Saddled

I was immediately suspicious. Leon was smiling today and talking nice. Just yesterday he'd popositioned me for the hundreth time and I'd turned him down for the hundreth and one times—I'd turned him down before he asked the first time—and then he'd gotten pissy and I'd given him lip back and he'd pulled back a lucrative assignment. A faded, and largely harmless, movie star gig that would have paid my rent for the rest of the month.

And yet he'd called me in again today. Usually after one of these fights with my pimp, I would be left in limbo for a week or more. I decided he must be short of staff.

"You ride a horse, don't you?" he asked, using his fat lips to shift his smoldering cigar from one cheek to the other.

"Yes, of course," I answered, thinking that maybe that's what narrowed down the pickings to me.

"Thought so. Pack your bags for the weekend." And, with that, Leon slapped an airplane ticket folder down on the coffee table. I picked it up. Destination Dulles Airport, the international airport located in northern Virginia that serviced the Washington, D.C., area.

"Where from there?" I asked.

"You'll be picked up. Client doesn't want to say."

"And the driver will know me by . . .?"

"Oh, yeah, you'll be a platinum blond." Leon was smiling. I didn't think this was all he had to say. But I stood and turned for the door. If I had to dye my hair before I had to be at the airport, I'd best get to it.

"All over." Leon said. I turned, and he was grinning. Well, OK, that made sense if the hair color was a fetish of the client's. More time, though. Still Leon seemed entirely too pleased. I stood there, knowing I hadn't heard it all yet.

"Except, there is to be little all over. You're to shave everything but your head and a V at the bush."

"A V at the bush," I said in a deadpanned voice.

"Yes, pointing to the goods."

"Well, OK, I've had to do worse," I said. I took one last look at Leon before I turned and left the room. He still had a sloppy grin on his face. I still had the uneasy feeling that I didn't know everything he found amusing. But it wasn't my job to know everything. I got paid very well for doing what I did and shutting up about it.

My plane was two hours late landing at Dulles, apparently because bad weather at both the Chicago and Atlanta airports, which were nowhere near was I was traveling, had the jets stacked up in holding patterns across the country. I didn't mind the extra time in the air, though. Our flight wasn't crowded, and I made friends with a distinguished-looking man sitting beside me who I'm sure I recognized from the television as in some sort of political job. We had enough time to chat that the delay earned me an extra $100, when I let him slip into one of the johns with me and give me a blow job, him sitting on the can beating his meat into a paper hand towel and me with my butt perched on the small sink and my heels dug into the floor to counteract the slight pitching of the plane. He seemed turned on by the platinum-blond V and licked it down into swirls of curly waves, so I guess that wasn't such a bad idea after all.

I hadn't been standing at the baggage area for long—I didn't have more than I could put in my carry-on, but this was where I was told to stand—before I was approached by an extremely well turned out coffee with cream young guy, complete with contrasting dark brown chauffeur's livery and a big welcoming smile on his face. He was maybe three or four years younger than me and shorter than I was by a couple of inches and a little stocky—but in a solid, four hours-a-day in the gym sort of way. Bullet headed, totally bald, big hands, big feet in his slicked-up black shiny shoes. All promising.

He seemed to have no question who I was. I was standing in front of the designated pillar just off to the left of the baggage belt—and there was the platinum hair that I had moussed up into slight spikes. The West Coast surfer look to go with the tan I'd worked so hard on. I struck the pose for him, and I could tell in an instant he was interested. I often found the clients barely fuckable, but I occasionally, like now, was able to develop other side prospects while on a job. That gym-muscled look, the big hands and the big feet. And the bald head. Testosterone building up somewhere.

He took my bag, even though we both knew I could handle it without any huffing, and led me up the ramp to where a black Lincoln limo was parked right at the door, its engine idling, daring an airport cop to give it a ticket and find out who he or she had inconvenienced.

Eric wasn't exactly chatty, but he willingly gave me his name as we nosed out of the airport spaghetti pattern of roads and onto Route 28—at least according to the signs—and headed east toward I95, the main highway running north and south on the East Coast. He didn't ask me my name, however, and he shut down when I asked him the name of the one who had sent for me. Good. Eric didn't fuck and tell.

When he turned west on Route 50 before we got to the intersection with I95, he was friendly enough to tell me where we were going.

"Middleburg. We'll still be in this suburban congestion for a while, but it won't be much more than half an hour now before we reach Middleburg. Five Oaks. It's just on the other side of Middleburg."

Ah, information. I liked to have my bearings. At least something to process if a client was being too rough and I wanted to head for the exit.

"Middleburg. Middleburg. I've heard of that before, but I don't—"

"Maybe from back in the Kennedy era," Eric said. He had his eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror. He looked very interested. He obviously had been told not to say much, but he wanted to be friendly. He was assessing me just like I was assessing him.

"You may be too young," he continued, "but you may have heard about Jackie Kennedy and her horse riding both when her husband was president and then for years later. They had a retreat out here in Middleburg. They ride to the hounds out here, old Southern style. The closest place to the White House that she could do that."

Ah, yes, I remembered hearing that now. Horse riding. Another piece of the puzzle Leon had tossed out on the coffee table. I was riding to the hounds this weekend, maybe. I wondered if Leon had any idea what the difference was between western saddle riding in California canyons and riding to the hounds in Virginia. Well, I'd cope. I always did.

"Thanks, Eric," I said. "Thanks for the information."

"Don't mention it." He was giving me a big smile in the mirror. Some sort of understanding established. I had a friend here if I needed it—maybe a very friendly friend. I took the plunge.

"Later, maybe, Dude?" I said and flashed him a smile.

"I'd like that," Eric answered, the grin I could see in the rearview mirror going from ear to ear.

After driving through Middleburg, one of those "quaint" little country towns that looked like it had barely cleared the eighteenth century and was obviously dripping in old money, we drove for maybe six more miles. The scenery was quite an attractive and calming switch from the frenetic pace and arid conditions I'd left that morning—rolling Virginia countryside of majestic oak trees, well-trimmed pasture land, and endless sweeps of white wood rail fencing set against the backdrop of bluish-shaded mountains to the west. We turned off to the south and drove not more than a half mile more before we turned right between two massive stone columns with marble eagles perched on top of each. A bronze plaque in one of the columns announced we were at Five Oaks.

"The five oaks are all gone now," Eric suddenly piped up from the front seat. He hadn't spoken since we'd struck our unspoken deal. We'd both been sitting and enjoying the scenery—and at least I was contemplating what Eric had to offer under that dark brown chauffeur's livery.

I grunted my acknowledgment that I'd heard what he said and appreciated the bit of conversation. He went on, "There are more like a hundred oaks now. Northern money."

Another piece of proffered information. A client who was rich and on the make in the South while being carpetbagger. Grasping and probably anger issues. I sensed bondage and maybe a bit of SM. Well, with the fees we charged, we did see a bit of that. Leon knew I had my limits. But maybe that was why Leon was so nice all of a sudden after our fight and had that sloppy grin on his face when we parted.

We drove for maybe another quarter mile on a freshly asphalted two-lane road running between some or all of those hundred oaks, which must have been pretty mature when they were planted, because they were quite impressive now.

I heard where we were headed before I saw it. The baying of hounds. We turned a corner and there it was, a massive, stately brick building, a traditional American Georgian four over four over an English basement with wide portico held up by four hefty white columns. Newer, but still old, two-story brick wings jutted out from either flank of the antebellum center structure. And gathered on an oval lawn in front of the house was a swirl of sleek, lean horses; riders in scarlet coats and tan breeches; and an undercurrent of teeming hounds, some black, some brown, but most white with brown splotches on them. Everything was chaos and loud gossiping and obvious preparation for a fox hunt. I thought I'd stumbled onto an MGM set. I expected to see Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson stride down the stairs from the portico and mount their fine fillies at any moment.

I had only a glimpse of this, though, as Eric pulled the limo around the side of the house and wound his way through a sea of Mercedes and Jaguars and BMWs, many with horse trailers attached, all parked willy-nilly around under the trees at the side and back of the house. Eric pulled up to a detached five-car garage, hidden neatly behind huge boxwoods at the back corner of the house. He retrieved my bag from the trunk and ushered me, without a word, as if he sensed we now were being closely monitored, into a side door of the house.

We were in a narrow, oriental-carpeted hallway that split the width of the house. From down the hall, a distant patch of light, I could hear loud conversation and the braying of a loud voice for someone to get out there and get the hunt in order and then we arrived in the broad center hallway of the center structure.

The braying voice belonged to a distinguished-looking, trim, yet solidly built, handsome in a matured way man, carefully barbered hair with graying at the temples, standing at the foot of a sweeping curved staircase rising to the upper story, several paces short of a double door with wide side windows looking out onto the portico. The doors were open, and I once again saw beyond those the swirl of scarlet jackets and fine horse flesh standing in a frenetic swirl of braying hounds. The man, who obviously was in charge—who obviously was in charge no matter where he was—was alone in the foyer by the time Eric and I reached it. He turned and saw us and scowled.

"You're late," he said. "Almost missed it. Eric take him to the scarlet room. Dress quickly and come down. We have a horse ready for you. You should be able to make the last trumpet."

That was it. That was all he said, and then he was out the door. I didn't have much doubt this was the client and that he was the dominating type.

We started up the stairs, Eric ushering me to go first. Half way up we were accosted by another equestrian hurrying down the stairs, pulling on white kid gloves, decked out like the rest, a black velvet-covered helmet already on his head.

The same man who had just walked out the front door onto the portico.

"You're late," he said in the same disapproving, "to be obeyed" voice. "Dress quickly and get out there." He swept by me, brushing against my sleeve. Eric, probably well accustomed to this, deftly turned to let him pass without contact.

Twins. There were two of them. Another possibility for Leon's grin.

Eric escorted me up the stairs and down a long transverse hallway deep into one of the wings. The silence of the house contrasted with the muted sound of the developing hunt filtering through thick brick walls. He stopped at the last door down on the hall at the back of the house, opened the door and set my carry-on inside, and then stepped back to let me enter. When I had moved through the door, it clicked behind me, and I was alone.

Scarlet was a good name for the room. It certainly was scarlet—the carpet, the drapes on the windows, the bedspread and drapery on the solid mahogany four-poster canopy bed set between two windows looking into the back yard. The spines on the books in the bookcases beside the fireplace. A rich-looking oriental rug spread in front of the fireplace had a scarlet background. Even the burnished wood of the walls, and the fireplace mantel and surround were a rich red mahogany.

I could see riding clothes laid out on the bed and a pair of gleaming black leather riding booths at the foot of the bed, with a black leather riding crop balanced on the toes. A riding shirt, a scarlet jacket, a black velvet-covered riding helmet, and a pair of tan breeches that flared at the hips and had leather ovals at the inner thighs—the three-quarter-length breeches that were called jodhpurs. And an athletic supporter with a sturdy cup made out of some sort of hard plastic.

I walked over to the foot of the bed and looked up into the canopy frame. Just as I thought. A steel-cage structure inside the wooden frame that gave the bed stability and would take a lot of weight. And in the upper corners at the top of the pillars at the foot of the bed, leather leads and ankle restraints tucked up into the canopy. I walked around to the head of the bed as I started shedding my clothes. I saw the black leather bands around slats at the headboard and looked between the headboard and the wall. Sure enough, wrist restraints tucked down there. I opened the door of the nightstand beside the bed. Piles of condoms, tubes of lube, a collection of dildos, leather blindfolds, and gags with rubber balls for the mouth to prevent the subject from biting his tongue or pulverizing his teeth by gnashing them.

Scarlet room. A very good name for it. Well, forewarned and all that. At least the fee was appropriately impressive.

I dressed quickly, and all fit well—Leon obviously having given them my measurements—except that the jodhpurs were skin tight, were so low slung the top of my platinum V spilled out in curls over the waistband before I got the shirt and jacket on, and I wasn't so sure that the seams of the jodhpurs would hold under the strain of my thighs and glutes.

The hunt wasn't anything to write home about. It was probably quite exciting, and I'm sure catching glimpses of the fox as she gave us a merry chase across the manicured pastures and through the sylvan glens was thrilling for those who were paying attention. But I was doing everything I could just to stay horsed and not make I fool of myself among all these avid equestrians. This wasn't anything like riding the range in the West.

Luckily, no one noticed what a novice I was. And in the hour of cooling down from the blooded excitement of siccing a pack of frenzied hounds on a tiny red fox, when we were all standing around and stroking the flanks of fine horse flesh on the lawn of Five Oaks, each sipping his or her preferred form of southern comfort, I was amused to see that I had become a center of attention. Several of the women—and men—had taken a fancy to me and were floating around me, trying to solve the mystery of Bob and Bill's houseguest.

I had gleaned during the hunt that my hosts were, indeed, twins named Bob and Bill and were fabulously wealthy and extremely powerful in whatever they did and, other than joining in the hunt, were reclusive and seldom in residence at Five Oaks.

While I was spinning lies about my devised-on-the-fly Kentucky roots and charming the pants and panties off my admirers—or at least so it seemed they wished, as evidenced by the young beauty with the thick southern drawl who tucked a card with her telephone number in my waistband—one of the twins stood off to the aside and assessed my every move through slitted eyes. The other twin had disappeared as soon as the first riders to depart started loading their horse trailers.

Eventually, the crowd was quite thin beyond a hopeful handful clinging to my elbow. At this point, the twin must have had enough, because he rudely cut through the ring around me and took me by the arm and said he wanted to show me something in the barn.

I could hear the something he wanted to show me as we approached the barn, which was set off a good hundred yards from the house.

When we entered the structure and my eyes adjusted to the dimness and the straw chaff floating in the air, I saw that the missing twin had a naked Eric bent over a bale of hay, topped by a horse blanket, and was riding him hard from the rear.

Eric was doing a good deal of grunting and groaning and praising of the twin's performance, but I sort of had the idea that he was doing it to please and because it was expected of him. The glistening of the light sweat on Eric's undulating muscles under the onslaught of "no slouch himself" twin was a real turn on. The twin was holding Eric's cheek down on the horse blanket roughly with a hand spread out on his bald head, and Eric watched me as I entered the barn.

"See you started without me, Bob," the twin who had brought me into the barn said. That cleared up for me who was who.

Then Bill turned to me. "Strip off the jacket and shirt. Leave the jodhpurs and boots on."

I stripped slowly, exhibition style, but I was doing so for Eric, not for the clients. Eric rewarded me by widening his eyes and smiling big as I pulled my shirt off and slitting his eyes in an obvious reverie of lust. He grunted and twitched as Bob pulled back almost full length and jammed his cock back inside the chocolate muscle man with great force.

While I was slowly shedding down to the jodhpurs, Bill had more quickly stripped down and had moved deeper into the dimly lit barn.

"Come over here. Now." There was no question that Bill was to be obeyed.

I moved back into the barn, and my eyes opened wide in surprise. Bill was astride some sort of padded pommel horse contraption supported by a grounded center pole, like they used in gymnastics. It had a saddle strapped to the top, stirrups and all. Bill was in the saddle, completely nude. He was angled up at the back of the saddle and was pulling on his meat. His cock was long, if a bit thinnish. And it already was very hard.

"Climb up, facing away from me," he commanded.

I put a foot in a stirrup and swung my other leg up in front of me as gracefully as I could and over the contraption. Bill held me by the hips as I swung over, helping me to hold steady. I came down wedged in front of him in the saddle, with his long, hard cock throbbing up the small of my back. When I was saddled, Bill reached down at both sides and activated straps across my ankles in the stirrups so that I now was trapped there.

Then he began to make love to me as my butt was firmly wedged against his pelvis. Big beefy, hairy arms encircled me, and he was kissing the back of my neck and running his hands all over my torso, palming at last one hand over one of my nipples and digging below my waistband and inside the supporter cup with the other hand to cover my cock and balls and bring me to the game down there. He was moving his pelvis up and down, dry fucking the small of my back with his dick. He was the client and this was kind of nice anyway, so I moaned for him and moved my body against his. And I turned my lips to his and we kissed deeply.

"Raise up in the stirrups," he commanded in a hoarse voice, and I did as he directed.