Gregory Graves pushed up with his knees and pressed down on Sam's shoulder blades and then, quickly lowering his buttocks and jutting forward, thrust down and up, sending his hard shaft deeper up into the nineteen-year-old darky youth's ass, in a dipping deep fuck of the chocolate-brown male whore. Sam groaned and Graves grunted as he thrust again... and again... and then, with a release of breath, came in the prostitute's ass channel. He tensed and then, with a sigh, released again... and then, in a weaker seeding, released a third and last time.
Sam quivered, unable to move further as his wrists were bound to the edges of the headboard of the small bed with leather bonds and his ankles to the edges of the footboard. A leather bolster had been inserted under the black whore's belly to lift his buttocks to the desired angle for Graves's maximum access. Sam had not cried out during the whole taking. He was a sturdy lad, trained to this, and there was no one to heed and relieve a cry. He was just a darky anyway. No one in Washington, D.C., in the late nineteenth century, this close to the festering South, nursing its loss, would heed the pleas of a darky. This was Sam's job.
A leather hand whip lay beside Sam on the bed. The young whore's muscular brown back and buttocks were crisscrossed with red welts. Graves had taken his cruel pleasure before taking his carnal pleasure.
"Boy! Come," Graves called out, and the door to the small bedroom on the second floor of the Oscar Club in Washington, D.C.'s, Adams Morgan district opened and an eighteen-year-old youth, a prostitute in training, scurried in and helped Graves sponge off his loins before aiding the man, robust nearly to the point of obesity, into his day suit. Graves fingered the attendant's ass, considering whether he had to leave as soon as he planned, and the attendant giggled and remained within Grave's reach as he helped the U.S. senator dress. It would elevate him in the brothel's status ranking if this rich and powerful man did him as well. Sam, still bound, would continue lying on the bed until Senator Graves had left the room and someone could come to his aid.
While he dressed, the man listened for moans and groans to be heard from the used darky, but heard none. That did not please Graves much. He walked to the bed cupped Sam's chin and turned the young male whore's face to him to see if he was conscious. He was, although his eyes looked a bit glazed over. The man let Sam's head drop, but he slapped him hard across the face. Still not getting a yelp, the senator turned and strode out of the room.
The Oscar, a very exclusive and discreet men's club, was located in a nondescript, but quite well-kept townhouse on Champlain Street in Northwest Washington, a new, fashionable section of the expanding footprint of the national capital. All of the male members were either top-drawer government officials or fabulously wealthy and powerful in the city and beyond; all seven of the male whores on offer in the club were either eighteen or nineteen and not previously employed as such anywhere else. This is where they trained in with the cream of the patronage crop, albeit patrons who wanted to use their young men hard. They served here for only a short time, while they were fresh.
They weren't admitted to the service until their eighteenth birthday and at twenty they were sold to one of the several male brothels in this and other cities with the skills to please any man in any way he chose. The philosophy of the patrons sponsoring this club was that eighteen was the perfect age for a young man to be used--he could legally answer for himself and his own wants and was beginning to form into a man, but he was still pliable and obedient. If he was small, willowy, and more pretty than handsome, it was all to the good--until, by the time, through use on his back, he had been spoiled of innocence.
There was only one men's parlor in the house, located at the back of the house, on the first floor. It was not a club where men either dined or spent much time in each other's company. Although the patrons knew who they shared this fetish with, they did not acknowledge this in public. The club service rooms--a kitchen and dining room for the prostitutes, an office, and bedrooms for the club manager, Frank Lampere, and for the two male guards--were located on the ground floor. Frank had his own cottage and family in the back garden of the house, but he maintained a room with a bed in the main house, because it was he, sometimes with the assistance of one of the guards, who trained the prostitutes to their duties. He was the procurer as well, ever on the lookout for beautiful young men who were on the brink of starvation and needed to save themselves in any way they could. By preference, he took them on as virgins to anal penetration by a man, sold their virginity to one of the club members while they were fresh, and then, if the experience didn't cause them to run away, trained them in their craft. There were a few club patrons who were especially interested in virgins and could be trusted to beat and fuck them into total submission.
The first and second floors housed bedrooms where the members used the young male whores. The bedrooms were well-appointed but small, but each had its own water closet, a rarity in that day and age, with a bathtub where the member either could clean himself or use one of the prostitutes, if that was his desire. The third floor was where the young men slept and where, in one room, they took their lessons, most of them having come off the streets illiterate. The club promised to teach them to read and write, highly desirable skills in the last decade of the nineteenth century, before the older teenagers went on to an adult male brothel.
This service was a ripe plum for young men happy with going with men--at least after that first time when they crossed the threshold of having done so. It offered them room and board and a bit of extra when they pleased the men, and the pain and unusual taxing often was no more demanding than they would experience otherwise on the streets or the fields--or later in their lives. Despite their contracts being subject to sale, no older teen was doing this involuntarily. They all had sought the position, or the specter of starvation had sought it for them.
The basement of the building was a stone-walled and -floored chamber outfitted with equipment where the young whores could be used more exotically and taxingly.
The Oscar was a club catering to extreme fetishes with eighteen- and nineteen-year-old youths, a very specific service for a very discerning, private, and well-heeled clientele.
Sam had satiated Senator Graves's basic need, although he had not fully satisfied the man. Sam was a darky and, although nineteen, was of large-boned, muscular, sturdy stock. His life had been a rough one before entering the service of men. He had learned too quickly to separate himself from the pain and humiliation that the patrons sought from the youths. He was mostly sought out in the brothel by men who wanted to inflict the maximum of pain without killing the prostitute, which would be a bit messy to step away from. He managed what Graves took from him and performed on him stoically, with little response. Senator Graves preferred eighteen-year-olds who were small and pretty and at least seemingly vulnerable. He wanted to hear the youth cry and scream and beg, even if largely feigned. None of the others were available on this day, and Graves's needs were great. Votes hadn't been going well in the Senate and he needed to let off tensions.
The club engaged lads who could take it, who had a rod of steel inside them and who got some pleasure out of being used totally themselves--basically lads who were willing to trade their bodies for three squares a day and a roof over their head in a town that wasn't kind to men down on their luck and living on the streets. But the Club also understood that men like Graves wanted a youth who writhed and cried out and who seemingly was broken by the use his body as if for the first time--even though Graves knew the youths on offer well enough to know it was not the first time, that it probably wasn't even the first time that day.
He, like most patrons of the club, didn't usually linger, wishing to leave as soon as he had relieved his fetish need and with votes to get back to in the Senate, but on this day he did linger as the day was snowing and he'd sent his carriage back to his Georgetown house rather than have it sit and wait for him in Adams Morgan. Frank sent one of the younger men to fetch the carriage and ushered Senator Graves to the small parlor in back, where there was a fire in the fireplace and port on the table. Shelden Sinclair, an up-and-coming banker in the city, a younger man than Graves and also in fitter shape and more handsome of face, was already in the parlor, occupying one of the wing chairs drawn up to the fireplace and drinking port. The two men knew each other and their country estates were nearly adjoining in Middleburg, a horse-hunting plantation area in Virginia not far south of the capital, but they reacted to each other in this environment as merely polite strangers. Neither would mention to anyone else that they had seen, let alone sat with, the other on this day.
Shelden Sinclair gestured Senator Graves into the other wing chair by the fire, and Graves sat there. They could hardly talk in this environment about affairs in the Congress or their estates in Middleburg. Even talking horseflesh would isolate the familiarity of one to the other outside the walls of this male brothel. So, they talked of what they could not discuss anywhere else. They conversed on the shared reason that brought them here and that they would not mention elsewhere if they could avoid it. Both men actually were happy to talk of the young whores and what lengths they went to to use and degrade them.
"Shaun, me," Shelden Sinclair said. "And you?"
