The weight of another body fell across my back. Coarse hairs grated against my smooth skin. Hot breath hit the nape of my
neck. “You got a hot ass,” said a deep, gravelly voice. It was the man fucking me. Gently, he pumped my tortured hole. “Not
many guys can take it,” he said, like I had a choice. He made a quick stab deep into my rectum as if to test my resilience.
By this point I was numb to the girth and length of his cock, though his sudden, sharp movement coaxed a sob from my lips.
He began to fuck me a bit harder, his beer can–size schlong working against my trembling sphincter. I continued to lick the
redhead’s ass, my face getting shoved against his pucker every time the man fucking me buried his dick in my butt. The din
around us was growing in volume as the men in the room cheered the plundering of my anus. The man with the gargantuan prick
snarled in my ear, sounding like a wolf about to tear its prey apart.
“Got a nice, tight hole,” he growled in my ear. Considering his freakish endowment, I’d doubt he’d encounter anything
but
tight holes.
The redhead did an about-face. His cock was now much redder than his hair, and the plump crown was taking on a purplish color.
I licked the precum oozing out of his piss slit while he gripped the shaft. “I’m so close,” he panted, stroking his purple-headed
dick with greater and greater speed. “So… fuckin’…
close
.”
His cock exploded in my face, his viscous white jism hitting me in my forehead, landing on my nose, and stinging my left eye.
The stranger fucking me grunted his approval. When the redhead was finally drained, the man atop me ran one of his broad,
meaty hands over my cum-soaked face. His palm smelled faintly of cigars. He raked up the redhead’s juice with his fingers,
then stuffed those fingers in my mouth. “Eat it, rag,” he whispered in my ear as I sucked the sperm off his fat fingers.
Once I’d eaten the jizz off his fingers, the man with the mammoth dick moved both hands to my shoulders and pushed himself
up. His weight resting on my shoulders, he began plowing my ass in quick, fierce thrusts. The parade of dicks approaching
my mouth paused, the men stopping to watch this man slam his fantastically proportioned cock into my ass. By this time I was
past the point of crying out and could only gulp for air like a fish on dry land. Yet, to my surprise, my dick was once again
rock-hard.
All of a sudden the man froze. His savage howls filled the room, and other men roared along with him as he came. Then a silence
fell, and all that could be heard was the man on top of me breathing heavy and me gasping. Some chuckles rippled through the
room. A couple of people even clapped.
The man pulled out of me. My asshole snapped shut— though with less snap than before—the moment his cock popped out. I cannot
recall a time recently when I’ve been more relieved. My gut relaxed, and I could actually feel lube and sweat ooze out of
my sore hole and drip between my legs.
The next cock I saw belonged to… the man who’d just fucked me cross-eyed. It was like being confronted by my attacker. I stared,
awestruck. I’m not sure I could ever describe it properly. The man’s cock was of a length and diameter that I did not think
existed outside the imagination of Tom of Finland. Yet here it was, wrapped in a glistening rubber, the tip of which drooped
from the weight of his load. It seemed impossible to believe that I’d had this fence post of a dick buried inside me, though
I had the lingering feeling in my ass to testify it had been so. I turned my head so I could look up at my recent top man.
He was older, maybe in his mid-forties. He wore the extra years well. His woolly body was sturdy and corded with muscle. An
intricate tattoo covered his right arm like a sleeve, and both nipples were pierced. His steel-gray hair was buzzed back close
to his scalp, and his upper lip was shaded by a thick, black mustache.
He looked down at me, smiling, and pulled the condom off his still-hard cock. Once the rubber was removed, he upended it over
my head, squeezing his thick, lumpy man-cream onto my shiny pate. I twisted my head from side to side, like I’d just put my
head under the hot spray of a shower. Globs of his jizz streamed over the dome of my skull, running down my face and the back
of my neck. He dipped two fingers in his cooling spooge, placed those sticky fingers to my lips, and made a wet kissing noise.
Then, chuckling, he dropped his emptied condom to the floor and walked away.
Other men stepped forward. At my mouth stood a beautiful African-American guy, his body the color and hardness of mahogany.
I took his big, uncut chocolate rod between my lips. I’d never had black cock before and was glad to experience one now. I
gulped it down, my tongue prodding his thick foreskin. He purred, his voice deep and rich. Behind me another man was mounting
my tender ass. His cock—thankfully, of human measurement—slid in effortlessly. I was grateful that he moved in slow, methodical
strokes. Though my ass lips were still a bit sensitive, this new cock felt good inside me.
It didn’t take long for either the guy I was sucking or the guy topping me to cum. The African-American’s load seemed to bubble
out of his dick, like soup boiling over, and onto my tongue. Like the cum rag I was, I drank his sharp-tasting juice. Or tried
to—he pulled out the moment he started to cum. His cock burped out another blast of cream just as the head was clearing my
lower lip. Then two more spurts spilled out of his piss slit. I stared, fascinated by the contrast of the white jism dripping
off his black dick. He suddenly pressed his cock back between my lips. My tongue caught the last heavy drop he managed to
squeeze out of his balls.
The man now fucking my ass kept up a steady pace, his cock moving easily within my moist chute. He kneaded my butt cheeks
as his dick slid in and out of me. Only when he neared climax did he increase his speed, pushing into me in short, rapid thrusts.
When he came, he made a sound like he’d just been punched in the kidneys. And then he was done. He gave me an affectionate
slap on my ass after pulling out.
He was replaced with another, as was the African-American man who’d just left my mouth. These men, the ones at the end of
the line who’d been watching all this time and getting thoroughly turned on, came very quickly when it was their turn to participate.
In less than fifteen minutes I had five men—three fore, two aft. They shoved their cocks in my mouth and in my ass, pumped,
and came. I, however, had to wait before my rigid, aching,
untouched
prick could get release.
When the last two men pulled out of me, my hands were unbound and I was helped to my feet. I had difficulty standing. My arms
were numb, my legs were gelatin, and my ass muscles felt loose and rubbery. Lube trickled down the inside of my thighs. My
face was slimy with cum and spit. My entire body was wet with sweat, and my dick looked as if it were about to rupture, it
was so swollen and purple. A long, thick, silvery thread of precum hung from the end of my cock.
The crowd formed a semicircle. One man stood apart from them, and I was led to him. He had an average face—neither ugly nor
attractive, just the kind of face you forget a minute after looking at it. His body was much more memorable: hard muscles
bulging beneath tan skin; a diamond of silky dark hair between his hard pecs; and a trail of hair leading to his crotch. His
cock was hard, with a bell-shaped head. His balls were being strangled by a black leather strap that encircled his ball sac.
I recognized this man. This was last month’s rag.
I was led to this man. Through my cum-blurred vision I saw him smile. Someone handed him a cloth, and he began to clean my
face. The cloth was warm and damp and felt good against my skin as he wiped away the spooge that covered me. Then he kissed
me, deeply, before getting to his knees and taking my turgid dick into his sweet mouth.
I shot my load in seconds. A dry, rasping moan clawed its way out of my throat. The man—last month’s rag— jerked his head
back away from my cock. I came so forcefully my load rocketed three feet into the air, landing on the ex-rag’s broad shoulders
and firm pecs. My legs began to buckle. I caught myself on his broad shoulders, then, slowly, I too sank to my knees. The
room filled with cheers and applause; even though the noise was deafening, it sounded far away.
The former rag embraced me, the present rag, in his big arms. He kissed me again. I savored his taste and the moment, knowing
that next month, I’d be having this same moment with the new rag. And then, like all rags, I’d be discarded.
Dave MacMillan
T
here wasn’t a name in the English language that I’d not called Iain Campbell, Earl of Inverness, in the four hours it had
taken the bleeding train to reach Edinburgh from London. I’d gone through my limited knowledge of American, German, and French
nasty names as I was being chauffeured deeper and deeper into the bloody Highlands. The burly Scotsman behind the wheel of
the Land Rover hadn’t said more than two words to me since I got in the car.
Me, a bloody rentboy? Again? I still couldn’t believe it. I was well past that year of my life when I turned my bum up for
any bloke with a tenner. I’d pulled myself up—and right out of that life. Now, I had the most desired arse on two continents—and
a face and body that went with it. No more King’s Cross for Max Molloy. I’d starred in American, French, and German videos.
I’d won Best Actor at last year’s Berlin Erotic Film Festival. I was well paid—handsomely. Just to shag for the bloody camera.
And, now, this!
I sighed again. What my agent wouldn’t do if there was money involved. I was nearly as bad. Five thousand pounds, minus the
agent’s 15 percent, of course. For a Highlands weekend with this Iain Campbell on his bloody estate. No kink. All vanilla.
I had decided that this Campbell had to be old and ugly. It was the only explanation for his paying that kind of money to
have me. I didn’t do old and ugly. I couldn’t even get erect for it. This weekend was going to be a disaster; I bloody well
knew it in my bones.
The house was big enough to remind me of St. James’s Palace, but considerably more ancient. The large wooden doors of the
entrance opened and I saw a tall lad in a kilt walk toward me.
He was striking. Taller than my 6 feet—slim, with flaming red hair, pale translucent skin, and freckles everywhere. And he
was young.
He grinned as he opened the car door for me. Immediately, I wondered why Earl Inverness wanted me. He had an absolutely beautiful
boy in this lad. His Lordship obviously ignored Britain’s age of consent; this lad was a bit too young. That, however, was
Iain Campbell’s problem, not mine.
“Max Molloy?” the lad asked, and then blushed. “But of course you are. I would recognize you anywhere.”
“You would?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. In King’s Cross a lad of this one’s age might well have seen my vids, but here on
top of a mountain in Scotland?
He laughed. “I would—with or without your clothes.”
“His Lordship allows you to watch them?”
“His Lordship?” He studied me strangely for a moment before smiling again.
“What’s he like, old and fat?” I asked without thinking. “And ugly as sin?”
The lad blinked, and I heard the driver guffaw as he opened up the back of the Land Rover to get my overnighter.
“Max, I’m Iain Campbell, Laird of Inverness,” the ginger-haired cutie told me, his blue eyes twinkling.
“You?” I shuddered, mentally kissing 5,000 pounds good-bye. “My Lord, I’ll need to be driven back to Edinburgh, if you don’t
mind.”
Surprise covered the lad’s face, making it even whiter. “Is something wrong?” he managed to ask.
“I’m not going to get into something with someone your age. I’m sorry, My Lord, but if the police found out—I can’t. I’m not
going to jail, no matter what the pay is.”
He started to chuckle then, joining the driver. I didn’t see the joke. “Max,” he said, “I graduated Oxford this year. I’m
only a year younger than you are.”
I stared at the lad—no, the man—before me. I tried to swallow but, somehow, my heart had found its way into my throat. I knew
I had put myself in a pickle.
“Won’t you come in?” he asked finally, and stood back from the car door.
“Are you angry at me then, sir?” I asked as I stepped onto the gravel.
He grinned. “How could I be? Everyone makes the same mistake.” He shrugged. “It’s genetic—my father looked to be in his mid-twenties
the day he died.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, not remembering my father appearing even once in my life over the past twenty-three years. I carried
my mother’s maiden name, and it no longer bothered me. “He didn’t suffer, did he?”
His Lordship’s body stiffened and his face became blank. “A car accident, Max. It was fast.” I watched him force himself to
relax. “Thanks for asking,” he said. “That was two years ago. I’m over it now.” He glanced at the entranceway, then turned
back to face me. “Let’s go in, have a drink, and get acquainted.”
I thought I knew what that last part meant. I watched this laird’s kilt swirl half up his thighs as he turned. I really was
interested now that I knew I wasn’t getting involved with jailbait. Most definitely. I was looking forward to knowing Earl
Inverness better. Intimately.
Iain Campbell led me into his study. There was an austerity to the room—though the young Celtic god had softened it somewhat
with the addition of a sofa and a TV and VCR. “Please, be seated. Drink?” he asked as he stepped to the sideboard.
“Yes.”
“There’s whisky or gin—”
“I can make do with a good malt, Your Lordship.”
A moment later, he returned to me carrying two glasses filled with several jiggers of Scotland’s greatest treasure. “You may
call me Iain, Max. Even the estate’s retainers do. I don’t stand on formalities; and I do want us to become friends.”
He offered me my drink and moved easily to the other end of the sofa. Adjusting his kilt as he sat down, His Lordship turned
to face me. “Are you wondering why I invited you here and paid such an exorbitant sum to make it happen?”