The night was so dark that I didn’t see the launch until it reached the dock. I had heard it, though, and as I climbed on board, the boat all in black and the men sailing it all in black and masked as well—and totally silent—and it moved back onto Lake Como, I realized that it was the boat I heard starting up when I’d come down to the dock. The imposing lakeside mansion it had come from, lit up and with music on that I could hear from this side of the lake, wasn’t far off at all. But it was on the other side of the lake, on the northern bank toward the Swiss border. It would take hours to drive around to it from here. I was beginning to realize that the location of the house the club had rented for me for this three-day session was brilliant, although there still was a question of its “in-your-face” exposure.

When the boat came up to the dock on the other side of the lake I was helped off by another man, all in black and with a black face mask on. He handed me a mask as well. I wasn’t surprised. We’d all been masked at the early twice-yearly club meetings I’d been attending for the past two years as well. All of the other members and the support staff were masked when I entered the house. The lights were on, but dim and the music was muted, which had prevented the sound from floating across the waters of the lake. There was no conversation, but there were other men beyond the tuxedo-clad club members in the extensive ground-floor rooms. There was a bar and barman who took drink orders by signals and showing of bottles until one satisfied and there were black-clad and masked waiters roaming around with trays of fancy nibbles. And, of course, there were the security men. There were many billion dollars’ worth of men being serviced here.

There were maybe a dozen club members, like me, present, ranging in age from early thirties to into their early sixties. At thirty-four, I was one of the youngest. We were all in tuxedoes. Each of us was given a gold badge with a number on it to wear on our lapels. No names were spoken. If someone needed to be addressed at all, it was by our number for the evening. We had been told our number in the register mailed announcement we received on the time and venue of the meeting. Only a few club staff members, those making the complex arrangements, were able, for billing purposes, to match names with numbers.

We moved around the area, looking at each other and nodding and smiling, but never talking. We were all members in the 14 Boys Club, and I could speculate who the other members were and perhaps even guess, despite the face masks, as I had encountered them before—and sometimes had met a CEO or public figure in my family’s business dealings and thought perhaps I knew them—but it was against the rules to try to unmask them. One I did know—Felix Untermeyer, the president of a German manufacturing business my family had done business with for decades, because he was the one who introduced me into the club. You could only join by invitation and investing a huge amount of money. Felix was there this evening, but we didn’t interact.

The last time I saw Felix that evening, he had a boy backed to the wall and had a hand inserted in the opening of the boy’s robe and was cupping and hefty the boy’s genitals.

The club wasn’t called the 14 Boys Club because we were boys and there were fourteen of us. It was called that because we all had a fetish for boys that age—fourteen. Felix and I had shared a boy in a Frankfurt hotel two years previously and that was how I had gotten my invitation. We weren’t taking chances, though. The age of consent was fourteen in Germany and it was here in Italy, the location of Lake Como, as well. We always met where our activity was legal, if not exactly publicly acclaimed. We did not operate in public.

In addition to the dozen club members who had shown up and the support staff, there were nearly two dozen beautiful boys mingling in the room. They weren’t wearing masks. They weren’t wearing anything at all, other than robes with two silver badges on their chests with numbers on them—each badge with the same number. All of the boys were fourteen. All of them had agreed to be here this evening and to provide any services demanded of them. All would be paid well.

Most of them would be used—totally—and they knew it and, for the recompense, welcomed it. Those who weren’t chosen for the evening or for more private venues over the next two days would be the ones who were disappointed. They too would be paid—but not nearly as much as they would be for going under one of the club members.

The process was simple—designed so that nothing verbal had to be given. For tonight, all a member had to do after having roamed around assessing the boys and making a choice, was to take one of the silver badges off the robe of the boy of his choice. As he assessed the boys, he was permitted to note the numbers of up to two more boys who met his interest. If he wished, this could be the only session he attended. But most of us, having gathered from distant locations at great expense and challenge to our demanding schedules, extended our stay to include two more days. We were allowed to book a boy for each day. The cost to us, of course, depended on the services we picked and the accommodations we’d been accorded. It was all quite expensive. If we didn’t have unlimited funds, though, we would not be in this club. The club had a card from us dedicated to club expenses, which were automatically charge. There were two meetings a year. We had to make reservations to attend.

There was a table in one of the rooms in the mansion that had a bowl on it. We picked a number out of the bowl, which assigned us to a bedroom upstairs. It was a large mansion. There were more than enough bedrooms to accommodate us. There also was a signup sheet, where we could record the numbers of the boys we wished to book for the next day and/or the day after that. All we need do was ensure that the boy’s number hadn’t been lodged by any other member—recording by his gold badge number—for the same day we wished to use a boy.

The boys would be delivered to us and taken away when we were done with them.

The boys had robes with sashes, but club members were permitted to spread the robes open and examine the boys for suitability as if they were thoroughbred race horses, and the more experienced members did so. I wanted a boy that evening with boy’s equipment and thus examined the possibilities closely.

I chose a boy somewhat smaller in stature than most of the others. He was a beautiful boy, as they all were. He was perfectly formed, with olive complexion, a shy, innocent look about him. He had black, curly hair; dark, downcast, eyes; generous lips; and boyish equipment. He had well-defined musculature, but he was willowy. I gauged him to be Turkish or from somewhere else in the Levant. He was not my pick for a vigorous ride—I’d saved those picks for my longer sessions, at the house across the lake that had been rented for me, for the next two days. He was something of a delicate appetizer for me, a boy I could break down and use quickly and fully, a boy whose vulnerability I could ravish.

When I took the boy’s hand and moved toward the stairs to the bedrooms upstairs along with several others, I could feel he was trembling slightly. That was fine with me. As we passed down one of the bedroom hallways toward my assigned room, we passed one where the door was open and the club member, old, obese, and trouserless, wielding a thick, heavy erection, with a low hanging ball sac was already fully using his boy, having brought his own restraints and bound the boy’s wrists together, laid him at the foot of the bed on his back, was holding the boy’s legs raised and split, and was fucking him vigorously in the missionary position.

His boy was arching his back and panting to the ceiling with a look of suffering on his face. My boy paused, shuddered, and gave a little moan. If he wasn’t acting, I knew I was going to have pleasure taking him in my chosen way. I paused with him, ran my hand into the split of his robe, closed my hand on his small balls, and squeezed. The boy yelped. I laughed and guided him on down the hall.

First thing I did in the bedroom was to pull his robe off him and use the sash—a red silk cord—to tie his wrists together behind his back. Naked now, he went to the foot of the bed and sat there, primly, posing for me and giving me a shy little smile. He would not have the smile on his face for much longer.

I strode over to him and slapped him on the face—twice—one way and then I caught him coming back before the shock of it allowed him to react. The backhand sent him, crumpled, to the bed. I pulled him up, sat on the foot of the bed, put him across my knee, and spanked him hard. He writhed and sobbed under me, but I maintained a grip and spanked him until he relaxed into sobs and whimper. He yowled then as, pressing down on the small of his back with one hand, I screwed two fingers of the other hand into his ass and stretched him, starting to open him up. This was going to be rough and I wanted him to know that from the beginning. When he collapsed under this manhandling and was panting and whimpering his surrender, I grabbed him by his hair and forced him to his knees in front of me.

The next move was to get myself unzipped and my trousers flared open. I wasn’t going to strip for him. This was going to be a quick and intense session. I’d take more time with the boys on the next two days in the house across the lake that had been rented for me. It had the facilities to support long sessions. I didn’t usually fuck rough, but then I didn’t usually use fourteen-year-old boys. This was a specialty club outing that I paid a fortune for. For the 14 Boys Club twice a year I let out all of the stops. These sessions were as rough as it would get with me. A couple of other times a year, I went to countries where the age of consent was fourteen and used boys—at least once a year visiting Felix in Frankfurt for that purpose, but I just fucked them. I didn’t tax them—well, maybe a little use of equipment and toys at Felix’s. The 14 Boys Club boys were different. They were paid top price to take what they did.

Holding the Turkish boy in place, I made him deep-throat me. The bedrooms here came outfitted and I made use of some of what they provided. After he’d gotten me hard with his mouth, I put him on his back on the bed at the foot. I hadn’t decided how to mount him until we passed the room where the boy was being taken in a missionary and I felt my boy shudder. That decided that.

Leads with restraints dropped down from the ceiling over the bed and led off from the corners and middle of the headboard. I used the one in the middle of the headboard to secure his bound wrists over his head, and I used the drop-down leads at the foot of the bed to raise and spread his legs. He was secured on the bed. His body was trembling and he gave me a wild look with his eyes. I went down on my knees at the foot of the bed, between his raised and spread legs and ate his ass out, while I grasped and squeezed his boyish cock and balls. He writhed for me as he could and mouthed off in a foreign language. I think I was right that he was Turkish.

The club rules were to make as little noise as possible, although I could hear boys all over the building responding to being taken hard. I’d brought a silk scarf in one of the pockets of my tuxedo and I stuffed that in the boy’s mouth. I didn’t hear any more Turkish. I did hear muffled groaning and moaning though.

Other toys had been provided, and the groaning turned into grunts and deeper moaning as I used a thick dildo on him. I was thick, so this was necessary. What came afterward wasn’t as necessary, but they’d provided surgical gloves, and, seeing them, I decided why the hell not?

I fisted the boy. He writhed and moaned and did what he could to cry out through the silk gag, but I got it all in him and gave him a good fucking with my fist. He probably had the biggest ejaculation from that he’d ever had in his life.

After that, standing, crouching over him, penetrating him, and fucking him hard was probably anticlimactic for the boy. It was quite satisfying for me, though.

I only wondered for a short time if maybe I’d taken him too far, because he was whimpering and sobbing as I freed him, but I think he was acting to some extent. When I pulled out a small pure gold bar from my pocket and put it in his hand as a tip for his services, his snuffling decreased and he was back to giving small, shy smiles.

It was OK even if it was largely an act and he was a toughened boy. It had given me a thrill, and it had put me into a mood. The boy I’d booked for the next day looked like he was made out of sturdier stuff than this one was. He’d have to be for what I planned and what I’d found in the house on the lake that had been rented for me by the club. The boy also had an arrogance about him that reminded me of myself at fourteen. I knew what he needed in terms of an attitude adjustment.

I wouldn’t give him any more of an attitude adjustment than I got at that age. It would be a day he wouldn’t quickly forget, however.

At first, but only at first, I wondered why the club had rented the small, modernist house on the southern banks of the northern stretch of Lake Como, near the town of Colico, for me. I didn’t then know that it was directly across the lake, easily accessible by boat, from the lakeside mansion where the general meeting of the 14 Boys Club was held.

By their very nature, our club activities and the members’ presence there were highly secretive. The house that had been rented for me appeared, at first glance, to be eye-catching, not only from the lake but from the SS36 lake rim road as well. It wasn’t large. The first story, nearly hanging over the rocks at the lake’s edge—giving the impression when you were in the house that you actually were floating over the lake—was one large living-space square, the living room and dining room running into a kitchen, separated from it only by a kitchen island. Above, reached by an open, glass-treaded staircase were two bedrooms and a full bath, which opened both to the hall and to the master bedroom area. Only the bath, tucked in on the land side was walled by anything but clear glass and even its walls were constructed of translucent glass blocks that distorted but didn’t obliterate what lay within. All of the other walls—to the hall, the other bedroom, and the outside were clear glass. Lit up by night, the house was a completely open lantern, as seen from either the lake or the land. Even during the day, little therein was hidden from view. The building stood out for attention, either in the day or night and declared it was totally open to view. It was not, I thought, anything that supported secrecy.

However, the house had secrets it hid. The ground floor was a rock wall all the way around. The entrance hall was on this level, with a drive dipping down from the street running beside it. A garage, with underground rooms behind it—the laundry and a small bedroom, with bath, were buried in the between the house and the SS36 road. Across from the driveway was a dock extending out into the lake. The base contained more than the entrance hall, though. I found that it contained a rock-walled home gym and sexual torture chamber, complete with all the equipment and toys that a sadist would need. Restraints hung from the wall of this chamber. Inspection of the bedroom buried behind the garage revealed restraints at the four corners of the bed and others attached to the stone wall. The drawers of the bureau in that bedroom contained a collection of sex toys.

When I found the house’s secrets, I realized why the house had been rented for me. The members of the 14 Boys Club each had their preferences—beyond the shared preference for fourteen-year-old boys. Mine was known to be in the realm of roughness and sexual sadism. Little did they know that I only indulged in sex this rough and predatory in the context of the club, but, nonetheless this was my interest in club activities.

It was some time before the boy who was delivered to me from the black boat at the house dock the morning after the club’s general meeting across the lake saw anything but the rock-walled rooms in the house’s ground floor.

I had chosen him the night before because of his arrogant attitude. He was a tall, well-muscled Scandinavian blond, with blue eyes, and an “I am the hottest young man” swagger to him. I was interested not as much in fucking him as in beating the swagger out of him, breaking him down to where sex with a man would not be a war of nerves and for control. A fourteen-year-old whore to a man should be a submissive, not a competitor.

I stood on the drive, watching him, as he strutted off the boat, paused on the dock to look around and take command of his environment, pick me out where I stood, sneer at me, and slowly swagger toward me.

It was the last time he either sneered or swaggered in my presence. I took him to the room in the base of the glass house, showed him that he was no match for me in a fistfight, and, when he was beaten down, I stripped him, and hung him from a St. Andrew’s cross, facing the frame. There I beat him with a ridding crop, raising welts but careful not to break his reddened skin. When he was reduced to a quivering, sobbing mass, just hanging from the frame, I, naked now, pulled a surgical glove onto my right hand, greased it up good, came in close behind him, my left arm embracing him, and, as he screamed, I fisted him with my right hand and fist fucked him. When he was well open and stretched, I exchanged the fist for my erection, and fucked him.