Revenge for Christmas

I wasn't getting to sleep, so I quietly rolled out of bed, took a piss in the bathroom, and then left the bedroom and padded down the hall toward the bar room. Arriving there, I saw that the Christmas tree was still lit in the lounge and there was a fire in the fireplace. Beyond all of the glass encasing the room on three sides I could see the blue of the night. It was lightly snowing, and that lights were still on down the mountain in Steamboat Springs.

I started into the room, drawn by the hint of music, the fire, and the tree, suddenly becoming aware that it was Christmas Eve, but I caught movement in the sofa in front of the fire, which had its back toward the hallway where I was standing. From the back, I decided that Lester Hodges was still up and was drinking by himself in front of the fire. Hodges was the last person I wanted to see at that point, so I turned and moved, as quietly as I could, back down the hall.

I didn't want to go back into the bedroom to listen to Art snoring, so I continued on to the end of the hallway and walked out onto the balcony of the indoor swimming pool enclosure. Like the lounge, this area was all glass on three sides, looking out toward the garages and the heliport, with the rising slope of Mount Werner on the right. Lights were on at the corners of the garage building roof, the heliport pad was dotted with glowing lights at ground level, and some of the windows in the servants' quarters above the garage were still lit.

I wondered if one of them was Jim, the masseur's, window. I had an urge to go find out, but I was only wearing sleeping shorts and it was snowing outside. I had gotten a massage from Jim earlier in the day. He was a hunk and a half, albeit at least in his forties. I had learned, through my escort service, though, that older men were more experienced in sex, and, thus, more attentive and satisfying than many of those in their twenties, and, if they'd held their looks and musculature, as Jim had, they were much the best bet in bed. The massage had included a hand job. I would have been happy if it had included more, and he'd said he didn't have time then but maybe later. I was keyed up and this was later, but there was all of that drifting snow between here and there.

The underwater lights were on in the pool, and the water in the pool was reflecting off the windows in gentle waves. I felt stiff from the skiing that afternoon that had resulted in a fall, so I decided to swim laps and get the kinks out. I descended the stairs to the pool, dove into the pool without removing my sleeping shorts, and swam laps the length of the pool without bothering to count them. I wanted to exhaust myself so that I could sleep and decided that I could just stretch out on one of the lounge beds by the pool and knock off for a couple of hours before trying to go back to the bedroom again.

My eyes were clouded with the chlorine in the water when I was climbing the ladder from the pool. Thus, I was taken completely by surprise when a fist connected with my solar plexus. I doubled over and took an uppercut to the cheek. Neither of the blows had a lot of force behind them, but I was winded and groaning and completely defenseless, primarily from the surprise of it. Before I could organize a defense, thumbs were pressing up under my jaw and I was seeing stars.

I didn't black out entirely, but I was lost in a confused haze until I could gather my thoughts enough to know that I was slung, my sleeping shorts dripping with pool water, over Lester Hodges's shoulder, and he was mounting the stairs from the pool, moving down the hall and into the lounge, and lowering me onto my back on the bear rug in front of the fireplace. How cliché, I managed to think, somewhat giddily. He's going to fuck me on a bear rug in front of a roaring fire. That was confirmed when I felt him slipping the wet sleeping shorts off my legs, revealing that I was half hard—that his assault was arousing to me—and was moving his hands over my body, contributing to me hardening up even more. I started to struggle to sit up, but he backhanded me across the face twice and I sank back onto the rug. He could have had me anyway, I'm sure we both knew, but he obviously was aroused by taking at roughly and by force.

All right, anyway you want it, I thought, you're the boss. I lay back docilely and spread my legs as he moved between them. His thumbs pressed up under my jaw again, and this time I went into a deeper sleep.

When I came out of that, I was disoriented and reverted to struggling against the assault. I felt like I was being crushed and that I had a baseball bat up my ass. It was Lester Hodges, on top of me and inside me. The man had to weigh over 300 pounds and have a beer can "too many" incher. He had been on top of me long enough to penetrate deep and set up the rhythm of the fuck. My first instinct when I was aware enough to have instincts was to get out from underneath him, but when I tried to roll out from underneath him, he slapped me across the face again, hard, first one way and the other, and growled. "Lay there. Take it, bitch. It's nothing like I'll do when I win your ass and I make my fucking lawyer watch."

He gripped my throat with one hand, holding my head pressed into the nap of the rug and continued with the rhythm of the deep fuck with his monster cock. I was on my back, with a sofa pillow under my lower back, lifting my pelvis. Relax, open; relax, open instinctively beat in my brain. That's likely what saved me from the hospital. My legs were spread and bent, my feet dug into the nap of the bear rug. His hand on my throat was closing on my wind pipe and, when it seemed it never would, opening enough for me to have a few breaths. By this means he was completely controlling me. I gave him no fight. Although it didn't seem possible it could, his shaft thickened inside me as he pumped, and I opened my stance even more to him. I'd never had it this big.

If I had not been relaxed in semiconsciousness and a male whore with passage muscles trained to expand wide to take an extra-thick cock, he would be shredding my passage now. I assume that's what he did with young men not trained well enough to take him—that that's what he'd done with Jan Wyener in Kampala and Hugh Devon here earlier in the day. Jan wasn't trained well enough yet and Hugh had just been too small for him—or just right, I suppose, if Hodges's goal was to ruin him.

And something inside me told me that ruining the young men Hodges's associates had coaxed to this isolated mountain mansion for Christmas was exactly what he had in mind. It surely was what he had in mind for me too, but I'd just now gleaned something about him holding back until he'd won me and Art would be forced to watch. What was happening now, as testing as it was, was being done with constraints. He hadn't struck me at the pool as hard as he probably normally would do when he was in high heat as he was after the blood fight in Kampala—as he probably was expecting to do with me before I made it away from here.

This was brutal, though. If I hadn't been relaxed when he'd penetrated me and I wasn't trained to open up to the big brutes, I'd be split now and he'd still be fucking me. And he was fucking me—hard, fast, deep, vigorously. The man had stamina to go with his extraordinary thickness and length. I didn't fight it or tighten up. I relaxed and opened fully to him, managing him.

I'd had brutal clients before. I was a male whore. He didn't know that. I was trained to minimize the damage from this. Make their pleasure overcome their blood lust. That was the counter. Make them think you enjoyed a certain level of cruelty—and I did—but gain control. Give them a fuck like they'd never had before. Tame them. Whores know how to use their bodies, their channels, to provide maximum pleasure to the john. Concentrate. Open to him. Do it. Do him rather than just lying there, sobbing and being torn apart. Tell him you love it. That will actually serve to calm him down, to consider achieving mutual pleasure from it.

I opened my legs wider to him and cried out, "Yes! Fucking yes! Pound me! You're fucking killing me! Give it to me, Daddy!" I dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades and then slowly moved my hands down his back to clutch his buttocks and hold him close to me. "Fuck me deep. Yes, like that! Oh, Daddy, pound me!"

I arched my back, moaned and groaned for him, and set the muscles of my passage walls to gripping at the thick cock as it slid in and out, my muscles rippling over his thrusting cock, my passage opening more for him, allowing him to go deeper. He moaned then too. I'm sure he'd never been accepted like this before and had his cock caressed in the passage.

"God you're big. A monster! Fuck me hard!" I cried out and started to move my pelvis, melding with the rhythm of his trusts. As I hoped, that didn't make him go wilder, more punishing. It prompted him to settle down into a steady rhythm of thrusting. He was monster big, yes, but I could take him; I was taking him. I fought to relax more and stay open to him. But he was just so heavy. I was having trouble breathing, even though he'd taken his hand away from my throat, wanting to hear me tell him how good he was being to me.

"You're crushing me," I whimpered. "You're too heavy for me. I can't breathe." It clearly was the wrong thing to say, but, miraculously, it had a desired effect.

"Tough, bitch. Take it!" he growled, but he supported more of his weight on his elbows—unconscious that he was doing so. All of his concentration was on what my passage walls were doing to his thrusting cock. He was in a whole new world. I doubt he'd ever been with a trained high-priced whore before.

"Let me ride you," I managed to get out between gasps. "I can take you deeper that way. I want it, but I want it all. Let's go for a ride."

He lifted his weight off me then, and I helped turn him onto his back on the bear rug. I saddled myself on his pelvis, lowering onto his cock, as he groaned and grasped my waist with his hands. I rode him, first facing him, arching my back and grasping his knees with my hands and then facing his feet and revolving my ass on his cock and rocking on it until, tensing, jerking, spouting, tensing, jerking, spouting, I pulled the cum out of him. He had announced, "I'm going to come," when he was ready to jack and had moved to pull me off the cock so he could come on my back. But in the ultimate move to tame him, I cried out, "No, inside me. I want your hot cum," and, with a deep groan, he gave it to me. He rose up behind me then, wrapped his arms around me, and gave me a kiss on the back of my neck.

If that hadn't tamed him and turned him from whatever brutal plan he'd had for me later, nothing would.

I rolled off him, got to my feet, and walked, not too fast, not to slow, to the hallway and back toward the bedroom I shared with Art. This was the most dangerous moment of the encounter. If he remembered that he intended to rough me up or beat me to a pulp and ruin me for other men, he'd jump up from the bear rug and come after me.

I made it as far as the opening into the bedroom hallway before I felt his arms go around my waist and he bore me down to the carpet on my hands and knees. He folded himself over me, but he didn't beat me or crush me under his weight. He just wanted to fuck me again. He held me there, underneath him, crouching over me, bearing most of his weight on his feet, with his arms around my belly, one of his hands stroking my cock. He mounted my ass, riding my tail high, like a horse jockey; worked his thick, hard cock inside me again; and started to stroke. Reamed to his specifications earlier, I took him more easily this time.

"Oh, shit. Oh, Fuck! Yes, Daddy! Be good to me."

"Do that thing you do with your channel muscles again," he whispered in my ear, and as I set my passage muscles rippling over his slow-thrusting, all-consuming cock, he sighed and pressed his lips into the side of my throat. Now we were fucking, both of us working together for satisfaction, the two up us working together to climb the ladder into heaven—together. He sank deeper inside me, deeper than he'd done on the bear-skin rug, deeper than I'd ever taken a man before. One of his hands went to cupping my chin. His thumb invaded my lips, and I sucked on it while he fucked me.

He hadn't made me suck him off yet. That surprised me. They almost always wanted to be sucked to an erection before fucking me. He'd been in erection when he carried me from the pool, though. Did he think I couldn't get it in my mouth? Could he not wait to get it in my ass? I sucked on his thumb like it was his shaft. I'd suck his cock if that's what he wanted. But we weren't in position for that; he was holding me too firmly in a doggie fuck position. So, I sucked on his thumb like it was his cock as he fucked me in the ass. He pulled the thumb out and slipped three of his fingers inside my mouth. I sucked those too. I'd had men put three fingers up my ass before—a few of them did that to signal they were going to fist me. Was Hodges going to fist me? I wouldn't think about that. I sucked his fingers and he stroked his cock in my ass. This wasn't like the fuck on the bearskin rug. There was meaning in this fuck. This was serious. He wanted me bad. I was being delirious, wild thoughts going through my brain while he worked me. He was fucking me and fucking me. Did I want him too?

I put my hips into countermotion with his slow thrusts and we fucked and fucked and fucked. I was fully open to him this time, and he slid, tight but smoothly, in and out, in and out, through the lubricant of his previous ejaculation. Deeper and then deeper yet.

I involuntarily, unthinkingly cried out a "Yes, oh, yes!" when his flow started deep inside me, where he was breeding me. I held there, rigid and steady in his embrace, on my hands and knees, panting, gasping, and moaning, with my tongue hanging out, as he pumped me full of his cum again. Even though it was his second time, he was full of cum, pumping, pumping it out into my core. He slipped his thumb inside my mouth again and I sucked hard on it. His cock was deep up inside me, in the soft core of me, where I'd permitted no man to touch me before, and he ejaculated there again and again, breeding me at the core. God, the man could produce it.

Lester was moaning too, just as I was at that point, when we were fused as one, him clutching me tight, deep inside me, releasing string after string of his thick, hot cum, a spiritual, high-heaven fully fused moment for both of us, I knew.

When we'd both come that time, both totally spent of cum, the moment snapped. He kissed me on the neck, rose off me, slapped me hard on the rump, and said, "It won't go like that when I've won you. Got to have my pound of flesh. Got to have my Christmas presents. But, god, you're a honey." And then he was gone. I remained there for several minutes, on all fours, shuddering and moaning.

He had come after me again as I was afraid he would, but he didn't ruin me—at least not now at 4:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve morning. I think he'd picked me off at the pool at around 2:30 in the morning. He'd fucked me for about an hour and a half. We'd made love that last time. We were good together when he was fucking and not fighting. That didn't mean he wouldn't ruin me later when his original plan for me went into effect—whatever his original plan was. But I was beginning to get an inkling of what that was.

He was dangerous, a real threat to my health and survival. But, after that couple of minutes he was covering me in the dark hallway; me holding rigid under his heavy possessing body, like I was a needy bitch dog; with him penetrating me to the quick and releasing his seed again and again and again for what seemed like hours, if he had wanted to take me to his bed that night and punish and fuck me forever, I would have gone with him willingly.

Exhausted, I rolled back onto the bed beside Art. He had stopped snoring. The exercise, the late hour, and the new-found silence should have served to lull me to sleep. But it still took me an hour to give it up and zonk off. Having gone only this far and not deeper into the danger, Hodges covering me on the bear rug in front of the fire, clichéd or not, had been one hell of a great fuck. The doggie fuck in the hall had been even better. I'd never had it better, never been that open or fucked that deep. It was a relief to know that, given preparation, I could sheath the bull's cock and that, when he was channeled into the proper attitude, I could tame his violent impulses. The question was whether I would get the preparation next time—or if I'd get more of the fist. Too much of the fist. It was like dancing on the rim of an active volcano crater.

* * * *

Breakfast on Christmas Eve was a quiet, morose affair. The lunch the day before had also been tense and awkward, but not like this. There had been eight at the table then, including Claude. This morning there were only five. Claude wasn't there. I was barely there myself, not having had much sleep the night before. And, of course, Cal Tyler and Hugh Devon were now dramatically absent.

I was immediately on the defensive. As I had passed through the lounge on the way to the dining area, walking gingerly as I'd assumed everyone would notice, I'd seen my sleeping shorts on the floor by the bear rug. They still were damp from the pool. Surely all of the others had seen them too on the way to the dining table, yet no one mentioned the evidence that I had been fucked there the previous night.

Only Lester Hodges and Aaron Cohen were animated at the table, Hodges because he'd gotten his rocks off nicely, twice, the night before and because everything at this somewhat odd Christmas party was going his way. Of course, the only looks Hodges sent my way were ones of challenge—daring me to say anything about the night before—with a touch of self-satisfaction and possessiveness. The looks, under the circumstances of Hodges's obvious control of the situation and of his primary guests, would have cowed me into silence even if I wasn't hardened enough to rough sex and controlling men not to be intimidated.

Aaron was bouncy because he evidently didn't know what was transpiring and how it could affect him. His father, Jason, and my "date," Art Brandeis, were withdrawn into themselves. They weren't in the Christmas mood. Their mood seemed to please Hodges, though, and he looked upon them with pleasure, while he bandied with Aaron and occasionally slipped in a double-edged remark to me. He was goading me, for some reason trying to make me resentful and angry. Or was he trying to convince himself that he could be angry with me? Was he struggling now with the plans he'd had for me? Wasn't I trembling enough under his gaze and control for him?

As we were finishing up, Hodges started talking about the rolling poker game. He expected Jason and Art to show up in the games room for another round of that. Both spoke of other activities but not convincingly so, because, unless they were willing to get out on the ski slopes, there were no other real activities requiring their presence on this isolated mountain slope. It also was clear that they were cowed by Hodges, that he was the boss.

He had certainly been the boss with me the previous night. Or had he? Hadn't I tamed him? And was that why he was goading me today—because he now realized he hadn't been in complete command? But, no, that didn't ring completely true either. He'd stated that he was controlling himself last night, that he was giving me only a taste of what he intended to do. And, upon reflection, I could see that he had been holding back, from the moment he doubled me up with a punch to the belly—right up to the point that we became lovers. The fist work hadn't had the force behind it that I knew he would be capable of. But what was he holding back for? What was to come?