Separate Tables

I stood behind the boot of the Bentley in the front auto court of the Rivenhall country inn, perched high on the cliff over a horseshoe cove on the sea north of Scarborough, while Felix, the chauffeur, helped Forest DeWitt into the lobby of the inn. When Felix came back, he opened the boot of the car and started handing out the luggage. A valet was there to carry, but there was enough to overflow the hand cart so that I had to take a suitcase and my laptop case from Felix, as well. Felix, a muscular stud, was more than capable of carrying the suitcases into the inn, but he would not have been able to carry them up to DeWitt's suite—he wouldn't have been permitted in the front lobby of the hotel, not to mention up to the principal guests' floor. That wasn't just because Felix was black; he was a chauffeur—outdoor staff. We were clearly in traditional empire England at Rivenhall Inn.

When Felix handed me the second bag, his hand held mine for half a beat longer than necessary, he gave me "that look," and a charge of electricity went up my spine. His look revealed that he still was having trouble processing the liberty I had allowed him to take. He understood upper-class English protocol even if I, an American, didn't.

The big-cocked Nigerian had fucked me for the first time the previous night in the small hotel in Great Yarmouth, after six nights on the road out of London in this meandering trip to the west and then to the east and the north—and he'd done me well. Once he'd known there would be no repercussions from sinking his thick cock inside me and that I was his for whatever he wanted, he'd taken over and fucked me totally. I had wanted him inside me from the first moment I'd seen him when he was driving us back to DeWitt's London townhouse from the club in Soho.

Felix had shown surprise that I had willingly lain under him. I'd had to lay broad hints and practically pull him on top of me and inside me for him to realize I'd let him fuck me. Once he'd gotten over that, though, he showed me who was master and who was slave. I didn't mind being the slave—even to DeWitt—although I had different reasons for laying down for a man depending on what the man had to offer. DeWitt had money and position and exuded breeding and education and interesting friends. Felix was a virile, muscular black bull who smelled of musk and fucked in primeval lust.

Most rent-boys, I'm sure, took the minimum amount of fucking they had to to survive. I was a part time rent-boy because I liked spreading my legs and being fucked—being submissive to a dominant man, either by position or physical attributes. My family was wealthy enough. They paid me good money to do my cruising an ocean away from Boston. I could exist on what they sent me—just not to the level of comfort and adventure I wanted to be accustomed to.

I'd come to the hotel garage after dinner in Great Yarmouth, where Felix, shirtless and all glistening ebony skin and bulging muscle, was polishing up the Bentley for the next day's drive. When he had realized that he could, he fucked me on the backseat of the salon car. There was plenty of room back there for me to lay under him and grip his bulbous buttocks in my hands and squeeze them to the rhythm of the rise and fall of his pelvis as he pumped me deep and hard.

I'm sure that DeWitt, quite evidently rank conscious, had indoctrinated Felix in the power of the pecking order. Although Felix fully understood, I'm sure, that I was DeWitt's boy toy for this trip—the old man had diddled me in the backseat of the Bentley and I had knelt and sucked him off on the road at various times during the trip and Felix couldn't have missed that from the driver's seat—he knew I was the old man's secretary too, and educated—and American. So, I'm sure he understood that I was enough above him not to let him dominate fuck me. But I was on this trip—indeed, had come to England—for the sexual adventure. And a strapping black bull Nigerian was adventure.

"I don't know where we can go," he'd said when we'd come out of a kiss and I had my hand stuffed down the front of his trousers, feeling him engorge in the grasp of my hand.

"In the back seat of the Bentley," I'd said breathlessly. "Here. Now. You've seen DeWitt and me in the backseat. Take me back there and show me how you'd do it better."

DeWitt was thick, but he was old and fat and of limited stamina. Getting him hard and maintaining the hard was a chore. He was one and done—on a night when he could manage the one. Often he was satisfied with a blow job. He didn't really care if I needed more. It wasn't my place to need more than he wanted from me. Still, he hadn't shown signs of possessiveness yet. I didn't get the impression that he begrudged me getting it from someone else too—as long as it didn't inconvenience him.

The Nigerian was thicker and longer, was meltingly rough, and was a muscular bull who, after putting me under him in the backseat of the Bentley, putting it in me, and giving me all of it, was almost immediately ready to go again. I'd asked him not to be so rough and he banged my head against the seat rest, called me a "cock tease" and a "fuckin' whore," and commanded me to open my legs wider for him; I begged him to go slower and he picked up speed; I begged him not to fuck me so deep and he sank his cock in me; I begged him to give me his load inside me, and that he complied with. Felix didn't just fuck me; he tore his pleasure out of me. I loved it all, my mind going back to before I was signed up with the high-class escort agency, when I was being run by a cruel pimp and the pimp counteracted the dulling of arousal by frequent tricks by tearing his pleasure out of me and leaving me totally fucked. Felix knew I was loving having a real man fucking me. He left me totally fucked.

We'd been traveling for a week from London, meandering, first, to the northwest—to Reading and Oxford—and then back to the east coast of Britain, supposedly leisurely working our way toward Edinburgh, and the first time I'd been taken to the edge sexually was the previous night under Felix. Maybe his barebacking me had been part of the primeval thrill of it, but it also was because he was young and virile and took no prisoners. Yes, I'd managed to lay under other men early in the trip, but none were the raw lover that Felix was.

I was still walking bowlegged from the previous night. DeWitt didn't seem to notice, but Felix certainly did. He had been acting as one with a proprietary interest in me during the drive today, and I'd been dutifully subservient to him—in whatever ways I could without DeWitt catching on. DeWitt was some sort of royal, I gathered—certainly well connected in the intellectual circles of Great Britain. He also was very conscious of rank, putting me, traveling as his secretary, below him, and leaving the black chauffeur barely acknowledged at all.

Felix and I parted ways in the auto court at the hotel entrance. DeWitt would have a suite of rooms on the second floor—the first floor, to the Brits—overlooking the sea. I would be in an attic room, with a small bath, if I was lucky. It didn't matter much, as I'd be spending much of my time in DeWitt's suite and in his bed. Felix would be in a bare-furnished, small room, with a bath down the corridor, above the garages. They would have a covered garage for the Bentley, of course, and the garage would be cleaner and better appointed than the servants' rooms above were.

We had arrived close to the dinner hour, and this separation of the classes would be evident there, as well. It was not in season, so the guest load was sparse. Still, it would generally be a surprise to find that all of the guests—and all of the front-of-the-house staff—were male. I wasn't surprised, though. That had been the norm thus far in the travels. DeWitt was welcomed in a succession of all-male clubs and accommodations. None of them registered surprise when they came in in the morning to pull the drapes and take breakfast orders to find me in bed with DeWitt.

We had met in such a place—in a gay club in London's Soho district, the currently trendy Circa Club on Frith Street. That's where we had hooked up. We'd been sitting at separate tables, viewing a sex performance on a small stage, where a monstrously large and hung man fucked a near-dwarf into semiconsciousness. I had caught DeWitt's attention—that's what I had been there for, to catch the attention of someone who could afford me—and an attendant had conveyed DeWitt's invitation to join him at his table. Having already assessed the men of possible interest in the room—on the basis of my two separate criteria, either wealthy or hunks, preferably both—I had concluded that DeWitt was the most eligible hookup for the night. He was a whale of a man, but he also was strikingly handsome and intelligent looking—and he was dressed expensively and was being shown great deference by the club staff.

He had been refreshingly straightforward on what he wanted and was willing to pay as we watched the near-dwarf get scraped off the chaise lounge that had been set in the center of the small stage and then the dancing interlude began. He didn't want to dance. He wanted sexual release. I offered to go on my knees right there, under the table, and blow him. He laughed, but said he had a better idea. I went back to his townhouse with him, Felix driving us in the Bentley, and I gave him a blow job and rode his cock in a cowboy—not too energetically, as he obviously had his physical limits. He still could ejaculate, though, and still wanted to. And he wanted a young man to coax it out of him.

Rather than throwing me out after I had given him sexual release—all of his expressed wants had been short term—and he was intrigued to discover that I was an American, had graduated from Yale, and could hold down my end of a literary discussion, even though it was in American English and not the Queen's English, he invited me to stay afterward for a drink and conversation. He was in a cobalt-blue silk robe. I, at his request, was in the altogether, and I'm fairly sure that watching me move about the room naked was part of the thrill of him inviting me to stay.

He fucked me for a second time that night on the sofa in his lounge, obviously pleased and exuberant that he'd managed two ejaculations with a young man in an evening. I worked hard to coax that second coming out of him.

Afterward, he wanted to talk and drink some more. The conversation was good; the scotch was better. He discovered that I was writing a "coming alive" novel from my rather loose travel itinerary while I was "experiencing" Great Britain and that I'd taken on jobs as a gentleman's secretary. As I stood in front of him, and he lifted his scotch glass with one hand and fondled my half-erect cock and balls with the other, he said he was in need of a gentleman's secretary. He shared that he was about to start off on a leisurely road trip up to Edinburgh, stopping here and there to check on various businesses and organizations he had a hand in as a member of boards. There would be considerable report and corresponding writing to be done, and there would be time free for a young man, like me, who was writing a novel, as I was, to write—as long as I wasn't writing about him.

"Might you be interested in a bit of traveling and providing of secretarial support?" he asked. He named a generous fee.

"That's all I would be expected to do?" I asked. "That's quite a bit of money for just that."

"And bed warming, of course," he said.

"And this, as well?" I asked. He was seriously stroking my cock now, leaning his face into it.

"And this as well," he said.

I allowed myself to go full hard for him, to build up the essence he was working to coax from me, and to feel his warm lips close over my shaft and take my cum in his throat. He pulled his face away and wiped his mouth with a napkin, but he continued holding my cock in his hand.

"Of course, I understand," I said, breaking what had been moments of silence spiced with heavy breathing from us both. And I did understand. "When might this start?"

"Tomorrow," he answered. "Would that be a problem putting your affairs in London in order and arranging your possessions?"

"I just have a couple of suitcases of clothes and my laptop," I answered. "I'm staying at the Rosewood London on High Holborn. I could be picked up there in the morning, or later, if you were leaving later."

He raised his eyebrows. The Rosewood London was a premier London hotel, where even the midstream hotels cost an arm and a testicle. We both knew it was. What he didn't need to know, though, was that my room had been paid through the night after this by the aging movie star I'd been with for the previous month. He had left for a production location in Italy and had not opted to take me with him. I had been in somewhat of a "what's next?" panic when I'd gone to Circa that night.

"We can swing by there in the morning to pick your suitcases up," DeWitt said.

"So, you want me to—?"

I didn't need to pursue that question further, as he brushed his robe open to reveal he was in erection again. I gathered that he was as surprised as he was pleased—that this was a rare occurrence for him—that my moving about his library in the nude while we had conversed had affected him favorably.

I'm sure that night was the first one in years that he'd come three times, albeit over a space of several hours.

He fucked me on his bed in a missionary initially, he on top, huffing and puffing as he struggled to pump me with his cock, racing to take advantage of his uncertain erection, adequate in size, but just barely. I clutched his buttocks and hooked my ankles on his shoulders, trying to help him get it all in despite the impediment of his big belly, while giving him appropriate praise and encouragement. At least he was thick enough for me to feel him. And I was groaning and breathing heavily—more from the weight of him—he was a big-stomached man—than for arousing effect. At my suggestion, he turned me, penetrating me from behind. I was able to arch my back to give his belly a trough to fit in, and he was able to achieve greater depth. It was over within ten minutes.

In the morning, I tried to ride him, with him lying on his back, but he couldn't get it up well enough to penetrate me properly. So, I sucked him off, pulling a weak, but well-appreciated, ejaculation out of him. He spoke in awe that I had drained him five times since we'd met less than twenty-four hours previously, although neither of us mentioned how little actual cum he'd produced.

My position was secure for the near term, and we were off in the Bentley the next morning, with a very impressive-looking Nigerian at the wheel. The trip had been as advertised. I transcribed notes and prepared letters in the morning after breakfast in whatever hotel or club we were in, DeWitt went off with Felix at the wheel in the afternoons for meetings that produced the next morning's correspondence, we had dinner—invariably at separate tables and often even separate dining rooms—and DeWitt let me linger in the background as he met with friends in the evening over drinks and cigars.

He never again managed three ejaculations with me in one night, but I already had him hooked—or so I thought.

His meeting and drinking and talking with friends became my favorite time of the evening. The time in bed was a bit of a chore for me. DeWitt had a wide and interesting set of friends. Some even showed interest in me and gave me their cards, inviting me to contact them when and if I became free. My function there appeared to be fully understood—and accepted—by all. Heterosexual men in his class were granted their mistresses. In his circle of friends, he was granted a young rent-boy.

This open propositioning from his like-lifestyle friends didn't seem to disturb DeWitt, although there also seemed to be an obvious understanding that DeWitt had priority on me. All, though, seemed to recognize and respect DeWitt's proprietary interest in me—at least for that moment. All of DeWitt's interesting friends were male. All of them of the evident gay persuasion seemed to take it for granted that I was there to please DeWitt sexually. Some of them maneuvered me into a position to please them as well.

When DeWitt wanted to retire, I became valet, as well. I helped him undress and sponged him off in the tub, fondling him in the tub to determine what it would be that night—what he could manage and desired—a missionary, a doggie, a cowboy, just a blow job, only a hand job—or, on one or two nights, only a cuddle and fondle in the bed until he went to sleep. Regardless, when he'd dozed off, that was my signal to return to my own room.

If it had been just that, I would have been wracked with nervous energy. I was highly sexed. I needed it regularly, and I needed satisfaction from it. Luckily, help was available—usually in the form of DeWitt's friends of the evening. In Reading, the first night on the road, where DeWitt was visited by a BBC commentator friend along with several men in BBC production, the commentator broke away from the conversation when DeWitt was involved in a deep political argument, lifted a questioning eyebrow to DeWitt. and received a permissive nod. The commentator then signaled to me, using the recognizable code of sheathing his middle finger in his cupped other hand and stroking it in and out. He wanted to fuck me.

When I followed him out of the room, I got standing doggie fucked in a quickie in the bushes below the hotel terrace, by an erection that was longer, thicker, and more vigorously applied than DeWitt could manage.

And in Oxford, it was a novelist, who spent as much time talking with me as with DeWitt and who conveyed he would be waiting for me in the hotel bar after I'd put DeWitt to sleep, who had a room of his own in the hotel, and who tied me up and nasty fucked me for two hours before releasing me. This obviously had been at DeWitt's acquiescence, as he asked me the next morning if I enjoyed a bit of bondage—and that night he tied my wrists to the headboard posts of a country inn bed in Cambridge, saddled up behind me, and did his rendition of a dribbling ravishment. I entertained him as a raped captive, and he managed an erection for longer than usual. He didn't move me to high arousal like the novelist had, though. The novelist had length, girth, vigor, inventiveness, and staying power that DeWitt couldn't hope to manage. I remained satiated for days after that adventure. The novelist offered to take me to the South Seas with him for what he called research, but I regretfully declined. Only one sugar daddy at a time, was my policy.

None of the men DeWitt was meeting with in the evenings seemed to have any delusions about what my function in the mix was—or much doubt what I'd do for them for money. Both of the men who fucked me—the BBC commentator in Reading and the novelist in Oxford—tipped well. There were no opportunities—indeed no arousing men—for the next three nights, though, which is what had me going to the garage in Great Yarmouth in search of Felix and his big, black cock on the sixth night.

All in all, the trip was being quite satisfactory and beneficial—and that wasn't even because, contrary to what DeWitt had said, the whole experience was, in fact, becoming part of the novel I was writing—with cloaked names, locations, and occupations, of course.

I was giving DeWitt what he wanted and needed, and now, as of last evening, Felix was giving me what I wanted and needed.

* * * *

There were fewer than a dozen dining at Rivenhall that evening—all men. And the arrangements kept to traditions of the empire. Seven men were at tables—separate tables—in the main dining room, which apparently had once been a deep sunporch. It was a step down from the lobby and the wall facing the sea at the top of the cliff was all windows. The woodwork was painted a cream color, with storm-tossed ship paintings set in the recesses. The carpeting was cream-colored too, as if daring patrons to wear outdoor or soiled-soled shoes to the dining room. The music was muted, a mere murmur of something classical. The caste system was at work here. Seven men—obviously the wealthy guests—were at separate tables in this room.