Sail to the Sun

The summer had turned to a crisp-aired fall, which seemed to lift the spirits of the West Virginians around me and make the miners frisky when they came into the club. But it depressed me, and not only because I came from a hot, tropical climate. Buddy had deserted me. He had used me, finding a way around not paying for it while making me feel alive and wanted. Wanted just for me. But after that one tryst by the river, I hadn't seen him again.

And beyond that, Hoagie seemed to be moving to a new arrangement with the men who worked for him in the club. Hoagie was becoming niggardly with his pay to the dancers, and after a string of orgies in the club where Hoagie had allowed the crowd to get out of control and manhandle the dancers badly, the ones who had been working there of their free will began to drift away.

The experience of Estaban and the itinerant Hispanics he'd come to the club with seemed to give Hoagie an idea of how to increase his profit and lessen the dancer objections to the increasingly rowdy patronage. As the Caucasian and black American dancers drifted off, Hoagie was replacing them with Hispanics of questionable, at best, documentation.

It seemed an arrangement that worked to Hoagie's full benefit. Illegal immigrants would be almost as fully owned as I was. They couldn't complain beyond direct negotiations with Hoagie, who kept them cowed by his physical presence and an undercurrent of threat and cruelty. And, like me, they didn't require much investment and they had led such a difficult life that the arrangements at the inn were still better than whatever they had run from beyond the borders of the United States.

They also proved to be competent and eager service workers in the inn's dining room.

Of Estaban, the less said the better—especially in Hoagie's hearing. He had become almost an obsession with Hoagie, who virtually stopped taking me to his bed for several weeks in the early fall. It was always Estaban, and from what I could hear from my room across the corridor from Hoagie's nest, the fuckings became increasingly violent.

One night I could not sleep, having been awakened by Hoagie's drunken entry into the hallway from the club after a particularly chaotic night. Hoagie rarely became drunk, which was a good thing, as he was a mean drunk. But he awoke me with his slurred singing and his calling for Estaban. I heard him fling open the door to Estaban's room, and I heard Estaban's fearful responses to Hoagie's drunken commands and profanity. I heard Estaban cry out and whimper as Hoagie belted him one in the hallway outside my door. And then I heard the sounds of the rough taking from Hoagie's room. The pleas for mercy and patience from Estaban, the curses and rough demands from Hoagie, the cries from Estaban of being split asunder, and then the gurgle of Hoagies tightening grip on Estaban's throat. My hands went to my own throat at that point, and I had difficulty breathing just from the memory of Hoagie's ways and fetish. But most of all what I heard was the deafening silence thereafter.

The next day Estaban no longer was there, and the day after that, I passed down the corridor to find a couple of the dancers cleaning out the cell where Estaban had lived. Thereafter it became just another one of the cells where we took patron's for private sessions.

In Estaban's absence, I was surprised that Hoagie did not come back to me more than he did. But he didn't. And I was grateful for that. He was becoming increasingly violent in his sex taking, and more and more of the time he was drunk when he went looking for sex.

He still did bed me. But he was careful to do so only when he was sober. And he had a lock put on my side of the door to my room and told me to lock myself in whenever he was drunk. He said I was too valuable to him to muss up—that the patrons seemed to prefer me to the Hispanics who now predominated in the dancer pool. This too I should have been grateful for, but the change in staffing did, indeed, increase the demands of the patrons on my services.

Now when he was drunk, Hoagie would drag one of the illegal Hispanics into his room and I would cover my ears to the sounds of his rough taking. If from time to time one of the Hispanics just no longer was there, no one seemed to be the wiser or to think this worthy of comment. And Hoagie had now established a conduit—a source for almost expenseless talent for his club operations and for his wait staff pool in the inn's dining room.

As good as the Hispanics were at dining service, I was still much better, and, by Hoagie's direction, I invariably was assigned to the tables of the more important-looking diners. Thus it was that I was waiting on table the evening that the noted film producer, Walt Reardon, and his wife and son checked into the inn and appeared at dinner.

I had seen them roll in earlier in the afternoon in their big, black limousine. I'd seen their big, black chauffeur exit the driver's side and open the door to the backseat. What I'd seen emerging first was a shapely set of female legs. Mrs. Reardon was a real looker, but so pampered and polished and manicured that it was difficult to tell whether she was thirty or fifty. She stood there, cool as a cucumber, in her fitted tweed suit, sable-tail neck scarf and big-lens sun glasses, as the man himself disembarked. Reardon undoubtedly was in his fifties, but a very well-preserved fifties. A lion of a man, from his flowing gray mane down to his sleek, but powerfully built body. He carried himself like a man who was accustomed to pushing other men around, taking them on in battle, and returning with their heads on the end of his spear.

My breath was taken away, though, when a young man followed Reardon out of the limo. He was young, not much more than eighteen, and he was a lithe, willowy blond beauty. My thoughts went immediately to my young pilot. This young man had the same sense of diffidence and sensitivity about him. And yet he carried himself like he knew his full value in the world—which was considerable.

I was called gruffly back into the dining room, so I saw nothing else of them at that time beyond the beefy, dangerous-looking black chauffer walking toward the guest office. From where the limousine was parked, though, I assumed they were checking into the inn.

Of course, I didn't know immediately who they were, but one of the women in the kitchen saw me staring out of the window at them and walked over, took in the view, and whispered in my ear. "That's the award-winning movie producer, Walt Reardon, you know. He has a home up in the ski area up at Snowshoe. Probably there for the season. He often stops here in town for a night or two when coming up from Florida. This is the first time I've seen him at the inn, though. You'll need to look lively at table tonight. He's known to be quite particular."

"And so that's his son, is it?" I asked. But there was no answer, and when I turned I saw that she was gone, back to the kitchen.

This was a time when we were all staying out of Hoagie's way as much as possible—so I made a note not to screw anything up in the service that evening if the Reardons were seated at one of my tables, which I knew was likely. And Hoagie, as tightfisted as he was, had every reason for being in bad sorts. The basement club had been closed down for two weeks for needed renovations, the patrons having trashed it pretty good over the last couple of months, and not only was Hoagie short on the biggest-profit facet of his operation, but he had to cough up money for the renovations as well.

The service that night went fine. It was a help that the room was only half full throughout the evening. The Reardons were seated at the best table, in front of a fireplace set with a fire. They clearly were in a festive mood—at least the parents were. The woman was a stunning blond and, up close, she looked closer to thirty than fifty and thus must have been a stepmother to the young man rather than a biological mother. Indeed, the two didn't react to each other much—both centered on the father and seemed to be competing for his attention and approval.

The film producer was quite convivial that evening, and he talked freely with me as I was going over the unwritten daily specials and the wine list. He knew far more about food and wine than I did, but he didn't rub that in. The woman was sparkly as well and seemed taken with my Asian looks—wanting to know where I came from and how I had gotten here. And I spun the happy little tale I had manufactured to cover the occasional interest that was shown. For her and other dining room patrons, I was a member of the Thai royal family—which was so large and extended anyway that I could well be telling the truth—and was taking a break from my university studies to work my way around the States in flavorful jobs—perhaps to write a book about that when I returned to Thailand. The wife was enchanted and Reardon even showed interest. The son just sat there, looking at me under hooded eyes, a tight little smile on his full, sensuous lips. I sensed an entirely different interest in me than the parents were showing, and I had the sudden urge—which I quickly stifled—to lean down and whisper in his ear that upstairs I was Thai royalty, but in the basement of the building I was just a piece of ass that was easily affordable.

And thinking that thought, I looked again over toward the corner of the room, as I had been prompted to do several times during the service, to check on the bulky, black chauffer, who was dining alone, his eyes glued to my every movement, not even looking at the food he was slowly feeding into his mouth. I knew his kind and I knew his stare. He would have fit right in downstairs in the men-only club. His kind were the ones I watched for down there—and made every effort to stay clear of—promising to be demanding, cruel, and rough.

I left the Reardon table and went just outside the kitchen entrance in the rear when the bill was paid and they were savoring a final cup of coffee and glass of cognac and after Reardon had assured me that my services were no longer needed. I had been keyed up throughout the service and needed some fresh air and a release of tension. The black chauffeur hadn't been the only one intently watching me through the evening. Hoagie, standing near the hostess desk in his customary position from where he could quickly reach any point at which the service seemed to be floundering, watched me just as intently. I knew what I would be in for if I slipped up in any way. So, I didn't slip up. And Reardon obviously was pleased with my service, because he added a hefty tip to the bill—money that, of course, I would never see.

While standing outside the kitchen, I saw the Reardons walking toward the cabin area of the inn. I was surprised to see them enter their cabins—not because they were occupying two cabins, but because the woman entered one and the two men entered the other. That was perplexing, but I had a few more tables to finish off and it was time that I check on them, so I reentered the kitchen and walked through to the dining room. I noted that the Reardons' chauffeur was gone now, and I vaguely wondered where he was sleeping. Just because of my environment the first thought that came into my mind was that maybe he was sleeping with the woman; maybe the Reardons had some sort of kinky relationship. That was my view of movie people anyway.

I quickly finished my service and, curious, returned to the area outside of the kitchen door to take another look at the cabins before going downstairs to my room. I wasn't anxious to go down there, what with Hoagie in such a foul mood. He hadn't been drinking that day, but I felt it best to stay clear of him if I could anyway.

The door to one of the Reardon cabins was open and the son was standing outside the door, in just lounging pants, and smoking a cigarette. He had a beautiful, hairless body. He wasn't heavily muscled, but he was well-proportioned, without any sign of body fat. I once again was struck by the similarity between his body build and my young pilot's, although the pilot hadn't had the baby face and sensuous full lips that this young man did. As I watched, Reardon appeared at the door from the inside, but only briefly and only in a flash, and I couldn't be positive it was Reardon—just that it wasn't either the woman or the chauffeur. And the impression I had in that brief look was that the man was naked. Certainly the arm was unclothed that reached out and touched the shoulder of the young man and prompted him to flick his cigarette out onto the asphalt of the adjacent parking apron and to turn and move back into the room.

The door shut, and I followed the urge to walk toward the cabins and then around to the rear of them, picking out which cabin was Reardon's. The window back there faced the thick woods, and the glass was ablaze with light. They hadn't closed the curtain.

I crept up to the window and gasped as I saw the younger man lying on his back on the bed, naked now, and Reardon standing between his spread legs and feeding his cock into the younger man's channel.

So that was how it was, I thought. The woman is a blind—even if she's married to Reardon. And the young man might not even be Reardon's son. I'd asked the kitchen worker about that, but she hadn't answered. Perhaps I had just been assuming too much.

Whatever my assumptions, the two were obviously established lovers. They were taking the fuck slow and easy, and they both seemed to be supremely pleased with themselves—and with each other.

Curiosity slacked and not having seen anything all that shocking for the environment I was in, I turned to leave. But I couldn't leave. I turned right into the grasp of . . . the chauffeur. His intent was obvious from the look he was giving me and grip he had on me. I was no match for him, and I had been here so often before. He was a man who knew I was his for the next passage of time—for as long as he wanted. Longer perhaps and rougher if I resisted. He was yet another man who owned me, if only temporarily—by right of conquest.

As he dragged me away from the window, holding me tightly and with a big, black mitt over my mouth, and into the enveloping tree line, I did what I could to convey that I would be fully compliant with his wishes. He pushed me down on my back on a thick matting of leaves from autumns past and raised his hand as if to strike me senseless. But I murmured to him in the most throaty voice that I could muster that it wasn't necessary to take me by force—that I had been watching him and wondering what it would be like to be taken by a big, black cock wielded by a man as desirable as him. That calmed and confused him, and it arrested his movement long enough for me to reach up and unzip his trousers and free his cock. I exclaimed at the beauty and power and size of it and ran my tongue along the lower edge of it, bringing it to instant stiffness, and closed my mouth over the bulb and flicked my tongue into the piss slip. His heavy breathing and the groan he gave me told me that I had him under control.

His cock indeed was big and black and thick and vigorous. While I sucked him, I unbuttoned my own trousers and pushed those and my briefs off my legs and then unbuttoned and spread my shirt front apart. I pulled him down on top of me, bringing his lips to one of my nipples with a hand cupping his coarse, curly head of hair and guiding his cock to and into my channel with the other hand. I then arched my back and let nature take its course. He was strong and virile and enjoyed himself twice before he was satiated. He stood; readjusted his clothing, while looking down at me with a quizzical expression on his face, not ever before getting it that easy, I'm sure; and melted into the darkness. I heaved a sigh of relief also that it had been that easy and that I hadn't been beaten in the process.

I had been taken by black men before, although on rare occasions—the first man who had taken me in my mother's room was a black airman, but there weren't many black men working in the mines near here—and I rather enjoyed the cocking this one had given me. He fucked with abandon and had a cock that touched me deeply and sustained its strength long enough for me to know I had been masterfully fucked.

The following evening the Reardons were still there, and I waited them at table again. They were even more familiar and friendly with me now. Even the young man—whether a Reardon or not, I did not know—took notice of me now. And he and the woman, while not responding to each other, expanded the competition they'd had the previous evening over the attention of the elder Reardon to me. I won't say the young man gushed at me like the woman did, but I could tell that he was looking at me with interest.

After they had left, Hoagie pulled me aside as I was moving between the dining room and the kitchen and told me in gruff tones that someone else was taking over my service. That I had been called to the Reardon cabin.

The door was open to the men's cabin as I approached and once more the young Reardon was standing just outside the door, smoking a cigarette and lounging barefoot and bare-chested in low-rise sleep pants. He beckoned to me and as I passed him and entered the dimly lit cabin, I thought that if I reached over and touched the waistband of his pants, they could have fallen to the ground. He was so slim hipped that I wondered how they managed to stay up on their own.

I soon learned that the menu entry description was that the young man would slow fuck me and Reardon senior would sit in a chair and watch as he stroked his engorged cock. That was fine with me, and I did what I could to contribute to the arousal of the show. Reardon didn't watch for long, though. With me lying on my back at the edge of the bed and the young man standing between my thighs, holding them wide, and slow pumping inside me with a long, thin, hard cock, I saw Reardon rise and move behind the young man and the young man grunt and jerk and lean down into me and take my nipple in his teeth, as Reardon pushed his cock up into his channel and began to pump him from behind.

The young man had started some time before Reardon had saddled up to him, so he came first. Then he was pulling out of me and stepping away from me and Reardon senior was turning me on the bed, onto my belly, and entering me with a somewhat stubby but impressively thick cock and finishing inside my channel.

When I left the cabin that night, the black chauffer was entering the woman's cabin. He turned and gave me a wink, and I realized that part of what I had surmised earlier about the family arrangements was most likely correct. I didn't feel at all embarrassed about stealing around to the back of the cabins again and watching the chauffeur fuck an amazingly flexible Mrs. Reardon.

The next morning I was standing outside the kitchen again, watching the chauffeur load up the limousine with far more luggage than three people should need for a trip up to northern West Virginia from Florida. The doors to the cabins were open, but none of the Reardon traveling party had emerged.

As I watched, the chauffeur turned and walked toward me. I thought he perhaps was going to say something about the expert sex I had given him in the woods—or maybe say something about his special arrangement with the Reardons, but when he reached me, he took my wrist in his strong grip and said, "Come, you can ride in front with me. Your things will be sent along later."

"Excuse me?" I said, completely confused. "Go with you? I don't understand. I belong here." I almost said that I belonged to Hoagie and that, big and strong as the chauffeur was, I fully believed that Hoagie would put him down before he would agree to let me leave with him.