Gosh, has it really been eight months since I last posted. Oops Sorry. I guess you'll need a catch-up as much as I did. So here's the story so far.
Ben, when desperate for a little extra cash, discovered that there was good money to be made running in races as a 'ponyboy'. Despite being assured that the worst he would be subjected to would be a 'certain amount of groping' he has found that this led, inexorably, to a life as a prostitute. Moreover, Andy Mason, his pimp, along with Archie, Mr Mason's enforcer, has made it quite clear that, as long as there is money to be made from renting him out, quitting is not an option.
Among the many indignities Ben has been forced into is performing in a sex show where, cross dressed as naughty schoolgirl "Belinda Bombshell", he gets caned and sodomised for the entertainment of the punters. The show, and Belinda in particular, is such a hit that Mr Mason has seen yet another money making opportunity and he is keen that Ben should perform as Belinda as much as possible. But, more than just the stage show, he is now looking to make even more money by renting Ben out as a transvestite escort.
But, for all Ben is finding this demeaning and degrading, he is also discovering sides to his sexuality that had previously lain hidden. He may loathe Belinda and all she stands for but that doesn't stop him getting a certain frisson of pleasure whenever he puts on her panties.
And, all the while, there's the complicating factor of his growing relationship with taciturn and secretive Jed, at first his arch rival but, latterly, his lover.
At the end of the last chapter we heard Mr Mason tell Ben that he has a double date with Carl on Tuesday, a photo session as Belinda on Wednesday morning, a ponyboy session on Thursday evening and a Belinda stage show on Friday evening. Ben is going to be a busy boy.
Now read on...
*****
Carl was already in the car when it arrived to pick me up on Tuesday evening. We chatted together as it whisked us down into one of the better parts of Knightsbridge, finally coming to rest in some mews behind some very grand buildings. We were led through what was obviously the tradesmen's entrance to a room where we found several people of around my age waiting. I say people because, unlike all the other places I had worked, here there were as many girls as boys. However, girl or boy, we all had that slightly haunted look that came with the job and it was clear we were all there for the same thing: to entertain the punters.
The second thing I noticed was the range of ethnicity. White, black, African, Asian or European, the punters then they were going to be able to take their pick from both genders and a pretty complete range of skin tones. A veritable smorgasbord of sexual entertainment.
I was still musing on this when, suddenly, I realised that I knew one of the girls. Standing not ten feet away was Jenny from my Social Studies course. It had taken a moment or two to place her; she was so out of context and her clothing was so different from the rather prim and proper outfits she wore to college. I was still staring at her when our eyes met and I saw a flicker of both fear and surprise cross her face. It was probably matched by similar emotions crossing mine. She gave a slight shake of her head and I understood completely. She did not want to be acknowledged and, to be fair, neither did I. I turned back and continued chatting to Carl.
A major-domo arrived, counted heads and ordered us to get changed into the uniforms they were about to provide. I should have guessed what was coming. For the girls this consisted of the pretty standard 'kinky' maid's uniform where the skirt was short enough and flared enough to demonstrate that panties were not involved anywhere combined with a bustier that lifted and offered the breasts rather than covering them. For us boys it was the same sort of split side running shorts that were worn at the after race parties. This was turned into a waiter's uniform by the simple addition of a cuffs and a collar complete with a fake bow tie, the sort of thing beloved of pub stripper-grams.
Once we were all changed the major-domo lined us up and checked us over, making sure that we met his exacting standards. Then we were trooped through to a kitchen area where there were trays of canapés and drinks waiting. Just as with the after race parties we were each given a tray and then taken through to the main body of the house where a dinner party was just getting under way.
At first there wasn't much to do. The guests were few and far between and all we had to do was stand around looking decorative and offering drinks or canapés when appropriate. This gave me a chance to observe and try to work out who it was that was hosting the party. As far as I could make out we were at some quasi-official do sponsored by one of the central African states. To be sure the hosts were had the deep black skin tones I associate with central Africa and, while I couldn't place the accent, it had a definite African lilt. The guests, on the other hand, were a mixture of all sorts and, while my judgement may have been biased by my role there, they all seemed to be just as shady and corrupt as the guests at the post race parties.
As more and more guests arrived the party became more and more animated. However, we waiters and waitresses were still mostly ignored and left alone. At this point the contents of the trays we were carrying were of more interest than we who carried the trays. That didn't stop my backside from being groped from time to time.
After an hour or so the party goers were all called to the dinner table. It says much about the scale of the house that the dining room could seat them all. We boys were recruited as serving staff while the girls were assigned to pouring the various wines.
During the meal we waiting staff were mere functionaries and not worthy of notice. It didn't seem to phase anyone that we were all but naked; they were merely interested in having their food and wine served efficiently. One of the girls was nudged by a clumsy guest which, in turn, made her spill the wine she was pouring but this just resulted in nothing more than a sharp rebuke.
The wine had been flowing freely and, after we had cleared away the desert course, the diners were relaxing over brandy and cigars. Many stayed at the table but double doors were opened onto a drawing room with groups of armchairs and about half the guests made their way through. Under orders from the major-domo we serving staff cleared away the rest of the table, taking away the used dishes and, inevitably, replacing them with discreet bowls of condoms. With no more food to be served or dishes to be cleared we were arranged around the edges of the two rooms, quietly waiting.
And we didn't have long to wait. The principle host, who others had been addressing as 'ambassador', got up from the table, and, along with one of the guests, wandered about inspecting the serving staff. Between them they picked out three of the girls who they took back to the table and stripped of their bustiers. As far as I could tell there was some sort of discussion over breast sizes, about how African girls have fuller breasts than their Asian cousins and, after a certain amount of poking and groping, the winner, or should that be loser, was down on her knees, opening the fly of the guest and fishing out his prick. That didn't mean that the other two were reprieved. One had to service the ambassador, the other the guest sitting on the ambassador's other side.
And that opened the floodgates. It seemed that a post-dinner blow job was just the thing to go with the brandy and cigars. Admittedly, at first, it was only the girls but soon enough we boys were also called into action. I was brought over to one of the hosts who was busy chatting to a businessman who, by his accent, was American and, probably, Texan. The Texan already had a girl working away between his thighs but that didn't stop him from talking.
"So, Darweshi, what's with all these boys?" he asked as I approached. "Look at this one. Even his toenails are painted. What a faggot!"
I blushed. I had forgotten that my toenails were still varnished a bright scarlet.
"Oh, the boys can give just as much pleasure as the girls, sometimes more." He tugged down my shorts and turned me around, bending me over the table. "Tell me you wouldn't want to fuck a tight little arse like this one." He gave my buttocks a hearty slap. "I know I will before the evening is out."
"I didn't know you were that sort of guy."
