Madison Mills

Nick and Dr. Singh, both masked, approached the George B&B in darkness. What Nick saw as they approached the open front door was that the doorframe was filled with a tall, zaftig female figure with a mountain of golden blonde hair; a red-sequined cocktail dress that looked like it had been spray painted on her large frame, highlighting rather than hiding puffy nipples; and a pink mask with white feathered plumes rising from the corners. She was waving guests in with arms covered to the elbow in white gloves. Even the gloves were threaded with white sequins that caught and reflected the light pouring out of the open door. One hand was armed with a long cigarette holder and a burning fag.

“George, this is the patient I told you about, Nick Daniels,” Singh said as he and Nick reached the door.

George? Speaking of “fag,” Nick thought, suppressing a bit of a laugh. And he’d been afraid of people looking at him like he was marred.

“And he’s gorgeous, just as you said he would be,” the drag queen said in the mimic of a Marilyn Monroe voice. The arresting figure took Nick’s forearm in the claws of the hand not waving the cigarette holder. “You are very welcome, doll. We must connect later. And you know what I mean by connect. Don’t be fooled by the persona; I’m hung and I top.” The wink was accentuated by the impossibly long, fluttering eyelashes.

“George is our host, Nick,” Singh said, obviously seeing nothing unusual in the host’s flamboyance.

Nick was speechless as he was guided into the foyer of the B&B. George had had him completely fooled as they had first viewed him in approaching the inn, and Nick had much experience in who was what.

“Don’t let George get you alone, unless you want him to,” Singh leaned over and whispered in Nick’s ear—not too quietly, as the public rooms of the B&B had already filled with guests—all masked men . . . all being quite friendly with each other despite how early the evening was. “If you do let him get you alone, he takes it as permission to fuck you—and he wasn’t lying about being well hung, fully masculine when he is in the role of top, and able to master you. But you very well might like to experience what George has to offer. He’s a power top and is very good at it, I’m told. He always keeps a few bedrooms empty upstairs during parties like this . . . just in case.”

“He doesn’t live here?” Nick asked.

“No. He and Erick have a small house down the street from here.”

“Erick?”

“Erick Bradford, the novelist. They are a couple and own the B&B. Erick only nominally helps out here, though. He’s usually off writing, but speaking of . . . . Hello, Erick, you look divine tonight. I’d like you to meet one of my patients, Nick Daniels.”

Bradford was a good bit younger than George was and he was black to George’s obvious Scandinavian white. He was also under average in height, although a bit taller than Nick was, but he was well proportioned and looking quite elegant in a dusty-brown suede suit. He was wearing a black mask and a beautiful, pearly white-toothed smile. Nick was sure he had a beautiful face.

“Nick. I’m so glad you could come,” he said as he slid up to Nick and Singh. “Kumar has told me so much about you.”

“Yes, if you don’t mind, Erick, could you lift your mask, please, and let Nick see.” He did so, and Nick nearly gasped. The young man was impossibly handsome. “Thank you. I gave Erick this face, Nick. So, as you can see, you can come out of this quite well.”

“Let me take Nick around, Kumar,” Bradford said, as he let the mask go back in place. “I know you have people to see and I’d love to be seen with this young man. And don’t worry, Nick. You’re safe with me. We’re birds of a feather.”

Without waiting for an answer, Bradford laced an arm in Nick’s and pulled him away from Singh and into the parlor. It was the last that Nick saw of the doctor that night. The two submissives, Bradford had made clear they both were, drifted around the room, with Bradford stopping here and there, introducing Nick to the other guests, engaging in brief conversations, and then moving on. “If you see a man you want,” Bradford whispered in Nick’s ear, “just signal to me, Nick, and I’m sure I can made it happen. If he’s a submissive as well, there always is kissing and hand jobs to be had.”

Nick was continually off balance, as when they left a group, Bradford would say that this man they’d just been talking to was a top and another was a bottom. “Stay away from being with George alone,” he said at one point. “He can be very convincing in making you think he’s harmless. He can have you upstairs, on a bed, and laid before you know it—although when George lays you, you’ll definitely know it. Looks are deceiving, even when he’s in his diva role. He’s hung, can be cruel, and is predatory. You can take my word on that. He cares not what I think about him bedding other men, and I’ve grown to accept that, because, between you and me, he’s a total master. And, honey, you look like just what he’d want. I’m sure he and Kumar must have put their heads together by now and discussed all of your favorite positions. I know I’d be interested if you weren’t a submissive bottom, like me. But, as I said, there always is kissing and hand jobs.”

Bradford gave Nick a look that conveyed that they could go look for a private sport right now if Nick was interested.

This line of talk had Nick tongue-tied. No sooner had he thought of a response to one revelation that George and Erick knew more about him than he did about himself than Erick was off on another shocking revelation. So, he just let Bradford talk and guide him around. As soon as they had entered the main living room, Nick’s attention had gone to a well-muscled, supremely confident-looking man across the room. He must have been in his late thirties or early forties. He was dark complexioned—probably of Mediterranean stock—with a head of wavy, almost uncontrollable jet-black hair and a trimmed beard and mustache, making him look both mysterious and somewhat demonic. He had a half-face black mask on, but his dark eyes flashed prominently through the eyeholes. Nick had the definite feeling that the man, who was dressed all in black, his black silk shirt open to show a chest of curly black hair, bulging pecs, and a small gold medallion on a gold chain, was watching him as Bradford guided him around the room. The medallion wasn’t obtrusive. It was focusing attention on his bulging musculature, which probably was its purpose.

Erick didn’t take Nick over to that corner of the room to introduce him to that man or the men he was talking to—while the mystery man’s gaze was actually going to Nick. Bradford saw who Nick was looking at, though.

“I see you have caught the attention of Sami Hulagu,” Bradford said. “Now there’s a power top. He’s our local blacksmith and stud. We have more than our share of beautiful tops here, but Sami is the stud of them all. Aren’t his muscles divine? His shop is over by the mill, on the creek a few blocks southeast of here. This is the historical part of the village. Quite a tourist attraction, and you should see them flock to watch Sami work shirtless. He makes ornamental metal pieces, which are really quite good and sell well. All of the local submissives and many of the tourists too want him to lay them, and he’s had any of them he wants. We have quite an artist colony here. George, for instance, is an artist. These paintings around on the wall are his. Intriguing, aren’t they? Abstracts, but when you look at them closely they become surprising in theme and subjects. Some are quite revealing. An art collector needs to be very careful what they buy of George’s art to hang on their walls.”

“Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” Nick said, turning his gaze away from the sexy man across the room. The paintings were, in fact, just as Bradford said, abstracts that pulled you in and amazed you and were expertly and cleverly rendered. In some, it took a third glance to see the men fucking. He didn’t forget about Sami Hulagu, but the paintings were fascinating and he followed Bradford into the large dining room to look at more of them.

“I, of course, am just a dabbler in writing,” Bradford was saying, obviously introducing the subject so that Nick could contradict him, which Nick did.

“Not a dabbler, surely,” Nick said. “Dr. Singh gave me one of your books—Gift from the Sea. I loved it.”

“Why thank you. If we weren’t both bottoms, I might show you how much I appreciate you saying that. I’d let you pity fuck me. Anytime you’re interested in mutual hand jobs, though . . .” He didn’t wait for a response, he babbled on. “Kumar tells me you’re a writer too—that you’re writing a novel now.”

Oh lord, is there anything Singh hasn’t told these men? Nick wondered. And he couldn’t imagine Bradford being pity fucked. The man was gorgeous, even if Singh deserved some of the credit for that. “There isn’t much else to do while I’m at the clinic,” he said, “so I’ve begun writing again. I did study writing at NYU.”

“I’d like to see what you’re writing,” Bradford said. “There are so many visual artists here and so few fellow writers. We should put our heads together—too bad we can’t put other parts of ourselves together as well. I could read yours and you could read what I’m working on. We could mingle our talents. I could do you and you could do me. Ooo, I like the sound of that.”

“I think I’d like that,” Nick said. “The reading of each other’s manuscripts thing. Your Gift from the Sea was really hot.”

“Yes, we could read some, then beat each other off some, and then read some more. Sounds divine. But there’s no reason why you should be bored while you are in Madison Mills,” Bradford said. “Singh said you enjoy men and that you are a great lay. There are so many tops living or working in this area—just look around; Sami certainly—that your dance card could be overflowing with attention from luscious men. Sami was looking at you like he already was fucking you. And when Sami fucks you, you’ll know it.”

And has Sami fucked you? Nick wondered in his thoughts. What Erick said next told Nick that even if Sami hadn’t fucked Erick, Erick would let him do it.

“When Sami has the notion to fuck someone, there aren’t many who will turn him down,” the small black man said, with a sigh.

Nick was thinking of what to say to that when a waiter approached them and told Bradford that they’d run out of red wine upstairs and he didn’t have a key to the basement wine cellar.

“Sorry, Nick, I’ll have to go tend to business. I do my best not to do any work around here, but the staff is scheming against me. Why don’t you pick out a man and take him upstairs and get well laid? I’m sure any number of men here would be happy to cover you. Sami was eating you up with his eyes, and he’s the most hung stud in the village. Watch out, though. He’s a notorious ‘one and done’ stud. And I doubt he’ll take you here, tonight. He likes to get his men all hot and bothered by seeming to ignore them, so that when he puts his hand on their asses and tells them to follow him to his bed, it’s like picking ripe peaches off the tree.”

With a laugh, Bradford was gone. Without thinking about it, Nick drifted back into the parlor. Sami Hulagu no longer was there, and, like Bradford had just said, the disappointment he wasn’t hit Nick like a brick. He hadn’t realized until now how interested he was, both because of and despite what Erick had said about him. He realized that he had come back into that room precisely because Sami had been there.

He drifted in and out of conversations, looking around for Dr. Singh to tell him he’d leave early and go back to the clinic, but he didn’t see the doctor anywhere. The men he talked to either were a bit wary of him, the new submissive competitive talent in town, or sniffed around him to test their opportunities with him. He had to admit that Singh was right—that he hadn’t lost his appeal. Of course, his facial damage was covered by the mask.

After a while, needing to have a breather, he went out of one of the French doors at the end of the room and onto the back terrace of the B&B, where there was a slate-floored balcony overlooking a lower terrace with a swimming pool. The railing of the balcony was quite ornate and Nick ran his fingers over the curly cues in appreciation for the skill with which they were made.

“Do you like the railing design?” a voice with a rich baritone sound spoke from the darkness along the railing.

“Very much,” Nick said, turning to see Sami Hulagu standing near him, leaning on the railing and smoking a cigarette. “Did you weld it?” he added, remembering that Erick had told him Hulagu was an art welder.

“Yes. You found out I am a blacksmith?”

“Yes.”

“And I assume you were told other things about me. I saw you being guided around by Erick Bradford. He pretty much blabs whatever he knows about anything. He tells me it makes him a better writer.”

“Yes, he was quite detailed in talking about you,” Nick said.

“You are interested in me? And I’m not talking about me as an art welder.”

“Yes. But I’m interested in you as a craftsman, as well.”

“Come with me. I’ll show you where I work. My smithy is just down the block, on the creek, beside the old mill.”

“I don’t know. I was about to go back to the clinic.”

“No. Come with me. I want to fuck you. I think you will enjoy it.”

“Erick told me you like to string men along before you take them to bed. That you want them to beg you for it.”

“We mustn’t disappoint Bradford then. Beg me for it. I assure you that what Bradford told you is true. I’m very, very good at it, and I have a cock that will tickle your tonsils. Men don’t tell me no.”

“Please,” Nick said, with a smile, trying to be satirical. Assuming this was just banter.

“Good enough. Come with me, please.”

All that sexiness and the confidence of command, as well. Nick meekly followed Sami, the two of them walking closely side by side, Sami’s hand already palmed on Nick’s buttocks, confidently taking possession—and Nick submissively letting him do so.

Sami fucked Nick on a metal table inside the Smithy in the darkness, dim light filtering in from the open-sided street side from the street lamps up on the cobblestoned square and moonlight reflecting off the creek on the open-sided water side of the smithy. A red-hot fire in the still-smoldering smithy’s furnace lit up just the area of the men’s faces, closely facing each other and arched over one side of the metal table.

Both men were naked except for their masks. Nick, lithe, muscular, but in a boyish way, and blond, small, and smooth-skinned, lay with his weight on his shoulder blades, his legs bent and spread, his feet flat on the table top, and his tail elevated. Sami, the Turk, heavily muscled, powerful of body, olive skinned, and hirsute, knelt between Nick’s thighs. His strong hands pressed into the hollow of the smaller man’s shoulders, holding Nick down on the table top. His long, thick, hard cock was buried in Nick’s channel and was pounding, pounding, pounding him, as Nick cried out, gasped, moaned deeply, and caused Sami to do the same with the undulation of his passage wall muscles on the thrusting cock. Nick had initially moved with Sami in the fondling, but once the Turk was deep inside him, Nick collapsed and lay there panting as Sami fully dominated him, grabbing Nick by the throat and holding the young man’s head pressed into the table top as his cock did whatever Sami wanted it to do inside Nick’s channel.

It was true. Nick had had the sensation that Sami’s cock head had tickled his tonsils. The cock had certainly done whatever it pleased, and Nick had loved every stroke of it. Nick had been used to laying down for older, well-heeled johns. Sami was younger than the men Nick usually took and certainly was more muscular, bigger cocked, more virile, and more vigorous than Nick’s usual fare.

Sami lowered his mouth to Nick’s to take full possession of the young man. The masks hampered the connection, so Sami reached up and, first, pulled Nick’s mask off and tossed it aside and then did the same with his. For a brief second Nick caught sight of the Turk’s face and gasped. The right side of the man’s face was scarred by burns. Sami didn’t gasp at the sight of the bandaged scar slicing down the right side of Nick’s face. He just took Nick’s lips in a deep kiss.

Nick’s shock was brief. His realization that the scar didn’t mean shit to the sexual needs of his body hit him like a sledgehammer, sweeping away layers and layers of the concern and despondency he’d had over facial scaring. Sami’s fuck went into overdrive and Nick went with him then, the two going at each other like wild animals, sending both of them up into the stratosphere. Fucking and ejaculating. And then fucking and ejaculating again. Both of them eventually collapsing into exhaustion, with Nick, totally conquered, drifting off into a doze.

When Nick woke, he was alone, on his back on the metal table, staring out into the reflection of the moonlight dancing on the slow-moving waters of Neshaminy Creek. Sami was gone. Nick had no idea where he’d gone. Groaning, he pulled himself up and off the table and stumbled his way back to the clinic, thinking that Sami would appear at any moment and take him back to Sami’s house and to his bed.

But Sami didn’t reappear. What was that Erick had said about Sami? One and done? Disappointment flooded in to challenge the satisfaction Nick had gotten from the total fuck—but the feeling of sexual satisfaction won out. Bradford had certainly been right about that—when Sami had fucked him, he’d been FUCKED.