Revenge for Christmas

The first time I saw Lester Hodges, the Midwest shopping mall developer and owner, was at the blood fights in Kampala, Uganda, in early November. He had invited his lawyer, Art Brandeis, out to attend the fights, and Art, one of my regular clients, had brought me along.

Hodges was an ugly bear of a man, over six and a half feet tall, heavy to the point of obesity, but muscular as well. He appeared to be strong as an ox, hirsute, and thuggish. He looked like he'd been in a good many no-holds-barred fights himself, which were what the Kampala blood fights were. Big, black brutes paired off and bludgeoned each other in the ring, bare-fisted and however they wanted to fight until one of them was unconscious or dead. In contrast to the brutishness of the physicality of the fighter, the bald man, who must have been in his late forties or early fifties, dressed expensively and dominated the room like the commanding, successful business entrepreneur he was.

At dinner at the Kampala Serena hotel's Lakes Restaurant, with its white and blue underwater motif mosaic circular columns, where we ate before we went to the fights, Hodges was all sophisticated businessman, totally at home in the expensive restaurant. At the fights, he was all blood and gore pugilist, standing in our box seats and weaving and dodging with the fighters and encouraging them to rip each other apart. He scared me a bit—well, more than a bit. But I wasn't there with him. I was there with his lawyer. Art Brandeis, in his handsome, late-fifties, tall and slim presence, was all money, refinement, and elegance, a big city expensive firm law partner, here, obviously, because Hodges was a major client who had to be handled and coddled. Even at dinner, though, there seemed to be some tension between the two men, as if they were in some business negotiations that wasn't going well for Hodges—that he wasn't fully pleased with Brandeis's services in.

Brandies was a man of culture and unusual fetish, who had initially hired my services from a Chicago male escort agency to accompany him to plays and concerts that he didn't want to attend alone. He also enjoyed male fashion shows and, as my day job was as a runway model and I played in minor roles in movies and plays when I could land them, I had proved to be a good fit for him. With the escort agency's coordination, he had me on a retainer, which was why I was here in Africa with him.

Hodges had brought a young man—younger than my twenty-four—to the Lakes Restaurant with him, and I quickly surmised that he too was a high-priced escort. He did what he could to meld well with the overpowering businessman, but I could tell that he—Jan Wyener, up from South Africa, he said—was apprehensive about the situation. He admitted as much when we went to the men's room together before we left for the fight arena.

"I don't know about this blood fight we're to go to," he said. "I understand they fight to the end. I've never seen anything violent like that."

I could believe that was true. He was both young and effeminate acting. He was more beautiful than handsome—very fair skinned and freckled, which went with his copper-colored hair and watery blue eyes. He was small and thin, more willowy than muscular, with the narrowest hips I'd seen on a man. I could understand him being a high-class rent-boy—he was gorgeous—he just looked more like what someone like Art Brandeis would like than a heavy thug like Hodges.

"I'm not looking forward to the fights, either," I said. "If you have your eyes squeezed closed most of the time you won't be alone. Art tells me the boxes aren't within the blood splatter zone, though."

Jan made a slight retching sound, so I guess even talking about it had an unfortunate effect on him.

"But just grin and bear it. I'm sure you're here for what comes afterward in his hotel room." That wasn't the best choice of something to say, I decided.

"I'm not exactly looking forward to that that, either," he said.

"Weren't you matched somehow by your escort agency? He must be paying a mint to have you here. Up from Cape Town, did you say?"

"I understand I match what he asked for. He certainly isn't what I expected, though," Jan said. "I'd like to switch with your man. You're more a man's man than I am. I would have expected Hodges to want someone like you. As big as he is and as much as he swaggers, I'm afraid he's monster hung. You look like you're built better to take that."

"For what we're being paid," I said, "if they wanted to switch, we'd do it and act like it's just what we wanted. I don't know why Hodges invited his lawyer to this, although Art said something about them wanting to discuss some urgent business someplace outside of the States. But if they want to do both of us together, that's what they'd do. Here in Kampala we're pretty much at the end of the world, and they are paying top bucks for us—or whatever money you have in South Africa."

That didn't go over very well with him, either, but although I enjoyed talking to him about our various travels and experiences while Hodges and Brandeis had had their heads closer together on business talks at dinner—talks that seemed to have bit of tension in them—I didn't really have much sympathy for Jan. He was a whore and was being paid well. But then he was right; I probably could take a big cock better than he could—and I enjoyed taking monster cocks. Brandeis had a bigger one than most would suppose from looking at his tall, thin frame, but then Brandeis had a demanding quirk of his own. And he paid highly for it.

Jan didn't take well to the blood sport of the fights in the Kampala ring. He spent more time in the bathrooms behind the boxes upchucking and with his head turned away from the carnage than he did at Hodges's side in the box. Hodges didn't seem to notice, though. He was totally into the fights, jumping up and down, giving advice to the fighters, and pumping his fists in the air like he was in the fight himself. And he was so big and powerfully built and thuggish in looks and action that I could see him in one of those no-holds-barred fights, holding his own and beating the other man to a pulp. I could tell that it was sexually arousing to him too. He had an obvious hard on throughout the evening, and I could tell, as Jan had surmised, that he was monster hung.

My own patron, the lawyer Art Brandeis, was equally aroused by the fights, I could tell, but his response was totally different from that of Hodges. He sat quietly, eyes slitted and tongue darting in and out of his mouth as he watched one pair of big blacks after the other destroy each other in the ring. And throughout most of the evening he had one hand rubbing himself in the crotch and the other one on my body as I sat next to him, only taking in the spectacle of the fighting from time to time.

My attention focused on one of the fighters during one bout. They all fought just in skimpy silk boxer shorts and one black fighter was particularly muscular and sexually arousing to me. He also was particularly cruel and, after he'd beaten his opponent to a pulp, he straddled the other fighter's chest, pulled the waistband of his trunks to under his balls, and made the beaten fighter suck him off. The fighting obviously had been arousing to him, as he was hard as a rock when he forced his cock into the other fighters' mouth.

The crowd roared its approval at this act of total dominance and, under Art's rubbing of my shaft through the material of my trousers, I came in my briefs. Holding my cock in his grip, Art leaned over and took my mouth with his. I knew then that he was revved up for our night later, at the Kampala Serena Hotel, but I didn't know the half of what he had in store for me.

I was reclining on the bed, on my back, at the hotel, waiting for Art to come to bed. He was puttering around the room, just in his briefs, when there was a knock on the door. The fighter who had turned me on in the ring was at the door, bandaged up to the limited extent he had needed. He had far outclassed his opponent. I now knew why Art had disappeared at the fighting ring for an entire bout late in the evening. He was off buying the time and services of the black fighter who had aroused me.

This was vintage Art Brandeis. His fetish was to hire some bruiser to fuck me while he watched and before he covered me. He was engaging in his fetish here, in Kampala. I didn't make the mistake of trying to struggle with the big, black bull. He sat on my chest as he had done with the defeated fighter in the ring, and held my arms above my head at the wrists, while he hovered over me and fucked my throat. He'd slapped me around a bit, but not much before he fucked me and while I'd been working him up with my hands on his body. He forgot all about subduing me and got right to fucking my throat and then my passage, as I expertly played him, making him want to get right to the main event. After he'd hardened in my throat, he withdrew and moved down my body. I clutched him to me with my hands digging into his buttocks, and, while Art watched and masturbated himself, the black bruiser rode my ass hard and deep in a missionary—and I milked him with every trick I had learned as a high-class hooker.

Happily, the fighter had expended most of his blood lust in the ring earlier in the evening, and I could use the tricks of the trade to arouse his man lust. He had a very nice, thick and long, jet-black cock. Once he had it inside me, I set the muscles of my passage walls to caress and ripple over his shaft. I coaxed a steady rhythm of the fuck out of him and went with it. We soon were fucking on auto pilot and he forgot all about manhandling me. And then we were making love and we were both concentrating on coming together, which we nearly did, my flow up his belly causing him to tense and jerk and come, tense and jerk and come. His heavy sigh let me know I had tamed him.

When he was done, he withdrew, and Art replaced him and fucked me in a missionary as well. I gave him the good time that training had taught me to do, while minimizing the damage both could do.

Apparently, Jan Wyener wasn't as lucky with just the one monster, Lester Hodges, who had been worked into a sexual and pugilist frenzy at the blood fights.

We were to meet up with them at breakfast the next morning. When they didn't appear, Art went to check on them. He came back to me with the news that Jan had been taken off to a hospital by an ambulance in the middle of the night and that Hodges had already checked out and was on a plane back to the States. At the time, not remembering that Hodges and his lawyer had shown some tension between them earlier in the day, I then thought that perhaps Hodges had had his lawyer here in anticipation of needing someone to clean up for him on the day after attending the blood fights in Kampala. That's what Art did for the rest of the day. He spent it cleaning up Hodges's mess, and, after visiting Jan in the hospital and regretting that I had, I spent the rest of the day at the pool and that night in a black bull plus Art reprise of the previous night. The black fighter entered into the second-night event so enthusiastically that I knew I had pleased him the night before. I pleased him this night too.

I didn't see Hodges again until I was invited to his Steamboat Springs ski resort chalet for Christmas.

* * * *

It was a slick operation. I was very impressed. We flew in from Chicago via small charter jet to the small airport at the west end of the ski resort town of Steamboat Springs, Colorado, in the early hours of the morning of December 23d. There were four of us, which surprised Art Brandeis, my "date," who had expected Lester Hodges's Christmas party to be larger than that. With us, coming from Chicago, was the company CFO—chief financial officer—Cal Tyler, and his young "bring-along," Hugh Devon, who made quite clear to me while we were waiting in the private lounge in Chicago shortly after midnight that he was Tyler's spouse, not just a rent-boy. He'd said it like he knew I was a rent-boy, but I silenced him by readily admitting I was and telling him how much Brandeis was paying me to come to the party. And that wasn't the all of it. I didn't tell him how much Hodges had sent me as well to convince me to come to the party.

I liked to ski, but ever since Kampala I wasn't that anxious to be in the same place Lester Hodges was in. And it wasn't just because he'd torn up the South African rent-boy in Africa. It also was because, despite the heaviness and thugishness of the man, I had an urge I was having trouble to control to try him out myself. I tried to convince myself that Jan Wyener had just been a bad fit—that he had been too inexperienced and that he also was too small to handle a man of oversized proportions frenzied from just having been steeped in a blood sport. I didn't think there'd be any blood sport play on the Colorado ski slopes. The sensible side of me kept whispering to stay away, though.

It had been the sensible side of me that initially had turned down the bid through the escort agency to come to the party, to extend through Christmas day, with Art Brandeis. I was his go-to escort, but I had full say in whether I'd take an assignment or not. As soon as I was told that it would be at Lester Hodges's ski chalet in Steamboat Springs, I'd said I had other plans. Then I received an unsigned check for $5,000 in the mail from Lester Hodges himself that he'd sign the moment I stepped into his chalet, and, shushing the sensible side of myself, I called the escort agency and said my plans had changed. I would clear $5,000 for the trip from Brandeis too, and that was just too much to pass up. I'd just do what I could to stay out of Hodges's way for the four days—unless I decided he would be calmed down and gave me time to take him, if that's what he had in mind in doubling my pay.

Hugh Devon was a cute little trick and Cal Tyler seemed to dote on him, but the young man, a year or two younger than I was and a lot smaller and slimmer than I was—and effeminate—better not turn on Hodges's engines, I thought, or he'd be in danger. He was too much like Jan Wyener—in size and "girly" demeanor, that was. I'd liked Jan, though, so had some concern for him. I didn't give a shit for the stuck-up Hugh Devon.

So, it was the four of us on the charter jet coming into the Steamboat Springs airport in the dark, over snow-covered mountains. The skiing would be great if I could get out on the slopes. Brandeis didn't ski and Cal Tyler was too old and heavy to be a skier, so maybe I could stay out of the way and on the slopes without complications for most of the time. I'd have to sleep with Art, of course, but I'd done that so often that I felt as much his spouse as Hugh was crowing he was Tyler's spouse. Brandeis was much better looking, younger, and in better trim than Tyler was—which I could tell wasn't lost on the snotty little Hugh—so I was getting the better of that comparison in bed. There, of course, was Art's fetish, but maybe he couldn't indulge it at Hodges's chalet. I'd been told we'd be pretty inaccessible there. One thing about Art's fetishes, though: he always engaged a hunk to do me while he watched and before he cut in.

And, speaking of hunks, we were met by a real hunk when we landed in Steamboat Springs and were guided to a small, well-appointed VIP lounge in the terminal to wait for another jet arrival.

Claude Dubane was a French Canadian, he said, and spoke with a sexy, rich baritone accent. The rest of him was sexy too. He identified himself as the ski pro and general everything assistant for the party weekend. Both Art and Cal knew him, so he must have been a company employee. He was all I could have imagined an outdoorsy French trapper would be—handsome, confident, dominating, built—although I couldn't determine precisely how well-built he was as bundled up as he was in the December Colorado mountain snow—dark, hirsute, and with flashing eyes that knowingly focused on and mentally undressed me. In helping us with our luggage and getting into the terminal, he was especially attentive to me, and being in the business as I was, I had no doubt that he was actively gay and was undressing and fucking me in his mind as we moved to the terminal.

I didn't mind. I didn't mind one bit.

The lounge had a large window wall out onto the runways, with a view across a smattering of buildings, just coming awake with lights for the day, trailing up the foothills into snow-covered mountains to the north of the airport. Cupping a mug of hot coffee, I separated from the other three guests and went over to stare out the window. I, of course, was hoping the French Canadian hunk would come over to me, and he did.

"Your first trip to Steamboat Springs?" he asked, as he saddled up beside me, both of us looking out of the window.

"Yes," I said. "I've been to Aspen, though. I do ski. You're the ski pro for the party, you said?"

"Yes, we'll have to go out onto the slopes."

"I'd like that. I haven't had a chance to ski for a year. Not much skiing available near Chicago."

"You're pretty open with your looks and signaling," Claude said. "You're not afraid your partner will catch on and get mad?"

I turned my head and gave him a look. "You don't waste any time in getting down to it, do you?"

"We don't have much time. You were coming on to me."

"I thought you were the one coming on to me," I said.

"Is there any difference?"

"No, I suppose not," I answered. "If you're asking if Art Brandeis is my committed partner or even my sugar daddy, he's not. I'm on assignment."

"Newspaper reporter? Undercover cop?" Claude asked, keeping his mesmerizing voice with that sexy voice of his modulated. "Mr. Hodges wouldn't want either one of those here. He might turn you over to me for interrogation."

"I might like that," I said.

He laughed. "You're a sexy little piece, aren't you?"

"And you're a sexy brute," I answered. "Now that we've established that . . . I'm an escort. Brandeis is one of my regulars but he doesn't own me. He pays for my time, but not all of it. I'm free to do as I like most of the time."

"Ah, a male whore then. You must come at a high price."

"A high-class male whore, please," I said, giving him a bit of a pout, but over the top enough so he'd know he wasn't losing me. "And I don't also charge for coming—not if I like what I see."

"Well, I like what I see, but I don't think Mr. Hodges is going to be pleased that Brandeis isn't your committed sugar daddy."

I turned to ask him what he meant, but his attention had moved elsewhere, out onto the runway, where another small jet was landing.

"Ah, they're here," Claude said and moved away from the window toward the door we'd come in. "If you will give me a few minutes, please, I'll gather the others and we'll go up to the chalet." He was putting a cellphone to his ear as he left.

I went back to the window, watching the small jet coast back from the end of the runway to the terminal. There was other activity out there too. A sleek passenger helicopter was taxiing out of a hangar and to the apron straight out from the lounge window.

When Claude returned, he only had two men in tow—a middle-aged, dark man, who, surprisingly was dressed out as a traditional Jew. And with him was a younger, much better-looking version of him, in sports clothes rather than the kosher getup the other man was wearing. Art and Cal knew the Jewish man, introducing him as Jason Cohen and the younger, sexier version of him as his son, Aaron. In sotto voce, Art informed me that Cohen was Lester Hodges's business partner, running the Los Angeles branch of the company.

His son was a knockout and made me feel old and ugly. Hugh was scowling at him, instantly seeing him as serious competition, while Art and Cal—and even Claude—had their tongues hanging out. Claude did give me attention and lustful looks as he guided us out of the lounge and toward the tarmac, but I could tell his interests were split. For his part, Aaron was being as friendly and innocent acting as hell, seemingly not aware that he was a bombshell in this group of male-horny men, so I couldn't find a reason to hate him—not like I instantly had disliked Hugh.