A Picture is Worth About a Thousand Words

A Sudden Departure

The gamekeeper was in his den drinking scotch with Preston Riley, a member of Fletcher House and well known around the world for his various extraordinary exploits. I don’t say enjoying scotch with Preston Riley, as the gamekeeper thought the man an actual twit -- well, “insufferable twat” were his exact words. Riley was reveling in his latest accomplishment, the acquisition for Fletcher House of “Sail Board Boy,” and the gamekeeper was letting him enjoy it. Never argue with the members, that’s the director’s job. And the director would have one hell of a job tomorrow.

For this evening, the gamekeeper took the line that both he and the board would have to adopt: “Thank you Preston, for your continuing hard work and many valuable contributions to Fletcher House.” Tomorrow however, someone not named Preston Riley would have to figure out what to do with this latest acquisition (Jesus Christ!) already booked, without a number, and locked up on D level (for fuck sake!). This is not according to Hoyle.

Preston really liked this one. He encountered the boy in a wind surfing contest on Maui’s North Shore. He’d sent his dogsbody after the boy to find out about him; and what he found out was that the boy was living in a garage in Paia, behind a seedy looking house occupied by Hawaiians. He ate from the grocery store in town or with the locals or with other sailors who’d gather at Baldwin Beach in the evening.

Preston occupied himself with the boy on and off for a couple of weeks, loved to watch him, mostly naked, preparing his sailboard on the beach, putting out on the water, straining against stiff wind; he loved to watch him come back and wrestle his rig onto the beach, and shake it with his friends; he loved to watch the boy drink beer, watch him swallow with his head back and his lips sucking the long-neck bottle. He was captivated by the boy’s anatomy, his legs in particular and his glutes; the sun had browned his skin everywhere, and from high up on the cliff top where Preston watched the boy play in the waves out beyond Mama’s Fishhouse, he was hardly distinguishable from the natives. Preston was sure of real potential there and put his money down.

Well, the gamekeeper would let him think it was money well spent. And for all I know, Preston may never be disabused of the notion that he’d brought real talent to the House. Tonight though, he was going to take two handlers and an equipment manager with him to the racks on B level and have his way with the boy all night long and into the morning.

But in the morning, maybe even before Preston was done with his comprehensive fucking and torture, the gamekeeper would have to make a decision about what to do with the boy. And as he took another sip of scotch, nodding in agreement with Preston’s observations on this particular slave, in his head, our gamekeeper was carefully working out the problem: Of course, the boy would have to go, but where? And how?

And then it came to him at once. Obviously. Thursday’s combined secondary auction was two days away. And there would be two agent representatives there whom he knew, one from Sharjah and one from Dubai -- they repped for half a dozen houses between them -- any one would do nicely. Young, untrained, euro-white, alpha males were much sought after by these houses. And, after training, it was unusual for such slaves to be resold in the West, so the chance of the boy winding up again near Fletcher House would be rare indeed.

A quiet knock on the door let the two men know that the boy had been prepared and racked and awaited their pleasure. The gamekeeper determined to accompany Preston on the boy’s maiden voyage, particularly because he wanted to forestall any activity that would spoil a sale two days from now. Especially to the face, there could be no injury. Chafe marks about the neck, wrists, and ankles were de rigueur, but blood injuries would have to be prevented. The handlers were just starting to warm up the boy’s butt and hams with long slotted paddles. The sound of the wood smacking flesh made a sharp cracking sound immediately followed by a shout from the boy.

This went on while Preston sat down in a club chair where he took off his shoes and socks, loosened his tie, and got comfortably settled into the rhythm of the smacks and cries. The desperate moves the boy made trying to get away from the blows rattled the chains holding his arms. Soon the skin on his backside was a shining red overlay of bright stripes. Preston got up from his chair and roughly brushed his palm over the skin, paying particular attention to the places where it was darkest red. “That hurts,” the boy whimpered in response to his harsh touch. “Yes,” said Preston, smiling. “Doesn’t it though.”

But the beating continued until Preston was ready, until he’d slowly undressed, until he’d got himself very hard watching the beating, until he called out an order to stop. It was time. The boy was ready now; Preston was ready. He greased his cock, came up behind the boy, gripped its nipples between thumbs and forefingers and slowly slid his cock between the boy’s cheeks and into its ass, just an inch at first and out. Then in again just a little farther. In and out. Deeper and deeper and finally a full thrust all the way in. The boy screamed and gurgled; spit and snot sprayed out.

Preston had found his sweet spot and now he rode it for all he was worth. “So sweet, so sweet,” he babbled mindlessly. “So sweet.” And then with a growing urgency he gradually sped up his pumping to a furious pace, grunting in time to a gathering need and then one final thrust and together, a loud harmonious duet of cries as Preston left his load far up the just acquired, now, no longer virgin slave.

The gamekeeper watched as the handlers shifted the boy to a drawing table, a long plank with cuffs for wrists and ankles at the ends that were cranked away to stretch the boy the long way. Preston waved away one of the handlers and took up the cat-o-nine tails on his own and began to apply it with gusto to the boy’s chest and abdomen. Now, satisfied that the boy was in good hands, the gamekeeper slipped out unnoticed and went back to his office.

The man sighed with relief. He’d found a way to avert disaster. Tomorrow he would quietly put about to select members that the boy had been unsuitable and best served the interests of Fletcher House on the auction block. Which was certainly true as far as it went. What wouldn’t be mentioned was that the boy was the number-two son of a three-star admiral in the U.S. Pacific Fleet. Or that the admiral, even more significantly, was a member of Fletcher House -- and on the board’s Advisory Committee on Acquisitions! Small world.

“Going once..., going twice....” Two days later, the auctioneer brought the hammer down, “Sold to House Dubai. Thank you, gentlemen. Next on offer is item #413, 19 years old, trained at Octagon...”