The Hampton Road Club: Hesitant Heart Part 1

Hesitant Heart.

The Hampton Road Club.

Morticia Knight.

Sam is a naive young man who arrives in Hollywood to escape his brutal father. When the older, sophisticated Aaron rescues him, Sam discovers what it means to fully surrender himself to another.

Eighteen year-old Sam Cunningham is used to living with lots of secrets. He's had to hide his true nature his entire life or else incur the wrath of his strict and abusive father. When he's faced with a horrible ultimatum, he flees to Hollywood where he hopes he can escape the fate his father has planned for him.

Aaron Rubenstein is a wealthy and sophisticated man who loses himself in painting portraits of bound men to help stave off his loneliness and despair. Unable to find a lasting connection with anyone, he's had to resort to paying lovers not only for their affections, but to be allowed to indulge in his darker pa.s.sions. Aaron's only respite is his nights at the Hampton Road sadomasochism club where he's a respected Dominant.

Naive and inexperienced in the ways men can please one another, Sam takes a job at a bathhouse where he first glimpses a beautiful older man. Aaron notices the sweet towel boy watching him with interest every time he patronizes the Temple of Eros bathhouse. A traumatic incident for the innocent towel boy triggers Aaron's protective tendencies and he's compelled to rescue the gentle Sam from the clutches of the Temple's manager.

They embark on a journey together that teaches them both things about themselves that they never knew. As their bond deepens and Sam is trained for his first night at the Hampton Road Club, an unknown danger lurks. Will Sam's father find him and destroy both men's chance for true happiness together? Or will Aaron protect his boy and keep him for always?.

Dedication.

For those who didn't want to say goodbye...

Chapter One.

Aaron lightly stroked the soft skin of the a.s.s he had just marked with his belt. Angry red stripes covered the young man's taut b.u.t.tocks in a delicious pattern that Aaron had created by using the leather implement. He thanked the heavens that the newest style of men's trousers was such that the fas.h.i.+on accessory had become all the rage. Suspenders had been quite unwieldy for him to use successfully.

But then everything had taken a decidedly modern turn in the nineteen twenties, and the current year of nineteen twenty-five was no exception. There was even a fascinating tape that didn't need to be heated or moistened to make it sticky. It could be attached and ripped off at will. He smiled to himself at the uses he could make of such an item, especially on the areas of men's bodies that were sensitive and decorated with hair.

"Are you still comfortable?" He kept his voice soft and soothing as he gently caressed.

"Listen, mister, I dunno what your definition of comfortable is, but having some fellow beat my rear end with a belt ain't what I call enjoyable."

The man lay on his belly across the padded table, his arms folded under his head, his face turned to one side.

"Would you prefer that I stop?"

"Will I still get my money?"

Aaron winced. It was always the same. The knot in the pit of his stomach returned. If it wasn't for the club his good friend Saul had introduced him to when he'd first arrived in Los Angeles to stay the previous year, he would've gone completely mad. At least when he patronized the private establishment, the men were anxious for his beatings, his restraints. The rest of the time, he had to pay someone to submit to his demands.

"If the belt is too harsh, I can employ something different. But you would have to stay to receive the full payment we discussed. You did agree to be here with me under these circ.u.mstances for at least three hours, so I was not untruthful with you."

The man-Harry?-remained silent and still as if he was considering Aaron's words.

"Okay, mister. But my posterior is killing me. I'd be much obliged if you'd leave that alone."

"I can make it better. Pleasurable."

Aaron ghosted his fingers along Harry's crease then dipped into the s.p.a.ce where his a.s.s cheeks and the top of his thighs met. He pushed farther in, encouraging Harry's legs to open, hoping to be allowed access to his entrance, the tempting b.a.l.l.s and what he'd noted was an increasingly lengthening shaft. Harry flinched then abruptly rolled off the table, away from Aaron. He leapt to his feet.

"Don't you dare touch me like that, you deviant! I ain't no queer!"

Raising one eyebrow in query as he glanced down at Harry's stiffened d.i.c.k, he hardened as well. He'd had to pick up his evening's playmate off the streets in one of the seedier areas of town instead of at a pansy club the way he normally would have. He'd been too emotionally drained to go through the ritual of going to a speakeasy-dressing well, socializing with acquaintances. The dark moods that sometimes plagued him had a.s.sailed him that day with a vengeance.

So he'd settled for Harry instead and it seemed as if he'd made a mistake. Men who fancied themselves uninterested in other men could be such a challenge.

If only he would let me go a bit further, I could show him how wonderful it could be...

"I only meant to offer you some enjoyment. I wouldn't expect anything in return."

Harry bent to gather his clothing from the floor. "You're sick. Perverted. Your kind should be wiped off the face of the earth."

The words had served their purpose well enough. Aaron experienced the typical agony that they always inspired. But he'd become an expert at masking his hurt.

"Forgive me. Please stay and at least let me paint you. You have a lovely form. I'll remain on the other side of the room. I won't touch you at all. I'll even pay you the full amount we agreed upon."

There was a grunting noise and Harry quickly put on his trousers over the one piece underwear set he'd already hurriedly tugged on. He slipped the still attached suspenders over the s.h.i.+rt he'd finished b.u.t.toning up, not even bothering to tuck it in.

"I ain't staying, no matter what. You make me sick."

Sighing heavily, Aaron walked over to the tall cherry wood secretary. He lowered the closed writing surface then reached into one of the compartments to remove some bills. As he advanced toward Harry, the man jumped back.

"Please. Take it."

Aaron held out the three ten dollar bills. Harry moistened his lips as he gazed at them then glanced up at Aaron with narrowed eyes.

"What's the rub?"

"There is none. Please take it and leave."

He tossed the money down, no longer wis.h.i.+ng to interact with the man at all. Sauntering over to his black and gold etched gla.s.s bar cart, he didn't take the trouble to stop and get dressed. If temperature and societal convention didn't dictate his need to wear clothing, he would never even bother at all.

As he poured himself a brandy, he heard the tell-tale sounds of his previously desired companion for the evening preparing to leave. The door slammed and as soon as he turned, he saw that the bills he'd thrown on the ground had been retrieved. After taking a healthy swallow of the amber liquid in his gla.s.s, he allowed one tear to roll down his cheek, but that would be the only one. Weak men and the fairer s.e.x gave in to the emotions of their sufferings. Aaron saved his soft feelings for the art he created-whether it was with paint on a cotton canvas or on the delectable canvas of flesh. For years he'd also saved it for love, but since he'd reached the age of thirty five, he'd allowed himself to let go of that ridiculous notion.

Harry had been right. He was a deviant. It had been pointed out to him enough times in his life that he knew it to be a fact. So he would continue to carry on as best as he could in his loneliness. He could release his internal agony through his paintings and practice his perversions with like-minded people. The Hampton Road Club called to him stronger than ever. It had become a safe haven.

It wasn't easy working at the bathhouse, but Sam didn't mind it at all. When he'd first arrived in Hollywood from San Francisco just a couple of months before, he'd been very lucky to find employment so quickly. The motorist he'd hitched a ride with had introduced him to the manager of the private men's establishment after unsuccessfully attempting to convince Sam to live with him as his lover.

Louis had seemed like a nice enough fellow, but Sam would never just go with someone because they would take care of him. He wanted real, true love. When he'd explained that to Louis, he'd laughed heartily and tousled Sam's hair. "You are so delightful, darling Sam. I envy the lucky man who steals your heart."

At first Sam had thought it was good fortune that the man who had given him a ride knew all about attractions to other men, but Louis had explained about those desires in the same way he'd explained several other things to him on their long drive. He'd said that there were men who looked for young runaways or others in desperate circ.u.mstances and that they didn't care whether those fellows liked men or not. They would give them money or force them to do things that they didn't want to do-sometimes even hurting them real bad.

Sam had become very scared, wondering if Louis wanted to hurt him too, but Louis had rea.s.sured him that he was only trying to warn him to be careful. After he'd failed to convince Sam to stay with him, he'd insisted on helping him find work, so that Sam didn't end up on the streets. The other thing he'd warned Sam about was how depraved Hollywood was and that he would always have to be on the lookout for those who would use him for their own gain.

He loved his job most of the time, the pay was very good and it was okay to like men there. Recently, he'd come to love it even more. He was hopeful that sometime during the day he would get to see the handsome dark-haired man who was more beautiful than any he'd ever seen before. He was older, sophisticated and had soulful brown eyes. It made his stomach squishy whenever the man spoke to him in his gentle, deep-timbered voice.

Sam s.h.i.+vered at the mere thought of the nude form of his fantasy man. When he was submerged in water, Sam wasn't able to get a clear glimpse of his enticing member. But when he reclined on the large marble ledge in the steam room, his dream lover would be brazenly on display. Sometimes his legs would be relaxed and open and one time, the man's staff had even been partially erect. Sam had needed to bite his lips to keep from making a wanton sound and had worried that he might have been caught staring.

Sam had never seen the dark-haired man fully aroused, but it was what he wanted more than anything. He never thought beyond that one fantasy because he had no real idea what men who liked each other did to make one another feel good. Louis had vaguely told him about a few activities, but Sam wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. He hadn't really understood what Louis had been talking about. Some of the things sounded too weird. Sam would have been content to simply abuse himself as he watched the beautiful man do the same. He'd made himself come to that image countless times since he'd first seen him at the bathhouse.

In the porcelain tiled locker room of the Temple of Eros, Sam changed out of his street clothes and into his work outfit. It wasn't much of an ensemble, consisting only of a short white toga that was held up with one drape of fabric. His private parts were encased in a sling-like piece of material so that when he bent over to place the heated stones in the water for steam or to gather up the dirty towels, his p.e.n.i.s wouldn't hang down. But the strip of cloth wasn't very wide and it would crawl between his b.u.t.t cheeks, wedging him uncomfortably and quite likely providing the bathhouse members with a bit of a show.

The manager encouraged such behavior, since the boys who enticed men to give them money had to share it with the bathhouse. Even though Sam was always asked to go into one of the private rooms, he never said yes. It was no different than if he'd chosen to live with Louis-he wasn't going to do something that personal unless he was in love-or at the least, very much in like.

Despite the fact that Sam really enjoyed his job, he still worried about things. What if the beautiful man he longed for was the lover of the older silver-haired gentleman whom he'd seen him with on several occasions? He'd also noticed that same older man with other patrons there. Did that mean that the older man wasn't being true to the beautiful one? It wasn't right. Sam would always stay true to him if he ever had the chance for them to be together.

There were other matters to worry about though, other problems that could be real trouble for him. If he never went with the men for money, the manager might make him leave his job-that's what some of the other boys had said. He had to have his job. He wouldn't know how to go about getting another one. He also wasn't a hundred percent certain that he was safe in Hollywood. It was a bit too close to San Francisco. He'd only meant to stay long enough to make some money then keep on going, but once he'd seen the beautiful man, he hadn't been able to make himself leave.

"Hey, Smith. I think your boyfriend is here. Too bad you wouldn't know what to do with him even if he ever took a s.h.i.+ne to you. I wouldn't worry too much though. I doubt he wants a skinny nothing. I bet your c.o.c.k is the skinniest thing of all."

Sam looked up from where he'd been tying the strings of his Romanesque sandals up his calves. He refused to respond to David, one of the other towel boys. Everything he'd ever said to Sam hadn't been very nice and David also made fun of him a lot. It was though he could sense Sam's innocence and wanted to stamp it into the ground. Sam also didn't care for the bad words he used. There were even some he'd never heard of before and he wasn't entirely sure what they were supposed to mean.

David claimed he wasn't a h.o.m.os.e.xual and only went to the private rooms with men because of the money. Sam thought that was even worse than taking it when you already liked men anyway. It seemed twice as dishonest. But he supposed that made David think he was an expert about everything that men did together and what their private parts were like. Sam wasn't too sure why it was so important for men to have a big organ. What difference did it make? The more he considered David's behavior, the more Sam was glad he hadn't used his real last name working at the Temple of Eros. He was sure no one there could be trusted.

Except for the beautiful man. He's good. I can tell.

Sam had been raised to be polite, but he'd never had to deal with such awful people as the ones he'd encountered since he'd been in Los Angeles. So he chose to ignore the sniping of his co-worker, even if it was rather rude. Gathering his street clothes then placing them in his locker, Sam was startled when David shoved him against the wooden doors of the compartments. David was a little taller than Sam's five-and-a-half feet and built huskier. He glowered, standing within inches of Sam in a threatening stance, feet apart, hands braced against the lockers on either side of Sam's head.

"You sure like to act all high and mighty, Smith. What are you hiding? Huh?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips together, refusing to let David know he was afraid. He hated bullies. His father was a first cla.s.s bully and David had no right to treat him like that. Sam had never even been a little bit mean to him.

"Hey, you lazy, useless boys! What's going on in here?"

Bob La.r.s.en, the manager, stormed into the room and grabbed David by the collar of his s.h.i.+rt, yanking him back as he did. David howled in protest.

"Well? I asked you both a question."

His boss had barked out the words, his face reddening, his lips twisted in a menacing snarl.

"Sorry, sir." David's tone had miraculously changed into one of sweetness and compliance. "I should have come to you first, but Smith had me so upset by what he said, I couldn't help myself."

"What? I never-"

"Quiet!" Bob loosened his hold on David. "What'd he say?"

David glanced at him sideways and Sam didn't miss the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

"Sam was telling me how he was too good to go with the men to the private rooms and that if he ever did, he would keep all the money anyway."

"He's lying, Mr La.r.s.en. I never said-"

A stinging slap across his face knocked his head to the side. He covered his injured cheek with one hand, refusing to give in to the urge to cry. It had been a while since he'd been hit in the face and after leaving home, he'd hoped it would never happen again. He chanced a peek at Mr La.r.s.en.

"Don't you sa.s.s me, you little street urchin," Mr La.r.s.en growled. "Now listen, Smith, that fella who's been eyeing you is in the main steam room with Saul Liebowitz, the regular. If you don't get him to take you to one of the private rooms today, I don't ever want to see you in here again. And since you don't want your pride hurt by taking money to let him f.u.c.k you, for your first time you can give the whole ten bucks to me. Got it?"

Sam's eyes went wide. He was terrified. Confused. How could the beautiful man f.u.c.k him? It reminded him of some of the things Louis had told him on the ride down the coast that had also been confusing. He knew what that word meant. It was how his cousin Andrew had gotten the neighbor girl Molly pregnant when they were both only sixteen. They'd had what his father had said was a 'shotgun wedding'. Sam didn't remember seeing any shotguns when they got married, so he figured his father must have been mistaken. The memory was upsetting to him for another reason, but he didn't have time to worry about it right then. He had other more immediate problems.

Mr La.r.s.en grabbed him roughly by his upper arm and dragged him toward the exit of the changing area.

"Here's some fresh towels. Now get in there and do your G.o.dd.a.m.ned job."

His legs shook so much, he wasn't sure he could walk on them. He gulped in air, his breath coming in short pants as he carried the neatly folded towels in front of him as if they were a sacrificial offering. He'd thought he'd loved his job, but not anymore. The terror in him was so sharp that any of the good parts of it had been wiped away.

As he approached the closed door of the room that contained the man he'd fantasized would want him for more than s.e.x, he caught a sob in his throat. He would take whatever wages he still had and leave town first thing. Louis had been right. Hollywood was a very bad place. Men didn't love one another because they wanted to love. They only did it for the right price.

He b.u.mped the latch down with his elbow, a practiced move that he'd used since his first day working at the bathhouse. Trembling, he crept inside, his eyes cast down. His cheeks flushed from within and not from the high temperature. The heat was oppressive. He was certain it was no different than usual, but Sam couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"Ah, splendid. Our favorite towel boy is here."

Without looking, Sam recognized the voice of the older man. Saul? That's what Mr La.r.s.en had said.

"That he is. Young man, would you bring us some fresh towels please?"

"S-sure."

He didn't feel right. He wasn't sure if it was the steam, the heat, his nerves or everything all mixed up together. Even though his feet seemed as if they were made of giant rocks, Sam forced himself to go in the direction of the two men, go toward the strong gentle voice of the man he was supposed to give himself to.

With his gaze still cast down, the first thing he saw was the feet of the beautiful man. There was a fine layer of hair covering the top of them, dark and alluring against the man's ivory skin. He tracked the path of the hair up the long legs that were lean, yet sculpted. Sam inhaled sharply at the sight of his full sac, the magnificent view of his manhood.

It was then that he raised his eyes and locked them for the first time with the man of his fantasies. There was a kindness in his expression, the barest hint of a smile. Sam swayed. Right as the room fell away, he saw the look on the man's face change to one of fear.

Chapter Two.

Aaron cradled the sweet, unconscious boy in his arms. The young man had been eyeing him rather blatantly from the moment Aaron had first noticed him working at the bathhouse. He seemed so innocent, yet it wasn't possible being that he worked in such an establishment. Towels were never the main reason the patrons of the Temple of Eros availed themselves of the services of the fetching boys who were employed there. Unfortunately, the small lad was likely no different than the others who worked at the barely veiled queer brothel. Instead, he was gifted with the appearance of being untouched and also seemingly possessed of the incredible ability to act as if he were completely pure.

Perhaps I should have Saul introduce him to his good friend, Vincent, the studio fellow.

A moan escaped the lips of the boy as he stirred in Aaron's arms, yet he didn't awake.

Such a pretty little thing. Awful the way someone so young has already been corrupted.