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Sail to the Sun Ch. 01

By: sr71plt



[This is a completed eight-chapter novella, with chapters posting twice a week and the work completed posting by the middle of May 2011]



The room was smoky, and with the spot on me, I couldn't see much farther than the first row of men, all leaning over the edge of the stage. Men with bulging biceps bursting out of muscle shirts. Tattoos running up and down their arms. Leering and cheering and singing to me. Challenging me, daring me, begging me to take off that last thong. Beckoning me over to the edge and cajoling me to lean down so they could put their dollar bills in my string and playfully—maybe only half playfully—snap the string and maybe try to pull it down. But not all that seriously. All had been here before. They knew that success would mean a blackout and the end to my dance on the pole and platform. They knew that anything more private or doing in public what should be in private required a payment to Hoagie, standing behind them in the shadows beside the bar, beefy arms crossed. Seeing everything and assessing the worth of every man in the room, including me.

"Come on, Asian boy, stop the tease." A voice raised from the second row—slurred, good natured, but ever hopeful.

Friday night in the back room of the Hawksbill Inn and motor hotel. All gussied up on the outside, out front a country inn serving gourmet meals for the well-heeled of eastern West Virginia, albeit few and far between, as well as those in transit from somewhere to somewhere else who thought they had driven the roads of the mountain state endlessly in search of a presentable place for a meal and a night's lodging. In either case, those traveling through felt they'd died and gone to heaven when they'd stumbled on the Hawksbill Inn. Think of colonial B&B with upscale motel rooms running back from the east side. Those thinking they had stumbled on a gem in a pile of dirt weren't seeing the parking area on the back, on the west side. Here the old pickups parked, their owners with a hard-earned paycheck in hand from the mines and indulging an itch that brought them to the darkened parking lot and the metal door opening to the black-walled stairs down into the catacombs under the burnished-wood walls of the plush dining room above.

One AM in the morning. Amazing to think that three hours earlier, I was in a stark white dress shirt and neatly pressed black pants, solicitously serving at table in the upstairs dining room. I moved adroitly, as I had been taught, amid heavy mahogany tables and captains' chairs set on old, worn oriental carpets in front of warming fireplaces and tables set with sparkling silver, starched linen, and the soft glow of candles, helping patrons order gourmet dishes and choose expensive wines.

"Shake that bootie. Whoeeee," a raucous voice soared over the babbling din. I recognized the voice. I'd given him a blow job the previous night in one of the cells behind the stage after one of my sets. He'd paid Hoagie in ones and fives. It'd be another month before he could afford that again, but he promised he'd be back.

He promised he'd take me away from here someday. I can't count how many promised that with the hope I'd give them free service until I realized there would be no taking me away. Fat chance of that I knew. Hoagie would put both of us away before that would happen. Even without Hoagie the idea was ludicrous. Me, a young Thai man, living openly with a burly miner in the mountains and hollows of West Virginia. I wouldn't hold my breath to see that happen.

"Shoot the moon." Another voice sailing through the air—and making my thoughts drift back, as the music drummed ever louder in my ears. I raised a leg high up the pole to cat calls from the murk, knowing I was nearing the moment when I unsnapped the thong and turned full frontal to the ring of reaching arms for an instant, a mere instant, before the spot was extinguished and I glided off stage, into the wings, and perhaps into the arms of a patron who had met Hoagie's price—me not knowing until Hoagie met us at the cell door what the price would buy.

Shoot the moon. Bringing to mind what my mother would whisper to me as she pulled the curtain across the bed, the smell of the smoke and the heavy breathing of the man—invariably an American from the air base—having already told me the curtain would be pulled. Just another lonely and horny American airmen—just like the one of many possibilities who had fathered me.

"Shush now, little Atid," she'd murmur. "Mother sails to the sun now."

Each time she'd say that I would feel warm and close to her, as my name, Atid, meant "sun," and for a moment, a moment only, I thought she was coming to me, to cover me with her arms and rock me back and forth and hum a tune of safety to me. But she never meant she was coming to me. And I would lay there on the other side of the thin curtain, hearing everything, knowing the moment she reached the sun, knowing she was being seared by the heat of the sun, crying out at the explosion.

It was not long, there in Udon Thani, before the American airmen came not always for my mother—but sometimes, when I was old enough, for me, and I learned myself what sailing to the sun could mean. Until then, I denied what it really meant. Sailing to the sun for me was rising out of the Thai jungles, above the trees and the fetid squalor of our alley and into the clean sunshine and the crisp air of the mountaintops. It was only a dream then; I didn't expect ever to do that. And when I did get glimpses of it, I was sorry that it only shed understanding on the conditions I was born into. I think I would have been happier never to have known more or better.

I would speak to my mother of what I wanted sailing to the sun to mean, and she'd give me a soft look and tell me that was a lovely way to think of it. And that's when she told me that she was able to do what she did for the American airmen because she held a double meaning of the term too. Yes, she had to open her mouth and legs for the foreign men in whatever manner pleased them. But in doing so, she opened up a world of continued existence for herself—and for me—although in the times I had displeased her, she was quick to point out the increasing expense and drag on her life that I was.

And so when the American major came to her and I saw the fistful of baht he handed to her and she turned to me and told me that my dreams of sailing to the sun would come true and that she would always think of me high above the clouds on a mountaintop, and the American smiled and put out his hand, I went with him. I went with him so that I no longer would be a burden on my mother and so that perhaps she would not have to fall on her back for a foreign man as much when I was gone. But I also went for myself. I could not see above the trees—to the warmth of the sun—from the hovel existence I led with my mother. Surely, I thought, any new life would be more like sailing to the sun than the life I then was trapped in.

I became the major's houseboy on the American airbase and worked hard for him during the day. But I also worked hard for him in the night, sailing to the sun again and again, my legs open wide and his throbbing club moving relentlessly in and out of me, searing me with the heat of the sun, moaning and groaning just as I had heard my mother do for the American airmen, and exploding as I flew into the sun. Him walking into the room after a day at work and fisting the knot of my sarong and sweeping it off me. Telling me to run, to try to allude him. A game he liked to play. I would run and whimper for him, and he would track me down and push me to the carpet or onto my back on a table or desk or fold me on my belly over a chair. And roughly force my legs apart as he held me in a close embrace. He would search me deeply with his fingers and then, when I was moaning and groaning, mount me, riding me hard and deep, while I sobbed for him.

That was when I met Hoagie. He was a master sergeant and watched over men taking care of the heavy aircraft at the airbase, and I knew he must have been a heavy task master, because he certainly was cruel to me.

His quarters were near to the major's and he would take long looks at me when he passed by—and he passed by increasingly. He would smile, and he was pleasant to me. He would stop to talk to me as I worked in the major's yard, and, lonely as I was, I would smile back and would try to have something that needed done when I thought he'd pass by. He would bring me chocolates and little presents. I knew what this meant when the chocolates appeared.

He was a huge man. All muscle and bullet head. Bald and with arms as big as my waist. He told me he was a cook in his civilian life and that he wanted to know how to cook Thai food and show me how to make some Western dishes the major surely would like, if I showed him some Thai cooking. He told me he would become an innkeeper when he returned to his world—that he already owned what he'd turn into an inn.

I let him into the major's house during the day. Most of Hoagie's work shifts were at night, and the major's were during the day. So, as a surprise for the major, I invited the master sergeant into my kitchen and for weeks I traded cooking lessons with Hoagie. All I wanted to do was to learn new American dishes that would please the major.

But when Hoagie had learned what he wanted to know about Thai cooking, he sent me sailing over the sun—not just to the sun, but over it. First he did it with his fists, beating me to the floor with blow after blow. Then lifting me and slamming me down on my back on the kitchen table and ripping my sarong off, and then my loin cloth, leaving me naked to him. He forced my legs apart, twisting my ankles into the open slats of kitchen chairs on either side. Then, with one hand he grabbed my neck and choked me almost to the point of unconsciousness as he took his hard tool in the other hand and guided it to my hole and then forced his way into me—and we were sailing straight to the sun. I did black out then and didn't come to until he had turned me on his hard member and was spouting his seed deep inside my belly.

He came to the house three more times during the day and took what he wanted from me before the major found that I was laying with another man. I was afraid to tell the major what Hoagie was doing; he told me he'd kill the major if I did. And I believed he was capable of doing that. The major wouldn't touch me after learning I had lain under Hoagie. He beat me and told me he would turn me out into the night. But he didn't. He locked me in my room—his laundry room where I kept a mat to sleep on, and let me out only to relieve myself and to cook his meals. He said that all I was good for now was to cook and clean for him.

There was a young pilot who visited the major sometimes. I thought that maybe they were lovers, but when I hinted at it once, the major just gave me a funny look and said that they liked the same thing too much for that. And then he laughed and called the pilot his bait. He said they went out to the clubs at night and that the pilot was so young and good looking that he would attract enough men for the both of them.

And indeed when the young pilot visited the major, it was me that his eyes followed around the room, not the major. They seemed very comfortable with each other, and I only saw them fight the once—and that was over me. After the major locked me up in the small room at the back of the house, I heard voices raised when the young pilot visited. They clearly had developed some sort of disagreement. It was only days later that the major opened the door to my room and told me to come out into the living area. The young pilot was sitting at the dining table; his eyes picked up my form as soon as I entered from the hallway, and I looked down, embarrassed, because I knew that look. That was the sailing to the sun look—the look of want.

Although I was embarrassed, I also was pleased. The young pilot was a beautiful young man and he had always addressed me politely and been kind to me when he had visited. He was soft spoken and had a sweet smile that made me feel safe and happy. I could see how the major considered him a good man to take to the clubs with him. He exuded a presence that made others want to know him and please him—and to be with him. I felt a glow and an inner feeling of completion when he visited.

Looking past him, I saw that there was a stack of American money bills on the table in front of the young pilot. And thus I was surprised but I understood when the major said, "You are to go with Tom now. You belong to him now."

The young pilot was kind and gentle and loving to me. He had to live in bachelor quarters with other pilots on the airbase, but he had a small apartment—just a single room with a bathroom and a kitchenette really off base in the red light district outside the gate to the air base. This had been where the major and the young pilot brought their men from the clubs, I learned—because they still did that, sending me out for the evening or, when the major was there, sometimes making me crouch in a corner and watch. They both used the men they brought to the apartment as the major and the other men used me.

But even then, the young pilot treated his men more gently and respectfully than the major did.

He certainly treated me that way the few short months he owned me. He spent more and more of the nights with me in the apartment—making slow and sensual sex with me. Covering my body with his sweet kisses and preparing me well for when he laid me on my belly on the bed and covered me close from above, and, with me being well opened and panting for him, sliding his member slowly and deeply into me and kissing me on the neck and shoulders and lips while he slowly moved in and out of me, asking me what I liked and then what I liked better, and giving me what I wanted. Sailing to the sun with him was all that I could wish for.

But that was not to last for long.

One evening, before the young pilot bedded me, there was a heavy knock at the door. When he opened it, there stood a drunk and disheveled Hoagie. He looked past the young pilot and found me with his eyes. In a slurred voice he said he'd come to use me and that he'd pay the pilot. The pilot refused and managed to push Hoagie out of the door and shut and lock it. The man stood out in the hallway and pounded the door and cursed for a short time, but someone from one of the other rooms opened his door and shouted at Hoagie and he left.

A few days later he showed up again, sober this time, and stood at the door, talking through the crack permitted by the length of the engaged night chain. He told the young pilot he wanted to buy me, and again the pilot refused. Hoagie then threw a wad of American bills through the crack and said I was bought now and that he would take delivery in his time.

The next evening the pilot went out to the clubs with the major, but they returned earlier than I expected and without other men. The young pilot had been beaten badly, and while the major helped him bandage his wounds, I overheard them discussing how Hoagie had come into one of the clubs and picked a fight with the pilot—and would have done worse to the pilot if others hadn't pulled him off. The major said that the young pilot should do what Hoagie wanted, or it could go very badly with him. The major even mentioned that Hoagie was responsible for maintaining the plane the pilot flew, so the pilot should be very careful about doing his inspections before he took off. But the young pilot again demurred, saying that now that I was with him, he would keep me with him—that he would take me to the states. That . . . that he loved me.

I was so frightened and grateful and filled with warm feelings for the young pilot that night that, when we were alone, I had made him lie back on the bed in as comfortable a position as his wounds would permit, and I made long and languid love to his member with my mouth and then straddled him as gently as I could and rode his member until he flooded me with a sigh.

That was the last time the young pilot and I sailed to the sun. Two days later he did not return from his flight in the evening. Instead, Hoagie came to me. I opened the door to the knock, not knowing who it was, and Hoagie was standing in the doorway.

"If you have anything to take, get it and come with me," he said.

"I cannot," I answered in a weak, little voice. "I belong to the young pilot. He has told me to stay here and wait on him."

"Tom isn't coming," Hoagie said gruffly. "Tom isn't coming ever again. And you are mine; I paid him for you."

I struggled when he wrapped his arm around me, but I was no match for him. And I angered and aroused him. He merely picked me up, supporting me doubled over with a strong arm around my belly, and carried me to the bed and fucked all of the fight and resistance out of me, sailing up and over the moon again and again with his pistoning cock, until I agreed to meekly go with him.

Sail to the Sun Ch. 02



Hoagie took me back to his quarters and locked me in a back room as the major did. And he let me out to clean and cook and then whenever it pleased him to fuck me cruelly—far more cruelly than the major ever did. He sometimes would hit me, but he never hurt me badly. He called me his obsession, the itch that he needed to scratch again and again. I endured him, counting the days he was marking off on the calendar he kept in the kitchen, the number of days that needed to pass before he would be leaving Thailand.

I did not know what would be in store for me from my next owner, but I endured by telling myself it could only be better than the here and now. In time I grew numb to the thrusting of his cock inside me before I was prepared to be fully open to him, and I learned to not panic when he was choking me, trusting that he knew the threshold not to cross. I almost regretted it when he went a stretch of days by going to the clubs rather than taking me from my room and laying me on his bed and slapping my thighs open to him. What would I face when he no longer wanted me, I wondered, with fear.

But when the calendar ran out of waiting days and Hoagie packed to return to America, he took me with him.

As we prepared to leave—with the hassle Hoagie went through to get me documented to go with him showing more than anything else had his determination to have me—I couldn't help but think of the young pilot. I tried not to think about what had happened to him, why I'd never seen him again after Hoagie came to the apartment and took me away. I knew why, of course, but I did not want to think about it. But when times were roughest with Hoagie—when he was taking me hard and choking me and I was afraid he was going to kill me—I transported my mind to that interlude with the young pilot. He had told me he was taking me to America too. But I wondered if he would have gone through all of the red tape that Hoagie had to get me there.

Hoagie told me I was his now, that he had bought and paid for me, and that he could do whatever he wanted with me, even in America. And of course I believed him. I had known nothing else, no other life than being some man's servant and bed toy. Even the young pilot had owned me.

Hoagie had been telling the truth about being a cook. I learned that he was a chef, and he'd somehow come back to America with enough money to fix up the place he owned, which he named Hawksbill Inn, and to set it up to suit himself.

I was not the only young man who worked at the inn for him or who sailed to the sun with him. But as far as I could tell, I was the only young man he owned. The others came and went as they pleased and, I think, kept at least part of their wages. I didn't.

"Show us what ya' got, boy. Let it swing." The voice sliced through the din and brought me back into the real world. I turned and spread my buns with my hands as I leaned deep and looked out into the crowd with a provocative smile. The string riding in my butt crack was thin, and I knew I was giving the room a good rim shot. I could tell they were interested by the sucking in of air across the smoke-filled space and the whistles.

I was looking back at the bar, though, at the end, where Hoagie customarily stood. He wasn't there, and this is why I was looking. I wanted to know what, if anything, I had to look to when I left the stage. If he was there, in the stage wings, my time and attention probably had been paid for, and my night was not over. Someone would be waiting for me in the wings. But who? I scanned the crowd, trying to decide who was missing. I couldn't tell.

My eyes fell on a young man sitting somewhat apart and staring at me quietly—not yelling wishes and wants or cat calling as most of the rest were. Just nursing a beer and watching me with a sad look on his handsome, chiseled face. Someone not like the rest—the thin and sinewy miners, with their coughs and concave chests, incongruent with the hardness of their muscles—and the dark cast of coal dust to them that they never seemed able to wash away. A young man—not much older than I was—who worked out and who was too tall and bulky for the confined spaces of the mines. Not sallow from life underground as most of them, but tanned and robust. I'd seen him there before, but, as always, he sat apart and just gazed at me sadly and nursed a beer.

I was struck almost immediately by the similarity between this young man and my young pilot. And my heart went out to him. And I found I was dancing for him and him alone. That somehow transported me away from the here and now, and I felt myself lifting through the roof and over the trees, Sailing free—upward.

The music in the room had reached the signal point where I knew it was time for me to turn from the pole and place my hands on the snaps at the sides of my thong. There was a sudden hush in the room—anticipation. The clientele was regular. There were few places for miners to go in this region of West Virginia if they liked men. The sudden silence from the floor of the club room was deafening, and I could hear the gasps escaping and the cheer forming as I unsnapped the thong and let it fall—and stood there for what was an eternity for me but only a split second for the patrons in the room before the spot died and I glided into the wings.

No one was there. No patron waiting for me. I was initially relieved, but then I began to panic and hyperventilate as my eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw him there. Hoagie was standing just beyond the wings, a look in his eyes that I knew so well—a sailing to the sun look.

I felt the steely grip of his hand on my wrist and he was pulling me down the hallway, past the cells used by the customers, to his own room. He spun me into the room and backhanded me across the face, sending me to the floor, as he unbuckled his belt and let his trousers drop to the floor.

I gagged and instinctively reached for the enclosing leather strip as he noosed the buckle and slipped it over my head. He backhanded me again, telling me to drop my hands, which I did. A beefy arm went around my narrow waist and he shoved my chest down onto his desk top. A drawer opened and then slammed shut and he was pulling my hands behind my back and tying them together at the wrist. I cried out in pain as his sheathed cock slid into my channel, and then I forgot anything but that tight belt around my neck as he pulled back on it until I was at the point of fainting and then relieved the pressure but pulled once more as soon as the rasp left my breath, while stroking hard and deep inside me with his angry cock, again and again and again.

Now, at the point of blacking out, I willed myself to think of the sailing to the sun that I longed for. Sailing up, over the trees and hillsides of West Virginia. Into the air, above the clouds, sailing toward the sun—and merciful unconsciousness. 



Sail to the Sun Ch. 03



Hoagie kept me close. I had a windowless room in the basement of the inn, across from the room Hoagie kept for himself down the corridor off the wings of the small stage in the club room. Hoagie's room—and mine—were beyond the six small cells, three to a side, off the corridor.

The room was fine with me—it was no worse, and better in most respects—than the space I had been given by the men who owned me in Thailand—with the exception of the small apartment the young pilot had taken me to. I could be alone there, and I counted it a blessing and a favor that Hoagie didn't make me bring patrons back to my private space. The six cells between mine and the backstage area were where we gave the customers individual attention—for those times when someone didn't spring loose to "treat the room."

It was the activity called "treating the room" that I hated the worst. When some miner was willing to pay the price for this, Hoagie would call one or more of the dancers out on the stage, and the spot wouldn't be extinguished when we had stripped down. We'd dance, naked, until the crowd could take no more, and then men would hop up on the stage with us and, if we were lucky, would take us right there, on stage, with the crowd satisfied with looking. When we were unlucky, we would be body surfed out into the crowd until we landed on a tabletop on our backs, and the crowd would descend on us and pull our legs apart and hold us down as customer after customer fucked us.

Hoagie would just stand there beside the bar and smile. The profit he received when some drunken patron treated the room would make him smile.

I was the only one of Hoagie's boys who roomed at the inn. The other guys had more freedom than I did. They could live on their own and came and went as they pleased to work their shifts as waiters in the inn and then later at night as dancers in the club. If a diner at the inn hooked up with them, they could go anywhere they wanted to do their business and keep whatever they made above the set commission for Hoagie.

But Hoagie kept me on a much tighter rein. I never saw any of the money I earned—it all went to Hoagie, because, as he continually said, he owned me; he'd bought and paid for me.

I slept in my windowless room in the basement of the inn, locked in at night by Hoagie. He always knew where I was and what I was doing. And he beat me and fucked me just, as he often said, so that I wouldn't forget that I was all his. I knew one of these days he would kill me, because his favorite fetish was to choke me during sex, to keep me on the edge of consciousness while he satisfied himself.

The other waiter/dancers I befriended often asked me how I could live like this. But how could I not? I had known nothing else all of my life. This life was one of luxury compared to my existence back in Udon Thani. Just having a room of my own was paradise, even if it came with a lock on the outside of the door. And I had almost never had time alone, to myself—at least until Estaban came. My life had always been one of waking-to-sleep servitude.

Perhaps the more meaningful question was why did Hoagie think he needed to lock me in at night—or why anyone would think he should share any of the money I brought in with me.

Where was I going to go? A young Thai man of mixed blood transported to the mountains of West Virginia. Unique. One of a kind in this community. No one to talk to in terms I knew; no place to go except where Hoagie placed me. And food enough in my belly to quench the growls of hunger as well as a roof over my head—a room of my own. I could not have hoped to provide for myself back in Udon Thani as Hoagie provided for me.

Hoagie's demands and cruelty weren't even more of an imposition than I had lived with all of my life in rural Thailand.

But when I said as much to Hoagie, he accused me of trying to manipulate him, of trying to gain some slight glimmer of control over my life—and he beat me so badly that I could not leave my room for a week, giving me, he said, something to think about should I ever dream again of breaking free.

But I wasn't thinking of breaking free—even though I had, all of my life, dreamed—in the abstract—of sailing to the sun. I had no concept of this freedom Hoagie seemed to think I was reaching for. My dreams were only something I used to pull myself through the small inconveniences of life.

I didn't even dream of sailing to the sun anymore. Not really. Except maybe when Hoagie was choking me while he was fucking me. I wasn't a fool. In comparison with the wooden hole in the wall I had been raised in back in Udon Thani, I had already sailed to the sun. My horizons in my childhood were more than fulfilled in the life Hoagie gave me here in America.

It was in that week that I was too banged up to fuck that Estaban arrived. He was even younger than I was and had traveled up from Mexico with a band of men who seemed to be trying to keep a step ahead of the immigration authorities. They were stopping here and there on the way, they said, to Canada and would do seasonal or temporary worker jobs in the fields or on construction crews until they had enough money to push on north or until the local authorities became suspicious. When they had come by the inn looking for work, Hoagie had jumped at the opportunity to have the outside repainted at a cut price.

Estaban was small and prettier than most girls. And it was clear that he was being used by the men he was with. I was well enough to hobble around the inn and help prepare food and clean up even if I was too bruised to serve at table, and thus I was able to see that Hoagie was attracted to Estaban.

He seemed to be even more interested when the men Estaban were with showed a willingness to discuss selling the young man. I knew then that part of Hoagie's attraction to me was the sense of physical ownership—that I was just an object that he owned and could use any way he saw fit.

I heard Estaban moaning in Hoagie's office one evening and then crying out but almost immediately going silent in a cut-off gurgling sound. I involuntarily lifted my fingers to my neck in the darkness of my room, knowing what was happening across the corridor from me, and wondering if Hoagie had crossed the line at last. But the next day I saw Estaban walking with Hoagie out among the storage buildings at the edge of the parking lot. Hoagie was showing Estaban a small shed.

The next day, the painting completed, the band of workers had moved on. But Estaban was still here, working small menial jobs around the grounds and in the kitchen. In the early afternoon, I saw Hoagie take him by the wrist and lead him out to the shed, and I heard them having sex.

I came closer and peeked in the shed's window and saw that Estaban was on his tailbone on a stack of mulch sacks and Hoagie was standing between Estaban's thighs, his bare rump undulating in out in a very familiar act. Hoagie was holding Estaban up with hands around the young man's throat and Estaban was gripping Hoagie's biceps with his hands to keep from slumping down into Hoagie's choke hold. Just as I was wondering if the cruelty was too much for him, I saw Estaban encircle Hoagi's waist with his legs and start to put his own pelvis into a countermotion with Hoagie's thrusts. The young man's hands went to the back of Hoagie's head and pulled Hoagie's face down into his for a kiss. The long, low moan I heard coming out of Estaban's mouth. At least for now the Hispanic workman was accepting what he was getting.

So, Estaban was even lower than I was. Hoagie owned him too, but he wasn't even given his own room to retreat too—nor was he allowed to serve table as I was yet. Of course he wasn't put on stage as a dancer either, but Hoagie had him inside the club bar, doing menial work, at night, and on more than one occasion, I saw a patron paying Hoagie and leading the young Hispanic toward the cells behind the stage.

Thereafter Hoagie didn't make as many demands on me as before, but I also sensed that his interest in me was waning, and I began to worry about what would happen to me if Estaban was elevated to my place with Hoagie.



Sail to the Sun Ch. 04



The first time I was with Buddy, we didn't have sex. That was something of a turning point with me. I was a commodity. I had always been a commodity. Men paid for my time. But the time they were paying for always was for the sex. That is, it was until the first time Buddy paid for me.

I knew the night he decided to pay for my time. I saw him talking to Hoagie at the side of the bar while I was doing my dance. And I don't know why, but I was glad. I was happy that he wanted to be with me.

Buddy was the young, tanned, and well-muscled blond man who had sat for so long at a table away from the edge of the stage—the guy who reminded me of my young pilot and who was unlike the others in the room, the miners, with their coughs and the grimy look they never could quite get rid of no matter how hard they tried. And their sallow skin and leers and catcalls and the way they'd look at me and stretch their arms out to try to connect with me—to possess me, if only for a fleeting moment.

But I guess I really need to go to earlier that day to describe well what happened that evening, to explain away where I went wrong in thinking it would be Buddy I went with at the end of my dance that night.

It started earlier in the day, during the dinner service. It was some sort of American holiday, their workers' day I think, because the dining room at the inn was buzzing with activity and there were more than the usual number of families and all the customers were festive and dressed out like it was a special day.

I was kept on the run throughout the service, and Hoagie was doing his regular taskmaster routine. The kitchen was visible from three of the dining rooms, and Hoagie, as the master chef, was in top form, entertaining the diners by barking orders and keeping all of the cooks and waiters on the move and frazzled. The customers most probably saw this as all an act, but those of us who worked for Hoagie knew that he was dead serious and cruelly within his natural element.

Many of the men who came to the inn to dine knew exactly what happened there, in the downstairs club, and, although they did not play in the same game that the miners who frequented the club did, they played nonetheless. Hoagie was strict about all of his waiters sticking with the dinner service during the inn's dinner hours, but any male customer who asked for the special menu had choices he could make in waiters and services by ordering by letter and number from this menu—and, for a price, for a very hefty price—he would be ushered to one of the inn's special rooms after the dinner hour was completed. There he would be attended to by the waiter of his choice and served the services of his choice for which he had prepaid.

That evening I learned I was being ordered off the special menu—and when Hoagie informed me of that, I started to scrutinize the dinner customers, playing the game of trying to figure out who it was. Several of the men present had been ogling me and were quite friendly. Some others treated me like I was part of the wallpaper—but I had learned from experience that this often was a diversionary tactic, especially when their dining companions were their wives or girlfriends. Sometimes they went out of their way to at least pretend they weren't interested in me.

I surveyed the room. I was apprehensive, because Hoagie had smiled a cruel smile when he'd told me I had work to do between the dinner service and my dancing stints at the club. A chill went up my spine when I saw that three men who were dining together were all giving me the once over and putting their heads together and whispering. I had visions of them all taking me together. I did not have to imagine what that might entail, because it had happened to me before.

Several of the tables I serviced were of groups of women, and although some of those groups were quite friendly to me, I dismissed them as possibilities. As far as I knew, Hoagie kept a male-only establishment here and none of the other waiters had ever told me they serviced women. There were a couple of young couples—but even more middle-aged and elderly couples. Most of these were ones who, although pleasant to me, were engrossed with their dining companions and barely saw me. Even more of the men of the older couples barely saw their female companions either—they were totally absorbed in their meals.

And then there were the families. Most of the fathers in these families were so busy trying to keep their children in line that they could do no more than give me apologetic smiles as they sent me off to respond to their children's capricious demands. These were smiles of appreciation, because I was a very good waiter with their children—used to demands and to satisfying them.

I was especially solicitous of these young fathers. Having no idea who my father was, I admired and respected these men who would bring their families to an expensive restaurant like this and take the time and effort to satisfy their desires. Much of my time that evening was spent with a family with four small children and a middle-aged couple. They were all dressed very well, expensively. The father seemed to be a young businessman of some sort, and the older couple were probably either his parents or those of the wife. The middle-aged man, probably also a businessman, paid the bill and left me a generous tip, no doubt pleased that the way I interacted with the small children, helping to keep them entertained and happy while the parents and grandparents enjoyed their meals with a minimum of fuss.

I had decided that my after-dinner clients were the three businessmen who were spending more time whispering to each other than on their meals, so I was caught completely by surprise when at the end of the dinner hour, the young father of the family I'd spent the most time with at service was waiting for me at the inn's kitchen door.

Hoagie had given me a key to one of the cabins, but when I made to move in that direction, the young man pulled me away from there and walked me back to the far fringe of the parking lot where a dark SUV was almost invisible in the darkness, well away from the nearest street light.

The shock that this young father was my client was doubled when he slid open the rear door to the SUV and arms reached out and pulled me inside. I found myself in the arms of the middle-aged man who had been at table with the family. And he was naked and already erect. He pulled my face down into his lap, as the younger man came into the middle seat of the SUV behind me and rolled the door shut.

I gave the older man deep head, while the younger one shed his cloths and undressed me. The younger man opened me up with lubed fingers and his mouth and then, for nearly an hour, the two men sat side by side on the seat and passed me back and forth, setting me down on their cocks and kissing each other as they traded in fucking me. In the end it wasn't me they wanted at all. I was just part of the preparation. I huddled in the corner and watched the older man fuck the younger one to completion.

I had hoped that Hoagie would let me appear late on stage in the club that evening, as the two men had worked me well before they turned to each other for satisfaction, but when my first schedule stint on stage came up, Hoagie was at the door to my room, unlocking it and telling me to get my ass out on the stage—that it was a festive holiday crowd, ready to be separated from its money and more than ready to play.

He was right. It wasn't even pay day in the mines, but the room was full and the crowd was raunchy and quicker than usual to get frisky and more boisterously reaching across the stage for me as I danced on the pole. I sensed that they were on the edge of someone stepping up to treating the room, but they didn't quite get to that point—they, in fact went beyond it. Seeking to find the balance, to lessen my trembling from contemplating the possibilities, unwanted after the taxing surprise I'd encountered in the back of the SUV less than an hour earlier, I looked out over the crowd, seeking a center of calm.

And I found the calm as my gaze fell on the young blond man, sitting at his table near the back of the room, nursing a beer and watching me with a sad look on his face.

Our gazes met, and he must have seen something in my eyes that motivated him, because he didn't remain seated. As my eyes followed him across the room, he rose and moved to the side of the bar and was talking to Hoagie. I saw the young man pulling a wallet out of his back pocket, and then my attention was distracted by a salivating miner who had reached across the stage and managed to grab my ankle and was trying to pull me toward him. I leaned down and talked dirty to him and sweet talked him long enough for him to loosen his grip on my ankle, thinking I was going to let him kiss me. But then I waltzed away from him. When I looked up again, the young blond man was nowhere to be seen.

The crowd was getting quite rowdy, though—and bold. I saw that Estaban had been cornered at the bar and was being held in a customer's lap and jostled up and down. I could see his bare, brown legs dangling helplessly at his side, and from the expression on his face, I knew that the customer's fly must be open and he must have something buried up inside the young Hispanic's channel.

Men were surging toward the stage, but, luckily, another dancer was within easier reach than I was, and he soon was being body surfed out into the center of the room, where he was set down on his back on a table and men were enveloping him. I saw his legs spread up and out over the shoulders of patrons and his feet shudder and go rigid and pointed as I heard a cry of invasion and raucous cry of victory from the swarm of men.

I was anxious then to get off the stage, to move to the wings and to see that the young man was waiting for me, waiting to take me away from this chaos. It wasn't until that moment that I realized that I wanted to be with him—for my time to be bought by him. There was something about him that was totally unlike any of the others. I was exhausted from my workout in the SUV, but somehow I had worked up a wanting to be with this man. I had never felt like this before.

And because I wanted to be off stage, it seemed like my dance was going on forever tonight, that I was having unusual trouble staying connected with the audience while still maintaining my distance, keeping them focused on the swirl of the dance without isolating their engaged arousal on me specifically and wanting me to fulfill the dreams that had brought them back to a dark hole of a room, spending their hard-earned cash—rather than luxuriating elsewhere for the hours they could sail to the stars or sun rather than cower in a cave, whether natural or manmade.

The dancer on the pole beside me gave a little cry of surprise as he slid down to the floor, having allowed his body to stretch out too close to the edge. I looked down and saw that an extra large-sized hairy miner, all muscle and beer gut—stripped of his shirt—had a grip on the dancer's ankle. The dancer looked up at me in panic as his body was being dragged back toward the edge. The miner reached up with his other hand and grabbed the band of the dancer's thong at the waist, and I saw it snap as both of the miner's hands grabbed the dancer by the waist. The dancer howled and his eyes searched mine imploringly as I could see in his face the moment of penetration and being pulled back on the miner's cock. The dancer closed his eyes then and relaxed and allowed the miner to pull his pelvis back and forth on his sheathed cock. It was only the shock of flashpoint of it all that had gotten to the dancer. He knew that if the miner wanted to fuck him and was willing to pay, it could happen here as well as in the cells backstage.

I was about to turn and run for the wings. Only discipline kept me there. Hoagie would beat me if I ran. This was unusual for a club night, but it wasn't unheard of. A couple of times a year the crowd would go wild like this. But Hoagie wouldn't care. He'd stand there and take in every separate tableau. It mattered not whether his dancers got fucked in the cells or here in the main club room. The stories of the occasional orgy here were good for business. Hoagie had a steel trap for a mind—and the patrons knew it. If they fucked a dancer on the floor, they paid, same as if they had a private session in the cells. And nobody would be leaving tonight without paying for whatever he had consumed and enjoyed.

I couldn't see Hoagie in the room. But assumed he must be there someplace, although he had trained the bar keep to keep score as well as he did. The first dancer was off the table now, sandwiched between two men, both enjoying his channel together. I knew he would receive an extra large portion of the sex price for that, so I didn't feel too sorry for him.

Whoever was operating the sound system was either inattentive to the music because of the entertainment value of what was happening around him, or was perverse, because I was sure the music should have stopped by now. A burly, red-headed miner and a thin, swarthy, nasty-looking sidekick were eyeing me now from the edge of the stage, and I saw that they had lifted their legs up to the stage—their bare legs—and were about to spring up to my level. I steeled myself for what was to come.

But at long last I heard the turn of the music that signaled it was time to drop my thong, embrace the darkness of the dowsed spotlight, and glide back into the wings, where waiting for me was . . . not the young blond man I was expecting, but one of the gray-beard middle-aged men I had served at dinner, a man who had kept his face virtually buried in his food as his female companion rattled on inanely in a loud, nasal voice.

And then I made a mistake. I breached the premier rule of a prostitute seeing the client for the first time. I let my face show my shock and disappointment—and, yes, more than a little dose of disgust at a man who would ignore me in the dining room but drive his wife, who I had seen and served, home and then return to buy a half hour of sex with me. Showing true feelings was a taboo; the first rule in this business is to feed the client's fantasies—to make him feel special.

I could see the anger rising in the man from my double take. And he wouldn't know that it wasn't so much how he looked to me as it was that I hadn't expected it to be him.

He took my wrist in his hand, and I could tell from the strength of his grip that he wanted to hurt me now. I led him down the corridor toward the cell assigned to me for my after-dance assignations. We passed by two figures. One was Hoagie, who was showing me an ugly look that indicated that I would be beaten for letting my guard down like this—although I didn't know why he cared; the man had already paid him and Hoagie would latch on to any tip I would get too. But perhaps he was mad because he now knew that the tip would be small or nonexistent.

The other figure that materialized from the darkness of the hallway as the client and I passed was the young blond man I had thought I would find waiting for me in the wings. He was looking forlorn and sheepish—embarrassed to be back stage to see me and the older man and knowing where we were going and why—and that I wasn't going with him.

"A half hour," Hoagie muttered to me as we passed him. "There's another one in line."

Although Hoagie had no inkling of the effect of that statement on me, my spirits were lifted. It appeared I'd have my time with the young blond man after all.

All I had to do in the meantime was to endure a half hour with a large, gray-bearded man, whose face was flushed with anger and insult. The client made me pay dearly in that half hour for what my face had betrayed when I'd seen him in the wings. The man slapped me around and forced me to the floor on my knees in front of him and assaulted my mouth with a stubby but thick and hard dick. He wanted me to gag on him, and he made sure that I did. He wanted to degrade me and put me in my place for having reacted to him as I did—and I went docile and obedient to him immediately. I knew that if I resisted or showed the least bit of spunk, it would go worse for me.

When he was ready—and having made sure I wasn't yet—he pushed me onto my back on the platform bed in the center of the room, rammed himself roughly inside me, and fucked me hard. I made the sounds he wanted to hear—being chastised for not enthusiastically receiving him—and there was no way he could know that I was just grateful that I was servicing only one, when I had come so close to being gang banged out on the club floor in a melee that probably still was going on. He came quickly and couldn't go hard a second time within the half hour, although he forced me to try to make him hard again. And then, at the end of the time, he was gone—having done no more but grunt and hiss orders at me. No thank-you, no tip. No surprise.



Sail to the Sun Ch. 05



I wasn't quite so anxious for a session with the young blond after the brutalization by the older man. I was sore and exhausted from having been taken by three men already that day—and the tension of the near miss on being taken by many more. I needn't have worried, though, When the young man was shown into my cell and the door had clanged shut behind him, my world took a strange turn in a way that had never happened to me before.

He came over close to where I was lying back on the platform bed, my torso raised by elbows digging into the rough, mussed sheeting, and still panting from the ordeal the older man had put me through. "I'm Buddy," he said simply.

"Hello, Buddy," I murmured in a husky voice I hoped sounded more sultry than exhausted. "Let me help you with that." I sat up in the bed and was reaching for his belt buckle with one hand and tracing his clearly hard cock under the material of his trousers with the fingers of the other hand.

"No, you don't have to do that," he mumbled. "You look like you've been through the wringer. I don't want to do it this way. Maybe we can just sit and talk. OK if I sit down on the bed?"

I was speechless. So many "never befores" crowding in all at once. Nobody had paid for just talk before—in fact, I couldn't remember when anyone other than the guys working beside me had wanted to just talk with me—and some of them just did it because they wanted to make me too. And nobody had shown any concern for whether I was tired or not. And must certainly no one had asked permission to sit on my bed before. At least not since I had come to America. Once more my thoughts went back to the kind and gentle young pilot, and the similarities between him and this Buddy gave me an inner glow.

"I . . . I . . . OK, I guess so. It's your money. And of course you can sit. It's your money." I stammered out the words. I felt dumb for repeating that it was his money, but that was just reality talking. Whatever a man wanted to do with me was because he'd bought me.

Buddy—I could call him that now, as he'd given me his name. Yet another "never before" for me. The clients sometimes gave me names, but I always knew they were fake. For some reason—maybe because of the honesty in his face and voice or because of his warm smile—I knew that his name really was Buddy. Buddy lifted up the sheet as he sat down, lowering himself to the soiled mattress underneath.

"Here, you can cover yourself with this, if you want," he said shyly, as he handed the corner of the sheet to me. I then did just that, pulling the sheet up and wrapping it around my naked body toga style. Yet another "never before." I felt demur and chaste now. He was treating me like I was virginal, like this would be my first time and he wanted to make it special. I found this arousing, and my thoughts went back to how the young pilot made love to me—each time as if it were the first time and wanting me to feel it was special, meaningful.

"Uh, don't you like me?" I asked. I was triangulating between disappointment, awe, and thinking that Hoagie somehow would go all red-faced angry that I wasn't turning a customer on. This was all confusing to me. Someone I actually felt arousal with and it was the one man who wasn't moving quickly to get his cock inside me.

"Sure, I like you fine," he whispered. "Just not like this. This isn't what I thought . . . what's your name?"

I sat and looked at him for the longest moment. This was completely new ground to me. Another in a lengthening lists of "never befores."

"Atid," I mumbled. "My name is Atid. It's Thai. It means 'sun.'"

"Atid." He rolled it over in his mouth, trying to pronounce the "A" as an "ah," as I had done. "An interesting name," he said.

I'm glad he didn't say it was beautiful or nice, as I could see in his face that he hadn't made up his mind whether he liked it or not. I appreciated his honesty. And now I wanted him. Now I wanted him to make love with me. Not have sex; make love.

But this wasn't just a come on. He didn't make a move on me then. Instead, he asked me questions about where I had come from. He didn't ask how I had come to be a plaything for other men. He didn't ask me about the men who had owned me. But he asked me questions about Thailand and my village there. He asked me about my mother and my father, and I told him that my mother assumed that my father was just one of several American airmen she had opened her legs to at the time of conception—and he told me about himself. That he didn't work in the mines, which I had already supposed, but was a garage mechanic and had gone to a special school for it and thus was well established.

But he was lonely, feeling out of place in this mining region, not being able to fit in.

I poured out my own loneliness to him—being the only Asian I ever saw in this strange America—and even not having much of an idea where I was other than somewhere in a remote region of the United States, which itself was such a vast territory that I could not talk about it and be thinking of any one particular place. And how I had always dreamed of rising above the surface of the earth—above the trees and ultimately above the clouds—and of sailing into the heat of the sun.

He sat there, giving me an encouraging smile. Not asking me what I meant by sailing into the sun. Just letting me talk—until I was snapped back to reality by the pounding on the door and the gruff voice of Hoagie announcing that the young man's time was up.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, as Buddy stood up from the bed. "I've wasted your money. You haven't gotten what you came for."

"Nonsense," Buddy answered. "I got more than I came for. But I don't want you to misunderstand. You asked if I didn't want you. I don't want to mislead you. I do want you. Just not like this. Can I see you again sometime? Can I show you how much I want you?"

"Yes, please," I whispered, as he went to the door, opened it, slipped through, and was gone.

When I looked on the table beside the bed, I saw that he had left enough money to cover not only his tip, but the one the businessman before him hadn't left. Buddy had saved me from a beating—or, at least, had endeavored to.

I felt different—in a way I couldn't define—that had me smiling and feeling that I was someone else other than I'd been before Buddy came to me. And the feeling didn't leave me—I was able to transport myself above the reality—even after Hoagie had dragged me back to my room and punched me in the gut with a blow that had me doubled up on the floor as he bawled me out about not fully pleasing the gray-bearded client earlier. I smiled at least inwardly and separated myself from the present even when Hoagie slammed me down on my bed and slapped my thighs apart, took my neck in both hands, and throttled me to the edge of unconsciousness as he slammed his hard dick deep inside me and began to pump.

I didn't even feel humiliated—although the fear of what was to become of me did creep in—when Hoagie pushed me over onto the carpet in the corner of my room and left briefly and then came back with a bedraggled Estaban under his arm and fucked Estaban on my bed. The inference was obvious. If I displeased Hoagie too much, I was easily replaceable.

After he had finished with Estaban and the two left my room, it dawned on me that this was the first violation of my private space here—and that this too was a message to me. The next day, Hoagie supervised the clearing out of one of the sex cells by a couple of the dancers, and Estaban was moved into the inn and his status was ominously approaching mine.

The message was clear. When Hoagie took me to his bed that night, I used all of my wiles on him, pushing him back on the bed, straddling him, fucking him, and raising his hands to my throat with my own and of my own free will—just hoping that the choking would only take me into unconsciousness and not into the next world.



Sail to the Sun Ch. 06



"Hello, Atid."

I turned, lifted my head, and brushed the hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand. "You remembered my name," I said.

"Sure I did," Buddy said in a low voice. "I remembered everything about you."

He was standing in the doorway of the inn's laundry room, next to the kitchen, his big, strong body backlit by the sunshine streaming in. I was washing table linen, stripped down to my shorts because of the heat rising from the rumbling washers and dryers. It was early afternoon. There wasn't any action on in the afternoon—usually. And Hoagie was away until the dinner hour. He had a chamber of commerce meeting in town.

"Hoagie . . . the owner . . . he isn't . . ." I stammered out.

"I know. I saw him in town," Buddy said. His voice was still low. "I'm taking you for a ride for an hour or so. There's something I want to show you."

"You saw Hoagie in town," I said. "You talked to him . . .?"

"It's all set. I'm taking you for a ride. You said you'd never seen the river. And it's just over yonder. You haven't been away from the inn, have you? Not at all. Not the whole time you've been here."

"No, I haven't," I answered, casting my head down, not wanting him to see my eyes. I hadn't even thought about leaving the inn—and Hoagie had never suggested it. There never would have been time for it anyway.

"Come here," he said. I looked up and he was holding a hand out to me.

I walked over to him and he ran an arm around my waist and turned me inside and beside the door, lifting me in front of him, and pinning me between his body and the wall. My legs were off the ground—he was a foot and a half or so taller than I was, and big-boned and heavily muscled. I felt like a rag doll in his grasp. But I felt safe and secure too. I knew he wouldn't drop me. I hooked my thighs on his hips. He was breathing heavily and I felt his manhood against my lower belly. Hard. A chill of thrill went up my spine. The other night, when we had just talked, I worried. I worried that he didn't like me—or that he wasn't turned on by me—or that maybe something was wrong with him, that he couldn't get it up. But he certainly felt like he could get it up now.

I gently moved my pelvis against his crotch and moaned softly and low, and I felt him shudder in response and his member hardening further against me.

He brought his face down close to mine and murmured. "The other night you asked me if I didn't want you. Do you still think I don't want you?"

"No, I can feel you want me," I whispered. "But Hoagie . . . does he . . .?"

"It's settled," he answered in a husky voice. And then he brought his lips down to mine, and we kissed. The kiss deepened. I opened my lips to him, and his tongue pushed inside. At the same time, his pelvis started to move against me, matching the rhythm I had set. I climbed his torso higher, so that his cock, still sheathed by the thin material of his trousers and jutting out now, pushed under my balls and I was riding it through two layers of material that might not even have been there.

I moaned for him—deeply—and he pulled away from the kiss and buried his lips in the hollow of my neck, without slackening the rhythm of the dry fuck motion.

I rarely took it this slow. It wasn't often that I had time to prepare for the fuck. I moved my hands down to his waistband and started to push his trousers down.

"No, not here, not yet," he lifted his head and whispered to me. "I want to show you the river."

He was right. The river was less than a fifteen-minute drive from the inn in his sports convertible. Not much more than a rapid stream, rushing over nearly exposed rocks, the river ran between a line of trees at the base of a narrow valley running between high, heavily forested mountains on either side, which showed bare sections here and there that looked like some giant had taken a bite of them but that were the remains of strip mining that Buddy told me had been banned a good decade earlier but that it would take many more decades for the mountains to recover from—if they ever would.

Buddy parked the car in a graveled lot, off the highway that ran parallel to the river through the narrow valley. He'd passed a couple of lots where cars were parked. There were none here.

"Here, you carry the blanket and I'll bring a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses," Buddy said as he exited the car.

We walked over to where a trail opened in the trees. We couldn't see the river, but I could hear it. I was exhilarated. This was an adventure for me. The air was clean, and although the trees had already started to change colors, the day was warm. I looked up before we entered the trees and I could see the sun up there, beaming down on me. I didn't know then what the pleasant feeling I was having was. Only later, much later, did I realize that it was the sensation of being free.

We followed the trial down to the river for only a few yards before Buddy veered off through the undergrowth until we came out at the edge of the river between two big boulders with a small patch of mossy ground between them.

My eyes went directly to the water, which was shallow and ran over small, rounded and smooth rocks with larger, nearly flat boulders hovering above the waterline and offering a series of stepping stones out almost to the middle of the river.

As he spread the blanket, Buddy looked over at me and smiled and said, "You want to go into the river, don't you? Well go ahead. Just don't try to walk on the wet rocks. You'll slip. It's too shallow to drown, but you might scrape yourself up."

I sat down on the moss and took off my sneakers and socks and then walked out into the river. I was alone in the world when I reached the center of the river. But then I was alone in the world anyway, and this was a very pleasant version of it—watching the water race around me on its way down the valley into some larger body of water someplace—with someplace to go. In contrast to me.

When I turned and worked my way back to the very private little dell between the boulders, I saw that Buddy was stretched out on the blanket. He'd stripped down to his briefs, which were tented out arrestingly, and already was sipping wine straight from the bottle—and watching me with a big smile on his face, vicariously enjoying what I was enjoying for the first time. I decided that this West Virginia was a beautiful place and that I was very lucky that Hoagie had brought me here.

"Come, lay down here beside me," Buddy said. He patted the blanket beside him and poured me a glass of wine as I approached and came down on the blanket. I didn't lay down, though. I folded my legs underneath me and sat beside him as he reclined back again, with one arm propping up his head and his other hand holding the wine bottle. I put the glass he'd handed to me to my lips and tasted the wine. It had a sharp, crisp taste to it. Hoagie didn't let me drink alcohol. But he also told me not to do anything to displease the customer, and Buddy had handed me the glass without asking me if I wanted it. So, I drank it. And as I drank it, I gazed out at the river, enjoying once again watching the freedom and abandon of the water racing down the trace.

I leaned toward him and put my hand on the front of his briefs, lightly grasping his member through the white cotton. He laid back and purred, letting me know this was just fine with him. We shared our first sex in that fashion—not an overpowering and frenetic jackhammering of me by him—but with me gently fondling his engorged cock through the cotton of his briefs and him moaning softly with his eyes closed. And then moaning more deeply and groaning as I pulled the waistband of his briefs to below his balls and leaned over and took his cock in my mouth. His hands went to my head, and he ran his fingers through my hair as his cock tightened and I took and swallowed his flow. He lay there afterward for the longest moment, savoring our first sex. Then he thanked me and dozed off. I sat there, watching him in repose, happy at how gentle and fulfilling our first time had been.

Buddy didn't doze for long, though. He woke with a start and opened his eyes and gave me a smile. He reached around me with an arm and I felt his hand on the small of my back. He began to run his free hand up and down my back and then he propped his torso up on his elbow very close to me and his hand came around and started to stroke my chest and play at my nipples. I looked down to see that his cock was already coming back to life. I wanted him to fuck me now. And he could take me hard; I didn't care. I was lost to him.

My wine glass drained, I put it down on a flat stone next to the blanket and turned to him and moved my lips to his.

When we'd kissed, I decided it was time to find out where this was to go, if any further. "What do we do . . . what did you pay Hoagie for me to do? Have I done what you expected . . . wanted so far," I asked.

I was half afraid that I had already used up what he had paid for, and even without Hoagie being here, I was so conditioned by him, that I naturally thought in terms of services contracted and no more.

"I have a confession," he said, in a voice somewhat muffled, because he'd dropped his lips to one of my nipples, while his encircling hand was playing with the other nipple. "There are no arrangements with Hoagie. He doesn't know we're out here. And he needn't know. He won't be back at the inn for a couple of hours."

"Hoagie doesn't know?" I went rigid with fear.

"What's the matter, Atid? You're trembling."

"You don't know," I muttered. "I can't . . . if Hoagie finds out, he'll beat me. He doesn't let me . . . I can't take money directly. And I don't know how much . . ."

"Well, there's no need for that," Buddy said. He was sitting up now next to me, but he still had his arm around me. "We don't even have to do anything else. But I'm not paying for this. I'll come to the club and pay for you there, if that's what you want. But anything more that happens here today is because you want it—because you freely give it. And if you don't want to, we won't do anything. I thought you made love to me because you wanted to."

"Yes, of course I did. But you don't understand," I said, my voice shaking. "You just don't understand how it is. I want to. You know I want to. But Hoagie owns me. I can't. Hoagie owns me."

"Hoagie doesn't own you," Buddy said, his voice sharp. "Nobody owns anyone else in this country."

"You don't understand, you just don't understand," I whimpered. "Somebody has always owned me. Even the men who fuck me own me for the time they are with me."

"Not today. Today you do exactly as you please. I won't force anything on you. I didn't force you to do what you did; I had no idea you would do it until you started it—and then I couldn't stop myself from enjoying it. If you don't want to do more or it's too difficult for you to, we'll just talk again and watch the river run by. Or we can just go back to the inn. Do you want me to take you back to the inn now?"

He went up on his knees and fished around for the cork for the bottle and pushed it in, assuring me that he was ready just to leave if that was what I wanted.

But that wasn't what I wanted. He was hard again. He'd pulled up his briefs, but they were tented again, and I knew what a nice cock he had already. And my channel was twitching. It wanted him inside me.

I would be betraying Hoagie if I stayed, knowing now that he hadn't received payment for this. But I ached for this. I was weak. Hoagie didn't have to know. And there was a distinct thrill at the thought of doing it just because I wanted to. Several of the other guys who worked at the inn wanted me to give it to them for free. But that was different. That would have been right under Hoagie's nose. And I felt nothing for any of them—although I held no animosity toward them either, and I knew Hoagie would beat any of them senseless if he caught us together.

I wanted this man. The feel of his manhood against my belly back in the laundry room—and then the throbbing of it inside my mouth. I realized that if he'd taken me then and there, at the inn, I wouldn't have asked him about payment at all.

"Do you want me to take you back to the inn now?" he asked again in a low, husky voice.

"No," I responded after the longest minute of inner struggle. "I want you to fuck me. Here. Now. And I don't want you to pay for it either. I want to do it just because we want to do it."

"What do you want me to do with you?" he murmured.

"Whatever you want."

He leaned over me, his arm encased me close once more, and his lips went to my nipple while his hand moved down my belly and under the waistband of my shorts. He fondled my cock and then brought his hand back out and stripped off my shorts and briefs.

His lips came back to mine and he held me close, while his hand returned to my cock and he slowly stroked me. I writhed and trembled in his embrace, which his low moaning told me he enjoyed. I whispered to him that I was ready to prepare him, but he stroked on. I begged him to let me up so that I could service his cock again and then I said I wanted his cock inside me—which was true and an admission rather than artifice—but he just gave a low laugh and stroked on.

I warned him in a deep moan that I would come if he didn't stop. But he didn't stop. And when I did come up my belly, he moved his lips down my torso, cleaning me up as he moved, and then he swallowed my cock, while my hips started to move of their own volition and my cock came back to life again. And he held me inside his mouth, putting pressure on the base of my cock with his teeth as I moaned and felt myself harden again. His hand went to my balls and he pulled on them and squeezed and rolled them, coaxing the honey to rise in me again—which it did after some time of languid attention. My hips began to jerk and roll involuntarily, but he kept with me, pressuring my encased cock close with his tongue and teeth and moving his mouth up and down on my cock until I cried out and lurched in a second coming. No man had ever done this for me before—concentrated completely on me and my enjoyment. I melted to him and started to cry softly, lost to him.

His mouth then moved to my balls, and he moved to below me and started rimming my channel entrance with his tongue—and then moving deeper inside my channel, until I was groaning and begging him to take me.

He fumbled inside his trouser pocket then and came up with a condom and rolled it over his hard dick. He turned me and brought me up on all fours on the blanket and mounted me from behind, his arms enclosing my chest close and his lips in the hollow of my neck. And he fucked me in long, deep strokes, worrying and stretching my channel so that I knew I was being fucked by a magnificently equipped man.

At length he rose on his feet, not losing purchase in my channel and stood, facing the racing river, with me draped on his front and him raising and lowering my body on his digging cock. I exploded once again almost simultaneously with his own ejaculation deep inside me.

Afterward we lay with me cuddled against his stomach as he brought up the concept of my being owned again.

I listened to him then, wanting to believe him, but, while not daring to contradict him, not fully understanding what he was saying either. I had always been owned, and I had always worked every waking hour for whoever owned me, doing whatever they wanted. My mother had owned me. And she had sold me. Then the American Air Force major had owned me and used me. Even the young pilot, as caring and gentle as he was, had owned me. Now Hoagie owned me.

But Buddy kept saying over and over again that this just didn't happen this way in the States. And he went on to say he wanted to be with me and that I could come live with him.

And I told him that maybe he could buy me from Hoagie but that I would still feel so alone here—the only Asian here. I mused on whether he could just buy me.

He became exasperated then, said, rather angrily, that he only wanted me if I came to him of my own free will—and that he lived that way. He repeated that he wouldn't have to buy me from Hoagie—that I could just walk away if I wanted—and that, although, no, he didn't know of any other Asians around, he was out of place here too—that this was a society of miners and he wasn't even from West Virginia—that he had come here from the outside, and not being connected in any way to the mines, was an outsider himself.

I didn't argue with him, but I knew I would have to think long and hard about this freedom thing. But maybe I didn't. I was beginning to feel more free myself just from what he had said. He told me to leave it to him. That he'd set up a way for us to be happy and that I could just walk away from Hoagie.

"Just walk away?" I asked, in awe.

"Yes, just walk away," he answered.

"And I can do anything I want? I can give sex without Hoagie having to be paid?"

"Yes, if you want. Hey what are you doing?"

What I was doing was testing that theory—giving sex, because I wanted to. I was moving down Buddy's body and taking his cock in my mouth and starting another expert blow job, as I had been taught to do and that I did frequently in the basement club at the inn.

Buddy didn't struggle against me for very long. He laid back and started a low moan, fully appreciating once more what I was now freely giving him.

A week later when I had not heard from Buddy again, I began to realize that our little outing had just been his way of getting free sex. I should have been angry, but I wasn't. I certainly was disappointed and despondent for a short time. But I wasn't surprised. This was my lot in life. And I also was grateful. Whether he had meant it or not, I now had a new sense of freedom. I wasn't actually free. I was under Hoagie's thumb as much as ever. But now it was only my body that was owned by Hoagie. Now my soul wasn't owned by Hoagie or anyone else. Now my soul soared above the inn, through the clouds, toward the sun.

This I owed to Buddy, even as I damned him under my breath—damned him because this new-found freedom was bitter sweet, giving me something now to pine for that was beyond my understanding—and thus beyond giving me pain—before Buddy had come into my life. And also pining for Buddy himself. Because I had given myself to him in ways that went much beyond mere sex.



Sail to the Sun Ch. 07



The summer had turned to a crisp-aired fall, which seemed to lift the spirits of the West Virginians around me and make the miners frisky when they came into the club. But it depressed me, and not only because I came from a hot, tropical climate. Buddy had deserted me. He had used me, finding a way around not paying for it while making me feel alive and wanted. Wanted just for me. But after that one tryst by the river, I hadn't seen him again.

And beyond that, Hoagie seemed to be moving to a new arrangement with the men who worked for him in the club. Hoagie was becoming niggardly with his pay to the dancers, and after a string of orgies in the club where Hoagie had allowed the crowd to get out of control and manhandle the dancers badly, the ones who had been working there of their free will began to drift away.

The experience of Estaban and the itinerant Hispanics he'd come to the club with seemed to give Hoagie an idea of how to increase his profit and lessen the dancer objections to the increasingly rowdy patronage. As the Caucasian and black American dancers drifted off, Hoagie was replacing them with Hispanics of questionable, at best, documentation.

It seemed an arrangement that worked to Hoagie's full benefit. Illegal immigrants would be almost as fully owned as I was. They couldn't complain beyond direct negotiations with Hoagie, who kept them cowed by his physical presence and an undercurrent of threat and cruelty. And, like me, they didn't require much investment and they had led such a difficult life that the arrangements at the inn were still better than whatever they had run from beyond the borders of the United States.

They also proved to be competent and eager service workers in the inn's dining room.

Of Estaban, the less said the better—especially in Hoagie's hearing. He had become almost an obsession with Hoagie, who virtually stopped taking me to his bed for several weeks in the early fall. It was always Estaban, and from what I could hear from my room across the corridor from Hoagie's nest, the fuckings became increasingly violent.

One night I could not sleep, having been awakened by Hoagie's drunken entry into the hallway from the club after a particularly chaotic night. Hoagie rarely became drunk, which was a good thing, as he was a mean drunk. But he awoke me with his slurred singing and his calling for Estaban. I heard him fling open the door to Estaban's room, and I heard Estaban's fearful responses to Hoagie's drunken commands and profanity. I heard Estaban cry out and whimper as Hoagie belted him one in the hallway outside my door. And then I heard the sounds of the rough taking from Hoagie's room. The pleas for mercy and patience from Estaban, the curses and rough demands from Hoagie, the cries from Estaban of being split asunder, and then the gurgle of Hoagies tightening grip on Estaban's throat. My hands went to my own throat at that point, and I had difficulty breathing just from the memory of Hoagie's ways and fetish. But most of all what I heard was the deafening silence thereafter.

The next day Estaban no longer was there, and the day after that, I passed down the corridor to find a couple of the dancers cleaning out the cell where Estaban had lived. Thereafter it became just another one of the cells where we took patron's for private sessions.

In Estaban's absence, I was surprised that Hoagie did not come back to me more than he did. But he didn't. And I was grateful for that. He was becoming increasingly violent in his sex taking, and more and more of the time he was drunk when he went looking for sex.

He still did bed me. But he was careful to do so only when he was sober. And he had a lock put on my side of the door to my room and told me to lock myself in whenever he was drunk. He said I was too valuable to him to muss up—that the patrons seemed to prefer me to the Hispanics who now predominated in the dancer pool. This too I should have been grateful for, but the change in staffing did, indeed, increase the demands of the patrons on my services.

Now when he was drunk, Hoagie would drag one of the illegal Hispanics into his room and I would cover my ears to the sounds of his rough taking. If from time to time one of the Hispanics just no longer was there, no one seemed to be the wiser or to think this worthy of comment. And Hoagie had now established a conduit—a source for almost expenseless talent for his club operations and for his wait staff pool in the inn's dining room.

As good as the Hispanics were at dining service, I was still much better, and, by Hoagie's direction, I invariably was assigned to the tables of the more important-looking diners. Thus it was that I was waiting on table the evening that the noted film producer, Walt Reardon, and his wife and son checked into the inn and appeared at dinner.

I had seen them roll in earlier in the afternoon in their big, black limousine. I'd seen their big, black chauffeur exit the driver's side and open the door to the backseat. What I'd seen emerging first was a shapely set of female legs. Mrs. Reardon was a real looker, but so pampered and polished and manicured that it was difficult to tell whether she was thirty or fifty. She stood there, cool as a cucumber, in her fitted tweed suit, sable-tail neck scarf and big-lens sun glasses, as the man himself disembarked. Reardon undoubtedly was in his fifties, but a very well-preserved fifties. A lion of a man, from his flowing gray mane down to his sleek, but powerfully built body. He carried himself like a man who was accustomed to pushing other men around, taking them on in battle, and returning with their heads on the end of his spear.

My breath was taken away, though, when a young man followed Reardon out of the limo. He was young, not much more than eighteen, and he was a lithe, willowy blond beauty. My thoughts went immediately to my young pilot. This young man had the same sense of diffidence and sensitivity about him. And yet he carried himself like he knew his full value in the world—which was considerable.

I was called gruffly back into the dining room, so I saw nothing else of them at that time beyond the beefy, dangerous-looking black chauffer walking toward the guest office. From where the limousine was parked, though, I assumed they were checking into the inn.

Of course, I didn't know immediately who they were, but one of the women in the kitchen saw me staring out of the window at them and walked over, took in the view, and whispered in my ear. "That's the award-winning movie producer, Walt Reardon, you know. He has a home up in the ski area up at Snowshoe. Probably there for the season. He often stops here in town for a night or two when coming up from Florida. This is the first time I've seen him at the inn, though. You'll need to look lively at table tonight. He's known to be quite particular."

"And so that's his son, is it?" I asked. But there was no answer, and when I turned I saw that she was gone, back to the kitchen.

This was a time when we were all staying out of Hoagie's way as much as possible—so I made a note not to screw anything up in the service that evening if the Reardons were seated at one of my tables, which I knew was likely. And Hoagie, as tightfisted as he was, had every reason for being in bad sorts. The basement club had been closed down for two weeks for needed renovations, the patrons having trashed it pretty good over the last couple of months, and not only was Hoagie short on the biggest-profit facet of his operation, but he had to cough up money for the renovations as well.

The service that night went fine. It was a help that the room was only half full throughout the evening. The Reardons were seated at the best table, in front of a fireplace set with a fire. They clearly were in a festive mood—at least the parents were. The woman was a stunning blond and, up close, she looked closer to thirty than fifty and thus must have been a stepmother to the young man rather than a biological mother. Indeed, the two didn't react to each other much—both centered on the father and seemed to be competing for his attention and approval.

The film producer was quite convivial that evening, and he talked freely with me as I was going over the unwritten daily specials and the wine list. He knew far more about food and wine than I did, but he didn't rub that in. The woman was sparkly as well and seemed taken with my Asian looks—wanting to know where I came from and how I had gotten here. And I spun the happy little tale I had manufactured to cover the occasional interest that was shown. For her and other dining room patrons, I was a member of the Thai royal family—which was so large and extended anyway that I could well be telling the truth—and was taking a break from my university studies to work my way around the States in flavorful jobs—perhaps to write a book about that when I returned to Thailand. The wife was enchanted and Reardon even showed interest. The son just sat there, looking at me under hooded eyes, a tight little smile on his full, sensuous lips. I sensed an entirely different interest in me than the parents were showing, and I had the sudden urge—which I quickly stifled—to lean down and whisper in his ear that upstairs I was Thai royalty, but in the basement of the building I was just a piece of ass that was easily affordable.

And thinking that thought, I looked again over toward the corner of the room, as I had been prompted to do several times during the service, to check on the bulky, black chauffer, who was dining alone, his eyes glued to my every movement, not even looking at the food he was slowly feeding into his mouth. I knew his kind and I knew his stare. He would have fit right in downstairs in the men-only club. His kind were the ones I watched for down there—and made every effort to stay clear of—promising to be demanding, cruel, and rough.

I left the Reardon table and went just outside the kitchen entrance in the rear when the bill was paid and they were savoring a final cup of coffee and glass of cognac and after Reardon had assured me that my services were no longer needed. I had been keyed up throughout the service and needed some fresh air and a release of tension. The black chauffeur hadn't been the only one intently watching me through the evening. Hoagie, standing near the hostess desk in his customary position from where he could quickly reach any point at which the service seemed to be floundering, watched me just as intently. I knew what I would be in for if I slipped up in any way. So, I didn't slip up. And Reardon obviously was pleased with my service, because he added a hefty tip to the bill—money that, of course, I would never see.

While standing outside the kitchen, I saw the Reardons walking toward the cabin area of the inn. I was surprised to see them enter their cabins—not because they were occupying two cabins, but because the woman entered one and the two men entered the other. That was perplexing, but I had a few more tables to finish off and it was time that I check on them, so I reentered the kitchen and walked through to the dining room. I noted that the Reardons' chauffeur was gone now, and I vaguely wondered where he was sleeping. Just because of my environment the first thought that came into my mind was that maybe he was sleeping with the woman; maybe the Reardons had some sort of kinky relationship. That was my view of movie people anyway.

I quickly finished my service and, curious, returned to the area outside of the kitchen door to take another look at the cabins before going downstairs to my room. I wasn't anxious to go down there, what with Hoagie in such a foul mood. He hadn't been drinking that day, but I felt it best to stay clear of him if I could anyway.

The door to one of the Reardon cabins was open and the son was standing outside the door, in just lounging pants, and smoking a cigarette. He had a beautiful, hairless body. He wasn't heavily muscled, but he was well-proportioned, without any sign of body fat. I once again was struck by the similarity between his body build and my young pilot's, although the pilot hadn't had the baby face and sensuous full lips that this young man did. As I watched, Reardon appeared at the door from the inside, but only briefly and only in a flash, and I couldn't be positive it was Reardon—just that it wasn't either the woman or the chauffeur. And the impression I had in that brief look was that the man was naked. Certainly the arm was unclothed that reached out and touched the shoulder of the young man and prompted him to flick his cigarette out onto the asphalt of the adjacent parking apron and to turn and move back into the room.

The door shut, and I followed the urge to walk toward the cabins and then around to the rear of them, picking out which cabin was Reardon's. The window back there faced the thick woods, and the glass was ablaze with light. They hadn't closed the curtain.

I crept up to the window and gasped as I saw the younger man lying on his back on the bed, naked now, and Reardon standing between his spread legs and feeding his cock into the younger man's channel.

So that was how it was, I thought. The woman is a blind—even if she's married to Reardon. And the young man might not even be Reardon's son. I'd asked the kitchen worker about that, but she hadn't answered. Perhaps I had just been assuming too much.

Whatever my assumptions, the two were obviously established lovers. They were taking the fuck slow and easy, and they both seemed to be supremely pleased with themselves—and with each other.

Curiosity slacked and not having seen anything all that shocking for the environment I was in, I turned to leave. But I couldn't leave. I turned right into the grasp of . . . the chauffeur. His intent was obvious from the look he was giving me and grip he had on me. I was no match for him, and I had been here so often before. He was a man who knew I was his for the next passage of time—for as long as he wanted. Longer perhaps and rougher if I resisted. He was yet another man who owned me, if only temporarily—by right of conquest.

As he dragged me away from the window, holding me tightly and with a big, black mitt over my mouth, and into the enveloping tree line, I did what I could to convey that I would be fully compliant with his wishes. He pushed me down on my back on a thick matting of leaves from autumns past and raised his hand as if to strike me senseless. But I murmured to him in the most throaty voice that I could muster that it wasn't necessary to take me by force—that I had been watching him and wondering what it would be like to be taken by a big, black cock wielded by a man as desirable as him. That calmed and confused him, and it arrested his movement long enough for me to reach up and unzip his trousers and free his cock. I exclaimed at the beauty and power and size of it and ran my tongue along the lower edge of it, bringing it to instant stiffness, and closed my mouth over the bulb and flicked my tongue into the piss slip. His heavy breathing and the groan he gave me told me that I had him under control.

His cock indeed was big and black and thick and vigorous. While I sucked him, I unbuttoned my own trousers and pushed those and my briefs off my legs and then unbuttoned and spread my shirt front apart. I pulled him down on top of me, bringing his lips to one of my nipples with a hand cupping his coarse, curly head of hair and guiding his cock to and into my channel with the other hand. I then arched my back and let nature take its course. He was strong and virile and enjoyed himself twice before he was satiated. He stood; readjusted his clothing, while looking down at me with a quizzical expression on his face, not ever before getting it that easy, I'm sure; and melted into the darkness. I heaved a sigh of relief also that it had been that easy and that I hadn't been beaten in the process.

I had been taken by black men before, although on rare occasions—the first man who had taken me in my mother's room was a black airman, but there weren't many black men working in the mines near here—and I rather enjoyed the cocking this one had given me. He fucked with abandon and had a cock that touched me deeply and sustained its strength long enough for me to know I had been masterfully fucked.

The following evening the Reardons were still there, and I waited them at table again. They were even more familiar and friendly with me now. Even the young man—whether a Reardon or not, I did not know—took notice of me now. And he and the woman, while not responding to each other, expanded the competition they'd had the previous evening over the attention of the elder Reardon to me. I won't say the young man gushed at me like the woman did, but I could tell that he was looking at me with interest.

After they had left, Hoagie pulled me aside as I was moving between the dining room and the kitchen and told me in gruff tones that someone else was taking over my service. That I had been called to the Reardon cabin.

The door was open to the men's cabin as I approached and once more the young Reardon was standing just outside the door, smoking a cigarette and lounging barefoot and bare-chested in low-rise sleep pants. He beckoned to me and as I passed him and entered the dimly lit cabin, I thought that if I reached over and touched the waistband of his pants, they could have fallen to the ground. He was so slim hipped that I wondered how they managed to stay up on their own.

I soon learned that the menu entry description was that the young man would slow fuck me and Reardon senior would sit in a chair and watch as he stroked his engorged cock. That was fine with me, and I did what I could to contribute to the arousal of the show. Reardon didn't watch for long, though. With me lying on my back at the edge of the bed and the young man standing between my thighs, holding them wide, and slow pumping inside me with a long, thin, hard cock, I saw Reardon rise and move behind the young man and the young man grunt and jerk and lean down into me and take my nipple in his teeth, as Reardon pushed his cock up into his channel and began to pump him from behind.

The young man had started some time before Reardon had saddled up to him, so he came first. Then he was pulling out of me and stepping away from me and Reardon senior was turning me on the bed, onto my belly, and entering me with a somewhat stubby but impressively thick cock and finishing inside my channel.

When I left the cabin that night, the black chauffer was entering the woman's cabin. He turned and gave me a wink, and I realized that part of what I had surmised earlier about the family arrangements was most likely correct. I didn't feel at all embarrassed about stealing around to the back of the cabins again and watching the chauffeur fuck an amazingly flexible Mrs. Reardon.

The next morning I was standing outside the kitchen again, watching the chauffeur load up the limousine with far more luggage than three people should need for a trip up to northern West Virginia from Florida. The doors to the cabins were open, but none of the Reardon traveling party had emerged.

As I watched, the chauffeur turned and walked toward me. I thought he perhaps was going to say something about the expert sex I had given him in the woods—or maybe say something about his special arrangement with the Reardons, but when he reached me, he took my wrist in his strong grip and said, "Come, you can ride in front with me. Your things will be sent along later."

"Excuse me?" I said, completely confused. "Go with you? I don't understand. I belong here." I almost said that I belonged to Hoagie and that, big and strong as the chauffeur was, I fully believed that Hoagie would put him down before he would agree to let me leave with him.




Sail to the Sun Ch. 08



Life was little different in the mansion hugging the snow-clad mountainside at Snowshoe than it was in Hoagie's inn. Less demanding—in terms of service both at table and in the bed—and the surroundings certainly more sumptuous. But very little different in terms of feeling owned and controlled—and isolated, all alone in the world. I cursed Buddy nearly daily for having shown me a glimpse of what could be. I was far better off before that.

I wasn't the only house staff member there, by any means. There was a young man named Frankie, who did the heavy work—the cleaning and laundry. And he served in Mr. Reardon's bed as well. Reardon obviously liked his men young looking. Frankie told me he first met Reardon at an audition for a movie. In whispering tones he told me that Reardon made more movies than those that were shown on the silver screen and acclaimed for their artistry if not always by their box office returns. He also filmed male porn, which Frankie thought he probably made more money on and took more delight from than his mainstream movies.

Frankie had come to Reardon for a job, having come up through the system working on films that he couldn't even legally talk about. Reardon hadn't put him in a film, but he'd put him down on his studio couch and then in his bed and, finally, here at the Snowshoe house, which Frankie looked after even when the Reardons weren't in residence. Frankie said he had no complaints—that this life was better than any he had before.

And the way Frankie said that to me rang loudly as a friendly suggestion that I should feel the same.

I was given lighter tasks—some of the light cleaning and cooking and the waiting on tables. I and Frankie—and the chauffer, Dwain, had rooms on the lower level of the villa, two flights down from the driveway and parking aprons and garages at the road side of the house. Our quarters took up one side of this floor. There was only one door leading into the other side, and that was kept closed and locked. I had my own window looking down the side of the mountain, which was one of the ski slopes of the resort. The room was quite nice. The three of us shared a bath, which was a luxury for me and would have been even more so if Dwain hadn't asserted his position my first night there by coming into the shower stall while I was bathing and manhandling me and turning my belly to the wall and setting my channel down on his monstrous black cock and fucking me hard and rough. He took me here often as if it was a privilege Reardon had granted him for a possession that had no say in the matter.

I thought he was presumptuous and wondered if he was skating on thin ice with his employers and whether I was sinking into a bad situation where more was going on than Reardon knew and that, when it all came out, whether the burden of the blame would be given out fairly. But I needn't have worried. The afternoon after the evening we'd arrived in Snowshoe, all of the men were taken into the Reardon's massive master bedroom, and Reardon and Dwain took turns fucking Frankie and me on the master bed—together, Frankie's and my faces within inches of each other and watching the effect of the fucking on each other. After they each had finished and rested, they changed positions.

Reardon's son, Wade, who indeed was Reardon's son by an earlier marriage—although there were suggestions that Wade was adopted—sat and watched us, in the nude, until Reardon and Dwain were finished with Frankie and me. And then Reardon waved Dwain, and Frankie, and me out of the room, and I could hear sounds of Reardon taking his son.

As far as I could determine, Reardon let no one but himself have sex with Wade beyond the first time at the Hawksbill Inn, where he let Wade take me while he fucked Wade. I knew from the way that Wade watched me, though, that he wanted me again.

I needn't even have wondered about what Reardon knew of what happened between Dwain and Reardon's wife, because that first full evening, as I was finishing up washing up the dishes, I heard the sounds of sex coming from the great room and peeked out to see Reardon sitting calmly at the dining table with work papers strewn out before him and him closely concentrating on, while across the room, in an overstuffed chair in front of the fire, the big, black Dwain was sitting in the chair, nude, and Mrs. Reardon, also nude, was straddling his lap and facing him—and rising and falling on his cock.

I wondered how long this would go on—how stable this environment was for me until the next man came along and bought me. And where would that next man come from? It was pretty isolated up on this mountainside, and although there were skiers aplenty on the mountain slope, the house overlooked, they seemed far away, in another world. I wondered what would happen when I was too old for men to want to buy me. What would become of me then? Wondering got me nowhere. It was all beyond my scope. But I could wonder and I could ask. I asked Frankie what he thought.

Frankie was bluntly, emotionally unattached about the questions. "The household hasn't increased here ever since we first arrived. I don't think you'll be staying here. Mr. Reardon's brought men here before. He brings them here for his movies, and then they are gone. The young men skiers are handsome and in top shape—and many of them need money, as all they want to do is to follow the hard-packed snow. Mr. Reardon makes movies here, taking advantage of their good looks and needs. I asked Dwain where the last one went and he said that he just drove the young man down into the town in the valley and dropped him off at the bus station."

"Movies?" I asked. "They make movies up here?" And that's when I learned about the movies Reardon made behind the scenes.

What Frankie said about the last young man brought up here scared me more. "Just let him off in the town?"

"Yes. You should be happy. You've said you've never been free. You'd be free then to do whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" I must have said that funny, because Frankie turned on me then.

"You could go back to whatever life and freedom you had before this man you said brought you to the States bought you."

"There was never before," I whispered. "There never has been a before I was owned by someone—that someone else didn't tell me whatever I could do and didn't take care of me. And I can't see Mr. Reardon just sending me down to the bus station. I'm sure he paid a lot of money for me. It's not a boast. I'm sure Hoagie would have demanded a lot of money."

Frankie snorted at that. "You don't seem to understand how much money there is in the kind of movies Mr. Reardon makes up here. He'll get back his money on you in no time."

* * * *

"Here, strip and put these on—and nothing else—and come down the hall to the door that's open."

Being awakened like that out of a sleep early in the morning was a shock. A larger shock was having Dwain burst in my room; they'd let me have this as a private space until now. Another shock was what Dwain was wearing: just tattered cotton pants not coming much below the knee, held up at the waist by a rope belt.

"What . . .?"

"Don't ask. Just do it. They're waiting."

"I don't understand."

"We're making a movie. The cameramen are already on the clock. Just do it. But go into the bathroom first and clean yourself out."

I sat up in bed and picked up the shirt and pants Dwain had thrown on the bed. I knew what "clean yourself out" meant. I'd had to do that every night before I went out to dance the pole at Hoagie's club. And so I also knew what was going to happen in this movie.

The shirt was a filmy, billowing cotton one, with a lace ruffle at the collar. Some sort of period costume. The pants were silky, navy blue. They were tight and came to just below the knee. They were tight enough on me that I needed no belt. There was no zipper opening. There was a flap of material there instead that buttoned closed.

I walked down the hall toward the open door at the other end of the house from the servants' quarters not just trembling from fear but also pricked with curiosity. I'd never been on that side of the staircase down to the lowest level of the house. The door to that room had always been shut.

It was evident to me what the room was for and what I was doing there as soon as I entered the doorway. The room was sectioned visually. It was a large, windowless room. At the far corner from the door, a section was marked off by parquet flooring that was a world away from the rest of the room that wrapped around that on two sides. The sectioned-off area was furnished like an eighteenth-century plantation house bedroom. A false window against the far wall with heavy brocade draperies; a highboy chest and grandfather's clock; and between them a massive wingback chair. Off to the left a four-poster bed, draped in scarlet brocade. A maroon oriental carpet on the floor. A strong hint of the opulent. This was in stark contrast to the area of the room surrounding it on two sides: cinderblock walls, painted black, concrete floor and an area of floodlights and tripods supporting movie cameras.

Two pony-tailed, scruffy looking men with eyes that kept shifting to Dwain and me were moving from camera to floodlight to camera, making adjustments. Reardon and Dwain were standing in the middle of the room, and I walked up to them.

"Do you understand what we're doing here?" Reardon asked.

"Yes, I guess so," I answered. He handed me a tiny receiver to plug into my ear. Dwain was already inserting his.

Reardon lifted a hand mike to his mouth. "Can you both hear me?"

We both nodded our assent.

"Just to be sure you understand, Atid. This is a fuck movie. You are the fucked. How you make it look will determine your salary. You could make nothing, if you ruin the film footage. You could make $500 if you please me—and then you could do some more films, with progressively bigger payoffs. Or you could make something less on this film and not do any more. It all depends on you—and how well you please me. You really fuck this up and I put you out of the house. So, do you want to please me?"

"Yes," I answered, my eyes lowered to the ground.

"Now this is a special movie," Reardon said. "I'll give some specific directions through your ear receiver, but the gist is that there's a slave uprising. You escape to this room. Dwain here, one of the slaves, chases you here and fucks you for at least thirty minutes. We're putting some money into this film; I want to make a feature out of it. You can both come as often as you are able in that time. But no less than three positions. And, this is important, you are not to want it at first. You are to fight against it, and Dwain's going to not care and is going to get rough. You can want it the second time. But you have to put up a fight before that. Furniture is going to get busted, so we're only doing this once. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I murmured.

"And the last shot is going to be a close-up of your face. I want it to show that you've been totally fucked. Understand?"

"Yes."

"OK, guys. In places. Let's do this thing. I want it in the can by noon."

They took closer to forty-five minutes of in-the-can footage, and I left with $750, so I guess my first movie star turn was pleasing to the director.

On cue, I ran into the set, with my appearance announced with the sound of a slammed door. I looked around the room in panic, and when I heard beating on the door, I moved to the other side of the bed and sank down to the floor. Dwain's rush into the room was signaled by the sound of a door splintering. He had an ax, and for a brief moment I—and I assume the future audience—had the panicked thought that this would be a different kind of movie. But then he threw the ax aside and started to search the room.

Finding me, he dragged me up from the other side of the bed by grabbing my ankle and pulling me into the middle of the floor. I struggled with him and, pulling away, made a run for it toward the wing chair. He grabbed me by the arm and spun me around and backhanded me. Reardon wanted us to make a big play out of Dwain being a lot bigger than I was.

No acting here. I cried out and fell to the floor. He pulled me up and swung me around and backhanded me again onto the bed. I struggled around the edge of the bed toward the front of the set, making like I was trying to elude him again. He reached out and grabbed the waistband of my silk pants and they tore away from me, revealing to the cameras that I had nothing on underneath. He manhandled me around to the other side of the bed, with his hands gripping my wrists. I tried breaking away again, and in pulling me back, he knocked the grandfather's clock over on its side.

He had me laying on my back on the bed, my head toward the cameras, him standing between my legs. He backhanded me across the cheek again, and as my head snapped to the side, Reardon instructed me through the receiver to just lay there, acting stunned. He hardly had to say that. I certainly felt stunned.

Standing over me and looking down at me, Dwain started to mumble words to me. It didn't sound like the Dwain I knew. He was speaking is some sort of Islander dialect with French intonation and a few French words thrown in. I couldn't understand everything, but it was something about slaves and masters and turning the tide and dirty words too, of what he was going to do to me. As he talked, he undid the rope belt around his waist and slowly unbuttoned the fly of his cotton pants. He pulled out his massive cock and stroked himself.

He climbed up on his knees beside me on the bed. At Reardon's instruction, I rolled my head up so that the cameras could get a good look at the genuine fear in my face. Dwain straddled my chest and held my arms out and over my head and on the surface of the bed. Then, in near stereo, Reardon was giving Dwain dialogue and Dwain was repeating it about how I was going to take his cock and give him satisfaction and not do anything that would cause me to regret it. He fed his cock into my mouth and I made a big O with my lips and gagged and grunted as he face pumped me.

What followed was the series of positions and more that Reardon dictated through the receiver and that he thought his movie patrons would love to stroke to. Dwain standing back down on the floor between my legs, holding my legs out and pumping me with his cock, slapping me once, twice, three times across the face to elicit my moans. My moans and groans were picked up by the overhead mikes and amplified so that they reverberated off walls that weren't there.

Reardon said he wanted to be artistic with this first fucking. The audience wasn't to see the dick thrusting in and then moving in and out of my channel. What they saw was me laying on the bed, my head toward the cameras and tilted back so I was looking into the cameras. And a massive brute of a black man standing between my splayed legs. The cameras were centered on my face, and Reardon led me through the expressions and sounds to represent, unseen for now, the world's biggest cock violating and then pumping the world's smallest virginal hole.

This moved into me standing on the corner of the bed, facing the cameras, hanging onto the bedpost post, high up, with white-knuckled hands, wrists tied to the bedpost with strips from my silk pants, and a now-naked Dwain fucking me from the rear. Reaching up and stripping the white, billowy cotton shirt off my body, and reaching around and pumping my cock to ejaculation while continuing to service me from the rear. Me swallowed into the wing chair, my legs spread and hanging out over the arms of the chair, and crying out, as, undulating bulbous butt to the camera, Dwain crouched between my legs and fucked me and then climbed up on the arms of the chair with his knees and fed his cock into my mouth for me to clean him up.

The fadeout shot of me lying belly down on the bed, Dwain straddling my hips and pumping long and slowly into me. This time, the root of the cock becoming larger and then smaller, repeatedly, as it plowed my ass, was featured by the film. At Reardon's direction, the camera slowly zoomed to my face, turned toward the camera, cheek on bed. And I gave the camera the best "my eyes are swimming in cum" expression.

I was a movie star

* * * *

Over the next five weeks I was a movie star on several occasions, and I was building up quite a nice little nest egg, although I assumed that it would just be taken from me. But if it was true that at some point Reardon would have enough of me and just have me driven down to the bus station, I would have something to start on. If he let me keep it. On the off chance that he would, I did not balk at the movies, and I tried my best to give him what he wanted.

There were no more movies with Dwain. Other men were brought in. Big, strapping guys with big dicks and long staying power, all of them. I told Frankie one day that I didn't know where Reardon got them, but he reminded me that this was why the Reardons spent part of the winter in Snowshoe—to be near ski-slope hunks who needed extra cash.

Most of the movies were costumed and in some exotic locales. And most of them were Asian, dictated, I supposed by my half-Asian looks. I wasn't full Thai—whoever had knocked my mother up was of northern European stock, so I could pass for a variety of nationalities—my Thai genes were mainly concentrated on making my body small and willowy.

Reardon told me that my films would sell well especially because he could prove I was over eighteen despite my size—and he exaggerated the difference and the visual impact of my takings by using particularly massive men, like Dwain was, as the men who topped me in the movies.

I was so indoctrinated by the routine of the movies that I had been on the set of a South Sea Island beach for a movie short filming, dressed only in a sarong riding low on my waist and a lei around my neck one day, when I turned to see that my new movie lover was to be—Buddy. The shock of seeing him made my knees feel like rubber and I almost toppled over

He put his finger to his lips as Reardon was giving directions, and I fell silent, but I was all atremble. He too was wearing a sarong, and we were in front of a makeshift grass hut with a terrycloth covered chaise lounge beside it.

"This is a short," Reardon was saying. "Just a blow job and a slow fuck. Lovers this time. Two positions should be enough. Something sweet."

I wanted to burst forth with questions and accusations, but Buddy was signaling for silence. Still, my eyes bored into him, showing him all of the mixed emotions I felt.

He pulled me gently onto the set and, as Reardon instructed us to start with a kiss, he held me to his body and had his lips on mine. I resisted, still wanting to show anger, but he pushed my lips apart with his and his tongue was inside my mouth and I melted to him. As the cameras rolled, I moved my lips down his chest and his belly, while he arched his back and used the expressions on his face to show the cameras that he was transported even before I reached his cock. When I unknotted his sarong and let it fall in drapes at his feet and took possession of him with my mouth, he gasped and started a slow roll of his hips in countermovement to the movement of my mouth.

Reardon was making pleasing sounds in the receivers, telling us how good it looked and commenting on how it looked like we were longtime lovers.

Big and throbbing now, Buddy pushed me back on the chaise lounge and spread my legs while he knelt between them in a three-quarter angle that gave the cameras an unencumbered shot of my crotch. He didn't remove my sarong; he suggestively moved his hand into the folds and slowly pushed the material aside and slow pumped me with his hand under the surface of the material for half a minute before bringing it out to where it could be seen. I grabbed the metal frame at each side of the chaise lounge hard and arched my back and gasped and groaned as he then made love to my cock, first with his hands and then with his mouth.