‘Oh,’ Kit breathed. ‘Oh, Lord …’ He couldn't seem to get any more words out, but he figured his dick was doing the talking for him. There it was, pointing straight out in front of him like a little kid going ‘Look-at-it, Mommy!’
‘I'm Sven. In case you were interested,’ Grey Sweats said teasingly.
‘You, uh, you look like a Sven,’ Kit managed. ‘The blond … hair.’ And Lord, didn't he just? Like a Viking about to rape and pillage. Kit was going all goose-bumpy at the thought.
‘And I'm Harry,’ Black Muscle Vest rumbled in Kit's ear, as a meaty hand fondled his ass.
‘Kit,’ Kit told them. ‘It's short for Christopher, but everyone calls me Kit. Guess it's because I'm small. Need a short name.’
‘You don't look small from where I'm standing,’ Sven murmured, appreciation in his voice.
Kit swallowed, as his dick did its damnedest to prove Sven right.
‘I think we need to see just how big he is, Harry,’ Sven said, coming towards them. ‘I think we need to take all his clothes off, and have a really good look.’
Kit felt his sweatpants being pushed over his hips along with his underwear, until his cock caught slightly on the elastic and then bobbed up as it was freed. He whimpered. Harry pushed the clothes all the way down to Kit's ankles and left them there, then pulled his T-shirt up and over his head. For a moment Kit wondered if Harry was going to leave that there too, leave him blinded as well as hog-tied, and he shuddered, but Harry pulled it right off and slung it on the low bench. Kit saw there was already a thick towel laid out on the bench, and he felt a deep thrill tingle up from his toes.
‘We've seen you watching us, Kit,’ Harry told him, beefy hands now moving up to pinch Kit's nipples, making his eyes water and his cock throb. ‘And we know what you've been thinking. Admit it, Kit. You're a dirty, dirty little boy, aren't you?’
‘I bet you've been dreaming of something like this, haven't you?’ Sven stepped up close until Kit felt like a thin slice of white bread between two hunks of beef, kind of like a sandwich in reverse. He whimpered at the sensations of those two cocks jabbing into him while Harry carried on twisting his nipples so hard Kit's toes curled.
‘I bet you'd love it if we just bent you over that bench and took turns fucking you raw, wouldn't you?’ Harry mused. ‘I bet you'd be screaming for more. Little sluts like you always want more.’
‘Oh, God! Yes, yes please …’ Kit felt his face grow red. He'd never behaved like this before. But Lord, he wanted to be their slut. Wanted them to take him and use him. And then use him some more. ‘Please …’ He tried to twist in Harry's grasp – Sven's cock was just inches from his own erection, jabbing into his hip, and he wanted to feel its heat against his own so, so much …
Sven stepped back, and Kit groaned in disappointment. ‘Not so fast, Kit. You've got a decision to make.’
‘I have?’
‘Yeah,’ Harry's voice buzzed in his ear. ‘See, one of us is going to have that tight little ass of yours, and the other one's going to take your mouth.’ As he spoke, he pushed down his black sweatpants. Kit moaned as a huge, thick cock sprang out, a mass of black wiry curls at its base. ‘So what's it going to be, Kit? White meat or dark?’
Kit shivered. ‘Dark,’ he whispered.
Harry smiled. ‘Good choice, Kit. Now get up on that bench.’
Kit kicked off his trainers and the clothes pooled around his ankles and scrambled to obey, kneeling down on the towel they'd left for him. His cock was so hard it hurt. He didn't dare touch it, though. What would they do to him if he touched himself? Mouth dry, Kit wondered if it might be worth finding out. Bracing himself on one arm, he reached slyly between his legs. Surely, Sven would have something to say about that.
Please let Sven have something to say about that.
Kit wasn't disappointed. He yelped as a big, hard hand slapped him painfully on the butt. ‘None of that,’ Sven growled. ‘That's our property now. Dirty little boys who touch our property without permission are asking to be punished.’ He rubbed his calloused hand roughly over Kit's still-stinging butt cheek.
‘I think he needs something to distract him,’ Harry commented. He moved forward to hold Kit's face between his hands. That enormous cock was just inches from Kit's nose, the musky, sweaty smell of it driving him wild, and his mouth dropped open automatically. ‘Hungry, are you?’ Harry laughed.
‘Please,’ Kit begged. He could have howled as Harry backed off a pace. But then he felt Sven kneading his butt cheeks, spreading them – and oh, Lord, that was his tongue, diving into Kit's ass and teasing his hole. Big hands gripped his hips, keeping them from moving as Sven's tongue flickered around Kit's entrance. Kit was horrified by the sounds he was making – wanton, needy sounds – as his whole body juddered, driven out of control by that slick, wet muscle. And when it speared inside him … if it hadn't been for those hands anchoring him like a vice, Kit would've leapt clean off the bench.
‘Like that, do you, Kit?’ Harry's voice seemed to come from far, far away. ‘Do you like how he's opening you up? Better hope he does a good job, Kit. Going to be his cock in a minute and it's going to split you in half.’
‘Please,’ Kit gasped again. He opened his eyes and looked up at Harry. From this angle, he was all cock, and damn, Kit wanted to feel that inside him. He mewled as Harry stepped forward and rubbed his erection against Kit's cheek.
‘I think he's ready for it,’ Kit heard Harry say, and suddenly that wonderful, dark cock was jabbing against his lips, forcing them to open. Behind him – oh, Lord! Gagged by Harry's thick, hot cock, Kit could barely moan as Sven's erection pierced his ass and just kept on going.
‘Fuck, that's good.’ Sven sounded strained, and not quite in control any more. Had Kit done that? A rush of pride flooded him from his gut right up to his throat.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Harry panted as he thrust in and out of Kit's willing lips. Kit felt transported, like he didn't belong to himself any more. These two men owned him, body and soul. He was their slave, and maybe it'd kill him but damn, he'd die happy.
‘Gonna come,’ Harry grunted, and almost as soon as the words penetrated his pleasure-fogged brain, Kit tasted Harry's come in his mouth, salty, warm and thick, pulse after pulse of it surging into him. He drank it down greedily, determined not to spill a drop.
When Harry's softening cock slipped out of Kit's mouth, he felt the loss like it'd been part of him. But Sven was still thrusting in and out of his ass, nailing his gland and making him see stars. Kit was barely aware of Harry manoeuvring himself on the bench until suddenly he felt the incredible sensation of cool lips around his heated, needy erection, and he yelped with the shock and the pleasure of it. It was all too much, and Kit howled as he climaxed, every thrust of Sven's cock inside him driving him deeper into Harry's throat. The big man kept on sucking until Kit was utterly drained, swallowing him down just as Kit had done for Harry.
Then Kit felt Sven pull out, leaving him empty and hollow inside, and a moment later hot come spattered over his back and butt. Marking him. Claiming him. Kit was theirs, totally and completely. For as long as they wanted him. And he hoped it'd be for more than one night but even if this was all he was going to have, Kit figured he had nothing to complain about.
He felt a rough towel wiping him down, and strong hands helped him off the bench.
Harry was smiling at him. ‘Dirty, dirty boy,’ he murmured. It sounded like an endearment. Kit felt himself flush. Lord, even after all they'd done he still couldn't look the man in the eye.
‘Do you need anything from your place?’ Sven asked as he threw Kit his shirt.
‘My place?’
‘We're taking you home with us,’ Sven told him in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘Dirty little boys like you aren't safe on their own.’
Kit yelped as Harry gave his ass a squeeze. ‘This is ours now, and that wicked, dirty mouth of yours. Wouldn't want anything bad to happen to them. So, do we need to stop off at your p
lace on the way?’
Kit struggled to make his brain work. He felt sated, and drained, and wonderful. He couldn't think of anything he needed right now. At least, nothing these two amazing men didn't already have about their person … ‘Yes. It won't take a minute.’
He'd just remembered where he'd put his strigil. And a whole bunch of bottles of oil.
The Kennel Club
by John Connor
Mickey Gulliver and I had been friends since our schooldays together, but once we had left university back in 1926 we seemed to go our own separate ways for several years. Best wills in the world, and all that, but almost everyone I know admits to having lost contact with classmates, as one does.
Mind you, Mickey had always been one of those reckless and daring, devil-may-care kind of guys. He was the sort who seemed to be willing and eager to experience anything and everything, and then often risk it all on the flip of a coin. Whereas I was what you would call the bookish studier – the scholar who was more usually to be found in the libraries or the lecture halls rather than in the city’s pubs and clubs.
He also seemed to have more than his fair share of luck at the time, because come the finals, he walked away with a First without even appearing to break into a sweat about it.
Whatever, we went our own sweet ways after graduation, and I found a very successful niche in mechanical theory and design. I became involved with several American construction companies and got into the hydro-electrical business which had become quite the fashion back then. Did quite well for myself, I have to admit, and what with the work and the travel not being conducive to class reunions, I had completely forgotten about Mickey.
That was until I finally met up with him again, in Paris, at the 1929 International Engineering and Business Convention. He was involved with some backers who were looking to invest heavily in South America and Southern Africa. Sort of following on behind Cecil Rhodes and sweeping up the financial rewards as they went. I remained sceptical in regard to the long term, but the more we chatted as we walked around the stands, the more I got to re-acquaint myself with him.
Come the end of the day, despite discovering we were still moving in the same social circles, I had discovered little which helped to dispel my original impressions, and a lot which served to re-enforce my old images of someone who lived life to the full, and far beyond in some cases.
When it came time to leave the Convention, he enquired as to where I was staying, suggesting that as an after dinner entertainment I would be more than welcome to join him at his club that evening.
To be honest, I wasn’t even slightly prepared for stepping out of an evening, let alone in one such as Paris, and so I had to send out for a more appropriate suit and tie.
At 9 p.m. precisely a taxi, apparently booked in advance by Mickey himself, arrived to collect me from my hotel, and a short drive later deposited me in an unfamiliar part of the Old Quarter. My French not being what it once was, I was hard pushed to ask the driver where we were, but after following the direction of his pointing finger, I could just about make out the dim light above a large oak and wrought iron door. Still, trusting Mickey not to see me wrong, I knocked, waited a moment, and was then ushered respectfully into what appeared to be a well-positioned Gentlemen’s Club.
I presented my card to the official by the door and moments later I was dutifully shown to Mickey’s private room. Although it appeared to be a touch on the small side it had an invitingly pleasant and cosy air to it, and had been done out in an eclectic mixture of old, late Victoriana dark, and the more modernistic latest from the Art Nouveau crowd. Two large leather and button club chairs were placed pointing towards a welcoming open fire, and along with what appeared to be a well-stocked drinks cabinet there were several occasional tables to hand at armchair height on which one could easily place a drinking glass, or make use of the heavy crystal ash retainers should you wish to partake of a cigar or two during the evening’s discourses.
Mickey was already enjoying an after dinner cheroot, and had thoughtfully loaded two cut glass brandy balloons with a very smooth and mature vintage. If nothing else, it certainly seemed that he had done very well for himself, despite his somewhat precarious financial lifestyle.
However, not having been forewarned beforehand I might add, it was to be on that particular evening when I had my first meeting with the curious character I came to know and call Rufus – Mickey’s “dog”.
It was not until much, much later that I found out more about Rufus, but back then he was a very handsome young man of around twenty-five, approximately five foot, six inches tall – although I will say now that I never actually saw him standing upright all the time I knew him. He was of an athletically slim build, but not the bone-skinny, waiflike appearance some were affecting, and his straw-blond hair had been cropped short in that Teutonic style which had somehow become strangely fashionable back then. There again, I distinctly remember never hearing him utter a word, so I could only guess his nationality from such things as his seemingly even, light brown tan, that there was possibly some Italian, or Spanish – or even South American blood to be found in his family line.
That particular evening, as was always the case on subsequent visits, he was dressed in an odd short-sleeved and short-legged one-piece garment of very fine, semi-translucent black silk. From the almost invisible seams it was easy to tell it had been designed and tailored by an obvious craftsman.
The opening at the front was finished off with a great number of small gold eyelets through which a long black ribbon had been worked. It was of such a design that it laced the garment from the neck, with the ribbon travelling all the way down and around the crotch, around the buttocks and stopping just above the very base of his spine. In many respects it reminded me of pictures I had seen of the Edwardian short style bathing costumes that had been the rage at the turn of the century. Only instead of being of a loose fitting nature, this silken version clung to his body like a second, shadowy, skin. The only other item of clothing he wore was a large leather dog collar.
In keeping with his role there was a water bowl and a food dish discreetly laid out to one side of the room, from which Rufus appeared to regularly take his meals, and again, looking back on it, I have to admit I never once saw him move around that clubroom on anything other than on all fours. At least not while I was with Mickey at the club. He really had become Mickey’s pet, and Mickey wasn’t shy in displaying him as and when he felt like it.
But on that first evening both Mickey and I were more intent on catching each other up with news, talking and reminiscing about mutual friends, how well they were doing – or not, as the case may be – which debutants had been recently presented – then moving deftly into little tid-bits of scandal, mainly from within my own circle of friends – those gentlemen who prefer the company of other, like-minded gentlemen, rather than the fairer sex …
It was around about then, during a slight pause in our conversations, that I noticed Mickey had been absently patting and petting Rufus. It consisted of nothing more than just casually stroking his head and gently rubbing a hand between his shoulder blades, but after a few moments I have to admit that I found such to be exceedingly erotic. And perhaps it was down to the brandy, the seemingly intimate privacy of the room, or probably a combination of all things, but I quickly discovered that John Thomas was erect and standing to attention, regardless of my efforts to keep him asleep whilst in polite company.
Then, so help me, Rufus rolled over onto his back and I nearly choked on my brandy at the sight of what looked like one of the largest flaccid penises I have seen, even to this day, laid out along his thigh and held in place by the almost transparent silk legging. His testicles were also of a comparable and impressive size as well. And when I finally looked back up at Mickey I saw he was readily grinning like the cat who had just had a saucer of cream!
Needless to say, from that point on the conversation moved onto the subject of Rufus, and how Mickey had disco
vered the unique club in the first place. It transpired that Rufus had been put up as collateral for a bad gambling debt by one of his fellow card school members, apparently just one of the many ways his previous owner had treated Rufus badly – even to the point of trying to get him castrated. Which was when Mickey stepped in and offered to exchange the IOUs and outstanding markers in return for becoming his new owner.
I know, by today’s standards, this kind of transaction may seem odd and arcanely barbaric, but at the time I had heard and also read reports from places such as Hamburg and Berlin, which recounted tales of far worse. Often in similar private clubs, and more often than not on stage, specifically for public consumption. Even to the point of actual public castration.
Thankfully, such was not allowed to happen to the young Rufus. In Mickey’s own words: ‘All that meat and no veg? Criminal, dear boy, just criminal!’
Yet, all the time this conversation was going on around him, Rufus appeared to take little or no interest – occasionally looking towards the speaker on hearing his name being mentioned, sometimes sitting up on his heels, sometimes moving on all fours to lap up water or to take a little food from the tray. Other than that he seemed to be genuinely disinterested.
However, try as I might, I couldn’t help but keep dwelling on him, becoming more and more sexually aroused by his movements, his looks, and my active imagination.
It was about then that Mickey noticed my now-very-obvious erection, and with a mischievous grin suddenly said, ‘Rufus, Uncle Charlie has a bone for you! Fetch it, boy! Fetch it!’
And without a pause the young man scampered up to me, parted my legs, and unbuttoned my fly with speed. With practiced ease he carefully removed my hard penis, then popped it into his mouth, clamping down on it with his lips while all the time licking and sucking on it. Believe me, in my already aroused state it took a lot of effort not to release myself there and then, I can tell you!
Boy Fun, Four Book Bundle Page 11