An invitation ...
The evening with Lord Fontlebois had been fun. He’d visited my small art gallery by appointment as we are related, and he was trying to trace my father. I sell paintings for a number of artists, both known and unknown, displaying them for a commission. I also act as an agent, commissioning work for buyers and connecting them with the artists. I was unable to help him find my father, mainly because I’d not seen the man since my childhood and my mother, now deceased, had raised me alone. The family name is, for some, a source of amusement, and I’d only begun using it after my mother’s death.
“I expect you suffered a fair bit at school with the family monicker,” his lordship had remarked, looking at my business card.
My birth certificate gives my surname as Fontleböm and my ‘given’ names aren’t much of an improvement. I am Guillaume Gaynor Llewelyn Augustus. The family is quite wealthy, said to be very old money, so I’ve had the ‘benefit’ of Public School and a degree in fine art at a blue brick university. The school had been a bit tricky as my penis is on the solid side and longer than average and tends to simply go rigid, getting a little longer and fatter. When slack it makes a rather prominent bulge in my pants. Coupled with being ‘gay’, having a taste for latex, and bondage, sharing a dormitory with a bunch of other boys, most of them raging ‘jocks’ was at times extremely difficult.
“Not really.” I grinned. “My mother insisted I use her name instead — awkward when anyone asked for my birth certificate. Hers wasn’t much better anyway, especially being gay … I’ll leave it to you to imagine what a bunch of schoolboys can do with Darling.”
“Ah, yes. The family problem.” We’d talked the afternoon away, he’d invited me to have dinner and then we’d gone to a club I frequent, and it turned out that he was a member as well. It’s a Gay Club, but very discreet, a ‘gentlemen’s’ club, upmarket, and my main reason for going there — apart from being a Member and preferring the quiet and discreet atmosphere — was the eye candy among the all male waiters. It was at the ‘studio’ as we younger members irreverently called the Club, properly registered as The Holbein Rooms. The majority of members were artists or actors, and it’s waiting staff in the evenings were usually young men from the university student body. Some may well be Gay, but the Club rules were strict — no soliciting on the premises. Mindful of the ‘rules’ I began to cultivate Grant, first scouting to find which room he was waiting on, then enjoying a bit of light conversation as opportunity served. His nervousness was a strong attraction for me, but there was something else. He was attractive, bright, courteous and I found myself ‘wanting’ him.
It was there that I first saw Grant. For some strange reason I was instantly struck by his appearance and by his awkwardness. He was not the most attractive waiter there, but, unlike the others who were up front about their sexual orientation — and sometimes a little too forward in trying to get a member into a liaison, Grant was screamingly shy, and apparently not ‘interested’.
Nervous as a cat, clearly struggling to not openly respond to the clearly Gay environment. As luck would have it on the night his lordship and I went there, he was serving in the main room where musicians entertained patrons. Grant had been our waiter, and I had realised that my attraction to him was something deeper — something drew me to him, that whispered in my head that this was the man I truly wanted.
The evening with Lord Fontlebois had made a small chink in Grant’s armour. On my next visit he was less nervous of me, and at least smiled when he greeted me to take my order. I exploited it and followed up on my desire to get to know our timid waiter better. I made it my business to find out more about him. Easier than I’d thought, since I’m a benefactor of the Art School, and knew the right questions to ask and who to ask them of! What I learned suggested that he might be amenable to a liaison, but was obviously skittish, putting it about that he ‘worked’ at the club merely to supplement his student grant. He certainly didn’t have any liaisons, living alone in a single room in a bad part of town, and eking out a meagre grant selling watercolours and miniatures on commission.
I filed that away, acquired a couple of his sketches and began a campaign to attract him. Initially it had achieved a friendly smile and a relaxed service whenever I appeared at the club. I began to ascertain when he was working, and in what section so I could be certain he would be my waiter. Experience in my twenty-seven years has taught me caution and not to rush these things and, while initially I was interested in him sexually — I like a challenge — there was something more. I was genuinely attracted to him on a level that went beyond mere sexual desire.
I’ve destroyed budding relationship far, far to often in the past by rushing them, and especially if you are seeking a partner who shares a fetish or fetishes like mine, caution is advisable.
With Grant I didn’t want to risk scaring him off before I’d had the chance to explore his desires fully. I liked him, and I wanted more than just to get into his rather nicely filled pants. I could get that anywhere. Grant was different. He was shy, not ‘camp’, intelligent and very attractive once you saw past his attempt to hide it. I wanted more than simply to have him submit to having sex with me. Something about him made me want to have him as something more than simply a sexual adventure along the way. But here’s the rub. As I’ve already suggested, I’m a rubber fetishist — leather as well on occasion — and I love bondage sex, but I recognise that it certainly isn’t to everyone’s taste, and Grant had, so far, not shown any indication of sharing that taste.
So I played it cool, taking time to learn more about him, sharing a smile or a laugh when I visited the Club, and taking an interest in his studies. His degree, to my delight, was in fine art, which, as I own a small gallery, gave me a perfect opening to invite him to let me see some more of his work. It was a success, and from there our ‘friendship’ began to blossom. A couple of times I offered him a ride home in a shared taxi, which, as he lived in a rougher part of town, he welcomed the offer.
Small steps worked.
Throughout I made no secret of my sexuality, and was open about my ‘interest’ in him. It didn’t put him off, but he remained reluctant to take any step toward responding with anything more than a warm friendship. I knew that if I pressed matters, and allowed myself to make some physical move, he’d shut off, so it remained for over six months. Then I invited him to the gallery as I’d sold some rather lovely paintings of his and two rather good water colours and I wanted to pay him for them. And it paid. It was nine months very well invested.
I’d managed to persuade him to exhibit some of his work with me, for sale …
“Here you are, my friend.” Facing him in my small office, I handed him a cheque, as usual fighting down a desire to throw caution to the winds and embrace him, kiss him … “Your work is attracting attention.”
“Er, thanks.” Taking the cheque he glanced at it, opening his mouth to say something, then stopped and stared. “A thousand pounds?”
“That’s right. The two canvases and four watercolours.”
“But, but … I mean … I thought, maybe about three hundred — this is …” He paused, his eyes full of amazement. Then he threw his arms round me and kissed me.
“I hope that’s a first instalment on a lot more, Grant,” I said softly, holding him tight in my arms, my odd penis pressed against him through our clothing.
I felt him stiffen, then his arms tightened around me and his mouth met mine in a firm, and very definite kiss. The dam seemed to break within him, and he whispered, “If you want more …”
“Here? And now?” I retorted, my pulse racing and my member rigid in my underwear as I could feel his against my thigh.
“Yes.” He gave a rather muffled response. “Here and now … Oh god, I’ve wanted … but was afraid … I’ve denied my … Please, show me how to … How a man makes … with another.”
It was fortunate I’d already locked up. We gave in to our lust on the sofa that takes up one wall of the office. Both of us far too wound up to take our time. He shot his creamy cum into my mouth within a minute of my starting to enjoy his gorgeous penis, then he, sobbing at having been so quick, reciprocated. He was clumsy and uncertain at first, but quickly found his rhythm and greedily swallowed my cum.
When we’d both got our breath back, I poured two glasses of wine from my small stock I keep for special clients, and we drank to each other, to more sales of his art, then made out a second time, this time less in lust, and more in loving tenderness … As I’d promised him, we both took our time on the second round and I had the pleasure of taking him to the point at which he arched his back, wrapping his legs over my shoulders as he thrust himself into my mouth while making animal moaning sounds even as his cum fountained into my throat.
After this it was not difficult to persuade him to give up his waiting job, and to work weekends and ‘exhibitions’ in my gallery. That had finally led to his spending regular nights and weekends in my bed. Slowly, and with caution, I'd begun to sound him out on his fetish feelings, first with some light bondage, then with a little rubber wear. He responded enthusiastically to each new experience, and our relationship bloomed. Just three weeks before the invitation landed in my post I’d finally persuaded him to move in and live with me as soon as he could find someone to take over his share of the rent in the shared house.
The invitation was unexpected, coming as it did so long after my having met his Lordship. I’d almost forgotten our evening, concentrating on other matters, like attracting and engaging Grant in an affair. As I have said, I am not short of a bob or two, having come into a nice little inheritance at my eighteenth birthday. I’d done the Public School education bit — though being Gay and rather over endowed, it had been a bit tricky at times until one or two of the Masters with the same tastes ‘adopted’ me. My family is an oddball one, we rarely spent time together and I never actually knew my father. He was around somewhere — and by all accounts very well off. I just didn’t know him from Adam.
His lordship was a nice chap — around twenty years my senior, and very affable. He’d mentioned his ‘little country place’ during the evening over drinks. At the time I’d not really known much about him, just that he was well off and Gay, though not overtly so. I also knew that we were somewhat distantly related, though quite how I couldn’t say. I looked him up in the Burke’s kept in the library and it didn’t tell me much more than I already knew.
It said simply -
Fontleböm; Philip Augustus Guilleaume Peter, 27th Baron; Born: 16 April 1977. Title, Mandelböm of Fontlebois, Dates to 1246, the title bestowed by King Edward II on a page who reputedly provided the king with extraordinary services. Ed: Charterhouse and Cambridge. Title has descended through cousins for the last fifteen Barons. Present Baron’s heir: Not yet known. Unmarried, no children. The Fontleböm family is unique in the fact that it produces very few males, the majority of whom remain single. Business interests: Banking, Financial Markets, International Commodities.
I reread it. We shared two of the first names and the surname. My first name is Guilleaume, French for William, which I shorten to ‘Gil’ for my friends. So, it seemed his lordship was following in a family tradition and business and didn’t want for a lot. Next, I looked up Fontlebois. There wasn’t a lot available on it either!
Fontlebois: Partly an 18th Century Palladian House, seat of the Fontleböm barony, the family said to have been placed under a curse by a warlock after the 5th Baron abducted a boy from a village under the warlocks protection. The grounds are extensive and occupy an island accessed by a bridge. Said to have been the work of an Apprentice of Capability Brown, though this cannot be confirmed since no other work is known by this apprentice. The house and gardens are closed to the public and requests to visit are routinely refused by the owners, the Fontleböm Family Trust.
I leaned back in my chair. Of course I knew we were related, but knew almost nothing about the family. My mother, bringing me up on her own, had never discussed it, and simply shrugged off any questions about my father and his family. All I knew was that I was a member of a very ancient family, and the beneficiary of an ancient ‘Trust’ which had paid for my education, enabled me to buy a very luxurious penthouse apartment and set myself up as an art dealer. When my mother — I was an only child and a late life baby — died, I inherited a very comfortable fortune from her, which I invested and used the income to support a very comfortable lifestyle.
So, I was invited to a closed house for a weekend, by a reclusive lord who routinely refused visitors. The mystery got more and more intriguing. I cast my mind back to the conversation I’d had with him. Why had he selected me? Okay, we were related, but that was about it, he was a lot older than myself. Then it clicked into place, we’d shared a joke about some fetish activity and I’d commented that I’d never been asked, but was always willing to try anything at least once — and if I liked it — a second time to be certain.
And now I held an invitation to spend a weekend ‘if you can tear yourself away from the pleasures of the city for that long,’ at Fontlebois.
I read the invitation again.
“You are invited to Fontlebois for the weekend 26h to 28th. all the necessary wardrobe will be provided for you should you wish to travel light. RSVP to Fontlebois, P O Box 649, Grunnt, B6624. Please advise your intended mode of travel and supply the registration of any vehicle if driving yourself.”
Something told me this was an ‘invitation’ I could not decline. Well there was no way I could, or would, refuse it, so I pulled out a sheet of paper and dashed off an acceptance, stating I would arrive by car and noting the licence plate, make and model. I wondered what his lordship had in mind for entertainment and how many others would be there.
Just as I was getting Grant settled and working on our relationship. And now I was going to be away for a full weekend — and couldn’t take him with me.
“Grant, my love,” I opened as he lay in my arm, recovering from a good lovemaking in my bed. “I have to go away this weekend. To meet up with an important relative.”
“And I’m not invited?” Turning in my arm, he smiled. “Some crusty old relative that doesn’t approve ..?”
“Older, certainly,” Kissing him I added, “You’ve met him. Remember the first night you served me at the Club?”
“Oh?” He frowned. “I thought he was your father?”
“My father?” I laughed. “I wish. No, he’s a cousin, or an uncle, or something. Anyway, I’m summoned to his country home. Probably wants me to look at some paintings he want’s to sell or something.”
“Sounds like fun.” He pouted playfully. “Guess I’ll just have to play on my own.”
“Minx.” I retorted. “Maybe I should lock you in a chastity belt …” Kissing him, my hand found his swelling member. “Keep this out of mischief …”
“Do it! I dare you!” He shot back laughing. “I bet you haven’t got one anyway.”
“You lose. I do own one.” Rolling him on his back, I swung myself onto him and straddled his torso, his cock trapped against my perineum. Looking down into his eyes, I read the interest there. “Want to try it? It’s a professional job, meant for long wear.”
“You mean it? A full on chastity belt?” A slow grin spread. “Okay. Put it on me.”
It’s a Carrera design. The wearer’s penis is confined to a steel tube, curved back over a his scrotum. It’s attached to a backing plate fastened over the pubic area and secured in place by a steel waist band and jockstrap style chains between the legs and under the ‘buns’. A moulded steel cover completely hides the tube and the scrotum and the lock the secures everything in place is hidden in a recessed position in front of the waistband. It can only be removed with a key …
Grant stared at his reflection in the mirror.
“Damn, it looks sexy, and it’s comfortable enough …” Turning to me he asked, “You’ve worn this?”
“Once or twice.” I grinned. “Think you could wear it for a weekend?”
“Do you want me to?” He challenged.
“You’re wearing it now.” I dangled the key and grinned. “If I let you out, how about you wear it while I’m away and you can stay here in my place until I get back?”
“Deal.” He studied his reflection again, then turned to face me. “Now, Master, how about you give my man pussy the fucking it deserves for letting you talk me into this.”
“If that’s what you want, Grant, my dear, that’s what you can have.” Steering him back to the bed, I added, “We’ll put you in it on Friday night as I have to be on the road early Saturday. Can you do that?”
“I’ll be at the gallery by four, and you can fit it after …” Laying himself on the bed, he smiled. “Ready when you are …”
Promptly at four, Grant walked into the gallery, a small holdall in one hand a backpack on his back and a large picture cover under his arm.
“If I’m going to spend the weekend alone,” he said, “I thought I’d do some work on my assignment painting.”
“Good idea,” I waited until he’d put everything down, then kissed him. “I’ll start closing up, and we can head home.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” he replied, his laugh, as always, musical.
The locking up took no time at all and I led the way down to the underground garage and my Z4.
“I really like this car,” Grant exclaimed as we got in.
“Getting a bit old now, but it was my twenty-first present, and I’m rather fond of it.” Easing out of the exit, I joined the traffic and did the usual crawl until we could get out of the central area. On the way, I tested his resolve to go through with wearing the Carrera belt while I was away.
“Gil, I’m here, and I said I wanted to, so stop worrying,” he said as he got out of the car at my flat. Retrieving his things from behind the seat, he grinned. “Wearing a chastity belt is a fantasy of mine. It’ll keep me out of mischief while you’re away, and remind me of what life was like before you showed me how to enjoy …”
“Silly boy,” I teased. “Come on, I’ve got a nice supper planned, and then we can enjoy the evening.”
“I hope that includes …” he retorted entering the penthouse.
I shut the door, wrapped my arms round him and pulled him against me.
“If you want it to …” Our mouths locked in a kiss. Supper was a little late.
Locking the chastity belt, I stood, and kissed him. It was still quite dark outside, though getting lighter in the East. Grant put his arms round me and kissed me.
“Thanks, Gil. Do you mind if I stay exactly like this until you let me out again?” His grin was teasing as he stood, naked except for the chastity belt. “I promise I won’t do anything to embarrass you with the neighbours.”
“If that’s how you want to do it,” Laughing, I squeezed his pert butt cheek. “Feel free. Take care of sunburn though if you sunbathe.”
“I will.” Pecking my cheek, he added, “Actually I plan to set up my easel under the awning and complete the painting. Where are you going? It must be quite far if you’re starting this early.”
“It’s a few hours drive, according to the satnav. Leaving early-morning means I beat the congestion on the major ring.” Passing him the invitation, I added, “There you are, I’m going to Fontlebois Manor. Not sure why I’m invited actually, apart from being a relative. I’ve never been there before, and apart from the night I first saw you, I’ve hardly had any contact with him.”
“Fontlebois? Odd name, where is it?”
“No worse than having a surname of Fontleböm.” I retorted. “Near a place called Grunnt, apparently in the Domesday Book, and there’s some odd story about a curse attached to it.” Laughing, I joked, “So if I come back transformed into a frog you’ll know why.”
Watched by Grant, I packed my bag carefully, including my briefest swimming costume, my rubber underwear and a new catsuit which fitted particularly well. These went into the secret compartment of my bag beneath the false bottom, then I packed all the usual things for a long weekend, tossed it into the Z4 and hit the Motorway for Grunnt.
