Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

Room Number 612 did, indeed, seem to be in the hotel's attic, Edward Winslow observed, as he exited the elevator and moved down the dimly lit hallway. And it definitely was in need of redecoration. Winslow had no idea that the FGCC had permitted its guest floors to go so seedy. He'd have to talk to Richard Warren about this.

After looking both ways down the hall to ensure he wasn't being observed, he turned the key to room 612, slipped inside, and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. He stood there inside the door, in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He was breathing heavily, and his cock was already stirring, in anticipation of what he had campaigned for for nearly a year. He could hear the nervous breathing of his prey as well. Brewster had wanted to be taken while bound and blindfolded to assuage the guilt, but Winslow had been more than happy with this plan. Brewster's nervousness and fear fed the rising of Winslow's cock. He loved to dominate—in everything. That Bill had such a nice ass. Winslow could hardly wait.

His eyes were beginning to adjust. He could make out the outline of the bed and of a wooden arm chair off to the side. He extracted the leather restraints from his jacket pocket and took a step toward the bed.

"Ooff" He hadn't seen the fist coming at him from out of the darkness. It hit him midsection and sent him, doubled up on the threadbare carpeting on the floor. He was immobilized by the surprise and the pain in his midsection.

He didn't manage to even begin to struggle as he was stripped of his dinner jacket and lifted and thrown into the wooden arm chair, which rocked dangerously backward, kept from crashing back only by the hulking figure who had moved to behind the chair.

Winslow's arms were brutally jerked to behind the chair, and he heard the handcuffs snapping together. His own leather restraints were used to bind his chest to the chair back. And Winslow had only begun to regain his breath and presence of mind—to let out a scream of indignation—when tape was slapped over his mouth. Then he was blindfolded and totally under control.

The door clicked shut and he was alone. He was alone, bound to the chair, for hours, it seemed. Winslow seethed the whole time. What the fuck was Brewster up to? He couldn't just leave him here. The maids would be by in the morning and let him loose, and then he'd ream Brewster to within an inch of his life. So, he didn't want to be fucked. He would regret it. His future was toast. He might have cleared out before Winslow got free, but he'd pursue the bastard to the ends of the earth and make his life miserable. He'd ruin the fucker. He'd find a way to fuck him and then to ruin him.

Winslow had nearly nodded off, his inability to put his hundred-ways punishment of William Brewster into immediate effect, worn down by his spewing of bile within the restraints of the tape over his mouth, when he heard the door click open again.

He heard the movement in the room. The rustling of clothes. Then he felt the hands at his belt buckle. He struggled against the restraints as his pants were unzipped. His head snapped to the side as he was backhanded on the right cheek. And while he was immobilized, stunned by that, he felt his trousers and briefs being stripped off. His butt cheeks were cold against the wood of the chair bottom.

Winslow felt the cigar being taken out of his shirt pocket, and he barely had time to wonder about that before strong arms grabbed him under his knees, pulled his back down the chair slats, spread his legs, and hooked them over the arms of the chair.

Something cold was at his asshole, which puckered right up at the sudden attention it was getting.

The cigar. He was being probed by the Casa Blanca Jeroboam! God, what a sacrilege. The waste of an expensive cigar.

His ass was being worked well, though, and Winslow found himself moaning and groaning behind the taped mouth. That Brewster. What an actor, pretending that this frightened him. Winslow felt himself go harder than he ever had done before. This wasn't so bad.

The cigar was withdrawn and strong hands were under his knees again, lifting his hips up even farther out the chair. He heard the heavy breathing and the shared strain, as a big, thick cock started to work its way into his hole.

Winslow's pelvis was being swung back and forth and to the sides as the cock drove its way up into him. Both of them were huffing and puffing.

Winslow's assessment of Brewster skyrocketed. Boy that young man had balls. Worthy of his Mayflower ancestry. Worthy of being moved up faster at First Families Securities. It had been a risk, but Brewster had played it perfectly. Winslow was loving this fuck.

The fuck went on and on. It was a cruel fuck, an expert taking. Winslow shot off twice during the taking. He felt twenty years younger. This was far better an idea than the one he'd had—although he'd get his shot too.

A true American First Families performance. Pure-blooded American. Deep, thick, complete taking. Yessss!

Winslow was totally exhausted when it was over. He felt the handcuffs snap off and his bounds undone, and he just collapsed back into the chair, trying to pull himself together. When he reached up and pulled the blindfold off, he saw the light of rushing dawn filtering in through the dormer window. He was alone in the room. He painfully, stiffly raised himself from the chair and hobbled over to the cracked porcelain sink in the corner of the room. Using a threadbare washcloth, he cleaned himself as best he could and hobbled back to the chair; picked his briefs, trousers, and jacket off the floor; and put himself back together. It took him several minutes to smooth out all of the wrinkles, but he wasn't about to walk through the halls of the FGCC without looking exactly like what he was—a pure-blood descendent of the original Mayflower first families of the New World. Pure American down through the centuries. Protectors of all that was patrician Bostonian against the encroaching world of the dirty, impure immigrants.

When he was what he wanted to project, he left the room and went to the elevator. It had been a stupendous gamble on Brewster's part. But it had pleased Winslow. It had been years since he'd come twice in a single fucking. He'd be fucking Brewster, of course, but he had a whole new respect for the man. He certainly had balls.

Winslow didn't even acknowledge the presence of the Hispanic attendant who proceeded him out of the front entrance and flagged down a taxi for him. But after Winslow stiffly folded himself into the back seat of the cab and had made a sour remark about the immigrants who were driving the service cars those days, the attendant rose to his full height and flipped the departing taxi the bird. Flashing a big grin, he slowly pulled a moist and pungent Casa Blanca Jeroboam cigar out of his shirt pocket, lit it, and walked slowly back into the entrance to the world of the First Gentlemen's Covenant Club.