Uncle Mike at English Crafty Hands

This is the account of an incident that occurred to my then 24-year-old uncle, Mike, late in May, in London. Mike and his fiancée, Alice, are principals in the series Alice, My Uncle and Me, and Cross-Country with My Uncle.

He got on at the Knightsbridge tube station. He was remarkably good looking, after the English fashion. Trim, close to six feet, probably about 25, with light brown hair neatly cut but falling onto his forehead, with medium-blue somewhat deepset eyes. His Lauren shirt was rolled up just above his elbows, displaying powerful-looking forearms, covered with coppery-colored hair, similar in color to the hair that his open collar revealed.

On the London Underground trains, if you don't have a tabloid to read, your other choice is to gaze at your fellow travelers: It's both convenient and, for a people as typically reserved as the English, surprisingly acceptable, at least on the Underground. As soon as he boarded, his eye caught my young uncle, Mike.

Mike was in town for a week's consultation with a client of his California-based software company. His fiancée, Alice, had graduated from Stanford less than two weeks earlier, and they were able to mix pleasure with their business. Unfortunately, today Alice had a temporary indisposition and was sleeping it off in their convenient and luxurious Bloomsbury hotel, and so Mike was on his own today. It was the late spring Bank Holiday, and the Lincoln's Inn law chambers for whom he was consulting were closed.

When in the clients' chambers, Mike wore a well-cut Saville Row suit; but today he was wearing his "English disguise." It was a quite close-fitting white English football fan's shirt, with the escutcheon of England Ancient over his heart (gules three lions passant guardant or), and across his back and emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the great red Cross of Saint George. He wore the casual shorts then current in England, and Nike 'trainers' rather more subdued than the styles worn in the U. S., with the very low-cut socks that hardly show above the shoes' uppers.

He only wanted to blend in, but for a man like Mike, this was an impossibility. He turned heads everywhere he went. Six feet tall, with a true athlete's build, he had large and powerful arms, broad shoulders, and his torso narrowed to a boyish waist. The casual shorts could not disguise his fine butt, nor his impressive thighs. His costume displayed both his forearms and his lower legs, thickly garnished with golden sun-bleached crisp hair, and his chest hair peeked over even the high round collar of the Team England shirt. With medium blond, somewhat curly hair, striking azure eyes, a square chin and killer dimples, he was, quite frankly a very strikingly beautiful man.

Unlike many men, even the sexiest, who under ordinary circumstances carry their penises in a reduced and diminished state, so that the process of erection achieves what might appear to be an unlikely miracle, Mike's normally bore his beautiful penis rather full and fat, even under the most relaxed circumstances. When he wore jeans, for instance, the bulge at his crotch was inevitably prominent and quite manifest. Even when he wore looser clothing, anyone whose eyes dwelt upon his crotch - and over the years the number of those who had was phenomenal, in bars, classrooms, on the street, in laboratories or offices! - could discern vividly with no difficulty that Mike was very impressively endowed, something that merely amplified the aura of intense masculinity that Mike effortlessly and inevitably radiated, and completed the image of the total stud.

Mike was not unaware of the reaction that his looks generated in others, but, strange to say, very beautiful men are in a no-win situation. If one is diffident and reserved, there is always the risk of giving the impression of arrogance; on the other hand if one is affable and approachable to strangers, then one can present an unwanted air of noblesse oblige, of condescension to 'ordinary' folk. Mike always opted for the latter course, however, and easily met everyone's eyes, returned every smile, and generally tried to ignore the impact that his striking looks inevitably made upon others, as impossible as this was.

The handsome man who got on the train at Knightsbridge studied my uncle almost from the moment the train doors opened. He was standing only about three feet away. Mike returned his gaze with an occasional neutral amiable glance, and by the Green Park station, the stranger had engaged him in casual conversation: the excellent weather, long-running plays in the West End, etc.

Mike made ready to leave the train at Leicester Square, and as he left the handsome stranger also stepped from the car. "Fancy a drop of beer, would you? I know a quite nice place near here."

Since Mike really had little particularly to do - he had just planned to walk the rest of the way through Covent Garden on his way back to his hotel, maybe killing some time watching the street performers - he saw no reason not to accept the offer. It was about 2.15 in the afternoon. The young man introduced himself as "Piers," and led my young uncle to a somewhat nondescript bar in Old Compton Street, whose name I will not report here. They took a small table overlooking the street, and Piers ordered a pint of Fullers for each of them. Piers said, "Mike, I have something of a proposition for you; something that may well interest you; something that could be both profitable and pleasurable; something for which in my professional judgment you'd be a natural." Mike agreeably bid him to continue, curious about what Piers had in mind.

Piers begin to describe an unusual business, that in fact was operated from this very pub. It was called "English Handicrafts," but it had nothing to do with tatting and salt-glazed pottery. After they had finished their beer, Piers took Mike through an unlabeled door at the rear of the bar, and they climbed a single flight of stairs to a well-lit elegant room that occupied the entire floor. The walls were paneled in bleached birch, giving a light and clean aspect to the room. The floors were high-gloss maple, finished to a very light color. The ceiling was notably low, barely over six and half feet.

At either end of the oblong room was what could alternatively be described as a stage; a theatre; a pit; or a bed. Specifically it was an x-shaped bed, built up on a platform about four feet high, and surrounded by a round, waist-high railing. Above the bed, the ceiling was open to the next floor, via a circular oculus of diameter roughly equal to that of the railing, and around the oculus there was another railing on the upper level. At each of a dozen stations located around the railings, both at the lower level and the upper, there was a small console, with jacks and dials, and earphones.

This arrangement was frankly baffling to Mike. Piers said, "Wait a few minutes and everything will become perfectly clear." Piers took him up a small spiral staircase to the upper level and they took positions at two adjacent stations above the bed that was the focus of the rear pit or theatre, and put on the earphones of that station. If you pressed "1" on the keypad you heard raucous 'dance' music; pressing 2 produced smooth jazz; three, classical music; four, "classic rock," and so forth. 9 was labeled "Vox humana."

As three o'clock neared, other men took positions at other stations at the railings above and below and at both the front theatre or pit and the rear one. The men were quite miscellaneous. Some were young, 20 or so; others were in their 60's. Some were quite fashionably dressed and others were wearing clothes as casual as Mike himself. Some were rather good-looking, and quite a number were very ordinary and nondescript in appearance. Mike recognized several who had been at tables in the bar downstairs.

At three o'clock sharp a very handsome young well-built guy clad only in the sort of towel that snaps at the waist came in, from a rear door, leading to the rear theatre a youth of about 19 wearing a blindfold and a luxurious white terry robe. And a minute or two later, another well-built extremely good-looking man of about 24 preceded another youth of 20 or so. This young man was not blindfolded and required no one to lead him.

At either end of the room, each of the robed youths approached the bed platform, climbed up some short steps and stood upon the bed, and undid the sash of the robe and let the robe fall to the floor, standing there altogether nude. Each of them was remarkably well-formed and handsome. The youth on the bed where Mike's station was, was slim, though with rather broad shoulders; well-defined pectorals, and particularly well-defined abdominals. His dark hair was cropped quite short, and his blindfold obscured much of his face. The youth's arms were wiry and muscular. His legs were long and well-made, and his forearms and well-turned calves were covered with a fair amount of hair, which grew sparser above his knees. His seven-inch cock was rigid, and standing at a 45 degree angle from his firm belly. Except for a neat patch of pubic hair, and a fine trail leading up to his navel, he was smooth.

Because the bed was on the raised platform, and the ceiling of the lower level was so low, Mike and Piers on the upper level were really only a very few feet from the subject, and the observers on the lower level were still closer. As the youth stood there, the attendant wearing the towel pressed a control button and the bed began very slowly to rotate, and in a moment or two the youth's rear came into view from Mike's station. He had a very fine round butt, and the breadth of his shoulders were emphasized in the view from the rear. It took about three minutes for the bed to return to its original orientation, and the attendant pushed another button and the speed of rotation of the bed diminished notably, to an almost imperceptible rate. The youth then lay down spread-eagle style, upon the x-shaped bed, which was covered by a well-starched sheet, and the attendant snapped cushioned restraints around his wrists and ankles. Mike noticed for the first time a small microphone hanging from the ceiling over the young man.

Piers took Mike over to one of the few unoccupied stations at the other oculus, looking down on the other bed. Here the scene was similar, but different. The youth here was quite strikingly handsome, with red-gold hair - "strawberry blond" that hung across his forehead in bangs; large blue eyes; a rather triangular face with a prominent chin and a good, strong nose. His eyebrows were of gold, and he had across his face a very amiable smile, which he lavished on all the spectators on both levels, more or less one at a time, meeting every eye. He had a very notably athletic body, with broad shoulders and a large chest, true six-packed abdominals, and big biceps and wiry forearms. His thighs were probably the most impressive part of his musculature, as large around as some women's waists. And for a youth of 20, it was surprising what a manly development of body hair he exhibited: It spread across his pecs, and down the midline of his torso ran a continuous trail, until it merged with his pubic hair. Its ground color was probably a somewhat light auburn, actually, which was certainly the color of his pubic hair; but he evidently had spent time in the sun (perhaps a trip to Majorca or Ibiza recently), for there were glints of golden highlights on his chest and on the strip of hair above and below his navel. His hands and wrists and forearms were thickly covered with glittering golden hair. In fine, he was remarkably beautiful, one in a thousand. And it was his fantastic smile that 'sold' the entire package, as he, like the youth at the other bed platform, rotated slowly through the action of some unseen motor.

At this end of the room, too, the youth gracefully reclined on the sheeted bed, and the toweled attendant fixed similar padded restraints on the wrists and ankles.

Mike and Piers put in the buds of their earphones, Mike tuning into Mahler's Second on channel three, and Piers to the jazz channel, and the attendant reached to his waist and unfastened the snaps of his towel and cast it aside, now as nude as the spread-eagled youth on the bed.

The attendant was himself a truly remarkable sight. Perhaps five foot ten, he was a blue-eyed blond with a major gym-rat body, almost perfectly developed, and perfectly smooth to show off his highly defined muscle groups. He looked like one of those "Chippendale's" dancers. The attendant at the other end of the room was strikingly good looking in quite a different way. He was lankier, taller, and darker, with a considerable amount of dark hair on his torso, arms and legs. His round butt was smoothly fleeced with dark hair. He had a stubbled chin, and prominent eyebrows: almost, but not quite, a monobrow. His penis, now erect, was waving in the air, and Mike judged that it could not have been less than ten inches long. "Chippendale" was more normally endowed, and when he became entirely erect, he displayed between six and seven inches.

By now most of the spectators had shed some of, or all of, their clothing. At each station there was a 'valet stand' upon which spectators could hang jackets, trousers, shirts, etc. Some wore terry robes similar to those the subjects on the beds had worn upon entering, and some were entirely nude, but almost all were wearing their earphones.

The attendants were not 'attendants' at all but masseurs, or actually, 'full-body' masseurs, and they began to ply their trades on the subjects in restraints on their beds. Each had a different approach.

"Chippendale" began by massaging the strawberry-blond's arms, legs, and chest. At his first touch, his subject's penis, which had been extended and fat but not really totally erect, came almost instantly to a state of complete rigidity, even though his masseur had only touched his right upper arm. It would take the masseur several minutes before he came anywhere near the subject's genitals, concentrating instead upon his amazing abs, his huge thighs, and ruffling through the hair on his chest and calves and forearms.

Eventually however, he would approach the youth's cock, which now towered over his hairy lower belly. Though they were on the upper level, Mike and Piers were not much more than four feet away from the youth's straining penis, and it was easy to discern its every detail: The longitudinal veins popping out on the top and sides, the smaller ones in more random-seeming patterns, along the seven-inch shaft. The hood of the cock was flared, with a diameter noticeably larger than that of the shaft, with a very sharply defined ridge. The cock must taper very slightly, since the very veiny root was evidently fatter than the main portion of the shaft. The youth's balls were large - apricot-sized - and held rather loosely close to the body. Mike had on occasion seen his share of manflesh, but this guy was a beauty.

What Mike only gradually realized was that the other spectators at his theatre were constantly adjusting the dials fixed on the rail in front of each of them. They were constantly rating the experience on a scale of one to ten. The current average was being relayed to the masseur through his earphones, and according to the spectators' rating, he knew whether to delay and extend the subject's session, or to bring it to a business-like conclusion.

The strawberry-blond was quite evidently a crowd-pleaser. The masseur used a professional's arsenal of dilatory techniques to slow down and extend the process. With well-lubed and very slippery hands (there was a lube dispenser at his workstation), he grasped the subject's shaft and gave it three or four long, slow, strokes, from root to tip, with each stroke terminating in his fist coming completely off the cockhead, and each new stroke starting by forcing his fist slowly over the cockhead on a new downward stroke. (Piers nudged Mike and pointed to the sound control number 9, "Vox Humana," and when Mike selected this one, instead of orchestral music he heard what the microphone suspended above the subject picked up: with each stroke a somewhat choked gasp, and moans of pleasure.)

Then the masseur abandoned for a while the raging cock, and moved to the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss and tease the subject's left nipple, causing him to flinch and jerk and emit a cry. The masseur stroked the subject's face and neck, and kissed his mouth. And then, artfully trailing his hands down the subject's torso from his big hairy chest to his rippling abs and hairy belly, he regained his phallus and applied another series of very deliberate strokes, before again he receded from the subject's cock and stroked and hefted his balls, using both his hands on the two balls, and then licking them, and elicting from the subject another great gasp.

It was about at this point that the first stream of semen came jetting from the upper level onto the subject's chest. There would be many more before the session was over.

Piers explained quietly to Mike that the typical subject's session was about twenty minutes, and in an hour, the spectators would see three different sessions. Under extreme circumstances, on the basis of spectator reactions as reflected in their ratings, the masseur would extend the subject's session to forty minutes, but this was rare. In these cases, a spectator would see only two subjects' sessions. There were complex but well-understood procedures for dealing with extended sessions. Typically if an early session were extended to half an hour, then the next two together would be shoehorned into about half an hour or a little more.

In the case of the strawberry blond, at 25 minutes past the hour, the masseur begin a strategy of eventual culmination. Abandoning the teasing, dilatory approach, he put both hands on the beautiful phallus and began very slow, but regular and irresistible stroking. The youth's breathing became deeper and deeper and more regular and easily heard on the audio pickup. Several more jets of semen fell on different parts of his body from the spectators during this intense stage and eventually the masseur began a slightly faster stroke, and then, with a series of four or five very firm and deliberate strokes, the subject's body stiffened and jerked and his back arched quite off the table and a rope of his cum jetted onto his chest hair, mingling with that of spectators'. And then in the expert hands of the masseur, another and another, before he fell into something like a swoon. The spectators clapped loudly, and though still seeming exhausted, the subject managed to open his eyes and look around to each face on each level and smile and acknowledge their applause. Still in restraints, he could acknowledge them no other way. The strikingly handsome masseur also took a small bow and turned first in this direction and that to acknowledge the crowd's appreciation.

Mike now recalled that several minutes ago there had been a round of applause from the other theatre, but he had been so engrossed in the events right before him that it had hardly registered.

There was an interval during which the masseur loosened the subject's restraints, and wiped away the semen from his body, and, very gracefully, the beautiful youth rose from the bed and strode to the dressing room for a shower, to still further applause.

Piers took Mike aside to a quiet table in the bar area of the second floor and began to explain more of the details of the business. "English Handicrafts," also called "English Crafty Hands" by the regulars, was a profit-making business operated as a club, in full compliance with all relevant laws and regulations. It opened each weekday at 3 pm, and continued until 2 am on weekdays and later on weekends. Members paid a 1500 pound initiation fee, and for each hour-long session they attended, a 20 or 30 pound fee. The 20 pound fee was for the rear theatre, the "Pitt Pit"; the fee for the "Beckham Arena," in the front, was 30 pounds. There were significant differences between them. The subjects appearing in the Beckham were specially select. Within the railings of the Pitt pit, there was a clear plexiglass screen, so that no ejaculate could fall upon the subject, unlike the case of the Beckham, where this was a regular and much-beloved feature. The masseurs of the Beckham were also, in general, the more select of the staff both in appearance and skills.