An underground club catering to the perversions of its high-end clientele is the setting for Amalaric's latest brutally hot work!

party-animal-1Party Animals - Page 1
by Amalaric

Several years ago, while travelling in an out of the way kind of place, I met a couple in a restaurant overlooking the sea and was told a very strange story. It all happened by coincidence, if you believe in that sort of thing, as a friend and I- sleazing around some islands in the Med- took a table in a crowded restaurant after a delightful day on rented motorcycles and, rapt in laughing conversation, were surprised but not really upset, at a sudden interruption. The woman at the next table- not three feet away- after staring intently for a minute or two, blurted, ‘I couldn’t help but overhear…’ and, for the life of me, I can’t remember what she may have overheard or whether it was all that interesting or important or maybe just a gambit to butt in on the conversation of a couple of good looking (yeah, I know- I should be more modest) guys…but all of a sudden we became a foursome.

The woman, though she was white, said she had been raised somewhere in Africa and I had no reason to doubt her, though her ‘mid-Atlantic’ accent grated on my nerves like fingernails raked across the proverbial blackboard. She was with her partner, or whatever; a soft spoken guy in his mid-thirties named Brent. He was of American origin but, really, of indeterminate nationality as only royalty and the upper-echelon super-rich at the helms of multi-nationals can claim to be. He, of course, belonged to the latter and quietly identified himself as a banker. Now, I know what you’re thinking- right, anyone can claim to be a super-rich banker…and you are correct; anyone can. It may have been a put on, but my instincts tell me otherwise. Seems he had been involved in some kind of financial trouble on the Continent (I checked it out when I returned to work and, sure enough, it had been a whopper of a scandal and Brent had made the papers). Upshot was, he and his lady friend needed a break. They had helicoptered onto the remote, but trendy, holiday destination several days before and would depart the same way over the weekend. One thing led to another and we ended up having drinks in some up-scale bar after dinner, and then some more at their hotel, which caused my buddy and me to trade fast, thoroughly amazed, glances- a suite of rooms furnished with antiques, overlooking the sea in the most expensive hotel on the island. Noticing our reaction, Brent laughed and said the digs were a little over-priced at 3000.00 euro a night. We, of course, nodded sagely, neglecting to mention the 60.00 euro pensione on the other side of the island where we were more or less camped with our backpacks…

Brent turned out to be an interesting guy. When he found out what I did for a living he zeroed right in; professing a profound sense of boredom with the wasteful and meaningless fodder that made up his life. He was tired, he said, of collecting sports cars and, later, French chateaux and hungered instead to discuss weighty philosophical propositions, historical conundrums reverberating into the present…you know…’things that mattered’. I was happy to indulge, suffused with the warm glow of his very expensive whisky and the thrill of an interesting adventure unfolding. It was later in the evening- as we all basked in that inimitable boozy glow- surrounded by the mellow diffused light thrown from antique stained glass lamp shades, and feeling as if we had all known one another for a lifetime or more…that Brent pulled me aside, and for reasons I am (understandably) uncertain of, told me a harrowing tale of life in a kind of parallel universe, the world of the super-rich, where any desire may, and is expected to be, fulfilled.

‘See, I know of this place in New York City…’ he trailed off, suddenly shy or maybe nervous. ‘Yeah?’ I prompted, interested more in his odd tone than in the prosaic remark. ‘I’ve been there a few times- big, noisy, expensive…but worth a visit, I guess.’ Brent cleared his throat, glanced over at his girl friend in rapt conversation with my buddy, and continued, ‘I doubt if you’ve been to the place I’m thinking of, Ric…I mean, no offense, but you couldn’t afford it and, if that was the case, you wouldn’t even know of its existence.’ Now clearly intrigued, I nodded, signalling my acceptance of his observation and willingness to hear whatever tale he chose to tell. The banker poured himself another drink and took a long swallow. ‘Yeah, I know of this place in New York City…even been there a few times (was he blushing???!) where, if you have more cash than can reasonably be counted, you can rent or even buy…ah…party animals.’ ‘What?’ I smiled, ‘You mean party favours…like, maybe, diamond encrusted napkin rings, a handful of throw away Rolex watches, or a mink covered toilet seat…right?’ He shook his head, not even cracking a smile. ‘No, you heard me correctly- party animals; a euphemism for guys you rent or purchase…for amusement, for entertainment at certain kinds of events, gatherings, or just for the hell of it and in private.’ ‘Oh sure, I get it- like an…escort?’ Now slightly nervous myself, I wondered what kind of person Brent thought I was to start in on a load of sleazy shit like that! ‘They rent out some good looking babes as well?’ It was meant to be a light hearted remark, but he just stared at me intently and whispered, ‘This place only caters…ummm…males, and no, they aren’t escorts.’ ‘Caters? You make it sound like upscale fast food…’ He finally nodded an affirmative, ‘Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way.’


I waited, suddenly serious and oddly sober, for his story to continue. ‘See, Ric, I was invited by a friend…wouldn’t have gone there otherwise, wouldn’t have fucking found out about the place…’ Was it my imagination, or did Brent’s eyes subtly shift as if caught in a half-truth? ‘Strange thing was, considering everything, the joint was in one of the busiest parts of town, fronted as a night club; hell, it WAS a night club…partly. My friend and a couple of other guys were all pretty smashed, hard partiers but bored- been there done that- and looking for some different kind of action…like I’ve been telling you, right?’ I nodded. ‘We were taken down some stairs, around some corners, rang a few buzzers, ID’s flashed, and a big door finally swung open. Inside was like a different world; understated, gently illuminated, obsequious people in thousand dollar suits…you know?’ I didn’t, but made a decent pretence. ‘They took us into a large, well appointed room where we sat on armchairs that, I swear, were sensuous in their own right- sleek green leather that you literally melted into- and looked up at a wall peppered with ten or twelve sixty inch, high res, fully digitized television screens. Each was turned on, of course, and, at first, each seemed to be broadcasting an aspect of the same scenario. Our host enigmatically referred to the whole tableau as the ‘lobster tank’. I arched an eyebrow, nonplussed. ‘Yeah, the lobster tank.’ Brent was now sweating profusely and I was mesmerized by a clear bead of perspiration delicately traversing his chiselled jaw. ‘Each camera- must have been state of the art CCTV- was trained on a large cell, and each of these was packed with…young guys. Yeah. Nothing else…well, ok, toilets, like some kind of Fed prison outfit or something, but the guys were just doing their thing; sitting on benches or the floor, maybe prone on one of the bunks…and they were all…ah…good looking, somewhere I’d say, between the ages of 19 and 30 at the outside.’ He paused and took another hit of whisky. ‘Each cell held maybe eight or ten men and they were all stripped to the waist- yeah, not a single one had his shirt on- most wore what you’d expect; khakis, canvas, sweats, or levis…but some were stripped down to their briefs or boxers and, oh, almost forgot; they were all barefoot; padding around the cells looking scared, or pissed off, or bored, but mainly just confused.’ ‘Why’d they call it the lobster tank?’ I asked. Finally, Brent cracked a slow smile, ‘See, it was kind of like those fish tanks in a swank restaurant, you know, where you size up your sea food- all fat and happy minding his own business- before making your choice and then, hey! Outta the aquarium and into the hot tub!’ ‘Fuck me!’ I gasped, ‘You don’t mean they snuffed them?’ Brent shrugged. ‘Who knows? They might have…but that wasn’t really the point.’

Totally hooked on the harrowing tale I urged my strange friend to continue. ‘We sat and watched the guys on the big screens for a while, commenting on this one or that one as the prisoners unknowingly paced and posed…but I wasn’t really sure of the point of it all. When drinks were served I collared one of the waiters and asked who the guys in the cells were and why they were locked up. He excused himself for a moment and soon returned with a portly gentleman who must have been one of the proprietors of the place. It was then that I learned to my amazement that each of the men pacing their cells had been picked up- ok, abducted- basically from all over the country after careful observation and evaluation of…ah…certain qualities. There were several young military guys, identifiable by their haircuts and, if they were wearing any, their trousers and dog tags. Others, I was assured, may have been just about any kind of guy you’d meet on the street; college students and back packers, a cute young doctor just out of med school who looked like he could already afford a personal trainer, young fathers, tanned construction workers or landscapers or whatever, buzz cut skater punks, maybe a surfer or two, pizza boys and office workers, a few cops and firemen…shit, the place was a regular human menagerie! One thing though, like I already said; every one of these dudes was clean cut, with ripped physiques, and handsome features, yeah, you guessed it- all part of the selection process.’

party-animals-3My mouth agape in stunned amazement, I simply willed him to go on. Brent uncapped another bottle of whisky and continued, ‘My friends had already been there a few times but they let the proprietor know that I was a …virgin. The dapper old prick sort of smirked, looked at me in a patronising way and remarked that maybe I would benefit from a demo. What the hell was that? All confused, but I have to admit also intrigued, I muttered something and we all left the room but not before my friend pointed toward  the screens and, making sure that a few of the imprisoned men were properly noted by the staff, remarked that we might consider a three day rental.

The exquisite blond waited passively…but, really, he didn’t have much of a choice. I guess it’s appropriate to say that he was tastefully, even artistically, displayed- buck naked upright with hands shackled behind his back, affording us an unobstructed view of his physique, and attached to a sturdy iron post, thus presumably immobilising him for casual observation and…er…examination. He had the cubicle all to himself- well, he did until we arrived- and I wondered if the black velvet curtain that served as a backdrop was intentional as the contrast between the sensuous, dusky colour of the hanging fabric and the pale perfection of the young stud’s perfectly smooth skin was really striking. I mean, Ric, the guy was a true blond- this was immediately obvious from the deep gold of his soft, curly pubes and glinting carpet of spun sunlight on his athletic legs and forearms- but his otherwise smooth skin was a wonderful subtle mosaic of fair blushing alabaster, moving sensuously from marble white to rose to the palest of golden tans. In other words, the guy was like a perfect canvas…untouched and unspoiled; ready and primed for some serious creative endeavour.  He looked pretty young- maybe somewhere between 19 and 22…something like that…probably a college student (once upon a time) and, if so, almost certainly into sports. How do I know that? Easy- the guy’s build just shrieked athlete. Though not over-developed, his broad shoulders, defined biceps and pecs and flat tapering abs all bore witness to many a hard workout, as did his muscular thighs and calves. The young jock’s cock and balls, framed by the patch of deep golden pubes, shyly pulsed; ripe testicles retracting and relaxing as if aware of all the exposure and attention and not at all sure what to make of it. We licked our collective lips, determined to clear up any doubts or misunderstandings…’


1 Comment

  1. scotts60143 - August 12, 2017, 9:05 pm

    Great begiining as always with a story by Amalaric! Looking forward to the next chapter for more details, and of course the manips are some of the best!

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