Stefan almost had me that warm afternoon in the summer pavilion of the Eisler country house in the Vienna Woods. We had played two sets of tennis, stripped down to our shorts in the unusual August heat on the mountainside above Vienna, and I knew by the way he looked at me that he wanted me. And, truth be told, I think I wanted him as well. I'd always had those urgings, but I had never given in to them.

Stefan had been an exchange student at my southern U.S. university in my sophomore year. We had struck up a friendship, and I had come back with him to Austria during a hiatus in my studies at the end of that school term. I wanted to be a writer, and I knew that the broadening experience of a European interlude would help me in that. Taking up Stefan's offer to stay with his family had been ideal. They were quite wealthy, they came from a titled family, and they traveled all over the region and had been good enough to take me with them.

Their son, Stefan, had been quite a hit at my somewhat provincial university. He was so sophisticated and so worldly, and it didn't hurt that he was achingly handsome. Solid Germanic stock. Blond and blue eyed, sturdy build and well-muscled. He was the star of our soccer team and had taken us to a conference championship for the first time in the school's history.

He perhaps was a little too urbane for the university community, though, and he had been invited not to return for our junior year. Our sleepy southern town was sexually repressed, and Stefan was sexual and sensual to the nth degree, and openly bisexual to boot. The rumor was that he'd fucked a good two-thirds of the soccer team, and that part of the reason for their success was that they were so besotted with Stefan to a man that they went into superhuman overdrive in their games so as not to let him down.

Stefan had propositioned me as well several times in that year, pursuing me relentlessly, trying to wear my resolve down, but I was too strong for him. I knew my inclinations were dangerously close to what he wanted, but I had come from the small southern town the university was located in and I planned to remain there to take over a business that had been in my family since before the Civil War. I couldn't afford to indulge what Stefan had to offer. I would marry a cheerleader coed from one of the other prominent families in town and live in a southern colonial mansion on a golf course at the edge of town and raise my allotted three and a half children and one dog and two cats.

Still, Stefan was not the type to give up, and I was fully on guard for there having been an ulterior motive for his invitation to me to summer with his family. I hadn't been totally cold to him. He had been raised on his family's Italian estate, and he was naturally expressive with his hands. I had let him become friendly with his hands - and I had thoroughly enjoyed his occasional attentions in that vein - but I had not come anywhere close to succumbing to his expressed desires for something more between us. He quite well knew what my limitations were and why I had set them.

After the tennis game, Stefan and I had dove into the pool, in our tennis shorts, to cool off, and I'd left him there, swimming vigorous laps and retired to the summer pavilion down near the small lake and dozed off on a chaise lounge.

I awoke with Stefan's full lips on mine. This was farther than I'd ever let him go before, and he had caught me completely by surprise, and I had in fact been dreaming of someone very like him, so I was slow to draw away - in fact, I was holding up my end of the kiss. He was leaning over me, droplets falling off his hard, heaving chest onto mine, and he'd run a hand under the waistband of my shorts and was fisting my cock.

'No, Stefan,' I exclaimed. 'Too far . . . I don't want . . .'

'Don't tell me you don't want it, Jackson,' Stefan retorted in a low, guttural voice. 'Your dick tells me that you want it.' He began to stroke me, and my cock did, in fact, belie my interest. 'Just let me jack you off. You're driving me crazy.'

'Not what you want, Stefan. You can't have what you want. You don't want to just use your hand on me. You've been very clear in what you want. And I've been equally clear that it won't happen. That it can't happen. I've been . . .'

'Just a hand job,' Stefan wheedled. 'That's enough. No more than that.'

His lips returned to mine, not wanting to hear me say no, and he continued to stroke me inside my shorts. I struggled against him, but not for long. I didn't answer him, but my body answered for me. It started to relax, and I emitted a little moan through his searching kiss. He pulled away from my lips and gave me a radiant smile of victory and moved his lips to one of my nipples as he unzipped my shorts and pulled my dick out.

I was panting and moaning as his lips moved down over my belly.

'No, no,' I whimpered. 'Just the hand . . . ohhhhhh.' He'd swallowed my cock. And it felt so good. I'd stop him. In a minute or two.

But then I felt the pad of a finger at the rim of my channel, and that galvanized me into full defensive mode.

'No, Stefan. That's enough. That's way more than enough.' I struggled out of his grip and launched myself from the chaise lounge. I stood there, trembling, as I zipped up my shorts.

'You want me; you know you do. I want to fuck you and you want that too,' Stefan said in a hoarse voice belabored by heavy breathing.

'No, it's not going to happen, Stefan,' I responded, making my voice as cold and as unemotional as possible. 'I'll leave tomorrow, if necessary. But this isn't going any further.'

'You are a tease,' Stefan spat back. 'You can't be as strong willed as you pretend. You wanted me just now; there's no question of that.'

He had more to say, but I didn't hear it; I had turned and was moving up toward the house.

Neither of us mentioned the incident again - and nothing was said about my leaving early - but Stefan was cool and on the edge of being dismissive of me henceforth. I'm sure that I was the first person, male or female, who had ever turned him down. He continued to be friendly to me in front of his family, but there was an iciness in the air that even they could not miss. I decided I'd need to try to make some other arrangements for my European sojourn at the earliest possibility. Stefan wouldn't be returning to my university, so it could end here. And with luck, the yearning that I had for what he was offering would die here forever as well.

Less than a week later, Stefan told me that he'd been invited to attend a night of the Wagnerian opera festival down in the Volksopera in Vienna and asked me if I'd like to accompany him.

I jumped at the chance, tickets to the Volksopera being very hard to come by.

The patron who had extended the offer to Stefan turned out to be an international financier by the name of Klaus Gehler, who had a very good permanent box at the theater.

Gehler, a distinguished-looking Austrian not much short of sixty in age, was an excellent conversationalist. He also was an extraordinarily handsome and well-kept man of military bearing and close-cropped steel-gray hair.

During the first interval of the opera, he turned to me and fixed mesmerizing pale-blue eyes on me and floored me in a rich, smooth baritone voice, 'Our friend Stefan here says that you are looking for a broader experience of Europe, Mr. Taylor. Perhaps I have a proposition for you.'

I was looking for a change? I hadn't said anything directly to Stefan about that at all; nor had he broached the subject with me. I felt the anger rising inside me, but I held it in. I obviously was in the presence of a highly unusual man. He exuded power and strength - and elegance and refinement. I felt I was way out of my league here. But if Stefan wanted to brush me off, I certainly wouldn't give him the satisfaction of stepping on my tongue in the presence of Gehler.

'Yes, I was looking into some travel options,' I said. 'I came to Europe for the summer break to gather experiences for my writing exercises. The Eislers have graciously shown me many of the major cities, but I would like to get a deeper feel for the countryside while I'm here.'

'A writer?' Gehler said. 'Yes, I do believe Stefan told me that as well. That would fit perfectly. I write too, but something entirely more dull, I'm afraid. In my business I have to keep up a constant and voluminous correspondence. And my secretary, Frans, has had to go off on a family medical emergency. So, I am bereft and just about to leave for my retreat. It would work out marvelously if you could take on the role of my temporary secretary. Just for a month or six weeks. I would promise not to overtax you - to let you gain considerable experience and have time to write up your own notes. How would that sound to you, Mr. Taylor?'

* * * *

I would perhaps not have been quite so enthusiastic at accepting Klaus Gehler's invitation for a temporary appointment if I had known that his retreat was on a remote island of the Cape Verde chain, off the coast of east Africa and well within the tropical zone. I already felt isolation creeping around me as we motored from Gehler's larger yacht in a launch to the small island of Brava, which was only accessible by launches.

It was just the two of us, Gehler and me, in the launch other than the silent Spaniard who had seemed to have been in charge of the crew of the larger yacht. He was dark to the point of swarthy, with jet-black curly hair in profusion on his chest, arms, and legs in addition to his head. He was perhaps something around thirty and what I would call sinewy. Not hulking, but tall and so muscle hard that the veins popped out on the surface of his arms and torso because they had no fat to travel through. He had large, strong, long-fingered hands. He was brown as a berry and moved in the rigging of the yacht with the grace and dexterity of a monkey. He must have been a brawler, because he had perpetual bruises and stripe marks on his torso and arms and legs. The other crew members seemed anxious to stay clear of him, although there was no question that they jumped when he said to jump.

My feeling of gathering isolation wasn't helped as we neared the coastline of the small island and I saw Gehler's red-tile-roofed native stone villa hovering over the top of a cliff. There seemed to be only a narrow pathway through lush semitropical foliage rising and cutting back here and there from the pier to the top of the cliff. Gehler had told me that he came here whenever he felt the need to be entirely cut off from the world, and the immediate impression I got of the locale supported this completely. There was no other sign of habitation as I scanned the island upon our approach.

'Leave the luggage, Jack,' Gehler said when the launch had been lashed to the pier and we'd scrambled up on the dock. 'Estaban will bring it up.'

I felt that the vines, large-leafed plants, and trees were grabbing at me as we mounted the pathway, which I found strange, as the Cape Verdes were, I thought, semiarid. I remarked as much to Gehler.

'Ah, we have Miguel and his now-deceased father to thank for that. Miguel is my gardener. I originally had my retreat in Bermuda until it got entirely too crowded, and when I moved down to here, I brought Miguel and his father with me. They are Portuguese. The gardeners of Bermuda are Portuguese, you know. We also brought the Bermudan techniques for gathering runoff water, and Miguel and his father created this paradise of vegetation similar to what I enjoyed on Bermuda. Don't you find it intoxicating?'

I just murmured a response that could be taken either way, because my immediate reaction was that it was stifling and a bit intimidating, but upon further thought, I guessed that intoxicating was just as good a term for it.

We brushed by Miguel near the first terrace. He was fighting with a stand of bamboo that threatened to obstruct the view of the ocean from that terrace. He was stripped to the waist of quite skimpy shorts. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, which came as a shock to me. To have helped established plantings of this maturity in an unforgiving environment, he must have come here to work when he was a child. He was dark skinned, although not as dark as Estaban was, probably mostly from the constant exposure to the sun, and he was rather small in stature, but heavy with muscle in keeping with the hard work he had to do, which must have redoubled since his father had died. I wondered if he was the only gardener now. The estate obviously was large. Of course the landscaping, apparently on purpose, was wild and unruly on the ocean side of the house. But I could see around the side of the house toward the landward side, where there was a more park like setting short of what appeared to be high stone walls surrounding the grounds on all sides except for the seaside cliff front. The walls didn't help me with my feeling of confinement.

The villa was in a rectangle, the longer side toward the sea, and it was built around an interior courtyard, complete with stone flooring and a pond with a fountain and the ever-present overflow of big-leafed plants and exotic-colored flowers. Hibiscus, bougainvillea, lipstick plant, hydrangeas, and banana trees predominated. The lounge area took up the ground floor of the side facing the sea, with Gehler's study and a small office he assigned to me above. The opposite wing, opening out onto the more formal, lawned park area had an open loggia with arched doorways on the ground floor and two bedrooms, each with bath, above. A hallway stretched across this section facing the inner courtyard, and a balcony ran the full length of this wing on both sides. The short wing to the west had a kitchen and storerooms on the ground floor, with a large dining room above with a bank of arched windows cut in the stone walls on each side. At the west corner, where the lounge was located on the seaward wing and the kitchen on the west wing, was located a breakfast room and staircase on the first floor, and a servant's room on the second. There were staircases and servants rooms in the other three corner sections as well. There were two more bedrooms with connecting bath on the second floor of the east wing. I was not shown what was on the ground floor of that wing. The sturdy wooden door to that was shut tight and had a padlock on it, and all of the windows were heavily shuttered.

What appeared to be the only house servant, a small, yet nicely formed African with black curly hair and features that showed some mix with European stock, barefoot and wearing only an orange-red sarong skirt tucked at his waist, had met us at one of the French doors from the upper terrace into the lounge and had followed Gehler and me around as Klaus acclimated me to the house. Klaus told me the houseboy's name was Jolo, and he just lowered his eyes in supplication, without sound, when I was introduced to him. He appeared to be hardly more than a boy, although Klaus told me that he had had him for several years. In the kitchen, we found a hulking German of coarse features and heavy musculature, perhaps in his forties, who Gehler introduced as Gerhardt, the cook and general housekeeper. Gerhardt leered at me in a manner that made me quite uncomfortable, and I was pleased when we moved on, climbing the stairs to the principle bedroom wing facing the landward side park area.

Gehler said that I would have the second bedroom in this wing, right next to his. Both bedrooms had two pair of double French doors giving access to the common balcony on the landward side of the villa. Gehler told me that it would be wise to leave the French doors open at night to catch whatever breeze could be captured at this time of year. He said the thick stone walls helped keep the villa relatively cool, but that, of course, there was no such thing as central air conditioning on the remote Brava island.

Remote indeed. I felt the remoteness. And all there was in the way of servants to take care of this estate were the cook, the gardener, and Estaban, as the general handyman when Gehler was in residence. I was particularly struck that there was no evidence of any women in residence. It struck me then that Gehler's secretary was male - and even his temporary secretary - me - was a man.

Gehler left me to think my increasingly disturbing thoughts and to watch Jolo unpack my suitcases and occasionally give me a shy, appraising look. He really was a well-formed young man, although it still was difficult to think of him as a man.

The first evening went uneventfully. Estaban and Jolo served us in the dining room, with me at one end of a table capable of seating eighteen and Gehler at the other end. Gehler was in good form with his conversation, making every effort to put me at my ease and to give me a brief history of Cape Verde and of this small island of Brava. After dinner, we sat in the lounge and had coffee and cognac, and Gehler puffed on a cigar, and then he gave me a couple of hours of dictation of business letters that indicated that his business interest were far, wide, and highly lucrative - and involved some of the major leaders of European countries.

Then, declaring he was tired from the sea crossing to the Cape Verdes from where we had taken ship, at Marseilles, Gehler said that he was going to retire. There didn't seem to be any question that I was retiring too. Gehler had that sort of ingrained power and authority. He spoke and all of those around him served.

I didn't resent his presumption, because I was probably more exhausted than he was. He still looked fresh and vigorous. He exuded power and vitality and, I had to admit, a sensuality that I found alluring despite myself. He was an uncommonly handsome man, and extraordinarily fine of figure, especially for his stated age.

I showered, padded out of the bathroom, a towel tucked around my waist, opened the French doors as I was advised to do, and, dropping the towel at the side of the bed, sank onto the silk-sheet covered kingside bed, under mosquito netting, and fell into a deep sleep.

I don't know how long I'd been semiconscious and aware of the sounds wafting in through the French doors, but when I was fully conscious, I realized I was listening to the sound of full-throttle sexual taking from somewhere beyond the French doors. I was shocked to find that I had my hard cock in my fist and that I had come. I rose quickly, in embarrassment, closed both of the French doors and went to the bathroom and cleaned myself off and collapsed back in the bed, my sleep for the rest of the night fretful and filled with feelings of concern and guilt. For hours I devised ways of saying that I must leave the island immediately, but dawn arrived with no inkling of how I could politely do that without revealing what I had heard.

The next morning Gehler was chipper and moved energetically around his study, dictating to me and being more effusive and jovial than I had seen him in the short time we had traveled together from Vienna to the Cape Verdes. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and I was impressed at how well defined his musculature was and how well he V'd down to a thin waist at his age. Even at leisure, he wore his clothes elegantly, like a model for an expensive men's store. I had no doubt that his clothes had come from such a store.

He made no mention of whatever had happened during the night - if I heard it from my open French doors, surely he did as well, as he was in the room adjacent to mine. And I made no mention of it as well.

The next two days went uneventfully, with him somehow getting me to talk about myself and my hopes and ambitions without him revealing much about himself at all. But he was a brilliant man, well conversant with the politics and economics of the world, obviously earning his position in the world of finance honestly. And all the while there was the sense about him of a commanding general, holding the lives of all of his soldiers in his hands. Certainly that was how the three servants responded to him.

The next incident in what I came to realize was my spiral down into degradation, occurred two nights later. I awoke in the night slightly gaseous and knowing that all I needed was a glass of milk, as this was what had always worked before when my stomach was slightly off - the cook was an excellent one, but the Portuguese-based food that was being served was slightly more spicy than I was used to.

I had already found and drunk the glass of the milk from the refrigerator in the kitchen when I heard the sounds - quite similar to those of the other night. The sounds of sex. I was drawn to the sounds, which seemed to be coming from the lounge just a short distance away in the wing facing the sea.

They were mere shadows, but it unmistakably was the form of two men, one large and one small, having sex on the carpet in the middle of the lounge floor. The smaller man was on his belly, stretched out on the floor; the large man was crouched over the smaller one, at the level of his pelvis. He was on one knee and the other leg was thrown across the smaller man's pelvis. One hand of the large man was holding down the thigh of the smaller man and the other hand was palmed between the smaller man's shoulder blades. The larger man was fucking down between the smaller man's buttocks at a side angle. The sounds I heard were the sounds from the smaller man of his taking. They were sounds of acceptance and enjoyment. I couldn't readily identify who was there - and I didn't want to suppose. I didn't want to know. Still, I felt the shock of discovery - of being an unwilling voyeur; of hearing and seeing what wasn't meant for me - and then the greater shock of realizing that I was finding this arousing sank in. I was fisting my cock, which was engorging, and I suddenly was aware that I was naked. I turned to leave, only to find that the cook, his stare a leer of lust and interest, was hunched in the shadows, at the door that must lead from his quarters into the kitchen, his eyes glued to me. I blushed in embarrassment, his presence galvanizing me, and I slipped out of a doorway into the center court and ran for the stairs in the far corner of the villa and then to my room. I closed the door firmly behind me and buried myself in the soft bedding. And, once again, I got very little sleep that night.

I wasn't so much disturbed by what was going on in the house - my mind had worked that out early on, especially when no women surfaced in attendance. But I was partly disturbed that I was exposed to it and that I felt so isolated and unable to leave the situation. And I was mostly disturbed because of its effect on me. It was arousing. I had worked so hard to sublimate all of my inclinations in that direction. And here my body was fighting with me for control, wanting to succumb to the temptations. The only saving grace was that I didn't seem to be a focal point of Klaus's attention.

I sat up in the bed, adrenaline rushing from having admitted it. I knew that Klaus Gehler was the center of this taking. I admitted for the first time that the sounds of sex the other night had been coming from his bedroom - must have been coming from his bedroom. And, despite the shadows, I knew that the man in control of the sexual encounter tonight was Klaus Gehler. I just didn't want to think of him that way - as a sexual predator. But, no, I had to admit that wasn't quite right either. I increasingly was thinking of him in sexual terms. And as being desirable.

I buried my head under pillows and tried to steady my breath. I very definitely was deeper into a situation that I found disturbing and threatening than I wanted to be. I told myself I must fight it hard.

The next afternoon, Gehler told me that we would take a couple of hours respite from the dictation - that he planned to take a nap and perhaps, after a lunch in the breakfast room, alone because he was more sleepy than hungry, I might like to explore the park on the landward side of the villa. He said he thought I had not had time to walk those gardens yet, and he was correct in this assumption.

The park was more intricately landscaped than I had assumed at first. There were several hidden gardens, set off by dense foliage along the sides and at the corners, just inside the outer walls.

Once again I heard them before I saw them, and I should have just turned and gone back into the villa. But I didn't. I was compelled to follow the sound. Gehler was sitting, naked, on a stone garden bench. Facing him, also naked, and suspended over his lap, was Miguel, the small, young Portuguese gardener. Gehler was holding Miguel's left leg up high under his armpit, giving me a clear view of his cock pumping up into the young man's ass. Miguel was transfixed. His eyes were closed, and he was fairly purring and moaning in pleasure as he moved his hips in rotation, providing much of the motion that moved Gehler's thick cock up and down and from side to side inside his ass. Gehler's body was magnificent. Powerful and well-muscled, his belly flat, barrel chested, with hard biceps and thighs.

The two were kissing deeply when I first caught sight of them, and then Miguel took his lips from Gehler's and moved them down to Gehler's left nipple. I gasped at first seeing that Gehler had a silver nipple ring in his right nipple. This was so incongruous with his elegant, distinguished persona that this, more than the sexual act they were performing, aroused me.

I gave a little cry, having no idea if they heard me - and if they did, it didn't interrupt the rhythm of the fuck one iota, and fled back to my room. And, I'm ashamed to say, I lay, writhing on my bed, masturbating myself to climax, thinking of that nipple ring.

If the man tried anything like that with me, I would leave immediately, I told myself. I would swim away from the island if I could find no gate in the stone wall on the land side. I would not be used the way that Gehler had used both Miguel and Jolo. Yes, I admitted to myself. I knew in my mind that the small figure Klaus had fucked in the lounge on the earlier night had been the house boy, Jolo.

Another week passed by, and, although I heard Jolo being taken in Gehler's room on occasion at night, Gehler had made no move to take me. I at first was relieved. Then as the week wore on, I wondered why. I was better looking, better formed than either Jolo or Miguel. I wondered why Gehler had made no move on me. What was wrong with me? It all seemed so peculiar, especially since, after working the incident in the garden over and over in my mind, I had come to the conclusion that Gehler had wanted me to see what I saw. He had suggested I take that stroll in the park; he had said he would be napping, which he obviously wasn't doing.

And in the nights, especially on those nights I could clearly hear Gehler having his way with Jolo - or maybe Miguel - in the room adjacent, I found I couldn't sleep - that I couldn't calm down enough to sleep until I had exhausted my mind and my body. I took to masturbating to the sounds of the sex in the room adjacent. I had always masturbated to release sexual tension, of course. I just had not experienced sexual tension every night before now. And when my mind was drifting off - and even in my sleep - I conjured up the spectacle of Gehler fucking Miguel in the garden. And, oddly, I focused on that silver nipple ring, suggesting deeper, darker aspects to Gehler. Thoughts in this direction were disturbing. But increasingly they were arousing and compelling as well.

I found that during the day, as I was taking dictation from Gehler, I would look up at him. And I would see him undressed, fucking Miguel in the garden or Jolo in his bed or on the floor right where I was sitting. And I would go hard. Toward the end of the week, I was thinking of Gehler fucking me in the place of Miguel or Jolo. I resisted the image as long as I could, but slowly and surely I gave in to my arousal. And all of this paralleled the transition from fear that Gehler would make a move on me to questioning and experiencing rising confusion and ire that he had not.

I was thus in a state of high anxiety and arousal on the night that I found Gehler taking the Spanish seaman, Estaban.

Once again it was something that awakened me in the middle of the night. The cries were loud and they signaled pain - but they also were steeped in passion. And I knew enough Spanish to know that whoever was screaming out was begging for more.

The sounds were coming from the center courtyard side of the bedroom wing this time. I took up my shorts and pulled them up my legs and over my hips and padded out on bare feet, to the balcony across the hall above the courtyard. Light was streaming into the courtyard, and I was surprised to see that it was coming from the now-unshuttered windows into the courtyard from what had been the closed room on the ground floor of the east wing.

I moved silently down the stairs in a corner opposite to this room and then glided stealthily through the heavy foliage in the courtyard until I was positioned where I could look into the forbidden room. I nearly fainted at would I saw.

The room was a veritable SM chamber of sex, outfitted with more sexual bondage and torture equipment than I ever knew existed.

The Spaniard, Estaban, was suspended from a beam in the ceiling by restraints that stretched him out and barely enabled him to touch the floor on the balls of his feet. He was naked, glistening with sweat, his cock hard and bent up from his body in an arc. He was swaying and writhing under the hard, but not too hard, lashing a naked Klaus Gehler was giving him on his legs and torso and buttocks with a multithonged leather whip.

Gehler's cock was hard as a rock too and was one of the longest and thickest ones I'd ever seen. And I felt my cock go immediately hard too at seeing that he had a thick Prince Albert ring pierced through the glans of his cock.

Estaban's chest and arms and thighs and butt cheeks were covered with thin, red welts. And he was crying out for Gehler to fuck him. And I hadn't been standing there in the shadows, trying not to let my shorts fall and stroke my cock, but not succeeding in the effort, when all of my defenses melted away. I shocked myself. I was totally confused and ashamed of myself when Gehler moved to behind Estaban and thrust his cock up inside Estaban's ass and lifted Estaban's thighs with his strong hands to give him deeper purchase and started pumping him hard. And I was confused and ashamed because I was wishing that it was me rather than Estaban who was being fucked by Gehler.

I turned eventually and fled back to the safety of my room again. And again, as I got to the corner staircase, I saw the bulky German cook, Gerhardt, standing in the shadow of the kitchen door and watching me. And he had a stubby but extraordinarily thick cock pulled out of his pajama bottoms and was stroking it.

Gehler carried on his by-day pretence for three more agonizing days. Letting me smolder in the imaging of him taking me, letting all of my defenses melt away into the desire to be writhing under him. In the daylight, he continued to be the distinguished, elegant, no-nonsense international financier of late middle age, seemingly focused on his business needs, me just any scribe, not better than any other. Only there to take his dictation and key his correspondence into the computer, print it up, and prepare it for dispatch the next time Estaban took the launch out.

I still felt trapped on the estate, and on the small island, accessible only by a motor launch controlled by Estaban, who was controlled by Klaus Gehler. But it wasn't the physical entrapment that was tearing me apart. It was the sexual need that Gehler had aroused in me. Something that went far beyond Stefan's attempts to break down my defenses. My defenses were long gone now. I ached for Gehler. I fantasized my taking by Gehler, and this fantasizing increased by day until it was all consuming.

Thus, I had no defense, no hesitation, no internal struggle on the night that I heard Gehler softly call my name from beyond the French doors of my room. I rose from the bed, naked, and went to the French doors. He was leaning back on the balcony rail, also naked, hard, magnificently ready for me. He extended his arm toward the open doors into his room, and I slowly padded through the door and over to his massive bed and, trembling almost uncontrollably, lay down on the bed, stretched out, my back to the French doors.

I felt him come down on the bed behind me, stretched full length behind me, close. I could feel his throbbing cock pressing at my back. I felt the coolness of the lubricant and jerked and let out a little cry of pain and surprise as he worked that inside my channel with thick fingers. He was kissing me in the hollow of my neck, and the fingers of his other hand were running through the hair on my head. He palmed my head and turned it to his face and opened my lips with his.

His tongue became more insistent, more possessive, searching deeper in my mouth. I wanted to escape him, but he held me fast. And then I felt his bulb at my entrance and he was pushing in. I wanted to scream in pain and invasion, and I began to struggle against him, but he was too strong for me. He wouldn't give up possession of my mouth, and I was having trouble breathing. I writhed against him, arching my back. But now he had one hand under my chin, pulling my head back toward him, holding me in a locked embrace. His other hand was palming my belly, pulling my channel onto his cock.

The pain was intense, but so was the wanting and the pleasure and relief that it finally was happening. I could distinctly feel the silver cock ring rub against my channel walls as it dug inside me, and I was panting hard, even though he still had possession of my mouth and was making it difficult for me to breath. I never could imagine that a tongue could get that far into my mouth. Realizing that my writhing wasn't helping, I widened my stance as much as possible, willing my channel to open to him. He was going to plow me regardless now. His long, thick cock continued to invade, to stretch me and move to new depths. Relentlessly.

I knew he was taking his time, waiting for me to adjust. Being as gentle as he could be. I'm sure he knew that this was my first time. I was so sure he would be sensitive to my needs.

But then his own lust and desire took over. He pulled his tongue out of my mouth, and turned me on my belly, without losing the several inches of purchase he'd gotten inside my canal. He pulled me up on my knees on the bed with that palm on my belly, crouched over my hips, and thrust hard inside me. I yowled and widened my thighs. He then fisted my hair and bowed my shoulders back toward his chest, and went into long, deep stroking into me, continuing doing so long after he had bottomed inside me, and long after my knees had gone out from under me and I had collapsed onto my belly. He was riding my hips hard and relentlessly. And I was making all of the sounds of full-throttled taking that I had heard coming from this room on my first night on the island.

I was whimpering and sobbing when he was done, and he just lifted me up and slung me over his shoulder and returned me to my bed to suffer throughout the rest of the night - and, incongruously, to long for his cock to be buried inside me again.

For three days and night, we maintained the pretense. During the day he was all business, but business with a friendly, fatherly smile. And he was attentive to my every need and solicitous of my opinions. He said nothing about the nights during the day, and neither did I. I said nothing because I was afraid he wouldn't be there inside me in the night if I spoke of it in the day. And each night he visited my bedroom and fucked me, in a different position, but always with an intensity that took my breath away and left me begging for more.

On the fourth night, he lashed my wrists to rings in the headboard of my bed. And when he was finished with me, I was visited, first by Estaban, who fucked me hard, and then by the cook, Gerhardt, who fucked me even harder - no one coming to my aid at my howls of being taken like this.

The next afternoon, Gerhardt bent me over the kitchen table and fucked me again. And in the twilight, Estaban chased me down the pathway, reaching the launch as I did, and pushed me down on my back at the bottom of the boat, roughly forced my thighs apart and sank his knees and his cock between them. By now I didn't care. I was wanton. I wanted the fuck, whether from Klaus or Gerhardt or Estaban, it didn't matter. I wanted a strong dick moving inside me for as long as possible. I had shed the days when I had to pretend not to care, not to want to be fucking with a stud of a man. I wrapped my hand around Estaban's cock, trembling at the feel of the veins popping out on it and helped guide it inside. And I purred and ran my hands along the new welts in his sinewy arms and into the curls of his chest hair while he kissed the insides of my channel with those ropy veins of his cock.

In the following days, I sought out first Jolo, in the laundry room, and then Miguel, in a flower bed, and I showed that I could fuck cries of passion out of a man too. Now, when Klaus or Estaban or Gerhardt left my bed at night, Jolo would creep into it and receive what I had so recently been given.

On the eighth night, Klaus introduced me to his room of toys on the ground floor of the east wing.

After he returned me to my bed, he came down behind me, entered me in a side split, kissed and tongued the thin, red welts on my shoulders, and gently stroked deep inside me. He put his lips close to my ear and said, 'Stefan arrives tomorrow. He wants to know if you will let him fuck you now.'

I murmured a 'Yes, of course,' and moaned at the feel of the silver cock ring rubbing against my channel walls deep inside me, never wanting it to leave me.



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