“Thank you,” the monsignor said as I handed him down from the carriage in front of 24 Exeter Place in a quiet pocket garden not far from Victoria Station. I had told him my name was Luke, but he’d managed to go all afternoon without directly addressing me–like I wasn’t wholly there. This was the first time he’d thanked me, though, and I thought there was reason enough to be thanked earlier in the day.
“Can we possibly be here?” he asked, looking up at the façade of a brownstone, whose edges blended in with the brownstones of the crescent on either side of it.
“Discretion,” Your Eminence, I murmured. “The hallmark of the gentlemen’s clubs of London.”
“Ah, yes, I do appreciate that,” he said, his English good, but with a heavy Spanish accent, as we mounted the steps and I raised and lowered the door knocker. Stewart Brandon, the imposing majordomo met us at the door. “Ah, Your Eminence . . . Luke,” he said as he swept aside for us to enter. “I trust everything was satisfactory,” he said to the Spanish monsignor, an emissary of the Vatican to the Court of Saint James, who had been introduced to the club by the marquis, Lord Fitzwater of York, one of the club’s major patrons.
“Quite satisfactory,” the monsignor said. “The young man can see me back to the hotel later?”
“Certainly, as you wish,” Brandon said, as he ushered the priest into the drinks parlor, where several members had already gathered. Turning to me, he said, “Mark will need some help with the service; Matthew and John are otherwise occupied.”
“Yes, Mr. Brandon,” I answered, moving toward the kitchen at the back of the building for a tray of drinks. The four service men of the club were known as Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John no matter what their real names were. It made identifications easier for the members, who barely noticed who was serving them in the public areas of the club, although when we put our trays down, they generally brought us into the orb of their conversations at least long enough to acknowledge our presence, to make small chit chat, and to voice their interests and expectations.
The atmosphere in the drinks parlor was one of boisterous conversation, whiskeys and scotches, and cigars and cigarettes. There were several centers of discussion, focused on the careers and interests of the gentlemen, most in their middle age, all notable beyond the confines of the club walls. I passed by the “courts” group with a tray of drinks. The Right Honorable Peter Bowles, judge of the Appeals Court, was discussing the intricacies of the naval impressment case before him, including the scandalous indignities the press claimed were being imposed on the young sailors, with Admiral Stanley Thornton and the leading barrister of the day, Bradley Thaw.
“Nothing that the noblest of our young men don’t encounter in public school,” Thaw was saying.
Bowles laid a hand on my forearm and pulled me into the group for a moment. “I looked for you earlier today, Luke,” he said. “I believe this was our afternoon.” I doubt he’d been to court that day. He was dressed for riding, including having a riding crop in his hand that he kept flicking against his leg.
“Yes, Your Lordship,” I answered. “It is, indeed, sir. I’m sorry that we have missed–”
“I don’t intend it to be missed. I intend it to be fit in.”
“Yes, of course, Your Lordship. I’m sorry. A guest of Lord Fitzwater’s was in town and I was sent to him at Grosvenor’s for the afternoon.”
“Ah, the priest who has just entered then. I didn’t recognize him.”
“He’s Spanish,” I said. “Manual Alvarez. Apparently sent here on some diplomatic mission by the pope. Lord Fitzwater was very definite about wanting him to be made comfortable in London and to have someone escort him around.”
As we conversed, I saw John come down the stairs behind the Earl, William Yates, and, at Stewart Brandon’s beckoning cross to the Spanish priest. I felt the relief that John was seeing to the priest, as I was being torn between my obligations to Alvarez and Lord Peter.
The remainder of the drinks on my tray went to the politics discussion group near the door to the foyer, which included a viscount, Lord Charles Beaumont; the fiery orator in the House of Lords, Sir Travis Compton; and a gentleman so much farther up in the royal house that we never spoke his name or title in this club–just referring to him as “Your Highness.”
I passed Mark in the foyer as he was arriving with a fresh drinks tray and I was returning to the kitchen to replenish mine. As I passed the staircase, I caught a glimpse of the Spanish priest’s white cassock, denoting his tropical origin, near the top of the stairs. I didn’t make it to the kitchen, though, as the door to the music room opened and the baronet, Sir James Stockdale, the club member nearest my age, a reputed ne’er-do-well and dandy the world knew as Dickie, accosted me.
“We are in the need of a singer of a new song Felix has written,” he said to me in a slightly slurred voice. “You are the best singer in this establishment, Luke. Get thee in here.”
He was a member–and also the one I liked the best–so I entered the music room and he closed the door behind me. This obviously was where the artists were gathering. Among them I marked the current leading man of the theatre, Sir Dennis Winston; and the celebrated novelist, Sir Henry Duwright. Felix, the black musician, who was the toast of Covent Garden underground cafés by night, was at the piano. I didn’t escape for the next fifteen minutes while I was forced to warble Felix’s new song, with him playing at the piano. Dickie saw to it that I couldn’t leave by standing close behind me, holding me close, and giving me sloppy kisses on the neck while I endeavored to make out the crude markings on notes on the score Felix handed me.
Back in the foyer, Peter Bowles caught my eye and nodded and, instead of going to the kitchen, I mounted the stairs to the second floor.
Curious, before I went to my assigned room, I opened a cupboard door between two of the other rooms that led into a narrow secret passage between the rooms and went to the spy holes into the rooms on either side. It was church day on the second floor of 24 Exeter Place. On one side, the bishop of Leeds was on all fours on a bed and Matthew was mounted on his ass and giving him quite a ride. On the other, as I suspected, John was lying belly on the bed, wrists bound to the headboard above him, and the Spanish monsignor, Manual Alvarez, cassock open, flared, and trailing behind his thin body, was plastered to his ass and making like a camel crossing the desert.
The Spaniard had taken me, similarly bound and in the same position, at the Grosvenor that afternoon. There was a hint of the Inquisition in him even when he was fucking a young man.
I came back into the corridor just as the Right Honorable Peter Bowles was reaching the top of the stairs. I regretted the riding crop he was flicking against his leg, but he was a senior member of the club and Stewart Brandon kept pointing out that I should be proud that he scheduled me so often. He paid extra in dues and some of the extra trickled down to the young man who serviced him. That may or may not have made up for the whip, but Stewart Brandon didn’t care either way, so the issue was moot.
Today was bothersome, though, as he was a man quick to anger and he’d been made to wait for my services. He was a cruel cocksman when he was angry.
He too made use of the wrist restraints we all had attached to our beds, in addition to the ankle restraints had had me spread-eagled on the bed. He left them loose, however, as he enjoyed my writhing and throwing my body around as he made me rise to my knees under him and he rode me as he’d ridden his horse earlier, my rump between his knees, and his riding crop flogging me on the back, buttocks, and thighs.
Afterward, knowing what the servicing would be, Brandon sent a servant from the kitchen staff–my best friend, the African giant Kwame, to my room to apply unguents to my welts before they could take hold and fester. Kwame was the best of salves himself, taking me in his arms, stretched along my body–he was a good foot taller than me and much meatier–lifting my leg to expose and stretch open my passage, and slowly entering me with a long, long cock as his hand, slathered in the unguent, gently massaged my slight wounds–the judge hadn’t got out of control or left much evidence of the exercise of his fetishes–as his staff worked my passage to a mutual ejaculation.
The Right Honorable Peter Bowles never was concerned for whether I came in his use of my body–today, despite having been made to wait, having been far less demanding than the days when his cases weren’t going as he liked and he used his fists. It was only his own pleasure that he paid the extra dues for. On his bad days, the next day or two were bad for me too, causing me to lose sessions. We were paid by the session–and for each client ejaculation in a session–having to keep and report a tally of each release by way of discreet chalk marks on the inner walls of the night stand top drawers.
As I was descending the staircase, ready to take up my first-floor service duties again, the baronet, James Stockdale, was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up expectantly, and barring my way.
Stockdale was young, hung, athletic, and inventive. Usually I welcomed his approach as being a fresh break from the older members, whose repertoires were largely limited to the missionary and doggy positions and whose ejaculations, generally, were weak and rapid and their erection incomplete. Even the weak ejaculations were recorded and paid for, though.
There was nothing incomplete about Stockdale’s erections or weak and rapid about his ejaculations. And he was a master of the male Kama Sutra.
But coming so soon after being worked over by the judge . . .
He walked up two steps of the stairs, his gaze still expectantly boring into my face, and, with a sigh, I turned and preceded him to my room.
No restraints with Stockdale. He fucked me all over the room, manipulating my body into various inventive positions. During the hour-long process, in which he showed he could make me come twice but save himself for one, long, prolonged gush, I, first, watched the dust motes build up under my bed as he doggy fucked me on the floor, and then all four walls, as he took me in a standing fuck, me draped on his chest, my knees gripping his waist, as he walked around the room slamming me up and down on his cock. Then it was the ceiling I viewed as he put my weight on my shoulders, jackknifed my legs and hammered down inside me from above. He saved his coming for tenderly embracing me on the bed, taking me in a side split, and capturing my eyes with his as we kissed deeply and he pumped my ass full of cum.
Stewart Brandon found me some minutes after Stockdale had dressed and left, on my back on my bed, my legs bent and spread to provide relief to my throbbing ass channel, Stockdale’s cum dribbling out of my hole, and still moaning over the athletic man’s attentions.
“The Spanish priest is ready to go back to the Grosvenor,” he said, making no remark on my state of exhaustion as I lay on my bed. “Give him an hour there, but be back by dinner. You are accompanying the marquis to the theatre. I don’t expect you back on duty before morning.”
I groaned and rolled over to the side of the bed and searched for the floor with my bare feet. How could he consider a night with the marquis, Lord Charles Beaumont, not being on duty? Why were there only four of us to service these men. The members were a randy bunch. The club should hire two more prostitutes.
Monsignor Manuel, well serviced before, including two torturous fuckings of me in his Grosvenor hotel room earlier than afternoon, didn’t need the whole hour. He was done and ready to bathe, take confession from Spanish residents of London, and attend a mass after no more than twenty minutes of plowing my ass, as I lay on my back at the foot of the bed, bending and pulling my legs up toward my chest and spreading them wide myself, while he crouched between my thighs, his cassock open and flaring behind him, and slammed me hard with a thin, upcurved cock rising out of an unruly black, curly thatch. He only managed a trickle of cum, but there was no way they could claim that the 24 Exeter Place gentleman’s club hadn’t fully met his expectations and needs.
I arrived back at the club in time for an early dinner, which I enjoyed with John and Kwame in the servants’ hall off the kitchen. It was my habit to go out for a long walk after dinner, not only to settle my meal but also to have a few moments to myself and to exercise the limbs that kept my body in trim rather than the muscles I more frequently used to grasp a gentleman’s cock with to make shimmering love to it.
However today that was not to be realized. Stewart Brandon came to me at the door as I was about to leave the club. His demeanor was one of excitement rather than regret to interrupt the time of the day I enjoyed the most–other than those nights that Kwame crept into my room and worked me over with an impossibly thick and long cock and stamina that no members of the club other than the baronet Sir James Stockdale could equal.
“His Highness is on the third floor, the Swan Suite. He’s asked explicitly for you.”
“Matthew?”
“It doesn’t matter. His Highness has asked for you to attend him. Matthew is pouting, but that isn’t your concern; I will knock him together.”
With a sigh, I turned and mounted the stairs–first to my own room, as a call to serve such a royal required some special preparations–and then to the third floor. Till now Matthew had been the sole server for the man. But he’d asked for me, so there was nothing else to consider.
Afterward I was plied with questions on the encounter. Who topped? What positions? Is he hung . . . thick . . . long? Does he have a Prince Albert? (This last question bring twitters all around.)
Like Matthew, I kept the details to myself, as Stewart Brandon expected and would find out if I didn’t, only responding to one of the questions. “Aren’t all of the royals thick?” I asked, which was met with appreciative laughter.
First, we weren’t alone. The guy in the corner was much too small and cute to be a bodyguard, I thought. And I was informed he was a dresser. His Highness couldn’t undress himself by himself? OK, the extra man’s cute, I thought, I can go with that–imagine myself with him rather than this walrus. It wasn’t unknown for one club member to want to watch while another club member–or two, although doubles were John’s specialty more than mine–fucked me.
The imperial walrus indeed was thick–as thick as I’d had–and, surprisingly and appropriately, he did have a thick Prince Albert ring in the head of the cock. Otherwise, he was quite royal. He laid on his back, his arms crossed behind his neck, and viewed me with a somewhat distant and amused look in his eyes as I straddled his hips and did all of the work for the first ten minutes, which wasn’t easy considering the thickness of him; it took nearly the full ten minutes to bottom him out–all this until he engaged and decided that I had something he wanted to take from me, and then he swiftly turned our bodies, slapped my legs apart, thrust inside me, and completely dominated and pulled every ounce of value out of me for his own pleasure. In other words, the British Empire in a nutshell.
All of this within the span of thirteen or fourteen minutes. It was a blitzkrieg, and it was all about him–which was no surprise to me–once he took full control, it was wham, bang, five strokes and an ejaculation. And a world-record ejaculation to boot, itself a production of a good twenty seconds, multiple eruptions, and a tidal wave of cum.
As I lay on my side, his cock still inside me, and panting, he patted me on the rump and said, “Good show. I will want you again in a few days.”
In the end, he said he wasn’t in the mood for seconds, just a cock sucking. The gold of his Prince Albert clicked against my teeth as he forced his royalty down my throat and creamed my tonsils with his regal nectar.
Again, Steward Brandon found me laying all akimbo on the bed and panting hard in the suite after His Highness’ dresser moved from the corner of the room and draped and smoothed the man out. The dresser was young and cute. I could only imagine what His Highness did with him. He gave me a shy, sympathetic smile, and I felt my cock harden. As with most of the rest, His Highness did nothing about any needs I might have and he’d fired off and gone soft just when I was beginning to get revved up. I still had a need after this onslaught. The dresser seemed to understand that. We shared smiles and I winked at him, moving my hand to my cock, which was half erect and unsatisfied. Brandon was all smiles too when he entered the room as the dresser left.
“He is very pleased,” Brandon said. “He will ask for you again.”
“That’s what he said to me,” I answered, not trying to make my voice sound flat, but I’m sure it did. All hail the gods, I thought, but rather than say anything else, I just tiredly waved my hand in an imperial salute.
As I had intended, the dresser slithered back into the room after Brandon left.
“Excuse me, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“There certainly is,” I murmured, taking my cock in my hand and shaking it at him.
In no time, he was kneeling between my legs and taking my staff in his mouth. When I was fully erect, I pulled him up to me, turned him, fumbled a bit in getting his ass bare, and then split his cheeks with my cock. He sighed and moaned as I pumped him slow and deep. There were club members who wished to be bottoms, but never enough for my tastes. I had built up a lot of cum over the day, and I gave it all to the dresser as he gasped and fell over himself in telling me how good I was.
“Better than . . . ?”
“Yes, much better.”
I dropped my idea of having a Prince Albert added to my equipment.
I made another, unsuccessful stab at getting out of the club for a walk on my own. The encounter with His Highness had taken practically no time at all. Once more Stewart Brandon was waiting for me at the front door in the foyer.
“The marquis is in the library and is asking for you,” he said.
“But it’s too early for us to leave for the theatre,” I said.
“He says he is tense now.”
“Ah. And I suppose he’ll be tense after the theatre too,” I couldn’t resist saying.
“I have no opinion on that,” Brandon said, and leveling his eyes on me, “and neither to you.”
I got the message.
“I hear that you are a bit tense, Your Lordship,” I said as I entered the library. Other than the marquis sitting in a wing back chair with a scotch and a lit cigar on the table next to him, the library was deserted. I left Brandon standing at the door, and assumed he was on guard. It was against the club rules to engage in sex on the public floor. The marquis didn’t care much about other people’s rules, though.
“Yes, Luke, I am. Kindly service me.”
With a sigh, I went down on my knees between his spread legs, unbuttoned his fly, fished out his erect cock, took it in my mouth, and, looking up into his eyes as I knew he liked, gave him a slow, deep-throating blow job that had me sputtering to capture and swallow his prodigious load. The marquis could build up cum like no other member of the club in my experience–and I had experienced nearly all of the members. All members of this club were interested in the services that I and Matthew, Mark, and John provided–that’s why they joined and paid the exorbitant fees here.
On the carriage ride to the theatre, the marquis returned the service, although it didn’t have anything to do with what I would want. He enjoyed giving head as much as he did taking it. In the darkness of the back of the carriage, he leaned over, took my lips in his, murmured about how handsome I was in evening wear, unbuttoned my fly, and lowered his face to my lap. He was wearing gloves and inserted a hand under my balls, running a gloved finger into my channel, and found my prostate. Rubbing there enhanced the rise of cum up from my ball sac. I pulled out the handkerchief I had brought with me for this contingency, and held it nearby as his head bobbed up and down on my cock. At least he was permitting me to come. I couldn’t always count on that, even in circumstances like this. I warned him when I was coming and he pulled his mouth away, keeping his hand fisting the base of my cock and stroking and watched the expression on my face, as I folded the handkerchief over the bulb of my cock and spasmed my release three times.
As the carriage pulled up to the front of the theatre, I was reminded of the major reason I had taken the position I had–the position of lying under powerful men. The courtyard was lined with beggars. The economic situation was terrible. Without my handsome looks and sleek body and the ability to take cock after cock, I could well be one of these beggars myself. It was something to think about when I was tempted to complain about days like today. I was well paid, especially given that I had little opportunity to spend money, I was well fed and had a roof over my head. The men who fucked me were clean and wealthy. A few of them were generous. A couple had offered to set me up in my own apartment just to await their visits. I was saving that option for a few years when I felt I might be losing my charms. But I was not inclined to open my legs for only one man.
Even if I had taken another type of job altogether, I would still crave the cock. A variety of men and a variety of cocks. Even penetration by a cock as soon as one had pulled out of me. I was addicted to being fucked. “Whore” was a term of release for me, not a dirty word. All in all, it was the perfect job for me–as long as I could keep my looks and my channel was able to take a cock.
I had been given no idea what we were seeing at the theatre, nor did I care. It was time not spent on my back with a cock up my ass on a taxing day. It gave me the respite I had wanted to get by taking a walk and nothing was required of me. I sat in the last row in the box. The marchioness was there, sitting by the marquis, the two of them putting on a display for the world. She didn’t ask who I was and obviously didn’t care.
At the interval, they went to wherever the glitterati go and I went to the men’s cloak room.
“Luke. You’ve come to the theatre.” It was said in surprise. I turned to see the baronet, Sir James Stockdale, standing there, licking his chops like he’d like to eat me–which, in fact, he’d already done that day. Standing behind him was the novelist, Sir Henry Duwright. He hadn’t eaten me out today, but did so on alternate days. Was this an even or odd day? I wondered. I’d lost count. Today was the type of day that I lost count of cocks as well.
“Great seeing you here,” Stockdale continued. “Henry and I were just discussing what we wanted to do after the theatre. If you’re free and would like to earn a little extra, we would love sharing you.”
I knew what he meant by sharing me. A double–both of their cocks in me at the same time, the two of them making love with each other while having sex in me. It was a pity they both were tops; they would have made a lovely couple. They’d pay me a pound or two for that, at least. They loved taking me that way. I didn’t mind it myself. But it had been a taxing day and I wasn’t really free. “I’m here with the marquis,” I said. “I’ll be with him the whole night.”
“Pity,” Stockdale said, sounding like he meant it. “Another time, then. I’d book you at Exeter Place, but I know you wouldn’t get much out of that for yourself.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I answered. I bit my tongue from pointing out right then that I always could be tipped directly at the Exeter, although I’d never known the baronet to do that.
“Perhaps on your day off.”
“I don’t have days off,” I answered. And then I went for it. “Of course, there can be a bit extra under the sheets at the Exeter. You and Sir Henry could always–”
“Yes, that’s always a possibility,” he said. But his eyes were already roaming. I had little doubt that, as handsome as he was and with his reputation for prowess and startling equipment, that he and Sir Henry would be able to find some fellow to accommodate them this evening for free and for the bragging rights of having had the cocks of two such notable men in him at the same time.
When I returned to the box, the Bishop of Leeds was there, insinuating himself into joining the marquis’ party of two for the rest of the evening. I could tell that Lord Fitzwater wasn’t entirely pleased, but I could also tell that the Bishop of Leeds had some sort of control over him. I’d heard something about a land dispute that the bishop had come down on the side of the marquis in, but I couldn’t remember any details.
After the theatre, we went to dinner–or rather the marquis and the bishop went to dinner and I was just along for the ride–and to be ridden. I wasn’t asked if I had eaten–and thank goodness I had. I only was asked if I’d heard of the new men’s dinner club, the Tombs, which, indeed, was in a subterranean chamber entered from an alley and was not the type of place that could advertise publicly.
I also didn’t know that the entertainment included a young man engaged to periodically swing on a trapeze over the diners. Tonight I was volunteered to be that man. It was all part of a game. The orchestra played and I swung. When the orchestra stopped playing abruptly, I had to take off an article of clothing and toss it down into the crowd–not any part of the tuxedo I’d walked in with but a costume of billowy white silken shirt under a velvet vest; long, silken hose attached to a garter belt; and two layers of skimpy underdrawers. The man who caught the last article of clothing–my inner set of underdrawers–was given twenty minutes with me beyond a doorway covered with a beaded curtain beside the orchestra stand.
I was paid, but not nearly on the scale of the 24 Exeter Club.
My man was a burly thug who dressed like a gentleman but wasn’t one. It took him less than fifteen minutes to slam me, belly against the wall, against the stones in the corridor behind the stage, release a thick slug of a cock and low-hanging hairy balls, skewer me from behind, and unload his ball sac.
When I returned to the table where the marquis and bishop were sitting, they didn’t bother to ask me anything about the experience–and they were ready to leave for the drive back to the club. The bishop said he was quite happy to go to the club too, and what could the marquis say? The bishop was a member.
Neither of them asked me what I thought about it.
“You were so arousing swinging on the trapeze that I wanted to be the one to catch your underdrawers,” the marquis said. “I’m not sure I can wait until we arrive back at Exeter Place.”
“Why make the effort to?” the bishop helpfully said.
“Why, indeed?” Lord Fitzwater answered.
The bishop helped strip me of my trousers and underdrawers and to set me on the marquis’ cock as he sat on the plush carriage seat. Helping to hold me there as I took the responsibility to rise and fall on the staff, the bishop lowered his head into my lap and took my cock in his mouth.
The bishop doggedly followed us into the club and up the stairs to the third floor, where the visitor suites were kept in readiness for the club members who decided to stay the night. The marquis had booked a room. I could tell that the marquis wasn’t pleased that the bishop stayed with us, but it wasn’t up to me to voice an opinion or do anything to hold the bishop back.
He watched for some time as Lord Fitzwater started out by fucking me missionary style at the foot of the bed, but he soon tired and laid himself out on the bed on his back and bid me mount the cock and do the riding. It was at this point that the bishop decided he wanted to be included. He approached the bed from behind me as I was facing the marquis’ head and rocking back and forth on the cock. He had stripped. He muttered something about permission, but didn’t wait for an answer. In short order the bishop had nestled in behind me; pushed my torso forward, causing my hips to roll up; and was forcing his cock in above Lord Fitzwater’s.
So, after having negotiated with the baronet and the novelist over this very activity this night, here I was being double penetrated by a marquis and a bishop. I closed my eyes, relaxed as best I could, and went with the flow of the members’ preferences.
The bishop didn’t stay with us past his ejaculation, and both the marquis and I were tired enough that we just went to sleep in each other’s arms.
The next morning we both woke to the sound of a knock on the door. Ever the servant, I rose and went to the door to fetch the tray of coffee and croissants that had been sent up for the marquis. I brought them back to the bed, sat, and placed the tray where the marquis could reach it. I hadn’t had the least bit of a problem in discerning from his naked body stretched out on his back that he was erect and in need of attention.
As I twisted around and took the cock in my mouth, the marquis reached out for the coffee with one hand and for my head with the other, running his fingers through my unruly blond curls.
“Even in the morning, you are a beautiful young man,” he murmured. “I hope that you had an enjoyable day yesterday.”
“It was much as any day here at the club,” I said, momentarily pulling my mouth off his cock to respond to his question.
“I wish for your day today to start with me,” he said. “Please take this tray away, come into the bed, and open your legs to me.”
Yes, just another day like any other here at 24 Exeter Place, I thought, with a sigh of resignation, as I lifted the tray and moved it to the top of the bureau.
The marquis was on his back, covers off, holding his cock erect and steady, patiently waiting for me to sit on it. All so civilized and gentlemanly here at the 24 Exeter Gentlemen’s Club.
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