[This is a sequel to “Vaduz Gentlemen’s Club”]

Reggie had had another fight with his father, Sir Reginald Clayton, the last one Reggie planned ever to have. When his parents left their Bedford Square townhouse in London for an early December Christmas party one evening, Reggie left as well and walked the streets. He encountered a man who was a neighbor of the family in their country estate near the Forest of Dean. The two walked, with the man, a close friend of the family’s and of Reggie himself, soothing the small, golden blond, perfectly formed, narrow-hipped, more beautiful than handsome fourteen-year-old boy, sympathizing with him and drawing out the boy’s innermost secrets and desires.

The neighbor had already learned and made use of these secrets and desires in a hayloft on his country estate, so there was no long, involved seduction required. Reggie’s true nature was one of the primary fights he was having with his father.

The man guided Reggie to a male brothel near Soho Square, on Bateman Street. There the boy was able to release his anger and fulfill his dreams. He was sketched and photographed in the nude, posing on a large ottoman in the brothel’s parlor as men gathered around him. He was fondled and kissed. After the patrons had had their fill of drinking in the beauty of the boy nude, he was sketched and photographed working himself with a dildo, with several of the patrons given a hand on the dildo as well. And then the willing boy was stretched out there on his back, his head turned to the side so that he could suck the cock of one man, while his neighbor friend crouched between his spread and raised legs, placed Reggie’s ankles on his shoulders, nestled his thighs between Reggie’s thighs, and penetrated and fucked the lad to mutual releases.

Reggie’s neighbor was extraordinarily long and thick, and it took several minutes if teasing of the boy’s rosebud of a hole for the mushroom cap of the cock to part the rosy petals, dilate the passage, and disappear. The first penetration was the hardest, no less because the neighbor’s member was the hardest of all the aired and handed shafts of the patrons present. With the boy calling out “Just do it,” the men surrounding the ottoman happily helped hold the small fourteen-year-old’s body down while Reggie writhed and panted hard as the considerable inches of shaft slowly sank inside him. Once saddled and the slow in and out procedure established, the boy fell into the rhythm of the bucking hips of his neighbor and himself nicely. Reggie and the neighbor had been here before in recent weeks, but not with the audience they now had.

After the neighbor had released his seed and withdrawn, other men then fucked Reggie as well, with Reggie becoming increasingly enthusiastic in the bucking with each successive cock and with each taking relieving more of his tension and further releasing his desires and inhibitions.

The boy readily agreed to all of the acts requested of him. He stayed the course. He was a natural. He was fucked by eight men in succession.

Before he left the brothel, the manager called Reggie into his office. The neighbor leaned his head toward the male madam and whispered, “The boy was planning to run away from home,” after Reggie passed them and went into the office. The madam queried Reggie on whether he had enjoyed the experience, which he had, he said.

“You truly are fourteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What plans do you have for New Year’s?” the man asked.

“None,” Reggie answered. His parents would be off on a two-day round of high-society balls and he would be home alone. But if he ran away today, as he had intended to do when he encountered his neighbor, he wouldn’t still be at home, either in London or in the country, on New Year’s Eve.

“How would you like to do something different for New Year’s, have fun, and make a lot of money?” the man asked, as he opened his desk drawer, took out a “lot of money” wad and dropped it in front of Reggie. “It would be enough money to take you far and make you independent for a long time.”

Reggie’s neighbor leaned forward to query, “How many men would he—?” but the boy cut him off.

“Yes,” Reggie answered without hesitation.

The boy was given over to the neighbor again, who took him upstairs, where the neighbor stripped, lay on his back on a bed in a small bed chamber, and, in gratitude for not taking him home, Reggie rode his cock in both a facing and a reverse cowboy position. Grasping the boy’s narrow hips between his hands as Reggie raised and lowered himself, taking the hard cock deep, his tender channel walls making love to it, the neighbor murmured, “You’re so nice, such a natural. I’d go to the ends of the earth to be able to be inside you. I could fuck you forever.” He tried to, but Reggie was such a sweet lay that the neighbor couldn’t hold himself in check for long.

The neighbor, whose immediate plan had been to whisk Reggie away for his own use in a hidden location until the New Year’s engagement materialized, went into the adjacent bathroom to clean up after they both had come. When he came out, Reggie was gone.

Martin Malvin exited the Vaduz, Liechtenstein, railway station into the swirling snow, still coming down from the sky, but already piled up on the ground and being raised in a mist by the wind, and huddled his heavy coat around him. He could see the black Mercedes stretch limousine idling as close to the exit door as it could in the station lot. Smoke from its exhaust added to the eerie atmosphere of snow enveloping the world. A mountain ridge loomed above the town, strung along its base to the west. Standing by the door was a David and Goliath tableau. Martin knew Goliath, the towering, massive Turk, from earlier visits here and thought he rightly termed the man. David he termed thusly because he was merely a boy, coming not much higher than the Turk’s waist. The appearance of a David was unexpected and Martin didn’t think he’d ever met this boy before, although it was hard to tell as bundled up as the lad was.

If the boy had been naked, perhaps Martin may have recognized him. This was a primary city to come to to view naked teenage boys, and Martin was a portrait artist of those. His skill in that vein is what had brought him to Liechtenstein.

Goliath—Errol, one of Prince Rudolf’s “do everything” attendants—stepped forward and took the suitcase from Martin’s hand.

“Welcome back to Vaduz, Mr. Malvin,” the Turk said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You are booked at the Residence Hotel. A car will meet you there at 7:30 to take you up to Haldenweg for the New Year’s Eve party.”

Martin knew Prince Rudolf’s house, with was really a small palace, set on the road that took its name from Rudolf’s mansion lower on the mountain overshadowing the center of Vaduz, the capital of Liechtenstein, below Vaduz Castle. He had been there before. The Residence Hotel was at the base of the mountain in the castle’s shadow.

He also was quite familiar with Errol’s cold stare, the man’s ability to detach having been something Martin had experienced in extremity.

Prince Rudolf was something not fully clear to Martin in the Liechtenstein royal family. It appeared he no longer was in the direct line of succession in the filthy rich financial-center princedom wedged between Switzerland and Austria while remaining someone important with the princedom’s finances and thus wielded great power here. Martin knew the man had been isolated a bit from the social mainstream and was spoken of in hushed tones—and, after an earlier extended time in Liechtenstein, Martin knew why. The age of consent in Liechtenstein was fourteen, and Prince Rudolf not only had a fetish himself for fourteen-year-old boys but he also headed a club of like-interested men called the Vaduz Gentlemen’s Club.

Martin had been made an honorary member of the club based on his career as an artist, which included the sideline of creating pornographic art for the super wealthy. He sketched it from observation of real-life acts. He had been here before and had produced art for Prince Rudolf and his club members. After a short time here, however, he had broken away—on good terms—and returned to London. Only now, after a few years of no contact, had he found it necessary to return. He’d had invitations to attend one of Prince Rudolf’s parties for the club membership in the past to help memorialize the event in art, but this New Year’s Eve Auction party that would transpire this evening was the first invitation he had accepted.

“You are traveling light,” Errol said, easily hefting the suitcase. “Did you remember to bring your art supplies? If not, no problem. There will be everything you need up at Haldenweg.”

The suitcase contained nothing much more than the art supplies and a tuxedo—nothing that couldn’t be abandoned. Martin didn’t want the Turk to know—or suspect—that, though. He also didn’t want the Turk, or his master, Prince Rudolf, to know that this wasn’t the first time even this week that Martin had been here, at the Vaduz train station. Today he’d flown from London to Zurich, seventy miles to the east, in Switzerland, and then taken the train to Vaduz, a journey of an hour and ten minutes. But three days earlier, on December 28th, he’d been here at the Vaduz train station to take the train the other direction, to Zurich, and then on to Birmingham and hence to his country house in Gloucestershire. He didn’t have plans to spend the night at the Residence Hotel in Vaduz, either. He had a hotel room booked on the banks of the Walensee, fifty miles away, in Switzerland. But that wasn’t something he wanted the Turk or Prince Rudolf to know either.

On the way to the car, where the young boy was holding open a backseat door for Martin to enter, the artist paused to look into the face of the boy, the only exposed part of him. No, he didn’t think he’d seen the boy before, but he was beautiful—angelic—obviously of northern European stock. He had little doubt that he’d be sketching the boy later in the day, at the party, if not sooner.

“This is a German boy, Fritz,” Errol provided in explanation. “He is to serve you as you wish until you are fetched for the party.”

“Fetched for the party,” Martin thought. Yes, that was a good way to put it. He was at Prince Rudolf’s beck and call just as much as Errol—or this angelic boy—were. Perhaps not after tonight, though.

“He is fourteen,” Errol added, as he maneuvered through the snow around to the driver’s door.

Of course he is, Martin thought, as he entered the backseat. Fritz came into the back with Martin and sat huddled very close to the artist as they ever-so-carefully were driven the five miles back into the center of Vaduz from the train station. Martin could have embraced the boy, fondled and kissed him if he wanted to. He could have treated the boy as a Christmas package, to be unwrapped and enjoyed. Martin knew it would take time enough to reach the hotel in this snow that he could have unbuttoned both what the boy and he were wearing, readjust clothing and position, and fuck the boy en route to the hotel. He knew that Errol would idle the car long enough for Martin to do whatever he wanted with Fritz. He knew the boy was there to do anything he wanted with. He would be expected to mount and fuck the boy.

That was the way of Prince Rudolf. This was part of the recommence Martin was to receive for coming to the party and memorializing it for the prince’s guests. He knew it also was Prince Rudolf’s technique of suborning those he wanted to use. The prince preferred fourteen-year-old boys, but his tastes were broader than that, as were his methods of controlling others. Martin hadn’t just painted for the prince; he, usually a top, had lain under the prince and been mastered by him. He’d been hung from the ceiling and whipped and fucked by the prince, and he had accepted that, not only because it aroused him in its own way but also because Prince Rudolf’s business and patronage were vitally important to him. No doubt he would accede to Rudolf’s sexual demands again if that’s what the prince desired—and if Martin stayed around long enough to be maneuvered into that position.

The German boy seemed to expect Martin to cover him, as well. He even moved a hand into the folds at Martin’s crotch to invite play. But Martin turned his face to the window and viewed the sea of white that periodically opened up to give him a glimpse of the prosperous-looking buildings on the streets headed for the center of the town. He didn’t stay the lad’s wandering hand, though, and Fritz found Martin’s shaft inside his clothing and stroked it as the Mercedes shushed through the snow. Martin could see Errol’s eyes watching him in the rearview mirror, and Martin couldn’t afford not to show at least a bit of interest.

“Soll ich mich ausziehen und auf dem Bett liegen?—Do you want me to undress and lie on the bed?” Fritz asked when they got to the hotel room.

“Yes, please,” Malvin said, and when the boy had, he said. “Lie on your back, please, your butt toward me. Put a pillow under your butt. Spread and bend your legs, feet on the sheets. Show me your hole.”

When Fritz had done so, he asked, “Willst du mich jetzt ficken?—Are you going to fuck me now?”

“Nein—No,” Malvin answered. He walked over and brushed his thumb over the hole, watching to see how fast it would dilate for him, and, Fritz being well used, it opened right up. But the artist moved away and went to the nearby dresser. “Here, take this dildo and use it on yourself. I’m going to sketch you.”

He sketched for nearly half an hour, different poses from different positions, as Fritz became increasingly aroused, panting, working himself up with the dildo. In a somewhat strained voice as he saw Malvin put the sketchbook away, Fritz repeated, “Willst du mich jetzt ficken.”

“Nein, Fritz. I have something else I must do. Where are you supposed to go from here and how are you to get there?”

“Du willst mich nicht?—You don’t want me?” Fritz was almost in tears. “Ich bitte Sie nicht?—I don’t please you?”

“You’re a beautiful boy, Fritz. I don’t want to spoil what happens later tonight. And I do have something else I need to do before the party—someplace else I need to go.”

That, at least, Fritz could understand, and he then answered what Malvin had asked, saying that no one was picking him up—that Prince Rudolf’s house was within walking distance and he was expected there to work in the kitchen and dining room for the party whenever he showed up. “Aber ich werde gefragt werden... —But they will ask me...”

“Don’t worry, Fritz. If I’m asked, I’ll say you cooperated and did what I asked—and that I enjoyed you. And that would be the truth.”

When Fritz had left, satisfied, Malvin engaged a hotel car to take him on a drive. He asked to be driven up to see the Vaduz Castle at the top of the mountain. The snow had stopped. It was heavy on the ground, but anyone who lived in Vaduz for any time knew how to drive in the snow, even up to the top of the mountain. Malvin didn’t ask for the drive because he wanted to see the castle. He’d seen the castle before. He wanted to be driven up there because Prince Rudolf’s mansion was on that road and because above that there was a parking area where he had parked the car he had rented at the Zurich airport and driven to Vaduz on December 28th. He wanted to make sure it still was there. It was.

Then he had the driver take him back to the hotel, rested for a few hours to prepare himself for the tricky and arduous night to come, and then got up and showered, dressed in his tuxedo, examined the mask he’d been given to wear for the New Year’s Eve Auction party, and went down to the lobby to wait for his transportation up to Haldenweg.

Prince Rudolf was standing in the foyer to welcome his New Year’s Eve guests to his auction party. Martin had not seen him for more than a year, but he hadn’t changed. The artist recognized him despite the half mask he was wearing. He didn’t really make any effort to not be recognized. He was an imposing man, tall and broad at the shoulders but slender down through the hips. He was a handsome man, of military and royal bearing, probably in his fifties and graying, but every inch the prince. The half mask he wore was of gold. The mask his bidding guests—there were nine of them—were silver, and of the three invited artists, which included Martin, black. All of the men wore tuxedos. The members of the prince’s staff wore white masks. The more than a dozen fourteen-year-old boys scattered about to help serve and to service wore nothing at all.

Most of the guests wore their tailored tuxedos like they were customary attire. A few of the bidders were mature of age and a bit paunchy but a surprising number of them were younger, muscular, and fit. The fetish of covering fourteen-year-old boys was not dying out in Europe. Rather it was catching on with the new, younger leaders of industry, military, and the royal houses. The fetish of using teen boys sexually for more than just penetrative sex was also growing.

The prince greeted Martin with a smile and a possessive hand on the twenty-five-year-old artist’s buttocks, bringing to both of their minds the last time the two had been together, a time in which Martin was hanging from a hook in the stone-walled tombs of this mansion, and, after having whipped him, Rudolf was crouched been the artist’s thighs, which the prince held spread and raised, Martin’s ankles on his shoulders, and fucked Martin as he hung there. The prince’s tastes varied—fourteen-year-old boys in his bedchamber but older, beautiful young men like Martin, in his sexual torture chamber. The wariness of becoming too popular with the prince for this use had been one reason Martin had returned to England.

Prince Rudolf had invited Martin to remain as his guest for a couple of days into the new year. Martin had little doubt that if he remained it would be in the basement chambers, hanging about or strapped to some other sexual device for Rudolf’s pleasure. Normally he would have been enticed by that invitation, as his sexual fetishes were varied too, but that wasn’t in his plans for the current visit to Haldenweg. There was no useful reason the prince should know that, though.

Guided through to the expansive dining room by a gesturing Errol, magnificently bare chested and swathed in diaphanous Turkish pants, upcurved slippers, turban, and white half mask, Martin found that a buffet banquet was laid on, served by naked boys. The German boy, Fritz, was among them. There were a dozen or more of the boys, all fourteen, Martin presumed. He also presumed, especially as some of them were touched and slyly fondled by the guests, that, like Fritz had been assigned to him, each of the guests and other artists had been gifted one of the boys as a party favor for their private use that afternoon before being transported up the mountain to the auction party.

The party instructions had made quite clear that this would be a masked, silent buffet and party to maintain some sense of deniability of recognition, although Martin was sure that most of the men were very much aware of who else had been invited and who they shared this fetish with. It was quite clear that they had each paid a small fortune to be here. The three artists—Martin, the sketch artist; a photographer; and a videographer had been provided to memorialize the party. Each of the bidding guests would be provided, as very expensive party favors, nude sketches of the boys at auction as well as photos and videos of the later stages of the party. They also would go back to their respective hotel rooms or flats—several of them lived locally in colony—with one or more of the boys. The party for them wouldn’t end until the morning when the prince would have all of his assets gathered back under his wing.

Martin could remember parties of the past, where the guests where housed at Haldenweg, of entering the prince’s bedroom the morning after the part to find him draped with five or six boys. After one party, Martin himself woke up the morning after in the prince’s bed—under the prince—and spread-eagled on the bed, restrained at wrists and ankles.

Fritz was to be sent back to the Residence Hotel with Martin for the night.

After the sumptuous buffet was consumed and the remainder swept away, Errol directed the guests into an adjoining chamber that probably had originally been the music room. It was elegantly appointed, with gilted French Provincial chairs scattered about in front of a raised stage area at the far end of the room. The wall to the right was an exterior wall with five French doors at set intervals, which led out to a stone terrace overlooking the town of Vaduz below. A second-floor gallery ran along the side to the left.

The stage was already set for the men as the nine bidders and Martin positioned seats as they liked. The photographer and videographer remained on their feet, moving around and doing their job. Prince Rudolf had removed himself to the gallery above and stood there at the rail, staring down at the proceedings. The four boys being bid on, each demonstrably more perfectly formed and beautiful than the boys who had served in bed and at table before the party had reached this phase, were already posed on the stage. Three black velvet-covered raised daises were positioned along the front of the stage, one boy, wearing only a black bow tie and a black satin string bikini, posed on each of the daises. The fourth boy, a blond beauty, more beautiful than handsome, was bound, spread-eagled, to an X-frame at the center back of the stage. He was the only boy wearing nothing but the black bow tie.

No one had to tell the men gathering in front of the stage that all four boys were fourteen. That was given for events of the Vaduz Gentlemen’s Club.

A fifth figure walked onto the stage from the wings. There was no question that he was costumed to come across as a satyr. He had a certain scheming, feral look in his face, which was ugly but arresting. He wore a half mask as did all of the guests, but it was designed to emphasize the satyr nature of the man and hid little of his features.