Fridays at Battery Park Books

Yuan raised his right arm, cupped Trent's neck and gently drew the young man's mouth down to his. Leaning over the tub, Trent reached down and encased the Asian man's cock in his right hand, causing it to harden further. In the kiss, Trent jerked and momentarily took his lips away from Yuan's and gasped, as Haywood positioned his cock higher, slowly penetrated Trent's passage deep, grasped his hips again, and began to slow pump, barebacking the young man. Coming out of the kiss, Trent turned a bit and took Yuan's cock in his mouth. Haywood continued moving his shaft in and out, in and out of Trent's channel, as the young man caused the muscles of his passage wall to ripple over the thick invader.

This was not going to be a quick taking.

After viewing the gingerbread house competition display in the Grove Park's rock-walled lobby around the massive fireplace of the original section of the inn, the three men, Trent moving between the two tall, older men, Haywood and Yuan, who he knew would be fucking him before the evening was over, moved on to one of the mountainside inn's more exclusive restaurants with a view of the Asheville valley and the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains, Vue 1913. Paying close attention to the young man, the two older men leaned into him and smile, touching him intimately as they could with disturbing the other well-heeled restaurant patrons. If they weren't conditioned to be complete gentlemen in public, the tension between the three indicated that, if they could, they would lay Trent out on the restaurant table and dine on him.

It was not lost on Trent that this is what the novelist, Bernard Raskin, would do under these circumstances from the sheer shock and publicity value of having done so.

They were given a table with a great view, and the restaurant's executive chef, Gail Blanton, came out of the kitchen several times to attend their table. He was standing behind Trent, his hands lightly gripping and massaging the young man's shoulders, when Yuan took out a duplicate room key card and passed it to Blanton, letting the chef know what suite they would be in. Blanton said he would join them as soon as his dining service was over, confirming that Trent would be lying under more than just the two art museum officials. But then, Trent had taken Blanton's gold poker chip at the Friday Group meeting, so he knew the large-framed black man would be included in the evening's events.

Haywood pulled out of Trent before coming and lifted the young man like he was a light rag doll, and delivered him, on his back on top of Yuan's reclining form in the bathtub. No one said anything, but the two men worked with precision and shared intent and interest in working the body of the smaller young man. He wasn't an equal person to them. He was a docile rent-boy there to give the men mutual heightening sexual pleasure.

Yuan opened his arms and took Trent, stretched out on top of him, his erection going under Trent's taint as Haywood's had before he penetrated the young man. Yuan buried his face in the hollow of Trent's throat, kissing him there. His right hand reached down to stroke Trent's cock, rising straight up from the water of the tub, and his left hand went to working Trent's nipples. Yuan kept gliding his free hand on Trent's torso, making the young man moan with pleasure and anticipation as, leaning over the tub, Haywood's left hand went to covering and moving with Yuan's hand on Trent's cock. His right hand went down between Trent's legs to finger Trent's passage opening and Yuan's cock. His middle finger entered Trent and stroked as Trent panted and sighed and whispered, "Yes, yes. Fuck me."

"Again and again, all night, past when you have begged for mercy. You are all ours for the night," Haywood murmured, which made Trent shudder under the accompanying light touch of Yuan's gliding hand.

Taking Yuan's cock in his hand, Haywood and Yuan worked together to put his oversized-glans cockhead in position, and Trent arched his back to help put his entrance at the best angle for entry, gasped, and jabbered quietly in indecipherable phrases as Yuan breached Trent's sphincter muscle with difficulty, his cock head being oversized, and then moved his shaft deep up inside the trembling young man's passage. Grasping the young man's hips, Haywood helped move the fused pelvises in the water in the tub to aid the caressing movement of Yuan's cock inside the young man.

The two men coordinated their manipulation of the docile, yielding Trent body on the Asian man's cock for several minutes up to the point that Trent tensed, jerked, gave a little cry, and released a cloud of cum into the bath water under the stroking hands of both Haywood and Yuan. When Trent had come, Haywood slowly lowered himself into the tub, grasped Trent's legs, gently raised and spread them, moved his own erection into position, slowly entered Trent's passage, running his cock in above Yuan's buried cock, and began to slow stroke to what would be, first, Yuan's ejaculation, and then Haywood's release.

Trent panted hard, murmured his surrender, quietly begged for mercy that didn't come, and became lost in the working of the two cocks inside him building up to their individual pleasured release.

After several minutes of kissing and fondling and reengorging, Haywood and Yuan readjusted their positions in the tub, this time with Haywood reclining on his back, Trent saddled on Haywood's cock in the cowboy position, facing Haywood's head, the two of them tongue-dueling kissing, while Yuan saddled up behind Trent, kissed him on the back of his neck, and palming the young man's pecks, working his nipples between thumbs and forefingers, while penetrating the young man's passage, running his shaft up along Haywood's already-buried cock, and slow pumping Trent's channel in a second double penetration.

When all had come again, the two older men maneuvered their way out of the tub, leaving Trent there to float and recover as they dried off. Then, working together, they gently lifted Trent out of the tub, dried him off, each with a thick-napped Egyptian cotton towel. Haywood took the moaning young man up in his arms and carried him into the bedroom, where Gail Blanton, naked and in magnificent, nearly foot long, thick erection was lying on his back on the bed. Amid much huffing and panting and whimpering, Haywood and Yuan helped Trent straddle and lower himself on Blanton's shaft, taking as much of it in as he could. Then they sat back and watched as Trent fucked himself in a cowboy on the gigantic black cock.

Two frontiers were crossed by Trent that night—his first, and second, double penetration, which he was lucky to have had before he had to take Blanton's cock, and the largest single cock he'd ever taken.

When Blanton was done for the first time, the three men went in rotation well into the night, moving the exhausted and yielding young man's body into favored, sometimes exotic sex positions, fucking him and fucking him and fucking him.

They left him there, on his back, legs spread, arm across his eyes, a slight smile on his face, a low humming on his lips and went off to breakfast together at 8:00 a.m., returning in time to put him in the shower, get him dressed, and have him bundled into a hotel car to take him home before checkout time. They had been solicitous of his well-being in taking him to, but never over, the edge repeatedly, pointing out that he had agreed to everything, and each of them kicking in another $100 over and above the $400 Yuan had already given him. He assured them that he'd enjoyed the attention and, yes, he would continue attending the Friday Group, and, yes, he would continue to accept poker chip assignations.

And yes, he would take other combinations of Friday Group regulars in acts of double penetration, as they wished.

"Never Gail Blanton in combination, though, please," Trent begged. "His black shaft is just too large for sharing."

* * * *

When Trent approached the university library entrance to leave for the evening the following Tuesday, he saw Gus's truck parked in the lot and drew back. There was another exit available to him at the loading dock on the other side of the building. He left by that way and took a roundabout route home. When he got there, he locked the door behind him, pulled the blinds, didn't turn on any lights, and sat there, in the dark, waiting.

When the pounding on the door started, he tried to ignore it. But his body betrayed him. His memory went to the times Gus had fucked him and how rough he'd been and the heights of arousal and satisfaction he'd taken Trent to. He started to tremble and to go hard. With faulting steps, he moved to the door and opened it.

A fist lashed out and caught him in the cheek, making him stagger back and sink to the living room carpet. Gus followed his fist into the room, slammed the door behind him, and jumped on top of Trent's body. Trent had gone down on his back. Gus backhanded Trent across the face one way and then the other and Trent lay there, quietly, whimpering as Gus ripped Trent's dress shirt open and stripped his trousers and briefs off his legs. Trent spread and bent his legs and pushed his pelvis up to give Gus a good angle to thrust inside him.

But Gus didn't penetrate him with his cock immediately, He crouched on top of Trent, holding the smaller man in thrall, while he entered him with, first, one finger and then another and a another, up to his knuckles, and began to move his hand. Whimpering, Trent moved with him, concentrating on the pleasure and pain of the finger fuck, trembling with fear and anticipation of it becoming a fist fuck, finding, to his consternation, that he wanted to know if he could take a fist and whether the pleasure of it would overcome the pain of it. Gus held his face close to Trent's, watching the reaction in Trent's eyes and expression to what Gus was doing—what more he could do. But then, with a laugh, he withdrew his hand, and Trent came in a gush of cum. Gus rolled over on top of Trent's body, thrust his cock inside the passage, dug down into Trent's core, and started punishing him with the metal of the thick PA ring in his cockhead, fucking him on the floor in the darkened living room.

Trent moved his arms around Gus's chest, grasping the muscular black man's shoulder blades and put his pelvis in motion, entering the combined rhythm of the deep, rough fuck and murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes." The murmuring was cut off, though, as Gus grasped Trent's throat between his beefy hands and started the choking breath play.

He fucked on and on. Trent arched his head, staring at the unseen ceiling overhead, gasping for breath as he was permitted, and . . . strangely, but surely . . . reveling in the total-taking fuck.

When Gus was gone, Trent lay there, thinking about what his life had become since he moved to Asheville. He hadn't been this wanton before then. This whole Friday Group thing—and Gus on top of that—was pulling him down into a hell, a hell lined with pleasure. He liked the attention. He liked having a man's cock churning inside him. Hell, he loved having two men's cocks churning inside him. He had been in ninth heaven with the attention the three men had given him in the Grove Park Inn suite the previous Friday—the worship of his body, the taking of everything from him. And how the novelist had pulled him into his life—and probably was including him in his current novel. And Gus—the danger of him. The blackness of him, not just in skin tone but also in the hell he pulled Trent into and beat him into a vulnerability and openness, and took, took, took from him.

Where was the edge of what he would take—of how much degradation and pain he would endure for the pleasure he was getting?

What was wrong with him? Was Asheville and its pleasures, temptations, sins, and demands someplace he should not be?

With a groan, he rose from the carpet and stepped over to the door to close it. Gus had left it ajar and snow had drifted in. He dragged himself into the bathroom, turned on the light, and started to inspect the bruise on his cheek where Gus had hit him. He could see the red marks of Gus's fingers on this throat, but he knew from experience that they would be gone by the day after next. It was winter, the Christmas season. He could wear a turtleneck sweater and no one would be the wiser. The bruise on his cheek would deepen in color. He would have to become an expert in applying makeup.

It only was when he had that thought that he realized he'd let Gus do this again—and again. He wouldn't have the false courage of trying to hide from him behind the door with the lights off ever again. He'd let Gus use him up totally if that's where Gus was headed with him—although there was added arousal and sexual satisfaction in angering Gus a bit so that he'd be more brutal and demanding. Being power fucked on the floor in a darkened room was kind of hot—even the worry that Gus was going to sink his fist in him and fuck him with it had made him hard and throbbing and panting and had contributed to a glorious release.

* * * *

Are you serious, Trent thought the next Friday night when the white poker chip plunked down in front of him at the Friday Group's table on the third level of the Battery Park Book Exchange. A priest wanted to fuck him?

Many of the eight at the table were regulars he met one of the previous two times he'd come to the meeting. The only new member—regular but new to him—was a handsome young man, Rick Weaver, who had been introduced as a semiprofessional actor at the Asheville Community Theater by night and a guide at Biltmore, the biggest draw in Asheville, by day. The 8,000-acre Biltmore estate, including the largest private residence to have been built in the United States, had been the home of Vanderbilts and now was a major shrine to the opulent early nineteen hundreds that was open to the public. It was particularly popular now, in the Christmas season, as many of its 250 rooms were decked out in seasonal decorations and could be toured. Julian had been after Trent to get one of the Friday Group members to take him there, noting, rather cattily that Trent should remember that he was introduced into the Friday Group to get a free Christmas season tour of the city not just to see how quickly he could collect cockings from all of the regular group members. Heretofore Trent had pointed out that a tour of the Biltmore wasn't cheap.

And now Trent had his chance to see the Biltmore. Not with the newly arrived member, though. He obviously was candy, like Trent was, and in high demand. Trent got the impression that Weaver didn't come to the Friday Group all that much but that he was sex on a stick and in high demand when he did. Nearly all of the available poker chips that evening were sitting in front of him—except the white one from Monsignor Emeritus Antoni Skileri, the old but distinguished-looking and ramrod-straight priest. The white one had been dropped in front of Trent.

Julian had already left with the music hall director, Daniel Park, before Rick Weaver had arrived. All those left with poker chips except for the priest were wooing Weaver, though, which left Skileri free of competition to sit beside Trent and touch the young man intimately in a way people let expressive Italians get away with while he talked about the history of the nearby Basilica of Saint Lawrence. This Catholic church was where, Julian had informed Trent, the monsignor was in hiding from decades of having topped young priests and led them into sin.

Weaver hadn't come empty handed. He'd brought two free passes to the Biltmore Christmas house tour that evening at 9:30. When he offered them to the group, only the priest and Trent had shown interest. The interest of everyone else there was to take Weaver somewhere and fuck him.

There was no competition for the tickets then, and, almost salivating, the monsignor had developed a plan of he and Trent going together, having dinner at the Stables Café next to the house before taking the tour. After the estate tour, Monsignor Antoni could show Trent around the Basilica of Saint Lawrence he'd been describing to the young as something of Asheville that had to be seen at Christmas time. Then he'd drive Trent home. He had access to a church car. Trent was a little panicked by the thought of a highly placed Catholic priest fucking him in his mean one-bedroom apartment, but maybe it wouldn't come to that. Trent was a little squeamish about being fucked by an old priest to begin with.

Thus, it was easily settled. Trent would do as Julian said was a reason to hook up with the Friday Group—he'd see Asheville at Christmas time at someone else's expense and if it turned out he was laid in the process that was open as well.

Trent realized he was becoming seriously overactive in getting laid and he wasn't sure he wanted a priest on top of and inside him, but the monsignor was still a handsome man, in shape for his age, and Julian more than once said Skileri had a cock that should be experienced at least once—that none of those young priests he'd laid over several decades had complained.

So, that's what Trent and the monsignor did. They left the Friday Group early for the members to fight over Rick Weaver's tail and Monsignor Antoni drove Trent up to the extensive Biltmore estate, where they ate a fancy dinner in a restaurant that had been created in what had been a huge horse and carriage stable in the late nineteenth century and that was attached to an even more huge French Tudor palace that took the pair an hour and a half to oh and ah through the mere 10 percent of its rooms that were on Christmas display.

When they had done that, they motored back down the mountain and into Asheville and to the Basilica of Saint Lawrence, which Trent also had to admit was very impressive. The church decorated itself for Christmas almost as elaborately as Biltmore had.

The monsignor had given Trent an expensive meal at the Stable Café and accompanied the young man on a tour of the Biltmore, an Asheville must see, especially at Christmas, which Trent would have been hard pressed to manage on his own, since he didn't have a car. So, Trent thought it only polite to let the old priest show him the inside of his church at night. It was closed to the public at night, of course, but the priest emeritus had the run of it. As far as could be determined Skileri's only duties to the church now were to remain hidden to the media. Trent had to admit when Monsignor Antoni turned on all of the lights and the young man saw the multiple gigantic and lighted and decorated Christmas trees and wreathing that he was floored by the beauty of the place.

Fifteen minutes later he was floored and being fucked by the monsignor on a padded mat hidden in a space between a decorated Christmas tree and a wall beside the altar in a side chapel. Julian had been right. The monsignor had probably the longest cock of all of the Friday Group members and he knew how to use it, to reach high up into the passage of a young man and hold the submissive in panting thrall to it as the bulb kissed and caressed every surface of the young man's inner core.

The monsignor had deftly gotten Trent naked and opened his own cassock down the front and brushed it open to reveal and wiry, hard, well-muscled body and a godawful long erection. The cock wasn't thick, but that only added to the image of it as a snake that could—and did—caress and bite at its head. They knelt on the mat, the monsignor behind Trent, one of his arms wrapped around Trent's belly, holding the young man close into him and the hand of the other cupping Trent's chin and arching the young man's head back into the hollow of Monsignor Antoni's shoulder. Trent jerked and cried out in a plaintive pain-pleasure echo through the vastness of the church proper while Skileri thrust up deep inside his passage, moving farther up with each thrust until he had arrived deep in the young man's soft core. There he worked his magic with his caressing bulb, while Trent panted and sighed—and came and then came again until they rested—the priest's cock still deeply sheathed and Trent slumped forward onto his chest, his arms flung out in sacrificial supplication, while Skileri, still ramrod straight in his kneeling position, massaged the muscles of the young man's back.