The Glass House

Peekaboo

“Who’s that?” I asked. The laugh had made me look beyond Linda’s desk, beyond the work floor, to the glass-walled office in the corner. We were on the twenty-third floor, the fourth of the ten floors the John Hoffman Financial Services Company had in the Manhattan building. It was a deep-throated, self-confident, “This is my realm” laugh. I’d been flirting with Linda, the receptionist for the floor, when I heard the laugh. I always flirted with the receptionists during my mail delivery rounds at my morning job. It was good for camouflage purposes.

“That’s himself, Colby,” Linda answered. “Ralph is retiring. He has his own office. The brass show up to hand over the watch and see an employee off when someone in their own corner office retires.” Linda was giving me that special smile. She was just another of the young women—and men—in the office who would be happy to have a blond, twenty-year-old song and dance student in the Big Apple, who was working here part time to help make his way, cover them. I’d do it for some of the young men I’d met here—and, for money, for some of the older ones. But I turned to women like Linda, who was perfectly beautiful, mind you, only as camouflage at parties where I needed to impress a straight crowd and I wouldn’t fuck them after the party. My claim to fame was that I always managed to keep them as friends and confidantes even when I didn’t let the relationship to go further. Some of them, I’m sure, figured it out and just liked me enough for it not to tick them off.

“Himself?” I asked, assessing the man standing in a gaggle of expensive suits, mostly men, but a few women, in what must be Ralph’s soon-to-be-vacated office. My assessment didn’t come up with anything negative other than arrogance, and I could take arrogance from a man who had every reason to be so. He was tall, nearly six-and-a-half feet, lean, with a ram-rod-straight back. He looked quite fit for someone appearing to be in his very late forties or mid-fifties. He was movie star handsome, with rugged features and a mane of wavy black hair, graying at the temples. His demeanor was all confidence and command. He could easily win clients for this financial services company just by smiling into the camera for a TV commercial for the firm.

As if he knew someone standing two glass walls away from him with a working floor of low-walled cubicles between them was assessing him, he turned a bit and let his eyes sweep the room before returning to concentrating on the departing Ralph. His gaze paused briefly at me—or was it the beautiful Linda—before sweeping on. Peekaboo, I see you.

“Himself, as in Josh Hoffman himself,” Linda said. “Look busy. Hand me some mail. Pretend you’re telling me something about the special handling requirements of one of the envelopes.” I complied.

I doubted it was me he paused at, a lowly twenty-year-old morning-duty-only mail clerk with no ambitions at rising at Josh Hoffman Financial Services. I planned to be an actor. All of my effort was going into my studies to make that pan out. All of my sacrifices—which were great, went far beyond walking behind a mail cart in ten floors of a mid-Manhattan office building.

The retirement thrill was over and the corporate crowd, moving as one herd, Himself in the center of the gaggle, the center of everyone’s attention, moved past us and to the elevators. Did Josh Hoffman turn his gaze toward Linda and me as he passed? Did he do a “peekaboo, I see you?” No, I don’t think so.

The flurry packed into elevators and ascended to corporate heaven, I turned the cart to moving down the aisle between cubicles and distributing my treasures.

“Colby,” Linda said, as I pushed off. “Call me.” I could hear the ache in her voice. She was a nice girl. The next straight party I went to I’d surely ask her if she wanted to go. There would be no fuck afterward, though. And that, I’m sure would be the last time she turned her moon eyes at me. She’d understand.

“Surely will, Doll,” I said, moving on.

* * * *

I had to wear a company uniform to distribute the mail at Josh Hoffman Financial Services. I didn’t mind. I looked good in the uniform, it saved me from having to buy office-appropriate duds of my own, and, when I was in the uniform, I could treat the lowly job as just an acting role I was in. It gave me valuable “get into and stay in character” practice. I could practice being invisible and subservient to the suits.

There was an employee’s locker room in the bowels of the office where I changed. Today, rather than changing into my street clothes to go to class, I changed into gym clothes. I didn’t have any classes this day. I had an assignment with my other job—the other job that paid me far more than Josh Hoffman Financial Services did—but the job that took more out of me too. It was a job that allowed me to roleplay in an entirely different way.

I was to meet the man, Warren, the escort service had said, at a gym five blocks away from the building Josh Hoffman’s was in. I’d be on the approved check-in list under my escort service’s name, Clint James. I was sort of sorry the escort service had that name for me. I thought it would be a good stage name, but now I never could use it for that.

This Warren had asked for a guy who was fit and flexible. Blond, good looking, and athletic. I’d been a gymnast and was studying to be a Broadway show dancer, which I’d occasionally been able to do—and, hopefully, moving to center stage as an actor sooner rather than later—so I’d worked hard to remain in shape and limber into my twenties. I assumed that having the meet at a gym meant the guy would be fit himself, and that was true, although he turned out to be a bit older than I had thought he’d be.

The gym I was directed to was a serious one, providing gymnastic equipment as well as fitness machines. The man I met, calling himself Shep, also looked to be a serious gym rat. He was very fit, maybe in his early forties—barrel chested, tapering down to a narrow waist and hips, the taut material of his deep-arm and chest cut athletic T-shirt showing the cut six pack. His thighs and calves were like tree trunks; his biceps bulging. He was bald and a bit thuggish looking—not ugly, but with a cut scar from an earlobe down to the corner of his mouth. He looked to be hairless, including in his pits, but he had a pec tattoo on the left side, swirls of black, which extended down his left arm to his wrist. His athletic shorts were tight on his body, and although he didn’t bulge, I could see that he had a PA ring in his bulb. That gave me a little shudder.

He didn’t tell me much about himself, including how he’d hooked up with the escort service. He mentioned something about Tulsa, Oklahoma, and oil, and being in New York City on business. He had to be wealthy to afford the escort services fees.

I’d been told he wanted a young, fit, good-looking blond with gymnastics experience. He tested the experience part, bypassing the fitness equipment and spotting me on the parallel bars and the rings. His spotting included feeling me up while I was showing him that I knew how to perform the gymnast skills. He must have been satisfied, because he took me from there to an early dinner at a moderately expensive steak house. He changed in the gym locker room—slowly, watching my expression of what was revealed as he stripped. Being in character, I gave him the gasps of appreciation he obviously was looking for. He insisted I strip and change in front of him so we could get a good look at each other. He looked quite good undressed. I knew that I did too. I was dressed city casual. He wore jeans, a cowboy shirt, and fancy Western boots.

At the restaurant I ordered the most expensive cut, but a small portion of it, with a salad and no carbs, which seemed to impress him. He felt me up under the table to the panting level while he watched me eat. I never could tell until we reached this point if the guy just wanted to pretend or was a player. Shep wasn’t pretending. He was going to fuck me.

All he had was a medley of steamed vegetables and black coffee. He offered dessert, but I declined, which also seemed to please him. He drew a hotel room card out of his pocket, telling me the hotel, which was within a block of here, and the room number. He handed me the room card.

“You go first. Pose for mounting, looking away, at the headboard, for when I arrive,” he said. He hadn’t said much. What he said now impressed me. He was quite explicit in his wants. He also seemed just a little bit crazy.

Other than leaving the PA ring in to fuck me, there wasn’t anything unusual about the first coupling. I was posed, naked, on all fours on the bed, facing the headboard, when he came into the room. I heard him stripping off as he stood behind me, and then he explored me with his hands, from my rump up to my nipples and down my thighs, like I was some prize calf at the county fair. Returning to my ass, he fingered my hole, teased my balls, putting a hand through between my thighs, and stroked my cock as I got sexed up. His attention went back to my hole, which he breached with more than one finger and worried hard. I gasped and moaned for him, and that wasn’t an act. He massaged my prostate, and I had to concentrate not to come from that.

Most of the time he was using one hand on me, so I knew he was bringing himself to an erection. I was ready at any time. His face pushed in between my butt cheeks, his tongue went where his fingers had just been, and after a few minutes I was more than ready for his shaft.

He climbed up on the bed; mounted me from behind and above; penetrated several inches, the feel of the PA ring sliding inside me causing me to gasp; grasped my hips between his hands; and fucked me.

The gymnastics transpired a bit later, when we’d recovered our libidos from him fucking me, sheathed, and me stroking myself off while he did so. He fucked me on the bed in what I knew, from studying the male Kamasutra, was called the position of the crab—Shep on his back and me stretched out on top of him, pointed at the ceiling. I was holding myself off his body with my hands planted beside his shoulders and my feet planted beside his thighs, as, grasping my waist between his hands, Shep raised and lowered me on his cock.

I was playing the role of high-end rent-boy to the hilt. He, in fact, was in to the hilt much of the time.

Later, with Shep on his back, reclining against the headboard, I reclined in front of him, pointed at his feet and grasping his ankles, my legs streaming back along his side toward the headboard, as, holding my waist again, he pulled me on and off the cock. His only spoken orders to me were for me to show him my flexibility in assuming the demanding positions he wanted from me. Before ejaculating, he turned his body to a sitting position on the side of the bed, without losing purchase of his cock inside me, and grasped my wrists. My torso was cantilevered out over the carpet at the side of the bed, while he pulled me on and off the cock.

He was a virile man, a fast and frequent loader. I thought he was done; he’d used me almost nonstop for nearly two hours. But he wasn’t done. Men from Tulsa apparently demanded their full money’s worth. I was standing over the toilet, taking a piss before getting into the shower when Shep appeared behind me and growled in my ear, “reach for the wall and jut your ass back.” I did as commanded, and he palmed my belly with one hand, and fisted my cock after putting his dick in position with the other. There, the two of us hovering over the toilet bowl, he fucked me to another ejaculation.

When I was showered and dressed and leaving, he asked, “Do you do groups?”

“When the fee is big enough,” I answered. “All worked out with the escort agency. You know how to reach them.”

A little strange, but different, I thought, as I walked the several blocks to my room in the upper floors of a tenement. I had one room, dominated by a double bed and a small shower bath. What passed for a basic kitchen unit held up one wall. There was a message to call the escort agency flashing on my landline phone when I entered the room. The agency insisted that I keep that phone in addition to a cell phone. They paid for both, though, so that was fine with me.

I called back.

“You up for a midnight session?” the dispatcher asked. “A group, paying $1,000. A little kinky, I’m told.”

A group? Tonight. My first thought was that Shep worked real fast.

“Where?” I asked.

She gave me an address, a brownstone in an expensive block up toward Colombia University from here. “It’s a men’s club,” she said.

Didn’t sound like Shep. It wasn’t. I was met at the door by a middle-aged man in a black suit and a morose look on his face. From the front hall, I could see into some sort of a wood-paneled lounge area, thick with cigar smoke and dotted with men, several older, in tuxedos and holding brandy snifters, in the hands not lifting cigars.

“On the second floor,” the doorman said. “Sidney will show you.” Another morose-visaged middle-aged man in a black suit appeared. Both men were wearing white gloves. I heard the front door open when I was still on the second-floor landing.

Peekaboo, I thought, as I saw the man, tall and straight, a fine head of hair, wearing a tuxedo, enter the building. The doorman held out a black face mask, but I’d seen him before he put it on.

The entertainment was in a large wood-paneled room above the smoking lounge I’d seen downstairs. I was the entertainment. The show opened with me bound, wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew’s cross, facing out, at one end of the room. My mind went to a Tom Cruise movie I’d seen and I put myself into the role of the boy of the night for a group of randy high rollers. I went into an act where I was younger and more innocent, but resigned to being treated cruelly. I set my face in an expression I thought went with this role.

I was naked except for a black bow tie and a black satin thong pouch covering my cock and balls. Eight men, all in black tuxedoes and white gloves and wearing black half masks on their faces, some fit looking, some not, of varying ages, filed in after I was in place, and a spotlight was pointed on me. The chairs were arranged in an oval, all facing the St. Andrew’s cross. In the center of the oval was an ottoman, covered with black velvet.

A master of ceremonies—and, it turned out, auctioneer—stood beside me, in a black suit, white gloves, black mask, and holding a riding crop.

“For tonight, gentleman, a handsome young blond. A dancer and singer and actor of the highest quality. Twenty years of age. Top drawer at his agency. Ready for the highest bidder. You may examine him as you like.”

Something muffled was said in the room as the men rose from their chairs and came forward. And wafting over them was that distinctive laugh I’d heard before. Peekaboo, I see you, I thought, as the men came forward, gathered around me, and put their gloved hands on me—anywhere they wanted. I was wearing a pouch, but it wasn’t long before even that had been pushed down under my balls and I was being stroked by gloved hands. I leaned my shoulder blades back into the X-frame, jutted my pelvis out, and rocked gently against the hands taking turns stroking me.

Yes, I went into erection. I liked being fucked as well as the next by-choice rent-boy, and this scenario was arousing.

All the time the MC droned on about attributes I didn’t know I possessed and soon he opened the bidding. As he was releasing me from the X-frame and putting a collar, with a leash, around my throat, he was explaining the ground rules. All had paid an attendance fee. I was sure it had been hefty. One would win a bid to fuck me, there, on the ottoman, with the rest of them watching. Until then, feeling and oral during the bidding was permitted.

The men went back to their seats. They all kept their tuxedos on—and their gloves—but they all unzipped and took their cocks out to stroke and rub against me, as, putting me on all fours and leading me with the leash, the MC took me around the circle, stopping for me to take each man’s cock in my mouth and give him suck while he and his neighbors worked me with their hands.

I half expected Josh Hoffman, the man of the laugh and the man I’d seen at the door before he was masked, to win the bid, but he dropped out of the auction early. When the bid was won, and I was on my belly on the ottoman, arms and legs dangling off the side, the MC handed a fat man the riding crop he’d been flicking against his leg as he guided the entertainment. This evidently identified the winner of the bid. The fat man moved behind me and I yelped as he struck my bare buttocks with the riding crop. And then again and again and again, as the men in the circle leaned forward and watched. When the man was tired of that, he mounted my tail and slid inside me, huffing and puffing as he rode me, I raised my head, looking forward—into the eyes of Josh Hoffman, who was puffing on a cigar and giving me an amused look. More than once, when someone watching the fuck, which was participated in by the use of their white-gloved hands on my body and milking my cock while the obese man fucked me, made a quip, I heard the distinct laugh of the master of the Josh Hoffman Financial Services Company floating over the scene.

Early in the morning, when I stumbled back to my room, there was another message on my answering machine to call the escort service.

“Is your passport in the name of Clint James up to date?” she asked.

“Yes, why?”

“$15,000 clear, other expenses paid, for a long weekend in Italy. The week after next. It will be demanding. Early morning flight there. A party that night. Individual sessions the next two days. Return on day four. You’ll be part of a pool. You’ve been specifically requested. Any tips you receive are all yours and not reportable.”

“$15,000?” I asked, incredulous, not paying that much attention to the rest of it.

“Yes, $15,000, plus tips, which should be substantial, the base fee payable before you go; returnable, plus a black mark on your record, if you pull out, either before or during. You have to commit or pass now. As I said, you were specifically requested and we need time to negotiate and come up with someone else if you won’t do it.”

“Yes, I’m available,” I answered. Shep this time, I wondered. Or maybe the midnight auction had been an audition.

* * * *

It was the latter, I surmised, when the guests started to arrive for the Friday night party on the northern shore of Lake Como in Italy. I immediately started looking around and listening for the distinctive laugh.

Several of us—the “pool” the dispatcher at the escort agency had mentioned—arrived in Milan on the same Lufthansa flight, connecting from elsewhere through Frankfurt, Germany. We were from all over—from the four corners of the earth. We ranged in ages as far as I could see, from younger than eighteen, the age of consent in Italy being fourteen, to twenty-one or so. So, I was one of the older ones. We were of all ethnic extractions. What was the same was that we were all men—handsome young men with great bodies. We were all dressed for show and moving like everyone was watching and assessing each one of us. I surmised we were all high-priced prostitutes.

A fleet of black Mercedes had been laid on for us at the airport and drove us, in convoy, north, to Lake Como. I’d been told that was our destination and I had looked it up on the map. We were driven around to the far, northern shore from Milan, to the side that was close to the Swiss border. Most of the buildings and villages on the lake at this point were on the other shore. We arrived in the early afternoon and were told what we were to do that weekend and how we were to do it. Then we were told to rest. It would be a long, taxing night, followed by two taxing days if our services extended to that. From their description of our duties, we all believed the “taxing” part.

We were taken to an old hotel on the lake shore. I wasn’t sure, but I thought maybe it was a closed hotel, opened only for this special occasion. The young men were given rooms on the third floor—there were about two dozen of us. We were to put our luggage in the rooms assigned to us, but there was no telling whether we’d actually sleep in the rooms beyond this afternoon. We were told that our rooms were sanctuary—that we would not be expected to bring anyone back there for servicing.

We were told that the rooms on the second floor were for the club members but that most of us would be seeing the inside of those later in the evening. The rooms weren’t where the club members were staying. They were all being accommodated elsewhere around the lake. All day long helicopters were overflying us, going elsewhere. Most of them were coming in from the direction of Switzerland, Germany, or Austria. The rooms on the second floor were where the club members would be taking their choice from among us that night and fucking us. That was made quite clear to us during the instruction period. We were there to charm and to service and to be fucked—as, when, and how the club members wanted to do it. We were being paid a base fee, but there would be more if our services were engaged, and even more for repeat bookings.

This confused me a bit, as my escort agency had spoken of a flat fee. But I’d maximize my pay here, as I could, and I’d worry about the actual payment when I got back to New York. This one gig could carry me through the rest of this school year.

The party was to begin after dark, and as we were waiting for the guests to arrive, I went out onto the terrace facing the water and watched for the beginning of the evening. The night was so dark that I didn’t see the first launch until it reached the dock. I had heard it, though, start up on the other side of the lake, which was not broad at this point. All of the launches that arrived were black; those sailing them were dressed in black, as well. When the boat came up to the dock, a couple of men, one older and heavy and one younger and fitter, both wearing black tuxedos and black half masks on their faces, were helped off by another man, all in black and with a black face mask on. The first of the guests—what the staff referred to as the club members—had arrived. I remained out there, in the shadows, watching, as more guests arrived in other all-black launches, suddenly appearing, out of the mist on the lake, at the dock. All very mysterious.

There were some fifteen or sixteen guests in all—and some two dozen young men to service them. That meant that some of the rent-boys might not see action. That was to their advantage in the short run, but it would be a sure signal to them that their comparative charms here among the cream of the crop, and therefore the foundation for their careers, were waning. If they weren’t used here, they wouldn’t be booked again—and the news they weren’t would spread through the communities living this lifestyle. So, if you wanted to continue earning at this level, the incentive was there to get into the action—frequently. With a sigh, I wrapped the silk robe I was wearing—all that I was wearing—around me and moved into the main lounge of the hotel where the guests were mingling with the “pool” of young prostitutes.

All of the club members and the support staff were masked when I entered the house. The rent-boys weren’t. The members were in black tuxedoes, the staff in black suits. The lights were on, but dimmed, and the music was muted. There was no conversation above murmurs of the awed, but there were other men beyond the tuxedo-clad club members in the extensive ground-floor rooms. There was a bar, with barman, who took drink orders by signals and showing of bottles until one was satisfied and there were black-clad and masked waiters roaming around with trays of fancy nibbles. And, of course, there were the security men. It was clear to me that there were many billion dollars’ worth of men being serviced here.

There were something over a dozen club members present, ranging in age from early thirties into their early sixties. Each of them had been given a gold badge with a number on it to wear on their lapels. No names were spoken. If someone needed to be addressed at all, it was by the number assigned him for the evening. We were told the members had been told their number in the registered-mail announcement they received on the time and venue of the meeting. The numbers were of three digits to forestall thoughts that they might reflect any sort of ranking. Only a few club staff members, those making the complex arrangements, were able, for billing purposes, to match names with numbers. We were told this to let us know how secret everything was and how much trouble we’d be in if we ever described it to anyone.

The two main groups—the club members and the young male prostitutes—moved around the area, looking at each other and nodding and smiling, but never talking above a whisper. As the guests presumably were members of an international men’s club that met periodically like this, they probably knew or could speculate who the other members were and perhaps even guess, despite the face masks, at having encountered other members before. They undoubtedly obtained membership by referral from existing members. There were only two I could think of who I might recognize—either Shep, the oil world cowboy from Tulsa, or Josh Hoffman, my own employer, although he probably had no idea I existed, from New York.

Hoffman won out. As I drifted around, being stopped from time to time for a club member to take a good look at me or to insert his hand in the split of my robe and get a feel of whatever he wanted to check out, I heard the distinct laugh of Hoffman floating over the assemblage. I wasn’t surprised, but I was aroused, and more than one member registered surprise and smiled when he felt me up and discovered I was in erection.

I and the other young men there to service the members weren’t wearing masks. We weren’t wearing anything at all, other than robes with two silver badges on our chests with numbers on them—each badge with the same number. All of us knew why we were here. All of us had agreed to be here this evening and to provide any services demanded of us. All of us would be paid handsomely—especially those who provided the greatest and most demanding service.

Most of us would be used—totally—and we knew it and, for the recompense and promise of future assignments, welcomed it. Those who weren’t chosen for the evening or for more private venues over the next two days would be the ones who were disappointed. They too would be paid—but not nearly as much as they would be for going under one of the club members or for being roughly and brutally used by him—and they would leave here with the thought that their careers were on the wane.

The process was simple—designed so that nothing verbal occurred. For tonight, all a member had to do after having roamed around assessing the young men and making a choice, was to take one of the silver badges off the robe of the prostitute of his choice. As he assessed the young men, he was permitted to note the numbers of up to two more who met his interest. If he wished, this could be the only session he attended. But most of the club members, having gathered from distant locations at great expense and a challenge to their demanding schedules, extended their stay to include two more days. A club member was allowed to book a young man for each day. The cost to the member, of course, depended on the services he picked and the accommodations he’d been accorded. It was all quite expensive. If the men in this club didn’t have unlimited discretionary funds, though, they would not be in this club. The club had a charge card from each member, dedicated to club expenses, which was automatically and euphemistically charged—something that would not arrest the attention of their personal accountants or the tax man. The charges would be for something other than the services of a rent-boy. There were two meetings a year. The members had to make reservations to attend the main international meetings such as this.

There was a table in one of the rooms in the mansion that had a bowl on it. The club member picked a number out of the bowl, which assigned him to a bedroom upstairs. It wasn’t a large hotel, but it was large enough. There were more than enough bedrooms to accommodate everyone. There also was a signup sheet, where the club member could record the numbers of the young men he wished to book for the next day and/or the day after that. All he need do was ensure that the young man’s number hadn’t been lodged by any other member—recording by his gold badge number—for the same day he wished to use a prostitute. The rent-boy was his for as long that day as he wished, and we pointedly would be told that it was likely that we couldn’t take more than one member in a day, another allusion to the treatment mostly likely being rough.

The presence of a small army of thuggish-looking—other than the tuxedos—bodyguards standing around and observing everything spoke of control whatever the situation and help in cleaning up and covering over any mishaps—or planned activities.

The young men would be delivered to the selecting member wherever on the lake he was being accommodated—the accommodations provided having been done so as to protect privacy and ensure sound abatement needs—and taken away on one of the black launches when the member was done with the young man. Again, the indication given was that the young man indeed would be “done” at the end of the session. Everything pointed to there being no limit to the pleasure a member might expect as long as he was willing and able to pay for it.

The young men had robes with sashes, but club members were permitted to spread the robes open and examine the prostitutes for suitability as if they were thoroughbred race horses, and the more experienced members did so. I was examined by at least a dozen of the members, including Josh Hoffman, who showed no indication he recognized me, either from work or from the auction where I had hoped he would have the winning bid, but didn’t. His hands had left nothing to discover when he examined me that evening, though, and I panted for him and was erect during his exploration.

The case was different tonight. He didn’t just explore and fondle me and then move on to another this evening. When I was paired up to go upstairs, it was with Josh Hoffman. He was going to take his pound of flesh—and in his venue and at the pleasure of his choice. Perhaps this was why he hadn’t bid on me before. Perhaps he wanted more than the auction parameters permitted.

When Hoffman took my hand and moved toward the stairs to the bedrooms upstairs along with several others, I was trembling slightly. I had had my eyes on him during the auction where I was sold and used and I was given the impression that he could be a cruel lover. On that night, he’d been one of the men who had used a cigar he was smoking as a dildo on me. He hadn’t used the lighted end to penetrate me, but he had teased me with the possibility that he might. Maybe now he wanted free rein to exercise the cruelty he had thought wouldn’t be permitted at the auction in New York.

As we passed down one of the bedroom hallways toward the assigned room, we passed one where the door was open and the club member, old, obese, and trouserless, wielding a thick, heavy erection, with a low hanging ball sac was already fully using his young man—one of the youngest of them. Having brought his own restraints, the club member had bound the youth’s wrists together, laid him at the foot of the bed on his back, was holding the young man’s legs raised and split, and was fucking him vigorously in the missionary position.

His young prostitute was arching his back and panting to the ceiling with a look of suffering on his face. As we paused, I shuddered, and involuntarily gave a little moan. Hoffman laughed his distinct laugh and ran his hand into the split of my robe, closed his hand on my balls, and squeezed. I yelped in surprise and pain. Hoffman laughed again, withdrew his hand, and guided me on down the hall.

Yes, it was going to be a rough night, I thought. And I was right. One of the house thugs, in tuxedo, was stationed in the hallway, and I knew that if any of the guests thought they were in trouble, the bodyguard would be there in a flash to support them.

The first thing when we entered the assigned bedroom was that Hoffman said, “Take the robe off and hand me the sash.” The robe had been held closed by a red silk cord. I pulled the sash off and shrugged my shoulders out of the robe, which puddled to the floor at my feet. I was standing there, naked. I handed him the sash. Hoffman was looking at me with a blank expression on his face. He moved around me, taking in every angle of my body. When he was behind me, he took my wrists and bound them together behind me with the red sash. He pulled away from me then and went over to a table where a brandy bottle and a couple of snifters were set. He poured himself some brandy and slowly drank it off as he looked at me, standing there, naked, my wrists tied behind my back. He didn’t offer me a drink. I remained, eyes downcast, neither of us saying anything. We both knew this was symbolic of the control he was accorded here and what my status was.

I looked up to see that there was a riding crop on the table too. Hoffman put the brandy glass down and picked the riding crop up. My eyes went big as he strode toward me. He came so fast that I didn’t have time or presence of mind to react. By the time he reached me, he had drawn the hand not holding the riding crop back. My attention had been on the riding crop and not on his other hand. He swung out with it, catching me on the left cheek with a hard slap. He was fast enough that he came back, backhanding me on the right cheek with it and sending me careening back onto the bed in shock.

“You don’t think this will be easy on you, do you?” he growled.

“No, sir,” I answered, steeling myself, determined to hold out for as long as possible before breaking down. This at least confirmed that he would be cruel—and brutal. I had seen that in him, under his veil of elegant gentleman, even back in New York, in his company tower. It scared me, but it also drew me toward him.

Hoffman leaned over me, grabbed me by the hair, turning me onto my back on the bed. And then raising and snapping down the riding crop again and again, he beat me on the back, the buttocks, and the thighs. It was more a shock than pain for me, and I didn’t think he was putting the full force of his strength behind the beating, but it made me gasp and pant and try to writhe away from him without success. He only stopped when I collapsed and stopped writhing. He was an expert at it, though, knowing how to snap to cause a flash of pain but to minimize the effect on my skin.

He moved away from me then and walked around the bed, examining it. I followed him with my eyes, seeing what he did. There were leads, with restraints coming out of the headboard at the corners and in the middle. Hoffman looked up at the ceiling and so did I. There were leads coiled up there over the foot of the bed as well, ending in restraints. These could be pulled down.

I panted and snuffled, trying not to sob as he readjusted my body, turning me on my back on the bed, unbinding my wrists only to pull my arms up toward the headboard and restrain my wrists above my head. I watched too, wide-eyed, as he pulled the leads at either corner of the foot of the bed down from the ceiling and bound my ankles, with my legs spread and raised, my buttocks on the bottom edge of the bed.

I offered no resistance. I knew none was available to me. He was larger and more powerful than I was, and if I did succeed in resisting him, I knew he only need call out and thugs would appear to help him and to note that I wasn’t cooperating. If I didn’t cooperate, I’d be sent away and my career at the high end would be finished.

Then he climbed onto me straddling my chest, and unzipped his fly and pulled a massive, engorged cock out. “Suck me,” he growled. He forced himself between my lips and I gave him head. I gagged as he made me deep-throat him. He came down my throat and I hacked as he pulled out of me.

He climbed off me, went to the foot of the bed and knelt behind me. It was my turn to get head—and to have my balls inhaled into his cheeks and squeezed until I was writhing and screaming. He stopped that, though. He pulled a red silk scarf out of his pocket and came around the side of the bed long enough to stuff it in my mouth. When I’d been forced to go silent I realized that there were other young men around me being treated this rough as well—plaintive cries in a variety of languages were drifting through the second floor of the hotel. All of the club members must now have made their choices for the evening and were using them.

It hit me then that this wasn’t just a men’s sex club. This was a men’s anything-you-can-afford-goes BDSM sex club. There were more rent-boys than guests here this evening because there would be fewer rent-boys walking around tomorrow. My priority now was one of surviving the night and being here for another round tomorrow.

Hoffman went back to giving my cock and balls attention, and when I’d shot a load for him, he concentrated on my asshole and in opening me up with his tongue. It would have been fine if he’d stopped here, but he didn’t. I heard the snap of the latex glove and he raised his hand up between my V’d legs to let me see that his right hand was gloved and dripping in lubricant. He was going to play games with me until he had recovered his own erection.

I screamed through the silk scarf and writhed under him as, humming, he worked his fist inside me—first a couple of fingers and then more and then, with me nearly lifting my body off the mattress as the knuckles breached my sphincter muscle. Then he fucked me with the fist.

I writhed and moaned and did what I could to cry out through the silk gag, but Hoffman got all of the fist inside me giving me a good fucking with it. He wasn’t the first to have done that to me and his hands were slender for a man, so I managed. I found the rough fucking hot, too, in spite of myself. After a while he just held his hand steady and I swayed against his buried hand, effectively fucking myself on the fist. I stopped writhing or trying to make noise. He reached up and freed my ankles, one after the other. I couldn’t help myself. I pressed my feet into the mattress on either side, pushing my pelvis up to provide a good angle for the man’s fist inside me. Then, panting and moaning, I rocked on the fist, taking it, clearly indicating wanting it.

Hoffman laughed his signature laugh and put his free hand on my shaft, stroking me. I rocked on the fist for ten or more minutes more, reveling in the total possession of the flexing hand. I gave him probably the biggest, high-arcing ejaculation that I’d ever had in my life.

Laughing again, Hoffman pulled his hand out of me and voiced the embarrassingly obvious in a hoarse tone. “You wanted that. You want it rough. You’re a whore for it.”

I could not disagree with him even if I wasn’t effectively gagged.

He moved to where he crouched over my body between my spread and raised legs and captured my eyes with his, holding my gaze. He smiled as I grimaced when he penetrated me with his reengorged shaft, thrusting hard and deep up inside me, and, maintaining control with me just with his eyes, he fucked me hard to his second ejaculation. When he pulled out of me, he patted me on the hip, went back to the table, drank off another snifter of brandy, zipped himself up, and took a small—but precious, I was sure—bar of gold out of his pocket and dropped it on the table.

“When they come to release you, don’t let them take the gold bar. It’s for you. You gave me a good fuck.” Then he went to the door, opened it, and called for someone to have a launch brought to take him back across the lake.

He had done all of that in his tuxedo, only having released his cock to stuff it inside me. It was quite a long and thick cock, though.

Two men in black suits arrived within minutes of Hoffman’s departure and released me. I crawled up the stairs to the room assigned me and soaked in the tub in the en-suite bathroom. I relived the experience in my mind. I was almost ashamed of myself to have to admit that it had been hot and I hadn’t had sex that moving for some time. A male prostitute easily became dulled to the sex he had to take. Nothing about Hoffman had been dull. He was exacting the cruel master that I had seen in him the first time I laid eyes on him—and that, despite my welfare, I had found sexually arousing. As I soaked and went over the evening in my mind, I masturbated, coming for the third time that night.

I was such a bad boy. I already was wondering if I’d see Hoffman again—and hoping I would.

* * * *

The next morning I was told to be down on the dock at 10:00 a.m. I was there at 9:45, looking at an interesting house right on the water directly across the narrow finger lake from the hotel. It was an all-glass cube of two stories, with a rock-wall base. One of the black launches was just pulling away from the private-residence dock there, so I was assuming that whoever was living in the all-glass house must be one of the club members from the previous night.

At precisely 10:00 a.m. that black launch pulled up to the hotel dock and one of the staff members in a black suit and black mask came down from the hotel to tell me the launch would take me to my assignment for the day. I asked who had booked me, but he wouldn’t tell me.

“If the gentleman wants to identify himself to you, he will. He may take you somewhere during the day. He brought his own driver with him and he has one of our automobiles. If he does take you in public, you are not to say or do anything that will attract attention to him or the party we are holding here or identify who he is. Understood?”

“Yes,” I answered, even more curious now who it could be. I wondered if it was Josh Hoffman. He had taken me away from the party room so quickly the evening before that, although I’d been felt up and prodded by other guests, I didn’t have any sense that anyone else was interested in booking my time. I had been told I had been booked for both days, though. If that was Hoffman and he was going to use me both days like he had the previous evening, I’m not sure I would survive. I briefly wondered if any rent-boys didn’t survive meetings like this, but I tried to push that thought out of my mind.

But, oh, what a way to go. I couldn’t help myself. I was hoping he had booked me for today.

He hadn’t. The launch took me south on the lake, to the opposite shore, to a shoreline town on land jutting out into the lake that had a sign at the dock identifying it as Dervio. Standing at the dock, obviously waiting for me, were two men who were so different from each other that the admonishment not to bring attention to ourselves if we went out in public became laughable. They were attention-getters as a pair on their own, but adding me to the set would just add to that.

One man was short and rotund and in his sixties. I admit that I had seen a man that short and circular the previous evening. This could only be that man. He looked like a classics professor at some stuffy European university. The other man, in contrast, would stand out anywhere in this area. He was a good six-and-a-half feet tall, massively muscular, a native of some exotic locale—Middle Eastern or Indian, perhaps—and dressed in a gold brocade, long-sleeved, high-necked robe, with a turban on his head. Both men were bearded, but the short man’s beard was gray and trimmed; the big monster’s beard was black and bushy.

I nearly broke down in giggles when they were escorting me to a lakeside restaurant in the town, the Restorante Al Rustic, the short man whispered to me that we would go for an early lunch, “before we fuck.” To hear a prissy little man like him say that was a surprise in itself, but what was amusing was that, telling me that he was Lars from Amsterdam and the Oriental giant was Basil and he was Lars’s Turkish chauffeur, he said that he, Lars, was a diamond cutter and classics professor at the University of Amsterdam.

Damn if I hadn’t called that one—but diamond cutter was an interesting profession. That profession didn’t become any less interesting during our lunch, where the stubby professor, whose English was excellent, waxed poetic on the world of diamonds while his chauffeur, who ate with us on equal footing, merely sat there and glowered at me. I had no idea if he spoke English or not, as he didn’t speak at all.

Two hours later we were on the second floor of a lakeside villa a few miles further south on the lakeshore from the town of Dervio, in a bedroom with four French doors opening out onto a balcony overlooking the lake. I was on my back, naked, at the foot of the bed, feet pressed to the Oriental carpet, legs spread, and the gnome of a professor was crouched between my legs justifying his membership in the kinky men’s club by performing kinky sex on me. He hadn’t fucked me—yet—but he had the largest of a set of linked graduated round rubberized balls stuffed up into my channel, with the chain dangling toward the floor between my thighs. It was much the same stretched and filled feeling I’d had the previous night with Hoffman’s fist inside me.

The gnome was hung, and uncut, and he spent several minutes docking our cocks, putting the bulbs together, pulling the foreskin of his cock over my bulb and a good two inches further, causing the bulbs to kiss, and masturbating our shafts together, all of the time humming, very pleased with himself. He didn’t stop there. Basil handed him a leather case. I’d seen sounding rods before, but this was the first time I’d had them used on me. The professor worked me over intently like I was some sort of science project he was demonstrating for his students.

He fucked my cock with the sounding rods.

I lay there, on my back, panting, trying to remain as calm and steady as possible, as Lars extracted steel rods of graduated thickness and lengths, starting small and getting long and thick enough to make me moan and groan deeply as he slowly penetrated the urethra channel of my shaft and both twisted the rod and moved it in and out, fucking my cock with it. As he did so, I beg for mercy that didn’t come. With Basil sitting above me, holding my wrists captive above my head, and looking on, Lars hunched over me, holding my cock erect with one hand and selecting steel rod after steel rod from the leather case and carefully, skillfully, twirling them, one after the other, down into the urethra slit of my cock head, reaching down to my ball sac. The rod would be twirled in and Lars would gently fuck my urethra channel with it before pulling it out and moving on to the next thicker and longer rod. In between penetrations, he would run his hands all over my torso and tell me what a magnificent body I had and how good I was to let him use me like this.

Except I don’t remember being asked if he could use me like this. I was just told that anything went with however the club member wanted to use me. Cooperate or forego my fee and see my career diminished.

My job was to lay there, motionless, pant a bit, whimper or sob quietly if I wanted—but to take having my cock fucked.

Intermission was Lars becoming part of the act. He had a couple of rods that were for both of us. One end went into my cock and the other went into his and, once again, with the rod totally buried between us, Lars, hunching over me, docked our cocks, pulling his foreskin over my bulb as he gently masturbated us while he grunted his satisfaction. When he pulled us both off the largest rod he used that way, we both came, our cum mingling and flowing down the sides of our cocks.

Act Two was back to the sounding rods twirled down into my piss channel, reaching for my ball sac, using the thickest of the rods. Added to the entertainment here was that Lars didn’t hold my cock erect with one hand; he used that hand to reach under my balls, extract the rubberized ball, penetrate me with his fingers, and finger fuck my ass channel while he cock fucked me with the rods. He hummed what must be a classic tune while he was doing this and he was trembling like this was the height of sex for him.

After he was done with the sounding, he sat on the side of the bed and Basil came around, stood between my parted legs, with me still panting from the exertion of holding still for the sounding, slowly unbuttoned his robe, flaring it to show he was magnificently muscular and, not incidentally, ragingly erect. He grasped my legs, spread-eagled them in a high and wide V, thrust up inside my channel, which had been worked open by Lars with his fingers, and fucked the hell out of me.

Lars sat where he had a good view of me being fucked by the Turk, licked his chops, and stroked himself to an ejaculation.

As the afternoon wore on, I lay there, where I’d been all afternoon, spent, and my head turned to the side. Lars was on his back, on the side of the bed, and the big Turk was between his legs, giving him the same fucking he’d given me earlier. Lars was writhing and screaming and having a jolly old time. The Turk’s cock obviously was too big for the little Dutch professor. Neither of them seemed to care. The position of chauffeur in this relationship wasn’t a subservient one. I had thought not from the moment I’d seen them on the Dervio dock.

They left me, and I lay there on the bed, on my side, my knees drawn up into my stomach. It had been two days of nonstop, taking sex, much of it kinky, some of it painful, and I had another day of it to come. The other two had left the room, to eat or drink? I had no idea, and I didn’t care. For now it was peaceful here. I was alone. I was relaxed. I turned my head, looking out onto Lake Como. The sailboats were out. There things were as normal, nonthreatening, nonexperiencing-the-depths of sexuality activity as one could experience out there.

Something made me turn my head again. The Turk, Basil, was standing at the foot of the bed. He was unbuttoning his robe, brushing it aside, revealing his magnificently bronzed torso with its bulging muscles. He was in gigantic erection. He reached down, grasped my ankles, turned me on my back, and spread my legs. I made no move to counter him. Instead, I stretched my arms out from my body in a sacrificial position. I lay there, Basil nudging between my thighs, my legs spread. Defenseless, Vulnerable. About to be invaded, conquered, ravished once more.

He moved his hands, slowly, almost lovingly, up my legs from the ankles—up to where my inner thighs attached to my torso. He touched me there in the sensitive inner surface of my thighs, and I groaned for him.

“Yes, yes, fuck me,” I moaned.

The fingers of both of his hands went to the crease on either side where my underbelly transitioned into the tops of my thighs. He lightly rubbed me there, and I moaned, turned my thighs outward, open to him, brought the heels of my feet up to the edge of the foot of the bed, dug in and raised my pelvis to him.

“Do it. Fuck me again,” I murmured wearily—as if the giant Turk needed permission. That’s what I was here for. That’s what I was being paid to do—to give my body to any man here who wanted to use and abuse it.

His hands went to cupping and separating my buttocks cheeks. He entered, entered, entered me as I panted and groaned at the size of him.

“Güzel, güzel. İyi karşılarsın—Good, good. You take it good,” the Turk murmured. Of course I did. I was a high-end male hooker. I was there for any man who would pay for it and wanted to put his cock, no matter the size, in me.

Nothing kinky or exotic about this. This was a straightforward, take-no-prisoners master fuck.

Lars padded into the room again and settled to watch, as the dance of the fuck started again. Stretching, sinking, working, filling. I turned my face to the ceiling and cried out my surrender, and began to move with the fuck, rocking against Basil’s belly with his thrusts, feeling his lemon-sized balls bouncing on my inner thighs.

Lars pulled in closer, lightly panting and touching the Turk on the cock and the balls and touching me too, here, there, and everywhere, cooing to me as Basil relentless stroked in my ass. Lars encircled my cock with his hand, his pinky finger going to my piss slit, forcing itself in, fucking my cock with his pinky while Basil fucked my ass with his bludgeon. I turned my face toward the river to find some balance there—but the sailboats were gone.

As I felt the Turk tensing and coming close, I raised and spread my legs in a victory V, arched my back, and Basil and I shot off our loads together.

They drove me back to Dervio and the Restorante Al Rustic for another divine seafood meal and an animated monologue from Lars—Basil being silent and glowering at me and I being subdued and exhausted. The diamond industry once again. There was no allusion to the kinky sex of the afternoon, and the diamond industry talk was fascinating. It was all the more fascinating when, as the black launch was taking me back to the hotel, I checked out the small pouch Lars had slipped into my pocket on the dock.

I pulled out a diamond of quite enough carats to have made the ordeal of the day totally worthwhile. We had been told the tips were good, but I had no idea they could be this good.

Later, as twilight was falling, I went out on the hotel terrace to take in the activity on the lake. The strange glass house across the lake was lit up like a lantern. I noticed that one of the black launches was docked there. I watched its progress across the lake, and when I saw it dock here at the hotel, I watched two men in black suits come off the launch carrying a stretcher between them. I didn’t know if the young man they were carrying was conscious or not—or even alive or not. An arm was slung over his face as if he wanted to shut the world—the world of this exclusive men’s BDSM sex club—out of his existence.

I looked back up at the glass house, to the second floor, a bedroom, where a large man, dressed out in black leather, had a smaller, younger one pressed into the glass wall facing me. The younger man had his arms raised and spread and the palm of his hands pressed into the glass. His hips were jutted back. The larger man, close behind him, was palming his belly with one hand. The fingers of the larger man’s other hand were run into the hair at the back of the smaller one’s head and was arching the younger man’s head back painfully as he fucked him.

I shivered and withdrew back into the hotel when I realized who the larger man was.

* * * *

The next morning the black launch didn’t have very far to deliver me. It just had to float straight across the lake, from the hotel dock to the dock of the all-glass house. Except that the house wasn’t all glass. The ground floor was encased in a rock wall. The windows at this level, such as they were, were mere horizontal slits high on the wall, set with iron bars.

As I climbed off the launch and onto the dock, I saw that there was a man standing in the doorway of the house, back in the shadows. Peekaboo, I see you, floated into my mind. I see you back there. I know who you are. I know what you do.

As if he’d heard the jab, Josh Hoffman came out into the open from what was the entry door to The Glass House, a double door in the rock wall next to the garage door leading into the earth mound between the house and the street. Hoffman was in leather—tight leather hip-high boots and a black leather harness on a magnificently muscled bare chest. The harness was attached to the tops of the boots in front on each side, but he otherwise was naked. His buttocks and cock and balls were exposed. He was holding a riding crop in one hand and tapping it against the palm of the other hand, and he was in erection.

I knew instantly what sort of session this would be. I looked up at The Glass House, intrigued by the transparency of it, looking forward to touring the house. But it would be some time before I was to see anything but the rock-walled rooms in the house’s ground floor.

Hoffman watched me, a little cruel smile on his face, as I walked, trembling, both scared and exhilarated, from the dock, across the driveway, and to the door. He turned to the side in the doorway as I walked past him and into the bowels of the house. The door shut with a solid sound of finality behind us.

He guided me into a rock-walled chamber to the right of the entrance hall. The room was the base of The Glass House above. There, in the middle of what appeared to be some sort of sexual torture chamber, complete with equipment, tools, and toys, Hoffman blindsided me, taking me by surprise. He punched me in the midsection and as I was doubling up, he swung up, catching me on the cheek with his fist. I went down in a heap. He grabbed my head by the hair, jerked me up to my knees, slapped me across the face twice, and let me sink to the floor again. I remained there, panting and whimpering as he moved around the chamber, preparing it for me. We both knew I wouldn’t be giving him any resistance to anything he did with me. It’s possible, though, that it angered him that I didn’t.

I lay there, looking up at him with fearful and seeking eyes, as he stripped me. He hung me, bound at wrists, ankles, and throat, to a St. Andrew’s cross, facing the frame and the rough-stone rock wall. There he beat me with a ridding crop, raising welts but careful not to break my reddened skin. When I was reduced to a quivering, sobbing mass, just hanging from the frame, Hoffman pulled a surgical glove onto his right hand, greased it up good, came in close behind me, his left arm embracing my chest, and, as I screamed, he fisted me with his right hand and fucked me with it. When I was well open and stretched, he readjusted the arms of the X-frame, stretching my legs straight out from my body and adjusting a pad at my belly that jutted my buttocks back and rolled them up. He exchanged the fist for his erection, and he mounted, penetrated, and fucked me.

Hoffman didn’t give me his cum then, though. When we were both worked up and I was begging for a finish, he took me off the St. Andrew’s cross and moved me to a suspended sling in the corner of the room. He put me inside that on my back, restrained my wrists up the two chains at my head and my ankles up the two chains at my tail, and worked my ass for a good half hour with various sizes and shapes of dildos and a string of graduated tear-shaped balls. When I was babbling from this, he exchanged the balls for his cock and fucked me to his finish, stroking my cock off to give me an ejaculation as well.

Later he dragged him to the small bedroom buried behind the garage, spread-eagled me to one of two double beds there, face down and bound, lifted me up his knees, my cheek and chest pressed to the bed, mounted me again, and rode me to exhaustion—my exhaustion. He edged me when either one of us was preparing to come until I pleaded for him to finish me. After doing so, he took an electric rod and zapped me randomly on sensitive flesh, laughing as, in my exhaustion, I still jerked and sobbed for him.

Never before had I been so scared, so fully controlled and conquered, so badly used, so enslaved, in so much sexual stress and pain. Never before had I danced so high and for so long on the clouds of sexual fulfillment, felt so desired and desirable, had so much sexual pleasure, felt so wanton, excited, exhilarated, and free. Never had I been this hard for this long or gushed this much cum so often. Never before had I been drained so completely and satisfyingly. As ashamed as I was for letting him do this to me, I couldn’t be more sexually complete.

It was only then that I was permitted to experience the glass walls of the house suspended over the lake above the torture chamber. Hoffman freed me and helped me up two stories to the bathroom, itself a glass-block cubicle between the two glass-walled bedrooms.

He filled the tub with water. The tub too was make of transparent acrylic. I was completely malleable now—indeed, from the very start I’d let him do what he liked and I’d given him whatever he wanted. I was moving only where and how he directed me, my expression one of glazed shock—and, I’m sorry to admit, sexual satiation. Hoffman was a man of lust, using me hard, and I was there for him, thrilled to serve him, obtaining my satisfaction from being the object of his uncontrolled lust and desire. My body, the body I worked so hard to keep fit and supple, was good enough to overwhelm the great man’s lust.

As I moved to get in the tub of water, he pushed me down at the tub’s side, on my knees and forced my head into the water. He grabbed my blond hair with his fist, pressing my chest into the side of the tub with his other hand on my back, and dunked my head once, twice, six times, seven, in the water. I sputtered for air, gasping, as Hoffman pulled my head out of the water each time. He continued dunking me until he felt me completely collapse, no fight or independent movement left in me at all. Then he dragged me away from the tub, put me on my back on the bathroom floor, and put my ankles on his shoulders as he knelt between my open, spread, vulnerable thighs.

He leaned over me, moved his bulb into position, and thrust up inside me. I gasped and gave a little yelp as he penetrated me, yet again, but I gave no more sign of resistance. Once saddled, he let his hands glide up my well-muscled chest, to my throat, where he took my throat in his hands. Choking my throat and releasing as he fucked me, he coordinated the breath play with the rhythm of the fuck. I lay, docilely, under him, my glazed-over eyes barely focusing on his face, my hips weakly rocking to the rhythm of the thrusts, panting lightly and gurgling in response to the breath play, surrendering completely to him, as he fucked me to another coming for both of us.

The man was a virile, cruel monster. The man was my master. Whatever he wanted . . .

Later, after leaving me there on the bathroom floor and after I had dragged myself up and soaked in the tub, I came out into the bedroom, where Hoffman lay, naked, on the bed floating high over the surface of Lake Como in the twilight through the glass wall. I approached the bed and sat by him. Leaning over, I took his cock in my mouth, giving him slow head, working him up to another erection. When I had, I came up on the bed, saddled myself on his pelvis, and descended my channel on his cock, giving myself fully to him, showing him that he didn’t have to rip it from me. We fucked, finding and reveling in a shared balance in the dance of the fuck, giving and taking, for the first time making love and being as focused on giving pleasure as much as taking it. At the finish we came together in one prolonged, shared sigh.

After I’d given him everything, I heard that signature laugh of his echoing off the glass walls.

* * * *

Nearly a week later, I was back in Manhattan, back at my classes and still trundling through the halls of the ten-floor chunk of a downtown office building designated as the offices of the Josh Hoffman Financial Services Company. My body had healed and my finances had improved considerably since my long weekend at Lake Como. The gold bar and multicarated diamond I had received as tips at the men’s club meeting had given me financial security through to the end of my year of studies and had netted me a somewhat larger, less-dingy apartment. I didn’t really need this part-time job. I could walk away from the Josh Hoffman Financial Services Company and everything and everyone involved with it if I wanted.

Everything was looking up, and then I got the call. I can’t say I wasn’t expecting it.

“Corporate wants you on the top floor, now,” Linda, the receptionist on the floor I then was delivering mail to, said. She had a funny, somewhat apprehensive look on her face.

“Corporate?” I asked.

“Yes. The front office. The manager’s floor.”

I stood just outside the open doorway of the Great Man’s office.

“Don’t linger there. Peekaboo, I see you,” a gruff voice said from inside the office. “Don’t just stand there. Come in and shut and lock the door behind you.”

And then I was in, shutting and locking the door behind me, and turning and facing the man himself, Josh Hoffman. I was either going to be fired and buried where I could tell no tales, or I was about to become Josh Hoffman’s permanent sexual toy—for as long as I was desirable to him or until I was completely used up, whichever came first. I had options. I had financial means to carry me for a while. I could just walk away from this.

But I knew what was true. The choice wasn’t up to me; it was up to him. Whatever he wanted.

“Come over here, lay on your back on this conference table, strip off your trousers and briefs. Open your legs to me; give yourself to me,” he said in a low, hoarse voice.

I unbuckled my belt as I started walking to the table.

It appeared the man knew who I was and what I’d do for another man all along and that I was going to be continuing to work for Josh Hoffman—both the company and the man.

 

To be continued.