Revenge for Christmas

They didn’t play poker that evening. It turned out that there were prize fights on pay TV that Lester Hodges had paid for and wanted to watch, but had forgotten until one of the servants reminded him. So, the five of us sat in the bar room and watched hulking men beat each other to a pulp. We were down from seven already, which made me think of the Agatha Christie play, Ten Little Indians, where guests at an isolated country party disappeared one after another until there were none.

When we went to our rooms, I found out what Claude knew that I didn’t. Art had paid him to engage in Art’s fetish, and Claude had magnanimously agreed to fuck me for money while Art watched. He did a good job of it, this time preparing me fully, fondling me, kissing me from head to toe, frotting and docking our cocks, finger fucking me, and eating out my ass before putting me under him on all fours, mounting me, slowly stretching me (this time) with his cock, and fucking me to paradise.

When all three of us, including Art, the voyeur, had come, Claude withdrew and left us, and Art stood over me, as I lay sprawled on my back, and humming my satisfaction, and masturbated his cock until he was hard again. Then he came onto the bed, put me on all fours again, and fucked me in a doggie position just as Claude had done. He did all right. Not as well as Claude did me, of course, but he did all right.

As we were drifting off to sleep, which I was finding very hard to do because this party was shaping up to be more complicated than I thought it would be, I murmured, “Art, about this poker game—”

“I’m sure I can hold my own,” he answered, his voice groggy. I knew I was losing him for the night. He always slept like a log after sex. “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. I’m sorry you hurt your leg on the slopes today.”

Not worrying about it was a lot easier to say than to do. After dinner that night, Claude had told me that the helicopter I’d heard landing and taking off in the afternoon was there to take Cal Tyler and Hugh Devon away—and that Hugh had been on a stretcher. Claude had added that I should be careful around Hodges, which was not exactly the assurances I wanted to hear.

“Why is Hodges doing this?” I asked. But Art didn’t answer; he already was asleep.

* * * *

I was disturbed enough by the ominous atmosphere on the side of Mount Werner that I couldn’t go to sleep and it soon was a couple of hours into Christmas Eve. In contrast, Art Brandeis, who claimed to be steeped in worry about what this party was all about, was lying next to me, snoring. The snoring wasn’t helping me go to sleep either. Art didn’t usually snore—at least when I’d been with him. I like to think that I wore him out too much before we went to sleep for him to have the energy to snore.

I wasn’t getting to sleep, so I quietly rolled out of bed, took a piss in the bathroom, and then left the bedroom and padded down the hall toward the bar room. Arriving there, I saw that the Christmas tree was still lit in the lounge and there was a fire in the fireplace. Beyond all of the glass encasing the room on three sides I could see the blue of the night. It was lightly snowing, and that lights were still on down the mountain in Steamboat Springs.

I started into the room, drawn by the hint of music, the fire, and the tree, suddenly becoming aware that it was Christmas Eve, but I caught movement in the sofa in front of the fire, which had its back toward the hallway where I was standing. From the back, I decided that Lester Hodges was still up and was drinking by himself in front of the fire. Hodges was the last person I wanted to see at that point, so I turned and moved, as quietly as I could, back down the hall.

I didn’t want to go back into the bedroom to listen to Art snoring, so I continued on to the end of the hallway and walked out onto the balcony of the indoor swimming pool enclosure. Like the lounge, this area was all glass on three sides, looking out toward the garages and the heliport, with the rising slope of Mount Werner on the right. Lights were on at the corners of the garage building roof, the heliport pad was dotted with glowing lights at ground level, and some of the windows in the servants’ quarters above the garage were still lit.

I wondered if one of them was Jim, the masseur’s, window. I had an urge to go find out, but I was only wearing sleeping shorts and it was snowing outside. I had gotten a massage from Jim earlier in the day. He was a hunk and a half, albeit at least in his forties. I had learned, through my escort service, though, that older men were more experienced in sex, and, thus, more attentive and satisfying than many of those in their twenties, and, if they’d held their looks and musculature, as Jim had, they were much the best bet in bed. The massage had included a hand job. I would have been happy if it had included more, and he’d said he didn’t have time then but maybe later. I was keyed up and this was later, but there was all of that drifting snow between here and there.

The underwater lights were on in the pool, and the water in the pool was reflecting off the windows in gentle waves. I felt stiff from the skiing that afternoon that had resulted in a fall, so I decided to swim laps and get the kinks out. I descended the stairs to the pool, dove into the pool without removing my sleeping shorts, and swam laps the length of the pool without bothering to count them. I wanted to exhaust myself so that I could sleep and decided that I could just stretch out on one of the lounge beds by the pool and knock off for a couple of hours before trying to go back to the bedroom again.

My eyes were clouded with the chlorine in the water when I was climbing the ladder from the pool. Thus, I was taken completely by surprise when a fist connected with my solar plexus. I doubled over and took an uppercut to the cheek. Neither of the blows had a lot of force behind them, but I was winded and groaning and completely defenseless, primarily from the surprise of it. Before I could organize a defense, thumbs were pressing up under my jaw and I was seeing stars.

I didn’t black out entirely, but I was lost in a confused haze until I could gather my thoughts enough to know that I was slung, my sleeping shorts dripping with pool water, over Lester Hodges’s shoulder, and he was mounting the stairs from the pool, moving down the hall and into the lounge, and lowering me onto my back on the bear rug in front of the fireplace. How cliché, I managed to think, somewhat giddily. He’s going to fuck me on a bear rug in front of a roaring fire. That was confirmed when I felt him slipping the wet sleeping shorts off my legs, revealing that I was half hard—that his assault was arousing to me—and was moving his hands over my body, contributing to me hardening up even more. I started to struggle to sit up, but he backhanded me across the face twice and I sank back onto the rug. He could have had me anyway, I’m sure we both knew, but he obviously was aroused by taking at roughly and by force.

All right, anyway you want it, I thought, you’re the boss. I lay back docilely and spread my legs as he moved between them. His thumbs pressed up under my jaw again, and this time I went into a deeper sleep.

When I came out of that, I was disoriented and reverted to struggling against the assault. I felt like I was being crushed and that I had a baseball bat up my ass. It was Lester Hodges, on top of me and inside me. The man had to weigh over 300 pounds and have a beer can “too many” incher. He had been on top of me long enough to penetrate deep and set up the rhythm of the fuck. My first instinct when I was aware enough to have instincts was to get out from underneath him, but when I tried to roll out from underneath him, he slapped me across the face again, hard, first one way and the other, and growled. “Lay there. Take it, bitch. It’s nothing like I’ll do when I win your ass and I make my fucking lawyer watch.”

He gripped my throat with one hand, holding my head pressed into the nap of the rug and continued with the rhythm of the deep fuck with his monster cock. I was on my back, with a sofa pillow under my lower back, lifting my pelvis. Relax, open; relax, open instinctively beat in my brain. That’s likely what saved me from the hospital. My legs were spread and bent, my feet dug into the nap of the bear rug. His hand on my throat was closing on my wind pipe and, when it seemed it never would, opening enough for me to have a few breaths. By this means he was completely controlling me. I gave him no fight. Although it didn’t seem possible it could, his shaft thickened inside me as he pumped, and I opened my stance even more to him. I’d never had it this big.

If I had not been relaxed in semiconsciousness and a male whore with passage muscles trained to expand wide to take an extra-thick cock, he would be shredding my passage now. I assume that’s what he did with young men not trained well enough to take him—that that’s what he’d done with Jan Wyener in Kampala and Hugh Devon here earlier in the day. Jan wasn’t trained well enough yet and Hugh had just been too small for him—or just right, I suppose, if Hodges’s goal was to ruin him.

And something inside me told me that ruining the young men Hodges’s associates had coaxed to this isolated mountain mansion for Christmas was exactly what he had in mind. It surely was what he had in mind for me too, but I’d just now gleaned something about him holding back until he’d won me and Art would be forced to watch. What was happening now, as testing as it was, was being done with constraints. He hadn’t struck me at the pool as hard as he probably normally would do when he was in high heat as he was after the blood fight in Kampala—as he probably was expecting to do with me before I made it away from here.

This was brutal, though. If I hadn’t been relaxed when he’d penetrated me and I wasn’t trained to open up to the big brutes, I’d be split now and he’d still be fucking me. And he was fucking me—hard, fast, deep, vigorously. The man had stamina to go with his extraordinary thickness and length. I didn’t fight it or tighten up. I relaxed and opened fully to him, managing him.

I’d had brutal clients before. I was a male whore. He didn’t know that. I was trained to minimize the damage from this. Make their pleasure overcome their blood lust. That was the counter. Make them think you enjoyed a certain level of cruelty—and I did—but gain control. Give them a fuck like they’d never had before. Tame them. Whores know how to use their bodies, their channels, to provide maximum pleasure to the john. Concentrate. Open to him. Do it. Do him rather than just lying there, sobbing and being torn apart. Tell him you love it. That will actually serve to calm him down, to consider achieving mutual pleasure from it.

I opened my legs wider to him and cried out, “Yes! Fucking yes! Pound me! You’re fucking killing me! Give it to me, Daddy!” I dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades and then slowly moved my hands down his back to clutch his buttocks and hold him close to me. “Fuck me deep. Yes, like that! Oh, Daddy, pound me!”

I arched my back, moaned and groaned for him, and set the muscles of my passage walls to gripping at the thick cock as it slid in and out, my muscles rippling over his thrusting cock, my passage opening more for him, allowing him to go deeper. He moaned then too. I’m sure he’d never been accepted like this before and had his cock caressed in the passage.

“God you’re big. A monster! Fuck me hard!” I cried out and started to move my pelvis, melding with the rhythm of his trusts. As I hoped, that didn’t make him go wilder, more punishing. It prompted him to settle down into a steady rhythm of thrusting. He was monster big, yes, but I could take him; I was taking him. I fought to relax more and stay open to him. But he was just so heavy. I was having trouble breathing, even though he’d taken his hand away from my throat, wanting to hear me tell him how good he was being to me.

“You’re crushing me,” I whimpered. “You’re too heavy for me. I can’t breathe.” It clearly was the wrong thing to say, but, miraculously, it had a desired effect.

“Tough, bitch. Take it!” he growled, but he supported more of his weight on his elbows—unconscious that he was doing so. All of his concentration was on what my passage walls were doing to his thrusting cock. He was in a whole new world. I doubt he’d ever been with a trained high-priced whore before.

“Let me ride you,” I managed to get out between gasps. “I can take you deeper that way. I want it, but I want it all. Let’s go for a ride.”

He lifted his weight off me then, and I helped turn him onto his back on the bear rug. I saddled myself on his pelvis, lowering onto his cock, as he groaned and grasped my waist with his hands. I rode him, first facing him, arching my back and grasping his knees with my hands and then facing his feet and revolving my ass on his cock and rocking on it until, tensing, jerking, spouting, tensing, jerking, spouting, I pulled the cum out of him. He had announced, “I’m going to come,” when he was ready to jack and had moved to pull me off the cock so he could come on my back. But in the ultimate move to tame him, I cried out, “No, inside me. I want your hot cum,” and, with a deep groan, he gave it to me. He rose up behind me then, wrapped his arms around me, and gave me a kiss on the back of my neck.

If that hadn’t tamed him and turned him from whatever brutal plan he’d had for me later, nothing would.

I rolled off him, got to my feet, and walked, not too fast, not to slow, to the hallway and back toward the bedroom I shared with Art. This was the most dangerous moment of the encounter. If he remembered that he intended to rough me up or beat me to a pulp and ruin me for other men, he’d jump up from the bear rug and come after me.

I made it as far as the opening into the bedroom hallway before I felt his arms go around my waist and he bore me down to the carpet on my hands and knees. He folded himself over me, but he didn’t beat me or crush me under his weight. He just wanted to fuck me again. He held me there, underneath him, crouching over me, bearing most of his weight on his feet, with his arms around my belly, one of his hands stroking my cock. He mounted my ass, riding my tail high, like a horse jockey; worked his thick, hard cock inside me again; and started to stroke. Reamed to his specifications earlier, I took him more easily this time.

“Oh, shit. Oh, Fuck! Yes, Daddy! Be good to me.”

“Do that thing you do with your channel muscles again,” he whispered in my ear, and as I set my passage muscles rippling over his slow-thrusting, all-consuming cock, he sighed and pressed his lips into the side of my throat. Now we were fucking, both of us working together for satisfaction, the two up us working together to climb the ladder into heaven—together. He sank deeper inside me, deeper than he’d done on the bear-skin rug, deeper than I’d ever taken a man before. One of his hands went to cupping my chin. His thumb invaded my lips, and I sucked on it while he fucked me.

He hadn’t made me suck him off yet. That surprised me. They almost always wanted to be sucked to an erection before fucking me. He’d been in erection when he carried me from the pool, though. Did he think I couldn’t get it in my mouth? Could he not wait to get it in my ass? I sucked on his thumb like it was his shaft. I’d suck his cock if that’s what he wanted. But we weren’t in position for that; he was holding me too firmly in a doggie fuck position. So, I sucked on his thumb like it was his cock as he fucked me in the ass. He pulled the thumb out and slipped three of his fingers inside my mouth. I sucked those too. I’d had men put three fingers up my ass before—a few of them did that to signal they were going to fist me. Was Hodges going to fist me? I wouldn’t think about that. I sucked his fingers and he stroked his cock in my ass. This wasn’t like the fuck on the bearskin rug. There was meaning in this fuck. This was serious. He wanted me bad. I was being delirious, wild thoughts going through my brain while he worked me. He was fucking me and fucking me. Did I want him too?

I put my hips into countermotion with his slow thrusts and we fucked and fucked and fucked. I was fully open to him this time, and he slid, tight but smoothly, in and out, in and out, through the lubricant of his previous ejaculation. Deeper and then deeper yet.

I involuntarily, unthinkingly cried out a “Yes, oh, yes!” when his flow started deep inside me, where he was breeding me. I held there, rigid and steady in his embrace, on my hands and knees, panting, gasping, and moaning, with my tongue hanging out, as he pumped me full of his cum again. Even though it was his second time, he was full of cum, pumping, pumping it out into my core. He slipped his thumb inside my mouth again and I sucked hard on it. His cock was deep up inside me, in the soft core of me, where I’d permitted no man to touch me before, and he ejaculated there again and again, breeding me at the core. God, the man could produce it.

Lester was moaning too, just as I was at that point, when we were fused as one, him clutching me tight, deep inside me, releasing string after string of his thick, hot cum, a spiritual, high-heaven fully fused moment for both of us, I knew.

When we’d both come that time, both totally spent of cum, the moment snapped. He kissed me on the neck, rose off me, slapped me hard on the rump, and said, “It won’t go like that when I’ve won you. Got to have my pound of flesh. Got to have my Christmas presents. But, god, you’re a honey.” And then he was gone. I remained there for several minutes, on all fours, shuddering and moaning.

He had come after me again as I was afraid he would, but he didn’t ruin me—at least not now at 4:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve morning. I think he’d picked me off at the pool at around 2:30 in the morning. He’d fucked me for about an hour and a half. We’d made love that last time. We were good together when he was fucking and not fighting. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t ruin me later when his original plan for me went into effect—whatever his original plan was. But I was beginning to get an inkling of what that was.

He was dangerous, a real threat to my health and survival. But, after that couple of minutes he was covering me in the dark hallway; me holding rigid under his heavy possessing body, like I was a needy bitch dog; with him penetrating me to the quick and releasing his seed again and again and again for what seemed like hours, if he had wanted to take me to his bed that night and punish and fuck me forever, I would have gone with him willingly.

Exhausted, I rolled back onto the bed beside Art. He had stopped snoring. The exercise, the late hour, and the new-found silence should have served to lull me to sleep. But it still took me an hour to give it up and zonk off. Having gone only this far and not deeper into the danger, Hodges covering me on the bear rug in front of the fire, clichéd or not, had been one hell of a great fuck. The doggie fuck in the hall had been even better. I’d never had it better, never been that open or fucked that deep. It was a relief to know that, given preparation, I could sheath the bull’s cock and that, when he was channeled into the proper attitude, I could tame his violent impulses. The question was whether I would get the preparation next time—or if I’d get more of the fist. Too much of the fist. It was like dancing on the rim of an active volcano crater.

* * * *

Breakfast on Christmas Eve was a quiet, morose affair. The lunch the day before had also been tense and awkward, but not like this. There had been eight at the table then, including Claude. This morning there were only five. Claude wasn’t there. I was barely there myself, not having had much sleep the night before. And, of course, Cal Tyler and Hugh Devon were now dramatically absent.

I was immediately on the defensive. As I had passed through the lounge on the way to the dining area, walking gingerly as I’d assumed everyone would notice, I’d seen my sleeping shorts on the floor by the bear rug. They still were damp from the pool. Surely all of the others had seen them too on the way to the dining table, yet no one mentioned the evidence that I had been fucked there the previous night.

Only Lester Hodges and Aaron Cohen were animated at the table, Hodges because he’d gotten his rocks off nicely, twice, the night before and because everything at this somewhat odd Christmas party was going his way. Of course, the only looks Hodges sent my way were ones of challenge—daring me to say anything about the night before—with a touch of self-satisfaction and possessiveness. The looks, under the circumstances of Hodges’s obvious control of the situation and of his primary guests, would have cowed me into silence even if I wasn’t hardened enough to rough sex and controlling men not to be intimidated.

Aaron was bouncy because he evidently didn’t know what was transpiring and how it could affect him. His father, Jason, and my “date,” Art Brandeis, were withdrawn into themselves. They weren’t in the Christmas mood. Their mood seemed to please Hodges, though, and he looked upon them with pleasure, while he bandied with Aaron and occasionally slipped in a double-edged remark to me. He was goading me, for some reason trying to make me resentful and angry. Or was he trying to convince himself that he could be angry with me? Was he struggling now with the plans he’d had for me? Wasn’t I trembling enough under his gaze and control for him?

As we were finishing up, Hodges started talking about the rolling poker game. He expected Jason and Art to show up in the games room for another round of that. Both spoke of other activities but not convincingly so, because, unless they were willing to get out on the ski slopes, there were no other real activities requiring their presence on this isolated mountain slope. It also was clear that they were cowed by Hodges, that he was the boss.

He had certainly been the boss with me the previous night. Or had he? Hadn’t I tamed him? And was that why he was goading me today—because he now realized he hadn’t been in complete command? But, no, that didn’t ring completely true either. He’d stated that he was controlling himself last night, that he was giving me only a taste of what he intended to do. And, upon reflection, I could see that he had been holding back, from the moment he doubled me up with a punch to the belly—right up to the point that we became lovers. The fist work hadn’t had the force behind it that I knew he would be capable of. But what was he holding back for? What was to come?

Aaron rose from the table and cheerily said he had a massage session with Jim, the masseur. I wondered if Jim would make him the offer he’d made to me—and that I still looked forward to accepting. I wondered if the muscle-bound Jim would be fucking Aaron while his father and Art dueled with Hodges at the poker table—dueled over the fate of Aaron and me, if I was figuring the goal of the poker games correctly. Aaron wasn’t the innocent he appeared to be. I kept thinking of that remark Claude, who had had the young man, made about Aaron’s passage being reamed big enough for a Mack truck—or maybe a fist? Of maybe Hodges’s cock? Maybe Aaron could hold his own with Hodges better than Jan and Hugh had.

“So, are you going to watch us play for high stakes?” Hodges asked, turning his mocking, challenging face to me.

But before I could speak, Claude Dubane, dressed out in his skiing togs, arrived to save my day. “Anyone for skiing today?” he asked. He was looking straight at me. He knew I was the only skier other than him present.

I rose and came around the table, letting him guide me to the lower level to kit myself out for the ski slopes. He guided me with a possessing hand on my buttocks. I made no effort to move away from his claim of possession. In the stairway to the lower level, Claude stopped me with an arm going around my waist. He drew me into his body. I could feel the hardness of him pressed into my back. He leaned in and kissed me in the hollow of my throat. He pressed me against the wall, taking my wrists in his fists and lifting them above my head, against the wall, making me vulnerable to his control. I responded by hooking my knees on his hips and rocking my basket against his belly. We easily could have fucked in that position, but we didn’t.

But I knew we’d be doing more than skiing when we went out on the slopes—and fairly quickly.

* * * *

We were on the proverbial animal-skin rug—a zebra in this case—in front of a roaring fire in a fireplace. We were sitting, yoga style, facing each other, me sitting on his thighs, my ankles crossed behind his back, resting on top of the flare of his buttocks, his legs streaming around my hips. My arms encircled his torso, my lips were plastered to his. He was inside me, both of us rocking gently, intimately against each other, moving his hard cock in my channel. The muscles of my passage walls rippled over his shaft. He told me this was a yoga position and that he taught yoga. He could teach me the sexual positions of yoga anytime he wanted.

Two nights earlier we had fucked with Art Brandeis watching us—both of us for money. Now it was just the two of us, doing each other for free—because we wanted to, because our urges demanded that we do. Two young men with beautiful, cut bodies, in our prime, fusing as one, rocking against each other, each of us concentrating on that hard shaft moving inside me and the passage walls undulating over the cock. I slowly arched back, my shoulder blades touching the animal skin, my arms stretched out in a cruciform “take me completely” position, and, grasping my hips between his hands, he took me completely, slowly, deeply. I let my channel muscles ripple over the cock as, throbbing, it moved deeper into my core.

As lovely as this was, though, it didn’t approach the excitement of last night, under Lester Hodges. I tried forcing that out of my mind, but it kept creeping in.

We had skied for an hour, but in a set direction, around the side of Mount Werner, toward a resort village on the southern slopes. Claude had borrowed the small ski lodge of a friend, who had laid a fire for us and put a lunch and bottles of beer in the fridge.

We had torn at each other’s clothes just inside the door, and then pawed each other’s bodies, me luxuriating in the French Canadian’s sexy pelted body. He pushed me to the floor in a sixty-nine position, me on the bottom, and I sucked his cock while he rolled my legs up, hooking my ankles on his shoulders, and ate out my ass. This was what I was used to in sex, and he did it well. It was almost with irritation that, while Claude was eating me out and I was sucking him off, my thoughts were going back to the previous night, wondering why Hodges and I hadn’t done this—wondering how it would be with Hodge’s thick cock in my throat and his tongue in my ass.

Claude pulled me up from the floor and fucked me against the log wall next to the entry door, my legs hooked on his hips, in the position where he’d put me on the staircase in Hodges’s chalet, both of us fully clothed then, ready to fuck but not fucking then and there. But fucking now. My mouth sucked on the gay symbol pendant on the gold chain around his neck, all that either of us was wearing. The sex was frenzied, intense. I arched my head back against the log wall and cried out to the ceiling as he tensed, jerked, released, tensed, jerked, released the first delivery of his hot cum up inside me. Breeding me—marking me as his, at least for now, this afternoon.

The sex was good. No, the sex was great. He was a hunk. He was a stud.

We broke for beer and lunch, still naked, perched on stools at the kitchen island, watching the fire, touching each other intimately, whispering what we had liked in our sex and what we had liked better—getting comfortable with each other, sensing we’d be doing each other again and again for whatever time we could seize from the control of Lester Hodges and his chalet. Each saying what we’d done before, what we wanted to do with each other.

Then he lifted me in his arms and carried me to settle on the zebra rug in the close-fitting yoga embrace. He was in erection again. So was I. Two young, virile studs who could keep it up all day, and just might.

“We’ll have to go back later this afternoon,” he whispered.

“Yes, but for now I’m your whore,” I responded.

“No,” he remonstrated. “For now we are lovers.”

He came out of a kiss and moved his head down, his face in the hollow of my throat. I arched my back, loosening the hold of my embrace, my palms going to his shoulder blades, my fingernails digging in there. He feasted on my nipples with his lips. I moaned as his cock picked up the stroking. I lost the hold on his shoulder blades and arched back. Supremely flexible despite his muscular torso, Claude worked his mouth down my sternum to my belly and then lower, taking just the bulb of my cock in his mouth. He sucked on the bulb, his tongue darting into my piss slit, the tip of it fucking my slit. The tongue penetrated, and I panted hard. “Yes, yes, like that.” I felt the cum churning in my balls, but I fought an ejaculation.

My torso was streaming down from his thighs to the nap of the zebra skin. I spread my arms out wide across the skin onto the wooden floor in front of the fire again, in ultimate surrender to him—to anything he wanted. It was a signal to him that I surrendered all. That he could do more, take more, be a little cruel.

“Yes, yes. Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Punish me!” I cried out. There was a stab of regret. I knew he wouldn’t be as cruel to me as Lester Hodges could be. He’d fuck me well, but he wouldn’t take me to heaven. He wouldn’t possess and punish me for being a whore in my soft core.

He wanted to continue sucking on the cock bulb, working my piss slit with his tongue, and moving his hips, fucking my channel.

“Bite me. Bite it! Make me feel it,” I cried out, and he teethed the sides of my cock, nipping at it, providing pressure with his teeth. With a small cry, I shuddered, his lips descended down the sides of my shaft, and I filled his mouth with my cum.

He readjusted then, going up onto his knees, running the knees under my buttocks, thus raising my pelvis to him. He gently repositioned my legs to run up his torso. Then, as I lay back, in a cruciform position, completely open and vulnerable to him, wanting him to ravish me, he grasped my waist between his hands and pulled me on and off his cock, fucking me and fucking me and fucking me in a slow rhythm. It was great. But it wasn’t what Lester Hodges had done to me.

Afterward, he repositioned us, both on our sides, Claude behind me, both facing the fireplace and watching the fire. He was hard again and inside me and gently moving in and out, in and out.

“Something’s very wrong at Hodges’s house,” I murmured. “I think you know what’s happening and why. I need to know.”

There was a pause, but Claude answered. “Revenge is happening. Lester calls it his Christmas present.”

“I don’t fully understand,” I said.

“You should. You deserve to know.” But he didn’t answer immediately. We kissed and he grasped my cock with a hand and stroked it to the slow rhythm of the fuck of his cock inside me.

“It’s his revenge on those three men connected with his company—Cal Tyler, Jason Cohen, and Art Brandeis. You and the other young men who came with them are merely the vessels of his revenge—his Christmas present to himself.”

“Go on.”

“He believes he’s been cheated by those three. He wants to have his own back. He thinks that Tyler, his partner, and Cohen, the company’s financial officer, have been embezzling money from him—and that your partner, Brandeis, screwed him over in a palimony settlement with a young man and has known about the embezzlement and not told him about it. He seems most incensed about Brandeis.”

“But I don’t know what that has to do with the others of us—Hugh Devon, Aaron Cohen, and me, and why he insisted we be here.”

“Hodges doesn’t want to be rid of the three men; he just wants them to suffer and to get back in line. You other three are here as surrogates. Hodges wins you in poker games and ruins you sexually, and that makes your men suffer.”

“Brandeis isn’t ‘my man.’ He isn’t my partner. He’s just a regular client of mine. I’m not just his bed toy.”

“I figured that out, and I think I noted to you that that made a wrinkle in Hodges’s plan for Brandeis. That Brandeis might not suffer as much from watching you be fucked into a hospital bed. In fact, as we both know, Brandeis gets a little thrill out of watching you being fucked rough.”

“But how . . . ? The poker. I get that he wins us in a poker game and makes the man accept having the guy he brought fucked to ruin by Hodges. But poker? How can he be sure he wins? Art says he thinks he can beat Hodges at poker, and so far he’s managed to do that.”

“Hodges cheats,” Claude said. “The cards are marked. He’s very good at cheating. He’s put a lot of effort into this. He says that these men cheated him, so it’s only right for him to cheat them in return. If Brandeis is holding his own, it’s only because Hodges is letting him. Hodges blames Brandeis the most. Maybe he’s saving him for last. If so, you are in great danger. You need to watch out for yourself.”

“I will, I said.”

“Don’t let the man anywhere near you,” Claude whispered.

“I hear you,” I answered. But it was just a little late for that.

With that, Claude’s stroking was picking up speed, and neither of us could talk through the panting. I relaxed in Claude’s arms, surrendered completely to him, and let him have his way with me. I wasn’t with a client now. I was with a gorgeous ski pro who knew exactly how to fuck.

Claude was great, but while he was fucking me, I couldn’t keep my mind from going to the question of how Lester would do it. How, if I lay under him, in cruciform position like this, completely vulnerable and open to him, surrendered to whatever he wanted to do, what he would do with me, what he would do to me. How cruel, demanding, pain-passion inflicting, surprising, dominating he’d be. How soon he’d sink into my soft core. How long he’d spend there, conquering, owning, ravishing me. And what would be left of me after the exhilaration of a surrender to a man who wanted everything and who took everything as in battle. What the ultimate fuck by Lester would be.

But Claude was the one who was here now. He was young, fit, and virile. It was the third fuck of the afternoon in the friend’s ski resort cottage. It wouldn’t be the last one. And Claude wouldn’t be the last man to fuck me on Christmas Eve either.