WARNING: This story contains sexually explicit parts involving sex between minors and adults. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.


Any characters portrayed in this fictional story are not representative of anyone living or dead.


Anyone wishing to contact me can do so at john.thestoryteller@gmail.com


Other stories on Nifty by John Teller/The Storyteller can be found here.


All rights reserved. All parts of these documents are © Copyright 2012 John T. S. Teller, and may not be reproduced in any form without the author's consent. Nifty.org have permission to reproduce it on their website.


A small sermon. Nothing in life is free. Everything costs, and Nifty is no different, so please send them a couple of $'s/£'s to cover costs and stuff. They're very discreet, and you won't get your name in lights if you do.


Prologue. Please read!

This story – The Angel of Pie Jesu, is a trilogy of books. This first book – Star in the Hood, is written from the perspective of the two main characters: Gareth and Aleric, but also includes the thoughts of others in the story, which are so important to understanding things as they unfold in this drama of love.





The Angel of Pie Jesu.


Book one – Star in the Hood.

By John T. S. Teller.


Foreword – part 1.


My name is Gareth Rhys-Jones, I come from Wales originally, and the three great loves of my life are work, travel, and in hindsight: boys.


Work: I began work at the age of sixteen. I could have gone on to higher education, but my life wasn't destined to be one of an intellectual with degrees and letters after my name. No, I was a born entrepreneur. My father was head of a multinational corporation that provided clothing to the world's top retailers, and I spent a lot of time watching and digesting the way he worked. Unlike me, he had scruples when it came to business. My modus operandi was, and still is, to steal other people's ideas. My first venture was stolen from a boy at school when I was fifteen. He came to school with some cards he'd printed out that depicted certain things. I won't tell you what they were, but he sold them all, and the boys were desperate for more. I went home and told my dad that if I could produce them properly. they would make a fortune. He humoured me, put the wheels of his companies into action, and by the time I was seventeen, I was worth £2,000,000. Yes, it was that easy! The boy who invented them got nothing, but I don't look on it as theft. He would never in a million years have been able to do what I did. And I went from there, scouring the world for inventions that other people would never get off the ground. Some, I bought the intellectual rights outright, and others I bought and developed in conjunction with the inventor, usually with he/she/they being paid a pittance. Right now, at the age of thirty-two, Gareth Rhys-Jones, Adventure Capitalist, is worth a lot more than a billion GB Pounds.


Travel: There are few countries in the world I've not visited, and I love to travel. I have a bachelor house at Hampstead Heath designed specifically for my own needs, but I'm rarely there if I'm not doing business in the UK. My head office is on the 4th floor of a building on the Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse in Berlin; my favourite city in the world. I could have set up in London, but I prefer the quirks and the vibrancy; the history and the modernism; the peacefulness and the energy of Berlin. The city is a paradox, and I adore it. I have a Penthouse apartment there, which overlooks the Tiergarten, where I spend many hours just watching the world go by while I'm thinking up my next hair-brained scheme. By the way, I own the entire block of apartments.


Boys: I've stated that I like work, travel, and boys. Well, they're not in the right order, and also remember that in the first sentence of this Foreword, I said: IN HINDSIGHT! My passion NOW is boys, or to put it a better way... BOY, Singular! I love the most beautiful boy imaginable, who can break my heart with a hurtful word or a wrong look. I adore him; I worship him, but as an adult, what I find strange and still have difficulty believing... is that he feels the same way about me! Truly amazing!


Everybody who has travelled extensively has had the chance to have sex with boys. They're two-a-penny in some Middle-East and Far Eastern countries, and in the Indian sub-continent. But that isn't what Gareth Rhys-Jones wanted... or is. No, I discovered something that is as rare as rocking horse shit; a mutual love affair between a man and a young boy. But why is `rocking horse shit' almost impossible in this day and age? I'll tell you why! Because Society has locked up its boys. They don't give a shit that they've also locked up those they're trying to protect. Not for them the freedom to choose. Many don't even make it to adulthood. David XXXX died in tragic circumstances. Why has it happened? If found out, the boys live their lives being mocked by their peers as a cocksucker or a faggot, or if their parents discover what's happening, they kill the relationship immediately.


Well... not every time! I'm going to tell you a story about one such time when I discovered that `rocking horse shit' really does exist, and that until I met Aleric I would have laughed at anyone who might suggest it would ever happen to me.


I speak eight languages, fluently, and much of the dialogue in this story is spoken in a tongue other than English, but for the sake of continuity and understanding, except for certain things, which I think should be kept contextually for the sake of the book as a whole, because I'm producing it, I'll write the stories in English.


Oh, and I suppose I'd better describe myself. It will save you wondering what I look like. I'm thirty two years old, five-eleven, well built, and with little fat on me, have black hair, blue eyes, am handsome (oh yes I am!) with designer stubble, wear the best gear, and I love to drive nice cars. Sexually, I'm `normal'. No, I don't have a cock like a horse, just seven inches of uncut hardness when it gets really excited, and five inches when it's not, but I'm not particularly oversexed. What do I do for sex? I use the five-finger exercise... and a good imagination.

Postscript. I drink too much.



Foreword – part 2.

My name is Aleric Hahn, I'm thirteen years old, and I have an identical twin brother. I'm German, and I live in a small two-bedroomed house in the small village of Greifswald-Wieck (which will now always be referred to as Wieck) on the Southern Baltic coast, which is in the district of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, and part of the University City of Greifswald. My father is Ralf Hahn, and he was a fisherman on the Baltic Sea with his very own seagoing fishing boat until he had an accident at sea when a cable snapped and injured his lower spine, which made him almost completely paralysed from the waist down. He sold his boat, and our family now live on a small insurance and some state benefits. Since the accident, my mother, Gretel, is the one who cares for my dad all the time. Gottwin is my identical twin brother, and we do most things together, and we have a very special relationship that most of you won't understand. Gunther, my older brother, is a car mechanic. He's twenty-one, still at home, and he turns up most of his money to mum and dad to help out with the bills and stuff.


I would be a very normal boy, but for one thing: I've been blessed with a lovely singing voice, which was recognised by Herr Biermaier, the Direktor of the S******** Boys Choir. I've been in his choir since I was ten. Although not as famous as some of the great boys' choirs, we are well known, and we travel to all parts of Germany and to other countries to perform. Because the choir is a charitable institution, we don't make money out of it. All we get is our expenses. Apart from some things - which I don't like - it's great fun.


Maybe rather than one, there are two things that take me out of the ordinary. The second would be that I found myself in an unimaginable situation when we did a concert in Berlin: I fell in love with a man of thirty two! Why is it unimaginable? Because, before I met him,  although I had a couple of crushes on other boys my own age - neither of which were sexually active - I had no idea I could, or would be attracted that way to a man of that age. Some people might say that I'm a youngster with raging hormones and any port in a storm will do to satisfy my, admitted, rampant sexual desires. Yes, I'm exactly that; a horny little sod! But aren't we all at that age? Anyway, I'll leave it at that and let Gareth, myself, and some of the other characters tell this story, and explain exactly what happens when a boy falls in love with a man, and I can assure you that it's not all to do with rampant hormones!



Ps from the author John Teller. To enhance your read, maybe you'd like to bookmark this link and play it in parts of the narrative you feel warrant it. You can access it HERE, or copy and paste this link - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Fs_3I4rX2E - into a new browser. It was while I was listening to this song that I got the inspiration to write this story.




Also, I like to dedicate some of my stories to special people in my life, or to someone worthy of a dedication. In this instance, I dedicate this novel to Jamey from Buffalo. I suggest you don't read the comments on this video I've linked to below; many of those who commented are sick; bigoted; ignorant; brainwashed, and without an ounce of compassion to mourn the death of a young child who's only crime was to be homosexual and admit it. I hope those who could find no compassion for this inexperienced child, rot in their own hell of everlasting purgatory. So, Jamey, although I never knew you, you have touched the heart of many, and this story is for you. We will overcome. R.I.P., young man. Jx.


Jamey from Buffalo.




Part 1.


I'm in my office in Berlin having just ended a three-way video conference with my offices in Kuala Lumpur and Mumbai when my Personal Secretary, Helena Herzog, buzzes me on the internal phone. Helena is a great PS, and despite her being in her mid sixties (I chose her for her efficiency and warm-heartedness), she's far and away my most prized employee. The only problem I have with her is that she mothers me too much at times.


I hear a worried tone in her voice. "Gareth. I've just had a call. Josef is unwell, and he's been taken to hospital."


Josef is her husband, and a lovely man, and I'm worried, too. I ask, "Did they say what the problem was?"


"He's had another of his small strokes. Do you mind if I go to him?"


"Of course not! Drop what you're doing and order a cab immediately! Or do you want me to take you?"


"No. I'll just sort a few things, and then get off."


Five minutes later, she comes into my office. "I've sorted your call to London for four-thirty, and Harald is making the arrangements for your flight to Verona on Thursday. If Josef is not too ill, I'll be back in work in the morning." Then, in a sort of muddled way, she adds, "Oh, Josef and I were going to a concert tonight. It's the S******** Boy's Choir. We have two tickets. We won't need them now. You can have them if you want." She places two tickets on my desk and goes towards the door.


Just as she reaches the door, I call to her, "I hope Josef is alright. If you need anything, call me on my private mobile. Anything!"


Helena turns to me and smiles. "Thank you Gareth." And then she leaves.


I pick up the two tickets from my desk, lean back in my chair and absent-mindedly gaze at them. I'm more worried for Josef and Helena than I'm concerned about two tickets to see the S******** Boy's Choir at the Schiller Theatre. Seven thirty the concert starts. I'm not sure I want to go. I had plans to spend the evening at the A-Trane; a jazz club in Charlottenburg. I order a coffee, and when a staff member brings me one and is gone, as I sip at it, I decide to ring my friend, Kurt, and ask if he would like to go to the Schiller Theatre with me.


I've known Kurt Beyersdorf for about ten years. He's forty (eight years older than me), as gay as they come, and he lives with his partner, Heindrich, who is fifty. I first met Kurt in a drinking-session foray into the jazzy night life of Berlin. He fancied me, and before I knew it, he was at my table asking me to buy him a drink. I did buy him the drink, but when I, not too politely, rejected his advances, he wasn't put out. I thought he would have been, but he stayed with me throughout the whole evening, and we got to know one another... including my three-quarters drunken admission that I was a virgin. And we've remained close friends ever since.


I hear the phone ring at Kurt's shop: Beyersdorf Fashions for Men and Boys on the Unter den Linden, and Kurt answers. "Hello lover. Do you want my body?"


I laugh. "No. I've got two tickets to see a boys' choir at The Schiller tonight. Would you like to go?"


I love Kurt's giggle. It comes from deep within him. "Mmmmm... you're into boys now! Nice! Do you want me to choose a boyfriend for you?"


I explain everything to him, and wait for his reply.


"Yes," he says, "I had too much beer last night, and an evening watching you ogling young boys will be restful... and amusing. Pick me up at seven. Bye-bye sweetheart."


Being early December, the night is cold and frosty as I drive to Kurt's place. Its 6.30 when I arrive outside his and his partner's flat and park the black Bentley Continental Supersports Convertible. This is my `Berlin Car'. Apart from a Bugatti Veyron, this is my favourite car. It's almost new, having been delivered on 1st November.


"Come in sweetheart." That from Kurt through the intercom when I press the bell to his place. The communal door clicks open, and I walk into the apartments. Third floor; apartment 22. A small rap on the door, and Kurt's partner, Heindrich, lets me in. Hugs. Schnapps.


Kurt is the effeminate one. He kisses Heindrich - a gentle peck-on-the-lips kiss - takes my arm, and whisks me towards the door. "We need to hurry sweetheart. We're late! We don't want to miss seeing all your darling boys!"


When we get to the theatre, I park the car, buy two programs, and we go to our seats. Josef had chosen well; our seats are two rows back, and almost dead centre.


Kurt takes my arm and wraps his own around it. I don't push him away; he has certain licence to treat me like his lover in public. If he pushes his knee against mine, he knows I'll push it away. There's a difference between him hugging me and touching me. Over the years, we've constructed our own ground rules; friendship and affection, but no sexual contact. He leans over to me and whispers, "Are you excited?"


I turn to him and grin. "I'm quivering."


He squeezes my arm, and I hear his delightful chuckle. I love Kurt. I love being with him. At times he can talk the hind legs off a donkey, and, usually, people who talk too much are not my cup of tea. But because he's such a loving and caring person, Kurt's constant chattering is soothing rather than irritating. Wherever I am in the world, if, for whatever reason I feel I need to have special company, I get on a plane immediately and go and spend time with him. He's my compass and my light at times.


I flick through the program to see what the concert is about. Me being at a classical music concert is a rarity. Including this one, I've only ever been to two. The first time was when I saw, in my opinion, the most divine man on earth at the Albert Hall: Andrea Bocelli. If I ever got the chance to share a bed with a man purely in an affectionate way, it would have to be with Andrea Bocelli. I suppose if I were to describe my knowledge of classical music, it would be pretty much an ignoramus.


Directly in front, but lower than us, the orchestra are tuning their instruments, and then they go silent. The lights in the theatre dim; a silence descends on the place, and then the lush green curtain rises.


Before me is the S******** Boys Choir from a place near the Baltic Sea in Northern Germany; dressed in red cassocks and white surplices, with white, frilled, neck-ruffs. There are about twenty boys, ranging in age from ten to about eighteen; smallest at the front, and tallest at the back. Herr Direktor is amongst the orchestra, right at the front, well out of the way for us to watch the boys.


The first song is Sanctus, and while they're singing this rather quick and catchy hymn, one by one, I look at the boys.


And then I see him! He's about thirteen (almost centre stage), mid-brown hair cut at the front to match the shape of his gorgeous, thick, brown eyebrows; a  lovely nose; a mouth that is ever so slightly twisted, and when open, reveals rather large, gleaming-white front teeth. But the most striking thing about him is his eyes. They're sort of elongated. Not eastern type elongated, but open-wide elongated, and they're the most gorgeous brown with a tint of green in them, with long, dark lashes. I've never been interested in boys in my life, but I'm smitten! Yes, truly, truly smitten by him!


Standchen; another rather quick, catchy song, and it's then that I realise how, when they're singing, the mouths of the boys emphasises the beauty of the Germanic tongue; and none more so than my brown-eyed boy. I watch every nuance of his face; his expressions; his smiles; his seriousness, and they all add up to one boy God!


Heidenröslein distracts me slightly from Brown Eyes. The smallest of the boys does a solo. He's as cute as a pearl button: blond hair; sticky-out ears; the cheekiest grin on his face, and I don't think a smile leaves my face while he's singing. Kurt is also struck with him. He's cooing and billing over him all through his performance, and he looks up the little boy's name in the program: Hans Drescher. He gets a super round of applause when he's done, and he laps it up with his cheeky, mischievous grin.


Mozart's Laudate Dominum doesn't strike a chord in me, and neither do the following few songs, and I spend the time watching Brown Eyes. I've never performed on a stage, so I don't know whether he can see me, but if he can't, on quite a few occasions his eyes seem to look directly at where I'm sitting. Maybe that's what he does all the time; focus on a point, and then concentrate while he's singing?


I glance at my program, and see that Andrew Lloyd-Webber's Pie Jesu from Requiem is next. Solo by Aleric Hahn, aged 13. And then the intermission.


Silence. Aleric Hahn steps forward. My heart almost stops. Aleric Hahn is Brown Eyes, and I fall in love with the name. Forever now, the name Aleric Hahn will be indelibly stamped on my memory, along with his angelic features.


Aleric begins to sing, and his beautiful soprano voice resonates within me; upsetting me. It reaches into whatever I am, and disturbs the Me like I've never been disturbed before in all my life. I am the master of nonchalance; the poker face; hidden thoughts. I have to be to earn a living in the dog-eat-dog world in which I live, but not now I'm not. I can't help it; tears form in my eyes, and I grit my teeth and try to hold my breath to stifle the deep sobs that are welling up within me. My hands, which are together in the prayer position, I clench as hard as I can to try and stop my body from shaking. I don't want to reveal what I'm feeling. This boy is messing with my soul. But I can't take my eyes off him, and neither can I control my emotions. Kurt must have sensed what is happening to me, because I feel his arms tighten around mine. I feel like a child humiliated. I just don't cry in front of other people! As a matter of fact, I don't cry! Well... not since I was a small boy. I daren't even take a handkerchief from my pocket because I don't want to draw attention to the silly sod I am. Instead, I just sit and suffer the emotions and the symptoms of an overwhelming love for this creature who has discovered my Achilles Heel, which I never knew existed.


Aleric Hahn finishes Pie Jesu, and as the audience rise to their feet as one to applause, the lights go up, and I'm revealed in all my blithering shame of being found out. Now I get out my handkerchief and try to wipe away the snot and tears, and as I'm doing it, he looks directly at me! Right into my eyes. His face is almost serious; his head tilted to one side in a gesture of being slightly puzzled. And then it's as if he understands, because he puts his head straight, gives me the most beautiful, wonderful, sympathetic smile, and it lights up the whole of his striking countenance. His smile is my release from the pain I'm feeling, and through misted eyes, I smile back at him. His smile becomes even wider, and he nods to me, and I nod back. And all this time, there is just he and me. And then the curtain falls.


I walk directly out of the theatre into the cold night air. Kurt follows me. I stop, and he links my arm with both his, rests his head on my shoulder and says, "The angel of Pie Jesu. I think you've found your true love, Gareth. I'm so happy for you."


I tighten my own arm in Kurt's. "Don't be silly! He's just a boy with a wonderful voice."


Kurt is almost in tears when he reaches across me to wipe back a lock of hair from my forehead, and he says,"I don't think so, sweetheart. I've been around long enough to know love when I see it. You'll be in his mind now, just as he's in yours."


I let out a half sigh, half-resigned laugh. "Maybe I should send him a bouquet of flowers."


Kurt stares into my face. "Is this a new side I'm seeing to my sweetheart; a defeatest?! Where's the normal, ruthless, robbing bastard that I love so much?"


I'm thinking you can't ruthlessly rob love from a boy his age. The Berlin Wall wasn't as huge a barrier as he and I being allowed to be friends, even if he wanted it, which I doubt. He must have pervs ogling him at every concert he does. He'll have been given strict instructions how to avoid them. Anyway, I'm not a perv just because a small boy has affected me the way he has. The thought of sex with this beautiful boy had never crossed my mind!


Kurt finishes his cigarette and stubs it out. I look at him, and ask, "Shall we go back in? I'm alright now I've got my head straight."


Kurt takes my arm and begins to lead us back to our seats. On the way, he tells me that he's found his own darling little boy. Little Hans Sticky Out Ears has wormed his way into Kurt's heart.


I am composed when the curtain rises again, and the boys, in four groups, leaving just Aleric and Hans Sticky Out Ears at the front, sing Orinoco Flow in English. My feet are tapping and my head is nodding to the lovely melody. Aleric seems to be extra exuberant when he's singing, and when they've finished, I join enthusiastically in the applause. I don't miss the quick glance and the wide smile Aleric directs towards my seat, and he lifts himself taller as he does it.


Kurt, who is holding my arm again, nudges my shoulder and whispers. "That one was for you."


I grin at him. "You should take up child psychology."


Kurt gives me an effeminate, smug grin. "I don't need to, sweetheart. He's showing off." And then, sarcastically, he adds. "I wonder why?"


The choir come together and a boy of about fifteen takes the lead part as they sing Bruderlein Fein. He's a nice boy, but not in my Aleric's class. His voice is also more mature, and for me doesn't carry the same angelic quality of the younger, pure soprano voices, but the applause when he's sung is as warm and generous as was Aleric's Pie Jesu. Next is a superb rendition of Carmina Burana, and it reminds me of Germany's past. The boys sing it with that Germanic superiority exemplified by rigid bodies and sharp facial expressions. The thought comes to me that in another time, these boys, singing as they are, could be used to spur on the Nazi hordes while they committed their foul deeds across Europe. That thought takes the edge off it for me, and I'm not able to applaud the boys as enthusiastically as the rest of the audience do.


Kurt senses in me that I'm not overwhelmed by it, and asks, "You didn't like that, sweetheart?"


I look at him, and shrug my shoulders. "I'm not into cult music. I prefer Pie Jesu."


Kurt understands, because he also shrugs his shoulders. "Will the world ever forgive us?"


Schubert's version of Ave Maria - the soloist, another of the older boys - is beyond beautiful. Thankfully, Aleric's face has softened from the one he displayed as he was singing Carmina Burana, and I detect a few sly glances towards my seat, and I'm slowly beginning to think that, in some miraculous way, he may, actually, be interested in me!


The concert lasts for another half hour, which I spend ogling Aleric, and which Kurt spends ogling Hans Sticky Out Ears, and then the last song: Time; and Aleric Hahn is the occasional soloist.


I am the hours
And moments of your yesterday
I am your time gone by
All days and ages fleeting long since passed away,
As endless years roll by.


Do I detect a mistiness in his eyes? I can't be sure, because once again my soul is disturbed, and tears form in my own. This time I don't try and bottle up my emotions, and I wipe the tears away with a handkerchief. But now I'm sure that Aleric is singing this song for me, because he stands tall and proud, and for most of it, he is looking at me with his gorgeous, enchanting eyes. Time ends, and the audience rise as one to applaud the boys as the lights go up.


Four curtain calls, and on each of them, as soon as the curtain goes up, Aleric is looking at me. I know which one is the final one, because his face has changed when the curtain goes up. He's no longer smiling easily, and there's a sort of panic in his eyes, as there is in mine. We are about to be parted, and we both know it, and there's nothing we can do about it, and as the curtain drops for the final time, we stare at each other until the curtain parts our gaze, and the last I see of the boy I've fallen in love with is his shiny black shoes under the curtain, turning to walk away from me, and my final thoughts are that I've just experienced Ships passing in the night.


My replies to Kurt are monosyllabic as he tries to bring me out of my depression when I'm driving him home, and when I refuse to have a nightcap with him when we get there, he doesn't object too vociferously. He doesn't even say `goodnight'; instead, he squeezes my arm very tightly, and when I hear the sound of the car door closing, immediately, I drive away into the darkness. I don't want go to my place. Kurt bought me a couple of CD's of the S******** Boys Choir. I slip one into the player, and then drive away from the city... not to any particular place; I just want to drive and think. I flip the CD through to track 5, select `repeat', and Aleric Hahn aged 13 sings Pie Jesu to me over and over again. I stop the car on a deserted car park, and cry like a baby.  





Our direktor, Herr Biermaier, is hurrying us to change. We're to meet some of Berlin's hierarchy backstage before we return to our hotel. But I don't want to meet anyone except the beautiful man who sat on the second row. I don't know why. It's never happened to me before, but the moment I saw him crying, I knew he was special. Whatever it is that's affected me, came from his beautiful blue eyes. As I dress, I'm praying that he'll be amongst the heirachy. The thought that I'll never see him again is actually hurting me inside.


"You look pale. Are you alright, Aleric?"


I nod to Herr Biermaier. "Yes Sir. I'm just tired."


Herr Biermaier puts his hand on my shoulder. "We'll get this reception over as quickly as we can, and then get you tucked up in bed. It's been a long first night for all of us."


Two hours later, at just past midnight, I'm lying in bed and crying into my pillow. My Beautiful Man had not been at the reception. I've never felt so disappointed in my life when I realised he wasn't there, and when we got to the hotel, I had to run to the toilet to be sick.


I hear the door open. The light goes on. I stifle my sobs and wipe away the tears on the pillow. Herr Biermaier's hand comes on my shoulder, and he pulls me onto my back. When he looks into my eyes, I can see that he's genuinely concerned for me. But he's not concerned enough to stop him sliding his hand under the duvet and down into my pyjamas to fondle my soft pinkler. I don't try to stop him any more. It's become part of what we do.


It began when I was just turned eleven, six months after I joined the choir. He threatened to expel me from the choir if I didn't let him do it. He does it to little Hansie, too. I know, because we've talked about it. But Hansie is like me; he loves being in the choir so much that Herr Biermaier's stuff is worth taking rather than being sent back to an ordinary school again, and we would also lose the opportunity to travel to so many places.


"It's not responding, Aleric. You must be poorly! Never mind. We'll give Little Willie a rest tonight. I'll get a sleeping tablet for you, and that will help you get a good night's rest"


"I'm sorry, Herr Biermaier. I think I would like to go to sleep."


As Herr Direktor leaves the room, I'm relieved.



My Beautiful Man. He's gay. I know he is, because he was with his partner who hadn't let go of his arm all night. His partner must be a lot older, which is puzzling me. If my Beautiful Man likes older men, then why was he so interested in me? And he was interested in me. I've performed often enough now to know exactly which men desire me. But there was much more from Beautiful Man; he was crying because he wanted me so much. That's why I was surprised. I'd noticed him, because with him sitting near the orchestra, he was just within vision. Had he been sitting any further back, I wouldn't have seen him until the lights went up. He's strikingly handsome. But I've seen handsome men before and they haven't interested me, so why is he so special to me? I don't know, but I do know that once we made eye contact, my legs were wobbly, and I had awful butterflies in my tummy all night, and when Herr Biermaier said the 4th curtain call would be our last, I felt nauseous.



Herr Biermaier returns, gives me a small white tablet, and watches as I take it with a sip of water. I was hoping he would go to his own room, but he stands and strips off his clothes. I hardly see his fat, hairy belly before he places his glasses on the bedside cupboard, smears his pinkler with lubricant, and then gets in bed with me. He snuggles up to me, undoes the buttons on my pyjama top, and then pulls the bottoms off. He moves closer and rubs his fat pinkler on my small one. I feel his lips on my cheek, and his warm breath stinks of alcohol.



My Beautiful Man's hair was jet black, and when the lights went up, there was a blue sheen on the top of his head that almost matched the fantastic cobalt blue eyes he has. I've never seen such beautiful eyes. I looked at him lots of times during the second half of our performance, and every time I did, his eyes were on me. My Orinoco Flow was just for him. I think it was my best ever. He seemed to appreciate it, because he was grinning at me and applauding louder than anyone else, which made me smile.



Herr Biermaier rolls on top of me, puts his hands under my knees, and folds my legs onto my chest to give him complete access. More lubricant; this time on my hole, and then I feel him pushing at me. It slips in. Maybe it's the sleeping tablet, but as I feel him going deeper, it's not as uncomfortable as it usually is.



Time was for my Beautiful Man, too, and I gave it everything for him.

I am the hours
And moments of your yesterday
I am your time gone by
All days and ages fleeting long since passed away,
As endless years roll by.


The words had moved me, because I meant them for him; for my Beautiful Man, and I couldn't stop tears coming to my eyes as I sang it for him. He knew I was singing it for him, because rarely did our eyes part, and he was crying, too. We were both crying for each other. Why? Because we love each other? Is this how it happens? My feelings for him are so deep that his absence is making me ill, and the thought that I may never see him again are unbearable. I will see him again. He loves me like I love him. He will seek me out! I know he will! If I was in his position, no way would anyone stop me from doing that. He's the grown up. I can't do it, but he can. He will. My Beautiful Man won't let me down. Maybe tomorrow? Yes, maybe tomorrow.



Herr Biermaier is grunting now; his strokes are becoming faster, and I can feel and hear his fat, hairy, sweaty belly slapping against my buttocks, and with one final, deep, rotating thrust, he gargles his sexual death rattle as his hot stuff pumps deep into me just as I'm about to lose consciousness, and my last thought is that my Beautiful Man, if ever he kisses me, will tickle my face with the dark stubble on his.


To be continued...

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