Chainsaw Sculptor

What I thought was a more private moment later in the afternoon, as the atmosphere was mellow from the sinking sun, was with Holst and Randy in the jacuzzi with me at the top of the tower. All of us were naked, all of us were well-liquored, all of us were in erection and were kissing and fondling each other as we slipped into the jacuzzi. I knew it would be a threesome. I knew they'd both fuck me. I guess I also knew, from what had been said earlier and how they were holding me between them and both running their hands over me and kissing me and each other before we got into the jacuzzi, that I was going to be double fucked.

I didn't know that it was being filmed from cameras on flagpoles at the corners of the terrace to be used in a porn film.

We were reclining in the jacuzzi when Holst pulled me over onto his lap, which was fine with me. Randy was sitting next to him on the jacuzzi bench, and the two of them were kissing as Holst put me on his cock, facing away from me. Using the leverage of my feet on the floor of the jacuzzi, I lifted and lowered myself on the older man's very nice erection. And then it began in earnest. Holst was raising us both up, without losing purchase inside me, and was sitting on the rim of the jacuzzi, his back against the stone wall. Randy pulled in front of me, facing me. He grasped my legs and raised and spread them, rolling my buttocks up. And then as I huffed and gasped and cried out in the penetration, Randy crouched down and worked his cock in above Holst's buried shaft and the two fucked me together.

Doug and Jason appeared on the terrace then, each with a video camera and, making an effort to stay out of the eye of the cameras recording the double penetration scene from the flagpoles, they moved around getting close-ups of the cocks working me, of my facial expressions while being doubled, and of Holst and Randy kissing each other over my shoulder.

At dinner Holst told me that, even before he saw the films and decided how to stitch them together, he knew the movie would make a mint. He told me my commission would be paying my way for a couple of months. I wondered how much more profit than that he'd make off of the movie himself. I also took note that at no time did he mention the prospect of him and me being together more than through these commercial shots and movies.

This was brought home to me that night when he took Doug Dunner with him to the second floor master bedroom suite and I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor bedroom, where I slept alone—at least until late in the night, when I felt the sheets being pulled off me, Jason Jax's hands on my ankles, pulling my butt to the foot of the bed, my ankles being hooked onto Jason's shoulders, his hands on my waist, pulling me down and onto his cock, and Jason starting up the rhythm of the fuck. Half asleep, I turned my face toward the window, which framed a full moon, and set my hips into a rocking motion to make the most use of the cock moving inside me.

It wasn't Holst or even Randy, but it was a cock of a good size and it was inside me.

* * * *

The next morning I was on the move. I'd gotten up—alone in bed when I had awakened—and had breakfast alone. Then I went back to my room and packed. All I had brought was a duffel bag, which wasn't full when I brought it, as Bayer had said there would be plenty of clothes from his men's fashion line for me to wear—and to take away with me. I left those. I added the watch and medallion to the clothes folded and placed on the bed. I'd make a clean break of this. By the time I came downstairs, Jason Jax was awake, had eaten, and was out on the stone terrace, lying on a lounge bed, and taking in the morning rays. He was getting an all-over tan and was on his back, stroking his cock. The cock was hard.

"There you are, Nate. Come here, love, and ride this."

"Sorry, I'm walking," I said, as I moved past him.

"With your suitcase? It's going to be a long walk."

"Looks that way," I said, pointing my face downhill and continuing to walk. At least it would be downhill rather than up. I waved to him, showing him my back, as I reached the parking area and headed toward the road down the hill. I hadn't left a note, but if Holst Bayer or anyone else up there thought enough about me to wonder where I'd gone, Jason could tell them. Of course there wasn't anywhere but down from here.

Cliff Strong was working on a statue of a bear when I reached his work yard. I had fully intended to just walk on by, down the mountain, and to continue walking into Cavendish until I could hitch a ride into the larger town of Ludlow, where I'd see what I could see about getting transportation back to New York City. But the man straightened up when he saw me approaching, lifted his goggles, and hailed me. Seeing him closer than I had from the car when Randy drove me up to The Castle, he did look thuggish and a bit Neanderthal, but he wasn't ugly. He was one big bruiser, though, with a slight beer belly, covered in fine curling red-haired. The bulge of his pecs and width of his shoulders seemed to balance his midsection out, so that he didn't appear as much fat as huge. I couldn't help but think of the term Visigoth. He was shirtless, his chest covered with curly red hair, covering a swirl of tattooing, the colorful tattooing following the curve of his right pectoral moving up onto his shoulder and then down the arm to his wrist.

"You're down from Holst's castle then?" he called out. "I heard he was having a weekend party up there. Makin' a movie, I hear. Male porn."

"Yes, I was there. I heading for Cavendish now."

"Walking, are you?"

"If I have to, yes." I looked over at the old Land Rover parked by his house, hoping he'd get the hint.

"I suppose I could give you a ride. Down to Cavendish, did you say?"

"I probably need to go beyond that to Ludlow to be able to find a way back to New York."

"From New York City then, are you? One of Holst's rent-boys. The star of the movie he did up there this weekend maybe?"

"I'm a model. We were doing a photo shoot for Mr. Bayer's clothing and jewelry businesses."

"And a porn movie on the side, right? I'm one of his special film clients. Not much I don't know about his businesses. Not much I haven't seen of you before."

Well, there wasn't much to say about that. "The point is that I wanted to leave, and I'm trying to find my own way home." I tried not to be indignant. I wanted him to drive me down the mountain. I looked around the lot. All of the large wood figures he was carving or had carved and were still here, whatever the animal it was, were hung and in upcurved erection. Of course I wondered about him. And of course I was forming the understanding of what I would have to do to get that ride. He'd said he was one of Bayer's film clients. He knew what happened up at The Castle. He was interested enough to subscribe to the films. He'd more than hinted that he'd seen me in a film or two. He knew what I would do for a man.

I supposed he'd want to fuck me in exchange for a ride down the mountain. I was considering how to broach that deal when he swept in and did that himself.

"You're a great-looking little piece," Strong said. "I loved you in the film in that tree on the Bermuda beach a couple of weeks ago with Randy Blu. He's a big-dicked son-of-a-bitch. A real pile driver, and you took it well."

"So, you knew I was doing a movie up at The Castle."

"Yep. Tell you what. I'll give you a ride down into Ludlow if you ride my cock first. It gets lonely up here. Not much opportunity for a good lay."

Annnnd, there it was.

We were standing close together, facing each other. He reached out with a big mitt and touched my left nipple, with a gold bar in it. When I didn't recoil from that, his other hand went to my belt buckle. I reached out with a hand to feel him through the baggy material of his trousers. Of course he was hung. I knew he would be.

"If that's what you'd like," I said.

"That, indeed, is what I'd like," he answered.

Both of our cocks freed and hard, he took mine in hand with his, and we stood there, him towering over me and twice my size, rocking against each other, our eyes devouring those of the other man, stroking each other's cocks.

"From the movies it looks like you have no trouble taking big men," he said.

"I don't think that's a problem, no," I answered. He was a monster of a man. Hefty but muscular. I'd get lost in his enveloping embrace. I knew I'd get filled by him. I had no second thoughts about being covered by him.

His hands went to my shoulders and coaxed me down on my knees before him as I took him into my mouth, and then, gagging, took him into my throat.

He fucked me right there in the statue yard on a table made out of an upsided, large telephone cable spool. He just bent me over the table, knelt behind me and ate my ass out. One of his hands was on my back, tracing the welts of the whipping Randy had given me in the movie the previous day. He hadn't struck me hard, but there was still evidence of the whip strikes. The other hand laced my balls and the root of my dick between his fingers, and he was milking me.

"You've been fucked rough," he whispered.

"Yes," I murmured.

"Is that going to be in the movie filmed up there?"

"Yes."

"Nice. Like in the beach scene. You take it hard."

"Yes," I murmured.

"Good. You look so delicate, but I watched you take it in the movie."

"Are you going to whip me?"

"Not until or unless you want me to. I'm gonna take you hard, though." He rose over me, his tongue going to tracing the welts on my back. I cried out and widened my stance as he plunged a beefy finger up into my channel, seeking and finding my prostate. His other hand was palming the small of my back, effectively pressing me down, holding me to the table, captive. There was no hope of resisting him. My eyes watered and I was making primeval groaning sounds from deep in my chest as another finger joined the first and then another. He pressed in to the knuckles and moved the hand in and out, fucking me with it.

"Are you going to fist me?" I asked.

"Been fisted before?"

"Yes," I admitted. "Not by a dude as big as you, though."

"Good to know. But not until or unless you want me to. But if you want me to . . ."

I managed to get my right hand under me to grasp and stroke my cock. I was able to go open enough for him, having taken two cocks in the jacuzzi the previous evening. He fucked me with his bunched fingers, not breaching the sphincter with his knuckles, until, with a "I'm coming" cry, I did. He stopped stroking with the hand. The tip of his index finger rubbed my prostate until I was drained and had relaxed under him with a deep sigh.

His turn, and, to my surprise and delight, the buildup to yet another turn for me.

He brought his hefty body full up to hover over me and about lifted me off the top of the table, my torso rising and me arching my back and throwing my arms back to wrap around his neck as, jolting me, he slapped me hard on the buttocks twice and then, lodging the bulb of his cock just inside my hole for me to whimper at the size of him, he plunged up into me, massively thick and long and cruel—just as I knew he would be. I cried out, begging him to do take more time with the penetration.

He didn't take more time. He lunged into a full-length sheathing and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me, pounding me mercilessly, barebacking me, and breeding me deep in a rolling series of jerks and ejaculations. I had remained arched back into his pecs with one hand gripping the back of his neck and the other hand stroking my cock into another erection, while he held me in place with big, strong hands gripping my hips. I came again—and then a third time—before he did.

"You do take it rough, don't you?" he said, adding, "Nice." I didn't answer. I didn't need to; I'd just taken it rough. The man didn't just look like a Visigoth; he fucked like one too. I couldn't say I didn't melt to that treatment.

Holst was refined and Randy was tame, even with his whip, compared to this monster. Strong had me bouncing around and writhing—and screaming bloody murder—as he took me in driving, cruel thrusts. This did it. This was what I had wanted, not knowing I did. All men before the Chainsaw Sculptor had just been playing; this man fucked me.

I had been totally fucked by the animal known as the Chainsaw Sculptor.

When he was done, he didn't take me to the Land Rover. He picked me up in his arms, slung me, belly down, over his shoulder, and carried me into his house, saying, "You are one sweet lay. It's lunchtime. Can't let you go without feeding you."

The first thing he fed me in the house was his cock, laying me on my back on his bed, scrambling up onto the bed to straddle my chest, and feeding his gigantic reengorging shaft into my throat. "You're too sweet. Can't help it," he explained. I wasn't losing the image of a Visigoth.

Lunch was him on top of me in a missionary fuck. I clung to him, opening as wide as I could, digging my fingernails into his shoulders, letting him know vocally that I surrendered all to him, and moving my hips to the rhythm of the fuck.

I suppose I should claim that I struggled against him at some point or even initially hated what he was doing to me, but I didn't. He laid me out and laid me and then laid me again—and I loved it and begged for more.

And he gave me more. He gave me more than any other man before him had done. All thoughts of wanting to be with Holst Bayer—for the reasons my high school mentor said I should receive a man's attention and seed—were shattered. This was the only reason I needed to have to be with a man. As Strong tensed, jerked, and released yet another salvo of his cum inside me, I cried out, "Fuck you, Phil Claymore!" to my high school mentor, wherever he might be.

"God damn, that was hot," Strong exclaimed. "Shit, you can take a cock."

"Damn right," I answered. I didn't say that he could give a cock. I was sure he already knew that. I knew he had demonstrated that.

"Let's have some lunch," he said, as he pulled off me, patting me on a knee that I couldn't move. I'd had my legs spread and bent, my feet pressed into the edge of the foot of bed, as he crouched between my thighs and power fucked me. I didn't know now when—or if—I'd ever be able to close my legs again. And I didn't give a fuck if I ever could.

Sitting below me, my legs spread on either side of him, he showed me his right hand, bunched, except for his middle finger, flipping the bird at me. He was smiling, Lowering it, he plunged the finger up my hole, his arm strong enough to lift my tail off the bed. I yelped and he laughed, pulling it back out, twisting, standing, and moving away from me. The man was a Visigoth.

* * * *

Strong actually served lunch—cold cuts, slices of bread, mayonnaise, a knife, a beer—while we actually chatted, first about lunch, which then led into more interesting territory.

"Sorry about the food," he said. "Feeding was Tony's territory."

"And yours was?"

"Fucking, of course," he said. "And working with the wood."

"Of course, I should have known. And Tony was?" This led to a surprise, even though I could surmise who Tony was to Cliff Strong.

"Tony was the young man before you."

"Before me?" I asked, after almost choking on my sandwich, which, I must say, was a culinary triumph. "You haven't fucked anyone before this Tony left and until I arrived today?"

"Nope—which might help explain how rough I was with you and how many times I covered you."

"Thank you," I answered.

"You're welcome. We'll do it again after lunch."

"Thank you," I repeated. He was supposed to drive me down to Ludlow after lunch. I was glad he'd forgotten that, especially in what he remembered that he now wanted to do after lunch.

"You're welcome," he repeated, in turn.

"Who is Tony other than the guy you fucked before me and where has he gone?" What I really wanted to ask was how in the hell could Tony leave this man—unless, of course, he was just thoroughly exhausted and used up. I also wasn't that excited that Tony might show up while Strong was doing pushups on me or just sitting, holding me enfolded in his lap, his thick dick inside me, throbbing, making me feel like we were one. I had no idea if Tony had given Strong up. I had no idea how Tony could willingly give the Visigoth up—unless Tony had been used up.

"Tony was the light of my life, the meaning of my existence. But he heard the call of New York. He's in the city now, trying to make it on Broadway."

"That's not all it's advertised to be," I said. "Either New York or making it on Broadway." I couldn't believe I'd said that. All I had wanted to do, the goals I had told Holst Bayer about the first night we met, on board the ship returning from Bermuda, had been zeroed in on New York and making it onto the Broadway stage. I had wanted that to happen by Bayer taking me into his bed and his life. But now all of that had been turned upside down. All I could think of was how soon I could get Cliff Strong's dick inside me again.

"That's what I told him—that neither is such a great goal. I wanted him to stay here . . . and to make me sandwiches."

"And to take your cock."

"Yes, and to take my cock," Strong answered, without a single tone of irony.

"So, what does this Tony look like? Do you have photos?"

"We don't do photos here. If I want to have someone's likeness, I carve them into a statue dildo."

"So, do you have a statue of Tony you've carved?"

"No. He's too small, like you. That's not what I carve, I carve statue dildos."

It still hadn't gotten to me. "You have statues of yourself and of Randy up at The Castle."

"Exactly. Those are hung tops. Muscular, power tops. Appropriate for statue dildos."

It finally sank in. "Statue dildos? What do you mean?"

"I carve dildos," he answered.

"Yes, I know. You said that already." I didn't, however, note that I knew because Holst Bayer had used one with me aboard the Adventure of the Seas, so I slid off the point. "I've seen one of your wooden dildos. It's a beauty. Holst showed it to me."

"I'll bet he did," Strong said, and laughed. He wasn't the least bit fooled how I knew about the dildos he carved. "I make them in all sizes. The life-size ones I camouflage. At first look, at least, you can't tell what they can function as, but it's there. They have a purpose."

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

"Look around. There are four or five of them here in the house. What do they all have in common?"

I stood up from the stool at the kitchen island—naked, as we both were—and padded around the living area, back to the two bedrooms and back. "I don't know. They are all different—hunky men and big animals—I guess what they all have in common are their cocks. They all have oversized cocks, projected upward and in erection."

"Bingo. Most of them ten inches to twelves inches long and as much as eight inches in circumference. About the same size as the traditional-shaped one of mine that Holst did you with, right?"

"Traditional shaped?"

"Yes, those are different from my statue dildos."

"He said that one was nine inches by seven and three-quarters," I said. I wasn't going to quibble about the assertion that Holst had done me with one. He had. Cliff Strong obviously knew he had.

"That's me. That one was carved to my stats. I carved some of these larger."

I stopped moving around the room and put a hand on one of his life-sized polished wood statues. "You're telling me these are dildos—that somehow a guy can fuck himself on one of these?"

"Take a closer look. How about this Roman gladiator here? Let's get you fucked by a Roman gladiator."

He rolled a ribbed condom on the Roman gladiator's cock in his living room, lubed it up, and put me on the wooden statue. It was true. The gladiator had a skirt of wooden slabs as his only clothing, but the skirting parted at the groin for the cock and balls to project, the cock in an upcurved angle. Cliff had to show me where there were footholds at the statue's hips, cleverly carved to look like folds in skirting. And the statue's sword and shield arms were projected at a level and angle so that when I was mounted on the front of the statue, feet in the stirrups and hole brushing the bulb of the cock, I could wrap my arms up around the statute's extended sword and shield-bearing arms, which gave me room to arch my back and be supported, with my buttocks thrust forward into the statue's crotch. It was like I was saddled on a rearing horse. It hit me then why the rearing horse out in the yard, by the road, was rearing, and why it was in such big erection.