“Is there anything else I can do for you, Professor Harward ... anything at all?”

He made my breath go ragged. He couldn’t know how that simple offer by a beautiful boy like him set my juices going. I knew the signs. He was offering so much more than opening the drapes on the bedroom windows. “I don’t think so, Craig. It is Craig, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Craig at your service ... anything you need. Anything at all.” The smile he gave me and the pose he took at the B&B room door in Hot Springs, Virginia, would, in any circumstances really, tell me he could be of service in the terms I craved—I had a fetish for fourteen-year-old boys, and he’d told me he was fourteen as we were climbing the stairs to this room. But maybe I was overanalyzing this. Maybe what I was seeing was all because of what I looked for in a boy, what I craved from him, not because this boy was offering himself to me. As it was, fourteen-year-old boys seemed to have a fetish for me too. They flocked to me for some unknown—to me—reason. Craig had told me he was the owner’s son, putting in voluntary duty because when Garth-Newel, the mountain music education venue, was performing here, the accommodations were taxed.

The big hotel here was the Homestead, a five-star Omni resort, that had been here, if in somewhat smaller and more primitive form, since before the American Revolution, drawing the southern elite to the mountains both to get away from the mosquito-ridden coastal plantation regions to the Allegheny Mountains during the summer months and because the area, true to its name, offered a series of hot spring pools that were touted for their medicinal benefit. Thomas Jefferson himself had come here for relief from his rheumatism. Indeed, this B&B had been named the Jefferson Inn in his honor and boasted a small, enclosed hot springs in its garden.

I wasn’t here for the hot springs, though, I was here to attend the Garth-Newel concerts being conducted at a nearby music retreat to mark the end of a residential concert session, a chamber orchestra offering. I had been asked to serve on the Garth-Newel board and had come to check out what that program was all about. I had intended to decline as the area was just too remote for me—I had recently moved to Bridgewater to teach in the music program at the college there—from Washington, D.C., where, as well as teaching at American University and St. Albans, an exclusive boy’s private high school, I was a cellist in the National Symphony Orchestra. I still played in that orchestra on occasion, but fear of discovery in my fetish for fourteen-year-old boys and how that had manifested itself in my life in Washington had sent me packing to more remote regions. Thus far the mountains of Virginia had been a bit too remote for me., however. I was thinking of moving on down to the Charleston area.

I hadn’t yet established a safe and discreet arrangement with one or more fourteen-year-old boys in Bridgewater, and it was giving me a severe case of blue balls. I wouldn’t have come up here into the mountains to check out Garth-Newel at all if I hadn’t been told that some of the music workshops, including the emerging talent four-week program opening this weekend, were open to teenaged musical prodigies as well as older musicians. Most of them who came here to hone their abilities during summer programs were college age, and college-aged young men didn’t move me at all. I wanted a younger boy, one who was nubile, flexible, yielding, impressionable, and just forming his sexual awareness while, still, his body was beginning to development into that of a man. I liked them small and narrow hipped, but capable of passion for a man.

I also wanted them to want it—I didn’t want to work too hard to get them.

Standing before me, in the doorway of the B&B, was what seemed to be exactly what I yearned for—the B&B owner’s son, Craig. But, although he appeared to be provocative and to be hinting at availability, in my forced abstinence for the last several months, I knew I should not make assumptions—that I should walk very carefully. I would have much better results, I thought, if I were to fall into a teacher-student relationship with some comely young violinist at the Garth-Newel retreat center and hope for something to develop from there.

“Thank you, Craig. I’ll certainly call on your services if I need them.” With a lingering smile, then, Craig was gone and had taken all of the sunshine with him. The room was a bit shabbier in his absence, but it was serviceable—and at half the price I would have to pay to stay at the Homestead, up the slope from here, it was well worth the choice. Just the beauty of the owner’s son to look at and fantasize about was worth the choice.

I had agreed to come to the final concert of the past week’s instructional session at Garth-Newel and to stay through the opening days of the next session as a strings section tutor, so I’d packed for the duration. I unpacked, showered, and, tired from the winding-road trip up to Hot Springs, laid out on the bed just in my briefs and took a short nap.

When I woke about a half hour later, I went to one of the windows of the room on the back of the house and looked out into the garden, toward where I was told there was an old wooden structure over the thermal spring pool the B&B guests were free to use. I’d try that out later, I thought, but I wanted to see what the structure looked like. It was said to be over two-hundred-years old. It was there, but so was a summer house, closer to the house, hidden from ground-level view by an ancient boxwood hedge but clearly in view from my bedroom window, where I stood, only in bikini briefs.

Craig was being fucked in the summer house and the shock of seeing this riveted me to the window of my room. He was in the lap of a big, black bruiser, facing away from the top, looking at me standing in the window, his eyes slitted, a small, satisfied smile on his face, his tongue flicking out of his mouth at his parted lips. He obviously was being fucked well. He obviously could clearly see me, nearly naked, at the window.

His arms were raised, his fists locked behind the neck of the black stud. I think I’d seen that man when I arrived at the B&B. He was a gardener, massive and muscular. He’d been clipping the boxwoods at the front of the inn, just in shorts and high-top boots. His ebony torso had been magnificent. I gauged him to be in his late twenties—too old to be of sexual interest to me, but not too old for me to appreciate in his physical beauty. I remember at the time wondering if he was hung. He certainly looked it. The thought wasn’t of him as a sex partner but more as competition. I too was hung and I kept myself in fighting fit. But I wasn’t the sexual animal that this black man was—at least I didn’t think I was, although young teen boys seemed to flock to me.

I could see now that he, indeed, was hung. I also could see now that Craig indeed took a man’s cock. He was being tested by a big one and was taking it his stride. His shoulder blades were pressed into the black stud’s chest. The black man’s beefy hands clasped Craig under the knees and raised and spread the boy’s shapely legs, showing the black dude’s muscular legs and high-top boots underneath. Craig’s hips were rolled up, showing the massively thick root of the black man’s cock in the boy’s hole, moving in and out, in and out.

My response to this surprising tableau laid out in the summer house below my window was an involuntary, focused one. I remained there, watching the fourteen-year-old boy being fucked by the black bull. I wasn’t even aware of having pushed the front of my bikini briefs down, seized and freed myself, and jacked off to what I was watching. Although the black giant was working the boy’s channel with his thick cock, Craig’s attention, other than the grimacing he was doing, was on me, above him, in the B&B second-floor window. Our eyes locked. I watched Craig’s expression as the black man fucked him, and Craig watched my expression as I masturbated at the window.

I tore my focus away from Craig’s eyes to his hole, dilated between those narrow hips of his to take the thick, jet-black root of the cock, several inches of the shaft appearing and disappearing in the steady beat of the fuck. The monster cock-working-small hole image was burned into my mind for hours afterward. That could have been me. Presumably from the way Craig looked at me and the offer he’d made it could still be me. I was just as hung and nearly as muscular and young as the black stud. Of course, if Craig’s fetish was for black bulls...

The black stud and I came nearly simultaneously. Craig had already come, lowering one of his hands and beating himself off as the black guy maintained a steady rhythm of pulling his hole on and off the cock. I came, splashing my spunk against the window. Craig rolled off the black guy’s lap and disappeared around the corner of the summer house, taking his T-shirt and shorts with him. The black dude just lay there, stretched out on a patio chair, looking oh-so satisfied with himself and playing with a now-flaccid python of a shaft with one of his hands. He hadn’t been the one I was interested in, though, so I pulled away from the window, took another shower, and lay on the bed, dreaming of the B&B boy, Craig.

I certainly had picked the right accommodations to stay at in Hot Springs.

His name was Philip Maddox. He was only fourteen—a beautiful boy—and was somewhat of a prodigy violinist, having been invited to Garth-Newel’s Emerging Artist Fellowship Program that ran for four weeks starting the next day. We were in the pole barn performance venue of Garth-Newel, which had been established on a former mountainside farm, following the concert of the Amateur Chamber Orchestra Retreat that had been in residence the previous week. I had been paired up with the boy by the Garth-Newel organizers with the proposal that I give him special tutorials.

I had to keep myself from grinning ear to ear at the prospect of tutoring the lovely boy, who showed an instant case of hero worship for a member of the National Symphony Orchestra. The staffer who put us together had no idea what my image of a tutorial for young Philip was. Gloriously, Philip seemed so in awe of me that I already was halfway to home plate with him. He had his violin with him and, as the concert goers were dispersing from the pole barn, which was basically a high roof over wooden tree-trunk columns, a structure that was open to the surrounding farm area on three sides that had once been where bales of hay were stored, we sat off to the side, me behind him, my arms around the little honey, with my hands on his helping him to place his fingers on the violin strings to get a deep plucking sound out of the instrument. The lad was mesmerized, and probably didn’t even realize he was moaning when I slipped one hand under the hem of his T-shirt and moved it up to stroke one of his nipples.

But maybe he did know exactly what was happening here. He was such a little tease.

This was going to be a piece of cake. I didn’t know if I’d stay for the full four weeks of the program and tutor Philip, but I sure as hell intended to stay until I’d fucked the lad.

I wouldn’t do it here, of course. Musicians and audience members were still milling around the pole barn. It was a transition period in which those in the chamber orchestra who had just played a concert and were wrapping up their residential program would be finishing their packing, clearing out of the residential cottages, and taking off, after which the students in program that Philip was in would be moving into the cottages for their four-week stay.

Still, the boy seemed to be primed for me already. I looked around the rolling hills of the farm for possible places I could take him and have enough time and privacy to use him. It was while I was scanning the area that I saw him—Craig, the boy from the B&B. He was standing just inside the tree line to a forested area on the other side a small meadow up the slope of a hill. It was obvious that he saw me too, as I seemed to be the focus of his attention. He was beckoning to me. When he knew our eyes had made contact, he turned and walked into the woods.