Years Later

November, 1940, Country Estate of Roger Morris, York, England

Lying on his back, legs bent and spread on the four-poster bed of newspaper mogul Roger Morris, Bryan Sinclair steeled himself to take the last, largest, of the graduated, tear-drop-shaped balls Morris was forcing into his ass. He'd had his eyes shut tight at the effort but opened them when the last ball, a good four inches across at the widest, wasn't going in.

Four inches wasn't that bad. As the afternoon wore on Morris was likely to get around to fisting Bryan's ass. And his knuckles were more than four inches across.

Morris, tall, grizzled, ugly as sin, had risen from the bed and stood there momentarily, facing the reclining professional escort. At nearly thirty-six, blond and still breathtakingly handsome and immaculately groomed—although, by request, unshaved now for three weeks—Bryan had been a favorite male prostitute of the newspaper empire giant's for fifteen years. Bryan was mainly based in New York, but he would come back to work on a demand from the London escort service—and at the client's added expense. He had specialties that weren't often in demand, but when they were, he was sought after. Morris himself had offered Bryan permanent employment three times over the years, but Bryan had not been willing to give up his other career. He was an on-the-scene journalist, and these were exciting times.

Roger Morris was just such a client that Bryan specialized in, as was evident now as he stood, naked, beside the bed. The man was monstrously hung, and one of the few sufferers of polyorchidism, He had three balls, two hanging low, seemingly the size of tennis balls at the bottom of a drooping ball sac, and a third, ping pong-ball sized one tucked up into his scrotum. One of Morris' fetishes that whores like Bryan had to satisfy was teasing out, distending, and sucking the third ball with his mouth. Bryan was an expert in this. The reward was that the testicle fired on its own and could do so between recoveries of the other two. Beyond that, Morris' uncut cock was a slab of meat over three-quarters of a foot and nearly three-inches wide in repose.

One of the ones who knew what the mogul was packing, Bryan always laughed when Morris was referred to in public as Mr. Iron Balls. They didn't know the half of it. The man had to wear carefully tailored baggy trousers to hide his "gifts." Luckily he had the money to pay the tailoring fee—and for the tailor's silence.

The upshot of the condition was that Morris produced prodigious amount of semen—often, almost constantly—and required frequent servicing by a man who could accommodate his requirements. Once a session started, Morris could fuck his partner into the grave. For that reason, more often than not Morris turned to professionals who were trained for endurance. Bryan was one of four he used regularly—Bryan less so now that the world had heated up and his reporting skills were in high demand. Morris had paid his way across the Atlantic, with little clear idea, as war unfolded in Europe, when Bryan could return to New York. But for now the focus was on Europe driving into war, and Bryan wanted to come here anyway.

The bombs were falling here in England, not in New York. Not yet, at least.

This was a hunting weekend Morris put together occasionally for men of prominence who wanted to exercise their fetishes away from the inquiring press, which was ironic, as Morris owned most of the inquiring press. He kept this activity—and those engaged in it—quite private though. To Morris and his well-placed male friends, leaders in government and society all of whom fed Morris off-the-record secrets in exchange for invitations to his hunting weekends, a hunting weekend at this estate involved the hunting of men.

Each of Morris' guests was invited either to bring his own partner or to select one from the portfolio of the exclusive London escort service that represented Bryan. Then, other than meals, and gathering after dinner, they were left to hunt as they pleased. Some were known to become so engrossed in the hunt that they missed meals.

Bryan knew that Morris would take his time enjoying Bryan's body for the entire afternoon. They were in for the long haul. Morris had made no bones about wanting to go for a record of ejaculations this afternoon. He had recently turned sixty and he quite evidently was beginning to worry how much longer he would, literally, be able to keep it up. He was almost obsessed with the need to exercise it to hang on to the ability to harden.

That was the issue now, as he stood by the bed. He had gone flaccid. And this after only four ejaculations. For most men his age this would be natural. He had already fucked Bryan twice, jacked off once, and been sucked off once. But this wouldn't do for Morris. He was reverting to toys to help him keep it up. Thus the titillation of feeding the graduated glass balls into Bryan's ass to bring on the next hard on. It hadn't worked, though. The largest dildo they made at the time, a Big Mike was laying beside Bryan's leg ready for use, but Morris opted to retreat across the room and pick up what was then a new invention, a suction erection tube.

The two men maintained eye contact, as Morris worked his cock up. He'd had to order a special one to fit him.

"Come here," Bryan said. "I can do that."

Morris pulled the tube off. The cock was in half erection. Even at half, it was monstrous. He drew close to the bed, and Bryan, turning onto his side, facing Morris, moved his arm around the older man's slim hips, cupped a butt cheek, and drew Morris' crotch to him. One after the other Bryan took the two distended balls in his mouth, sucked them, and gave the balls a hummer. Morris was harder, and Bryan, with effort, took the cock in his mouth while he still could. He rimmed Morris' asshole with a finger, as the older man groaned, and worked it into the passage, searching for, and finding, the prostate. Morris' cock filled out more and, gagging, Bryan was forced to pull his mouth back to the tip of the cock, with his lips pushing the foreskin off the bulbous knob, which he sucked hard, flicking his tongue on the leaking piss slit. In seventeen years of prostitution, Bryan had learned all of the tricks.

Morris grabbed Bryan's head, running his hands through the still-luxurious blond curls, and moaned deeply, as Bryan's mouth left the cock and started working under the balls, tonguing up into the scrotum to tease out the third ball. When he had gotten it to drop, he sucked it into his mouth, rolled it around, and started to hum.

With a grunt, Morris shot off on Bryan's face. Bryan let loose of the third ball, and Morris leaned down, kissed him passionate on the lips, and licked his own cum off Bryan's face and up into his hairline.

"Five," he grunted.

Satisfied for the moment then, he knelt on the bed, and, as Bryan huffed and puffed, worked the last of the graduated balls into Bryan's passage. He grasped Bryan's hard cock with the other hand and stroked it. As he slowly pulled the balls out and then reinserted them, Bryan shuddered, moaned, provided a whispered commentary on the effect of the attention, and, when he was about to explode, requested permission to come. Laughing, Morris slapped Bryan's dick, erasing the urge to shot, at least for now, and slowly pulled the balls out.

He entered Bryan's ass with four fingers and teased him into thinking fisting time had arrived. Bryan groaned deeply and began to pant hard, but Morris laughed and pulled the fingers out.

Bryan was well aware that they had all afternoon for this and that Morris was a master at the sexual tease and torture. He played Bryan's ass for a while with the oversized dildo, marveling at Bryan's ability to bottom it and to move his pelvis on the hard, glass cock as Morris held it steady. Morris was masturbating himself and Bryan could see that he would be ready for release soon himself. And then, quickly pulling the dildo out, Morris wanted to bury his cock. He scrambled between Bryan's spread legs, pushed his knees under the younger man's buttocks, and penetrated Bryan with one long slide. Bryan brought his torso up and the two hugged each other, chest plastered to chest, arms encircling backs, mouth sucking on mouth, as they rocked back and forth, moving Morris's cock deep inside Bryan's passage, the expert bottom Bryan setting the muscles of his passage to undulate over the invading, throbbing staff, enticing the two men to ejaculate in a flood of cum nearly simultaneously.

"Six," Morris muttered. "So far so good. Plenty of time."

The third ball came into play. Morris was so aroused by the coupling that he pressed Bryan's torso back, the younger man's shoulder blades touching the bed, Bryan's fingers working Morris' nipples, as, instead of going flaccid, Morris remained hard, began to pump again, and brought up the reserve of his third ball to cream Bryan deep again.

"Seven."

They lay there for several minutes panting and recovering. Then, at Morris' signal they took a break, went for a piss and a towel off, and Morris called for beer. The two stood at the window overlooking the rolling countryside of Morris' estate. Morris laughed to see one of his guests, an admiral, running down the guest he'd brought, one of his own stable hands, and, in spite of the January cold, trapping the young man in a gazebo and, after frenziedly readjusting clothing, bending him over a chair and fucking him. Finished, the guest rose, adjusted his clothing and departed, only to be replaced by another guest, who had been standing by and watching. He turned the stable hand onto his back on the chair, grabbed the young man's legs and raised them, and commenced fucking him hard.

"Isn't even Harold's guest," Morris said, with a laugh. "Wonder who's fucking the young man I rented for him. Timothy's his name, I think. Reminds me of you when you were younger," Morris said, turning to Bryan.

"Does that mean you are tiring of me, that I'm becoming too old for you?" Bryan asked.

"Not a bit of it. You're at the top of your game. I'd have to train a young man to give me what I want—take what I want to give him. No one can tease out that third ball like you can. No one can take my fist like you do."

"But you would enjoy doing that, wouldn't you? Training a young man. There's a cruel streak in you, Roger. You enjoyed training me to your needs. You enjoyed the pain it gave me."

"And you enjoyed the pain more than any of the rest of the training. You loved being broken and used to the limit." Morris could see that he'd hit a bulls eye with that remark, so he continued, "But it's a moot question. I can enjoy you and train a young man as well."

"I know you can," Bryan answered. "As I said, you can enjoy being very cruel."

The discussion—the remembering of breaking Bryan in—combined with watching the stable hand being fucked—a third guest had shown up to take over the honors—aroused Morris, and in a hoarse voice, he commanded Bryan to return to the bed. This time he brought leads down from the four corners and bound Bryan's wrists and ankles. Already hard, not needing any toys or assists now, he moved between Bryan's spread and trussed legs on his knees and fucked him hard and long.

"Eight."

After he was done, he got up, went to the bathroom, and returned with a straight razor and a mug of shaving cream that he was working up into a foam.

"I hope your hand is steady," Bryan whispered.

"I'm not too old to shave a man yet," Morris answered.

Bryan knew this was one of Morris' favorite sex acts. As bidden, Bryan hadn't shaved since a week before he'd left New York. Not only was he bearded, but his pit, chest, thigh, arm, and groin hair had reappeared. It was blond down, but he normally shaved himself smooth—unless he knew ahead of time that a client wanted him hairy. Morris had wanted him hairy. He enjoyed the before and aftereffect in fucking his men.

Bryan held as still as he could, as humming, Morris shaved his face and then his pits and his chest. He moved then to the thighs. His cock was where Bryan could turn his head and suck it into his mouth, which he did—knowing Morris would like that and would want to be hard when he was finished with the shave. When the cock was too hard to get into his mouth, Bryan worked his tongue in below the distended balls and teased out the third testicle.

Happily, although he was moaning and groaning while Bryan sucked on the third ball, Morris' hand remained steady as he shaved down Bryan's bush. At the same time he was stroking Bryan's cock, and he managed to swallow it as Bryan was firing off.

Throwing the shaving implements aside, Morris moved between Bryan's knees. Bryan's eyes popped open and his mouth opened to a silent scream, as Morris laced his fingers around the root of Bryan's balls, distended them, and patted them. Bryan writhed as best he could as Morris closed his fist over the balls and squeezed them. Before Bryan's screams could go vocal, however, the older man let loose of the balls, thrust his cock inside Bryan, and started pumping his ass hard again.

"Nine."

A standing fuck at the window, watching the whole guest list gangbanging the stable hand. "Ten" At last Bryan screaming through the fisting. "Eleven."

As the light outside was fading, Bryan was on his knees in front of a standing Morris, working the man's cock with his hand and paying sucking attention to all three balls, until, ready again, Morris lifted him, turned him, belly down, on the arm of an overstuffed chair and fucked him like a dog.

"Twelve." Ding, ding, ding. We have a new record. Who said a sixty-year-old man wouldn't be able to get it up more than once a day?

The hunters, all with smiles on their faces and eyes blazing, gathered in the candlelit great hall for supper. There were twenty of them in all, all decked out in tailored evening wear, ten of them very pleased with themselves, and ten younger men in various stages of exhaustion. Seven of the young men were professionals and were able to handle themselves well despite the afternoon's workout. Three had been brought by their partners. The two of those who were present were nearly falling off their chairs. The stable hand didn't appear for the meal. Little did they know that the evening's entertainment would be a game of changing cocks, and the two surviving amateurs as well as several of the professionals would be chased around the mansion for a game of gangbang.

Bryan wasn't included in this, although he received propositions from several of the powerful men present. He was there with Morris and thus was untouchable—unless he agreed to it and Morris didn't need him.

There was one man there, Harry Tharp, who was in the foreign office and able to arrange travel for people, even in these troubled times, who Bryan was willing to go with, for needs of his own. The man was a dwarf, not quite five feet tall, and was as ugly as sin and deformed of body—with one exception. He was hung and an expert cocksman, and used young men's assumptions of his safeness to get his cock inside them. Once saddled, the young men couldn't get enough of him, though.

It was nearly legendary that a man could bring a nonprofessional guest to these hunting weekends, but the guest was more likely to leave on the arm of Harry Tharp than with the man who brought him.

Bryan discreetly made an appointment to meet Tharp during the hour that Morris was bathing.

Another offer disturbed Bryan deeply and he rebuffed the man possibly more abruptly than he should have. He should not have revealed that the proposition had disturbed him. Morris picked his guests carefully. A prostitute like Bryan should be expected to find the cocking of any of them acceptable. Lord Aynsley approached him as they were leaving the dinner table for brandy and cigars in the library before the evening hunt began.

"I've heard interesting things about you," he murmured to Bryan. "I want to lay you. What are your fees?"

"Sorry, not interested," Bryan has answered abruptly, a finality in his voice, and turned and walked off, leaving the other man looking bewildered and miffed.

There was no way, though, that Bryan was going to let his father fuck him. The man hadn't recognized him. But then it had been nineteen years since he'd seen his father—when he was Paul Winslow. After four years honing his sexual skills and filling his bank account under an assumed name in London—to avoid discovery by his family—Paul had moved to New York. His mother was American and came from Boston, so Paul—now Bryan—had knowledge of and affinity for America. His London escort service connected him with a high-class one in New York, and he continued earning money that way, coming back to London for special clients like Roger Morris. He used the money to put himself through the New York School of Journalism. And, thus, the second career—all done without the need for his father's family's connections or his mother's family's money.

And there was no way that he would let his father fuck him any more than he had.

In the library, Bryan noticed another escort, Timothy, who, as Roger Morris had noted, reminded him of himself when he was nineteen. It was a memorable age, as it had been when he had lost his virginity to the Austrian baron—who was still trying to find him and to whom Bryan's mother, Elizabeth, was still attached. One of the main reasons Bryan had come to Europe was to try to extricate his mother from the baron's clutches in Austria and bring her to safety. It wouldn't be long before being an American in the German areas of Europe—Austria had already been annexed two years earlier—would be untenable, and Elizabeth must be losing her charm with age now. Who knew how long it would be before the baron abandoned her?

As he watched Timothy, fairly new to the game but already good at it, drinking brandy and talking with three men, all of whom were revolving around him and feeling him up with their eyes and hands, Bryan began to form a plan. He'd have to find a moment or two alone with Timothy—obviously sometime after he'd been gangbanged on the table in the great hall, of course. As he was watching, the gong sounded, and the chase was on. Quickly told that he was fair game, Timothy had sprinted off, followed by the three guests who, knowing the game beforehand, had chosen him and made sure they were close by him at the gong.

Timothy, as Paul had predicted, had only made it as far as the great hall. Paul waited a few minutes before following them. Timothy was laid out on the table. Four had tracked him down. They were experienced and worked in a pack. When they were done with him, they would go off, together, to trap and gang fuck another one of the "rabbits." Timothy was naked except for his socks and the garters holding them up. One of the guests was already fucking him, with one leg propped on his shoulder and holding the other one out to the side. He was a big-cocked man, and Timothy was sheathing the cock without effort. His head was turned to the end of the table and he was sucking off a guest. The other two were trapping his arms above his head, holding him in place and waiting for their turn.

Paul could see that he was smiling and laughing, though, when his mouth came off the cock. He was a tough one. He might do nicely for Paul's forming plan.

Morris had one of the professionals under the table, on his back. He wasn't professional enough to be taking on Morris. He was screaming bloody murder as Morris did pushups on his pelvis. Paul doubted the professional would be able to appear for breakfast.

The dwarf wasn't around. Paul didn't expect him to be in on this hunt. Tharp didn't hunt men; they came to him. That's what Paul now intended to do—to go to the dwarf.

"What is your price?" the foreign office dwarf, Harry Tharp, asked Bryan when they were alone in Tharp's room. Both were naked. Bryan was belly down on a low ottoman, his arms stretched out to floor in front of him. The dwarf was in back of him, his chubby little hands gliding up Bryan's inner thighs, coaxing Bryan's legs apart.