Brambleton Ch. 08: Philly New Years

What Emmet gave him was what his body needed and wanted, though.

So be it. He laughed, climbed out bed and stretched, making a quick survey of all his muscles and finding his thighs and ass being the big complainers, although he was having nothing to do with any suggestions on what he could do to prevent that. He padded off to the shower, picked out a pair of jeans and a polo shirt to wear, took a big breath, practiced a friendly smile, and stepped out into the bedroom hall corridor.

Silence. It was less than silent; there was a heaviness to the air like no sound would even dare try to filter through to the hallway through the heavy damask wall coverings and the Oriental rug running the whole way to the far end of the corridor.

He stood there for a moment, feeling the oppression of the aloneness of it and then jumped a bit, and whimpered in gratitude when he heard the click of a door at the far end of the hallway and the figure of a gray-haired man of substantial girth coming out of Archie's room.

And that's the name Matt associated with the room: Archie. The judge had been urging Matt to use his nickname for some time and it seemed almost a seal on the relationship and on Matt's immediate future that he found himself thinking of him in terms of "Archie" now.

The man at the end of the hall, dressed in a dark suit and holding a black leather bag in one hand, brought the other hand to his face when he saw Matt in the hall and placed a finger on his lips. He then gestured toward the stairs leading down to the first floor, and Matt understood that the man wanted to talk with him, but not here.

In the foyer below, the man identified himself as Dr. Billings, Archie's Philadelphia doctor. Matt was eventually to come to know that the judge had a doctor on call in Virginia too—and one, like this one, who would make house calls for a man of Archie's stature.

"Are you a member of the family?" Billings asked.

"No. Just a friend—from Virginia." And sensing that this was perhaps too revealing of an answer, he added, "I'm the architect for the house on his Virginia estate. One of the wings was burned out and he wants to restore it. He's anxious to get started on the project and so invited me here over Christmas and New Year's so we could discuss the final plans."

Matt didn't know if his delivery was off or if he was giving too much information or if he had just brought up the architect angle too late, but the doctor gave him a knowing look and said, "Ah" in such a way that told Matt that the doctor understood far more than he was being told.

"He's resting comfortably now," the doctor said.

"Judge Atherton? I saw you coming out of his room? Is he ill?"

"Yes, Judge Atherton. I was called this morning because he was difficult to rouse. If you're a true friend of his, young man, I suggest you find whatever pills he used last night and toss them out."

Matt went beet red. "I'm just his architect. Shouldn't you be talking about this to a member of the family?"

"No members of the family were here when I arrived," the doctor answered. And, indeed, when Matt went to the kitchen to find somebody—anybody other than him—stirring in this vast, silent house, he learned that the families of both of the judge's daughters had packed up and were gone by 9:30 that morning.

"And I think I'm telling the right person," the doctor added, with a sardonic look in his face. "In any case, I wouldn't recommend any strenuous activity for him for at least three days—and then no swinging on the chandeliers after that. And definitely no enhancing pills. Call me immediately if he has another . . . seizure . . . like this." The pause on the word "seizure" obviously had been purposeful. The doctor fully understood the nature of the problem and what had caused it.

The doctor was saying the last bit as he was putting on his overcoat and hat, and then he opened the front door and, steeling himself against the wind whipping up the front steps and into the foyer, thrust himself out into the snow.

The next five days were torture for Matt. The house had a couple of those old mammoth grandfather clocks—one in the foyer and one of the stair landing up to the second floor. They weren't in synch and their irritating ticking thundered through the silent house. If it hadn't been for the plan work Matt still had to do on the Brambleton blueprints and the preliminary calls he made to Virginia to put the bidding for the restoration project into train, he would have gone mad from the silence and the inaction.

On the first two days, he visited Archie's dark room, the draperies pulled to encourage the judge to rest, and he glided around near the walls, out of reach of the bed, as Archie begged him to come to the bed and give him sex. The third day he sat on the bed, permitting Archie to embrace him and give him a hand job, and then Matt slowly sucked the judge's cock to ejaculation while forcing Atherton to remain as immobile as possible.

Matt let the judge side split him on the fourth day, with Matt being careful not to put any weight on the older man or to make Atherton become too active in the taking.

After the judge had come and they were laying stretched out, with Matt cuddled into the judge's crotch, Atherton whispered, "You want to get back to Virginia—to Brambleton—don't you?"

"I'm anxious to get started on the restoration as soon as possible, yes. But I'll be wherever you want me to be."

"You love the place don't you?"

Matt turned his face to Atherton's and they kissed. He meant that to be his ambiguous answer, because he only sensed the "more than me" that the judge didn't tag on the end of that question.

Taking his lips away from the judge's—sooner than Atherton obviously wanted, Matt gave him a concerned look and said, "I've been wanting to . . . I just didn't know how to say it. I am so sorry, Archie . . . about the other night. I know your health . . ."

"Shush, don't say another word, Matthew," Atherton whispered, putting a finger to Matt's lips. "It's all on me. And, even knowing it laid me up for a few days, I would do it all over again. I've so wanted to fuck you one more time like I did that first time—on the haystacks. That was glorious. Some day . . . some day I'll prove to you how much you've meant to me—coming to me at this time of life. Being entirely open to letting me have you however I want you. You are so young and arousing—all innocence until we get lost in the fuck. I've never had anyone like you. It was worth it. Even if it had killed me."

Before Matt could respond, Atherton took his lips again in a crushing kiss. After the kiss was over, the judge sighed and said, "The doctor says I'll be well enough to travel by car tomorrow. So we'll be off then—back to Brambleton."

Matt did what he could to contain his excitement, but as soon as he'd managed to withdraw from Archie's bedroom, he was searching all over the house for Emmet, wanting an outlet for his exuberance and keyed up to a high tension level by four days of silence in the house. He had looked for Emmet before—wanting the release the Emmet could give him—but the big black man had been elusive. It was almost as if he wanted Matt to fully understand that their couplings were entirely at Emmet's calling and in his control. And that he wanted Matt salivating for it the next time, which, in fact, was the case.

Matt didn't find him this time, either, so he went to his room. He would take a shower and beat off under the cascading water, bringing whatever relief was possible to himself.

But Emmet had already been told that he would be driving the judge and Matt back to Virginia the next day, and he knew the mood this would put Matt in. He was waiting behind the door in Matt's room and when Matt arrived, Emmet pushed the door shut, picked Matt up from behind, hustled him to the foot of the bed, bent him over on his belly on the bed, stripped his pants and briefs off him, and fucked him hard and long from behind.

When Emmet left the room, Matt was lying prone on his belly on the bed, sucking in a hunk of the bedspread to stifle the cries of passion he'd otherwise have been telegraphing throughout the silent house, and smiling a sloppy grin of fulfillment.

He heard the click of the door, and saw Lamont entering his room. As the tall, gangly kitchen servant was unzipping his trousers and unreeling his long snake of a cock, Lamont murmured, "Emmet sent me up."

Matt sighed, turned on his back, opened his legs, and stuffed a pillow under the small of his back. He was going to need to be at a "just so" angle to take all of what Lamont had between his thighs in in one slide.

Matt turned his eyes to a window, slowly stroked his own cock, and waited patiently while Lamont stood over him, between his spread legs, worked his own cock hard, and rolled on a condom. A snapping sound broadcast the last adjustment of the latex on the long cock. Matt turned his head and looked at the erection. He moaned his pleasure at knowing that very soon that would be inside him. The man was thin and wiry, his face ugly, but that black cock was beautiful to Matt.

He held his breath during the long, deep glide inside him of the long, black cock, the channel having been stretched already by Emmet. He knew that this was just part of Emmet's efforts to control him, but he didn't care. Different types of effort were going on to control him—the judge with his money and position and close personal attention, and Emmet with big black cocks. But Matt was well past not knowing what he'd do to get the pleasures and the new life beyond the mountains and hollows of Appalachia that he sought.

He looked up into Lamont's face, but the black man clutching Matt's waist with long, slender, strong black fingers and pulling on his torso was all business, trying to get as deep inside Matt as possible. Lamont knew from Matt's passionate cries earlier that the young man Emmet wanted to control liked the deep cocking, and that was something that Lamont could provide. When he began to pump in short, deep strokes, Matt let his hips start moving, meeting the deep thrusts. Other than that, he just stretched out his arms to his sides; turned his head to the window, panting and moaning quietly; and let Lamont do all of the heavy work. Lamont's stroke was steady and relentless. For whatever time a hung black man had his cock inside Matt, Matt was his. Emmet had discovered this key to Matt, but Matt didn't care that he had.

He smiled a little smile. He was a slut to black cock. And Lamont had a length to die for. Matt needed to enjoy Lamont when he could. Lamont was from the Philadelphia world. They were on their way back to Brambleton and Matt wouldn't come back to Philadelphia if he could avoid it. His heart was at Brambleton.

When Lamont was close to finishing him, Emmet came back into the room and sat down on the bed beside Matt. Matt's back was arched. He was stroking his own cock and was breathing heavily, moaning deeply, his mouth hanging open, every fiber of his being focused on the cock moving deep inside him. Lamont was very much into the fuck now. He was stroking Matt's belly with the long, slender fingers of one hand, enjoying the image of the black skin caressing the trembling white, smooth hardness of Matt's belly, reveling over the handsome young man's complete subjugation to him. His eyes were cast on Matt's, taking pleasure in the flash of passion in Matt's eyes from the effect of each steady, deep stroke of the cock. The young white man was beautifully formed, and Lamont was in awe over the power his cock was holding over him. The young man was babbling his total surrender to the black cock. Lamont had never enjoyed control this total over such a desirable, young white man.

Emmet leaned over and stroked Matt's cheek, murmuring for Matt to look at him and tell him how well fucked he was. Matt turned wild, pleading eyes on him as Emmet turned an "I own your ass" smile on him, smoothed the sweat-streaked hair off Matt's forehead with one hand, and brushed away Matt's hand on his own cock with the other and took over the stroking.

Lamont gave a little cry, shuddered, and came. He resumed stroking, slowly though. Under the attention of Emmet's hand, Matt came with a whimper. Emmet was still wearing that "I own your ass" smile. Matt didn't expect it to be otherwise.