Chainsaw Sculptor

I knew it was coming, but when I was hit with the bucket of water, it still made me gasp. It was cold water straight out of the Atlantic down at the cove I’d had my back to while Doug was taking his brandy commercial shots. Both Jason Jax, the shoot director, and Holst Bayer, the sponsor, laughed. Randy Blu, the top talent, was standing next to Bayer, but he was chatting up the young woman the Terrestrial Conservation Officer had sent with us to make sure we didn’t mess up his precious island. She was going to get an eyeful pretty soon if she didn’t go off to check around the island for evidence of illegal visitors as she said she was going to do.

The water did its job. The light, billowy white cotton shirt, now open nearly to the navel, and the white linen trousers were soaking wet and clinging to my body, going transparent, with my tanned “nearly all together” showing through. This was for a commercial for brandy that Holst Bayer’s company made, but he also had companies making sexy men’s clothing, men’s jewelry, and, on the side and down low, porn films. He was combining all of those in this photo shoot in Bermuda. He’d paid to get the whole crew out here from New York on Royal Caribbean’s Adventure of the Seas on a five-day trip, with only a day and a half here in Bermuda for the photo shoot, so it wasn’t surprising that he wanted to hit all of his bases. He hadn’t kept the project secret from me and was paying appropriately. The commercial shooting segments were where the big money was that I was making for this.

I’d already posed for the travel magazine version of the brandy commercial, leaning into the spreading thin branches of a banyan tree, clothing sexy enough but not revealing what they did after being soaked. A rock-enclosed small, pristine beach of the usually closed Nonsuch Island on a peninsula out beyond Bermuda’s airport shimmered in the background behind me. In that one, I was leaning into the tree, holding a glass and a bottle of Bayer Brandy, dressed in my Bayer-fashion line bright whites, and wearing a Bayer jewelry company gold medallion on a gold chain around my neck, the shirt open two buttons down so that the medallion, nestled between my pecs, could be seen. I’d had to shave everything but the hair on my head and my eyebrows for this shoot.

After I’d been soaked with the bucket of seawater, Jason Jax called out, “Hand off the snifter, Nate, lean more provocatively into the web of banyan roots, while still on full view, unbutton down to your waist, and heft the brandy bottle so it looks like you’re drinking directly from it. Shades of a marooned pirate theme.”

With my light-material clothes soaked, my body underneath was in nearly full view. Now it could be seen that all I had underneath was a red string sock thong. The gold bars in my nipples, both Bayer jewelry items, were also discernible. This commercial would appear in skin magazines, both ones for women and for gay men.

As in the first shoot scene, the photographer, Doug Dunner, floated around me at all angles shooting off film and having me change the pose.

And then came what I was being paid the big bucks for—and it was what, I am sure, paid all of Bayer’s expenses for creation of and placement of the commercials as well as the travel costs from New York City to Bermuda and back. This was where Randy Blu came in. He was a big bruiser, muscled-up, tattooed Marine bad-boy type. In contrast, I was a well-formed, but slender, All-American type blond “pretty boy.” At this point in the filming, Randy was hit with a bucket of water too. He was wearing flimsy and sexy white linen trousers too, but was shirtless. I set the bottle of brandy down in the sand by the tree, label toward the camera shots, and leaned farther back into the gnarled elbow roots of the banyan tree. At the same time Doug changed from his still camera to a video camera and Jason Jax picked up a video camera as well.

The scene became Randy finding me at the tree line on a deserted beach at the end of a rainstorm that had soaked us both—the hunky rival pirate captain who had saved me off a sinking ship he was scuttling to be used by him personally. He had pursued me to this point, where I had retreated, seemingly hiding in the banyan tree, but not really. It was clear, really, that I had wanted Randy to find me. I didn’t want the pirate captain to leave me here; I wanted him to take me with him. I wanted Randy to manhandle me. I wanted Randy to fuck me.

Which he did—after he reached me and we struggled. After he slapped me around a bit and subdued me. After he’d forced me to my knees in front of him; I had unbuckled, unzipped, and flared his wet trousers, which were plastered to his beefy thighs, the muscles clearly showing through; and I had taken his massive erection in my mouth and given him suck.

Randy stripped off my wet trousers as he possessed my mouth with his, lifted me and laid me in the webbing of banyan tree roots and branches, raised and spread my legs, mounted and penetrated me, and, while the video cameras moved around in all angles, careful not to capture each other, Randy fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

It was a brilliant move on Holst Bayer’s part. He got commercials that touched on all of his businesses and that built on each other. Those reading the skin magazines would have their “I’ve seen this before” senses played if they also read the travel magazines. And then, all of the gay men’s sites where Bayer placed the video in either teaser or full fuck version would refer the viewer back to having seen the commercial in other contexts. The selling of the brandy—and the clothes and jewelry too to those who were discerning—would settle in in several dimensions. And the porn film would earn Bayer enough to cover all of the expenses of filming and placing the commercial.

I did all right financially too. I didn’t do porn often. Not doing it often helped me not to be overexposed (so to speak) and had me earning higher fees. My commercial persona was that I was a clean-cut, handsome, vulnerable, but athletic, neighbor type. Whenever I was paired with a big, bad bruiser like Randy, big bucks were made.

That’s not why I’d agree to do this gig, though. When I’d left Georgia and come to New York for dance, acting, and model training after getting through high school, my mentor in Athens had advised me to find the best-looking, richest older man I could who wanted to bed me and to get under him as fast and for as long as possible. Although Holst Bayer hadn’t bedded me yet, he fit the bill.

I didn’t have sex with men just for personal gain, I must say in my own defense. I wasn’t that mercenary. I liked to think that I was just honest. I liked having a man’s cock inside me. I wanted him to be commanding and forceful, which gave me a feeling of being wanted and of being in control of his responses to natural needs. And I liked older men, as long as they were either in great shape, wealthy, good-looking, or hung like a bull. I was in heaven if they were all four. Of these, I posit that being big inside me was more important than being rich.

* * * *

I chose to ride Jason Jax’s cock in our shared cabin on the Adventure of the Seas as we sailed back to New York from Bermuda. Jax was a large, heavy man. On the sail to Bermuda we had tried it with him on top of me, but he was just too heavy for me; I had trouble breathing. There was no question, of course, that I was going to let Jax fuck me on this commercial photo shoot trip. He was the reason I had gotten this gig. I had wanted it not only for the money and the work credits but also because I’d watched Holst Bayer from afar and heard about him and wanted to get close to him. He was what my mentor in high school had told me to look for to ease my way into the New York commercial art world.

Jason Jax was a project director in the advertising firm I did work for when I could. He got me work because I let him fuck me. He wasn’t an ogre, but he wasn’t a handsome prince either. He was in his forties, hirsute, with a bit of a beard and more than a bit of a handlebar mustache, and he’d liked his beer too much for too long to keep himself in shape by whatever exercising he did, which I gathered mainly was doing pushups on young men like me. If he did it that way—missionary style—with others, they must be tanks like him, though. I could only manage him in a doggy position, which he could only do for a little while before cramping up, or as we were doing it now, me riding him in a cowboy, in cabin 7268, on Deck 7, one day at sea between Bermuda and the cruise boat terminal at Bayonne, New Jersey.

He was lying on his back on his twin bed—we shared a cabin—and I was saddled on him, facing his head, leaning back, with my hands palming his knees, and raising and lowering my passage on his hard cock. There was nothing wrong with Jason’s cock. He was gliding his hands over my stretched torso and giving my nipples attention, which helped my arousal.

He was a good seven plus inches and thick, and, thanks to pills, he could keep it hard for hours. So, as usual when he wasn’t doggying me, I was fucking myself on his shaft, using the leverage of my bent legs, while he played my torso with one hand and jacked me off with the other. I came first, with his stroking hand, and then he took over the thrusting to his ejaculation, with me rising a bit off his pelvis with my weight on my knees and my hands palming his hairy pecs, as he bent his legs and stroked up into me, pushing off his feet, until, with a shudder, he released his cum.

After coming, Jason pushed me off him into a sitting position on the side of his bed. He stripped the condom off his cock and tossed it into the trashcan by the nightstand between our twin beds. It wasn’t the first used condom tossed in there today. We’d come back to the cabin after lunch in the Windjammer Café and Jason had been randy. He said he’d gone over the films from the session on the beach in Bermuda with Randy Blu the previous day and they’d turned him on. We were at sea and there wasn’t much to do if neither of us wanted to vegetate in the ship’s casino. So, we fucked. After this trip, Jason was going to owe me a couple more good photo shoots.

I was contemplating going out on the balcony and catching some rays—I usually had to use the tanning booths to keep an all-over tan and the sun was shining as the ship cut through the waves and there was no one to see me unless someone worked hard to look around the metal shields between the balconies—when a knock came at the cabin door.

“You get it,” Jason said, with a groan. “I can’t move a muscle.”

I pulled on my shorts and went to the door, opening it to find Randy Blu standing out in the corridor. When we’d left him and Doug Dunner, the cameraman, after lunch in the Windjammer, they’d been off to the casino, although Randy said he had to check in with Holst Bayer first. Bayer, of course, didn’t eat in the café or with the rest of us. They had someplace fancier for the suite crowd like Bayer to eat their lunch. I hadn’t thought Randy was being summoned to Bayer’s bed. I was pretty sure both were strictly tops.

When I opened the door, Randy was leering at me “that way.” He could see beyond me into the cabin and see Jax lying there on his back, still ramrod erect because of the effect of the pills he took. Randy had a suit bag draped over his shoulder.

“So, you’re having a good afternoon, I see,” he said, with a smile. He reached out with his free hand and brushed across the bar in my left nipple with his fingers. I couldn’t object to the intimacy as he’d been about as intimate as one man could be with another one when he’d fucked me in the Bermuda beach film. I shuddered at the touch, because he was a magnificent hunk. I would certainly have preferred spending the afternoon riding him—if there was anything he could do for me as far as getting ahead in life.

But there wasn’t.

“Those parts of the afternoon’s activities have floated by, Randy,” I said. “You were great, but I really don’t—”

“These clothes are for you,” he said, interrupting. “Mr. Bayer wants you to wear them this evening. He wants you to meet him in the Viking Lounge at 6:00 for drinks and then you’ll have dinner with him in the Chops Grill. Don’t make plans for the night, he says.” Randy was smirking. I didn’t know if he thought I would be upset or would feel trapped that I was being summoned by Holst Bayer to provide services that obviously went beyond a drink and a fancy dinner, but if he did, he was way off base. I’d been trying to get into this position with Bayer for months.

“Thanks,” I said, reaching out and taking the suit bag from him, “if you see him, let him know I’m looking forward to it.” I didn’t exactly shut the cabin door in Randy’s face as he was about to say something else, but I was awfully close to that.

“What did he want? What’s that you’ve got in the suit bag?” Jason Jax asked, raising his bulk on his elbows.

“This just might be my future that I have in this bag,” I said. “Don’t count on me for dinner.” Smiling, I headed for the shower. “I’ve got a hot date.”

* * * *

Holst Bayer knew how to make sexy clothes for men. When I walked into the Viking Lounge, the bar at the top of the ship that’s pretty much reserved for those in suites or who were Diamond Club frequent cruisers with this cruise line, most of the eyes found me at the door and followed me to the table where Holst was sitting, also dressed for style, comfort, and show. Thanks to my clothes, some women and men wanted to do me and others wanted to be me. My shirt was a light cotton and linen blend, long-sleeved, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. It was in an attention-arresting salmon color and was gauzy enough that what was under it could be discerned. I had gold bars in my nipples. The lapel was flared open to the first button that started at the bottom of my sternum. I wore the Bayer-design gold medallion I had on in the Bermuda photo shoot that, if you looked at it closely, showed a homosexual version of a yin and yang design. In this one both yin and yang had phalluses piercing the other. My close-fitting, gauzy cotton trousers were of an off-white color with a hint of yellow to them, delivered in random gold threads that picked up the light. They too gave a tease of the flesh beneath and the curve of the muscles. I was wearing a flesh-colored bikini sock thong to continue the tease. Sandals, no socks, on my feet. I was dressed provocatively enough not to be escorted out of the Viking Lounge or Chops Grill, where we would be having dinner, but sexually attention getting and arousing. I did what I could to make the most of my looks, and, happily, my looks were great.

Holst was wearing the same, his shirt being a pale blue and his trousers white. His jock was blue as well, giving more of a hint than my flesh-colored ones did. He clearly was hung, and when, sitting across from me in the Viking Lounge, he spread his legs, I could discern the length and curve of his cock and the meatiness of his balls as seen through the glass top of the table.

He was a beautiful man. He was either pushing or had just broached fifty, but he was tall, slender, and tightly muscled. He was a Nordic blond with solid, ruggedly cut features. Or he had once been a natural blond. He was a silver fox now, with wavy hair and a gray-blond curly thatch of hair swirling around his pecs and down his sternum. He was tanned and perfectly groomed. And he was smiling at me as I approached his table. One of his hands descended to his crotch as I approached, and, being able to see him through the top of the table, my first thoughts were wondering how he groomed his pubes, whether they were as carefully considered and rendered as the rest of him, and whether he was a cruel lover.

I arrived knowing that he would fuck me if he wanted to. He seemed to be a slower boat in that direction, though, which I found to be both charming and a bit off-putting. I was used to a man knowing instantly when I was willing to submit to him and taking his pleasure—those fulfilling mine of being taken forcefully and as by right. Holst didn’t seem quite so sure that I was his for the taking. He courted me, which I found charming. His reticence gave me a bit of concern on whether he really swung toward men.

As I approached and I looked away from his groin through the tabletop, I saw that his eyes had gone to a blue velvet box laying on the table. He was fingering it with one hand. I focused on the long, slender, sensual fingers of his hands and tingled from the prospect of those playing my body. I was beyond ready for him. He didn’t have to work at seducing me.

But it did add to the arousal that he did work at it.

“It was good of you to agree to having an evening with me, Nate,” he said, as I sat down. “You did very well in the commercial shoots and you look great in those clothes.”

“And the jewelry too?” I asked, fingering the medallion his company had provided, as I sat down across from him. A waiter instantly appeared and, feeling exotic, I ordered a Black Russian. After the waiter had gone, I added, “Of course I would come when and if you called. And it isn’t because you have sponsored this trip.”

“It isn’t?” he asked. “You know what it means to have an evening with me, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer right away because the waiter was already back with our drinks. Bayer was having a beer. It took a minute for Bayer to sign off on the bill, during which I looked again at the blue velvet box on the tabletop. He saw me do that and moved the box closer to me. When the waiter was gone, he said, “Here open this. If you say yes to me, this is yours.”

“Yes to you?” I asked, trying to add “amused” in my questioning look.

“Yes to me laying you. I’m sure you know I want to fuck you.”

“It’s a ‘yes,’ of course,” I said. “You don’t need presents like this, as nice as they are. You are a beautiful man.”

“Just open the box,” he said, but I could tell by his smile that he was pleased with my answer.

I opened the box. It was a gold watch, a distinctive Bayer-design watch with the same design on its face that was on the medallion around my neck. I knew it to be a very expensive watch—in the neighborhood of a couple of thousand bucks.

“This and the clothes on your back—all if you give me everything I want from you this evening.”

“I would give you anything you want just for the asking, Mr. Bayer,” I said. “You don’t have to give me gifts, although of course I like to receive them. You are, as I said, a beautiful man. I wanted to lie under you since I first saw you. I signed on to this photo shoot hoping that would happen.” I was surrendering to him totally, with no need for gifts. That didn’t mean, though, that I didn’t take the watch out of the box and put it on my wrist.

Bayer beamed at me. “So, you will—?”

“What time are the dinner reservations for?” I asked, holding my wrist up for him to see the watch on it and then lowering my arm, touching his forearm with my fingers and lightly stroking him there. I felt him shudder. I was trembling as well.

“Our reservations are for 8:30.”

“Which leaves us plenty of time—both before and after dinner.”

“Yes, it does,” he responded.

We fucked on a queen-sized bed in a very nice eighth-deck one-bedroom suite, much nicer and more spacious than the cabin Jason Jax and I were in. Of course Bayer was paying for our cabin as well as this one. There was no reason why he shouldn’t treat himself to the better cabin. I had plenty of time to appreciate the cabin because Bayer took his time in fucking me.

We both got naked quickly, each of us helping the other, and he got a blow job right off the top, standing in the middle of the cabin, pushing me down on my knees, and rocking his hips back and forth as he massaged the inside of my throat with his very nicely thick and long cock. I discovered then that he was as fastidious about grooming his pubes as he was about everything else. He had a bit less than a three-inch line of close-cropped curly gray-blond hair descending from his waistline down to the root of his cock. Otherwise his groin was newly shaven. After I had sucked him off that first time, he had me pose in various places in the cabin while he took still shots of me and recovered from having ejaculated. This was work I was accustomed to and I knew the poses men like him would like.

In one of the shots, taken from several angles, I was holding the necklace medallion out from my chest and the Bayer-design watch was hanging from the root of my cock. I wondered which sex magazine this would be used in for a commercial thread. In another, shot later in the evening, I lay on my back on the bed, head and arm hanging over the side, opposite leg bent so that it turned my package toward the camera. The Bayer-design watch was on my wrist. The expression on my face was a “just fucked” one—because he’d just finished fucking me. Age was not a disqualifier for him. He fucked me very well.

After the first camera shoot, I wound up stretched out on the bed, and he came in behind me, fondling me and roaming his hands all over my body, making me pant and shudder for him. While he possessed my mouth with his, he lubed his fingers and finger-fucked me. The long, slender fingers were able to make me sigh and moan just as I thought they would when he was fingering the blue-velvet watch box in the Viking Lounge.

Reaching over me, he opened the nightstand drawer and took out a wooden object.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A dildo. A special dildo. A carver near my country place makes them and other wooden objects of sexual interest. He uses a chain saw for the larger pieces. He does ones this size by hand, lovingly caressing them as he carves. It’s a real art, and it’s a real experience watching him work.”

“It’s big. Too big. You’re not going to—?”

“It’s nine inches long and seven and three-quarters inches around at the base of the bulb, and yes I am going to fuck you with this. Later, when someone asks you what the biggest one you have had inside you was, you’ll be able to tell them the precise dimensions.” He was already greasing it up.

“I don’t think that can—”

“Yes, it can. And it will. You’d be surprised how much a man will stretch to take his pleasure. A man can take another man’s fist even.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might . . . someday. But for tonight, we’ll do this. Roll your tail up. You’d best put your ankle on my shoulder and spread the other leg wide. Relax. Take it. Let it in. Relax. Breathe. Yes, yes. Like that.”

And then, as I moaned and panted and tried my best to relax my passage, he did it—and I managed to take it.

He held me close, and I panted hard and groaned and moaned deeply as he slowly worked the dildo into my passage and then, as I lay there, trembling and whimpering, he fucked me with the wooden phallus with one hand and stroked my cock with the other. My full attention and all my nerve endings concentrated on that hard, unyielding cylinder of wood inside me, stretching me, stroking and caressing and coaxing me more open. He was a master with it, and, when he was in deep with it, I put both of my feet flat on the mattress, legs spread wide, tail raised up, and whimpered, “Yes, yes, yes.”

For an interminable amount of time he stopped stroking me with the shaft and just held it steady, as, arching my back and leveraging up on my feet, I rocked on the dildo plunged deep inside me, dug my fingernails into his shoulders, whimpered, and gazed, eyes filled with pain-pleasure, into his smiling face. When I collapsed on the bed with a sigh, he whispered how much enjoyment he was getting out of me and began moving the phallus inside me again.

He worked me until I came and then and only then did he extract the dildo, release me long enough to go up onto his knees, and put an arm under my belly and turn me face down to the mattress, raising me on my knees, my chest pressing into the mattress and my arms stretched out from my body, reaching for and hooking onto the top edges of the mattress to hold myself into place. Bayer then mounted me, crouching over my hips, with his feet flat on the mattress and, holding my waist between his hands, penetrated me, and fucked me to his own ejaculation. As he thrust, he slapped my bare buttocks, making them red and tingly and laughing at my quiet cries from the slight pain of that and then from the brutal thrusts of his massive cock, thankfully my having been opened by his even bigger wood dildo.

He slid the dildo up my torso and stroked my cheeks with it, and when he teased my lips with its bulb, I opened my mouth and took the wooden cock inside to the back of my throat.

He was cruel in the fuck, which I had wondered about, and, ashamedly, had wanted.

Afterward, we lay, arms entwined, whispering to each other, revealing aspects of our lives and what we wanted from them that surprised me in the telling, even if it didn’t surprise Bayer. While we did, he glided the wooden dildo on my body, over the curves and into the crevices.

“So, do you have a boyfriend now?” Bayer asked.

“No one steady, no,” I answered. Was he going to make some sort of proposal? I’d done what I could to give him everything he wanted. I’d yielded to it all. There had been some choking, some breath play, as well as the slapping and the brutal thrusts. I’d enjoyed most of it, but not all of it. I could easily tolerate it, though. If he just . . .

“My summer vacation home is in Vermont,” he whispered. “The mountains are beautiful there, summer or winter. I’d like to show it to you.”

“That would be nice,” I responded. Was this moving into . . . ?

“Two weekends from now? You could come up with Randy. Have you ever been doubled before?”

“No, not really,” I answered, deflated. A little worried now. I hadn’t been into the threesome or gangbang scene yet, although my friends in New York told me that went with the territory, and I’d contemplated it. But this wasn’t really the offer I’d been hoping for.

“Very nice. The first time would be special.”

“Yes, it would be,” I said. I was still into giving him what he wanted with the hope that there would be more with him to come.

“And fisting too.” When I didn’t respond to that, he continued. “So, weekend after next?”

“If you want.”

The head of the wooden dildo was at my entrance, rimming me, teasing me. With a sigh, I spread my legs, bending them, and raising my tail—inviting him in.

“May I?” he asked. He was just being polite. He knew he could, if he wanted.

“Anything you want,” I answered.

He slowly fucked me with the dildo to another ejaculation as he bent his face down, took my cock in his mouth, and captured and swallowed the essence of my coming.

We both dozed off then, the curtains to the ocean open and moonlight streaming in on us. When I woke, I listened to his breathing, which was regular. Carefully extracting myself from him, I silently rolled off the bed and, quietly opening the sliding door to the balcony, went out. I stood at the rail for a while before feeling Bayer coming in behind me and encircling my waist with an arm. He’d lit up a cigarette and, holding it in the other hand, alternated taking drags from it and kissing and nuzzling the back of my neck. His erection was pressing into my lower back. I knew he would fuck me again.

He did, with me sprawled in one of the patio chairs, my legs draped over the chair arms. When he first guided me there, he stood over me, leaning into the glass between the balcony and the cabin, the palms of his hands pressed to the glass, while I took his cock in my mouth again and gave him suck. He fucked me in the chair, his hands palming my buttocks and lifting them up from the chair seat, crouching over me and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

“You’re so sweet, so nice,” he whispered.

And so easy, I thought.

I waited in my cabin the entire next day, the last day at sea, having my meals brought there rather than going to the Windjammer or dining room with Jason and the others, waiting to be summoned to Bayer again. But the summons didn’t come.

The next day, we disembarked from the ship midmorning at the cruise line terminal in Bayonne, New Jersey. Bayer had left ahead of us, met by a black limousine. I saw him leave from the balcony of my cabin. He hadn’t left me a message. Randy had talked to me about arrangements to get to Bayer’s vacation home on a mountaintop above the town of Cavendish, near the Green Mountain National Forest in Vermont, but I hadn’t heard anything from Bayer after I’d left his cabin a day and a half earlier in the small hours of the morning.

When the rest of us gathered at our departure area on the ship to coordinate our return to New York, however, I got a shock. Doug Dunner, the photographer, a bit older than I was, who had not expressed much interest in me because, although both gay and active, we both were submissives, was wearing a watch I hadn’t seen him wear before. It was a very expensive, gold watch. The same gay male symbol yin and yang watch made exclusively by the Bayer jewelry company that Bayer had given me in the Viking Lounge to smooth his way into topping me in bed.

I overheard Randy Blu referring to the watch and saw Doug grin and say, “I got it last night.”

I was crushed. I had given Bayer everything . . . again and again, each time he had wanted it. He had taken it all, using and conquering me mercilessly. And the next night he’d probably done the same with someone else. He had made me a whore. But then, that was what I already was, wasn’t I? I’d gone with him in search of a sugar daddy, didn’t I? I’d let men who beckoned to me fuck me before.

But, no, I wasn’t a common whore, not entirely, I reasoned. I’d told him I would have gone with him without all of the presents. And I think that was true. I think I would have.

* * * *

Randy Blu, the muscle-bound stud who had covered me for the Bermuda commercials photo shoot, drove me up from New York to Holst Bayer’s mountain retreat in southern Vermont. It was clear that Randy and Bayer were quite close, although Randy assured me as soon as we’d started out that, “We aren’t fucking. We hunt together and enjoy the same role in the hunt. And sometimes we share.” He’d turned and looked at me to see if that would shock me, but Bayer had already more than hinted at that. I still wanted to establish something more permanent with Bayer, so I didn’t squirm at this suggestion. I’d already let Bayer fuck me with an oversized wooden dildo and been rough, and he'd hinted at doing a double penetration, so I wasn’t going to let the possibility of a threesome cause me to balk.

If anything, I think Randy was disappointed that I didn’t react badly to that possibility. I think he wanted me to be scared.

We didn’t talk much on the way up to Bayer’s Vermont place, which Randy kept calling The Castle, but we did OK for a situation in which he’d fucked me on camera the first time we’d met.

“He gets me work,” Randy said. “I’ve appeared in ads for his clothing company, not just the porn stuff. And we party together. The girls and guys we party with seem to like that we’re a contrast. It seems to emphasize what each of us brings to the party.”

“Girls as well as guys?” I asked.

“Yeah. We’re bi. Sex is sex is sex. But you don’t really like that. You’re hoping to have something more with Holst than just the casual lay here and there, aren’t you?”

“What would make you think that?”

“My eyes and my experience in watching Holst operate—and how you act around him. Word to the wise, though. He doesn’t pin down. You’ll have major disappointment if you are hoping for that.”

“He doesn’t seem to like me that much anyway,” I said, trying to deflect how closely Randy had hit home on what I wanted and thinking on how fast Bayer had turned from me to Doug Dunner on the cruise ship.

“He likes you just fine, and if you give him everything he wants and don’t make noises of trying to pin him down or limit him, you’ll do just fine with him—with both of us.” When he’d said that, he took one of his hands off the steering wheel and put it on my knee. He was establishing that this trip to what he called The Castle involved a larger set of men than just Bayer and me. “If it was going to be just a one and done—I know he had you for a night on the ship—you would have gotten a cheaper watch and he wouldn’t have invited you up to The Castle this weekend.”

Randy laughed then and went back to watching the winding road now that we’d driven through the Vermont town of Cavendish and were starting up the twisting and turning gravel road up a mountainside. The name of the place was, not surprisingly, “The Castle,” and an elaborate mailbox had been set by ornate iron gates at the bottom of the mountain, which left the impression this was all property attached to Bayer’s house, but there had been three other mailboxes too and the gates hadn’t been closed or locked. Two of the other three places were alpine-type cottages set close to the road. The third, though a similar house, was set back from the road and had a clearing in front of it with an open-sided workshop off to the side. The open ground was covered with wooden carvings—all large pieces, the carvings dramatic and the wood luminous.

As we passed this place, Randy slowed down and waved to a giant of a man, both muscular and stocky. He looked like a Viking character in a movie: red-haired, hirsute, massive, ugly at this distance, intimidating, and quite capable of getting his way. He was stripped to the waist, his chest one of the god Vulcan, with baggy pants below crammed into combat boots, and he was holding a chainsaw up like a Marine holding his SAM-R semiautomatic at rest but ready. He was shoving goggles up unto his forehead with the free hand as he watched us drive by. A half-finished, half-life-sized rearing stallion in wood was positioned in front of him. I almost laughed to see that he was rendering the beast’s phallus in oversized erection.

“That’s Cliff Strong,” Randy explained as we rode by. “He’s a reclusive friend of Holst’s who Holst rents to. You’ll see a lot of his work up at The Castle. He’s really good with the wood. We call him the Chainsaw Sculptor. Holst uses his stuff for displays in his showrooms and sells some of it there.”

I didn’t need to be told he was a chainsaw sculptor, I thought. And I already had come into contact with some of his work. He most certainly was the craftsman for the oversized wooden dildo Holst Bayer had fucked me with on board the Adventure of the Seas.

As we approached the top of the small mountain—there were mountains around it that were higher, which made the views from Bayer’s place breathtaking—I could clearly see why it was called The Castle. It wasn’t because it was like a castle on the Rhine River, but, rather, because it was like a Kafka version of a castle built in the East European Stalin era. It was a five-story—six, if you included the basement, which was at ground level on one side of the building—chunk of stone tower, with windows that were large from the inside but, because of the massiveness of the building, looked like arrow slits on the outside. The tower was sunk in a field of flagstone the same color and texture as the building so that it was difficult, visually to see where building stopped and terracing and radiating buttress walls began. The structure was set in a series of ponds that evoked a moat, without actually choking the building. Stone walls, with arched openings, radiated out of the sides of the tower here and there onto the stone terrace, evoking the flying buttresses of medieval cathedrals and effectively grounding the arresting structure to the rocky ground of the mountaintop.

The main floor, which consisted of a living and dining area wrapped around the base of the tower, containing an entrance hall, a large kitchen, a home office, and a bedroom suite and guest bathrooms, had walls of glass that you didn’t notice from the outside, as the rock tower immediately captured your attention and took it upward. The story above was a private master bedroom suite, and the two stories above that each included three bedrooms, with en suite baths, and a communal room—a library on one floor and a party room with elaborate bar and a theater wall on the top story. An open terrace hovered over the top of the tower, with a jacuzzi in one corner.

The building both looked out of place—and out in space—on an isolated Vermont mountaintop and like a natural outcropping of the top of the mountain itself.

Seeing such a building in this setting was a shock, but I was met by another shock. When first asked to come here this weekend, I’d envisioned two days alone with Holst Bayer in a small chalet to try to solidify a relationship with him. I’d immediately been disabused of that when Bayer had said I could ride up with Randy Blu, another dominator, turning the weekend into at least a threesome. When I got there, though, I discovered the same cast of characters we’d had in Bermuda was present. Both Jason Jax, the commercial director, and Doug Dunner, the cameraman, were there. I’d been assigned my own bedroom, there being more than enough available, but I was in the top floor of the tower, and Bayer was in the master bedroom on the second level, two floors below mine.

One notable aspect of the interior furnishings beyond minimal, elegant, and expensive was the life-size wood sculptures of heavenly endowed men—gladiators, Greek gods, and muscle men—located here and there in the house. One on the main level undoubtedly was of Randy Blu. They all were rendered in sort of a crouch, with arms extended. All of them had gigantic phalluses, with most of these in projected, upcurved erection. I didn’t have to guess that they were all the work of Bayer’s chainsaw sculptor friend down the mountain. One of the statues looked like it was of the chainsaw sculptor himself as much as I could remember from the brief look I got of him as we passed his work yard. The wood “him” was as hung as the other creations he had carved that had been placed in Bayer’s castle.

So, this wasn’t the intimate weekend alone with Bayer I had hoped for. But at least I’d make money—and maybe would have a crack at convincing Bayer that he wanted me to move in with him.

The primary commercial filmed the afternoon I arrived on the mountain was for clothes and jewelry. The pose was arresting. I was spread-eagle bound in one of the arches in a flying buttress wall extending from the house structure. The scene behind me in the arch was of the verdant tree coverage and undulating folds of the mountain behind. I was photographed wearing Bayer clothes, shirt and trousers, and barefoot, with my arms raised and spread and my legs spread, tied off to iron rungs in the doorway wall at the wrists and ankles. My shirt was open to my waist and I was wearing one of the Bayer medallions on a gold chain around my neck. Four shots were taken with different sets of clothes. The magazine spreads would alternate so that the viewer discovered that different clothes were used in different shots. The two jewelry ad shots were without shirt, and with the featured medallion and a Bayer-exclusive watch on my wrist. Not wanting the competition, Holst had me take the gold bars out of my nipples. For the second shot, for the sexier magazines, Randy, also shirtless was behind me, palming my belly, his face nuzzling my throat.

From there, the poses got sexier for use in progressively sexier tableaus, starting with me, in the shirtless pose, bent over at the waist as much as the bonds would allow, the medallion hanging down toward the flagstones, caught in the glitter of the sun’s rays, and Randy behind me, raising a hand whip. The photos taken with the leather thongs of the whip radiating out over my head, framed by the stone of the door frame. The videos for the select clientele were of both Randy and me naked in the same framed pose, save the medallion on the chain and a Bayer-design snake cock bracelet weaving up my erect shaft, and Randy moving from actually whipping me to standing close behind me, hands grasping my hips, and fucking me.

Jason Jax called out the pose changes and shot angles, while Cliff Dunner shot the initial photos and he and Holst Bayer moved around with video cameras to catch the various angles of the porn movie.

What I thought was a more private moment later in the afternoon, as the atmosphere was mellow from the sinking sun, was with Holst and Randy in the jacuzzi with me at the top of the tower. All of us were naked, all of us were well-liquored, all of us were in erection and were kissing and fondling each other as we slipped into the jacuzzi. I knew it would be a threesome. I knew they’d both fuck me. I guess I also knew, from what had been said earlier and how they were holding me between them and both running their hands over me and kissing me and each other before we got into the jacuzzi, that I was going to be double fucked.

I didn’t know that it was being filmed from cameras on flagpoles at the corners of the terrace to be used in a porn film.

We were reclining in the jacuzzi when Holst pulled me over onto his lap, which was fine with me. Randy was sitting next to him on the jacuzzi bench, and the two of them were kissing as Holst put me on his cock, facing away from me. Using the leverage of my feet on the floor of the jacuzzi, I lifted and lowered myself on the older man’s very nice erection. And then it began in earnest. Holst was raising us both up, without losing purchase inside me, and was sitting on the rim of the jacuzzi, his back against the stone wall. Randy pulled in front of me, facing me. He grasped my legs and raised and spread them, rolling my buttocks up. And then as I huffed and gasped and cried out in the penetration, Randy crouched down and worked his cock in above Holst’s buried shaft and the two fucked me together.

Doug and Jason appeared on the terrace then, each with a video camera and, making an effort to stay out of the eye of the cameras recording the double penetration scene from the flagpoles, they moved around getting close-ups of the cocks working me, of my facial expressions while being doubled, and of Holst and Randy kissing each other over my shoulder.

At dinner Holst told me that, even before he saw the films and decided how to stitch them together, he knew the movie would make a mint. He told me my commission would be paying my way for a couple of months. I wondered how much more profit than that he’d make off of the movie himself. I also took note that at no time did he mention the prospect of him and me being together more than through these commercial shots and movies.

This was brought home to me that night when he took Doug Dunner with him to the second floor master bedroom suite and I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor bedroom, where I slept alone—at least until late in the night, when I felt the sheets being pulled off me, Jason Jax’s hands on my ankles, pulling my butt to the foot of the bed, my ankles being hooked onto Jason’s shoulders, his hands on my waist, pulling me down and onto his cock, and Jason starting up the rhythm of the fuck. Half asleep, I turned my face toward the window, which framed a full moon, and set my hips into a rocking motion to make the most use of the cock moving inside me.

It wasn’t Holst or even Randy, but it was a cock of a good size and it was inside me.

* * * *

The next morning I was on the move. I’d gotten up—alone in bed when I had awakened—and had breakfast alone. Then I went back to my room and packed. All I had brought was a duffel bag, which wasn’t full when I brought it, as Bayer had said there would be plenty of clothes from his men’s fashion line for me to wear—and to take away with me. I left those. I added the watch and medallion to the clothes folded and placed on the bed. I’d make a clean break of this. By the time I came downstairs, Jason Jax was awake, had eaten, and was out on the stone terrace, lying on a lounge bed, and taking in the morning rays. He was getting an all-over tan and was on his back, stroking his cock. The cock was hard.

“There you are, Nate. Come here, love, and ride this.”

“Sorry, I’m walking,” I said, as I moved past him.

“With your suitcase? It’s going to be a long walk.”

“Looks that way,” I said, pointing my face downhill and continuing to walk. At least it would be downhill rather than up. I waved to him, showing him my back, as I reached the parking area and headed toward the road down the hill. I hadn’t left a note, but if Holst Bayer or anyone else up there thought enough about me to wonder where I’d gone, Jason could tell them. Of course there wasn’t anywhere but down from here.

Cliff Strong was working on a statue of a bear when I reached his work yard. I had fully intended to just walk on by, down the mountain, and to continue walking into Cavendish until I could hitch a ride into the larger town of Ludlow, where I’d see what I could see about getting transportation back to New York City. But the man straightened up when he saw me approaching, lifted his goggles, and hailed me. Seeing him closer than I had from the car when Randy drove me up to The Castle, he did look thuggish and a bit Neanderthal, but he wasn’t ugly. He was one big bruiser, though, with a slight beer belly, covered in fine curling red-haired. The bulge of his pecs and width of his shoulders seemed to balance his midsection out, so that he didn’t appear as much fat as huge. I couldn’t help but think of the term Visigoth. He was shirtless, his chest covered with curly red hair, covering a swirl of tattooing, the colorful tattooing following the curve of his right pectoral moving up onto his shoulder and then down the arm to his wrist.

“You’re down from Holst’s castle then?” he called out. “I heard he was having a weekend party up there. Makin’ a movie, I hear. Male porn.”

“Yes, I was there. I heading for Cavendish now.”

“Walking, are you?”

“If I have to, yes.” I looked over at the old Land Rover parked by his house, hoping he’d get the hint.

“I suppose I could give you a ride. Down to Cavendish, did you say?”

“I probably need to go beyond that to Ludlow to be able to find a way back to New York.”

“From New York City then, are you? One of Holst’s rent-boys. The star of the movie he did up there this weekend maybe?”

“I’m a model. We were doing a photo shoot for Mr. Bayer’s clothing and jewelry businesses.”

“And a porn movie on the side, right? I’m one of his special film clients. Not much I don’t know about his businesses. Not much I haven’t seen of you before.”

Well, there wasn’t much to say about that. “The point is that I wanted to leave, and I’m trying to find my own way home.” I tried not to be indignant. I wanted him to drive me down the mountain. I looked around the lot. All of the large wood figures he was carving or had carved and were still here, whatever the animal it was, were hung and in upcurved erection. Of course I wondered about him. And of course I was forming the understanding of what I would have to do to get that ride. He’d said he was one of Bayer’s film clients. He knew what happened up at The Castle. He was interested enough to subscribe to the films. He’d more than hinted that he’d seen me in a film or two. He knew what I would do for a man.

I supposed he’d want to fuck me in exchange for a ride down the mountain. I was considering how to broach that deal when he swept in and did that himself.

“You’re a great-looking little piece,” Strong said. “I loved you in the film in that tree on the Bermuda beach a couple of weeks ago with Randy Blu. He’s a big-dicked son-of-a-bitch. A real pile driver, and you took it well.”

“So, you knew I was doing a movie up at The Castle.”

“Yep. Tell you what. I’ll give you a ride down into Ludlow if you ride my cock first. It gets lonely up here. Not much opportunity for a good lay.”

Annnnd, there it was.

We were standing close together, facing each other. He reached out with a big mitt and touched my left nipple, with a gold bar in it. When I didn’t recoil from that, his other hand went to my belt buckle. I reached out with a hand to feel him through the baggy material of his trousers. Of course he was hung. I knew he would be.

“If that’s what you’d like,” I said.

“That, indeed, is what I’d like,” he answered.

Both of our cocks freed and hard, he took mine in hand with his, and we stood there, him towering over me and twice my size, rocking against each other, our eyes devouring those of the other man, stroking each other’s cocks.

“From the movies it looks like you have no trouble taking big men,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s a problem, no,” I answered. He was a monster of a man. Hefty but muscular. I’d get lost in his enveloping embrace. I knew I’d get filled by him. I had no second thoughts about being covered by him.

His hands went to my shoulders and coaxed me down on my knees before him as I took him into my mouth, and then, gagging, took him into my throat.

He fucked me right there in the statue yard on a table made out of an upsided, large telephone cable spool. He just bent me over the table, knelt behind me and ate my ass out. One of his hands was on my back, tracing the welts of the whipping Randy had given me in the movie the previous day. He hadn’t struck me hard, but there was still evidence of the whip strikes. The other hand laced my balls and the root of my dick between his fingers, and he was milking me.

“You’ve been fucked rough,” he whispered.

“Yes,” I murmured.

“Is that going to be in the movie filmed up there?”

“Yes.”

“Nice. Like in the beach scene. You take it hard.”

“Yes,” I murmured.

“Good. You look so delicate, but I watched you take it in the movie.”

“Are you going to whip me?”

“Not until or unless you want me to. I’m gonna take you hard, though.” He rose over me, his tongue going to tracing the welts on my back. I cried out and widened my stance as he plunged a beefy finger up into my channel, seeking and finding my prostate. His other hand was palming the small of my back, effectively pressing me down, holding me to the table, captive. There was no hope of resisting him. My eyes watered and I was making primeval groaning sounds from deep in my chest as another finger joined the first and then another. He pressed in to the knuckles and moved the hand in and out, fucking me with it.

“Are you going to fist me?” I asked.

“Been fisted before?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Not by a dude as big as you, though.”

“Good to know. But not until or unless you want me to. But if you want me to . . .”

I managed to get my right hand under me to grasp and stroke my cock. I was able to go open enough for him, having taken two cocks in the jacuzzi the previous evening. He fucked me with his bunched fingers, not breaching the sphincter with his knuckles, until, with a “I’m coming” cry, I did. He stopped stroking with the hand. The tip of his index finger rubbed my prostate until I was drained and had relaxed under him with a deep sigh.

His turn, and, to my surprise and delight, the buildup to yet another turn for me.

He brought his hefty body full up to hover over me and about lifted me off the top of the table, my torso rising and me arching my back and throwing my arms back to wrap around his neck as, jolting me, he slapped me hard on the buttocks twice and then, lodging the bulb of his cock just inside my hole for me to whimper at the size of him, he plunged up into me, massively thick and long and cruel—just as I knew he would be. I cried out, begging him to do take more time with the penetration.

He didn’t take more time. He lunged into a full-length sheathing and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me, pounding me mercilessly, barebacking me, and breeding me deep in a rolling series of jerks and ejaculations. I had remained arched back into his pecs with one hand gripping the back of his neck and the other hand stroking my cock into another erection, while he held me in place with big, strong hands gripping my hips. I came again—and then a third time—before he did.

“You do take it rough, don’t you?” he said, adding, “Nice.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to; I’d just taken it rough. The man didn’t just look like a Visigoth; he fucked like one too. I couldn’t say I didn’t melt to that treatment.

Holst was refined and Randy was tame, even with his whip, compared to this monster. Strong had me bouncing around and writhing—and screaming bloody murder—as he took me in driving, cruel thrusts. This did it. This was what I had wanted, not knowing I did. All men before the Chainsaw Sculptor had just been playing; this man fucked me.

I had been totally fucked by the animal known as the Chainsaw Sculptor.

When he was done, he didn’t take me to the Land Rover. He picked me up in his arms, slung me, belly down, over his shoulder, and carried me into his house, saying, “You are one sweet lay. It’s lunchtime. Can’t let you go without feeding you.”

The first thing he fed me in the house was his cock, laying me on my back on his bed, scrambling up onto the bed to straddle my chest, and feeding his gigantic reengorging shaft into my throat. “You’re too sweet. Can’t help it,” he explained. I wasn’t losing the image of a Visigoth.

Lunch was him on top of me in a missionary fuck. I clung to him, opening as wide as I could, digging my fingernails into his shoulders, letting him know vocally that I surrendered all to him, and moving my hips to the rhythm of the fuck.

I suppose I should claim that I struggled against him at some point or even initially hated what he was doing to me, but I didn’t. He laid me out and laid me and then laid me again—and I loved it and begged for more.

And he gave me more. He gave me more than any other man before him had done. All thoughts of wanting to be with Holst Bayer—for the reasons my high school mentor said I should receive a man’s attention and seed—were shattered. This was the only reason I needed to have to be with a man. As Strong tensed, jerked, and released yet another salvo of his cum inside me, I cried out, “Fuck you, Phil Claymore!” to my high school mentor, wherever he might be.

“God damn, that was hot,” Strong exclaimed. “Shit, you can take a cock.”

“Damn right,” I answered. I didn’t say that he could give a cock. I was sure he already knew that. I knew he had demonstrated that.

“Let’s have some lunch,” he said, as he pulled off me, patting me on a knee that I couldn’t move. I’d had my legs spread and bent, my feet pressed into the edge of the foot of bed, as he crouched between my thighs and power fucked me. I didn’t know now when—or if—I’d ever be able to close my legs again. And I didn’t give a fuck if I ever could.

Sitting below me, my legs spread on either side of him, he showed me his right hand, bunched, except for his middle finger, flipping the bird at me. He was smiling, Lowering it, he plunged the finger up my hole, his arm strong enough to lift my tail off the bed. I yelped and he laughed, pulling it back out, twisting, standing, and moving away from me. The man was a Visigoth.

* * * *

Strong actually served lunch—cold cuts, slices of bread, mayonnaise, a knife, a beer—while we actually chatted, first about lunch, which then led into more interesting territory.

“Sorry about the food,” he said. “Feeding was Tony’s territory.”

“And yours was?”

“Fucking, of course,” he said. “And working with the wood.”

“Of course, I should have known. And Tony was?” This led to a surprise, even though I could surmise who Tony was to Cliff Strong.

“Tony was the young man before you.”

“Before me?” I asked, after almost choking on my sandwich, which, I must say, was a culinary triumph. “You haven’t fucked anyone before this Tony left and until I arrived today?”

“Nope—which might help explain how rough I was with you and how many times I covered you.”

“Thank you,” I answered.

“You’re welcome. We’ll do it again after lunch.”

“Thank you,” I repeated. He was supposed to drive me down to Ludlow after lunch. I was glad he’d forgotten that, especially in what he remembered that he now wanted to do after lunch.

“You’re welcome,” he repeated, in turn.

“Who is Tony other than the guy you fucked before me and where has he gone?” What I really wanted to ask was how in the hell could Tony leave this man—unless, of course, he was just thoroughly exhausted and used up. I also wasn’t that excited that Tony might show up while Strong was doing pushups on me or just sitting, holding me enfolded in his lap, his thick dick inside me, throbbing, making me feel like we were one. I had no idea if Tony had given Strong up. I had no idea how Tony could willingly give the Visigoth up—unless Tony had been used up.

“Tony was the light of my life, the meaning of my existence. But he heard the call of New York. He’s in the city now, trying to make it on Broadway.”

“That’s not all it’s advertised to be,” I said. “Either New York or making it on Broadway.” I couldn’t believe I’d said that. All I had wanted to do, the goals I had told Holst Bayer about the first night we met, on board the ship returning from Bermuda, had been zeroed in on New York and making it onto the Broadway stage. I had wanted that to happen by Bayer taking me into his bed and his life. But now all of that had been turned upside down. All I could think of was how soon I could get Cliff Strong’s dick inside me again.

“That’s what I told him—that neither is such a great goal. I wanted him to stay here . . . and to make me sandwiches.”

“And to take your cock.”

“Yes, and to take my cock,” Strong answered, without a single tone of irony.

“So, what does this Tony look like? Do you have photos?”

“We don’t do photos here. If I want to have someone’s likeness, I carve them into a statue dildo.”

“So, do you have a statue of Tony you’ve carved?”

“No. He’s too small, like you. That’s not what I carve, I carve statue dildos.”

It still hadn’t gotten to me. “You have statues of yourself and of Randy up at The Castle.”

“Exactly. Those are hung tops. Muscular, power tops. Appropriate for statue dildos.”

It finally sank in. “Statue dildos? What do you mean?”

“I carve dildos,” he answered.

“Yes, I know. You said that already.” I didn’t, however, note that I knew because Holst Bayer had used one with me aboard the Adventure of the Seas, so I slid off the point. “I’ve seen one of your wooden dildos. It’s a beauty. Holst showed it to me.”

“I’ll bet he did,” Strong said, and laughed. He wasn’t the least bit fooled how I knew about the dildos he carved. “I make them in all sizes. The life-size ones I camouflage. At first look, at least, you can’t tell what they can function as, but it’s there. They have a purpose.”

“I still don’t understand,” I said.

“Look around. There are four or five of them here in the house. What do they all have in common?”

I stood up from the stool at the kitchen island—naked, as we both were—and padded around the living area, back to the two bedrooms and back. “I don’t know. They are all different—hunky men and big animals—I guess what they all have in common are their cocks. They all have oversized cocks, projected upward and in erection.”

“Bingo. Most of them ten inches to twelves inches long and as much as eight inches in circumference. About the same size as the traditional-shaped one of mine that Holst did you with, right?”

“Traditional shaped?”

“Yes, those are different from my statue dildos.”

“He said that one was nine inches by seven and three-quarters,” I said. I wasn’t going to quibble about the assertion that Holst had done me with one. He had. Cliff Strong obviously knew he had.

“That’s me. That one was carved to my stats. I carved some of these larger.”

I stopped moving around the room and put a hand on one of his life-sized polished wood statues. “You’re telling me these are dildos—that somehow a guy can fuck himself on one of these?”

“Take a closer look. How about this Roman gladiator here? Let’s get you fucked by a Roman gladiator.”

He rolled a ribbed condom on the Roman gladiator’s cock in his living room, lubed it up, and put me on the wooden statue. It was true. The gladiator had a skirt of wooden slabs as his only clothing, but the skirting parted at the groin for the cock and balls to project, the cock in an upcurved angle. Cliff had to show me where there were footholds at the statue’s hips, cleverly carved to look like folds in skirting. And the statue’s sword and shield arms were projected at a level and angle so that when I was mounted on the front of the statue, feet in the stirrups and hole brushing the bulb of the cock, I could wrap my arms up around the statute’s extended sword and shield-bearing arms, which gave me room to arch my back and be supported, with my buttocks thrust forward into the statue’s crotch. It was like I was saddled on a rearing horse. It hit me then why the rearing horse out in the yard, by the road, was rearing, and why it was in such big erection.

Cliff helped me at first sheath the thick, long wooden cock; crouching behind me; palming my buttocks; slowly pressing me forward, onto the wooden erection, my channel slowly sheathing the phallus; and then he helped me to set up a rhythm of rocking back and forth on the buried cock, fucking myself. When I had taken over the pumping myself, he moved around beside me, crouching over my lap, stroking my cock with a hand, taking my cock into his mouth. The Roman gladiator did his job. With a cry I had fucked myself to a strong ejaculation, delivered on Cliff’s face.

“See, that’s how it works,” he said.

“Shit. Fuck,” I exclaimed. I started to say something else, but he pulled me off the statue and put me on all fours right there on the living room carpet. He pressed a hand between my shoulder blades, forcing my chest and cheek flat on the rug; mounted me from above, crouching over my hips; thrust up inside my passage; and began to pump me hard. He hadn’t taken more than a dozen hard strokes when we heard the sound of a car horn from outside, on the mountain road. Cliff pulled out and rolled off me, went to the living room window, and looked out. I remained in position, moaning but whimpering for him to come back to me.

“It’s Randy in a car. He’s probably looking for you—to give you a ride. Do you want to go out to him?”

“No. I want you to come back and ride me.”

“I’ll have to go out. What shall I tell him?”

“That you saw me walking down the road, but I didn’t stop here,” I said.

“He can give you that ride you need down to Ludlow,” Cliff said.

“I’d rather you did it . . . unless you don’t want to.”

“I’m good with that,” Cliff said. I could see that he was smiling.

We were both scrambling to get our jeans, at least, back on. Cliff managed it before I did and went out into the sculpture yard and over to the car Randy was driving. I went to the living room window, looking out at the corner, hoping I couldn’t be seen. I almost hyperventilated when I saw that my duffel bag was still out there, beside the spool table that Cliff had fucked me on. I held my breath as the two men chatted. At length it was evident they were saying their amicable good-byes. Cliff stepped back from the car, and Randy started up the car and continued driving down the mountain.

When Cliff came back, he came close up to me and put his arms around me. I went up on my toes and we kissed. Coming out of that, I said, “Thanks.”

“So, when do you want me to drive you down to Ludlow?” he asked.

“Someday. Maybe someday. Not today or tomorrow. Is that—?”

“That’s fine with me,” he said. “I was getting tired of cold-cut sandwiches.”

I already was unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans—and he was doing the same with mine.

“Take me hard. Make me feel it,” I whispered.

“You bet I will,” he replied.

My own personal Visigoth. He indeed made me feel it.