Mardi Gras King Lends a Hand

“Krit, you go on up to the King’s Room and give the man up there a massage and a blow job, if he wants it, until Louie comes. He’s come for Louie, but Louie’s not here yet. The man’s one of our best patrons, so treat him right, you hear?—but not too right, mind you.”

I did understand that. At eighteen and new to Madam Cherie’s, I was just in training. I hadn’t gone the limit with a patron yet, and Madam Cherie didn’t want me to yet.

“Saving you for Mardi Gras, honey,” Madam C had said. “We’ll dress you up to be irresistible in swan and peacock feathers, a tiny Speedo, your nice little body all oiled up, and sequins all over, and put you on the balcony, letting passing patrons know your male cherry is up for auction the last day of Mardi Gras. Nothing ’til then. This patron, though, he’s got money and he comes regularly. It’s a good idea to give him a teaser on what he could have from you if he bids.”

I was ready. I knew what getting a job at Madam Cherie’s meant. You had to be really something to work here. I’d been practicing with a dildo. I was ready, not that I had a good idea what it was going to be like.

Madam Cherie had caught me when I passed with fresh towels in the entrance hallway where the brothel manager stationed most of the time. Massages and a few blow jobs: that’s the most I’d done at Madam Cherie’s on Bienville Street in the French Quarter. I was being trained up to full servicing. I was only eighteen and was a five-foot nothing Thai to boot. I wasn’t the usual whore-boy for New Orleans. Madam Cherie wanted to develop me specially.

Madam C slapped me up the back of the head to get me going 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. Madam Cherie’s got the festival monarch’s costume one year, which had been hung on the wall in there. His fancy boots sat by a chair, his crown rested on the dresser, and his scepter, topped by a cupped rubber hand, took 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 Bienville Street, leaning over the fancy wrought iron railing, and getting himself a smoke. When he saw me at the bedroom door, holding 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 looking he was.

I remembered thinking that I wouldn’t mind it if he was the one to have my ass the first time. That thought turned out to be prophetic.

“You ain’t Louie,” he said to me.

“No, Sir, I ain’t. Louie’s coming, but, sorry, Louie ain’t here yet. I don’t think he knew he was wanted today. I can give you massage, relax you for Louie, if you like. That’s as much as I supposed to do.”

“Why is that the most?” he asked. “Because you’re someone special? You certainly a piece that’s different.”

“No, sir. I’m just not one of the boys yet?”

“Because you haven’t been ridden yet?”

“Thas’ right,” I answered. I was holding a couple of sets of towels as if I’d just happened to be supplying the rooms. I’d leave it up to him on whether he’d take anyone but Louie to give him a little bit of attention until Louie could get here. Madam C had said the man didn’t have an appointment, so he could not expect Louie being here for him.

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

“I’m eighteen,” I answered. “From Thailand. We’re built small there. I can give you a good massage if you like—a special Thai massage.” He’d been right to wonder if I was old enough to be working in a male brothel or anywhere else. We Thai age late and a lot of us, including me, are small. But I was old enough. Just. I was here and I worked here. I knew what the other young men who worked here did for their pay. I gave good massages and blow jobs when the massages went there, but not more—not more so far. But I was working my way in to full service in this business. I think I’d be able to hold my own after that Mardi Gras auction. That was when I’d get added to the stable here.

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

I didn’t know what some of what he said meant, but I was here to mark time for him and keep him from yelling up the house until Louie 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. This was a male brothel.

“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. The patron is king in this house.

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 eighteen.”

“I can train you,” he said. “And I don’t care if you’re eighteen. In fact, I like that. Give me that ‘bit more’. You’ll give me a blow job, won’t you?”

“Yas, Sir. I can do that.”

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 working in this house. I’d done it in giving massages. He didn’t want much, though. He didn’t need hardened up, anyhow. He was harder and bigger than most already. After a few minutes, he pushed off, slapped my face once, and said in that husky voice he now had, “You give massages as good as you give head? You say a Thai massage is special?”

“Yes, Sir, I been told I do it good, Sir, and a Thai massage is very, very good. Sexy,” 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. I’d told him he could leave the boxers on, but he obviously didn’t want to do that. He wanted to impress—and he did impress.

For the next twenty minutes, I gave him a massage. I did that well, getting into the deep tissue. I’d learned it in Bangkok, where this business started with young men even younger than I was, before I’d managed to get to the States. He had a body that anyone would want to massage.

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 a blow job release 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—me his cock and balls; him my cock, balls, and my hole, with his tongue, too—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—indeed, a bit further than I’d gone before with a man—I went with a patron here at Madam Cherie’s when they wanted something from me—all that I was trained and expected to do. This encounter with a house patron had been more arousing than most. I pulled off him and rolled off the bed onto my knees on the floor. 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. Did he want me to suck him off again? He wasn’t moving into that position, though.

“I think Louie 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 stand up, twice, harder than the first time, sending me sprawling 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, and in the missionary position where fucking easily happened at Madam Cherie’s.

I’d seen some of the guys hooked up in this position, with a patron working between their spread thighs. It had made me go hard when I saw it. Now it was me. I didn’t think I was going to make it to be standing, showing myself off for auction, on our Bienville Street balcony at Mardi Gras. I was thinking I was going to take my first dick—a big black one—right here and now. There wasn’t anything I was going to be able to do about it. Crying for help in this house didn’t bring any help.

And I was right. I was going to get ass fucked by that big, black shaft of his—but not right off the bat.

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 into 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—better than he had when we were sixty-nining—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 me and I accepted that today was the day for me, moving to holding him close to me.

I could have tried calling to Madam C to save me, seein’ as how she was savin’ me for the auction. I probably should have called her. I knew he was determined to fuck me—to pop my male cherry. But he was a god of a man, and I’d been needing that to happen. I didn’t call for Madam C.

After a while, I lay there, moaning and murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes,” under my breath, and he was humming and giving low laughs of self-satisfaction.

He was too strong for me, and I was overpowered, not just physically but also by the high heat he was putting me into. I quickly came for him and just lay there, exhausted, as he stood away from me and moved about the room, seemingly seeing the Mardi Gras king stuff for the first time.

I panted and whimpered as his attention went to the king’s scepter—the mace with the cupped rubber hand on the end of it—on the mantelpiece. He picked it up and looked it over. He laughed and looked at me. I groaned, having an idea what thoughts he was having. And sure enough, he walked back to the bed with the scepter in his hand. He picked up the bottle of oil, and with an evil grin on his face, he lathered up that rubber hand with scented oil real good, making sure I could see how thick the hand was and knew what he was going to do with it.

“If you haven’t lied and you haven’t been fucked yet, you’ll need to be opened first,” he said. “I’ll be doing you a favor with this.” Regardless, I was whimpering and trembling.

My legs still raised and spread and held in the hoops on the bed posts, I turned as if trying to get up and away, which just wasn’t going to be possible. It was fruitless, anyway. He reached down and slapped me across the face again, and, moaning, scared as a bunny in the crosshairs, but not being able to do anything about anything, I laid back, open, vulnerable, trembling, but my sensations shimmering. Was this it then? Was this when some man was going to put it in me?

Yes, it was.

“No, please. Don’t,” I whimpered, clinging to my childhood, but being unbelievably weak in my objection.

But, not paying any more attention now to what I might want then he had before, he did. To him, I was just a male whore, in a male whorehouse, there for his use as he was willing to pay for.

“Lay there and take it,” he growled at me, as I felt the tips of the rubber fingers pressing at my hole. “Say, yes, or I’ll call for your pimp and tell her you insulted me and I won’t be coming back here.”

I knew where that would go. I whimpered a “Yes,” and he laughed. I yelped as the hand entered me. I was grateful that I’d been preparing myself with a dildo, but this cupped hand has thicker than a dildo. I writhed and gasped as it moved in, stretching me, opening me up—until when it was in to the heel of the hand, I collapsed, with a whimper, loosening up enough that it went in to the wrist. Hovering over me, he began to slow pump me, deep.

“Good, good. Ride it,” he murmured.

I laid there and took it, rocking my pelvis on it as he commanded. He was doing it and there wasn’t a thing I was going to be able to do about it. I had known it was coming someday. But at only eighteen and before Mardi Gras?

He did it. He worked me with the hand. I rode the hand.

Leaning over me, putting my throat in a chokehold with one hand, and leering down into my face, he gripped the oiled-up rubber hand on the king’s scepter in his other hand, slowly fucking me with it. Holding it in a firm grip, he worked me hard and deep with the rubber hand as I bucked and rocked on it, my eyes bugging out and my mouth open in a perpetual, soundless scream. He worked the scepter like a shovel, moving my small body up and down and from side to side, brutally pounding me good with it until, exhausted, I just relaxed into whatever he wanted to do with it.

Laughing, he held it steady, and I rode it.

When it finally came out, having gone deep and worked me over real well, I was open and stretched, and he stood up from me at the foot of the bed. I could see that he was in massive erection again. He stood there for several seconds, looking down at me as I lay, defeated and trembling, legs spread, ankles bound, vulnerable to anything else he wanted to do.

“Whooie, that’s opened you good,” he said, with a little laugh. “Maybe I should get one of the other patrons in here to enjoy you with me. Two cocks in there for your first time. It was your first time, wasn’t it?”

I just nodded, unable to speak. I knew Madam Cherie would want extra money for the first time, so I wasn’t about to deny it.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Two of us inside you at the same time.”

I moaned, unable to speak, half believing he’d really do it.

He tossed the scepter aside and walked around the bed, to the nightstand. He picked up a condom packet from there—one of the gold-foil Trojan Magnum XL rubbers—and walked back around to the foot of the bed. We provided all sizes. This was one of the largest.

He enjoyed watching my eyes, wide open, and my body trembling, and hearing me whimpering and my ragged breathing as he slowly slit the packet open, crowned his cock, came over me, close, palming my heavying pecs after he’d positioned his cock head, and penetrated—slowly making me feel every inch of it conquering me. In deep, he held, as I, shuddering and shimmering, adjusted to it. Then he began to move, slowly, in and out. Then faster and deeper and faster and deeper yet, as I writhed under him, panting and whimpering. It wasn’t anything like the dildo I’d practice with. He fucked me—for the first time with a real cock.

I writhed under him until I was overwhelmed by the pleasure surging in over the pain and started to meet his rhythm, going with the fuck, riding him like he seduced me to ride the Mardi Gras king’s hand. It was done. I was fucked in the ass. Might as well start getting used to it.

He laughed. “You still want me to stop doing it?” he asked.

“No. Do it. Fuck me. Screw me,” I gasped.

He did. He was thicker and more flexible inside me than the rubber hand had been. He knew how to work me, to bring me and himself to the brink, and back again, short of exploding. Crying out my surrender, I clutched him, moving from beating on his chest as he took possession of me to clutching his biceps to digging my fingernails into his shoulder blades to hold him there, inside me, and bucking, bucking, bucking with the fuck. Riding his big, black cock.

There were full-length mirrors attached to the walls of the King’s Room where they gave a good view of the action on the bed. Once we were bucking in consort, I turned my head toward one of these mirrors and enjoyed the view. God, he was one beautiful, black stud.

He left me in that position after we’d both come for a second time. He’d barely pulled away from me when the door to the corridor opened and Madam Cherie was standing there, surveying what had happened in the room, not batting an eye, though.

“It was his first time, you know,” Madam Cherie said.

“Yeah, I know. Extra,” the man answered. He didn’t sound like he’d object. “Add it to my bill.”

“Louie is ready for you in another room now . . . if you still want to visit him.”

“Fuck, yes,” the man growled. “This one was a tasty appetizer, but I’m ready for a real man now. Save this one for me for another day, though. He’s sweet—and he gives good massage and head, and he likes to ride the hand. Maybe next time, my hand.” As the man gathered up his clothes, still naked for the short walk to wherever Louie was, I saw that he’d gone hard again—a prime example of black stud virile manhood.

I lay back, not attempting to free myself, luxuriating in my first anal fuck. The king’s scepter had been interesting, but the real cock—the magnificent black, long, thick shaft had been something else altogether.

It was a good thing I hadn’t tried to move, because after a couple of minutes, Madam Cherie was back, closing the door, walking around to the foot of the bed, looking down at me, then walking over to the nightstand and retrieving another condom packet. At the foot of the bed once more, Madam Cherie slowly unbuttoned and flared her dress, stepped out of her panties, to reveal an erection that almost rivaled that of the man who had just been in the room. Yet another big, black bull. Madam Cherie climbed on top of me, penetrated me with the shaft, and fucked me long and hard.

After she was done, she said, “I’d wanted the first to be a Mardi Gras special, but no matter. I guess it’s time to add to your duties. You’ll be moved down from the attic to one of the receiving rooms. I’ll have you listed on the Web site by tomorrow.”

And that’s how I moved up in duties and status beyond the massage and blow job level at Madam Cherie’s on Bienville Street in New Orleans’ French Quarter. Using the king’s scepter became part of my normal routine with men. They loved it. They loved being king of the Mardi Gras for a brief time. A lot of men also enjoyed fucking a five-foot-nothing young Thai guy with narrow hips. Madam Cherie fucked me enough too for me to know I was a house manager’s favorite.