Date: Tue, 22 Jul 2003 14:39:18 -0700 (PDT)
From: michaelwashere@pop3.netzero.net
Subject: My Little Randy

The story that follows is fiction. By definition, that means it's not
true. The characters portrayed in this work of fiction should not be
considered to reflect accurately on any actual person, living or dead since
the invention of intolerance, which I understand goes quite a way back.

WARNING: This story is sexually-explicit and involves involving
homosexuality. If this offends you, do not continue. If accessing this
story causes you to break any local laws applicable to your area, do not
continue. By continuing, you implicitly declare that you are not a minor
nor in the company of a minor, and that you are legally entitled to have
access to sexually-explicit material.

And if you remember me from year's ago, then I'll tell you that yes, I'm
the same MikeEllis. After a long absence, I'm back and I'm working both on
new stories and reviving the old unfinished ones.

You can email me at michaelwashere@pop3.netzero.net.


My Little Randy, part 1

Mike Ellis strikes again!



I cleaned the mess up in record time, cursing R.J. Doherty all the
while. Normally, I arranged my schedule to give me at least an hour between
clients, but R.J. had been specific when he called.

"This guy'll have to come at 1:30," he'd said, "and he's only got an hour
with you before he has to head to the airport." I'd protested, of course,
at this unnamed new client that thought he could dictate my schedule, but
R.J. had pretty much just ignored whatever I said. "Trust me on this: you
make this guy happy and it'll be worth your while."

When I told him that I had enough money and didn't appreciate his thinking
that I was such a whore that I could be easily bought, he'd added, "Then do
it as a favour to me. If it doesn't work out, fine. But, please, see this
guy once."

So, in the end, I'd agreed to meet with this guy even if I did have to
rearrange my afternoon a bit. R.J. Doherty was some kind of executive with
a half-dozen entertainment companies, one of those overweight, suited types
that had vague responsibilities and made his handsome income off of the
talent of others. But over the years, he'd brought me some very wealthy and
celebrated clients, people it had been a pleasure to work with. If this bit
of inconvenience could keep me on T.J.'s good side, it was worth it.



By 1:30, both the room and I were ready. I pulled on my jacket and surveyed
the room once more just as there was a soft knock on the door. At least, I
though, this mysterious Mr. T - that was as much of a name as R.J. would
give me - was punctual. I checked my hair in the wall mirror, straightened
my tie and put on my best poker face; the first meeting was always the most
difficult, and I had over the years found the perfect noncommittal
expression. Then I opened the door.

I recognized him at once, of course. He was tall, taller than I'd realized
from seeing him on television. His clothing was casual but very expensive,
and it's baggy cut his general build from me. An automatic smile flashed
across his face for a split second, but then he looked serious. And
nervous. He kept glancing around the vestibule to see if anyone could see
him here.

I just stood there looking at him. I wanted him to speak first.

"Are you Mr. Darian?" he finally asked, his voice timid and his chin a bit
bowed.

"Yes" was all I said.

"I'm..."

"I know who you are, sir," I interrupted. I allowed a slight smile onto my
face; nothing too friendly, just polite, like the proverbial gentleman's
gentleman.  "Please come in and have a seat."


We sat on two of the black leather chairs. I was nearest the table with the
lamp, and I made a point of leaning back comfortably and resting my right
foot on my left knee. He was facing me, sitting very far forward on the
chair. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin
lowered so that when he looked at me it was from beneath his eyebrows. He
did look at me from time to time, but he also kept glancing around the
room, taking everything in.

He was very nervous. It was cute.

"Is it safe to come here?" he asked. "I can't afford to be seen coming and
going."

I answered him with a slight shrug. "It's as discreet a place as you'll
find in Manhatten. Entrance in the underground garage, security code on the
private elevator. This office overlooks a busy intersection and the only
adjoining office is used to store records for a law office three blocks
away. No one will overhear us."

"What about downstairs?"

"It's a healthclub. We're more lightly to overhear them than the other way
around.

This seemed to satisfy him. "So," he finally said, sitting up a little
straighter, "how do we..."

"A few questions first," I interrupted him again, speaking brusquely. "To
begin with, did Mr. Doherty recommend me to you or was it someone else?"

He hesitated. "It was Mr. Doherty. I'd never heard of you before."

"And he explained clearly what kind of work I do here?"

A shy smile played on his lips for a second before he moistened
them. "Yes." His voice was soft again.

"I see," I went on. "As I understand it, you and he discussed your seeking
some relief for your current condition. And I understand that you
specifically requested to work with another man."

Down went the chin again. "Yes." He was almost whispering now.

A little show of compassion wouldn't be remiss about now, I thought. "If
you'd like something to drink, the bar there is stocked. Nothing alcoholic
- I find, it interferes with our work - there are various soft drinks and
bottled water. Please, help yourself."



He seemed grateful for the change of subject and fairly bounded out of that
chair. He opened the mini-fridge and got a bottle of water, and I told him
"no" when he asked if I wanted something.

He didn't pour the water into a glass, but he didn't return to the chair
right away either. He stood at the bar, open bottle of water in his right
hand and his left gripping the front edge of the bar's surface. I sat
silently and watched the knuckles of his left hand go white with tension
then relax.

Finally he sighed heavily, like he'd come to some decision. He glanced at
the watch on his left wrist and sat the bottle down with some
force. Turning to look at me, he asked a bit petulantly, "So, are we gonna
fuck or what?"

I let my noncommittal smile return before I stood up very
slowly. Languidly. I made a concious effort to move sensuously, stalking
him like a great cat. I crossed to stand at his left shoulder. He was
taller than I was, but that wasn't going to be a problem. I rested my left
hand very lightly in the center of his chest and smiled up at him.

When he smiled back, I used the side of my right foot to kick the back of
his knees. His legs buckled and he sank to kneel on the extra thick
carpet. In a flash, my left hand went to his throat and my right hand
grabbed the hair on the back of his head and pulled his head back.

Then, moving slowly again, I tightened my left hand as I bent over to put
my lips near his left ear.

"Mr. Timberlake," I hissed, "I'll give the orders here."