Eric’s anus still felt a little raw. Not a bad feeling, not painful, just a bit raw, used. He also felt like the ghost of a penis was still inside him. And no wonder. How many men had he entertained last night? How many had fucked him?

Eric had never been with more than one man at a time before. Last night had been a breakthrough, however. At the time he’d enjoyed it less than he was now, enjoying the memory, as he turned under the hot–very hot–shower water, his slender, hairless body, once soaped up, now clean of it. Clean of everything. He’d voided the residual, commingled sperm just minutes ago, and now he felt pure again. Positively wholesome.

After drying off Eric pulled on a pair of fresh panties–a bikini cut, microfiber, patterned with a colorful abstract swirl. Similar to the pair he’d worn last night. Since being fucked made him feel oh-so feminine–effeminate–Eric also painted his lovely Cupid’s mouth the same shade of crimson he’d worn to the party–before sucking several cocks had rubbed it mostly off.

Eric then ventured out of his bedroom, down the hallway, to the kitchen. Where his roommate Cristoff looked over at him, smiled and put his hands together. “It’s about time! It’s nearly noon!”

Eric would’ve blushed but he was out of them. He’d blushed a thousand times last night as he made the rounds, this or that serving tray in front of him, the compliments and groping hands following. “So cute!” “What a pretty boy!” “Why’re you wasting your time with Cristoff?”

Cristoff rarely served his young charge–the relationship was the other way around–but today he grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, adding in a dash of cream, no sugar. He held it out to Eric. Prior to coming to live with Cristoff Eric had never drunk coffee. It was something his mother did. Now, however, he consumed two, sometimes three mugs, every morning.

As Eric sipped, Cristoff reached around and squeezed Eric’s pantied ass. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

Eric nodded. What else was there to say? Eric’s blonde locks, which Cristoff now stroked, were still damp from the shower. Cristoff said–informed him–abruptly:

“We cleared eight hundred dollars last night.”

Eric frowned above mug’s lip. “What?”

“I’m telling you. We cleared eight hundred dollars. That’s without subtracting the party expenses,” Cristoff went on to add.

“How?”

“You. The money my guests paid me to be with you. A hundred each.”

Eric was confused–flabbergasted. He’d seen some cash exchanging hands last night, in this same kitchen…but in order to be with Eric? Alone with him in his bedroom? A blowjob and then sex–fucking?

“You charged them?”

Cristoff grinned. “What do you think the party was all about? I told you I threw lots of parties. You were the…party favor.”

As Eric stood there blinking, the enormity of what happened last night beginning to sink in, Cristoff added: “I put my party expenses at about three hundred. That leaves five. I’ll split it with you: three hundred for me, two hundred for you.”

That’s not an even split, Eric said to himself.

“It’s my house, my party, my guests…I deserve a little more.”

And it’s my ass, thought Eric. istanbul travesti My mouth and my ass.

“Did any of them tip you?”

“Tip me?”

“Give you cash afterwards?”

“No. Nobody.”

Cristoff turned with a flourish. “We’ll have to put a tip jar by your bed next time. And I’ll have to make it known to our guests: tips appreciated. You get to keep the tips,” informed him, looking back.

What tips? Eric wondered. All he got as reward were a few slaps on the ass. In fact, he could still feel them. Eric said:

“I didn’t know they were paying you. I just thought…”

Cristoff read his mind: “They did. They all wanted to be with you. But there’s a cost for a forty or fifty-something year-old man sleeping with a nineteen-year-old. They should be willing to–they do–want to pay. It’s a privilege for them,” Cristoff declared.

Eric set his mug down and himself turned this time, head down. “Now I feel like a whore…”

“Not a whore, just an entrepreneur. Or would you rather be back working at the campus bookstore, making eight-fifty an hour?”

Eric did the math. Eight men, a half-hour each on average. Four hours total, two hundred dollars…

Cristoff filled in the blank: “You made about fifty dollars an hour. The going rate around town these days, I think. But the word will get around and pretty soon we’ll up it to one-twentyfive. Inflation,” Cristoff joked.

Eric said, in a voice of mild protest: “I did all the work, you get the majority of the money.”

“Expenses,” Cristoff shot back, “as I said. Plus without me, my contacts, there is no party. There are no horny old men with cash to burn.” Cristoff held out a hand: “If you don’t want the money…”

Not that Eric had received any yet anyway. Eric bowed his head again.

“We’ll do it better in a couple of weeks. I’ll make it clear in my email invites that tips are not just accepted but expected. And I’ll raise the rate–you’re worth it–to one-twentyfive. So let’s say there are eight of them again. Eight out of ten like last night. That’s…a thousand dollars gross profit. Do you know what gross profit is? Plus let’s say each guest tips you twenty dollars. After expenses,” Cristoff announced brightly, “you’ll make out better than I will! Feel better now?”

Eric was still having his doubts. Cristoff was prostituting him out to other men. Wealthy strangers with money to spare. Eric was then taking them, each of them, in his mouth and up his hole, their bare cocks, and they were ejaculating their load of semen in him. Condoms had never been discussed–not once. Not by one of them. They just lubed up and put it in and went to work. A few had joked about “sloppy seconds.” Although it was more like thirds and fourths and fifths…

Eric said: “When you invited me to come live with you…you told me about the parties…But you didn’t tell me I’d be, like, the resident…whore.”

“That’s why I kept the part about the money exchanging hands to myself yesterday. I wanted to break it to you gradually.”

Then Cristoff brushed past his pantied companion, opened a cabinet door and took down a metal lock box, a skeleton key in the front slot. Cristoff opened the box. It was full of money–cash. istanbul travestileri Bristling with it. Cristoff counted out two hundred dollars, folded the wad in half, and tucked it inside panty’s thin waistband. Eric couldn’t help himself. He was getting an erection. The touch of the money–a lot of money by his previously impecunious standards, rubbing against his bare skin.

Cristoff could not help but notice Eric’s hard-on and, smiling, gave it a silky rub. “You see,” he claimed, “you’re made for this type of thing. You’re a natural.”

“I…”

Cristoff continued rubbing Eric’s cock as he said: “I fucked you late yesterday afternoon, before our guests arrived. And eight of my guests fucked you…Unless you masturbated last night you’re the only one who hasn’t had an orgasm.”

“I didn’t masturbate,” Eric told the older man.

“Good. I can make you cum now.”

With a sudden chopping motion Eric stilled Cristoff’s hand. “No! No,” he said more calmly not that the offending hand was pulling away. “I don’t like to cum. Don’t want to cum.”

“Why not? You’re entitled.”

Eric passed a faint, insincere smile. “It’s not very fem. Ejaculating…”

Cristoff let out a loud laugh. “Well…you have to cum sometime…”

To which Eric picked up his mug and sipped cold coffee. Cristoff gave it one more try: “I’ve never sucked you before. You have a beautiful cock. I could suck you now. Turnabout fair play…”

“No,” Eric said, holding out his mug. “I would like some more coffee though.”

Cristoff snickered and shook his head as he made his way to the coffee machine. It was not in his nature to serve other men, but now, with two gestures, one accepted, one not, he was doing just that. He handed Eric the creamed coffee and said:

“I’ll send out invites for the next party in a week or so. But I need to know: Are you in or not?”

In meaning…?

Cristoff clarified: “Are you willing to entertain my–our–guests like you did last night, for money, or not?”

Eric thought about it a moment. He looked down–to the left of his erection at the cash stuffed in panty’s waistband. He finally said: “Yes. Sure. Just include the part about the tips.”

Cristoff, smiling broadly, pleased apparently with his own persuasive powers, came forward and gave Eric’s bottom another pat. Or a pat this time rather than a squeeze. He said:

“You’ll be the life of the party. The star.”

Eric smiled, faintly.

Eric’s crinkly pink thigh garter bristled with twenty dollar bills. Along with one lone fifty. Seeing the existing cash the men, all of them, pushed their own tip under the garter before removing their pants. Sometimes Eric got down on his knees on the room’s carpet to suck them; sometimes he sat at the foot of the bed. When they said “Let’s get on the bed” Eric rolled into position, ass in the air, the leaking sperm wiped away, at least momentarily, before being pumped out again by another cock.

The thigh-garter had been Carrol’s idea. In fact he’d gifted it to Eric, telling him that it was a lot “classier” than having a tip jar on the bedtable. Besides, what greater invitation for a tip was there than a thigh garter circumscribing a slender, travesti istanbul stockinged thigh.

The thigh-highs had been Carrol’s idea too. “Men, while they’re fucking you, like to think they’re fucking both a male and female. But after your panties come off…”

Carrol went on: “The stockings are a reminder you’re both girl and boy. Boy and girl. They love it!”

Carrol had also bought Eric–who now went by Erica around the house–several lace, B-cup bras. Same reasoning. And Eric wore one at every party they threw. Usually a black one, matching his lace-topped thigh-highs. Erica had also grown her hair out until it nearly hung, in lovely curls, down to her shoulders. And she now painted her eyelids blue, heavily blue, to match her eyes.

Carrol had bought Erica many things. They also split the proceeds fifty-fifty, after expenses. And, of course, Erica got to keep all her tip money. She was also allowed, by Carrol, to entertain some of the men singly on afternoons while Carrol was at his office. Erica charged one-fifty for these hour-long “exclusives” and got to keep every cent. Erica–well, Eric–was now rolling in so much cash he’d–with Carrol’s assistance–put down money on his own sports car. Life was good.

One night, following sex, Carrol and Erica were leaning against the headboard in Carrol’s master bedroom. One negative: Carrol smoked in the house, and always had a smoke or two following intercourse. Erica lay in Carrol’s arm, with her blond head on his shoulder. They talked about many things. But Carrol never let his young charge forget about Cristoff. “Isn’t this better than what you had before?”

“It is,” Erica nodded. She’d pulled her panties back on after sex, completing her standard little outfit of bra and matching black stockings. Eyeshadow and refreshed lipstick. Another positive: Carrol had a bigger cock than Cristoff. Though, regardless of size, they all came easily for Erica these days. Someone had once remarked that fucking Erica was like fucking a woman who’d had three kids. Another had once talked about “fisting” her. “Have you ever had an entire hand up your ass?”

The very thought had–briefly–turned Erica’s stomach. It was enough that men could penetrate and fuck her easily these days.

“That pretentious cheapskate,” Carrol remarked about Cristoff, between puffs on his menthol. “That night, at his place, when I made my offer to you…Remember? We were like this, after sex, lying in bed.”

How could I forget? Erica wondered. We’ve been through this a thousand times…

“And you called me the following Monday and we talked. Remember?”

Carrol let the memory ride for a moment before continuing:

“I was so pleased when you agreed to come on board with me. Live with me, share my life with me. Let me bed you. Bed our friends…”

Carrol looked over at Erica, her lipstick turned pink, and smeared. “It’s been good–wonderful. Hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Erica nodded.

“You don’t miss Cristoff do you?” Carrol asked insecurely.

“No. Never. I’m much happier here.”

“That cheapskate,” Carrol repeated. He just couldn’t let it go. “He calls me, you know. Every so often, to see how you’re doing. Like a worried dad or something.”

This news pinged Erica’s heart. She’d never–barely–known her real father. He was a ghost in her young life.

“I was thinking…,” Carrol said, stubbing out his cigarette. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Inviting him to our next party.”