“You go on up to the King’s Room and give the man up there a massage and blow job if he wants it until Frenchie comes. He’s come for Frenchie but Frenchie’s not here yet.”

Mama Rosa had caught me when I passed with fresh towels in the entrance hallway where the brothel manager stationed most of the time. That’s the most I’d done at Mama Rosa’s on Conti Street in the French Quarter ‘cause I am only fourteen and a five-foot nothin’ Filipino to boot. She hit me up the back of the head, though, and I mounted the stairs to go to the King’s Room. It was called that because it honored Mardi Gras—the king of Mardi Gras. Mama Rosa’s got his costume one year, which hangs on the wall in there. His fancy boots sit by a chair, his crown in on the dresser, and his scepter, topped by a cupped rubber hand, takes up a place of honor on top of the mantelpiece.

When I came into the room, the man was standing out on the balcony overlooking Conti Street and getting himself a smoke. When he saw me at the bedroom door, holdin’ a towel and a bottle of warm and scented oil, he flipped the cigarette over the balcony and came back through the French doors. He already was stripped down to the waist, and he was one magnificently muscled black man. His muscles had muscles all their own. He looked to be pushing forty, but not hard. But he had one hard body, I’ll tell you that. Mean and virile lookin’ he was.

“You ain’t Frenchie,” he said to me.

“No, Sir, I ain’t. Frenchie comin’ but Frenchie ain’t here yet. I can give you massage, relax you for Frenchie, if you like.”

“How old are you, boy?” the man asked, his voice gruff. “You old enough to be in this house?”

“I’m fourteen,” I answered. “From the Philippines. We’re built small there. I can give you a good massage if you like.” I avoided admitting I was too youth to be working in a male brothel or anywhere else. But you have to work or do something else to eat when you’re fourteen and out on the streets on your own. I was here and I worked here. I gave good massages and blow jobs when the massages went there, but not more—not more so far. But I was workin’ my way and in in this business.

“Sweet. A miniature man. Nice body. Slim hips. Splitting the difference will be fun. Yes, I’d like a massage. There on the bed? Stripped down?”

I didn’t know what some of that he said meant, but I was here to mark time for him and keep him from yelling up the house until Frenchie could get here. “Yes, sir, there on the bed, if you please. Down to your shorts and on your belly, please.”

The bed was a four poster, serving both as a bed and as a many-configuration X-frame.

“Come here,” he growled, still standing by the door to the balcony, and, dropping the bottle of oil and towel on the bed, I went over to him. He was unbuckling and unzipping his trousers, and was stepping out of them. What they revealed went with the rest of him—big, muscular, and ready to go. When I reached him, he pressed down on my shoulders, making me kneel in front of him. He ran his hands into my hair and pressed my face to his crotch. He was going hard down there, and he was huge.

“You do more than give a massage, boy?” he asked, a husky tone moving into his voice.

“A bit more, sir,” I answered. “Not the whole thing, though. Not that yet. I’m in training. I’m just fourteen.”

“I can train you,” he said. “And I don’t care if you’re fourteen. In fact, I like that. Give me that bit more.” He pulled a long, thick dick out of the fly of his shorts. I took it in my mouth and gave him head. I’d done this before in workin’ in this house. I’d done it in giving massages. He didn’t want much, though. After a few minutes, he pushed off, slapped my face once, and said in that husky voice he now had, “You give massage as good as you give head?”

“Yes, sir, I been told I do,” I said. I’d gone back on my haunches. Stung by the slap, although it hadn’t had much force behind it. I was surprised to find it gave me a jolt of heat through my body. He slipped his boxers off, went over to the bed, and laid down, stretched out, on his stomach.

For the next twenty minutes, I gave him a massage. I did that well, getting into the deep tissue. I’d learned it in Manila, where this business started even younger than I was, before I’d managed to get to the States.

With all the dark-chocolate muscles he had, it was a pleasure to be working them and he gave noises that told me he liked the massage just fine. I saw just how fine he liked it when he turned over and showed me nearly a foot of hard, throbbing dick. That still needed to be taken care of; he’d pulled away from it at the door to the balcony. I started to give him a professional massage on the front, but he had a position he preferred, turning me, hovering over on top of him, my face to his feet.

It was time to bring him off. What I didn’t know is that he wanted to bring me off at the same time.

I moaned and he did too, as he took me—now I was rock hard too, but nothing compared to him—in his mouth and I took him. We worked each other for a while then, him pulling off me and just arching his back and moaning as I took him to release with my mouth, taking several shots of cum in the back of my throat.

That was how far I went with a john here at Mama Rosa’s when they wanted something from me—all that I was trained and expected to do. It put the house in danger each time I was involved, but it gave a big boost to the house profits—and this was the French Quarter of New Orleans. This encounter with a house john had been more arousing than most. I pulled off him and rolled off the bed. He rolled with me, standing there next to the bed, towering over me, his meat still half hard and dangling enormously in front of my eyes.

“I think Frenchie must be back by now,” I said. “I’ll go get him.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I think you’ll do fine.” He slapped me then, as I moved to get off the bed, twice, harder than the first time, sending me to my knees between the bed and where he stood, menacingly towering over me—surprising me and knocking the breath out of me.

Before I could do anything—not that a little guy like me could do much against a big black bruiser like him—he’d scooped me off the carpet, carried me around to the foot of the bed, laid me down, and, one after the other, spread and raised my legs and put my ankles through hoops hanging off the corner posts at the foot of the bed. I was trussed up, immobilized at my legs, and in the position fucking in the missionary position easily happened at Mama Rosa’s.

He came down on his knees on the carpet between my spread thighs, grasped my butt cheeks in his hands, squeezing and separating them, and dove his face between my crack. I gasped and moaned as he ate me out and opened me up with his tongue and teeth. Grunting and snuffling, he went from my asshole to my cock to my balls with his mouth and ate me out good while I writhed under him and clutched his short, wooly, curly head hair in my hands, initially trying to push his head away, but, as the pleasure of his tonguing rolled over, moving to holding him close to me.