Revenge for Christmas

It was a slick operation. I was very impressed. We flew in from Chicago via small charter jet to the small airport at the west end of the ski resort town of Steamboat Springs, Colorado, in the early hours of the morning of December 23d. There were four of us, which surprised Art Brandeis, my “date,” who had expected Lester Hodges’s Christmas party to be larger than that. With us, coming from Chicago, was the company CFO—chief financial officer—Cal Tyler, and his young “bring-along,” Hugh Devon, who made quite clear to me while we were waiting in the private lounge in Chicago shortly after midnight that he was Tyler’s spouse, not just a rent-boy. He’d said it like he knew I was a rent-boy, but I silenced him by readily admitting I was and telling him how much Brandeis was paying me to come to the party. And that wasn’t the all of it. I didn’t tell him how much Hodges had sent me as well to convince me to come to the party.

I liked to ski, but ever since Kampala I wasn’t that anxious to be in the same place Lester Hodges was in. And it wasn’t just because he’d torn up the South African rent-boy in Africa. It also was because, despite the heaviness and thugishness of the man, I had an urge I was having trouble to control to try him out myself. I tried to convince myself that Jan Wyener had just been a bad fit—that he had been too inexperienced and that he also was too small to handle a man of oversized proportions frenzied from just having been steeped in a blood sport. I didn’t think there’d be any blood sport play on the Colorado ski slopes. The sensible side of me kept whispering to stay away, though.

It had been the sensible side of me that initially had turned down the bid through the escort agency to come to the party, to extend through Christmas day, with Art Brandeis. I was his go-to escort, but I had full say in whether I’d take an assignment or not. As soon as I was told that it would be at Lester Hodges’s ski chalet in Steamboat Springs, I’d said I had other plans. Then I received an unsigned check for $5,000 in the mail from Lester Hodges himself that he’d sign the moment I stepped into his chalet, and, shushing the sensible side of myself, I called the escort agency and said my plans had changed. I would clear $5,000 for the trip from Brandeis too, and that was just too much to pass up. I’d just do what I could to stay out of Hodges’s way for the four days—unless I decided he would be calmed down and gave me time to take him, if that’s what he had in mind in doubling my pay.

Hugh Devon was a cute little trick and Cal Tyler seemed to dote on him, but the young man, a year or two younger than I was and a lot smaller and slimmer than I was—and effeminate—better not turn on Hodges’s engines, I thought, or he’d be in danger. He was too much like Jan Wyener—in size and “girly” demeanor, that was. I’d liked Jan, though, so had some concern for him. I didn’t give a shit for the stuck-up Hugh Devon.

So, it was the four of us on the charter jet coming into the Steamboat Springs airport in the dark, over snow-covered mountains. The skiing would be great if I could get out on the slopes. Brandeis didn’t ski and Cal Tyler was too old and heavy to be a skier, so maybe I could stay out of the way and on the slopes without complications for most of the time. I’d have to sleep with Art, of course, but I’d done that so often that I felt as much his spouse as Hugh was crowing he was Tyler’s spouse. Brandeis was much better looking, younger, and in better trim than Tyler was—which I could tell wasn’t lost on the snotty little Hugh—so I was getting the better of that comparison in bed. There, of course, was Art’s fetish, but maybe he couldn’t indulge it at Hodges’s chalet. I’d been told we’d be pretty inaccessible there. One thing about Art’s fetishes, though: he always engaged a hunk to do me while he watched and before he cut in.

And, speaking of hunks, we were met by a real hunk when we landed in Steamboat Springs and were guided to a small, well-appointed VIP lounge in the terminal to wait for another jet arrival.

Claude Dubane was a French Canadian, he said, and spoke with a sexy, rich baritone accent. The rest of him was sexy too. He identified himself as the ski pro and general everything assistant for the party weekend. Both Art and Cal knew him, so he must have been a company employee. He was all I could have imagined an outdoorsy French trapper would be—handsome, confident, dominating, built—although I couldn’t determine precisely how well-built he was as bundled up as he was in the December Colorado mountain snow—dark, hirsute, and with flashing eyes that knowingly focused on and mentally undressed me. In helping us with our luggage and getting into the terminal, he was especially attentive to me, and being in the business as I was, I had no doubt that he was actively gay and was undressing and fucking me in his mind as we moved to the terminal.

I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind one bit.

The lounge had a large window wall out onto the runways, with a view across a smattering of buildings, just coming awake with lights for the day, trailing up the foothills into snow-covered mountains to the north of the airport. Cupping a mug of hot coffee, I separated from the other three guests and went over to stare out the window. I, of course, was hoping the French Canadian hunk would come over to me, and he did.

“Your first trip to Steamboat Springs?” he asked, as he saddled up beside me, both of us looking out of the window.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been to Aspen, though. I do ski. You’re the ski pro for the party, you said?”

“Yes, we’ll have to go out onto the slopes.”

“I’d like that. I haven’t had a chance to ski for a year. Not much skiing available near Chicago.”

“You’re pretty open with your looks and signaling,” Claude said. “You’re not afraid your partner will catch on and get mad?”

I turned my head and gave him a look. “You don’t waste any time in getting down to it, do you?”

“We don’t have much time. You were coming on to me.”

“I thought you were the one coming on to me,” I said.

“Is there any difference?”

“No, I suppose not,” I answered. “If you’re asking if Art Brandeis is my committed partner or even my sugar daddy, he’s not. I’m on assignment.”

“Newspaper reporter? Undercover cop?” Claude asked, keeping his mesmerizing voice with that sexy voice of his modulated. “Mr. Hodges wouldn’t want either one of those here. He might turn you over to me for interrogation.”

“I might like that,” I said.

He laughed. “You’re a sexy little piece, aren’t you?”

“And you’re a sexy brute,” I answered. “Now that we’ve established that . . . I’m an escort. Brandeis is one of my regulars but he doesn’t own me. He pays for my time, but not all of it. I’m free to do as I like most of the time.”

“Ah, a male whore then. You must come at a high price.”

“A high-class male whore, please,” I said, giving him a bit of a pout, but over the top enough so he’d know he wasn’t losing me. “And I don’t also charge for coming—not if I like what I see.”

“Well, I like what I see, but I don’t think Mr. Hodges is going to be pleased that Brandeis isn’t your committed sugar daddy.”

I turned to ask him what he meant, but his attention had moved elsewhere, out onto the runway, where another small jet was landing.

“Ah, they’re here,” Claude said and moved away from the window toward the door we’d come in. “If you will give me a few minutes, please, I’ll gather the others and we’ll go up to the chalet.” He was putting a cellphone to his ear as he left.

I went back to the window, watching the small jet coast back from the end of the runway to the terminal. There was other activity out there too. A sleek passenger helicopter was taxiing out of a hangar and to the apron straight out from the lounge window.

When Claude returned, he only had two men in tow—a middle-aged, dark man, who, surprisingly was dressed out as a traditional Jew. And with him was a younger, much better-looking version of him, in sports clothes rather than the kosher getup the other man was wearing. Art and Cal knew the Jewish man, introducing him as Jason Cohen and the younger, sexier version of him as his son, Aaron. In sotto voce, Art informed me that Cohen was Lester Hodges’s business partner, running the Los Angeles branch of the company.

His son was a knockout and made me feel old and ugly. Hugh was scowling at him, instantly seeing him as serious competition, while Art and Cal—and even Claude—had their tongues hanging out. Claude did give me attention and lustful looks as he guided us out of the lounge and toward the tarmac, but I could tell his interests were split. For his part, Aaron was being as friendly and innocent acting as hell, seemingly not aware that he was a bombshell in this group of male-horny men, so I couldn’t find a reason to hate him—not like I instantly had disliked Hugh.

“We’re taking the helicopter up to the chalet,” Claude was explaining to Art and Cal as we walked out into the frigid weather. “His house is perched on the side of Werner Mountain, northeast of the town. Lots of ski trails accessible, but the road is closed down by snow for the winter. The helicopter is comfortable. It will get you up there in style. It’s a Eurocopter EC 175. Holds sixteen passengers.”

“So, there are others coming?” Art asked, somewhat hopefully. He’d told me that he and Hodges were on the outs over business and he was hoping the guest list was large so he and Hodges weren’t thrown together too often. “I don’t know why he even invited me—and insisted that I bring you too,” Art had said.

“No, you’re all here now,” Claude said, as he started helping us into the chopper. “It’s a party of seven. Seven for Christmas. The six of you and Mr. Hodges. Here, Mr. Singleton, go on back to the back—in the back corner over there.”

I was Mr. Singleton—Brice Singleton. I went back to the back. Art was two rows in front of me. I apparently was going to be in the back row by myself. But then, no, I wasn’t. After settling the rest, Claude climbed into the back and sat next to me.

It wasn’t a long ride, but it was a glorious one, as the helicopter rose up and headed into the sun rising up to the east of Mount Werner. The ride was long enough for me to be reassured that Claude’s interest hadn’t gone completely to the dark-haired beauty, Aaron Cohen, as, in the dark shadows at the back of the helicopter, the hunky ski pro fondled and got the measure of me and took my hand and placed it on the crotch of his tight ski pants for me to take the measure of him.

I was duly impressed. He also put me in heat, even without him putting his lips to my ear and saying, “Yes, I want to fuck you.” I penciled him into my dance card and told him so. He laughed.

* * * *

The word Art Brandeis had given to Lester Hodges’s mountain home and I’d heard the ski pro Claude Dubane use as well—chalet—was a gross misnomer for what I saw down there as we circled around to land on a flat plateau beside the mansion. When I think of a chalet my mind conjures up a steep-roofed, curly-cued Swiss confection made out of wood—and not just wood. Logs. Hodges’s mountain palace was anything but that. It was all silver steel and glass. It had a flat roof and it visually disappeared against the snow of the mountainside while still giving the impression of massiveness and spread. The house, outbuildings, and helicopter pad were all positioned on a flat shoulder off the western side of Mount Werner. The house itself was set on the edge of the plateau, the entry on the plateau level, facing the rising side of the mountain and a lower level under the main, nearly all-glass floor. A terrace jutted out from the house at this lower level. A now-covered swimming pool was sunk in the center of the terrace and a caged tennis court perched off to the southern end.

Lester Hodges met us at the tower, a hulking tower of a thuggish man, whose welcoming smile didn’t reach his eyes, but whose host manners were, on the surface, impeccable, leaving only a fleeting hint that he was angry and hovering over us all, wound up tight and ready to strike. The three older guests—the ones associated with his company—were equally clothed in false gayety and smiles, but also wound up tight just below the surface. The other young men, like me, were just drinking in the location, the view, and the opulence and openness of the house. Claude stood off to the side during Hodges’s sweeping-gestured introduction to the house and its facilities, looking like he knew a secret and that he would find it very entertaining.

When introductions came to me, Hodges held my hand in his beefy mitts a bit longer than necessary and gave me a look that made me feel like a juicy steak he was about to devour. “Ah, yes, your young man, Art, who you brought to Uganda and didn’t share with me—at least yet. Welcome to The Mountain, young man. May you get your heart’s desire here.”

A shudder went up my spine. It was as if he’d known that despite my fear of the bearishness and brutal promise of him, I had imagined me being under him, subdued with forcefulness and perhaps a bit of pain and filled with and being worked by what I had every reason to believe was a cock beyond reasonable measure. Young men in my profession often come around to wanting to experience testing sex that forces higher ranges of motion and feeling out of us. We want to feel something special in the coupling. I felt that Lester Hodges would be just such a sex partner.

During my short visit with Jan in the hospital in Kampala, although afraid to talk of his experience, he left the definite impression that Hodges was forceful, relentless, cruel, impatient—and hugely equipped. These didn’t conjure up quite the negative impressions with me that they obviously had for Jan.

He had called this place The Mountain. He repeated that often enough for me to understand that that was its name. It certainly was impressive, but, like the man, it was overwhelming, cold, and gave the impression of detachment. The main section of the house—the entry foyer, the lounge, and the dining room—soared up two stories and were essentially the same room, one function flowing into the other, with broad expanses of glass on the downward slope, giving a panoramic view of the town of Steamboat Springs. A massive rock fireplace, encased in glass, rose on the southern wall of the house, so that the space was glass on three sides, including the mountain-facing eastern wall. A full decorated and lit fifteen-foot Christmas tree took up the southwest corner of the lounge, beside the fireplace. The proverbial animal skin, in this case that of a huge black bear, was stretched out in front of the fire in the fireplace.

A wing ran off to the north, with the foyer opening directly into a one-story bar area, facing the side of the mountain. Across from that was a one-story games room, facing the downslope. Continuing on down a hall, four large, en suite guest rooms came one after the other on the downslope side. Across from them was a conference room, taking up the length of two of the bedrooms, and a fully equipped gym and locker room across from the other two guest rooms. The hall opened up at the end to a balcony and stairs down to a large indoor pool area on the lower level.

Under the expansive living-dining-foyer area were a recreation room, the kitchen, and various offices and store rooms. Two more bedrooms were located under the first two guest rooms in the upstairs wing. I gathered that one of those bedrooms was where Claude slept. Under the conference room were three smaller rooms for the house staff. There were two middle-aged men who served our needs, one of them also being a masseur and the other a physical trainer. There must have been a cook too, although I’d never seen one. The cleaning and grounds crew, we were told, lived in rooms above the detached five-car garage between the heliport and the mountainside.

Lunch was served in the dining room and was, at the same time, convivial and strained. Something was going on between these four principle men—Hodges and his company-affiliated guests. Art Brandeis was wound tighter than a spool of wire. I, thankfully wasn’t sitting near the company CFO’s trumpeted spouse, the spoiled young Hugh Devon. He was seated next to Hodges, who was giving him considerable attention, obviously in a way not being appreciated the CFO, Cal Tyler. Art was avoiding Hodges’s stare and doing so by engaging in a deep, but meaningless conversation with Hodge’s junior partner, Jason Cohen.

That left me to gauge the quality of attention I was getting from the ski pro, Claude Dubane, in comparison with what he was giving Cohen’s son, Aaron. Claude was seated between us. This was the first time I had a chance to see Claude when he wasn’t bundled up for the cold. He had the physique of a god—a somewhat hirsute one. He was deeply tanned and his body was covered in curly patterns of black hair, his bulging, hard-muscled chest discernible through the gauzy-white cotton of his shirt, with the top three buttons unbuttoned. He had a thin gold chain around his neck with a gold medallion, which I could see was a stylized pendant of interlocking gay male symbols.

I relaxed a bit, though, when Hodges announced that poker was on for the older men after lunch and that the younger ones could either watch that or go skiing under the guidance of Claude. I was the only one who opted for the skiing. That meant that after lunch I had Claude all to myself. Aaron noted, with regret, that he’d never been on skis and perhaps, considering how isolated we were, this wouldn’t be the best time to start skiing.

So, after taking me downstairs to a storeroom from which he outfitted me with skis, poles, boots, and extra layers of clothing, Claude took me out onto the nearby Steamboat Resort ski runs on Werner Mountain. He assured me that Hodges was a paid member of the club and we could use the ski trails. And he picked out trails that no one else was using. Gauging my prowess on skis as near expert level, he took me onto progressively steeper and more difficult trails until, after a couple of hours, we went on one that defeated me. I took too wide a lie going down a slope and went off the trail and into the trees. I avoided the trees but when I went down, I stabbed myself in the thigh with the sharp end of the ski pole.

The wound was bloodier in looks than it was in damage, but after ripping my skin-tight ski pants up to the wound and tearing off a section of the material to tie around my thigh and stanch the wound, Claude picked me up in his arms and skied over to one of the sheds dotted around on the slopes to provide shelter, as needed, and, in my case, medical supplies.

In the shed, Claude hiked me up on my butt onto a rough-wood ledge table at one end of the shed, pulled my ski pants off, examined the wound, clucked a “Good. That looked a lot worse than it is. Just a bit of pressure from a bandage for a while and it should be fine. Do you think you can make it back to the house?”

“I think so,” I said, “but do we have to go right back. I thought, while we were alone, we might—”

He smiled. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” he said. “Here. Now.”

“Well . . . yes, of course.”

I would have said more, but he was getting on with it. I was perched on the ledge table, legs spread and dangling off the side. He moved in between my thighs, encircled my waist with one arm and ran his fingers into the hair on the back of my head with the other hand. He pulled my head into his and was brutally attacking my mouth with his, immediately taking full-tongue possession of my mouth. I flailed away a bit, but he was holding me secure in his arms. As I relaxed into the kiss, his hand went between us and he was gripping and tearing away the sheer silk briefs I was wearing.

In no time his cock was released and he was lifting my thighs and hooking them on his sides and had his cock head at my hole.

I broke away from the kiss. “Not so fast, lover. It takes time to . . . oh shit! Oh fuck! Give me time to adjust.”

He didn’t give me time. “I like them tight as can be. I’m going to open you, baby.”

And then he did open me, forcing himself inside me as I cried out and groaned in his tight embrace, begging him to go slow and then when he was inside me and my walls were stretching to his insistent need, I was begging him to go faster, to fuck me harder. He pounded and pounded and pounded. I managed to get a hand to my cock and to beat myself off. When I’d come, he turned me, letting my feet go to the pounded dirt floor of the shed and bending me over the table, one hand palming my belly and the other cupping my chin, holding my torso arched back and the back of my head pressed into his chest as he thrust and thrust and thrust—to his own ejaculation.

“Took it like a real whore,” he growled when he had come.

“I am a real whore,” I countered as I reached down for what was left of my ski pants.

No one remarked on my torn pants or slight limp when we got back to the house. Everyone else was gathered around a poker table in the games room. It was a serious game, I could tell, and, though Art and Jason were holding their own, they didn’t look happy about their situation. I gathered the stakes were high, and the two were concerned about not losing. It was equally clear that Cal Tyler was losing, and losing badly, to Lester Hodges, and didn’t like it one bit that he was losing. Hodges, conversely, seemed to be enjoying himself. He had a sneer set on his face and he kept looking at Hugh Devon, Cal’s partner, and popping his tongue in his cheek. Hugh was trying to look bored, but I could see that he was trembling.

Aaron Cohen was in the room, but not observing the game, at least then. He was standing over at the glass wall looking down into Steamboat Springs and had a glass of liquor in his hands.

“You need to soak that jab wound,” Claude said to me. “Go slip into a bathtub. It should be just fine after a good soaking.”

What I really wanted was for him to come soak in the tub with me and to fuck me again, this time a bit less frenziedly, but after saying that, he left me and walked over to the window to stand next to Aaron. I turned and went to the bedroom assigned to Art and me and did as Claude had suggested—soaked for an hour in the bathtub.

Art came back to the room before I came out of the tub. I found him stretched out on the bed on his back, with an arm thrown over his face.

“How did the poker game go?” I asked.

“I managed. But it didn’t go at all well for Cal Tyler.”

“He lost?”

“He lost big. As big as it can get.”

“What does that mean?”

“He lost Hugh to Lester. Time with Hugh.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. Lester wants to play again tonight. Not with Cal. Cal’s tapped out. He wants to play with Jason and me. He didn’t really give us an option.”

“Time with Hugh?” I asked, going back to what he’d glossed over.

“Don’t worry. I think I can hold my own. But I think I know now what this Christmas party is all about.”

“What is it all about?” I asked.

But Art didn’t answer, and after a while, I pulled on a fresh set of silk briefs—what I’d put on that morning was in shreds on the floor of some now shelter on a Mount Werner ski trail—and a silk robe that had been hanging in the closet and went looking for Claude.

I found Claude—in his bedroom, with the door slightly open—but I didn’t go in. He was lying on his back, naked, on his bed, and Aaron Cohen, also naked, was straddling his hips and fucking himself on Claude’s cock in a cowboy. I pulled away, more frustrated than angry, because I didn’t have any claim to Claude, and stood in the downstairs wing hallway for a few minutes to compose myself. I would have to pass Cal Tyler, in the bar room, to get back to my room when I went upstairs, and I didn’t want to have to chit chat with him. Not that he’d probably want to chit chat. He’d had a stiff drink in his hand, was sunk into a sofa, and looked like he was in pain.

As I stood there in the downstairs hallway that led to Lester Hodges’s bedroom suite of rooms, it dawned on me why Cal had looked that way when I’d passed him. Sounds of violent sex were coming out of Hodges’s suite. I recognized the plaintive, begging, pained voice of Hugh Devon.

Lester Hodges was claiming his winnings from Cal Tyler at that afternoon’s poker game.

I made it back to the guest room, passed Cal Tyler in the bar room, without either one of us speaking and found Art asleep on the bed. I lay down on the bed as well—and, exhausted from the frenzied, but highly satisfying sex, with Claude, who I apparently was going to have to share with Aaron Cohen, who wasn’t as innocent as he had looked, I dozed off to sleep.

We both woke to the sound of the helicopter landing and taking back off out on the helipad but thought nothing of it and went back to sleep.

Neither Cal Tyler nor his spouse, Hugh Devon, showed up for dinner, or at all for the rest of the time we were at The Mountain.

During drinks in the bar before dinner, I sidled up to Claude and somewhat cattily asked, “Aaron. Was he a good lay?”

“Quite satisfactory, yes. And surprising. I thought maybe I was going to be popping a male cherry, but that wasn’t the case. He’s well used. You could drive a Mack truck up that road.”

I laughed. “So, just another whore.”

“I don’t think in terms of ‘just a whore,’ Brice,” Claude said. “I think of young men like you as courtesans. I’m sure you have talents that young Aaron is totally unaware of. He’s just been with some very thick men.”

“So . . .”

“Yes, I want to be with you again. I want to fuck you slow and easy. This afternoon I got a taste of what you can do with the muscles of your passage walls—the secrets of a high-class courtesan. I want more of that, longer, deeper.”

“I hope that can be arranged before the party’s over,” I said.

“I know it can,” he said, with an enigmatic smile that made me think that he knew something I didn’t. As it turned out, he did.