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    The Window Cleaner
    The Window Cleaner
    The Window Cleaner
    Ebook102 pages58 minutes

    The Window Cleaner

    By Habu

    3/5

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    About this ebook

    Former male model and current ad developer Boyd Ames wants to be in total control of the partners who top him to the extreme that he wants to go with men who normally would demand and claim total control but must give it all to Boyd. After a chance exhibitionist sex encounter across the glass with a window cleaner, Drake Simpson, in Boyd’s fifteenth-floor apartment, though, a dance for control begins between Boyd and Drake. This struggle, told from the perspective of three men, is made more complex by Boyd’s boss, Maury Rivers, who takes Drake into the ad agency and begins a whole game of control himself over the two of them, based on his theory that money controls everything.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBarbarianSpy
    Release dateJun 11, 2016
    ISBN9781925190847
    The Window Cleaner
    Author

    Habu

    Habu is one of the pen names of a former supersonic spy jet pilot, intelligence agent, male model, movie actor, and diplomat. A wild youth in South East Asia was spent enjoying whatever sexual opportunities came his way, and much of his gay male writing is about recalling incidents from those days and inventing ones he’d perhaps have liked to experience. He now leads a very quiet and ordinary life.Check out our blog and get free stories. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated.

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      Book preview

      The Window Cleaner - Habu

      Chapter One: Boyd

      I had waited patiently through three watered-down drinks in the downstairs club on Chelsea’s 22nd Street, waiting for him to come out to dance the pole. I had glimpsed him coming out to do his number the last time I’d been in the bar. But it had been late and I was leaving, needing to get a good night’s sleep for the ad campaign presentation the next morning. It seemed he always was on late, because it was past time now that I should have left.

      Fortuitously, he came to the pole right above the counter where I was seated. He came in with his eyes on me, moving his gaze from my eyes to the cash I was clutching in my right hand, like he knew I was his john for the evening. Still watching me, performing directly for me, he danced slowly, sensuously. He was wearing one of those sock thongs that only the well-hung dared to wear. Most of the pole dancers in this club were on the young and willowy side. He wasn’t. He was more of an aged-out beefcake Chippendale dancer—the other side of thirty, but just over that line, maybe four years older than I was, and still solid and hard bodied. A body builder, but he hadn’t overdone it. The square-jawed, rugged-bodied type, accentuated in his case by construction boots, with heavy woolen socks peeking out of their tops, being the only thing he was wearing other than a gold chain around his neck and the thong pulled down in front by the weight of heavy balls and a thick rod to expose the curls of his auburn pubic hair. He looked like he’d be a rough rider.

      I liked that he had hair on his body. He was honest about what he offered; he wasn’t pretending anything.

      This was only belied by the head hair, which was frosted in rambunctious curls, but the hair swirling around his nipples and descending in a tight line down into his pubes was auburn, as was the light matting on his forearms and thighs. His arms and thighs were muscular, and I could imagine him getting a vice grip on another man with this strong thighs and subduing him until the hunk could force himself inside. The club color coded the dancers’ thongs, the blue being for bottoms, which most of the dancers were, and they were getting the most attention from the club clientele, mostly sailors tonight. The blue-thonged dancers were young, smaller of stature, and lithe. Obviously most of the men watching the dancers were tops. The guy I was watching wore a red thong, one of only two dancers to do so, and the other one in a red thong was a younger, thin black guy, but whose sock thong hung almost down to his knees. You’d have to want some serious cock to go under him.

      I also liked the contrast of my guy’s tattoos. All of the dancers in this club were tattooed. Most had done it randomly. Some looked like they’d done it themselves, which was a turnoff for me. His was purposeful, artfully done and contained to one area of his body, but a riot of color there. His left arm, from the wrist up was covered in a swirling Oriental scene of greens, blues, and reds that rose up in a sleeve and covered his left pec in front and his left shoulder blade in back. He otherwise was uncolored—or so I believed at the time. I wasn’t a tattoo man, but I found the tightly controlled pattern of his tatting intoxicating, and, while he danced, his tattoo undulating on his body, I tried to discern the story of his sleeve.

      I think I was attracted to him because he looked like a man who insisted on control, who gave it rough, but he now was in a role of being at my beck and command. He kept looking hungrily and expectantly at the cash I clutched in my hand, me fully controlling when and whether to dole it out to him or one of the other dancers.

      He was dancing just for me. It was late and most of the men still in the bar weren’t gravitating to him. They were showing more interest in the effeminate, blue-thonged dancers at the other poles. No one was taking the challenge of the thin black guy in the red sock thong. I was interested in something else. I wanted to be in control, but, still, I wanted to be topped; I wanted it thick and long. And I wanted the man to have to give up his natural role of controlling to have what I could give—the cash clutched in my hand. The dancer had few options other than whatever I wanted from him. He obviously was aware of that, as he was working me solely.

      I rose a bit out of my chair, leaned forward, and stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his waistband. Seeing that I had higher-denomination bills in my hand, he accelerated his attention to me, shimmied up the pole, slowly rode it back down, holding it close into his body, and giving me the eye, came off the pole and crouched down in front of me, dick at my eye and mouth level, and moved his pelvis back and forth languidly. Putting a hand under his silky red pouch tube, he elevated and pointed his dick at me. He wanted me to know he was long and thick. His eyes and the expression on his face invited me to touch. So I did, running my fingers up the side of his shaft as I lifted another ten spot between two fingers up to his waistband.

      He gave me an air kiss and reached out a thick-fingered hand to cup my chin. I frowned at that, though, and pushed his hand away. He just shrugged, but gave me a no hard feelings look and smiled as I took my time moving my cupped hand back down his sheathed shaft.

      The music in the room was reaching a crescendo. This wouldn’t go on much longer. The time to strike a deal or go home was fast approaching.

      My eyes went to his forearm, liking that I could see a vein bulging as it ran up his arm, prominent because his muscle tone gave no way for the vein to run through fat. My mind went to wondering if there was such a vein running the length of his cock. I already knew the shaft was thick and long.

      His eyes went to my hand that still held bills—two twenties and a fifty.

      He leaned down and whispered, Another twenty now, give the big guy standing at the side of the bar the other twenty, and then follow me into the back and I’ll give you a private session for the fifty. Whichever way you want it, as hard and deep as you can take it.

      I stuffed a twenty in his waistband, and he remained crouched there in front of me, undulating to the music, while I moved the hand back down to encase his cock in the tube loosely, as he move the shaft back and forth in my loose grip, noticeably filling out. I was already giving him a hand job, but we both knew the fifty would get me more.

      The music stopped, he rose and turned to walk to the end of the stage, down a few stairs, and then through a beaded curtain-covered doorway into the back, as I walked over and handed the remaining twenty to a goon sprawled on the side of the bar.

      The dancer was standing in a doorway, leaning provocatively into the doorframe when I entered the dimly lit hallway. As I brushed by him and into a small room painted black, he reached out to pull me into his body and a kiss, but I gently pushed him away. No, I don’t want you to touch me or to take the initiative. I want to control, I said in a low voice.

      Sure, anything you want, he said, as I handed him the fifty, and he added that to what he took out of his waistband, pulled the thin gold chain with a key

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