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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 Ankara bayan escort 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?”
“Sam,” Graves answered.
“Ah, yes, the older darky. Endurance. I no longer ask for him myself. I doubt he’ll be here too much longer.”
“Yes, I doubt I will use him again myself. The choices were limited. I booked late.” It was spoken Escort bayan Ankara almost as if by regret.
“Satisfying this time, though?” Shelden Sinclair asked.
“To a point. That endurance issue, though. He takes the whip well, but possibly too well, and he does not vocalize as I would like. But he is pleasantly tight, which is a surprise.”
“I don’t think he’s used all that much in that way. Most of the men here don’t consider darkies worth the effort. They mostly use their oral skills. But I take it you like to break them?” This was said in a way that conveyed that this was a preference of Sinclair’s as well.
“Yes. Or at least seem to have. An eighteen-year-old youth. Just the right age.”
“I quite agree–when they come to this house fresh. Signs of manhood, yet still supple, yielding, a certain innocence still. Recognizing authority, trusting, and in awe of the pleasures received and given. Not questioning, whatever they are tasked with–how much they are tasked. Still learning, and thus still seeking.”
“And when you take the whip and cock to them, they break for you, showing that they are younger and more vulnerable than their age denotes.”
“And that’s when you can use them totally and become completely satiated with their surrender–almost as if they aren’t whores, in the business. Almost as if you picked them off the street for the first time yourself.”
“Precisely. Sometimes you do pick them off the street yourself?”
“Yes, sometimes. Not here, of course. Sometimes back in the Midwest. Young, virginal, in awe of having been selected, totally yielding. Spent when I’m done with him.” He stopped short of saying he was from Ohio, even if he knew that Sinclair would know that. Seeing that he was getting too much into the familiar, that Sinclair’s hand had dropped to his basket, Graves changed gears. “Sam has perhaps been here too long, become too enduring.”
“Yes, I completely understand. Shaun falls a bit short as well.”
“Sam doesn’t cry anymore. He doesn’t scream or beg.”
“Shaun screamed a bit this time–not with the cock, but with the fist. Not enough for highest pleasure, though.”
“Ah, the fist.”
“Yes,” Sinclair, repeating the word, making it sound like velvet. He was wearing black leather gloves and he flexed his fingers. Graves thought he perhaps could see some discoloring and shiny, like slicks of grease, on the right-hand glove.
“Tom, the redhaired Irish youth, with the curly hair, hazel eyes, the slight body, the lovely skin,” Graves said. “He writhed. He cried. Just the way he lay during when I had penetrated and then afterward, the way he lay quiet and followed me with his eyes around the room, and asking if there would be more–giving the impression he both wanted and didn’t want more.”
“After the fist you mean?”
“Yes, after the fist,” Graves said. The two were having a melding of the minds and of what made them tick–what aroused them. They each could tell the other was in erection. Unabashed, they unbuttoned themselves simultaneously, and had pulled their cocks out of their flies and were sitting there, across from each other, masturbating themselves.
“There was that impression conveyed with Tom, yes,” Shelden Sinclair said. “After you’d prepared and covered him, you found you had another hardening in you after all–and more strength in your flogging arm.” The two men shared a companionable chuckle. “Yes, that Tom was the best in years.”
“None of the youths this year compare.”
“No, they don’t. I completely agree.”
Frank, who had been listening at the door, smiled grimly and then knocked, opened the door, and took one step inside. Although he managed here, he didn’t belong in this room with these men, and he accepted that. He completely ignored that they were beating themselves off–and they made no effort to show embarrassment that he saw them doing so.
“Your carriage is here, Sir,” he said, looking directly at Graves. He couldn’t address the man by name, as the patrons studiously would not recognize each other by name, pretending they would not know. He stood to the side as Graves folded his cock back into his trousers, rebuttoned his fly, stood, and walked by him and to the front door of the fetish brothel. When he was gone, Lampere turned to Shelden Sinclair and said, “As you are on the rise again, Sir,” which the young Shelden Sinclair obviously was, as he was stroking his long, thick, hard shaft, “Jimmy is ready for you in Room 2.”
Shelden Sinclair was an athletic, virile young man. He did not take the risk or waste a trip to the Oscar Club to dally with just one young male whore. He stood and reached into the chair and came up with his riding crop. He would need his riding crop. Jimmy was the third son of an impoverished Middleburg ancestral plantation owner Shelden Sinclair knew and held a mortgage for. The father raised thoroughbreds. Jimmy was a thoroughbred. He would give Shelden Sinclair quite the ride–even if doing so wasn’t in Jimmy’s plan. Especially if doing so wasn’t in Jimmy’s plan. Today he would break young Jimmy.
* * * *
Small, Bayan escort Ankara slender eighteen-year-old Jamie huddled in the falling snow against a wall on Georgetown in a position that he could see the entrance to Gregory Graves’s townhouse on the adjacent side of the Volta Park square. The occupants of the house he was crouching before were gone for the Christmas holidays or they might have sent a servant out to send him away. He wasn’t the only one who came to Georgetown to beg for spare change, though. He knew the people weren’t in residence because he’d already been around the house, testing the windows for possible entry, and coming up short. He would have preferred to case Senator Graves’s Q Street house from the shelter of a parlor even if it would be nearly as cold inside as it was on the outside. And the house may have some treasures he could “borrow.”
What he could see of the entertainment rooms through the windows from outside, though, revealed that the furniture was covered. There also were no Christmas decorations–no tree or trappings–and Christmas was less than a week away. This family was elsewhere and would be so for some time yet, probably into the new year. Jamie would come back, with tools to gain entrance on another day. He was pursuing other interests today, however.
He remained on lookout, watching the doors of Graves’s house–both the main door on the first floor and the door under those stairs at the English basement level. He was there to see Graves return to the house from the Oscar Club. Then later, after the man would have supped, he saw the cook and a maid come out of the door under the main stairs and walk away arm in arm. Jamie had been told Graves would be alone in the house tonight, so there only was the butler to go. The man’s wife had left him recently and taken most of the servants with her. He lived there alone, at least for now, and not really knowing what to do with servants other than that they took care of all of his needs, Graves had let them all off tonight. No doubt in days to come he would realize that was a mistake, and Jamie’s chances would be cut down.
An hour later, dark having fallen, and the snow beginning to taper off, the butler came out of the front door and walked away. Jamie knew the other men in Graves’s employ, the carriage driver and a houseboy, lived above the stables in back. Jamie knew the houseboy, who was twenty-one now, and thus no longer of interest to Graves. It had been the houseboy who had given Jamie the information he needed on getting into the house when only the senator was home. The carriage driver had taken the houseboy over after his year under Graves’s whip, and he and the carriage driver, Jamie was sure, would be fucking in the rooms over the stable until both went to sleep. They wouldn’t enter the house tonight unless Graves called them.
Jamie had already found his point of entrance–a small window in the pantry, at the side of the house, where there was little room between the wall of the house and the fence between the lots and where the molding on the window had rotted and could just be pulled away–and put back, if need be. The window was, Jamie was sure, deemed too small for a man to climb through, and it probably was, but Jamie wasn’t the size of a grown man. Jamie was an undersized eighteen-year-old; of perfect, trim form; red-haired, with freckles and hazel eyes; and very easy on the eyes of anyone who, like Graves, was attracted to small eighteen-year-old youths.
Late into the night, Jamie fit through the pantry window without trouble and put it back in place. He listened for well over half an hour, and when he decided no one was astir, he emptied a potato sack and went shopping in the house. The state of the house bore out that the mistress had departed. The pieces of furniture in most of the main-floor entertainment rooms were covered. There was a Christmas tree in the front parlor, but it looked like it had been decorated indifferently, perhaps by an inattentive servant gauging that the master wouldn’t be fussy about it. There were decorative pieces lying around on mantles and tables, but they too were haphazardly arranged, as if the mistress didn’t prize them when she was stripping the house for her own use elsewhere and that they were considered to be inferior in value.
Value is relative, though. None of what had been left behind was inferior goods to Jamie. He was particularly taken with a small display of Chinses cloisonné vases on a table in the back parlor that were picked out by a moonbeam through a window in the now-cloudless night sky. There were several vases. The room looked like it was not in use now, and Jamie thought that Graves probably had no idea what had been taken by his wife and what had been left here anyway. He picked out two vases and put them in the potato sack. From there, he went into the master’s study, which obviously was the only room on this floor other than the dining room the man was using now. There were still glowing embers from a fire in the fireplace grate. That provided Jamie enough light to go through papers he took from the desk to look for what he’d been sent for–something of use in controlling Graves. His father had taught him to read for this explicit purpose, and it wasn’t long before Jamie found likely papers. He put them in the potato sack with the cloisonné vases, returned to the pantry, and put the sack through the window. The sack would be found and taken from there before dawn.
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