Fetish Galore

When I had reached the shuddering and writhing stage, Rollo started handing various forms of dildo to Paul that he had covered in lube and both watched intently as Paul played in my widening hole with them.

When I was sufficiently dilated, Paul worked his way under me on the bed in full stretch and entered me from behind with his cock. Rollo then stood and took up the kneeling position between my legs that Paul had previously occupied. He then too worked his cock inside me and they double fucked me. As we were close to coming, Paul took my throat in his hands as he'd done the first time he fucked me and I ejaculated, in profusion, at the point of blacking out.

When I awoke it was after dawn and I was unbound in my bed.

For two days after this, the routine was more or less the same. Wild cocking at the pool in the morning, sleeping the afternoon away under the influence of some sort of drug, a quiet dinner of pretense that nothing was going on between the three of us—and double penetration sex at night. During this period, both Paul and Rollo frequently whispered in awe that they had no idea that someone as small of stature and young looking as I was could perform sexually as I did.

Even when I told them I had successfully lived in New York as a male escort, they remained almost incredulous—even though I repeatedly managed all that they said they couldn't believe I would be able to.

* * * *

I was lying half on the lounger by the pool on my side and Paul was sitting on the one beside me facing me. My torso was half over his thigh and my arm wrapped around to his back, where I was playing the tufting of hair above his tailbone. Paul had interesting patterns of hair on his body that I liked to run my fingers through. My other hand was following the trail of hair up his belly and searching out his nipples in the matting there. I had his balls in my mouth, sucking on them, having just licked them down good. Paul was gently moving his fingers around my lower belly.

Rollo was sitting on the lounger on the other side, hunched over me, my leg wrapped around his neck, his attention intently focused on feeding the largest of a graduated string of balls inside my channel. Both men were breathing heavily and were erect and hard as rocks, and I sensed it wasn't long before one—or both—of them would be fucking me. Rollo leaned farther over and took one of my nipples in his mouth and rolled it between his teeth and bit down on it. He grunted with pleasure as I cried out, releasing Paul's balls from my mouth, only to have him push his cock into my mouth with a hand. And then he was leaning over me as well and chewing on the other nipple. I writhed in pain pleasure—and gasped as Rollo started to pull the string of balls out of my ass.

I felt a smattering of raindrops, and both Paul and Rollo sat up.

As Rollo was pulling the last of the balls out of my channel, Paul said. "I think it best we go inside. You haven't seen my cellar playroom yet."

"You don't want me to make you come first?" I asked. "I think you're close."

"I think it will be much more enjoyable in the playroom."

We were in a stonewalled chamber straight out of a horror movie. Torches on the walls along with implements of torture. A sling, a bucking horse apparatus with a dildo protruding from the saddle, and another saddle-type machine the function of which I had no idea. And I couldn't put much effort into figuring it out, because I was already a bit beleaguered. I was hanging from the ceiling with restraints at my wrists and above my elbows and wishboned back, restraints at my ankles attached to leads running off in each direction away from my body that had my legs splayed apart. Paul was between my legs in back feeding my channel with a cock encased in an apparatus with studs all over that were giving my channel walls extra special attention, and Rollo was in front of me, sucking my cock and adding weights to the end of a leather rope wrapped around my balls, stretching them toward the floor.

Paul said he wanted to hear me scream, and I was doing a lot of that. After a bit, Paul released my ankles and I was vertical—but he only did this so that Rollo could grab my butt cheeks from the front and roll my hips up and spread my cheeks so that his cock could join Paul's in my channel. They rode me until all three of us had come.

Then Paul told Rollo to let me down and to set me up with what he called the "Big F." As he went up the stairs he said, "Let's start at twelve and three—we can go up from there."

The Big F turned out to be an ass drill, with Rollo setting it at twelve inches of penetration and three inches of thickness. It was the machine I hadn't identified earlier. I was lashed down, half way reclining, with my legs spread and elevated and my hips rolled up. And a dildo-shaped drill was set between my legs. I could see it approach slowly from more than a foot away, and then it relentlessly drilled into my ass in a two inches in, one inch back, two inches in motion at the set depth and then went through a series of churning maneuvers. Then out it drilled, only to repeat the process all over again. A penis sheath went over my penis and balls and squeezed my balls and milked my cock in rhythmic motion.

"We'll let him go twenty," Paul called out from the top of the stairs. I'll be down to watch the last five minutes and listen to his moaning.

No sooner had Rollo set the controls and the drill started moving toward me, though, than Paul was back at the top of the stairs. "Grab the guns and get up here, Rollo. We've got visitors. I half expected this."

I was well over the twenty minutes and pretty much passed out from too much of a good thing—in this case accompanied by the rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire overhead—when I opened my eyes at the sensation that the machine had stopped . . . and was looking up—and around—at a circle of local Hispanic militiamen, stripped to the waist, in jeans, with bandoliers of bullets crisscrossing their chests and smoking automatic rifles at their sides. They were all heavily muscled, glistened with sweat, and covered in tattoos.

They looked as shocked to see me here, like this, as I was to see them. Someone called down from the top of the staircase in hurried and panicked Spanish. The man who looked to be the leader of the group answered him back in leering but unhurried tones and then directed me to "Come with" as I was released from the machine. I was literally dragged off the machine and up the stairs and out the back of the lobby and into the scrub. Looking back as I was dragged, I could see a swarm of blue-uniformed men exploding into the lobby from the front.

I was half in shock—if for no other reason than the surprise of it all—as I was manhandled through the scrub to a road, where two flatbed trucks were parked. I was slammed down on the tailgate of one of the trucks while the armed men fanned out in a semicircle facing the resort, which no longer was in sight.

The leader of the group wasted no time in moving in between my legs while slapping them apart. He had one hand at my opening and the other jerking at my cock. He almost went into shock himself when I smiled up at him and raised my hands to his chest and began to trace the tattoos that flourished there. He was working his fist in me, no doubt expecting me to cry out in pain and violation—which may have been what gave him a thrill. But I found him arousing, especially the tattoos, and I reached down and tugged at the front of his jeans, opening snaps until he was overwhelmed with the moment as well.

He fucked me hard, as then did the rest of the band—or most of them, in succession. While the last guy was doing me—and I was enjoying the undulation of his tattoos on his chest and arm as he was working on me, four of the band jumped up onto the back of the truck and urinated on me.

I didn't like that much, but they seemed to.

But shortly, each band member not having taken more than four or five minutes to shoot their load in me as keyed up as they had been, someone whistled a warning, and I was shoved off onto the side of the road, and the men were jumping onto the trucks and hauling ass out of there.

When I looked up, a policeman in a blue uniform was standing over me, surprised—and aroused—at what he found.

I was no less aroused by the uniform and the tenting at his crotch and came up on my knees and unzipped his fly and relieved any anxiety he had. And he let me do so without the least embarrassment—as did the next policeman who showed up. I'm sure they thought I was acting in relief from having been saved from the armed band. But in reality the rough fucking and tattoos on the Hispanic militants still had me in high heat.

* * * *

"OK, give me an order for these colors," Paul said brightly early the next afternoon as he came out to me at the pool. "Red, blue, green, gold, and transparent."

"Transparent's not a color," I said, moving a bit gingerly in my chair. Paul and Rollo hadn't let the scare of the previous day interrupt their visit to me in the night.

What had transpired the previous day was that the resort had been "visited" by a band of bandits, one of many roaming the hills of Puerto Rico of late and terrorizing the tourist resorts. Such bands swept in and divested all of the well-heeled visitors, even those in the middle of a golf game, of whatever could be quickly grabbed and then ran for the hills again. This band had marked the Sao Paulo Resort for visitation, apparently not being aware that it was closed for renovation. The renovation workers had heard this was happening, though, so they were staying away.

"Why should I put an order to those colors?" I asked.

"Just humor me and do it."

"OK, anything to please you, oh lord and master. How about green, blue, transparent, gold, and red."

"So be it."

"So be what. Why'd you ask me to put them in order."

"Because the lads won't sort themselves out."

"Excuse me?"

"The renovation workers couldn't warn me of the raid or the raiders would visit their villages some night. But the boys doing the landscaping were good enough to keep an eye on the resort from a distance and summon the police up from San Juan the moment the bandits arrived. Rollo and I were forced back across the pool—so sorry for your little encounter with the bandits for the short time they were in the hotel—but the police arrived before any real damage was done. We shouldn't have to worry about them again now until after they've seen that the renovations are complete and the hotel has bookings again."

"I still don't understand what—" But then I followed Paul's line of sight, because he wasn't looking at me. And there, by the door into the hotel from the pool area were five hunky Hispanic young men, standing all in a row, with big smiles and completely naked except for condoms of an assortment of colors—red, green, blue, gold, and a transparent one—and they were all in various stages of erection already.

"I told them I'd reward them for saving our lives—all of our lives," Paul explained.

I spent the afternoon with my legs spread and my channel entertaining cocks crowned with condoms in a variety of colors. I can't say I didn't enjoy the Hispanic hunks who had perfected the sculpting of their bodies the natural way—by honest hard labor. And I decided to be a good sport about it, because their loyalty to the resort very likely did save our lives.

The next day, my week was up at the Sao Paulo Resort, and the driver was waiting to take me back down to San Juan, where presumably the Puerto Rican branch of the Vado pharmaceutical company was ready to receive me.

I hadn't exactly had the quiet, celibate week I had planned on, but I'd had some really interesting—and stretching—experiences. And I decided that my life of being a good boy could start now just as easily as a week ago. April wasn't arriving for another three months. There was plenty of time to get my act straightened up.

As I was leaving, Paul and Rollo were standing at the door. Rollo looked really sad to see me go; Paul just waved and smiled and said, "See you around," which I felt was a little strange. I thought that all I'd let him do for me—in exchange for room and board and some interesting company—was worth more than a flippant good-bye.

I had thought the driver would take me back to the El San Juan Hotel—or maybe, if the office had really gotten its act together, to the apartment overlooking the sea that they were supposed to lease for me. But instead it rolled up to the door of a high-rise luxurious condominium on a hillock between the mountains and the coast that surely had great view of both the Caribbean and down into old San Juan as well.

"Please take the elevator to the penthouse, sir," the driver said as he opened the door to the backseat of the limousine for me. "The security staff knows who you are and where you're going. I'll take your bags on to the hotel and will be back and waiting down here for you when you are ready."

"I don't know who I'm going to see," I said. "Tell me who? And why you aren't taking me straight to the hotel." I was a little piqued I was being kept in the dark.

He didn't answer my questions. He just looked a little pained and repeated, "Please take the elevator to the penthouse, sir."

I walked into the lobby, which was two stories, the far wall of which was all glass and had a magnificent view over the city and water. A liveried attendant was waiting at an elevator that was set by itself, away from the bank of other elevators. He was looking at me and gesturing with an outstretched arm at the open elevator, making it pretty obvious where I was supposed to go.

A butler met me at the elevator and ushered me into a plush lounge that took up one corner of the building and provided a sweeping view from ocean to city to mountains across the expanse of a wraparound terrace.

"Dr. Holt-Evans will call for you shortly, sir."

Ah, that explained it. Peter Holt-Evans was the company's branch manager—the suave, mature Englishman who had banished me for the week. I wonder what he'd have to say to the concierge at the El San Juan who had sent me into the jaws of just exactly what I'd been sent to Puerto Rico to avoid—most evidently to the full knowledge of their branch president.

I was kept waiting for only about ten minutes when the butler returned and said, "The doctor will see you now in the examining room."

I stood, perplexed, and followed the butler down a corridor into the bowels of the penthouse apartment that evidently took up the whole floor. "Examining room," I thought. "A different doctor than Holt-Evans? A shrink, maybe? I'm going to be grilled about what I've been doing for a week? Did Holt-Evans find out and I'm in hot water here already? What do I tell him?"

But the examining room I was led into was a medical examination room, and Dr. Holt-Evans was waiting there for me. He was wearing a white medical coat that came almost down to his ankles.

"Hello, Ty," he said in a jovial manner when I entered the room.

"Hello, Dr. Holt-Evans," I answered. "I don't understand—"

"Ah, I'm sorry. I neglected to tell you. I'm the company physician down here as well as the president. A mere formality, but we exam all employees as they come on board at the branch. We offer full, comprehensive medical benefits, you know, but I'm afraid that comes with some level of intrusion into your personal health. This is a mere formality. But could you take off your clothes down to your briefs, please, and hop up on this table and lay back."

He was patting the top of a padded examination table, complete with foot stirrups.

I was still confused, but I did what he asked. He took a stethoscope and started listening around on my body—my throat, my chest, and my belly. Asking me to cough and breath deeply for him.

I murmured a query when he lifted my legs, slipped off my briefs, and inserted my feet in the stirrups. He then wrapped restraints around my ankles and raised the stirrup mechanisms up and to the side. But he ignored me and had one of my arms raised above my head and the wrist restrained to the side of the table before I was able to become more vocal in my questions.

The other wrist tied down, he cheerily said, "Not to worry. We're just doing a prostate exam at this point."

"I don't understand. Wouldn't I stand and bend over for that exam?" As I asked that question, a bit heatedly, he was snapping latex surgical gloves on his hands. "And why the restraints?"

"Well, because I'm going to conduct the prostate exam with my dick, dear boy," he answered jollily. And as he said it, he was unbuttoning his medical coat to reveal he was naked underneath—and had a very respectable full erection, already crowned with a condom.

"And I'm going to help him," another voice sounded from the corridor, as Paul walked into the room, naked.

I gasped as Peter Holt-Evans moved in between my legs and started lathering up my hole with lubricant.

As he fucked me, in long, deep strokes, Paul provided the explanation.

"Peter and I are brothers. Sending you to my resort was rather a test. The office in New York wanted you to pass the test. After seeing you, Peter wanted you to fail—but was, and is, prepared to cover for you for continued services rendered. So, he bribed the concierge at the El San Juan Hotel to guide you to my empty resort—and, as requested, I did everything I could to make you fail the test, to seduce and use you to the ultimate degree. And I must say you failed with flying colors."

If I was going to fail—and especially because the brothers wanted me enough to help cover my tracks—this is just the way I wanted to do it. I told Peter he could release the restraints and I'd gladly join in the fuck. It was as good an answer to my addiction to fetish sex as I was going to find.

Peter said he'd release me in a while—that using restraints and the medical angle was a fetish of his. "And Paul here has told me you are quite accommodating to fetishes."

I soon found another fetish of his—which gave even more motive to the restraints. As Paul watched, licking his chops and taking time for kissing and some mouth-on-cock play with both me and his brother, Peter lathered up my torso and pits and legs and pubes with shaving cream and shaved me smooth. I'd never had this done before but I was game. I'm game for almost any fetish that doesn't kill me—and for which I get paid well somehow.

When I was released it was only to become the meat between the Peter and Paul bread of a fuck sandwich, as the two brothers took me between themselves in double penetration and then left me to shower and clean myself as, aroused to the heights, the two brothers went in search of a bed to resume their fuck without me.

All told San Juan was promising to be an ideal assignment for me.