P.a. Club Night

"God, Leon. An M-8 special? Eight? I have to take eight of them in one gig? And what the hell is an Edwardian?" I knew what this was really about. I damn well knew that Leon was ticked because I had told him I was taking three months off.

"Hey, you're the one who told me in almost exactly the same breath that you were taking a whole chunk of time off but that you also needed a big-money assignment. Eight fucks in one night will be big bucks for you. And Edwardian would be Victorian era, like Lord Byron and Oscar Wilde. We've got stuff for that in the stockroom here—or near enough. You wouldn't likely be wearing it for very long anyway."

"But eight men in one night, Leon. Can't you . . .?"

The voice on the phone went flat. Leon obviously wasn't the least bit interested in helping me out here. "Do you want the assignment or not?" he said in that "discussion closed" voice he used when the big gang bang assignments came in and had to be allotted to someone—usually to whoever he was irritated with that week. And the chief irritant obviously was me this week. I didn't have much leverage if I was planning to set the contract aside for a large chunk of time anyway. And I had no intention of telling him why I had to do that. I'm sure he wouldn't have approved of what I was going to do with the time.

"As I said, it's big bucks. We've got other studs here who would take it in heartbeat. But these guys asked for you specifically."

"Asked for me specifically?" I asked. Suddenly I was a little interested in this. "And so, if you give them what they want, it will be costing a bit more if it's really, really inconvenient for me to do the night?" I asked. "You'll pay me more than scale for this?"

Heavy breathing on the other end; Leon trying his best not to explode, maybe even popping a couple of those ulcer pills of his.

"Yes, of course, he said at last. A 25 percent bonus. I was going to tell you about that anyway, but you haven't given me a chance."

Sure, like hell you were going to do that for me, I thought to myself. But it was big bucks, and after you've had the first four cocks inside you in an evening, I guess cocks seven and eight wouldn't mean much.

"So, who are these guys? And do they have a track record with us?" I asked. "And who gets off on a stripper dressed in stuffy old Victorian costume?"

"I don't know who they are," Leon answered. "This is the first time they've used us. As far as I can determine, it's some sort of small rich men's club that meets every couple of months. I guess they're bored with fucking each other and wanted a little spice in their lives."

I took the job, and beyond that initial whining—which we all did so management would know who was taking the brunt of this operation—I didn't let Leon know how angry I was that he had come to me with this assignment. I knew what this was all about. This was all about me taking three months off from their call boy stable. I knew I was one of their biggest money earners. And I knew they'd feel my absence in their pocketbooks too.

The costume looked good on me, even though it was too warm. The Edwardians were stuffy and so were their clothes. They seemed intent on covering everything in hot fabric, which wasn't anything like the amount of coverage male strippers usually had, even at the beginning of the gig. But the Edwardians seemed pretty a contradiction, too. The costume was actually pretty sexy in its own way. I'd heard that the Victorians were stuffy on the surface but that they could be quite sensual people under all of that—and I knew that they had done some pretty wild partying in their era. This was borne out by what I had to wear.

The billowy white shirt, with a flamboyant red cravat thing at the neck, looked good on me, especially topped by the tight form-fitting vest. The coat over that was pretty bulky, but that would go as soon as I entered the door, I knew. But what really showed the interesting little contradictions of the Victorian era were the trousers. They were tight-legged and so tight in the crotch that you could see exactly which side my cock was dressed on and you could follow it's entire length down the inside of my thigh. I told the dresser I thought I must have gotten trousers a couple of sizes too small, but he just snorted his prissy little snort and said this was exactly the way the Edwardians, and that, in fact, Prince Albert, Queen Victoria's husband and the most Edwardian of the Edwardians, was well known for dressing down the left side contrary to the style of the time to dress down the right side. He apparently had the whole high society changing sides overnight, so whatever he was offering had to be readily apparent. Whatever, I thought this was a sexy idea that probably wasn't lost on the Victorians—apparently very modest dress, but putting the goods very much on display. I saw this as well in the bodice cleavage of those Victorian women who otherwise were buried in yards and yards of billowy material.

"A fashion revolution about where you put your cock and how you put it on display when you weren't fucking," I said. And then I laughed at my own joke, and the dresser laughed with me as he patted down my dressing to the left. He'd been trying to get my attention since I'd started working here. I wasn't interested, but at least it kept him laughing at my jokes. And he got a good feel off it, so we both left happy.

Later that evening, as I walked along Rodeo Drive in my Edwardian costume and with a shiny black beaver-skin top hat at a jaunty angle on my head, I decided this Victorian shit wasn't half bad. I was attracting a good bit of favorable attention, and if I'd left for the evening's work an hour or two earlier, I think I probably could have made a couple of hundred extra bucks in incidental blow jobs along the way.

I was surprised when I finally found the address I was looking for. There aren't that many of these old brick pile buildings left in downtown L.A., if indeed there ever had been many of them. I didn't know much about architecture, but if someone had given me a picture book and told me to pick out an Edwardian building, this one probably would have been my pick.

It wasn't a house, though, or even a gentleman's club, which is what I was sort of expecting. It was professional offices. And the address I was looking for proved to be a plush doctor's office that took up most of the building's second floor.

The place had good security. I had to stand out on the big porch on the front and ring the office. After a husky voice verified who I was, I was buzzed in. And then I had to repeat myself through a solid-looking door at the top of the main staircase and stand back for inspection through an eyehole.

When the door was opened, I immediately caught onto why they were so cautious about opening it up for just anyone. The man at the door—and all of the men I saw beyond that standing around in little groups with wine glasses and cigars—were stark naked. There were more than eight of them, which irritated me a little. I'd have to keep count while they were doing me so I'd know they weren't throwing a freebee in—and there was always the possibility that they would just force the extra dicking count. If so, I'd take it in my stride and keep count and take it up with Leon later. I'd learned that if you got too huffy about it, the situation might get a little dicey. Still, it was quite bothersome that there were more than eight of them.

The good news was that most of them were in fine shape, even though most of them appeared to be in their forties and fifties.

They welcomed me nicely and plied me with a glass of wine—well, several glasses of wine—and they didn't seem to be in any sort of rush for either a striptease or the gang fuck they had paid for.

We were in some sort of plush waiting room that was decorated more like a period parlor—like the building in a style I'd pick out as Victorian if I knew any more about furniture styles than I knew about architecture. One of the older men, very possibly the doctor whose name was on the door of this office suite, walked me around the room to show me off to his fellow club members. In each group, I was engaged in some small talk—some really small talk; no one was revealing in any way who they were or what would make them stand out from any of the other nude men in the room. But in addition to the small talk, they were getting to know me a whole lot better. They were feeling me up, checking out the goods. And they were doing so as if this was the natural thing they all did at parties—get naked and all feel up the only dressed dude there. They were almost clinical about it, and the thought crossed my mind that maybe all of them were doctors.

But not all of them, I could see. My eye caught sight of a vaguely familiar blond hunk across the room who rang a bell at the base of my cock. This undoubtedly was why Leon had been asked for me specifically. The blond hunk had been the best man and an especially good swordsman at a B-6 Cowboy Special bachelors' party I had done a month or so earlier. He smiled and waved at me from across the room, confirming with the sloppy lustful grin he gave me that we, indeed, had met before. But he was a Mercedes salesman, I thought, not a doctor. And he also had a new toy between his legs he didn't have the last time we met. His newly acquired Prince Albert was a shiny gold bar bell with big balls that matched the scale of his own.

While the other men crowded around me were talking to me about nothing and running their hands down the inside thigh of my trousers to make sure I was "dressed" in the Prince Albert style, my mind was doing calculations on the name I had been given for their club and trying to figure out if that had a medical connection. But for the life of me, I couldn't put a definition to what a P.A. Club might be.

So I asked.

"Ah, the P.A. stands for Prince Albert," my doctor escort said in a matter-of-fact tone that indicated it wasn't a secret.

"Ah then, you're named for the Victorian period," I said. "You're all nineteenth-century England buffs." I almost choked on my own tongue, though, when I realized I had used the word "buff" in a roomful of naked men.

"Not precisely," the doctor said. "We're actually named for this." And as he said that, he took his very presentable cock in his hand and waved it at me.

And then I saw it. The men weren't completely naked at all. They all had something in common. All of them had jewelry things poking out of their dick heads. Some were open loops with rounded beads where the loops stopped, some closed loops, some looked like miniature barbells, and some were studs made out of various things: gold or silver cubes or knobs or gem stones. One of the younger, studlier guys had a loop with what looked like a ruby heart charm hanging off it.

"These are Prince Alberts," the doctor was saying. The members of our club all have them. This is our annual initiation meeting. We'll initiate a new member tonight. Prince Albert was said to have originated this idea for Victorian gentleman and to have had one himself. His name stuck on penis piercing."

Fascinating, I thought, about the Prince Albert jewelry. Absolutely fascinating. Who would have thought it of the husband of the stuffy old Queen Victoria? Those Victorians. Gotta love 'em. They had us fooled about them being so uptight. And, of course, a doctor's office would be a natural place for a party like this.

As the evening wore on, the club members became friendlier to me and friskier with their hands—and some with their lips—and increasingly helpful in equalizing our circumstances by slowly helping me off with my hot clothes. And I became more and more taken with the good wine they were sharing around.

I began to earn my fee in earnest. The party spread out from the waiting room into the examination rooms, and the club members were becoming as friendly and frisky with each other as they were with me. They were pairing off in couples and threesomes and a few of them were disappearing into the area of the examination rooms. But a few of them were also fucking right there in the waiting room, on the floor, in the chairs, and on the reception desk.

The doctor and a few of the other members, the younger ones, I was happy to note, guided me through a door and toward the back of the building. As we passed doors, I could see that the smaller groups that had come this way earlier were having no trouble amusing themselves with the medical equipment and with each other in the examination rooms branching off from the hallway.

I was quite woozy from the wine at this point, but it was time for me to start keeping count. I was down to just the billowy shirt, which was fully open, and that silk red cravat around my neck. Several of the men had me backed up to an examination table and were running their hands and lips all over my body. My doctor escort left briefly but came back with a box full of condoms and a bottle of what must be lubricant. As my first customer, a short blond guy with a short, but fat cock, was kneeling on the examination table, with me facing him and him using my mouth to get his cock as pumped up as it was going to get, the doctor escort was rubbing the lubricant into my hole and on my cock as well.

He told me the lubricant would help me take several men easier and that I would feel a bit numb after only a few minutes, but that this would keep me from tightening up.

The table was really too high for the little blond to do anything to me, so when he came off the table, he pulled me over to a chair, sat in it, and pulled me down on his lap, facing the other men, and made me fuck myself on his cock while the other men gathered around, licking their lips, stroking themselves, and waiting their turn. I felt his Prince Albert, a gold cube, rubbing along the side of my passage as he stroked me. Very intriguing. In fact I could feel all of the different Prince Alberts—and in different ways—that I took that evening. They were truly awesome toys, and I wondered briefly if Queen Victoria cried out with passion as I did for the little blond and all his successors when Prince Albert played her with one of those.

The next man, a tall, thin redhead with a long, slender cock to match, had me kneel in the chair, facing the back, and he fucked me from the rear, taking long strokes into me that were quite pleasant, really. He was good about putting his hands under my shirt and onto my chest and tweaking my nipples in rhythm with his fuck. He had one of those upturned cocks and had a Prince Albert that was an open ring with two big silver knobs. They dragged in unison across my upper canal walls as he fucked me, and I rewarded his efforts and those talented silver balls with my first ejaculation of the evening to the delight and encouragement of a very attentive audience.

Then I was taken from behind by number three while I was standing on the floor and my chest was pressed to the top of the examination table and my mouth was working black and curly-haired number four's plump cock. Number four's Prince Albert was like a bar bell, so my passage walls got extra loving on both sides as he slid in and out of me. He wanted to cuddle close in behind me and kiss me on the neck as he was stroking, and I found that curly-haired chest of his rubbing up and down on my back as he fucked quite arousing and satisfying.

Number five wanted me on the floor beside the table, me on my back, and him holding my pelvis up and my legs out and pumping me fast and furiously while his teeth worked my nipples. His cocksmanship was especially inventive and I arched my back and thrust my pelvis up into his as his Prince Albert found and kissed every square inch of my insides. Number six liked that position as well, but he had me on the top of the examination table. He was the hunk with the heart-shaped pendant on his Prince Albert loop, and he was quite pleased that I wanted to closely watch that disappear into and emerge from my hole while he plowed me. I erupted and flowed for him. Number seven just flipped me over onto my stomach and covered me close with his arms and torso, told me to come up a bit on my knees, and slowly pumped me with the longest and fattest cock I'd had yet that evening. He took his time and had me moaning and groaning for it. I had felt the distinct Prince Albert feature of all them as they dicked me—and I loved the feel of what they all had, but this seventh miner had the biggest, thickest ring of all on his longest and thickest cock. And he had attached a string of beads to the ring. These were swirling around inside me while he fucked me, and they sent me straight to bottom heaven.

I'm not sure that there was a number eight—and for all I was able to be aware of at the time, there might have been a number twelve and thirteen as well. Number seven had me royally fucked and the wine had me woozy as hell, and that lubricant had me numb on the surface, if not inside my canal.

I was aware of a muscle-bound bald guy sitting on my chest with me stretched out on the examination table on my back. I had some impression that my wrists and ankles were bound to the table, but I was too far gone to be sure of that. The bald guy was feeding me with his cock, fucking my face and making me suck him, while he held my head very still between two beefy palms. Many men—it seemed like the full contingent of men who had been at the party to begin with—were gathered around the table and ooing and ahing and making small talk to each other in whispers. I saw the escort doctor, a blur of white now, no longer naked, come around below me, and I felt him thrust inside me with his crowned cock. He had a fist wrapped around my cock as he fucked me, but my cock was so numb that I couldn't be sure of that. After some deep stroking, the doctor just held himself deep inside me, very still. The bald guy on top of me kept holding my head still with his hands and feeding my mouth with his hard cock. He was cooing to me, whispering words of encouragement for I know not what—nor did I really care at the moment; I was well-gone drunk and very well fucked.

For a short time, the room was swathed in an eerie silence. And then there was a buzzing of voices and some healthy applause sweeping around the room, and the party seemed to be taking off for a second round of frivolity.

The room nearly emptied out, and I found I was pulling myself up to a seated position on the table and rubbing my wrists as if they had, indeed, been bound. The bald guy was gone as well. Only my doctor escort remained, and he was decked out in a white surgical costume now and had a white gauss cup over his mouth.

He removed the face mask and gave me the broadest of smiles and said, "Welcome to the club."

I looked down, and there it was. I had a thickish loop pierced through my mushroom cap. It was gold and it had a gold bead on it.

I had been initiated, crowned, pierced, made a colleague of Prince Albert. I celebrated by rolling my eyes up into my head and falling back onto the surface of the examination table and passing out.

For days thereafter, Leon wouldn't take my telephone calls. I did, however, receive a hefty check in the mail for the evening's work and I'd received a nice fat tip from the guys in the P.A. Club as well—although there was no reason for Leon ever to know that.

I'm sure he figured that I was, by right, totally pissed with him and might do him bodily harm if I caught up with him before the post-surgical pain wore off. I'm sure, though, that he also was crowing to himself that he had punished me for wanting to take three months off, especially since someone had to take this eight-male-fucks assignment—the payoff was much too good to turn it down—and anyone who did would be out of commission, recovering from the surgery, for three months.