Revenge for Christmas

Aaron rose from the table and cheerily said he had a massage session with Jim, the masseur. I wondered if Jim would make him the offer he'd made to me—and that I still looked forward to accepting. I wondered if the muscle-bound Jim would be fucking Aaron while his father and Art dueled with Hodges at the poker table—dueled over the fate of Aaron and me, if I was figuring the goal of the poker games correctly. Aaron wasn't the innocent he appeared to be. I kept thinking of that remark Claude, who had had the young man, made about Aaron's passage being reamed big enough for a Mack truck—or maybe a fist? Of maybe Hodges's cock? Maybe Aaron could hold his own with Hodges better than Jan and Hugh had.

"So, are you going to watch us play for high stakes?" Hodges asked, turning his mocking, challenging face to me.

But before I could speak, Claude Dubane, dressed out in his skiing togs, arrived to save my day. "Anyone for skiing today?" he asked. He was looking straight at me. He knew I was the only skier other than him present.

I rose and came around the table, letting him guide me to the lower level to kit myself out for the ski slopes. He guided me with a possessing hand on my buttocks. I made no effort to move away from his claim of possession. In the stairway to the lower level, Claude stopped me with an arm going around my waist. He drew me into his body. I could feel the hardness of him pressed into my back. He leaned in and kissed me in the hollow of my throat. He pressed me against the wall, taking my wrists in his fists and lifting them above my head, against the wall, making me vulnerable to his control. I responded by hooking my knees on his hips and rocking my basket against his belly. We easily could have fucked in that position, but we didn't.

But I knew we'd be doing more than skiing when we went out on the slopes—and fairly quickly.

* * * *

We were on the proverbial animal-skin rug—a zebra in this case—in front of a roaring fire in a fireplace. We were sitting, yoga style, facing each other, me sitting on his thighs, my ankles crossed behind his back, resting on top of the flare of his buttocks, his legs streaming around my hips. My arms encircled his torso, my lips were plastered to his. He was inside me, both of us rocking gently, intimately against each other, moving his hard cock in my channel. The muscles of my passage walls rippled over his shaft. He told me this was a yoga position and that he taught yoga. He could teach me the sexual positions of yoga anytime he wanted.

Two nights earlier we had fucked with Art Brandeis watching us—both of us for money. Now it was just the two of us, doing each other for free—because we wanted to, because our urges demanded that we do. Two young men with beautiful, cut bodies, in our prime, fusing as one, rocking against each other, each of us concentrating on that hard shaft moving inside me and the passage walls undulating over the cock. I slowly arched back, my shoulder blades touching the animal skin, my arms stretched out in a cruciform "take me completely" position, and, grasping my hips between his hands, he took me completely, slowly, deeply. I let my channel muscles ripple over the cock as, throbbing, it moved deeper into my core.

As lovely as this was, though, it didn't approach the excitement of last night, under Lester Hodges. I tried forcing that out of my mind, but it kept creeping in.

We had skied for an hour, but in a set direction, around the side of Mount Werner, toward a resort village on the southern slopes. Claude had borrowed the small ski lodge of a friend, who had laid a fire for us and put a lunch and bottles of beer in the fridge.

We had torn at each other's clothes just inside the door, and then pawed each other's bodies, me luxuriating in the French Canadian's sexy pelted body. He pushed me to the floor in a sixty-nine position, me on the bottom, and I sucked his cock while he rolled my legs up, hooking my ankles on his shoulders, and ate out my ass. This was what I was used to in sex, and he did it well. It was almost with irritation that, while Claude was eating me out and I was sucking him off, my thoughts were going back to the previous night, wondering why Hodges and I hadn't done this—wondering how it would be with Hodge's thick cock in my throat and his tongue in my ass.

Claude pulled me up from the floor and fucked me against the log wall next to the entry door, my legs hooked on his hips, in the position where he'd put me on the staircase in Hodges's chalet, both of us fully clothed then, ready to fuck but not fucking then and there. But fucking now. My mouth sucked on the gay symbol pendant on the gold chain around his neck, all that either of us was wearing. The sex was frenzied, intense. I arched my head back against the log wall and cried out to the ceiling as he tensed, jerked, released, tensed, jerked, released the first delivery of his hot cum up inside me. Breeding me—marking me as his, at least for now, this afternoon.

The sex was good. No, the sex was great. He was a hunk. He was a stud.

We broke for beer and lunch, still naked, perched on stools at the kitchen island, watching the fire, touching each other intimately, whispering what we had liked in our sex and what we had liked better—getting comfortable with each other, sensing we'd be doing each other again and again for whatever time we could seize from the control of Lester Hodges and his chalet. Each saying what we'd done before, what we wanted to do with each other.

Then he lifted me in his arms and carried me to settle on the zebra rug in the close-fitting yoga embrace. He was in erection again. So was I. Two young, virile studs who could keep it up all day, and just might.

"We'll have to go back later this afternoon," he whispered.

"Yes, but for now I'm your whore," I responded.

"No," he remonstrated. "For now we are lovers."

He came out of a kiss and moved his head down, his face in the hollow of my throat. I arched my back, loosening the hold of my embrace, my palms going to his shoulder blades, my fingernails digging in there. He feasted on my nipples with his lips. I moaned as his cock picked up the stroking. I lost the hold on his shoulder blades and arched back. Supremely flexible despite his muscular torso, Claude worked his mouth down my sternum to my belly and then lower, taking just the bulb of my cock in his mouth. He sucked on the bulb, his tongue darting into my piss slit, the tip of it fucking my slit. The tongue penetrated, and I panted hard. "Yes, yes, like that." I felt the cum churning in my balls, but I fought an ejaculation.

My torso was streaming down from his thighs to the nap of the zebra skin. I spread my arms out wide across the skin onto the wooden floor in front of the fire again, in ultimate surrender to him—to anything he wanted. It was a signal to him that I surrendered all. That he could do more, take more, be a little cruel.

"Yes, yes. Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Punish me!" I cried out. There was a stab of regret. I knew he wouldn't be as cruel to me as Lester Hodges could be. He'd fuck me well, but he wouldn't take me to heaven. He wouldn't possess and punish me for being a whore in my soft core.

He wanted to continue sucking on the cock bulb, working my piss slit with his tongue, and moving his hips, fucking my channel.

"Bite me. Bite it! Make me feel it," I cried out, and he teethed the sides of my cock, nipping at it, providing pressure with his teeth. With a small cry, I shuddered, his lips descended down the sides of my shaft, and I filled his mouth with my cum.

He readjusted then, going up onto his knees, running the knees under my buttocks, thus raising my pelvis to him. He gently repositioned my legs to run up his torso. Then, as I lay back, in a cruciform position, completely open and vulnerable to him, wanting him to ravish me, he grasped my waist between his hands and pulled me on and off his cock, fucking me and fucking me and fucking me in a slow rhythm. It was great. But it wasn't what Lester Hodges had done to me.

Afterward, he repositioned us, both on our sides, Claude behind me, both facing the fireplace and watching the fire. He was hard again and inside me and gently moving in and out, in and out.

"Something's very wrong at Hodges's house," I murmured. "I think you know what's happening and why. I need to know."

There was a pause, but Claude answered. "Revenge is happening. Lester calls it his Christmas present."

"I don't fully understand," I said.

"You should. You deserve to know." But he didn't answer immediately. We kissed and he grasped my cock with a hand and stroked it to the slow rhythm of the fuck of his cock inside me.

"It's his revenge on those three men connected with his company—Cal Tyler, Jason Cohen, and Art Brandeis. You and the other young men who came with them are merely the vessels of his revenge—his Christmas present to himself."

"Go on."

"He believes he's been cheated by those three. He wants to have his own back. He thinks that Tyler, his partner, and Cohen, the company's financial officer, have been embezzling money from him—and that your partner, Brandeis, screwed him over in a palimony settlement with a young man and has known about the embezzlement and not told him about it. He seems most incensed about Brandeis."

"But I don't know what that has to do with the others of us—Hugh Devon, Aaron Cohen, and me, and why he insisted we be here."

"Hodges doesn't want to be rid of the three men; he just wants them to suffer and to get back in line. You other three are here as surrogates. Hodges wins you in poker games and ruins you sexually, and that makes your men suffer."

"Brandeis isn't 'my man.' He isn't my partner. He's just a regular client of mine. I'm not just his bed toy."

"I figured that out, and I think I noted to you that that made a wrinkle in Hodges's plan for Brandeis. That Brandeis might not suffer as much from watching you be fucked into a hospital bed. In fact, as we both know, Brandeis gets a little thrill out of watching you being fucked rough."

"But how . . .? The poker. I get that he wins us in a poker game and makes the man accept having the guy he brought fucked to ruin by Hodges. But poker? How can he be sure he wins? Art says he thinks he can beat Hodges at poker, and so far he's managed to do that."

"Hodges cheats," Claude said. "The cards are marked. He's very good at cheating. He's put a lot of effort into this. He says that these men cheated him, so it's only right for him to cheat them in return. If Brandeis is holding his own, it's only because Hodges is letting him. Hodges blames Brandeis the most. Maybe he's saving him for last. If so, you are in great danger. You need to watch out for yourself."

"I will, I said."

"Don't let the man anywhere near you," Claude whispered.

"I hear you," I answered. But it was just a little late for that.

With that, Claude's stroking was picking up speed, and neither of us could talk through the panting. I relaxed in Claude's arms, surrendered completely to him, and let him have his way with me. I wasn't with a client now. I was with a gorgeous ski pro who knew exactly how to fuck.

Claude was great, but while he was fucking me, I couldn't keep my mind from going to the question of how Lester would do it. How, if I lay under him, in cruciform position like this, completely vulnerable and open to him, surrendered to whatever he wanted to do, what he would do with me, what he would do to me. How cruel, demanding, pain-passion inflicting, surprising, dominating he'd be. How soon he'd sink into my soft core. How long he'd spend there, conquering, owning, ravishing me. And what would be left of me after the exhilaration of a surrender to a man who wanted everything and who took everything as in battle. What the ultimate fuck by Lester would be.

But Claude was the one who was here now. He was young, fit, and virile. It was the third fuck of the afternoon in the friend's ski resort cottage. It wouldn't be the last one. And Claude wouldn't be the last man to fuck me on Christmas Eve either.

* * * *

When we arrived back at the house, no one was in sight, but the cries for mercy coming from the end of the bedroom wing on the first floor drew Claude and me down the stairs. We knew what we would find, but we couldn't help but confirm it.

Aaron was bound to Hodges's bed, his arms spread and his wrists tied to the top rung of the heavy-metal headboard frame. His small body was rolled up, with his legs spread and bent as well, and his ankles bound to his wrists on either side. Hodges was knelt between the young man's thighs, his fists grasping the top rung of the headboard, and his thick, thick, thick cock buried in Aaron's ass and churning away. What I could see of Aaron's ass showed that he had been whipped while in that position. Red welts were raised on what I could see of his buttocks, chest, and thighs, and the hand whip was spread out on the bed below where Hodges was fucking the young man.

Aaron was sobbing and gave little screams when Hodges thrust deep. Still, he was being fucked good, because some of his screams were, "Yes! Yes! Fuck, yes!" Hodges knew how to please his prey as he was ruining him.

Jason Cohen was bound to a chair across the room from the bed, turned so that he could—had to—watch the whole procedure. It wasn't lost on me that Aaron's clothes were neatly folded and placed on another chair. I could easily believe that this had started as fully consensual sex, knowing what I knew about the false innocence of Aaron, but had turned into the revenge fuck Hodges had been after.

The father obviously had lost the poker game.

Claude pulled me away from the doorway and down the hall.

"Go be scarce somewhere," he muttered. "I have thinking and work to do. Just don't let Hodges get to you. Nothing will happen until he plays poker with Brandeis again. Find Brandeis and make sure he hasn't lost you to Hodges already."

Claude took off down the hall, and I returned to the bedroom I shared with Art. He was cowering on a chair in the corner. He seemed to almost be in shock. Apparently, it was dawning on him what this Christmas party was all about. I doubt he was worried about me, though. I was just a whore he used and paid for. He was worried for himself. He was afraid of what Hodges might do to him if the man found out I wasn't Art's significant other.

Well, fuck Art. I forced him to let me know that, no, he hadn't lost me to Hodges in the poker game yet. He did say that Cohen had lost and asked me what was happening in the wake of that. I didn't answer. I grabbed the Speedo I'd packed and a towel and headed for the pool.

I don't know why I went to the pool. That had been where Hodges had found me last night, so it wasn't a particularly good place to hide from him. But then maybe subconsciously I wasn't hiding from him. I couldn't help but think on Aaron crying out "Yes" even while Hodges was using him as hard as he was. As a whore, my senses had dulled to penetration sex. I longed to be used as hard as Arron was being used and still to melt to it.

I'd been whipped before in sex, and I'd been bound before too. I'd never been bound like Aaron was being bound, though. Something inside me was aroused by that. The arousal wasn't diminished by the knowledge that it was Hodges fucking the young man with his monster cock.

Jim, the muscular, hunky masseur, was in the pool area when I got there, and his massage table was up between the side of the pool and the glass wall that looked out toward the heliport.

"Would you like to have a massage?" he asked.

I was certainly keyed up enough to need one. I said yes and he bade me to climb up and lie, naked, on my back. I did so. While he was massaging my legs and arms and chest—and cock—I turned my head toward the window at the sound of rotary blades approaching from down in the valley. Claude was standing out on the helipad, which had been cleared of the snow from last night, and was guiding the Eurocopter EC 175 onto the pad.

"Turn over," Jim said. I did so, and he started working on my back. It wasn't long, though, before what he was working on was getting more than one greased finger inside my passage in search of my prostate—and finding it. Once there, he knew what to do with it. I groaned for him and began to pant.

"Do you want it all?" Jim asked, whispering in my ear.

"Yes," I answered. He mounted the massage table, straddled my hips, and penetrated me with his hard shaft. He was leaning over my body, his palms pressed into my shoulder blades, as his pelvis rose and fell on my ass. My channel was well oiled and his cock, although nice, was not that challenging, so he slid inside me easily. He was long, though, and I concentrated on how much depth he was going to achieve before he ejaculated. Could he get to my soft core? Regrettably, the answer was "no." I wasn't relaxing enough to give him full depth.

As he fucked me, I turned my head toward the window again. A gurney was being rolled down a ramp from the first floor and to the helicopter. Aaron was tied to the gurney. His father was staggering behind him. Claude helped the helicopter crew load up Cohen and his son into the helicopter and then guided the bird into liftoff.

I had been concentrating on that so hard that I didn't realize that Jim had come and climbed off the table and was giving my back, buttocks, and thighs a deep massage again. The towel underneath me was wet—presumably with my cum. I hadn't focused on Jim fucking me, but while the gurney was being moved to the helicopter, my mind had pulled up the vision of Aaron being bound to the headboard of Hodges's bed and the older man fucking him with his monster cock—but in my imagination, it wasn't Aaron who was bound and being fucked. It was me.

* * * *

And then there were three. Hardly a sound was made at dinner. Only Hodges, Art, and I were in attendance. There was no mention of the absence of the Cohens, just as there at been no mention of the non-shows Cal Tyler and Hugh Devon at dinner the previous evening. Art was looking like a scared cat. He wasn't looking at either Hodges or me, though. Hodges was looking at me like he'd like to eat me—and sometimes in a sneery way like he was going to be doing that soon. I didn't waver in returning his gaze. If he took me hard—if he took me totally to ruin—so be it. I'd go down in flames, in the ultimate fuck. All afternoon as I was hiding in his well-stocked library, I couldn't get various scenarios out of my brain of my lying, open and vulnerable—and bound and welted from whipping—under him as he was having his way with me. I was hard all afternoon and castigating myself for not appreciating the danger I was in.

At the end of dinner, Hodges put his coffee cup down in the saucer with a clink as said, "Shall we resume our poker game in the game room, Art?" It wasn't really a question.

Brandeis shuddered, but he stood, looking away from me, and followed Hodges out of the dining area.

When they were gone, Claude materialized. "Go get your things together and bundle up. I'm taking you down the mountain."

"I don't understand," I said. "The helicopter hasn't returned. Wouldn't Lester know—"

"Lester already knows. I told him this afternoon."

"You told him what?"

"I told him you were an escort from Chicago. That Art Brandeis would give a shit if you were murdered in front of him. That he enjoyed seeing you get fucked in front of him. That you can't be used to serve Lester's revenge on Brandeis."

"And what did he say?" I knew I should be relieved but emotions were all jumbled up inside me at hearing there was an escape from here—from Hodges.

"He said I was to go ahead and take you down to Steamboat Springs and put you on an airplane home. That it would be a Christmas present to you. I thought he'd be steamed, but he wasn't. He seemed almost relieved that you'd be gone."