bars for tail he liked—blond and boyish and flexible enough to take those enticing positions Scott had learned on a visit to India—was not something that Scott was prepared to do. He'd been lucky to have opened a bedroom door at a party and to see Chip with his shoulders and knees to the carpet and his butt in the air and an Indian writer reverse fucking down into him. Scott hadn't seen anyone able to do that since he'd left South Asia, and later the Indian writer agreed with him that Chip was the most flexible fuck he'd been able to find in New York himself.
And the writer had magnanimously put Scott in contact with Chip. Scott only later found out that the writer had grown tired of Chip's whining and badgering him for expensive gifts.
But Scott had gotten Chip the red Camaro, just too late for Christmas. His backup plan to give it to him for Valentine's Day almost backfired too. He only got the car parked in a garage off Madison Avenue, with the documents in the glove compartment, and a big white bow on top earlier today. Now he'd have to think of a clever way of giving the keys and directions to the garage parking place to Chip. He have to go out and maybe get flowers or a box of candy or something and have them delivered to the stage door tonight. But first . . .
"On the carpet, on your belly" he growled. Scott was no refined Manhattan Mogul. He'd come up through the construction and furniture-making business by way of the docks. He was a rough man underneath. When his sap was on the rise, he could take on the look and aspect of a gangster, and the positions he liked to put his fuck partners in were ones of control and dominance. He was not a man to deny or mess with when he was in high rut.
Chip dutifully rolled off the bed and onto the bedroom carpet, stretched out on his belly.
Scott came down on top of him, his head facing away from Chip's. As Chip gurgled and groaned how big and filling Scott was, he forced his cock down inside Chip's channel in the reverse of most positions, his knees under Chip's armpits.
"Lock your ankles behind my neck, and your fists at my belly," he directed.
Chip did so, raising his legs with his extraordinary flexibility, arching his back so that Scott's torso was cradled inside Chip's bowed body. Then, with the leverage of his knees, Scott rocked them to a mutual ejaculation, digging deep inside Chip's gut, listening to Chip's declarations of being on the edge of not being able to handle it, while knowing that Chip would handle it.
But with Scott realizing that there weren't many Chips around—not that many who could handle what put Scott into higher arousal heavens. And there was the rub.
Three hours later Scott was walking down Madison Avenue, still in a quandary about what to get to hold the Camaro keys and directions to the garage in when he was jostled on the street, and, in righting himself, looked up at the sign over a shop door and got his answer. "Leonidas Belgian Chocolates," the sign said.
The answer to Scott's question. He'd heard of those chocolates. They were world famous. And they had a shop right here on Madison Avenue. Somehow Scott thought you had to go to Belgium to get these chocolates, and he'd heard some of his clients say they did just that. That brand of chocolate must be enough to impress someone in the theater, like Chip. So, he'd put the keys and directions inside the lid of a box of chocolates. And if the shop delivered, he was in business.
