Simon Clore, the senior partner of Clore & Son, where I worked as an accountant, passed by me frequently during the evening office party, lightly touching me intimately each time, leaving no doubt what he wanted from me. He had me in such a vice. Not only did my livelihood depend on keeping him satisfied with me, but also he was married to my second cousin, Betsy, who I thought a lot of and who was going through an ordeal with cancer. I didn't, for the world, want to burden her with any more grief than she already was coping with. Simon was using that to his advantage. As soon as he had learned that I was gay, he started taking advantage of me.
He finally came up beside me at the punch bowl. "I want you to stay after the party and help me . . . clean up, Paul."
Simon Clore wasn't the type who cleaned anything up, especially an office party, so the other office workers were surprised and extra grateful when he announced that he and I would take care of everything afterward. I knew what "everything" entailed. I, in fact, was horny tonight, but it wasn't from Simon's touches and hints of what was in the offing. During the party I kept looking over at the "son" part of the Clore & Son partnership. Young, hunky Hal was perpetually surrounded by adoring young women, and tonight was no exception. We played tennis together and each time I fantasized about him taking me in the locker room shower--I melted at the sight of him, hunky and hung, when we showered at the club after playing, but it was a "no go" with Hal. He obviously was a woman's man and had his hands full without thinking of me--at least not in the way I thought of him.
The post party assignation was over in twenty-five minutes, and a good fifteen minutes of that was me working to get Simon's small cock up as he sat in his office chair and I knelt between his knees and worked on the old man's cock with my mouth. The fuck itself was only five slides--yes, I counted them, wondering if the old man ever would get up to ten--and a jerk and a spurt in a condom that barely was able to stay on his dick--as I bent over his desk and he poked me from behind.
He left me to finish the cleanup--he'd done practically nothing toward the end, of course--and then, when my car wouldn't start, he offered to drive me home to my apartment.
In front of the apartment, he asked, hopefully, "I'd like to come up. Betsy's in the hospital overnight again. They want to monitor something. That's why she wasn't at the party. I didn't want to cloud the employees' enjoyment, so I didn't say anything."
Of course, most of us already knew Betsy was in the hospital again. Hal had told one of the receptionists that their tryst that night had to be postponed because he was visiting his mother in the hospital. There was a pact not to talk to Simon about his wife's lingering death, so we all were keeping mum about her hospital stay as well.
"That would be lovely, Simon," I said. "But there's the problem of Demont."
"Ah, yes, Demont. Possibly you could come on to my house for the night, then."
I shook my head sadly--or at least tried to make it look sad. "Alas, there's still Demont. He's the jealous type, I'm sure you know. He expects me to be in bed under him every night."
"Yes, I see." Simon might be expected to be disappointed at having missed out on an entire night with me--which I could have guaranteed him would be no more than fifteen minutes of me working him up, six pokes from him, and him snoring off for the rest of the night--but his eyes were flashing with arousal and he was licking his lips. He often quizzed me about what Demont did with me, and I tried not to disappoint in my descriptions.
"So, I'll see you at the office Monday?"
"No, not until Thursday," I answered, already, thankfully, out of his car and leaning down and looking through the open passenger door. "I'm sure you remember that I'm taking most of the week off in vacation time. I'll be home working on your and Betsy's personal taxes for three days."
"Ah, yes." He answered. No "thank you for doing my taxes on your personal time," just an "ah, yes." But that was Simon. Just a taker. I smiled as he drove off--not at the memory of him screwing me, which he did in various forms, but at the taillights of his car moving away from me.
There was no Demont waiting for me upstairs. I had invented a jealous black bull roommate to aid in holding Simon off precisely for circumstances like this. There was no one waiting for me upstairs The legend of Demont had worked somewhat of an opposite effect to the one I was going after, though. Since I'd made the mistake of describing to Simon some of Demont's rough sex and bondage positions, the descriptions had aroused him and made him more horny for me.
I went upstairs and, while coffee was brewing to take the buzz off me from whatever someone had spiked the punch with at the office party, I sifted through the mail I'd taken out of the box downstairs. Mostly "gimmee" letters and catalogs from stores I'd shopped online for Christmas gifts and that assumed I was going to give gifts weekly from then on. There was a letter from Professor Hollins, at my alma mater, who wrote longing letters to me almost monthly. He who had taken my virginity during a picnic near the river and who wanted to continue reliving that moment. And there was a bulkier, official-looking letter with British stamps on it.
I started to open the letter but then noticed that the coffee was ready. I really needed that coffee. The letter from Hollins also had put me in a "mood." He'd been a proficient lover with a long cock, and he'd been my first. I'd save the letter to read later, I thought, as I set it aside, on top of the letter from England, and rose to pour coffee.
The postmark on the bulkier letter had also made me think of Phil and Rigger, the gay couple I chatted with, who lived in England. I was in the mood to chat. I went to my computer and started to compose my daily chat to my fantasy pen pals.
Sorry this chat is late. The Curtis & Caldwell office party ran overtime tonight and I came home late--and sore and exhausted. Steven Curtis came up behind me at the spiked punchbowl I'd made three too many visits to and, squeezing one of my butt cheeks hard, whispered that he and I had a separate party to go to in his office. I knew what he wanted, and the thrill of doing it just a closed, but not locked, door away from the office party in full swing was both a frightening and an arousing sensation. When we got there, he pulled the fleeced-lined handcuffs I've told you about from his desk drawer and in no time he had my wrists bound behind my back and me bent over his desk, fucking me furiously from behind, my belt looped around my throat and Curtis using the belt as reins, choking me as he pulled back hard on the reins with each thrust.
I heard the increased noise of the party beyond the private office as the door opened, and there was the hunky Hank Caldwell--you remember, the other, younger partner who fucked me on top of the Xerox machine? I watched him make a phone call for Dion to come up from the loading dock before he was grabbing my hair and forcing my mouth down on his cock on the other side of the desk from where Curtis was furiously fucking me in the ass. And when the black bull Dion came into the office, he relieved Curtis in drilling me. I nearly passed out from that monster cock of his plowing my ass.
It didn't stop there either. When I left the office, my car wouldn't start and Curtis volunteered to drop me off in his limo, which Dion was driving, on his way home. They doubled me in the parking garage of my apartment house, Curtis on his back on the hood of the car--the bonnet to you lot--with that long cock of his snaked up into me from the rear, while Dion pumped me from the front with that monster cock of his. I only wish it had been you two. I'm not sure I can hobble out of bed for work tomorrow. What do you say, should I bother to wear a thong pouch to the next office party? *smile* Gotta go and soak in the tub, both legs over the side to sooth my bruised ass channel. Kisses to and a deep-throated suck for you both. Todd.
I'd been slipping my hand to my crotch during the chat and now, finished and the e-mail sent, I opened the chat they had sent me, full of descriptions of a threesome on a bale of hay in a barn, and I unzipped myself and stroked off to that.
I went back to the kitchen counter and refilled my coffee cup, remembered the letter from Professor Hollins, and, feeling mellow and a bit melancholy, reached for the letter. Pulling it away, my eye caught the bulkier letter from England. Curious, I slit it open. Several pages of very official looking legalese unfolded in my hand.
I sat down at the table and read over it several times. It had to be one of the most elaborate scam letters I'd ever read. Although, even though I was an experienced accountant, for the life of me I couldn't figure out how the scam worked. The papers claimed I had inherited a third interest in a pub south of Gloucester, England, called The Laughing Lion, as well as a third interest in an ancient house near the pub in the Forest of Dean.
Where the hell was Gloucester? I wondered. Or the Forest of Dean, for that matter. I didn't know anyone in England, or anyone anywhere else who would die and leave me anything.
It had to be a scam. But, for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the scam was. It was both frustrating and intriguing, and I knew I had to check it out and figure it out or I wouldn't sleep well all weekend. I decided to call Aaron, my lawyer, in the morning and have him read the legalese and tell me what the scam was. It would mean calling him on Saturday morning, but I knew he worked Saturdays, and he didn't hesitate to call me on Saturdays to ask how I was coming on doing his taxes. This would be justifiable tit for tat.
I went to bed and masturbated myself to the drowsy state before sleep slipped in, dreaming of a big brute fucking me rough and standing against a wall, with an arm being painfully pulled high up my back. Seeking the height of all the sensations I could--pain as well as pleasure--and to be totally controlled and used by a man--or men.
* * * *
Waking with the morning light from the Gloucester hotel room window hitting me in the face through the gap that the curtains wouldn't cover, I felt groggy from the drink the previous evening and took a moment to remember where I was. I was laying stretched against him, my back cuddled into his chest. A mop of reddish-blond hair was tickling the hollow of my neck. A beefy arm, ruddy and covered in reddish down, was thrown over my torso. A similarly beefy leg was thrown over my thigh. His left leg stretched down mine, his foot barely reaching my ankle. The thickness of his cock pressed into the small of my back. Bulldog thickness. He was built like a bull dog--close to the ground; stocky, but muscular, not fat; young, younger than I was; the ruddy good looks and vitality of what they'd call a footballer over here; his cock not appreciably long flaccid, but unusual thick and lengthening significantly in arousal, the bulb an angry red; even his balls, pulled tight up to his groin, were beefy.
He was a powerful, muscular man--powerful in his thrusts. I'd been ridden hard the previous night. That I could remember. Nothing like I'd ever had in the States. It was good for me. Nothing had been meeting my fantasies in the States, certainly not the fantasies I'd spun with my English pen pals.
I gently lifted his arm off my torso and then pulled out from underneath his leg, hoping not to disturb his light snoring. But as I sat up on the side of the bed, he snorted and turned over onto his back. A hand came down and scratched his balls. He was half hard.
"Where you goin'?"
"To the bathroom. To take a piss and maybe a shower."
"In a minute," he said, a light growl in the depth of his throat. He'd used the same growl in telling what he wanted me to do the previous night. And I'd done it.
He raised his torso, cupped the back of my neck, and brought my face down to his crotch. I opened my mouth to him and gave him head for nearly a minute. Pulling off him then, I said, "I really do have to take a piss."
"OK, but the shower can wait."
When I returned from the bathroom, he was sitting on the other side of the bed, smoking a cigarette, rolling a condom on his cock, and slathering his sheathed cock with lube.
He fucked me with me on my back, legs spread and bent, hands gripping the rails of the headboard over my head, back arched, mouth hanging open in a big yawn, and his bulldog body between my legs. His torso was raised, his fists dug in the bedspread at each side of my chest, his buttocks moving forward and back with hard powerful thrusts.
Welcome to England. I'd been here less than twenty hours.
* * * *
Aaron called me back early Saturday afternoon. "I don't know what's going on either, Paul, but it's no scam. After I couldn't see anything wrong with the documents, I called the solicitors in Gloucester, England, listed on the letterhead--after I'd checked with a couple of firms in England I knew of and was told the Gloucester firm was legit. The inheritance is also legit, apparently. You don't know a Peter Townsend, a Brit by that name?"
"No, never heard of him."
"Well, he's left you one third of British pub on the Severn River and one third of an old house in the hills above a town called Newnham. Either one ring a bell?"
"Not a tinkle. I'm thoroughly confused."
"The solicitors are quite anxious to see you. They've schedule a meeting with you at their chambers in Gloucester for 3:00 p.m. Monday. Do you think you can make it, or should I try to schedule later?"
"I don't know. Where in England are Gloucester and the Severn River anyway?"
"I don't know, but the solicitors suggested you fly to Birmingham and rent a car from there. Are you curious enough to break away that soon?"
"You bet I am," I answered.
"In that case, you'd better find out where those places are quickly. Good luck, Paul, and keep me posted on what this is all about. I'm almost curious enough to go with you."
I had no trouble booking a flight from New York that night, although all I could get in the way of a seat was steerage. I'd also booked a subcompact Kia Rio at the Birmingham airport. They tried to get me to upscale in size, but I'm glad I refused. Driving right-hand drive on narrow lanes hemmed in by hedgerows was about as much fright in life as I could endure. The somewhat seedy three-star Station Hotel in Gloucester, just off the AA30 ring road, was the best I could do for booking on such short notice. In the eventuality, that was a good thing. The desk clerk didn't even bat an eye when I came in half drunk on Sunday night and took a man up to my room.
I'd arrived in Birmingham in late morning after an all-night endurance flight, and the drive south, after the hour of getting out of the airport and into a car, took more than two hours. The driving wasn't bad, though. I'd driven on the left both in England and Australia before and the roads were all highways. Working against that was being tired from only dozing during the night in the crowded plane.
I grabbed a bite to eat--I couldn't remember what it was ten minutes after I finished it: some sort of soggy sandwich wrapped in plastic, a piece of sandwich meat and a pimento spread, I think--after I'd check into the hotel and then went upstairs and tried to sleep. But, of course, I couldn't. I kept thinking of this pub I supposedly now owned a piece of.
Since I couldn't sleep, I decided to check the pub out before meeting with the solicitors the next day.
I had picked the hotel from the available choices because it was on the south side of the city. When I asked at the desk where the road along the west side of the Severn toward Cardiff, in Wales, was, the A48, I was pleased to find that it was easy to find from the hotel.
I'd been told the Laughing Lion pub was on the bank of the river on A48 just before I reached the village of Newnham. I had no trouble finding it. I surveyed it as I got out of the car, which had been making rather disturbing noises for the last mile of the drive. The building rambled a bit and looked like it almost, but not quite, was in need of remodeling. Still, it looked inviting and there were a fair number of cars in the car park, so it also looked reasonably prosperous. As indicated on the map, it did, indeed, sit just above the river on a riprap-enforced embankment. The river was fairly broad at this point, but the maps told me it would broaden significantly before entering the Bristol Channel. I could see small container ships moving on the river toward or from Gloucester. And there was considerable car traffic on the A48, even for a Sunday. The pub was well located.
Still, I had already decided to sell out my third as soon as possible. It was still a mystery why I had inherited it.
I entered the pub, the main room of which was divided off in three zones. To the left as I entered at the side of the building, was a large room with continuous windows on three sides looking out on the river. This what first caught my attention, as it was where the light was the brightest. To my right, in a section with a step up and the ceiling lowered, was a long bar, swathed in shadow, with points of light above the bar and on the few tables in this area. Straight ahead, in a separate room, served by a wide entrance, was a smoky pool room. I could see three tables, two of them in use. The river room, as I thought of it, was occupied, but not to overflowing, with the patrons coming and going frequently.
No one was in the bar area except for the bartender taking up position behind the bar. He was young looking, a sportsmen type. Sandy haired, ruddy complexion. A nose that had been broken more than once, the second time seemingly back toward where it originally was. It gave him a somewhat dangerous, thuggish look, but, in fact, added to the attraction of him. He smiled at me, as I entered, so I was drawn to the bar and perched on a stool. I noticed then, in the darkness, that a few of the tables in the bar were occupied too.
The barman came around the bar occasionally to serve the table, but then he always came back to me.
I ordered a Guinness Stout, if for no other reason than I assumed that was what one drank in a pub. And, famished, off schedule, and with less-than-fond memories of the soggy sandwich I'd last eaten, I asked him if they were serving food yet.
"It's a bit early, but I think I could have fish and chips served up for you."
"Thank you, that would be great," I answered. And when it came, indeed it was great. Far better than the fish and chips I could get served in New York, not that I ordered it very often.
"Sorry," I said, when it came and when I ordered another Guinness, the barman having been off to clean tables in the river room for several minutes, "I've just gotten off a plane from the States. I don't even know what time you'd be serving here."
"The evening food service won't come on for another hour. We close at 10:30 on Sunday nights, though, so last calls on everything would be at 10:00. I'd be out of here at 10:31." He laughed, and I laughed with him. He had a hearty laugh and a very nice smile. "American or Canadian are you," he asked.
"American. From New York."
"Sweet. You here for pleasure or business? In England, I mean. You'd be here in the pub for pleasure."
That sounded a bit strange, but I answered what I thought was being asked. "Business. I'm staying in Gloucester--at The Station Hotel. Tried to sleep and couldn't. Discovered I was hungry and thirsty and decided to take a short drive down the Severn. I wonder, is the owner of the pub in this evening?"
"Peter died recently. But I guess just having come from across the pond you wouldn't know that. Ralph. Ralph Barnes isn't in tonight. So, you've come because you've heard about the pub? Decided to do a little cruising, have you? Top or bottom? I could give you leads. Might even be interested myself. Might definitely be interested myself, depending."
"You're a poofter, aren't you?"
That really threw me and I just looked at him, surprise written all over my face, I'm sure.
"Oscar Wilde," he explained, with a laugh. "Queer . . . gay . . . a fag. Look around, sweet thing. What do you see none of here?"
I looked around. It hit me almost immediately. "No women. I just see men."
"That's because this is a men-only pub. For hook ups and just to be comfortable among our own kind."
Our own kind. I turned to him, "So you are--?"
"A power top. Hoping that you might be a bottom."
"As it happens, I am," I answered.
He gave me a big grin--and took my almost-empty glass and filled it with stout again. "Well, then, hallelujah, have a drink on me. And then remember how nice I was to you if you stay till last call. And if you do stay until last call . . ." He didn't finish that sentence. He just gave me a wink and went off into the pool room to collect empty glasses.
I hung around, watching the operation of the pub, and occasionally talking with the barman, whose name was Sean, until last call. He was speaking so free and easy with me, flittering but not getting aggressive or making direct propositions that I didn't want to leave. The hotel room was pretty Spartan--and would be quite lonely.
He didn't stop me from pulling away from the bar and moving rather unsteadily toward the door other than to call out a "You sure you should be driving? Be careful. You could have company on the drive back, of course. Any number of lads in here. Or you could remember how nice I was to you and be nice back. Maybe on your back." He winked at me again and smiled, leaving me in doubt as to how much of it was just friendly banter. It was a real turn on, whatever it was.
I smiled in return, waved to him, and weaved my way out the door and to the Kia . . . which wouldn't crank over. I tried it several times.
Sean appeared at the door of the car. "Here, leave it. Get out and I'll see what I can do."
I exchanged places with him and he cranked at the ignition, not doing any better with it than I had. "Did you fill it with petrol before leaving Birmingham?" he turned his head to me and asked.
"No. Should I have?"
"They would have given you as little petrol as they could and it's a good drive from there to here. What your problem is is that you are out of petrol."
"No problem, though. I could drive you to your Gloucester hotel. It's not far. Less than twenty minutes."
"I have a meeting tomorrow," I said. "I'd have to figure out how to get back here with gas before that."
"I could drive you back in the morning. We could stop on the way back for petrol. Nothing open at this hour."
"Drive me back?"
"It would cost you, though," he said, with a grin. "Are you understanding what I'm suggesting?" He was gripping one of my knees with a strong hand.
He fucked me doggy style on the bed in my hotel room. He took charge as soon as we'd entered the room, using that low growl to tell me what I would do for him, and half drunk, more than half exhausted, and totally lost to the arousal of the situation, I gave him what he wanted.
Telling me to lose my shirt as soon as we entered the room, he stripped his off as well, pulling me into an embrace and a kiss. Taller than he was, I had to dip my face down for the kiss. As we kissed, he worked both of our belts open, pushed our trousers and briefs down to our knees, and worked our cocks together. We were both uncut and not yet fully hard, and I took my breath in as he docked the cocks, putting them together, bulb to bulb, pushing the foreskin of his over the foreskin of mine, and slowly stroked them together, making the piss slits kiss.
With a moan, I arched my back away from him and he worked my nipples with his teeth.
"Give me some head," he growled, and, as he sat down on the end of the bed, he forced me down between his spread thighs on my knees, and I sucked his cock hard, as he demanded.
Growling again, he moved me in position on the bed, on elbows and knees, cheek to bedspread, left arm stretched out over the bedspread, fist grasping at the bedding, and right hand stroking my cock, as he crouched over my hips, grabbed the sides of my chest and power fucked my ass.
When he was done, he just pushed me over on my side, and landed behind me. Totally exhausted and totally fucked, I zoned out into sleep immediately. I was only half conscious when he took me in a side-split again in the dark of the night, with me only aware enough to respond as he wished to whatever commands he was growling at me. Well, also being aware that I was loving what he was doing to me and spouted great globs of cum on the hotel sheets.
Imagine my surprise the next afternoon when, sitting across from the other two owners of the pub and the house in the solicitor's offices, I saw not only the unfamiliar face of a tall, almost gaunt dark-haired man several years older than I was, but also . . . Sean, who was introduced to me as Sean Anderson. The other man I'd already had a name for, Ralph Barnes.
That still didn't mean much to me and I was showing my confusion to the solicitors while trying not to look at the grinning Sean Anderson until Barnes asked the solicitor to step out of the office for a moment.
When he had, Barnes spoke, "You know me by another name, just as I know you by another name. I know you as Todd. You know me as Rigger. The man who died and left you his share of the pub and house you knew as Phil."
"Oh," I said. So much clearer now. My English pen pals. The men I'd fantasized about concerning sex--rough and kinky sex. And threesomes. And then it sank in. These were men I had fantasized with concerning what my secret desires were--things I'd never actually done, though.
"And Sean here," Barnes continued. "We never included him in our on-line chats, but he's been with Peter and me for a while. We enjoyed our threesomes with you so much that we brought him in to help us act on what we chatted about."
They'd actually done what we chatted about over the Internet. I felt myself beginning to hyperventilate, but Barnes called the solicitor back in before I could melt down and then we became busy discussing the terms of Peter's will and the implications of triple ownership.
"We can discuss that," the solicitor said when I noted that I wanted to sell my third immediately.
"You haven't seen the properties yet," Barnes said.
"He's seen the pub," Sean chipped in.
Barnes turned to me. "Yes, I've already visited the Laughing Lion," I said.
"But you haven't seen the house."
"No, he hasn't," Sean answered for me, with a smile on his face. "He's staying at The Station Hotel in Gloucester."
"Ah, so, you've already--" Barnes turned to a grinning Sean with this comment.
"Yes, I have, as a matter of fact," Sean answered, the grin plastered on his face. "I sussed him out within minutes of coming into the pub. An American just arrived, staying at a Gloucester hotel but just happening to come to our pub--and asking for the owner."
"And so, you didn't come home last night because--"
"Yes, he was very nice. Very nice indeed."
As they bantered back and forth, both the solicitor and I followed the exchange like the volleying of a yellow ball in a tennis match. The solicitor was just confused. I was getting red as a beet. Discussing like that right in front of me. And all of what we'd already laid out in months and months of dirty e-mail exchanges. What could they be thinking I was into sexually? Well, I knew what they were thinking, now didn't I? It was both frightening and arousing at the same time.
The e-mail chats, after all, had represented fantasies of what I really would like to do.
Barnes turned to me. "You can't possibly make a decision on what you want to do with the properties if you haven't seen them all. The house is large--there are Peter's rooms just sitting there unused. They are far better than that hotel you're staying in."
"The Station Hotel," Sean interjected. "The beds are lumpy; the box springs screech; the brass headboards thump against the wall." He was grinning from ear to ear.
"I got that," Barnes said. He turned back to me. "You must see the house before you decide what you want to do. We'll move you from the hotel right after this meeting."
It wasn't a request. If Sean had said it, I guess it would be with a little growl, and I would have given in immediately. Barnes didn't growl, but I still gave in immediately. It was, after all, a reasonable point. At least that's what I kept telling myself on why I'd agreed to the move.
* * * *
We were slouched there, three across, on a sofa in the sitting room on the second floor of the ancient main section of the Forest of Dean house. We still had our trousers on, but all three of us were shirtless. I was in the middle. We were watching a male-on-male porn DVD on a big screen TV opposite the sofa. Barnes said the elderly woman who had served us a dinner in the formal dining room next to this room was from the nearby village and would go home after serving, cleaning up after the dinner the next day. So, by the time we were finished with dessert and coffee, the three of us were alone in the house.
All three of us had our cocks out and were hand stroking them as we watched the DVD. Barnes was tall and slim and hirsute and dark to Sean's ruddy reddish-blondness, short and solid build, and near-smooth skin. And where Sean's cock was thick and short until hard, Ralph Barnes' was a snake--long and thin. Sean was uncut; Barnes cut.
Almost on signal, the two of them let loose of their own cocks; turned to me, each putting an arm around my neck, Barnes slapping my hand away from my cock, and each fisting it, Barnes' hand over Sean's. The two and began kissing me, from my face down to my nipples. The grip on my cock loosened, and, as they worked my head and torso with their lips, I stroked my cock up into the sheath they'd made with their hands until I had shot my load in an arc onto the coffee table our legs were stretched out on.
Here it comes, both of them together, I thought. Barnes hadn't bothered to ask me if I took cock--Sean had already made that obvious to him. And my fantasy chats would have given him the impression that I was easy and hot for it. But it wasn't both of them together and it didn't go to the lengths I thought it would. They just bent my torso over, first to the right to Sean and then to the left to Ralph, and I gave them both head to their ejaculations in my throat.
Nothing of the kinky nature we'd exchanged e-mails about. Well, at least not yet.
After they'd both ejaculated, Ralph switched off the TV and we all went downstairs, to the long kitchen in a "modern" wing, dating only to the eighteenth century, that ran off the back of the house. This obviously was where they did most of their living. Descending three steps from the hall running across the back of the ancient house and down into a stone-walled room, one first encountered a comfortable-looking sitting area facing a fireplace. Then a dining area, and only then the restaurant-sized kitchen, beyond which there was a laundry room.
We sat at the dining table, drank beer, and Barnes told me about the house and grounds. We had driven past the pub and into Newnham, three vehicles in tandem, mine in the middle, behind Barnes' and ahead of Sean's, before turning right, away from the river and, via a narrow, hedge-row lined road, up into the Forest of Dean.
The main section of the house went back to Norman days. It had been a manor house built in the twelfth century. Three stories, two rooms per floor. A stair hall along the back had been added a few centuries later and then the two-and-a-half story kitchen wing off the back in the eighteenth century. The history of the grounds was even older than the house, the foundations of the house having been set on the ruins of a Roman temple.
The house had been conveniently split up for the use of the three men. The first two stories and the kitchen floor were common rooms. The first floor of the old house made up a reception hall and an office. The living and dining rooms were on the second floor. Peter's rooms had been on the third floor. Ralph's apartment ran across the kitchen wing and had an entrance into the old house in the hall at the back. Sean lived in attic rooms about Ralph's apartment and could access the main house via a circular staircase in a narrow tower rising between the main house and the kitchen wing.
"Time to turn in," Ralph said after telling me of a very interesting history of the house over the centuries. All of what he said clawed at my determination to sell my interest in it and the pub and run right back to the safety of the States. I had loved the house at first sight. "I'll show you up to your rooms."
"I'm sure I can find them my--" I started to say, as I rose from the table.
"I'll show you to your rooms," Ralph said, his voice commanding.
And so it began.
He followed close behind me up the staircase. On the second floor, he grabbed me and spun me around, embracing me and giving me a hard kiss on the lips.
"You know why I'm coming upstairs with you, don't you?" he asked in a guttural voice.
"Yes, of course."
"I could fuck you right here on the staircase, you know. You included that in a chat once. You made it sound so sexy. Peter was very much taken with the scene you wrote for us. I fucked him just half way up this staircase after we'd read that chat, just like you described."
Yes, I'd remembered writing that. I was extra randy that night. No, I hadn't ever actually done it, but I was here, now, steeped in fantasies of my own devising. I saw no reason not to give in to them, if just for tonight.
"You can fuck me anywhere you want, any way you want," I heard myself saying. "you want me to go down on my belly here on the staircase? Or do you want me to sit on a stair tread and open my legs to you?"
"I want you to come upstairs," he said, with a hiss, grabbing one of my wrists, bending my arm painfully behind my back, and propelling me up the stairs to the third floor.
He pushed me up to the wall beside the door into what was to be my bedroom--my belly to the wall, my trousers and briefs hitting the floor, my chin cupped and pulled back to the hollow of his shoulder with one of his hands. His other hand palmed my belly, his hard cock snaking up into my ass channel, and working my channel, kissing every surface of the shimmering muscles of my passageway with the bulb of his cock, as I moaned and moved my buttocks in coordinated movement with the cock.
"Do you remember writing this in a chat?" he muttered.
Yes, I did. Writing it, not actually doing it. But at the time I had been aching for someone to rough fuck me that way. Here, now, I was aching for Ralph to rough fuck me that way. My answer to him was to push my buttocks back into his groin and to roll them up to give him deeper penetration, I arched my back and raised my arms, locking my fists behind his neck.
"Can you do it as well for me as the black bull in my chat did it for me?" I challenged. "If so, do your worst."
With a roar he gave me a cruel upward thrust of his dick that nearly lifted me off my feet and made me yelp in surprise and pain.
"Yes, yes, fuck me. Drill me. Harder, deeper," I murmured in a low, hoarse voice, moaning for him. He sucked in his breath, no doubt surprised at my total surrender to him--and then, spurred on by my tease, complied with the harder and deeper plea.
"Very nice, very nice indeed," he whispered after I'd come and had sunk to the floor when he released me. He hadn't come yet, and instead of leaving me there, he pulled me up from the floor and pushed me into the bedroom and onto Peter's huge four-poster bed.
I recognized the position he put me in. I'd e-mailed Ralph and Peter--as Rigger and Phil--about it quite recently, even though I hadn't done it then.
I certainly did it now.
My hands were handcuffed behind my back. I was on my spread knees on the bed, cheek to bedspread--at least until Ralph started pulling on the leather strap attached to the choke collar around my throat, pulling my torso up off the bedspread as, crouched over my hips, he fucked my passage in long, hard, fast thrusts, working up to his own ejaculation.
Sean came onto the bed, knelt in front of me, grabbing my ears in his hands, forcing my face down to his cock, with Ralph easing the pull on the choke collar just enough to accommodate Sean's needs.
After Sean had creamed my tonsils--with Ralph still fucking away in my channel--he lowered his own face to my cock and blew me.
They stayed with me a few hours, holding me between them, working my body with their hands, lips, and teeth until I'd had another ejaculation. And then, arm in arm, they silently withdrew into the darkness.
It was almost exactly what I was going for in my fantasized e-mail to Phil and Rigger. I went to sleep both moaning and humming.
* * * *
Nothing was said about the previous night during breakfast. Perhaps that was because the housekeeper was there, puttering around in the kitchen beside the informal dining table while we ate. She had prepared a full country breakfast, though, apparently realizing we had worked up a good appetite. I doubted she didn't know what three men had been up to living here together--or what I had brought to the table here.
Ralph was working on a laptop to the side of his place setting as he ate.
"You need to come to the pub today to go over the books with us," he said, looking at me. "And to watch the operation more closely. It's a going business, but neither Sean nor I can afford to buy your third out. For obvious reasons we don't want to be looking for an investor here."
"We want you to stay," Sean said. "I would think that this is fairly obvious to you."
"And to take Peter's place in all ways?" I asked.
"Yes, of course," Ralph answered.
"What did Peter die of?" I asked.
"Not from what you might think," Ralph answered. "At no time do we go too far. We've done nothing you haven't done before. You've gone much further. It was an auto accident, if you must know. He was in glowing health. He was enjoying life immensely--and all that life brought to him."
What could I say? How could I tell them that I'd written my chats with them in fantasy terms? That I had assumed they were doing so too. But it seems they were not--and that they believed I'd done so much more. So much that I had fantasized doing. Like what had been done the previous night. No, I hadn't been hurt, really. I'd been taken to heaven. Aroused and satisfied as never before. My thoughts went back to what was waiting for me in the States--Simon pawing at me and fucking me ineffectually. Hal beyond my grasp.
Ralph turned the monitor and keyboard of the laptop to where it was facing me. "Here, I've called up the files on your e-mail chats to us."
"You saved the e-mails?" I asked, flabbergasted.
"Yes, of course. Tonight we are going to double you."
"Yes, just like this last chat from you--two inside you at once. You obviously loved that. You wrote that it was your favorite way to be taken."
I started to hyperventilate. Fantasizing it was one thing. Doing it was another. But, of course I'd only written of it because I dreamed of doing it.
"I want you to go through the chats in which you've told us of your double penetration experiences. Pick one out. Peter always wanted to do that with you. He loved it when Sean came into the picture and we could do it for him."
"You two have done it?"
"Yes, of course. Many times. Peter couldn't get enough of it. We may have done it as many times as you have--it obviously is a favorite of yours too, considering how often you told us about doing it. Sean and I can't wait for it. You pick a favorite scenario out from what you've written about, or I will. You can show us which one you've picked when we get back from the pub tonight."
* * * *
Sean was sitting on the end of the bed as I threw a thigh over his lap, facing him, and came down, with his help, on his lap. I first sat at the edge of his knees, as Sean brought the bulbs of our cocks together, rubbing the piss slits, each emitting precum together, and then pulling his foreskin over mine, docking the cocks, stroking them together until slowly, both cocks filled out, the foreskin pulling back of its own accord from the bulbs.
"Oh god, Sean," I whimpered. "Fuck me. fuck me now."
"Sit on it," he growled. I moved farther up his thighs, reached under my buttocks and held his cock erect, as I slowly descended my channel on his hard shaft. He already was cupping my head in his hands, bringing my face to his for kisses--then pulling my head back from his by grabbing the hair at the back of my hand, his lips and teeth going to my nipples. I groaned. Using the leverage of my calves and knees bent and running on either side of his hips, I began to rise and fall on his cock.
This didn't last long, though. He wrapped his arms around my chest, trapping my arms with them, and reclined back, bringing my chest down on his and rolling my buttocks in the air. I whimpered and struggled a bit, but ineffectually as strongly as he embraced me and trapped my arms. Ralph hadn't been in the bedroom when we started, but now I saw that he was, naked and erect, saddling up between Sean's thighs.
I tried to jerk away, without success, as I felt the head of his cock at my hole, above where Sean's cock was buried inside me. I panted hard and groaned deeply as he entered and entered and entered me above Sean's cock.
"What a slut," Ralph muttered. "You open right up to both of them."
Amazingly, he was right. It was a talent I never knew I had, but it was one that I sure as hell was glad I had now. Still, I was straining and grunting when Ralph began to pump.
"Relax," Sean counseled. "Go limp and you'll be able to take it."
I did to the degree I could manage, and Sean was right. He even was right when Sean began counterpumping to the rhythm Ralph had set.
"Just like you wanted," Ralph cried out. "I can tell you're lovin' it."
And, strangely enough, I was.
We lay stretched out against each other, me in the middle and the other two running their hands and lips over my body afterward.
"That was very nice," I had to concede to Ralph.
"That was Act One," Ralph whispered back.
Act One? What the hell?
"You've shown us what you like. Now for what I like," he murmured. I did notice that both of them were hard again.
Sean lay on his back, holding me, facing the ceiling, on his body, his dick inside me. Ralph came between our legs again, grabbed my ankles and wishboned my legs. He snaked his cock inside me again, above Sean's cock, and I was being doubled again.
I loved that position too. The first two times I'd ever been taken by two men together like that. Not that Ralph and Sean knew that--or ever would.
* * * *
On Wednesday I put in a call to Simon Clore in New York.
"You're what?" he nearly yelled down the line.
"I won't be in on Thursday. I won't be in ever. I quit. I'm moving to England. I own part of a pub here. I won't be back. You'll have to send someone to my apartment to retrieve your tax documents and do them yourself."
"But, why, Paul? We had it so good."
"You wouldn't know what good was, Simon. I had to fantasize good. Now I'm living that fantasy. Good-bye and give my best to Betsy."
I was sitting on Ralph's cock and Sean was teasing my legs open, preparing to join Ralph inside me when I closed the connection on a blustering Simon.