Fetish Galore

I had been banished. My wife would be joining me in a couple of months, but I was sent ahead—banished from New York—for my transgressions. April's father had known I was bi before he bought me for her daughter—and he also knew how I made my living, because he had been paying April's bills. But I suppose he assumed I would put all of that behind me when we were married. Look as I could, though, I couldn't find that clause in the prenuptial agreement. And the prenup had been voluminous, I can tell you.

I think he was surprised that April still wanted me after what happened in New York. But I was better looking and smarter than she was, so I guess she still considered me something she wanted on her arm and pulling her chair from the table for her and carrying her handbag on command, and smiling dreamily at her whenever and forever when she wanted to impress someone. She also considered me the perfect fit. The small, forever-young couple. She was barely five foot, and I came in only at five-four, and just as she would forever look like a teenager, I was likely to look barely nineteen and not yet having my age spurt well into my thirties. We both must have been graced with Fountain of Youth genes. In my case, women and men were willing to pay extra for the sensation that they were plucking the baby from the cradle for the first time. And I was good at making it seem to be the first time.

April must have also liked the first-time sensation, as she wasn't willing to let me go no matter what her father had caught me doing. That being the case, there wasn't much else Fred could do but get us out of town for a while—mainly me. He couldn't make too big of a stink about it. The guy who was fucking me and had bought me that Jaguar was farther up the feeding chain at Vado U.S. Pharmaceuticals than Fred was.

The pharmaceutical company president had been sniffing around me even before I met April. Indeed, it was at a party of his that I had first met Fred's daughter. The company president liked to role play. He paid ahead and I was sent to perch on a seat in the bar of a fancy Manhattan hotel until he showed up and sat down the bar from me and acted like each time was the first time. He'd notice me—for the first time—and would start with sending a drink my way and then making eye contact when I looked around to see who my benefactor was. And then the dance of seduction, as he conveyed in his eyes what he wanted and I pretended not to understand at first and then to blush. Sometimes he took it so slow that I had to politely ward off another suitor before the Vado U.S. president got around to sliding into the seat beside me and whispering what he wanted in my ear and how much he was willing to pay—which was above what the escort service was charging him so there was always a generous tip in it for me.

I would pretend that I wasn't "that sort" of person, but he would wear me down with sweet talk. I'd tell him he was handsome—which he wasn't; he was ugly as sin and slightly overweight, but he had a cock to die for—a girth that even I could feel, because, although I was slight of stature—while being quite well-muscled proportionately—I had developed a hole and channel that could take a military missile upon demand. Few men singularly tested that hole, so I usually had to put on a good act while being taken. But with the pharmaceutical company president I didn't have to pretend my channel was being taxed.

When I had demurely given in to his seduction, he took me for a ride around the city in the back of his limousine. I would strip down to the red brassiere and sheer panties he had specified beforehand as soon as we entered the backseat and the limo door clicked shut—while he stripped off his trousers and briefs as well, and, as always, I gasped at the size of him and gave a low moan. I would have done this for the client anyway, but in his case each time it was a revelation.

He would lean over and wrap an arm around my shoulder to hold me tight and, with a tube of ruby-red lipstick, he'd generously slather my lips. Then I went down on my knees between his spread legs and left as much of the red from the lipstick covering his cock while, jaws unhinged, I gave him a languid blow job—to the point where he was ready to explode. And then he'd lift my small body up from the floor of the car, rip at the sheer panties until they gave way, and take me into his lap—always facing away from him—and slowly lower my channel on his blunderbuss of a dick. He would come almost immediately, but then he held me there, his hands covering my nipples underneath the cups of the bra, and I would rise and fall on his cock while he murmured the name of some woman in the small of my back until I brought him back to life for a second coming.

Sometime thereafter—when we had both readjusted our clothing, I was delivered back to the hotel where he had "met" me. Each encounter started at a different hotel.

As time went on and he got bored with this, he wanted to do it right there in the hotel bar lounges. I'd meet him at the bar and we'd go through the preliminary ritual but rather than going somewhere in his limousine, he'd guide me to an already-booked table back in the shadows of the lounge and I'd go under the table and suck him off while bar life went on around us. Then there were the nights he'd call me on the telephone and I had to make him get off just by talking to him over the telephone.

The first time I met April was at an office Christmas party the Vado U.S. president held in his lavish Manhattan penthouse. I had been hired for the little party he was having afterward for a few very select male friends. The earlier segment of the party was all noise and clinking glasses and women checking out what other women had worn, and talk of the Hamptons and Paris in the spring.

I had gone out to the terrace because I found the crowd oppressive, when a young woman, smaller than I was, which was a surprise, came up beside me where I was standing at the railing and looking down into the bustling world of the city.

"I can't take the crowd, either," she said. She bordered on pretty, but only because she had the best of help money could buy to make her so. Her body was in good shape, though.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"You came out because you found all of that oppressive. Bulky people towering over you and pushing you underfoot. Or did I misjudge?"

"No. That's right, I guess. Right on, actually."

"Same with me. I feel like I'm going to be swallowed up. It will improve within a half hour. Most of them just came to check in and mark off their presence. This is an office party. The room will thin out soon. Do you work for Vado U.S.?"

I honestly was able to say yes, as the Vado U.S. president had put me on the payroll. I had no idea which branch I supposedly worked in or what my job supposedly was there—but I did have an office. As far as I could tell, though, I only had an office to give the president a break in his day. It would start with either phone or cyber sex—him contacting me in my office. My job—my only job for the company as far as I could determine—was to get him so worked up over the phone or on the Internet that he'd either show up in my office for a fuck or summon me to his office.

"I don't," April said. "My dad does. Fred. Fred Tipton. He's one of the national vice presidents."

She could see that this made no impression on me, which actually seemed to please her.

"Say, I have an extra ticket for the theater after this and no one to go with. I don't remember the name of the play, but if—"

"Sorry. I'm booked tonight. And—"

"Booked?" she asked. "That's a rather strange way to talk about a date or appointment."

"I'm a male escort. I do it for the money. Booked is how we phrase it." She was a nice little piece, but I saw no reason to be coy about it.

"Oh, I see," she said in a halting voice. There were several moments of silence as we both watched the sun going down over the New York skyline and tuned our ears to the volume level of the party beginning to wind down inside. At length though, she asked in a small voice, "And what do you do as an escort?"

"Anything the client wants—as long as they have the money to pay for it," I said.

"Do you have a card you can give me?"

And thus it started with April.

Later, after all of the guests, including April, had gone other than a half dozen older, obviously well-heeled men, the Vado U.S. president suggested that it was time that we withdrew to the billiards room for some more serious partying. The room was a large interior one, with a huge skylight. There was a bar at one end of the room, complete with bartender, a blond hunk who gave me the eye as soon as we entered. The carpeting was some sort of wild paisley print, the walls were lined with low bookcases, with pool cue racks on the walls relieved by blown up and framed black and white Mapplethorpe art photographs of young nude men in various provocative poses. Two pool tables were well spaced in the center of the room. There were club chairs around a large, square coffee table off to one side, where the men first sat as cigars were offered around. I wasn't offered a cigar—and neither was the bartender.

The bartender was told to put some music on, and I was told to dance on the coffee table and slowly strip as the six men, all in tuxedos, and all with their flies open, their cocks out, and their hands busy, sat around and watched me slow dance and strip. The bra and panties I was wearing were black and lacey. When I was down to those, the Vado U.S. president told me to lie on my back on the table in front of him and spread my black-silk-stocking clad legs. He leaned over into me and ripped the crotch of the black panties open and slowly fucked me with the moistened end of his cigar while, at his invitation, the two men on either side of him each slowly rolled the stockings off my legs and licked my feet and sucked on my toes.

When the pharmaceutical company president became bored with this—and sufficiently aroused—he lifted me off the table, turned me, and set me down on his cock. I fucked myself on his cock, rising and lowering my channel by leveraging the balls of my now-bare feet off the thick paisley carpet, as the other men sat, bug eyed and hands busy with their cigars and their own cocks, and watched the Vado U.S. president get off.

Shortly thereafter, the room now in a blue haze of cigar smoke, I found out that one of the pool tables was for me and the other ones was for those guests of the company president who took breaks between fucking me on the pool table to play billiards on the other table. To the titillation of his guests, the company president had initiated my gangbang taking on the pool table by mining my channel with the end of a pool cue.

I thought maybe the guys had overdone it with the smoke late in the evening when a door was flung open and a couple of burly firemen stormed it—but it turned out only to be the company president's idea of a perfect ending to the evening. The firemen did a strip of the president's guests and then serviced or were serviced at the guest's option as the company president sat and puffed on his cigar and grinned.

I went home that night with the blond hunk of a bartender—having said I'd be happy to give him a massage after his tough day when he complained about how tough bartending was. At his apartment he got his massage, but this worked its way in my earning all of the tip money he'd made that evening by accommodating his interest in mammoth cock dildos and a change of progressively larger butt balls. Like most before him, he was amazed and aroused by how much the channel of someone with such a small stature could take.

After that evening of fetish debauchery and meeting April, she engaged my services often. She got some great tickets to events and she turned out to be a pleasant, undemanding, straightforward fuck.

But I was more into what the Vado U.S. president devised and was willing to pay for. Our liaisons continued after April's father had bought me for her and we were married—and after I was given an actual job title in the pharmaceutical company office, but, thankfully, not with any additional job responsibilities to speak of—other than to have the right wardrobe in a lower desk drawer, to always be ready to perform on the telephone or Internet, to be prepared to work late evening on demand, and to know how to get to the back staircase up to the company president's office—except when he decided to slum and take me on the desk in my own office.

It was here one evening that Fred Tipton walked into the president's office unexpected and unannounced and found me in a silky slip, lying on my back on the company president's desk, with him standing between my legs and holding one stockinged leg up with a hand, while he was using the other one to help guide his dick deeper into my channel. Tipton hadn't said anything; he'd just turned and walked back out of the office. I don't think the company president even knew he'd been there. But I saw him. And I heard from him the next morning. But there wasn't much else he could do—other than arrange my transfer to the Puerto Rico office—which is what he did. And he wrote a large enough check, that I didn't balk. I have no idea when the Vado U.S. president heard I was no longer in the New York office—or if he made any attempt to learn where I had gone.

It would have been OK with me if April had dumped me. The prenup gave me a good bonus regardless. And the "bigger company president" was ready to take me in—or so he'd said. Of course, no one ever knows such things for sure until they are tested, does one? And he was bigger in every way that meant anything to me just then—a bigger bank account and a really big dick—and he knew what to do with both. I liked April well enough, though, so marriage to her had suited me fine too. I had said yes to April's proposal because I knew I only had a few more good years. A male escort in New York—one available to either sex—only had eight or nine good years. By the time we hit thirty, we're really only good for the women. And that's not my style. I'd already found out that it was men who liked the thought of taking a smaller, underage-looking man more than women did. That was where the big money was.

Getting banished to Puerto Rico was enough to give me second thoughts on the march of time and my future prospects and made me willing to consider going cold turkey on men altogether. If that's what it would take to be able to continue to live the comfortable lifestyle I had.

And that's why I found myself in San Juan as third vice president of the Vado U.S. office there.

* * * *

My banishment to Puerto Rico all happened so fast—too fast for the office branch in San Juan too. They didn't have any place to put me when I arrived from New York. And my position was so important that they refused to let me in the company branch until they had carved out a suitable office space.

So, the very day I arrived, the president of the Vado U.S. San Juan branch came to my hotel, all apologetic, and handed me a nice check and suggested that I disappear for a week and arrive all over again when they were prepared to give me a proper welcome.

There was no embarrassment over the check. I was used to being taken care of. There was slight embarrassment that he didn't seem to want any services for what he was giving. He was British, maybe in his late fifties, all tanned and lean and a full head of white hair. He'd come in his tennis togs and he moved around the room on the pads of his feet like a conditioned athletic. I found him attractive. I found older men more attractive than younger, as long as they were in good shape—powerful men both in presence and stamina. And experienced men. I liked to learn new tricks, to experience the unusual things that turned experienced men on—their fetishes. So, normally I wouldn't mind taking this man on for a couple of rounds—especially as he was handing out checks.

But he made no suggestions—didn't make a move. And I would have bet that he knew exactly why I had been sent down there so quick-quick. I was prepared to try out my new-found determination to save it all for April—or at least for a woman. But he didn't test my resolve. For some reason I felt deflated. I wouldn't have done it really. But I would have liked for it to be my choice not to have done it.

I cashed the check and consulted the concierge at the El San Juan Hotel on where someone could disappear on the island for a quiet, but pampered week of incognito. He suggested a small resort hotel high in the hills above the city, and within hours I was being taken in a hotel car up into the mountains.

The hotel car left me at the entrance of the Sao Paulo resort, and roared right off again, with the instruction to come back and pick me up in exactly a week. It had all happened so fast that I didn't even have any contact numbers with me down in the capital.

I was all alone—and out of sight and mind—for a week.

I did a three-sixty at the entrance, taking in both how beautiful it was, with its lush vegetation and its view, from the entrance down into San Juan and out into the surrounding Caribbean. Surprisingly the hotel seemed deserted. There wasn't a soul around—not even a porter to carry my bags in. So, I hefted them up myself and sauntered into the entrance and up to the reception desk.

The hotel was plush inside, but, as I had found outside, it was deserted. There was no one at the reception desk even. I put my suitcases down and did a circuit of the entry lounge. At the other side of a two-story open space, surrounded on three sides by a balcony, was a large expanse of glass overlooking one of those "disappearing pools," where the far rim of the pool was below the water level and spilled water down an escarpment into a recirculating basin, making the pool look like it was pouring its water on San Juan at the foot of the mountain.

As I passed by a stone-cold open fire pit in the center of the lounge, I heard the clinking of ice in a glass and looked under the balcony to my right to see that I wasn't really alone. A bar was tucked under the balcony and a lone man was perched on a bar stool and was nursing a glass of liquor. He was a near twin of the Vado U.S. branch president down in San Juan. Well-muscled and trim but white-haired and maybe in his fifties. Movie-star handsome and deeply tanned. He was in shorts and stripped to the waist. His chest and arms and legs were nearly matted with curly salt-and-pepper-colored hair. I liked a man with fur. The gray was only slowly working its way down his body, and I immediately found myself wondering what color his pubes were. And if he were cut or uncut. I preferred the feel of an uncut cock inside me. And I preferred bareback, which was often possible with the class of men I serviced. They regularly got checkups and expected medical verification of any male escort they were assigned.

I surmised he was a European by his bearing, but more French or Italian than English was my guess.

He smiled at me and tipped his glass in my direction, and I just nodded and moved on, although I felt myself becoming aroused. I hadn't been fucked by a man in almost two weeks and my resolve was beginning to crumble.

I went back to the desk, and after a minute or two, the man from the bar padded out and went behind the desk. He was very well muscled indeed. In great shape for his age.

"Yes, may I help you?" he asked. The smile he flashed me was all white teeth and interesting and it seemed interested. The accent was English. So much for my powers to discern one European from another. At least I had been able to gather that he wasn't American. Just too suave and self-assured for that.

"I'm checking in. The name is Cameron, Ty Cameron."