The central lobby, facing the Matterhorn to the east and the downslope of the Riffleberg Mountain, was only a story and a half high. The wing to the north was the service wing, behind the reception desk, with the dining room on the first floor, kitchen and storage rooms on the ground floor, and hotel staff living quarters on the second and third floors. Behind the lobby and pushed into the mountain slope on the hotel's west side were the hotel bar and offices for the manager, ski instructor, and head chef, with a corridor between them leading back to a door facing the surface of the mountain. The second floor of this wing housed the lounge, the third floor included meeting rooms and a library, and there was a fourth floor, where the senior hotel staffers had small apartments. The hotel was pretty much snowed in much of the year and the hotel staffers either lived in the hotel or near enough to it to ski in. All of the employees were men, most of them doubling as brothel rent-boys, as needed. And it wasn't too long before it was apparent to the guests that there were several more employees on the hotel staff than there were guests--or accommodations for them.
The door down the corridor off the lobby and to the surface of the mountain the hotel was pressed into led to a distinctive feature of the building. The door opened into a warren of caverns inside the mountain that had been constructed to hold a defensive Swiss military unit during World War II. Switzerland was neutral in the war, a country surrounded by belligerent forces, at one time all Axis powers. Switzerland, which was maintained as a safe haven and somewhere where the diplomats and spies of the opposing forces could meet to negotiate, was not supposed to have defensive forces. But they were realistic and maintained some form of protection for themselves. The caverns in the bowels of Riffleberg Mountain, now accessed through this hotel, once were a military outpost on the Swiss-Italian border. Now, when guests asked what was back there, they were told it was the hotel's very, very well-stocked wine cellar.
It was at lunch that it became apparent the hotel had a very large staff--larger than necessary to run a boutique hotel. The dining room was split between two areas, one for the guests and one for the staff, the guest area, of course, being much better appointed. To the side of the main banquet room, where the twelve hotel guests now in residence, the hotel manager, the ski instructor, and the reception clerk, Luca Meier, who had checked the New Zealanders in and who rather obviously had some sore of intimate relationship with the hotel manager, were dining, the staff dining room was seating a bit more than a dozen men, most of them young and fit. In addition to these, there were others floating around the hotel--the kitchen staff and waiters, hotel cleaners and reception desk staff members on duty, and that Iranian doorman with his Kalashnikov.
Most curious for those guests who were curious, and it was certainly the business of those meeting here to arrange a private sale and delivery of a large number of weapons, were three young men sitting off to the side in the staff dining area. When queried who they were, the hotel manager breezily said they were researchers, and when pressed on what researchers would be researching here, he said it was something about climate change and they were here so long-term that they were housed and treated like staff. The three men consulting here should have no worry about those three young men. They wouldn't get in anyone's way. They worked back in the cave most of the day.
By the end of the lunch, Farzin Ahmadi had the skiing parties for the afternoon all set up. The German Olympic skier, Maximilian Bauer; the Italian, Matteo Caputo; and the Frenchman, Lyam Beaumont, would tackle a difficult slope and the German's boyfriend, Jonas Koch; Summerfield's boyfriend, Jeff Reynolds; and Christos Diakos's boyfriend, Kabr Zeidan, and the Frenchman, Alois Durand, would takes lessons on a beginner's slope from Ahmadi.
The Russian's two associates would stick with the supplier, buyer, and transporter during their negotiations in a third-floor meeting room.
It became suspiciously likely that Ahmadi had set everything up for his personal enjoyment and that he was a man on the prowl. He had corralled off the three young men he could be reasonably assured were there as the boytoys of men older than they were. Ahmadi was a randy hunk. They had their ski lesson, but later in the afternoon, all four of them found themselves in a Jacuzzi in the hotel's gym, wearing nothing more than skimpy Speedos, and Ahmadi was shopping for a sex partner--or two or three.
The Iranian was a god of man, and he hadn't been wrong about any of the three--Jeff Reynolds, Kabr Zeidan, or Jonas Koch--being approachable for sex. There was kissing and fondling and flirting in the Jacuzzi, and Ahmadi made a date for them to meet in the bar after dinner while the three principals in the arms negotiation were meeting. He'd gather up any of the other men who were interested there and there was a very nice suite they all could adjourn to from there to party.
All was moving along nicely as several of the men involved had planned.
* * * *
In addition to a safe meeting place for the underworld, the Hotel Riffleberg was known among the powerful and gay as a male brothel. It was there just for men and the men who went there knew precisely what sort of men went there. There was no question that the men going there could be had or were being had by other men. Guests could bring their own bedpartner; if they didn't bring their own, they knew that everyone on the hotel staff was a player and that there surely would be willing company available. There was a question of who was a top and who was a bottom, who was owned and to what extent, and what price, if any was involved. The question was not whether any other man encountered there was gay or not or a player or not. They all were. That made moving into intimacy as the men in the Jacuzzi did that afternoon easy and quick. They had sorted themselves out by eye contact, murmurs, and touching while on the ski slopes or earlier in the hotel.
The commanding Iranian ski instructor, Farzin Ahmadi, invited those he'd been instructing on the slopes, Alois Durand, Jeff Reynolds, Kabr Zeidan, and Jonas Koch, to join him in the Jacuzzi. All did so, except for the Frenchmen, Durand, who had been flirting with the Greek shipping magnate earlier and was funneled off to the bar and the Greek's suite before reaching the gym. The Greek's boyfriend, Kabr Zeidan, had flirted with the Italian skier, Matteo Caputo, earlier, and, although he entered the Jacuzzi, when the Italian came out of the business center and looked into the gym, their eyes met, and Zeidan left and went with Caputo. Similarly, Jeff Reynolds, who had been sharing interest with the hotel manager, Akhtar Fariba, went into the Jacuzzi, but when Fariba came to the gym door and gave Reynolds the eye, Reynolds left and followed him away.
None of this really mattered to Farzin Ahmadi. When he entered the Jacuzzi, he pulled the German skier's boyfriend, Jonas Koch, into the Jacuzzi and onto his lap. The two kissed and fondled each other, and it wasn't long before their Speedos were off and the hunky Farzin was holding Jonas in his lap, facing him, sheathing his cock, and being raised and lowered on the ski instructor's cock while they nuzzled and kissed.
The German skier, Maxmilian Bauer, and the French skier, Lyam Beaumont, were in Bauer's room doing what they'd come to do. The Russians, the arms supplier, Gennadi Ivanov, and his two associates, Pavel Sokulov and Sergei Popolov, were roving the hotel, determining where everyone else was.
The hotel manager, Fariba, didn't have to worry about where his usual bedpartner, the head clerk of reception, Luca Meier, was, because he had noted already that Meier had made an "interested" contact with the New Zealand buyer, Peter Summerfield, and was now in Summerfield's suite, lying on his back at the foot of the bed, legs raised and spread, and Summerfield was crouched between his legs, hovering over him, and demonstrating that, though in his fifties, Summerfield was a big-cocked, very virile and vigorous man. The relationship between Fariba and Meier had become rocky, mostly because the young man had become a bit snitty with his man, and as long as Fariba was getting tail, he didn't mind Meier being used by a guest.
And the hotel manager was getting tail. He took the far younger declared New Zealander, Reynolds, young, fit, handsome, blond, and blue-eyed, to his apartment on the fourth floor of the hotel's middle wing, which had perhaps the best view of the Matterhorn from the hotel, and after some preliminary pretending that they were there to enjoy the view and share a beer, he had the young man naked, on his back, on a bearskin rug in front of a smoldering fireplace, and was doing pushups on the beautiful, young, willing, and rocking body, with his thin, but well-muscled frame.
