Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

The dining room at Young's Hotel was so impressive and so far above my station in life, that, in order not to appear to be a country bumpkin with my gawking at the honeycombed, low-slung coffered glass ceiling, or the burgundy-painted wainscoting with the gold wall covering above, and the back-lit stained-glass semicircles of the stained glass above the windows, I sank into my chair and remained subdued.

My shyness and reticence continued when Mr. Barrington gestured and said, "That's him," when a tall, beefy, florid-faced man with a riot of gray-streaked red hair and mutton chop whiskers appeared at the maître d' station across the dining room, next to a huge fireplace. The man must have been six and a half feet tall and over two-hundred and fifty pounds, although the poundage was well-distributed on his large frame other than the distinctive paunch of a belly. He was dressed elegantly in an expensively tailored gray and black pin-stripe suit.

Barrington rose from the table, gave me a look that had me on my feet as well, and caught the attention of the imposing figure of a man from across the dining room. The man's eyes shifted from Barrington to me, and he produced a smile with his thick, red lips. I caught a slight look of lust in his hooded eyes before he recovered, directed his full attention to Barrington, and put on the mask of the successful businessman meeting for a business dinner.

We remained standing as he approached us. Both Barrington and he extended hands and shook and blustered about the hotel setting and that it was raining out on the street and that the man had had a devil of a time finding a carriage to bring him back to the hotel from another business meeting like they were long-time acquaintances, although my understanding was that they had no more than a passing acquaintance. That, of course, proved to be a false impression.

"This is a young associate of mine, Horace, Neal Drummond. If you choose to order equipment from us for your men's gymnasiums in New York, you will be working with Neal—if, of course, it pleases you to work with him. This is Horace Crowley, Neal. He owns four men's health establishments in New York."

Of course I'd already learned who Horace Crowley was and what he owned in New York City—and how much he was worth. I knew that he was fifty-one years old too, but he appeared to be a far more robust man in the flesh—and quite a lot of flesh there was, although, barring his generous paunch, it seemed more muscle than fat.

"Mr. Crowley was once a champion boxer," Barrington said in way of an explanation of how he'd risen to own gyms.

Crowley turned to look at me for the first time since he'd approached the table, and even now he seemed almost to be looking past me. I didn't see the spark of interest in his eyes that I'd seen when he'd first entered the dining room. "And do you partake of the gym as well, Master Drummond? Are you a boxer as well?"

"Neal was a gymnast," Barrington said, "weren't you, Neal? He competed collegiately in the high bar and the rings. I only employ former athletes. I want them to be thoroughly knowledgeable of the equipment me provide."

"Do you?" Crowley said, nearly sniffing in the air. "That seems a good idea. Shall we order?" He sat down at the table, giving me no further notice and turned his attention to the menu. I felt a sense of dismissal. If Barrington had brought me along to impress the man—or, more, to arouse him and excite him at the prospect that I would service him—the effort seemed to have fallen flat. He seemed more interested in the menu than anything else, and he ordered enough food for the three of us and tucked into it with relish and a bit of crudeness, talking equipment and prices with Barrington with food coming out of his mouth and dribbling down into the edges of his mutton chops.

Given the wine list, he ordered beer. He gave me the impression of a crude glutton, which made me shudder at the thought of how he would be as a sex partner. I almost didn't regret that I didn't seem to appeal to his arousal.

I had also felt the dismissal in his use of "Master" rather than "Mr." when he addressed me. I was just another low-ranked, wet-behind-the-ears employee to him. He had no interest in me other than a name and an address to send his order vouchers too—if he decided to buy our equipment or to permit me to be his contact with the company. This brought me to the worry of whether his business was so important to Barrington that my boss would cultivate and train another young man in my stead to serve both him and Crowley. My task, of course, was to swallow my disgust and make sure that didn't happen.

I was wrong in that assessment, though. Crowley was interested in me, I just didn't rank as high in his priorities as food or business. By the coffee service he had been satiated in terms of his higher priorities, and he, at last, turned his attention to me, as if he only now was aware I was in the room, and I saw that hooded-eye look of lust return to his eye.

"You are a fine figure of a young man, Neal," he said, his voice both heavy with sensuality and hard, commanding, in full control. "A gymnast, you say. A gymnast relies on flexibility. Have you retained that from your college days, Neal? Will you bend for me and not break? Will you pleasure me in taking you to the edge of being broken?"

His hand had come over to my knee under the deep-flowing table cloth and I winced at the strength of his grip. I didn't quite know how to answer that and was still searching for words, when Barrington answered for me.

"He will give you whatever pleasure you seek, Horace. He has become my favorite."

"Your favorite?" Crowley asked in a voice of disbelief. "You prefer him over Johnny Boy? I haven't seen Neal here on club nights. You say he is good at the 'everything but'?"

"Very good, Horace. It's the aura of innocence he brings to the servicing that sets him ahead of Johnny Boy—plus his body is delicious. Johnny Boy has become jaded. And Neal here is more athletic. You will find he will bend for you very nicely. But if you wish to break him—"

"And the lash? Will he take the whip?"

"He has not had the lash. You will be the first."

"But he will take it?" Crowley asked insistently. He was looking at me, but again it was Barrington who answered.

"Yes, he will take it." I lowered my face in submission.

I shuddered at the thought of that. Barrington had told me that that would be involved with this prospective client, and I reiterated that Barrington was the boss and I'd do as he bid. But I shuddered at the thought. And I could feel in the tremble of the grip on my knee that Crowley was shuddering too. The obvious difference was that I trembled from anticipation and fear and this florid mountain of a man trembled from the anticipation of personal pleasure.

"Are we finished here?" Crowley's question came out almost in a growl. It didn't seem like he was finished here, his hand was higher on my inner thigh, a thumb rubbing against the bulb of my cock through the material of my trousers. He was making me wet, and I knew my trousers would be spotted. I glanced around at the other tables, but no one seemed to notice that he had his hand under the table and his arm unnaturally extended. Anyone observing us could follow the line of his extended arm to where my lap, hidden under the table cloth, was.

"I would like to get to the dessert you promised me," he said. "I wish to use this young man now."

Barrington must have seen the resulting expression of slight consternation on my face, as he was staring at me, willing me to do something. This suddenly was moving very fast. Crowley's fingering of my cock through my trousers was near to making me come. I didn't know what Barrington wanted me to do, but my body involuntarily answered the call. With a shudder, my legs went to putty and parted and Crowley's hand cupped my basket briefly, no doubt taking that as surrender. I came in my trousers, wetting them. And, smiling, Crowley removed his hand.

I lowered my face again in a submissive gesture and when I looked up, I saw that he'd taken his hand away and had his thumb in his mouth—the thumb that had brought the cum out of my cock and soaked a spot in my trousers. He smiled licentiously at me. I returned a somewhat weaker smile and lowered my eyes again.

"If you don't want another cup of coffee, we can be finished here," Barrington said. "If you have the time and inclination, we can show you our line of equipment—at one of our showrooms—a very private showroom."

"Take me there," Crowley answered in a low, hoarse voice.

"I have a carriage waiting for us outside."

In the carriage, Barrington sat next to us in the darkness of the rear compartment, holding my trousers and underdrawers in his hand, as I sat in Crowley's lap, facing forward, his cock out of his trousers, Crowley was otherwise fully dressed, and stroking up and down the small of my back, while he cupped my chin in one hand, pulling my face around for an exploration of my mouth cavity by his tongue, while he stroked off my shaft with the other hand. I could tell from the feel of his cock that he was massive, both in length and girth.

I came for him again, splashing my cum onto the back of the partition between our compartment and the driver, which seemed to please Crowley greatly. Barrington had told me early in our practice of "everything but" that the controller enjoyed it more if the submissive ejaculated frequently while the controller held himself in check for a final flourish. In this regard, Barrington said Crowley was like him.

"He comes nicely," Crowley said as he pushed me off his lap, tucked his own cock away, and buttoned his fly.

"And frequently," Barrington responded, "as I told you he would."