The German

He rode me hard and cruelly with a noticeably thick cock. When he released my arms after having worked himself deep inside me, he also used his riding whip on me while he fucked me, although still having my clothes on took away much of the sting of that.

He claimed to have been pleased with my servicing, but that didn't stop him from just jerking the saddle out from underneath me while I was still lying there, moaning and trying to catch my breath, quickly resaddling his horse, and riding back to the chalet without me.

I had no trouble understanding that use of me was part of what Horst was providing his clients, to gain a favorable deal as a broker of the arms-for-drugs trade, and I wondered if the arms dealers would be included in this sweetening.

I found out Saturday evening.

At Horst's command I danced a pole in his dining room for dinner entertainment while the four man sat around me in a semicircle on pillows and ate their dinner off tray tables. Obviously the Arab was the one Horst was trying to impress the most, as signaled by the Middle Eastern manner in which they were eating.

I had been supplied with a gold lamé G string and had been told that the Arab was the one I was to play up to. The music was Middle Eastern, and I played the dance up in what I considered would be Middle Eastern moves, taking my cue from visions of belly dancers. I had danced a pole before, briefly and recently, after I found when I came of legal age that my manager had walked off with all of my stage and movie money that I hadn't already frittered away myself. I knew how to dance a pole and make the most of it.

The business negotiations between the men continued in a low burble under the music I was dancing to, and it seemed that we weren't far from the after-deal celebrations. I knew exactly what I was there for.

Horst beckoned me to dance closer to the Arab, so I did. Horst signaled to me to crouch over the Arab's thighs and give him a private lap dance, so I did. The Arab himself decided to bunch his dishdasha up around his waist, rip off my G strip, and put me on his cock. I let my torso arch back toward the dining room carpet, my arms dangling across the carpet, while the Arab pulled me on and off the cock. As he fucked me, the two East Europeans gathered closer, smacked their lips, pulled out their own cocks, and masturbated to the dance the Arab now was doing inside me.

He no sooner was finished inside me when, at a signal from Horst, the manservant appeared, tossed me over his shoulder, and I discovered, with the rest of the men following us, that there was a dungeon in the basement of the chalet.

The two East Europeans were beside themselves with lustful need, so I was given to them first, each in succession, as I lay in a sling suspended from the ceiling. Neither of them was anything special, but fulfilling my role and purpose, I made noises and met their thrusts with counterthrusts to convince them that they were.

The Arab, who had already fucked me twice, wanted something a bit more special—and more taxing. I had to admit that I had been told by my handlers that it might get a little rough. I was suspended from the ceiling on a chain with a restraint holding both wrists together, and the Arab got his jollies by flogging my back and thighs—raising red welts but not as far as bloody cuts—before he saddle up to me from behind, lifted and spread my thighs, and fucked up into my channel until he had filled the head of a condom inside me for the third time that day.

I wound up bent over on my belly on a pommel horse-type contraption, with my wrists and ankles bound to the legs of the apparatus, none of my appendages quite reaching the floor, and any of the four men taking as many pokes at me as they wanted. I knew Horst participated in this part, because he was the only one not crowned with a condom and giving me his cum.

They trooped upstairs when they were satiated, leaving me there, my service to Horst's business needs finished, but not before I had figured out why I had been here and what these men were up to.

After about half an hour, the manservant appeared, unbound me, threw me over his shoulder, and took me up to one of the bedrooms of the chalet. He put me under the shower head in the adjacent bathroom and turned the water on—not too hot and not too strong. It stung like hell on my back and thighs, but I was glad to be getting clean.

He dried me off with a big, fluffy towel; told me to bend over the foot of the bed, stiff arming my weight on the heels of my hand; and applied some sort of soothing salve to my back and thighs. I was wondering how often he had to do this—whether Horst provided incentive candy such as me with all of the business deals that were beyond the normal scope of his overt industrial operations.

When I was getting all soothed and comfortable, the big bruiser took hold of the back of my neck, shoved my face into the surface of the bed, mounted my ass from behind, and fucked the stuffing out of me in hard, rapid, brutal strokes. All fight had been fucked out of me earlier, so I just lay there, moaned, and took it from him—nearly every hour for the rest of the night.

I figured that Horst truly didn't need me for his business scheming anymore if he was handing me out to the servants. I just took it. My contract hadn't specified by name who had privileges. The services were just listed "as desired."

* * * *

My meeting with Horst the next morning, on Sunday, was almost incidental. I was standing in the foyer of the chalet, waiting for the manservant to bring the car around to take me away, and Horst wafted through on his way from one room to the other. He did a double take, as if he was surprised to see me still there. It couldn't have been the clothes I was wearing. I'd taken them out of the closet of the room I'd been locked in after the manservant finally was finished chain fucking me. There were almost as many clothes about my size in the closet here as in Horst's Munich townhouse.

He gave me a look as if to say he thought I was willingly hanging around for more—but I'd had enough that weekend of the "more" he had to give.

"I paid up front," he said.

"I understand that," I answered. "I'm just waiting for the car to come around."

"Oh," he said and started to walk off. But then me turned and said, "You were great. A great and enduring lay. I'll commend you to your service."

"Thank you," I answered, and then added, because it was the truth, "You have possibly the longest and most talented cock I've ever had inside me. If you do this again, feel free to ask for me specifically."

"Oh . . . thanks," he said, clearly pleased. To show that he really was pleased, he dug into his back pocket, came up with a wallet, extracted a hundred-euros note from it, and handed it to me.

"You don't have to tip me," I said, but both of us knew I was just being polite. I'd already taken the banknote.

The manservant/chauffeur drove the Mercedes, which had smoked windows, half way down the slope until he was out of sight of the chalet, pulled off the road, climbed into the backseat, and set the car rocking fucking me again, crouched between my spread thighs, with my feet leveraging off the interior roof. I didn't begrudge him the fuck. The contracted day wasn't over yet. It reminded me who and what I was, and he wasn't half bad at it.

He delivered me to a specified café in downtown Munich and left me there. A whole new contact from my handlers in the States showed up. I was half expecting to see Hans, but it was an Italian. I knew he was Italian, because he told me he was Italian and that his name was Paulo.

"Let's leave. The coffee in here sucks," he said, standing up from the table.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"I'm Italian. Where would you think we're going? You're doing the quick rounds of Europe. In and out before the authorities get a whiff of you. Didn't you understand that? We're going to Italy. To Portofino for now and then over to Sicily. Your next client is known as The Sicilian . . . then The Turk after that, I think. But you get a week off in Portofino so your back can heal."

"My back? You knew I'd be flogged?"

"That probably did come up when the order was made, yes. It was in the contract I saw."

"And no one told me?"

"Who the fuck cares what you think about it?"

"That's a point, I guess," I answered.

We took the train from Germany to Italy and had a carriage room to ourselves. Somewhere in the Alps, Paulo pulled the shades down to the corridor, and turned to me.

"Why did you pull the corridor shades down?" I asked.

"Didn't I mention that I was Italian?" he answered with a smile.

I sighed as he pulled me up on his lap after I'd knelt between his thighs and given him hardening head, and lap fucked me. Yet another 'interview' not much different from the one Hans had given me when I arrived in Munich.

I made no protest. Even in the world of high-class international male escorts, the pimps take their pound of flesh.