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Response by Reese Industries to the release of the Pandora Papers

 

PRESS RELEASE

 

 

CONTACT INFORMATION:

Reese Industries & The Reese Family Foundation

Angus Reese, the Earl of Glamorgan/CEO & President

029 2022 3207

reesea@reesecompanies.org

RELEASE DATE:

October 4, 2021

 

RESPONSE TO THE RELEASE OF THE PANDORA PAPERS

 

Dateline: Cardiff, Wales, UK — Reese Industries and The Reese Family Foundation strongly condemn the behaviours outlined in the Pandora Papers.  People of great wealth have an even greater responsibility to the wider society that supports their businesses and political endeavours.   Taxes are an investment in your nation’s future and are an expectation of all citizens.  Your business’s employment of citizenry is only helpful if those workers can access safe roads and can be certain competent medical services are readily available.  People hoarding resources that are well beyond what any man, family or legacy could need is avaricious in its purest form.

 

Reese Industries and the Reese Family will always be completely transparent, despite the fact that the company is privately owned.  We have nothing to hide.  Reese Industries will also continue to pay our fair share in taxes and generously support our charitable arm, The Reese Family Foundation.  No company or family monies are held in “off-shore accounts” and 43% of the land owned by the Reese family is used for community needs around Wales, such as neighbourhood playgrounds, youth football clubs, and senior centres, at no cost.

 

I challenge my fellow millionaires, billion- and trillionaires to commit to increasing their tax payments by 25% over the next year.  We can figure out what to do with the rest later.

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REMINDER - Torchwood Fanfiction and music from my biographer

 My biographer is a HUGE Torchwood fan and started writing via Torchwood fanfiction, specifically the relationship between Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones hoping to answer questions left open by the series.  These are enjoyable even if you have little knowledge or exposure to the original stories.  These are quick mmromances with lots of hot sex and a good amount of "ah shucks".   Yep, many of the stories have dogged edges they will give you a free example of her fabulous writing skills.

For access go to the FanFiction.net page and look for "HippyChick1964".

Also, the biographer is always reminding me to promote my Spotify playlist.  Here they are by story:

• Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts
• The Roswell Discrepancy: a human romance in three parts
• Deetz's blues, jazz, and classical playlist

A "lost" chapter

 I cut this out of "The Roswell Discrepancy" but I think it is still kinda cute:

I was helping him put on his dinner jacket.  “Are you sure you don’t wanna come with us, Deetz?” Angus Reese asked.

Standing behind him, just to his right, my hands lightly dropping the dinner jacket over his broad shoulders, just like my father, the valet to Angus’s dad, had showed me; one of the few things I tolerated my father teaching me about his vaulted profession – how to dress a man; undressing was something I already had down pat.  “No, those society functions are not my cup of tea,” I said while brushing imaginary lint off his arms and back – an excuse to touch him just a little longer.   “Those were always your friends.”  I put the brush down, looking for some other way to maintain the ruse that I was helping him dress, like what was going here was a throwback, a reflection of our old times playing at valet and Earl – as preparation for some future posting – like when Alfred prepared Batman to play Bruce Wayne.  Only Angus was only four years my senior and I was much more interested in him as a lover than my employer.

“Still, you would know some of the people there,” Angus said.  True – we grew up together on Morganwg just outside of Cardiff, the ancestral estate of the Glamorgan clan.  The males of my family were servants of some close capacity to the Earls of that land since the Boxer Rebellion, when Tison Reese and Jakob Mac Innes secured trade with China to fill the family’s coffers and Hong Kong to add another jewel to the Crown.  Because we were close in age, Angus and I were allowed to play until early adolescence when it was time for us to be groomed for our respective roles.  He went to Eton and I would have trained at one of the top butler schools then him at college had this not been the 21st Century and the dedication to service hadn’t degenerated into an overly romanticized component of a BBC television series.   

“Your hair tie is off-center,” I said to change the subject.  “If you’re going to have long hair, at least tie it properly,” I teased.  It was just another excuse to touch him.  He had taken to wearing it long and binding it like someone out of a Jane Austen novel – said it made him look dashing and dangerous, all at the same time.  I dislodged the shiny black ribbon, and his thick auburn strains fell effortlessly just past his shoulders.  I gathered a batch of it in my hand, for just a moment, combing it through my fingertips to release the echo of sandalwood conditioner lingering therein.  I had to brace myself, maintain the needed self-control to keep from rubbing the soft, silkiness against my cheek.

“You have a point,” he said, startling me out of my moment of fancy, “the ladies do like it when it’s tied up and when I take it down.”  He smiled at his reflection.  He had every reason to be slightly vain for he had grown from a cherub-face, cute kid into a hard-bodied, handsome statue – from an awkward teen living in his daddy’s shadow to a well-known playboy, minted in his own right.  He was, in every way, the leading man, with 5:30 pm shadow that looked like it came straight out of a casting call for Miami Vice.  One would have to see behind the lush lashes that draped casually over his eyes to glimpse the sweet, kind human underneath.  My clairsentience abilities told me that despite the long list of models, movie stars, heiresses, and titled whores decorating his arm in the tabloid photos, there was a longing for someone to bring out the emerald hue of his eyes.  “Still, I’d have more fun if you were there,” he said, pleading again.

“I’m sorry mate,” I replied, quickly retying his ponytail then turning him around to straighten his bow tie.  “This skinny body of mine looks silly in one of your monkey suits.”  I became frustrated and wondered (hoped?) he’d screwed this stuff up on purpose just to tease me.  We hadn’t seen each other in many years however my reputation for rather leisurely, unspeakable sexual exploits had to have reached him.  The world of the ridiculously rich and its hangers on was a small one and I had run into many of his Eton buddies while I lived in Thailand studying Mu Tay and they tasted the Lady Bois I’d just tossed off.  “Anyway, I’ve got a new biography of the Baal Shem Tov I want to finish tonight.”

“Argh!  More philosophy?”

“16th century Jewish mysticism actually.” I smiled at him noticing that he was smiling back and not mocking me; Angus was one of the few people who knew and respected my desire to join the rabbinate.  For just a moment, his eyes sparkled with encouragement and his lips, parted ever so slightly, made me wonder how his moustache would feel against my shaven face.

“By the way, mate,” he added, “you’re not scrawny.  You’ve got that Bruce Lee thing going.  You know, lean and tight all around.”

If only he knew.  I looked down to hide my blush – somehow around him I was just that young boy again, hanging on to a torch that got heavier with each passing season.  “Right.  You’d better get off or Linus will be asleep at the wheel.”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing his trench coat.  I started walking toward the door before he did but his hand on my shoulder stopped me.  Angus asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to come.  I feel sorta bad just leaving you here.  I mean, we haven’t seen one another is a while.  We should hang out together.”

I shook my head.  “You haven’t been home in a while.  I’ll be here for another week.  We’ll have plenty of time to catch up.”  I didn’t give him a chance to say anything more as I exited the room hastily.  I quickly made my way through a set of hidden back steps often used by servants to exit quietly from the master suits.  It was rumored that many of the Glamorgan earls and their valets were lovers.  Considering the lusty thoughts in my mind, such an escape route seemed appropriate.  When I got to my old room near the attic, I was ready to bust a nut and was dying for some sort of release.

I dropped my pants and left them atop of my shoes and got into the bed.  I grabbed at the lube on the nightstand at my left and squirted a glob on my hand, I imagined its warm creaminess was his fingers.  Which fantasy was I going to use this time?  Sometimes Angus would be fucking me, sometimes it was he fucking one of the mindless belles that kept throwing themselves at him.  “I didn’t want his money but forever would be nice,” I thought aloud as I ran my right hand slowly up and down my cock.  This was the third time since I’d been back that I found myself doing this and each time it less and less fulfilling.  My dick was hard but frankly unconvinced.  I thought of giving up when there was a knock and my door opened with Angus’s head peeped around.

“Oi!  Sorry Mate!” He said as his eyes lingered just a moment longer than proper.  “I thought you were reading.”

Embarrassed, I quickly got under the covers and tried wiping the goop on the sheet.  Faking a nonchalant stance, I responded, “No problem.  Was Linus already asleep down for the count?”  I sat up as if I was a child who’d just been tucked in and was waiting for his bedtime story.  “No need to hide.  I’m decent now.”

He came around the door and slowly entered the room, I noted an odd pallor on Angus’s face.  He definitely knew what I was doing and had to realize that it came quite close to our previous conversation; he was no fool.  So, did that red on his cheek mean he was just embarrassed or did he like what he saw?   

New video!

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Higher Society-Part 2

HIGHER SOCIETY – Part 2

a fanfiction based on George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story (1940) and the musical High Society (1956), both of which were based on the Broadway play, The Philadelphia Story (1939) by Philip Barry.  I don’t own the story, but I own the characters in this adaptation.

∞∞∞∞

Chapter Eight 

What really was important

Coming up close

Everything sounds like welcome home

Come home, and oh, by the way

·                “Coming Up Close”, as sung by Til Tuesday

http://www.ynyogaposes.com/yogalessons.html

Four and a half years ago…

Deetz rose at dawn, did a Tai Chi workout, and ate some oatmeal. Two days ago, Angus had ordered a truck and food from a broker in town.  It was delivered to the cottage - a four-passenger Ford F-250 loaded with nonperishable foodstuff from a prepper supply company called My Patriot Supply, and a box of miscellaneous tools.   A note was taped to the passenger side: I have to run into town for a couple of hours. Business. I should be back before 1 pm – Angus. Initially, Deetz wondered if Angus had changed his mind, chickened out. Even so, I can drive to Cousin Scarlett’s myself, he said as a self-distraction. Meanwhile, he concentrated on loading Sugar, focusing primarily on organizing the kitchen stuff and checking the satellite service. 

Ciara and family found him shortly afterwards on the caravan’s roof. “Wow, big brother! It’s brilliant! I didn’t know you were this handy.” 

Tom and she walked around the motorhome. Tom asked, “And you say we all could sleep comfortably? I believe it! This thing is huge.” 

A new story from Angus's Diary

Str8 Boy's Curiosity

March 27^th

Diary, you are a gift from my sister-in-law, Ciara.  I’ve never kept a diary however I am told that all the Earls do so.  I apologize for starting so late.  A lot is going on.

My name is Angus Reese.  I am Welsh, the 12th Earl of Glamorgan, a proud house, loyal subjects to the Crown since the late 1600s.  I am about to turn 30 which, along with my charm and good looks, as well, of course, as my money makes me one of the most eligible bachelors in Europe.  But, I’m about to marry a childhood friend.  And that childhood friend is male.

But, . . . when we reconnected, after our father’s deaths, I found spending time with him refreshing.  Business, at the level I play the game, is brutal – not the best atmosphere to nurture any sort of intimacy.  But with him, I could be myself – indulge in my silly, rather embarrassing eccentricities (there’s this addiction to fresh pretzels and obsession with exercise, for starters) and he didn’t blink, just smiled at me fondly.  And he listened, actually listened to my stupid complaints about a recently hired accountant and irritating hiccups in some 8-figure euro deal.  He was different too – not that scared boy, four years younger than me with a beast for a father.  I still want to protect him but in a different way.  I don’t know how I landed here.  It’s not like I’d been fucking blokes all along.  And I still like girls (as does he, by the way).  And the sex was weird, good but weird at first. 

He looks like Bruce Lee’s younger, angry brother – in other words, his countenance redefines “resting bitch face”.  While I was finishing Eton and he was back in Cardiff, I heard rumours that he was sexually assaulted by the junior rabbi of his congregation.  He calls the time afterwards ‘the wandering years’, much of which he says he doesn’t remember.  Because of it, he doesn’t drink now but likes smoking weed with me.  Therapy helped eventually too.  He’s still highly intense, like Socrates on steroids, and brutally honest, like your mum after a few.  But he smiles some now and even laughs now and then.  I’d love him even if he never smiled but I absolutely love it when I can make him laugh . . . or moan.

As they always say, ‘it started off innocently enough’.  If I am completely honest – I was just a bit curious.  I wondered if it was any different, snogging a man over a woman.  He said that’s sexist and heteronormative – whatever that means.  I think I met him halfway, at least a quarter way.  At that first kiss, I was doing all the receiving.  His lips were surprisingly full.  They stoked tiny sparks against my mouth, like a Roman candle at the village carnival.   I felt welcomed, invited in as if something magical was happening and I was at the centre of it.  When I kissed him again, a few hours later, I was a full participant.  It was like having a conversation with someone’s soul.  His cloak of invulnerability tossed aside, finding himself emotionally naked, he tried to push me off but I stood my ground.  Maybe I was standing up for our relationship (although I later abandon us twice).  He made me feel genuinely needed for something more than my title or my money.  And I’m one of those blokes who want, no I need to be needed – it’s just woven into my genetic material.  So, does that mean I’ve been wasting my time all these years with all these Sally’s I’ve fucked, and I was gay all along?

His tongue in my mouth got my dick’s attention but I tried to keep calm until well-after we made it to his bedroom.  We were at his sister’s cottage on my family’s estate.  The huge bay window off a winding creek let moonlight and bright stars bath the room in a soft bluish light.  Surround sound let Miles Davis and Mozart lent an air of sophistication to this passion play.  And weed gave me the courage to get in a bed naked, hard as a steel rod, with a man.   We kneeled in front of one another on the queen size bed, barely able to stop grinning and our eyes glued to our white-knuckle hands clinching at our knees.  I gave up and gave in – let out a FUCK before leaning forward.  His lips waited for me – he was thinking twice about what we were about to do, he later told me.   But I was going to feel those sparks again.  As I got close, his lips parted his tongue came forward against his teeth.  When our mouths touched and he brushed his tongue against mine, I learned the extent to which he wanted me.

When he took his lips away from mine, I shivered.  We got under the covers.  He encouraged me to take another hit off the vape pipe.  He was grooming me, prepping my body for his next onslaught.  He began kissing my cheek, pausing to smell my beard’s sandalwood conditioner (he later told me that the scent turns him on – I’ll never buy anything else) as he nudged his way to my neck and shoulder.  “Dyn hyfryd, a wnewch chi fy ngadael i mi os gwelwch yn dda? Dyn hyfryd, a wnewch chi adael i mi gyffwrdd â'ch calon? (Handsome man, will you let me please you?  Will you let me touch your heart?)” he murmured against the hungry goosebumps on my shoulder.  He wrapped his left leg around mine, his dick buried into my butt cheek.  The tension in his leg led me to believe he was trying to contain himself. 

I could have kissed all night but my dick was jealous and kept bothering my brain with questions like, can you imagine those lips on my head?  I wasn’t sure of the protocol; how do you ask a bloke to suck you off?  Luckily, this dude has some sort of psychic powers and a Druidic brand on his back to match that looked remarkably like a tree of life from the garden.  It’s complicated.  Let’s just say he read my mind.  And my cock was right.  He managed my big boy like a thoracic massage therapist – as if Linda Loveless had a much younger brother!  I’m an amateur linguist but that man’s mouth was speaking a language I’d never heard before.  I felt so powerful, so masculine but I think he later said that was pejorative as well.

Then he put his finger in my ass.  He was rather matter-of-fact about it.  Frankly, I have no idea how he got the digit so wet.  It didn’t hurt for too long and his tongue’s rhythmic circles about my head felt like warm chocolate over ice cream.  At first, he just held the finger there, let my walls get accustomed.  He said something about “showing how the ass is a different kinda cum.”   The idea was scary enticing.  So I relaxed my hole (Wasn’t it already relaxed, kinda?), as he instructed, and let him move that little finger around and around, in and out slightly, then deep with a slight vibration.  He was right; it was different . . . very, very different.

I lay there gobsmacked, with my eyes still stuck in the back of my head.  After my breathing settled, I was able to unglue one eyeball and saw him sitting up on his elbows looking at me eagerly just over my now semi-hard dick.  He sat up a bit higher to lick the sperm I squirted as a result of the ass stimulation.  When he was done, he smiled at his work then sat on his bum and looked at me like a dutiful servant.  It bothered me as if something was expected but I didn’t know what that duty was.  He misinterpreted my look and said that “You didn’t have to do anything you didn’t want to” as if my look translated to some type of buyer’s regret.  But that was just it – I wanted more and didn’t know what that was or what it meant.  He was frozen in fear and longing while I stared back with a big question mark over my head - was there some gay roadmap I missed during the sex ed class at school?  I think those psychic powers corrected his original assumption because he suddenly smiled at me and said something about it being okay and “it’s late anyway; let’s just get some rest.”  But he did have an ask behind that.  He asked to lay his head on my chest “for just a little while”. 

   I didn’t hear that request the way others would have.  He didn’t know then, even with his psychic talents, that I had spent 5 years in my early 20s in training with a dominatrix, one of the best in the BDSM universe.  Unfortunately, once I was ready to branch out on my own, my thinking spoiled by the sexual bubble I came from, I found out very quickly that the same madness that plagues the vanilla world exists in spades inside the world of the sexually flexible.   I knew that I had been bored with the partners I’d been with however until the moment he bashfully asked me that I didn’t realize just how lonely I had been feeling.  Could he be the sub I’ve been looking for?  I wanted, no . . . needed to settle down but I wanted it to be with someone who shared my predilections and wanted to grow together in them.   I moved over from the centre of the bed to make room for him. 

He laid his head initially just below my chin and hesitated before nuzzling farther down on my chest, just above my left nipple.  That’s when he let out such a sigh dripping with contentment.  Initially, I had my hands atop of my head but his actions left me with another decision – should I put my arm around him?  That’s the complimentary response when a lover laid on you, isn’t it?  I’d done this many times before with women I’d slept with – it felt almost obligatory.  I didn’t mean anything by it then but this would be making a statement.  Likely noticing my reticence, he asked if I regretted what happened.  I said no and that was the truth.  But it was also true that I was drowning in the implications of what just happened.  And it was also true that I was so excited, sexually curious, full of wonder about the possibilities that the room for regret was shrinking by the moment.  I took a leap of faith and put my arm around him and said something about “let’s see what happens” – I’d decided to lean into this like a project in a business deal.  And I am known for taking advantage of opportunities that others were blind to.  It was how I turned millions to billions. 

And it so happens, this has been the best business decision I ever made.

ALL TIED UP - bad audio but good try

ALL TIED UP - part 2

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the loud, gasping groan of a toe-curling, ‘little death” that starts in your soul then ripples through your body in all directions.  It was the cry of that toddler when she realizes her mother is gone.  This scream started however in a dark memory, a mental house of horror and dragged me into a pinpoint within a black hole.   Being bound makes me feel free.  But touching my asshole sent me running from a flashback of being held down and raped. 

We don’t use a safe word.  Angus believes that a good dom knows when something is too much, too intense or frightening for his sub.  So, when my screams overwhelmed the gag, he immediately stepped back and withdrew his finger probe.  He wiped his finger on a nearby paper towel then released me from the handcuffs.  He found my robe on the back of a dining chair then wrapped me like he was swaddling a baby.  He checked my face.  The singular tear making its way from my soul down my cheek startled him.  “Come sit down,” he said.  “Clearly you aren’t as ready for this as originally believed.”

He let me take the ball gag off myself but took it out of my hand and stashed it along with the other toys in the duffle as if it never made an appearance.  Angus escorted me to the couch, careful in his guidance for I was shaking, in a full-blown flashback.  He had seen me like this before - the first time being the night before our wedding.  I felt racket each time it happened.  Although I was suffering from daymares of a sexual assault during my early teens, I’ve been through enough therapy to know that the helplessness felt by someone watching it, particularly if they love you as he loves me, is also devastating.  I am pleased he didn’t apologize – very unbecoming of a dom.  But kept the role-play going, allowing me to keep my dignity.  “I wish to never to disappoint you, your Grace.”

He sat on the end of the couch and patted the seat next to him.  “It is my job to help you along this journey.  That there are bumps in the road is expected.”  He smiled slightly, doing a good job of managing his concern.  He thought a moment then seemed to have an idea.  He reached in the back of his jeans and pulled out one of his hair ties.  “Sit down and hold your hands in prayer position.”  Still shaking and feeling more than a bit dizzy, I started to kneel, but he caught me and pulled me on the couch.  “No, I just want you seated with your hands together but your fingers apart,” he corrected.   I complied.  He wrapped the clothe rubber band to bind my pointer fingers.

I looked at them then smiled at him weakly.  “Thank you, your Grace.”  It did feel good, like a small oasis in the desert.  I lay my head on his lap and he stroked my head.  “This is a setback.”

He sighed but said nothing initially.  For several months, we had been working toward him fucking me while I was bound.  To Angus, being able to do so would be a sign that the trauma no longer ruled me.  Such would mean that there was nothing between me and my true self, symbolized by blissful surrender to someone completely dedicated to me.  Doing so would not only be a sign of his trust in our relationship and him but in myself.  Last month, he had been able to slip two fingers inside my ass and I had a fairly satisfying orgasm.  He said it was “brilliant” and I looked “amazing”.   I know he’s looking forward to applying a stronger, larger tool.  “We didn’t’ meet last month, remember?  These things take consistent attention.  We have two weeks now.  I’m sure we can get back on track.”
“I don’t know why this is so important to me,” I whined like a child who didn’t get what he wanted for his birthday.  “It’s not like the sex isn’t good otherwise.”

“You once said that there are corners and undercurrents to this relationship, all of which you wanted to explore,” he responded plainly, still petting my head.

“I know,” I replied.  Why an abuse survivor would want this was a complicated question.  It's like the assault turned on a switch that wasn’t meant to be triggered just then.  Truth is I love to be of service. There is such power in knowing and accurately responding to the needs of another.  It is a game that calls on a deep sense of your master’s mind and Swiss precision to fulfil his calls before he even imagines them.  I loved to catch him just slightly off-guard with his favourite pretzels or that file he has been looking for.   I’d tried to rid myself of this joy, need to serve another but unfortunately, I’m the guy who saves the drenched kitten in the tree across the street because his girlfriend is worried animal control won’t arrive on time.  I’m no wimp or doormat but the smile on her face when can back with that cat was truly worth nearly breaking my neck.

“The knot must be helping,” Angus interrupted, “for I see you’re back in your head.  I swear you must have a fully furnished mansion in there!”

“With you and a rabbi in every room!”  I turned my head and offered a bashful grin. 

“Only if her name is Rebecca and she’s laying around completely naked.”  He was referring to a girl from my study group he saw during his October visit.  I’d convinced him to come to a student lecture.
I was feeling better.  Getting past these quickly is a good sign, even if I wasn’t recognizing it as such.  “If memory serves me, you were the one doing all the flirting.”

Angus was researching the Glamorgan legends, trying to identify which crazy tale his father told him as a child were actually true and to fill in some black holes in the clan’s history – like what was behind the druidic spell that bonded my family to his in perpetuity.  “She seemed keen on our family history and our connections to the Crown.” 

“Is that what they’re calling it now?!”  I smiled.  “And yes, I am feeling better.”  I raised up my fingers bonded like a ponytail on an old Barbie and added, “Being restrained so efficiently, who wouldn’t feel safe and secure!”

“Cheeky aren’t we!”  Angus pulled the rubber ties off my fingers abruptly.  “Sit up!  Where’s my tea?”

I sat up immediately and went back to the kitchen.  Lifting the lid off the slow cooker, I said, “Lamb stew?  It should be done in a bit.”  I took a tray out of the frig.  “Rosemary and feta cheese?  These will only take 10 minutes after I heat the oven.  We could nibble and watch a movie?  I think 3:10 to Yuma is coming on TCM, 1957 version, of course.”

“Deetz,” he said, in a soft, earnest tone.  “Let the stew cook.  I’m not hungry just yet.”

“Oh!  Okay,” I said putting the tray back in the refrigerator.

“Deetz,” he replied, “I did miss you.  I missed you a lot.”

I looked at my husband letting his neediness rest like a glob of cum on his shirt sleeve.  “I missed you too,” I said in my best ‘aw shucks’ manner.  “We have to plan better . . . the only way this is going to work is if don’t let anything hinder this time together.”  It wasn’t his fault or mine last month – Parliament’s session was extended and the deadline for my article was changed – we just didn’t juggle things right.  “But I assure you, you have my full attention over this break and, during this time, you can have me any way you want.”  I was back to feeling bold again.  Nothing like being needed.  He looked at me as if he wasn’t sure, so I added, “I’m okay now.  Thanks.”

“Don’t over-promise,” he settled on.  “Now, I am hungry.  You know it is always better for me to eat before sex.”  He leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table.

Liar.  The carb crash after he eats means he’d be asleep before the movie’s over and he knew it.  He just didn’t want me to feel obligated, trying to make up for the sex we didn’t have.  I turned back to my tray of unbaked pretzels.  “I reckon I’ll pop these in the oven.”  I did so and realized that I was rather chilled in nothing but a bathrobe.  “I think I’ll put my sweats back on.”

“You’ll do such thing!” he barked, a bit unexpectedly.  He stood up and shed his shirt, socks, and shoes.  “Turn up that heat and you’ll be fine.”  He sat back down and crossed his legs.  “Make me one of your martini’s,” he said waving me on and leaning back in his seat.  “This stupid remote is irritating me,” he growled.

I undid the ties and flashed him.  “Oh my!  I’ll get right on that, your Grace!”  I turned up the heat to 27 C.  The nice thing about being married to money is them always reminding you that that money is now yours as well.

Back in the kitchen, I had just started pouring the olive brine in the mixer when I said, “I’m sorry.  I know these flashbacks are . . . troublesome.”  I couldn’t look at him.

“Mate, I’m the bogeyman haunting your unconscious fears.  They see my love coming, so they racket up the pressure,” Angus replied.  I looked back and he was still fumbling with the remote.  When he reached TCM and the movie, he turned to me and affirmed in a tone I can imagine would have been familiar to Geoffrey of Monmouth, “Your fear will not overrun this marriage.  I won’t let it.”

This is what you get when you marry a peer of the realm.  Who said chivalry was dead?

THE END

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from the diary of the 12th Earl of Glamorgan, Angus Reese

October 22nd – 2:45 am

This is the second time I’ve had sex with a man.  Well, maybe the third if you count the blowjob tonight in the back of that gay bar.  What was that place called?  And who has full out fucking after being attacked and nearly killed?  Deetz saved my life.  He took on all five of those bodybuilders – who thought I’d be friendly when they saw me in the bathroom - threw them around like a ragdoll in the hands of a rageful three-year-old.  I’ve known this man since childhood and I was typically the one defending him.  But years of reclusive living and martial arts training all over the world has made his muscles tight and his body lean.  He’s lying here next to me in my bed at family’s London townhouse, Churton Place.  And I want to touch him – make sure he’s real, this is real, and if how I’m feeling is real.  Does that make me homosexual or bisexual? 

And what about that blowjob, eh?  You know, I’ve had my fair share of exhibitionistic sexcapades – backs of limos, single-engine planes, even driving on the Autobahn.  They have all been satisfying, thrilling even.  This was different though.  Other times things would end with predictable release and relief.  This time though, it was so amazing, I wasn’t sure it didn’t happen to someone else and I just watched.  I felt vulnerable and powerful all at the same time. 

I insisted on going out tonight.  I lied to Deetz and to myself – saying I wanted a kick, a bit of a laugh.  I told him, I’ve had gay friends, but we’d never been to town together.  Since the first time Deetz and I fucked, a short while ago in his sister’s cottage back home, I was curious, no eager, no hungry to have that orgasm again.  Before this, sexual pleasure was like a slot machine where the house always wins.  Could it be that all the women I’d been with were selfish cows bending over so compliantly because it was what was expected of them?  Some were probably just ignorant, having never thought of what would pleasure them.  And for all their bragging, most blokes are just as sexually blind.  I, however, can’t cower behind such foolishness.  I’ve been schooled.  Mistress told me my mate had to be ‘someone born to serve’, ‘someone who gets pleasure from taking care of me but won’t let me get away with my shit’ and be ‘a check on my power’.  Is the son of my father’s valet my soulmate?

Deetz and I almost didn’t go, between trouble finding a suitable club and his sexy casual outfit that was acting as his body’s psychedelic highlighter.  I think the jeans were thanking him for the privilege of hugging his skin.  Then there was the beige silk shirt that barely contained all his tattoos and the brand on his back that lights up like an electronic menorah when he cums.  Deetz is a Jew with Druid blood whose lips and tongue make you feel like Bella Lugosi’s most willing victim. I get now why five o’clock shadows are so appealing to women.  Not only do they convey potential danger but add a secondary sensation when he kisses my neck.  So, I insisted on going so I didn’t jump him in the middle of the kitchen during dinner with the rest of our investigative crew.

Fast forward to loud beats, low-shelf booze, and brutal porn on the multiple screens.  I asked, no begged him to ‘show me where the fun is’.  He took me to the spot – I remember the name now, The Dungeon.  It was a nearly enclosed part of the alley behind the club, lit with black light bouncing off psychedelic paint swirled haphazardly across the plastered ceiling and concrete floor.  Pipes were erratically secured horizontally and vertically along a maze of walls - a wide, winding passage that smelled like 14-year old yearning.  The plumbing seemed nonsensical until you noted the people and objects chained to people that were secured to those pipes.  “I should have brought my handcuffs,” I think Deetz said.  The live show of men fucking and sucking one another in every position but fully prone all around me wasn’t what made me hard.  It was when Deetz lifted my hands above my head.  “Tie, tie, tie,” I know he said while pushing my wrists against a horizontal post.  I responded like Pavlov’s dog as the command was a familiar one from my time with Mistress.  The best training for a future Dom was to serve as a Sub.  I enjoyed the hell out of those three years. 

Deetz has these weird kinda psychic powers.  He senses your emotions by touching you or something you’ve recently touched.  Pressed against that wall, his hands rubbed up and down my torso like an MRI taking slices of my soul.  He paused at my hips then broke out in a huge grin.  His brown eyes formed ebony balls as he kissed me while undoing my fly.  His lips were playful, lightly pressing then darting away.  He reached past my fly and cupped my balls, rolling them gently in his warm hand.  I lifted up on my toes then came down to give him more of them.  He stopped kissing and closed his eyes, exhaling then leaning back slightly.  Then he opened his eyes and stared at me as if the secrets of the universe had just arrived in his mind like an urgent email.  He squatted, pulled out my cock, and started licking it like I was his favourite flavour Tootsie Pop. 

Psychic powers were the only way he could’ve known that is what I like – that the slow, slick feel of tongue and lips moving up and down my shaft created waves upon waves of tiny orgasms that I don’t get otherwise.  It was fucking death by a million taste buds cuz I could feel every one of his quickly grasping then letting go of micro-sections of my dick’s skin.  At one point, I was so overwhelmed by the sensations, feelings surfacing that I didn’t understand, and I started to ask him to stop.  But instead, the word out of my mouth was, please.  Then he took my entire dick in his mouth and held it there, swimming in juicy, waves of warmth until my thighs stopped quivering.  He wasn’t going to let me cum yet, just set things up.  Then, he pulled back and lonely, cool air made my erection recoil slightly.  I looked down at him, confused as to why he’d stopped.  “Hold on,” he said before diving back in.

His lips massaged my head like he’d spied on me some night while I masturbated.  Deetz let his tongue massage the underbelly while his mouth pulled on it firmly, slowly at first then increasing it until his movements matched the beat of the surrounding music.  It was the spot and configuration with some extra ingredient – he took the time to learn my needs and was enjoying the giving, signs of a true Sub, according to Mistress.  Most people want my company to get access to my wealth, my connections, or just to say they slept with royalty (remember that model and ‘internet sensation’ two years ago?).

I was near the edge but something kept me from just letting go.  Self-doubt began to surface.  This whole thing – this experiment in man-on-man love – the ride I was on seemed ripe for taking other chances.  If I was going to be vulnerable, would he be so also?  I took a chance.  I released one of my hands and placed it on the side of his head.  I looked at him intently, massaging his ear until he looked at me.  “Look at me while I do this to you.”  He inhaled deeply as I pressed his head tight against my crotch and felt him swallow my dick.  One time. Two times.  The third time and I came so hard I nearly collapsed.

I regained my composure and my breath to find him still squatting in front of me, balanced on his heels like a poster child for Southeast Asia’s tourist industry.  He was still looking at me, with a smug smile, while wiping the excess spit and cum from the corners of his mouth.  “Your Grace is satisfied?”

A challenge, eh?  I squeezed his chin and lifted his head back with a slight jerk.  Shaking my exhausted penis at him, I commanded, “You left a spot.  Clean your mess.”

He licked all around my head like a mop hunting for dirt and a pay raise.  He had me aroused again – ah, the blessings of being under 30!  This time though I was directing the show.  When I felt close, I grasped my shaft and pulled it out of his mouth.  He had fallen into some trance and kept his mouth open once I was out.  I dropped my head on his tongue, sticking halfway out of his mouth.  Resting my head there, I reached below and massaged my balls.  I nodded at him and he replaced my hands, his fingers quickly finding the intensity I like.  I came again, this time more quietly, drops of sperm rested on his tongue.  He knew what to do with it once I was done.

Deetz stood up, a bit wobbly but smiling like the cat who finally caught the mouse.  He kissed me in a perfunctory but giddy manner, like someone on their first date – more gratitude and lust than kindness and love.  He seemed pleased with himself – pleased that he had so thoroughly satisfied me?  And in some sick, royalist, man-taking-over-the world-cuz-I’m-ordained-by-the-Almighty-to-do-so, I felt a sense of power that the Roman’s must have had when they overran Gaul.  Deetz Mac Innes has opened, no touched that part of me that I’ve long to share with someone.  It was sexual desire driven by ego, DNA, and White privilege.  If I was bothered by my desires and BDSM predilections it was only that more people didn’t have the freedom I have to indulge similarly.

Standing with my dick in the wind, all I could think of was that I wanted, no needed more.  I was hungrier than ever to see this experiment, no experience, to its natural end – whatever THAT would look like.  Deetz’s gleeful eyes made me think it was time to go home and finish fucking, which we did after the slight detour into self-defence.  But when we finally got there, I tapped that ass.  And by “tapped” I mean Exxon can only dream about that session of drilling production.  Now, Deetz is asleep on his stomach, his brand still shimmering, black embers occasionally popping like watery fireworks against his skin.  His breathing is a quiet, steady hum and his eyes are moving rapidly behind his closed lids.  Is he dreaming?  Is he dreaming about me?

The sleeping man felt the eyes of his lover.  “You okay?” Deetz mumbled while turning over onto his side, his face near Angus’s thigh.

“Yeah, just jotting some things down for my meeting tomorrow,” Angus lied.  He had prepared his notes days ago.  “Go back to sleep.  We’ve gotta be up early.  I’ll need your help in the morning.”

Deetz yawned, “Yes, your Grace,” he said before kissing Angus’s thigh and turning over like the dutiful wife in some 1950’s, middle-aged marriage.

Angus stared at his best friend for some time while, his eyes lingering around the naked man’s edges and curves.  He wondered, if this continued, what would he tell his family?  His associates at the Club would look askance and give him the silent treatment.  Would he have to say something to the King and Queen?  They were his godparents after all.   Angus Reese suddenly felt something mega-rich, white men aren’t supposed to feel.

Fear.