Alain left the Chicago Institute of Art, portfolio case under his arm, and walked to the Van Buren CTA stop to catch the Blue Line from the Loop out toward Forest Park. He had been walking slowly, but he looked at his watch and picked up his pace. The carriage he entered was moderately crowded and he remained at one of the doors until the UIC-Halsted stop near the University of Illinois Chicago, where he stood to one side of the carriage entrance as several passengers got off and a few got on. A tall, slender man of some forty-five years, dark complexioned and originally graced with dark, wavy hair but now with gray shot through still wavy hair brushed against Alain in entering the carriage and gave him a piercing look. Alain caught the look but turned his head and pulled back, finding a seat down the carriage. The man, dressed in black trousers and an expensive-looking black-leather jacket, moved to the other side of the carriage and sat on the opposite side from Alain.

As the train started up again Alain looked down the carriage to see that the man was staring at him. He continued to do so through the Racine, Medical District, and Western stops. After the train left the Western platform, though, the man stood and moved to the exit door. He gave Alain another piercing look, which Alain saw and again turned his head from. He too stood, though, as the train slowed to a stop at the Kedzie-Homan station. Both men exited the CTA here.

The man started walking down South Kedzie Avenue through a lower-class neighborhood of town houses turned into ill-kept tenements, and turned onto West Lexington toward South Sacramento Boulevard. He didn't look back as he walked. He moved with self-confidence and total control.

Alain followed a half block behind him, the expression on his face blank.

At the corner of West Lexington and South Sacramento, the man entered a three-story building, a fleabag hotel. He paid at reception and wrote out a note. There was no elevator. He was climbing the stairs to the third floor when Alain entered the hotel. The man at reception handed Alain the note, giving him a head-to-crotch assessment and a bit of a knowing sneer and a wink, and Alain climbed to the third floor.

The man fucked Alain on a brass-headboard double bed in a room hardly big enough to hold the bed, a bureau, and a straight-back chair. It did have a tiny bathroom off it, though, with stained and chipped linoleum and a perpetually dripping showerhead. The bedframe was loose and the headboard rhythmically hit against the wall with the thrusts of the fuck. The same sound was coming from other surrounding rooms. The mattress was tired and stained.

The men, the tall, dark older man, and the young, handsome, blond, with the sensual features, were both naked. The man was hard-bodied, muscular, but leanly so, so little fat on him that his veins popped out blue on his arms, chest, and legs because they had no body fat to go through. He was hirsute, but not heavily so, with swirls of dark hair at his pectorals and a thin line running down to his belly to trimmed pubes. His legs and forearms were more heavily matted, but not heavily so. Alain, slim, small for his age of twenty-one, and beautifully formed, angelic of aspect, was on his back with his buttocks at the foot of the bed. The man initially knelt on the floor beneath him, fisting Alain's ankles, bending the young man's legs up into his chest, and tonguing the young man's hole, opening him up to violation, which would be the initial thought of a voyeur first seeing the scene, a devil debauching an angel.

It all unfolded in silence and a sense of sluggish, floating-along underwater action. The sinewy, dark-aspect, slightly hirsute man was slow and methodical, fully in control and self-confident, and all power-to-be obeyed in his manipulation and taking of Alain. There was no question that he was going to get what he wanted. Alain, sunny blond and sleek and smooth, angelic and young of body, was totally open and submissive, languidly and "in another world" giving the man whatever he wanted as if by the man's right.

Nothing had been said between the two men when Alain knocked on the door, but, seeing that it wasn't closed fully, pushed it open. The man already was naked, standing at the window, leaning into the window frame, and smoking a cigarette. Alain pulled his clothes off and laid down on the bed, his buttocks at the foot of the bed, holding his legs spread and raised. The man finished smoking his cigarette before pulling the window up a few inches and tossing the butt out onto the dirty street below. Then, with neither of them saying anything, the man went to the foot of the bed, knelt, grasped Alain's buttocks, spreading the cheeks, and flicked his tongue at the young man's hole.

Impatient for the fuck after eating Alain's ass out, the man rose, hovered over Alain between the young man's thighs, and took his right hand off Alain's ankle long enough to position the head of his cock at Alain's hole. He moved the bulb around the rim, obtaining a deep moan in response. Alain submissively kept his leg in place bent up into his chest until the man could grasp it again. He had his head turned to the only window in the room and to the top of a blinking neon sign that ran down from the third floor on the outside of the hotel, as if he could float out above the street. His arms were stretched out from his side in a sacrificial position.

This was going to happen.

He grimaced and groaned deeply as the cockhead penetrated him, not having been prepared well enough yet to take it. He involuntarily bucked with the initial entry and the start of the stroking until he was sufficiently stretched, and then he arched his back, turned his face forward again for his eyes to be captured by those of the man, and settled down to low moans as the man sank deeper in him and started to work him. The man's cock was long, in curved erection. He established a slow beat of the fuck, both men listening to the rhythmic bounce of the brass headboard on the wall, which was echoed by a similar, slightly off-beat rapping on the other side of the wall from another hotel room. Alain took his own cock in a hand and stroked it.

The young man bucked briefly and releasing his seed, collapsing back on the bed and closing his eyes as the man, strong, virile, overpowering, continued to fuck him. The man ran an arm under Alain's waist and rose up on his feet, taking Alain's pelvis with him. Alain's torso streamed sacrificially back onto the bed, and Alain stretched his arms out, arched his head up to open his mouth in a yawn to the ceiling, completely open and surrendered to the man, as the man fucked him and fucked him to a three-spurt ejaculation.

A half hour later Alain woke from a doze. He found himself lying on his back on the bed. The man, still naked, stroking his erection, was sitting in the straight-back chair, his eyes watching the beautiful young blond, now violated, man in repose. Waking with a snort, Alain sat up on the end of the bed and slowly moved his head to scan the room as in a haze. The man stood up from the chair, took the two steps that were necessary to reach the bed, growled the only statement he made throughout the session, "Wake up! You'll want to show more enthusiasm with the donor," and backhanded Alain across the face. Alain, with a surprised sob, fell back on the bed.

The man flipped Alain over onto his belly, ran an arm under the young man's stomach, and lifted him up, placing Alain on his knees, with his torso streaming down to the mattress, his cheek on the stained chenille bedspread. Alain didn't resist the man in any way; he just sighed and floated along, letting the man manipulate and work his body as he wished.

The man had violated his body and showed every intention of doing it again and Alain just lay there and took it.

After running his hands over Alain's body and humming, the man saddled up to Alain's ass, mounted and penetrated him, and fucked him to a second ejaculation. Moving his hand under his belly, Alain helped himself to a second ejaculation as well. The man was quite long, although not unreasonably thick. Still, he gave Alain all of the shaft during the slow, controlled pumping, and he filled and stretched Alain's passage enough for the young man to moan and whimper from the pain-pleasure of the taking. At no time did Alain demur or complain. He stoically took it and gave a little groan of acceptance when the man tensed, jerked, and released.

At no time in the hour did either man speak beyond the man's one attempt to bring Alain totally into the room and the fuck.

Alain lay on the bed, stretched out, one arm dangling over the side and watched, calmly and almost with disinterest, the man who had just fucked him twice take a quick shower, dress without engaging in another look at the young man, and leave the room. Then Alain came off the bed and quickly showered and dressed and left as well.

He was a block and a half behind the man for the walk back to the Blue Line Kedzie-Homan station. They both entered the train again, headed for the Forest Park end of the line, but they entered separate carriages.

* * * *

Alain, feeling disconnected from the world and floating in a sea of numbness despite having just been forcefully fucked, got off the CTA at the Harlem-Forest Park station and, expressionless as if drawn into his own private world, walked the thirteen long blocks north, through Oak Park, to the area around Chicago Avenue. It was here that the iconic architect Frank Lloyd Wright had had his first studio and where his early house designs were realized. Alain was early for the party he had come out here to attend, and he took the opportunity to take in the architect's unique design work as he had done earlier in the day at the Chicago Art Institute. He came back into the present world and became more attentive and animated as he walked through the neighborhood with houses that were designed by Wright early in his career and focused on the artistic elements of Wright's designs.

Industrial art was Alain's major at the University of Illinois Chicago, where he was in his third year, struggling, both financially and academically, to be able to go to graduate school at the end of his next year of undergraduate work. Alain was French Canadian, although he had never lived in Canada for any length of time. He did hope, however, to return to Montreal and pursue a career in designing the aesthetics of commercial buildings there. His father had been in the Canadian foreign service and the family had lived in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., where Alain had been sent to the exclusive Sidwell Friends High School. The family lived well and their children were exposed to art and culture, but the family funds were insufficient to cover all of Alain's college expenses. He had been doing what he could, including being a commercial model, to make ends meet. He was a handsome and perfectly formed young man, and, when necessary, he'd sold his body to others—to women and men alike—to keep his dream of becoming an architect alive.

Alain made sketches in the Chicago Avenue area, adding them in his portfolio case to those he'd drawn at the art institute, and then walked several blocks back to the English Tudor style house on Clinton Avenue, a tree-lined upscale area.

Miriam Chesterton, tall, willowy, and silver gray, in a flowing iridescent blue-green sheath dress descending to her ankles, greeted him at the door, held his hands in hers, and kissed him on both cheeks. She too was French Canadian and had promoted the young man's student standing with her husband, Felix Chesterton, Alain's mentor in the art department at the University of Illinois Chicago. As she pulled Alain into the house and toward the chatter in the other room of the other guests, her husband, Felix, descended upon them. Professor Chesterton was a tall, slender man of some forty-five years, dark complexioned and originally graced with dark, wavy hair but now with gray shot through still wavy hair. He was wearing black trousers and a black leather vest over a billowy white shirt. He gave Alain a piercing, possessive smile as he approached.

"Here at last, young Alain," he said when he reached them and Miriam gave Alain over to his presence and disappeared back into the living room and their other guests. "You have drawings to show me?"

"Yes, sir," Alain said, eyes downcast, as he turned the portfolio over to his professor. Chesterton opened the portfolio, made a cursory scan of the drawings Alain had done at the art institute and of detail work on Frank Lloyd Wright-designed houses around Chicago Avenue, and put the portfolio aside. "You are late. I almost thought you would not come," he said in low, sharp tones that wouldn't reach the living room. "You know this party is for you, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," Alain answered, diffidently.

"Try to show more spirit, Alain. Don't just float along in life. Use the talents and attractiveness you've been given. Impress the man. Do what you have to do. Make my investment in you worthwhile." Having said that, he touched Alain's arm, turning the young man toward the living room. As they walked to the living room, Chesterton palmed the young man's buttocks possessively, marking his territory, but he took his hand away as they entered the room.

The small gathering representing the industrial art discipline of the university's art department had been laid on ostensibly to honor and woo the CEO of a major Chicago construction firm, Earl Hodges, who was contemplating establishing a lucrative graduate degree scholarship in the art department for an industrial art student. Hodges was a graduate of the university's technical design school, as it then had been called, and, after making many millions, was prepared to give back. He was a controlling and demanding man, though, and would be keeping a firm hand on the decision of who would be getting his scholarship if he established one. The school didn't care about that as long as they got money value out of the man.

Everything about Earl Hodges in person exuded an entitled, overbearing persona as he stood in the middle of the circle of university professors, students, and administrators there to woo him, Chesterton inserted Alain into the mix next to Alain's fellow student, Chris Matthews. Chris was a former classmate of Alain's at Sidwell Friends and now a source of moral and financial support for the somewhat listless blond angel. Hodges was a standout. He was taller and larger than anyone else in the group, and his booming voice took and maintained control of the conversation as if by natural right. He was in his early fifties, Daddy Warbucks bald and bushy eyebrowed, and with many of the other attributes of the overpowering cartoon character other than having a bit more of a beer-belly paunch than Daddy Warbucks was drawn with. He was as muscular as the Depression Era hero was, though, and as much in obvious control. His was the consummate capitalist image.

"Well, who do we have here?" he asked as Chesterton pressed Alain forward. The construction mogul's interest was obvious. His eyes flashed with an "eat you up" expression. It was an arresting contrast, the delicately beautiful blond angel and the almost crass epitome of corporate steel.

"This is Alain Jacquot, one of our star students in the industrial art discipline," Chesterton said. "We hope to be able to keep him for our graduate program."

It was obvious then that Hodges's interest was focused in on the handsome young blond, who responded to his directed questions with politeness and a smile, but tersely and with somewhat of a distant aura, which, rather than irritating the older man, only further intrigued and aroused him, as if the young man was a virgin egg to be carefully explored for weak points of entry, broken open, conquered, and devoured. Hodges's questioning was very much of the searching for points of entry variety, with Alain's guarded answers being polite but defensive of his privacy and what made him tick. It was only when Hodges was speaking of art that Alain showed a spark of openness.

Seeing that his insertion of Alain into the group had worked, Chesterton discreetly signaled the other university people to back off, and they drifted away, leaving Hodges to move in closer to Alain, touch his forearm with a beefy hand as if to establish possession and control, as Alain looked up into the man's face with an angelic smile and let the man ramble. As long as the man was rambling about the artistic embellishments employed in the buildings he was building, Alain had some interest.

Alain's fellow student, Chris Matthews, had a car and the two had arranged for Chris to drive Alain back to his room near the university campus after the party, but at the end of the evening, Earl Hodges was standing in the foyer of the house with an arm around Alain Jacquot's shoulders and noting to his host and hostess that Alain had agreed to accompany him to an art display at the Navy Pier that evening. Hodges would provide the transportation.

"Very good," Felix Chesterton said, giving Alain a piercing, "make this work," stare. "You can leave your portfolio here, Alain. I'll give it back to you at school on Monday. I want more time to savor your brilliant renderings of the architectural details." The last, of course, was said for the hearing of Earl Hodges.

The "art exhibit" was in Earl Hodge's penthouse duplex apartment in a high-rise North Dearborn building that his firm had built. He gave Alain a tour of the building, pointing out all of the artistic details his firm had used in the building's construction. Where he could reach it, he lovingly stroked the art detail with his beefy hands and encourage Alain to do the same, bringing tactile sensation into the seduction.

The art that was of real interest to the construction mogul, however, was Alain himself, who, following the building tour, Hodges guided to his penthouse apartment and undressed and stroked on the sofa as he spoke of art and compared the beautiful young man's body to the artistic embellishments on his buildings. Alain was pliable and yielding in a remote and disconnect but fully compliant way. He just floated along, giving the man whatever he wanted. Alain had known why he was brought here. After moments of petting and exploring what the young man would do for Hodges, the man made a request, and Alain, trained as a model, walked and posed, model style and naked, between where the older man was sitting on a sofa and a full-wall glass window looking out toward Lake Michigan.

"Yes, very nice," the man said, as he sat, fully clothed, but his fly open and his beer-can thick, but not long, cock out, in erection. "Walk to the dining table again now, Please." Alain did so, a shy smile on his face, but his mind obviously far, far away. That didn't keep him from following the man's every command, though. The instructions had been clear—if you want your graduate education to be covered, please the man and do whatever he wants you to do. The art tour seduction Hodges had engaged in helped to prepare Alain, but it hadn't been necessary for Hodges to be able to possess the young man with his cock. Alain fully understood his body was for sale, and that patronage was what this man had to exchange for possessing the young man's body.

"Very good. Now, please, sit in that chair there, yes like that. put your legs over the arms, please and roll your ass up. Let me see the hole. Yes, very nice. Touch yourself there with one hand and masturbate—slowly—with the other."

Alain settled in the classic black-leather Eames-style lounge chair and did as directed, a small, angelic smile on his face, his eyes focusing somewhere in the distance, toward the stairs leading to the three bedrooms upstairs, the ironwork of which showed designs using Frank Lloyd Wright motifs. As his eyes worked out and identified the motifs and how they were interlocked in the design of the stair railings, he took his cock in one hand and started stroking himself, while the fingers of his other hand played at the rim of his hole.

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