The German

I was met in the baggage area of the Munich international airport by a florid, slightly oversized man, obviously Germanic, who apparently knew who I was, although I didn't have a clue who he was beyond him having introduced himself as Hans when he approached me. They obviously wanted it that way and I was at their command. I didn't actually have any luggage beyond my carryon, but I had been told I would be met in the baggage claim area.

Looking in all directions at once as he took a firm grip on my elbow, he guided me out of a side door and into the arms of a black Mercedes. I was taken to a nondescript row house in the center of the city and thence to a second-floor bedroom.

The obligatory interview was tolerable, after which I was told to take a bath and to nap until 7:00 p.m. The formal clothes I was to wear that night were laid out on one side of the bed. Alone, I blissfully sank into sleep on the other side of the bed.

Hans helped me dress. He stressed that I was to wear gloves throughout and produced several different pairs for me to take with me. I understood the necessity of those, which largely were for my own protection.

Night had fallen already when he guided me into the Munich National Theatre, some twenty minutes after Mozart's The Magic Flute had already started. We silently entered the darkened box, and Hans gently pushed me down in a chair set somewhat behind that of the only occupied chair. He leaned over the shoulder of the man sitting there, who turned and gave me a piercing look.

"This is the American," Hans whispered in the man's ear, and then he withdrew. I was never to see Hans again. Not something I particularly regretted, however. The interview hadn't been all that comfortable.

My first impression of the man in the theater box was elegantly coifed hair, dark on top but gray over a large expanse at the temples, and piercing dark eyes—black in this lack of light. A ruggedly handsome face indicating a man in his fifties who had led a life in which hard work had fought with privilege and wealth and resulted in a well-dressed man who also was well formed.

He said, in a low, bass tone, "I am Horst and you are . . .?"

When I answered that I was Logan, having been instructed to give no more identification than that, he merely responded with an, "Ahh," and turned back to the opera, in which he quickly appeared to be fully engrossed.

A car, yet another black Mercedes, was waiting for us in the alley beyond the side door we exited after the conclusion of the opera. When the man had stood in the theater box, he proved to be tall and on the thin side—and the epitome of rich elegance. A muscular, rather menacing looking chauffeur, bald and bull necked and more than somewhat thuggish in appearance, was standing at the open door to the backseat. He handed me in, then he handed in the patrician older man, Horst, making me slide over to the far window. The chauffeur then moved around to the driver's door and glided the sedan out into the street at the front of the theater, cutting through the departing theater crowd like a warm knife through butter and giving the impression that the man sitting beside me was a Moses in the response that his car received from the parting of the crowd of well-heeled theater goers on the street.

That impression never left me throughout the weekend. I had expected the man to sit closer to me in the backseat, but he did not do so. He was taking it slow; I would be here the entire weekend. He was never identified as anything other than Horst, but I read the newspapers—in my line of work, it paid to know what was what and who was who. He was Horst Tielman, a major German industrialist. His reputation was one of ruthlessness and perhaps in having his fingers in more financial pies than were publically acknowledged. It was interesting that he didn't bother to use a false name with me; I certainly hadn't given him my real name.

He had said nothing to me during the performance or afterward other than to tell me which direction we were to walk in, which almost hidden door we were to use to leave the theater, and that there was a car waiting for us. He had, though, given me a scrutinizing lookover when the lights went up in the theater, and I could tell that he was pleased. It was my business to please, and I knew I cleaned up very well in evening wear—almost as well as I did in a Speedo.

He loosened up—to the extent that a reticent, almost military stance patrician German could do—while we rode in the car to a somewhat more stately looking row house in an older section of Munich than the house I'd been taken to from the plane. He chatted, initially in general terms, and then more specifically when he found that I was knowledgeable concerning the art of the opera we'd seen, an example of the uniquely Germanic Singspiel. And he spoke of his favorite composers of operas and other musical works—Weber, Wagner, Strauss, and, of course, Mozart for operas; Handel, Gluck, Beethoven, and, again Mozart, for music in general. As with all Germans I'd met, his revealed sense of what was German extended well beyond the borders of today's Germany.

He seemed quite taken with all things German. I don't remember him having gone out of this context the entire weekend.

In the house, the chauffeur deftly turned into the butler and all other forms of manservant, coming back from the garage in a black suit, as Horst and I shed our outwear in the first-floor foyer and Horst continued his discourse on what was uniquely German, and therefore superior, in opera.

His arrogance about Germany's place in the arts brought to my mind how I thought the elite in German in the 1930s viewed the world. It wasn't my place to question or argue, though—just to please.

We were guided up a floor to where the public rooms were, and a fire had magically been laid in the fireplace of the thoroughly masculine, but immaculate and tidy, study we were led into. There surely were other servants about, but I encountered none of them.

We sat across from each other, with the fireplace to one side and sipped brandy from snifters as, slowly, what Horst had to say about German music wound down. He seemed to have prolonged the discussion from the delight of finding that I could answer almost at the same level of understanding as he did—and that I demurred from what he was saying only infrequently. As that discussion wound down, though, his close scrutiny of me and the look of interest and arousal in his eyes increased. The music in the background was muted, but I recognized the mysterious strains of Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen—the Ring of the Nibelung—which I knew would grow wilder and more intense as it spun through its four cycles.

He merely had to gesture for me to understand, to place my nearly empty snifter on the table beside my leather club chair, and to kneel in front of him and unzip his trousers. I extracted a cock so long that I gasped, even though I had enough experience not to be surprised by much of anything along these lines anymore. He cupped my chin with the hand not holding his snifter and raised me up to engage in several kisses as I stroked the cock with both hands, bringing it to an almost-cruel up-curve hardness.

He disengaged my lips, gave me a stark little smile, and muttered, "Now." I went down on my haunches, took the cap of the cock in my mouth, and was rewarded with a slight shudder and low moan when I squeezed it with my lips. He placed the snifter on the table beside him, cupped the back of my head with both hands, and dug his fingers into my scalp. For the next fifteen minutes I sucked the cock, with Horst making every effort—accompanied by gagging on my part—to force me to swallow the cock to its root. There was no physically possible way I could do that, though, no matter how well trained I was, and he seemed to realize and accept that I couldn't without backing away from trying to make it happen. He only seemed to want me to make the effort and to have some limited success at it. He released my head eventually and told me to stand up and disrobe.

I undressed, standing in front of him. Knowing it was what he would want, from his Germanic sensitivities, I neatly folded my clothes as I took them off and arranged them in a pile on the chair I had vacated.

As I disrobed, he sat there, eyes slitted, and sipped from his snifter. His cock, which almost curved back to meet his chest somewhat north of where his navel would be, remained rock hard. When I was down to my bikini briefs and my socks, and had hesitated, he said, in a low growl, "All of it."

I fucked myself—with the help of the pull and release of his strong hands on my waist—on his cock, sitting in his lap, facing him, with my legs draped over the arms of his club chair. He didn't wear a condom. I knew he wouldn't. I was certified clean and my handlers had made sure he was as well, specifying the doctor who would do the test in Munich if Horst wanted this type of service. His stroke was strong and his cum prodigious. It spouted in three heavy spurts that bathed my insides at a depth I'd never experienced before. He was at least three inches longer than the norm I sheathed.

He had not permitted me to stroke myself and he had not done so either, so I had not ejaculated. At the point of his ejaculation, the music in the background had swelled to its loudest. It had progressed through Wagner's bombastic Ring series to the point where Horst released his strong stream of seed at the height of the screaming of the Furies in Die Walkürie. Immediately afterward, the volume had fallen. Either Horst had a dramatic sense of timing and admirable control or someone had been watching us and had been controlling the musical accompaniment of the fuck.

The whole process seemed detached and clinical—except for the feel to me of his cock working inside me at an impossible depth—mechanical, and unemotional, as if believing that the act of ejaculation with another man rather than masturbating one's self was just a periodic health necessity, like brushing one's teeth. If I had expected or sought an emotional attachment in any way in exchange for letting a man fuck me, I would have been sorely disappointed. However, I didn't and was actually relieved that I could perform my role without complications.

After a few moments of holding there in postcoital embrace, each of us savoring the fuck and the load he had given me, he rang a bell on the table next to him, and the bullet-headed manservant appeared. There was not a twitch of surprise in the man at finding me naked and plastered to the pelvis of his employer.

"Draw a bath and then come back and take Logan there, if you will," Horst said.

The bath was for both of us, in a large tub inside a gigantic bathroom on the next floor up appended to what must have been Horst's bedroom. Horst reclined at one end of the tub, and I at the other, my legs overlaying his thighs, that were muscular, if not thick—like the rest of him—and it was in this position that Horst, his eyes glued to mine to catch the effect, stroked my cock with both of his hands to an ejaculation.

As he stroked me, which he did expertly, edging me, bringing me to the point of explosion and then backing off, holding me rigid until the need to shoot had subsided, and then building the arousal and need again, he spoke of German writers he admired: Goethe, Günter Grass, Bertholt Brecht, Thomas Mann, Herman Hesse—and that he wanted me to admire too. I told him I did, very much so, except that I hadn't read Hesse. It was good I had been truthful in my responses, as he quizzed me enough to be comfortable that I had, indeed, read the others.

Once again he showed his surprise and pleasure that I could hold my own in the conversation—not to mention that I could do so while he was jacking me off. I was trained to do so; I was chosen and kept at the height of my profession for being able to do so. I had been classically trained in the arts—but only the arts. I could only produce dumb looks on the topics of science and math.

I'd been a child actor—on stage and television—my career prolonged because I was so slight of stature and, as one critic expressed it, not complementarily, as I was playing child roles until just the previous year, that I suffered from having a "perpetual cuteness." Indeed, legally I would have been termed a boy not much more than a year ago.

I was where I was today because I was so young looking and trained to the role play. What stage critics liked to giggle about behind their fanned hands played to the interest of some men—rich and powerful men—who enjoyed pursuing the appearances of a certain fetish without facing the legal ramification of indulging in the pure form of the fetish. So, whereas I could not be termed a boy, I could be described as being boyish in aspect.

Let's just say I had no trouble remaining gainfully employed and eagerly sought out by men of a certain preference—some would say perversion.

I didn't intend on doing this work forever. I had never gone to an organized school, having been schooled on the set, in topics focused on the arts with only a minimal bow to what would enable me to pass the standardized tests, but I did plan to parlay this into university studies. Like a fashion model, I couldn't do this highly specialized work for long, not at the peak of the art. If I realized my schedule, I wouldn't be too far behind my peers when I entered the university.

Horst fucked me next in the second bedroom, the only other room on the level that the master bedroom and bath nearly fully encompassed. Still naked, I was guided to the room by the manservant. When Horst entered, a light, silky robe was draped over his shoulders. It wasn't closed in front, though, and for the first time I saw him, standing tall, and somewhat gaunt, if well enough muscled. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his body, nor were there wrinkles, which was impressive for a man his age. And, speaking of impressive, his cock dangled almost to his knees when he entered the room, although it began to harden almost immediately when he saw me lying on the bed.

I might have risen to greet him, but I was bound to the surface of the queen-sized bed, my buttocks at the edge of the foot of the bed. It was a four poster, and the manservant had secured my limbs to all four corners with restraints, my arms stretched out above my head, and my legs raised and spread. Leaning over my chest and staring intently down in my face, Horst gripped my waist in his hands, worked his cock inside me, and fucked me in long, deep strokes, replacing the pool of cum deep inside me that had been washed away in the bath.

Once again, he mined me impossibly deep and expertly, taking me to the edge and then making me wait for a climax, bringing moans and groans and begging for a finish out of me that went well beyond any role playing on my part. Allowing me to strain at my bonds and buck against his thrusts to bring on my climax and then holding me still until the wave of completion had passed. Kneeling between my legs and giving me head until I was ready to blow again, and then holding me still, before thrusting inside me to start me up the stairs to heaven again. When he let me cum, it was with an explosion that lifted my pelvis off the bed, seeking to be skewered even deeper yet on the cock. He came only after he had let me do so.

He left me there, still bound, for more than a half hour, but returned and fucked me again, as expertly and on the edge as before, murmuring that he found me almost irresistible and that I would "do" nicely, that I would "do nicely indeed."

When the manservant helped me up yet another flight of steps to a floor of smaller, less well-appointed bedrooms, I thought that he would remain with me and fuck me as well—his eyes and the sneer on his mouth told me that he certainly wanted to. And I had been told that there would be more than one, multiple ones. But other than copping a feel of my bare buttocks as he guided me into a small bedroom, with an adjacent shower bath, he left me alone.

I made the rounds of the environment of my small prison—the door to the corridor had been locked—and found, to my confusion, that the closet was nearly full of men's clothes. The clothes were of different sizes but not radically larger or smaller than the sizes I wore. I could have selected a wardrobe from here. Some of what was in there was provocative clothing, as was some of what I found in the bureau drawers. I wondered who this clothing belonged to—or whether it had been supplied for a succession of small men like me, playing similar roles to what I now was doing. I rather thought this was the case.

I slept the sleep of the dead, knowing that tomorrow would be the important—and taxing—day.

* * * *

"When the Arab rides away from us, I wish you to follow him and give him what he wants." Horst whispered this to me as we rode a horse path at the base of the Bavarian alps, where the manservant had driven Horst and me on Saturday morning. Horst had a large chalet on the side of the mountain, where three male guests already had gathered.

He told me little about what would happen this day and why I was here, but my handlers had told me to do what Horst wanted this weekend and that it would entail being fucked by multiple men.

There was an Arab, wearing one of the white robes many Arabs wear that are called dishdashas. The robe didn't seem to hinder his ability to sit in the saddle, maneuver the horse, and look good doing so. The other two men were middle-aged East Europeans of somewhat swarthy and unsavory appearance. They were muscular but going toward pudgy. The Arab, although older, was of larger and more commanding stature than they were, and, although having a cruel look about him, was in much better shape than the other two and much more adept at riding a horse.

He also proved adept at riding me.

I had known when I'd come out of my bathroom that morning that the day's activities would either involve horseback riding or a costume party. The manservant had laid out a riding outfit complete with frilly white blouse and skin-tight riding pants, as well as shiny black boots rising almost to my knees. The fit of the pants was snug—I'd almost say provocative—but they did fit.

At Horst's bidding I had ridden a bit behind the others, but if he thought that meant I couldn't hear the business they were transacting, he was sadly mistaken. I suppose I was taken just as a bimbo woman would be who was brought on outings like this to hand out to clients one was trying to sell to. I guess I was considered too young looking and cute to have a brain and to understand deals being discussed of exchanging East European contraband weapons for drugs controlled by Middle East terrorists. But I wasn't dumb, and I wasn't here because I was dumb.

The Arab and I hadn't ridden too far away from the others, only into a copse of trees with a babbling brook running through it, before he pulled up and said, "Let us rest the horses here for a bit."

He was already dismounting when he was saying it and left no doubt who was in command, so I came down off my horse too. I thought it was a bit too much accommodation to the resting of the horses when he unsaddled his—expertly—until I realized why he had. He fucked me doggy style on the grass beside the brook, with my belly bent over the seat of the saddle he'd placed on the ground there and him riding my ass hard and pulling my arms back painfully on either side of his torso.

Neither one of us was disrobed, although it turned out that, other than an easily discarded loincloth, he was wearing nothing under the dishdasha other than a condom and only needed to bunch the robe up around his waist to be in fighting form. I would gladly have peeled my tight riding pants off, but he preferred slitting the seam running down the center of the buttocks with a curved knife he'd had strapped to his calf and inserting, first, his fingers, and then his cock in the rift thus created. I hadn't worn briefs of any sort under the riding pants; it had seemed futile to have done so and none had been laid out by the man servant.