Chelsea
At the clinic where they both tested for HIV, Miguel seized Blake’s right hand, terrified into a sweat as if he’d finished the New York marathon. His tricks and fuck-fests flashed through his memory at warp speed.
If we’re okay, I promise, Blake will be my last sexual partner. Please, let us turn out okay.
The Gay Men’s Health Center physician assured them not to worry as both oral swabs came back negative.
Muchas gracias, we’re clean.
On the way to pick up Blake's things for the week, he insisted they stop off at a sex shop called The Pleasure Chest in the West Village. He purchased a Manuel Ferrara Realistic Dong and a famous straight porn star’s prosthetic penis. Blake asked the clerk for silicone oil lube, edible body chocolate, a butt plug, anal beads, and nipple clamps. The list came via text earlier by Thor.
Giving in to his amusement for his new submissive, he let Blake buy the toys, but Miguel’s cock warranted assurance no man in his presence required toys of any kind.
They went to Blake’s Chelsea apartment, and he helped him pack up his work and casual clothes, shoes, and grooming supplies required for the week ahead.
Always in awe over the space, he appreciated Château Morgan. A three-thousand-square-foot, full-floor Manhattan penthouse with top-of-the line finishes, adorned with marble floors and large-scale oil canvas paintings on the walls. The eighteenth-century antiques and four sweeping balconies provided panoramic Hudson River views. Obviously, Blake came from money, but he was never smug about it. Miguel found his many qualities endearing.
Sure, he could’ve loaded up his art supplies and spent the week there, but his goal was to make his blonde friend squirm. Having him at his mercy for seven days, on his terms, removed from his lavish comforts and being in his bed was his ultimate fantasy.
After all, his objective was to break him in, if it was the last thing he’d do.
I'll make Mr. Morgan mine once and for all.
He’d heard Blake’s cry earlier that day at the spa when he’d touched him. His instinct was to stop the manscaping, turn him over, and hug. Nevertheless, his bud’s body spoke to him and told him to keep going, and so he did. Blake worked through whatever pain he was feeling as Miguel fingered his tight ass. He understood this was only the beginning. They were on a long, erotic journey together. He wondered what MLD had done to him. It became obvious Blake hadn’t been touched in a physical, emotional, or intimate way in years. But why?
Blake’s walls were up in full fortress mode. Maybe they shouldn’t be shopping for sex toys. No, Miguel figured he’d need a jackhammer to get his friend’s walls down.
They took his limo to his Bowery and Bleecker Street loft. Blake had brought four oversized, Louis Vuitton monogrammed suitcases with two garment bags.
“Did you have to pack so much?” he griped as they climbed up the narrow stairs to his fifth-floor loft. The pre-war building was inspiring for him to work in, but sometimes unpractical.
“I forgot your building doesn’t have an elevator.” By the time they reached his floor, Blake looked breathless. “I…hope…” Unable to speak, he paused, inhaled, and continued, “You bought this at a good price…with this setup.” He coughed. “Now I know why you have such nice legs…and a football player’s ass. It’s…these fucking stairs.”
Flattered, he hadn’t didn’t realized Blake had noticed his legs, let alone his ass or any other part of his body. He unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door, stepping inside. His guest followed behind him. Turning back, he witnessed his apparent revulsion.
The apartment was one immense open space, maybe two thousand square feet. There was a mattress on the floor near one window, sink and counter space against one wall with a stand-up shower, and a toilet in a water closet. Miguel’s easels stacked with his canvas artwork were scattered all over. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
A strained smirk crossed Blake’s model-like features, oblivious to Miguel. “This’ll be fun. Either we’ll fuck our brains out or kill one another. Where should I hang my clothes?”
He pointed to the closet. From the opposite side of the loft, Brutus ran up to him. Sniff. Sniff. Then he barked.
“Hey there, fella. We have a visitor with us this week.”
The smoky-ash-colored pup turned and faced Blake.
Frozen, his gorgeous eyes glassed over in fear. This was a new, freaked-out level for his friend.
“Pet Bru,” he ordered, hoping Blake wouldn’t cry. Was pushing him to do this wrong? The last thing he wanted was to be a dog owner who forced his pet on someone who didn’t care for him. But Brutus was his confidant. He must love him, too.
Terror, stark and vivid, glittered in his baby blues. “I—I can’t.” Blake’s hands balled into fists. “Please, Miguel. Don’t make me.” Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Vive has a dog and it doesn’t bother you.” He made his jealousy obvious. He hated when his friends played favorites. They partied at Taddy’s penthouse, worshipped Lex’s man, and cooed over Vive’s dog. His Latino pride couldn’t help but get envious.
“Hedda Hopper is a ten-pound, sixteen-year-old cashmere pillow. Poor girl is deaf, blind, and toothless. She drinks Perrier from a Waterford bowl and naps eighteen hours a day.” Blake pointed at Brutus and declared, “There’s a big difference.”
A soothing proposal came to mind. Miguel went into the kitchen, pulling the junk drawer open. Buried under his paintbrushes and notepads was a nylon muzzle. “I’ve never put this guard on his snout. It’s cruel, no?”
“I suppose.” Blake crossed his arms, hiding his apparent tremble.
“The building’s super made me buy the mouth guard when I adopted Brutus. Mrs. Garfieldo on the third floor almost experienced an aneurism over a pit in the building.” He knelt down facing Brutus and apologized, “I’m sorry, boy. It’s temporary.”
Brutus sat on his hind legs, stifled a low howl, and lowered his ears as he snapped the shield around his mouth.
“I’ll keep this on him ’til you’re comfortable. You are going to have to make an effort.”
“Thanks.” The fear was replaced with gratitude.
“Lean down, extend your hand, and let Bru sniff you.”
As instructed, he placed his agile hand down and opened his palm.
Wagging an excited tail, Brutus nudged his snout against Blake’s arm, his way of saying, Hello. The dog made a licking sound through his muzzle.
His iced-up exterior, which no more than a bonfire could warm, softened. An affectionate glow cast over his symmetrical features. His broad forehead furrowed. A smile, Miguel hadn’t seen on his friend’s face in a very long time, dawned.
“Bru wants to be your friend.”
He jerked his hand back in denial. A loud bark erupted in response through the guard.
“The dog assumes I’m Kibbles ’n Bits.” His chiseled jaw muscles set.
“Address him by his name and not the dog.”
“Have you fed him?”
“Yes, Brutus wants to go outside. Do you want me to walk with you?”
“Thanks for asking, but I’ll manage,” Blake said full of pride. “What if Brutus…shits?”
“Pick it up.”
“Do you have a pooper scooper?”
Realizing it would offend him, Miguel tried not to laugh at his question. “No, I use disposable waste bags.”
“Baggies? So I have to touch his…shit with my hands? My skin and his crap separated only by a thin plastic layer?”
“Sí.” From the table, he threw him the leash and the plastic roll. “Have fun, and don’t get any on ya.”
“Not funny, Mig.”
“Here are your keys.” He tossed him the spare. The keychain, a plastic square an inch and a half around, read ‘I N Y’.
He’d never shared his keys to the apartment with anyone. Ever.
“Thank you.” Blake slipped them into his front pocket.
“When you return, you may
start to tidy up this place and make us something to eat. I’m starved.” Looking around, he noticed the dirty cereal bowl in the sink and the previous day’s boxers on the floor. He was embarrassed with how he’d left his apartment that morning, but figured the sooner Blake started his domestic duties, the better.
He exhaled an irritated moan. “Oh, you’re pushin’ it, aren’t you?”
“Hey, if I’m gonna rim you again esta noche, you’d better earn it. You haven’t shot your load yet today, have you?”
That shut him up quick. He leashed Brutus’s collar and headed downstairs.
Watching with admiration, Miguel realized his friend was awkward when it came to doing anything which didn’t revolve around himself. He’ll learn who comes first soon enough.
Betty Crocker
Lower East Side
His friend had bought his loft years before, yet he’d visited him only once. Miguel never hosted or entertained. Now I knew why. The space was as homey as a block of ice.
How will I survive a whole week in this hellhole?
Wasn’t he loaded? His art showings made fortunes. Blake was dumbfounded as to why he never did anything to make it more of a home. Such a bachelor.
Brutus led him to what he assumed was the dog’s favorite oak tree to piss, the preferred wilted grass to shit, and his most wanted dirt mound to dig.
The dog was a cakewalk. He walked Blake. Typical, that a top such as Miguel would own a Dom-ish dog.
Optimistic he’d turn the art warehouse into a home, he called Merry Maids upon returning to the apartment. He’d given his own housekeeper the week off and didn’t feel right about asking him to forgo his impromptu vacation and come back to work, so he scheduled a housekeeper to clean.
Miguel, unfortunately, overheard the conversation and made him call Merry Maids back and cancel the appointment. “You’re going to clean this apartment without anyone’s help,” he said critically.
He didn’t argue but rather mumbled, “Okay.” The apartment was too big for him to clean by himself.
“You’re going to cook us dinner, not order to-go food.” He pelted the order without patience.
Blake nodded in agreement, realizing he’d underestimated him. “Yes, sir,” he voiced in a submissive tone, oddly getting turned on by being told what to do.
“And you’ll do the laundry, not send it out.”
“Where’s the laundry room?” Turning around, he searched for a washer and dryer.
“In the basement.”
The very way Miguel stood, in command, revealed he’d thought out the fantasy all right. It was Butler Morgan III at his service.
“No banging your Levi’s against the rocks in the Hudson River then, I take it?” He glanced down at Miguel’s crotch. Unsurprised to see it swelling through his pants, he confirmed, “You love being Mister Boss Man.”
“Don’t be fresh.” He pulled down his upper lip as if fighting the urge to reveal his trademark, attention-getting smile.
Did Miguel find this funny? Was he as turned on as Blake was?
Nevertheless, he was busted. Fuck. Traipsing up and down those stairs with Miguel’s dirty clothes over and over again would become unbearable. “I won’t have time to get to your laundry ’til tomorrow.”
“We have my nieces and M2 all day tomorrow, remember?”
“Right.” Mr. Mom, here I come.
“You’ll have to do it tonight.” His sexy Mexican lips curled up into a smile. “Let me help you.”
“I’ll manage.” He sighed, wishing he could send it out as everyone else in town did.
“We’ll do it together. Okay?”
“I’d like that.” Blake couldn’t help but grin. They’d always gotten along as friends. There was no reason to start arguing just because they were living together that week. Who knew, maybe all this housework would give him a juicy ass, too. “Do you mind if I call my mom?”
“Mrs. Morgan is not coming over to help you.”
“No, certainly not. She’d be appalled at how you’ve decorated the place.” He grimaced and continued, “I need to ask her for some recipes.” And a prayer he’d get through the week without flipping his shit on Miguel’s demands.
“Recipes for what?” His eyes studied him in an adorable way.
“A home-cooked meal isn’t something I’ve ever prepared. Mom will walk me through what to make.” He admitted, “I don’t cook. I may have relationship experience, but my marriage didn’t domesticate me in the least.” He remained modest, but couldn’t figure out why Miguel didn’t have meals delivered or his own chef. Was this his Seven Needs game? He’d go along with it until his friend came out to his parents. That’s all he really cared about, having his friend be true to who he was about his sexual orientation. But was Blake being true to who he was? Not at all.
“Okay, call her.” He chuckled and then mumbled a few words in Spanish.
“Don’t laugh at me. I don’t see the Joy of Cooking or Betty Crocker’s latest laying around your loft.” He did, however, notice the Jock XXL magazines, graphic novels, and porn DVDs stacked on his bookshelf. “I could research suggestions online, but Mom’s recipes are scrumptious.” He was also afraid he’d find Miguel’s cyber buddies lurking. Blake didn’t want to know if his friend met guys online, and if so, what that routine entailed if he had one.
“Sure, tell your parents I said hola.”
He’d tell them. His parents worshiped Miguel. After all, according to Manhattanite Magazine, he ranked as a top gallery attraction. With his exhibits scheduled during the year in Barcelona, Toronto, and Los Angeles, the Morgan’s acquired his abstract works for their homes in Palm Beach and Sedona. Room after room at his parents was decorated in his artwork. Lex, Taddy, and Vive also decorated in Santana...so why his loft was so bare remained a mystery.
The second he hit the sidewalk to get groceries, he smelled downtown’s piss, spiced street meat, and vomit. He knew one person might sympathize with him—his gal pal who wouldn’t be caught below 42nd Street. He pulled out his iPhone and called Vive.
“Bottom boy,” she answered on the third ring.
He laughed at his new nickname and asked, “Gossip Queen, have you been to Miguel’s loft?”
“Nope. Lex goes over to the Lower East Side all the time. She and Miguel work out together. She mentioned his place is…sparse.”
Blake gave her the Seven Desires to Seven Needs update. “Can you imagine?”
“Gorgeous, you’ve met your matchie-poo. Thor and I knew he’d be a challenge for you, but in a good way. A hung, Mexican, ‘throw you over his knee and split your ass open’ kinda way.” Vive made a gulping noise over the phone.
“Getting fucked is so much work.” He paused, realizing she sounded tipsy, and asked, “What are you doing?”
“While you’re making mystery meat buffet for your new man, I’m having myself France’s carbonated finest from a bottle. My meal is ready after I uncork, no cooking required.”
“Booze is your dinner?” He remembered their talk earlier at the spa. What would it take to get her to quit drinking?
“Champagne puts about seven hundred calories in me. I can’t afford to be my usual editorial self and have food to boot.” She burped. “Excusez-moi. Listen, back to your Latin cock. Miguel is worth every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears you’re going to shed this week. Mr. Santana is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. And I know you agree.” Vive sipped loudly then came a break on the line.
“Hello? You there?” He thought she’d hung up or the line had dropped. The cell provider had bad service on the Lower East Side.
“I’m here. That was Lex beeping in. She’s called me a million times today. I’m ignoring her.”
“Why?”
“After our spa treatments, I went to Easton’s showroom and picked up my bridesmaid’s dress.”
Hearing about the wedding made him stop and stand still for a minute. “Are the gowns that hideous?’ He couldn’t help but think of that
movie where the girls started having accidents after being food poisoned. They couldn’t get out of the dresses fast enough.
“No, they are lovely. Jemma created them in Milan. I look ravishing in mine.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I’m too old to be a maid. Wedding parties are for kids. Who does this shit anymore?”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“You mean, you don’t want to be in the wedding either?”
“At this phase in our lives, who wants to be in a wedding?” Blake felt horrible for his comment the second it came out of his mouth. But it was how he felt.
“Did you get your tux?”
“Yes, and Vive, like it or not, we must do whatever Lex wants. This is her week.” He tried to redeem himself from the previous remark. Vive had a big mouth—fuck, she was a gossip columnist. If Lex knew how Blake felt, she’d die. He was genuinely happy for her and Massimo to be getting married. Did it have to happen the week his divorce papers went through? No. But this wasn’t his wedding.
“Agreed. Hence why I’m avoiding her call. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. You know how insensitive I am.” Vive laughed. She was good at ripping on herself, but she was right. “Enough of that. Let’s get back to your hunk. I love Miguel for you.”
“He is a great guy.” Blake didn’t believe otherwise. But he remained complex, a brute, and at times a challenge. Miguel treated Vive, Taddy, and Lex as ladies, but he felt as if Miguel resented him. He couldn’t figure out why his friend always gave him a hard time, more so than even he gave Thor. And everyone gave Thor a hard time.
“I need your help.” He elaborated on his chores and requested some advice on cleaning supplies. “Seeing as Taddy has a live-in maid and you are my only friend who does her own laundry. I’m lost.”
“Suck my tits, bottom-boy. Though a maid is in my budget, I don’t want one. I don’t have the energy to hide my paraphernalia when they come over. This is my excuse as to why I never bring cock home, either.” She snorted. True, Vive had more money than all of them put together; after all, she was the heiress to the Farnworth Firewater liquor company. Yet, for whatever reason, he’d never known her to have a housekeeper.