Summer with the Art Dealers

Jaime Poole and I had performed in various capacities—I was a pianist, actor, singer, and dancer, and he was all those things except that he played violin rather than the piano—at the three-week Gloucester Summer Arts Festival and I hadn’t realized he was a high-muckety-muck in the country. I’d noticed people giving him deference, but I thought it was from his looks and ready smile, not because he had some sort of title.

We’d gotten along really, really (I mean really) well and I’d floated along in his slip stream for the three weeks. He seemed to know everyone and be able to get anything he wanted. That certainly had worked with me as long as I stayed close to him. I was here on a summer lark from school at the New York College of Performing Arts. It was a summer opportunity I picked off a bulletin board, something that would look good on my résumé. Five weeks at the festival, two in prep and three in performance, and then the rest of the summer kicking around England and pickup up culture—and having a good time. Who knew I’d latch onto someone with a title in the process?

Jaime was part of that good time to have during the summer. He was my age—twenty—and was studying, just as I was, to be an entertainer. He was further along here in England than I was, though. Because of his great looks and body, he already was a model and had done some TV commercials and even had been in a BBC drama in a minor role. I was only now finding that this success was as much because of his connections as talent and good looks.

“The festival is winding down,” he said to me as we were stretched out against each other in my rooming house bed in old town Gloucester. I didn’t know where his room was. We’d always done it in my room. He’d just finished fucking me and we were sharing a joint.

“You say you’re going to roam around the country now for a couple of weeks,” he said. “I have a two-day gig at a country house south of here from tomorrow. You want to come along? It’s providing music in one room—both classical and more pop, nothing we haven’t done during the festival—while an art auction is being conducted in another room. Room and board for two nights plus a bit of cash and any tipping you can get attendees to give. It would be fun. I know these people. Some of them tip very well. Others will pay generously for a blow job or a fuck.”

Jaime didn’t just know these people. Jaime was these people. Easton Hall was a pile of very old rock on the eastern banks of the Severn River just south of Gloucester. The current lord of the manor was a Sir Henry Poole. The surprise to me was that he was Jaime’s father. The Poole name was famous from history as contenders for the throne. I didn’t have the nerve to ask if they were those Pooles. I now knew where Jaime bunked during the Gloucester Summer Performing Arts Festival. I’m surprised he deigned to enter my miserable digs to do me.

“So, do I call you ‘Sir,’ now?” I asked as we set up at a grand piano in the multipaned bow window of what he called the music room. Art was set up on easels around the wood-paneled walls of the adjacent great hall overlooking the Severn. That’s where a day-long auction was being conducted. Jaime and I were to provide continuing soft-music entertainment in an adjoining room to offer temporary escape from the auction for those seeking it.

“Dress nicely,” Jaime said. “We’re as much eye candy as smoothening for the ears. And you might manage a lucrative hookup. The art world here is crammed with queers. My dad caters to them.”

“So, we’re being pimped,” I said, with a smile.

“Yes,” he quickly answered, leaving me in limbo on whether he had taken that as a joke or not. He knew I could easily be had. He had easily had me. He also knew I wasn’t above being paid for sex and that I needed the money.

Drinks were set up in here, and there was more small-group conversation and drinking going on than listening to our music.

“I’m a third son. You can call me ‘mud,’ if you like until and unless my two older brothers kick it before I do,” Jaime belatedly answered on the title.

“Does your father know about us?” I asked.

“Do you mean does he care that you’ll be sleeping in my bed tonight?” Jaime asked, with a laugh. “My father doesn’t really care anything about me and isn’t likely to until and unless, as I noted, my two older brothers toss it in before I do. And he surrounds himself by queers, so why should he care if he has one under his roof. Is he himself a queer, though? I don’t know—or care.”

We took breaks. On one of mine, I went into the auction room and roamed around, looking at the art. Visual art wasn’t my thing. I was into performing art. But I paused in a corner where the art concentrated on male nudes. As I viewed these paintings, sketches, and photographs with interest, a voice behind me said, “As alluring as these young men are, they don’t hold a candle to you. You’re the one at the piano in the other room, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I said, turning to see that the man who addressed me was the chief art dealer for the auction. I’d seen him and his assistant, a young man of about my age, a sultry dark-headed, foxy sort of thin character, moving fluidly around in black satin, deftly handling and positioning the artwork and setting up the artwork before the auction opened. The art dealer was a man of vitality in contrast to his assistant, red-haired, robust, probably in his early forties. He obviously was the salesman of the two, gregarious, outgoing, as his assistant floated around in the shadows. Ruddy of complexion, the art dealer had strong, square-jawed features. He was a big man, muscular, not fat, but weighty. He dressed well—but more tweedy than his assistant’s satin.

“You play well. And you look divine. I wish you had been sitting for one of these paintings. If I acquired one of you, I wouldn’t be selling it.”

“Thank you, I think,” I said, looking down at his hand. He was grasping my arm with a strong hand, probably, I thought, with a stronger grip than he realized. He had a heavy gold signet ring in his middle finger.

“Your name is Neal, Neal Younger, isn’t it? And you’re American.”

“Yes,” I said, in surprise. “How did you know?”

“I saw you perform at the Gloucester festival last week. You photo and name were in the program, along with some background notes. You’re twenty—young to have accomplished what you have. We came over to start setting this auction up and I went to a couple of programs. You were singing in a gay chorus number—the soloist. I am Duncan Chambers, by the way. From the other side of the Severn—at Littledean Hall, above Newnham.”

“Yes, that was me.” Where he was from meant little to me—that he might want to pay me for sex was everything. He looked to be in good shape and to be a good cocksman. He certainly was confident enough. I probably wouldn’t have to do a thing; he dominates and take what he wanted.

“And it was a gay chorus, was it not?”

“Yes.” Was this when he hit on me? But of course he’d been hitting on me from the moment he’d walked up behind me and started to talk. Did I mind? No, not really. I was promiscuously gay. I was casual about sex if I encountered someone I fancied. And I did like going with older, robust men. And I did like the look of this Duncan Chambers. I checked out his crotch with my eyes. Promising. I did like a thick cock. If I was going to do it, I wanted to feel it.

He was about to say something else, when his assistant interrupted us. “Excuse me, Duncan,” he said. “There is a woman—obviously moneyed—looking at the Frederick Cotman ‘Harwick Harbour’ painting. I think it requires your touch to make her love it.”

Chambers smiled at me, gave my arm an extra squeeze before withdrawing his hand, murmured, “Later, I hope.”

“The answer is yes,” I said. “You don’t have to wonder how to ask or to ask again. You can just surprise me.”

He gave me a startled look, followed by a smile and slight bow. “You are an amazing young man,” he said. “This will be interesting—and, I hope, invigorating. Jaime tells me you are quite a ride.” And then he was gone.

* * * *

Later that evening, the auction having wrapped up, Jamie and I were alone—or so we assumed—at least out here on the edge of the vast rock pile of a mansion, in a library, with book shelves all around and mahogany paneling, richly patterned oriental carpets, deep-seated leather couches and chairs, two table lamps on the sofa facing the lit fireplace combining with the fire to let off a low glow of illumination. We sat, entwined on the sofa, and looked into the fire as our hands moved on each other’s bodies, freeing each other of our clothes. Jamie assured me we wouldn’t be seen by anyone else.

When we were naked, he reached over to a side table and came back with three capsules in his hand—two pink ones and a blue one. He opened his hand and offered me my pick. I took and downed a pink one. He swallowed the other two. Within minutes, the room was in a swirl, the colors of the flames in the fireplace dancing in multicolor, my arousal rising to the heights.

We kissed and fondled. I hadn’t really noticed before, but there now was the proverbial luxuriously furred bear-skin rug stretched out in front of the fireplace. Jamie pulled me down onto the rug, and, both naked and erect, we went into the sixty-nine position, me on top, and we gave each other deep suck. I was in a daze, dancing around in a world of euphoria, a kaleidoscope of swirling colors revolving in my brain.

I repositioned myself, still on top of Jamie, who was stretched out on the rug on his back, but I was saddled on top of his loins, him holding his erection erect, as my hands palming his pecs, I slowly slid down on his pole, descending and then rising, descending further than before and rising, fucking myself on his shaft.

I sensed movement across the room, at the edge of the dim light cast by one of the table lights. There was a man there—large, red-headed. The art dealer. He was sitting in a straight Chippendale side chair he’d pulled up to where he could watch Jamie and me fucking—or rather me fucking myself on Jamie. Jamie was nearly lost to his capsules, although he was grasping my hips as I rose and fell on his cock and was making low moaning sounds. He was still hard as a rock inside me. No condoms, though. We were barebacking. I had learned to control the muscles of my passage so that they could undulate over a man’s cock, making internal love to him, caressing and milking him. I was doing so with Jamie.

And a man was sitting in a straight chair at the edge of the pool of light, drinking port from a snifter and watching us. He was fully clothed, but he was unzipped and freed, his hand, light reflecting off the thick, gold ring on his middle finger, stroking possibly the longest, thickest shaft I’d ever seen on a man—a horse’s shaft, a bull’s cock.

Rising and falling on Jamie’s cock, my eyes on the robust, red-haired man, fully clothed other than his released cock, stroking his bull’s shaft as he watched me fuck myself on Jamie’s cock, I arched my back and let out a let cry as I felt Jamie release inside me. My exclamation merged with the man’s grunt as he too released, sending an arc of cum toward me. I collapsed on Jamie’s body, moving my lips to his for a kiss, but receiving no responding pressure. Jamie was lost to the world.

“Come here. Kneel to me, Neal.” Duncan Chambers laughed at the homophone. “Kneel to me. Clean my cock. Then I will fuck you. On your hands and knees. I know you want to.”

Yes, I wanted to. The capsule I’d taken hadn’t done its best yet. I had to have the larger, bull’s cock. My euphoria and arousal were still on the ascendent. I pulled away from Jamie and crawled to Chambers on my hands and knees. When I reached him, I took his shaft in my hands—still in half erection, both of us knowing he would quickly rebuild to full shaft—and I licked the cum off the shaft and took the huge knob in my mouth. Chambers cupped my head in his hands and forced my throat down his shaft. I gagged, but he held me in place. I adjusted as the cock filled out inside my throat and gave him head.

After he had engorged completely again, he moved his hands to my armpits and raised me, the hands gliding down to grasp my waist as he pulled me up, and toward him, until I was hovering over his hips, the balls of my feet pressed into the carpet on either side of the chair. My moved my hands under us and found and held his enormous shaft in position with both hands.

“Did your yes earlier mean yes to this?” he murmured.

“Yes,” I answered.

With difficulty, panting and groaning, I descended on the shaft, set the muscles of my passage into motion, grabbed and caressed his cock, and used the balls of my feet as leverage to rise and fall on the shaft.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Chambers growled as he grasped my waist between his hands and helped raise and lower me on his cock. I grabbed his biceps with my hands, leaned back, and moaned low in my throat.

“Oh, shit, you’re huge,” I whimpered.

Up, down, up down, updownupdown.

“That thing you do with your passage muscles,” he growled, his voice thick with lust.

“Yes, do you like it?”

“Do you have to ask? You’re such a delicious slut.”

Jamie moaned and moved his position on the bear-skin rug across the room. But I was otherwise engaged.

* * * *

I woke up in a canopied four-poster bed, draped in a burgundy-colored brocade curtain. The drapes were closed and I immediately, upon waking, felt the atmosphere to be stifling. That might be because, despite the bed being a big one, there were three of us in it. I was in the middle, on my back, a man on either side of me, each turned full length toward me and facing me. They were both awake, staring at me. My legs were raised and spread, each hooked on the crook of the elbow of the man on either side of me. I was completely open and vulnerable to them.

I think what woke me up was the man to the right of me—Duncan Chambers—working his fourth finger into my ass. Something hard, metallic was rubbing against my sphincter muscle. The thick signet crest of the gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand, I supposed.

The man to my left was Chambers’ foxy-looking young assistant. My first thought was to wonder where Jaime was. Was this his bedroom? I didn’t remember there being drapes on the canopy bed in his bedroom. I hadn’t been assigned a bed at Easton Hall.

The drug from the pink capsule hadn’t completely worn off yet. I wasn’t moving too fast mentally or physically.

“You’re awake,” Chambers murmured.

“Sort of. Where . . . ?” I didn’t have a chance to go further at that point. I was still set on slow. Chambers was turning onto his back, and both he and his assistant were moving me on top of him, facing him. It was going to be another cowboy ride. I surrendered to them as they lowered me onto Chambers’s cock. I did start to struggle when I realized what was next, but, together, they were stronger than I was and I was still a bit high and slow on the pink pill. The assistant came in behind me, embracing me from behind and forcing my chest down on Chambers’s torso. Chamber reached down, grabbed my butt checks, and raised and squeezed them open.

As big as Chambers was built, I couldn’t conceive of anything else being inside me when he was, but the man and his assistant could conceive that. As I struggled and panted and whimpered, the assistant penetrated above Chambers’s already-buried cock, and they fucked me together, in a double penetration. I collapsed and blacked out before they were finished.

When I woke again, it was daylight and the drapes on the bed were pulled back and secured to the posts. We were in a high-ceilinged square room with gray stone walls, floor, and ceiling. Chambers was standing at a tall, ornately framed window in the middle of the wall to the left of the bed. The bed itself was positioned between two identical tall windows. The room had a sense of the ancient about it. On the wall facing the foot of the bed was a stone fireplace big enough to walk in and I had the sense that if it hadn’t been summer, there would be a fire going in the fireplace but that I’d still be shivering from the cold.

Chambers was naked, leaning into the side frame of one of the windows, looking out of it, and smoking a cigarette. One hand held the cigarette. The other was stroking his cock. As before, he had the cock of a large horse and he was in near-erection. He hadn’t been naked in the library, and we’d been in too close quarters in this bed earlier for me to get more of a sense of his body other than it was muscular and ruddy and his red hair was natural, although of slightly different hue depending on where on his body it was sprouting. Now I could see that his body was Zeus-like for a man in his forties—all power, muscle, and matting of red hair, the color which became more flame-colored as it descended to his pubes and thighs.

“You’re awake,” he said—again; it was the only thing I remember him saying before when he and his assistant doubled me—when I sat up in the bed.

“Where’s Jamie?” I asked.

“I presume he’s at home at Easton Hall, still out of it. I take it he took the blue capsule.”

“And a pink one, I think,” I said. “But how did you know about the drugs?”

“I gave them to him. I told him to take one of each but not to give you a blue one.”

“You did? Why?”

“Isn’t that obvious? I wanted him to be out of the way when I fucked you. I wanted you all to myself for the first fuck.”

“Wait. You say he’s at Easton Hall. We’re not at Easton Hall?”

“No. We’re on the other side of the River Severn, above Newnham, at my house—well, at Burton’s house. Burton Spencer, my partner. This is Littledean Hall, his family manor. He’s in Tangier at the moment, being headmaster at a performing arts college there. I’ll be sailing out to him soon.”

“What hall did you say?”

“Littledean Hall. It’s reputed to be one of the most haunted houses in England. It’s certainly one of the oldest continually inhabited ones. The foundations are from the fifth century. The last structured on the foundations were built in the early seventeenth century. After breakfast, I’ll take you on a tour. You can get the whole range of English history right here. You don’t have to go on a tour of the country. We’ve got the ruins of a Roman temple on the grounds and evidence of civilizations going back much before that even.”

“You brought me here last night?”

“Yes, and fucked you through the night. It would be a little late to object to that. You did say yes—twice, as a matter of fact. And you kept on saying yes while I fucked you. You’re a delight. A true work of art. I want you again. Now.”

“I don’t understand. What . . . ?”

“I said now.” And it, indeed, was now. He stubbed out his cigarette in a tray on top of a small bureau next to the window, strode to the bed, and reached down and grabbed my ankles. He spread my legs, pulling me down to the foot of the bed in the same movement, forced himself between my thighs, and thrust up inside me. I yelped at the thickness of him, but he’d obviously been there before more than once in the night and I hadn’t closed up.

I surrendered immediately, not least because he had a magnificent cock and body and I had no reason to deny him. For the next twenty minutes we furiously fucked, Chambers hovering over me at the foot of the bed, grasping my hips and pulling me on and off his cock while he attacked my nipples with his teeth. This, while hooking my knees on his hips, I dug my fingernails into his biceps and my elbows into the mattress and rocked my pelvis against his in a coordinated vigorous and deep-rocking fuck to a near-mutual ejaculation, letting the muscles of my passage walls undulate over his thrusting, throbbing cock.

“Oh, fuck yes! Yes, YES, YES! Shit, you’re huge! Screw me to the bed!”

He did just that.

Later, lying stretched out against each other on the bed, Chambers gliding his hand over my body, he murmured, “That was very nice. You take it really well.”

“You give it really well,” I answered. I didn’t care. The sex was great. I saw no reason not to enjoy it.

“Jaime told me that the festival you were working at is over and that you planned to travel around England the rest of the summer.”

“A month or more, yes.”

“Have you ever been to Morocco?”

“No.”

“I’m leaving for Tangier in a couple of days. Why don’t you go with me?”

“Why would you—?”

“I’m an art dealer.”

“So? Why would you want me to go there with you?”

“You’re a true work of art.”

“You’ll deal in me as well as the art?”

“Yes. I’ll sell your body down the coast of France and into the Middle East. You’ve shown you want to be fucked. You’ll have a ball being balled by many men, including me.”

Well, at least he was honest about it.

“Maybe I don’t want to be fucked by a lot of men,” I said.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he said. And then he laughed.

* * * *

The ship was slightly rocking on the third day of the six-day run from the port of Southampton to the port of Gibraltar, and I and he were rocking as well in aid of his cock moving in and out inside me. I was more-or-less on my back at the bottom edge of the bed in the captain’s quarters with the Spanish captain—in his fifties but hard-bodied and as interested in dipping his cock as he had been in his twenties—hovering between my thighs. My left ankle was hooked on his right shoulder, and his left hand grasped my right ankle, holding my leg raised and spread to give him deep access with his hard, long, but not terribly thick, cock as he rocked my world with his thrusts. I was doing what I could to squeeze and milk his sheathed erection with my passage-wall muscles, but most of my attention went to the strong fingers of his right hand which had a grip on my throat and were controlling my breathing to the rhythm of his thrusts.

I had been pimped to him, but I’d had my eye on him anyway and, so, was fine with the fuck.

The man had endurance. A good time was had by all. Duncan Chambers and his assistant, who was a Turkish young man named Ergun, and I were on a special ship cruise from England to Gibraltar of art connoisseurs who were scrutinizing and bidding on art that Chambers and a couple of other art dealers were providing to add entertainment to a cruise to the Mediterranean Riviera. The ship was headed for Gibraltar, where there was to be another high-flown art auction Chambers was helping to supply.

The captain turned me under him to where I was bent over the bed. His hand grasped my throat from behind again, arching my back toward him and making me gag from his strong grip. He picked up the folded-over belt that had been lying on the bed beside us—the one he’d strapped me with before starting the fuck—and gave me a few more lashes to my reddened buttocks before mounting me from in back and on top and starting to pump me again. I wasn’t used to such rough treatment. Surprisingly, I found it highly arousing.

There was nothing as arousing as a randy sailor.

The ship’s captain was fucking me once a day to cover part of our passage. Chambers had been up front about pimping me as an art work along with all of the canvases and etchings he was peddling, and I was considering this a lark—as experience to reminisce about when I thought of my summer in Europe in later years.

I didn’t mind the captain. He was old, but he was a “hands-on” captain in running his cruise boat. He was fit and muscular, and he had the great stamina in the fuck. He knew to go to the edge with the leather strap, but not beyond.

When I left his cabin via a hatch directly opening out onto one of the promenade decks, I was gasping for air and walking bow-legged and almost ran into one of the other art dealers, a Canadian by the name of Malcom Pederson, who I’d shared ogling with the past three days. Now there was a fine specimen of a man, tall, big-boned, Scandinavian in appearance. Handsome far beyond his right. He was all smiles—noticeably for me—and he was the best art salesman by far on the ship, more on the strength of his personal charisma than on the quality of the artwork he was selling.

“Steady there, fellah,” Pederson said, as I lurched out of the captain’s cabin and plowed into him, “No, not in that direction. You don’t want to get anywhere close to the railing. Here, there are two deck chairs over here. Let’s sit here while you catch your breath and balance.” He helped me into a chair and sat down beside me. He was just in a Speedo and flip-flops and had a towel draped over his shoulder that was hanging down across his muscular and sculpted torso. He was either on his way to or from the topside swimming pool. Even while I was gasping for breath from trying to recover from the captain’s breath play, I so wanted the towel to fall away so that I could admire his sculpting.

I gasped my, “I’ll be OK. Just need a minute. You don’t need to hold up for me.”

“But I think I’d like to hold you,” he said, giving me a stunning smile. “I’m not in a hurry anywhere. Just thought I’d try out the pool. Fancy them having a pool on a tug like this one. You OK? You’re struggling for air.”

“Yes, I’m OK. I’ll be fine,” I said, already recovering. “I’ve just been exercising and am winded.”

“There’s equipment in there that will bruise your windpipe with fingerprints? Isn’t that the captain’s cabin?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“And you were exercising in there?” He had held his smile. It was a knowing smile.

“Yes.”

“With the captain?”

“Yes.”

“You give him good fuck, do you?”

“Yes. It pays the passage to Gibraltar,” I answered. What the hell. I didn’t care if he knew the captain was screwing me. Truth be known, I wanted Pederson to screw me. The looks he’d been giving me told me he wanted a piece of me too.

“The things you do for Duncan Chambers, right?”

“I don’t mind. I’m along for the ride.”

“And you like to be ridden. No, sorry, I didn’t mean to be so crass. You’re with Duncan Chambers, right? Neal Younger, right? An American. You’re studying performance arts in New York and came over for some festival or other, right?”

“You certainly know a lot about me.”

“I wanted—no, I want—to know you as well as you’ll let me.”

“Yes, I like it,” I answered, reaching out and touching his knee.

“You like what?” he said, putting a hand on mine.

“You ask if I like to be ridden. The answer is ‘yes.’ I like to ride cock, when the cock is a good one, and I don’t mind helping to pay for our passage by lying down for the captain.”

“You say yes to a man just like that?”

“Yes—to any man I fancy or who can give me advantage.”

“So, from your willingness to openly talk about this with me you’re saying yes to me too?”

“Yes.”

“Because you think I can give you advantage?”

“Because I fancy you.”

He smiled, but changed direction. “You do it because Chambers wants you to. I’ve heard him talking—about being an art dealer and about you being a work of art. You do it because he pimps you.”

“I’ll do it because I want to too. I’ve said I like to be ridden. Do you like to ride?”

“You want to find out? You want to go with me—to be a mare to my stud?”

“You were headed for the pool.”

“There are, I think, more interesting activities—exercise, for instance—that I could be doing. But you must be exhausted. The captain looks quite robust.”

“He is. But we could find out how much endurance I have left now” I answered.

I had enough endurance for him and he had more than enough stamina for me.

Pederson taxed my flexibility. In that way, he was the same as Duncan’s assistant, Ergun, who was close to my age and who Duncan occasionally shared me with. Ergun had been a student of Duncan’s partner at the performing arts school in Tangier and he was a dancer and somewhat of a contortionist. Thus, in age and unusual positions, he was like the Canadian, Pederson. But in size and control, Pederson was more like the older, heavier Duncan Chambers.

Thus, in Pederson I was getting the best of the combination of my travel companions.

“I like to take my young men in exotic positions,” he said.

“Do it,” I answered. “I like variety.”

He made me do the splits across the side of his bunk in his cabin, facing the exterior wall and looking at the water through a porthole, with me leaning forward, supporting my weight on the palms of my hands pressed into the mattress. Like the captain, Pederson liked to give me the taste of the strap and he became excited and aroused when he saw that the captain had used a belt on me. The captain had concentrated on the buttocks, though and Pederson went for it all—the back, the buttocks, the thighs—quick, stinging snaps that had me gasping and giving small cries and writhing within his embrace.

When he’d put the leather strap aside, he covered me from behind and above, palming my lower belly to hold me in place, positioned his cock head, thrust up inside me, and fucked me to the chugging rhythm of the ship’s engine in the deck below us. He completely dominated me.

After a brief respite during which he told me how nice a fuck I was and queried me more about my background and my sexual preferences, Pederson fucked me again. He was strong, his muscles bulging as he fucked me in a position I knew to be called the Flying Dutchman. I was impressed that he’d been listening to me in the interval, as I’d told him this was one of my favorite sexual positions. It was one that gave full control to a strong sex partner. In this position Pederson was standing, crouching to hold himself in balance, and I was cantilevered out over the scant deck area provided between the side of the bunk and the door to the small head, being held in front of Pederson, my legs hooked on the man’s hips and streaming behind his body, with Pederson grasping my wrists, arching my torso back sharply, and pulling me on and off his cock.

The man had a very nice, thick and long cock. Over the next three days at sea, he combined with Duncan Chambers, Ergun, the ship’s captain, and a few other men Duncan designated to keep me well fucked in a variety of positions.

I certainly had nothing to complain about in how I was being used as a work of art. It was a pity, I thought, as we all stood at the rails on the sixth day and shared expressions of awe over the approaching Rock of Gibraltar that, after a short time for the art auction, I would be taking the four-hour ferry ride with Duncan Chambers across the strait to Tangier in Morocco and Malcolm Pederson will have gone someplace else altogether. I had grown to fancy him over all of the other men who were screwing me on the cruise.

I decided that, before we parted, I’d ask where he was going from here and whether he wanted to exchange contact information with me. I didn’t see him before we landed at the port of Gibraltar and it turned out that he wasn’t going to join in on the art auction on the British Overseas Territory.

So that was that unless I could nose his contact information out of the other art dealers. I certainly didn’t ask Duncan. Duncan had exploded at the thought that I’d pick out a lover of my own on the cruise without him doing the pimping. I just didn’t tell him how many times I let Pederson fuck me—each time in a different exotic position—and each time purely because I fancied him, not that giving it to him would advantage either me or Chambers.

* * * *

The terrace was at the top of the ridge at the top of the city of Tangier at night, the sky cloudless, the moon full and reflecting off the rippling water of the Mediterranean below. The ochre-colored buildings cascading down toward the sea had a glow produced by an abundance of lights in windows despite the 3:00 a.m. hour.

The chair was pulled up to near the edge of the parapet of the multistoried building that served, from ground floor up, as Duncan Chambers’s art gallery; the performing arts school of his partner, Burton Spencer; sleeping quarters for the students, all male, which also functioned as a male brothel—the means by which the students covered their tuition costs; living and sleeping quarters for Duncan and Burton and for me and Ergun and for the assorted men who had moved up into the living quarters from the brothel; and this level at the top, with the sexual “games” room and a broad stone terrace. Each of the levels below had a terrace as well. The building structure stepped back into the hillside as it rose from the base.

Burton, tall and thin in contrast to Duncan’s robustness, but hard-bodied and wiry, was sitting in the chair. He was a man of secrets and contrasts. When fully dressed—and elegantly so—he exuded the manner of an Oxford Don, a witty and cultured man, graying and distinguished. As he was now, though, naked in the chair with me on his lap, being worked over in one of his specialty fetishes, it was revealed that every square inch of his body that would not show when he was suited up in elegant clothes, was tattooed in a riot of colorful, Asian-motif swirls. When he was like this, as well, his expression went hard, thuggish, and his eyes flashed with cruelty.

He held me in his lap, facing away from him, looking down onto the rippling reflection of moonlight on the Mediterranean. I was as naked as he was. And I was fully his captive, moaning deeply, being totally taken. My arms were raised, my wrists bound together behind his neck. My ankles were bound to the chair legs on either side. His long, tattooed cock was shoved deep up inside my anal passage, and his hands were busy engaged in his fetish and my sexual torture of the moment. My mouth was filled with a ball gag. I was able to express the pain-pleasure of his working of my body, but the screams he was able to pull out of me would have echoed down to the harbor if they weren’t muffled.

“We mustn’t disturb the neighborhood,” he’d murmured as, after I’d been impaled and bound, he forced it in my mouth.

A leather box lay open on a small table beside the chair. The box contained a dozen silver wands of a graduated size—sounding wands. I had known what they were and what they were used for. I had not had them used on me before Duncan had brought me to Tangier and to the household of his cruel partner, Burton Spencer. Tonight was not the first night that Spencer used them with me.

The wands ran from four inches to a foot long and from thin to thick. Medically, in the hands of a careful doctor, they were used to open blockages in the urethra canal of men’s cocks. In the hands of a sadistic dominant predator like Burton Spencer, they were sexual torture devices. He was as good as a doctor with them, though. Otherwise, I would be ruined, and I brought too much money into his brothel for him to want me to be ruined just for his cruel pleasure. There were many local, expendable young men who could serve that fetish for him.

For over an hour, Spencer fucked my cock with the wands, moving from shorter, thinner ones to long, thicker ones. I think he did it just to show the control he had over me. I hadn’t believed him that even the thicker ones could be worked all the way down the channel into the testicular sac, but I believed it now. It wasn’t standard procedure, medically, to impale the “patient” on your shaft as you worked his shaft either, but this was the way “Doctor” Spencer liked to do it.

He also liked to pause between the insertion of the next longest and thickest wand and slowly twirling and then withdrawing it to grasp my waist and raise and lower my pelvis on his cock to remind us both that he was throbbing deep inside me. He came close to ejaculation at some of these points, but he didn’t allow himself to come. That’s when he would stop and begin to introduce another wand to my urethra, holding my cock erect and steady with one hand while slowly twirling a wand down into my cock with the other, all the time whispering in my ear that I would best remain very, very still and, knowing I needed to, I fought the need to writhe and shudder at the sensation of a shaft up my ass and a wand down my cock, being doubly fucked.

He quite carefully didn’t come when we were in this position, but over the hour and more he brought three ejaculations and aching balls out of me, brought on by the need to flow as the wands were being extracted.

When he had used the longest and thickest wand in the box on me and had brought the last, weak flow of cum from deep in my aching balls, he put the wands away, released me, and carried me to another area of the terrace, where a sling was set up. He lay me, exhausted, moaning, docile, and completely his to use as he wished, on my back in the black leather sling, restrained my wrists and ankles high on the four chains hooked on the sling’s frame, and hovered over me between my spread thighs.

This was where he would mount me, fuck me, and, at least, find his own release, but, cruel man that he was, he didn’t go there for another hour, during which he opened and stretched and tortured me as I bit into the rubber ball gag and silently screamed my passioned and frustrated pain and soaring arousal with various toys—dildoes and ball chains—and even his greased fist, before tiring of the game, mounting and penetrating me, and fucking me hard and fast while stroking my cock off again with his fist and bringing us to a near mutual explosion.

He freed me then, carried me over to a lounge bed, and stretched me out there. I was still panting and moaning in low tone. When he used young men in the brothel, he worked them until they reached this state of total exhaustion and docility. He wasn’t the usual john and if any of us gave him that impression, he pushed us closer to the edge.

“There, did you enjoy that, Neal?” he whispered to me.

“Yes,” I answered. It wouldn’t have mattered to him if I had or not. As a matter of fact, though, since I was casually and frequently being fucked by men now, what he gave me was always special.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, master,” I murmured. He gave a low guttural laugh, leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, and while doing that, grabbed and squeezed my balls as I squirmed and he decided the kiss had gone on long enough. Then he left me to recover on the rooftop.

Duncan gave me over to Burton only once a week, saying that I might not be able to endure more, which perhaps was the truth.

I can’t say I didn’t look forward to our weekly session—because, jaded as I was and seeking ever-higher levels of taking and sexual ecstasy, I always looked forward to what Spencer had planned next.

* * * *

Although Burton Spencer had offered to incorporate me into his performance art school, I had not, in the three weeks I’d been in Tangier, responded to that request. That didn’t mean that I didn’t permit myself to be pimped to men through the brothel. Trim, fit, and young blond Americans were at a premium in a city with a long tradition of tolerating—celebrating, actually—homosexual congruous and relationships. That aspect of life in Morocco was controlled by Duncan Chambers, in whose bed I was sleeping, along with the young Turkish assistant, Ergun. When he felt it would benefit him—and me too, he always checked on whether I could be satisfied in going under a man who was showing interest in me—he sold my time, my mouth, and my ass.

When Burton Spencer wanted to fuck me, though, Duncan gave way to him. It was quite clear that Spencer was the senior partner here.

I wasn’t spending most of my time on my back, though. I, like Ergun, was employed in working in Chambers’s art gallery in the ground floor of Spencer’s performing arts school, which also provided our living quarters. Chambers traveled around, supplying art auctions, but he had a gallery in Tangier as a base from which to work. It was a large shop and he handled good art, so collectors flocked to us.

I took turns with Ergun in manning the reception desk, phones, and computer connections at the front of the gallery while Chambers worked the prospective buyers through the gallery. To shop here, one had to be wealthy in addition to having a good understanding of art. Most men who would come to Tangier, with its long reputation as a playground for gay men, to buy their art were often looking for other pleasures too. They knew that Chambers dealt in young, male works of art as well.

It was through these connections—me being there, on display, and Chambers being amenable to selling various forms of art—that most of my brief encounters and coupling with men were set up. I was still thinking of this as a summer-only adventure. I maintained the attitude that I could get on a plane with the summer was over and return to the States and college. I was not hurting for cash.

It was thus that an assignation was set up with the desert chieftain Issa Tahiri.

The first I saw of Issa Tahiri was when he and two of his bodyguards entered the gallery, the guards peeling off in different directions when they came through the entrance, their scrutiny darting to all corners of the room and their hands hidden under the lapels of their shark-skin suit jackets. Tahiri, big, heavy, very Arab in a pristine white thawb robe and headdress, and glowering under heavy eyebrows with black, piercing eyes, was advancing on the reception desk, when he stopped, gave me an “undressing” assessment, and switched from a scowl to a smile.

Duncan must have seen him coming, because he was there instantly. He knew who the man was, and obviously the man was important to him.

“Issa, so good to see you. I have a selection of those paintings you were interested in. Come into the back gallery and we’ll look at them together.”

The back gallery was where Duncan kept his fetish art for special clients. One instant the four of them—Tahiri, his goons, and Duncan—were there and the next they had vanished to the back of the gallery. Shortly, though, Ergun showed up at the desk.

“He wants you there. Something about seeing how the art stands up to you.”

“Who is ‘he?’” I asked. “Duncan?”

“No, the sheik. He lives in a fortified palace out in the desert. You made quite an impression on him. He and Duncan are already talking a deal.”

“A deal for me?”

“What do you think?” Ergun was always a bit short with me. I didn’t see getting attention from Duncan as a competition. Ergun clearly did.

This was the first moment that I had any fear that I wasn’t fully in control of going with a man or not. This man looked like he expected to get what he wanted and he brought enough muscle with him to ensure that. Even though Spencer was cruel to me in sex, I’d always had the belief that I could just walk away from him or Duncan and get on a plane to Boston if I wanted to, if I’d had enough of the demands levied on me here.

“I don’t think I want—”

“I don’t think you have a choice, Neal,” Ergun said. I quickly decided he was right.

When I went to the back gallery, Duncan was pulling out oil paintings and sketches of young male nudes.

“Stand over here, Neal,” Duncan directed. “Issa wants to see how the paintings he’s considering do in capturing reality.”

So, I must be thought of as real in some way. I gathered that this was some sort of compliment the Arab was making to me. He was giving me an intense scrutiny. But I was leery. The man was big—and a bit gross in his heaviness. He filled the room. And he commanded the room. He moved as a man who deserved to have—and got—whatever he wanted.

“Strip down, Neal,” Duncan said.

“Strip down? Why?” I asked.

“As the man said, he wants to compare the painted art to a real young man. Do it.”

I did it, standing there and going into various demanded poses, while the men ogled me and the paintings—more me than the paintings, I wagered.

After Duncan had shown the man what he had and the sheik had requested a few canvasses to be brought out again, Duncan said, “That will be fine, Neal. I think Issa has seen what he needs to see now. You may go back to the front.” It wasn’t lost on me that the canvases that had been brought out again were all of young, blond Westerners—like me. I dressed again, with the men watching me do so, and went back to the reception desk.

After Issa and his goons had left the gallery in a swirl of activity, with both Duncan and Ergun standing at the door, nearly genuflecting, I asked Duncan, “Did he buy anything?”

“Not yet. He didn’t see anything he just had to have.”

“So, that’s that.”

“No, not really,” Duncan said. “He says he’ll be back. He has an artist he wants to bring—Harold Black. I know him. He’s good—and expensive. He wants Black to paint him what he wants. We’ll get a commission, of course.”

“So, the artist will come and view the paintings the Arab looked at to see what aspects this Issa Tahiri wants included?”

“No, the artist is coming to have a look at you and, after discussing it with Tahiri, decide how to paint you. Tahiri wants the paintings to be of you.”

Oh. “And this Arab wants more from me than paintings, maybe?”

“We’re still discussing that, but yes. He wants more from you.”

They were discussing it, and this time Duncan wasn’t asking me how willing I was to go with a man he was pimping me to. No doubt he didn’t ask me this time because he was afraid that I would say no and that was an unacceptable answer.

As if Duncan read my mind, he added, “Tahiri is a powerful man in this region. He isn’t a man you say no too and are permitted to continue to live and work in Tangier.”

* * * *

Duncan had the decency to warn me the day that Tahiri’s thugs came for me. I had my bag packed. I didn’t see any point in resisting, and I was intrigued. The sheik wasn’t a good-looking or fit man, but to my knowledge I hadn’t been fucked by a sheik before or been painted in the nude before and this was meant to be my summer of exploration. I didn’t plan on being a prostitute when I returned to the States. My plan was to get that experience over during my summer travels—but to pack in as much experience as I could now.

I’d been living out of a suitcase and carryon since I’d arrived in Gloucester nearly two months earlier to perform in the festival there. It seemed like much more than two months earlier, though. I was told that Black wanted four days of my modeling for him. He’d paint more than one canvas. He had come to the gallery, looked at me at every angle, naked, and had declared me worthy of painting. I could tell that he thought me worthy of much more, and I can’t say I wasn’t intrigued. It wasn’t just his name that was Black. He was a dark-chocolate brown, with a jet-black cock and purple mushroom cap. Yes, he liked to do his painting in the nude. He had a British accent and claimed to be from somewhere in the Caribbean. He was handsome and muscular. I’d let him fuck me, if that’s what he wanted to do, and, as he was assessing me for the paintings, he hardly was able to keep his hands off me. There was always one of the sheik’s bodyguards watching us and I got the impression that Black didn’t have permission to cover me before the sheik did.

I packed up all of my stuff. I had a premonition I might not be coming back. I think that Duncan’s partner, Burton Spencer, had the same premonition, because he was standing at the gallery door as Tahiri’s two thugs put me in the Land Rover, and he reiterated the standing offer that I could enroll in his performing arts school and cover the tuition by signing on in the male brothel that went with it.

“You’ll get half on top of the education, room, and board. You’ll be in high demand here in Tangier,” he assured me.

“Something to think about,” I said as one of the bodyguards pushed me into the backseat of the Land Rover. I saw no reason to burn any bridges unnecessarily.

* * * *

The sheik’s remote palace compound wasn’t exactly in the desert, but it was on an isolated ridge well to the east of Tangier and not far south of the Mediterranean coast, near the village of Zurar Khanadeeq. Once there and hearing the gates to the fortress slam shut behind the Land Rover I was being transported in, I knew that I wasn’t going to be leaving until and unless Issa Tahiri let me. Duncan Chambers wasn’t accompanying me here. He hadn’t even appeared to see me off in Tangier.

The painting sessions were more of an entertainment production with me—and perhaps the painter, Harold Black—as the centerpiece. There were six sessions over a four-day period. I have no idea how many artworks Black produced in that time. A different set of Arab men—all paying, I assumed—were invited to each session, and sat around in a semicircle facing the velvet-draped couch on a platform that I was posed, naked, on, while Black, near naked himself in only a loincloth, danced around me, choosing his desired angle of the session, and painting, while, tongues hanging out, the paying voyeurs watched. Issa Tahiri himself was at each session.

As the painting phase of each session was drawing to a close, more than tongues were hanging out. Black, whose muscular brown body was magnificent, dropped his paint brushes and his loincloth, and climbed up on the couch with me. He obviously gotten permission to have me before the sheik did. Maybe it was part of his fee. Maybe the sheik enjoyed being a voyeur and watching another man fuck me.

Each time Black approached and used me from a different angle, a different position, and a different sexual taking. But each time he entertained the paying guests by taking me effectively and fully. Issa Tahiri’s thugs stood by, cameras in hand, recording it all. And the guests unbuttoned or unzipped the fronts of their thawb robes, freed themselves, and stroked off while watching me being taken. Few of them let themselves come there, though, as there was greater entertainment to follow.

From the painting studio, we moved on to the subterranean vault of the sheik’s private baths, with its central pool, painted columns, and mosaic terrazzo flooring. Here I was laid out on yet another couch and hashish pipes were passed around. When I was mellow enough from the drugs and I had positioned myself open and vulnerable, lying on my back, with legs bent and spread, feet flat on the surface of the couch, and pelvis elevated, the paying guests, one after the other, moved between my thighs, mounted and penetrated me, and fucked me to their ejaculation.

It occurred to me that this was how the sheik was covering his brothel and painting costs.

Issa Tahiri was always first, the most cruel, and the hardest to take. He was obese and ugly and cruel, but he had the cock of an elephant and he could use his shaft inside me to move me to the heights where, regardless of how hard it was to position myself to accommodate his rolls of fat and to breathe with his beefy hands clutching my throat and making me gasp, I found myself clinging to him, hugging his hips with my knees, and the muscles of my passage walls undulating over his mastering cock. Just the concept of being fucked by a desert sheik aroused me.

After Black had finished his painting, life changed for me in Tahiri’s isolated palace fortress. Groups of men no longer visited to enjoy me in succession, although Tahiri did make me available to individual men he wished to impress or do business with and who enjoyed using younger Western men. I was held in confinement within the walls of the fortress but given free reign of the place otherwise. There was little chance I would escape the fortress. Where was there for me to go and how would I get there? Now it was only Tahiri who was visiting and using me at night. But being fucked regularly by the sheik was quite enough in itself in terms of being maintained. The man was gross but left me fully mastered and satisfied.

It was just as well he kept me well fucked, because there was little indication that I ever was going to be leaving this prison.

* * * *

I was standing at the window of what undoubtedly was the original harem of the palace, although I was the only one housed here now and I wasn’t locked in there, and was looking down toward the sea, when I saw the huge wooden doors at the entrance of the compound open and a black Mercedes SUV with smoked windows enter. Surprisingly, it didn’t stop in front of the main entrance to the palace but pulled away almost outside my vision down the length of the front façade of the palace and backed up to a door that led into the kitchen and service area of the building.

Ah, deliveries, I thought, but it was a little weird that an expensive Mercedes would be doing that. Two men came out of the front seat, though, went around to the back, and pulled out covered paintings. As they were doing this, I was surprised to see Malcolm Pederson, the young art dealer I’d met and happily gone under on the cruise ship down the coast of France and Spain as it was reaching Gibraltar. What was he doing here, I wondered. But, of course, he was peddling paintings to the sheik. He had no idea—or care—that I was here, I was sure.

He followed the men as they carried the covered paintings around to the front entrance. Why, I wondered, if they were entering at the front, did they park by the kitchen entrance?

The palace’s front hall was large, with two curved staircases rising to the second floor and a balcony all around the entrance foyer above. Pederson and the paintings only made it as far as the front entrance when Issa Tahiri came out to greet him. The two men with Pederson and Tahiri’s two goons who followed him everywhere were set to uncover and hold the paintings Pederson had brought up for Tahiri to inspect.

Pederson saw me on the atrium balcony, which I worked to happen—only him seeing me, not the others—and I had another surprise when he didn’t register any surprise that I was there. He nodded his head, spoke to Tahiri, and moved off to a corridor where I knew there were guest restrooms. Tahiri remained in the entrance hall inspecting paintings of naked young men on velvet-covered couches. And, of course, the other men were stuck there holding the paintings for him to inspect.

Getting the signal, I went down back stairs and met Pederson in a hallway.

“Good, you can roam freely in the building,” he said. “I was told you could.”

“You knew I was here? Who told you I was here and that I could move about freely? What are you doing here? Just to sell paintings?”

“No time for that. Later, if you go with me.”

“If I go with you?”

“You have choices. It’s all your choice. You can stay if you wish. Or you can go. My van is parked by the door into the service areas.”

“Yes, I saw it park.”

“If you want to go, you can pull together anything you want to take—quickly please. I can only keep Tahiri and his men occupied with the paintings for so long. There’s an empty tool chest behind the backseat in the Mercedes that can hold you comfortably enough until we got well past the gates of this place. You could hide in there. If you want to leave, you have two choices. I can take you back to Duncan Chambers and to Burton Spencer’s brothel if you want that. Or I can take you back to New York. My gallery is in Montreal, but most of my business is in New York and I have an apartment there. In New York you have your choices too. You can just go back to your school, having had the summer fling you wanted—and maybe more than you thought you’d get. Or you can be with me—and still continue in school if you like.”

“And what will you want from me if I go with you?”

“I’ll want everything and nothing. I’ll want you to give me maximum pleasure, but I only want you to give what you want to. You’re a totally free man with me. If you only want to go as far as Tangier, we’ll stop at a hotel for the weekend—the whole weekend. I’ll bind you and whip you and use you totally. If you let me take you back to New York, I will use you—mercilessly and constantly—all the way there. Each time you will have given me permission to use you. I know you want it that way. And if you stay with me in New York, I will devour you with my want. You will give me everything and yet it will all be by your choice.”

I shimmered in anticipation. He hadn’t known me long, but he knew me so well.

Later, as I was being buffeted a bit within the confines of the tool box in the back of the Mercedes, I weighed how far I wanted to go. It had been quite a summer—invigorating, educational, and testing the boundaries of where I could go with my preferences and willingness.

I wondered how big this apartment of Pederson’s in New York City was and how close it was to the performing arts college I was expected to return to in a couple of weeks.