“Oh, did I forget to mention what the colored poker chips were for?” Julian asked the next morning when they ran across each other in the university library. “I saw before I left that you had several in front of you. You got it off last night with one of the men who dropped a poker chip in front of you, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t fully understand the meaning of the poker chips. I probably still don’t fully understand that.”
“Which one? The newspaper editor? The novelist?”
“Jerry Morgan, the newspaper editor.”
“He’s good, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s good.”
“He feed you dinner before? Take you to a club or something? But, no, he still has work to do in the evenings, doesn’t he?”
“No. He gave me a ride home in the rain and then came inside. He left early this morning. No, he didn’t take me to dinner. I fixed a pizza between sessions on the bed.”
“He has a lot of staying power, doesn’t he?”
“He’s had you too?”
“Yes. They’ve all had me. What’s important for you, though, is that you get something out of them—a dinner, a movie, drinks at O.Henry’s. Not just a ride home in the rain and a ride in the sack.”
“It was raining pretty hard, and it’s a long way back to the university area. And he gave me a ride. You abandoned me. You left with that old priest, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I left with Monsignor Antoni. But don’t underestimate him because he’s a graybeard. He has the longest one of any of them and he can keep it hard while you dance on it. On the significance of the poker chips, you saw the priest hand me the white poker chip, didn’t you? My accepting it meant I’d go with him and lie under him. You had a stack of them in front of you when I left. I assumed that was good from one of them for dinner and a show before landing in bed with him.”
“Antoni Skileri is a Catholic priest who fucks young men?”
“And very well,” Julian said, with a laugh. “That’s why he’s an emeritus as his age. He was very important in the church but was headed for trouble for fucking young priests and the Catholic Church is hiding him here. Does that surprise you?”
“No, not really, I guess. I didn’t fully understand that was what the poker chips were for,” Trent answered, “that accepting one implied a promise.”
“But you do now, don’t you? Each man a different color. You had the black chip from Jerry Morgan in front of you as well as Raskin’s blue one and the Art museum’s Haywood’s green one. Raskin and Haywood were good for a meal. You’d need the sustenance of a good meal to go under either one of them. You went to get laid, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I want to get laid.” Trent answered. He didn’t say how many times he’d been laid the previous night though—by how many men.
“And now you’ve figured out how to make the choice of who lays you on a Friday night.”
“And you’ll go there with me next Friday night, and you’ll latch onto someone who will give you a ride home after you’ve ridden his cock, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Trent answered.
“All’s good, then,” Julian said and the two parted and went their own way.
Trent didn’t have to wait until the next Friday, though. When he got back to the circulation desk, the novelist, Bernard Raskin, was standing there, obviously waiting for him. He was still glowering and looking sultry and sexy as he had the night before. He was passing the blue poker chip through his fingers like a slight-of-hand artist.
There was no “Hi” or anything. “You left without picking this up last night,” he said when Trent had come up to him. “I’m not used to the young men brought to the Friday Group turning my offer down.”
He obviously thought he was the catch among the Friday Group, Trent thought. Well, he was the youngest and sexiest looking one of the group who Trent had seen.
“I didn’t understand what the poker chips meant when I was there last night,” Trent said, avoiding dealing with the issue that he had, eventually, taken the black one and it had been redeemed by the newspaper editor for sex.
“You would take it now, though?” Raskin asked, looking a bit less glowering.
“Yes, of course,” Trent said, “and next Friday—”
“I said now,” Raskin growled, a bit of the glower returning.
“I’m working this morning.”
“But this afternoon? Are you working this afternoon? It’s almost this afternoon already.”
“No, I’m off this afternoon.” It was Saturday.
“Then I will take you and give you a taste of literary Asheville. That’s the most important aspect of the city. There are authors and poets associated with Asheville and it is a natural venue for drama and breathtaking scene. There’s Thomas Wolfe, of course, who was raised here in a rooming house his mother ran. The rooming house is open and we’ll go there. And there’s F. Scott Fitzgerald, writing in a perpetual drunken stupor up at the Grove Park Inn while his wife, Zelda, flitted around in a nearby sanatorium. His room is plaqued. We’ll see it. Unfortunately, he wrote nothing but drunken trash in that room, and he burned it all. And then we’ll drive down to Hendersonville to pay homage to the poet, Carl Sandburg. His house is open to the public. It’s unique, as it was built to fully serve his writing. Drinks at O.Henry’s. We like to claim him as one of our authors, even though he hails from Greensboro, to the east. You’ve heard of the club, I imagine.”
“Yes, I have,” Trent said, but Raskin was already moving on.
“And after dinner, I’ll show you a comfortable canopy bed at the Bed of Roses B&B. Very gay. You must experience gay Asheville. Very vibrant. I am writing about it in my novel. Very racy.”
He didn’t offer up any of this as a matter of choice for Trent, and it’s what they did, after Raskin held his hand out with the blue poker chip and Trent accepted the chip.
“You understand what this means now, don’t you—accepting the poker chip.”
“You give yourself to me for the rest of the day?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And the night?”
They drove in Raskin’s tight-fitting navy-blue 1972 Triumph TR6 roadster. First it was up to the Grove Park Inn for a quick in and out to pay homage to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s room and then back down into the city, to North Market Street, and the preserved Thomas Wolfe boarding house museum, next to the Asheville Community Theater.
“The novel I’m currently writing, ‘Homeward Bound,’ is a parallel of the story of how Wolfe rose out of Asheville to prominence—what a struggle that was.”
“And was shunned by the city as a result,” Trent said.
“Ah, you were listening last evening then,” Raskin said. “I will be acclaimed for my book. I know how to avoid upsetting the locals. On to poetry and Carol Sandburg now.”
They didn’t go directly to Sandburg’s house outside of Hendersonville, to the southeast of Asheville, though. They stopped in a seedy motel a mile off Interstate 26 that rented its rooms by the hour, and Raskin used that hour to redeem his blue poker chip and efficiently and totally fuck Trent in a not-so-quick in and out—and in deeper. Raskin was controlling, Trent was writhing. Both of them were naked, Raskin dark, glowering, and hairy and Trent small, blond, willowy, and smooth, and Raskin embracing Trent bent over the foot of the bed from behind after Trent had sucked the hirsute man’s cock hard, and thrusting hard and deep up into Trent’s passage, as the young man writhed, cried out in passion, and panted hard. The novelist clearly had been hot for sex and conquest. He was a primeval, hairy animal, taking Trent in high rut, slaying the lad, taking no prisoners, laying Trent out totally and ravishing him.
“That’s the way Papa Hemingway would do it,” Raskin growled as he rose off Trent’s trembling, spent body. “I’m sure that’s the way he did do it.”
Gasping for air, Trent didn’t either agree or demure, but he had a little satisfied smile on his lips, a smile that wasn’t lost on the novelist. Feeling like Papa after battling and landing a swordfish, Raskin slapped his young conquest hard on the buttocks, laughed, and went to the dripping shower and thread-bare towels in tired-tile motel bathroom.
The discussion on the return to Asheville from the visit to Sandburg’s house museum was all about Raskin’s current novel. They landed back in the city at O.Henry’s for drinks. There, Raskin watched Trent dance on a crowded floor with other gay young men. Then it was to an intimate-atmosphere, gay male–dominated restaurant on Haywood near O.Henry’s for diner, followed by a night of fucking at the Bed of Roses B&B, where Raskin showed that he was a demanding, vigorous, and lasting athletic top and Trent showed that he was flexible enough to go with the demand.
Raskin sat at the foot of the bed, cupping Trent’s chin with one hand and palming his belly with the other, as Trent crouched in his lap, his knees pressed to the edge of the bed on either side of the novelist’s thighs; Trent’s legs running behind Raskin’s buttocks; and Trent, his hands pressed into Raskin’s knees and facing away from Raskin, using the leverage of his knees to rise and fall on the buried shaft, fucking himself.
Before he came, Raskin changed the position, pushing Trent’s chest to the floor below the bed, the young man’s arms stretched out to his side to steady himself, and Raskin standing behind him, Trent’s feet were hooked on the older man’s shoulders, while the novelist fucked down into Trent’s tight, restricted passage and the young man cried out the punishing filling and working of his channel.
Later, with the two of them stretched out against each other on the canopied bed, Trent asked, “Why a B&B? Do you live in hotels? You don’t want to come to my place?”
“This B&B will be the setting for a scene in my novel,” he answered.
“And will I be in the scene too?” Trent asked.
“Quite likely,” Raskin answered, as he rolled Trent over on his belly, ran an arm under the young man’s stomach and raised him to all fours, mounted him, thrust inside him, and fucked him again.
* * * *
Trent had no sooner walked home from work in a light snow the first Tuesday of December when there was a heavy knock on his door. He opened it to find Gus Sawyer pushing his way in. “You gonna invite me in?” he asked, as he strutted past Trent into his small living room-dining room combination.
“You’re in already,” Trent said. “How did you find where I lived?”
“I followed you home from the university library today. Get dressed into something sexy. I’m going to show you a side of homo Asheville at Christmas those high-brow dudes in that Friday club you go to won’t show you.”
Trent started to demur but then he saw the facial expression the black muscle man was giving and thought better of it. “Is this OK?” he asked, as he returned, wearing white, form-fitting jeans in a silky material and a red mesh athletic shirt that showed off his well-formed smooth-skinned chest. He was a blond beauty and Gus’s wolf whistle told him he was dressed fine. Gus was dressed in bikers’ black leather.
The place was a black bikers’ club and sauna called Buxton’s in a former warehouse in an area of former warehouses below the downtown area on, naturally, Buxton Avenue. Several of the other warehouses in the area had been turned into beerhalls and music venues. It was the sort of area that you didn’t take your best car and paid a local boy to babysit the car you took. It was shockingly close to the high-brow downtown area of the small city.
The only white guys in the barroom were Trent and a young white guy on stage being royally fucked to grind music by a black bull. Either the white lad hadn’t been fully briefed on what the act would entail or he was one great actor. Gus fit in with the patrons—black, muscular, mean looking, and clad in black leather bikers’ gear. Many were topless, though, proud of their tattooed muscular torsos with every reason to be so.
Gus guided Trent over to barstools where they had a good view of the black-on-white debauching going on the small stage. Everyone seemed to know Gus, and he let all of the men who came by paw at, kiss, and manhandle Trent. Anything went, from multiple men, short of stripping Trent and raping him on the barstool. Gus sat by and watched the men play with Trent, who was almost hyperventilating between fear and arousal. A lot of joking went on about dragging Trent into the sauna and gang banging him, which both distressed Trent and caused chills of anticipation run up his spine. Gus was amused by Trent’s mixed distress and curiosity.
When Trent had one black giant sitting on his stool with his cock out and the young white man in his lap, the black dude dry humping Trent from behind and another black guy bent over Trent from in front, French kissing him and rubbing Trent’s basket, and a large wet spot developed at Trent’s crotch, Gus laughed and drove Trent home.
Inside the door to Trent’s basement apartment, Gus grabbed the young man by the hair and forced him on his knees. Gus unzipped, pulled his thick, black cock out, and made Trent gag on it. Trent was surprised and concerned to find Gus had a thick metal ring Prince Albert piercing in his cock head. He hadn’t been wearing that when he’d fucked Trent in the truck. He had it now, though, and didn’t take it out. Trent had never given a blow job for a guy with one and was concerned for his teeth, but despite the jarring sound and clicking against his teeth, Trent managed without breaking any of his ivories.
When Gus was hard and throbbing, he pulled Trent up by the hair with one hand and backhanded him across the face with the other, making Trent reel back toward the bedroom door. Trent struggled up and Gus backhanded him again, sending Trent to his knees at the bedroom door frame.
Gus picked him up by the hair and tossed him onto the double bed that took up much of the small bedroom. Trent struggled to rise and Gus punched him in the stomach and slapped him again.
“Stay there on your back and take it,” he commanded as he pulled Trent’s shoes and trousers off and tossed them aside. He pushed Trent down on his belly, pulled the belt out of the young man’s white jeans, doubled it over, and gave Trent a few whacks on his bare buttocks, causing Trent to cry out in pain, with a bit of arousal mixed in. Gus didn’t do enough damage to last into the night; Trent absorbed the possibility that the whipping could resume at any point, though, and it made him whimper and go hard.
Gus flipped Trent onto his back, grabbed the young man’s thighs, spread them, and went down on his knees, immediately going to eating Trent’s ass out. Trent lay there and moaned his surrender and embarrassed arousal. Crouching over Trent between his thighs, Trent completely open and vulnerable to him, Gus thrust inside him, deep, into Trent’s soft core, and, not having removed the thick PA ring, ravished him there, brutalizing him with the prodding and sliding of metal deep inside Trent, taking full advantage of Trent’s total surrender to him and the young man’s arousal from the preparation at the club.
If he could have, Trent would let Gus know he loved the fuck, but he couldn’t, because Gus was gripping Trent’s throat as he fucked him, matching the rhythm of the punishing fuck with controlling Trent’s gasping breathing. The cock churned deep inside Trent, finding and punishing every nook and cranny of the young man’s core. He kept muttering, “Fucking relax. Open. Take it deeper; let it all in,” and Trent did so, going completely soft and open for the cock and being punished for doing so.
When Gus had come once, slapped Trent around some more while he was building another hard, and then doggie fucked Trent on the floor at the foot of the bed, he picked Trent back up and threw him onto the bed again, straddled his chest, and made Trent make love to his cock again with his mouth and throat.
Gus left Trent moaning, stretched out, completely taken, and whimpering when he went back out into the gathering snow. Trent lay there on the bed for an hour, mentally taking the pulse of his vitals and checking for bruising and tears. He had never been taken as hard before. He was mortified that he could say that he’d never been so fully and satisfyingly fucked before either.
He recognized the danger of a man like Gus. He already was wondering when the next time he’d have him inside him again would be.
He had to admit Gus had been right—this had been a gay side of Asheville the men of the Friday Group at the Battery Park Book Exchange were unlikely ever to introduce Trent to.
He was ashamed to do it and never mentioned to anyone that he had, but on the next night, Wednesday, he found his own way back to Buxton’s and this time let three black bulls carry him into the sauna and gang fuck ravish him, taking one black cock after the next in both throat and ass channel and then starting the rotation all over again.
They gang banged him, but they didn’t double him. It wasn’t that long before he experienced the more refined Friday Group version of gang banging, which did include double penetration.
* * * *
“You look like you’ve been beaten.”
“Does it show? I thought I’d done a good job with the makeup,” Trent told Julian on Friday evening after work, as they approached the door to the Battery Park Book Exchange in the corner of the Grove Arcade.
“I can tell, one submissive to another, but you’ve done a good job with the makeup. The men in here probably won’t be able to tell. Do you have whip marks on your back and butt, though? That may become a problem for you later tonight. The men here aren’t likely to want hard-used goods.”
“No. Nothing like that,” Trent answered. The marks of the belt on his buttocks had faded away.
“Where have you been to get the bruises?”
“I went to Buxton’s on Wednesday night.”
“Buxton’s?” Julian exclaimed. “How did you find out about Buxton’s? You are a needy slut, aren’t you? You like it rough? You like taking black shafts?”
“Yes to all, I’m afraid,” Trent answered.
Julian laughed. “I sure as hell didn’t read you for that. If you like black cock, maybe Gael Blanton will be here tonight. He’s black and he’s got a shaft that will split you and make you yodel.”
“Yes, he’s an executive chef up at the Grove Park Inn. French actually, from Morocco, but he’s been in the States for ages. He can hold his own in literary discussions. He’s the holder of the gold poker chip. I couldn’t walk for a week the first time he dropped that in front of me.”
Gael Blanton indeed was one of the power men who showed up to the Friday Group that evening. It was a mixed group, some who where there the previous Friday, including, in addition to Julian and Trent, Brad Haywood, the art museum development director, and the UNC student, Kevin Dundee. But miraculously the number added up to eight once again.
Regulars who hadn’t been there the previous week, in addition to the Grove Park Inn executive chef Gael Blanton, were the director of the Asheville Music Hall, a funkily dressed, rather chunky, nearly bald guy in his fifties named Daniel Park; a suited-up, seriously looking attorney with horn-rimmed glasses in his well-toned forties, who, Trent was told, was on the board of directors of the Black Mountain College Museum, Patrick Hunt. Haywood had brought a guest, a tall, slim, military-bearing type Chinese-ethnic man in his late forties who was director of the Raleigh-Durham Art Museum, Ed Yuan. He was in town to check on the progress of the Asheville art museum reconstruction. He had piercing black eyes that honed in on what interested him. As soon as Julian and Trent arrived, Trent interested him, and Yuan maneuvered to have Trent sitting beside him. Haywood was on Trent’s other side. Gael Blanton was sitting across from them, his eyes also boring into Trent.
Julian had schooled Trent into maneuvering the conversation to what he’d like a prospective partner to do for him before the poker chips came out—all, of course, to be couched in the general conversation. Luck would be on his side this Friday evening, as the conversation going on at the time they arrived was the Grove Park Inn, its place in American literature, and its expansion over the years. After having been gang banged by blacks at Buxton’s earlier that week, Trent was intrigued about the claimed monster-cocked black French chef, Blanton, who was on the walrus side in size and not particularly beautiful. But there was that suggestion he could take a young man to heaven. Trent had been taken close to heaven a number of times in the previous two weeks, certainly closer to heaven than he’d gotten in Chapel Hill.
“There’s a lot of major art on the walls up there, too,” Brad Haywood was saying as Julian and Trent were settling. A poker chip was already out and in front the UNC student—a silver one, which indicated that the attorney from the Black Mountain College Museum was horny and had already staked his territory. The poker chip was silver. The student, Kevin Dundee, was rolling it around in his head, indicating he’d already accepted. The attorney said little in the conversation. He didn’t need to. He’d come to hook up and that had been accomplished. The two of them left early, together, to be replaced by the newspaper editor, Jerry Morgan, and the theatre artistic director, Cyril Birch.
“Have you been up to the inn?” Haywood asked Trent directly.
“Only briefly,” Trent answered, “and I didn’t spend any time looking at the artwork.”
“We have the annual gingerbread house competition on display too now,” Gael Blanton said, turning his eyes to Trent. “If you are new to the city, you really need to see that. What they do with gingerbread is spectacular.”
“I’d like to see that,” Trent said, which earned him a gold poker chip—Blanton’s color—flipping to in front of him.
“My guest, Ed Yuan, is staying at the Grove Park,” the Asheville Art Museum official, Brad Haywood, chimed in. “You could drive up to the inn with us and see the display. What do you think of that, Mr. Ashton?”
“I think that would be lovely,” Trent answered with a smile. A green poker chip, Haywood’s color, landed in front of Trent.
“If you come up the inn this evening, I could treat you all to dinner at my restaurant, Vue 1913,” Blanton said, still staring Trent down from across the table. “And after we’re finished, I’d send you back to your home in a hotel car.”
What would constitute “finished”? Trent wondered, but he didn’t say it. He now knew that the poker chip protocol was making that obvious.
“I think it would be a splendid evening,” Ed Yuan piped up to say. He had no poker chip, not being a regular, but he had his wallet out and had dropped four crisp hundred-dollar bills next to the two poker chips on the table.
“It sounds like a good possibility for the evening,” Trent said, as he watched Julian and the novelist, Bernard Raskin, stand up from the table and move toward the stairs down to the mezzanine. Julian was holding a blue poker chip—Raskin’s color. Trent’s ire was raised a bit. The novelist had been so totally into Trent earlier in the week and now it was as if, Trent having given him everything he demanded, Raskin wanted to move on to a new conquest. That little irritant was probably what made him bold enough to take on three of the men.
“Excuse me, I need to talk to Julian for a moment,” Trent said, rising from the table. He caught up with Julian on the mezzanine level next to the alcove leading to the bathroom. Julian waved Raskin on to the lower floor, saying he would join him there and they would go on to Carmel’s Restaurant, next door to the book exchange in the Grove Arcade.
“I need to know the etiquette here,” Trent said. “I’ve gotten two poker chips—and a monetary offer from the Asian guest.”
“If you find any or all of them acceptable at some time, pick up their poker chips and play with them in your hand,” Julian said. “Then drop any you aren’t accepting tonight back on the table. That tells the ones you didn’t keep that it was just a decision for that moment, that you weren’t rejecting them. It helps to smooth over their feelings and encourages them to ask again.”
“What if you’re willing to accept them all?”
“At one time?” Julian asked. And when Trent didn’t correct his question, Julian laughed and said, “You are a little slut, aren’t you? If you’d take them all together, pick them all up. But if one of them indicates in any way that they didn’t want to share, they’ll indicate that some way. My experience with these men, though, is that they like watching someone else take his turn before they get theirs. It’s also my experience with these men that you may have to take more than one cock at a time if you accept them all. Good luck,” he added and then continued on down the stairs to the lower level.
While he was there by the bathroom, Trent decided to use it. When he was coming out, the book exchange assistant manager, Art Hilliard, was standing there, waiting for him.
“You are going to go with one of those old men again tonight, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Maybe more than one,” Trent said, with a smile.
Hilliard grimaced. “Do you really like old cock? Wouldn’t you rather have young, vigorous cock?”
“I consider what’s offered.”
“I’m offering. Tell me you don’t want to go with me.”
When Trent wasn’t quick to say he didn’t want to couple with Art, Hilliard grasped his arms with both hands, guided him back into the bathroom, and locked the bathroom door. He fucked Trent up against the wall, pressing Trent’s back against the funky wallpaper, having quickly stripped off the trousers and briefs of them both.
He was in magnificent erection. Trent said something nice about his young cock, Art said he could keep it up and move it as piston speed, and then he did so, holding Trent’s thighs hooked on his hips, burying his face in the hollow of Trent’s throat, and pushing Trent’s body up and down the wall with the fast, powerful thrusts of his hard shaft. It was all over in seven minutes, with Trent gasping and emitting little mewing sounds as, barebacking him, Art exploded again and again and again inside him. Trent’s arms had been around Art’s neck, and while Art was releasing inside him, Trent cupped the back of the young man’s head and brought their faces together for a deep, tongue-dueling kiss.
“That’s just preliminary,” Art whispered as they held there afterward. “You want more young cock, just let me know.” Then he let Trent’s legs down, picked his briefs and black trousers up, pulled them on, and zipped and buckled himself. With Trent puddled on the floor at the base of the wall, trying to bring his breathing under control, Art unlocked the bathroom door, and was gone.
Trent held there for a few minutes, reveling in the fast fuck. He indeed liked young cock.
When he returned to the Friday Group table, he scooped up both poker chips and the four hundred-dollar bills and said, “If you gentlemen would like to go on this adventure together, I’d be happy to see the gingerbread houses display up at the Grove Park this evening. I’d like to experience all that the famous hotel has to offer.”
All three men knew what Trent was agreeing to. They stood, exhibiting grins that indicated they didn’t mind at all share the evening—and Trent.
* * * *
Trent stood, naked, by the humongous bathtub in Ed Yuan’s suite at the Grove Park Inn. The tub was big enough for several. It needed to handle three, giving them range to move. Haywood, tall, ruggedly handsome even in his mid-fifties, with a gray, lion-like mane of hair, pelt of salt and pepper hair on his chest, a more generous mix of dark hair in the gray bush at his groin, stood close behind Trent, his hands grasping the young man’s hips. The older man’s respectable-sized erection nestled between Trent’s thighs, rubbing languidly on the young man’s taint as the art museum official kissed Trent in the hollow of his neck and murmured how beautiful the young man was and how Haywood intended to use and enjoy his body to the fullest extent of Trent’s endurance. Trent, himself hard as a rock in erection, sighed in anticipation of what was to come.
In the tub, reclining on his back, the long, sleek body of the Chinese ethnic Ed Yuan floated close enough to the surface that his long erection, with a screaming red oversized bulb rising out of a jet-black thatch of coarse pubic hair, rose above the soap-foamed surface of the water in the tub.
Classical music was floating on the air from the adjacent dimly lit bedroom suite, wafting into the generously sized bathroom. There was no question that Trent was going to be shared and fucked, but it would be unlike what he had experienced with Gus Sawyer or Bernard Raskin, or even Art Hilliard. This was going to be a prolonged, refined, total using of all of the young man’s charms, skills, and body.
Yuan raised his right arm, cupped Trent’s neck and gently drew the young man’s mouth down to his. Leaning over the tub, Trent reached down and encased the Asian man’s cock in his right hand, causing it to harden further. In the kiss, Trent jerked and momentarily took his lips away from Yuan’s and gasped, as Haywood positioned his cock higher, slowly penetrated Trent’s passage deep, grasped his hips again, and began to slow pump, barebacking the young man. Coming out of the kiss, Trent turned a bit and took Yuan’s cock in his mouth. Haywood continued moving his shaft in and out, in and out of Trent’s channel, as the young man caused the muscles of his passage wall to ripple over the thick invader.
This was not going to be a quick taking.
After viewing the gingerbread house competition display in the Grove Park’s rock-walled lobby around the massive fireplace of the original section of the inn, the three men, Trent moving between the two tall, older men, Haywood and Yuan, who he knew would be fucking him before the evening was over, moved on to one of the mountainside inn’s more exclusive restaurants with a view of the Asheville valley and the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains, Vue 1913. Paying close attention to the young man, the two older men leaned into him and smile, touching him intimately as they could with disturbing the other well-heeled restaurant patrons. If they weren’t conditioned to be complete gentlemen in public, the tension between the three indicated that, if they could, they would lay Trent out on the restaurant table and dine on him.
It was not lost on Trent that this is what the novelist, Bernard Raskin, would do under these circumstances from the sheer shock and publicity value of having done so.
They were given a table with a great view, and the restaurant’s executive chef, Gail Blanton, came out of the kitchen several times to attend their table. He was standing behind Trent, his hands lightly gripping and massaging the young man’s shoulders, when Yuan took out a duplicate room key card and passed it to Blanton, letting the chef know what suite they would be in. Blanton said he would join them as soon as his dining service was over, confirming that Trent would be lying under more than just the two art museum officials. But then, Trent had taken Blanton’s gold poker chip at the Friday Group meeting, so he knew the large-framed black man would be included in the evening’s events.
Haywood pulled out of Trent before coming and lifted the young man like he was a light rag doll, and delivered him, on his back on top of Yuan’s reclining form in the bathtub. No one said anything, but the two men worked with precision and shared intent and interest in working the body of the smaller young man. He wasn’t an equal person to them. He was a docile rent-boy there to give the men mutual heightening sexual pleasure.
Yuan opened his arms and took Trent, stretched out on top of him, his erection going under Trent’s taint as Haywood’s had before he penetrated the young man. Yuan buried his face in the hollow of Trent’s throat, kissing him there. His right hand reached down to stroke Trent’s cock, rising straight up from the water of the tub, and his left hand went to working Trent’s nipples. Yuan kept gliding his free hand on Trent’s torso, making the young man moan with pleasure and anticipation as, leaning over the tub, Haywood’s left hand went to covering and moving with Yuan’s hand on Trent’s cock. His right hand went down between Trent’s legs to finger Trent’s passage opening and Yuan’s cock. His middle finger entered Trent and stroked as Trent panted and sighed and whispered, “Yes, yes. Fuck me.”
“Again and again, all night, past when you have begged for mercy. You are all ours for the night,” Haywood murmured, which made Trent shudder under the accompanying light touch of Yuan’s gliding hand.
Taking Yuan’s cock in his hand, Haywood and Yuan worked together to put his oversized-glans cockhead in position, and Trent arched his back to help put his entrance at the best angle for entry, gasped, and jabbered quietly in indecipherable phrases as Yuan breached Trent’s sphincter muscle with difficulty, his cock head being oversized, and then moved his shaft deep up inside the trembling young man’s passage. Grasping the young man’s hips, Haywood helped move the fused pelvises in the water in the tub to aid the caressing movement of Yuan’s cock inside the young man.
The two men coordinated their manipulation of the docile, yielding Trent body on the Asian man’s cock for several minutes up to the point that Trent tensed, jerked, gave a little cry, and released a cloud of cum into the bath water under the stroking hands of both Haywood and Yuan. When Trent had come, Haywood slowly lowered himself into the tub, grasped Trent’s legs, gently raised and spread them, moved his own erection into position, slowly entered Trent’s passage, running his cock in above Yuan’s buried cock, and began to slow stroke to what would be, first, Yuan’s ejaculation, and then Haywood’s release.
Trent panted hard, murmured his surrender, quietly begged for mercy that didn’t come, and became lost in the working of the two cocks inside him building up to their individual pleasured release.
After several minutes of kissing and fondling and reengorging, Haywood and Yuan readjusted their positions in the tub, this time with Haywood reclining on his back, Trent saddled on Haywood’s cock in the cowboy position, facing Haywood’s head, the two of them tongue-dueling kissing, while Yuan saddled up behind Trent, kissed him on the back of his neck, and palming the young man’s pecks, working his nipples between thumbs and forefingers, while penetrating the young man’s passage, running his shaft up along Haywood’s already-buried cock, and slow pumping Trent’s channel in a second double penetration.
When all had come again, the two older men maneuvered their way out of the tub, leaving Trent there to float and recover as they dried off. Then, working together, they gently lifted Trent out of the tub, dried him off, each with a thick-napped Egyptian cotton towel. Haywood took the moaning young man up in his arms and carried him into the bedroom, where Gail Blanton, naked and in magnificent, nearly foot long, thick erection was lying on his back on the bed. Amid much huffing and panting and whimpering, Haywood and Yuan helped Trent straddle and lower himself on Blanton’s shaft, taking as much of it in as he could. Then they sat back and watched as Trent fucked himself in a cowboy on the gigantic black cock.
Two frontiers were crossed by Trent that night—his first, and second, double penetration, which he was lucky to have had before he had to take Blanton’s cock, and the largest single cock he’d ever taken.
When Blanton was done for the first time, the three men went in rotation well into the night, moving the exhausted and yielding young man’s body into favored, sometimes exotic sex positions, fucking him and fucking him and fucking him.
They left him there, on his back, legs spread, arm across his eyes, a slight smile on his face, a low humming on his lips and went off to breakfast together at 8:00 a.m., returning in time to put him in the shower, get him dressed, and have him bundled into a hotel car to take him home before checkout time. They had been solicitous of his well-being in taking him to, but never over, the edge repeatedly, pointing out that he had agreed to everything, and each of them kicking in another $100 over and above the $400 Yuan had already given him. He assured them that he’d enjoyed the attention and, yes, he would continue attending the Friday Group, and, yes, he would continue to accept poker chip assignations.
And yes, he would take other combinations of Friday Group regulars in acts of double penetration, as they wished.
“Never Gail Blanton in combination, though, please,” Trent begged. “His black shaft is just too large for sharing.”