Revenge for Christmas

When we arrived back at the house, no one was in sight, but the cries for mercy coming from the end of the bedroom wing on the first floor drew Claude and me down the stairs. We knew what we would find, but we couldn’t help but confirm it.

Aaron was bound to Hodges’s bed, his arms spread and his wrists tied to the top rung of the heavy-metal headboard frame. His small body was rolled up, with his legs spread and bent as well, and his ankles bound to his wrists on either side. Hodges was knelt between the young man’s thighs, his fists grasping the top rung of the headboard, and his thick, thick, thick cock buried in Aaron’s ass and churning away. What I could see of Aaron’s ass showed that he had been whipped while in that position. Red welts were raised on what I could see of his buttocks, chest, and thighs, and the hand whip was spread out on the bed below where Hodges was fucking the young man.

Aaron was sobbing and gave little screams when Hodges thrust deep. Still, he was being fucked good, because some of his screams were, “Yes! Yes! Fuck, yes!” Hodges knew how to please his prey as he was ruining him.

Jason Cohen was bound to a chair across the room from the bed, turned so that he could—had to—watch the whole procedure. It wasn’t lost on me that Aaron’s clothes were neatly folded and placed on another chair. I could easily believe that this had started as fully consensual sex, knowing what I knew about the false innocence of Aaron, but had turned into the revenge fuck Hodges had been after.

The father obviously had lost the poker game.

Claude pulled me away from the doorway and down the hall.

“Go be scarce somewhere,” he muttered. “I have thinking and work to do. Just don’t let Hodges get to you. Nothing will happen until he plays poker with Brandeis again. Find Brandeis and make sure he hasn’t lost you to Hodges already.”

Claude took off down the hall, and I returned to the bedroom I shared with Art. He was cowering on a chair in the corner. He seemed to almost be in shock. Apparently, it was dawning on him what this Christmas party was all about. I doubt he was worried about me, though. I was just a whore he used and paid for. He was worried for himself. He was afraid of what Hodges might do to him if the man found out I wasn’t Art’s significant other.

Well, fuck Art. I forced him to let me know that, no, he hadn’t lost me to Hodges in the poker game yet. He did say that Cohen had lost and asked me what was happening in the wake of that. I didn’t answer. I grabbed the Speedo I’d packed and a towel and headed for the pool.

I don’t know why I went to the pool. That had been where Hodges had found me last night, so it wasn’t a particularly good place to hide from him. But then maybe subconsciously I wasn’t hiding from him. I couldn’t help but think on Aaron crying out “Yes” even while Hodges was using him as hard as he was. As a whore, my senses had dulled to penetration sex. I longed to be used as hard as Arron was being used and still to melt to it.

I’d been whipped before in sex, and I’d been bound before too. I’d never been bound like Aaron was being bound, though. Something inside me was aroused by that. The arousal wasn’t diminished by the knowledge that it was Hodges fucking the young man with his monster cock.

Jim, the muscular, hunky masseur, was in the pool area when I got there, and his massage table was up between the side of the pool and the glass wall that looked out toward the heliport.

“Would you like to have a massage?” he asked.

I was certainly keyed up enough to need one. I said yes and he bade me to climb up and lie, naked, on my back. I did so. While he was massaging my legs and arms and chest—and cock—I turned my head toward the window at the sound of rotary blades approaching from down in the valley. Claude was standing out on the helipad, which had been cleared of the snow from last night, and was guiding the Eurocopter EC 175 onto the pad.

“Turn over,” Jim said. I did so, and he started working on my back. It wasn’t long, though, before what he was working on was getting more than one greased finger inside my passage in search of my prostate—and finding it. Once there, he knew what to do with it. I groaned for him and began to pant.

“Do you want it all?” Jim asked, whispering in my ear.

“Yes,” I answered. He mounted the massage table, straddled my hips, and penetrated me with his hard shaft. He was leaning over my body, his palms pressed into my shoulder blades, as his pelvis rose and fell on my ass. My channel was well oiled and his cock, although nice, was not that challenging, so he slid inside me easily. He was long, though, and I concentrated on how much depth he was going to achieve before he ejaculated. Could he get to my soft core? Regrettably, the answer was “no.” I wasn’t relaxing enough to give him full depth.

As he fucked me, I turned my head toward the window again. A gurney was being rolled down a ramp from the first floor and to the helicopter. Aaron was tied to the gurney. His father was staggering behind him. Claude helped the helicopter crew load up Cohen and his son into the helicopter and then guided the bird into liftoff.

I had been concentrating on that so hard that I didn’t realize that Jim had come and climbed off the table and was giving my back, buttocks, and thighs a deep massage again. The towel underneath me was wet—presumably with my cum. I hadn’t focused on Jim fucking me, but while the gurney was being moved to the helicopter, my mind had pulled up the vision of Aaron being bound to the headboard of Hodges’s bed and the older man fucking him with his monster cock—but in my imagination, it wasn’t Aaron who was bound and being fucked. It was me.

* * * *

And then there were three. Hardly a sound was made at dinner. Only Hodges, Art, and I were in attendance. There was no mention of the absence of the Cohens, just as there at been no mention of the no-shows, Cal Tyler and Hugh Devon, at dinner the previous evening. Art was looking like a scared cat. He wasn’t looking at either Hodges or me, though. Hodges was looking at me like he’d like to eat me—and sometimes in a sneery way like he was going to be doing that soon. I didn’t waver in returning his gaze. If he took me hard—if he took me totally to ruin—so be it. I’d go down in flames, in the ultimate fuck. All afternoon as I was hiding in his well-stocked library, I couldn’t get various scenarios out of my brain of my lying, open and vulnerable—and bound and welted from whipping—under him as he was having his way with me. I was hard all afternoon and castigating myself for not appreciating the danger I was in.

At the end of dinner, Hodges put his coffee cup down in the saucer with a clink as said, “Shall we resume our poker game in the game room, Art?” It wasn’t really a question.

Brandeis shuddered, but he stood, looking away from me, and followed Hodges out of the dining area.

When they were gone, Claude materialized. “Go get your things together and bundle up. I’m taking you down the mountain.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “The helicopter hasn’t returned. Wouldn’t Lester know—”

“Lester already knows. I told him this afternoon.”

“You told him what?”

“I told him you were an escort from Chicago. That Art Brandeis would give a shit if you were murdered in front of him. That he enjoyed seeing you get fucked in front of him. That you can’t be used to serve Lester’s revenge on Brandeis.”

“And what did he say?” I knew I should be relieved but emotions were all jumbled up inside me at hearing there was an escape from here—from Hodges.

“He said I was to go ahead and take you down to Steamboat Springs and put you on an airplane home. That it would be a Christmas present to you. I thought he’d be steamed, but he wasn’t. He seemed almost relieved that you’d be gone.”

“What about Art?”

“Let’s not think about Art. Let’s think about you. I don’t think Hodges is going to give up on his need for revenge.”

“How will be get down to the town? The helicopter—”

“Snowmobile. You didn’t think that the helicopter would be our only means of transportation, did you? I’ll take you down to town, but we won’t check on flights for a couple of days, unless you insist. It’s Christmas. Bad for travel tickets anyway. I have a small house in Steamboat Springs. If you—”

“Yes,” I answered.

He indeed had an A-frame cottage in Steamboat Springs. And, surprise, surprise, there was a fireplace, with a Christmas tree beside it and a rug in front of the fireplace. Not an animal skin; something synthetic. But it didn’t matter. He fucked me on his faux animal skin for two days. But he never once touched me at the soft center of me like Lester Hodges had the morning of Christmas Eve.

* * * *

Five weeks later, in Chicago, I hadn’t been contacted by Art Brandeis. In fact, I never heard from him again. I have no idea how Lester Hodges got his revenge on Art. I just knew that he probably had. Hodges was not the kind of man to give up on something he wanted.

In that time, I had several dreams of Lester Hodges taking me cruelly and testing me to the limit. I couldn’t really call them nightmares, although I probably should have.

On the last Friday in January, I got a call from the escort agency. I had been requested for a weekend trip assignment—at double my usual fees.

“Is there a name attached?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s Lester Hodges. He said something about Christmas in January. Are you available?”

I swallowed hard, tempted for the opportunity to be totally used, but, somewhat reluctantly, I said, “Sorry, I’m not available for that client.” I might be promiscuous and a risk taker, but I wasn’t an idiot.

-Fini-