My Summer Job, Chapter Thirteen
Warning: the following story contains graphic descriptions of sex between consenting adult males. If you are underage or do not wish to read such materials, read no further. If you have any feedback, please drop me a line at niftyguy_30307@yahoo.com
Thanks a lot to all of the guys who have written. I appreciate the encouragement.
Note: Each new chapter in this series assumes the reader has read the preceding chapters.
"Yoo hoo, Earth to Mike, Is anybody home?"
My head snapped up as Sam's voice broke my reverie. Despite the laughing and talking of all of the guys having breakfast in the dining room around me, I was in my own world.
"Jeez, are corn flakes really that interesting?" he asked.
I smiled and shook my head. "No, I guess I was just thinking about my day," I said, not completely truthfully. In fact, I was puzzling over what had transpired the previous evening, when I visited Room 17. "I'm supposed to work maintenance. How about you?"
Sam grimaced. "Front desk. Can you say boring? But never fear, I've been hatching a plan. We're both off tomorrow, and so are my co-conspirators, Brian and Antonio. What say you to an impromptu campout tonight, under the stars? I feel like the walls are closing in on me here." He took a bite of buttered toast. "And it feels like I've hardly seen you lately. Who knows what kind of trouble you're getting into when I'm not around?"
"I could probably say the same thing. And you'll never tell, right?"
Sam pursed his lips. "I'll just ignore that, except to say that you're too young to know. Anyway, we should all be able to sneak away by 4:00 or so, and we could canoe out to a great spot I know on the other side of the lake."
"That sounds awesome," I said. "I think a night outside would do me some good. But I don't have any camping gear up here, not even a sleeping bag."
"Just leave that to me. The weather's going to be nice, so we really don't need a tent. I'm pretty sure I can scare up a couple of bags. Antonio's working in the kitchen today and can put some food together. Just meet me back at the suite as soon as you can get away. You can put anything you need to take into my pack."
"You've got yourself a deal. All of a sudden, my day is looking up." I raised my orange juice in a mock toast, and Sam grinned as we clinked our glasses together.
The workday went very quickly, partly because I was eagerly anticipating having a clandestine getaway with Sam and the other guys, and partly because I was trying to make sense of what had happened the previous night. After my first assignment, I was somewhat apprehensive when I raised my hand to knock on the door of Room 17, and I literally jumped when it opened. An older man, maybe in his late fifties or early sixties, stood there in a white bathrobe.
"You must be Mike. I've been expected you," he said as he ushered me into the room. I quickly scanned the room and saw that we were alone, although I couldn't be sure who was on the other side of the mirror. I tried not to focus too much on the reflecting, secretly transparent, rectangle, but all I could think of was the fact that a person Ð or even a group of people Ð could be back there, waiting, watching.
"I was just pouring a glass of wine; would you like some?"
"OK," I replied. I watched as he poured the dark red liquid, and then I took the proffered glass.
"Cheers," he said, raising the glass to his lips.
I took a sip of the wine. It tasted thick, almost viscous, very rich and fragrant. Frankly, at that point in my life I did not have much experience with anything other than beer, so I had no idea whether it was "good" or "bad," but the alcohol did warm my belly and calm my nerves a bit.
My host sat down in a big, overstuffed chair in the corner. His dark tan stood out in sharp contrast to his white robe and his shock of white hair. He wore a gold band on his left ring finger, and a large diamond ring on his right pinkie.
"So," he said, smiling at me. "Here we are. Here we are. Whatever are we going to do with you?"
Still standing, I shifted my weight somewhat apprehensively and took a large sip of the wine.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, don't look so frightened! I'm not going to bite you!" he exclaimed. "No, don't worry, you're going to get off easy tonight. I promise. And, if you need a little incentiveÉ" He nodded in the direction of a small pile of bills on the dresser. "I find that many young men find the color green to be veryÉstimulating. But first I think you're going to have to get out of those clothes. What do you think?"
I nodded wordlessly and began to undress. I was here to do a job, and that was all. The situation itself was vaguely repellent to me, and a worry crossed my mind, about whether I was going to be able to get a hard-on. What the fuck good is a male hooker who can't get it up? I felt a twinge of panic and momentarily considered bolting. But then I remembered why I was there. I needed information, and I thought that this was the only way I could get it. So I shifted my focus. I wasn't doing a strip tease for the creepy guy in the corner, or for his money. I was doing it for the guy on the other side of the mirror. It could be anyone. Maybe Tim was watching me the way I'd watched him. Maybe it was Eric, the club's groom. Maybe Gus had found some way into the lodge and was back there, playing with his uncut cock. Or Rich. Maybe Rich was back there, watching me, evaluating me, assessing how good I was with a client. Maybe Rich was at that very moment unzipping his pants, reaching inside the fly of his boxer shorts, stroking his enormous organ. Maybe he was going to unbutton his shirt and play with his nipples, run his fingers through the hair on his chest. Maybe he was going to trace the little trail of hair that led down, across his stomach, to his navel and points further south. Maybe he was starting to leak a little, as he watched me pull my shirt over my head and slowly unzip my shorts. Maybe he'd reach into his underwear and squeeze the base of his shaft as he focused on the huge bulge that was tenting my boxer briefs.
I couldn't help myself. I couldn't get the images of Rich's powerful body out of my head, even though I intuitively knew that he was at the center of whatever was wrong with Idlewild. My body remembered my encounter with him and Paul Morgan, several weeks before, and in that moment every fiber of my being craved the intense physical contact I had experienced with them. It would be wrong, but it would feel so good. The taste of Rich's cock, the feel of his skin, the sensation of him driving deep inside me, filling me up, creating a hole that only his cock could fill. I had been completely dominated by this powerful man, who knew exactly what he wanted to get out of me, who knew exactly how to make me want to give it to him. Reliving that experience produced an intense physical rush through my body, emanating outward from my groin to the tips of my toes.
"Mmmm, nice," my host said as I played with myself through the thin cotton fabric of my underwear. Just the tip of my erection was protruding from the waistband, giving a hint of the hard flesh that was trapped inside. Slowly I slipped my boxer briefs off, freeing my cock, which bobbed from side to side.
"Turn around. I want to see all of you."
I obliged my host, more for the benefit of my secret audience than for him. If it was Rich back there, I wanted him to lust after me, I wanted him to want to touch every square inch of my body with his cock, I wanted him to be so turned on that he would have to take his enormous prong out of his pants and start jerking, slowly, carefully at first, because he wouldn't want to get off right away. He'd want to lightly stroke his shaft, tease his head, using saliva and his own clear, slippery fluid as natural lubricant. As he got more and more excited and erect, his cock would turn a darker plum color, and the nerve endings would start to vibrate. He'd start thinking about how he needed to corner me, strip me down, climb on top, and fuck the living shit out of me. The fist he'd be fucking would be a completely inadequate substitute for my hole.
My host reached into the pocket of his robe, extracted a condom, and handed it to me. "Here, put this on and sit down on the foot of the bed."
I took the small pouch from him, tore it open, and extracted the rolled latex sheath. As I sat down, directly in front of the mirror, I placed the condom on the tip of my hardon and started to unroll it. Here we go, I thought to myself. What's he going to want me to do? The translucent latex felt tight as it clung to my thick cock. Every vein, every ridge seemed to stand out in stark relief. Leaning back, I lightly stroked my shaft, reveling both in the feeling of the indirect stimulation through the thin sheath and the thought that I was putting on a show for whomever was on the other side of the glass.
"Yes, yes, I want to see you get off," said my client, somewhat breathlessly as his hand moved under his robe. "Play with yourself until you cum."
My excitement growing, I spread my legs wide open and began to tease and stroke the full length of my erection, which was as stiff as a flagpole. By now I was leaking a steady stream of slippery precum. Trapped inside the condom, the oozing fluid lubricated my plum-shaped head and then started to seep down the shaft. The slickness enabled the thin sheathe to glide over my sensitive skin, creating just the right amount of friction. Using my index and middle fingers of my left hand to form a "V," I braced the base of my cock and stroked with my right hand. My whole shaft felt like it was on fire, from the root to the leaking tip. I groaned involuntarily when I started to tease and probe my head, which pulsated with lust. Using the tips of my fingers, I found that I could rotate the end of the condom back and forth over my hard bulb, sending spasms of intense sensation throughout my body. I was still vaguely aware that I was being watched, both by my client in the room and, possibly, by someone on the other side of the mirror, but now I was focused far more on the waves of pleasure that I was creating in my own body.
Once again, I was experiencing the single-minded mania of a rushing buildup to orgasm. Scooting further to the foot of the bed and leaning back slightly, I was able to expose my asshole, both to my touch and to the gaze of whoever was watching through the looking glass. Still stroking my erection with my right hand, I dropped my left hand down below the hard package of my balls, which were drawn up firmly to the base of my shaft, and began to poke and prod. Just teasing myself at first, my index finger traced around the light fringe of hairs that ringed the puckered flesh. It felt so good and so nasty to be on complete display like this, and I greedily began to probe into my hole. The initial contact between the blunt tip of my finger and the sensitive flesh made me flinch, and I felt a spasm emanating from my overstimulated cock. Fighting to keep my orgasm at bay, at least temporarily, I poked and prodded into my tight canal. As my finger wiggled inside, my entire field of vision was dominated by the imagined sight of Rich's thick cock worming its way inside of me. I swear I could feel it, a physical memory of the way he stretched me, filled me. In that moment I didn't care if he was the biggest asshole on the planet, because all I knew was that I wanted his cock inside of me, and his cock was inside of me, and he was going to fuck me until I came, and Jesus H. Christ I'm cumming hard. I could literally feel the hairs on my balls stand up on end as I shot my load, filling up the reservoir tip of the condom with my milky fluid.
Completely spent, I slumped back on the bed. My cock was still twitching with the afterglow of a monster orgasm when my host walked over, grasped my cock, and slipped the latex sheath off. He squeezed my shaft and used his hand to scrape the sticky residue off of my erection.
"Mmmm," he said as he brought his hand up to his nose, smelling the rich scent of my sperm. "Nice. Very nice." I watched as he knotted the end of the condom and walked over to the dresser. He looked for a couple of seconds directly into the mirror, and then he deposited the rubber into a small, ornate box that sat on the top of the dresser. He picked up the money, walked over, and handed the stack of bills to me.
"I think that you should be going now, Mike. But don't worry, we all thank you, very, very much."
Minutes later, I was standing on the front porch of the lodge. I quickly loped around the building to the door that led out of the secret corridor that I had found. After twenty minutes of waiting, with not a single sign of life, I gave up and returned to the staff quarters. Maybe I had been wrong. Maybe my encounter that night had nothing to do with anything other than the horniness of a lonely, married man. But then why did he barely touch me? Why didn't he have me touch him? Why did he put the condom away in the little wooden box? And why did Rich still have such a hold on me, when I didn't even like him? A day of puzzling while I repaired a porch railing did not lead to answers to any of these questions. Maybe a night with Sam, Brian, and Antonio would resolve at least some of them. That was my hope as I opened the door to the suite, where Sam was putting the last of our gear in his backpack. He turned and smiled at me, and I was ready to go.