Born to Please
G.A. Hauser
BORN TO PLEASE
Copyright (c) G.A. Hauser, 2011
Cover design by Mark Richfield
ISBN Trade paperback: 978-1453-8338-1-0
The G.A. Hauser Collection
Published by G.A. Hauser at Smashwords
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
WARNING
This book contains material that maybe offensive to some: graphic language, homosexual relations, adult situations. Please store your books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.
First The G.A. Hauser Collection publication: January 2011
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Chapter 1
Cary ‘Colt’ St. John never complained about the smog or traffic of LA. He loved every dirty minute of it.
The window from his high-rise office space had a view of the Santa Monica Mountain range off in the distance. The snarl of motorcycle and sports car engines vibrated the glass when he pressed his palm against it.
A light rap of knuckles hit his office door.
When Colt turned to look, his paralegal assistant, Belle Parks had poked her head in to remind him, “You have to be in court in fifteen minutes.”
Colt checked his watch in confusion. “Which case?”
“Felicia mentioned to me that Paul Southwood has decided he wants you to second chair for him on his case.” She waved paperwork at him. Her expression of apprehension told Colt she knew he’d be angry. “She made me do the dirty work and tell you. She knows you can’t stand these last minute surprises.”
Colt kept a poker face though he wanted to grimace. “Thank you, Belle.”
Belle placed a file on his desk and left. “Sorry, Colt. But you know Southwood would be lost without you.”
“Yeah. I know.” He glanced at the file, hearing the door close. Colt gazed out at the span of a city that went on forever to the coast. His good mood vanished.
Southwood. Retire you rancid old shit-pile. Second chair to you? What a joke.
But it wasn’t polite, nor in an associate lawyer’s best interest to tell the senior partner to die, please.
Every time Colt laid eyes on Paul he imagined the character from Boston Legal. ‘Denny Crane’. He could hear Paul saying his name with the same bravado. “Paul Southwood. Paul Southwood.” As if his name alone would bring opposing council to their knees. “Hardly, you over-rated, pompous ass.”
His door opened.
“Let’s go,” Paul Southwood ordered, not said, like Colt was a law clerk and not the attorney who never lost a case in his career.
Without an answer, Colt made sure he had everything he needed in his briefcase and followed behind the man who stunk of too much aftershave and what unfortunately smelled to Colt like crotch rot or a dirty ass.
Inside the courthouse, Colt eyed the sharply dressed men with their designer attire and shiny leather shoes. He gave the gorgeous blond, attorney Jack Larsen a wink as they passed. Jack was out and proud, fighting for every gay rights issue he could get his big handsome paws on.
Jack gave Colt a sly turn of the corner of his mouth in return.
Their shared secret.
Colt was not out. And other than Jack’s appearances in the news and his associating with the delectable Mark Antonious Richfield, LA’s top model, Colt didn’t know Jack on a personal level. More was the pity. Jack C. Larsen was not free to play, so what was the point?
Yet they smiled at each other as they passed in the courthouse, giving each other that ‘knowing smirk’. Gay brothers. Oh yes. Love it.
A slouched, sloppy, middle-aged woman was waiting for them, their defendant in a civil law suit. Being second chair, Colt had to sit with these people in a courtroom while Paul postured and flung his arms around when his intellect failed.
He didn’t give the woman much of his attention as Paul took over in every way. Colt shook her hand and began eyeing the man-candy again. A fabulous black security guard in his uniform, his gun hanging on his hip, stood in the hall. The courthouse guards were mostly ex-LAPD or ex-prison guards. It didn’t matter to Colt. He loved giving them a good once over and fantasized binding them, gagging them and fucking them senseless with vibrating dildos.
The guard caught his eye so Colt looked away. He preferred shy, petrified men. Uniforms usually came with confidence. They were fun to make up daydreams about, but rarely fulfilled Colt’s real need.
He was a Dom. Pure and simple.
The assigned courtroom smelled old and stale to him. He figured he must have a very keen sense of smell because he noticed aromas too much. Dust? Mold? What? Whatever it was, it wasn’t enjoyable.
The bailiff called everyone to rise. Another old man in a black robe entered the room. Colt wondered when the next generation would take over. He was twenty-nine and everyone in authority around him seemed like dinosaurs; computer illiterates, reminiscing about the good old days, waving their fists, spouting from their soapbox everything they thought that ‘America and family’ stood for, no matter whose rights they trampled. Gun-toting-right-wing-bible-waving-tea-party-douche-bags.
Colt couldn’t wait for that generation to die off so new ideas and freedom for everyone to do as they liked took over.
As the two senior citizens representing the prosecution and the defense railed on about civil law nonsense, Colt imagined a world where anyone could marry and raise a family, drugs and prostitution were legal, taxed, and cleaned up and their legalization would rid the streets of nearly all crime and violence.
~
It was coming close to six when he stood outside the courthouse with Paul. Paul slapped Colt’s chest with a file. “Take these back to the office.”
Catching the paperwork before it fell and blew in the breeze, Colt held it tightly and watched Paul waddle stiffly off into the dim February evening.
“Fuck head.” Colt squatted down and put the file into his briefcase. “Don’t blame me because you lost, ya piece of shit.” Colt tried to warn Paul his tactics in this little civil suit were flawed, but he was ignored.
Colt flagged down a cab and headed to his office to finish up for the night. He could have walked, but he was too tired. “Thank fuck it’s Friday.”
The security guard was already manning the lobby when Colt arrived. No one hung around on a Friday night. By now the local bars were overflowing with office workers, blue-collar studs, and go-go boys jiggling their balls.
“Hey.” Colt greeted him. He knew the man by face, not by name, and never bothered to read his name tag.
“Working late, Mr. St. John?”
“Always,” Colt replied, smiling. He entered the elevator and heard his own loud sigh echo in the small space as he ascended to the top floor. Either the building was vacant or no one wanted to ride to the top floor just to head to the lobby to go home. The elevator did not stop once.
The halls were dim as the night drew near and only security spotlights lit his way. He was about to use his key to get into the offices when he found the door unlocked. He pushed it back and looked around. No one was at their desk, but he did hear noises.
Walking to his office to drop off his briefcase, Colt noticed a young man in a blue jumpsuit emptying trash pails.
When the man heard Colt behind him in the hall, he looked over his shoulder at him.
Colt stopped in his tracks.
Bright blue eyes met his stare. Colt’s mouth watered as he inspected the man, estimating him to be in his early to mid-twenties, closely cropped brown hair showing off a tattoo on the back of his neck and a sleek build.
The man didn’t seem quite as mesmerized as Colt and went back to cleaning.
Colt continued on his way to his office and removed the paperwork from his briefcase to secure in a file cabinet. That done, he stood in the stillness of his work space to listen. His cock twitched as he heard the sound of this man, the janitor, cleaning.
No other noise came to his senses. Colt knew he and this man were alone.
He snuck back, watching. Leaning into the room, Colt inhaled. The scent of a man and either musky cologne or deodorant made his skin rise in goose flesh. Delicious.
The man spun with a start, very shy to Colt’s predatory gaze.
“Am I in your office? I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re not.” Colt entered the room, staring at the tattoo poking out of his rolled up cuff. Colt couldn’t see what it was but expected it was covering most of this man’s left forearm.
The man appeared nervous as he replaced the trashcan under the desk and used a cloth to dust the computer and shelves.
“Are you new?” Colt asked, intrigued.
“No. I’ve been here over a year.”
“Really?” Colt feigned surprise and extended his hand. “Funny I’ve never met you before. I’m Cary St. John, but everyone calls me Colt.”
The man went a deep shade of crimson and wiped his palm off on his jumpsuit. He mumbled his name.
Colt gripped his hand, leaned in closer and asked, “Sorry? I missed your name.”
“Ashton. Ashton Lake.” The man didn’t look directly into Colt’s eyes.
“Ashton,” Colt said as he took a deep inhale of him. “Nice name.” He knew Ashton wanted to get his hand back, but he held it longer, because he wanted to. “So nice to finally meet the man who is responsible for keeping our place so clean.”
Ashton didn’t reply, his eyes cast down.
Colt released his hand reluctantly. “You have something. Some soot. Right there.” Colt used his index finger to wipe at a non-existent spot on Ashton’s cheek.
Ashton reacted, stepping back.
Ah…the touch of a man is unfamiliar to you. Yummy! Colt couldn’t be any more pleased. “It’s still there.” Colt licked his fingertip and went back for more contact.
Ashton retreated, wiping his own face. “I got it.”
“How often do you clean here?” Colt stared at Ashton’s crotch, trying to judge the size of his package.
“Monday through Friday. Every night.” Ashton began to wipe shelves again, but appeared paranoid and anxiety ridden.
“Really? Every night?” Colt had an erection that was throbbing in his suit slacks. “At the same time every night?”
“Sometimes later. It just depends if I can finish other jobs first.”
“Other jobs?” Colt sat on the corner of the desk.
“I clean two other floors here. It takes me a while.”
“All alone?” Colt pouted out his lower lip.
“I can do it.”
“Well...” Colt stood. “In that case, I’m sure I’ll see you again, Ash…You mind me calling you ‘Ash’?”
Ashton shook his head, but kept busy, not looking at Colt.
“Goodnight, Ash. See you soon.”
“’Night.”
Colt licked his lips as he got a look at Ashton’s tight ass when he went back to his cleaning.
Heading to the elevator, Colt put his hand into his pocket and rubbed his stiff cock through the lining. Got you, you gorgeous motherfucker. Once you’re in my line of fire, I always strike my target.
Home finally, the minute Colt walked into his bedroom he unknotted his necktie in the loft condominium of his posh unit. He let the tie hang loose and opened his shirt buttons, his mobile phone to his ear.
On the other end of the call was Lionel Valley, his best friend, and occasional partner in crime. “Lion?”
“Yes, pretty boy?”
Colt could hear the smile in his voice. “You hitting the club?”
“Yes, I have a few sessions lined up. Why?”
Colt stroked his hard-on, staring down at his black work slacks. “Just curious.”
Lionel laughed.
“What outfit are you wearing tonight?”
“Chaps, leather harness, hat, you know.”
“Grr.”
“I know you have some clients booked tonight. Don’t you? If not, I’d love a wing man.”
“You don’t need a wing man, you fucking stud.” Colt unzipped his pants, exposing his dick to stroke.
“Love you, Colt. Love you to fucking death. Let me whip you.”
Colt laughed. “Let me whip you,” he echoed.
Lionel also thought the comment was funny. “If you’re not coming to the club, what the hell will you do all night? Jack off?”
“Am already.” Colt smoothed his hand over his cock.
“If I had my way…” Lionel sucked in a slurping breath of air.
“You will. Just not with me. Two Doms don’t make a Sub.”
“True. Seriously, babe. Come play.”
Colt caught his reflection in his dresser mirror. “I’m bored with the club and the sessions. I want fresh blood. I’ve done the same subs too many times. They’re so cliché in their whimpering. Yawn.”
“One of these days I will drug you and have my way with you.”
“Dream on.”
“Right. I’m planning whipping prefect sub ass tonight. You can stay at home and fantasize about it.”
“Thanks for your permission.” Colt admired his long cock in the reflection.
“You never need permission.” Colt heard Lionel hiss seductively.
“Maybe I’ll join you tomorrow. I’ll call you if I get the urge.”
“Good. Love it when you’re on the prowl.”
“Have fun.” Colt disconnected the call and closed his eyes as he jacked off. “Ash…on your knees. On. Your. Knees!” He tossed the cordless phone on his bed and moaned. How long will it take to court you? Hm?
Colt stared into the mirror at his dark eyes. He knew looks were deceiving. If he were to judge himself as if he were a stranger, he’d say he was sweet, kind, gentle. Ha.
He stared at his hand as it worked his length. In reality, he never hurt anyone. Not more than they wanted to be hurt. That was the point. Sensual fun, not black and blue bruises.
Envisioning his perfect slave, Colt imagined Ashton. Straight. Straight as an arrow, you masculine fucker. Never touched a cock other than your own…never tasted spunk.
“Damn!”
Colt walked to the bathroom, aiming his dick at the sink. With the interior of the room dark, but for a small lamp lit on his nightstand, he spied his image in the mirror. He spread his shirt to expose his hairless ripped chest and abs. He knew Ashton’s body would be perfect. That jumpsuit. That one-piece janitor outfit. It was like some porn fantasy.
“Fuck. Fuck.” Colt fisted himself and closed his eyes. When the orgasm hit he pointed his dick into the sink basin and gasped. It erupted with enough force to splash against his hot skin. Milking his dick and catching his breath, Colt looked into the basin at the load of white cream. He wiped his slit with his thumb and rinsed his hands, sending the cum down the drain.
With his palms on the vanity counter, he caught his stare in the reflection and read the yearning in them. He bit his lip, wanting the weekend to pass. Monday never used to be desirable, until now.
Chapter 2
Monday morning, Colt could smell the sugar and cinnamon in the assortment of muffins in the conference room. The small staff sat at the oblong table, chatting about their weekend.
He grew weary as they awaited ‘the beast’, Paul Southwood, while sipping lattes and nibbling muffins.
Colt sat across from Jerry Douglas, their copyright attorney and next to Wes Krug, the divorce law expert, and catty-corner to Barb Wertle, the only one who even entertained criminal cases.