This is the seventieth chapter of an ongoing series. I've appreciated all the comments, questions and encouragement I've received from readers and hope to continue hearing from you. I try to answer all messages promptly. If I'm slow at times it is only because of the pressures of work.
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I was a little surprised when Peter
came up to our suite. Roger, however showed no surprise. So far as I knew
Roger hadn't invited Peter to join us after dinner, at least he'd not said
anything in my presence. I soon realized, however, that it was just understood
that he'd stay.
Once there, Roger offered Peter brandy and the three of us sat for a while continuing our conversation. People were mentioned whom I didn't know but neither Roger or Peter made any attempt to explain who they were or what connections there were between them. Most of the people they referred to were men, but Roger did ask about Charlotte, who, I knew from Peter's bio, was his current wife.
"She and the children are at our place near Valais but I go most weekends unless there's something pressing here."
"Yes, all happy and healthy. The kids will be starting school in a fortnight so they'll all be coming home in a week or so and I don't expect we'll be going back to Switzerland until the children's half term."
"If I remember correctly, in addition to the two children you have with Charlotte, you also have an older son," Roger said.
My mind darted back to the bio Peg had given me and I remembered Peter's first short marriage had been in the early fifties to a woman named Laura Sanders who'd gone on to a modest career of her own in films. I didn't remember any mention of their having children.
"William," Peter said. "This will be his final year at Durham, but right now he's home and working with me."
"Is he interested in a career in film production?" Roger asked.
"Perhaps. Actually, after he finishes his degree he wants to study or work in the States for a while."
"You should ask Dex if he couldn't do something for him," Roger volunteered.
"What is your son studying?" I asked.
"Oh, he's reading literature, actually," Peter said.
"Perhaps he could apply for one of the Nathan Fellowships. You know that's how I'm involved at NSB, that and the masters in film program at USC."
"I didn't think he could qualify, not being an American citizen," Peter said.
"Not at all, Peter," Roger said before I could respond. "They receive applications from all over the world."
"I'll mention it to him," Peter said, giving me a warm smile. We sat a bit longer and then Peter said, "Well, do you think our meal has settled?"
"Adequately," Roger smiled.
"And you reserved the room?"
"Yes, I have the key right here."
"Peter and I are going to have a little skirmish, Rob," Roger said to me.
"You're welcome to come along."
"Certainly," Peter smiled. "We both love an audience."
"There's a private room with a mat behind the exercise room. If you get bored watching us you can get in a workout," Roger said to me, then, turning to Peter, asked, "Do you want to leave your clothes here?"
"Well, perhaps just my jacket and tie," Peter said as we all stood.
"I'm going to undress here, Peter, and just wear a robe."
"Oh, all right then," Peter said as he followed along to Roger's bedroom.
While they were undressing I hurried to my own room and got out of the suit I'd been wearing. I pulled on work-out clothes, thinking I might follow Roger's suggestion and use the exercise equipment while Roger and Peter wrestled.
A few minutes later we were in the exercise room in the basement of the hotel. It was abandoned at that hour and as quiet as a tomb. We crossed it to a door in the back wall, which Roger opened with a key he took from the pocket of his robe. Once the three of us were inside he bolted the door. I guessed at that point I'd not be using the exercise equipment in the outer room after all. We went into a brightly lit room in the middle of which was a square mat. The air was close and there was the inescapable odor of sweating male bodies.
The walls had been painted with a glossy white enamel and overhead was a bank of flood lights. They alone were generating a lot of heat. I noticed that there were a series of air vents around the walls just below the ceiling and figured we'd not suffocate, despite the closeness.
"It's too bright in here," Peter said, concerned about the illumination but apparently unperturbed by the air quality. The light was glaring, but Roger turned to the switches by the door and started flipping them.
Several circuits went off and the room was left in a strangely erotic glow.
There was no furniture so I stood by the door, leaning back against the wall, waiting for Roger and Peter to get ready. They went to opposite corners of the mat and took small bottles from the pockets of their robes before tossing them and their towels onto the floor, leaving themselves completely naked and exposed.
As I suspected, Peter appeared to be very fit. He was two or three inches shorter than Roger and probably weighted twenty pounds less.
It would seem that Roger had a significant advantage when it came to height and weight, but Peter certainly looked like a man who could take care of himself. He had very little body hair, but what he had was dark, forming a small patch above his dangling, uncut penis and under his arms. Even those patches of hair were minimal and seemed to be very short. I wondered if he trimmed himself or if in fact he shaved his body.
Both men squeezed oil from the bottles they'd brought and rubbed it over their bodies until they were glistening in the soft light.
"Care to do our backs, Rob?" Roger asked as he finished rubbing oil over his legs.
"Sure," I said, going over to him.
I poured a small amount of oil into the palm of my left hand, rubbed my hands together and then started massaging it into Roger's skin with slow, easy strokes.
When I'd finished Roger's back I turned and said, "Peter, can I do you, too?"
"Sure," he grinned, and I went over to him. His back was sinewy and muscular and he seemed to purr as I rubbed oil over it.
"I think that does it," I said and both men moved to the center of the mat.
They did some odd finger thing I'd never seen before. It seemed to decide starting positions and with no further ado Roger dropped to the mat and took a position on all fours. Peter knelt and grasped him around the waist.
"Good," Peter smiled. "The winner names his prize."
"Give us a count, Rob," Roger said.
I counted backward, "three, two, one, go."
On the count of two their bodies tensed and I could tell both men were exerting all the strength they could muster, Roger poised to throw Peter, and Peter determined to preserve his advantage.
When I said "go," there was no sign of movement. Both men were straining but neither seemed to have an advantage. For several seconds their muscles strained and their bodies pressed in seeming deadlock against each other.
It was impressive to see their taut muscles as each man vied for some advantage. I knew both Roger and Peter were muscular and it was obvious that they both spent many hours each week conditioning and training their bodies, but as they struggled together every muscle and tendon and vein stood out like the delineation on an anatomical chart.
There was a low growl as they grappled
together and it seemed as if they were so equally matched that only a deadlock
Then, so suddenly that I didn't quite see what had happened, Roger broke free. He was somehow able to lift and throw Peter so that in one swift movement the slightly smaller man was on his back and Roger was spinning around to pounce on him.
Roger threw himself onto the mat, expecting to land with his full weight on Peter. If he'd succeeded it would have certainly knocked the breath from Peter's lungs and probably ended the match.
Instead, however, it was Roger who almost got the breath knocked out of him. In the split second it took Roger to move, Peter rolled to his left, almost off the mat, and lifted himself into a crouching position, looking for all the world like a huge cat, ready to pounce on his prey.
Roger landed flat on the mat with a loud "humph," almost as if he'd done a belly flop into a swimming pool. But he'd not landed on water. He'd landed on the relatively hard canvas covered mat and it took him a couple of critical seconds to recover.
In those seconds Peter was on him again. Roger lay sprawled on his stomach, his legs and arms spread wide. Peter was again on top.
The air in the windowless room was becoming stifling. The temperature seemed to have risen several degrees and the air was heavy and pungent with sweat.
I toed off my shoes and stripped off my training suit . Then I was in only a jockstrap and white socks; immodest perhaps, but still more covered than the two nude men who wrestled on the mat before me.
I realized that in the tight confines of my jockstrap, my cock was wet and hard.
I hunkered down with my back against the slick, enameled wall.
Before me Roger and Peter again strained for supremacy. Roger made a valiant effort, actually pushing himself off the mat with Peter's weight on his back. It was like doing push-ups with an extra hundred and seventy pounds. With his arms fully extended and every muscle bulging, he did a sort of flip, obviously trying again to throw Peter off onto the mat.
It didn't work.
Instead, he only managed to do a quick roll onto his back, but when it was over Peter was still on him. Only now they were face to face.
Peter's entire body rested on Roger's, their chests pressed together, both breathing hard.
Roger brought his legs up and circled Peter's hips. In a sort of pincer position Roger tried to roll, first to one side and then to the other, hoping, I guess, to dislodge Peter, but it was useless.
Peter got his arms onto Roger's shoulders and pinned him squarely to the mat. Both men were nearly exhausted and it was quickly over.
There was no formal count but in my mind I ran the numbers, knowing that Roger had lost.
They held that position for a few moments as their breathing gradually slowed.
Then Roger spoke the three words which amounted to a concession, "claim your prize!"
"Can I take the boy?" he asked turning to look in my direction.
"He's not mine to give," Roger panted. "If you want him, you'll have to take him fair and square."
"Then I'll fuck your ass," Peter said with no hesitation.
He rolled off Roger, who stayed spreadeagled on his back in the center of the mat. Peter retrieved the plastic squeeze bottle of oil he'd left by his robe and quickly returned to take up a kneeling position between Roger's legs.
They were both fully erect, their cocks bobbing in rhythm with their hearts. Peter was as long as Roger but thinner and arrow straight, unlike Roger's which was thicker and with a pronounced curve.
Peter's uncircumcised foreskin was fully pulled back, revealing an unusually elongated and pointed head. It looked red and moist in the subdued light.
I would have willingly given myself to him, taking Roger's place, but knew that would violate the rules of the game. Instead, as Peter positioned himself, I stood, pulled off my jockstrap and then sat down cross legged on the edge of the mat facing them, and began to slowly stroke myself. Peter oiled his cock and slid it forcefully into Roger's pulsing ass. He entered his vanquished opponent with one sudden thrust and I knew for sure they were in for some fast, pounding sex.
Both Peter and Roger could see me and knew I was beginning to beat off in time with Peter's hard, fast strokes.
Peter grinned at me and tossed me the oil. "Here, grease yourself up."
"No," Roger said as I caught the bottle. "Come here, I want your cock."
Not knowing exactly what he had in mind, I tossed the bottle back to Peter, who dropped it onto the mat by his side as I scooted across the few feet between them and me.
"Here," Roger said, giving me a tug. I ended up spanning his chest, one knee on either side, as he grasped my hips and urged me forward. He was on his back of course, and when my crotch was almost against his chin, he removed one hand from my hip, and pulled my cock down to his mouth. He licked the knob but the angle was wrong; it was an entirely unsatisfactory position.
I rose up on my knees and leaned over him, placing my hands palm-side down on the mat, beyond his head. In that position my cock was pointed more directly down toward his mouth. I lowered myself a bit more by moving my knees back toward Peter. Roger began to bob his head up and down so that, in the upward position with his head raised uncomfortably and his neck extended, he could take the full length of my drooling penis into his throat.
I began to thrust as best I could, fucking his mouth.
Behind me Peter was still pounding into Roger's ass and the shockwaves of his thrusts rippled through Roger's body to mine. The trunk of my body was almost horizontal now with my head out over the edge of the mat, beyond Roger's. Looking straight down I stared at the floor but, by bending my head further, I could look down the length of both my body and Roger's and see Peter's muscular belly as he fucked away.
My ass was pointed back toward Peter and he soon began to run one hand over my buttocks. I felt him pour a generous portion of oil onto the small of my back. It trickled down the crack of my ass, some of it tickling as it ran down over my balls, and then dripped onto Roger's chest.
Peter reached under me and grasped
my balls, slicking them with the oil, and pulling them gently. He worked
his finger and thumb around my sack, between my balls and my body, and
pulled. I groaned at the mixture of pain and pleasure. Soon my scrotum
was fully relaxed and hanging loosely, my balls dangling down and hitting
against Roger's chin every time he took my cock fully into his throat.
Having loosened my balls, Peter twisted his fingers in the oil which had pooled in the concavity of my back, just above my buttocks, and then inserted one finger slowly into me.
Roger was incapable of real speech, his mouth jammed with my cock, but I was free to speak my mind and I did so, moaning and growling as my cock was consumed by Roger and my ass explored by Peter's increasingly aggressive finger. He found my prostate and pressed into it. I felt another wave of sexual arousal bolt through my body.
"Yeah, yeah," I moaned. "Give me another finger, Peter, open me up."
No sooner did I ask than Peter complied, pulling his single finger out and then slowly twisting two fingers into my willing ass.
Soon two fingers were replaced by three, without my even asking. I began to feel that spreading warmth which always accompanies the plunging of my ass.
"More, please, more."
I felt him pour more oil onto my back and work it up and down my crack. His fingers seemed to be driving it into my ass like a piston.
The excess oil ran down over my balls, tickling as it dripped off onto Roger's chest and then spread over his belly.
Peter's fucking had slowed down. He was still thrusting his hard cock repeatedly into Roger's ass but some of the urgency seemed to have subsided as he occupied himself with me.
He withdrew three fingers and put his hands on both sides of my buttocks, spreading my crack to give him wider access. I felt him work the thin neck of the oil bottle into my ass and squeeze. It felt for a few moments as if he'd given me an enema. The muscles of my ass clenched and I felt the oil slowly invade my bowel. Then slowly I felt four fingers pressing into me, two from each hand. When he had gained entry, his fingers well beyond the ring of my sphincter, he began gently to spread them apart, opening my ass more widely.
I felt my sphincter relax, giving him greater access and another wave of heat passed through my body, followed almost immediately by a sudden chill. I was trembling, wanting more, yet fearing it.
I felt my cock going limp in Roger's mouth. He let it slip out and looked up at me.
"You okay, kiddo?" he whispered.
I nodded affirmatively, not able to speak, but not really sure if I were okay or not. I'd never felt so limp in my life.
"Ever been fisted, boy?" Peter said, his voice drifting over me from behind, from someplace remote and far away.
I shook my head. Yes . . . No . . . Not caring, not really knowing what he meant, I just wanting more.
"If you want my fist, just let me know."
I nodded yes, again.
Roger's eyes were fixed on mine as I felt another wave of heat and cold, of wanting, dreading, fear, each of them and all at once. Then the pressure increased. There was a moment of pain. I felt as if I might be ripped apart. Then, with a moan, I felt as if the rollercoaster had just gone over the top and I was on an endless downward slope.
I was falling, sliding, plummeting, and there was no end in sight.
"Oh, god," I whimpered, finally almost able to speak. My limp cock erupted, pouring forth my seed, which puddled in Roger's stomach.
I felt as if I'd come and was still coming. I felt as if my bladder had betrayed me and I was pissing over everything in sight, Roger, myself, Peter, the mat. But when I lowered my head and looked back along the length of my body, I saw a steady stream of white which poured from my cock. It didn't jolt out of me in an ordinary climax, it poured.
I didn't feel the usual mind-wrenching shock of orgasm, but instead, a warm, gush of sensations and emotions unlike anything I'd ever known before. My body was shaking. I felt as if I were going to pass out. I fought desperately to stay alert, to experience every second of this amazing moment.
The hot, close space was filled with the odors of sweat and male sex and fucked ass. My body was shaking, now beyond control.
Again, I whispered, "oh, god!"
Then, with his fist and wrist and a good part of his forearm in me, Peter began to thrust powerfully into Roger's ass again.
It was over in seconds as Peter stiffened and catapulted his own load deep into Roger's bowel. Roger, in turn, shot his spunk onto his belly to join mine. So far as I knew, Roger's cock had not been touched.
Peter slowly withdrew his fist from my gaping ass as I collapsed onto Roger's chest. I was shaking violently. Roger's arms folded around me, held me to him, stroked and soothed me as he crooned, "it's okay, kiddo, you're doing fine."
Peter rolled to the side, our bodies
in a tangle of limbs.
To be continued.