A New York Conference Room

The Firm's conference room was built to impress and it surely did that. This was pretty consistent among New York's elite law firms, and ours had a panoramic view across Park Avenue and to the new two or three billion dollar office tower that Jamie Dimon had built for his bank, JP Morgan Chase.

That wasn't what I was discreetly looking at. We were all assembled for the closing of a contract in which an equity firm was buying the assets of a medical system with offices strewn about western New England.

There were twelve or so of us arranged around the modern black table with stacks of papers before each of us and bottles of Poland Spring water and coffee cups distributed helter-skelter on it.

My job was to orchestrate the signing. I was the senior partner at the firm and I had reviewed the work of a cluster of junior partners, associates, and paralegals who had done the minutia that I had once done as I worked my way up to being a senior partner.

Across from me was the senior parter at the seller's firm, who I'd known for years and whose background was pretty much the same as mine, except he went to Harvard Law and my undergraduate and law degrees were from Yale.

My interest as the proceedings unfolded, though, was two seats to his left. It was a youngish associate who was doing his own bit of choreography in confirming the signatures were where they were supposed to be and made by whomever they were supposed to be made by.

There was nothing special about him and I hadn't caught his name when we'd been introduced as they entered the room.

He struck me as one of the younger generation of lawyers, an Ivy degree at a big firm who'd jump ship to a private equity firm the moment the chance appeared and what better way to get a chance to appear than doing grunt work for such a firm's counsel.

But, again, he was interchangeable with any of the dozens of similarly credentialed lawyers who did what he was doing day-after-day in New York and Chicago and DC.

Something, though made him... not. Whatever awe he might have had for me as one of the more respected elders in this line of business had long faded with the task at hand. And that task continued and the signatures were gotten and the banks were called and funds were transferred and there were handshakes all around and even before the catered lunch could be rolled in it was done.

Some stayed for the sandwiches and salads and cookies-for-dessert and many, including the object of my interest, left, presumably to get the meter running on other deals that would be paying for the weekend houses (the partners at least) had in the Hamptons or Berkshires or the Jersey Shore.

In the afternoon, I reviewed the attendance sheet for the closing. Martin Fitzwilliam. That was him. I didn't dare use my office computer to research him. Everyone knew I was gay, of course, but I still preferred to keep my investigations private, especially when they concerned someone I met at work.

There were always opportunities to meet men at work, but I rarely took advantage. There was no way to know whether a lawyer was looking at me as a man or as a step in some legal ladder and I was too old to want to deal with that.

I wasn't too old, though, to go to safe bars for hook-ups and had a few friends whose dicks I'd suck and who'd suck mine and who sometimes fucked me when the desire hit me. It was pretty simple, really, with my corner apartment on Broadway in the eighties with doormen who didn't care what any of the apartment owners were doing in their beds as long as they got a nice Christmas tip.

The night of the closing, it took me three calls to get someone I sometimes fucked who was free and Barry came over and we 69ed with some soft music playing on my nice sound system and he left after we'd both come, not bothering with a shower as he left alone to get a cab to take him to his place on the East Side.

Still, as I lay in bed before tuning off the light I realized that I was fondling my dick and allowing my thoughts to wander to, and across the imagined body of, Martin Fitzwilliam.

Before Barry had arrived, I'd gotten some basic information about Mr. Fitzwilliam. He was Columbia Law and Williams undergraduate. He played hockey and was originally from Westchester County.

Third year associate at Block & Jefferson in the mergers-and-acquisitions department. Some further Googling didn't get very far but his Facebook posts suggested he just might be gay, what with largely women-free photos of pool parties in the Hamptons or Miami Beach and a couple of gay weddings in which he was happily in the wedding party.

Plus no indication that he was in a relationship.

Of course, since I was long out, what harm in approaching him. So, after I'd gotten off on thoughts of him and cleaned myself up, I decided to simply call his office. Which I did the next day.

I think he thought I was trying to poach him, which in a way I was but not in the legal-firm sense. I had more than enough third-year associates I needed to get rid of before they started thinking they'd make partner and didn't need to bring in another one.

I made that clear, that I was calling in a personal capacity. I don't know if he knew I was gay but I made it clear to him that I am by saying I was interested in having dinner with him one of these days. Nothing fancy. My treat.

I'm well past the point of trying to impress anyone, including a potential bedmate, with an over-the-top dining experience and prefer smaller relaxed places that are dotted throughout my neighborhood.

Which is what he agreed to. It was a Columbus Avenue spot that knew me. Martin had taken the subway up from his place in the West Village. He sensed my nervousness, so at odds with my professional demeanor, and I wasn't prepared when he slipped his hand under the table and ran it along my thigh. It was just a moment and a brief intimacy but it spoke volumes to both of us.

I was going to bed with him, and he knew it.

With that established, the meal continued and I felt very comfortable with this man who could have been my son, which I assume other diners thought he might be given how relaxed and casual we were, to the point of sharing our entrees.

We skipped dessert and coffee and he insisted we split the check. In the first acknowledgement of what we both knew was happening, he leaned across the table after putting his credit card next to mine and whispered, "I'm not a whore" and leaned back as the waiter took the check and the cards.

We held hands as we walked the three blocks or so to my building and through the lobby where the doorman and lobby staff greeted me by name and Martin with a "sir."

We kissed in the elevator and we reached the ninth floor too quickly in some ways and not quickly enough in others as I rubbed my hand across his crotch and felt the wonderful solidness of young cock.

I fumbled with my keys but we got into my apartment. He turned and pushed me against the door and we kissed properly until he pulled back and asked me what I wanted.

"To suck your cock," I said. It came out without a thought. "I need to suck your cock" followed before he reacted to my first words.

He stepped further back. The shades were up on the apartment's windows and I didn't care if the world saw my submission to this man and his dick. I knelt on the runner carpet and took to unbuckling his trousers and pulling them down, revealing the bulge in his white briefs.

I lowered that underwear and his dick popped up. It wasn't a monster or anything. I'd seen and even gagged on a few of those. No. It was the normal cock of a young man hard as iron and when it was clear I kissed its head and looked up.

He nodded.

I was in my element. I ran my tongue along its bottom and back up and placed the head in my mouth, using my tongue to moisten it further as I lowered myself onto it.

Before I could go further, he tapped my shoulder and told me to stand.

""Let's go into the bedroom," he said, perhaps aware of the display we were making of ourselves to my neighbors. He pulled his underwear and pants up and I led him to my bedroom, pulling him by the hand.

I put the blinds down and turned back and watched as he took on the task of making himself naked. Again, there was nothing particular about him. He was a guy in his late twenties with a good body that I imagined reflected some regular exercise and sport without much visible chest hair, although he had a nice bush around his cock.

"Now you," he said, and I complied, stripping myself of everything until he could see my far less impressive body, the body of a fifty-three year old guy who didn't exercise as much as he should and drank a bit more Scotch than was advisable.

I cursed my extra bit of midriff flab but at least my own dick was presentable, almost the same size in length and girth as his.

He pulled the comforter from my bed and it draped to one side, soon joined by the top sheet and blanket and lay down with his head on one of the pillows he'd adjusted for himself and opened his legs for me to resume the servicing I had started in the foyer.

I needed no greater invitation than his stiff cock and I was soon on my knees bending down to take its full length in my mouth and his hands were soon lightly on my head, not to direct me, not to force me to fuck his mouth but as a joining of us in this further act of intimacy.

I was going to town, sometimes pulling out and lifting his dick so I could access his balls, which I tried to wash as he lightly guided me in my act of pleasuring him.

As his moans increased I focused on his cock and it wasn't long before he asked where do you want it?

I kept my mouth around him and pulled out slightly but not off and he understood and after several more circles of his top with my tongue he tightened a grip but did not pull my head down and I felt the first stream of his cum and managed to direct it all down my throat until by the third or fourth load it became too much and began to back up in my mouth and escaped the corners of my mouth as his orgasm ran its course.

I could see that he was looking at the ceiling as he released my head. I was able to collect some of his errant seed onto my finger and licked them clean as I moved down from between his legs, and stood at the foot of the bed uncertain of what would happen next.

It was absurd really. Me, a senior partner at one of New York's most respected firms standing naked with a bulging middle and a raging dick looking down at the length of a man twenty-five years my junior and a low-level associate at another respected firm who seemed blissfully unaware of my presence or even of my existence.

The possibilities ran through my head until he began to move. He rotated himself to be on his side facing the middle of the bed and patted it, telling me to join him.

When I had, he leaned his head forward and kissed me and then said thank you as he pulled away and then ran his free hand down to my dick and began to touch it. Not really a touch though. More of a caress.

"Can I suck you?" he asked as his eyes bore into mine and I said he didn't have to.

"What if I want to?"

Well, I had no objection to that so I nodded and he smoothly moved down so it was his mouth engaging with my cock and it hardened somehow. I mimicked him by placing my hands gently on his head until he pulled away and ordered me to get on my back and when I had, he resumed his pleasuring me.

I didn't last long and repeated the question he had asked me about where he wanted it and he did what I did, keeping his mouth on me until I exploded though without some of the power of a young man's orgasmic eruption and he easily swallowed every drop. Actually, almost every drop.

When he was finished he lifted himself above me and his lips touch mine and when they opened he let a slight stream of my cum drop into my mouth and swished it around with his tongue until he pulled away and with a smile or a smirk asked me whether I liked the taste as much as he did.

I think I did.

We showered together. It's a nice shower with a rainfall head and large enough for two. I'd often shared it with one of my guests and Martin and I repeated the mutual cleansing, with particular attention to our hard, protruding cocks. He ran a finger across my ass crack and it lingered on my asshole.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" he asked in my ear and I said yes but on the bed. We quickly dried off and returned to the bed with its comforter, blanket, and top sheet a mess on one side. I grabbed a tube of lube from a dresser, where it was hidden beneath some t-shirts and handed it to him before getting on all fours for him.

I expertly lubed me up and I nearly came from his fingers but managed to hold off until I had the real thing inserted into me.

And when it was adorned by a condom, I was loose enough and I was experience enough with bigger cocks that he was soon balls deep inside me and slowly moving in and out of me and I lowered my head down as I couldn't maintain the posture and he simply continued, gaining speed with my full, vocal encouragement until he filled the condom. I dropped lower so he could lie on me to recover.

When he had and had pulled himself out, he reached over and blocked my hand as he jerked me until he was able to get a second stream from me, smiling as my cum landed on my stomach and chest.

He stood and gave me a kiss and went to the bathroom to get himself cleaned up before returning, with me still naked and getting chilled on my bed, and collecting his clothing and dressing, giving me a that was great as he did.

With a final kiss and a last glance at my now-soft cock, he was gone and I heard the apartment door close behind him and I got up to pee and think about what had just happened and why it had somehow felt different from similar sessions I'd had on that bed with other men over the years.

I had no reason to get back in touch base with Martin in the weeks that followed, or at least no legitimate one. Plus I didn't want to seem too eager so I reverted to mu usual places and my usual friends-with-benefits and was content with memories of that one dinner and evening with him.

So, I wasn't expecting a call when his name appeared on my phone about three months later. I was watching some high body-count flick on Netflix with my legs stretched across the coffee table and a post-dinner glass of Johnnie Walker Black in my hand and a draft contract I'd promised myself I would read on the sofa beside me.

After fumbling for my phone and answering he said he hoped he wasn't disturbing him. He had a straight wedding coming up in a month or so and his Plus One had baled.

"If you don't want to do it, that's fine. I just thought I'd ask. Maybe... catch up?"

I opened my calendar app and saw that the week-end in question was clear. It wasn't a destination thing. Something up in western Mass and we'd drive up on Saturday morning and after the night of the wedding we'd drive home. He asked whether I'd be okay with sharing a room and I was like that was the most rhetorical question I'd ever heard.

"I'll bring the condoms," I said in a moment of bravado and our reunion was set.

It was a fine wedding of one of his college friends but more intimate in numbers than I expected. Since I had a car and he didn't, I did the bulk of the driving and we caught up. He was still at his firm but actively looking to leave and he wondered whether I might be able to give him a suggestion or two, maybe even a recommendation.

I had my suspicions that he was whoring himself a little to get a recommendation from the great senior partner but as we drove I didn't care and said I'd do what I could do.

The wedding was fun although I got some is-he-your-daddy? looks from a few who had long known Martin was out but we laughed it off at Table No. 3 and actually did some dancing with each other and with other members of the wedding party, including a couple of bridesmaids, who may have had a different sort of daddy perspective than some of the men might have.

We had had a most excellent suck-and-fuck session when we finally got to our rooms after the wedding, although this time it was my turn to do the fucking and his turn to do the moaning.

After the morning-after brunch and the drive back to the City, we agreed to be boyfriends. It sounds so quaint but I wanted to be with him and I was thrilled that he wanted to be with me. And he made more than enough not to need a sugar daddy and kept his own place on 12th Street east of Seventh Avenue.

A month or so later, Martin did make his career move though he got the new gig at a private equity firm in midtown without having to ask me for anything. He was, as I say, very smart and had the kind of ambition with a tinge of ruthlessness that puts one in a good position in a place like the one he was going to.

A few months after that, though, he admitted after he'd fucked me that he had slipped when he was at a conference in Chicago. Someone he'd known in college who worked for a San Francisco firm and one thing led to another and they'd fucked and then did again the next night and yet again the morning before they had to catch flights to go their separate ways.

I wasn't entirely surprised. The age gap and the professional gap were just too far for anything to be sustained. We both understood that he'd always be viewed as my boy much as things in reality and in our bed were the opposite.

And he was too competitive with men his own age working in finance to let an emotional attachment handicap him. I don't know if love was ever reached although for me at least I think it was the closest I had ever been.

So, he kept his place in the West Village and he'd sometimes call after a busted date on a Friday or Saturday and I'd take a cab down to get on my knees and suck him off before he'd return the favor and sometimes put his cock up my ass and we were both satisfied with that level of intimacy.

He was more than just another of my sex buddies. Martin Fitzwilliam, though, wasn't the One.