The Prince's Club

"Have you ever been taken to heaven with a gloved hand?" he whispered.

I admitted that I had and he could feel me trembling at his gloved touch. I apparently sketched for too long, though, as he abandoned me to follow one of the Franzes across the room.

I was finishing up the sketches of the trio at the fireplace, who seemed eventually to have exhausted themselves in their frenzy when I heard voices in the foyer. K—Gunter Altmeir—was leaving. But he appeared to be leaving alone. I didn't have much time to analyze that before PR was standing at my elbow. He had a hand on Brad's arm. Brad, standing a bit behind the prince and sheepishly looking down, was naked. His body was beauty personified—both eighteen years young and developed already as an endurance tennis player.

"If you've finished your drawing, would you please come with me?" PR said. "There's another drawing or two I would like you to do for me. Later we can talk about what other exchanges we might make."

I stood, gathering up my drawing supplies to take with me, and followed PR through the first floor to stairs leading down to the basement. He guided Brad along with us with a hand on the young man's arm. Brad docilely followed. He moved like he might have been drugged. But he still moved like a graceful dancer. I couldn't take my eyes off his pert buttocks and muscular legs.

As I knew would be the case, PR's basement included a sexual torture chamber. I had already figured that his sexual tastes with young men ran parallel to those that had landed Lord Hindsley in prison in England. This wasn't England, though. This was the prince's country and willing eighteen-year-old youths were free game here. And the prince obviously treated them as game.

Rupert muttered something about paying the rent as he placed Brad into the stocks. That the young man gave no resistance marked his understanding, even in a slightly drugged state, that he was the one paying the rent for his training stay in Liechtenstein. That Gunter Altmeir left the house alone marked his acquiescence in this as well. PR obviously owned Brad at this point.

The contraption the prince bound Brad in was a version of a Prie Dieu, a prayer bench, where Brad was kneeling at a rail. The bench was more complex than that, though. The rail was thick and functioned as stocks, with holes to trap the lad's head and wrists. And his legs were encased in braces that, with the pumping of a lever, lifted his bent legs off the kneeling pad and raised and spread them, with the effect that, when the prince pumped the lever, which he did almost immediately, the young man's vulnerable buttocks and privates were rolled up and raised in the air, ready for the violating.

As I sketched, the prince spent some time kneeling behind Brad and eating out his ass and sucking on the young man's cock and balls. Brad moaned appropriately. PR stood after a while and, taking a riding crop, reddened up the young man's buttocks. Brad cried out and writhed as best he could appropriately.

In the midst of doing this, PR turned and gave me a sharp look. I was sure he was gauging my reaction to his cruel treatment of the young tennis player. I didn't flinch, though, and kept on sketching. These were arrangements between other people, not me, and I didn't want to lose standing in PR's club. To reassure him, I unzipped myself and made clear I was in erection. The prince came over to me, touched my erection with long, sensuous fingers. Again, I didn't flinch. He flicked his whip against my thigh and I didn't shrink from that either. Giving a laugh and a slight "later" look at me, he turned back to his task at hand. At length, he moved in between Brad's spread thighs, holding his erection in his hand. He mounted and penetrated the young man and fucked him. Brad groaned and moaned appropriately.

When the prince was moving Brad to a table top where the young man's arms were stretched and bound over his head and his buttocks were elevated at the edge of the foot of the surface with his legs spread and raised, bound to overhead chains, he noticed that I had finished sketching. This was evident because I was stroking my cock with the hand I'd been sketching with.

The prince laughed and said, "Would you like a turn with Brad?"

I didn't lie. "Yes."

"Not tonight. Tonight Brad is paying for the rent on the house and tennis court I've let him and Gunter use. But perhaps we can have some sort of exchange. Perhaps I could come by your house to look at your art collection tomorrow. And perhaps you might be willing to do a little deal with me . . . concerning Brad."

"Perhaps," I answered, disappointed that this was not going to be tonight. It wasn't just because the sex scene that had unfolded in front of me and that I had drawn a couple of sketches from to fill out later had thrown me into high heat. It had. But also I was, in fact, concerned by the cruelty the prince was showing and the young tennis player was accommodating. I could be a bit cruel too, I knew, but I was no Lord Hindsley, or, it seemed, Prince Rupert. I would have liked for PR to turn Brad over to me so that the young man wouldn't be used as hard as he was being used.

"Ach, Ich glaube . . . I think you are a bit disappointed. Perhaps you'd like to take one of the Franzes home for the night," the prince said, his voice teasing.

"Perhaps," I answered.

When I left, having arranged for Franz Four to attend to me in the night at my house after his responsibilities here were concluded, and my leaving unnoticed by the prince and Brad, PR was standing between Brad's spread legs, hovering over the young man, and fucking him. Brad's back was arched and he was crying out, "Yes, yes, get it, get it. Fuck me!" So, I guessed he was willing enough.

What caught my attention, though, was that Brad's head was turned to the side. He was staring at me when he cried out his need. I could have sworn he was trying to convey to me that I was the one he wanted to be fucking him.

As I left the prince's mountainside palace, prepared to walk down the hill and into the town, the back door of a Mercedes limo opened and a gray-haired, tuxedoed man, wearing black leather gloves beckoned to me. From his stocky build, I presumed this was the man who had stood behind me while I was sketching in the house.

I lay across the backseat, my trousers and jacket off and my silk shirt flared open, virtually naked to the fully clad man covering me, as the Mercedes glided around the city. My legs were bent and spread and I was panting hard and whimpering as a black leather-clad hand slowly sank up inside me, and the gray-haired man fucked me with his fist. He breached the sphincter with his knuckles and buried his hand inside me. He held there and I rocked on the hand, fucking myself on the greased black-leather gloved hand. I let him take what he wanted half because I found such rough treatment sexually fulfilling and half because, if he was in this club of Prince Rupert's, he was a man of power and influence with the prince, and, since I wished to impress the prince, I would give his friends what they wanted.

He laughed and began to move the hand in countermotion to my rocking. When I was well open to what proved to be an extraordinarily thick cock, he turned us to where he was on his back across the seat and I was saddled on him, riding his cock. His release was timed well to the ultimate arrival of the Mercedes at my house.

* * * *

"Ja, Ich fühle es, aber nicht zu viel. Bitte sei gut zu mir—Yes, make me feel it, but not too much. Please be good to me." Franz Four was stretched out under me on his belly, tied to the headboard and footboard at the four points, pillows under his belly, lifting his ass to me. I swished the multithonged black leather whip on his back and then down to his buttocks. He was trembling underneath me, already moaning, and I hadn't begun with the whip yet. I wasn't all that sure what I wanted to do with it. I raised it and flicked the thongs on his bare buttocks. The lad moaned a deep moan.

"Does Prince Rupert do this to you?" I asked.

"Ja, ja, er peitscht mich—Yes, he whips me."

"And do you enjoy it?"

"Ja, manchmal—yes, sometimes. Er geniesst es. Das ist alles was zählt—He enjoys it. That's all that matters."

"Do you want me to whip you?"

"Wenn Sie das von mir willst—If that's what you want from me. Bitte. Bitte sei gut zu mir—Please, please, be good to me," he cried out. He shuddered as I flicked him again and then, when I struck him harder, he yelped, "Gnade. Gnade, bitte!—Mercy. Mercy, please!"

Laughing, I struck him five times—twice across the back, three times on the buttocks, just enough for me to see the hint of welts when I drew him.

"Peitsche mich hart. Lassen Sie mich fühlen. Bestrafe mich. Mach mich hart!—Whip me hard. Make me feel it. Punish me. Make me hard!" Shit, the little fucker liked it. He wanted it. I gave him some more—more than I normally would do with one of my models, and he cried out, "Ja, Ja! Wieder! Mehr!—Again. More!" But I'd had enough. I stopped. He was writhing now, wanting the cock.

"Ja. Ja. Fick mich. Fick mich hart!—Yes, fuck me. Fuck me hard!" I didn't know if Franz Four was trying to distract me or if he had gotten caught up in the prince's club because he enjoyed more than a little punishment.

"So, you do like the sting of the whip?— Magst du den Stachel der Peitsche?" I asked.

"Ja. Peitschen Sie mich. Fick mich. Fick mich gut!—Yes. Whip me. Fuck me. Fuck me good!"

That answered that. I whipped him again and again, hard enough to show welts, but not hard enough to break the skin. He writhed under me, murmuring "Ja, Ja. Fick mich gut!"

I dropped the whip to the side, moved over him, planting my fists on either side of his shoulders, maneuvered my erection in place, and began penetrating his ass.

He responded to that. "Oh, Scheisse. Oh fuck. Du bist so gross. Du bist zu gross!—Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. You're so big. You're too big!"

"That's what they all say," I growled, and then I gave him what he claimed he wanted. I fucked him good. And then I fucked him better. And then I fucked him best. I laced my arms under his, locking my fists behind his neck, putting his body in a severe bow, and rocked him, making his own channel fuck him on my throbbing rod, punishing his young man's channel deep, hard, and fast with my thrusting cock, riding him hard, fucking him interminably. I needed him to be wiped out. When I was done, he was wiped out and moaning deeply.

I left him then, took a couple of photos, and then gathered up my drawing materials to capture him, bound and stretched out in a heap in mussed sheets. Again, like the street Franz of my last taking here, I freed his arm—his left one—so that it could dangle off the side of the bed, signifying that he was spent, vulnerable, defenseless. This time I drew him from the foot of the bed, his elevated ass and the wide-reamed hole the focus of attention. I draped the whip on the small of his back, the thongs hanging over the side of the bed, to highlight that the young man had been whipped as well as bound. I drew him from a standing position, looking down on him. I accentuated the welts on his back and buttocks in my drawing, although they were more pronounced than I had intended. He had had a taste for punishment that I hadn't anticipated. I caught the glisten of the cum I'd shot onto the small of his back and the young man's cum deposited on the sheets under his raised pelvis. I captured his "I've been conquered" glazed eyes.

When I had a rough sketch done that I could finish up later, I took a smoking break. When I came back to Franz Four and untied him, he murmured wearily to me, "Willst du mich noch mal Peitschen und ficken?—Are you going to whip and fuck me again?"

"Do you want me too?— Willst du, dass ich?" I asked, curious. He had given in to the fuck like he wanted it.

"Was immer du willst. Der Prinz sagte, ich soll dir geben, was du willst—Whatever you want. The prince told me to give you whatever you want," he answered in a weary voice.

"Then I won't whip you again. I don't want more of that than I've already done."

"Aber du wirst mich wieder ficken, nicht?—But you will fuck me again, won't you?"

"You want me to?"

"Ja, bitte."

"But I thought I was too big."

"Du bist gut gross. Ich will dich wieder in mir haben—You are good big. I want you inside me again."

I laughed. And then I gathered him up in my arms and we fucked as lovers. I was not gentle with him—I held him close under me, his torso streaming away from me, his head turned to the side, his eyes flashing and his mouth yawning, groaning deeply, as I fucked him hard and deep, filling him, stretching him, giving him everything, taking everything away from him. Through the night.

I would never have done this in England. I would never have gone this far or dared get this sort of pleasure out of what I did to a young man. Was I adjusting to the hedonism and cruelty of Prince Rupert's world? Would I give myself to him in this way too?

* * * *

Prince Rupert toured my collection of homosexual erotic art the next afternoon. When he left, he held tucked under his arm a bronze sculpture of a satyr fucking a young man that was rendered by the sixteenth-century Italian sculptor Benvenuto Cellini, probably the most valuable work in my collection. In turn, though, I had a lifetime right to live in Liechtenstein and this house rent free and the protection of the prince as long as he lived, and I could visit the work in his mansion frequently. I was solidly in his good graces. He also took a couple of eighteenth-century Japanese wood-block prints of the Nanshoku school of a Japanese lord fucking a young man, both in full, rich kimono regalia, and of a samurai fucking one of his protégés as they trained with the broadsword. He also reserved the drawings I was working on from the club-member gathering at his mansion the previous evening.

That wasn't all that transpired during the prince's visit. After having seen my collection of erotic and fetish art, he complained of being throbbingly erect and made quite clear he wanted me to do something about it. He was very direct, as princes often are.

"Will you take my cock? I think that you will," he said.

"Yes, certainly, Sire," I answered. "Whatever you want, you may have." I unbuttoned my shirt and unbuckled and unzipped my trousers, and shrugged my clothes off, standing before him naked. I saw his eyes flash and a small smile form on his lips. I don't think he expected me so readily and completely to show that degree of subservience to his desires.

"Will you take the whip?"

"Yes," I answered, simply, casting my eyes down in a surrender of submission.

I knelt in front of him, unzipped and released him, and gave him suck. I did not finish him that way, though. He took me to my studio—I had shown him the restraints on the beds and chairs I used there—and he tied me to the bed, loosely, so that I could writhe quite freely. I gave him no resistance. He flogged me with a riding crop; mounted me; rode me, like I'd been told he would, as an equestrian astride his horse; and released inside me. Throughout I gave him what he wanted how he wanted it and praised his equestrian prowess—and he was, in fact, very good. When he left, I felt confident that my formal invitation to become a full member of the club would arrive in the next mail.

A couple of hours later, Brad Brinkley appeared at my door.

"Prince Rupert told me to come and model for you—until tomorrow morning," he said.

"Did he tell you what modeling for me entailed?" I asked.

"Yes. I just ask that I not be beaten as much as he did last night—or I'll be in no condition to play at Wimbledon in a couple of weeks."

"I'm not going to beat you, Brad. I'm going to worship you."

And then I did.