The Glass House Ch. 02

"When they come to release you, don't let them take the gold bar. It's for you. You gave me a good fuck." Then he went to the door, opened it, and called for someone to have a launch brought to take him back across the lake.

He had done all of that in his tuxedo, only having released his cock to stuff it inside me. It was quite a long and thick cock, though.

Two men in black suits arrived within minutes of Hoffman's departure and released me. I crawled up the stairs to the room assigned me and soaked in the tub in the en-suite bathroom. I relived the experience in my mind. I was almost ashamed of myself to have to admit that it had been hot and I hadn't had sex that moving for some time. A male prostitute easily became dulled to the sex he had to take. Nothing about Hoffman had been dull. He was exacting the cruel master that I had seen in him the first time I laid eyes on him--and that, despite my welfare, I had found sexually arousing. As I soaked and went over the evening in my mind, I masturbated, coming for the third time that night.

I was such a bad boy. I already was wondering if I'd see Hoffman again--and hoping I would.

* * * *

The next morning I was told to be down on the dock at 10:00 a.m. I was there at 9:45, looking at an interesting house right on the water directly across the narrow finger lake from the hotel. It was an all-glass cube of two stories, with a rock-wall base. One of the black launches was just pulling away from the private-residence dock there, so I was assuming that whoever was living in the all-glass house must be one of the club members from the previous night.

At precisely 10:00 a.m. that black launch pulled up to the hotel dock and one of the staff members in a black suit and black mask came down from the hotel to tell me the launch would take me to my assignment for the day. I asked who had booked me, but he wouldn't tell me.

"If the gentleman wants to identify himself to you, he will. He may take you somewhere during the day. He brought his own driver with him and he has one of our automobiles. If he does take you in public, you are not to say or do anything that will attract attention to him or the party we are holding here or identify who he is. Understood?"

"Yes," I answered, even more curious now who it could be. I wondered if it was Josh Hoffman. He had taken me away from the party room so quickly the evening before that, although I'd been felt up and prodded by other guests, I didn't have any sense that anyone else was interested in booking my time. I had been told I had been booked for both days, though. If that was Hoffman and he was going to use me both days like he had the previous evening, I'm not sure I would survive. I briefly wondered if any rent-boys didn't survive meetings like this, but I tried to push that thought out of my mind.

But, oh, what a way to go. I couldn't help myself. I was hoping he had booked me for today.

He hadn't. The launch took me south on the lake, to the opposite shore, to a shoreline town on land jutting out into the lake that had a sign at the dock identifying it as Dervio. Standing at the dock, obviously waiting for me, were two men who were so different from each other that the admonishment not to bring attention to ourselves if we went out in public became laughable. They were attention-getters as a pair on their own, but adding me to the set would just add to that.

One man was short and rotund and in his sixties. I admit that I had seen a man that short and circular the previous evening. This could only be that man. He looked like a classics professor at some stuffy European university. The other man, in contrast, would stand out anywhere in this area. He was a good six-and-a-half feet tall, massively muscular, a native of some exotic locale--Middle Eastern or Indian, perhaps--and dressed in a gold brocade, long-sleeved, high-necked robe, with a turban on his head. Both men were bearded, but the short man's beard was gray and trimmed; the big monster's beard was black and bushy.

I nearly broke down in giggles when they were escorting me to a lakeside restaurant in the town, the Restorante Al Rustic, the short man whispered to me that we would go for an early lunch, "before we fuck." To hear a prissy little man like him say that was a surprise in itself, but what was amusing was that, telling me that he was Lars from Amsterdam and the Oriental giant was Basil and he was Lars's Turkish chauffeur, he said that he, Lars, was a diamond cutter and classics professor at the University of Amsterdam.

Damn if I hadn't called that one--but diamond cutter was an interesting profession. That profession didn't become any less interesting during our lunch, where the stubby professor, whose English was excellent, waxed poetic on the world of diamonds while his chauffeur, who ate with us on equal footing, merely sat there and glowered at me. I had no idea if he spoke English or not, as he didn't speak at all.

Two hours later we were on the second floor of a lakeside villa a few miles further south on the lakeshore from the town of Dervio, in a bedroom with four French doors opening out onto a balcony overlooking the lake. I was on my back, naked, at the foot of the bed, feet pressed to the Oriental carpet, legs spread, and the gnome of a professor was crouched between my legs justifying his membership in the kinky men's club by performing kinky sex on me. He hadn't fucked me--yet--but he had the largest of a set of linked graduated round rubberized balls stuffed up into my channel, with the chain dangling toward the floor between my thighs. It was much the same stretched and filled feeling I'd had the previous night with Hoffman's fist inside me.

The gnome was hung, and uncut, and he spent several minutes docking our cocks, putting the bulbs together, pulling the foreskin of his cock over my bulb and a good two inches further, causing the bulbs to kiss, and masturbating our shafts together, all of the time humming, very pleased with himself. He didn't stop there. Basil handed him a leather case. I'd seen sounding rods before, but this was the first time I'd had them used on me. The professor worked me over intently like I was some sort of science project he was demonstrating for his students.

He fucked my cock with the sounding rods.

I lay there, on my back, panting, trying to remain as calm and steady as possible, as Lars extracted steel rods of graduated thickness and lengths, starting small and getting long and thick enough to make me moan and groan deeply as he slowly penetrated the urethra channel of my shaft and both twisted the rod and moved it in and out, fucking my cock with it. As he did so, I beg for mercy that didn't come. With Basil sitting above me, holding my wrists captive above my head, and looking on, Lars hunched over me, holding my cock erect with one hand and selecting steel rod after steel rod from the leather case and carefully, skillfully, twirling them, one after the other, down into the urethra slit of my cock head, reaching down to my ball sac. The rod would be twirled in and Lars would gently fuck my urethra channel with it before pulling it out and moving on to the next thicker and longer rod. In between penetrations, he would run his hands all over my torso and tell me what a magnificent body I had and how good I was to let him use me like this.

Except I don't remember being asked if he could use me like this. I was just told that anything went with however the club member wanted to use me. Cooperate or forego my fee and see my career diminished.

My job was to lay there, motionless, pant a bit, whimper or sob quietly if I wanted--but to take having my cock fucked.

Intermission was Lars becoming part of the act. He had a couple of rods that were for both of us. One end went into my cock and the other went into his and, once again, with the rod totally buried between us, Lars, hunching over me, docked our cocks, pulling his foreskin over my bulb as he gently masturbated us while he grunted his satisfaction. When he pulled us both off the largest rod he used that way, we both came, our cum mingling and flowing down the sides of our cocks.

Act Two was back to the sounding rods twirled down into my piss channel, reaching for my ball sac, using the thickest of the rods. Added to the entertainment here was that Lars didn't hold my cock erect with one hand; he used that hand to reach under my balls, extract the rubberized ball, penetrate me with his fingers, and finger fuck my ass channel while he cock fucked me with the rods. He hummed what must be a classic tune while he was doing this and he was trembling like this was the height of sex for him.

After he was done with the sounding, he sat on the side of the bed and Basil came around, stood between my parted legs, with me still panting from the exertion of holding still for the sounding, slowly unbuttoned his robe, flaring it to show he was magnificently muscular and, not incidentally, ragingly erect. He grasped my legs, spread-eagled them in a high and wide V, thrust up inside my channel, which had been worked open by Lars with his fingers, and fucked the hell out of me.

Lars sat where he had a good view of me being fucked by the Turk, licked his chops, and stroked himself to an ejaculation.

As the afternoon wore on, I lay there, where I'd been all afternoon, spent, and my head turned to the side. Lars was on his back, on the side of the bed, and the big Turk was between his legs, giving him the same fucking he'd given me earlier. Lars was writhing and screaming and having a jolly old time. The Turk's cock obviously was too big for the little Dutch professor. Neither of them seemed to care. The position of chauffeur in this relationship wasn't a subservient one. I had thought not from the moment I'd seen them on the Dervio dock.

They left me, and I lay there on the bed, on my side, my knees drawn up into my stomach. It had been two days of nonstop, taking sex, much of it kinky, some of it painful, and I had another day of it to come. The other two had left the room, to eat or drink? I had no idea, and I didn't care. For now it was peaceful here. I was alone. I was relaxed. I turned my head, looking out onto Lake Como. The sailboats were out. There things were as normal, nonthreatening, nonexperiencing-the-depths of sexuality activity as one could experience out there.

Something made me turn my head again. The Turk, Basil, was standing at the foot of the bed. He was unbuttoning his robe, brushing it aside, revealing his magnificently bronzed torso with its bulging muscles. He was in gigantic erection. He reached down, grasped my ankles, turned me on my back, and spread my legs. I made no move to counter him. Instead, I stretched my arms out from my body in a sacrificial position. I lay there, Basil nudging between my thighs, my legs spread. Defenseless, Vulnerable. About to be invaded, conquered, ravished once more.

He moved his hands, slowly, almost lovingly, up my legs from the ankles--up to where my inner thighs attached to my torso. He touched me there in the sensitive inner surface of my thighs, and I groaned for him.

"Yes, yes, fuck me," I moaned.

The fingers of both of his hands went to the crease on either side where my underbelly transitioned into the tops of my thighs. He lightly rubbed me there, and I moaned, turned my thighs outward, open to him, brought the heels of my feet up to the edge of the foot of the bed, dug in and raised my pelvis to him.

"Do it. Fuck me again," I murmured wearily--as if the giant Turk needed permission. That's what I was here for. That's what I was being paid to do--to give my body to any man here who wanted to use and abuse it.

His hands went to cupping and separating my buttocks cheeks. He entered, entered, entered me as I panted and groaned at the size of him.

"Güzel, güzel. İyi karşılarsın--Good, good. You take it good," the Turk murmured. Of course I did. I was a high-end male hooker. I was there for any man who would pay for it and wanted to put his cock, no matter the size, in me.

Nothing kinky or exotic about this. This was a straightforward, take-no-prisoners master fuck.

Lars padded into the room again and settled to watch, as the dance of the fuck started again. Stretching, sinking, working, filling. I turned my face to the ceiling and cried out my surrender, and began to move with the fuck, rocking against Basil's belly with his thrusts, feeling his lemon-sized balls bouncing on my inner thighs.

Lars pulled in closer, lightly panting and touching the Turk on the cock and the balls and touching me too, here, there, and everywhere, cooing to me as Basil relentless stroked in my ass. Lars encircled my cock with his hand, his pinky finger going to my piss slit, forcing itself in, fucking my cock with his pinky while Basil fucked my ass with his bludgeon. I turned my face toward the river to find some balance there--but the sailboats were gone.

As I felt the Turk tensing and coming close, I raised and spread my legs in a victory V, arched my back, and Basil and I shot off our loads together.

They drove me back to Dervio and the Restorante Al Rustic for another divine seafood meal and an animated monologue from Lars--Basil being silent and glowering at me and I being subdued and exhausted. The diamond industry once again. There was no allusion to the kinky sex of the afternoon, and the diamond industry talk was fascinating. It was all the more fascinating when, as the black launch was taking me back to the hotel, I checked out the small pouch Lars had slipped into my pocket on the dock.

I pulled out a diamond of quite enough carats to have made the ordeal of the day totally worthwhile. We had been told the tips were good, but I had no idea they could be this good.

Later, as twilight was falling, I went out on the hotel terrace to take in the activity on the lake. The strange glass house across the lake was lit up like a lantern. I noticed that one of the black launches was docked there. I watched its progress across the lake, and when I saw it dock here at the hotel, I watched two men in black suits come off the launch carrying a stretcher between them. I didn't know if the young man they were carrying was conscious or not--or even alive or not. An arm was slung over his face as if he wanted to shut the world--the world of this exclusive men's BDSM sex club--out of his existence.

I looked back up at the glass house, to the second floor, a bedroom, where a large man, dressed out in black leather, had a smaller, younger one pressed into the glass wall facing me. The younger man had his arms raised and spread and the palm of his hands pressed into the glass. His hips were jutted back. The larger man, close behind him, was palming his belly with one hand. The fingers of the larger man's other hand were run into the hair at the back of the smaller one's head and was arching the younger man's head back painfully as he fucked him.

I shivered and withdrew back into the hotel when I realized who the larger man was.

* * * *

The next morning the black launch didn't have very far to deliver me. It just had to float straight across the lake, from the hotel dock to the dock of the all-glass house. Except that the house wasn't all glass. The ground floor was encased in a rock wall. The windows at this level, such as they were, were mere horizontal slits high on the wall, set with iron bars.

As I climbed off the launch and onto the dock, I saw that there was a man standing in the doorway of the house, back in the shadows. Peekaboo, I see you, floated into my mind. I see you back there. I know who you are. I know what you do.

As if he'd heard the jab, Josh Hoffman came out into the open from what was the entry door to The Glass House, a double door in the rock wall next to the garage door leading into the earth mound between the house and the street. Hoffman was in leather--tight leather hip-high boots and a black leather harness on a magnificently muscled bare chest. The harness was attached to the tops of the boots in front on each side, but he otherwise was naked. His buttocks and cock and balls were exposed. He was holding a riding crop in one hand and tapping it against the palm of the other hand, and he was in erection.

I knew instantly what sort of session this would be. I looked up at The Glass House, intrigued by the transparency of it, looking forward to touring the house. But it would be some time before I was to see anything but the rock-walled rooms in the house's ground floor.

Hoffman watched me, a little cruel smile on his face, as I walked, trembling, both scared and exhilarated, from the dock, across the driveway, and to the door. He turned to the side in the doorway as I walked past him and into the bowels of the house. The door shut with a solid sound of finality behind us.

He guided me into a rock-walled chamber to the right of the entrance hall. The room was the base of The Glass House above. There, in the middle of what appeared to be some sort of sexual torture chamber, complete with equipment, tools, and toys, Hoffman blindsided me, taking me by surprise. He punched me in the midsection and as I was doubling up, he swung up, catching me on the cheek with his fist. I went down in a heap. He grabbed my head by the hair, jerked me up to my knees, slapped me across the face twice, and let me sink to the floor again. I remained there, panting and whimpering as he moved around the chamber, preparing it for me. We both knew I wouldn't be giving him any resistance to anything he did with me. It's possible, though, that it angered him that I didn't.

I lay there, looking up at him with fearful and seeking eyes, as he stripped me. He hung me, bound at wrists, ankles, and throat, to a St. Andrew's cross, facing the frame and the rough-stone rock wall. There he beat me with a ridding crop, raising welts but careful not to break my reddened skin. When I was reduced to a quivering, sobbing mass, just hanging from the frame, Hoffman pulled a surgical glove onto his right hand, greased it up good, came in close behind me, his left arm embracing my chest, and, as I screamed, he fisted me with his right hand and fucked me with it. When I was well open and stretched, he readjusted the arms of the X-frame, stretching my legs straight out from my body and adjusting a pad at my belly that jutted my buttocks back and rolled them up. He exchanged the fist for his erection, and he mounted, penetrated, and fucked me.

Hoffman didn't give me his cum then, though. When we were both worked up and I was begging for a finish, he took me off the St. Andrew's cross and moved me to a suspended sling in the corner of the room. He put me inside that on my back, restrained my wrists up the two chains at my head and my ankles up the two chains at my tail, and worked my ass for a good half hour with various sizes and shapes of dildos and a string of graduated tear-shaped balls. When I was babbling from this, he exchanged the balls for his cock and fucked me to his finish, stroking my cock off to give me an ejaculation as well.

Later he dragged him to the small bedroom buried behind the garage, spread-eagled me to one of two double beds there, face down and bound, lifted me up his knees, my cheek and chest pressed to the bed, mounted me again, and rode me to exhaustion--my exhaustion. He edged me when either one of us was preparing to come until I pleaded for him to finish me. After doing so, he took an electric rod and zapped me randomly on sensitive flesh, laughing as, in my exhaustion, I still jerked and sobbed for him.

Never before had I been so scared, so fully controlled and conquered, so badly used, so enslaved, in so much sexual stress and pain. Never before had I danced so high and for so long on the clouds of sexual fulfillment, felt so desired and desirable, had so much sexual pleasure, felt so wanton, excited, exhilarated, and free. Never had I been this hard for this long or gushed this much cum so often. Never before had I been drained so completely and satisfyingly. As ashamed as I was for letting him do this to me, I couldn't be more sexually complete.