Fool S Contract

Saturday, 13 September 1902, New York City

"I do want to know how you came to this," Hamilton Chamberlain said. He'd laid the small pouch with the money on it on the table in the basement hideaway "gentleman's" club entered off an alley in the Chelsea section of New York City, but he didn't take his fingers off it. The room, with a stage at one end of it, was small, dimly lit, and smoky from a pall of cigar and cigarette smoke. The tables were also small, set to accommodate one man, facing the stage, with another chair to seat either a man the patron had brought with him or one of the performers coaxed down from the stage after his act.

"I don't want to take advantage of anyone being forced into this sort of life," Chamberlain continued. The young man, flamboyantly dressed and in stage makeup, who was sitting with him understood that the man did, indeed, want to hear the lurid facts of the young man's life and then to take advantage of him. He understood that knowing of his jaded past would add to the man's arousal.

Clayton Long looked down at the pouch. His fingers had gone to it immediately, so the tips of his fingers were touching the man's. The man's hands were rough, calloused. But the fingernails were expertly groomed. He was not afraid of work, but he was able to make a lot of money from the work he did.

The man was older than Clayton was, perhaps as many as fifteen years older, in his early forties. He was gray at the temples, but with a good head of black hair yet. He was tanned, as if he spent time out of doors, and he was muscular. He wasn't one to sit behind a desk all day. The grip of his hand on Clayton's was strong, but he was trembling a bit, either suffering from a tremor or excited in the moment. The man's ragged breathing indicated the latter.

He was elegantly dressed, dressed for the theater—for a nicer one than the club they were in where Clay had just been performing a magic act on the stage, using sleight of hand, rabbits, hats, inventive lighting and staging, and the willingness of the patrons to be fooled by what their eyes couldn't completely comprehend. Part of the distraction of his act was to perform bare-chested, just with suspenders above the waist. He was a particularly handsome and well-formed young man. It was the sort of club where the patrons' eyes—and all of the patrons were men—could be fooled into misconstruing what his hands were doing with tricks when his physique was so enticing. It was a time when even partial nudity aroused men.

Clayton performed alone, which distinguished his as one of the more refined acts—and, with the magic included, as one of the more legitimate, substantive acts. Some acts, like the one on stage now, giving Clayton and Chamberlain privacy in their conversation because most of the attention in the room was directed to the stage, included two men. The two men there now, one small and delicate of stature and one a regular gorilla, were challenging the question of just how far they would go with each other sexually and in terms of physical testing before ending their act.

The man's suit was some sort of raw silk that flowed on his well-formed, if a bit well-fed frame. The starched shirt was pristine white, the cravat of an even finer silk than the suit. A beaver-pelt top hat reclined on top of two white gloves on the table, which supported two glasses of wine that Clay could attest was the best the club had to offer. The man wasn't out of step with the rest of male clientele here. The facilities might be a bit on the shabby side, more evident when the gas lights were set up, and the bulk of the acts principally on the racy side, but the fees were steep for what a man could enjoy here. And considering that the pleasures to be had here were all male, privacy was at a premium. It was a time of repression in society, not public hedonism.

Clay had been raised with money too; he knew good wine when he tasted it, although he hadn't tasted much of it in recent years, since he had returned from his year abroad, which had spun out to two years and had included a different education than his parents had thought he was getting—or would have thought if they hadn't lost the well to care what choices Clay was making anymore.

"No, I'm not being forced into engaging with you at all, nor do I depend on it," Clay answered. "I enjoyed meeting you at Lawrence's after-theater party. He told me that you spoke to him of me and that I would find you a bit of fun. I did enjoy your conversation that night and was attracted to the look of you. I am meeting with you quite willingly and with interest."

Yes, he had been forced that first time. Told not to go riding with that German baron in Bavaria when he went home, to the ancestral castle, with the student he'd met at Heidelberg that year after college. He'd been told the German noble was less than noble—and arrogant and took what he wanted. In the forest, the baron had pulled him off his horse and taken what he wanted—again and again.

Clayton had been a fool to go riding with the baron, after being told what the looks the man gave him meant. But Clay hadn't been able to say he had regretted it. He knew he was inclined toward men and had been determined to include exploration of that in his year abroad. He just had not been in control of where, when, and how he was introduced to it. The baron had been brutal, but he had answered the question of what Clayton wanted in the way of sexual preference. Rather than running away, Clayton had extended his stay at the castle—until the baron had tired of him and moved on to another young man—and had moved on with an extensive education of how to lay with a man.

"But you don't want to hear about my first time with a man," Clay said. He said it teasingly because he had already discerned that the man, indeed, wanted to hear the salacious details of Clay undoing.

"Ah, but I do," Hamilton said, his eyes flashing, the tip of his tongue flicking at the curve of his lower lip. "I believe you will agree that I have placed a generous amount in this pouch. I would very much like to hear about your first time." He moved his hand over on top of Clay's and squeezed it. "Was there much seduction? Was he handsome? Was he an expert with it?"

He was crude, Clay thought. He pulled me off the horse, punched me in the face and stomach, taking me by surprise and in shock. He was on top of me on the ground and inside me before I could react. He was ugly and fat, but he was a soldier and a baron. And he was an expert at it. He was inside me with little need of disrobing and he was swift and brutal. And then he was swift and brutal again. I was told I was a fool to have gone riding with him alone.

"Yes, he was handsome—or, rather, they were handsome," Clay said, turning a smile on Hamilton, whose hand holding his was trembling from excitement and arousal. The man obviously wanted a storybook rendering. "I found myself a student for a short term in Heidelberg. It's a school and city famous for beer halls and living large. I went there with members of the school's fencing team. Yes, they were all handsome, and they held their beer a lot better than I did, and they were expert swordsmen. I don't know how many young German students I lay under that night, but they covered me one after the other."

The man sat back in his chair then, looking at Clay from under hooded eyes, clearly aroused. He'd taken his hand off the money pouch, and Clay had full possession of it, but he didn't take it off the table top. They both understood that the transaction wasn't settled until he did. The man's hand was withdrawn to under the top of the table, and Clay was sure he knew where it had gone. If the man had wanted to touch and fondle Clay, the young man would have let him do so. But so far the man was too timid to go beyond touching himself.

"And Heidelberg. Is that where you learned to do magic?" His breathing was ragged. He obviously was trying to cool down.

"No, I learned that from another magician. Someone I served with—and under. Perhaps you know him. Mark Stewart."

"Marco the Great?" Hamilton asked, surprised. "Why, he is much older than you are."

"Yes, he is," Clay answered. "I like older men." Hamilton gave a little smile. The note of acceptance of older men wasn't lost on him.

"He is touring the South now, I believe. Is that where—?" The man obviously wanted the story of Marco the Great laying Clayton as well.

"No, we met in Tangier. We did a magic act together. And then in Rome. They are a lot less inhibited in the Mediterranean than the theaters on this side of the Atlantic are."

"You mean?"

"Yes. We performed for men, doing magic but also having sex on stage. What you have seen here on stage tonight—what is being performed on stage now—is tame compared to what Marco the Great—and Marco is great in interesting ways—and I have done abroad. You have no idea how easy it is to fool patrons with magic when one of the magicians is folded over the other in the position of the dog and moving his hips in rhythm."

The man was shuddering. He reached out with a hand and placed it on Clay's bare breast. He rubbed one of the young man's nipples with a thumb. "But you are no longer with Marco?"

"I am ever with Marco when he wants me. He is cruel and demanding. He gives me no choice. We have a contract that gives him whatever he wants or it will go badly with me. I don't like going with a man on that basis. I hate Marco. I don't know what I'd do if I saw him again. If he is in the South now, he couldn't be any farther away to please me."

"Lawrence—at whose party we met. Does he . . . does he?"

"I lie down for Lawrence because I want to. He attracts me. He likes to lie on his back with me riding him. Lawrence has a thick cock."

The man licked his lips and looked utterly smitten. "You sound like a young man of much experience."

"I have been through Europe and the Middle East. I can give myself to a man in positions most men have never dreamed of."

"It must be—"

"It is a fool's talent," Clay said. "But it's the talent I've been given."

"Ah to be young and foolish again," Hamilton said somewhat wistfully.

"One can feel young and be foolish for a short time at any age," Clay said. "What is life for if not to bring such pleasure as you can grasp—for the time you have to enjoy it?"

Hamilton took his hand away from Clay's chest and moved it down to his crotch again. He started to say something and then stopped. But it had to be said, so he cleared his voice and said, "And me?"

"I find you attractive," Clay said. "I have told you that already. If I didn't I wouldn't be here with you." He need say no more, and Hamilton watched the young man take up the pouch of money and slip it into his side pocket, giving no more than an appreciative sigh.

"I will go backstage and don my shirt and coat," Clay said, rising.

"I have a Hansom carriage waiting for us outside. I will take you in the Hansom."

"Where will you take me? I have made no arrangements for tonight."

"That is not what I meant—I was not speaking of a destination, but of an arrangement, the fulfillment of an encounter."

"Ah," Clay said with a little smile. "Yes, I understand."

"And . . .?"

"Whatever you wish. I have no place I need to be tonight."

"I have," Hamilton said. "My residential town hotel isn't far. My wife knows I'll not be home tonight. We can be there together—as long as we wish."

"Your residential hotel?"

"The Pierrepont on West 32nd Street. Twelve stories. A bachelor's hotel. I have two rooms and a bath there."

"Ah, a skyscraper. Steel, like the new Flatiron building that's nearly complete."

"Yes. That's what I do. I'm in steel," Hamilton answered.

And that means I will give you a very good time, Clay thought. The man wasn't just attractive and well-heeled; he was exuded self-confidence and made Clay feel safe

"And the encounter in the Hansom when there is a hotel suite awaiting us?"

"Call it personal fantasy. Do you object?"

"No, not at all," Clay answered, with a smile.

The good time started in Hansom on the way to the Pierrepont—or rather during the several turns around Central Park after the two kissed in the cab and Clay unbuttoned the fly of Hamilton's silk suit to find him, not unexpectedly, in erection. Hamilton thumped on the roof of the cab what must have been a prearranged signal to the Hansom driver in back and above the cab to make the progression to the nearby Pierrepont a lengthy one—long enough for a climax.

Shucking his coat, not having bothered to put a shirt on, Clay bent over Hamilton's lap and took the older man's erection in his mouth. He could tell this had to be brief for the anxious man to keep himself in check, though, and it wasn't long before Clay was unbuttoned and freed, and Hamilton was bent over his lap return the favor of giving head.

There was a short session of Hamilton pushing the suspenders off Clay's torso and kissing every square inch of the young man's chest and then Clay, naked, was sitting on Hamilton's lap, facing him, with Hamilton still nearly fully dressed, but with his cock penetrating deep up Clay's passage, and the young man bouncing on the shaft to Hamilton's second ejaculation.

The evening was already a success for the steel magnate. It had been years since he had come twice in such quick succession, although given an hour's recovery time, he was able, even at his age, to be ready to go again. He had every intention of getting more sex than sleep time that night. Clayton Long was a sexy little piece—and so responsive to Hamilton's fantasies. The lad had put his European and Moroccan education to good use.

* * * *

14 September 1902, Pierrepont Hotel, New York City

Clay pulled the pillow from under the small of his back and moved it over to the other side of the bed in Hamilton Chamberlain's Pierrepont Hotel suite bedroom, where Hamilton had been sleeping before waking, rolling over on top of Clay, forcing the thickest cock Clay had ever taken inside him, and pounding the young man to groaning and glorious submission for the second time since they retired to the bed. Who would have known that a man of the steel magnate's age and girth could master him that well, Clay wondered. They clearly were both very pleased with what they'd been able to bring out of each other.

Clay sighed, unexpectedly full satisfied, and turned his head to watch the man in the bathroom, shaving his neck and cheeks, preserving his trim beard and mustache. He had his trousers on, with his suspenders drooping at his sides, but he was bare-chested. His waist was thick, but he wasn't as weighty as Clay had assessed him to be at the Chelsea club, and his muscles were hard. Hamilton was a hands-on businessman, obviously willing and capable to work beside his men on site.

The man had certainly also proven the night before that he had the strength to get his way when he wanted to. Clay had struggled in his embrace, taxed heavily by the thickness of him, but all of his struggling had been to no avail. The man had held him tight until he'd fully possessed the young man, and Clay had surrendered to him, lying docilely in the man's embrace as Hamilton pumped him mercilessly. Hamilton had taken what he wanted, but he had the sensitivity to query Clay afterward if he'd gone too far. He clearly was pleased when Clay said he'd gotten all that he could have hoped to have gotten—and would get again—and that being overwhelmed was highly arousing for him.

"Come back to bed, Mr. Chamberlain," Clay murmured.

Chamberlain turned his face, smiled at him, and said, "Liked that, did you?"

"Yes, sir . . . very much," Clay responded. He made a move to unbend and unspread his legs, groaning at how numb they were from being in spread position for so long with the heaviness of Hamilton's thrusting—and then dozing—body between them, but considering the prospect that the man would come back to the bed and fuck him again, Clay just left them in position. He reached down and grasped and began stroking his cock, a maneuver that wasn't lost on Hamilton's gaze.

"I have meetings to attend to this morning," Hamilton said. "We just have time for breakfast. I've put in an order. I think we can dispense with the formalities. Once I've been inside a man and seeded him, I feel we can be on first name basis. Please, call me Ham and no more of the 'sir' business. And I will call you Clay."

"Yes, sir . . . Ham," Clay said. They both laughed. "I can't drop the 'sir' for someone who has mastered me like you have."

"With all your experience? I did enjoy your display of experience, incidentally. The rippling of the muscles of your passage walls was a sheer delight."

"Come to bed and I'll give you another demonstration. By saying you'll call me Clay, I hope you mean you'll be calling me again—that this isn't the end of our relationship."

Chamberlain looked at him and smiled. "What do you think?" he murmured. He carefully put the razor down on the edge of the sink and wiped the cream of the shaving lotion off his face. He seemed to be about to make a move back to the bed, but they both heard the heavy wrap on the door to the adjacent sitting room door to the corridor.

"It's the breakfast arriving," Hamilton said. "He'll bring it in and set it out."

"The coffee?" Clay asked.

". . . is in a pot that will keep it hot for some time."

"I hope for enough time, for the time we'll need," Clay said. "Come over to the bed, Ham . . . sir . . . master."

Clay sat on the side of the bed, Hamilton's legs between his knees, as the older man stood there, guiding Clay's head with his hands and Clay unbuttoned Hamilton's trousers; freed the man's thick, erect cock; and gave him expert head. After several moments, Hamilton pressed Clay's torso back onto the sheets, grasped and wishboned the young man's legs, drove deep inside him, and fucked him hard and fast to an ejaculation, as Clay stretched out his arms in a position of total surrender, bunched sheeting in his fists, arched his back, and let the older man know he was a master of the fuck.

Clay cried out as Hamilton dug deeper. "Am I hurting you?" the older man queried.

"No. Yes. Please don't stop."

Hamilton didn't stop. Five times, he thought. No, this definitely would not be the last time he called on this young man.

* * * *

Clay had just a towel wrapped around his midsection, with Hamilton fully dressed in a business suit, with vest, as they sat at a table set for two in the sitting room of Hamilton's Pierrepont Hotel residential suite. Clay had said he would dress before they ate and Hamilton had responded, "No. I want see you move with little on."

The waiter was gone by the time Clay got out of the shower. Somehow, the servant had kept the breakfast hot through the unexpected fuck session that had only started when the waiter had arrived in the other room. Hamilton's habits must have been well known and the hotel staff must have been admirably discreet. The sounds of male-male sex must have been easily discernible from the other room while the waiter was setting the breakfast up. Clay was experienced but Hamilton was thick enough to tax him.

As they were eating, Hamilton took a key from his pocket and laid it down on the table beside Clay's hand.

"What is that for?" Clay asked.

"If you wish to be here when I return this evening, you may take a key to this room. If not, I will go home to Long Island tonight. My wife won't care which I do."

"The hotel . . .?"

". . . will be discrete and accommodating, as always."

"Do you want me to be here when you come back tonight?"

"For tonight, yes. I don't want to pin you down, though. We can set up a schedule for when we meet . . . if you find the conditions acceptable."