Separate Tables

"No. I want you to feel it," he said. "You agreed to everything. Do you want to call this off now?"

"No, I don't want to call it off," I answered with a whimper.

He came around behind me, mounted me, penetrated me with the longest cock I'd ever had, crowned with the heavy PA ring, and he fucked the stuffing out of me as I panted and moaned and writhed under him. I felt the cock ring rubbing and abusing my walls, and I cried out in pain-pleasure more than I usually would have done because of it.

On the bed, I lay on my belly, grasping the brass rungs of the headboard overhead, my wrists tied to them and my ankles and thighs tied together, as he lay stretched out on top of me, only his pelvis moving, fucking me in long, deep strokes, making the most of my passage being constricted by the bonds pressing my legs together. Untying me, he rolled me over on top of him and made me take the position of the crab over him, legs bent and feet on either side of his knees and arms holding me over him, palms on the bed next to his shoulders, while he fucked up into me from behind and I counterthrust up and down on the shaft until I collapsed and he fucked on.

His assault on me was cruel and glorious—and it went on interminably.

After he'd come, he rolled me on my belly again, covered me, and entered me with a half erection that, nonetheless, was long enough to reach far up inside me. I felt him pull out of me and redistribute his weight. And then I felt his fingers—slick, heavily lubricated—at my hole. He penetrated me with, first, one long finger, and then another. I began to pant as the third and fourth fingers forced their way in and spread, working at spreading me open. I panicked, realizing that he planned to fist me. I'd never been fisted before. His fingers were long but slender, as was his hand. He realized he probably could get it inside me, but not without a lot of pain. His hand was in up to the knuckles. I began to hyperventilate and, involuntarily clamping down on his fingers, tightening up.

"Relax," he whispered in my ear, "I'm going to reach up into your belly."

That didn't help. I tensed up even more, sobbed, and begged him to stop.

He laughed, but the laugh had a hollow, irritated tone to it. He pulled his hand out of me and slapped me on the rump—hard—pretending he hadn't meant to fist me, that he was just toying with me. But I could tell that he was disappointed, that he was displeased that I didn't—couldn't—give him everything he wanted. Still, the effort had made him hard again. He remounted my ass, thrust deep inside me, and fucked me with a fury, slapping my buttocks and thighs to release his ill-hidden anger, punishing my channel walls mercilessly with the chaffing of his PA ring.

After he'd fucked me, I lay back on the bed. He stretched out beside me, hovering over me and took my mouth in a kiss. As we kissed, he took my wrists and pulled them over my head. I felt the restraints go around my wrists and cuffs snap, binding my arms over my head. He went up on his knees and raised my right leg up his chest, hooking my ankle on his shoulder. Then he did what he'd wanted to do whether I wanted it or not. Capturing my eyes with his as he hovered over me, he fisted me with his right hand, breaking through my sphincter this time with his knuckles and fucking me with his hand while I writhed under him, exhausted, fighting to relax, whimpering, panting hard, and, ultimately, moving my pelvis with him and taking the fist.

At three in the morning, my having been ravaged cruelly—and most satisfactorily—by him, he pushed me out of the bed with the growl, "I need to get some sleep," and I gathered up my clothes, pulling them on as I moved to the door to the corridor. I paused there, thinking he would give me some word of approval or affection, but he already was snoring when I left the room and gently pulled the door to behind me.

My ass was as sore as it ever had been before, but I was humming, sure that I had done well, that I had taken all that he demanded of me and had gotten him off repeatedly, maybe five times. I hadn't done too badly in that department myself. Chances were excellent, I thought, that I'd moved on to a new patron. I took the "I have no valet with me" statement to suggest that he would use me in that role—while totally using me as his sex slave.

The good feeling about that lasted only until the next morning when I came down to breakfast just in time to see him driving off in his Jaguar.

"Yes, that was Sir Giles," the man at the front desk said. "No, we don't expect him back for a couple of weeks. He's checked out."

I felt a loss. He'd fucked me as I liked and beyond, taking me into new territory that men would pay premium prices for me to let them do; he obviously was wealthy and titled; he was strikingly good looking for his age; and he had a long, long cock. And there was that gloriously punishing cock ring. I'd had the feeling he could reach up into my belly with his PAed shaft when he was taking me in long strokes. Thinking on it now, I obviously hadn't pleased him enough for him to take me with him.

There had been a rush there at the end, after he'd fucked me in so many positions, to send me away. Was it because I didn't give him everything he wanted—that he wanted even more and thought I wouldn't give him because I had been resistant to the fisting at first—and maybe hadn't taken it as well as he wanted ultimately? Was I prepared to accommodate the more sophisticated and more specialized demands of the upper British classes? Was there something more demanding than fisting that Sir Giles wanted from a submissive?

* * * *

The man was spending an inordinate amount of time worshipping my hole—or so I thought at the time. I was on my back on his bed, my legs spread—my left ankle hooked on his shoulder, my right leg bent, as he reclined on the bed by my left hip and alternated between thumping and thrumming my hole, kissing and tonguing it, and penetrating it with his fingers. I'd never had a man so entranced with and obsessed with my anal opening. But, as it was slowly yawning wide for him, perhaps there was a good reason for his fixation. I know that it was arousing me. Maybe this was standard sex play in India.

My wrists were tied, my arms raised above my head and tethered to restraint buckles he'd pulled up onto the mattress from between the edge of the mattress and the headboard. He'd obviously done this before—a lot.

"Yes, yes, yes," I was murmuring, and it wasn't an act.

His fingers were slathered with lube, which he was generously and sensually feeding into my ass. When he had four fingers inside me, I arched my back, let my head roll back, and cried out toward the headboard. I was sure he was working up to fisting me, and I'd never experienced that from a man with fingers as thick and long as the Indian's. I'd only experienced it once before—just the previous night—but not as totally as this would be if it continued. But then Giles Renwick didn't expend the time and energy to get me as open as I was now.

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," I whined in anticipation.

His name was Patel, Virat Patel. I could have cried my head off and no one would have come to rescue me. Patel, who was the Indian who had eyed me at dinner the previous night and might have sent for me then if Sir Giles hadn't done so before he could, owned Rivenhall. He could do as he liked with me. He had earned his spot as the head of this male brothel; he was an expert cocksman and he manipulated my body at will, taking his pleasure as he liked and, in turn, giving me pleasures such as I'd never experienced before. And that was saying a lot coming from an expensive male hooker. I wanted to be dominated fully, taken totally.

He could fist me if he wanted. But it transpired that he wasn't doing that and it wasn't why he was spending so much time and effort opening my channel up. It was because the old adage of what long and thick fingers and toes meant held true here again. He'd been wearing a white dhoti—a one-piece sarong-type skirt or baggy pants—and when he unknotted that, allowing the material to puddle away from his body and moved his huge body over mine, I glimpsed his cock and balls. He was massively hung—long and as thick as my wrist.

As he hunched over me, both of his arms stiff-armed into the mattress on either side of my chest, and his jet-black eyes in his brown face intensely staring down into my eyes, muttering that he wanted to see my suffering when he penetrated me, Patel started forcing his cock inside me. Even with the long preparation, I had to fight hard to take him. He demanded that I relax and not clinch up and that helped. I whimpered and cried and begged him for mercy as he took his time filling me. Before he bottomed, I had collapsed and lay there, legs spread and turned out to widen my channel as much as possible, completely open to him, totally conquered. The full surrender helped me take and survive him.

Once he was fully saddled, he began a slow pump, one that increased in intensity and length of slide. Passion overtook me and I went with him, totally won over to the size and intensity of him. I bucked with him and begged him for it. We fell into a coordinated rhythm and movement of our hips and buttocks and legs until we were one, totally in sync fucking machine.

"Very good. You are a great lay," he murmured, looking down into my eyes. "You take it all. Most of my boys cannot."

He lowered his mouth to mine and I opened to his tongue. He lowered his muscled, hairy chest to mine and chaffed my tender skin with his black, curly, silky hair. We moved in coordinated waves, and I cried out, arched my back, and shot my load up between our chests. He fucked on, interminably. I shot a second load. He fucked on. I was moaning and groaning and crying out that I'd never had it so good or so long or so thick. And then he stiffened and fired off inside me, and I was able to add that I'd never been bathed in so much cum. And then he shot off again and again.

* * * *

The initiation of an interview with Patel on his bed had been completely unexpected, as it was not arranged in the dining room. He'd sent one of the waiters from the dining room to find me, where I was wandering in the garden, near the edge of the cliff, that Saturday afternoon. I was despondent, having lost the second man I was thinking would be my patron within two days. I was just twenty-four. As far as I knew I hadn't lost my attraction to men. It wasn't so much the lost money I could earn by having a well-placed patron who I could service and who would keep me bedded. I had sufficient cash reserves—when I could get to them. It was the increasing uncertainty of my power over men—even middle-aged men. I was meeting men now who were more sophisticated and demanding with sex, who wanted something special. I didn't seem to be expert enough to give a man everything he could want.

It wasn't "my" waiter, the one of the men's room stall, who came to fetch me. If it had been, I probably would have coaxed him to fuck me there in the garden—to be cruel to me again, to give me assurances that sexual attraction wasn't slipping away from me. But, although "my" waiter had hovered around in the dining room after that coupling, in that realm he maintained his place, not giving me as much deference as he did the guests in the main dining room, but treating me with distance and respect.

"Mr. Patel—he owns Rivenhall—wishes you to come to his bedroom," the messenger said.

"Tonight?"

"No. Now."

"Now? In the afternoon? Did he tell you what he wanted from me?"

"I think you know what he wants from you," the messenger said, giving me something close to a sneer. He was a waiter in the dining room. Of course he knew that assignations were set up there. He knew what young men like me were doing when we came to the dining room and sat at the separate tables in the alcove off the main dining room.

My mind went to Patel. He was massive. I can't say I hadn't already wondered how well he was endowed and had compared his paunch to the larger one DeWitt had and even while I was eating my dinner the previous evening was thinking of the positions we could use for him to get greatest penetration—and me sufficient pleasure without being crushed. When a man with a big belly took me from behind, I arched my back to give him a shelf to accommodate his girth. When he took me in a missionary, I often tried to be arching back over the side of the bed to open totally to him and let his belly push out unencumbered in front of him. I did what I could to give such a man maximum depth for the thrust. As for my pleasure, he needed to have something hefty to thrust.

But I was later to think upon that musing and laughing at the thought of worrying about a man with a big belly being able to achieve enough penetration to satisfy me. Patel's cock seemed to reach to my tonsils and to stretch me like a baseball bat no matter what experienced position he maneuvered my body into. Once we were fused—and there's no other word for it; his cock filled me at the greatest stretch and he possessed me to the maximum point of sexual connection that he could, and did, do—he did as he liked with me.

"Why not?" I had answered and had followed the waiter back into the gentleman's brothel.

The second time Patel fucked me, he released my wrists. It didn't mean much, though. He was strong as an ox and held me in close embrace. He fucked me from behind with both of us on our sides and him holding my left leg raised. Again, I felt stretched to the limit but welcomed the cruel and rough fucking and let him know I did. Once again, we moved in perfect harmony, making the most of our sexual parts.

As we lay there afterward, him still holding me close, still deep inside me, still half hard, he whispered in my ear, "You are good. Very good."

"You are better," I responded.

"I wanted to know. I wanted to know before . . ."

"Before what?"

"You have been abandoned here. Do you realize that? Forest DeWitt isn't coming back. Sir Giles isn't going to send for you. He will come back here, but when he does, he may not call for you. He may have had what he wants from you already."

"I know," I answered.

"Those young men—the ones in the dining room, making themselves available to the guests. They aren't all working independently. Some are brought here as personal whores, as you were."

I bridled at that, but he was right. I was a whore. DeWitt had brought me here so he would have a whore to service him.

"Some work for me," Patel continued. "I maintain my own stable that I train to the service. Some work for me longer than others. If they leave, they leave trained to earn more. While they are here, we split the fees, but I steer the best of the guests to my own boys. You have been abandoned here. You can work for me until you get your bearings."

"It's something to consider," I said. "I can't say I wouldn't leave with one of your guests if I found one I fancied and who wanted to take me on an adventure."

"I understand. Until then, you would be my slave and I would be your master. I can train you to be a top earner. But you must not rise above yourself. You must accept that you are here to pleasure men in the ways they want to be pleasured."

I had no trouble understanding those were the rules here—separate dining room sectioned and separate tables.

He didn't have any way of knowing but that was the very best argument a man could use with me to get his way.

"Did I not do that for you just now—be your willing slave for whatever you wanted from me?"

Patel laughed. "Yes, and you did it very well. If you hadn't, I wouldn't be offering you what I am."

"I'll be in the dining room tonight, then," I said. "Now, though, I'll—" I had started to roll out of his embrace and pull my channel off his cock, but he held me close, tightly enough that I yelped from the sharp pain of it.

"No. I said you are my slave and I am your master. I am not finished with you yet."

And that obviously was true. I could feel him engorging inside me again. He rolled me over onto my stomach, pulled me up on my knees, palmed my belly with one hand, and pressed the heel of his other hand into the side of my throat, forcing my cheek to the surface of the bed.

I groaned again as he crouched over my ass on the bed, mounted me, and began to fuck me again in long, thick strokes.

I whimpered and sobbed and begged for mercy—and reveled in every stroke of the renewed fuck.

He turned me on my back again, and I spread and bent my legs and lifted my pelvis to him, willingly, offering myself as a sacrifice, a sacrifice he accepted. He fisted me now. Now I could take it after the reaming of his cock over the previous hour. I would give him anything, and he wanted—and took—it all. I panted and groaned as he penetrated me with a greased hand up to his wrist, taking his time.

"We have all the time in the world," he murmured to assure me that I was completely in his control.

"Be good to me, master," I begged.

"You wish me to stop? You wish me to withdraw?"

"No. Have me as you like." I was lost to him, wanting more, wanting it all. He wasn't just a massive, big-bellied, middle-aged Indian. He was a sexual mystic, a master cocksman.

"Remember what I told you in taking a cock my size. You must do that for a large fist too."

I remembered, willing myself to relax and open to him, to control my breathing—not to hold my breath—to concentrate on how fully we were fused, the pleasure I was giving my partner, the pleasure I could have as well if I fought through the pain. Already I was learning from Patel, a master. Wherever I went from here, I would have learned to please a man more fully—and to get maximum pleasure myself.

And it was pleasure—the pleasure of knowing I could take it; that it was what my partner wanted from me and that I was in the position to give it all to him. The pleasure of knowing I could take a huge cock, even a fist, probably even two cocks at once.

I can take a fist, I can take a fist. I rolled this over and over in my mind as he was penetrating me with his hand. And then I had taken his fist.

He was inside me. I felt his fingers stroke my channel walls, a thumb firmly planted on my prostate and rubbing. Driving me crazy. I bucked against him, with him, as he fluttered his fingers inside my channel. He held my head to the mattress with the other massive hand on my throat and gazed into my face, reveling in my complete, whimpering surrender to him.

"Good, good," Patel leaned into me and whispered in my ear. "And you will become better at it. Sir Giles had a word with me this morning before he left. He will not send for you, but he will come here and enjoy you. He wishes you to be fully trained to the fist before he comes back again. And we will cover sounding as well."

"Sounding?" I asked. "What is sounding?"

He told me what sounding was, and then I knew that there were more refined and demanding sex acts an English gentleman might require from me than I had experienced as yet.

I would maybe find a patron to take me away from Rivenhall, but not for a time—not for as long as Vital Patel dominated me like this—and there was the promise of another coupling with Sir Giles—and I had the chance to learn even more tricks of the trade.