Guests begin to arrive for a new season at The Lodge and find their welcome treats waiting for them.
The Lodge - Episode 1
by Horny Old Fag
Series: The Lodge
EPISODE ONE
Scene 1
Jesse rushed outside onto the porch of the remote mountain lodge. The brawny proprietor made certain the pearl buttons on his western shirt were fastened and the fly of his jeans was zipped and brushed the scuffs off his cowboy boots. For the next couple of weeks, he could not afford any missteps.
The airport shuttle van sped toward the lodge, churning up a cloud of dust in its wake, and pulled up before the entrance. Gino leaped out and ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. The robust goombah worked out and was well-hung, unless that was a sock in his pants. He glanced at the sign warning pricks, punks, and pussy boys to beware. His brow furrowed for a second. He shrugged and slid open the passenger door.
“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, gents.”
Syed Singh unfolded from the van and straightened his white linen jacket. At thirty, the swarthy real estate mogul was already a billionaire and dated more Bollywood actresses and models than the paparazzi could keep up with. But once a year, he indulged his compulsion for humbling the depraved fuckboys the lodge offered.
Nash Rollins climbed out and shook Jesse’s hand. “Shoot,” the thickset rancher exclaimed. He slipped off his wedding ring and tucked the diamond-encrusted gold band in his pocket. “While I’m at the lodge, the old battle-ax doesn’t exist.” He pulled out a flask. “I intend to drink as much as I damn well please.” He chugged a hearty swig. “And screw as many fuckboys as my old dick can manage.”
Hollywood heartthrobs Oliver Brooks and Brent Parker hopped out. The friends on the down low relished picking up rough trade, drugging the thugs stuporous, and wrecking their assholes for hours. Brent was fond of boasting the thugs always came crawling back for more. The handsome blond turned forty last year but still dressed like a teenager. Oliver hailed from London, dressed smarter, and sounded more sophisticated, probably because of his accent. Shorter than Brent but in better shape and five years younger, he had curly medium-brown hair and dimples.
“I look forward to seeing a lot more of you soon, Gino,” Syed said.
Gino shot Syed a quizzical glance. “I’ll pick you gents up at three o’clock Sunday afternoon.”
“That’s what you think, dude,” Brent said. He slapped Gino on the back. “That’s what you think.”
Gus lumbered over. The former bounty hunter had lost his license for abusing the crooks he captured before turning their asses over to the cops. Prosecutors claimed Gus sodomized over fifty wanted men. Gus bragged he busted many more assholes than that. Having narrowly escaped prison time on a technicality, he’s maintained as low a profile as a fellow can manage who's six feet, six inches tall, and built like a brick shithouse, with a face only a blind mother could love.
“Pull that goddamn van around back, boy,” Gus said. “And take your passengers’ bags in through the service entrance.”
“Chillax, dude,” Gino said, crawling behind the wheel. “Jeez.”
Jesse led the guests inside the lodge. Syed demanded he be checked in first. Jesse pulled up Syed’s reservation, verified he had deposited his dues in their offshore account, and passed Syed his room keys. “You have a suite with a view of the mountains.”
“When will my—?”
“You requested ‘a bodybuilder with rocks for brains.’”
“A fuckboy needs brains like an ox needs tits.”
“I hear that,” Jesse said. “The specimen we chose for you is dumb as a stump.”
“Is he tall?”
“Over six feet. His papers are in the drawer of your nightstand.”
Gus lumbered into the lobby and set the guests’ luggage on the floor.
“Nacho!” Jesse shouted. The twenty-year-old Mexican in his skimpy shorts padded over on his little brown feet to the tinkling of bells. Syed pointed out his bags. Nacho picked them up and gestured for Syed to follow. The kid couldn’t speak. The doctor severed his vocal cords with a surgical laser when he arrived at the lodge last year and replaced his testicles with bells.
Jesse checked Oliver and Brent into a suite overlooking the lake.
“You requested a virgin and a whore.”
“Sweet and salty,” Brent said.
“You’ll find the details on your fuckboys in the drawer of your nightstand.” Jesse passed Oliver and Brent their room keys. “Happy hour is in the lounge from four until seven.”
“All right!” Brent whooped. “Let’s bust some ass.”
“Thank you,” Oliver said. Grabbing their bags, he trundled upstairs. Brent followed on his heels, chattering nonstop.
“Thanks for waiting, Mr. Rollins,” Jesse said.
“How many years have I been coming to the lodge, Jesse?”
“Five or six.”
“More like nine,” Nash Rollins said. “I think we’ve known each other long enough that you can call me Nash.”
“Yes, sir…Nash. You requested the loft, which is small but cozy and has a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view.”
“I can’t wait to see what piece of ass you boys rustled up for me this year.”
“We know how much you enjoy unwrapping your fuckboys, so we left this one dressed. I’m afraid our procurer lost one of his shoes.” Jesse slid a flip-flop across the counter. “But here’s the other.”
“You know how to make sure a fuckboy doesn’t run away?” Nash asked. Jesse shrugged. Nash grinned. “Give his dirty dogs a stern thrashing with a stiff wooden cane on the regular.” He turned over the flip-flop. “Size fourteen. That’ll do.”
-
Scene Two
Syed followed Nacho into his suite, which had a magnificent view of the distant mountains. Nacho set Syed’s luggage on the floor and turned to leave. Syed snatched Nacho and jingled his bells for balls through his skimpy shorts. Nacho croaked and squirmed.
A groan from the other room reminded Syed that an even hotter delight awaited. He released Nacho. The boy dashed out the door.
Syed sauntered into the bedroom. Atop the bed, bound face down and gagged, lay the fuckboy of his dreams. The juice pig must work out like a fiend. And he either shaved or waxed his body or both because he was hairless save for a trim triangle of pubic hairs. His smooth bubble butt could use a good spanking, among other delights.
Syed took a seat on the side of the bed. He ran his hands down the fuckboy’s stout thigh and massaged his bulging calf. The fuckboy thrashed and growled. Syed swatted the fuckboy’s high arch. The fuckboy winced and flapped his foot.
Syed took a file folder out of the nightstand drawer and read over the pages inside. The fuckboy had an Ohio driver’s license. His legal name was Hank Hollister. Hank turned thirty last month. He stood six feet, one inch tall, weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, and competed in bodybuilding competitions under the moniker “Hank the Tank.” His blood tested positive for steroids, but he was free of sexual infections.
In therapy for anger management and chronic erectile dysfunction, Hank was prone to fits of rage. Syed would be pissed off, too, if he could not achieve an erection.
Whenever Hank got worked up, his therapist recommended tickling his ribs. What about his big feet? Syed grazed his nails up and down the fuckboy’s sole. Hank growled and shook his leg. Syed leaped onto the bed and tickled the hunk of beefcake’s wide balls and high arches. The cackling roider thrashed and shrieked, “Stop tickling my feet!”
-
Scene Three
Oliver and Brent found their suite. Tossing their bags on the couch, they fixed themselves drinks and ventured into the bedroom.
Atop the bed nearest the door, a cute fuckboy lay bound and gagged on his stomach. He had one of the most amazing asses they’d ever seen, and they worked in Hollywood. The terror in his teary eyes gave them hard-ons. He must be their virgin because bound and gagged atop the other bed, with his back leaned against the headboard, sat a tramp-stamped fuckboy who looked vaguely familiar. The skank flapped his splayed legs and whined that he shouldn’t be here. He must have been recently douched because his asshole leaked. For sure he was the whore.
Brent tweaked the sleazy fuckboy’s nipples until he winced and smacked his dick and balls around. He flinched and moaned, “Oh, fuck, no,” repeatedly, like that was the extent of his vocabulary.
Oliver took a folder out of the drawer of the nightstand and scanned the paperwork inside. “Skylar Parry—that’s the virgin—turned twenty-one last week. According to his driver’s license, he’s six feet tall and weighs one hundred and fifty-five pounds.” He thought for a moment. “That’s around one hundred and eighty-three centimeters and seventy or so kilos, if my conversions are correct.”
Brent read over Oliver’s shoulder. “Mason Hunter—that must be the skank—is thirty-one years old, six feet, three inches tall, and weighs one hundred and ninety-seven pounds.”
“Around one hundred and ninety centimeters and, let me see…ninety kilos, I believe.”
“It says here Hunter’s wanted in West Virginia for owing thousands of dollars in back child support.”
“A deadbeat dad. I’m not surprised.”
“Check this out. Since retiring from his career as gay-for-pay porn star Hunter Bottoms, former all-state high school football quarterback Mason Hunter has struggled to find steady work.”
“Bloody hell! I thought the fuckboy looked familiar.”
“He tested positive for cannabis and cocaine, but he’s free of STIs.”
“We had better not catch anything. We’re paying a fortune for the cunts.”
-
Scene Four
Nash Rollins trudged up three creaky flights of stairs to reach his loft, but the musclebound fuckboy writhing atop the bed, bound and gagged barefoot in a t-shirt and jeans, was more than worth the exertion. Nash’s old balls twinged with excitement. He tossed his bag onto the chair in the corner, poured himself three fingers of whiskey, and read through the hunk of beefcake’s paperwork.
“Your parents really named you Rocco?”
The hunk of beefcake nodded.
“You’re from Reno?”
The hunk of beefcake nodded again
.
"It says here you're twenty-eight, six-foot-two, and…hot damn! You weigh a whopping two hundred and twenty pounds. If my eyes don’t deceive me, most of that’s muscle.”
Rocco flopped around, tugging on his bonds, and whined that there must be some mistake.
“You were caught leaving a seedy strip club where you shake your booty fully naked for randy old men.” Nash scoffed. “You offered to blow an undercover cop for twenty bucks?” He cracked up laughing. “Were you really that desperate for cash?”
Rocco flushed crimson.
“Shit for brains,” Nash said. He took a sip of whiskey. “No wonder you're here.”
Rocco fidgeted with the knots binding his wrists.
“According to this online interview, you’ve modeled for a gay foot fetish website and shot several bondage videos. Guess you like getting tied up, huh?”
Rocco growled.
“Your astrological sign is Cancer. Gladiator is your favorite movie. You’re a bisexual top.” Nash chuckled. “Not for much longer.”
Rocco hollered for help. The silicone ball taped inside his mouth muffled his cries.
“Your medical report says you’ve been treated for syphilis, gonorrhea, and chlamydia multiple times. Shit, you’re lucky your dick hasn’t rotted off.”
Tears pooled in the corners of Rocco’s huge brown eyes. He choked back a sob.
“If you think I feel sorry for you, you’ve got another thing coming. You’re a nasty piece of work.”
Nash dug a coil of rope from his bag and knotted one end into a noose, which he wrestled over Rocco’s head and tightened around the hunk of beefcake’s neck. He tied off the loose end of the rope to the headboard and bound the fuckboy’s feet to the footboard. Rolling Rocco over, he reached under and loosened the squirming fuckboy’s fly and tugged his jeans down around his knees.
Rocco bucked and thrashed. Nash poked a finger through a hole in the unnerved fuckboy’s worn cotton briefs and tickled his hairy balls.
“Leave me alone!” Rocco shouted. “Help! Somebody help me!”
Nash yanked off Rocco’s briefs and pried his beefy buttocks apart.
“Get off of me, old man!” Rocco screamed. He elbowed Nash in the groin. Nash inhaled a sharp intake of breath, which he held until the pain eased, and he punched the hunk of beefcake in the balls. Rocco’s eyes crossed. Nash punched Rocco in the balls again. The fuckboy screamed, but no sound came out.
Nash spat on Rocco’s clenched asshole and wormed the spittle inside the fuckboy with his fingers. Rocco roared. “I’m going to kill you for this, motherfucker!” Every muscle in his gym-toned body stiffened except for his shriveled dick. He writhed and twisted, furiously suckling on his ball gag.
Nash fingered Rocco until he settled down and guided his boner inside the rearing fuckboy. Rocco slammed his brawny torso against the bed and screamed.
“Quit pushing me out, fuckboy.”
"Please, don’t—" Rocco groaned. “It hurts.”
Nash picked up his pace. Rocco squawked and squirmed. Nash rode Rocco’s tight asshole hard. Rocco squealed. Nash drove his boner deep inside Rocco. Rocco screeched and clenched his fingers and toes. Nash tugged out and gored Rocco again. Rocco screamed even louder. Nash rammed his dick inside Rocco several more times before collapsing on top of the sobbing fuckboy.
After a moment, Nash pulled his shit-flecked dick out of the devastated hunk of beefcake and washed up in the bathroom.
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