24 Exeter Place

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Life in a 1890s London gentlemen's club male brothel.
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sr71plt
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"Thank you," the monsignor said as I handed him down from the carriage in front of 24 Exeter Place in a quiet pocket garden not far from Victoria Station. I had told him my name was Luke, but he'd managed to go all afternoon without directly addressing me—like I wasn't wholly there. This was the first time he'd thanked me, though, and I thought there was reason enough to be thanked earlier in the day.

"Can we possibly be here?" he asked, looking up at the façade of a brownstone, whose edges blended in with the brownstones of the crescent on either side of it.

"Discretion," Your Eminence, I murmured. "The hallmark of the gentlemen's clubs of London."

"Ah, yes, I do appreciate that," he said, his English good, but with a heavy Spanish accent, as we mounted the steps and I raised and lowered the door knocker. Stewart Brandon, the imposing majordomo met us at the door. "Ah, Your Eminence . . . Luke," he said as he swept aside for us to enter. "I trust everything was satisfactory," he said to the Spanish monsignor, an emissary of the Vatican to the Court of Saint James, who had been introduced to the club by the marquis, Lord Fitzwater of York, one of the club's major patrons.

"Quite satisfactory," the monsignor said. "The young man can see me back to the hotel later?"

"Certainly, as you wish," Brandon said, as he ushered the priest into the drinks parlor, where several members had already gathered. Turning to me, he said, "Mark will need some help with the service; Matthew and John are otherwise occupied."

"Yes, Mr. Brandon," I answered, moving toward the kitchen at the back of the building for a tray of drinks. The four service men of the club were known as Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John no matter what their real names were. It made identifications easier for the members, who barely noticed who was serving them in the public areas of the club, although when we put our trays down, they generally brought us into the orb of their conversations at least long enough to acknowledge our presence, to make small chit chat, and to voice their interests and expectations.

The atmosphere in the drinks parlor was one of boisterous conversation, whiskeys and scotches, and cigars and cigarettes. There were several centers of discussion, focused on the careers and interests of the gentlemen, most in their middle age, all notable beyond the confines of the club walls. I passed by the "courts" group with a tray of drinks. The Right Honorable Peter Bowles, judge of the Appeals Court, was discussing the intricacies of the naval impressment case before him, including the scandalous indignities the press claimed were being imposed on the young sailors, with Admiral Stanley Thornton and the leading barrister of the day, Bradley Thaw.

"Nothing that the noblest of our young men don't encounter in public school," Thaw was saying.

Bowles laid a hand on my forearm and pulled me into the group for a moment. "I looked for you earlier today, Luke," he said. "I believe this was our afternoon." I doubt he'd been to court that day. He was dressed for riding, including having a riding crop in his hand that he kept flicking against his leg.

"Yes, Your Lordship," I answered. "It is, indeed, sir. I'm sorry that we have missed—"

"I don't intend it to be missed. I intend it to be fit in."

"Yes, of course, Your Lordship. I'm sorry. A guest of Lord Fitzwater's was in town and I was sent to him at Grosvenor's for the afternoon."

"Ah, the priest who has just entered then. I didn't recognize him."

"He's Spanish," I said. "Manual Alvarez. Apparently sent here on some diplomatic mission by the pope. Lord Fitzwater was very definite about wanting him to be made comfortable in London and to have someone escort him around."

As we conversed, I saw John come down the stairs behind the Earl, William Yates, and, at Stewart Brandon's beckoning cross to the Spanish priest. I felt the relief that John was seeing to the priest, as I was being torn between my obligations to Alvarez and Lord Peter.

The remainder of the drinks on my tray went to the politics discussion group near the door to the foyer, which included a viscount, Lord Charles Beaumont; the fiery orator in the House of Lords, Sir Travis Compton; and a gentleman so much farther up in the royal house that we never spoke his name or title in this club—just referring to him as "Your Highness."

I passed Mark in the foyer as he was arriving with a fresh drinks tray and I was returning to the kitchen to replenish mine. As I passed the staircase, I caught a glimpse of the Spanish priest's white cassock, denoting his tropical origin, near the top of the stairs. I didn't make it to the kitchen, though, as the door to the music room opened and the baronet, Sir James Stockdale, the club member nearest my age, a reputed ne'er-do-well and dandy the world knew as Dickie, accosted me.

"We are in the need of a singer of a new song Felix has written," he said to me in a slightly slurred voice. "You are the best singer in this establishment, Luke. Get thee in here."

He was a member—and also the one I liked the best—so I entered the music room and he closed the door behind me. This obviously was where the artists were gathering. Among them I marked the current leading man of the theatre, Sir Dennis Winston; and the celebrated novelist, Sir Henry Duwright. Felix, the black musician, who was the toast of Covent Garden underground cafés by night, was at the piano. I didn't escape for the next fifteen minutes while I was forced to warble Felix's new song, with him playing at the piano. Dickie saw to it that I couldn't leave by standing close behind me, holding me close, and giving me sloppy kisses on the neck while I endeavored to make out the crude markings on notes on the score Felix handed me.

Back in the foyer, Peter Bowles caught my eye and nodded and, instead of going to the kitchen, I mounted the stairs to the second floor.

Curious, before I went to my assigned room, I opened a cupboard door between two of the other rooms that led into a narrow secret passage between the rooms and went to the spy holes into the rooms on either side. It was church day on the second floor of 24 Exeter Place. On one side, the bishop of Leeds was on all fours on a bed and Matthew was mounted on his ass and giving him quite a ride. On the other, as I suspected, John was lying belly on the bed, wrists bound to the headboard above him, and the Spanish monsignor, Manual Alvarez, cassock open, flared, and trailing behind his thin body, was plastered to his ass and making like a camel crossing the desert.

The Spaniard had taken me, similarly bound and in the same position, at the Grosvenor that afternoon. There was a hint of the Inquisition in him even when he was fucking a young man.

I came back into the corridor just as the Right Honorable Peter Bowles was reaching the top of the stairs. I regretted the riding crop he was flicking against his leg, but he was a senior member of the club and Stewart Brandon kept pointing out that I should be proud that he scheduled me so often. He paid extra in dues and some of the extra trickled down to the young man who serviced him. That may or may not have made up for the whip, but Stewart Brandon didn't care either way, so the issue was moot.

Today was bothersome, though, as he was a man quick to anger and he'd been made to wait for my services. He was a cruel cocksman when he was angry.

He too made use of the wrist restraints we all had attached to our beds, in addition to the ankle restraints had had me spread-eagled on the bed. He left them loose, however, as he enjoyed my writhing and throwing my body around as he made me rise to my knees under him and he rode me as he'd ridden his horse earlier, my rump between his knees, and his riding crop flogging me on the back, buttocks, and thighs.

Afterward, knowing what the servicing would be, Brandon sent a servant from the kitchen staff—my best friend, the African giant Kwame, to my room to apply unguents to my welts before they could take hold and fester. Kwame was the best of salves himself, taking me in his arms, stretched along my body—he was a good foot taller than me and much meatier—lifting my leg to expose and stretch open my passage, and slowly entering me with a long, long cock as his hand, slathered in the unguent, gently massaged my slight wounds—the judge hadn't got out of control or left much evidence of the exercise of his fetishes—as his staff worked my passage to a mutual ejaculation.

The Right Honorable Peter Bowles never was concerned for whether I came in his use of my body—today, despite having been made to wait, having been far less demanding than the days when his cases weren't going as he liked and he used his fists. It was only his own pleasure that he paid the extra dues for. On his bad days, the next day or two were bad for me too, causing me to lose sessions. We were paid by the session—and for each client ejaculation in a session—having to keep and report a tally of each release by way of discreet chalk marks on the inner walls of the night stand top drawers.

As I was descending the staircase, ready to take up my first-floor service duties again, the baronet, James Stockdale, was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up expectantly, and barring my way.

Stockdale was young, hung, athletic, and inventive. Usually I welcomed his approach as being a fresh break from the older members, whose repertoires were largely limited to the missionary and doggy positions and whose ejaculations, generally, were weak and rapid and their erection incomplete. Even the weak ejaculations were recorded and paid for, though.

There was nothing incomplete about Stockdale's erections or weak and rapid about his ejaculations. And he was a master of the male Kama Sutra.

But coming so soon after being worked over by the judge . . .

He walked up two steps of the stairs, his gaze still expectantly boring into my face, and, with a sigh, I turned and preceded him to my room.

No restraints with Stockdale. He fucked me all over the room, manipulating my body into various inventive positions. During the hour-long process, in which he showed he could make me come twice but save himself for one, long, prolonged gush, I, first, watched the dust motes build up under my bed as he doggy fucked me on the floor, and then all four walls, as he took me in a standing fuck, me draped on his chest, my knees gripping his waist, as he walked around the room slamming me up and down on his cock. Then it was the ceiling I viewed as he put my weight on my shoulders, jackknifed my legs and hammered down inside me from above. He saved his coming for tenderly embracing me on the bed, taking me in a side split, and capturing my eyes with his as we kissed deeply and he pumped my ass full of cum.

Stewart Brandon found me some minutes after Stockdale had dressed and left, on my back on my bed, my legs bent and spread to provide relief to my throbbing ass channel, Stockdale's cum dribbling out of my hole, and still moaning over the athletic man's attentions.

"The Spanish priest is ready to go back to the Grosvenor," he said, making no remark on my state of exhaustion as I lay on my bed. "Give him an hour there, but be back by dinner. You are accompanying the marquis to the theatre. I don't expect you back on duty before morning."

I groaned and rolled over to the side of the bed and searched for the floor with my bare feet. How could he consider a night with the marquis, Lord Charles Beaumont, not being on duty? Why were there only four of us to service these men. The members were a randy bunch. The club should hire two more prostitutes.

Monsignor Manuel, well serviced before, including two torturous fuckings of me in his Grosvenor hotel room earlier than afternoon, didn't need the whole hour. He was done and ready to bathe, take confession from Spanish residents of London, and attend a mass after no more than twenty minutes of plowing my ass, as I lay on my back at the foot of the bed, bending and pulling my legs up toward my chest and spreading them wide myself, while he crouched between my thighs, his cassock open and flaring behind him, and slammed me hard with a thin, upcurved cock rising out of an unruly black, curly thatch. He only managed a trickle of cum, but there was no way they could claim that the 24 Exeter Place gentleman's club hadn't fully met his expectations and needs.

I arrived back at the club in time for an early dinner, which I enjoyed with John and Kwame in the servants' hall off the kitchen. It was my habit to go out for a long walk after dinner, not only to settle my meal but also to have a few moments to myself and to exercise the limbs that kept my body in trim rather than the muscles I more frequently used to grasp a gentleman's cock with to make shimmering love to it.

However today that was not to be realized. Stewart Brandon came to me at the door as I was about to leave the club. His demeanor was one of excitement rather than regret to interrupt the time of the day I enjoyed the most—other than those nights that Kwame crept into my room and worked me over with an impossibly thick and long cock and stamina that no members of the club other than the baronet Sir James Stockdale could equal.

"His Highness is on the third floor, the Swan Suite. He's asked explicitly for you."

"Matthew?"

"It doesn't matter. His Highness has asked for you to attend him. Matthew is pouting, but that isn't your concern; I will knock him together."

With a sigh, I turned and mounted the stairs—first to my own room, as a call to serve such a royal required some special preparations—and then to the third floor. Till now Matthew had been the sole server for the man. But he'd asked for me, so there was nothing else to consider.

Afterward I was plied with questions on the encounter. Who topped? What positions? Is he hung . . . thick . . . long? Does he have a Prince Albert? (This last question bring twitters all around.)

Like Matthew, I kept the details to myself, as Stewart Brandon expected and would find out if I didn't, only responding to one of the questions. "Aren't all of the royals thick?" I asked, which was met with appreciative laughter.

First, we weren't alone. The guy in the corner was much too small and cute to be a bodyguard, I thought. And I was informed he was a dresser. His Highness couldn't undress himself by himself? OK, the extra man's cute, I thought, I can go with that—imagine myself with him rather than this walrus. It wasn't unknown for one club member to want to watch while another club member—or two, although doubles were John's specialty more than mine—fucked me.

The imperial walrus indeed was thick—as thick as I'd had—and, surprisingly and appropriately, he did have a thick Prince Albert ring in the head of the cock. Otherwise, he was quite royal. He laid on his back, his arms crossed behind his neck, and viewed me with a somewhat distant and amused look in his eyes as I straddled his hips and did all of the work for the first ten minutes, which wasn't easy considering the thickness of him; it took nearly the full ten minutes to bottom him out—all this until he engaged and decided that I had something he wanted to take from me, and then he swiftly turned our bodies, slapped my legs apart, thrust inside me, and completely dominated and pulled every ounce of value out of me for his own pleasure. In other words, the British Empire in a nutshell.

All of this within the span of thirteen or fourteen minutes. It was a blitzkrieg, and it was all about him—which was no surprise to me—once he took full control, it was wham, bang, five strokes and an ejaculation. And a world-record ejaculation to boot, itself a production of a good twenty seconds, multiple eruptions, and a tidal wave of cum.

As I lay on my side, his cock still inside me, and panting, he patted me on the rump and said, "Good show. I will want you again in a few days."

In the end, he said he wasn't in the mood for seconds, just a cock sucking. The gold of his Prince Albert clicked against my teeth as he forced his royalty down my throat and creamed my tonsils with his regal nectar.

Again, Steward Brandon found me laying all akimbo on the bed and panting hard in the suite after His Highness' dresser moved from the corner of the room and draped and smoothed the man out. The dresser was young and cute. I could only imagine what His Highness did with him. He gave me a shy, sympathetic smile, and I felt my cock harden. As with most of the rest, His Highness did nothing about any needs I might have and he'd fired off and gone soft just when I was beginning to get revved up. I still had a need after this onslaught. The dresser seemed to understand that. We shared smiles and I winked at him, moving my hand to my cock, which was half erect and unsatisfied. Brandon was all smiles too when he entered the room as the dresser left.

"He is very pleased," Brandon said. "He will ask for you again."

"That's what he said to me," I answered, not trying to make my voice sound flat, but I'm sure it did. All hail the gods, I thought, but rather than say anything else, I just tiredly waved my hand in an imperial salute.

As I had intended, the dresser slithered back into the room after Brandon left.

"Excuse me, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"There certainly is," I murmured, taking my cock in my hand and shaking it at him.

In no time, he was kneeling between my legs and taking my staff in his mouth. When I was fully erect, I pulled him up to me, turned him, fumbled a bit in getting his ass bare, and then split his cheeks with my cock. He sighed and moaned as I pumped him slow and deep. There were club members who wished to be bottoms, but never enough for my tastes. I had built up a lot of cum over the day, and I gave it all to the dresser as he gasped and fell over himself in telling me how good I was.

"Better than . . .?"

"Yes, much better."

I dropped my idea of having a Prince Albert added to my equipment.

I made another, unsuccessful stab at getting out of the club for a walk on my own. The encounter with His Highness had taken practically no time at all. Once more Stewart Brandon was waiting for me at the front door in the foyer.

"The marquis is in the library and is asking for you," he said.

"But it's too early for us to leave for the theatre," I said.

"He says he is tense now."

"Ah. And I suppose he'll be tense after the theatre too," I couldn't resist saying.

"I have no opinion on that," Brandon said, and leveling his eyes on me, "and neither to you."

I got the message.

"I hear that you are a bit tense, Your Lordship," I said as I entered the library. Other than the marquis sitting in a wing back chair with a scotch and a lit cigar on the table next to him, the library was deserted. I left Brandon standing at the door, and assumed he was on guard. It was against the club rules to engage in sex on the public floor. The marquis didn't care much about other people's rules, though.

"Yes, Luke, I am. Kindly service me."

With a sigh, I went down on my knees between his spread legs, unbuttoned his fly, fished out his erect cock, took it in my mouth, and, looking up into his eyes as I knew he liked, gave him a slow, deep-throating blow job that had me sputtering to capture and swallow his prodigious load. The marquis could build up cum like no other member of the club in my experience—and I had experienced nearly all of the members. All members of this club were interested in the services that I and Matthew, Mark, and John provided—that's why they joined and paid the exorbitant fees here.

On the carriage ride to the theatre, the marquis returned the service, although it didn't have anything to do with what I would want. He enjoyed giving head as much as he did taking it. In the darkness of the back of the carriage, he leaned over, took my lips in his, murmured about how handsome I was in evening wear, unbuttoned my fly, and lowered his face to my lap. He was wearing gloves and inserted a hand under my balls, running a gloved finger into my channel, and found my prostate. Rubbing there enhanced the rise of cum up from my ball sac. I pulled out the handkerchief I had brought with me for this contingency, and held it nearby as his head bobbed up and down on my cock. At least he was permitting me to come. I couldn't always count on that, even in circumstances like this. I warned him when I was coming and he pulled his mouth away, keeping his hand fisting the base of my cock and stroking and watched the expression on my face, as I folded the handkerchief over the bulb of my cock and spasmed my release three times.

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