Yielding Thief

Gregory Graves pushed up with his knees and pressed down on Sam’s shoulder blades and then, quickly lowering his buttocks and jutting forward, thrust down and up, sending his hard shaft deeper up into the nineteen-year-old darky youth’s ass, in a dipping deep fuck of the chocolate-brown male whore. Sam groaned and Graves grunted as he thrust again . . . and again . . . and then, with a release of breath, came in the prostitute’s ass channel. He tensed and then, with a sigh, released again . . . and then, in a weaker seeding, released a third and last time.

Sam quivered, unable to move further as his wrists were bound to the edges of the headboard of the small bed with leather bonds and his ankles to the edges of the footboard. A leather bolster had been inserted under the black whore’s belly to lift his buttocks to the desired angle for Graves’s maximum access. Sam had not cried out during the whole taking. He was a sturdy lad, trained to this, and there was no one to heed and relieve a cry. He was just a darky anyway. No one in Washington, D.C., in the late nineteenth century, this close to the festering South, nursing its loss, would heed the pleas of a darky. This was Sam’s job.

A leather hand whip lay beside Sam on the bed. The young whore’s muscular brown back and buttocks were crisscrossed with red welts. Graves had taken his cruel pleasure before taking his carnal pleasure.

“Boy! Come,” Graves called out, and the door to the small bedroom on the second floor of the Oscar Club in Washington, D.C.’s, Adams Morgan district opened and an eighteen-year-old youth, a prostitute in training, scurried in and helped Graves sponge off his loins before aiding the man, robust nearly to the point of obesity, into his day suit. Graves fingered the attendant’s ass, considering whether he had to leave as soon as he planned, and the attendant giggled and remained within Grave’s reach as he helped the U.S. senator dress. It would elevate him in the brothel’s status ranking if this rich and powerful man did him as well. Sam, still bound, would continue lying on the bed until Senator Graves had left the room and someone could come to his aid.

While he dressed, the man listened for moans and groans to be heard from the used darky, but heard none. That did not please Graves much. He walked to the bed cupped Sam’s chin and turned the young male whore’s face to him to see if he was conscious. He was, although his eyes looked a bit glazed over. The man let Sam’s head drop, but he slapped him hard across the face. Still not getting a yelp, the senator turned and strode out of the room.

The Oscar, a very exclusive and discreet men’s club, was located in a nondescript, but quite well-kept townhouse on Champlain Street in Northwest Washington, a new, fashionable section of the expanding footprint of the national capital. All of the male members were either top-drawer government officials or fabulously wealthy and powerful in the city and beyond; all seven of the male whores on offer in the club were either eighteen or nineteen and not previously employed as such anywhere else. This is where they trained in with the cream of the patronage crop, albeit patrons who wanted to use their young men hard. They served here for only a short time, while they were fresh.

They weren’t admitted to the service until their eighteenth birthday and at twenty they were sold to one of the several male brothels in this and other cities with the skills to please any man in any way he chose. The philosophy of the patrons sponsoring this club was that eighteen was the perfect age for a young man to be used—he could legally answer for himself and his own wants and was beginning to form into a man, but he was still pliable and obedient. If he was small, willowy, and more pretty than handsome, it was all to the good—until, by the time, through use on his back, he had been spoiled of innocence.

There was only one men’s parlor in the house, located at the back of the house, on the first floor. It was not a club where men either dined or spent much time in each other’s company. Although the patrons knew who they shared this fetish with, they did not acknowledge this in public. The club service rooms—a kitchen and dining room for the prostitutes, an office, and bedrooms for the club manager, Frank Lampere, and for the two male guards—were located on the ground floor. Frank had his own cottage and family in the back garden of the house, but he maintained a room with a bed in the main house, because it was he, sometimes with the assistance of one of the guards, who trained the prostitutes to their duties. He was the procurer as well, ever on the lookout for beautiful young men who were on the brink of starvation and needed to save themselves in any way they could. By preference, he took them on as virgins to anal penetration by a man, sold their virginity to one of the club members while they were fresh, and then, if the experience didn’t cause them to run away, trained them in their craft. There were a few club patrons who were especially interested in virgins and could be trusted to beat and fuck them into total submission.

The first and second floors housed bedrooms where the members used the young male whores. The bedrooms were well-appointed but small, but each had its own water closet, a rarity in that day and age, with a bathtub where the member either could clean himself or use one of the prostitutes, if that was his desire. The third floor was where the young men slept and where, in one room, they took their lessons, most of them having come off the streets illiterate. The club promised to teach them to read and write, highly desirable skills in the last decade of the nineteenth century, before the older teenagers went on to an adult male brothel.

This service was a ripe plum for young men happy with going with men—at least after that first time when they crossed the threshold of having done so. It offered them room and board and a bit of extra when they pleased the men, and the pain and unusual taxing often was no more demanding than they would experience otherwise on the streets or the fields—or later in their lives. Despite their contracts being subject to sale, no older teen was doing this involuntarily. They all had sought the position, or the specter of starvation had sought it for them.

The basement of the building was a stone-walled and -floored chamber outfitted with equipment where the young whores could be used more exotically and taxingly.

The Oscar was a club catering to extreme fetishes with eighteen- and nineteen-year-old youths, a very specific service for a very discerning, private, and well-heeled clientele.

Sam had satiated Senator Graves’s basic need, although he had not fully satisfied the man. Sam was a darky and, although nineteen, was of large-boned, muscular, sturdy stock. His life had been a rough one before entering the service of men. He had learned too quickly to separate himself from the pain and humiliation that the patrons sought from the youths. He was mostly sought out in the brothel by men who wanted to inflict the maximum of pain without killing the prostitute, which would be a bit messy to step away from. He managed what Graves took from him and performed on him stoically, with little response. Senator Graves preferred eighteen-year-olds who were small and pretty and at least seemingly vulnerable. He wanted to hear the youth cry and scream and beg, even if largely feigned. None of the others were available on this day, and Graves’s needs were great. Votes hadn’t been going well in the Senate and he needed to let off tensions.

The club engaged lads who could take it, who had a rod of steel inside them and who got some pleasure out of being used totally themselves—basically lads who were willing to trade their bodies for three squares a day and a roof over their head in a town that wasn’t kind to men down on their luck and living on the streets. But the Club also understood that men like Graves wanted a youth who writhed and cried out and who seemingly was broken by the use his body as if for the first time—even though Graves knew the youths on offer well enough to know it was not the first time, that it probably wasn’t even the first time that day.

He, like most patrons of the club, didn’t usually linger, wishing to leave as soon as he had relieved his fetish need and with votes to get back to in the Senate, but on this day he did linger as the day was snowing and he’d sent his carriage back to his Georgetown house rather than have it sit and wait for him in Adams Morgan. Frank sent one of the younger men to fetch the carriage and ushered Senator Graves to the small parlor in back, where there was a fire in the fireplace and port on the table. Shelden Sinclair, an up-and-coming banker in the city, a younger man than Graves and also in fitter shape and more handsome of face, was already in the parlor, occupying one of the wing chairs drawn up to the fireplace and drinking port. The two men knew each other and their country estates were nearly adjoining in Middleburg, a horse-hunting plantation area in Virginia not far south of the capital, but they reacted to each other in this environment as merely polite strangers. Neither would mention to anyone else that they had seen, let alone sat with, the other on this day.

Shelden Sinclair gestured Senator Graves into the other wing chair by the fire, and Graves sat there. They could hardly talk in this environment about affairs in the Congress or their estates in Middleburg. Even talking horseflesh would isolate the familiarity of one to the other outside the walls of this male brothel. So, they talked of what they could not discuss anywhere else. They conversed on the shared reason that brought them here and that they would not mention elsewhere if they could avoid it. Both men actually were happy to talk of the young whores and what lengths they went to to use and degrade them.

“Shaun, me,” Shelden Sinclair said. “And you?”

“Sam,” Graves answered.

“Ah, yes, the older darky. Endurance. I no longer ask for him myself. I doubt he’ll be here too much longer.”

“Yes, I doubt I will use him again myself. The choices were limited. I booked late.” It was spoken almost as if by regret.

“Satisfying this time, though?” Shelden Sinclair asked.

“To a point. That endurance issue, though. He takes the whip well, but possibly too well, and he does not vocalize as I would like. But he is pleasantly tight, which is a surprise.”

“I don’t think he’s used all that much in that way. Most of the men here don’t consider darkies worth the effort. They mostly use their oral skills. But I take it you like to break them?” This was said in a way that conveyed that this was a preference of Sinclair’s as well.

“Yes. Or at least seem to have. An eighteen-year-old youth. Just the right age.”

“I quite agree—when they come to this house fresh. Signs of manhood, yet still supple, yielding, a certain innocence still. Recognizing authority, trusting, and in awe of the pleasures received and given. Not questioning, whatever they are tasked with—how much they are tasked. Still learning, and thus still seeking.”

“And when you take the whip and cock to them, they break for you, showing that they are younger and more vulnerable than their age denotes.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s when you can use them totally and become completely satiated with their surrender—almost as if they aren’t whores, in the business. Almost as if you picked them off the street for the first time yourself.”

“Precisely. Sometimes you do pick them off the street yourself?”

“Yes, sometimes. Not here, of course. Sometimes back in the Midwest. Young, virginal, in awe of having been selected, totally yielding. Spent when I’m done with him.” He stopped short of saying he was from Ohio, even if he knew that Sinclair would know that. Seeing that he was getting too much into the familiar, that Sinclair’s hand had dropped to his basket, Graves changed gears. “Sam has perhaps been here too long, become too enduring.”

“Yes, I completely understand. Shaun falls a bit short as well.”

“Sam doesn’t cry anymore. He doesn’t scream or beg.”

“Shaun screamed a bit this time—not with the cock, but with the fist. Not enough for highest pleasure, though.”

“Ah, the fist.”

“Yes,” Sinclair, repeating the word, making it sound like velvet. He was wearing black leather gloves and he flexed his fingers. Graves thought he perhaps could see some discoloring and shiny, like slicks of grease, on the right-hand glove.

“Tom, the redhaired Irish youth, with the curly hair, hazel eyes, the slight body, the lovely skin,” Graves said. “He writhed. He cried. Just the way he lay during when I had penetrated and then afterward, the way he lay quiet and followed me with his eyes around the room, and asking if there would be more—giving the impression he both wanted and didn’t want more.”

“After the fist you mean?”

“Yes, after the fist,” Graves said. The two were having a melding of the minds and of what made them tick—what aroused them. They each could tell the other was in erection. Unabashed, they unbuttoned themselves simultaneously, and had pulled their cocks out of their flies and were sitting there, across from each other, masturbating themselves.

“There was that impression conveyed with Tom, yes,” Shelden Sinclair said. “After you’d prepared and covered him, you found you had another hardening in you after all—and more strength in your flogging arm.” The two men shared a companionable chuckle. “Yes, that Tom was the best in years.”

“None of the youths this year compare.”

“No, they don’t. I completely agree.”

Frank, who had been listening at the door, smiled grimly and then knocked, opened the door, and took one step inside. Although he managed here, he didn’t belong in this room with these men, and he accepted that. He completely ignored that they were beating themselves off—and they made no effort to show embarrassment that he saw them doing so.

“Your carriage is here, Sir,” he said, looking directly at Graves. He couldn’t address the man by name, as the patrons studiously would not recognize each other by name, pretending they would not know. He stood to the side as Graves folded his cock back into his trousers, rebuttoned his fly, stood, and walked by him and to the front door of the fetish brothel. When he was gone, Lampere turned to Shelden Sinclair and said, “As you are on the rise again, Sir,” which the young Shelden Sinclair obviously was, as he was stroking his long, thick, hard shaft, “Jimmy is ready for you in Room 2.”

Shelden Sinclair was an athletic, virile young man. He did not take the risk or waste a trip to the Oscar Club to dally with just one young male whore. He stood and reached into the chair and came up with his riding crop. He would need his riding crop. Jimmy was the third son of an impoverished Middleburg ancestral plantation owner Shelden Sinclair knew and held a mortgage for. The father raised thoroughbreds. Jimmy was a thoroughbred. He would give Shelden Sinclair quite the ride—even if doing so wasn’t in Jimmy’s plan. Especially if doing so wasn’t in Jimmy’s plan. Today he would break young Jimmy.

* * * *

Small, slender eighteen-year-old Jamie huddled in the falling snow against a wall on Georgetown in a position that he could see the entrance to Gregory Graves’s townhouse on the adjacent side of the Volta Park square. The occupants of the house he was crouching before were gone for the Christmas holidays or they might have sent a servant out to send him away. He wasn’t the only one who came to Georgetown to beg for spare change, though. He knew the people weren’t in residence because he’d already been around the house, testing the windows for possible entry, and coming up short. He would have preferred to case Senator Graves’s Q Street house from the shelter of a parlor even if it would be nearly as cold inside as it was on the outside. And the house may have some treasures he could “borrow.”

What he could see of the entertainment rooms through the windows from outside, though, revealed that the furniture was covered. There also were no Christmas decorations—no tree or trappings—and Christmas was less than a week away. This family was elsewhere and would be so for some time yet, probably into the new year. Jamie would come back, with tools to gain entrance on another day. He was pursuing other interests today, however.

He remained on lookout, watching the doors of Graves’s house—both the main door on the first floor and the door under those stairs at the English basement level. He was there to see Graves return to the house from the Oscar Club. Then later, after the man would have supped, he saw the cook and a maid come out of the door under the main stairs and walk away arm in arm. Jamie had been told Graves would be alone in the house tonight, so there only was the butler to go. The man’s wife had left him recently and taken most of the servants with her. He lived there alone, at least for now, and not really knowing what to do with servants other than that they took care of all of his needs, Graves had let them all off tonight. No doubt in days to come he would realize that was a mistake, and Jamie’s chances would be cut down.

An hour later, dark having fallen, and the snow beginning to taper off, the butler came out of the front door and walked away. Jamie knew the other men in Graves’s employ, the carriage driver and a houseboy, lived above the stables in back. Jamie knew the houseboy, who was twenty-one now, and thus no longer of interest to Graves. It had been the houseboy who had given Jamie the information he needed on getting into the house when only the senator was home. The carriage driver had taken the houseboy over after his year under Graves’s whip, and he and the carriage driver, Jamie was sure, would be fucking in the rooms over the stable until both went to sleep. They wouldn’t enter the house tonight unless Graves called them.

Jamie had already found his point of entrance—a small window in the pantry, at the side of the house, where there was little room between the wall of the house and the fence between the lots and where the molding on the window had rotted and could just be pulled away—and put back, if need be. The window was, Jamie was sure, deemed too small for a man to climb through, and it probably was, but Jamie wasn’t the size of a grown man. Jamie was an undersized eighteen-year-old; of perfect, trim form; red-haired, with freckles and hazel eyes; and very easy on the eyes of anyone who, like Graves, was attracted to small eighteen-year-old youths.

Late into the night, Jamie fit through the pantry window without trouble and put it back in place. He listened for well over half an hour, and when he decided no one was astir, he emptied a potato sack and went shopping in the house. The state of the house bore out that the mistress had departed. The pieces of furniture in most of the main-floor entertainment rooms were covered. There was a Christmas tree in the front parlor, but it looked like it had been decorated indifferently, perhaps by an inattentive servant gauging that the master wouldn’t be fussy about it. There were decorative pieces lying around on mantles and tables, but they too were haphazardly arranged, as if the mistress didn’t prize them when she was stripping the house for her own use elsewhere and that they were considered to be inferior in value.

Value is relative, though. None of what had been left behind was inferior goods to Jamie. He was particularly taken with a small display of Chinses cloisonné vases on a table in the back parlor that were picked out by a moonbeam through a window in the now-cloudless night sky. There were several vases. The room looked like it was not in use now, and Jamie thought that Graves probably had no idea what had been taken by his wife and what had been left here anyway. He picked out two vases and put them in the potato sack. From there, he went into the master’s study, which obviously was the only room on this floor other than the dining room the man was using now. There were still glowing embers from a fire in the fireplace grate. That provided Jamie enough light to go through papers he took from the desk to look for what he’d been sent for—something of use in controlling Graves. His father had taught him to read for this explicit purpose, and it wasn’t long before Jamie found likely papers. He put them in the potato sack with the cloisonné vases, returned to the pantry, and put the sack through the window. The sack would be found and taken from there before dawn.

Then Jamie went back into the front parlor, seeking a brass bowl he had seen earlier. It might dent but it wouldn’t break. He picked it up, walked out to the entrance foyer, lifted the bowl over his head and slammed it down on the stone floor of the entrance hall. He stood there, waiting.

The wavering light of a candle appeared at the top of the stairs to the second floor, casting an eerie glow down into the foyer. Jamie stood his ground, taking on what he thought would be a look of confusion and indecision laced with fear.

“Who’s there? What’s happening?” a gruff voice sounded out and Graves, holding the candle aloft, came down the stairs scantily clothed in a voluminous nightshirt and leather slippers.

“Please, sir, I meant no harm,” Jamie called out in a tremulous voice.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” Graves’s explosive anger was assuaged a bit upon gazing on the figure of the eighteen-year-old youth. He was beautiful in Graves’s eyes. Just what the man liked and was attracted too: small; golden-red curly hair; a perfectly formed, trim body; mesmerizing hazel eyes; an attitude of embarrassed, vulnerable diffidence. Full lips. More pretty than handsome. Of a size that Graves liked and could easily physically control. The youth looked fresh, which aroused the senator greatly. When he hit the bottom of the stairs he was right there, close to the youth, who, taking on the aspect of a deer caught by a beam of light, didn’t move.

“Please, sir, don’t take me to the coppers. I can’t go to the coppers again. I’ll do anything you want. You can punish me yourself.” He went down on his knees in front of the man and reached out and touched him on the thigh through the material of the cotton nightshirt.

Graves’s head was spinning. The youth was asking for punishment. Ways of pleasant punishing such a youth had already been running through his brain. The youth was beautiful. He was touching a leg, making Grave harden. “Anything I ask?”

“Anything,” Jamie whispered, his hand moving up the man’s thigh and then to his core. The material had come up with the hand, exposing the man’s thigh almost up to his crotch. Graves was breathing heavily. He put the candle down on a side table within reach and ran his fingers into Jamie’s reddish-gold curls.

“Anything?” he repeated. “Do you understand my meaning, young man? Have you ever felt the sting of the whip?”

“Yes, it has been a hard life, sir.”

“And the thrust of the cock?”

Jamie didn’t answer immediately, but after a short pause he did. “I have not been with men before, sire, but I have thought of doing so. If that is what you want . . .”

He moved his hand under the raised hem of the nightshirt and pulled the material up to Graves’s belly, exposing his shaft, which was moving quickly to a full erection. Emitting a ragged sigh, Graves ran his other hand into the hair on the other side of Jamie’s head and drew the young man’s face into his crotch.

“But the taste of the cock mayhap?”

“Yes, sire, that I have.” Jamie opened his mouth to the cock. The sucking began. When Graves insisted the youth take the shaft in his throat, Jamie gagged, but he took it—and took it and took it, sliding his teeth along the sides of hard rod and feeling the man shudder in pleasure.

Graves reached down and pressed Jamie down on his back on the floor of the foyer. He stretched his body over Jamie’s, his cock at the level of the young man’s mouth. Pressing the palms into the stone above Jamie’s head, he used the leverage of his knees planted on either side of Jamie’s hips to raise and lower himself, moving his shaft in and out of Jamie’s throat. The young man raised a hand to the older man’s balls, laced them in his fingers, and rolled and distended them. Graves moaned his pleasure. If he’d thought about it, he would not have believed this was a virginal young man, but Graves wasn’t thinking—he was feeling and enjoying. He particularly enjoyed the gagging sound the youth made when he sent his cock deep into the lad’s throat.

When Graves wanted something more than that, he picked the youth up in his arms. “You did say anything I wanted.”

“Yes, sire,” Jamie answered in a diffident voice.

Taking the young man up in his arms, Graves started up the stairs with him. Halfway up he was overcome with lust. He lowered Jamie to the stairs in front of him, the youth facing down into the carpet-covered treads. Jamie’s cheek was pressed into one of the steps by Graves pressing down on his head with one hand. The man used his other hand to pull the young man’s trousers and underlinen off his legs; mounted him from behind and above; and fucked him in long, hard strokes, reveling in how tight the youth’s passage was and how much the young man cried out in violation and writhed under him.

“You said anything,” Graves growled, and Jamie subsided into pants and sobs.

Graves took the small eighteen-year-old youth as if he were a virgin to anal penetration, and Jamie received the cock as if it were his first time. Graves delighted in this scenario—even that they were fucking on the stairs—and Jamie wanted the man to have the pleasure. He wasn’t a virgin to men, of course, but he remembered how it had felt and how he had reacted that first time, given to a paying man by his father just a few months earlier, and he played his reaction to Graves’s pleasure as he remembered that first time.

When he was done with the youth on the stairs, Graves picked him up in his arms and carried him up to his bedroom. Jamie lay in his arms, his own arms and legs dangling from his trim, lightly muscled body, moaning the feigned loss of his virginity, and just lay where put down on the bed, watching Graves moving around his bedroom, opening closets and drawers. The man returned to the bed with the equipment of his fetish, and, within a few minutes, Jamie had been hogtied and rendered completely defenseless. His wrists were lashed to his ankles with leather straps on either side, his elbows were lashed to his knees, a bar had been attached to the lashings that kept the youth’s legs spread, and a gag was in Jamie’s mouth. The youth was positioned at the foot of the bed, his cheek and chest pressed into the sheets, and his buttocks raised in the air. Graves had also brought out a leather hand whip with multiple leather strips.

The man stood over the bed, looking down at Jamie, who was trembling and whimpering behind his gag, and pulled his nightshirt over his head. He was in half erection again and had a muscular body for a man his age. He picked up the whip, raised it over his head, and brought it down on Jamie’s back, buttocks, and spread thighs repeatedly until he was in full erection. Jamie twitched and cried out through his gag and writhed as best he could in his immobilized position. He was no stranger to being beaten, but he exhibited as a virginal youth who had never been put in this position before. He, in fact, had been whipped before and was conditioned to endure it.

When he was in full erection, Graves climbed onto the bed, hovering over Jamie’s back, thrust up inside him, murmuring with pleasure how tight the youth still was and how reluctantly the passage stretched to his need, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

Freeing Jamie from the hogtied position afterward, Graves rebound the youth’s wrists together and then his ankles together and pulled him up onto the bed. Stretching out beside the youth, the man dozed off and snored. Just before dawn, Graves woke and nudged the youth awake.

“I’ll untie you now and you may be off—as long as you’ve stole nothing from me.”

“I haven’t, Sir, I promise,” Jamie answered in a wavering voice.

“You are to be gone and not come back, and we will not mention this to anyone.”

“Must I really be gone and never come back, Master?” Jamie asked. “I wish to come back. I wish to stay. I wish to please you and be pleased again—and punished.”

“You wish to stay and have me cover you again?”

“Yes, Sir, it is my greatest wish.”

“Here, then, I will unbind you.”

“Just the ankles, Sir, please. Leave my hands bound . . . and let me ride you. And use the whip, please. I have done you wrong. Punish me.”

Only his ankles unbound, Jamie straddled Graves’s hips as the man lay on his back, holding his reengorged cock in position as Jamie slowly settled and descended on it. Then, as Jamie rose and fell on the cock, Graves picked up the whip and flicked it against the youth’s bare chest, belly, back, arms, and thighs. The youth writhed on him and called out, “Yes, Yes, Master. Punish me! Fuck me!” Graves was happy to comply.

When the butler returned in the morning light and moved around Graves’s bedroom, opening the drapes on the window, he spied the two figures on the bed—the large master encasing the small youth in his arms. The butler wasn’t surprised. He had known a long time before the mistress did what the true nature and appetites of Graves were. He just sniffed and left the room, descending the stairs to move the spent candle on the side table in the foyer and then went down another flight to tell the cook there would be another for breakfast—and, quite possibly, for an unknown number of meals after that—and that she would keep anything she saw happening in the house to herself if she wanted to keep her job here.

* * * *

Jamie was lurking at the back of the entrance foyer the next morning when Frank Lampere arrived, asking to speak with Senator Graves. While the butler, sniffing his displeasure all the way and giving Jamie the evil eye as he passed, went to announce Lampere’s presence to Graves, who was at breakfast in the dining room, and to ask whether the master would receive Lampere, Frank slipped the papers stolen the previous night back into the hands of his son, Jamie, who slipped back in Graves’s study to put them back where he’d found them.

To the butler’s surprise, Graves said he would speak to Lampere, and, to the butler’s satisfaction, when he ushered Frank into the dining room, Graves’s first comment was, “How dare you visit me in my residence.” It wasn’t a question. Graves had very carefully kept the aspects of his life separate and thus was understandably displeased when the brothel’s manager showed up on his doorstep in the daylight.

The butler should have stayed around, though, as Graves was rather quickly rocked back on his pins.

“The authorities did what?” he asked when Frank told him why he was visiting.

“They raided the house last night, sir. I will have to shut it down for a while. But don’t worry, I hid all of our records. Your name did not come up.” It was a bald-faced lie, of course. The authorities were well paid off. No one had raided the brothel. Frank wanted to take a vacation from the Washington, D.C., male brothel business and had other plans in train.

“Then why is that my concern that you should visit me here?”

“I am informing our major patrons and I felt this needed to be done by me, personally and directly. to limit who would know of any connections. I’m sure that, upon reflection, you will agree with that manner of caution.”

This mollified Graves until Frank continued. “And I will be out of a paid position until the heat settles. I believe you need a butler at your country estate in Middleburg—that your wife has left you and taken much of your staff with her.”

“I see no reason why I should—”

Interrupting him, Frank gave him the reason, which included not only the records he had on hand from the Oscar Club but also information on Graves and some of his business and personal needs activities he wouldn’t want to be made public, information Frank had gleaned from the papers his burglar son, Jamie, has passed out to him the previous night.

Frank, of course, got the job. He winked and nodded to Jamie as he left the house, the door being held open by a seething butler. But Jamie paid the price of the successful blackmail of Graves within the hour, when a festering master took the eighteen-year-old youth to an attic room, where there was a wooden X frame, with leather restraints nailed to it. Here, Graves bound the youth, body to the beam and vulnerable buttocks jutting out to serve the man’s pleasure, and flogged and fucked him until the tension had drained from the master. If he’d known what part Jamie had played in all of this, though, he of course would have been more brutal that he was.

* * * *

Graves’s country house in Middleburg was more a hunting lodge, quite masculinely outfitted out, than plantation retreat. His wife never had been there and never had the desire to be there, so Graves had been free to maintain it to his pleasures and to only invite other like-minded men there. The men like of mind to Graves were mainly interested in tying up and buggering eighteen-year-old youths. So, that was what they did there. The stone chamber basement of the house was fully outfitted for such activities.

With this in mind, it didn’t take Graves long to realize that Frank Lampere was just the butler he needed to oversee his Middleburg house, and very soon after Lampere set up shop there, Graves was going to the country every weekend, as were many of the men waiting for the Oscar Club to reopen. The young male prostitutes who had done service at the Oscar Club also moved to Middleburg—as did, of course, Jamie, who Graves took back and forth between Washington, D.C., and Middleburg for his own pleasure.

Jamie minded more in the performance of pleasing Graves, always acting in part the put-upon virgin when Graves put him to the bindings and the whip and the cock, but the lad actually had been well trained and heeled to the role before he ever came in contact with Graves. Besides that, he was most aroused himself when he was most cruelly being used.

The butler and youth maintained their distance while Graves was in residence in Middleburg and never revealed they were father and son. Neither planned for the arrangement with Graves to be permanent, however, but used their time at both the Georgetown and Middleburg houses identifying what was of value to steal and how soon it could be stolen without detection. The pickings really weren’t as good as they would have wished. Graves’s estranged wife had had first selection on what was in the Georgetown house and the hunting lodge in Middleburg had never been augmented in expensive trappings. Still, the Middleburg estate had been in Graves’s family for centuries, so there were items there of immense value. Frank and Jamie just had to ferret them out, identify them, dust them off, determine their potential value, and figure out how to get them fenced is such a way that the sale couldn’t be traced back.

Lampere quickly had his young men set up in the Middleburg house and so Graves had a party within three weeks of this arrangement. He let Lampere invite the male guests, all who paid richly to be able to attend, some of which was raked off by the butler. Lampere had better records of the patrons of the Oscar Club than Graves’s memory managed in view of the long habit of the patrons being purposely blind to who was doing what to what youth in the adjoining bedroom at the club.

One of the guests the weekend of the only party that materialized was Shelden Sinclair from the neighboring estate. During the mingling hour while the guests were mingling with the youths and writing their bids for their choices to be adjudicated by Frank Lampere for later playtime in the basement chambers, Jamie, who wasn’t on offer, was in the cloakroom assessing what valuables the patrons had left with their coats there and what they might not miss until the next day. That’s where Shelden Sinclair found him as the young, handsome, muscular banker decided to roam about before deciding who to bid for and how much to bid. Coming upon Jamie, though, and assessing him to be the fairest of the offerings—and being an arrogant man—Sinclair merely took Jamie up in his arms and swept him away to the most remote bedroom he could find in the house.

Frank had already outfitted the bedrooms in the necessary supplies for the debauching of young men, so all that Shelden Sinclair needed in the bedroom he found there was at hand. Jamie, eyes flashing in feigned fear, the youth being game to be taken by this handsome young banker even though Sinclair was not to know that, was stripped, gagged with a scarf, and bound at the wrists with his arms raised over his head and held to the brass rails of the headboard of a canopied bed. Shelden Sinclair posed the trembling and seemingly immobilized by shock youth on his back on the bed, legs bent and spread, feet flat on the damask bedspread, and pelvis raised by a bolster under the small of his back. The banker found a pot of scented grease conveniently placed on the table next to the bed.

For fifteen minutes, Sinclair worked hard to bury his fist in the young man’s anal passage, while Jamie writhed under him, screaming ineffectually through the scarf gagging his mouth, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head, his body shuddering, not all of his reaction being feigned—his own cock, however, engorged to throbbing lust. Managing at last to breach the youth’s sphincter muscle with the heel of his hand, the randy, cruel banker spent the next twelve minutes fisting the youth to Sinclair’s great arousal and interest. Despite the imposition and pain, Jamie was game for this form of taking and five minutes into the stroking of the fist, he was rocking his pelvis to match the rhythm of the thrusts of the fist and groaning through his gag. The replacement of the fist with the man’s hard shaft was almost anticlimactic, as the youth had collapsed in exhaustion and total surrender. Eight final minutes of hard, deep thrusting and Sinclair ejaculated in great satisfaction. Untying Jamie’s wrists without a word of praise or encouragement, Sinclair left him—and left the party as well, having been satiated at least for the moment.

Graves and Jamie returned to Washington, D.C., for the week, where Graves used Jamie on three occasions—cruelly but not as cruelly or totally as Shelden Sinclair had. They returned to Middleburg on the next weekend. Within an hour of arrival, Graves took his horse out riding, the horse threw his master into a rocky ravine, Graves’s neck was broken, and he expired on the spot.

By nightfall, Frank and Jamie had the treasures from the hunting lodge they had preidentified and valued gathered in a wagon and Frank, taking the master’s two best draft horses was driving the wagon into the dusk. Jamie wasn’t with him. Jamie was walking over to the neighboring estate, where the butler let him in to, sobbing, inform Shelden Sinclair of the demise of Graves and Jamie’s own resulting bereft state. As Shelden Sinclair was comforting the youth, Jamie was looking around at the likely treasures he could steal as he was leaving this arrangement. Shelden Sinclair was unmarried, but his family had been more style and treasure conscious over the centuries than Graves’s had been.

Jamie was, in fact, planning that his sad tidings visit to Shelden Sinclair’s would not be a prolonged one. It would only be long enough to assess the worth of the house’s furnishings and arrange for transport with his father, Frank. But Jamie needed to coax an offer of shelter and board from the randy banker. Shelden Sinclair didn’t disappoint. His comforting segued into touching and fondling and kissing and a few sharp slaps to the youth’s bare rump before sitting in a velvet chair with Jamie kneeling to him and sucking his cock erect followed by Sinclair picking Jamie up, carrying him upstairs, laying him on a bed, binding him, laying into him with a whip, and fucking the hell out of him, all of which Jamie stoically endured—and even enjoyed a bit—as he planned his next move and eyed a particularly lovely gilded mirror across the room.