Devil's Deals Pt. 01

[This is a completed seven-chapter novella that will finish posting in five parts within two weeks.]

Chapter One: Saturday Morning at The Rock

Rich was careful to keep his weight on his knees and to anchor his hands, enfolding Alma's hands, in a grip on the rungs of the brass headboard. They were in the small bedroom in the disused chauffeur's room over the garage of the Butler's Gloucester, Massachusetts, shore home. He was just as careful not to grasp the top rail of the headboard as his thrusts were making that rail grate on the wall behind the bed. There were other rooms up here and the large garage below. He had no idea who might be roaming about.

The woman was thin as a rail--model thin--and more than twice his age. He didn't want to crush her. This was all to please her, to be in her good stead. But he need not have worried that she was frail; she was proving to be stronger and more resilient than appearances would have suggested and she was experienced in being fucked by young men. Rich had the distinct impression that the woman had been here in this servant's room, doing this with young men, before. Her passage had a death grip on his cock, and she was fucking him more than he was fucking her.

This one was quite a catch for her, though. Richard VonClief was an athlete, a fourth-year, third-string quarterback on the Dartmouth College football team and captain of the rowing team. He was six foot two, muscular yet trim, golden blond ruggedly handsome, with an "ah gosh" smile to die for. It slayed the women and men alike. Alma Butler had chaffed at getting his cock inside her from the moment he'd appeared on her summer home threshold.

He was a first-time weekend guest at the Butler's large Victorian Gloucester get-away "cottage" on the shore across the outer harbor from the town. The Butlers were from Boston, where Howard Butler owned and operated a string of bars and restaurants. Alma, his wife, had been a minor stage actress and model who had come up from obscurity and had been social climbing and young cock hunting ever since.

Richard--Rich--was from Dutch stock, of the original New York City families, as blue stocking as you could get. He was a classmate and crew teammate of Hunter Butler, the family's sandy-haired, hunky son. It wasn't Hunter who had invited Rich for the weekend, though. The family's daughter, Susan, had done that. Rich first knew Hunter through Susan, a sophomore at New Hampshire's Colby-Sawyer College down the road from Dartmouth, in New London. The two of them had met at an after-concert party, when Susan's choir had come to Dartmouth to give a choral concert. Rich was studying music composition at Dartmouth and planned to go on to Julliard, near his home in New York, if he could find the money to do so. His athlete endeavors were hooked to his reliance on sports scholarships, but they certainly did keep him in shape, dexterous, and vigorous. Hunter had his own date for the weekend, Julio Flores, a sultry, dark Argentine, who was a junior at Dartmouth and as much on the make as anyone else in the house that weekend.

Rich hadn't accepted Susan's invitation for the weekend just to get close to a family with money. It was more immediate and visceral than that. He wasn't sure where he was going to get the money to eat that weekend, with the school closed on a holiday, if he didn't get invited somewhere. He'd almost accepted an invitation from Blake Coleman, his music composition professor, fully knowing what that man was building up to, but Susan had come along with a better offer, one that included the opportunity for Rich to practice his sailing skills with a couple of his sailing teammates from Dartmouth.

And, now, Alma had made an offer he couldn't refuse either if he wanted to stay on good graces with the hostess for the weekend.

"Yes, yes!" she cried out. "I'm almost there. You're huge. You're a stud." She arched her back, hugged his slim hips close with her knees, latched onto his neck with her teeth, and rocked hard against his possessing cock, as he thrust, thrust, and thrust again, sending the top rail of the brass headboard banging against the wall.

His keep for the weekend and perhaps invitations for other weekends hinged on pleasing his hostess in the sack.

"Yes. Oh, fuck, yes!" she cried out. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK." With a hiss and a long sigh, she collapsed under him, pulling her hands away from his at the headboard, running her fingers into his blond curls, and bringing his face down to hers for a deep kiss.

He was still hard inside her. He'd had to will himself to go hard and stay that way even though she was still a beautiful woman, at fifty. But she was a woman. He was young and virile, though, and in top shape. Maintaining position, he restarted the rhythm of the fuck.

"Oh, God, yes," Alma cried out. "You're a stud. You're a fucking god." She raked his back with her long, violet-painted fingernails and dug them into his shoulder blades, as she arched her back again, turned her face to stare up at the waving headboard and concentrated on meeting his thrust in the dance of the fuck.

When he came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, Alma was sitting against the headboard, knees drawn up to her small breasts, smoking a cigarette. "I don't want you to leave yet," she said, stubbing her cigarette out in an ashtray on the nightstand next to the bed.

"Hunter and Julio will be back soon from their tennis match," he replied. "They'll come looking for me if I'm not at the house or down by the harbor." Surely he'd done enough to impress her, he thought.

"I don't really give a shit if Hunter finds us," Alma said, the words coming out almost in a hiss. "Susan's mine, but Hunters from number two. You shouldn't care either."

You'd be surprised, Rich thought. But before he could speak, Alma chimed up again.

"At least drop the towel. Let me look at you again." And then, when Rich did so, she took in her breath and said, "You are such a beautiful young man. A god. A hung stud. I could help you if you wanted to make some money. I have bored friends who would pay for that."

I might get that desperate, Rich thought. But what he said was, "I don't think that's in my athletic exercise plan at Dartmouth."

Alma laughed, a deep smoker's laugh. "But of course you wouldn't be interested, not a top-drawer VonClief. You wouldn't prostitute yourself--perhaps for preservation of status, but not for money."

You might be surprised about that too, Rich once again thought. I'm prostituting myself right now. Sure, she's a honey, even as old as she is, but she's not what I'd choose, if I didn't have to.

"We have time. Just once more around the block," she said.

She was the hostess; she was his ticket for the weekend. It wasn't either Susan or Hunter. Rich had quickly assessed that Alma was the key to this family. She giggled and then squealed a bit when he walked over the foot of the bed, leaned over and grabbed her ankles, and pulled her to him, to where her butt rested on the edge of the end of the bed. He went on his knees on the floor between her spread thighs.

She wasn't giggling any more. She was moaning and gripping the hair on his head and making little yipping sounds, as he buried his face in her muff and ate her cunt out. She writhed and groaned and egged him on and begged him to hold off, to give her a moment to catch her breath, to stop panting hard. But he gave her no quarter, and when she exploded under him, collapsing and sobbing, he rose, gripped and spread her legs, grasped under her knees, hooking them on his hips, slid inside her, and fucked her good, taking her swiftly this time. Once again, moaning, she went with him, rocking her pelvis against his thrusts, taking him deep.

Rich was getting hungry. He wondered what they were having for lunch.

* * * *

"I'm glad Mother is doing better today, but I called to see how you were doing. And, to be truthful, whether you got a valuation on the house yet."

Rich was sitting in the summer pavilion at The Rocks, the Butlers's waterfront house across the outer harbor from Gloucester, named for the solid granite surface of the yard that inclined down from the back of the Victorian manse to the water. As he spoke to his father on the phone, he was watching the young gardener prune a holly bush against the back-porch wall and rubbing his crotch with his free hand. Diego, Hispanic, was maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, handsome and in muscular trim, bare-chested, as he moved along the hedge line with grace, like a dancer. Rich's eyes went to the youth's bubble butt and he sighed as his father answered his query.

"I'm doing fine," Rich's father answered. "It gives me more time to spend with your mother. We can perhaps let the day nurse go or cut back on her hours."

"I hope no more than cut back on her hours, Dad," Rich said. "You're not trained for that and you have yourself to take care of too." He had been worried about his father ever since Gerald had been made redundant in an "updating" of the history department at Colombia University, near the family's Riverside Park townhouse. Updating meant forcing out the older professors who were concentrating on classroom teaching more than on publishing or bringing in grants. The department wanted a younger look, which left professors like Gerald VonClief too old to have other options anymore. The layoff had come at a bad time, when expenses were increasing on dealing with Rich's mother's advancing Alzheimer's disease. Being one of the Founder Families of New York City didn't guarantee continued wealth, but it did continue to have social obligations and expectation that weren't cheap. Rich had been minimizing his expenses as much as he could at Dartmouth to help out. He had no idea how he was going to be able to take up his graduate studies at Julliard. Tuition at Dartmouth was covered by sports scholarships. Those didn't exist at Julliard. Pounding the piano keys lickety-split or throwing yourself around the podium while student conducting was about as athletic as Julliard students got.

"Yes, I got the house valued by a Realtor. I had to time it with the nurse taking your mother to the hospital for tests. It would break her heart to know the house was at risk." Gerald's laugh was a dry one. "Seems we're rich if we sell the Riverside Park house and we're broke if we don't. She put the value at $8 million, $10 million if we did half a million in renovations on it before we put it on the market. The other side is that we can't afford to maintain it. I already had plans to shut off the top two floors this winter and rely on the fireplaces on the lower floors for heat. The oak in the back was dead anyway. I had it taken down and we have plenty of firewood from that--for the next two winters at least."

The Riverside Park house, not directly on Riverside Drive, in the toney northwest section of Manhattan, but close enough to the Hudson River, on West 76th Street, to have a sweeping view of the water from the rooftop garden, was a five-story Renaissance Revival brownstone, with an additional subbasement. The house had been in the VonClief family for two centuries and was a symbol of the family's leading status in the city. Selling it would topple the family's status. Keeping it would topple the family's ability to survive. The years had caught up with the VonCliefs, and it was Richard who was on the cusp of decisions and inevitable change of some sort. His parents were too old to suffer from the family's collapse. Soon his mother wouldn't even know that it had happened.

"Don't keep the house on my account, Dad," Richard said. "I'll never be rich enough to be able to maintain it, and you and Mom deserve to live in comfort." He didn't say that it probably wouldn't be much longer for his mother and not too long after that for his dad, either. Teaching history had consumed his father's life--and his family had been so much part of the history of New York. Losing his teaching position had broken Gerald's heart, already weakened by his wife's long, slow sinking into the long goodnight. After the job and Grace were gone, there wasn't much to keep his dad going on. He looked over at the Butler's house, and the gardener must have sensed that he had. He turned, gave Rich a smile, and waved.

Rich let a smile cross his face and waved back. He and Diego had been playing a little cat-and-mouse game of "Are you; would you?" since Rich had arrived with Hunter and Julio the evening before, as Diego was packing up to leave. Diego was one honey of a young man, Rich thought, and he probably hadn't hidden his interest too well.

"I can't sell it as long as Grace has ten minutes of clear memory in a day," Gerald said.

"I understand, Dad. Mother has always been more VonClief than any of us who are in a direct line." Grace VonClief was from a Founding Fathers family as old as the VonCliefs, one that already had met its demise from the lack of male descendants to carry on the name. There was no need to push the point. They both knew it wouldn't be much longer before those ten minutes of clarity in a day had passed for good. "Oh, I have to go now."

"Something's come up?" Gerald asked.

"In a manner of speaking. Duty calls." Looking at Diego who had turned back to the hedge and was moving gracefully across the surface of the foliage with his electric clippers, the muscles of his back and buttocks tightening and releasing had made Rich go hard. And Susan had come out of the house and was moving toward where he sat in the summerhouse. Ah, Susan, he thought. She seemed to be smitten with him and had been quite forward about it. The Butlers were dripping in money. As destitute as Richard and his family were becoming, it didn't escape him that there were still options to consider.

Susan was giving Richard a look like she could eat him up alive as she walked over the large slab of stone that ran to the octagonal gingerbread Victorian-style summer pavilion. Since the night they had met and first fucked she'd moved like she was in a dream, like she'd managed to put her hand on a star from heaven and couldn't let go. She wasn't the most beautiful of women, a bit mousey and washed out. She'd never had a boyfriend--or lover--as handsome and well-built as Rich was. And Rich was First Family of New England to boot. That her parents thought Rich was here as one of Hunter's friends, here for the weekend for the boys to practice their sailing, using the family's nineteen-foot Sea Pearl sailboat, was something Susan wouldn't correct until she had to--for fear that it was all a dream she'd wake up from.

It hadn't been Rich's idea really that they fuck on the first date. Susan had been making up for being behind the competition in looks with the other girls from Colby-Sawyer coming to concerts and teas at her brother's school, Dartmouth, by being easy and giving out on the first date. She'd made extra effort with Rich, because he was such a dreamboat.

Rich didn't know she was Hunter Butler's sister when he met her when her choir came to Dartmouth. He hadn't met Hunter then, although he'd known Hunter was a student there. They were both on the crew and sailing teams but that hadn't started up for the year. Rich was still taken up with football season. The Colby-Sawyer College choir had come to Dartmouth for the day for a music master class with Rich's faculty adviser, Blake Coleman, with the day finished off with a concert, including some of the music they'd worked on under Coleman's baton. Rich had been brought in to assist Coleman in the class and had every reason to believe he'd be going home with Coleman that night. The professor had promised him academic favors and dinners in exchange for sexual favors, and Rich was reaching the stage where his bank account didn't include eating.

Coleman was good looking enough, in a tall, willowy way. He was aging well and dressed elegantly. His effeminacy was a bit off-putting, but Rich thought he could manage to keep it up and fuck him in exchange for room and board, good grades, and guidance in what the man could teach him about music composition.

Susan Butler, in the soprano section and having been given a solo part in one piece, had caught Rich's attention during the class. She'd done everything she could to get his attention. They've gone off to the side and done a little flirting and sharing of family backgrounds in the interval after the university fed them a meal and before the concert, and Susan's flirting and pushing out of her chest had broadcast her availability. Rich was in rising heat, knowing he was to go home with Coleman and service the professor that night, and Susan's hands were taking advantage of the moments when they were mostly alone in the auditorium seats while technical setup was going on on stage.

Susan had made arrangements already to stay that night rather than go back to Colby-Sawyer on the choir bus. She'd noted that her brother was a student at Dartmouth and she'd stay with him overnight. He was to drive her back to New London the next day.

After the bus left, though, and while Rich had come out to the street to tell her good-bye and to get her telephone number for a later hookup, they were standing together when she called her brother, only to learn that he and a friend--who Rich later learned was Hunter's boyfriend, Julio Flores--had gone up state to climb Mount Washington.

"I'll drive you back to New London," Rich had offered.

"That's very nice of you," Susan had answered, "But is there someplace we could go tonight--that you'd like to take me tonight--and you could drive me back tomorrow? I'm checked out of my dorm until tomorrow." She had paused long enough on the word "take" to get across what she really meant in using that word.

"I think that would be possible," Rich had said. "Are you sure you want it?"

"Yes, I want you to fuck me," she said, going the direct route.

He first drove to an established lover's parking area overlooking the Connecticut River and fucked her in the backseat. Then he drove her to his studio apartment and fucked her twice more. She had been the more aggressive of the two and couldn't get enough of him. He had been very impressed with what she'd told him about her wealthy family. They'd met several times since then, even after the water sports started up; Rich met his teammate, Hunter Butler, Susan's brother; and Rich was fucking Hunter too.

The only one who had been disappointed the evening of the concert was Professor Coleman, who had gone home alone. But Rich made up for that with him, giving Coleman what he wanted and then moving in with Coleman and solving Rich's living expenses problems at Dartmouth. Coleman was an easy lay. He just lay there under Rich, moaning and fluttering his hands on Rich's shoulder blades and whispering how good his lover was to him, while Rich performed pushups on top of him and pumped him to mutual ejaculations.

* * * *

"There you are," Susan said as she entered the summer pavilion at The Rocks. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

And a good thing you didn't find me, Rich thought, in view of the fact that he'd been above the garage, fucking Susan's mother.

She sat down close to him on the bench that ringed the inner wall of the summerhouse, the wall of the summerhouse rising a foot and a half above the level of the bench to provide a seat back and also to give the interior of the pavilion a bit of privacy. They kissed and she fondled his crotch, unzipped his fly, and fished out his cock. As usual, Rich let her do most of the foreplay work. Susan looked mousey, but she was sexually aggressive, at least with Rich, who let her do as she wished. They went into another deep kiss while she stroked him to hard.

"You're going to make me... maybe we'd better..." Rich murmured.