January, 1924, the Baron's Austrian Mountain Chalet
It was time for Paul to have his skiing lesson with Toma, the Italian ski instructor. Bundled up, Paul stopped by his mother's room, where he'd been told she'd retired for a nap, to check on whether she was all right.
She seemed more than all right. She was lying on her back on the bed in just her petticoats with her bodice flapping open. She was taking care of the needs of the monocled General Von Pelt, as Paul somehow thought she'd be expected to do. Her legs were spread and bent, and her fists were gripping the rungs of the headboard above her head. Her luxurious blond hair was streaming out in all directions from her head. Her back was arched, her pendulous breasts jutting up into the general's hands, which were rhythmically squeezing them to match the thrusts of his cock inside her cunt. His knees were pressed in under her raised buttocks. Paul couldn't see the movement of the cock because of the frilly piles of crinolines bunched up around Elizabeth's waist, but he could tell by the flash in her eyes and the slackness of her mouth that she was being vigorously and deeply fucked.
Paul just shook his head, silently closed the door, and went out to the top of the ski slope. The baron and the other general, obviously expert skiers, were already racing down the slope. They returned by a sleigh driven by one of the outside workmen, and then went down the slope again. They did this several times while Paul was receiving his lesson. While he was getting this instruction, other men of the outside staff gathered around to watch, including the master of horses, a groundskeeper, and the woodsman, a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall. Sometime during the lesson Paul noticed that the men were gone, and he vaguely remembered that they had piled into the sleigh and gone down the mountain road for what he presumed was another pickup for the baron and General Steinman.
This was about the same time Paul noticed he was creating sparks with Tomas, the ski instructor. Tomas was holding him closer to show ski positions and moves, and despite the thickness of the ski pants, Paul had felt the hardness of the instructor's cock when he'd stood close behind Paul to show him how to lean with the skis as he moved downhill—sideways and forward and back. About the time Paul noticed how intimate this closeness had become, it became more intimate. Tomas came in for a kiss and the motion of his hips against Paul's rump no longer was demonstrating ski moves. Paul was being dry humped.
Tomas was a beefy, handsome man. Paul had become a randy submissive, wanting and needing attention frequently. He went with the kiss and made no effort to stop the dry humping. They stood there for several minutes, the ski instructor bent over Paul's back, embracing him close, moving his pelvis against Paul's buttocks.
Sighing, Paul whispered, "If you want, you can. The stables are nearby."
Surprisingly, Tomas answered. "No need. In a little while."
If Tomas had wanted him to go on all fours and for the two of them to rearrange their clothing, Paul would have been happy to take the instructor's cock right there and then, in the snow, at the top of the novice ski run. Rutting like two animals. The baron was right. He was a wanton whore. He'd take the cock of any man who wanted him. The baron had conditioned him to this. He had no real care how nice it was; if it could get inside him enough to work his prostate, that would be fine with him.
It didn't get that far, though. With a cough and a "sorry," Tomas stepped away. A few more instructions and he said that Paul was ready for a glide down to a hut lower on the hill, where smoke was pouring out the chimney.
They made the hut without incident, with Tomas at his side, helping to guide him.
Tomas suggested that they take their skis off and warm up in the hut. Paul found that the hut was more than ready for him. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace, a divan, covered with a fur blanket had been placed in front of the fireplace, and six men were crowded into the hut—the baron, General Steinman, the master of the horses, the sleigh driver, the groundskeeper who had watched him at the top of the hill, and the woodsmen, all with their dongs out and stroking them. Tomas, when he unbuttoned himself, became the seventh. Most of the cocks were very nice, Steinman having a thick Prince Albert ring in the bulb of his, but the woodsman's was a show stopper.
Paul understood immediately what this was all about—and he now knew what the ski instructor hadn't taken him to the stables. He knew he was getting him soon, here in this hut, and he knew that the men were waiting for them.
He decided not to fight it, but to make the most of it. In setting up his portfolio with the London escort service, he'd learned that willingness—and experience—in being gangbanged, although that wasn't what they called it, referring to it as "large group participation" instead, upped the escort's base rates. So did ability and willingness to take a cock longer than ten inches and with a radius exceeding two inches when hard. Paul had full intentions of returning to the escort service—and the woodsman's cock looked like a winner. He shuddered, though, to learn that, when fully hard, the cock exceeded the requirements.
Without needing direction, Paul stripped off his ski clothes—the hut was small enough and the fire large enough anyway for bundling up not to be required. The men were stripping down, which he appreciated, because they were all hardbodied enough to help keep him aroused.
By the order of the general, who was apparently given charge and who had requested the activity, the men fucked Paul to ejaculations in order of cock size, leaving the real reaming to last. Although the baron and the general measured the same, the baron willingly took position five, with the general taking position six. The woodsman, by pride of cock by several inches, was last—for the first round. The general had generously said that any man who could get it up again could come in for a second round. If they couldn't come, though, they had to pull out and step to the back of the hut.
They all managed to ejaculate inside Paul's passage for the first round, with him lying on his back and holding his legs spread until he tired. The general nearly put him out of commission. The Prince Albert punished Paul's already chafed passage walls. When Paul involuntarily raised his torso and tried to twist away from the entry of the general's cock, the general backhanded him and Paul fell back onto the divan. The slap energized him, though, and he rose up again, wrapped his legs around the general's hips, pressing the heels of his feet into the man's buttocks, holding him close in, and putting his pelvis into motion, fucking the general as much as the general was fucking him.
There were oohs and ahhs going on around the hut for the wild fuck he was giving the general. The baron was obviously pleased that Paul was trying to give a particularly good fuck to a man the baron wanted to make a business deal with. When Steinman and fired off, though, arrogant enough to accept the special attention as his due, Paul fell back on the divan, exhausted.
The woodsman was next, and a couple of the workman stepped forward to hold Paul's legs spread wide for him, knowing the woodsman was likely to split him asunder. The woodsman wanted to do him in a side split, though, saying he could establish a better angle that way for Paul to take nearly a foot of hard cock.
Paul was positioned on his left hip, at the bottom edge of the divan, with his right leg bent and the ball of that foot resting on the dirt floor of the hut. The woodsman lifted Paul's left leg and hooked the ankle on his shoulder. The woodsman positioned Paul's buttocks bent back from his stomach and, at his direction, the groundskeeper and sleigh driver each took hold of one of Paul's arms and pulled them hard back, arching Paul's back at an acute angle.
The penetration was excruciating for Paul, only relieved when the general fed him his thick cock to distract him, if possible, from the ramrod moving a foot up into his gut. Both Paul and the woodsman were breathing hard, Paul's teeth clicking on the general's Prince Albert, but at length the cock was fully buried, and the woodsman began a slow pump. Increasingly being able to accommodate him, the friction helped by the spunk of six men before him, and before the woodsman had come in buckets. Paul had been able to weakly go with the motion by leveraging with the ball of his right foot on the ground.
Four of the men took seconds. The general said he preferred to work Paul over alone later. Paul wasn't that wild about his use of the words "work over," but he soon forgot it as the baron drove his cock home with Paul on his back and his ankles on the baron's shoulders. The woodsman was one of the men not taking seconds, saying he didn't want to hurt Paul any more than he might already have done. The other men, with the exception of the baron and the general, were taking turns trying to get the woodsman's cock down their throats.
The woodsman working on other men instead of him didn't necessarily work in with Paul's plans. If he wanted to qualify for the escort service higher rating, he'd have to be reamed by a cock as large as the woodsman's more than once.
After it all was over, the men had left, and the ski instructor had helped Paul dress and hobble out of the hut, Paul sought out the woodsman. He gave up on the idea of fucking the ski instructor. Tomas had had the smallest cock; hardly enough to scratch an itch such as Paul had.
Paul found the woodsman behind the barn, stripped down to the waist, despite the snow on the ground, and chopping wood. His torso was magnificent. Paul stood and watched the monster man chopping the wood until the woodsman noticed that he was there. Paul gave him a look that all tops everywhere recognized from a submissive and walked over to beside the open door of the barn.
Giving a shrug and a little smile, the woodsman followed Paul into the barn. He fucked Paul with both of them standing up and Paul reaching for his ankles while the woodsman worked his cock in and slowly plowed him from behind. Then he fucked Paul, with the small of Paul's back on a bale of hay and his legs running up the woodsman's chest—unable to reach his shoulders to be hooked there. The slide was easier the second time, aided by another massive seeding when the woodsman ejaculated deep inside Paul's passage. The third fuck concluded with the woodsman standing and holding Paul in front of him, inclined back, with Paul's knees hooked on the woodsman's hips and his hands palming the man's gigantic, bulging pecs. This fuck was smooth and easy, the thrusts nearly a foot deep, the passage fully dilated, and the stroking vigorous.
Paul kissed the big lug, thanked him, and hobbled back to the chalet in time to shower and lie on his bed and moan for nearly an hour with his legs bent and spread open before the summons to dinner sounded.
He had checked his mother's room when he returned. She was fully naked now. General Von Pelt, his monocle still intact, was lying on his back, and Elizabeth was riding his cock while he squeezed her breasts. Paul almost had withdrawn from the room before realizing that the baron was lurking, naked, in the shadows. Paul left the door open a slit, and was able to see Von Holst come in behind Elizabeth, bend her torso forward to roll her hips up, slowly penetrate her ass with his cock, and start to stroke.
After dinner there were drinks and desultory conversation. The conversation must not have impressed General Steinman much, because he withdrew early.
He didn't withdraw to his room, though. Paul found him in his room, naked other than the jack boots he'd worn all day and stretched out on the bed. He was flicking a riding whip and looking mean, which was not a stretch for him.
Paul understood that this was to be the "work over later" that the general had spoken of in the ski hut. Taking a deep breath, Paul prepared for something bad. What he got was worse than that. Later he realized he'd never been so hard, so aroused, so dancing on the clouds. And it scared the shit out of him.
"Strip," the general commanded. "No, I don't want a show," he added when Paul started into the routine most men wanted to see. "I want you naked and assessable as soon as possible. Come here," he almost immediately said, as Paul had quickly stripped off. Paul walked over to the side of the bed.
"Hold out your wrists." Paul did so, and the general clicked on a pair of handcuffs that cut into his flesh. The general suddenly sat up on the side of the bed, his legs straddling Paul's legs and punched Paul in the stomach. The blow coming unexpectedly, Paul doubled over and the general grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down onto his knees. Then grabbing his head, the general forced Paul's mouth to open over his cock, and the general repeatedly thrust his thick, long cock into the back of Paul's throat, challenging Paul to pull his teeth out of the way of the Prince Albert fast enough not to lose a couple and causing him to gag and cough each time the cock was pulled away. This lasted less than a minute, though, when the general picked his booted right foot up, planted it in the center of Paul's chest, and sent the young man sprawling onto his back on the floor.
