Puttin' on the Ritz

Paul arched his back, and came up Claude's belly. Claude came almost simultaneously and rolled over to the side, Paul leaned down and licked his cum off Claude's stomach and then licked lower and cleaned off Claude's cock.

Standing over Paul and looking down at him as he dressed, Claude said, "You are a very sexy young man—and a very good lay. If you're ever interested, there is room for you in my stable."

After he was gone, Paul lay there, legs bent and open, working on getting rid of the champagne buzz in his head before going back to the party. There was little doubt that the party down the hall was still going on, even though it must be 2:00 in the morning.

It wasn't long before the door opened and another man walked in—a man who lit up the room with his imposing body; his handsome, square-jaw, golden blond features; the elegant way he filled out his evening clothes; and the broad smile he gave Paul when he saw him lying naked on the bed.

He retained the smile, his gaze not leaving Paul, who, warily remained in the provocative position he'd been in when Claude had left the bedroom, as he untied his tie, removed his cufflinks, unbuttoned his dress shirt, and pulled it open.

Paul took in a great gulp of air. The man, who had to be no older than his late twenties, had a magnificent torso, brushed lightly with a pattern of blond hair on the pecs and running down his sternum toward the waistband of his tuxedo trousers. The only thing that marred the perfection of his torso were the evidence of two puckered bullet wounds four inches below his left pectoral as well as the slightly red and raised line of a sword slash from his right shoulder down to between his bulging pecs. Both wounds just made him more mysterious and arousing to Paul.

"So, the room comes with a bed warmer," the man said, with a pleasant little laugh, at he opened an armoire door, took out a hangar and neatly hung up the various items of his tuxedo as he took them off. There was nothing of surprise or embarrassment in his demeanor in finding a man in his bed, which he made very clear was his bed as he undressed.

"We find ourselves in my bedroom, at least temporarily, in case you wondered," the man said. "I have a busy day ahead, so I've left the party early. It looks like perhaps I haven't left the party early, though, or that I'll be getting all that much sleep tonight. You are a sexy little piece. They could not have chosen better for me." He said all of this with a matter-of-fact cheeriness in his voice. Paul said nothing, he just looked on dumbly, still fighting the champagne buzz in his head, and half wondering if he was in a dream.

If it was a dream, it was one of heaven, he thought, though, as he gasped and sucked in air again, as the man stood beside the bed and slipped the last item of clothing he'd been wearing, his underdrawers, off his legs. The man was hung, with a giant, uncut sausage of a half-hard cock and heavy, low-hanging balls.

"This is the moment when you could dress and leave if you don't want me to fuck you," the blond Adonis said.

In Paul's first response of the encounter, he answered in a low voice, "I believe I'll stay."

"You'd best think twice," the man said, "As small and young as you are and with those slim hips, I could split you in two."

"I'm looking forward to it," Paul murmured.

The man sat down on the side of the bed, beside Paul's prone figure, leaned over and took Paul's mouth in his in a deep, sweet kiss. He reached down, encircled Paul's cock, and began to languidly stroke it. Paul managed to hand the man's cock, listening to him take his breath in as Paul pulled the foreskin down off the bulb and pressed in on the piss slit with his index finger.

As he kissed and licked down Paul's body and eventually through Paul's silky and trimmed platinum-colored bush and then to swallowing Paul's cock, the man raised his muscular, hard legs onto the bed and turned his body toward Paul, the man's now huge, erect phallus was pressed into Paul's cheek, and Paul just turned his head, opened his mouth over the angry-red bulb, and started to suck it.

The man had magnificent control, making Paul come in his mouth without giving up his own seed. But then it was his turn. Nudging Paul over on his belly, his body stretched out on the bed, the athletic man saddled himself on Paul buttocks, in reverse, worked his cock inside Paul's channel, in reverse, grabbed Paul's ankles and pumped Paul's ass with his cock, Claude's cum from the previous fucking acting as a lubricant for the deep slide of the thick cock until the blond hunk had ejaculated inside Paul.

Paul moaned deeply. No man had taken him in a position like this before. No man had filled him like this before—stretching his walls until they shimmered, the muscles of his passage undulating over the throbbing cock, caressing it, waiting for Paul to adjust to it before the man started to pump him. The bulb reached deeper inside Paul's gut than any man had reached before. And then Paul was crying out, "Shit! Oh, shit yes! Fuck me hard; fuck me deep," as the throbbing cock started to pump him. Faster and harder; faster and deeper, with Paul's own hips involuntarily going into motion, the two becoming one, groaning and grunting, synchronized, finely tuned fucking machine.

After a brief respite, the man carried Paul over to the bedroom's dresser, where Paul held onto the edge of the dresser with his hands, his arms stiff behind him, while the man folded Paul's legs around his hips, held Paul steady and suspended over the floor with arms linked under the young man's waist, and fucked him to a second release of his load.

The small, young, slim-bodied American was putty in the embrace of the big, strong, monster-cocked blond god.

Before the two drifted off into an exhausted sleep in each other's embrace, the man fucked Paul for a third time, more languidly this time, with Paul's buttocks pulled into the man's groin in a side split and, Paul's face turned to the man's, the two kissing deeply and whispering endearments to each other. As they were both speaking French, each unaware of how foreign the other's French was, the nuances of the words of the lovemaking and the fuck could be quite poetic and graphic and they both maintained an aroused half hard, the man's lodged in Paul's passageway, after having come for the third time.

"You took the positions extremely well, and you have a ripe, young, flexible body with the capability of handling the cock like a champion," the man whispered when they were cooling off from both having come again and were about to drift off into sleep. "You must be at the top of your profession. Who provided you? Hermann?"

Who the hell is Hermann, Paul wondered. "No one," he whispered. "I was just in the wrong bedroom."

"I can't agree with that," the man said. "For me, you were very much in the right bedroom. I think I'm going to love Paris. Can you stay the night? Has that been paid for?"

The man wasn't going to be dissuaded from the belief that Paul was a prostitute provided for him, Paul thought. But in truth what was the difference between him and a prostitute other than the prostitute got paid and didn't choose his partner? Paul hadn't chosen this partner—nor the one before him. And he'd let both of them fuck him without the merest of objections. So the lines between him and a paid whore were nearly invisible. This hung hunk had no reason to pay anyone for what he gave, though, so Paul decided not to fight the impression. "Yes, the night is covered."

"And so are you," the blond giant whispered, as he turned Paul on his belly without dislodging his cock, and covered him close from above, his dick moving languidly in Paul's channel and Paul sighing his total surrender to it.

The man woke before dawn on his back to find Paul riding his cock sideways. The man laughed, twisted Paul around and brought the young man's shoulder blades down into his chest. He laced his arms under Paul's armpits and stretched the young man's back along his hard torso. Bending and spreading his legs, while lacing his ankles around Paul's and raising and spreading Paul's legs as well, the man took Paul hard again in deep upward thrusts in a closely controlled, athletic morning fuck.

Before rising from the bed, Paul heard the man murmur something he didn't quite understand, because it wasn't in French. But the man added, in French, "And I love your sweet ass," to which Paul responded, "And I love your huge cock." He almost added more in terms of affection than that, but he caught himself just in time. He'd never had a connection with a man before that he had with this mysterious stranger. It was more than the man's beautiful body and oversized cock. There was an attraction in him that went further for Paul. He had to think about that. He didn't want to be hurt.

It wasn't just the penetrative sex that was different and engaging with this man. The man held Paul and cuddled him, whispering endearments to him and kissing and fondling him. He took his time with Paul and made him feel special and appreciated. At the same time, he controlled and took Paul totally, athletically. That the man's attentions to him encouraged Paul to open his legs to him and draw him inside him was beyond the point. The attention he gave Paul was beyond what he needed to do to get his cock inside the young man—it was beyond what any other man had done to get his cock inside Paul.

Lying on the bed in much the same position he'd been when the man entered the room the night before, Paul watched the man dress. He took a uniform out of the armoire and started putting it on. Paul's heart rate and his fear and consternation increased as the man dressed in the white shirt, black tie, black trousers, black tunic jacket, and black billed hat. When the man had pulled on the black leather harness and belt, with the gun holster at his side, the bolt of lightning on the man's jacket right collar, the four stars in a square on his left collar, and the scarlet red armband with the Nazi swastika on it on his left arm told Paul more than he wanted to know.

The man was a captain in the German SS Gestapo, one of the elite occupiers of Paris.

It was only after the German had left the room that what he had been speaking in before he rose from the bed. He'd said, in German, "Ich liebe dich"—I love you. The fear gripped at Paul's throat. What he'd almost said earlier was the same. This was dangerous ground they were treading on. Paul couldn't see the man ever again or else he knew he'd be lost to him, war or no war.

But already Paul's body ached from the absence of the German SS captain. He lay there, legs spread, ass twitching, aching to have the master cocksman between his legs again, the man's monster cock filling him, possessing him, owning him. The German SS Gestapo conquering, occupying, fucking America.

Paul had seen the captain leave something on the dresser before he left. When Paul checked what it was, he found it to be a five-franc note. So, for the first time in his life he had been paid in cash—or tipped, depending on how the German saw it—for sex. If he later came to date when he had become a male prostitute in Paris, it would be today—if he took the money, which he didn't. He left it for the German to know that the sex had meant something else—something more—to Paul than pay for play.

* * * *

September 1, 1940

"There is no money available in that account. That account has been impounded."

"Impounded? What the hell does that mean?" Paul asked. He could feel himself tightening up. He lived from check deposited from home to check deposited from home. He was tapped out. Today was the day of the check deposited from home.

"The United States has impounded all money being sent into France because of the . . . because of the occupation," the bank official said, looking oh so sad for Paul's predicament. "I'm sorry. The German presence here has officially been condemned by the United States, and it doesn't want any funds from its country to be made available here."

"They can't do that," Paul said. But clearly they could and they had. This was the second blow in a week. When he'd gone back to the loft from the Ritz on the morning of August 29th, he'd found that Noell Giroux had cleared out. He had taken some of his artwork with him, but a group of men—men claiming they didn't know where Giroux had gone—had come to move the rest of his stuff out two days later. Paul had been able to keep his own paintings and supplies, such as they were, back, but everything else was gone. The workmen were only able to say that Giroux' stuff was going into storage.

Paul had initially thought that Giroux' disappearance somehow was because he hadn't come home to the loft on the night of the 28th, but Giroux hadn't shown jealousy before in Paul's occasional going with other men and he'd virtually thrown the man named Claude at him at the party. There was no reason for him to know about the SS officer. But then the workmen said that the move had been arranged several days earlier, so whatever caused Giroux to leave was decided before the party at the Ritz. And he had intended for him to be the one to leave. If he was mad at Paul, he could have just pitched Paul out of the flat.

Well, fuck him, Paul thought as he trudged back to the loft from the bank. He'd left without telling Paul he was going and he'd been mysterious and secretive of late. The whole bit about going to the party but really wanting only to talk to the senior bartender at the Ritz bar was baffling to Paul.

It mainly was baffling to Paul because he was completely apolitical. He hadn't seen Giroux' going underground ahead of time. He didn't anticipate that American funds would be cut off to occupied France. He hadn't even considered leaving France in advance of the occupation. And he was only mildly concerned that no sooner had the Germans arrived then he had had sex with a German military officer—and not just any German officer; a Gestapo captain. To the extent that there was concern there it was because it was a little hard, even for a young, prowling man like Paul, to have missed the reports of brutality by the SS Gestapo.

But the German officer hadn't been brutal. He'd been rough and demanding at times but he had also been the best, most attentive lover Paul had ever had. And he'd been witty and polite and solicitous, even when taking Paul hard in taxing positions . . . and, yes, loving.

And thinking of the German officer surfaced remembrance of the five-franc note he had left for Paul and Paul hadn't taken. He could use that five francs now. It would feed him for four days. What was he going to do for money and food now?

* * * *

The building concierge met Paul at the street door.

"It's the first of the month," he said, smacking his lips and giving Paul a licentious stare. "The rent on the loft is due today."

Leon Segal had long been adept at being in the hallway, smacking his lips and giving Paul a lustful stare when Paul was coming and going.

Segal was a fat, hairy, sweaty pig—at least in Paul's eyes. And there was nothing artistic or literary about him. He gave the young American the creeps. He wore vests rather than shirts that exposed a V of matted black hair on his chest and hairy arms. Although fat, he also was muscular and a good foot taller than Paul was. Paul always felt intimidated in his presence. His intent could be seen in his sneer and he smelled of garlic and beer and cheap cigarettes.

"I see that Noell Giroux has moved out. But he did nothing about the rent," Segal said.

"This has been unexpected," Paul said. "I may need some time to cover the rent."

"There is no time to give in these perilous days," Segal said. "But money is not the only way to pay the rent."

Segal fucked Paul from behind over the dining table in his first-floor apartment with a cock that wasn't particularly long but was challengingly thick. The fuck was swift and brutal, with, at first, Segal grabbing a handful of hair at the back of Paul's head and arching the young man's back painfully to him, instructing Paul to jut his buttocks out to receive the penetration deeper and to provide a shelf for Segal to rest his stomach on while he pumped. As the fuck progressed, Segal released Paul's hair, but he grabbed both of the young man's wrists and jerked his arms back to maintain the bow in Paul's back.

At ejaculation, the man brought his cock out to the surface to cream Paul's rim and just inside the hole and then slid back in for several more minutes of sucking-noise thrusts. Triggering a reserve of seed, he came again inside Paul's passage.

Paul couldn't look the man in the face as he gathered up his trousers and undergarments. He wouldn't put them back on here. He couldn't stand to be here, in this apartment, with this gorilla for a second longer than he had to be. He was dejected and disgusted at what he'd already had to do to maintain his existence in Paris without even the opportunity to assess and plan.

As he headed for the door, Segal said. "That's only good until the 15th. If you want to stay beyond that either bring me the money or come and knock on my door."

Paul did look at the man now, showing him a flash of hatred. But Segal just stared him down with amusement in his eyes and smacked his lips. It was the tail he wanted. Paul didn't have to enjoy it as long as Segal got his rocks off on a cute young trick.

The young man rushed upstairs and used all of the water in the apartment house's tank to try to wash the smell of the concierge off his body. Being fucked by the working classes wasn't nearly as much fun as by an artist.

* * * *

Two weeks. The 15th of September. That was how long Paul had to find someplace else to live and to find the means of living there. Nothing like the pressure of this had come down on him before. He'd never been poor and he'd never been backed into a corner to have to fight his way out of. But he'd never lie under a fat, smelly, pig like that concierge again. That he vowed, and the vow steeled his back and motivated him to plan.

He had some paintings completed and he knew they were good. Maybe not quite good enough to get in most Paris galleries, but he also knew a gallery owner or two who had wanted to get into his pants. It would mean prostituting himself yet again, but it at least would be with an artist and he hadn't been hesitant to give it away when he wanted to when he was rich. There was no reason for him to hold back now that he was poor.

The big-boned, pony-tailed Algerian owner of a gallery on the Left Bank fucked Paul up against a wall in the back of his shop after taking five canvases from the young man on consignment. But he did give Paul an advance of fifteen francs on the lot.

Both Paul and the Algerian knew that Paul was being paid for the fuck the gallery owner had wanted to give him for months. The deal was that Paul was to come in monthly to check on possible painting sales, to go with the Algerian to the back of the shop, and to leave with ten francs in his pocket.

It was a start.

Paul was backed against a wall, his legs hooked on the Algerian's hips and his arms around the gallery owner's neck, while the Algerian pushed him up and down the wall with the strength of his cock thrusting up in Paul's ass passage.

Afterward Paul stopped at a sidewalk café for a coffee and a pastry. He couldn't really afford it, but he at least had some money in his pocket and the first selling of himself by himself under his belt. Life was looking up, and he felt he needed the reward. He'd always been pampered; it was hard to switch dramatically from that.

His luck held.

"Are you alone? May I sit?"

Paul looked up. It was Claude from Laura Mae Corrigan's party at the Ritz. "Yes, please, I'm alone," he answered. The man looked as good, elegant, and "together" in street clothes as he did in a evening clothes at the Ritz. The image of the man that kept coming up in Paul's mind, though, was nakedness, his body long, lean, wiry, his cock to match. Paul hoped that he himself could look as good and sexy at the man's age. Paul had no idea what it was, but the man was gray and, although he still was in good shape, there had been telltale liver spots on his hands and arms and a slight loosening in his muscle definition that Paul had noticed while the man was lying between his legs. There had been nothing wrong with the hardness, length, and strength of his cock, though.