Lodge at Lae Tecumseh

The Lodge at Lake Tecumseh

This story is entirely fictional. The Lodge and the lake on which it sits do not exist. Any resemblance of any character to a real person is unintended and coincidental. It is my understanding that the working conditions described have improved in recent years. All characters are over 18--as should be any reader as may be required by local law. Copyright 2023, all rights reserved. BD

The sun had yet to rise above the horizon, even though Sean's cubicle window was high in the building and the window faced east across a broad lake. Sean was restless and couldn't sleep. He had arrived only yesterday from Dublin and so was jet-lagged and ready to go at only 5 a.m. He rose from the thin-mattressed twin cot and, wrapped only in a threadbare towel, headed for the communal bath he shared on that floor with a dozen other guys who had signed on as busboys and waiters at the exclusive New Hampshire summer resort.

Each year the hotel recruited three to four dozen from Ireland and, in recent years, the Balkans to help staff the dining rooms. The formal dining facilities were one of the attractions of the old shingle-style, wooden Victorian resort monstrosity that dominated the west side of Lake Tecumseh. (The lake was better known to the summer staff as Lake Cum--since it's shoreline had hosted most of the staff sexual activity for years.)

Locals from the nearby towns also worked at the Lodge, but most had cars and did not board for the summer. (Many locals, however, did laugh at the exaggerated "citified" and stratified manners of their New York and New England guests. And of course, the very name of the lake and the lodge were a secret joke: Chief Tecumseh had been born well south in the Delaware Valley and ultimately made his name in Oklahoma resisting Yankee expansion into native lands. It is doubtful that he or his people ever set foot in New Hampshire. Who the hell had decided to name a New Hampshire lake after a Delaware Shawnee Native American? Surely it was a joke.)

There were an equivalent number of young ladies--mostly chambermaids, housed in the first two floors of the same old structure. Sean thought he was lucky to be on the top floor (nicknamed sarcastically, the penthouse) with a view of the lake--but he would soon realize that the lack of air conditioning in the staff quarters made top floor spaces, particularly those just under the ill-insulated roof, much less desirable as the temperatures rose. In addition, there were no elevators and the water pressure of the tepid water in the communal showers was almost non-existent on the top floor. Each resident had a twin bed, an end table with a lamp, and a hard chair, set in a small "room"--with no wall to the interior, only eye-height side walls filled with wardrobes and chests. Thus, there was no real privacy. The first floor of the building housed the common spaces: sitting and TV rooms with old upholstered furniture left over from previous remodelings of the "luxury" hotel. Fortunately, many spent nights in the Lodge, "guests" of the guests.

With half-shut eyes, Sean wandered into the bath and noted he wasn't alone in his wakefulness. Two naked guys were at the urinals. Two others were trying out the gang shower. So much for towels. I guess it would be mostly nudity this summer. Fortunately, with three brothers and several years of sports in ancient English-style schools, nudity was neither unusual nor disturbing to him. He splashed water on his face and realized that sleep was not going to happen for the rest of that night. He might just as well clean up, dress and look around before the mandatory 6:30 a.m. orientation.

Uniforms were prescribed once anyone (male or female) was outside the main door of the dorm: dark forest green knit shorts, forest green stretch belts, white tennis sneakers, with mandatory white sox, and white logo-ed polos--until 4; long sleeve white button up shirts, green bow ties, and forest green slacks with black tennis shoes and of course black sox thereafter. Each summer employee was given two of each uniform piece, which were maintained by the hotel laundry-- replacements were expensive and at the cost of the employee. He dressed carefully noting that the clothes were close-fitting and revealing, slicked his (mandatory) short hair (carrot red of course) and closely shaved his freckled cheeks and neck.

Sean was one of the older student-staff members. He had started school late and so was already 21. His parents owned a small pub where he had worked for years, so he also qualified as "experienced" and was designated as waiter (with an hourly wage of $1.90 instead of $1.75).

Sean planned to return to Trinity College, Dublin, in September to enroll in his first year. He needed this job and this money to survive--even though Trinity tuition was very modest by American standards--at least for Irish resident-citizens. Sean spoke with a charming brogue. His dark green eyes flashed with each wide smile. He was broad shouldered and flat-bellied, tall and flawlessly polite. In short, he was every Celtic-descent mother's dream for her daughter--albeit a few years too young, perhaps with much less money, and at least one degree short. For many of the Boston patrons of the hotel, his Catholicism was a big plus. Give him another few years and a little success, and every matronly patron of the Lodge would consider him marriage material. For now, he was a cub, and in training--perhaps the target for a cougar--or a lion.

He had been hired on for twelve weeks--one day off every other week--not the same day each time--and the off-day might be forfeit toward the end of the summer as staff dwindled and the guest population did not. He was expected to work breakfast, lunch and dinner, with about one-two hours between each shift--essentially 6:45 to 9:15. The only saving grace: the Lodge provided entertainment (typical touring summer resort stuff, occasionally peppered with amateur nights provided by staff: cheap comics, has-ben sopranos, and dance bands), each night at 9--so the dining room tended to empty shortly before.

State law limited each day to 12 hours (without overtime and at the waiters' minimum wage), and therefore tips were vital. The Lodge did not charge its staff for room and board as some did. But it did charge its guests a 25% "resort fee"--in which the waiters who worked until the last day of the summer shared--or at least to the extent of three percent. Cash tips were important--and they tended to be small since the guests assumed the exorbitant resort fee covered meal tips (which it really didn't). If Sean worked the whole summer, his compensation including his share of the resort fee tip would be about $2000 after taxes and before expenses.

Sean didn't know anyone, had never traveled outside Ireland before, and he was gay--but locked securely in the closet, at least for this summer. He had had a little experience in Ireland, but had not left a regular partner behind. Liaisons among staff were expected; liaisons with guests were tolerated. So Sean would need to tread carefully so as not to seem aloof, or, God-forbid, gay, if he refrained from sex with other (female) staff. He was expecting a long, solo summer of hard work. Even finding a convenient and private place to jerk would be difficult. He just hoped that he wouldn't be placed in an impossible social situation. He was going to be on a tightrope--because he was attractive--extremely so for most young ladies (and men of a certain persuasion). He was of age (and thus fair prey), and naturally garrulous and a comedian. He was going to need to completely hide his typical persona, he thought. But, when work began he quickly had to revise his expectations. Sex was indeed going to be part of his summer job. It (he) was apparently implicitly "on offer" at the resort.

The orientation was as expected: a lot of shit, mostly designed to protect the owners of the Lodge. Two issues were identified and emphasized: any "fraternization" with co-workers was discretionary and not condoned by management (no coerced sex). Any similar interaction with guests needed to be very discrete, was outside of employment, had to be initiated by the guest, and was discouraged by the Lodge. Everyone knew that the managers were covering their asses. There was no doubt that the young, attractive flesh, hired for the summer was a significant part of the appeal of the Lodge--and its incredible all-inclusive per diem ($500 and up per person per day).

*********

Sean began his first day as a waiter at lunch. He was wearing his mandatory name tag, which included his age and school. (When he first saw the tag, he thought immediately that the Lodge was effectively painting targets on all of the staff over 18--they were clearly labeled as eligible prey to guests.) The resort had just moved to its "summer" routine and regular guests had been arriving all morning. Lunch was a lavish buffet--to be duplicated four times each week. The waiters were expected to "catch and deliver" overloaded plates to the tables for Lodge patrons (or fill plates to order on request), and provide soups, beverages and desserts. He did well and the meal proceeded without incident. He did feel that many eyes followed his movements, and the eyes were mostly focused on his butt and his basket. But since this was a buffet, there was little interaction with guests and tips were rare and small.

At his last dessert plate delivery, an older male guest, asked a question and, as Sean provided an answer, rolled his hand between Sean's legs up under the shorts. Then he reached up and palmed Sean's equipment. Sean smiled, backed off, and avoided further contact. Later he realized the guest had left him a twenty under the plate he removed. It was only his first day!

Did he project gayness that obviously? Is that my price this summer, he wondered? Am I on the menu for men and women?

The summer continued. Sean received many large tips--some as large as a hundred--all with an invitation and generally stuffed into the pocket of his tight shorts or pants. Some he accepted--going to rooms, well after the nominal curfew for staff--10 p.m. Others he ignored. Soon, he knew he was one of the prize preys of the summer. And he began to wonder how he might work this to his advantage--recognizing that he was attracted to many of the men--and even a few of the cougars. Why shouldn't he make this a summer of profit as well as experiment? He was getting into selling himself as well as the menu.

**********************

Then on the Fourth of July weekend, he got a chance to try out his new routine.

It was dinner. He was serving a table of four--among so many others to which he had been assigned. They had arrived earlier, but hadn't selected one of "his" tables before that night. They were regulars and just beginning what Sean later learned would become a six week stay. It was late--there was no entertainment. Tonight there would be fireworks. The "host" was young (35-ish?), handsome and, obviously a child of the gym. He gave Sean every indication of sexual interest--although Sean didn't think he was particularly giving off gay vibes. Maybe this guy was an equal opportunity hunter.

His partner (his wife?), several years his senior, seemed to be running the show. There were two "children"--a young lady of about 22 and a young man, maybe a year younger than his sister. Sean was attracted to the son, and, in motions and words, tried to let it be known, subtly of course, without disclosing his attraction or orientation. The son indicated his interest, but the signs were vague--or perhaps different from what he had experienced in Ireland.

Sean realized that "dad" was also interested in his body, but dependent as he was upon their mother's vast family fortune--and a mere ornament to their mother's summer "vacay" as her new (third) husband, he was being very careful. He was a hunk, but recognized his place in her pantheon of acquaintances, clearly the equal or superior of his step-son, but probably below her bridge partners. Perhaps he had been her trainer or a tennis coach. Sean wondered whether the husband and the step-son were getting it on. If so, the mother was oblivious--she was so into herself and her beautiful daughter. Her husband seemed to be her latest boy-toy. As to him, she seemed very mercurial--sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning at him. That relationship was probably were complex.

Sean was not sure how to handle this situation. He was attracted to the hunk--and to the son, but he understood who would pay the bill--the matriarch--including the tip--if any. So, he began to lavish attention upon her, often brushing her shoulders with his hips, and later in the evening, his heavy basket. She was well-preserved, apparently athletic, probably around 50, dressed conservatively but expensively, and wearing a good deal of what appeared to be real jewelry. She didn't seem to be interested. Maybe he was just too young.

Ultimately, Sean realized he had baited three hooks. And, if he wasn't careful, he would lose all three potential catches--and tips! And, in the worst case he would lose his job. But, he was incredibly horny. It had been almost two weeks since he had had a chance to jerk.

Before anything more could happen, a single cannon shot pierced the resort's quiet darkness. It was time for the fireworks over the lake. The lights in the dining room dimmed. Sean saw his potential patrons rise and move to the windows and the terraces. No tip had been left. How New England! So, he didn't know where he stood--with any of them. Thus, Sean spent the fireworks night alone--and not very well rewarded for the tremendous effort he had expended that day. He guessed you had to be American to understand the significance of this holiday--for him it was a bust.

*********

The same "family" appeared at the same favored table the following day. This was apparently going to be "theirs." They greeted him like a family servant, and he responded formally and politely, as would be expected of an indentured servant from Ireland. He served lunch flawlessly, smiling obsequiously during the entire meal. Then, they all rose to leave. Sean scanned the table before clearing and found two folded notes. Under the spent dessert plate of the husband, he found the folded hotel stationery: "Today, 3:30, Room 625." Under the young man's plate, another note: "Tonight, 10, Room 624." Sean pocketed the notes and checked under the other two plates, half-expecting invitations there as well! The rest of the meal service was uneventful and Sean was relaxing on his cot by 2:30. He did wonder, however, whether the guys had coordinated their invitations. At any rate, he intended to accept both. After resting for a few minutes, he rose and headed for the showers, deserted mid-afternoon, where he thoroughly cleaned himself, expecting to be used by the hunky DILF.

Promptly at 3:30, Sean knocked lightly on the door of 625, which he now knew was a suite booked for Mr. and Mrs. Peter O'Neill of Brookline, MA. (627 was on the same folio and the guest was Mary Ellen McGrath, as was 624, the guest being John Jacob McGrath.) He also had discovered from a quick look at the internet, that Peter O'Neill had been a champion tennis player on the international circuit until a shoulder injury sidelined him several years before. Now he was EVP-Marketing of McGrath Enterprises, a major condo-developer all along the Eastern coastline--from Maine to Florida. There was no indication that he and Mary Louise McGrath had ever married--although she wore an eye-popping engagement ring and a wedding ring.

Peter opened the door and Sean entered the brightly lit chintzed parlor of the three room suite. Peter was barefoot and had on only the light summer Lodge robe. He hadn't belted it tightly--so Sean was staring at the tanned, shaved and muscled chest of the champion. "I appreciate your coming on such short notice. Mary Louise will be at bridge and tea until 6. So we can have some privacy. I am assuming you understand why you are here or you wouldn't have come. You are a handsome young specimen of Irish manhood--my type exactly." He took Sean into his arms--they were nearly the same height--and kissed him, forcing his mouth open with a talented and insistent tongue. His hands dropped to Sean's butt. "Nice, very nice. A nearly perfect bubble butt. I think I'm going to be having some fun this afternoon." Peter dropped the embrace and pointed to the bedroom, his apparently, as he and Mary Louise didn't always sleep together.

Sean had yet to speak a word. He walked into the room, toe-d off his sneakers and bent to remove the socks. Peter came up behind him, reached around and unbuckled and dropped the shorts, lightly palming the ass cheeks, then pushing his erect manhood into the crevice. He straightened and pulled the polo up and trapped Sean's arms above his head. At that moment, Sean realized that Peter had lost the robe. Sean felt a massive, hard cock poking him in his lower back. Sean was pushed to the edge of the bed and fell forward, presenting his ass to Peter. Sean assumed this was going to be a quick fuck.

"Oh, Sean. We're going to play some one on one tennis this afternoon. I'm serving and you're receiving." With those words, Peter flipped him. "You're a nice Celtic morsel. I love those freckles--and of course the ginger hair, especially those curly pubes. Nice dick. Snacking size. I presume about 7 inches? And uncut, how nice. I bet the knob is nice and sensitive under that hood. And it's probably a dark purple, my favorite flavor in dickheads."

As Peter was speaking, Sean got his first good look at him. He was Sean's height, but his shoulders, chest and upper arms were much more developed and muscled. A long dark surgical scar sloped down his right shoulder. Everything tapered nicely to cut abs, an eight-pack, slim hips and a very thick dick, straining to point upward because of its weight. It had a very nice curve, that, in missionary position, would be a prostate-killer. Peter may have been an international sensation on the court, but he was also prime steak for the groupies and gays who followed him around. Sean licked his lips. "Is that what you want, boy? You gotta ask nicely."

"Please champ, let me suck your big, beautiful cock."

Peter immediately liked that Sean was calling him "champ." He crawled over Sean's chest so that his dick was pointing downward toward Sean's face and began to feed his dick into Sean's mouth. Sean sucked in eagerly and used his tongue on the sensitive head. He raised his hands and cupped Peter's deep hanging balls. They were hot, heavy, and seemed almost alive with their content struggling for freedom and a chance to swim to victory. "Be careful with those breeding sacs, boy. I'm growing dozens of champion tennis players in there. Abruptly, Peter withdrew and dropped onto the bed. He pulled Sean into a spoon and began to worry his nipples. He knew that all Irish boys loved to have their tits worked and sucked--but he'd save something for next time. Sean began to whimper. He knew now that Peter wanted a sub, and if that is what the client wants, that is what Sean was prepared to deliver. Then, Peter dropped his hands to Sean's shaft, pumped it a few times, then squeezed his balls and pulled them away from his body. Sean moaned in feigned pain. He really loved to be handled roughly, and he sensed that Peter needed to be in control. He wondered whether his older spouse had so emasculated him in bed (or had denied him so much) that Peter needed to work out his aggression on younger guys. Probably.

Sean felt the cock at his doorway. It was very hard and leaking pre-cum. Peter wouldn't last much longer. "Take me now, champ. I'm ready. Just a little lube." Peter was ready. His lubed fingers were already opening Sean as Sean's left thigh was thrown forward on the bed. Then Sean felt the wrapped tip at his opening. It was big, but not much larger than others he had taken. Peter pushed his hips forward and he was lodged. He withdrew a little and stroked in again--farther this time and touching the prostate. "You found the sweet spot, champ. Open it up and stroke the gold." Then Peter climbed over Sean and bottomed. Sean felt full and complete--the ultimate expectation of a good bottom. Peter began to volley, stroking in precision, long strokes, high lobs, short hard jabs, as his hand reached out to fist Sean's cock. Peter's fingers drew down the hood and the index finger began to stroke the ultra-sensitive head. Sean, automatically backed off to avoid the touch, but doing so rammed his ass into Peter--and Peter's long cock went deeper. Sean was trapped--but it was a trap he loved. Fingers were giving him exquisite pleasure at the tip of his essence and a cock was stroking his chute and prostate with similar results. "I'm cuming champ. Ace me!"