The Hollows

The Hollows turned out to be a traditional Georgian mansion, built in the 1780's or thereabouts, and standing full square in about four acres of its own land at a guess. The building did look somewhat dishevelled and the grounds unkempt. That sort of fitted in with the reason for my visiting.

I called myself a mortgage broker. In actuality I was a pretty small cog in an International Mortgage Company's wheel - no more than a junior salesman paid mainly on a commission basis. I could not survive on the basic salary; nobody could. I was particularly short of money that month and desperate to land a contract.

My birth certificate records my name as David John Tomkins, but I call myself Dirk McPherson. and claim to be the son of a Scottish landowner. In reality the identity of my father will always remain a mystery to me, My mother, bless her dear heart, in order to survive, was occasionally obliged to sell her favours. I came along, father unknown, and some time later so did my half sister.

Ah, not to worry, there was always grub on the table and a warm, clean bed and pillow on which to lay my head. And one good thing, the man who sired me must have been the good looking bloke my mother claimed he was, with a fine body on him and a shock of yellow hair - both of which I inherited.

I pulled up the Mercedes company car on the once-gravelled drive at The Hollows, in front of steps leading up to a huge panelled front door. I brushed my suit down, straightened my tie. and checked my face in the rear view mirror. before leaping out of the car. This energetic burst was part of the basic training - supposed to impress any prospective clients who might be watching from behind twitching curtains.

The door was opened in answer to my knock by an elderly and distinguished lady who introduced herself as Dorothy. I knew exactly whom she was; Dorothy Greystone-Miles, aged 62, born in London, wife of Colonel Gerald Greystone-Miles aged 65, born overseas. I had read up the file my Sales Manager had prepared for me. His verbal warning, "get a sale, Dirk, or you're fucked," was all too fresh in my mind.

I introduced myself, offering the elderly woman a business card which she promptly ignored. She looked me up and down in such a manner I found it disconcerting. I thought for a moment she was about to close the door in my face. But no, I must have passed muster as she stood aside and motioned for me to enter.

I walked forward into what, for me, seemed a huge entrance hall with numerous doors leading off. I waited as the lady of the mansion closed the front door, locked it with a key and secured two sets of bolts for good measure. I might have felt uncomfortable, perhaps a feeling of entrapment but, truth to tell, I was too engrossed rehearsing in my head the spiel I needed in order to deliver a successful sales pitch.

"We ask everybody who visits The Hollows to sigh a disclaimer, Mr. McPherson. The Colonel insists on it. He was an Intelligence Officer in the Service and some aspects of his work have left their mark." The woman produced a clip board with a multi-paged form. Several pages from the front page she found and presented a dotted line. "Full name please and signature."

I thought nothing of it, wrote "Dirk McPherson and signed with alacrity. Why did I care?

Dorothy smiled her thanks and moved across me and opened the nearest door to my left. She stood back allowing me to precede her which I did without hesitation. I was somewhat surprised as my view was arrested in seeing a large form of changing room. At the far end were a couple of big shower cubicles, one with clear glass and the other frosted. The rest of the room was mixture of free-standing padded benches, whilst on the left hand wall was a line of coat hooks. On three of them were hanging smart white towelling dressing gowns.

"I am really sorry to have to ask this of you Mr. McPherson, but the Colonel, my husband, has a rare condition that he caught whilst serving in India. It requires anyone who comes in contact with him needs to have clean skin. Would it be too much to ask you to take a shower?"

"Well," I hesitated. "I don't know about that." I said a little disconcerted. "I had a shower at home this morning," I added hopefully.

"I am sorry Mr McPherson, that won't quite suffice. I dare not take the risk. If you do have an objection I'm afraid I may be wasting your time." She indicated for me to turn back towards the front door.

The thought of yet another abortive sale weighed heavily in my mind. I had a vision of my Sales Manager's face. "What's in a shower," I turned back to the woman with a forced smile. "We can't take any risks with the Colonel's health can we?"

"Oh, that is so understanding of you Mr. McPherson smiled Dorothy with apparently sincere gratitude. Please use the shower cubicle to the right. You'll find everything you need inside. I'll ensure that you are not disturbed."

The right hand cubicle had the opaque door. By the time I had loosened my tie the lady of the house had made her exit. I used a couple of the hooks on the wall to hang up my outer clothes whilst my pants, vest and socks I piled on the nearest bench as with my shoes.

The lighting in the room was too bright, especially as it was exacerbated by the white walls and ceiling. Perhaps the Colonel's sight was failing?

The shower cubicle was large enough to accommodate three people and, although the doors were modern, the equipment inside might have been installed when Mrs.

Greystone-Miles was a girl - and a young one at that. Still, whilst it creaked it served its purpose.

Whilst washing my baby-making equipment I had to chase out of my mind an image of me inside the cubicle with a couple of naked 1960's women having a fine old time. My prick needed little stimulation to fill itself with a force of hot blood. I reckoned that was another gift I had inherited from my absentee father - although I never did have my mother's corroboration of that likelihood.

I shampooed my hair for good measure and was assuredly squeaky clean as I pushed open the shower door and stepped out. I gasped. My clothes were no longer where I had left them. They had disappeared completely. With panic rising within me, I hurriedly donned one of the white towelling dressing gowns which served the double function of drying my body and protecting my modesty one at he same time.

Just as I had gotten round to drying my mane of blonde hair the door to the corridor opened and in walked two men, one with brown hair and the other jet black. They were both wearing bath robes around their waists, similar to mine, and they were bare-footed. It was an easy assumption they were intending to use the showering facilities. In some form of relief I nodded a greeting.

Instead of heading for the showers they made purposefully straight for me. "Hello darling," greeted the man with the black hair, "you're all nice and clean and ready for us I see."

I managed to query "ready for you?" before the first man grabbed my wrist and his companion slipped a hand inside my robe and cupped my balls. "Hey, what's going on?" I spluttered, in the process of trying to back away.

"The three of us are going to have some fun together," said the man with my balls in a vice-like grip. "I am Rich and this is Andy. And you are Dirk. Is that right?"

"You've got this all wrong," I whimpered. "I'm here to sell the Colonel some financial products - a new mortgage perhaps, or some insurance. I work for an international firm of......"

"Sure you do Dirk. But before you get to meet the Colonel he has asked us to check you out." The grin that Rich rendered to me was unmistakably lascivious. He was a hairy man; black hair covered most of his upper body; a characteristic of many Turks and Greeks I had met along life's journey.

"Check me out?" My mouth had gone almost completely dry.

"Yes. Now I want to to climb onto this bench here and stay on your hands and knees." With black-haired Rich maintaining a firm grip on my balls it took some clever manoeuvring to avoid my feeling excessive pain. "Good boy," was my reward when the task was completed. "Now move back a little to the end of the bench." I knew I was being positioned for ssome reason, but what for?

I guessed it was Andy who took a hold on the hem of my robe and threw it up and forward exposing me from roughly the waist down. And it was Andy's hand that started to massage my arsehole with something liquid and cold. Next he slipped a finger in past my sphincter and enticed more liquid inside the opened gateway.

"Surely they're not about to bugger me?" I asked myself in disbelief. It was all happening so quickly and I was having real difficulty in catching up with events. I had mucked around with a girl who had had me wear a quite large butt plug as one of her conditions for us having sex, and so my anus was not a complete mystery to me. When the soft head of a very hard penis took up station ready for insertion I was left in no doubt whatsoever.

"The cunt's no virgin," I heard Rich comment to his companion.

"I'm going to enjoy this," countered Andy and, as if to emphasise the point, he rendered a hard slap to my bare left buttock as he pushed forward. I gasped.

"Ride him cowboy," I heard Rich encourage as he withdrew his hold on my balls. Andy needed no encouragement. My anus pretty quickly surrendered to the first attack leaving me accommodating the bulbous head of Andy's penis in my rectum. My sphincter was complaining but my brain was dealing with the unexpected pleasure of a new sexual adventure. Being seduced by a woman had long been one of my strongest fantasies - wasn't this in the same category?

Andy was in no hurry. I retrospect I reckon he saw that my prick was maintaining an erection and I was possibly savouring the action that far. Eventually he slowly shunted in and out, making small gains every third movement forward.

I judged he had his penis about halfway when he slowly backed out completely. Shamefully, I would have to admit a wave of disappointment swept over me and I had to stop myself from protesting. That couldn't be what anal intercourse was all about could it? There had ro be more to it than that.

The, with suppressed relief, I felt Andy re-lubing my arsehole and with a quick glance behind, I caught him do the same to his prick. What a sight. It was ramrod hard and purple headed, glistening with lube. That image would stay with me for a long time to come.

I could only picture my arsehole in my imagination. I saw a hole, open and ready. slippery with lube and very willing. That was probably not far off reality as Andy's prick slipped back in with only a little resistance. He judged the point that he had previously achieved and then resumed the small movements, back and fore, right until I felt the extra stretch of his stump.

He stopped there - stopped still. What little pain I had experience gradually dissipated. We just sort of froze like that. each wallowing in our own thoughts; largely pleasurable in my case. I could hardly believe what was happening to me. It was so fucking, deliriously. dissolute, and more than a little delicious.

I started moving my hips gently in the search for more sensations and that seemed to be the cue that Andy was waiting for. His engine started up again and he fucked me very gently at first, but then moving up the gears until he was full out. I hollered in an erotic mixture of pain and pleasure. One melded into the other, but I felt some peculiar emotional relief when I felt him tighten up as he squirted his sperm deep inside me.

I tried hard to deny a small wave of disappointment as I lay prone for some time afterwards, allowing time for Andy to savour his orgasm and for his penis to deflate before slithering out of me.

Damn. I was so close. Dare I just hand pump my prick the few hand strokes that was all that was require to jerk myself off?

"The faggot enjoyed that," I heard Rich comment enthusiastically, breaking the spell I had found myself in.

"I reckon he did too," agreed Andy, rendering me a playful yet stinging slap on my bare arse. "He's a good fuck. A natural. He'll make a good cocksucker. Take my word for it. Do you want a turn, Rich?"

"Naw. Better not. Another time perhaps. Have a quick shower and let's go. Boss will not want us to hang about."

I lay there, face down on the bench, not wishing to make eye contact with the man who had raped me. I felt more embarrassed than indignant at that stage. I was not sure why that should be. That "faggot" comment had wounded me although I was not sure why. In any event I wanted to avoid eyeball contact with both of my assailants.

.

When I was sure that they had both left the room I slowly stood up. Soon Andy's liquifying spunk was seeking to make brown stained rivulets on both insides of my thighs. I used the white towelling of the dressing gown I was still wearing to wipe my thighs clean. I then removed the garment entirely, squatted, and wiped down the crack of my arse and all around. Dare I say, my bruised sphincter felt more of a trophy than a trespass?

I needed to take another shower, that was obvious, just as my throbbing prick was making itself obvious too. Inflated, it swung before me as I walked across to the shower cubicle and, hardly minding that I had turned the shower on, I jerked my prick the little needed for it to spray copious amounts of creamy sperm. The effect on me was cathartic. Perhaps I should not have, but for just a few minutes I felt really good about the world.

I showered as Rich had done and when I returned to the original bench I found my clothes neatly piled ready for my attention. If I had not realised before, that was all the confirmation I needed that I was being watched. And it was pretty obvious that somebody had observed the whole sequence of events that had taken place in that room that day.

Questions started bombarding me. The main one was "what should I seek to do next?"

I had been invited to The Hollows to discuss a range of financial services at the behest of a Colonel Greystone-Miles. An elderly woman, purporting to be Mrs. Greystone-Miles had directed me into a room in which I was encouraged to shower. Whilst doing so my clothes disappeared and I was raped by one of two men who were most certainly in the Colonel's employ - if indeed the Colonel existed. Every avenue seemed to lead to the conclusion; "Report this to the police". Why was I so reticent about doing just that?

"It's a flipping cheek of them, that's what it is," I consoled myself, massively understating the crime that had been committed against my person. Clearly I was not thinking straight, but a full-out fury of having been raped was tempered by the knowledge that I had experienced a form of perverse enjoyment of much of the incident - even the hearty slap I had received on my buttocks. I caught myself thinking that I ought to have acquiesced more - taken more of a part.

?No, no, that would be totally wrong. Who did they think they were? People couldn't go around raping strangers willy-nilly. What was the world coming to? I determined to report the incident to the police forthwith, and with that resolve I might have marched to the door leading back into the hall, opened it with a flourish and stepped through.

Caution stayed my hand at the last minute. I had had one or two run-ins with the Authorities (including the police) before I eventually straightened myself out. I had no desire to resurrect old wounds. Also, if it became public knowledge that I had been raped, I would have to live down the notoriety that would fall from that especially from my so-called colleagues back in the office. Could I easily cope with the fallout from that?

Nowadays the police turn themselves inside out to protect the identity of women who are raped. But did that apply to men too? I was not so sure. I shuddered at the thought of my being the subject of a headline in any of the Sunday newspapers. After all, I had not been physically harmed by the experience - far from it. I had that feeling in my stomach, that satisfied glow, at having expended sperm enjoyably.

I decided to delay any decision as to what I should do further until I was back in my home environment, many miles away from The Hollows.

I re-united myself with my brief case and was about to make for the door leading to the entrance hall when it opened. In walked a young person dressed in male clothes but with a face as pretty and angelic as a young woman's. "Ah, Dirk. Can I call you Dirk? I understand you are about to join us here. The Colonel has instructed me to hand you your remuneration." He held out an open envelope stashed full of what looked like real money.

"My remuneration?"

"Yes, your actors fee for the filming in here. I must say, we all thought you were absolutely brilliant."

My mind was in a whirl Had that silly old biddy on the front door mistaken me for a porn actor? No, that was impossible. This was a set-up. It had to be. Mind you, the money being proffered in the envelope looked real enough. My streetwise inclinations took over and I accepted the envelope. "Thanks."

"May we contact you again," asked the young man leading me to the front door. "I am sure my peers will agree with me that you are just the sort of material that we need."

"Need for what?" I asked.

But, with an effeminate wave of his hand the door closed between us.

I stumbled back to my car, my mind not concentrating on the footfall. I revved the engine far too excessively and left The Hollows with shingle flying freely from my back tyres.

A few miles from the office I had calmed down and I pulled into the side of the road. Curiosity was getting the better of me and I was dying to know how much money was inside the envelope I had been given. I pulled it out of my jacket pocket and started counting. My excitement mounted. Phew. The best salesman in the company would be hard put to earn that much in three months of hard sell. This was the lifeline I would have prayed for had I had a link to God. I sat in that car at least for half an hour just plotting my next move. I squirmed in the seat a fair bit. My arse was protecting at the way it had been violated earlier - or was it asking for more of the same?

Time up, I snapped into action. I filled in a blank application form for some modest home insurance under the name of Colonel Gerald Greystone-Miles, the cost of which would be met by my windfall. That would keep my manager at bay for a while at least. Then I shot back to my flat to change my underpants and trousers as my arsehole was still leaking brownish sperm cells that had once belonged to Andy.

Back in the office I made a point of presenting my boss with the application form and the first instalment in cash. If I had have expected a pat on the back I would have been disappointed with his observation, "about fucking time".

I should have spent the bulk of the money wisely, and I did pay off a few of my most pressing debts, but I found my mind increasingly slipping back into memories of The Hollows and what had transpired there. The money was a driver, of course it was, but increasingly so were the metaphorical wet daydreams I had started experiencing. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before I summoned up the courage to make a revisit to The Hollows.