This is the first in Maltese's m/m "I" SERIES of books that will eventually include I, HUSTLER; I, SATYR; I, VOYEUR; I, MASTER; I, SLAVE; I, CATAMITE... I, DEBAUCHEE takes Maltese fans on a roller-coaster ride into the depths of corruption by intemperance and sensuality as one man is led and, then, leads others, via seduction, on the all-too-easily-taken detour from duty and virtue to homosexual excess and self-indulgence.
I fucked Mallory von Burel on the large four-poster bed … as I’d fucked him in the basement dark room where I’d chained him to a wall, shackled to a rack, where I’d manacled his arms, head, and legs to a stake … as I’d fucked him in the Main Room of the Lodge with its galleries of stuffed animal heads, so many of them with record-breaking horns, but none as horny as Mallory and I … as I’d fucked him in the manicured parkland, his back and ass cushioned by emerald-green sylvan moss…
He was on his knees, kow-towed so his ass was elevated, his arms wrapping a pillow, his right cheek against the bright orange of a Draqualian-silk sheet. The exquisite overall tan of his body, with the exception of where a small European-style bikini swim suit was worn during more than one sunning session, looked even more impressive against the colorful backdrop. The rest of our covers were thrown back so that I had full view of the exquisite handsomeness of the young man I butt-fucked. The line from his asscrack to the nape of his neck was parenthesized by an intricate interplay of muscle in movement as I pressed my cock deep inside of him and, then, pulled free until only my cock’s corona remained implanted inside the rubber-band moue that was his gumming sphincter.
I firmly gripped his hips, not only to steady him but to exert those slight pulls and pushes that first securely anchored his asshole over my dick, then, slid him almost free of it. Occasionally, my cock fully buried, I let go just long enough to put my handprints to his asscheeks in coordinated slaps that had a way of echoing loudly in the large bedroom.
“How does it feel to have my man-meat shoved oh-so-deeply up your man-pussy, kid?” I slightly changed the angle of my hips so that I was deep-diving my cock up his asshole from an entirely different direction than the last time.
“Feels good.” His naturally deep voice was made all the more sexy by being punctuated with his little grunts that interrupted his speaking cadence.
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the very best?”
“Eleven,” he said. “All of your fucks are elevens, except for your twelves and thirteens.”
“Flattery will get you a continuing good fuck, kid.” I was more than eager to do my best by him, and not just because I promised his father.
I like Mallory very much. I like fucking him very much. What’s more, I like the feel of his dick each and every time I let it plug my asshole, or drill through my tonsils and into my throat. My enjoyment, surprisingly enough, was experienced even the very first time I let him have at me, his cock having never before been up an asshole before it was up mine. My asshole admittedly so jaded to fucking by hard cock, by the time that Mallory’s young dick was in it, I was genuinely amazed by how his first–time efforts somehow managed to conjure pleasure for me beyond what some truly experienced dicks had managed before his. The kid has turned out to be a natural at getting fucked and at fucking.
“You’ve surprised me by how well you’ve taken to packing shit up my asshole, and getting your shit packed by me in return,” I said. Certainly, I never saw it coming, and had been more than a little reluctant to take on the not always pleasurable task of initiating a novice into my way of life, seen by many as pure and unadulterated debauchery.
“I wanted to be fucked by you, and to fuck you, from the first moment I saw the picture on dad’s grand piano of you and my father at the Countess Marchensa’s Grand Summer Ball in Venice,” he said, not able to get it all out in one smooth sentence because of his attending guttural gasps caused by my pumping dick continuing to stick him. “There was just something about you, almost naked, except for a few leather straps and a thong, which gave me a boner from the get-go.”
“You do know that your father was afraid you’d come to look upon all of this as deviant behavior, and leave him a second time?”
“If I’d been eighteen sooner, I would have been knocking on his door a long time before mom took her dive off that yacht in Cannes. I always knew dad could offer me more, by way of fun and games, than could my hypocritical mother who locked me away in the equivalent of a monastery while she went out and played the whore.”
“How did your asshole survive private school?” I put my dick fully inside him, once again, so that my sable-brown pubic hair pressed indents into the inner curves of his buttocks.
“I always knew I was saving myself for someone and something better than anything my fumbling peers had to offer, and I was strong enough to fend off the advances of even the biggest bully.” Mallory gave his ass a skillful roll, like I’d taught him, which sensuously slid his asshole around the bolt of my stuck dick. The kid, from the beginning, has been a fast learner, and he retains pretty much all he’s learned. If his sexuality had been on hold during his adolescence in that Swiss Catholic boys’ school, he’s making up for it by blossoming in the world his father has now opened for him.
For the minute, we quit talking and pretty much started communicating merely via a series of our grunts and groans, moans and sighs, accompanied by the increasing speed and cacophony resulting from the speed-up of my fucking his butt.
My nuts had elevated from any semblance of low-hang to look like burls configured at the base of my fucking tree-trunk dick. Mallory’s sizable nuts were, likewise, gathered about the roots of his impressive erection.
“I’m getting close,” I told him in language not completely garbled by my swelling pleasure. “If you want to get off with me, you might want to start doing some speedy hand-stroking of your stiff dick.”
“I don’t think I’m going to need any hand-stroking,” he said. “I think it’s going to be another orgasm for me with nothing but your cock fucked up my butt to do the deed.”
It had happened with him and me before. I was always flattered when it did, since I seldom have it happen to someone I fuck, and it has never happened to me with someone’s cock up my asshole. There is a definite satisfaction in knowing that what I do, I do so well that the obvious stud on the other end of my dick is excited enough to need nothing more than me inside of him to jump-start his orgasm.
“Hold tight to the bed, buddy,” I said, “because I’m just about ready to finish my … ohhhh, Jesus, fuck! … ride.”
I wasn’t kidding, either. His asshole was just so marvelously wrapped about my dick, when I was fully slotted inside him … and it was just so reluctant to let my prick free, when I pulled out. Despite all of the natural lubricant with which I’d soaked the inside of his anus — my cock a profuse natural leaker — his asshole never seemed any looser. In fact, quite the opposite, as if my pre-cum somehow converted to alum, and made the whole corridor of his fucked rectum pucker.
“Come your cum inside me!” he commanded. “I want it. I need it. Fuck me … ugh .. ugh …. Screw me! Fucking-A, drown me in your spunk!”
“Oh, shit!” I said and slotted my dick all of the way, leaving it there, my belly locked tightly against his sweaty ass cheeks.
I held to him tightly, dropped my head back on my neck so that my Adam’s apple pointed directly toward the canopy directly above us.
“I’m coming” I said, as if there could be any doubt about it in the face of my powerful eruption. My nuts were hydrants expelling my seed, through my stiff dick, with the intensity of water under pressure through a fire hose meant to douse an in-progress runaway conflagration.
“Oh, fuck … yes … yes … yes!” Mallory said.
I knew from the way his asshole suddenly grasped tightly to my cum-spewing dick that his prick was in eruption, leaving the orange Draqual sheet soaked beneath his chest and belly.
Our mutual orgasms left us panting as hard and as loud as two athletes having just successfully completed a fast-run marathon.
It was hard for me to imagine, at that point, that Mallory had come to me a virgin and ended up already such an expert in the short time we’d been together. He was and remains a willing student, and I enjoy our time together. He has held my interest more than others have, which says a good deal about his attractiveness, his versatility, his capacity to experiment, and his considerable charm. If he was desirable — and he was — before my cock and I had at him, he is even more desirable now, albeit in a different way, in his possession of skills, thanks to me, that leave grown men begging for more of him.
I’ve never put much value on innocence and virginity, mostly feeling both more bother than they’re worth; although, yes, I do know people who put great store in the pair. Frankly, though, I would rather take up with Mallory, now trained by me in the ways of pleasing a man, than when I did take him on as a special favor to his father. If not for Count Paul von Burel’s specific request of a favor from me, I would likely have steered clear of his heir-apparent altogether. Firstly, Mallory is the son and heir of Paul; the Burel family one of the few with more money and social connections than mine. Secondly, Mallory was so obviously out of his element in the party setting in which I first met him.
“I’d like you to meet my son,” Paul had introduced us; I extended my hand and took the clammy fingers of someone with the appearance of a hen realizing there was more than one fox loose in the chicken coop. “Mallory, this is the long-time friend about whom I told you. I look forward to the two of you becoming fast friends.”
My left eyebrow actually arched quizzically, wondering if Paul was really offering up his own flesh and blood to me and my dick on a silver platter, or if I’d merely misread the signs. His smile, though obviously sincere, lacked any real clarification of his intention.
Mallory’s grip, although damp at the time, was firm and, thank God, not a ‘see-how-butch-I-can-be’ squeeze. His eyes are chocolate brown, matching his hair which drops over his forehead in a low-hanging leftward swoop touching thick brown strands to the tips of his lush brown lashes. His cheeks are dimpled. His mouth is full and sensuous. His chin has as small cleft that will likely disappear if and when his face takes on any excess weight. His Adam’s apple is evident without being disconcertingly so. His body appeared obviously fit beneath a bespoke steel-grey suit and charcoal-grey silk shirt, the latter opened at its collar to reveal a hairless vee of tanned and silky young-man chest.
“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” I said.
He grimaced only slightly. Jenny Danson (nee von Burel, nee Lensbrook, nee de Chichillino) had disappeared one night, off a yacht anchored at Cannes during the film festival. Her fourth husband, film star Craig Danson, reported her missing, telling police his wife had a little too much to drink at dinner and had headed to their cabin for a nap. She was later found drowned, her death making the tabloids and, much to Paul’s chagrin, conjuring up all of the old scandal surrounding their divorce; her having called and proved him a libertine in open court in order to get full custody of their son, despite all of Paul’s considerable money spent, and favors called in, to prevent that from happening.
That Paul had murdered his recalcitrant wife wasn’t off the playing board, as far as the group I ran around with was concerned. A lot of money — everyone knowing that anything can be had for a price — makes killing even a more viable solution for us than it is for ordinary folks unable to buy their way out of anything. More than once, Paul confided in me that, knowing what he’d quickly come to know, he would have been far better off disposing of his wife before he ever let her get as far as she had. The only thing that saved her, even then, was her being the mother of Mallory; although even that rationalization for her salvation might have worn thin in the end. Certainly, Jenny’s convenient exit from the scene made Paul a helluva lot happier, especially with Mallory back in his life.
“Your son here for a visit, is he?” I asked Paul when Mallory was sent by his father to retrieve a bottle from one of the several cases of private-stock Chateau von Burel champagne brought and left cooling in the host’s large walk-in fridge.
I was tempted to add a comment about how the kid definitely had his father’s good-looks — when actually Mallory’s dark sultry looks took more after those of his Italian mother than they did after Paul’s cool and pale Slavic handsomeness — but was saved from it by Paul saying, “I want you to take him to my lodge in Romania and fuck him every which way from Sunday.”
“Beg your pardon?” I’m hardly ever at a loss for words, but I was at that particular instance.
“Though his mother was a slut, she kept him way too sheltered for him, now, to adapt all that easily to my life-style, to your life-style, to our friends’ lifestyle—without a little help. I’m counting on you to give him all the help he’ll need to fit in. Now that he’s back in my life, I don’t want to lose him, again, because of any sophomoric mores he picked up in that stickup-its-ass conservative Catholic private school he attended in Switzerland.”
“Jesus, Paul!” If I sounded reluctant, I was. Innocence isn’t something I purposely seek out. More often than not, as previously mentioned, I find it far more bother than it’s worth. Paul and his son would have been better served by several other people in the room, any one of whom would have appreciated, more than I, the invite to have at Mallory that his father was offering. I said as much.
“I want him broken in by a teacher, not a lecher,” Paul said. “I need someone I know he finds physically attractive, and who has the finesse to capitalize on that without sending the kid running scared into the woods.”
“Not everyone I’ve bedded has enjoyed the experience,” I reminded him. Flattered as I was, and knowing the unsatisfied people to whom I referred were as scarce as hen’s teeth, I was still reluctant to get involved. “Have you thought of turning him over to one of our very experienced lady friends?”
“I don’t want him soured on gay sex by having his first sex with a cunt,” Paul said.
“You’re sure he’s not already put it to pussy, or to male asshole? He’s exceedingly attractive, Paul, and we both know what can happen in those private boarding schools, whether they’re Catholic and in stick-up-its-ass Switzerland, or anywhere else in the wide world.”
“He says he’s virgin, and I believe him.”
“Not every virgin takes to cock up his asshole,” I said; then, to prove I was always willing to shift my own sexual role — although Paul was the last person to whom I needed prove it — I added, “or put virgin cock up someone else’s asshole.”
“He’s my son,” Paul said. “I know he can be brought along by just the right person. Meaning, by you. Are you going to hem and haw and lose brownie points, or are you going to be gracious and
accept the chance to do me the good deed I’m asking?”
“And if I fail?”
He shrugged. “If you can’t make the kid enjoy cock up his
ass, and his cock up yours, then I doubt anyone can.”
I already had more than enough money and social position so that neither needed supplementation by Paul, but he was a long-time friend, and it wasn’t like he was asking me to trek the swamplands of Botswana.