August, 1923, Venice, Italy

The Galloways, a British couple with a passing acquaintance of Lady Elizabeth when she was married to Lord Aynsley; the bishop of Milan; and the Austrian industrialist, Josef, the Baron von Holst, were sitting on the beach of the luxury resort hotel on the Adriatic near the city of Venice, Italy. The Galloways were chatting away with Elizabeth--or trying to--as she devoted much of her attention to the baron, a bigger than life, charismatic man in his robust mid thirties, who dominated the group without half trying.

The baron was well over six feet tall, broad of chest and not so broad of waist, with aristocratic features and bearing, with a strong jaw line, somewhat florid complexion, and a mane of reddish brown hair, which also cascaded over the dip in the top of his one-piece swimming costume. His thighs were those of a sportsman, solid-muscle beefy, his hands and feet were huge, and the bulge in the crotch of his swimming costume was as well. Elizabeth, thinking of him as a fine stallion, was nearly melting from the sight of him sitting in the folding canvas beach chair, which was straining to manage his bulk. At thirty-six, the man was at the height of his career and sexual power, as anyone looking at him could discern. He also was recognized as a man you didn’t say “no” to.

The other man present, the bishop of Milan, must, Elizabeth thought, have ice running through his veins, as he wore a black cassock, buttoned to his throat, as he sat beside the baron. He was a cadaverous man who Elizabeth thought of as the Grim Reaper each time she saw him. Tall and thin, he was dark complexioned and had a flowing mane of jet-black hair. Despite all of the darkness, he wasn’t sweating under the strong sun.

A sharply hooked nose spoiled any chance of anyone considering him handsome, and the expressions of his face exuded secrecy, judgmentalism, and “don’t mess with me” warning. His eyes were a cold, steel blue that gave the impression of seeing and stripping naked everything and everyone. His primary idiosyncrasy was that the nails on his long, slender fingers were unusually long and were painted jet black. As with most Italians, he spoke with his hands, and anyone in a conversation with him had trouble concentrating on his face rather than the fluttering hands. He showed every evidence of using his hands purposely in that vein--to deny everyone access to his true thoughts by watching his eyes.

Whereas the Galloways were focused on Elizabeth and Elizabeth was trying to focus on the baron, both the baron and the bishop had eyes only for the figure of the young man swimming far off the beach in long, expert strokes.

With a sigh, Mrs. Galloway rose from her canvas chair, which wasn’t easy for her--she was an overlarge woman. This was much in contrast with Lady Elizabeth, who was buxom but otherwise trim of figure and dressed in the highest style and deepest cut of swimming fashion of the time. At forty, she looked much younger, and had gone to every effort to do so.

“I believe I am in for a nap before high tea,” Mrs. Galloway said. “Will you join us on the hotel verandah for that at 5:00, Lady Elizabeth?” With a “humph,” Galloway, also rose. He was in steel and would have preferred to stay and speak with the munitions manufacturer, Josef von Holst, if the man had paid any attention to him at all and if Mrs. Galloway would have permitted it.

“Lady Elizabeth will be having high tea with me,” the baron said, his voice a deep baritone with an edge of “to be obeyed” command to it.

Flustered, because this was the first that she had heard of the appointment--but clearly pleased--Elizabeth turned to Ann Galloway. “Perhaps tomorrow. But a nap does sound good. I believe I will take one as well. So, Baron . . .”

“I will have us served in the small gazebo in the forested glade behind the hotel. At 5:00,” the baron answered. And that was that for the Galloways and Lady Elizabeth, who, rummaging around in the tented cabana behind them for their beach apparel, started their progress off the beach and toward the hotel.

The baron momentarily watched the hour-glass form of the handsome Elizabeth move away, her buttocks swaying against each other in her stately gait, before turning his attention back to the swimmer in the distance.

“Those orbs beg for breeding,” the baron muttered.

The bishop raised his eyebrows but not necessarily for the reason one supposed. “I could say the same for the son. He’s a handsome young man,” the bishop said.

“Yes, very handsome,” the baron agreed. “Ripe even.”

“I would agree with that,” the bishop said. “Very desirable. He would go for a fortune in the Turkish souks.”

“What do you know of buying young men in a Turkish souk?” the baron asked.

“Enough,” the bishop answered with a sly little smile. “But those two. What do you know of them? She hardly looks old enough to be his mother.”

“And yet she is, I have learned.”

“You have learned?”

“My solicitors have been busy since I met the Winslow woman and her ripe son, Paul. American--the woman is. The young man is hers but the other half of him is British. Lord Aynsley’s son. The two are divorced. Aynsley’s family insisted all along on a British wife. He married the American long enough for her family to refurbish Aynsley’s Rest. He’s married again now. The son is nineteen. She’s kept him tied to her apron strings. Only now, this fall, starting at Cambridge--at the father’s insistence. I think the woman would take the young man back to Boston if she could. Very dominating. And he appears to be totally submissive to her.”

“Submissiveness is not necessarily a bad thing.”

“No, it’s not. And he’s a saucy thing. I get every indication from him that he would be interested if set free of her. The young man needs to be released. He needs to be dominated.”

“I would be interested too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, of course. There is some help you could be to me in exchange--later in the year. You could help me now by needing to go back to the hotel for a nap. I see that he is swimming back to the beach.”

The priest sighed. “As long as you keep me in mind. You of course are going to break him.”

“Yes, of course. He’s ripe for it. He will thank me for it one day.”

“Now? Here?”

“Yes, now. In the cabana, I think. Your time will come Giuseppe. For now you need a nap.”

“I cannot watch from afar?”

“Not the first time, no. I may need to use force that isn’t for your eyes.”

“You would be surprised what my eyes would enjoy. And the woman? She has her eye on you. Did the Aynsleys leave her any of her money?”

“Apparently that was more than enough to sustain her--and a husband as well.”

“You lost your wife last year, didn’t you?”

“Yes, she never recovered from childbirth,” the baron answered. If there was any regret in his voice, the bishop couldn’t discern it. “Left me with a boy to raise. Every man needs an heir.”

“And a playmate to spare,” the bishop said, his eyes still on the young Paul Winslow, who was turning in languid circles off the beach. “A chit to play in the game, as it were. You will, of course, seduce the mother too--as camouflage.”

“I’m surprised you’re not a cardinal yet,” the baron said, “as perceptive as you are. As I said, I will keep you in mind. Now, withdraw, if you please.”

The baron was alone, standing in the sand in front of his chair as Paul Winslow, stumbled up to the beach through the surf. The young man was all smiles; tousled blond hair; trim, well-muscled body; sunny disposition; and flirty aspect.

“Where did everyone go?” he asked, giving the baron a speculative look. Von Holst took the opportunity of the young man standing in water to his ankles in swirling surf and looking at him while making some effort to maintain his balance to shrug his shoulders out of the top of his swimming costume and let the waist drop down to the curve of his lower belly, showing a magnificent torso of muscular pecs and washboard abs--providing the perfect form that Greek warriors beat their breastplates in. Unconsciously--perhaps--Paul shrugged out of the top of his suit as well, possibly unconsciously, making a man-to-man gesture.

Von Holst couldn’t quite decide whether the young man’s flirting was unconscious or purposeful. And it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. He very much thought that the young man was uninitiated, though, and that did matter to him a lot.

“They’ve all gone to the hotel--for naps. They will be asleep for an hour or more. Leaving just us.”

“Leaving just us,” Paul repeated, his voice breathless now.

Josef pushed the front of his suit down to where it dipped just below where the curly reddish hair of his bush ran into the root of his thick cock, showing enough of the cock to reveal its thick girth. This was as close to the flashing of his equipment that he felt safe showing on the beach. If the young man was going to run, it would be now. If he hadn’t been signaling interest in the baron for two days he was a hopelessly naïve young man.

The baron looked down at his own bush and then looked up at Paul, still standing in the surf, gratified to see that Paul’s eyes had gone there too. The young man was trembling. His eyes had gone large.

“Come into the cabana with me,” the baron commanded.

Paul didn’t move, but the baron could hear the low moan and see how the young man was trembling.

“What for? Why should we go into the cabana?”

“You know what for.” Josef stepped forward and gently took Paul’s elbow. “Come into the cabana with me. It’s time to stop this teasing. You want this to happen. I can see into your heart. I know you’ve dreamed of it. Today is the day.”

Paul whimpered something unintelligible--he probably didn’t know himself what he said--and allowed Von Holst to walk him to the door of the cabana.

Once both of them were inside the tent structure, Josef turned Paul to face him, pulled back his arm, and whipped it back, backhanding Paul across the face and making the young man stagger back and come down on the small of his back on a divan. Paul lay there, propped up on his elbows and staring, with confusion and hurt, at Josef, as the older man turned and quickly tied the flap of the tent closed.

“You won’t want to fight me,” the baron growled.

Paul, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, continued to watch, immobilized by fear, shock, and surprise, as Josef picked up objects as he moved to the divan. The young man shuddered and began to chatter in a low voice, ineffectually tossing out questions and objections, while Josef was busy binding the young man’s wrists together with the rope belt of his beach robe and hooking them on a hook at the top side of the divan. The chatter was stopped with Josef backhanded Paul again, and the young man fell back onto the divan, his arms now trapped above his head, his eyes wide open in shock.

“You want this,” the baron said.

Von Holst, crouched over Paul and between his legs, dove for Paul’s mouth with his, brutally kissing the young man and sucking up the blood at the corner of his mouth. Coming out of the kiss, Josef had the sash of Paul’s beach robe and a handkerchief at the ready. The handkerchief went into Paul’s mouth and the sash was used as a gag to keep it in place.

Paul’s eyes were bulging and he was moaning and whimpering through the gag. Josef motioned that he would strike him again if he didn’t calm down and Paul subsided into low panting and moaning. He was trembling as the Austrian pulled the swimming costume off his legs and then did so with Paul’s own, standing there between Paul’s thighs and wagging an enormously thick erection with his hand.

“The teasing stops. We both know what you want. In your heart, I know you are a whore. You are going to take it all,” Von Holst said in a gruff voice. Paul tried as best he could to writhe off to the side, but the baron grabbed his hips on both sides and held them steady. “It will be harder if you fight,” he growled. “Relax and open as much as you can to me.”

With a whimper Paul quieted down. Von Holst grabbed underneath the young man’s thighs and pushed them up into Paul’s chest, rolling the young man’s buttocks up. The Austrian went down on his knees and he spent the best part of the next twenty minutes giving Paul head--awarded quickly with an ejaculation--sucking on his balls, and eating out his hole. Slowly the young virgin began to open to him.

He didn’t open enough, though, that would make the first penetration easy. Paul sobbed behind his gag, panted hard, and moved his head from side to side, as Von Holst, with great determination spent the next ten minutes cramming his thick cock in the virginal passage. When he was in and started to stroke, Paul collapsed entirely. His eyes rolled back in his head and, if it hadn’t been for the pain, he would have passed out.

Slowly, ever so slowly, though pleasure was mixing with and then taking over from the pain. Paul’s passage, albeit a tight fit, opened to the thick cock, and, involuntarily--or because he had no prior experience in this--Paul began to move his pelvis with the stroking of the cock. This, in fact, was what he had wanted for some time. That it was being taken from him so brutally and with bondage took guilt away from him. His passage wasn’t as virginal as one would suppose. No man had been up there, but other objects had--some even nearly as thick as Josef’s cock.

As the two moved together, Paul’s passage went slack enough to handle Josef. It even got to where Josef wanted a tighter ride and he brought Paul’s legs together from where he’d held them spread and raised at the ankles, held to the baron’s shoulder at one side. This move tightened Paul’s passage so that, with each thrust, Josef got the sensation of forcing the channel.

“There, I knew you wanted it. Opened right up for it,” Josef growled as he set up a vigorous, deep thrusting that Paul was meeting with counterthrusts. Paul came again and then Josef did, as well.

When he had come, Josef leaned over, took the gag out of Paul’s mouth, and came in for a kiss. The way Paul responded to the kiss told the baron he had won--that it had been a barrier Paul had wanted to get across and that the young man was his now for the bidding.

Satisfied in the knowledge that he’d won, Von Holst reached up and released the young man’s wrists. He stood back from the divan, still facing Paul, cupping his still half-hard cock and his balls, displaying his powerful body to Paul, who lay there, panting hard. Josef waited to see what the young man would do. Would he bolt and then have to be dealt with before he got to the hotel, or was he totally won?

“You wanted this, didn’t you? All of it. You needed to have it taken from you. You were too frightened to do what you wanted. And you wanted me to take it from you, didn’t you--brutally, totally? That’s why you didn’t return to the beach until I was alone here. I have given you what you wanted, the way you wanted it, haven’t I?”

Snuffling up a sob, Paul admitted it. “Yes.”

“Do you want to leave--to go up to the hotel, or do you want this again?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Paul came up on his elbows. Then slowly, deliberately, he brought his feet up to dig into the bottom edge of the divan at each side, his legs spread. He raised his buttocks, rolling up his pelvis, presenting his ass for a straight cock shot.

“Good. From now on when I tell you to present, that’s the position I want you to take. But say it. You have to say it,” Von Holst said, his voice already laced with victory.

“Again, please,” Paul whimpered in a small voice.

The baron didn’t take Paul the second time as offered, though. He wanted to remain totally in command. He sat on the end of the divan, Paul in his lap, facing him, Paul’s legs bent and spread around Von Holst’s waist. The older man’s cock buried to the hilt in Paul’s passage.

“Do it yourself. Fuck yourself on it. You will always do what I tell you, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Paul acknowledged in a small voice. He wrapped his arms around Von Holst’s chest and the baron did the same to him, as Paul, using the leverage of his feet, began to rise and fall on the cock. The baron possessed Paul’s lips and, breaking the kiss that Paul returned without reservation, nudged Paul’s torso to arch back so that he could reach the young man’s throat and nipples with his tongue and teeth.

Paul sighed and continued fucking himself on the thick cock.

He lay there on the divan, panting and whimpering, His legs bent and spread to alleviate the dull pain and shame in his gut, shocked at what had been done to him, concerned and upbraiding himself for what he had, eventually, done in response. His mind was screaming, never again, but his eyes were slitted and he was licking his dry lips as he watched the baron pull on his swimming costume and robe.

“Get up and dress,” the baron growled. “I haven’t hurt you; I’ve released you. You are a whore at heart. I have come to you today, but the next time I will call you and you will come--and soon, very soon, you will come for it on your own. I know your heart. You are a wanton whore for men. You just needed to be released to it.”

Shuddering and not able to maintain eye contact, Paul struggle off the divan and reached for his swimming costume.

As they were leaving the tent, Josef took Paul’s elbow in a firm painful grip and said, “Midnight. If you are mine now, you will knock on my hotel room door at midnight. I will begin to teach you what you need to know.”

“Yes, sir,” Paul mumbled.

“And if I share you with other men, you will obey.”

There was a slight hesitancy to this.

“Or I will not fuck you again,” the baron said. “I repeat. If I share you with other men, you will obey.”

“Yes, sir,” Paul now said, with a sigh of resignation and without an ounce of intent. He’d say what he had to to get out of this man’s clutches now. He would go back to his room and think on this . . . on all of it. He was sure he would respond differently once his head had cleared and he could think of what was right . . . and proper. It was true that he had fantasized this. But now it was done and he need not be bothered by such wanton thoughts again.

* * * *

The gazebo where the baron and Lady Elizabeth took tea that afternoon was very private once the baron had shooed the wait staff away.

The two talked about nothing much, although Elizabeth felt herself breathing hard as the baron moved in ever closer to her. Without warning, the tea half drunk, the baron pushed the cart aside and leaned in close to Elizabeth, their lips nearly meeting. Elizabeth’s eyes were dilated and showing a mix of distress, uncertainty--and the unmistakable tinge of lust and want.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” the baron murmured. “I want to possess you. I will possess you.”

Elizabeth would have demurred--at least later she convinced herself she would have--if his lips weren’t crushing hers right after that. And if his arm didn’t go around her back and hold her to him. And if his other hand didn’t rip at the buttons of her bodice and expose her breasts to his squeezing grasp. And if his mouth hadn’t gone to her nipples and started to teeth and suck them. And if his hand didn’t drop to gathering her skirts up, gliding up her thigh, and ripping at her undergarments. And if when his mouth went back to possessing her lips and stifling any opposition, the thick fingers of his big hand didn’t expertly play her folds and clit and then plunge up into her cunt and stroke her hard and deep. He didn’t so much make love to her as he conquered and possessed her. It took her breath away.

And then if, with little time given from the beginning of the breathtakingly forceful assault, the baron hadn’t come out of the chair, fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, pressed himself into her where she was slouched in her chair, run his forearms under her thighs and lifted and spread them, and then plunged inside her with his thick cock, and fucked her hard and long, as she clutched his shoulder blades with hands that opened and closed in rhythm to the thrusts of his cock and moaned the ecstasy of the total fuck.

He was big and thick. Much more virile than Lord Aynsley had been. A man not to be denied. A stallion among men. And he rode her and rode her. She was a hot-blooded woman. Much too much of a woman for Lord Aynsley. This stallion reached her to the quick. She exploded and flowed. Exploded and flowed. Would he ever stop thrusting inside her, pulling explosions of her? Could she keep him inside her forever? A stallion of a man. Ride, ride, ride. And then the long, three-jerks, blasting into her cervical canal with his hot-blooded cum, reducing her to sighs and moans.

Afterward, as they still slumped in her chair all akimbo, he said, “I could not help myself. You are just too desirable. If you wish, I will check out of the hotel now. It won’t do either of us any good to say this happened. I wish only to preserve your reputation. I just couldn’t resist your beauty. Or, you could answer my knock on your hotel room door tonight at 9:00 p.m.”

“I’m in room 213,” Elizabeth answered in a breathy voice. “My stallion,” she added under her breath, but there was no indication that the baron had heard her.

And then he surely wasn’t--but, yes he was. Hard again, he rolled her hips up more, entered her ass with his cock, and, after several minutes of slow-stroke plowing, seeded her there as well, as she groaned, her head tilted off to the side, her mouth slack, never having been taken there before. His victory was complete.

Josef made it back from room 213 in plenty of time to recover an erection and to answer the knock on his door at midnight.

* * * *

Lady Elizabeth and Paul were in the hotel’s sunroom, at the window, finishing up their breakfast, when the baron passed by them behind Paul’s chair, wearing a dressing robe. Until that moment the two had been conversing with a false cheerfulness about nothing that either could have recalled later. Neither was able to discern the false, almost hysterical, note in the other’s voice because they were too concerned about what they themselves were saying--and hiding. Both visibly braced themselves, though, as the baron paused behind Paul’s chair, put his hands on Paul’s shoulder, turned his eyes on Lady Elizabeth, and wished her a polite good morning.

She responded with the traditional answer in a wavering voice, adding, “Are you off to the beach for a morning swim in the sea?” Paul stiffened at the mention of the beach.

“Not this morning, no. I slept little last night . . .” a reference that had both mother and son shuddering “. . . so I believe a nap is in order before I venture out.”

Soon after he left, Paul put his napkin beside the plate of food he hadn’t quite finished and said, “I believe I’ll go up to my room for a while as well.”

“Without finishing your breakfast? You have a liaison to go to with some young lady?” Lady Elizabeth reddened as she said it; it reflected too baldly what had been in her mind. Paul reddened too, but she didn’t notice.

“A liaison with a book I had difficulty putting down last night,” he answered lamely. “And I think I’ve had quite enough to eat.”

The baron opened his room door to Paul without any surprise at all. “Come in,” he said with a slight, knowing smile on his face.

“I cannot, I just have something to say to you,” Paul said, showing a face of indignation.

“Something you wish to say here in the corridor with other guests possibly hearing?” Von Holst was smirking.

Paul entered the room, and as the baron shut the door and with Paul not being able to look at him, the young man took a deep breath and said, “I just need to say that this has to be the end of it. I can’t do this. Yesterday--last night--wasn’t me. It isn’t what I want at all. I can’t say what happened didn’t happen, but I choose not for it to happen again. I believe one of us should leave the hotel. It would be more convenient for all if it was you, but I could think up something--”

The baron spun Paul around and backhanded him across the face so that Paul staggered and fell to the floor. Reaching down with a strong hand, the weight of the man far surpassing Paul’s, Von Holst grabbed the front of Paul’s shirt, popping buttons with his brutality, pulled Paul’s face up to his, and possessed Paul’s mouth in a cruel kiss.

Paul bit the man’s lip. The baron emitted a little howl, pushed Paul away, and backhanded him again. Paul landed on his back but came up on his elbows. The two men eyed each other. The baron’s eyes were full of lust and anger. No one who looked at Paul would say his eyes were revealing anything other than that either.

Both men were panting. Von Holst unsashed his robe and flared it out from his body. He was magnificently naked and in erection. “This is what you came for, isn’t it?” Von Holst said, wagging his erection at Paul. Paul’s moan was audible throughout the room. The baron reached down, unbuttoned the anchors of Paul’s suspenders at the waist of his trousers, unbuttoned the fly of the trousers, and pulled the trousers and undergarments off Paul’s legs. This didn’t take long, but Paul didn’t fight it. He reclined there, moaning, his eyes transfixed on the baron’s erection.

Von Holst laughed. Paul was in erection too.

“You didn’t come here to break it off. You came here for this, my cock.” Von Holst wagged his cock at Paul again, and Paul groaned, unable to take his eyes off it. “I told you you would come for it on your own soon and you have. You’re a little whore. A wanton whore. This is just the beginning of a long career lying under men.”

“I’m not,” Paul objected in a small, breathy voice.

“Present yourself to receive it--as you did in the cabana yesterday.”

With a whimper, still propped up on his elbows, Paul slowly spread his legs, bent his knees, and raised his pelvis. The baron came down on his knees and pushed them under Paul’s buttocks. One hand cupped Paul’s neck and brought their faces together. The kiss this time was passionate. The baron ripped away the buttons of Paul’s shirt with the other hand and moved the hand over Paul’s naked chest, tweaking the now-taut nipples in passing. Paul shuddered and trembled to the touch. The hand came up to a choke hold on Paul’s throat and Paul’s eyes bugged out, but the baron held him trapped in the deep kiss.

The hand moved slowly down Paul’s chest again, across his heaving belly, stroked his cock a few times, and then went to his balls. Paul tightened and moaned through the kiss as fingers laced around the base of the balls, distended them, and squeezed. Panting hard, Paul writhed against the pressure and the kiss was broken.

“Oh God, oh God,” he whimpered through a moan. The baron was kissing his throat.

“Please,” Paul whispered.

Von Holst brought a small laugh up from his gut and moved his hand below the balls and then up to the rim of Paul’s puckered opening. Paul felt the bulb of the cock at his entrance and, trembling, Paul murmured. “Oh, God, I’m not ready.”

“Yes you are.” the voice was hard, cruel. Paul winced and jerked as the bulb pressed inside him.

He began to pant harder, making distressed mewing sounds. But the baron held there, interminably.

“Please,” Paul whined.

The baron laughed, but still he held there, with just his bulb inside Paul’s throbbing entrance. Both of them felt it, the opening of the hole to the bulb, Paul’s undulating passage drawing the cock an inch deeper into the channel.

“Please, now,” Paul whimpered.

“Please what?” the baron asked in a low, guttural voice.

“Fuck me. Fuck me now!”

The young man jerked, shuddered, and cried out as the dick plunged up into him and immediately started fucking him in long strokes. Both of them grunted as Paul ejaculated up the baron’s belly and Von Holst flooded Paul’s passage deep with cum.

* * * *

The baron was sitting on a low ottoman, leaning back, his legs streaming on the floor in front, the heels of his hands pressed into the rim of the ottoman behind him. His eyes had the smug gaze of victory and almost disinterest, as if the chase, the seduction, the first penetration, and the total subjugation were the most exciting aspects of this and they now were over.

Leveraging his wild gyrations of rise and fall and revolving on the baron’s cock off the balls of his feet positioned on either side of the ottoman, the palms of his hands pressed into the baron’s pecs, Paul, doing all of the work, was frantically fucking himself on the cock.

“Give it to me, give it to me,” he was whining. “Give me your cum.”

Reveling in his complete victory over the young man, the baron leaned forward, grasped Paul’s waist, and stood up from the ottoman, Paul’s knees now hooked on Von Holst’s hips and his torso streaming off onto the floor. Paul extended his arms out to his sides in a symbolic, totally surrendered cruciform position and clutched at the carpeting with his fists. He arched his back and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Yes, Yes, YES! Fuck me! Fill me!” he cried out as, in three blasts, the baron did just that. “Oh, fuck, YESSS!” Paul cried out in ecstasy.

Von Holst held the position, wanting the young man to fully realize the position he was in--what he had done to be here. What he couldn’t deny he wanted.

“You are a little whore,” he said through clinched teeth. “This is what you will live for now--men fucking you, filling you with their cum. You’re totally undone now, naked to the truth. You crave a man’s cock inside you. Tell me.”

Paul was whimpering but he didn’t answer.

“Say it. You are a whore.”

“I am a whore,” Paul whispered.

“You will open your legs whenever you can have a man’s cock inside you.”

“I want the cock. I want your cock again. Now.”

“You are my whore.”

“I am your whore.”

“I can do whatever I want with you.”

“Do whatever you want with me. Just put me on the cock again.” The voice was exhausted, but the surrender now was genuine.

The baron pushed Paul to the floor and sat on the ottoman. “Now come here and clean it with your tongue--like I taught you last night.”

With a whimper Paul knelt before his master and took the cock in his mouth.

* * * *

October, 1923, Cambridge, England

Paul Winslow lay on the bed in the cozy dormer room in the quaint inn and pub just outside Cambridge. He had almost laughed when he had been ushered in here, because it was the same room in which his tutor at Cambridge, Creighton Hollings, had first fucked him, not wanting them to be discovered doing it in the tutor’s chambers.

Exhausted, Paul lay on his belly, an arm draped over the side of the bed, where it had fallen as soon as the baron had untied his wrists. His ankles, although also untied, were still held together. He hadn’t the energy to separate them or to sit up on the bed. The ankles had been tied together because Josef had wanted a tight fuck. After filling Paul’s ass deep, he’d bounded off him, untied the restraints, spent a few minutes in the en suite bath under the shower, and was dressing.

“We’re running late,” is all he said as he inserted his cuff links and twisted them into shape. No “good fuck” or “it’s been too long.”

Of course, from Paul’s perspective it had been too long--the first time since that week in Venice in August--and it had been a good fuck--a very good fuck. Josef fucked a lot better than Creighton Hollings did.

Paul wondered what they were running late for. What other surprises did the baron have beyond conjuring himself out of a hat here in Cambridge today? That question was answered by a knock at the door. A heavy-set man entered the room. He was gray haired, with mutton chop sideburns and with a lot of meat on his bones. His face was florid, as if the extra poundage would do him in sooner than later. He had once been handsome. He still seemed to be a man in control, a possessor of power--in the same league or just a step or two below the baron.

He did a double take upon seeing Paul stretched out, naked on the bed. “My God, he’s a beauty,” the man exclaimed. “But are you sure he’s old enough? I don’t--”

“He’s old enough, but newly broken. No man has touched him before but me. There is nothing you can’t do with him, if you wish, though.”

Then the baron turned to call over to Paul, “This is Sir Kingsley. One of my suppliers in England. I am leaving now. You will let him do what he wants with you. There will be a driver downstairs to take you back to Cambridge when Sir Kingsley is done with you.”

As the door shut on the back of the baron, Kingsley was coming over to the bed. He was unbuttoning his fly as he walked over. When he got to where his cock--one of a rather nice size length and girth--was close to Paul’s mouth, he gently encased Paul’s head and pulled it into position. With a sigh, Paul opened his mouth to receive and suck the dick.

“Just relax, son, we will take it slowly at first and will explore where your edges are. I have broken in many a young man like you. I have much to teach you.”

The joke was on the baron--at Paul’s expense, though. Kingsley stayed the night, manipulating Paul’s body into a variety of positions and, though starting slowly as promised, as he learned what Paul could take, he moved to pounding him mercilessly and constantly through the night. At first he took the young man missionary style, turning Paul onto his back, grabbing his ankles, and pulling him to the end of the bed, where the man spread and raised Paul’s legs, moved his cock between them and then between Paul’s butt cheeks, scored a bulls eye, and fucked Paul shallowly, rubbing Paul’s prostate to bring him to a sighing ejaculation. Then they went through the doggy position on the floor; a more vigorous standing fuck; a very vigorous jack hammering, with Paul’s weight on his shoulders and his buttocks waving in the air to received the down thrust cock; and, when both were nearly spent--well, Paul a bit beyond spent, a gentle side split; followed by mutual snoring.

Back to circle one, though. A little past dawn, Paul woke lying on his belly, an arm draped over the side of the bed, his ankles bound together, and grunting from the effort to take the weight of an old, fat man riding his ass hard and slapping his buttocks and flanks.

Other than having to find his own ride back to Cambridge--taken care of by calling the smitten Creighton Hollings, who also had to cover for Paul coming back in the morning rather than the previous evening--Paul had enjoyed the night. Even Kingsley fucked better than Hollings did, and, in the dark, if Paul wasn’t taking the full weight of the man, he was being given expert cock. There was something about the experienced cock work of an older man over an effete younger one like a Cambridge don.

While he was dressing, Kingsley had asked how much a night Paul went for and whether there was a service in London through which he could be booked.

“I’m not a prostitute,” Paul had answered. “I don’t work for money. I’m a student at Cambridge.”

Somewhat taken aback, Kingsley said, “I didn’t believe Von Holst when he said you were only slightly used. If I had, I would have been less rough with you in the end. You are good enough to be a well-paid whore. You have an air of freshness and innocence about you, but you take it like a champion. If anything, you are more passionate and involved when the fuck is rough. You sure you wouldn’t change your mind for twenty pounds a night?”

Paul was rich. He didn’t need the money. But he realized how much twenty pounds meant to someone such as Kingsley was talking about who would sell their body. Kingsley was fat and old but not to the point of disgust. And in the dark . . . And when Paul compared the cocking, vigor, inventive positions, and ability to make his partner come again and again with the mediocre talents of a Creighton Hollings . . . Asking for one of Kingsley’s cards, he wrote his telephone number down and handed it to the clearly delighted man.

“Do you do more than one man in a night?” Kingsley asked, licking his lips.

“I haven’t as yet . . .often . . .” he caught himself, realizing that the baron had fucked him before Kingsley had come in the room, “. . . but if each man pays what you offer--”

“I will be in touch,” Kingsley said with a broad smile, as he moved to the door.

What stuck in his mind after Kingsley had left was what the man had said about being more passionate when his partner was rough with him. Was that true? When had he given in to the baron? It occurred to him that twice, getting into the sex, the baron had subdued him by backhanding him. What had been the best sex with Kingsley? Toward the end of the night. The jack hammering position. And bound. He enjoyed the sex more when he was bound. Could it be that he wanted the man to be rough? And could it be that the pay for rough sex was higher than the tame sex he had with his tutor?

That afternoon Paul had been called down to the house master’s room, opening on to the foyer of his house at Cambridge. When he walked into the room, he was surprised to see the Baron Josef Von Holst standing by a bookcase. As always, he was a commanding figure and was elegantly dressed. Paul had just the previous day received a letter from his mother from Paris saying that she had met the baron there. She made like it was a chance encounter, but there had been two other such chance encounters across Europe since their week at the Venice beach resort. Even in that week, Paul had discerned a change in his mother--not unlike the change he’d felt in himself. He had no delusions about what the baron was doing with them both.

He hadn’t checked the date on his mother’s letter, which was why he was taken by surprise that Von Holst was here. He was surprised anyway. He had thought that the baron might have quickly lost interest in him. He certainly hadn’t shown any loss of interest during that week in Venice. Maybe the baron’s real interest was in his mother.

“The baron has just come from seeing your mother in Paris,” the house master has said. “He has asked if you can be spared from your studies until this evening so that he can take you for a meal and pass on your mother’s news. Would you like to go with the baron?”

“Yes, of course,” Paul said, demurely casting his eyes down and giving a small smile. The house master had no idea just how much Paul would like to go with the baron.

“We are going to a small inn outside Cambridge for an early dinner,” the baron said, in that booming voice of his, which most certainly carried to the house master standing on the front steps of the building, as he guided Paul to the chauffeured car. But then he leaned into Paul’s ear and whispered in a voice that most certainly didn’t carry to the house steps, “and then I’m taking you to an already booked room above and fucking you to exhaustion.”

Paul couldn’t help but shudder in anticipation and pleasure, hoping that wasn’t being conveyed to the house master.

But the baron hadn’t been truthful. He made the driver take a tour of the countryside and fucked Paul in the backseat of the sedan before they reached the inn, laying Paul along the seat, stripping off the young man’s trousers and underdrawers, raising his right leg along the seat back, unbuttoning his fly and freeing his hard cock, pushing his knee under Paul’s hip, and working Paul’s channel to shared ejaculations.

“I couldn’t wait,” he murmured. “But after a meal in the inn I’m still taking you upstairs and fucking you until you scream.”

A chill of pleasure went up Paul’s spine.

* * * *

December, 1923, London

Paul walked two paces behind the marquis and his lady as they exited St. Paul’s Cathedral in London following a Christmas Eve performance of Handel’s Messiah. On the steps, as the three of them were waiting for the marquis’ carriage, Paul saw Sir Kingsley and his wife coming down the steps. Paul inclined his head and Kingsley nodded slightly in response. Paul was grateful for the recommendation. He’d be making far more than twenty pounds tonight.

And he needed the money. Creighton Hollings had gotten sloppy about where the two of them would meet for mediocre sex and they were caught doing it in the tutor’s lodgings. Paul almost had to laugh, as what they were doing was far more tame than he had done with either the baron or Sir Kingsley. But someone had to pay for the transgression, and Hollings had backers in the tutor lodges--some of whom were sympathetic, as they were attempting to get away with the same behavior. Paul was ejected from Cambridge. He didn’t inform his mother of the event. He answered a call from Kingsley and wound up working for a high-class male escort service in London, where he was making enough, when combined with his allowance, to make ends meet and still to save some money. He’d had just about enough of England and chaffed at his father’s demand that he remain in England even while his father was paying him no attention whatsoever.

He rode home with the marquis, who took him into the mansion’s library as his wife retired upstairs.

“Brandy?” the marquis asked, settling down in a wing chair by the fire.

“No, thank you,” Paul answered, standing there by the fire, waiting for what he knew was coming.

“I want to see you--all of you,” the marquis said in a throaty voice after the servant who delivered his brandy snifter had backed out of the room. “I have paid a large sum to see you naked--to use you naked.”

“Slowly, slowly,” he murmured as Paul undid the tie of his tuxedo and started to undress. He made a performance of it--nothing raunchy. It was all in good taste for royalty--as long as the royal was randy, which the marquis was. As Paul progressed from slipping off his shirt to lowering his trousers, the marquis had his fly open, his cock out, and was stroking it.

Naked, Paul went down on his knees between the marquis’ spread thighs and serviced the man’s cock until it was fully engorged. And then, upon whispered request, he sat on the cock, facing away from the marquis, with his thighs hung over the arms of the chair and, with his arms bent back and grasping the top of the wing chair back on either side of the marquis’ head, raised and lowered his channel on the man’s cock until the marquis had spouted his seed inside Paul’s channel.

“You haven’t come,” the marquis said. “Please stretch out on the rug there in front of the fire, turned to me, and masturbate to completion.”

Paul did so. The marquis signaled that the evening wasn’t finished, though, by ringing for the manservant and having his brandy renewed. The manservant fulfilled his task without so much as a blush. He was young and good looking, so Paul assumed that he had his duties to perform with the marquis as well. He was dark-haired, though, and not as lithe as Paul--lower class than Paul obviously was. The escort service had revealed that the marquis was interested in variety. Paul had thought in terms of position, but perhaps it was more in terms of the young man’s body.

“Well worth the price,” the marquis whispered when the servant had left, “You are so sexy when you do that. Do it again, please. You can harden again, can’t you?”

“Yes, certainly. As often as you want,” Paul answered.

“I think, being able to watch your beautiful body on that rug, that I could too.”

The marquis, still fully clothed, handed his own cock, working it hard again while Paul, giving the marquis a studied lust-filled gaze of his eyes, masturbated himself slowly and ejaculated in an arc over the fur rug. The marquis came down on the rug, nudging Paul onto his back and teasing his thighs open. Paul helpfully pressed his heels into the fur rug, raising his pelvis, and giving the marquis’ cock a straight angle for his slide into Paul’s passage. The marquis, fully clothed, embraced Paul, fully naked, close, both of them panting, only the marquis hips moving, slowly, as he fucked the young prostitute to another ejaculation.

One of the thrills of working for the escort service was the surprises it brought. The marquis, after returning to his chair and instructing Paul to lounge on the fur rug, wondering if the marquis would fuck him again, until both had recovered, provided one of those surprises.

“I believe it’s time we went upstairs,” the marquis said softly. “Mavis will be waiting.”

And indeed she was. Paul had fucked young women before learning that he much preferred men--and he had to agree to do it on demand when he signed with the escort service. Thus, he was able to cover his surprise and encourage himself to harden again, as he was urged to approach the bed, where the marquis’ lady was lying on her back, with her buttocks on the edge of the end of the bed, her legs spread, and her fingers working her clit and vagina.

She moaned as Paul lifted and spread her thighs further, slowly entered her, and began to pump. He, in turn, shuddered and jerked, as the marquis, still fully clothed, came in behind him, thrust up inside him, and took control of the fuck.

 

Habu

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