Chainsaw Sculptor

In one of the shots, taken from several angles, I was holding the necklace medallion out from my chest and the Bayer-design watch was hanging from the root of my cock. I wondered which sex magazine this would be used in for a commercial thread. In another, shot later in the evening, I lay on my back on the bed, head and arm hanging over the side, opposite leg bent so that it turned my package toward the camera. The Bayer-design watch was on my wrist. The expression on my face was a "just fucked" one—because he'd just finished fucking me. Age was not a disqualifier for him. He fucked me very well.

After the first camera shoot, I wound up stretched out on the bed, and he came in behind me, fondling me and roaming his hands all over my body, making me pant and shudder for him. While he possessed my mouth with his, he lubed his fingers and finger-fucked me. The long, slender fingers were able to make me sigh and moan just as I thought they would when he was fingering the blue-velvet watch box in the Viking Lounge.

Reaching over me, he opened the nightstand drawer and took out a wooden object.

"What's that?" I asked.

"A dildo. A special dildo. A carver near my country place makes them and other wooden objects of sexual interest. He uses a chain saw for the larger pieces. He does ones this size by hand, lovingly caressing them as he carves. It's a real art, and it's a real experience watching him work."

"It's big. Too big. You're not going to—?"

"It's nine inches long and seven and three-quarters inches around at the base of the bulb, and yes I am going to fuck you with this. Later, when someone asks you what the biggest one you have had inside you was, you'll be able to tell them the precise dimensions." He was already greasing it up.

"I don't think that can—"

"Yes, it can. And it will. You'd be surprised how much a man will stretch to take his pleasure. A man can take another man's fist even."

"You wouldn't."

"I might . . . someday. But for tonight, we'll do this. Roll your tail up. You'd best put your ankle on my shoulder and spread the other leg wide. Relax. Take it. Let it in. Relax. Breathe. Yes, yes. Like that."

And then, as I moaned and panted and tried my best to relax my passage, he did it—and I managed to take it.

He held me close, and I panted hard and groaned and moaned deeply as he slowly worked the dildo into my passage and then, as I lay there, trembling and whimpering, he fucked me with the wooden phallus with one hand and stroked my cock with the other. My full attention and all my nerve endings concentrated on that hard, unyielding cylinder of wood inside me, stretching me, stroking and caressing and coaxing me more open. He was a master with it, and, when he was in deep with it, I put both of my feet flat on the mattress, legs spread wide, tail raised up, and whimpered, "Yes, yes, yes."

For an interminable amount of time he stopped stroking me with the shaft and just held it steady, as, arching my back and leveraging up on my feet, I rocked on the dildo plunged deep inside me, dug my fingernails into his shoulders, whimpered, and gazed, eyes filled with pain-pleasure, into his smiling face. When I collapsed on the bed with a sigh, he whispered how much enjoyment he was getting out of me and began moving the phallus inside me again.

He worked me until I came and then and only then did he extract the dildo, release me long enough to go up onto his knees, and put an arm under my belly and turn me face down to the mattress, raising me on my knees, my chest pressing into the mattress and my arms stretched out from my body, reaching for and hooking onto the top edges of the mattress to hold myself into place. Bayer then mounted me, crouching over my hips, with his feet flat on the mattress and, holding my waist between his hands, penetrated me, and fucked me to his own ejaculation. As he thrust, he slapped my bare buttocks, making them red and tingly and laughing at my quiet cries from the slight pain of that and then from the brutal thrusts of his massive cock, thankfully my having been opened by his even bigger wood dildo.

He slid the dildo up my torso and stroked my cheeks with it, and when he teased my lips with its bulb, I opened my mouth and took the wooden cock inside to the back of my throat.

He was cruel in the fuck, which I had wondered about, and, ashamedly, had wanted.

Afterward, we lay, arms entwined, whispering to each other, revealing aspects of our lives and what we wanted from them that surprised me in the telling, even if it didn't surprise Bayer. While we did, he glided the wooden dildo on my body, over the curves and into the crevices.

"So, do you have a boyfriend now?" Bayer asked.

"No one steady, no," I answered. Was he going to make some sort of proposal? I'd done what I could to give him everything he wanted. I'd yielded to it all. There had been some choking, some breath play, as well as the slapping and the brutal thrusts. I'd enjoyed most of it, but not all of it. I could easily tolerate it, though. If he just . . .

"My summer vacation home is in Vermont," he whispered. "The mountains are beautiful there, summer or winter. I'd like to show it to you."

"That would be nice," I responded. Was this moving into . . .?

"Two weekends from now? You could come up with Randy. Have you ever been doubled before?"

"No, not really," I answered, deflated. A little worried now. I hadn't been into the threesome or gangbang scene yet, although my friends in New York told me that went with the territory, and I'd contemplated it. But this wasn't really the offer I'd been hoping for.

"Very nice. The first time would be special."

"Yes, it would be," I said. I was still into giving him what he wanted with the hope that there would be more with him to come.

"And fisting too." When I didn't respond to that, he continued. "So, weekend after next?"

"If you want."

The head of the wooden dildo was at my entrance, rimming me, teasing me. With a sigh, I spread my legs, bending them, and raising my tail—inviting him in.

"May I?" he asked. He was just being polite. He knew he could, if he wanted.

"Anything you want," I answered.

He slowly fucked me with the dildo to another ejaculation as he bent his face down, took my cock in his mouth, and captured and swallowed the essence of my coming.

We both dozed off then, the curtains to the ocean open and moonlight streaming in on us. When I woke, I listened to his breathing, which was regular. Carefully extracting myself from him, I silently rolled off the bed and, quietly opening the sliding door to the balcony, went out. I stood at the rail for a while before feeling Bayer coming in behind me and encircling my waist with an arm. He'd lit up a cigarette and, holding it in the other hand, alternated taking drags from it and kissing and nuzzling the back of my neck. His erection was pressing into my lower back. I knew he would fuck me again.

He did, with me sprawled in one of the patio chairs, my legs draped over the chair arms. When he first guided me there, he stood over me, leaning into the glass between the balcony and the cabin, the palms of his hands pressed to the glass, while I took his cock in my mouth again and gave him suck. He fucked me in the chair, his hands palming my buttocks and lifting them up from the chair seat, crouching over me and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

"You're so sweet, so nice," he whispered.

And so easy, I thought.

I waited in my cabin the entire next day, the last day at sea, having my meals brought there rather than going to the Windjammer or dining room with Jason and the others, waiting to be summoned to Bayer again. But the summons didn't come.

The next day, we disembarked from the ship midmorning at the cruise line terminal in Bayonne, New Jersey. Bayer had left ahead of us, met by a black limousine. I saw him leave from the balcony of my cabin. He hadn't left me a message. Randy had talked to me about arrangements to get to Bayer's vacation home on a mountaintop above the town of Cavendish, near the Green Mountain National Forest in Vermont, but I hadn't heard anything from Bayer after I'd left his cabin a day and a half earlier in the small hours of the morning.

When the rest of us gathered at our departure area on the ship to coordinate our return to New York, however, I got a shock. Doug Dunner, the photographer, a bit older than I was, who had not expressed much interest in me because, although both gay and active, we both were submissives, was wearing a watch I hadn't seen him wear before. It was a very expensive, gold watch. The same gay male symbol yin and yang watch made exclusively by the Bayer jewelry company that Bayer had given me in the Viking Lounge to smooth his way into topping me in bed.

I overheard Randy Blu referring to the watch and saw Doug grin and say, "I got it last night."

I was crushed. I had given Bayer everything . . . again and again, each time he had wanted it. He had taken it all, using and conquering me mercilessly. And the next night he'd probably done the same with someone else. He had made me a whore. But then, that was what I already was, wasn't I? I'd gone with him in search of a sugar daddy, didn't I? I'd let men who beckoned to me fuck me before.

But, no, I wasn't a common whore, not entirely, I reasoned. I'd told him I would have gone with him without all of the presents. And I think that was true. I think I would have.

* * * *

Randy Blu, the muscle-bound stud who had covered me for the Bermuda commercials photo shoot, drove me up from New York to Holst Bayer's mountain retreat in southern Vermont. It was clear that Randy and Bayer were quite close, although Randy assured me as soon as we'd started out that, "We aren't fucking. We hunt together and enjoy the same role in the hunt. And sometimes we share." He'd turned and looked at me to see if that would shock me, but Bayer had already more than hinted at that. I still wanted to establish something more permanent with Bayer, so I didn't squirm at this suggestion. I'd already let Bayer fuck me with an oversized wooden dildo and been rough, and he'd hinted at doing a double penetration, so I wasn't going to let the possibility of a threesome cause me to balk.

If anything, I think Randy was disappointed that I didn't react badly to that possibility. I think he wanted me to be scared.

We didn't talk much on the way up to Bayer's Vermont place, which Randy kept calling The Castle, but we did OK for a situation in which he'd fucked me on camera the first time we'd met.

"He gets me work," Randy said. "I've appeared in ads for his clothing company, not just the porn stuff. And we party together. The girls and guys we party with seem to like that we're a contrast. It seems to emphasize what each of us brings to the party."

"Girls as well as guys?" I asked.

"Yeah. We're bi. Sex is sex is sex. But you don't really like that. You're hoping to have something more with Holst than just the casual lay here and there, aren't you?"

"What would make you think that?"

"My eyes and my experience in watching Holst operate—and how you act around him. Word to the wise, though. He doesn't pin down. You'll have major disappointment if you are hoping for that."

"He doesn't seem to like me that much anyway," I said, trying to deflect how closely Randy had hit home on what I wanted and thinking on how fast Bayer had turned from me to Doug Dunner on the cruise ship.

"He likes you just fine, and if you give him everything he wants and don't make noises of trying to pin him down or limit him, you'll do just fine with him—with both of us." When he'd said that, he took one of his hands off the steering wheel and put it on my knee. He was establishing that this trip to what he called The Castle involved a larger set of men than just Bayer and me. "If it was going to be just a one and done—I know he had you for a night on the ship—you would have gotten a cheaper watch and he wouldn't have invited you up to The Castle this weekend."

Randy laughed then and went back to watching the winding road now that we'd driven through the Vermont town of Cavendish and were starting up the twisting and turning gravel road up a mountainside. The name of the place was, not surprisingly, "The Castle," and an elaborate mailbox had been set by ornate iron gates at the bottom of the mountain, which left the impression this was all property attached to Bayer's house, but there had been three other mailboxes too and the gates hadn't been closed or locked. Two of the other three places were alpine-type cottages set close to the road. The third, though a similar house, was set back from the road and had a clearing in front of it with an open-sided workshop off to the side. The open ground was covered with wooden carvings—all large pieces, the carvings dramatic and the wood luminous.

As we passed this place, Randy slowed down and waved to a giant of a man, both muscular and stocky. He looked like a Viking character in a movie: red-haired, hirsute, massive, ugly at this distance, intimidating, and quite capable of getting his way. He was stripped to the waist, his chest one of the god Vulcan, with baggy pants below crammed into combat boots, and he was holding a chainsaw up like a Marine holding his SAM-R semiautomatic at rest but ready. He was shoving goggles up unto his forehead with the free hand as he watched us drive by. A half-finished, half-life-sized rearing stallion in wood was positioned in front of him. I almost laughed to see that he was rendering the beast's phallus in oversized erection.

"That's Cliff Strong," Randy explained as we rode by. "He's a reclusive friend of Holst's who Holst rents to. You'll see a lot of his work up at The Castle. He's really good with the wood. We call him the Chainsaw Sculptor. Holst uses his stuff for displays in his showrooms and sells some of it there."

I didn't need to be told he was a chainsaw sculptor, I thought. And I already had come into contact with some of his work. He most certainly was the craftsman for the oversized wooden dildo Holst Bayer had fucked me with on board the Adventure of the Seas.

As we approached the top of the small mountain—there were mountains around it that were higher, which made the views from Bayer's place breathtaking—I could clearly see why it was called The Castle. It wasn't because it was like a castle on the Rhine River, but, rather, because it was like a Kafka version of a castle built in the East European Stalin era. It was a five-story—six, if you included the basement, which was at ground level on one side of the building—chunk of stone tower, with windows that were large from the inside but, because of the massiveness of the building, looked like arrow slits on the outside. The tower was sunk in a field of flagstone the same color and texture as the building so that it was difficult, visually to see where building stopped and terracing and radiating buttress walls began. The structure was set in a series of ponds that evoked a moat, without actually choking the building. Stone walls, with arched openings, radiated out of the sides of the tower here and there onto the stone terrace, evoking the flying buttresses of medieval cathedrals and effectively grounding the arresting structure to the rocky ground of the mountaintop.

The main floor, which consisted of a living and dining area wrapped around the base of the tower, containing an entrance hall, a large kitchen, a home office, and a bedroom suite and guest bathrooms, had walls of glass that you didn't notice from the outside, as the rock tower immediately captured your attention and took it upward. The story above was a private master bedroom suite, and the two stories above that each included three bedrooms, with en suite baths, and a communal room—a library on one floor and a party room with elaborate bar and a theater wall on the top story. An open terrace hovered over the top of the tower, with a jacuzzi in one corner.

The building both looked out of place—and out in space—on an isolated Vermont mountaintop and like a natural outcropping of the top of the mountain itself.

Seeing such a building in this setting was a shock, but I was met by another shock. When first asked to come here this weekend, I'd envisioned two days alone with Holst Bayer in a small chalet to try to solidify a relationship with him. I'd immediately been disabused of that when Bayer had said I could ride up with Randy Blu, another dominator, turning the weekend into at least a threesome. When I got there, though, I discovered the same cast of characters we'd had in Bermuda was present. Both Jason Jax, the commercial director, and Doug Dunner, the cameraman, were there. I'd been assigned my own bedroom, there being more than enough available, but I was in the top floor of the tower, and Bayer was in the master bedroom on the second level, two floors below mine.

One notable aspect of the interior furnishings beyond minimal, elegant, and expensive was the life-size wood sculptures of heavenly endowed men—gladiators, Greek gods, and muscle men—located here and there in the house. One on the main level undoubtedly was of Randy Blu. They all were rendered in sort of a crouch, with arms extended. All of them had gigantic phalluses, with most of these in projected, upcurved erection. I didn't have to guess that they were all the work of Bayer's chainsaw sculptor friend down the mountain. One of the statues looked like it was of the chainsaw sculptor himself as much as I could remember from the brief look I got of him as we passed his work yard. The wood "him" was as hung as the other creations he had carved that had been placed in Bayer's castle.

So, this wasn't the intimate weekend alone with Bayer I had hoped for. But at least I'd make money—and maybe would have a crack at convincing Bayer that he wanted me to move in with him.

The primary commercial filmed the afternoon I arrived on the mountain was for clothes and jewelry. The pose was arresting. I was spread-eagle bound in one of the arches in a flying buttress wall extending from the house structure. The scene behind me in the arch was of the verdant tree coverage and undulating folds of the mountain behind. I was photographed wearing Bayer clothes, shirt and trousers, and barefoot, with my arms raised and spread and my legs spread, tied off to iron rungs in the doorway wall at the wrists and ankles. My shirt was open to my waist and I was wearing one of the Bayer medallions on a gold chain around my neck. Four shots were taken with different sets of clothes. The magazine spreads would alternate so that the viewer discovered that different clothes were used in different shots. The two jewelry ad shots were without shirt, and with the featured medallion and a Bayer-exclusive watch on my wrist. Not wanting the competition, Holst had me take the gold bars out of my nipples. For the second shot, for the sexier magazines, Randy, also shirtless was behind me, palming my belly, his face nuzzling my throat.

From there, the poses got sexier for use in progressively sexier tableaus, starting with me, in the shirtless pose, bent over at the waist as much as the bonds would allow, the medallion hanging down toward the flagstones, caught in the glitter of the sun's rays, and Randy behind me, raising a hand whip. The photos taken with the leather thongs of the whip radiating out over my head, framed by the stone of the door frame. The videos for the select clientele were of both Randy and me naked in the same framed pose, save the medallion on the chain and a Bayer-design snake cock bracelet weaving up my erect shaft, and Randy moving from actually whipping me to standing close behind me, hands grasping my hips, and fucking me.

Jason Jax called out the pose changes and shot angles, while Cliff Dunner shot the initial photos and he and Holst Bayer moved around with video cameras to catch the various angles of the porn movie.