Rising to The Bluff

Scott fell off to the side, and Chad took up the slack he'd left, landing on top of Lani, thrusting up inside her, still hard, leaving me to wonder if he'd taken some sort of drug to keep him hard, and Chad was fucking Lani in a missionary, as Scott lay, stretched out beside them, moaning in a low register and fighting exhaustion.

Exhaustion and sleep won. Scott dozed off while Chad and Lani were still fucking on the bed beside him and he didn't wake up until light was streaming through the windows. He was alone in the bed. Dressing and groaning at that athletic challenge the previous night had been, Scott descended the stairs to the kitchen. He'd heard the dishes rattling, so he wasn't surprised to find Shonda Spruce at the sink.

"You're a bit late, but I can fix you something," she said after wishing Scott a good morning. "The rest of them have eaten and are gone."

"Gone?" he asked.

"Yes, they've taken the sailboat out. They said to tell you there is only room for six in the boat so they didn't wake you. They should be back by noon. They might sail down as far as the mouth of the Chester River before coming back."

"So, home alone," Scott said, with a weak smile, as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Nothing unusual, I'm afraid," Shonda said.

"Oh?"

"If you're feeling like a servant around here, that's a game these young people play. Thick as thieves they are, but they like to have someone they can toy with so they can remain thick as thieves. I shouldn't say it, but I like you. You're the third one they've brought here this summer—a young man and a young woman before you—to play with. It's fine if that's what you like, but I think you should know what you're here for."

"Thanks. I did gather that," Scott said. "It's worth it, though, I guess, to get a taste of life at the top."

She laughed. "Life at the top can be as cruel as it is down where we live—people like you, I heard you say your dad is gone and you're at college on a scholarship, and like me, and like Jack out there above the garage."

"Thanks for the grounding."

"You go on out and sit at the head of that table in the dining room, and we'll pretend like you're the king of the manor while they're gone. After breakfast go around and look in all of the drawers if you like to see how the other half live."

Scott laughed and went into the dining room. When Shonda came through with a hearty breakfast to serve him, she said, "Now that I think of it, didn't I hear at dinner you tell the others you were studying art, not tennis at Delaware?"

"Yes."

"Maybe instead of nosing around in here, you might like better going out to the garage and up to Jack's apartment. He's more than he seems. He's an artist. Does right well at arts and crafts fairs around the area. Maybe you'd like to see what he has on the walls up there."

"That sounds like a good idea. Thanks for the tip. I need to gas up the Mustang, though, so maybe the first thing I'll do is go into Elkton and get that done."

"That might take most of the rest of the morning right there," she said.

"Yes, it might," Scott acknowledged, thinking that the rest of the morning away from The Bluff was something he needed at the moment. He tucked into his breakfast, trying not to feel put upon and left out, while Shonda went back to the kitchen.

* * * *

When Scott returned from getting gas in the Mustang and pulled into the parking area behind the garage, there, again, was a hunky Jack Green, his jeans dipping low on his narrow waist and hips, working on the Mercedes sedan. Jack saw Scott parking the car and sauntered over to him.

"Shonda tells me you're an artist and might like to see some of my works."

"Sure," Scott said. "Is now a good time?"

"Now is always a good time for artists to be talking art."

Green guided Scott upstairs with a hand on his shoulder that had descended to his buttocks by the time they got to the top of the stairs. Scott shuddered, wondering how much Shonda knew about what was going on in the house with the Gang of Six and how much of that she'd shared with Jack Green.

The upstairs of the garage was a revelation to Scott. Other than a bathroom and kitchen cut into the western end of the space, it was one large living, dining, sleeping area, the ceiling open to the rafters and sloping roof. The middle of the space was dominated by the effect of the sun streaming into the large dormer, with the stained-glass window. A rainbow of dancing colors painted the middle of the space and a studio couch set against the front wall on a raised wooden platform. The couch, obviously a setting for posing for photographs or paintings, was covered with a cobalt-blue velvet throw. The walls of the space, up to seven feet, where the rise of the roof started, were covered with art work, both paintings and photographs.

As Green stood in the middle of the room in all of his berry-brown god-like glory, his eyes followed Scott around the room, sharing with the young man the exploration and discovery of the artwork. Many of the paintings were landscapes, Chesapeake Bay scenes of water and sailboats, seagulls, and sunshine on small harbors. The most intriguing works, though, to Scott, and what he scrutinized more closely, were the nudes, both female and male, most posed here on the velvet-covered couch. They were both photographs and paintings, the paintings done in abstract so that you had to come close and pick out and follow edging to discern that they were of bodies, beautiful bodies. The unique aspect of the art was that they all done with the surface treatment of the rainbow of colors brought into the room and onto the figure on the couch from the stained-glass window.

Scott came close, scrutinizing a painting and the photograph next to it that obviously was taken at the same time and was a guide for the painting.

"That's Shonda," I think, he exclaimed.

"Yes, yes, it is. She models for me frequently. She has a beautiful body, don't you think? Mature. Voluptuous."

"Yes, yes, she does," Scott agreed.

"She likes you. You can fuck her too, if you like—not because I decide who she fucks and who she doesn't but because she told me she'd like to have sex with you."

Fuck her too. So, that cleared up what the relationship was between Jack and Shonda. Scott didn't have opportunity to reply to that, though, because his attention had gone to another painting and photograph pairing.

"I think I know this guy."

"His name's Ken. He was here earlier in the summer. Brought in for the young people's enjoyment, just as you have been."

That stung. That was the same thing Shonda had said to Scott at breakfast. But he had been right. That was Ken Jacobs in the painting and photograph—naked, laid out in a vulnerable pose. It looked like he'd been fucked before the photo was taken. He probably had. He was a pool boy at the Dupont Country Club this summer. Scott had assumed he was gay.

"He looks like he's—"

"Just had sex," Green finished the sentence. He gave a low laugh. "He had. I fucked him, yes. Everyone else in the weekend party was fucking him too, so I did as well. Little guy wouldn't get enough cock. He was a good painting subject. Not a bad lay, either. I am inspired by fucking my models. The young people at the house—that tight-knit group of self-possessed young flesh. They've all fucked you too, haven't they? That's what they brought you here for—to fuck and to treat as a servant—to put you in your place to exalt their status. I know you have given them whatever they wanted from you. I just hope you enjoyed it. You would enjoy it from me, I'm sure. No pretensions or games."

"Not all of them," Scott said, stung, knowing he showed it. Knowing too that Green saw it all—understood it better than Scott had. Scott was here to be the plaything of the Gang of Six, not to be one of them. This wasn't leading to a Gang of Seven.

Green came up to beside Scott and touched him on the arm. Scott shuddered. "You are a beautiful young man," Green said. "I'd like you to pose for me—let me photograph and paint you, here, under the stained-glass window. And I want to fuck you. Those people over there—they are just toying with you. I will totally possess and fuck you."

"Maybe," Scott managed to say. "I'll think about it. But . . . but I think I should go. They'll be returning and wondering where I am."

Green laughed. "I don't think they'll wonder where you are until they want a toy to play with. They are largely a self-contained group."

The pricked Scott, but he couldn't deny it was true. He turned, managed to stumble down the staircase, and crossed the road between the garage and the house, leaving the heady, earthy world of Jack Green and crossing back over into the world of wealth and games—the world that Scott increasingly was feeling ashamed that he had aspired to.

* * * *

The Gang of Six had returned from their sailing trip in a jovial mood. They hailed Scott as he approached a long picnic table set on top of the bluff above the Chesapeake as seen through the sail of the boat they'd just taken out. The table had been laid out with food. They ate around the V of lawn hovering over the water, pairing off naturally and lounging on Adirondack chairs. Scott, odd man out again, sat on the grass, propped up against the truck of a tree beside where Rick Oliver slouched in a chair and his inseparable girlfriend, Gretchen, perched on the chair's broad arm.

They didn't ignore Scott if only because he was right there, in their faces. The three talked of tennis, which had been declared to be their afternoon activity, and Rick, at least, seemed to be genuinely interested in talking technique with Scott, the most proficient of all the aspiring tennis aces. This couple were the most nonthreatening to Scott now. As he listened to the others, he easily discerned the selfishness, the falsity, and the grasping of these people who had lured him to the river with a promise, so he had naïvely believed, of providing him a step up in social class. It was dawning on Scott that class wasn't just wealth and position. As far as he could see Jack Green and Shonda Spruce were more genuine than any of the Gang of Six—and had more class. Of the six, though, Rick and Gretchen seemed the most down to earth and least snobbish and snotty.

They also were the only ones who hadn't been involved in sex with Scott—hadn't just treated him as a convenient dick and hole.

The tennis that afternoon was OK. All of them were serious about tennis, and, on the court, Scott was now in his element and had no reason to feel inferior or unrespected by any of the others. Rick, in particular, stayed close to Scott, hanging on every bit of advice Scott gave.

It was after tennis that Scott learned that it wasn't just tennis that was drawing Rick to him.

After tennis someone within the realm of the Gang of Six decided that they all needed to cool off by taking a swim in the river off the pier at the base of the wooden staircase descending the bluff to the river. So, that's what they did. While they were swimming and cavorting around, someone within the realm of the Gang of Six decided they'd swim without suits and they all took a pass at the pier to flip their Speedos and bikinis up onto the wooden walkway. Then a few got heated up and decided to go up to the house to "take a nap."

By some happenstance, only Scott and Rick Oliver remained in the water, swimming close to each other, Rick talking to Scott about gym workouts and what exercises to do to enhance the definition of what. When they were alone, Rick, who was bigger and stronger than Scott, pulled Scott under the pier, embraced him, holding him tight, pressing an erection into Scott's belly, and ignoring Scott's surprise and weak objections and semblance of a struggle until Scott went limp and let Rick pull his buttocks up onto Rick's crouching thighs in the chest-high water under the pier. Rick was a hunk and a half. Scott couldn't say he hadn't thought about going with him—but there always had been Gretchen hanging onto Rick, the two inseparable.

Gretchen wasn't there now.

Rick put his cockhead in position, reached down and grasped and spread Scott's butt cheeks, and, as Scott surrendered, sighing and putting his arms around Rick's torso and his legs around Rick's waist, Gretchen's boyfriend thrust up, pulling a little cry out of Scott, as he penetrated and started moving up into Scott's channel.

Scott went with the fuck, rocking on the cock in the slow-swirling water under the pier—getting fucked. Rick was strong and virile. He took them to the edge, backed off, and took them to the edge again. Scott didn't struggle against him. He let Rick have what he wanted—what they all wanted from Scott. They just wanted to use him and put him in his place. When Rick let himself release at last, he simply loosened his grip on Scott, let the other young man slip down into the water, pulled himself up onto the pier, and left. He'd gotten what he wanted.

Scott didn't appear for supper in the dining room. Beyond being a bit surprised at asking for him to fetch something and having to get it himself, none of the Gang of Six remarked on his absence. Rick was sitting there with an expression of the cat who had won the canary. Gretchen, who had been fucked in the room, where Rick appeared while she was napping and after he'd had a swim, assumed the look of satisfaction was for her. It wasn't. It was all for Rick himself. That's what motivated each of the Gang of Six. If it gave pleasure, do it, and take it all for yourself.

Having had the last redeeming thought of any of the Gang of Six—and of himself—torn out of him by the fuck under the pier, Scott had packed his bag and taken the walk across the road that separated the classes, to the parking area behind the garage.

* * * *

Working his way out from underneath Jack Green on the blue-velvet-covered couch on the second floor of the garage, Scott padded, naked, over to the standing easel, where the artist had begun the rainbow-covered body painting of Scott. It was long after dinner and the stained-glass window wasn't providing swaths of color to cover the center of the room anymore. Jack had fucked Scott on the couch before photographing him in a postcoital pose and then starting the painting. When the light had faded, washing out the colors and Jack's immediate inspiration with it, he suspended the painting, came back to the couch, and fucked Scott again.

He was strong and big cocked and manipulated Scott into whatever position he wanted to try at the time. Scott gave him no resistance. At the same time, the artist was gentle, attentive, and sensitive to what was giving Scott as much pleasure in the fuck as it gave him—and this had been the most pleasurable fuck Scott had had at The Bluff.

Before Scott left the couch, Jack had asked, nearly the first time either of them had said anything at all, "I saw you putting your bag into your car. It's only Saturday night. Are you leaving us so soon?"

"Yes," Scott answered. "I think I've been a fool."

"Not as much as if you'd stayed. Ken didn't leave until Sunday night. The young woman they brought hung on to the end and begged them to take them into their group. It was sort of pathetic. They opening laughed at her."

That would have been Sandy Gleason, Scott thought. She had been a hostess in the Dupont Country Club's restaurant. A beautiful girl. Not much upstairs, above her very impressive rack. She was going to community college in the fall. Not on the level of the Gang of Six at all. Scott felt sorry for her.

"She was a good lay," Jack said. "I think the painting of her is over there somewhere. But you. We're talking about you. I hope you won't avoid The Bluff completely now. I hope it hasn't totally turned you off."

"No, not totally. I saw—and experienced—some interest art shit."

Green laughed. "Seriously, though, why don't you come back some weekend in the fall and hang out with just Shonda and me. The others will all be back north in college. Your college isn't far from here, just a short drive. We'd have the place all to ourselves."

"Yes, maybe I will," Scott said. To himself, though, he definitely knew he would.

At the easel, Jack gave him a sendoff Scott would never forget. Strong and tall, Jack gathered Scott up in front of him, in a bully fuck position, putting Scott on the cock, standing and crouching a bit, while Scott threw his arms up and around the bigger man's neck and wrapped his legs around Green's waist—and fucked himself on a big, black cock.

Oh, yes, Scott would come back for visits in the fall.