Winter Hideout

"That was a great meal. Thanks for inviting me. See you on slopes at 11:00 on Wednesday for your next ski lesson? You're coming along nicely." Doug Walker, six-foot-four and 210 pounds of chocolate brown muscle sat the island of the Wintergreen Resort mountain chalet, drinking coffee after a steak dinner.

His host, mixed Asian and white in the best possible combination for looks, Ricky Chang, as much a contrast to his ski instructor as he could be at a lithe five-foot-eight and 145 pounds, was loading the dishwasher.

"You don't have to leave yet, I hope. We were talking about classical guitarists we both like. I was surprised you'd even heard of Wes Montgomery and Charlie Byrd. I've got Charlie Byrd's 'Brazilian Byrd' on the turntable now."

"So, you're a musician?" Doug asked.

"Among other things. I most recently worked on Capitol Hill. I did study voice and dancing in college."

"But you don't work on the hill now?"

"No. You could say I'm between jobs," Ricky said.

"Well, you've got a sweet house here."

"It's not mine. I've just been salted away here."

"Salted away."

"You don't really have to go, do you? I have some great Claret from the Veritas Winery. I thought we could light a fire and listen to Charlie Byrd."

"It's snowing. I really should go."

"You have four-wheel-drive, don't you? And you know how to drive in the snow up here. You're up here all winter, aren't you? What do you do when you're not ski instructing?" Ricky wanted to say Doug could spend the night, but he hoped that Doug could figure out what was on offer himself. It was the dominant one who should be making the moves. Ricky was a submissive.

"I play spring football in the Carolina league," Doug answered. "Everyone who wants to move around up here in the winter has four-wheel-drive. You can't go out much in that small Miata convertible I saw in your garage."

"I'm not supposed to go out much here. I can walk—or trudge in the snow—easily enough to the club house and The Market resort store from here. And I would have guessed you were a football player. You're quite a hunk."

"Thanks." They exchanged looks. This wasn't the first time in the three weeks they'd known each other that they had exchanged looks. Ricky wished that Doug would get around to taking it further. Why did the big lug think he'd been invited to dinner? If Ricky told him why he was salted away up here on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains would the ski instructor get the clue that Ricky could be had?

"Go on into the living room and light the fire," Ricky said. "Flip the switch on the record player. It takes six records. I've got some Wes Montgomery and Chet Atkins on too. I'll finish up getting this stuff in the dishwasher and bring us a couple of glasses of Port."

Doug didn't argue further. He went into the living room and started the fire and the record player. He was standing in front of the fireplace when Ricky appeared with two glasses of wine and set them down on a coffee table between the sofa and the fireplace.

Doug turned, sucked in breath, and said, "Wow."

"I hope I haven't read you wrong," Ricky said, standing up straight from the coffee table and giving the black giant a full-frontal view. Ricky had stripped down to a red satin jock strap. "I think we've been dancing around this long enough," he added.

The black ski instructor was speechless, as Ricky came to him, rose on his toes and pressed his lips against Doug's. He hadn't read Doug wrong. Doug was just antsy about getting it on with a client. He couldn't resist this offer, though. They went into a deep kiss and Doug's hands came around and palmed the smaller man's exposed butt cheeks.

"No, it doesn't seem you've guessed wrong. I've been hard for you since you plopped the steak down in front of me."

"Good," Ricky said. "We don't need this." He pulled Doug's sweater over his head. He had a body-builder's hard-bodied, muscular chest to die for. They stood there, rocking against each other, kissing, as the black man squeezed and separated Ricky's butt cheeks, moving fingers to and inside his hole, pulling the other man up on his tiptoes. Once Doug got turned on, he moved it right into a high gear.

The mixed Chinese-white, willowy Ricky panted and moaned, moving his hands to Doug's belt buckle and then his fly. Doug flinched and grunted as Ricky pulled his massive erection out and stroked it. Doug shrugged Ricky's jock strop off his waist and in slid down to the floor. Ricky, completely naked now, stepped out if it. He let out a little yelp, as Doug's beefy thumbs stretched his hole open and penetrated.

"Fuck me. Screw me," Ricky murmured.

"I thought you'd never ask." Doug's eyes darted around the room. "Sofa? Not sure we can make it to the bedroom. I don't even know where they are."

"No. Here. In front of the fireplace. On the proverbial bearskin rug. Although I don't think that's a bearskin."

Doug laughed.

He went onto his back, stretched out in front of the fireplace, staring into the fire and groaning. His hands encased Ricky's head, with its silky black waves of hair, and helped lift and pull it into his groin, as Ricky lay between his legs, giving him head.

At length, he reached down, grasped the much smaller man in the armpits and lifted him up to saddle on his pelvis. Reaching under, Ricky held the huge, jet-black erection in place, and cried out in pain-passion as he sank down on the cock.

"Shit. Fuck, you're huge!"

"Yes, yes, I am," Doug agreed.

Spreading, stretching, and sinking on the cock, Ricky leaned over, palming Doug's pecs, and stared down into the black man's face, his own showing the pain mixed with ecstasy. Ricky arched his back and his head and howled at the oak beams overhead as Doug grasped his hips and started to raise and lower the smaller man's fully possessed passage on the shaft. For a couple of minutes he was able to match the beat of the rise and fall to that of Charlie Byrd's guitar, but that was soon lost and he was frenetically jacking the smaller body up and down on his shaft—lifting and slamming down, lifting and slamming down. Ricky was flopping around and writhing, crying out, "Yes, yes, YES!"

Doug uttered his own ultimate exclamation, "Oh, FUCK!" as he shot his load.

Ricky had brought out a couple of packets of condoms and a tube of lube with the wine and they were laying there, on the coffee table, unused. In the heat of the moment they had been forgotten. They had barebacked.

In the middle of the night, Ricky woke in the bedroom feeling Doug's cock stirring at the small of his back. They were lying on their sides, both naked, Ricky's butt nestled into Doug's groin. They had fucked again, athletically, on the bed and dozed off, both exhausted. Ricky moved a hand back to grasp Doug's cock, and Doug woke up enough to snake a hand around, take Ricky's shaft, and stroke him off. They came more awake as they relentlessly beat each other off.

Ricky came first, with a little cry. Doug took that as a signal to roll the smaller man over onto his belly and to mount him from above. He penetrated and moved up, up, up inside Ricky's passage, spreading, stretching, punishing.

Panting hard and groaning, Ricky reached up and grasped the brass grilling running up to the headboard. Well saddled now, Doug leaned over the smaller, slim body stretched out under him, pressed the palms of his hands into Ricky's shoulder blades, and moved into rocking his hips in long, powerful thrusting.

"Oh, Fuck, you're killing me!"

"You can take it, whore. I read the papers."

The headboard beat a rat-tat-tat against the bedroom wall, as Doug's thrusts increased in speed, intensity, and depth.

"Oh, holy F-U-C-K!" Ricky cried out.

* * * *

He woke up to the sound of metal scraping on gravel. Turning, he found that he was alone in bed. He could see the master bedroom bathroom door from here. It was open. No one was inside. Still the sound of the scraping. He rolled out of bed and padded over to the closet. He'd been naked in bed—so had Doug, the black bull hunk from the night before, his ski instructor. Shit, that was a monster cock, Ricky thought. And jet black. How in the hell did he manage that? Would he ever again be fucked that well—and by a cock that big and black? He certainly hoped there would be more rounds with Doug.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ricky thought that something disturbing had been said, here in the bed, while Doug was riding his ass and fucking him. The kamikaze attack in the middle of the night. He could quite grasp what that was. And Doug wasn't here to ask about it. Ricky concentrated on whether he could hear any sounds from downstairs, but he couldn't. Apparently, Doug hadn't stuck around.

There was that metallic scraping sound on gravel again, though. At the closet, he pulled a silk robe off a hanger and then went to the bureau for sleeping shorts. The scraping sound was coming from the front of the house. The bedrooms were in back, the master bedroom and a second one above, over a bedroom and the kitchen, with two-stories of living and dining area at the front. He padded down the stairs, turning to look into the kitchen and the downstairs bedroom. No Doug. His red satin jock strap was on the floor in front of the fireplace, but Doug's clothes were gone.

Ricky laughed when he saw that the two glasses of Veritas Claret were still on the coffee table, as were the condom packets and the tube of lube. It was just as well that they hadn't tried to use the condoms. They were regulars and Doug quite clearly needed an XXL Magnum.

Good thing Ricky was well used or Doug would have killed him. That made Ricky almost remember what had been said last night that was "off," but it didn't come to him.

He looked out of one of the front windows. It had snowed. They knew it was snowing last night. That had come up when Doug was talking about leaving before fucking Ricky. But the short driveway to the garage under the elevated house had been cleared. The sound he heard now was more like the stomping of boots to get the snow off. It was coming from the front porch.

Rick went to the front door and opened it. A man, bundled up, was standing on the steep front steps going down into the yard and, indeed, was stomping snow off his boots. He had a snow shovel in his hands.

He looked up. "Oh, you're here. Your Jeep is gone. I was shoveling my drive out—I live next door, just over there—and overshot the shoveling. Before I knew it, I'd shoveled your drive too. Hi, I'm your next-door neighbor, Jay. You don't look like one of the Bradley's though."

"I'm not. I'm a friend of Senator Bradley's. He's letting me use his Wintergreen house."

"Well, you'll freeze just in that, with the door open. I'm freezing and I'm all wrapped up. You need to go back into the house."

"But you're freezing because you've been doing work I should have done," Ricky said. "There should be something I can do to repay you."

"I wouldn't say no to a hot cup of coffee so I can warm up enough to get back into my house over there."

"Sorry, of course. Come in and I'll put the coffee on."

Jay came into the foyer area and started unraveling himself, while Ricky went through the living area to the kitchen alcove and put the coffee on.

"The Jeep that was out there until this morning, that's not yours, is it?" Jay said, having peeled down to a heavy sweater and canvas trousers, which looked wet. His gaze extended to the living room. He saw the red satin jock strap on the floor and the two untouched glasses of wine. He saw the condom packets and lube as well.

"Uh, no, it isn't mine."

"No, I didn't think so. That was Doug Walker's Jeep, the ski instructor."

"I'm taking ski instructions from him," Ricky called back.

"And cock too, apparently. The jeep was there overnight. Does he fuck well? I hear he's got the biggest dick on the mountain."

A clatter of china could be heard coming from the kitchen area and Ricky appeared in the foyer. "What was that you said?" he asked, in shock.

Jay, not as big as Doug was, and older, but bigger than Ricky was and all muscle, pulled an arm back and snapped it forward, catching Ricky on the cheek and sending him to the floor. The bigger man reached down, grabbed Ricky by his hair, pulled him up, slapped him again and sent him sprawling on the stairs up to the master bedroom.

"I know who you are," Jay growled. "I read the papers."

Even in his shock, Ricky now remembered what Doug had said while he was fucking him the previous night. He'd called Ricky a whore and had also said he read the papers.

"I know the feds are looking for you. Apparently, they don't know yet that Senator Bradley owns this house. Maybe no one's told them yet that he has this house or that you are here. I read all about you and senators and congressmen and the pimping operation lobbyist are running and about you and other guys whoring for them. I've read about how your name came up and that the Department of Justice wants to interview you."

"What do you want from me? Are you going to call the police?" Ricky turned to being seated on the stairs. He was rubbing his chin. There wasn't much use in denying any of what he was being accused of other than he was wanted as a witness and a victim of it all. He wasn't pimping. He had been pimped.

"What do I want from you? I want the same thing those senators and congressmen get from you. I want the same thing that Doug Walker got from you last night. I'm getting bored up here and I've got this house over here rented for another week. What I want from you is for you to be my bitch for a week up here at Wintergreen. What I want is some companionship and some ass—maybe more ass than companionship. Just for the week. Then I'll go back to Richmond and pretend I never saw you up here. What I want is for you to open your legs for me, like you do for all of those senators and congressmen and lobbyists and to do it as often as I tell you to. I'm a randy kind of guy."

They held place there for several seconds, Ricky still in shock.

"Well, do it. Open your legs for me," Jay demanded. "Strip off that robe and those shorts and spread your legs. Show me a hole that entertains senators and congressman and that can take a cock the size of Doug Walker's. Now!"

Whimpering and sprawled back against the staircase, Ricky complied, stripping off his robe and shorts. While he did so, Jay made a fast trip into the living room, quickly downing one of the glasses of wine, scooping up a condom packet and the lube, and returned to the foyer. Ricky lay there on the steps, panting and whimpering, naked and so, so enticing.

Jay pulled the heavy sweater over his head, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly and flared his trousers down onto his thighs, hooking his briefs under his balls. He was in erection and a mighty fine erection it was.

"Grab your ankles and raise and spread those legs. Show me that hole. Well, shit, you

are

a whore, aren't you. That looks big enough even to have taken that big, black cock of Doug's."

With no further preliminaries other than the snap of the condom and lathering with the lube, using what was on the coffee table but hadn't been used the previous night, Jay was covering Ricky on the stair treads, hovering between the smaller man's spread thighs, while Ricky continuing to hold his legs up and out with grips on his ankles. Nuzzling his face into Ricky's throat, he put himself into position, forced his cock up into Ricky's hole, and embraced Ricky's torso as he established the rhythm of the fuck.

"This is a position you well know, right? Whores like you live to have a guy's cock up their ass."

Ricky didn't bother to respond. Settling down into panting and moaning, he released the grip on his ankles, moving his hands to holding Jay's biceps and his knees to hugging Jay's hips and he involuntarily—or increasingly willingly—set his hips into a rocking motion, taking the thrusting cock hard and deep—crying out when he came and whimpering with Jay did so.

"Did you good, didn't I?"

Again, Ricky said nothing. What was the use? They all seemed to know Ricky was a male whore and Ricky couldn't deny that he liked being cocked.

An hour later, Jay came out of the master bedroom bathroom with just a towel around his waist. He padded down the stairs and into the living room. Ricky, having pulled the sleeping shorts back on, was sitting in a tub chair, staring vacantly at the wall.

"I'd rather see you in this," Jay said, picking the red satin jock strap off the floor. "Did Doug like you in this?"

"Yes. He said he did," Ricky said listlessly.

"Did he like stripping it off you?"

"I liked having him strip it off me."

"Put it on." Jay tossed it to Ricky, who came out of the chair, exchanged the jock for the shorts, and sat down again.

Jay walked over to the record player. "What sort of shit is this?"

"Guitar music," Ricky answered. "Classical guitar from the sixties and seventies."

"You got a radio broadcasting FM?" Jay asked. Ricky waved to the radio and Jay turned it on, finding Country and Western music. Ricky grimaced but bore it.

Jay walked over to the coffee table and downed the second glass of wine. He picked up a condom packet.

"Doug did you here in the living room or up in the bedroom? Your sheets are all screwed up. I'm sure he fucked you up there."

"Yes," Ricky answered.

"Both? Up there and down here? Up, down; up, down. Sounds sort of sexy, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Both down here and up there."

"Here first?"

"Yes."

"On the sofa?"

"No, the floor, in front of the fireplace."

"With a fire going?"

"Yes."

"How romantic. Get up and lay and light a fire."

Ricky did so.

"He did you here, right in front of the fireplace?"

"Yes." Ricky didn't clarify that it was he who rode Doug here. Doug didn't take command until they went upstairs.

"Is it true that he's got a huge black cock? Blacker than the rest of him?"

"Yes."

"Go down in exactly the same spot. On your back, open our legs. Spread and bend them. Push your tail up. Show me that hole. Be my bitch."

Ricky didn't bother to say this wasn't how Doug and he had done it here. He wanted to keep that just between the two of them. He didn't want Jay intruding on that. So, without correcting the scene, he went down on his back.

Jay stood between Ricky's spread thighs, unknotted his towel, and tossed it aside. Of course he was in erection. He was a strikingly good-looking man—Ricky had that much going for him in this blackmail case. Jay was nearly forty, but he was solidly built and lightly muscular, nothing overdone, every reason to be cocky about his physique and equipment, and, of course, no end to self-confidence. He crowned himself with a condom and lathered himself up. "He did you right here and he did you good?"

"Yes," Ricky said.

"You begged him to fuck you, to screw you?"

"Yes."

"Do it."

"Fuck me, Jay. Screw me."

Jay laughed. "You mean it, don't you? You're a slut for cock, aren't you?"

"Yes," Ricky answered and here, now, he meant it.

"Like with Doug. Here first and then on the bed. Or maybe here first, over there on the sofa next, in the bathtub after that, and then on the bed. It's been a very boring week so far."

Jay came down on his knees between Ricky's thighs and reached under him to lift Ricky's pelvis higher.

And then he did it and he did it good. Ricky writhed under him, digging his nails into Jay's shoulder blades, rocking with the fuck, and arching his head back, and crying out to the beams over head, "Yes, yes, screw me hard! Take it all!" And he wasn't acting; he meant it.

"Tell me I'm your man."

"Yes, yes. You're my man. Just like that. Do it just like that. Oh, FUCK!"

* * * *

Ricky's legs were stretched out straight for his body along the back of the sofa in the chalet, with his torso cantilevered over the sofa seat and his hands palming the sofa cushions. Jay stood behind him, clutching his hips, and fucking his ass. Jay liked using athletic fuck positions.