Separate Tables

I stood behind the boot of the Bentley in the front auto court of the Rivenhall country inn, perched high on the cliff over a horseshoe cove on the sea north of Scarborough, while Felix, the chauffeur, helped Forest DeWitt into the lobby of the inn. When Felix came back, he opened the boot of the car and started handing out the luggage. A valet was there to carry, but there was enough to overflow the hand cart so that I had to take a suitcase and my laptop case from Felix, as well. Felix, a muscular stud, was more than capable of carrying the suitcases into the inn, but he would not have been able to carry them up to DeWitt’s suite—he wouldn’t have been permitted in the front lobby of the hotel, not to mention up to the principal guests’ floor. That wasn’t just because Felix was black; he was a chauffeur—outdoor staff. We were clearly in traditional empire England at Rivenhall Inn.

When Felix handed me the second bag, his hand held mine for half a beat longer than necessary, he gave me “that look,” and a charge of electricity went up my spine. His look revealed that he still was having trouble processing the liberty I had allowed him to take. He understood upper-class English protocol even if I, an American, didn’t.

The big-cocked Nigerian had fucked me for the first time the previous night in the small hotel in Great Yarmouth, after six nights on the road out of London in this meandering trip to the west and then to the east and the north—and he’d done me well. Once he’d known there would be no repercussions from sinking his thick cock inside me and that I was his for whatever he wanted, he’d taken over and fucked me totally. I had wanted him inside me from the first moment I’d seen him when he was driving us back to DeWitt’s London townhouse from the club in Soho.

Felix had shown surprise that I had willingly lain under him. I’d had to lay broad hints and practically pull him on top of me and inside me for him to realize I’d let him fuck me. Once he’d gotten over that, though, he showed me who was master and who was slave. I didn’t mind being the slave—even to DeWitt—although I had different reasons for laying down for a man depending on what the man had to offer. DeWitt had money and position and exuded breeding and education and interesting friends. Felix was a virile, muscular black bull who smelled of musk and fucked in primeval lust.

Most rent-boys, I’m sure, took the minimum amount of fucking they had to to survive. I was a part time rent-boy because I liked spreading my legs and being fucked—being submissive to a dominant man, either by position or physical attributes. My family was wealthy enough. They paid me good money to do my cruising an ocean away from Boston. I could exist on what they sent me—just not to the level of comfort and adventure I wanted to be accustomed to.

I’d come to the hotel garage after dinner in Great Yarmouth, where Felix, shirtless and all glistening ebony skin and bulging muscle, was polishing up the Bentley for the next day’s drive. When he had realized that he could, he fucked me on the backseat of the salon car. There was plenty of room back there for me to lay under him and grip his bulbous buttocks in my hands and squeeze them to the rhythm of the rise and fall of his pelvis as he pumped me deep and hard.

I’m sure that DeWitt, quite evidently rank conscious, had indoctrinated Felix in the power of the pecking order. Although Felix fully understood, I’m sure, that I was DeWitt’s boy toy for this trip—the old man had diddled me in the backseat of the Bentley and I had knelt and sucked him off on the road at various times during the trip and Felix couldn’t have missed that from the driver’s seat—he knew I was the old man’s secretary too, and educated—and American. So, I’m sure he understood that I was enough above him not to let him dominate fuck me. But I was on this trip—indeed, had come to England—for the sexual adventure. And a strapping black bull Nigerian was adventure.

“I don’t know where we can go,” he’d said when we’d come out of a kiss and I had my hand stuffed down the front of his trousers, feeling him engorge in the grasp of my hand.

“In the back seat of the Bentley,” I’d said breathlessly. “Here. Now. You’ve seen DeWitt and me in the backseat. Take me back there and show me how you’d do it better.”

DeWitt was thick, but he was old and fat and of limited stamina. Getting him hard and maintaining the hard was a chore. He was one and done—on a night when he could manage the one. Often he was satisfied with a blow job. He didn’t really care if I needed more. It wasn’t my place to need more than he wanted from me. Still, he hadn’t shown signs of possessiveness yet. I didn’t get the impression that he begrudged me getting it from someone else too—as long as it didn’t inconvenience him.

The Nigerian was thicker and longer, was meltingly rough, and was a muscular bull who, after putting me under him in the backseat of the Bentley, putting it in me, and giving me all of it, was almost immediately ready to go again. I’d asked him not to be so rough and he banged my head against the seat rest, called me a “cock tease” and a “fuckin’ whore,” and commanded me to open my legs wider for him; I begged him to go slower and he picked up speed; I begged him not to fuck me so deep and he sank his cock in me; I begged him to give me his load inside me, and that he complied with. Felix didn’t just fuck me; he tore his pleasure out of me. I loved it all, my mind going back to before I was signed up with the high-class escort agency, when I was being run by a cruel pimp and the pimp counteracted the dulling of arousal by frequent tricks by tearing his pleasure out of me and leaving me totally fucked. Felix knew I was loving having a real man fucking me. He left me totally fucked.

We’d been traveling for a week from London, meandering, first, to the northwest—to Reading and Oxford—and then back to the east coast of Britain, supposedly leisurely working our way toward Edinburgh, and the first time I’d been taken to the edge sexually was the previous night under Felix. Maybe his barebacking me had been part of the primeval thrill of it, but it also was because he was young and virile and took no prisoners. Yes, I’d managed to lay under other men early in the trip, but none were the raw lover that Felix was.

I was still walking bowlegged from the previous night. DeWitt didn’t seem to notice, but Felix certainly did. He had been acting as one with a proprietary interest in me during the drive today, and I’d been dutifully subservient to him—in whatever ways I could without DeWitt catching on. DeWitt was some sort of royal, I gathered—certainly well connected in the intellectual circles of Great Britain. He also was very conscious of rank, putting me, traveling as his secretary, below him, and leaving the black chauffeur barely acknowledged at all.

Felix and I parted ways in the auto court at the hotel entrance. DeWitt would have a suite of rooms on the second floor—the first floor, to the Brits—overlooking the sea. I would be in an attic room, with a small bath, if I was lucky. It didn’t matter much, as I’d be spending much of my time in DeWitt’s suite and in his bed. Felix would be in a bare-furnished, small room, with a bath down the corridor, above the garages. They would have a covered garage for the Bentley, of course, and the garage would be cleaner and better appointed than the servants’ rooms above were.

We had arrived close to the dinner hour, and this separation of the classes would be evident there, as well. It was not in season, so the guest load was sparse. Still, it would generally be a surprise to find that all of the guests—and all of the front-of-the-house staff—were male. I wasn’t surprised, though. That had been the norm thus far in the travels. DeWitt was welcomed in a succession of all-male clubs and accommodations. None of them registered surprise when they came in in the morning to pull the drapes and take breakfast orders to find me in bed with DeWitt.

We had met in such a place—in a gay club in London’s Soho district, the currently trendy Circa Club on Frith Street. That’s where we had hooked up. We’d been sitting at separate tables, viewing a sex performance on a small stage, where a monstrously large and hung man fucked a near-dwarf into semiconsciousness. I had caught DeWitt’s attention—that’s what I had been there for, to catch the attention of someone who could afford me—and an attendant had conveyed DeWitt’s invitation to join him at his table. Having already assessed the men of possible interest in the room—on the basis of my two separate criteria, either wealthy or hunks, preferably both—I had concluded that DeWitt was the most eligible hookup for the night. He was a whale of a man, but he also was strikingly handsome and intelligent looking—and he was dressed expensively and was being shown great deference by the club staff.

He had been refreshingly straightforward on what he wanted and was willing to pay as we watched the near-dwarf get scraped off the chaise lounge that had been set in the center of the small stage and then the dancing interlude began. He didn’t want to dance. He wanted sexual release. I offered to go on my knees right there, under the table, and blow him. He laughed, but said he had a better idea. I went back to his townhouse with him, Felix driving us in the Bentley, and I gave him a blow job and rode his cock in a cowboy—not too energetically, as he obviously had his physical limits. He still could ejaculate, though, and still wanted to. And he wanted a young man to coax it out of him.

Rather than throwing me out after I had given him sexual release—all of his expressed wants had been short term—and he was intrigued to discover that I was an American, had graduated from Yale, and could hold down my end of a literary discussion, even though it was in American English and not the Queen’s English, he invited me to stay afterward for a drink and conversation. He was in a cobalt-blue silk robe. I, at his request, was in the altogether, and I’m fairly sure that watching me move about the room naked was part of the thrill of him inviting me to stay.

He fucked me for a second time that night on the sofa in his lounge, obviously pleased and exuberant that he’d managed two ejaculations with a young man in an evening. I worked hard to coax that second coming out of him.

Afterward, he wanted to talk and drink some more. The conversation was good; the scotch was better. He discovered that I was writing a “coming alive” novel from my rather loose travel itinerary while I was “experiencing” Great Britain and that I’d taken on jobs as a gentleman’s secretary. As I stood in front of him, and he lifted his scotch glass with one hand and fondled my half-erect cock and balls with the other, he said he was in need of a gentleman’s secretary. He shared that he was about to start off on a leisurely road trip up to Edinburgh, stopping here and there to check on various businesses and organizations he had a hand in as a member of boards. There would be considerable report and corresponding writing to be done, and there would be time free for a young man, like me, who was writing a novel, as I was, to write—as long as I wasn’t writing about him.

“Might you be interested in a bit of traveling and providing of secretarial support?” he asked. He named a generous fee.

“That’s all I would be expected to do?” I asked. “That’s quite a bit of money for just that.”

“And bed warming, of course,” he said.

“And this, as well?” I asked. He was seriously stroking my cock now, leaning his face into it.

“And this as well,” he said.

I allowed myself to go full hard for him, to build up the essence he was working to coax from me, and to feel his warm lips close over my shaft and take my cum in his throat. He pulled his face away and wiped his mouth with a napkin, but he continued holding my cock in his hand.

“Of course, I understand,” I said, breaking what had been moments of silence spiced with heavy breathing from us both. And I did understand. “When might this start?”

“Tomorrow,” he answered. “Would that be a problem putting your affairs in London in order and arranging your possessions?”

“I just have a couple of suitcases of clothes and my laptop,” I answered. “I’m staying at the Rosewood London on High Holborn. I could be picked up there in the morning, or later, if you were leaving later.”

He raised his eyebrows. The Rosewood London was a premier London hotel, where even the midstream hotels cost an arm and a testicle. We both knew it was. What he didn’t need to know, though, was that my room had been paid through the night after this by the aging movie star I’d been with for the previous month. He had left for a production location in Italy and had not opted to take me with him. I had been in somewhat of a “what’s next?” panic when I’d gone to Circa that night.

“We can swing by there in the morning to pick your suitcases up,” DeWitt said.

“So, you want me to—?”

I didn’t need to pursue that question further, as he brushed his robe open to reveal he was in erection again. I gathered that he was as surprised as he was pleased—that this was a rare occurrence for him—that my moving about his library in the nude while we had conversed had affected him favorably.

I’m sure that night was the first one in years that he’d come three times, albeit over a space of several hours.

He fucked me on his bed in a missionary initially, he on top, huffing and puffing as he struggled to pump me with his cock, racing to take advantage of his uncertain erection, adequate in size, but just barely. I clutched his buttocks and hooked my ankles on his shoulders, trying to help him get it all in despite the impediment of his big belly, while giving him appropriate praise and encouragement. At least he was thick enough for me to feel him. And I was groaning and breathing heavily—more from the weight of him—he was a big-stomached man—than for arousing effect. At my suggestion, he turned me, penetrating me from behind. I was able to arch my back to give his belly a trough to fit in, and he was able to achieve greater depth. It was over within ten minutes.

In the morning, I tried to ride him, with him lying on his back, but he couldn’t get it up well enough to penetrate me properly. So I sucked him off, pulling a weak, but well-appreciated, ejaculation out of him. He spoke in awe that I had drained him five times since we’d met less than twenty-four hours previously, although neither of us mentioned how little actual cum he’d produced.

My position was secure for the near term, and we were off in the Bentley the next morning, with a very impressive-looking Nigerian at the wheel. The trip had been as advertised. I transcribed notes and prepared letters in the morning after breakfast in whatever hotel or club we were in, DeWitt went off with Felix at the wheel in the afternoons for meetings that produced the next morning’s correspondence, we had dinner—invariably at separate tables and often even separate dining rooms—and DeWitt let me linger in the background as he met with friends in the evening over drinks and cigars.

He never again managed three ejaculations with me in one night, but I already had him hooked—or so I thought.

His meeting and drinking and talking with friends became my favorite time of the evening. The time in bed was a bit of a chore for me. DeWitt had a wide and interesting set of friends. Some even showed interest in me and gave me their cards, inviting me to contact them when and if I became free. My function there appeared to be fully understood—and accepted—by all. Heterosexual men in his class were granted their mistresses. In his circle of friends, he was granted a young rent-boy.

This open propositioning from his like-lifestyle friends didn’t seem to disturb DeWitt, although there also seemed to be an obvious understanding that DeWitt had priority on me. All, though, seemed to recognize and respect DeWitt’s proprietary interest in me—at least for that moment. All of DeWitt’s interesting friends were male. All of them of the evident gay persuasion seemed to take it for granted that I was there to please DeWitt sexually. Some of them maneuvered me into a position to please them as well.

When DeWitt wanted to retire, I became valet, as well. I helped him undress and sponged him off in the tub, fondling him in the tub to determine what it would be that night—what he could manage and desired—a missionary, a doggie, a cowboy, just a blow job, only a hand job—or, on one or two nights, only a cuddle and fondle in the bed until he went to sleep. Regardless, when he’d dozed off, that was my signal to return to my own room.

If it had been just that, I would have been wracked with nervous energy. I was highly sexed. I needed it regularly, and I needed satisfaction from it. Luckily, help was available—usually in the form of DeWitt’s friends of the evening. In Reading, the first night on the road, where DeWitt was visited by a BBC commentator friend along with several men in BBC production, the commentator broke away from the conversation when DeWitt was involved in a deep political argument, lifted a questioning eyebrow to DeWitt. and received a permissive nod. The commentator then signaled to me, using the recognizable code of sheathing his middle finger in his cupped other hand and stroking it in and out. He wanted to fuck me.

When I followed him out of the room, I got standing doggie fucked in a quickie in the bushes below the hotel terrace, by an erection that was longer, thicker, and more vigorously applied than DeWitt could manage.

And in Oxford, it was a novelist, who spent as much time talking with me as with DeWitt and who conveyed he would be waiting for me in the hotel bar after I’d put DeWitt to sleep, who had a room of his own in the hotel, and who tied me up and nasty fucked me for two hours before releasing me. This obviously had been at DeWitt’s acquiescence, as he asked me the next morning if I enjoyed a bit of bondage—and that night he tied my wrists to the headboard posts of a country inn bed in Cambridge, saddled up behind me, and did his rendition of a dribbling ravishment. I entertained him as a raped captive, and he managed an erection for longer than usual. He didn’t move me to high arousal like the novelist had, though. The novelist had length, girth, vigor, inventiveness, and staying power that DeWitt couldn’t hope to manage. I remained satiated for days after that adventure. The novelist offered to take me to the South Seas with him for what he called research, but I regretfully declined. Only one sugar daddy at a time, was my policy.

None of the men DeWitt was meeting with in the evenings seemed to have any delusions about what my function in the mix was—or much doubt what I’d do for them for money. Both of the men who fucked me—the BBC commentator in Reading and the novelist in Oxford—tipped well. There were no opportunities—indeed no arousing men—for the next three nights, though, which is what had me going to the garage in Great Yarmouth in search of Felix and his big, black cock on the sixth night.

All in all, the trip was being quite satisfactory and beneficial—and that wasn’t even because, contrary to what DeWitt had said, the whole experience was, in fact, becoming part of the novel I was writing—with cloaked names, locations, and occupations, of course.

I was giving DeWitt what he wanted and needed, and now, as of last evening, Felix was giving me what I wanted and needed.

* * * *

There were fewer than a dozen dining at Rivenhall that evening—all men. And the arrangements kept to traditions of the empire. Seven men were at tables—separate tables—in the main dining room, which apparently had once been a deep sunporch. It was a step down from the lobby and the wall facing the sea at the top of the cliff was all windows. The woodwork was painted a cream color, with storm-tossed ship paintings set in the recesses. The carpeting was cream-colored too, as if daring patrons to wear outdoor or soiled-soled shoes to the dining room. The music was muted, a mere murmur of something classical. The caste system was at work here. Seven men—obviously the wealthy guests—were at separate tables in this room.

A step up from this area, toward the interior of the building, was another dining area, a large alcove off the main dining room. Here the furnishings and the cutlery and crystal were a bit inferior to that in the main dining room, the carpeting a dark blue, the walls cream-colored, and the nautical oil paintings good, but inferior and less arresting than those in the gentlemen’s dining area. And here, on this night, sat four young men—also at separate tables.

The tables themselves were a mystery. They all were small, with only one chair—both in the main dining room and in the alcove off that for the younger, “lesser” diners. Neither sociability nor dinner conversation were being encouraged in the dining room. All other interaction, certainly any overt sordid interaction was to go on elsewhere. The trappings of the dining room made that quite clear.

The raised section was where I’d been seated—in the alcove, a step above the main dining room. The service was attentive here, but not like it was in the main dining room. I knew why I’d been seated here rather than in the main dining room with Forest DeWitt—and I was quite confident that Felix was being served in a servant’s hall somewhere, probably not even in the main building. I was personal staff or assistant or comfort young man—whatever. I had no idea at that point why the other three men were seated in that section, but I had my suspicions, which were borne out. They were all young, handsome, well-formed men, two of them blond and lithe, and a bit limp wristed, almost more pretty than handsome. One of them, like me, was a sturdy lad, though. I was clearly the only American, and Americans must be hard to come by here. The wait staff couldn’t quite figure out whether I ranked above or below the three young Englishmen seated in our section.

The understanding of what the relationship and function between the dining room sections was came when I noticed one of the diners in the other room calling a waiter over, gesturing to him, and nodding toward one of the pretty boys seated in my section. A bit later, a bottle of Guinness appeared at the pretty boy’s table. Even from where I sat, I could tell that there was a room key and a folded English pound note of some indeterminate denomination attached to it. The waiter nodded toward the gentleman in the main dining room, the gentleman and the pretty boy nodded to each other, and soon both had left the dining room.

This wasn’t just an old, traditional country house inn. This was a male brothel for the well-heeled as well. I was perhaps the only young man sitting in this section who had an attachment to one of the seven men sitting in the privileged section.

Sure enough, a tall elegantly turned-out gentleman of obvious wealth, in very good condition for what must have been his fiftieth decade by the color of his hair, soon thereafter called a waiter over, and I couldn’t help but noticing that he was nodding toward me when he spoke to the waiter. This time, though, the waiter nodded toward Forest DeWitt at a nearby table. The gentleman shrugged and looked disappointed. His eyes locked on mine, and I gave him a nod of recognition and did what I could to look disappointed too. He was better looking and trimmer than DeWitt was, and he wore his clothes like he’d been born to the silver spoon. I looked at his hands, observing the fingers. There was an old adage about a man’s fingers and toes, and I’d found that it was borne out more than not. His fingers were long and elegant.

Another pretty boy was picked off by one of the diners in the main dining room while we were still on our salad course. After that, I felt the call of necessity—I also felt a bit tight in the crotch from the possibility with the elegant gentleman that hadn’t worked out—and I left the dining room and found a men’s room.

I was standing at the urinal, cock out, and had just completed my pee when the door to the room opened and the elegant gentleman appeared. There was a line of five urinals along the wall, but he chose the one next to me, saddled up to it, unzipped and released himself . . . and then he just stood there, cupping his cock in a hand. He wasn’t urinating. It occurred to me that that wasn’t why he was here. He was in erection, the cock being unusually long, if not particularly thick. This was as I had imagined. But what made me almost swallow my teeth was that he had a gold Prince Albert ring in the bulb. The ring was thick and weighed the bulb of his cock down. He held the cock in his right hand, on which he wore a ring with a thick gold bead in the setting.

We both stood there longer than necessary—me having finished peeing and he apparently having no intention to. We both knew what that meant. He turned and looked at me, his expression amused, his visage handsome and patrician. Confident, dominating. He owned the place; he owned me. We both understood that. There was a scar—a bit puckered and light colored against his healthy-looking tan—running from his right ear to his lower lip. The blemish only accentuated how handsome he was, with wavy gray hair—otherwise. The scar lent an aura of mystery and danger to him. The Prince Albert ring lifted the “danger” quotient significantly, as well.

He was very polite. Looking down at my exposed shaft, he murmured. “You are beautiful, May I?”

I gave him a breathy, “Yes.”

He reached out and touched my cock, which I had been holding in position with my left hand. He was standing beside me on the right and crossed his right hand to take the shaft. His left hand went to the small of my back. I released my hold on the shaft and let him hold it straight out. My tool stiffened. We held there, he undoubtedly waiting to see if I would balk or break away. I didn’t. I dropped my arms to my side, submissively, and looked directly into his eyes.

“May I?” he whispered again in a cultured, melodic voice, as he gave my shaft two long, slow strokes.

“You already are,” I said.

“But you don’t want me to stop, do you?”

“No, I don’t want you to stop.”

“Are you committed or are you for sale?”

“I am engaged, for which I am paid,” I answered.

“To Forest DeWitt? I see that he’s in the dining room.”

“Yes, I’m here with Mr. DeWitt.”

“But you don’t want me to stop masturbating you.”

“No, you don’t have to stop, if it gives you pleasure.”

“Does it give you pleasure?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to give me pleasure . . . for a price?”

“Yes, if it can be accommodated within my arrangement with Mr. DeWitt.”

He gave a low laugh and murmured, “Spread your legs back from the wall, lean in and place your hands against the wall. You’re going to come for me.”

With a sigh, I palmed the wall behind the urinal with both hands, arms extended, and spread my legs. He leaned his face toward mine as he began slow stroking my cock. I met his face half way with mine, and we kissed. He’d been drinking some sort of blackberry-flavored wine. I let his tongue inside and gave him a low moan.

I moaned deeper as he turned the ring on his right hand so that the gold bead was on the inside and he started fucking my piss slit with the bead while he slow stroked me. His left hand went under the waistband, with fingers sliding into my buttocks crack. My trousers and briefs fell to the floor. The fingers found my asshole and penetrated it. His fingers were long, elegant. The middle one managed to reach my prostate and to start the rise of my cum. The index finger was working to spread my channel more open. His intent was clear.

He pulled his lips from mine momentarily. “You are completely submissive to me,” he said. It was a statement, a command, not a question.

“Yes,” I answered.

“You would be in bed, as well?”

“Yes.”

“I can use you as I please?”

“Yes.”

He moved his lips back to mine and held me in the kiss while he fucked my piss slit, stroked my cock, and finger fucked my ass. I was his. He could do anything that he wanted with me. I’d been keyed up ever since I figured out the system in the dining room and saw it in action. He was working me in four ways—with his mouth, on my cock, in my ass—and mentally. He sensed I was tensing up to come and moved his right hand lower on my cock and stroked me more vigorously, holding the cock straight out, pointed into the urinal, until I came in three gushes and groans.

“Now you?” I asked.

“Yes, please. With your mouth.” He turned full toward me and I went down on my knees and took his cock in my mouth. He ran his fingers into my hair, took control, forcing me to deep throat him. I gagged, but it was what I wanted—a master who could be demanding and a bit cruel. At one point he jerked my head off his cock, pulling painfully on my blond curls and arching my head back. He spit down into my mouth and then pulled me back onto the cock. I gagged again as he pumped my throat with his hard staff. The incongruity of an elegantly dressed and well-mannered older man treating me this cruelly sent chills up my spine and made me go hard again. I reached down for my own cock and masturbated to the rhythm of his stroking.

I could see he was looking around the men’s room and his eyes had settled on the bank of toilet stalls.

“Do you want to fuck me in one of the stalls?” I asked, taking my mouth off the cock, but holding it in my hand still. “I want you to fuck me in one of the stalls,” I added.

“Yes,” he said in a breathy voice, and I stood and pulled my trousers up, preparing to go into one of the stalls with him.

But at that point the door to the corridor opened and the waiter who had let this man know I was here with DeWitt entered. He could clearly see what we were doing, but he knew it wasn’t his place to act like anything was going on. His presence, though, was enough to make the man push his cock back into his trousers, zip up, and leave.

Before leaving, he leaned into me and whispered, “If the opportunity arises, I want to bed you. I will use you totally.” Without waiting for a response, he turned, brushing by the waiter without acknowledging him, as if the servant didn’t exist, and exited the restroom. The waiter walked over to the urinals and unzipped himself, pulling out a cock that was going erect. As the gentleman had done with more elegance, the waiter turned and showed me that he was hard.

“You look like you want one stuck up inside you, pretty boy,” the waiter muttered.

And so it was the waiter who fucked me in one of the stalls, with my buttocks perched on the toilet tank, my feet plastered to grab bars on the stall partition on either side, the waiter hunched over me, fully dressed, with just his fly open and his cock out. He clutched my throat with one hand and had the other braced against the back wall behind my head. I grasped his waist between my hands and counterpunched his thrusts, using the leverage of my feet against the partition walls.

What can I say? The elegant man had made me so horny that anyone who wanted to fuck me in that bathroom would have been given leave to do so. The waiter wanted to fuck me. He was young and vigorous and hard and cruel, slapping me and banging my head against the tile wall behind the toilet to make me docile to his wants, even though I wasn’t resisting him, making me clean his cock with my mouth when he had shot his load, and leaving me panting and whimpering, sitting on the toilet of the stall, when he was done—treating me like the whore I was. It was just the fuck I needed at the moment—an extension of what the elegantly clad gentlemen was leading up to but had not been able to complete.

When I got back to the dining room to face a cold main entrée, the elegant man was nowhere to be seen. The fourth, more sturdy rent-boy was gone as well—and so was Forest DeWitt. While I was eating desert, the waiter who had fucked me—and who now was reacting to me as if I was just another untouchable, superior-to-him, guest at the inn—brought me a small bottle of some after-dinner wine. The taste was of blackberries. Attached to the bottle were a calling card and a fifty-dollar U.S. bill. The elegant man had taken the time to find out I was an American. The name on the card was Sir Giles Renwick, and the address was Berwick Castle in Yorkshire. Scrawled on the back were the words “luscious” and “perhaps later.”

By the time I’d finished drinking the wine, the waiter was back with another note. It was from DeWitt, saying that he wouldn’t need me that night.

I went out into the night, finding myself standing by the parking court, with garages on two sides. A light was on in one of the rooms above the garage, and I could make out the silhouette of a muscular man. Felix. I went up the stairs at the end of the garage, down the corridor and stopped outside an open door. Felix was in the room, stripped down to his waist, brushing his teeth at a sink.

He fucked me, roughly, through most of the night, me begging for more and him giving me more. He took me in positions I’d never tried before—standing in the middle of the room, pulling me on and off his cock, as I was bent over in front of him, legs and arms dangling toward the floor; on his bureau, me doing the splits, my cheek pressed into the mirror on the wall; my shoulders brushing the floor, inverted in front of him, my legs running up his torso, and Felix pulling me on and off his cock.

It was the fucking I needed. Afterward, as we cooled down, our bodies at full stretched along each other on the small cot that passed for a bed, Felix said, “You aren’t with the viscount tonight?”

“No. I think he’s taken someone else to his bed.”

“And so you came to me.”

“So, I came to you—but because when I’m in heat and need a man I prefer you. Because you can do what you just did.”

He laughed and reached down and penetrated me with three fingers. They slid in with no difficulty. “Because I’m black?”

“I have no preference that way,” I answered. “Or I didn’t before I lay under you. Now, yes, your being black adds to the pleasure of it.”

“Is it Because I have a horse’s cock?”

“Because you have a beautiful, black bull’s cock and know how to use it.”

“It’s not a good thing if he has another young man in his bed tonight.”

“It’s not?”

“Not for you—for us. He does not hold interest for long. It’s not you. It’s him. Be prepared, I must tell you.”

And that was good advice. It was the last time I was with Felix. The next morning, when I got up a bit late because of the tiring exercise Felix had put me through, Forest DeWitt, the Bentley, Felix—and, for all I know, the other rent-boy from the previous night—were gone. The note left for me was that there was urgent business in York. It didn’t say they’d be back, though, and they weren’t.

* * * *

I did wait for them to return. I thought I really had no option. I asked at the reception desk about Giles Renwick, the elegant older man who I encountered in the men’s room the previous evening, but they wouldn’t confirm whether he was still booked at the inn, saying, with a sniff and raised nose, that if Sir Giles wanted to contact me, he would do so. I could hardly bank on that happening. It wasn’t that I was destitute for money—I just didn’t know how to get to my money reserves in London from this isolated east coast inn.

Throughout the next day, whenever I heard a car driving on the road running along the top edge of the cliff up to the inn, I went to the auto court, thinking it might be them. I was surprised how many black Bentley salon cars drove around in this area of the country. It was a Friday, and men were arriving in large numbers for the weekend. The main dining room at Rivenhall had over twice as many men there—still all at separate tables and still showing more interest to the younger men in the dining alcove off the main room than to each other. My keep was covered for a few days more, so I wasn’t about to miss a meal in the dining room. I was sitting with nearly a dozen young men in the alcove now—all varieties of young men, each at a separate table. The more sturdy young man from the previous evening—the one I suspected had gone to DeWitt’s bed—wasn’t there, though.

Quite a few men were eyeing me, and I eyed most of them back—the ones who looked like they were monied and who I wouldn’t mind being handled by. I was in a mild panic. I wasn’t worried so much financially as I was at having been abandoned in a remote—remote to me—area of England without a patron, and without Felix to bed me properly and meltingly. I didn’t want to go patronless long, if only because I needed the inspiration it gave me for writing my novel. I was mildly bummed that Forest DeWitt would so easily give me up for anyone else. Was I losing my touch? My desirability?

The most striking man was a tall, beefy Indian gentleman, who was getting preferential treatment from the wait staff. He was quite large, heavier than was ideal, but he looked strong and commanding. His eyes stopped on me occasionally and I stared back. I looked at his hands, his fingers covered with clunky rings that looked expensive enough to hold my interest. The fingers on his hands were perhaps the longest and thickest I’d seen on a man. From what he was wearing, it was obvious that he wasn’t English. The Indian aspect of him was apparent. That he could bring it off in this atmosphere spoke to his prominence and standing with the hotel. He was wearing open-toed sandals, and his toes too were thick and long. The tops of them were covered with curly black hair. He had a fine head of wavy black hair and black hair curling up his throat above his shirt collar.

From the way his gaze floated around the room and kept returning to me, I felt certain he would call for me, and I speculated how big he was, how hairy he might be, how expert in the fuck—and how cruel.

Before he could make a move, though, if he intended to make a move on me, a small bottle of chilled blackberry dessert wine was brought to me by my waiter of the toilet stall the previous evening. He winked at me as he opened the bottle, poured me a glass of the wine, and handed the bottle to me. Tagged to the neck of the bottle was a room key and five hundred-euro bills. I looked out into the main dining room and, at last, saw him. Sir Giles Renwick. He lifted his wine glass in a toast to me.

Even though I hadn’t finished my meal, I got up and walked out of the dining room. My exit took me by Renwick’s table, and I paused and gave him a downcast look of submission. I was signaling that he could do whatever he wished with me. From his intake of breath, I think he understood.

Even so, he made me wait, for more than an hour, lying on his bed, naked, on my back, my legs bent and spread, my pelvis elevated to give the man a good shot as soon as he entered the room of my ass being ready for him, before he attended me. When he did come back to his suite, he gave me a disdainful look and said, “My valet has not come here with me. I want you to be my valet for tonight.”

“You fuck your valet?” I asked, smiling.

“Yes, of course,” he answered, straight-faced. “That’s part of his duties.”

“I will valet for you, of course, but I don’t know what to do other than open my legs for you,” I responded.

“And sucking my cock,” he added, smiling this time. Then he told me what to do. He stood there while I undressed him and folded his clothes—and, kneeling before him, sucked his cock. And I washed him in the tub while he stroked my cock. I dried him off with a towel in the middle of the bedroom and, upon his command, sank to my knees again. He tied my wrists and ankles together and held my head between his hands while I gave him head again. Then he pushed my cheek to the carpet, commanded me to keep my tail raised. He put a foot on my cheek and pressed down, telling me that he was going to take everything from me.

“Are you going to keep the PA ring in?” I asked. I had encountered only a few of those in the past and the client had always taken them out before sex. I assumed they would bruise the passage walls. He was about to mount me and his was still in place.

“No. I want you to feel it,” he said. “You agreed to everything. Do you want to call this off now?”

“No, I don’t want to call it off,” I answered with a whimper.

He came around behind me, mounted me, penetrated me with the longest cock I’d ever had, crowned with the heavy PA ring, and he fucked the stuffing out of me as I panted and moaned and writhed under him. I felt the cock ring rubbing and abusing my walls, and I cried out in pain-pleasure more than I usually would have done because of it.

On the bed, I lay on my belly, grasping the brass rungs of the headboard overhead, my wrists tied to them and my ankles and thighs tied together, as he lay stretched out on top of me, only his pelvis moving, fucking me in long, deep strokes, making the most of my passage being constricted by the bonds pressing my legs together. Untying me, he rolled me over on top of him and made me take the position of the crab over him, legs bent and feet on either side of his knees and arms holding me over him, palms on the bed next to his shoulders, while he fucked up into me from behind and I counterthrust up and down on the shaft until I collapsed and he fucked on.

His assault on me was cruel and glorious—and it went on interminably.

After he’d come, he rolled me on my belly again, covered me, and entered me with a half erection that, nonetheless, was long enough to reach far up inside me. I felt him pull out of me and redistribute his weight. And then I felt his fingers—slick, heavily lubricated—at my hole. He penetrated me with, first, one long finger, and then another. I began to pant as the third and fourth fingers forced their way in and spread, working at spreading me open. I panicked, realizing that he planned to fist me. I’d never been fisted before. His fingers were long but slender, as was his hand. He realized he probably could get it inside me, but not without a lot of pain. His hand was in up to the knuckles. I began to hyperventilate and, involuntarily clamping down on his fingers, tightening up.

“Relax,” he whispered in my ear, “I’m going to reach up into your belly.”

That didn’t help. I tensed up even more, sobbed, and begged him to stop.

He laughed, but the laugh had a hollow, irritated tone to it. He pulled his hand out of me and slapped me on the rump—hard—pretending he hadn’t meant to fist me, that he was just toying with me. But I could tell that he was disappointed, that he was displeased that I didn’t—couldn’t—give him everything he wanted. Still, the effort had made him hard again. He remounted my ass, thrust deep inside me, and fucked me with a fury, slapping my buttocks and thighs to release his ill-hidden anger, punishing my channel walls mercilessly with the chaffing of his PA ring.

After he’d fucked me, I lay back on the bed. He stretched out beside me, hovering over me and took my mouth in a kiss. As we kissed, he took my wrists and pulled them over my head. I felt the restraints go around my wrists and cuffs snap, binding my arms over my head. He went up on his knees and raised my right leg up his chest, hooking my ankle on his shoulder. Then he did what he’d wanted to do whether I wanted it or not. Capturing my eyes with his as he hovered over me, he fisted me with his right hand, breaking through my sphincter this time with his knuckles and fucking me with his hand while I writhed under him, exhausted, fighting to relax, whimpering, panting hard, and, ultimately, moving my pelvis with him and taking the fist.

At three in the morning, my having been ravaged cruelly—and most satisfactorily—by him, he pushed me out of the bed with the growl, “I need to get some sleep,” and I gathered up my clothes, pulling them on as I moved to the door to the corridor. I paused there, thinking he would give me some word of approval or affection, but he already was snoring when I left the room and gently pulled the door to behind me.

My ass was as sore as it ever had been before, but I was humming, sure that I had done well, that I had taken all that he demanded of me and had gotten him off repeatedly, maybe five times. I hadn’t done too badly in that department myself. Chances were excellent, I thought, that I’d moved on to a new patron. I took the “I have no valet with me” statement to suggest that he would use me in that role—while totally using me as his sex slave.

The good feeling about that lasted only until the next morning when I came down to breakfast just in time to see him driving off in his Jaguar.

“Yes, that was Sir Giles,” the man at the front desk said. “No, we don’t expect him back for a couple of weeks. He’s checked out.”

I felt a loss. He’d fucked me as I liked and beyond, taking me into new territory that men would pay premium prices for me to let them do; he obviously was wealthy and titled; he was strikingly good looking for his age; and he had a long, long cock. And there was that gloriously punishing cock ring. I’d had the feeling he could reach up into my belly with his PAed shaft when he was taking me in long strokes. Thinking on it now, I obviously hadn’t pleased him enough for him to take me with him.

There had been a rush there at the end, after he’d fucked me in so many positions, to send me away. Was it because I didn’t give him everything he wanted—that he wanted even more and thought I wouldn’t give him because I had been resistant to the fisting at first—and maybe hadn’t taken it as well as he wanted ultimately? Was I prepared to accommodate the more sophisticated and more specialized demands of the upper British classes? Was there something more demanding than fisting that Sir Giles wanted from a submissive?

* * * *

The man was spending an inordinate amount of time worshipping my hole—or so I thought at the time. I was on my back on his bed, my legs spread—my left ankle hooked on his shoulder, my right leg bent, as he reclined on the bed by my left hip and alternated between thumping and thrumming my hole, kissing and tonguing it, and penetrating it with his fingers. I’d never had a man so entranced with and obsessed with my anal opening. But, as it was slowly yawning wide for him, perhaps there was a good reason for his fixation. I know that it was arousing me. Maybe this was standard sex play in India.

My wrists were tied, my arms raised above my head and tethered to restraint buckles he’d pulled up onto the mattress from between the edge of the mattress and the headboard. He’d obviously done this before—a lot.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I was murmuring, and it wasn’t an act.

His fingers were slathered with lube, which he was generously and sensually feeding into my ass. When he had four fingers inside me, I arched my back, let my head roll back, and cried out toward the headboard. I was sure he was working up to fisting me, and I’d never experienced that from a man with fingers as thick and long as the Indian’s. I’d only experienced it once before—just the previous night—but not as totally as this would be if it continued. But then Giles Renwick didn’t expend the time and energy to get me as open as I was now.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck,” I whined in anticipation.

His name was Patel, Virat Patel. I could have cried my head off and no one would have come to rescue me. Patel, who was the Indian who had eyed me at dinner the previous night and might have sent for me then if Sir Giles hadn’t done so before he could, owned Rivenhall. He could do as he liked with me. He had earned his spot as the head of this male brothel; he was an expert cocksman and he manipulated my body at will, taking his pleasure as he liked and, in turn, giving me pleasures such as I’d never experienced before. And that was saying a lot coming from an expensive male hooker. I wanted to be dominated fully, taken totally.

He could fist me if he wanted. But it transpired that he wasn’t doing that and it wasn’t why he was spending so much time and effort opening my channel up. It was because the old adage of what long and thick fingers and toes meant held true here again. He’d been wearing a white dhoti—a one-piece sarong-type skirt or baggy pants—and when he unknotted that, allowing the material to puddle away from his body and moved his huge body over mine, I glimpsed his cock and balls. He was massively hung—long and as thick as my wrist.

As he hunched over me, both of his arms stiff-armed into the mattress on either side of my chest, and his jet-black eyes in his brown face intensely staring down into my eyes, muttering that he wanted to see my suffering when he penetrated me, Patel started forcing his cock inside me. Even with the long preparation, I had to fight hard to take him. He demanded that I relax and not clinch up and that helped. I whimpered and cried and begged him for mercy as he took his time filling me. Before he bottomed, I had collapsed and lay there, legs spread and turned out to widen my channel as much as possible, completely open to him, totally conquered. The full surrender helped me take and survive him.

Once he was fully saddled, he began a slow pump, one that increased in intensity and length of slide. Passion overtook me and I went with him, totally won over to the size and intensity of him. I bucked with him and begged him for it. We fell into a coordinated rhythm and movement of our hips and buttocks and legs until we were one, totally in sync fucking machine.

“Very good. You are a great lay,” he murmured, looking down into my eyes. “You take it all. Most of my boys cannot.”

He lowered his mouth to mine and I opened to his tongue. He lowered his muscled, hairy chest to mine and chaffed my tender skin with his black, curly, silky hair. We moved in coordinated waves, and I cried out, arched my back, and shot my load up between our chests. He fucked on, interminably. I shot a second load. He fucked on. I was moaning and groaning and crying out that I’d never had it so good or so long or so thick. And then he stiffened and fired off inside me, and I was able to add that I’d never been bathed in so much cum. And then he shot off again and again.

* * * *

The initiation of an interview with Patel on his bed had been completely unexpected, as it was not arranged in the dining room. He’d sent one of the waiters from the dining room to find me, where I was wandering in the garden, near the edge of the cliff, that Saturday afternoon. I was despondent, having lost the second man I was thinking would be my patron within two days. I was just twenty-four. As far as I knew I hadn’t lost my attraction to men. It wasn’t so much the lost money I could earn by having a well-placed patron who I could service and who would keep me bedded. I had sufficient cash reserves—when I could get to them. It was the increasing uncertainty of my power over men—even middle-aged men. I was meeting men now who were more sophisticated and demanding with sex, who wanted something special. I didn’t seem to be expert enough to give a man everything he could want.

It wasn’t “my” waiter, the one of the men’s room stall, who came to fetch me. If it had been, I probably would have coaxed him to fuck me there in the garden—to be cruel to me again, to give me assurances that sexual attraction wasn’t slipping away from me. But, although “my” waiter had hovered around in the dining room after that coupling, in that realm he maintained his place, not giving me as much deference as he did the guests in the main dining room, but treating me with distance and respect.

“Mr. Patel—he owns Rivenhall—wishes you to come to his bedroom,” the messenger said.

“Tonight?”

“No. Now.”

“Now? In the afternoon? Did he tell you what he wanted from me?”

“I think you know what he wants from you,” the messenger said, giving me something close to a sneer. He was a waiter in the dining room. Of course he knew that assignations were set up there. He knew what young men like me were doing when we came to the dining room and sat at the separate tables in the alcove off the main dining room.

My mind went to Patel. He was massive. I can’t say I hadn’t already wondered how well he was endowed and had compared his paunch to the larger one DeWitt had and even while I was eating my dinner the previous evening was thinking of the positions we could use for him to get greatest penetration—and me sufficient pleasure without being crushed. When a man with a big belly took me from behind, I arched my back to give him a shelf to accommodate his girth. When he took me in a missionary, I often tried to be arching back over the side of the bed to open totally to him and let his belly push out unencumbered in front of him. I did what I could to give such a man maximum depth for the thrust. As for my pleasure, he needed to have something hefty to thrust.

But I was later to think upon that musing and laughing at the thought of worrying about a man with a big belly being able to achieve enough penetration to satisfy me. Patel’s cock seemed to reach to my tonsils and to stretch me like a baseball bat no matter what experienced position he maneuvered my body into. Once we were fused—and there’s no other word for it; his cock filled me at the greatest stretch and he possessed me to the maximum point of sexual connection that he could, and did, do—he did as he liked with me.

“Why not?” I had answered and had followed the waiter back into the gentleman’s brothel.

The second time Patel fucked me, he released my wrists. It didn’t mean much, though. He was strong as an ox and held me in close embrace. He fucked me from behind with both of us on our sides and him holding my left leg raised. Again, I felt stretched to the limit but welcomed the cruel and rough fucking and let him know I did. Once again, we moved in perfect harmony, making the most of our sexual parts.

As we lay there afterward, him still holding me close, still deep inside me, still half hard, he whispered in my ear, “You are good. Very good.”

“You are better,” I responded.

“I wanted to know. I wanted to know before . . .”

“Before what?”

“You have been abandoned here. Do you realize that? Forest DeWitt isn’t coming back. Sir Giles isn’t going to send for you. He will come back here, but when he does, he may not call for you. He may have had what he wants from you already.”

“I know,” I answered.

“Those young men—the ones in the dining room, making themselves available to the guests. They aren’t all working independently. Some are brought here as personal whores, as you were.”

I bridled at that, but he was right. I was a whore. DeWitt had brought me here so he would have a whore to service him.

“Some work for me,” Patel continued. “I maintain my own stable that I train to the service. Some work for me longer than others. If they leave, they leave trained to earn more. While they are here, we split the fees, but I steer the best of the guests to my own boys. You have been abandoned here. You can work for me until you get your bearings.”

“It’s something to consider,” I said. “I can’t say I wouldn’t leave with one of your guests if I found one I fancied and who wanted to take me on an adventure.”

“I understand. Until then, you would be my slave and I would be your master. I can train you to be a top earner. But you must not rise above yourself. You must accept that you are here to pleasure men in the ways they want to be pleasured.”

I had no trouble understanding those were the rules here—separate dining room sectioned and separate tables.

He didn’t have any way of knowing but that was the very best argument a man could use with me to get his way.

“Did I not do that for you just now—be your willing slave for whatever you wanted from me?”

Patel laughed. “Yes, and you did it very well. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be offering you what I am.”

“I’ll be in the dining room tonight, then,” I said. “Now, though, I’ll—” I had started to roll out of his embrace and pull my channel off his cock, but he held me close, tightly enough that I yelped from the sharp pain of it.

“No. I said you are my slave and I am your master. I am not finished with you yet.”

And that obviously was true. I could feel him engorging inside me again. He rolled me over onto my stomach, pulled me up on my knees, palmed my belly with one hand, and pressed the heel of his other hand into the side of my throat, forcing my cheek to the surface of the bed.

I groaned again as he crouched over my ass on the bed, mounted me, and began to fuck me again in long, thick strokes.

I whimpered and sobbed and begged for mercy—and reveled in every stroke of the renewed fuck.

He turned me on my back again, and I spread and bent my legs and lifted my pelvis to him, willingly, offering myself as a sacrifice, a sacrifice he accepted. He fisted me now. Now I could take it after the reaming of his cock over the previous hour. I would give him anything, and he wanted—and took—it all. I panted and groaned as he penetrated me with a greased hand up to his wrist, taking his time.

“We have all the time in the world,” he murmured to assure me that I was completely in his control.

“Be good to me, master,” I begged.

“You wish me to stop? You wish me to withdraw?”

“No. Have me as you like.” I was lost to him, wanting more, wanting it all. He wasn’t just a massive, big-bellied, middle-aged Indian. He was a sexual mystic, a master cocksman.

“Remember what I told you in taking a cock my size. You must do that for a large fist too.”

I remembered, willing myself to relax and open to him, to control my breathing—not to hold my breath—to concentrate on how fully we were fused, the pleasure I was giving my partner, the pleasure I could have as well if I fought through the pain. Already I was learning from Patel, a master. Wherever I went from here, I would have learned to please a man more fully—and to get maximum pleasure myself.

And it was pleasure—the pleasure of knowing I could take it; that it was what my partner wanted from me and that I was in the position to give it all to him. The pleasure of knowing I could take a huge cock, even a fist, probably even two cocks at once.

I can take a fist, I can take a fist. I rolled this over and over in my mind as he was penetrating me with his hand. And then I had taken his fist.

He was inside me. I felt his fingers stroke my channel walls, a thumb firmly planted on my prostate and rubbing. Driving me crazy. I bucked against him, with him, as he fluttered his fingers inside my channel. He held my head to the mattress with the other massive hand on my throat and gazed into my face, reveling in my complete, whimpering surrender to him.

“Good, good,” Patel leaned into me and whispered in my ear. “And you will become better at it. Sir Giles had a word with me this morning before he left. He will not send for you, but he will come here and enjoy you. He wishes you to be fully trained to the fist before he comes back again. And we will cover sounding as well.”

“Sounding?” I asked. “What is sounding?”

He told me what sounding was, and then I knew that there were more refined and demanding sex acts an English gentleman might require from me than I had experienced as yet.

I would maybe find a patron to take me away from Rivenhall, but not for a time—not for as long as Vital Patel dominated me like this—and there was the promise of another coupling with Sir Giles—and I had the chance to learn even more tricks of the trade.