Liaisons Ch. 02: What Led to That

He was big and thick. Much more virile than Lord Aynsley had been. A man not to be denied. A stallion among men. And he rode her and rode her. She was a hot-blooded woman. Much too much of a woman for Lord Aynsley. This stallion reached her to the quick. She exploded and flowed. Exploded and flowed. Would he ever stop thrusting inside her, pulling explosions of her? Could she keep him inside her forever? A stallion of a man. Ride, ride, ride. And then the long, three-jerks, blasting into her cervical canal with his hot-blooded cum, reducing her to sighs and moans.

Afterward, as they still slumped in her chair all akimbo, he said, "I could not help myself. You are just too desirable. If you wish, I will check out of the hotel now. It won't do either of us any good to say this happened. I wish only to preserve your reputation. I just couldn't resist your beauty. Or, you could answer my knock on your hotel room door tonight at 9:00 p.m."

"I'm in room 213," Elizabeth answered in a breathy voice. "My stallion," she added under her breath, but there was no indication that the baron had heard her.

And then he surely wasn't—but, yes he was. Hard again, he rolled her hips up more, entered her ass with his cock, and, after several minutes of slow-stroke plowing, seeded her there as well, as she groaned, her head tilted off to the side, her mouth slack, never having been taken there before. His victory was complete.

Josef made it back from room 213 in plenty of time to recover an erection and to answer the knock on his door at midnight.

* * * *

Lady Elizabeth and Paul were in the hotel's sunroom, at the window, finishing up their breakfast, when the baron passed by them behind Paul's chair, wearing a dressing robe. Until that moment the two had been conversing with a false cheerfulness about nothing that either could have recalled later. Neither was able to discern the false, almost hysterical, note in the other's voice because they were too concerned about what they themselves were saying—and hiding. Both visibly braced themselves, though, as the baron paused behind Paul's chair, put his hands on Paul's shoulder, turned his eyes on Lady Elizabeth, and wished her a polite good morning.

She responded with the traditional answer in a wavering voice, adding, "Are you off to the beach for a morning swim in the sea?" Paul stiffened at the mention of the beach.

"Not this morning, no. I slept little last night . . ." a reference that had both mother and son shuddering ". . . so I believe a nap is in order before I venture out."

Soon after he left, Paul put his napkin beside the plate of food he hadn't quite finished and said, "I believe I'll go up to my room for a while as well."

"Without finishing your breakfast? You have a liaison to go to with some young lady?" Lady Elizabeth reddened as she said it; it reflected too baldly what had been in her mind. Paul reddened too, but she didn't notice.

"A liaison with a book I had difficulty putting down last night," he answered lamely. "And I think I've had quite enough to eat."

The baron opened his room door to Paul without any surprise at all. "Come in," he said with a slight, knowing smile on his face.

"I cannot, I just have something to say to you," Paul said, showing a face of indignation.

"Something you wish to say here in the corridor with other guests possibly hearing?" Von Holst was smirking.

Paul entered the room, and as the baron shut the door and with Paul not being able to look at him, the young man took a deep breath and said, "I just need to say that this has to be the end of it. I can't do this. Yesterday—last night—wasn't me. It isn't what I want at all. I can't say what happened didn't happen, but I choose not for it to happen again. I believe one of us should leave the hotel. It would be more convenient for all if it was you, but I could think up something—"

The baron spun Paul around and backhanded him across the face so that Paul staggered and fell to the floor. Reaching down with a strong hand, the weight of the man far surpassing Paul's, Von Holst grabbed the front of Paul's shirt, popping buttons with his brutality, pulled Paul's face up to his, and possessed Paul's mouth in a cruel kiss.

Paul bit the man's lip. The baron emitted a little howl, pushed Paul away, and backhanded him again. Paul landed on his back but came up on his elbows. The two men eyed each other. The baron's eyes were full of lust and anger. No one who looked at Paul would say his eyes were revealing anything other than that either.

Both men were panting. Von Holst unsashed his robe and flared it out from his body. He was magnificently naked and in erection. "This is what you came for, isn't it?" Von Holst said, wagging his erection at Paul. Paul's moan was audible throughout the room. The baron reached down, unbuttoned the anchors of Paul's suspenders at the waist of his trousers, unbuttoned the fly of the trousers, and pulled the trousers and undergarments off Paul's legs. This didn't take long, but Paul didn't fight it. He reclined there, moaning, his eyes transfixed on the baron's erection.

Von Holst laughed. Paul was in erection too.

"You didn't come here to break it off. You came here for this, my cock." Von Holst wagged his cock at Paul again, and Paul groaned, unable to take his eyes off it. "I told you you would come for it on your own soon and you have. You're a little whore. A wanton whore. This is just the beginning of a long career lying under men."

"I'm not," Paul objected in a small, breathy voice.

"Present yourself to receive it—as you did in the cabana yesterday."

With a whimper, still propped up on his elbows, Paul slowly spread his legs, bent his knees, and raised his pelvis. The baron came down on his knees and pushed them under Paul's buttocks. One hand cupped Paul's neck and brought their faces together. The kiss this time was passionate. The baron ripped away the buttons of Paul's shirt with the other hand and moved the hand over Paul's naked chest, tweaking the now-taut nipples in passing. Paul shuddered and trembled to the touch. The hand came up to a choke hold on Paul's throat and Paul's eyes bugged out, but the baron held him trapped in the deep kiss.

The hand moved slowly down Paul's chest again, across his heaving belly, stroked his cock a few times, and then went to his balls. Paul tightened and moaned through the kiss as fingers laced around the base of the balls, distended them, and squeezed. Panting hard, Paul writhed against the pressure and the kiss was broken.

"Oh God, oh God," he whimpered through a moan. The baron was kissing his throat.

"Please," Paul whispered.

Von Holst brought a small laugh up from his gut and moved his hand below the balls and then up to the rim of Paul's puckered opening. Paul felt the bulb of the cock at his entrance and, trembling, Paul murmured. "Oh, God, I'm not ready."

"Yes you are." the voice was hard, cruel. Paul winced and jerked as the bulb pressed inside him.

He began to pant harder, making distressed mewing sounds. But the baron held there, interminably.

"Please," Paul whined.

The baron laughed, but still he held there, with just his bulb inside Paul's throbbing entrance. Both of them felt it, the opening of the hole to the bulb, Paul's undulating passage drawing the cock an inch deeper into the channel.

"Please, now," Paul whimpered.

"Please what?" the baron asked in a low, guttural voice.

"Fuck me. Fuck me now!"

The young man jerked, shuddered, and cried out as the dick plunged up into him and immediately started fucking him in long strokes. Both of them grunted as Paul ejaculated up the baron's belly and Von Holst flooded Paul's passage deep with cum.

* * * *

The baron was sitting on a low ottoman, leaning back, his legs streaming on the floor in front, the heels of his hands pressed into the rim of the ottoman behind him. His eyes had the smug gaze of victory and almost disinterest, as if the chase, the seduction, the first penetration, and the total subjugation were the most exciting aspects of this and they now were over.

Leveraging his wild gyrations of rise and fall and revolving on the baron's cock off the balls of his feet positioned on either side of the ottoman, the palms of his hands pressed into the baron's pecs, Paul, doing all of the work, was frantically fucking himself on the cock.

"Give it to me, give it to me," he was whining. "Give me your cum."

Reveling in his complete victory over the young man, the baron leaned forward, grasped Paul's waist, and stood up from the ottoman, Paul's knees now hooked on Von Holst's hips and his torso streaming off onto the floor. Paul extended his arms out to his sides in a symbolic, totally surrendered cruciform position and clutched at the carpeting with his fists. He arched his back and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

"Yes, Yes, YES! Fuck me! Fill me!" he cried out as, in three blasts, the baron did just that. "Oh, fuck, YESSS!" Paul cried out in ecstasy.

Von Holst held the position, wanting the young man to fully realize the position he was in—what he had done to be here. What he couldn't deny he wanted.

"You are a little whore," he said through clinched teeth. "This is what you will live for now—men fucking you, filling you with their cum. You're totally undone now, naked to the truth. You crave a man's cock inside you. Tell me."

Paul was whimpering but he didn't answer.

"Say it. You are a whore."

"I am a whore," Paul whispered.

"You will open your legs whenever you can have a man's cock inside you."

"I want the cock. I want your cock again. Now."

"You are my whore."

"I am your whore."

"I can do whatever I want with you."

"Do whatever you want with me. Just put me on the cock again." The voice was exhausted, but the surrender now was genuine.

The baron pushed Paul to the floor and sat on the ottoman. "Now come here and clean it with your tongue—like I taught you last night."

With a whimper Paul knelt before his master and took the cock in his mouth.

* * * *

October, 1923, Cambridge, England

Paul Winslow lay on the bed in the cozy dormer room in the quaint inn and pub just outside Cambridge. He had almost laughed when he had been ushered in here, because it was the same room in which his tutor at Cambridge, Creighton Hollings, had first fucked him, not wanting them to be discovered doing it in the tutor's chambers.

Exhausted, Paul lay on his belly, an arm draped over the side of the bed, where it had fallen as soon as the baron had untied his wrists. His ankles, although also untied, were still held together. He hadn't the energy to separate them or to sit up on the bed. The ankles had been tied together because Josef had wanted a tight fuck. After filling Paul's ass deep, he'd bounded off him, untied the restraints, spent a few minutes in the en suite bath under the shower, and was dressing.

"We're running late," is all he said as he inserted his cuff links and twisted them into shape. No "good fuck" or "it's been too long."

Of course, from Paul's perspective it had been too long—the first time since that week in Venice in August—and it had been a good fuck—a very good fuck. Josef fucked a lot better than Creighton Hollings did.

Paul wondered what they were running late for. What other surprises did the baron have beyond conjuring himself out of a hat here in Cambridge today? That question was answered by a knock at the door. A heavy-set man entered the room. He was gray haired, with mutton chop sideburns and with a lot of meat on his bones. His face was florid, as if the extra poundage would do him in sooner than later. He had once been handsome. He still seemed to be a man in control, a possessor of power—in the same league or just a step or two below the baron.

He did a double take upon seeing Paul stretched out, naked on the bed. "My God, he's a beauty," the man exclaimed. "But are you sure he's old enough? I don't—"

"He's old enough, but newly broken. No man has touched him before but me. There is nothing you can't do with him, if you wish, though."

Then the baron turned to call over to Paul, "This is Sir Kingsley. One of my suppliers in England. I am leaving now. You will let him do what he wants with you. There will be a driver downstairs to take you back to Cambridge when Sir Kingsley is done with you."

As the door shut on the back of the baron, Kingsley was coming over to the bed. He was unbuttoning his fly as he walked over. When he got to where his cock—one of a rather nice size length and girth—was close to Paul's mouth, he gently encased Paul's head and pulled it into position. With a sigh, Paul opened his mouth to receive and suck the dick.

"Just relax, son, we will take it slowly at first and will explore where your edges are. I have broken in many a young man like you. I have much to teach you."

The joke was on the baron—at Paul's expense, though. Kingsley stayed the night, manipulating Paul's body into a variety of positions and, though starting slowly as promised, as he learned what Paul could take, he moved to pounding him mercilessly and constantly through the night. At first he took the young man missionary style, turning Paul onto his back, grabbing his ankles, and pulling him to the end of the bed, where the man spread and raised Paul's legs, moved his cock between them and then between Paul's butt cheeks, scored a bulls eye, and fucked Paul shallowly, rubbing Paul's prostate to bring him to a sighing ejaculation. Then they went through the doggy position on the floor; a more vigorous standing fuck; a very vigorous jack hammering, with Paul's weight on his shoulders and his buttocks waving in the air to received the down thrust cock; and, when both were nearly spent—well, Paul a bit beyond spent, a gentle side split; followed by mutual snoring.

Back to circle one, though. A little past dawn, Paul woke lying on his belly, an arm draped over the side of the bed, his ankles bound together, and grunting from the effort to take the weight of an old, fat man riding his ass hard and slapping his buttocks and flanks.

Other than having to find his own ride back to Cambridge—taken care of by calling the smitten Creighton Hollings, who also had to cover for Paul coming back in the morning rather than the previous evening—Paul had enjoyed the night. Even Kingsley fucked better than Hollings did, and, in the dark, if Paul wasn't taking the full weight of the man, he was being given expert cock. There was something about the experienced cock work of an older man over an effete younger one like a Cambridge don.

While he was dressing, Kingsley had asked how much a night Paul went for and whether there was a service in London through which he could be booked.

"I'm not a prostitute," Paul had answered. "I don't work for money. I'm a student at Cambridge."

Somewhat taken aback, Kingsley said, "I didn't believe Von Holst when he said you were only slightly used. If I had, I would have been less rough with you in the end. You are good enough to be a well-paid whore. You have an air of freshness and innocence about you, but you take it like a champion. If anything, you are more passionate and involved when the fuck is rough. You sure you wouldn't change your mind for twenty pounds a night?"

Paul was rich. He didn't need the money. But he realized how much twenty pounds meant to someone such as Kingsley was talking about who would sell their body. Kingsley was fat and old but not to the point of disgust. And in the dark . . . And when Paul compared the cocking, vigor, inventive positions, and ability to make his partner come again and again with the mediocre talents of a Creighton Hollings . . . Asking for one of Kingsley's cards, he wrote his telephone number down and handed it to the clearly delighted man.

"Do you do more than one man in a night?" Kingsley asked, licking his lips.

"I haven't as yet . . .often . . ." he caught himself, realizing that the baron had fucked him before Kingsley had come in the room, ". . . but if each man pays what you offer—"

"I will be in touch," Kingsley said with a broad smile, as he moved to the door.

What stuck in his mind after Kingsley had left was what the man had said about being more passionate when his partner was rough with him. Was that true? When had he given in to the baron? It occurred to him that twice, getting into the sex, the baron had subdued him by backhanding him. What had been the best sex with Kingsley? Toward the end of the night. The jack hammering position. And bound. He enjoyed the sex more when he was bound. Could it be that he wanted the man to be rough? And could it be that the pay for rough sex was higher than the tame sex he had with his tutor?

That afternoon Paul had been called down to the house master's room, opening on to the foyer of his house at Cambridge. When he walked into the room, he was surprised to see the Baron Josef Von Holst standing by a bookcase. As always, he was a commanding figure and was elegantly dressed. Paul had just the previous day received a letter from his mother from Paris saying that she had met the baron there. She made like it was a chance encounter, but there had been two other such chance encounters across Europe since their week at the Venice beach resort. Even in that week, Paul had discerned a change in his mother—not unlike the change he'd felt in himself. He had no delusions about what the baron was doing with them both.

He hadn't checked the date on his mother's letter, which was why he was taken by surprise that Von Holst was here. He was surprised anyway. He had thought that the baron might have quickly lost interest in him. He certainly hadn't shown any loss of interest during that week in Venice. Maybe the baron's real interest was in his mother.

"The baron has just come from seeing your mother in Paris," the house master has said. "He has asked if you can be spared from your studies until this evening so that he can take you for a meal and pass on your mother's news. Would you like to go with the baron?"

"Yes, of course," Paul said, demurely casting his eyes down and giving a small smile. The house master had no idea just how much Paul would like to go with the baron.

"We are going to a small inn outside Cambridge for an early dinner," the baron said, in that booming voice of his, which most certainly carried to the house master standing on the front steps of the building, as he guided Paul to the chauffeured car. But then he leaned into Paul's ear and whispered in a voice that most certainly didn't carry to the house steps, "and then I'm taking you to an already booked room above and fucking you to exhaustion."

Paul couldn't help but shudder in anticipation and pleasure, hoping that wasn't being conveyed to the house master.

But the baron hadn't been truthful. He made the driver take a tour of the countryside and fucked Paul in the backseat of the sedan before they reached the inn, laying Paul along the seat, stripping off the young man's trousers and underdrawers, raising his right leg along the seat back, unbuttoning his fly and freeing his hard cock, pushing his knee under Paul's hip, and working Paul's channel to shared ejaculations.

"I couldn't wait," he murmured. "But after a meal in the inn I'm still taking you upstairs and fucking you until you scream."

A chill of pleasure went up Paul's spine.

* * * *

December, 1923, London

Paul walked two paces behind the marquis and his lady as they exited St. Paul's Cathedral in London following a Christmas Eve performance of Handel's Messiah. On the steps, as the three of them were waiting for the marquis' carriage, Paul saw Sir Kingsley and his wife coming down the steps. Paul inclined his head and Kingsley nodded slightly in response. Paul was grateful for the recommendation. He'd be making far more than twenty pounds tonight.