"Is there anything else I can do for you, Professor Shelton . . . anything at all?"
He made my breath go ragged. He couldn't know how that simple offer by a beautiful young man like him set my juices going. I knew the signs. He was offering so much more than opening the drapes on the bedroom windows. "I don't think so, Rick. It is Rick, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. Rick at your service . . . anything you need. Anything at all." The smile he gave me and the pose he took at the B&B room door in Hot Springs, Virginia, would, in any circumstances really, tell me he could be of service in the terms I craved—I had a fetish for eighteen- and nineteen-year-old young men, and he'd told me he was nineteen as we were climbing the stairs to this room. But maybe I was overanalyzing this. Maybe what I was seeing was all because of what I looked for in a young man, what I craved from him, not because this young man was offering himself to me. As it was, young men on the cusp of manhood seemed to have a fetish for me too. They flocked to me for some unknown—to me—reason. Rick had told me he was the owner's son, putting in voluntary duty, because when Garth-Newel, the mountain music education venue, was performing here, the accommodations were taxed.
The big hotel here, where Rick usually worked as a gardener, was the Homestead, a five-star Omni resort, that had been here, if in somewhat smaller and more primitive form, since before the American Revolution, drawing the southern elite to the mountains both to get away from the mosquito-ridden coastal plantation regions to the Allegheny Mountains during the summer months and because the area, true to its name, offered a series of hot springs pools that were touted for their medicinal benefit. Thomas Jefferson himself had come here for relief from his rheumatism. Indeed, this B&B had been named the Jefferson Inn in his honor and boasted a small, enclosed hot spring in its garden.
I wasn't here for the hot springs, though, I was here to attend the Garth-Newel concerts being conducted at a nearby music retreat to mark the end of a residential concert session, a chamber orchestra offering. I had been asked to serve on the Garth-Newel board and had come to check out what that program was all about. I had intended to decline as the area was just too remote for me—I had recently moved to Bridgewater to teach in the music program at the college there and at the Shenandoah Music Conservatory up the road in Winchester—from Washington, D.C., where, as well as teaching at Georgetown University, I was a violist in the National Symphony Orchestra. I still played in that orchestra on occasion, but fear of discovery in my fetish for eighteen- and nineteen-year-old young men and how that had manifested itself in my life in Washington had sent me packing to more remote regions. Thus far the mountains of Virginia had been a bit too remote for me, however. I was thinking of moving on down to the Charleston area.
I hadn't yet established a safe and discreet arrangement with one or more young men in Bridgewater, and it was giving me a severe case of blue balls. I wouldn't have come up here into the mountains to check out Garth-Newel at all if I hadn't been told that some of the music workshops, including the emerging-talent four-week program opening this weekend, were open to teenaged musical prodigies as well as older musicians. Most of them who came here to hone their abilities during summer programs were adults beyond college age, and men older than nineteen didn't move me at all. I wanted a younger man, one who still was flexible, yielding, impressionable, and early in his actualization of his sexual awareness while his body had developed into that of a man. I also liked them small and narrow hipped, but capable of passion for a man. And I wanted them to want it—I didn't want to work too hard to get them. I know, I wanted it all—but I'd been graced with the looks and technique that didn't make the hunt all that difficult.
Standing before me, in the doorway of the B&B guestroom, was what seemed to be exactly what I yearned for—the B&B owner's son, Rick. But, although he appeared to be provocative and to be hinting at availability, in my forced abstinence for the last several months, I knew I should not make assumptions—that I should tread very carefully. His father was the proprietor of the guesthouse and probably was always lurking somewhere. I would have much better results, I thought, if I were to fall into a teacher-student relationship with some comely young violinist at the Garth-Newel retreat center and hope for something to develop from there.
"Thank you, Rick. I'll certainly call on your services if I need them." With a lingering smile, then, Rick was gone and had taken all of the sunshine with him. The room was a bit shabbier in his absence, but it was serviceable—and at half the price I would have to pay to stay at the Homestead, up the slope from here, it was well worth the choice. Just the beauty of the owner's son to look at and fantasize about was worth the choice.
I had agreed to come to the final concert of the past week's instructional session at Garth-Newel and to stay through the opening days of the next session as a string section tutor, so I'd packed for the duration. I unpacked, showered, and, tired from the winding-road trip up to Hot Springs, laid out on the bed just in my briefs and took a short nap.
When I woke about a half hour later, I went to one of the windows of the room on the back of the house and looked out into the garden, toward where I was told there was an old wooden structure over the thermal spring pool the B&B guests were free to use. I'd try that out later, I thought, but I wanted to see what the structure looked like. It was said to be over two-hundred-years old. It was there, but so was a summer house, closer to the house, hidden from ground-level view by an ancient boxwood hedge but clearly in view from my bedroom window, where I stood, only in bikini briefs.
Rick was being fucked in the summer house and the shock of seeing this riveted me to the window of my room. He was in the lap of a big, black bruiser, facing away from the hunky top, looking at me standing in the window, his eyes slitted, a small, satisfied smile on his face, his tongue flicking out of his parted lips. He obviously was being fucked well. He obviously could clearly see me, nearly naked, at the window.
His arms were raised, his fists locked behind the neck of the black stud. I think I'd seen that man when I arrived at the B&B. I think he was a gardener, massive and muscular. He'd been clipping the boxwoods at the front of the inn, just in shorts and high-top boots. His ebony torso had been magnificent. I gauged him to be in his late twenties—too old to be of sexual interest to me—and, like me, an exclusive top—but not too old for me to appreciate his physical beauty. I remember at the time wondering if he was hung. He certainly looked it. The thought wasn't of him as a sex partner but more as competition—or, arousingly, as a partner in screwing the luscious young Rick together. I wasn't above doing doubles. I could have sex with another top when the focus was on sharing a young man between us. I too was hung and I kept myself in fighting fit. But I wasn't the sexual animal that this black man was—at least I didn't think I was, although young men seemed to flock to me.
I could see now that the black bull, indeed, was hung. I also could see now that Rick indeed took a man's cock. He was being tested by a big one and was taking it in his stride. His shoulder blades were pressed into the black stud's chest. The black man's beefy hands clasped Rick under the knees and raised and spread the young man's shapely legs, showing the black dude's muscular legs and high-top boots underneath. Rick's hips were rolled up, showing the massively thick root of the black man's cock in the young man's hole, moving in and out, in and out.
My response to this surprising tableau laid out in the summer house below my window was an involuntary, focused one. I remained there, watching the nineteen-year-old being fucked by the somewhat older muscular black bull. I wasn't even aware of having pushed the front of my bikini briefs down, seized and freed myself, and jacked off to what I was watching. Although the black giant was working the young man's channel with his thick cock, Rick's attention, other than the grimacing he was doing, was on me, above him, in the B&B second-floor window. Our eyes locked. I watched Rick's expression as the black man fucked him, and Rick watched my expression as I masturbated at the window.
