The Glass House Ch. 02

We were taken to an old hotel on the lake shore. I wasn't sure, but I thought maybe it was a closed hotel, opened only for this special occasion. The young men were given rooms on the third floor--there were about two dozen of us. We were to put our luggage in the rooms assigned to us, but there was no telling whether we'd actually sleep in the rooms beyond this afternoon. We were told that our rooms were sanctuary--that we would not be expected to bring anyone back there for servicing.

We were told that the rooms on the second floor were for the club members but that most of us would be seeing the inside of those later in the evening. The rooms weren't where the club members were staying. They were all being accommodated elsewhere around the lake. All day long helicopters were overflying us, going elsewhere. Most of them were coming in from the direction of Switzerland, Germany, or Austria. The rooms on the second floor were where the club members would be taking their choice from among us that night and fucking us. That was made quite clear to us during the instruction period. We were there to charm and to service and to be fucked--as, when, and how the club members wanted to do it. We were being paid a base fee, but there would be more if our services were engaged, and even more for repeat bookings.

This confused me a bit, as my escort agency had spoken of a flat fee. But I'd maximize my pay here, as I could, and I'd worry about the actual payment when I got back to New York. This one gig could carry me through the rest of this school year.

The party was to begin after dark, and as we were waiting for the guests to arrive, I went out onto the terrace facing the water and watched for the beginning of the evening. The night was so dark that I didn't see the first launch until it reached the dock. I had heard it, though, start up on the other side of the lake, which was not broad at this point. All of the launches that arrived were black; those sailing them were dressed in black, as well. When the boat came up to the dock, a couple of men, one older and heavy and one younger and fitter, both wearing black tuxedos and black half masks on their faces, were helped off by another man, all in black and with a black face mask on. The first of the guests--what the staff referred to as the club members--had arrived. I remained out there, in the shadows, watching, as more guests arrived in other all-black launches, suddenly appearing, out of the mist on the lake, at the dock. All very mysterious.

There were some fifteen or sixteen guests in all--and some two dozen young men to service them. That meant that some of the rent-boys might not see action. That was to their advantage in the short run, but it would be a sure signal to them that their comparative charms here among the cream of the crop, and therefore the foundation for their careers, were waning. If they weren't used here, they wouldn't be booked again--and the news they weren't would spread through the communities living this lifestyle. So, if you wanted to continue earning at this level, the incentive was there to get into the action--frequently. With a sigh, I wrapped the silk robe I was wearing--all that I was wearing--around me and moved into the main lounge of the hotel where the guests were mingling with the "pool" of young prostitutes.

All of the club members and the support staff were masked when I entered the house. The rent-boys weren't. The members were in black tuxedoes, the staff in black suits. The lights were on, but dimmed, and the music was muted. There was no conversation above murmurs of the awed, but there were other men beyond the tuxedo-clad club members in the extensive ground-floor rooms. There was a bar, with barman, who took drink orders by signals and showing of bottles until one was satisfied and there were black-clad and masked waiters roaming around with trays of fancy nibbles. And, of course, there were the security men. It was clear to me that there were many billion dollars' worth of men being serviced here.

There were something over a dozen club members present, ranging in age from early thirties into their early sixties. Each of them had been given a gold badge with a number on it to wear on their lapels. No names were spoken. If someone needed to be addressed at all, it was by the number assigned him for the evening. We were told the members had been told their number in the registered-mail announcement they received on the time and venue of the meeting. The numbers were of three digits to forestall thoughts that they might reflect any sort of ranking. Only a few club staff members, those making the complex arrangements, were able, for billing purposes, to match names with numbers. We were told this to let us know how secret everything was and how much trouble we'd be in if we ever described it to anyone.

The two main groups--the club members and the young male prostitutes--moved around the area, looking at each other and nodding and smiling, but never talking above a whisper. As the guests presumably were members of an international men's club that met periodically like this, they probably knew or could speculate who the other members were and perhaps even guess, despite the face masks, at having encountered other members before. They undoubtedly obtained membership by referral from existing members. There were only two I could think of who I might recognize--either Shep, the oil world cowboy from Tulsa, or Josh Hoffman, my own employer, although he probably had no idea I existed, from New York.

Hoffman won out. As I drifted around, being stopped from time to time for a club member to take a good look at me or to insert his hand in the split of my robe and get a feel of whatever he wanted to check out, I heard the distinct laugh of Hoffman floating over the assemblage. I wasn't surprised, but I was aroused, and more than one member registered surprise and smiled when he felt me up and discovered I was in erection.

I and the other young men there to service the members weren't wearing masks. We weren't wearing anything at all, other than robes with two silver badges on our chests with numbers on them--each badge with the same number. All of us knew why we were here. All of us had agreed to be here this evening and to provide any services demanded of us. All of us would be paid handsomely--especially those who provided the greatest and most demanding service.

Most of us would be used--totally--and we knew it and, for the recompense and promise of future assignments, welcomed it. Those who weren't chosen for the evening or for more private venues over the next two days would be the ones who were disappointed. They too would be paid--but not nearly as much as they would be for going under one of the club members or for being roughly and brutally used by him--and they would leave here with the thought that their careers were on the wane.

The process was simple--designed so that nothing verbal occurred. For tonight, all a member had to do after having roamed around assessing the young men and making a choice, was to take one of the silver badges off the robe of the prostitute of his choice. As he assessed the young men, he was permitted to note the numbers of up to two more who met his interest. If he wished, this could be the only session he attended. But most of the club members, having gathered from distant locations at great expense and a challenge to their demanding schedules, extended their stay to include two more days. A club member was allowed to book a young man for each day. The cost to the member, of course, depended on the services he picked and the accommodations he'd been accorded. It was all quite expensive. If the men in this club didn't have unlimited discretionary funds, though, they would not be in this club. The club had a charge card from each member, dedicated to club expenses, which was automatically and euphemistically charged--something that would not arrest the attention of their personal accountants or the tax man. The charges would be for something other than the services of a rent-boy. There were two meetings a year. The members had to make reservations to attend the main international meetings such as this.

There was a table in one of the rooms in the mansion that had a bowl on it. The club member picked a number out of the bowl, which assigned him to a bedroom upstairs. It wasn't a large hotel, but it was large enough. There were more than enough bedrooms to accommodate everyone. There also was a signup sheet, where the club member could record the numbers of the young men he wished to book for the next day and/or the day after that. All he need do was ensure that the young man's number hadn't been lodged by any other member--recording by his gold badge number--for the same day he wished to use a prostitute. The rent-boy was his for as long that day as he wished, and we pointedly would be told that it was likely that we couldn't take more than one member in a day, another allusion to the treatment mostly likely being rough.

The presence of a small army of thuggish-looking--other than the tuxedos--bodyguards standing around and observing everything spoke of control whatever the situation and help in cleaning up and covering over any mishaps--or planned activities.

The young men would be delivered to the selecting member wherever on the lake he was being accommodated--the accommodations provided having been done so as to protect privacy and ensure sound abatement needs--and taken away on one of the black launches when the member was done with the young man. Again, the indication given was that the young man indeed would be "done" at the end of the session. Everything pointed to there being no limit to the pleasure a member might expect as long as he was willing and able to pay for it.

The young men had robes with sashes, but club members were permitted to spread the robes open and examine the prostitutes for suitability as if they were thoroughbred race horses, and the more experienced members did so. I was examined by at least a dozen of the members, including Josh Hoffman, who showed no indication he recognized me, either from work or from the auction where I had hoped he would have the winning bid, but didn't. His hands had left nothing to discover when he examined me that evening, though, and I panted for him and was erect during his exploration.

The case was different tonight. He didn't just explore and fondle me and then move on to another this evening. When I was paired up to go upstairs, it was with Josh Hoffman. He was going to take his pound of flesh--and in his venue and at the pleasure of his choice. Perhaps this was why he hadn't bid on me before. Perhaps he wanted more than the auction parameters permitted.

When Hoffman took my hand and moved toward the stairs to the bedrooms upstairs along with several others, I was trembling slightly. I had had my eyes on him during the auction where I was sold and used and I was given the impression that he could be a cruel lover. On that night, he'd been one of the men who had used a cigar he was smoking as a dildo on me. He hadn't used the lighted end to penetrate me, but he had teased me with the possibility that he might. Maybe now he wanted free rein to exercise the cruelty he had thought wouldn't be permitted at the auction in New York.

As we passed down one of the bedroom hallways toward the assigned room, we passed one where the door was open and the club member, old, obese, and trouserless, wielding a thick, heavy erection, with a low hanging ball sac was already fully using his young man--one of the youngest of them. Having brought his own restraints, the club member had bound the youth's wrists together, laid him at the foot of the bed on his back, was holding the young man's legs raised and split, and was fucking him vigorously in the missionary position.

His young prostitute was arching his back and panting to the ceiling with a look of suffering on his face. As we paused, I shuddered, and involuntarily gave a little moan. Hoffman laughed his distinct laugh and ran his hand into the split of my robe, closed his hand on my balls, and squeezed. I yelped in surprise and pain. Hoffman laughed again, withdrew his hand, and guided me on down the hall.

Yes, it was going to be a rough night, I thought. And I was right. One of the house thugs, in tuxedo, was stationed in the hallway, and I knew that if any of the guests thought they were in trouble, the bodyguard would be there in a flash to support them.

The first thing when we entered the assigned bedroom was that Hoffman said, "Take the robe off and hand me the sash." The robe had been held closed by a red silk cord. I pulled the sash off and shrugged my shoulders out of the robe, which puddled to the floor at my feet. I was standing there, naked. I handed him the sash. Hoffman was looking at me with a blank expression on his face. He moved around me, taking in every angle of my body. When he was behind me, he took my wrists and bound them together behind me with the red sash. He pulled away from me then and went over to a table where a brandy bottle and a couple of snifters were set. He poured himself some brandy and slowly drank it off as he looked at me, standing there, naked, my wrists tied behind my back. He didn't offer me a drink. I remained, eyes downcast, neither of us saying anything. We both knew this was symbolic of the control he was accorded here and what my status was.

I looked up to see that there was a riding crop on the table too. Hoffman put the brandy glass down and picked the riding crop up. My eyes went big as he strode toward me. He came so fast that I didn't have time or presence of mind to react. By the time he reached me, he had drawn the hand not holding the riding crop back. My attention had been on the riding crop and not on his other hand. He swung out with it, catching me on the left cheek with a hard slap. He was fast enough that he came back, backhanding me on the right cheek with it and sending me careening back onto the bed in shock.

"You don't think this will be easy on you, do you?" he growled.

"No, sir," I answered, steeling myself, determined to hold out for as long as possible before breaking down. This at least confirmed that he would be cruel--and brutal. I had seen that in him, under his veil of elegant gentleman, even back in New York, in his company tower. It scared me, but it also drew me toward him.

Hoffman leaned over me, grabbed me by the hair, turning me onto my back on the bed. And then raising and snapping down the riding crop again and again, he beat me on the back, the buttocks, and the thighs. It was more a shock than pain for me, and I didn't think he was putting the full force of his strength behind the beating, but it made me gasp and pant and try to writhe away from him without success. He only stopped when I collapsed and stopped writhing. He was an expert at it, though, knowing how to snap to cause a flash of pain but to minimize the effect on my skin.

He moved away from me then and walked around the bed, examining it. I followed him with my eyes, seeing what he did. There were leads, with restraints coming out of the headboard at the corners and in the middle. Hoffman looked up at the ceiling and so did I. There were leads coiled up there over the foot of the bed as well, ending in restraints. These could be pulled down.

I panted and snuffled, trying not to sob as he readjusted my body, turning me on my back on the bed, unbinding my wrists only to pull my arms up toward the headboard and restrain my wrists above my head. I watched too, wide-eyed, as he pulled the leads at either corner of the foot of the bed down from the ceiling and bound my ankles, with my legs spread and raised, my buttocks on the bottom edge of the bed.

I offered no resistance. I knew none was available to me. He was larger and more powerful than I was, and if I did succeed in resisting him, I knew he only need call out and thugs would appear to help him and to note that I wasn't cooperating. If I didn't cooperate, I'd be sent away and my career at the high end would be finished.

Then he climbed onto me straddling my chest, and unzipped his fly and pulled a massive, engorged cock out. "Suck me," he growled. He forced himself between my lips and I gave him head. I gagged as he made me deep-throat him. He came down my throat and I hacked as he pulled out of me.

He climbed off me, went to the foot of the bed and knelt behind me. It was my turn to get head--and to have my balls inhaled into his cheeks and squeezed until I was writhing and screaming. He stopped that, though. He pulled a red silk scarf out of his pocket and came around the side of the bed long enough to stuff it in my mouth. When I'd been forced to go silent I realized that there were other young men around me being treated this rough as well--plaintive cries in a variety of languages were drifting through the second floor of the hotel. All of the club members must now have made their choices for the evening and were using them.

It hit me then that this wasn't just a men's sex club. This was a men's anything-you-can-afford-goes BDSM sex club. There were more rent-boys than guests here this evening because there would be fewer rent-boys walking around tomorrow. My priority now was one of surviving the night and being here for another round tomorrow.

Hoffman went back to giving my cock and balls attention, and when I'd shot a load for him, he concentrated on my asshole and in opening me up with his tongue. It would have been fine if he'd stopped here, but he didn't. I heard the snap of the latex glove and he raised his hand up between my V'd legs to let me see that his right hand was gloved and dripping in lubricant. He was going to play games with me until he had recovered his own erection.

I screamed through the silk scarf and writhed under him as, humming, he worked his fist inside me--first a couple of fingers and then more and then, with me nearly lifting my body off the mattress as the knuckles breached my sphincter muscle. Then he fucked me with the fist.

I writhed and moaned and did what I could to cry out through the silk gag, but Hoffman got all of the fist inside me giving me a good fucking with it. He wasn't the first to have done that to me and his hands were slender for a man, so I managed. I found the rough fucking hot, too, in spite of myself. After a while he just held his hand steady and I swayed against his buried hand, effectively fucking myself on the fist. I stopped writhing or trying to make noise. He reached up and freed my ankles, one after the other. I couldn't help myself. I pressed my feet into the mattress on either side, pushing my pelvis up to provide a good angle for the man's fist inside me. Then, panting and moaning, I rocked on the fist, taking it, clearly indicating wanting it.

Hoffman laughed his signature laugh and put his free hand on my shaft, stroking me. I rocked on the fist for ten or more minutes more, reveling in the total possession of the flexing hand. I gave him probably the biggest, high-arcing ejaculation that I'd ever had in my life.

Laughing again, Hoffman pulled his hand out of me and voiced the embarrassingly obvious in a hoarse tone. "You wanted that. You want it rough. You're a whore for it."

I could not disagree with him even if I wasn't effectively gagged.

He moved to where he crouched over my body between my spread and raised legs and captured my eyes with his, holding my gaze. He smiled as I grimaced when he penetrated me with his reengorged shaft, thrusting hard and deep up inside me, and, maintaining control with me just with his eyes, he fucked me hard to his second ejaculation. When he pulled out of me, he patted me on the hip, went back to the table, drank off another snifter of brandy, zipped himself up, and took a small--but precious, I was sure--bar of gold out of his pocket and dropped it on the table.