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A game of strip mini golf leads to public nudity and sex.

I rolled him over onto his back and came with him, on top of him, but taking most of my weight on my knees wedged between his thighs and my forearms on either side of him. He raised his buttocks to me at the perfect angle for my entry, and, crowned once more, I slid inside him and fucked him deep and slow again.

We came to the hotel three times more in the next four weeks. He asked no more about me than he already knew-not even where I lived. I wanted to make love to him in a more uplifting place than this fleabag hotel, but I had a strict policy of not going to where they lived or letting them know where I lived. That he did it for me was marked by my not having sex with anyone else during that period. I usually spiked a guy twice a week, rarely the same guy twice in succession, and in New York, I always had opportunities. I went to two gyms-twice a week to the gym with the guys I worked with, but then twice a week to a different, more discreet gym, where I presented well enough on the exercise floor that I never had to leave alone-or could manage my business right there in the showers, sauna, or changing cubicles.

But Spencer was the kind of lay that put me off anyone else.

We could have gone on like that for some time, I suppose, if I hadn't pulled vice operation duties one evening. I did what I could to avoid that special duty, as I always was afraid that I'd open my car window on a sting to some sweet young thing I'd done in the gym shower. And that's exactly what happened that night.

We were raiding the streets of the nearby Garment district one night, when I rolled down my window and the young guy peering in and opening with, "Is there anything I can do for you, handsome?" turned out to be Spencer.

"You?" he then said. "This is a cop car, isn't it? I knew I should've stayed back on the curb."

"Get in, Spencer," I growled. "Fast. Fewer who see us the better."

"You are a cop, aren't you, Mike." And then, when I didn't deny that, he said, with a sigh, "You're right. That's worse than Mafia."

"Just get in the goddamn car, Spencer. You need to be off the street tonight." It was a "bring 'em in en mass" night, with the focus on this district.

We were both silent as I drove off, and then in circles in central Manhattan, not sure where to go. I should have taken him back to the fleabag hotel in Chelsea, but my homing instinct took me back to my own place in South Central. I'd never brought a lay home before. I had a strict policy about that. I have no idea what I was thinking.

He said nothing the entire time. He just sat up against the passenger door with his hand to the side of his face, turned away from me.

I had cooled down when I entered the parking garage. "OK, here's the deal, Spencer. You have to stay off the street tonight. I can take you back to where you live or wherever as long as you pledge not to go back in the Garment district tonight. Or I can take you upstairs, to my apartment, fuck the stuffing out of you, and pay you something so that your night isn't a financial bust."
"You don't have to pay me nothin'," he muttered.

When we got up to the seventh floor and entered my apartment, we both could hear the heavy breathing and groans coming from my bedroom.

"Shit," I said.

"You runnin' a brothel from here?" Spencer asked, smiling wickedly.

To wipe the grin off his face, I fucked him on my kitchen table, him belly down on the table, and me hunched over him, with one leg on the ground and the other one raised so that my foot was on a kitchen chair, to give me extra leverage in the thrusts. His leg was trapped over mine, opening his buttocks wide to me, and I held his wrists with one beefy hand and trapped his arms behind his back. His wrists were bound over his head by the set of handcuffs he'd seen me carrying and insisted on trying out.

I fucked him hard, and he claimed to be loving it.

I was still covering his back and panting after the finish when a twinky young Hispanic poured out my bedroom, buckl

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