Tales from the Birchfield farm

KONSTANTIN, DUANE AND HASSAN

Following The Birchfild Farm’s Film Festival and in the quiet night under yellowish glows from the Town Square’s four lampposts, there walked a large man – in height and girth – and two young men of slighter stature in their upper teens. The almond-eyed, curly-headed one on the outside had a jaunty stride. The one in the middle was being pushed along, head down, by a strong grip to the back of his shirt’s collar. A miscreant? A citizen’s arrest?

Without causing a disturbance, the three entered the lobby of The Hotel Shellman.

The front desk’s clerk looked up. “Greetings, gentlemen,” he directed himself to Duane Wilderforce. “Was the Film Festival to your liking?”

“It was!” pink silk-shirted Hassan Yasamin answered with a clap of his beautiful hands and a twinkle to his exotic eyes.

Provider Konstantin kept his head bent forward, giving Charles Spratt a clear, appraising view of slumping shoulders and the supporting strength of Duane’s grasp – from which his shirt seemed about to lose a button or two. Hand signal’s an okay.The guest’s deep voice said, “The films were good. We’ve brought with us one of the filmmakers for…consultation.”

“Of course, sir. If you don’t require assistance,” he looked with interest at the Russian, “go right up and call if there’s anything, anything at all you need us to provide. This is your key – room 208. Mr. Ecks will be in 201, at the head of the stairs. Your accommodation, our best, is at the upstairs hall’s far end. It’s soundproof. You may use the elevator a few steps down the hall to my right. Oh, and sir, we are at your service.”

“Thank you.”

The elevator door closed behind them, its sound bringing Wade, the waiter, from his post in the restaurant adjacent. “Did you see Konstantin’s hard-on? God, I’d like to know what they’re going to do up there.”

Charles stroked the back of his boyfriend’s hand, “Fairly obvious, don’t you think? Their choice of him tells us something about them, doesn’t it?”

Wade leaned over the desk for a quick kiss.

“Careful,” Charles cautioned, with an eye toward the Town Square. “We can’t retire until X is safely tucked away for the night. Suppose he’s bringing a piece of entertainment for himself?”

“He never has before. Didn’t Randy-James tell us once that X is straight? Married, with a kid or two? That’s why he’s so crabby the rare times he’s here?”

“There’s always a first time, my dear. I was thinking that this is the safest place in the world if he wanted to give it a whirl – and he could have his pick.”

Wade’s “I don’t know about that” was followed by, “I heard Blaine and Randy-James talking about X’s hands-off policy. It’s based on his suspicion that for any of us to know anything about him would be potentially dangerous – while he likes knowing absolutely everything about us, which keeps us under his thumb.”

***

Door closed, its lock snapped, Konstantin waited. He had been placed near the foot of the room’s king size bed. Duane removed his blue blazer and hung it in a closet. Hassan took something from an unzipped overnight bag and placed it in his pocket. Expressionless, Duane came to face with their “guest” while Hassan slipped behind. Konstantin’s nature and training kept him still, on alert. He breathed calmly as the big man’s knuckles stroked once on each side of his high-planed, unblemished Tatar face.

“Beardless,” rumbled Duane. “I like that.”

Thumbs felt his ear lobes. Large fingers traced his throat.

“You may be worthy.”

Neither had blinked. “Lift your left foot behind. Hassan will remove your shoe. Good balance. The other one.”

Konstantin’s moccasins were easily slipped away. No socks. Nubby carpet cushioned his bare feet. Where this was leading he had no idea. He blinked.

“The way you use your feet needs improvement. You plod. Hassan is going to sensitize them. Left one first. If the pain upsets your balance, put your hands on my shoulders.”

Unseen, a hand secured Konstantin’s ankle against blows from the knowingly wielded tawse. His heel hurt far less than his instep and ball, but the pain was sharp and unremitting. Just as he was about to be forced to cry out, his ankle was released.

“The other foot.”

The tawse fell harshly on it, almost causing Konstantin to lose his bearing.

“That is good. I like seeing that you are able to stand up now, it seems, with more awareness of where your feet are.”

Uncomfortably shaky, Konstantin managed, “Sir. Yes.”

“Hassan will steady you while I consider your form. Watch my eyes.” Duane opened each button of the shirt and drew it from Konstantin’s shoulders to admire their proportion. “Enough development but not too much. Nice chest, not overly defined. Love your skin. Reach forward Hassan. Feel for yourself. Test his pretty nipples.”

A quick breath revealed the young man’s responsiveness to gentle touches from behind of soft fingertips. Pinched, he reacted with tiny intakes. His eyes shone with feral intensity.

Duane’s voice dropped lower in pitch as he told his boy, “Reach down. Loosen his pants. We will see the rest.”

Tight-fitting sky blue briefs remained as Hassan drew down the simple, beltless tan chinos and tapped for Konstantin to step from them. The shirt, too, found its way out of sight. From the front, his erection strained and its copious secretions stained the cotton material.

“Tell me about his rear and test it as you do.”

“Oui, maître.” Hands kneaded the length of Konstantin’s arms. Thumbs, pressing firmly, outlined the way each scapula was set in its surrounding tissue. Konstantin flexed. His narrow waist was encircled, the underpants drawn partway down to reveal his hips, then further down, his cheeks thoroughly felt and spread, his thighs and calves inspected. “Tout est en ordre. C’est beau, en fait. He is…handsome.”

“The skin there?”

“Sans faute – I mean, without fault. Somewhat pale.” The effect of Hassan’s light voice combined with the astonishingly uninvolved expression before him, to send butterflies of anticipation into Konstantin’s stomach. It pleases them, I hope.

“Scissors.”

Sexual fear entered behind the boy’s calm façade, allayed by confidence that everything was being monitored by hidden cameras. They will rescue me if…. His erection hardened, excited by the threat of danger.

Duane took the seeping cock fully in hand while Hassan returned with a pair of small, sharp scissors and proceeded to cut directly from the elastic waistband down along the path between Konstantin’s clenched buttocks. Additional snips freed the garment’s lower seams allowing Duane to pull from the front. He dragged the fabric away from the boy’s leaking erection, wrapped it around, drove it back again – evoking a sharp intake of air – and pulled it once more.

“Cleaning the mess you made.”

The nearest trashcan received the destroyed briefs.

Tender toes digging into the carpet’s rough texture, Konstantin decided to speak unbidden. “Sir, I did not make a mess until I met you.” Nervous sweat beaded on his neck.

“Hassan, tawse this rude creature’s calves while he answers my questions.”

Leather snapped against taut skin.

“You blame me for your misconduct?”

“No sir,” he looked directly into Duane’s eyes as the next snap occurred and his knees trembled. “I react to stimulus of you.”

He sounded more Russian than since they had met after his War and Piece.

Another strike opened his eyes. “Sir?” he blurted at Duane.

Another.

His lips tightened. A hissing breath was drawn between his teeth. From behind, his balls were taken and squeezed enough to notice.

“Sir, please!”

Duane raised an eyebrow and manipulated Konstantin’s foreskin to study the now-dry, reddened cockhead, “How clean were you before you met me?” Twisted it for emphasis.

“Scrupulous, sir. All Providers cleanse ourselves before events.”

“Maître, shall I test?”

“Do it now with your longest finger.”

No blow fell, but a finger probed through and into Konstantin from the rear. It felt around and withdrew more rapidly than expected. The boy’s head reacted with a short rise.

“Let him smell it before you place it in his mouth.”

The two watched closely as then balls-free, smiling Konstantin inhaled and willingly opened his mouth. He extended its tongue.

“Il a été bien formé.”

“Hear that? Hassan says you have been trained well.”

The finger on his tongue and his mouth ready for the instruction to suck, Konstantin could only nod understanding and remain calm.

Hassan’s hand drew away. He sniffed. “Miel,” he almost laughed. “He has honey in his arse.”

Duane smiled, took the tawse, kissed his property’s head, and enfolded him with arms as loving as any Konstantin had ever seen. He closed his mouth and breathed easily when in the room’s soft light Hassan’s fitted silk shirt was removed to expose his muscled chest and gold-pierced nipples.

The instructions could hardly be believed: “To your knees. Spread them apart. You will worship my Hassan with all your learnèd skill. Every hesitancy will be encouraged by this tawse” – swiped slowly under Konstantin’s wrought-up scrotum – “in my hands or his. Any failure to imagine how to please him and you will suffer my displeasure.” After a long moment, Duane said, his voice aimed at the last syllable, “Konstantin.”

“Sir?”

“I want you to succeed. You are incomparably attractive to me.”

Something caught in Konstantin’s throat. He swallowed, excited by the compliment and the threat, not of being struck by the tawse – nothing compared to other implements in his past – but of losing his chance to experience Duane’s control. Nervous fingers grappled with Hassan’s belt and zipper, tugged down his slacks, and confronted a black article: underclothing new to him.

It supported its wearer’s organs forward, balls cupped by one part, tumescing member upright in a fitted sleeve. Not knowing what else to do, he pressed his face to the mounds. Hands pulled him into its accumulated aromas, rubbing against nose, cheeks, chin, and mouth as if to demand entrance. Konstantin quickly canted his head so that his teeth could nip at the surfaces behind the garment.

His arms were taken back by Duane. “Work hard, boy. Use those teeth. Find the snaps and open the pouch.”

Hassan watched for Duane’s cue. His hands directed the boy’s unseeing head to the tabs on each side which his tongue found and his teeth seized, if slobberingly. “That is the way. Pop them.”

Difficult!

“You’re thinking of yourself, aren’t you?” Duane came at his backside with the tawse. “Open it!”

Konstantin did, trying not to make more of a mess. Both snaps. He looked up to see Hassan look down, smile strangely, and re-snap the two. “Again,” he said in his new Franco-British accent. “Show that you have learned the lesson.”

His balls in Duane’s tightening clutch, Konstantin responded and was rewarded by the appearance of Hassan’s sex pointing straight at his saliva-smeared lips.

“Maintenant – now – you swallow me.”

The young Russian felt special, being made to suck a person who belonged to another. That thought’s distraction cost him the air he should have taken before Hassan pushed past his teeth, over his tongue, under his uvula, into the back of this throat, and down. Deep.

I could suffocate!

Gurgling noises sufficed to gain a few gasps before possession was taken of all the moist tissues involved. Muscles were given no time to recover from being bludgeoned with the force of rape. Unable to swallow, Konstantin choked violently and was beaten from the back as Hassan spewed into his gullet.

Frenzy faded. Participants relaxed. But not Konstantin. I will not stop suck. I will serve – do my job. He did, mouth glued to Hassan’s pubes, vacuuming remaining trickles and tonguing the hypersensitive head.

“Aiyee! Nom de Dieu!” Hassan cried. “C’est fantastique!” English abandoned him in the rarity of being serviced so dramatically. He threw himself on Konstantin, slapping his butt, declaring, “No one has made me that excited so fast. Damn, you are good! I must know your arse. Flatten yourself. Duane, move, please. Give me the tawse.”

Passion compelled Hassan to shove the now-moist, readily controllable Russian submissive to the floor where he sprawled, still raging hard. A foot rolled him to his stomach. Within seconds two naked, young bodies engaged in an unequal, silent bout. One clamped his buttocks as the other sought entrance with fingers. Thighs took the brunt of rapid slaps of the tawse. Fast to respond to the stinging blows, they acquired some color, then more. Hassan’s position, seated astride Konstantin’s upper back, provided a view of the quivering flesh beyond the rounded, creamy-toned areas being tautly contracted.

“Let’s not blister those just yet,” Dalton spoke to Hassan. “He needs time to think.”

Tawse in hand, Hassan faced his master and understood the mimed gesture. Regarding for a moment the gleaming German-silver, curved handle of the leather tawse – at its bulbous end – he took it into his mouth, salivating all over it, and watched as Duane leaned close to Konstantin’s ear to whisper in his throaty manner, “Open your ass for me.”

Two moans later – one of protest and one of acceptance – and the object was seated securely.

“A leather tail,” murmured Hassan.

“Up with you two. We’re going to shower. Together, the three of us. Before your building excitement develops perspiratory offense – a smell I won’t like.”

Both helped the stunned Konstantin to his feet. Worry clouded his intent to be faultless. Fluttered lids and angled darts of his eyes suggested self-testing of his hold onto this new tail.

Led to the white-tiled walls and dark blue-tiled floor of the room’s ample shower stall, his tail swinging provocatively with each step, Konstantin submitted to being given a scrub of suds by both. Hassan took the front, hirsute Duane the back.

What do they want from me? The question was shunted aside by his recall of the order to imagine what was wanted of him. Passiveness now. They do what they want. Intrigued, he enjoyed the luxury, aware that it must be to prepare him for Duane’s use. Having the black tawse for a tail provoked tickling sensations.

Hassan’s soapy hands formed a tunnel for the boy’s cock as Duane began turning the tawse handle back and forth. Dangerously excited reactions were being cajoled, tempting Konstantin’s reserve.

I must resist. I mustn’t cum!

“You like this?” Duane’s voice suddenly cooed into his ear. “Or this?” he thrust in.

Konstantin braved, “Sir, I am yours to do what pleases you. If you want, I can cum. That feels….”

“If you do, can you cum again tonight under different”…

He’s fucking me with it!

…“circumstances?”

To increase the question’s torment, Hassan slid the heels of his hands along the yearning erection with a wry, tormenting smile. As if nothing were happening.

A mighty squeeze of Konstantin’s entire pelvic region held back orgasm – just at its brink.

Until…Hassan grabbed Konstantin’s ballsac as Duane pulled out the tawse and jammed it back along its honeyed path. Hapless in prostatic delirium, Konstantin lost control to spasms of his body severe as a seizure. His “hosts” closed arms around him to provide support under the drenching spray. Recovery came, accompanied by lessening tremors and slowing breaths. Fitted to the small of his back was Duane’s firmness, the man’s thick thighs capturing his “tail.” Hassan’s cock teased the Russian’s wilted front.

Water off, it was time for towels. Konstantin’s hosts worked over his body, careful not to disturb the placement of the well-rooted object of torment and excitement.

***

Konstantin did not always want to submit but, in his profession, he did. Did so well. He had shown others – Lon (interested, awkward), Ahmed (fascinated, predisposed), Clyfford (natural, appealing, but guarded), Wade (capable, also guarded, afraid), and Ting (game for anything) – how to experience and react to pain, and to act convincingly their occasional parts as submissives. Sammie and Cosmo (both wary of more than light spanks) were slated for his instruction next. At first sighting upon Duane’s arrival, Konstantin was impressed by the man’s presence (commanding), voice (deeply resonant), the deference X paid him (impressive) – all enticing somehow, evoking in the young man definite feelings that he would want to oblige the man’s slightest whim. If the company Duane Wilderforce kept, the glamorously handsome, enigmatic figure Hassan, were part of his chance to serve such a man, then, the way he felt, he would give himself over to the little bombshell.

Thoughts flickered this way and that as the earlier evening progressed, but not the way they did when facing Duane’s casual banter about War and Piece, and definitely not the way they went off on a tangent at the idea of expanding his scenario. His mind raced with wonder at that. It was crazy to think that he wanted this man to have him any way he wanted – any way at all – and it would be a pleasure beyond the drugs in his experience before acceptance to join the cast of Providers in this wonderful place. A place where it was a pleasure to serve demanding men.

Nothing so far hindered his imagination from wanting more. Duane was in charge. He was the man desired.

I must live up to him. Give up to his will.

***

Konstantin’s momentary preoccupations faded as he realized the man for whom he lusted had taken him by the arm and throatily whispered, “I have a thirst to quench.”

The remark snapped Konstantin from his reverie. “Mine,” he asked softly, in his most respectful tone, “or yours?”

Duane’s, “Ours,” seemed to come from a dark basement. “Hunger, too.”

Hassan’s hand on Konstantin’s now stone-hard inches brought a gleam to his face. “Maître, you have stimulated him anew.”

“We’ll see, cheri.”

They positioned Konstantin atop the bedspread’s smooth surface. His reddened feet hung off the end of the bed. Face to the cover, eyes closed, arms spread up and out with hands open flat, their thin, small fingers digging childlike into the fabric – an image of susceptibility to domination and expectation of it. His back’s smooth skin’s paleness set off the black leather tawse protruding, unintentionally quivering at its tempting angle.

The longer nothing happened and silence prevailed, Konstantin’s expectancy grew. Fresh beads of perspiration dotted his brow and upper lip, so unsettled was he to be placed but not used. His mind raced. Nerves churned his gut. The tawse – I must focus on that.He gave it a clench and drove his cock into the bed.

“Expel that,” Duane’s intimidating voice ordered.

I try retain. Now must not.Willful peristalsic waves were made to gather force. Control – learned and practiced on the Farm – moved the handle a segment at a time until its final knob emerged.

Some skill he’s got there.

Hassan took the straps to lift the warm, slick handle to his nose before offering it to Duane’s.

“Splendid. He’ll enjoy the taste of the honey he put there.”

Duane nodded from Hassan to Konstantin. Konstantin’s mouth became the receptacle for the tawse’s handle, thrust as it was all the way to the leather straps. They hung from his lips like devils’ tongues. “Now you can screw him.”

Straightaway, Hassam clambered over the waiting bottom’s open “O” and sank his inches deep.

Beside the bed, Duane pulled a chair for himself. His intent: to watch Hassan perform and to participate in Konstantin’s sensual ordeal. Wordlessly, he stroked the Russian’s hair, moments later rubbed the back of his nearest hand as if in encouragement, then took the leather straps and began lazily thrusting and withdrawing the tawse’s bumpy handle in Konstantin’s mouth to match Hassan’s plunges.

Panicky, the young Provider shivered. His back broke out in patches of chilblains as he struggled to find breathing time to the now-set rhythm of his attackers.

“You can do this.” Gentle fingers stilled his squirming head’s damp hair. “Remember, your job is to provide. Your destiny is to serve.”

A memory flooded Konstantin’s mind – Learn by serving and find a place to enjoy what you learn because it makes you better– the saying, repeated during his training, calmed him. Thoughts formed. It is new for me. I must learn it. Two men at once using me as no others have. I will relax. They need me for this. I am what they want.

“Ah, that is good,” Duane watched Konstantin’s skin clear. He noticed resistance abating as Hassan ratcheted up his obvious joy in fucking full-out a willing passive. The sight of his boy’s muscular body contracting and expanding to claim the beautiful posterior before him with pounding energy elevated Duane’s appreciation for both boys.

Out came the tawse, in went two of Duane’s fingers. He leaned over the startled Konstantin, “Suck on these and fuck him back. Make him yours. Fight for his climax!”

Konstantin hunched up from the bed to meet Hassan’s thrust just as Duane brought the tawse smartly across Hassan’s ass. “Don’t you dare let him have your cum.” With that, he reversed the evening’s tool and drove it into Hassan, exactly probing the Sino-Moroccan’s sensitive prostate to strangled sounds and the visible effort to escape the provocation. Ripped out, the tawse rose and fell. Thwack after thwack.

A carnal battle was underway, Konstantin’s fragility vanishing as he launched his power-trained butt into Hassan’s pubic bone with a cry of his own. Prone as he was, his uncharacteristic yell and fury disguised his own orgasm, threw surprise into Hassan, whose back and front were under siege by a thermally hot ass and a blistering tawse, and threatened Hassan’s ability to resist eruption.

The quicksilver mind he had developed in his previous trade in Marseille rescued him from embarrassment at that moment. It allowed him to disassociate the outer world’s turmoil from an inner world into which he could slip from feelings. Konstantin’s whiplash pelvic rotations had no effect. His gyrations failed. Hassan was riding the crest of every frantic back-thrust and wrenching twist. Duane’s flying tawse only brightened the glow of Hassan’s rear.

His recognition of what Hassan had done signaled Duane that the entertainment was over. Must end. Konstantin stood no chance. Under Hassan’s detached onslaught, he might even be harmed. Tawse to the floor, Duane reached for Hassan’s flapping scrotum and tugged until the action slowed. Reality returned.

Hassan blinked. “I prevailed.” He rubbed his butt, rolled back cock-up, took a few breaths, and smiled wickedly.

“You did. And tomorrow, you can teach Konstantin how to reach the Zen point you know so well.”

His head shaking in frustration, Konstantin heaved for air after his exertion, mortified by defeat. I failed his order. I am worthless. He would have cried but for a strange comfort from Duane.

“You did credit to your nature and to your training.” He ran a thumb over the boy’s frown and around his parted lips as he turned him to his back. “You did all you could to follow my order. From your position, no one could have done more.”

Nervous, Konstantin locked watery eyes on Duane’s. “I was afraid I not live up to expectations.” Despite being immune emotionally to sex’s many types, Konstantine stared, seeking confirmation, chin trembling.

“We will see.” Hassan jumped at Duane’s, “My suitcase. The green tube. A condom.”

“Bien sur, maître.”

“Merci. Dress. You may go downstairs for a half-hour. When you return, bring us champagne and three flutes with some refreshments.”

On his way out, Hassan pecked Duane’s cheek and buoyantly stooped to kiss Konstantin’s mouth.

Dumbfounded and in discomfort internally, Konstantine observed an unusually transparent, obviously thin, very tight condom being drawn over Duane’s looming erection. He caught, but could not place, a curious scent drifting from the green tube’s crystal-clear content as it was lavished overall.

“I know forms of happiness you haven’t heard of. Some hurt…” – Duane lifted the boy’s legs and moved close – “…but they will be good for you. Guide me, Konstantin, and you will see.”

The wealthy man’s abundant shadow closed over the shrinking form to enclose it as Konstantin welcomed Duane’s all.

***

Light glinted just a sliver from under the door at the head of the hotel’s stair. Ecks is in. Hassan bounced down the steps. The lobby stood empty. Lights were off in the restaurant. Where’s the staff? He nosed through that room’s swinging door to find a darkened kitchen. Back to the lobby, he walked past its front desk into the hall and past its elevator door to a closed door at the end. An old-fashioned keyhole glowed yellow. Someone’s there. He knocked softly and heard scrambling noises and hushed voices.

The door opened enough for desk clerk Charles’ unkempt head to look out. “Oh,” he said to the whitest smile he had ever seen through parted lips.

“Have you a bottle of champagne?”

Those teeth! Those keen eyes! God, he’s cute.

“We can get you one,” Charles tried to steady his voice. He knew he was speaking to The Birchfield Farm’s largest shareholder’s trick, pseudo-partner, or something. Since the Film Festival, that rumor had circulated.

Hassan glimpsed a slender nude youth across the room trying desperately to cover himself. “You have company. I can return,” his voice lilted.

Charles’ eyes looked back in terror at Wade, who had flushed beet red. “I’m so sorry.” He backed slightly as if to bow, by accident opening the door further.

Hassan slipped through, a grin displaying his dimples. “How nice you’re having sex. May I meet your companion?”

An unseen dildo on the floor almost tripped him as he crossed toward the mortified young lover. “Bonne nuit. Je m’appelle…I mean, good night, my name is Hassan Yasamin.”

“Uh, gosh,” he accepted the extended hand, grasping himself with the other. “My name’s Wade and I’m, uh, so sorry, too.”

Hassan laughed from his belly, “Sorry about sex? That’s silly in a place like this. How can you be? Look,” he pointed, “you’ve lost your erection. Now I’m sorry!”

Quickly, Howard went to try to shelter Wade from further embarrassment but succeeded in hugging him so that Hassan spotted and remarked upon a blue ovoid nestled between Wade’s shapely buttocks. “Is that a new plug? Does he like it? Are you training him?”

The two broke apart, limp, naked, and no longer fearful of the intruder. Wade tried to maintain his composure but blurted, “Howard’s got one, too.”

The older man faced eager Hassan. “We’re a couple, you see. We love each other equally.”

“What the British call…” – Hassan thought for a second – “…the ‘flip-floppers’?”

It came out so innocently they relaxed and reached for their clothes.

“That is not necessary for us to talk. Please, I’ll remove my things,” he said, doffing shoes, pants, shirt, and unusual undergarment with exemplary speed. “J’ai le temps de tuer…I mean, I have time to kill. Thirty minutes. Please let us talk.”

They gawked as he pulled them to their bed.

***

Mixed feelings – no, turbulent ones – coursed through Konstantin at the first touch of his hands to Duane’s hot, slick, throbbing cock. How he wanted it! The task of directing it, simple. He was wet enough and open. Legs wide, spine curved, alignment exact, he almost made the mistake of letting himself be gratified by an easy glide from tip to root. But he wants me to hurt. He said it would. Facilitate his desire! That’s why I’m here. Oh, try to keep him out – until I can’t.

With all his compressive force mustered in a second, Konstantin closed his sphincter. Duane batted into it, ripped away the boy’s clutching fingers, pinned his arms to the bed, and pushed – mightily, weightily – through. Konstantin’s eyes squeezed shut. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he was bored into with mastery. It hurt – gloriously. The man had taken him.

The strain of resisting a superior force, the burning stretch of muscle, the sting after were nothing compared to his eyes opening on Duane’s inflamed expression of triumph. They held still, fused, staring at each other, both marveling at what had happened.

His theatrical coaching at the Farm enabled Konstantin to keep his eyes focused without blinking while altering ever so slightly the muscles around them. He assumed his most plaintive expression, the one which seemed to plead for mercy but which invited assault by a dominant man. Under its spell, Duane drew back to the point of entry and shoved, caught off-guard by the allure. He rebounded to spring forward with the speed of a much younger man and began to fuck the receptive Konstantin with vigor beyond the boy’s expectations. Yet to his joy.

To see Konstantin start to blink with succeeding rams into him scored directly with Duane’s spirit. Despite the interference of condom with nerve endings and tissue textures, his penis was alive with sensation. Konstantin’s interior seethed with lubricity such as he found usually – and only – with Hassan. Hassan, his life’s second perfect partner – until now. As Duane drove in and out, seeking ever greater contact throughout the phenomenal channel, he noticed a change to Konstantin’s face. It relaxed as if becoming aware of something special. At the same time, Duane felt the pelvis beneath to shift with involvement. Not much. Enough, though, to beg new attention.

This boy is amazing.

“What, Konstantin, are you thinking?” he asked without slowing.

Several blinks preceded the effort to speak. Plunges core deep separated the words of his reply, “You said…it would…hurt…but it would…be good…for me…and it…would bring me…happiness…and it…is….”

Duane slowed to study the boy’s now closed eyes and the way his head had rotated upward to one side – as if in consideration. He looked down to Konstantin’s heaving stomach and rigid, abraded, pre-cum-covered erection, and to what he could see of their active juncture.

The new lubricant’s doing its job. Primary effect’s just right. The secondary effect will kick in soon.

With decided increases by degrees in their union, Duane re-established his pace to bring Konstantin from his reverie. Eyes suddenly wide, they regarded Duane intently.

The man’s resonant voice and thrusting enthusiasm were thrilling, “When you are helpless beneath a man…you’re desirable, Konstantin…as desirable as anyone could want…. You gift your man…with great generosity.”

“I….”

“Do not speak. Listen to me.” Duane ratcheted into a punishing gear. He tore into Konstantin who was beside himself at having broken silence. Heat rose between them. Duane slackened, then stopped, his cock halfway out.

Fear entered Konstantin for the second time that night – fear of the guilt he might endure if he failed this man. His face showed it.

Duane slid slowly back into place, held himself there, and saw relief dispel worry. “You must heed what I say.”

Not a word. A nod of understanding.

“Good. Before you tire completely, I am going to stop fucking you. Pay attention,” he snapped at Konstantin’s flicker of concern. Then, with a softer tone, “I am going to make love to you not as one of your clients but as I do with my personal, most highly valued property, Hassan. Put your arms where they should be when you are being loved and give me your lips.”

No prior experience of serving a man corresponded with Duane’s insinuating kiss or the ardor of his tongue’s search of every recess and its twirling possession of Konstantin’s own, hesitant tongue. Trainers had kissed him many times during trysts – Syd, Vas, Javier, and the best of all, Ben. Instructed by Mike, he had practiced kissing with other Providers – Clyff, Lon, Ahmed – all manner of kisses. Even so, he was unacquainted with being kissed so distractingly that he was initially unaware of the qualitative change in Duane’s probing motions inside him.

The strokes took sweet time finding their way along his now not less- but more-sensitive passage. Long. Agonizingly slow – even tender. The more he hugged Duane’s back and let his tongue be played with, the more he began to respond to the emotions of being cherished for who he was, not what.

Gasping at what Duane murmured when he separated their mouths – “My god, how beautiful you are.” – Konstantin realized this phenomenal lover had found and was caressing his prostate with the cushiony tip of his huge endowment. Electric flashes sparked the danger of an explosion, he was so pent up.

Duane circled the area and drove full-length, full-speed. “Give it up, Konstantin. Give it up to me, to us!”

His body clenched tightly with Duane’s as spasm after spasm wrenched them toward orgasm’s pinnacle, into its death-like throes, from the apogee to gradual neural recovery, down to life-affirming aftermath, and eventual, sliding disconnect. For a time, they lay back, winded, drawing heavy drafts of air. He rubbed his hairless face’s smooth cheek appreciatively along Duane’s bristly one.

Fingertips touched. The room was quiet.

Duane sat up to remove his condom and saw that it had broken. No wonder that was so intense, he mused. He stripped it off and, satisfied, cleaned himself with tissues. He scrutinized the rise and fall of Konstantin’s lovely chest and thought of what he must do.

“Come Konstantin. Lie across my lap. I’m going to spank you. Do you know why?”

“Sir,” the boy blushed as he moved to obey, “I do not need to know.” He chose his words carefully, bending so that his hands went to the carpet, his stomach to Duane’s thighs, and his legs stretched beyond, soles exposed, “After what you did for me – anything from me that you want.”

“I want to see your ass as red as your face and torso were when we were making love.”

That moment, when Duane’s cupped palm popped smartly into Konstantin’s willing curves, Hassan slipped into the room, followed by Wade carrying a tray with three crystal flutes, a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and a bowl of cashews, almonds, and peanuts. Konstantin heard them but had the presence of mind to remain the object of Duane’s revel.

The sight: mesmeric. Duane’s blows flattened each bouncing cheek alternately, raising the skin’s color. The spank resounded in everyone’s ears until…until it ended in a glow of capillary rage. The invaders stood rapt as Konstantin was stood up – displaying a newly full erection – and hugged. Duane, feeling the fresh hardness press into him, proceeded to erect. He turned Konstantin forward to the smiling faces of Wade and Hassan, kissed him on the top of his bedraggled head, and told their observers a quick rinse in the shower was a must.

Bursting with pride, Konstantin high-fived Wade and Hassan as he and Duane passed. Wade, agog, set up the glasses, bottle, and nut bowl, stole an awestruck glance at Duane’s largeness bobbing to Konstantin’s ministrations in the shower, quickly kissed Hassan good-night, and, without losing his waiter’s manners, closed the suite’s door with quiet respect, then dashed downstairs to drop his account of what he had witnessed into the Farm’s gossip circuit.

Konstantin’s greatest hit! ‘Hit’ scored in Wade’s mind.

My erotic romance begins with ca. 60 pages of its teen subject being under the forcible control of a strict mentor during a life-enhancing museum visit: https://www.amazon.com/Young-Edwin-Eros-Art-Cooper/dp/0692056823.

Also here on gaydemon: “The Alexia Chronicles” and “Douglas in Residence.”