Chapter One: London, 1856
He was snoring when I woke. His arm was around me, at waist level, his palm on my pelvis bone, his thumb and two fingers pushed into my pubic bush, holding me close into his side. I had drifted off with him stroking my shaft. He’d been at the point of rolling over on top of me, but I had run my hand through the gray hair of his chest and great belly and down into his pubes and taken hold of him as he had with me, and as I stroked him, he had sighed and dozed off. After assuring myself he was asleep, I did as well. I think he was being a bit too ambitious to think he had another ejaculation in him.
He would remember the hour spent as a pleasurable time, well worth the expense, so all was well here. He would remember having come twice and making me come as well in cries of passion and praise of his skill, but the second time was more artifice on my part than penile success on his part. His member was more limp than hard the second time when I was riding it, and most of the skill involved was mine on keeping it inside me. And I had not been as truly passionate about either finish as he would recall of the hour we’d spent together—the period he’d called the “fucking hour” when we’d come up to this bedchamber—to have been.
But he would be back, and that was all that the house master, Percy Blackthorn, would care about.
He was soundly asleep now, having worn himself out. He was in his mid-fifties. He probably didn’t know I knew that, but I did. I knew who he was too and what he was important for in the prime minister’s party. What was important here, in the bedroom, was that he was past fifty and had overindulged in life. So, it was understandable that his efforts in bed might have tired him out.
I carefully lifted his heavy arm—everything about him was heavy. I’d had to coax him onto his back and ride him to keep him from crushing me—and wormed my way out from within his embrace. I rolled over and sat up on the side of the bed and looked at my pocket watch on the stand next to the bed, by the chamber pot. His time was up. I could leave. And I didn’t have much more than an hour before Sir Sydney’s carriage would be here for me.
I looked down at the man, a tower of importance in the current government, a man who commanded full attention when speaking on national policy. He was just a fifty-year-old, out-of-shape client by the hour to me as he lay there, exhausted in sleep. I wondered if he ever had been young and handsome and stirred the heart of another man. Had he been seduced and deflowered and initiated into sex with men by someone who desired his body? To me he was only a big belly and an undersized dick inside me for a few minutes, someone I had to praise for nonexistent skill, and a club patron who put food in front of me and a roof over my head. Still, he wasn’t rough; he didn’t tax me, or stretch me, or beat me. And he didn’t try to use the full hour. So, he was one of my favorite clients. If he offered to buy me from this house and set me up to service his needs solely, I probably would say yes. Other young men I had known had done that willingly for men far uglier and fatter than this one.
The door to the corridor opened silently and Calvin, the dresser, peeked around the edge. He knew the time was up, as well, and that I would have to bathe and dress again before the carriage arrived. Calvin would have been pacing around for the last ten minutes, everything in preparation, wondering if I would make the time or if Lord Harnett would demand more time.
Lord Harnett snorted in his sleep and reached out for me. His eyes were closed, though, and I managed to rise from the bed before he’d touched me. It would have been awkward if he had wanted to do it again. He was too important to say no to, but I didn’t really have the time for it and I was quite sure he didn’t have the stamina to manage another erection so soon. I was his favorite because I made him climax and I cried out in passion when he did so. If I failed to do that, he would probably stop asking for me.
I reached out to the chair by the bed and retrieved my blue silk robe that complemented my eyes and my nearly platinum hair so well. Standing, I shrugged it on around my lithe, naked body and padded to the door.
Out in the corridor, Calvin whispered to me, “Your bath is hot, but it will not be so for long. I will lay out your clothes while you bathe. What do you prefer for underdrawers—the silk or the linen?”
“I think neither for this assignation,” I whispered back. We grinned at each other and Calvin headed for my private bedchamber in the attic and I headed for the waiting bath. I lost my grin, though, as soon as Calvin turned away from me. An assignation with Sir Sydney was not an engagement to grin about. Unlike Lord Harnett, he could be a cruel dominator and his cock was taxing. Like Lord Harnett, though, he was much too important a client of the house to shrink from. One thing I knew, however. He was an impatient man. ordu escort Unnecessary layers of clothing were just an irritating impediment to him.
* * * *
“Hurry up, Ross. He’s here. His carriage is here, outside already. You’re keeping him waiting.” Percy was hissing at me from the foyer as I descended the stairs.
“What is the concern? So, his carriage is here,” I said, nonchalantly, as I pointedly did not hurry and adjusted my wrist cuff studs as I came down the stair treads.
“No, you don’t understand,” Percy hissed. “He’s here himself. In the carriage. Sir Sydney.”
“Himself?” I asked. “How extraordinary. Why did he not just send the carriage for me?”
“Who knows? He’s here himself. Look lively now.”
I put on a smile as I descended the Marble Crescent townhouse steps of the marble-faced townhouse set in the quite fashionable London curve of townhouses, just one of several identical row houses that few would have identified as a high-class male whorehouse.
“Sir Sydney. Such a privilege,” I said, retaining my smile, as I climbed into his open carriage. “You came to fetch me yourself. I am touched.”
“You most certainly will be touched,” the man said, with a snort. “I fancied a bit of special sport today.”
I could only imagine what that entailed as I sank back into the cushioned seat beside him and the driver flicked his whip over the heads of the two horses and the carriage started off. Looking at the whip, I shuddered, remembrances of Sir Sydney’s particular desires rising in my mind. I had no illusions that this assignation would be an easy one.
We were headed off toward his country house, Merton Hall, near Henley-on-Thames, I knew. Cambridge and Oxford were initiating what was planned as an annual regatta on the river, and Sir Sydney and his wife had withdrawn to the country for that. He had been booked for a session with me and normally would have availed himself of that appointment here, at the Marble Crescent men’s club, where there was a chamber in the basement that suited his preferences. But, thanks to the regatta, I was going to get an outing in the country.
Sir Sydney was a complex man. To the world, he was a brilliant young barrister, rich and uncommonly handsome. He was a man on the move, seen as highly capable and a paragon of virtue. He was also a leading light in a movement to support social services for all and to uphold the welfare of all. He was a prominent figure in the church. He had brought wealth to his marriage with the daughter of an earl. She had come with greater wealth. There was talk of a promising future in politics.
He was, indeed, a handsome man, but much the chameleon. His dark, strong-featured looks could be seen as open and manly in the light of the day, but in the light I often saw him, I could see the wolfish venality in the man, with a streak of cruelty and egotistical selfishness. What could be seen as confidence and persistence in his law circles could easily turn to domination and sadism in the confines of the bedchamber.
The carriage took a route out to the west of the town and up the banks of the Thames, but it seemed to move from one driving park to the other, with Sir Sydney taking time to pause with riders out for exercise at nearly every turn to engage in small conversation.
One such rider, a tall, beefy, yet distinguished-looking and commanding, man of his late forties, with a florid, robust countenance, pulled to the side of the carriage. The man duffed his hat and nodded to my carriage companion. “Sir Sydney,” he said.
“Lord Dinwiddie,” Sir Sydney answered. “Fine day for a ride, in carriage or on horseback, is it not?”
“Yes, it is,” Dinwiddie said to Sydney, although his eyes had settled on me. “I see you have young and handsome company for your carriage ride, although I am surprised not to see you astride a horse.”
“We are on our way up the Thames. I want to see the regatta between Cambridge and Oxford. This is Ross”—he gave no other introduction—”who I have invited to the country. But we’ll leave the carriage at Merton Hall, and we will find time to ride astride there.”
“Ah, are you a good rider, Ross?” Dinwiddie asked, looking straight at me.
I opened my mouth, not sure of what to say that would serve this double entendre discussion, but Sir Sydney answered for me. “He is a rider of great stamina. He is an excellent rider—a professional. Once mounted in the saddle, he can stay the course no matter how taxing the ride is. I am surprised to see you here today, though. Haven’t you an assignment in India?”
“Yes, indeed, the natives down there seem a bit restless, and the Foreign Office is sending me out to aid the East India Company in unruffling the feathers of this maharaja and that one. Some ends to tie up here before I leave and then I set sail for paradise again.”
We parted then, with Dinwiddie giving me a broad smile, remarking, “Perhaps we can go riding someday, ordu escort bayan as well,” to me, dipping his hat again to Sir Sydney, and cantering off. I had not been fully introduced, but that hadn’t seemed necessary. I felt I’d been undressed and pawed over. The two men understood exactly what I was present to provide, and Dinwiddie had signaled his own interest.
“Silly prig,” Sir Sydney muttered under his breath as the robust, ruddy-featured man rode off. “He calls himself Dinwiddie. Others refer to him as Dimwitty. He seems to have had your number though without my giving many hints. Is he one of your clients? Does he fuck you? And, if so, is he good? He does enjoy a certain reputation with young men.”
“No, I had never met him before,” I answered. “I know of him, of course, in passing, but he doesn’t attend the Marble Crescent house—that I know of.” What I did think, though, was that, between Sir Sydney and Lord Dinwiddie, it wasn’t Dinwiddie who was dim. And I had lied about never having met him before. But then men in my business do not discuss their male acquaintances with other men.
The carriage moved farther into the countryside and now, although Sir Sydney occasionally lifted his hat and greeted those on horseback or in carriages as we rolled by, we rarely were stopping to chat. Instead, Sir Sydney was turned to me and was fondling me, letting his hands glide across my body and down to my crotch. He had unbuttoned my fly and undone my belt, but he went no further for the moment. When we were alone on the road, he would turn me to him and kiss me on the lips. Other than the kisses, we were hidden from view from those passing by the high sides of the carriage panels.
His hand went inside my trousers and pulled my cock out. He laughed and murmured, “You have surprises, don’t you?” when he discovered I was wearing no undergarments. “Well, I have surprises too. Strip off your trousers and kneel to me.”
Then I understood why he had come with the driver to pick me up. I knew now what his special sport was to be. Slipping off my trousers, I knelt on the floor of the carriage between his spread legs, unseen now by those we were passing, and what I would be doing completely unknown to those Sir Sydney was greeting and waving to as we passed on the road.
I unbuttoned and unbelted him and flared his trousers open. He had a dressing ring in the head of his cock, as I knew he would have. Its ring was attached to the inner material of his left trouser leg to hold his long cock in place and tamed. I unattached that and set about making love to the cock, letting the hard metal of the silver ring clink against my teeth as I sucked his cock. He reclined back into the cushions of the carriage seat, eyes flashing, and waved at friends and associates as we drove out into the countryside and I knelt there, giving his cock deep head.
He had excellent staying power and didn’t give me his ejaculate until we were at the gates of his country home, Merton Hall. The carriage driver drove past the formal gates and farther down the road to the farm entrance. We weren’t going to the hall itself. I wasn’t surprised we weren’t, though. Sir Sidney had told Lord Dinwiddie that his wife would be accompanying him to the Henley regatta, so she must be at the country house.
I had never met her and wasn’t likely to do that anytime soon—even though, amusingly enough—and I’m sure entirely unknown to either Sir Sidney or his wife—she was my half-sister.
Chapter Two: Wentworth Hall, Near Henley-on-Thames
I was stretched out on the bed, wrists and ankles shackled to the four corners of the frame, lying on my belly. My cheek was to the mattress and my view was of Sir Sidney’s foot, the sole pressed into the headboard being used to leverage his thrusts. His other foot was pressed to the headboard on the other side of my head. His hands were grasping my ankles. He was stretched out on top of me, his body reversed on mine. He was inside me, plunging in when he pulled back onto his knees, planted on either side of my torso, and pulling out as he pressed on his feet and stretched out taut on top of me.
It was a new way to fuck to him—not necessarily to me; I think I must have experienced it all in the year I’d been at the Marble Crescent club—but he was ever on the lookout for new ways to take his pleasure with male whores like me. This wasn’t a taxing position for me in terms of what Sir Sydney could—and would—do with me, nor did I think it was the most taxing position he would put me in this afternoon. He wouldn’t have brought me all the way out here to his country house merely for a blow job in his carriage and this bound reverse-body fuck. I knew there would be more—and there would be Jerry too, I was sure, Sir Sydney’s reward to his coachman for aiding him in this adventure.
From the way my head was turned, I could see past Sir Sydney’s foot to where Jerry, tall and bulky and every inch the rough escort ordu Cornwall peasant, stood by the folly chamber door, watching Sir Sydney fucking me and keeping a lookout for anyone who might happen by and discover the master in the folly fucking a young male whore. Jerry’s fat, stubby slug of a cock was outside his trousers fly and he was stroking himself as he leered at us. Sir Sydney had assured him he’d have a turn. I hadn’t been consulted about that, nor did I expect to be consulted. What a club member did with one of the whores during his time with them was up to the club member.
Sir Sydney was grunting and churning his body on top of mine faster, more insistently. This position was fine with me, as long as we were doing sex rather than making love, as the cock didn’t penetrate as deeply as it could in some other positions, so he wasn’t working my core. It was when the cock got in deep and caused me to go soft and spongy for it at my core that I was being touched by a man. When a man reached me there it was where the shell of being a mere whore broke away and I was vulnerable to caring. The reward for the man when that happened was that it stimulated my wall muscles to grab his embedded cock and ripple over him, giving him incredible sensations as he was being milked. He often would just hold at that depth inside me, groaning his pleasure as my channel muscles squeezed and caressed his shaft and we became one in a pleasure that rolled on and on and on—for both of us.
Sir Sydney was doing all of the work; he was the one being exhausted. Eventually, he grunted and tensed and then I felt the wetness of his ejaculation inside me and he rolled off to the side and reached for the glass and liquor bottle on the stand next to the bed. After taking a swig, he swiveled back toward me, leaned over the small of my back, and slapped my buttocks—and then again, harder, listening for, and hearing, my yelp of pain-pleasure.
This is where it was going to get more taxing—and it did.
“Let me see it. Expel it,” he commanded, and I bore down on my channel muscles and pushed some of his cum out of my ass. He laughed and penetrated me with, first, one finger and then two more, digging for the cum his shaft had deposited inside me, pulling it out, smearing it on my buttocks, and then brutally entering me with his fingers again. His fingers taxed my channel as his cock had not done. He found the prostate with them and I writhed and moaned for him.
“Raise your tail,” he commanded. When I had put my knees under me and raised my rump as well as I could against the restraints, he snaked his hand between my legs, squeezed and rolled my balls in their sacs until I was panting and begging him to stop, and then he fisted my cock and roughly milked me to my own ejaculation.
I collapsed on the mattress and panted heavily while he turned and returned to his glass and the liquor bottle.
“That’s what I like about you, Ross,” he said. “You can always play the virgin. No matter how many times I pluck that out of you, you can convince me the next time that I am taking an innocent. Don’t lose that.”
It sounded ominous, but I knew it was true. I knew what my talents with men were and I had no illusions about my worth in this business when I lost that.
After several minutes he moved off the bed and onto a low bench at the foot of the bed on his knees. He bent over the foot of the bed, running his hands up my hips and along my waist to the sides of my chest. He buried his face in my crack and I moaned and raised my buttocks to him as he tongued me deep, pulled away to lick and nip at my butt cheeks, and then buried his face again and ate out my ass. His hands came down and were slapping my butt cheeks rhythmically as he tongued me, and I writhed under him, whispering to him how masterful he was.
Men didn’t usually give this attention to my body. Usually, it was me giving them their pleasure. This was arousing me, and I was being brought into the fuck as a participant rather than just a vessel to sheath the man’s cock and to take his cum. With Sir Sydney, though, I knew it was all a false sensation of his regard for my pleasure. I knew that it would all end with the whip.
Sir Sydney came up onto the bed on his knees, running his thighs under mine and lifting and spreading mine. He grasped my waist between his hands, positioned his cock head at my hole, and thrust inside me. The power of his thrusts nearly lifted me off the bed. I involuntarily cried out as his cock spread me and plunged deeper and deeper.
“Yes, yes!” I cried out. “Fuck me! Fuck me hard!”
He did. His tonguing had opened me to him and had hardened and lengthened him as well. He was fucking me in my soft, spongy core. I melded with him, merging with the rhythm of his thrusts, and for several minutes we were one, coordinated fucking machine, giving and taking equally, both striving for the same goal and, eventually, achieving it in a near simultaneous mutual ejaculation.
Leaving me panting and moaning, having achieved a height of sexual satisfaction that was at the base of why I had become what I had, and that I rarely achieved with a client, Sir Sydney returned to his drink. He spoke to Jerry now, who had received his own climax with us.