The Boy Can't Help It: Sensual Stories of Young Bottoms

That night after the guests ate dinner, I starred in a red-light show at the main house. When the resort first opened, the other two designated bottoms and I just danced a bit. Now two of Mr. Worth's best-looking workers were paid extra to fuck my mouth and ass for the guests' enjoyment while temporary red light bulbs in the ceiling fixtures glowed, and Mr. Gentry played disco on a poor-quality sound system.

Despite being busy with the two workers, both muscular and hung Samoans just a few years older than me., I overheard Mr. Dawson ask Mr. Worth if all this wasn't illegal.

"Illegal how? I bought this island. It's mine. It's my own little country."

"Does Coulter's contract actually say that everyone can fuck him?"

Mr. Worth hesitated. "More or less."

Raging with testosterone, the workers ravaged me fore and aft. After no more than ten minutes, the man in my ass hit his peak, pulled out and spurted come across my back, barking a series of loud grunts. The man in my mouth pushed me over on my back and spread my legs so far that any man who wasn't a gymnast couldn’t have endured. Being taken by tops whose names I didn't know while being watched by perhaps three dozen men made me dizzy with heated humiliation, but I'd never been harder. I clenched my teeth in frustration at not being allowed to jerk off. Just as I was about to give in and touch my own dick, I felt the unmistakable rise in my groin that meant I was about to shoot my load hands-free. "Unnhhh," I moaned as I lay writhing in the red light while the second top pummeled me without mercy. Seconds later, ropes of come shot out of me and landed across my stomach and neck. The second man pulled out and tore off the condom just in time to spray his seed on top of my own. The audience applauded like mad.


The next day I'd been fucked twice before my scheduled appointment with Mr. Dawson.

"Tell me what you meant when you said the rules keep changing, Coulter," he asked as I again reclined on his bed.

"I used to get Tuesdays off from getting fucked, and I could wear clothes that day. And my bungalow used to have a lock on the door."

"And now?"

I shrugged. "Now I have to be available every day, and guests can barge into my bungalow any time of day or night to fuck me. I never get much sleep."

Mr. Dawson gave a low whistle. "I just bet. You're so sweet and handsome. It's hard to imagine anyone resisting you."

I blushed. Despite being used so often, I still couldn’t take a sincere compliment. "Thank you, sir. Although you seem to manage."

He smiled. "I have my reasons. Come sit by my feet for a sec. I want to show you the DVD Worth sent me about Palmyra."

I did as I was told, hoping that Mr. Dawson would at least run his hands through my hair or touch my shoulders as I sat beneath him. His kindness made me want his caresses more than the constant sex I craved.

The DVD began with a sweeping view of the flat, verdant atoll from the sea. Mr. Gentry narrated as the scene switched to the tiny marina. "Welcome to Palmyra, the first gay country where every man's fantasy can come true." Then there was a shot of me walking away from the camera, nude of course.

"Hey! No one said anything about filming me!"

"I guess every man's fantasy must be that rump of yours," Mr. Dawson said. "Keep watching."