This is a work of erotic fiction. All participants are fictional, and are over eighteen years of age. If reading erotic fiction about adult male participants that involves sex, sexual servitude, bondage, and pain is illegal wherever you are, don't read any further. If possible, go back in time and don't click on the link that led to this file; that's probably illegal too.
This particular chapter doesn't involve an awful lot of sex. I'll make it up to you. I welcome your feedback, and hope you enjoy the story.
A Number Of Nights Chapter 02
"Thank you, Master. I call this story...
The Tale of the Boy Who Gave Up And Just Stopped Living (Anywhere) Part One
There was this boy, known as Davy F. I'm not sure whether the F stood for Ferlighetti or Frankenstein, or whether he'd just not done too particularly well in school, but that's what he was known as. He wasn't what you'd call a whore, not really, but the boy did get around. He was good-looking in that half-baked rebel sort of way; a skater sometimes, a parkour guy others. He could have been great at either, but he couldn't be bothered. Instead, he went from part-time job to college to part-time job, living in dinghy apartments with roommates, or on couches when that didn't work out.
He was good-looking enough that he never had to really try to get himself laid; instead, he'd see who was pursuing him at the moment, and give in to their advances if he could be bothered. A quick post on Craigslist, and he'd be ignoring emails for a week.
Now, there are some that say that all human endeavor is motivated by sex, that the question "Why did this person achieve so much?" can always be answered, simply, "To get laid." That would explain a lot in Davey's case. If all he had to do to get laid was show up, well then, what else was there?
In the course of time, over a few moves between apartment and dorm and some friend's couch, his stuff got dispersed out to the world, and all he had was a few changes of clothes and a battered laptop. His life was spent at work, in class sometimes, at coffee shops and friends' living rooms.
And yet, he wasn't too concerned that his ties to life were wearing thin. His impositions on his friends eroded away friendships, and he just spent more time alone. His parents had long since drifted away. He hooked up with strangers on Craigslist, and never for long. He showed up at his job, worked just hard enough to not get fired, and then drifted off somewhere until he had to work again.
One night, one of his Craigslist encounters met him at a midtown hotel. They fucked around a while, and when they were in the middle of things, meaning when Davey's cock was firmly lodged up the gentleman's ass and he was working on a colossal fuck, the guy's wife started pounding on the door.
She was upset.
Well, there was a fracas, with the guy trying to keep a towel around his waist as his wife stormed in, pointed, yelled, accused, demanded, and then stormed off. The guy, still trying to explain or entreat, had gathered what clothes he hadn't managed to wriggle into in the midst of all the chaos, and rushed after her.
Davy just lay there through all of it, naked and amused.
He found himself alone in the hotel room, waiting for the guy to come back. After a while, he flipped on the TV set. He caught an episode of something, then a movie. Still no sign of the guy. Never one to turn down an opportunity, as long as it took no effort on his part, Davey stayed the night in the king-sized bed, on nice sheets, with the sound of the late-night newscasts lulling him to sleep. He awoke in sunshine, took a long hot bath, lounged about naked a while, surfed the web a while, and wished that he could live like this forever.
Now, that sort of realization would cause most people to get their act together, to work hard to achieve the success that it takes to live well. Davey, though, couldn't be bothered. He'd had it handed to him once; surely it couldn't be that hard to get it again?
He gathered his stuff and left the room well after check-out time, looking back regretfully. He worked that afternoon, selling paint to contractors and do-it-yourselfers, and then returned to the room he was sharing in the rathole apartment he paid way too much for. And that night, Davey did some research, and did some digging on the web, and did some thinking. Davey had a plan.
The next afternoon, he walked into a pretty good motel near the freeway in the afternoon, with everything he owned plus a couple of subs in his backpack; it still wasn't full. He lurked about until he found where the maids were working, and waited for one to be almost totally finished with a room. As she was making up the bed, back towards the door, sheets fluttering brightly in the sun, Davey snuck in behind her and into the bathroom. A couple of mintues' wait, and he heard the door close behind the maid, and the room was his.
He spent a couple of days there, totally alone, reading manga on the web and enjoying HBO until he had to work again. The next night, he got himself a place to stay and a hearty fuck via Craigslist, and then it was another hotel. In the course of the next couple of weeks, he managed to figure out ways to get into six different hotels, pretty reliably. And suddenly, Davey was doing all right. When rent had been taking half his paycheck, he'd hardly been able to do more than eat; now he had enough to go out, see shows, go to movies sometimes.
Davey could even host his Craigslist encounters now; he had a much wider array of willing sex partners to choose from. He'd tell them the hotel, and the room number, and it wasn't like the hotel staff weren't used to people looking furtive as they headed up to the guest room floors. Davey got used to good sex in nice rooms.
He got comfortable.
Now, when you've earned what you have, being comfortable isn't a bad thing. When most of what you've got is taken from someone else, though, getting comfortable is what you do before it all comes crashing down. The hotels that Davey liked the most started getting wise to him.
There came a morning when Davey, fresh out of the shower, walked out of the bathroom to find a maid in the room; she started apologizing in Spanish and backing out, Davey covered himself with his towel, the maid turned and left, and Davey heard her hurry off down the hall. He threw his clothes on, grabbed his pack, and got to the hallway just as the security guard exited the elevator.
The guard yelled at him to stop, but Davey didn't think that would help him much, so he took off running. You may recall, Master, that Davey had been halfway interested in parkour, freerunning; well, that half-assed interest served him well just then. He hit the stairs, and bounded down them a half a flight at a time; he skipped the last couple of flights altogether. With the security guard pounding down the stairs a few flights above him, Davey composed himself a moment, then walked out into the lobby. Where another security guard was waiting for him.
Davey took to his heels again, evading the security guard's grab at him and his cries to stop, and headed out toward the hotel pool area, only remembering too late that the whole area was fenced in. He darted past the two tourists in the hot tub, got a good head of steam up running next to the pool, and leapt at the fence, just at the corner. He bounced off one side of the fence, upwards towards the other, off of that, and he was at the top; he jumped off and rolled, his pack going flying.
He picked himself up, grabbed his pack, and ran off running as the security guards tried to boost one another over the fence.
There are some who would have taken this as a warning, and changed the way they lived right then and there. Davey, though, took it to mean he was victorious, which was bad, and invulnerable, which was infinitely worse. He got bolder; he'd slip out of his room and visit the hotel pools, spend time in the sauna, chatting with the guests. He chatted with the front desk people; one of those, he even got to let him into a room from time to time, in exchange for a late-night blowjob or two.
But they knew him now; the staff of most hotels in town had been warned about him; he even saw a poster with his face on it when he was sneaking around in a break room one day. It was getting harder to sneak in, and harder to stay unnoticed. One hotel, one of Davey's favorites, had taken to having the manager check the empty rooms in the middle of the night; Davey had to go out a window that time.
Another man might have given up at that point, but Davey wanted the life he'd been living, and Davey wasn't used to wanting anything. He got better at casing the hotels before approaching; he managed to steal a master key to one, and figured out how to get in the emergency exits at another. He made sure he had escape routes wherever he stayed, and that his gear was always ready to go at a moment's notice. He had maps of all the hotels memorized, knew their schedules, knew their staff. Months it was that the hotel chains pursued him; the managers, the security staff, the owners all considered him, if not a threat, a massive nuisance.
Still, Davey had never been caught. But there's a big difference between living the good life and living on the run, and Davey hadn't noticed the transition. You can't be free if you're hunted.
There came a night when Davey found himself at a coffee shop, having found his usual hotels too well-guarded to get into, and with Craigslist coming up dry. He was wondering if he should attempt a run at one of the motels down by the freeway, wondering how he was going to get there by bus, wondering if the word homeless applied to him, really. And he refreshed the page on Craigslist, and there it was.
An older man, fit, bored, horny, and staying at a local hotel for the night. Davey emailed him, got a refill on his coffee, and got an email back. The guy was staying at his favorite hotel. In the presidential suite.
Now, Davey made his way through the hotel systems by being anonymous, taking one of the many, many generic rooms that the hotels offered to the public; he'd never been able to figure out a way to hit the upper floors, where the really nice suites were. He'd never had a chance to see what was up there.
It was the perfect bait.
He told the man he was on his way, and headed over. He had to sneak into the hotel entrance, making his way in by hiding in a group of laughing tourists, coming back from the bars. Once in the elevator, he hit the topmost button, and waited.
He got off in a luxurious hallway; carpeting, wallpaper, urns on the tables all tasteful in the extreme. There was a chandelier. He walked, his sneakers noiseless on the thick plush carpet, to the door whose number he'd been given, and knocked.
The door was answered by the man from the ad, dressed in just a robe. He let Davey in, and offered him a drink while he looked him over hungrily. Davey lounged on a chaise, making small talk, until the man approached him, knelt over him, and undid the belt on his robe. The hard cock that Davey beheld was large, marbled with purple veins, and uncut; Davey dove in and started sucking.
Soon, the man had him stripped, the bottle of whiskey was half-gone, and they were deeply involved in a 69 on the huge bed, a view of the city spread out behind them. Davey was completely in his element; in total luxury, a cock down his throat, his own getting sucked.
The man stopped for a breather a minute, and asked Davey if he was into anything kinky. Davey asked guardedly what he meant, specifically, and the man produced a set of fuzzy handcuffs.
Davey grinned; not only did the cuffs seem pretty innocuous, but he'd been tied up a few times and enjoyed it. He offered his wrists to the man, and found himself cuffed to the headboard.
The man kissed him deeply, licked his way down Davey's body to his crotch, licked at his cock and balls a few times, and then looked up at Davey and laughed.
Davey asked him what was funny.
"I'm the hotel manager," he said. "And you're so fucked."