Something short and hopefully sweet.
Any errors that remain are mine. Thanks to LarryInSeattle for his editing efforts.
All the participants are over eighteen.
Enjoy.
*****
Being rich takes a lot of work. Being obscenely rich, not so much, especially if you're lucky. Luck is a relative concept. I was unlucky that my parents died when I was but a wee lad. On the other hand, I was lucky to be an only grandchild of a couple who would have been respectably rich even if they had not invested a sizable chunk of their capital in their earnest young neighbor's new company. He was destined to become one of the richest men on the planet and the company the fifth or sixth largest public company in the world. The fact that he did so, seemingly without graft, skullduggery or plain old fuckery is remarkable.
I was their sole heir. I'm not stupid. I'm not even lazy. Money let me do what I wanted to do. I work hard in my own way. I specialize in finding companies that are struggling to get past the mom and pop stage and help them with the transition. They make a lot of money and I make some too. I am a fan of win-win. I'm not a hedge fund that buys distressed companies, wrings the last pennies out of them, shuts them down and then turns their back on the people who end up on the street. I help them succeed and for the most part, I'm very good at it.
I've added to my grandparents stash, not simply lived off it. Granted, I couldn't do what I do without all those zeros floating behind my back but I try to live off what I earn. My tastes are simple. I avoid the limelight and stay below the radar.
Doing so, and being rich, allows me to indulge myself in other, private ways.
You know you're really rich when you need a fixer. I need two. One, deals with business and PR and makes sure I'm on enough charity boards and give enough speeches and interviews so that I'm not labeled a recluse. I have no desire to fortify the top floor of a building and die with foot long fingernails.
My second fixer deals with my more personal peccadilloes. Fixer number one doesn't even know fixer number two exists. I pay fixer number two twice as much as fixer number one, which shows my need for his utmost discretion.
I have two legal teams as well. One for business and one for pleasure. Everything, absolutely everything is legal, other than the paying for sex of course.
It is time not money that limits my fun. It takes time to set my little circuses up. The most I've ever managed is four in one year. In between, I enjoy more typical pleasures of the flesh and my private video collection of the events.
Fixer two, lets call him Mr. P shall we, is primarily a scout and recruiter. He knows my taste, knows I like variety. I don't want to suck off a rugby team, been there, done that, not the whole team but close enough. I want these event of mine to feature an olio of flesh, - straight dudes, nerds, jocks, naïve farm boys, narcissistic pretty boys, Goths and skaters, cut and uncut, tops and bottoms, hedonists and the guilt-ridden.
I want guys over twenty-one. Most are end up being a little older, out of college and working. I don't want to feel like I'm taking complete advantage of them. None are destitute although most can use the money. Okay, the straight dudes that agree are usually pretty hard up. Some guys do it for the fun.
Mr. P finds them. They have to commit to four weeks. They each get ten grand, if they finish, and first class air fare. A limo with opaque glass drives them for hours before dropping them at my secluded ranch. They know what city they flew into. There is no way to hide the fact that they are still in the Southwest but beyond that they haven't a clue.
They know up front that they are expected to have sex and that it will be with other guys. They know they will be on camera the entire four weeks and the contract lays out that the videos or recordings will never be released. (If they were smart they'd realize I want it kept private more than they do.) They may leave at any time. All they have to do is pick up a phone and ask for a car. The nondisclosure is air tight, not that they can't blab but everything goes through so many layers it would take even the FBI time to trace it back to me. It would be nearly impossible for a private investigator or tabloid to do so.
Oh, there are stories from time to time. "I Was A Gay Sex Slave" type of stuff but it never goes anywhere.
Their clothes and cell phones are taken on arrival. They must remain naked the entire time. Porn shows in every room. Every kind of porn as long as it is legal, gay, bi, lesbian, group, male bakakke, female bakakke, anything that will get young dicks hard.
They are encouraged to stay as aroused as possible, by themselves, in pairs or in groups. The tough part, the really tough part is they may not cum. Every part of the house is monitored. They bust a nut and they're out. They get a conciliation prize of five grand and a thank you. I don't want them leaving too pissed. Pissed off people cause trouble. Keep everyone satisfied and your life is far simpler. Their spunk won't have softened yet before a staff member escorts them out.
I've never lost fewer than two that way. Often it is five or six. I start with twenty, so ending with as few as fourteen is not so bad. We lost six this time.
They are tested for STDs on arrival and right before the event. The second screen is in case any of them arrived with a new infection. Six weeks would be better but I've tried to find a reasonable compromise between prudence and desire. Since they've all been screwing around inside the house or by the pool, if anyone has a positive test before the play date, they are all discharged. They get their five grand and free treatment, including a month of post-exposure prophylaxis if the positive test was for HIV.
Mr. P is meticulous in his recruiting efforts. We've never had a positive test for anything.
After four weeks of porn and messing around, they are walking bags of jizz, which is exactly the way I want them.
On the big day, they all gather by the pool if the weather is nice, or in the game room if it is not. By now even the straight boys are so torqued up they are playing around. I want them all hard before I join them.
I wear a mask, a very comfortable mask, sort of a Zorro meets Batman type of mask. I want my mouth free, of course, but my face is hidden. The mask has dark glasses. If you've every gotten cum in your eye you'll understand that; it fucking burns.
The mask and a steel cock ring are all I wear.
Mr. P is the lead videographer. There are two others. Like John Hammond, I spare no expense. The videographers are naked as well. It keeps the playing field looking level even if it isn't. If they are hard and look interested I blow them as well. Mr. P is not interested. It keeps life simpler that way.
