“Usually George would want to take this assignment,” Sir Walter, the London male brothel procurer, said to Gabriel when he called him into his office. “It would be an opportunity George would jump at, but Mr. Jones’s driver is downstairs and he wants a boy from now through the night and he wants the boy now. I’m sending you. Just as well George isn’t here. He’s not fourteen, and the man wants a boy.”
George wasn’t really one of Sir Walter’s stable of male whores--he was Sir Walter’s boyfriend--but George was a poet and the client was a novelist.
“Mr. Jones?” Gabriel asked, somewhat amused. “That’s his name?”
“Of Course not, but he’s important enough not to want people to know he diddles boys. So, it will be Mr. Jones unless he tells you otherwise. The driver is outside, and Mr. Jones won’t want him idling out there long either, so off you go. Oh, you should know that he requested someone who would take the fist and a double.”
“Of course,” Gabriel muttered. “Don’t they all want a young boy who will do everything?”
Mr. Jones’s flat was in another one of those rich-looking crescent townhouse curves off of Belgrave Square. It was a penthouse flat, and the flat itself was in stark contrast to the stately historical structure it was in. The driver, a solidly built, foul-mouthed, ruddy complexioned lower-class thug who was stocky and built close to the ground, let Gabriel into the flat with the comment, “He’s not here yet. Make yourself comfortable, but don’t even think of pocketing anything.”
In the same vein, the driver, who had made lewd comments, if in general rather than directly to the boy whore coming on an assignment, had inspected the contents the small suitcase Gabriel brought with him, saying, “I’ll look in here when you leave too, so don’t get any ideas about putting anything in here you didn’t come with.”
Upon instruction, Gabriel had brought evening clothes, sexy mesh underdrawers, and a pair of sleeping shorts. Going through the suitcase, the driver suggested, pushing his tongue against the inside of his mouth and making a popping sound, that Gabriel should put on the sleeping shorts, so Mr. Jones wouldn’t have as much to contend with in taking it off.
“That be the sound of your male cherry popping,” the driver said, and then laughed.
“That’s no longer a worry for me,” Gabriel answered back. For some reason he liked this crude man and his banter.
“All the good for you, then. Some of the boys he sends for can’t say the same until they’ve left here. He’ll fuck you before going to the theatre,” the driver said. “He’s got a good cock on him. He’ll stretch a little bird like you to the limit. I guess, though, that’s why he goes for the boys. May name’s Syd, by the way. You need anything I got, don’t be shy about asking.” The look the driver gave Gabriel was self-explanatory.
So much for whether the driver knew why he was here, Gabriel thought. “If I could afford you I’d fuck you myself before taking you back to the whorehouse,” the driver added, with a wink. Syd was a hunk and a half, short but solid--muscular. He also was younger than most of the clients Gabriel had been lying under. Gabriel wouldn’t have minded being fucked by him.
The flat seemed to be one large room, with all glass walls toward the back of the building and to one side, where a terrace courtyard had been carved out of what once must have been part of the original building. Areas inside the flat were delineated by furnishings as living room, dining area, and kitchen, but there were no walls between them. It was all very modern. There was a kitchen bar between the appliances and the dining area. It took Gabriel a minute to find the winding staircase that went down to the level under this one. The place was deserted.
The staircase took the boy down to the bedroom level, which contained more living space than the upper level. Gabriel found four bedrooms, each with a bath, and a study or office. Two of the bedrooms--the obvious master bedroom and the smallest one--had men’s trappings in them. Mr. Jones and the driver? Gabriel wondered. He presumed he wasn’t supposed to explore as far as the office, as the walls here blasted the Mr. Jones identification out of the water. There were photographs and award plaques on the wall. If the memorabilia belonged to the owner, this flat belonged to Spencer Reardon, the best-selling novelist--Sir Spencer Reardon now, according to the most recent awards. Gabriel now understood why George Smythe would be upset he wasn’t sent here. George, the poet, would give anything to meet the novelist.
Gabriel looked at the photos, picking out which one would be of Reardon. No, he thought, he wouldn’t be displeased by being fucked by this man.
Gabriel picked out one of the bedrooms that didn’t seem to be occupied and unloaded the suitcase he’d brought.
At nearly 5:00 p.m., he was sitting on a living room sofa facing north and watching the colored lights in the terrace courtyard go on and play in the water of a narrow exercise pool running along the far wall. As suggested, he was wearing only the cobalt-blue silk sleeping shorts he’d brought, which fit him, but were designed to ride low on the hips and high above the knees.
He turned his head toward the door to the apartment when the lock was turned and it opened and then Gabriel sucked in breath as Spencer Reardon entered. He was all that his press photographs promised: tall; slender; perfectly proportioned; gray hair; slight beard; everything perfectly trimmed; elegantly dressed; carrying himself like the model that he obviously essentially had been throughout a life in the spotlight.
He smiled, said hello, and noted in a honey-toned voice, “You must be my date for tonight. Gabriel Hardy, is it?”
It wasn’t. He was Gabriel Beaventon. Hardy was his mother’s name. But it wouldn’t have been wise to use the Beaventon name, as it was well-known in royal circles. And Gabriel didn’t want his father to find him. He’d just send the boy back to Rugby, the torture chamber boy’s school the Baron von Sternburg had saved Gabriel from only to turn him over to Sir Walter’s male brothel in London.
“I’m Robert Jones.” Obviously he didn’t want his true name known either. Gabriel, of course, was fine with going with that. He had a patrician English accent, although Gabriel gathered from what he saw in the office downstairs that he originally was Australian. The accent was the type that was used on London theatre stages.
Gabriel stood up from the sofa as Reardon moved across the room toward him, giving the boy an appraising scrutiny as he moved, his smile indicating that he liked what he saw--which Gabriel assumed he would. Gabriel kept himself finely honed, while being careful to maintain a boyish body. It was quite an effort to do so and involved rigorous and organized exercise since he’d entered the brothel.
“I see you’ve settled in. I hope you found yourself at home.”
“Yes, thanks, I did ... I do,” Gabriel answered.
“It’s been a busy day so far. We’ll have to be on our way at seven. But we have time for a drink. I’m having red wine. What would you like? I’ll let you have wine.” It was a recognition that Gabriel was but a boy still.
“Just water, thank you.”
“Ah, I do suppose that a boy whore is like a model--that you have to continually watch your figure. You can’t muscle of too much, can you, or your clients will have lost the sensation that they are fucking a boy.”
This knocked Gabriel back a bit. Along with the concession that he was a boy had come the raw statement that he was a whore.
Reardon had said that while he was in the kitchen area getting the drinks. When he came out, he handed Gabriel a glass of water, took a sip of his wine, and sat down close beside the boy on the sofa.
“Really, you can have wine if you wish. It won’t cause me to feel that I’m not fucking a boy.”
“The water is fine,” Gabriel said. He felt a tingling sensation all over. He rather liked this raw language from a man who looked so refined.
“And I could continually watch your figure as well,” Reardon continued. “Very good shape you’re in, I’m happy to say. You’ve kept the look of a boy. When I asked for a boy, I wasn’t thinking how small you might be, though. How small are you down there? Can you take a big cock? I hope there won’t be any trouble--”
“There won’t be any trouble,” Gabriel said. “You may think there is at that beginning, but I’ll open to you.”
“I hope not too quickly,” he said. “I like a tight fit at first. But, yes, for my needs you have to open a good bit. I like the feeling of the boy opening up big for me. Do you mind if I check what I’m paying for?”
“No, of course not,” Gabriel answered in a breathy voice. “As you said, you’re paying to do whatever you want.”
The man was being refreshingly direct. Most of the patricians Gabriel had been servicing liked to cover their lust with indirect comments. It was refreshing to have a man--one who looked this good for his age--be this bald about what they were going to do. Perhaps it was because he was a writer--and maybe because he was an Australian. While Gabriel was thinking these thoughts, Reardon was acting on them. With the wine glass in one hand, Reardon had the other hand high up the inside of one of the legs of Gabriel’s sleeping shorts, weighing the boy’s balls and fondling his engorging cock.
“Do you want me to take the shorts off?” Gabriel asked, with a small smile.
“I’ll do that when I wish to,” he said. “Nice, very nice,” he said, giving Gabriel’s balls a little squeeze. “Big for the size of your body.” One of his fingers went to Gabriel’s hole and pressed in, but he didn’t keep it there. “Yes, tight,” he murmured. Gabriel had given a jerk when he’d felt the finger invade, but he’d spread his thighs a bit in response to signal Reardon could do as he liked in that department.
Reardon leaned his face over into Gabriel’s and, getting the message, the boy moved his lips to meet the novelist’s mouth. The red wine was luscious on Reardon’s lips. Gabriel regretted that he hadn’t asked for that himself. It didn’t really matter; he was getting the essence of the taste of it now. The kiss otherwise was very nice too. Slow and sensual, Reardon’s tongue parted Gabriel’s lips but then it only invaded a fraction of an inch, flicking a bit, promising more. His hand was stroking Gabriel’s cock, which was filling out fast to his touch.
But then he had pulled away, sat up, and took another swig of his wine. Gabriel let his body, twisted on the sofa, recline back on the arm of the sofa.
Reardon sat there, making small talk, asking Gabriel about the brothel and how it was like working there and what the biggest cock was Gabriel had taken. Whether he’d been fucked by a black man or an Arab or someone from the royal family. How many cocks he normally took in a day. Had he been fisted? Doubled? Caned? The curiosity amused Gabriel, but he had to admit that it probably went with the man being a novelist. Gabriel answered as honestly as he thought he should. Reardon was particularly interested in how the baron had used him. Gabriel said it was an Austrian baron, but didn’t give the name. He admitted that he’d been fisted and doubled, remembering that Sir Walter had mentioned that had been requested.
“Good. And I suppose you’re wondering whether I can do you as well as your baron did,” Reardon said.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” Gabriel answered. “It’s well enough if you do it so that you take pleasure from it.” Just a normal conversation, if you didn’t take into account that he was slowly jacking Gabriel off inside the silk sleeping shorts.
When Gabriel was close to coming, he told Reardon in a calm voice that he would come if he didn’t stop masturbating him.
“I want you to,” he said, simply, “It won’t be the last time you come with me,” and then when, with a jerk and a sigh, Gabriel did come, Reardon continued stroking him, slathering his staff with his own cum and giving it slippery strokes.
“I’m going to take your shorts off now, get a good look at you, and then we’ll fuck. We don’t have much time before we have to prepare for the theatre.”
Reardon slipped Gabriel’s sleeping shorts off, running his hands back up the boy’s legs when he’d done so, with Gabriel parting his legs for the man. Reardon’s hands met in the middle at the cock and remained there for a few seconds. Their eyes met.
“Do you want to fuck me now?” Gabriel asked.
“Lie back in the sofa please,” Reardon said, as if he hadn’t heard Gabriel’s question. Gabriel complied.
“I would like you to fuck me now,” Gabriel said. “This isn’t me trying to work you as a client. I want you to fuck me now.”
Again, Reardon ignored him. “You look so innocent, so small and delicate, and yet so inviting, lying there like that,” he said. “I’m going to fuck the hell out of you, you know.”
“I can be anything you want,” Gabriel answered. “You can do anything to me you want.”
“Spread your legs for me again, please. Bend them and spread them. Pull that pillow under the small of your back. Elevate your hips. Show me your hole.”
Gabriel complied. He gave a soft moan as Reardon ran a finger across the hole and it puckered for him. “Nice. Tight,” he murmured. “I’m thick. And I have this,” he said, showing Gabriel his fist. “Are you sure--?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Gabriel answered. He sucked in his breath as Reardon entered him with a finger. “Nice,” he repeated and pressed in to the knuckle.
“Fuck me,” Gabriel whimpered.
“I will, of course,” Reardon said. “I’m going to mount you. I find that so much sexy than saying I’m going to fuck you, don’t you--that I’m going to mount your ass? I guess it’s the novelist in me. I like to play with words. Do you find ‘mount’ sexier than ‘fuck’?”
“Yes,” Gabriel answered, and strangely enough he did.
Reardon put his mouth close to Gabriel’s ear and whispered, “I’m going to mount you. I’m going to mount you, baby. I’m going to mount you and ride you into the ground.”
Gabriel shivered. He turned his face to Reardon’s and they kissed.
He didn’t mount Gabriel then, though. Pulling his finger out of Gabriel’s ass, he put his wine glass down and stood. “I’m going downstairs and shower and get naked. When I come back I’ll take you for a spin. I will mount you. We have time before we have to be ready for the theater, but not much. I do need to check out how easily and how much you will open up. I paid for the night, though. We can do something quick now, and something more demanding tonight.”
When he was gone, Gabriel sat up and drained his wine glass, looking hungrily at the kitchen counter to see of the bottle was out and to gauge if he could sneak a refill before Reardon got back. Gabriel believed this man was indeed going to make demands on him.
Gabriel was lying across the cushions of the sofa, naked, when Reardon came back. The boy’s back rested against the arm, his legs were bent and spread, his feet were flat on the seat of the sofa. His pelvis was raised, giving full exposure of his puckering hole. He gasped when Reardon came back, fully naked. His body was beautiful. Not beautiful in the powerful, primitive way, but like a classic Italian statue. Perfectly formed on a tall, thin frame. Full chest, but narrow hips. A dick that was both thick and impossibly long. And half erect.
He caught Gabriel eyeing his cock. “Ah, good, you maintained your position for me. I was thinking about you,” he said in the smooth voice of his. “And what position to ride you in the first time. I suppose it’s too much to ask that you are a virgin.”
“No, I’m not,” Gabriel said. “For a price, you can get one from the brothel, but I’m long past that. With me, what you’ll get is experience. I’m only fourteen but with experience. I can act like I’m a virgin when you are fucking me, if you like. If you like fucking innocent boys, I’ll be an innocent boy for you.”
“I don’t want you to act about anything. I want your raw response to me being inside you.” His voice was getting husky, and it was losing its patrician accent. There was more of an Australian tinge to it now.
He looked at his now-empty wine glass and gave a little laugh, but rather than refill it, he came down on top of Gabriel between his legs. Gabriel hadn’t seen the velvet handcuffs before then, but he felt Reardon’s hands gliding up his arms, forcing his arms over his head, and then snapping on the cuffs around Gabriel’s wrist, the lead going around a sturdy floor-to-ceiling pole lamp column next to the sofa arm, attached at the floor and ceiling, so that Gabriel’s arms were immobilized above his head.
“Yes, yes, take me as a captive. Rape me,” Gabriel murmured. “I’ll be your boy captive and you can be my rapist.”
“I just might do that,” he answered. “Be tight for me, if you can--until I want to feel you open--and then open big.”
Then he began eating up time by exploring every inch of Gabriel’s body with his mouth and hands, gliding over every curve, exploring every crevice--until he had the boy moaning and begging for his cock.
“I’m going to mount you now,” he whispered in Gabriel’s ear, as he did so, Gabriel shivered again.
When he entered Gabriel, the boy used every trick he knew to keep the channel tight. Reardon helped by tying the boy’s ankles together and raising his closed legs up the line of his torso, the ankles hooked on one of the man’s shoulders.
“Squeeze it, baby. Grip the cock,” Reardon commanded, and Gabriel squeezed his passage muscles as much he could, groaning at the novelist’s hard thrusts to force his way in. “Good boy, good boy,” Reardon murmured, his breathing heavy at the effort to open the boy even as Gabriel was under instructions to fight that.
Reardon fucked him slow and deep, needing to force his way up the channel, for well over fifteen minutes before he commanded Gabriel to open to him. He untied the boy’s ankles and spread his legs wide.
Gabriel relaxed his passage muscles and the stroking became faster and easier. Gabriel gasped as he felt Reardon’s fingers start to move down the sides of his cock inside Gabriel’s passage. The extra thickness of the fingers stretched Gabriel’s passage walls. But the walls gave for the man, and they gave more as Reardon’s fingers moved deeper and he forced them against the passage walls. Gabriel was panting hard, but he was yielding to the man. There could have been two cocks inside Gabriel now. Reardon could have gotten his fist inside Gabriel’s passage now.
At length, with a sigh from both of them, Reardon released his seed inside the boy’s channel. With a murmured, “Good,” Reardon pulled his fingers out of Gabriel’s ass. He was still hard inside Gabriel, though, and slow pumped on for a second, lesser orgasm. When he was finished, he released Gabriel from the velvet cuffs. They now were late and had to scramble to shower and dress in their evening wear.
Gabriel left with Reardon in his chauffeured car, but he was told to stay in the car until the interval when Reardon got out. The driver took Gabriel into theatre and to a private parlor just before the interval, regaling him, in the meantime, with stories of the boys the driver had fucked and making innuendoed references to how well Reardon already had fucked Gabriel.
Two men entered the room. Reardon was one. Gabriel had no idea who the other one was. But this obviously was why Reardon had engaged the services of a male whore with specialized services for the evening. There was someone he needed to impress, or owed a favor to, or wanted to give a favor to. It became obvious why Reardon was so concerned whether Gabriel had experience in doubling and could open up to accommodate two cocks.
The second man was older than Reardon, and not in as good shape, but he had a cock and he knew how to use it. He leaned back on the edge of a table, and unbuttoned and exposed himself. Reardon bared his cock too. They fucked Gabriel, naked, together, both cocks churning inside Gabriel at once, the second man from below, with Gabriel perched in his lap, and Reardon from the front. It only took fifteen minutes for them to work him and seed him. Then, without comment, they had cleaned themselves up from a bowl of water and wash cloths left there for them to use, tucked their dicks back into their evening clothes, and had returned to their separate boxes for the second act.
That night Reardon rode Gabriel to exhaustion in his bed. They were crouched on the bed, Reardon upright, kneeling and sitting on his heels. Gabriel was sitting in Reardon’s lap, facing him, his legs wrapped around Reardon’s waist, his ankles bound with velvet cuffs. Gabriel’s arms were wrapped around Reardon’s neck, his wrists bound in velvet cuffs. They were kissing. Reardon’s hands cupped Gabriel’s butt cheeks, squeezing, separating, massaging them, his cock deep inside Gabriel, as he pulled Gabriel’s channel on and off the shaft.
Gabriel had known it was coming. He’d seen the open can of grease sitting on the nightstand beside the bed when they’d come to the bed. Still, it was a surprise when after Reardon ejaculated, the boy felt the man pulling back with his pelvis, pulling his cock out of Gabriel’s passage, and then the greased fist starting to work its way in. Trapped against the man’s body, Gabriel was only able to arch his head back, begin to pant hard, and groan to the ceiling, as Reardon’s fist went in to the wrist and the fist started to slow pump Gabriel’s channel.
“Good boy; sweet boy; good boy. Take it, take it, take it,” the novelist whispered into the hollow of the boy’s throat.
Gabriel took it.