Chapter 3
James John—Jimmy to only a few friends, and Big John to the ladies—was having a particularly hot wet dream. His mother and his uncle could see that immediately as they quietly entered his playroom and found him asleep on the leather couch.
"Oh, look, Abby," Elmer whispered excitedly. "I wonder what he's thinking about!"
"Shush!" his sister commanded sternly. "Just watch and enjoy."
James was asleep on the couch in nothing except his leather jockey shorts. Even in a state of non-erection, his cock was abnormally large, so much so that in his younger days when he had not worn underpants, people of all ages used to stop dead in their tracks at the sight of his large tool stuffed into his jeans. The leather jockey shorts at least contained the outline of the long, straight tool, but even then the mere mass of his basket still elicited gulps and sighs from almost everyone he met.
James was a big man all around. Six-foot-two, 180 pounds, wide muscular chest, strapping thighs—a true stud from the word go, even before he dropped his pants. His mother, a petite five-foot-four, often wondered to herself how she produced such a marvel, particularly out of a father like that rich, prissy Alexander-Jones, whom she mercifully had buried shortly after James was born.
Abigail and Elmer sat down to watch as James' fantasy began to grow hotter and hotter. His muscles began to twitch and strain, and an almost evil grin spread across his sleeping face. His lips moved in harsh, inaudible commands, and his sleeping fist began to lash out into the air in front of him on the leather couch.
In one convulsive motion, James suddenly ripped the leather jockey shorts from his pelvis, tearing them to shreds with both of his powerful hands. His manhood stood erect and trembling, its tip a reddish-purple monster with a drop of gleaming gism on its very tip, like a diamond on a giant toadstool.
At times like this, Abigail had always wanted to whip out a ruler and measure James's cock. It seemed a full fourteen or fifteen inches long from where she sat, and a sewing tape would surely have revealed its circumference to be another six inches at least, particularly that bulbous tip. Once more she regretted having the boy circumcised, wishing she could see a red foreskin being pulled back and forth over this giant cap.
But today James didn't touch himself at all. His cock kept thrusting into mid-air and his lips spat out harsher and harsher silent commands. Reaching down beside the couch, James grasped a large black leather dildo, fully as long and thick as his own tool.
Grasping the base of this hard black rubber artificial cock firmly in his left hand, he plunged it brutally up the anus of the imaginary partner he was so magnificently fucking and degrading.
"Oh, holy Christ," muttered Elmer, collapsing limply on the floor across the room and grabbing frantically at his own teeny weenie, lost amid folds of fat. Abigail was likewise excited, but she contented herself with quietly pinching the tips of her own tiny breasts, through the cotton dress and brassiere she still wore.
James himself was driving himself closer and closer towards his climax. No real skin has yet touched his thrusting, throbbing cock—only the cunt of his phantom partner—but the veins on his cock were pulsing and both Abigail and Elmer knew that any second he would erupt.
Suddenly James hips bucked back into the leather couch for one final plunge, a thrust so hard that had his phantom partner been real it surely would have torn through her womb and out into her internal organs. For the first time James let loose an audible cry, a shriek that filled the whole 15-room house and rang from the rafters. Elmer hurried to make himself come, too, and did so just as the first spurts of thick white come came gushing out of the end of the bumping, gasping purple-red cock of the man on the bed.
Abigail's own soft moans grew with the spurts, as the semen poured and poured from the end of her son's cock. "Oh, yes," she whispered. "Do it, baby. Do it for your old mother. Shoot that come. Fuck the air, fuck time and space, fuck the whole world. Shoot that come all over the room."
The come lay in large pools on the floor all around the bed. Some spurts had carried as far as eight feet, right next to the chair where Abigail still sat.
Elmer was closer when the volcano began to erupt and had caught two volleys full in his face. He now lay whimpering on the floor at the foot of his nephew's spent body.
James had once more fallen into a deep sleep, a strange, sinister smile on his face. His still sticky cock lay on his left thigh, still not quite limp but no longer moving, trembling, leaping, spurting as before.
"Well, I guess it's finished," Abigail said softly. "Get the pail, Elmer, and clean up this mess."
Even in mid-afternoon, the Crimpton-John chalet was dark and gloomy. It was on the other side of the mountain (the "Wrong" side of the mountain, as James was fond of telling his conquests when he brought them there) from the ski resort, and while the resort and slopes were specially situated so as to catch every ray of available sunlight in morning or afternoon, the Black Chalet had exactly the opposite atmosphere and never really had much sunlight at all, except for about an hour at high noon.
But darkness suited the Chalet and its residents, who had built it nine years before. After her rich husband's sudden and somewhat mysterious death when their son was only eight months old, Abigail Crimpton-Jones had travelled extensively with her young son for the next fifteen years-to Europe first, then Asia and South America and finally Africa. James had reached full sexual maturity at about the age of eleven, and about that time Abigail realized that the sexual fulfillment she herself had always sought but had never found was to come through this young strapping stud. At first she paired him up with boys, especially those tall strapping studs from Berlin and Munich that she had so often drooled over (figuratively, of course) herself. It was through these young blond Adonises that James first got a taste for leather, for bondage and discipline, for rough stuff and water sports. But only once did James himself play the slave-that was enough for him and for Abigail too, although, the master was, indeed, probably the handsomest and most masculine man Abigail had ever seen, other than her own" son-god. But after that, James was on top of every situation. For a couple of more years he delighted in going after the most masculine men he could find and beating them into submission. Then he tired of that, and began to explore women-the more beautiful and haughty the better—an obsession which had only grown stronger (and, Abigail smiled to herself, kinkier) over the years.
Abigail's own sexual gratification had grown even more intense after James switched from men to women, though she found that this surprised even her. She, too, had tired of the superhero macho types after a while, and she, too, became obsessed with James's fascination with conquering the Ivory Tower Bitches, the Princesses of every ethnic group, the goody-goodies that she herself had never been and had always resented. More than anything she hated the religious bitches, the types her own father, the twisted old pervert revivalist preacher, had tried to force Abigail herself to be.
Never once did Abigail Crimpton-Jones herself ever partake of the sexual communion that she set up for her son. She didn't touch, didn't participate, didn't do anything other than watch. And when her slightly retarded brother Elmer (more warped than even Abigail herself by their father's rabid religious fanaticism) came to live with them, Abigail was absolutely insistent that he never really enter in in any way on those orgies either. He could watch, from a distance, and when James was asleep alone, he could even move in close for the climax to try and catch a shot or two of come, but he must never ever touch or actively participate in anything that was going on.
The Chalet was James's own idea. After growing up on the road, and fucking his way around the world for the last five years of his life, the boy one day shocked his mother by announcing that he thought it was time for them to settle down. Seeing how shocked she looked, he hastened to explain that by settling down, he didn't mean that he was going to slow down sexually. He simply wanted to set up his own base of operation, where he could function even better. And could, he insisted with an evil grin, be "in control of the situation" even more.
After long discussion, they decided upon the Chalet. It was near a resort where lots of rich, idle, beautiful women could be found. And it was incredibly private, something which was becoming more and more important to their operation. On more than one occasion recently, the police had burst in on their parties right at the moment of climax, and a couple of less-than willing partners had even tried to have the young stud and his mother thrown in jail.
Once things got even more serious than that. One cold young Farrah-Fawcett type bitch had actually tried to have James and his mother arrested. The case got all the way to the state supreme court before Abigail's money talked, and even then, the fact that the press got a hold of the story was more than a little embarrassing. A close call like that definitely gives one pause, even in the leather jet set.
So privacy definitely had its appeal, and when Abigail learned that Elmer was about to be released from yet another high-toned private institution where it seemed even her dead husband's money couldn't keep him, the idea of having a home at last became more and more desirable.
James and she had designed the entire layout themselves and had supervised the workmen every step of the way. The plans for the Chalet had been carefully guarded, and the workmen themselves had all been leather-men imported all the way from New York City. Secrecy was still of paramount importance, especially in an out-of-the-way, small Tennessee mountain community like this.
So far there had been no trouble, even after the wild orgy Abigail and James threw for the workmen after the house and grounds were finally completed. Their one rule was to avoid the locals, at all costs, and to focus exclusively on visitors to the ski resort, and so far it had not backfired. But some of the locals were beginning to get exceedingly curious.
What went on on the other side of the mountain might yet change every life in that small, sleepy Tennessee mountain town.
"Good morning," James beamed at his mother as he walked from the kitchen with a smoking pot of black coffee in his strong tanned hands. "How's tricks?"
Abigail smiled her thin, wan smile. This was a daily ritual with them, and ritual was very important to James. No matter what hour of the day he arose and made that same black brew, he always said good morning and asked her how tricks were. As if she knew.
"Well," Abigail began, eager to tell her boy her news.
"Yes?" he shot back, his eyebrows arching slightly in expectation. "What have you got for me today?"
"Cute little redhead with a nice set of knockers," piped up Uncle Elmer. "Cold as ice and hot as fire. He he he!"
"Elmer, behave yourself!" his sister commanded pertly, somewhat irritated that he had beat her to the announcement. "We did spot a couple of nice-looking types at the train station at noon. Red-head, very haughty, mean-looking. With a chubby little blonde, a bit on the too stacked side, if you know what I mean. What might interest you more is that the red-head was making the blonde carry her bags."
James flashing blue eyes widened with renewed interest. "A real high-horse bitch, huh?"
His mother smiled knowingly. "Well, my dear, you know. I can't be absolutely positive. But it did look that way." She paused, and then could contain herself no longer. "There's something else, too." Another pregnant pause. "Gert Goodbody called. While you were asleep. Said that a couple of tourists came into the coffee shop this morning and bitched her up one side of the wall and down the other. And stomped out in a huff. It just has to be that same red-headed bitch. No one else came in on that train. No one at all."
James leaned back in his chair and let out a long, hearty laugh. "Ah, Mama, you've done it again. What would I do without you?" A long tanned arm reached across the table and tweaked Abigail's cheek. She blushed. She loved it when he was affectionate, but she never let herself show it.
"You'd better hurry up," she insisted, still blushing. "Today of all days, you wouldn't want to be late to work."
With another laugh her handsome son bounded up the stairs to put himself together for the evening.
James John's private bathroom was a special fantasyland into which no one—not his women-slaves, not even his mother—was ever allowed to enter. It was not unlike his nearby playroom, but here the whips and chains were for his own pleasure, wild fantasies which were his alone and which required no partner, either human or phantasmagorical.
James's narcissism knew no bounds, but, as he was fond of telling himself, at least it was a healthy narcissism and perfectly well-founded.
Every inch of the bathroom was covered with mirrors, even the bathtub and toilet and sink, by means of plexiglass mirrored tiles. This afternoon, as usual, James let himself go fully into a ritualistic unrobing, dropping his clothes garment by garment and surveying his flesh in the surrounding mirrors.
Though he had never worked out in gyms, James had the kind of perfect body that men and women alike go weak in the knees over, either out of envy or lust. It was a natural body, a perfectly proportioned body, a body that one can only be born with and can never acquire by such artificial means as weight-lifting or other exercises. And just as it was a natural body, it was also a sexual body—a body in which every inch of muscle seemed to vibrate with sexual prowess. Here was a magnificent specimen, truly, a perfect animal that was more than anything a sexual animal.
James usually spent from fifteen minutes to an hour caressing his own body, running his strong hands over his skin, stroking his curly blond hair, which was lighter than his pubic hair, flexing his biceps, then slowly, ever so slowly, toying with his own sensitive nipples and the equally sensitive areas around his own anus. Only at the very end of all this did his fingers move to his by now throbbing cock and balls, softly caressing his prostrate, moving teasingly out, out toward the throbbing tip of his huge, erect cock.
"Beautiful, baby," he whispered huskily to himself. "So fucking beautiful. What a cock, baby. What a beautiful fucking cock."
At this point, James usually reached behind him for the long leather whip which he kept hanging from the wall. Grasping the whip firmly in his right hand, he would play the lash over the excited head and length of his cock—softly, softly, never really roughly, just so that the cold taste of the hard black leather rippled over the skin of his throbbing tool.
"Oh, eat that cock, baby," he moaned. "Suck it, sugar. Take it in real deep. Eat it all. Get down on it, baby. Down, down, down!"
By this time, he was flicking the whip faster around his bobbing rod, letting the very tip of the cold black snake flick into the firming flesh of his balls.
"Holy shit, baby! Get down on it! Get! Down! On! It! Ahh, ahh! AHHHHHH!"
Then just as the point of explosion, James would whip the lash away from his cock and balls altogether, throw the whole whip into the air and catch it about six inches from the handle in his left hand.
Still trembling from his almost climax, James would brace himself for the shock of the hard rubber whip-handle penetrating his asshole, thrusting coldly, brutally into his bunghole.
"Yes, yes, yes!" he would scream in agony, hot tears running down his cheeks and falling onto the tip of his convulsing cock, spewing forth wave after wave of hot, sticky come onto the floor below.
"Woweee," James exhaled, smiling at himself in the mirrors as he let the whip-handle slip out of his tender buns and fall to the come-covered floor. "Well, fella," he winked at himself in the mirror. "I guess it's time to brush your teeth."