"Hold still. Focus on holding the pose I gave you, Jeffery... please."
"Sorry, Colette," I said, putting a hand on my hip and leaning into the ship's wheel that was almost as tall as I was. I was wearing low-rise white bellbottom trousers from the coming nautical line for The Edge New York fashion house--and nothing else other than a nautical hat and a neck scarf; I even was barefoot. This was a photo shoot for the posters that would be hung in young men's clothing departments where the clothes would be sold. It was the sex as much, if not more, to be attention getting and sold as the clothes. My torso had been buffed up; my nipples had been puffed up and airbrushed.
To make my way through theater school in New York City, I worked part time as a male Abercrombie and Fitch model. The agency did sexy ads for clothes lines like the ones The Edge sold. That's why I was posed now barefoot and just in the white bell bottoms, a scarf around my throat and a captain's hat on my head. The bellbottoms had a button-up fly, with the top two buttons suggestively undone, a hit of curly pubic hard just visible if you looked hard--and you were invited to look hard. The ship's wheel and I were posed in front of a blank wall. Through the wonders of sophisticated photoshopping, I would be standing on the polished-teak deck of a yacht and there would be an Italian harbor town behind me when the poster was finished.
I didn't really have trouble holding a pose. Modeling had been included in my schooling along with acting, singing, and dancing. I was well into the acting and singing program; dancing was being a struggle, but I was determined to find my range. I was twenty-one and had been enrolled in the school for nearly two years. I already was holding down another part-time job playing the piano and singing in a small gay nightclub in Chelsea three nights a week. Seeing Edge come into the room where they'd set up the photo studio was what had distracted me.
Edge was Edgerin Gordon, who everyone addressed as "Edge" who didn't call him Mr. Gordon and the owner and the creative spirit behind The Edge fashion house--hence the house's name. He was a tall, charismatic black man in his late forties, I surmised, from having seen a timeline on the history of the fashion house, but he was one of those ageless handsome men who could pass as a decade younger than he was. Everything about him was model groomed. He had come to New York from Jamaica, where I gather his family was quite wealthy. He was slender but well muscled and, in keeping with the success of the house and personalization of the brand, was always elegantly and sexily dressed in his house's men's fashion designs and moved like a dancer. He was the sort of man who dominated the room, with all eyes following him and wanting to be there beside him.
That's what had happened when he came into the room to check on the photoshoot. He obviously knew all about such advertising of his clothing lines; he appeared in many of the commercial work for The Edge himself. There was no distinction between Edgerin Gordon in public purview and The Edge fashion house.
Those doing the technical work paused when Edge entered and even Colette, the fashion house's chief of advertising, did so. The three male models wearing his clothes and being photographed gazed at him longer. Aston and Leonard sought his attention as much as I did, but those two weren't in the current shoot, so I had been the one Colette had to bring back to earth.
Edge wasn't helping. He was looking directly at me--singling me out and smiling. I know I was blushing, understanding what could be behind that smile. Gordon owned this narrow, ten-story building in the Garment District near the corner of 8th Avenue and West 38th street. His apartment took up the top two floors. I had been working on this photoshoot for four hours in the afternoon for the past week. After I was finished the previous day, Edge had invited me up to his apartment for a drink. The "what can I get you to drink?" had segued into "I want to lay you," and then he had and I learned that being hung and being very, very good at cock mastery went with his legend. I don't think I had ever been touched and worked so deeply or well before. I had been late to my classes this morning, not leaving here until after the fashion house had opened for the day. I was nearly hobbling when I left, but I was purring.
I must have pleased him, for he stayed in the studio while I finished up with the white bellbottoms shoot and intercepted me, putting a manicured hand, with long, sensuous fingers that had made me shudder and shimmer and arch my back in his bed the previous night as I rocked my pelvis on them, on my arm to make me pause. Everyone in the studio was surreptitiously looking at us while trying to make it seem they weren't. They all now knew Edge was laying me, and I know my stock went up significantly with them--as would their cattiness about me--as he leaned over to smile at me and whisper. Edge didn't cultivate anyone for very long. I'm sure those watching us were calculating my demise already.
"I have a beach cottage on Fire Island where I like to go for the weekend," he said. "I like to get away from all the hustle and bustle of the week and live the simple life and think. I have some of my most creative inspirations on Fire Island. I plan to go this weekend, but I really don't want to go alone."
"Are you asking me to--?"
"Yes," he said.
"I would be delighted," I answered. I must have pleased him in bed the previous night. It had been quite an experience for me. I didn't have much time for sex. I did sleep with older men as they were the most helpful to me--but black men? And black men who were highly experienced and who were hung like gods and were virile, attentive, and good for hours at a time? Edge was the first of those. After Edge I never said no to a fit black man who wanted to lay me--and I never was disappointed. I like to think that I wasn't a disappointment for any of them either.
* * * *
I cried out as the black bull entered, entered, entered me again, going deep, holding there as, stretching, I accommodated him. Then I panted and groaned as he reset the rhythm of the fuck. He was no thicker than the thickest of men who had gotten their shafts me, but he was impossibly long. No one had reached this far into my core and ravished me there.
I was stretched out on my belly in the queen-sized bed in the larger of the two bedrooms in Edge Gordon's cottage on the beach on Fire Island on Saturday morning. We had arrived after dark from the city after driving the some sixty miles in an hour and a half, the traffic coming out of the city being heavy on a summer Friday evening and taking a ferry out to the island from the Long Island shore. I hadn't been in a car in ages, and Gordon put the top down on his Audi TT Roadster. He'd stopped for carryout as soon as we hit the island and we waited for the water taxi that would take us on to near his cottage. We'd gobbled the food up after he'd shown me around the cottage, which didn't take long, and then he'd taken me into his bedroom, stripped me, and laid me--and then laid me again--and again--snaking that extraordinarily long cock deep into my inner core, slaying me there again and again, me clutching his biceps, rubbing his hips with my knees, and whimpering, Yes, yes, yes" to his deep penetration as I rocked on his shaft.
This had gone on periodically all evening and night. The man was making the most of his weekend treat. And now, on Saturday morning, I had a bolster under my belly, rolling my buttocks up to his sport. My arms were raised above my head, my hands were fisting the brass rungs of the headboard, and Gordon was stretched on top of me, on his toes in a straight-line pushup position, his fists grasping my wrists, his face buried in the hollow of my neck, although rocking back and forth, the beads of his dreadlocks clicking together, and what must be eleven inches of an erection were moving in and out inside me, fucking me as vigorously as he had done periodically through the night.
