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The Angel of Pie Jesu.
By John T. S. Teller.
Part 41.
Book two: Journey of the Coin.
Aleric.
I stare through the panoramic window... waiting... watching. Then I see the headlights and I know it's him. The crazy man overtakes a car not more than seventy metres from the gates that are just beginning to open, and they're not quite open when Gareth swings the car into the courtyard, damaging the gates and his car when he does, and he screeches to a halt by the low Armco barrier that runs along the front of the apartments with the front bumper also taking some damage. He gets out and storms into the building. I go to the bedroom and prepare for his arrival.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
Gareth.
I'm raging with temper when the elevator takes me to the 20th floor, far too slowly for the mood I'm in, and I bang the sides of it to hurry it on. Eventually it stops and I storm through the doors and into my apartment, and the lights come on. The place is deathly quiet as I stand, literally shaking with rage that I've responded to the Click! Click! Click! I go directly to the boys' bedroom. But no Aleric, so I go to our bedroom.
***********
I can't believe what I'm seing. Aleric is standing by the painting, legs apart so I can see the bottom of the painting between them, and he's naked. If he was just naked then that would have been a shock, but I can't believe what my eyes are telling me. On his chest, between his nipples, painted in bright red is the word ICH... On his tummy: LIEBE, and just above the tiny sprinkling of pubic hair he has is the word: DICH... all in bold capital letters.
ICH LIEBE DICH – I LOVE YOU.
I stare at him, feeling my rage receding faster than I can down a Schnapps when I'm in good drinking mood. There's an old saying that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I would defy anyone: man woman or child not to see the immense beauty of this gorgeous boy. His brown hair is immaculately brushed, making a perfect arc across his forehead to match the curves of his dark brown eyebrows; small tears are rolling from his brownish-green eyes and running down his cheeks; his gorgeous features sit perfectly on his long neck to melt into shoulders that are slumped because his arms are hanging loosely by his side; his firm chest resolves into a curved waist that any super-model would die for; his hips are not showing signs of bone structure because they're counterbalanced by his wonderful boyish legs being set apart, and his lovely cock is soft and nestled comfortably over a retracted ballsac... the tip of his foreskin hanging lower than it. And when I sit on the edge of the bottom of the bed, I'm not looking at a sexual creature: I'm looking at the most attractive thing I have ever seen in my life. But the most beautiful thing is that he has told me in probably the best way he could that he loves me. ICH LIEBE DICH. I stare into his eyes, and whisper: "Ich liebe dich." He smiles, and then he begins to sing, and his singular, beautiful voice echoes around our bedroom as he sings Bist du bei mir...
Bist du bei mir, geh' ich mit Freuden
Zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh',
Zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh'.
Ach wie vergnügt wär' so mein Ende:
Es drückten deine schönen Hände
Mir die getreuen Augen zu.
Bist du bei mir, geh' ich mit Freuden
Zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh',
Zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh'.
(This is German poetry and difficult to translate, but it means roughly this.)
If you are with me, then I will go gladly
unto [my] death and to my rest.
Ah, what a pleasant end for me,
if your dear hands be the last I see,
closing shut my faithful eyes to rest.)
Click! Click! Click! And with tears rolling from my eyes I go to my beautiful boy, wrap him in my arms, and he lifts his and crushes them around my neck. Click! Click! Click!
********** ********** ********** ********** ***********
Aleric.
Is there anything that doesn't surprise me about my Beautiful Man? I think I know everything about him, and then he does something extraordinary. When he comes to me and crushes me in his arms, instead of taking me to the bed and having sex with me, with tears falling from his eyes, he takes me back to the bedroom Gottwin and I share. Then he starts throwing clothes out of a drawer onto the bed, searching for whatever he's after. He selects a brand new pair of tan, y-front underpants, slowly threads them up my legs, makes sure they fit absolutely perfectly (even maneuvering my pinkler so it's across my lower tummy but clearly visible behind the material); pushes me on the bed and fits a pair of light brown ankle socks to my feet... making sure they are perfectly comfortable; takes a pair of brown chinos from a hangar in the wardrobe and makes me stand up while he's fitting those; and finally he selects a long-sleeved, brown, dress-shirt that has two breast pockets, fits and buttons it up... leaving just one button open at the top and the bottom of the shirt loose outside my jeans, and he folds the sleeves perfectly until the last fold settles just below my elbows. Then he roots out a pair of almost new brown shoes and polishes them with a pair of underpants until they shine beautifully. He fits them; tying the laces perfectly in a bow, gets up, takes both my hands and steps back to admire his handywork. I think he's finished, but he's not. He lets go of my hand and takes two wet-wipes out of a box and comes close to me, grips my jaw and cleans my tearful face, being very careful not to disturb the hair that had taken me ten minutes to get it right.
He takes me into our bedroom, and he points a finger at me. I know what it means. I am to stand still while he does something. He goes to the wall safe and punches in the code, and when it opens, he takes something out and closes the safe. Then he comes back to me and fits a thick, large gold watch with a brown leather strap to my left wrist. I look at it and see that it's the right time and that the seconds hand is moving. I look inquisitively at him, and ask, "What's this?"
He stares right into my eyes. "It's very special to me. It belongs to you now... to the boy I love more than life itself. It will keep you safe. Make sure you don't lose it!" Then he makes me stand beside the painting, goes to one of his drawers and takes out his expensive camera, and for the next few minutes he snaps away as if he's a professional photographer; instructing me to set various poses. Eventually, he's done, and pulls me away from the painting and into the lounge to the panoramic window. With one hand tightly holding my shoulder so I can't escape, he holds the camera in front of us, flicking through the pictures he's taken. Finally, he goes through them again and stops at a particular one. He shows it to me, and says, "That's my Aleric Hahn, the boy I love." Then he points to the painting in the photograph. "That's not him. That's something else... something we'll have to deal with, but it's not the real you. I don't know what's going on with us Aleric, but if we let the painting come between us, it will finish us both off."
Quietly, I ask, "How do we deal with it? It overpowers me. I try not to let it do that, but I can't help it. There's something else you need to know about it... it's not just me and Gottwin, it's also Norbert, the child Mum lost when he was little. Come on, let me show you... but don't freak out, or I will." Now I'm leading Gareth, and when we stand in front of the painting, I show him what Mum pointed out and explain what she said. When I've finished, I look at Gareth. "Well?"
He's staring at the painting when he says, "What's in the box?"
"I don't know. I haven't opened it. I daren't."
Gareth nods. "Then let's do it together, like we're going to deal with all this shit in the future." He stares right into my eyes and glares at me. "No doing things on your own from now on! We sort this together! Right!"
I nod meekly. "Right. But there's just one thing I need to know."
"What's that?"
"I've been thinking about it all day. This is all spooky, but it can't beat God. That's why I wanted to go to church. I needed help. I want you and me to go to church together. I know you don't believe in God, but churches are special places. There's no bad spirits in there. I want you to be with me when I pray to God. And then I want us to get married in our own special way. We don't need clergymen or anything... we just need to commit to each other in the eyes of my God. We can swap rings or something like that... our way of knowing. Please? And before you even think it, this isn't some childish thing that I want to do. It isn't just today I've been thinking about it. The first time I thought about it was our first time in our special place by the sea at Wieck. I knew then that I would always belong to you. It wasn't just about sex to me."
Gareth stares right into my eyes again, and then nods. "Okay. We'll make plans to do that, but let's open the damned box."
"How?"
"With a bloody screwdriver or something."
I glare at him. "No! It's Raul's box. Treat it with respect!"
Gareth is looking at me to see if I'm serious, and when he sees I am, he shrugs his shoulders, and says, "Okay. But we haven't got a key, so we'll have to leave it for now. I'll find a locksmith tomorrow and see if they can open it. I'm no good at breaking into things."
I chuckle. "No, but you're good at smashing things up."
Gareth shakes his head, grinds his teeth, and growls, "I'll need a new car."
I can't stop the giggle that escapes my lips when I murmur, "I wasn't talking about the car. Kurt says you owe him a new plate or a dinner set if he can't get one."
Gareth glares at me. "You've been talking to that tart again, have you?!"
I grab Gareth and hug him, and rest my head on his chest. "We wouldn't be together if it wasn't for Kurt. He's our guardian angel."
I feel Gareth's head nodding on the top of mine. "I know he is. What did he say to you?"
"Ich Liebe Dich. It was his idea. Well... he said to paint something on myself if I didn't want to be carted off to the Wannsee." I hug him a bit harder. "That's what you were going to do, wasn't it."
"Yes."
"And now?"
"How about we go and get something to eat. That's if your tummy bug has gone."
I hug him even harder. "It was a love bug."
Gareth pushes me away and lifts my chin. He stares into my eyes for a long time, and then he says, "It's contagious. Come on. We'll get a taxi. We'll leave your Mum a note." Then he goes off to get showered and changed, and while he's doing it and I'm and staring at the painting that's almost destroyed us, I hear him talking on his phone, but because his voice is so quiet, I can't make out a word he's saying.
**********
I expect Gareth to take us to The Adlon or something similar, but when we get in the taxi, he tells the driver to take us to Kreuzberg: the former Turkish Quarter; the Oranienstraβe, and drop us off there. While we're going to wherever, he makes a phone call and speaks in rapid English, and even though he's been teaching me how to speak English, I don't understand a word he says. The taxi stops and we get out. (The taxi driver must think it's his birthday. Gareth flicks a one hundred euro note at him instead of asking how much the fare is.) Immediately we're out of the car, he takes my hand and begins to walk. "Where are we going," I ask him.
He doesn't look at me when he replies, "To cure this damned love bug."
I grip his hand tighter and speed up my step to keep up with his extended stride. It seems as though the anger has not quite left him. But I don't say anything. I'm taking Kurt's advice. He told me not to try and talk myself out of this situation. He said he'd never seen Gareth so angry. That's why I painted on myself. I said nothing, but the painted words said everything... until, that is, I knew I could say the things I needed to say. And now I've said them and we're going to be married, I won't push him. I won't need to. I know how he works. He'll give it some thought and then just do it. That's suits me down to the ground. I like surprises, especially when they come from my Beautiful Man. Gareth must be thinking too, because his grip on my hand is hurting. It's what he does when he's worried about me.
We turn down a side street and come to a dingy looking place with a worn sun shade still extended into the street above the small-paned, large, curtained window, and he opens the door and we go in. It's almost as dark inside as outside, but maybe that's why he's brought us here. A man and his boy won't be noticeable? I'm surprised. The place is almost full.
Wearing a white apron over his black trousers and waistcoat and white shirt, an old man wearing a fez comes immediately to us. He smiles and shakes Gareth's hand, and they talk in rapid English. Then the old man looks at me and holds out his hand, and when I shake it, I can't help but notice how aged and fragile it is. But he has a wonderful look on his face: twinkling brown eyes that sparkle when he smiles, and more crow's feet wrinkles around his eyes than I've ever seen. Although he's a very old man, I can't help thinking that he's very beautiful when, after he's taken my leather bomber jacket and Gareth's overcoat, he ushers us into an intimate four-person booth with an old, coloured wall lamp above us that probably won't use much electricity. When we're seated opposite each other and the old man goes away, I ask Gareth, "What is this place?"
He doesn't even smile when he replies, "It's a Turkish gay café. Have a look around you, but don't make it too obvious or you'll find yourself in bed with another bloke."
So I do look around, and I'm astonished that I didn't notice before, but the place is full of men, old and young, some old and young together, and there's even a couple of transvestites amongst the gloom. But I like the place. It's fantastically intimate with the secluded booths and flickering shadows everywhere that are being created by the blazing log fire that's keeping the room warm on this winter's night. And I need the room warm. Now the old man has taken my bomber jacket, I'm wearing just the clothes Gareth dressed me in, and they're summer clothes, not winter clothes.
The old man comes back holding a tray containing a bottle of peach Schnapps, a bottle of white wine and a carafe of what I take to be water, and sets them on the table with two glasses: a small tumbler for the schnapps, and a small wine glass. He also has two menus tucked under his arm. He gives one to each of us, gives me another of his beautiful smiles, and leaves us. But not before I look into his twinkling eyes and give him one back. My reward for that is a mischievous wink.
Gareth asks, "Do you want water in your wine?"
I stare at him. "The wine is for me?"
"Well it's not for bloody me, is it?!"
I giggle. "Yes please." Gareth fills half the glass with wine, stops, gives me a naughty look, and then puts a drop more in before topping it up with water from the carafe. I giggle again. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
Gareth picks up his tumbler that he's filled three-parts full with Schnapps, and throws it back in one go. When he's put the tumbler back on the table, he leans right forward and I detect a touch of lingering anger when he glares into my eyes. "Today I've been absolutely pissed off; tonight I'm going to get pissed up, and then I'm going to make love to my beautiful young man until all this shit is over."
I pick up my glass of wine, take a small drink of it, stare back into his beautiful eyes, and say, "You've made my pinkler go hard."
He sits back and we stare into each other's eyes without saying anything. Words aren't necessary. The love and sexual vibes passing between us are thick enough to cut with my Samurai sword, so thick that the thing up my bum is beginning to tingle. We're still staring into each other's eyes when I hear a tinkle of the doorbell and Gareth's eyes divert to somewhere behind me, and the next thing I know is a pair of arms reaching out to me, and there is Kurt in all his womanly glory, wearing an open fur coat, and underneath it a beautiful dress cut to the shoulders, and on his head is a lovely brown wig. Standing behind him is Heindrich. I just can't stop myself. I wriggle across the bench seat and fly into Kurt's arms, he hugs me tightly, and tears are misting my eyes when I hug him back. Then he whispers in my ears, "You managed it then?"
I whisper back. "Yes. He says he's going to get pissed up and then do me for ages tonight."
Kurt giggles crazily, pushes me back into my seat, and after the old man has taken his coat. he sits with me and links my arm tightly. Heindrich sits in the seat by Gareth, and he gives me a big grin.
Me and Kurt are speaking in whispers, talking about everything that's happened. Then he sees the gold watch on my left wrist. He looks at Gareth, who is talking to Heindrich, then grabs my hand and pulls it below the level of the table and examines the watch. When he looks at me his eyes are wide with astonishment, and he asks me, "Where did you get this from?"
I shrug my shoulders. "He gave it to me after he'd dressed me. He said it was very special and would keep me safe and I wasn't to lose it."
"Didn't he tell you what it was?"
"No. What is it?"
Kurt's eyes are misted over when he looks into mine. "It's the most precious thing he's got. Worth more than all the money he's got. I always wanted him to give it to me, but he never would. It's his grandfather's watch."
"Was his grandfather that special to him?"
Kurt nods, and then smiles at me. "Yes. He was the only male person he ever really loved until he met me, and then you. But I'll leave Gareth to tell you about him. One day he will, and when he does, I can guarantee that there'll be no secrets he will keep from you."
Kurt's words have gone deep, and the only way I can deal with them are by using our familiarity. "Because I'm a tart?"
A small tear slips from my beautiful friend's eyes, and he smiles when he shakes his head. "No, not because you're just a tart. You're the most precious tart in the world to him."
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
Gareth.
My heart is almost breaking as I look at the two people opposite me: the two people I love most in the world, holding each other and whispering between them; sometimes serious conversation and sometimes mischievous giggles. They're entirely different: one is all female and the other all male, but both desire the same thing: a man to love them. In this particular case, both would like to go to bed with me, but, that way, I only have eyes for one... and he's the one I can't keep my eyes off now in the only place in town that I know we're safe. This is Kurt's domain: a place he told me would have no scruples about a young eligible boy being in the company of a much older man when I phoned him when I was in the bathroom. What was it he said? `Bedri's Place. The old queer will enjoy your company, but keep a tight hold on Aleric. He likes his young boys, does Bedri.' Then, when I asked him if he knew a place we could stay tonight because I wanted me and Aleric to be alone, he chuckled and said, `I'll ring Bedri and organize it. He keeps some beautiful, clean rooms for special guests. He's one of us. He knows how to arrange such things.' So I wrote a note for Gretel and explained that Aleric was well now and that I was taking him out for a meal and that we might not be back until the morning. I didn't think Gretel needed to know more. She's way ahead of me as far as her boy is concerned.
Her boy. Click! Click! Click! Beware the Hun! Damned if I do, and damned if I don't. Definite truisms that I can't deny. This small boy – Gretel's Boy - sipping on his glass of wine stole my heart with a song; captured my soul with a smile from his beautiful brown-green eyes, and later will devour my sexuality and leave me drained. And he wants me to marry him! May his God help me!
But for now I've got Kurt, and I grin at him when I ask, "Did you manage to get a babysitter then?"
He winks. "I did indeed. It took a bit of doing, but I managed it."
Aleric asks, "Will Hansie be all right with a stranger looking after him?"
Heindrich answers. He points a finger at Kurt. "She's been scheming again Aleric. She phoned Jan Strichter's parents up and said she'd got an emergency and she didn't know anybody who Hans would be comfortable with and begged them to do him a huge favour."
I can see the admiration and mischievousness in Aleric's eyes when he looks up at Kurt, and says, "You didn't!"
Kurt smiles smugly back at him. "I did. I managed to get Jan to stay overnight, and they'll both go to school from the apartment in the morning. We left them watching TV, both sitting as far apart as possible on the sofa."
Aleric starts to laugh. When he's controlled himself, he says, "That won't last long."
Kurt gives him a womanly slap on the hand. "Don't be naughty! Now let's order. I'm starving." He looks at Aleric. "I think we'd better have something nice and spicy tonight, don't you?"
Aleric giggles, and again they whisper and chuckle together while they're studying the menu.
I look at Heindrich; he looks at me; we both grin, and then study our own menus.
********** *********** ********** ********** ***********
Aleric.
Kurt is our guide when we order the meal. He ignores the rest of us and points to things on the menu to the old man, who grins and smiles and goes away with an even bigger grin on his face when I give him one of my special smiles. I've already worked out that he fancies me, and because I'm with Gareth and I know I'm safe, I decide to give him something to think about when he goes to bed tonight. He can't help being an old pervert no more than I can help being a young one. Being associated with Kurt has opened my eyes to many things. At one time I thought there was only one pervert in the world: Herr Biermaier, but now I know different. The world is full of them... including us. And Bedri (Kurt told me his name during a giggling, whispering conversation when I told him that I thought the old man fancied me, and Kurt told me that he most certainly did, and that Bedri has got immaculate taste, which had us both giggling again), fusses over me when he brings loads of plates of different food to the table. He even gives me one of his special winks when he makes sure my glass is topped up, with just wine this time. I reward him for that by looking right into his twinkling eyes and giving him an extra-sexy smile.
The food is fantastic: all sorts of meats and vegetables and rice and spicy dips and stuff that we help ourselves to. Far different than the bland German food I'm used to. Well, it's bland compared to this food. Gareth is loosening up, and I decide to play games with him, so I reach under the table, undo the laces on my right shoe, and slip it off. Then I caress his legs with my toes. Gareth grins, reaches under the table, and the next thing I feel is his unclad foot playing footsie with me. We both giggle, and from then on we make love with our toes while we eat and I take in all that my Beautiful Man is. I compare him with Heindrich... no contest. I glance around the room at the other diners... no contest. Only Bedri with his sparkling brown eyes can compare, and I chuckle to myself at the thought that I might fancy the old reprobate if he was forty years younger. Even now if I'm honest, I wouldn't be too put out if he was sucking my pinkler and I was giving him my boy milk. I'm absolutely sure that he's forgotten more about sucking little boys' pinklers than Gareth will ever know, and I reckon it would be quite an experience to have him do it. And goodness knows what he could do to my bum. But maybe it's the wine going to my head giving me these thoughts. It's certainly lowering my inhibitions when I look at Gareth.
He's beautiful. Even if I didn't love him I would have to admit that he's the most handsome man I've ever seen. He's all man at probably the peak of his manhood; almost six feet tall; well built with little fat on him; the kind of man that stands out in the crowd; the film star look with his black hair and beautiful blue eyes and his dark designer stubble that plays havoc with my senses when he's licking and kissing my lips and my body. And he's mine... all mine... and tonight he's going to make love to me and take me to nirvana. Who's a lucky boy then?! More wine. Gareth needs to ease off. I don't want him completely drunk when he carries out his promise. And he'd better do! I'm as randy as hell because I haven't done it since we were by the Wannsee.
********** ********** ********** ********** **********
Bedri Tabak.
The prophet Muhammad (PBUH) has been good to me tonight. He has delivered to me a gift so wonderful that I believe all my good deeds have indeed been rewarded. I do care for the sick; give aid to the poor; help the needy; pray five times a day. My business is a good one, and I am old and alone. Apart from Muhammad (PBUH), I have only one love... that for the most delicious of the human species: the young boys of this world, and tonight Muhammad (PBUH) has delivered into my restaurant a boy so beautiful that I am not worthy of his presence, let alone the delicious smiles he's been giving me all evening. He's a clever boy. He knows that I'm a lover of his type. And I have had so many. Far too many to count. Muhammad (PBUH) has given me the gift... the gift of being able to see to their desires, to leave none unsatisfied. In fact, I can proudly boast that each and every one of my conquests has returned for more if it was possible for them to do so, as did Kurt beside him when he was deliciously young and beautiful.
**********
The restaurant is almost empty. All the customers are gone. Even Kurt and Heindrich have left. Only the man - Gareth - and the boy - Aleric - are left. I'm feeling sorry for the boy. He has partaken of just enough wine to lower his inhibitions to perform flawlessly, but the man has drunk too much of the dreaded Schnapps to make him successful in satisfying his boy. It's a shame, because the boy loves the man immensely. No less than the man loves the boy, but their type of love needs to be consummated properly. And knowing boys as I do, I think there's a good chance that Aleric will go to sleep unfulfilled tonight.
**********
They've gone up to their room, which is spotlessly clean, and all the things they need are there for them. I charge a high price for the rooms. I need to. In this day and age of sexual diseases, everything is new and still in its packaging. There's a price list in the room: a list as long as a well endowed man in full flower... from condoms to anal beads... and everything in between. And I usually know what they've used before they go to sleep.
I take off my work clothes and go to my room. Everything is already warmed up and operating properly. The very best stuff that an old man can buy. Quality counts. Five cameras; five screens... all recording... well, after they've used the bathroom that is. I'm not into that sort of thing. Again Muhammad (PBUH) is looking down on me with his blessings. They leave the main light on.
**********
They stand by the bed and kiss, long and passionately; I can hear their betrothal of loving whispers. The man's hands roam down the boy's back to the glorious orbs of boy, and he grasps them firmly. Yes, that's perfect. The boy will need some aggressiveness. He wants to be taken. All boys like him want to be taken. They want to be masters, but they need to be taken before giving. It's the age-old dominance of the desired that will lead men to their deaths sometimes, and this boy is playing the game superbly. He allows the man to take off his shirt; undo his jeans and let them drop to the floor, and again the hands are at work, but now they're caressing boy orbs through flimsy fabric. Bodies pressing together; lips locked in passion, but the boy is aware to slip his feet out of the jeans around his ankles. He's in control... playing the game of love. The aggressive hands are now beneath the fabric... clutching; grasping; fondling. He pushes the fabric down and then puts a hand around the front of the boy to lift the hem over the erect phallus, and only then can he push the fabric down onto thighs that are beyond compare. I knew this boy was exceptional the moment I laid eyes on him, but I was not aware of how special he would be when naked. This boy is perfect, and his orbs are beyond that... they are edible.
Naked boy now... and we begin the game of undressing the man. But this is not a gentle disrobing; the boy is too highly aroused for that. This is abuse. He practically tears the clothes from the man. No sooner started than done, and two naked bodies fall to the bed; writhing in the dance of love; needing to meld into a single being. The boy is on top. I expected that, just as I'm right when I think what his next move is.
I've seen boys his age with larger phalluses than he possesses, but his is a very pretty one, which more than makes up for the lack of length and girth, especially because I like my boys to be boys and not men. Two more years (give and take the odd exception) and despite his undoubted beauty, I will not desire him, just as two years below his age (give and take the odd exception) I would not desire him. At the age of twelve a boy becomes a sexual aberration; no longer a baby content to explore himself; and for a span of four years until he is sixteen when he becomes a man, he is that aberration; that hormone driven creature of experimentation... the most beautiful of his sexual years.
I was right. The boy inserts his swollen phallus into the eager mouth, and I begin to count. I suspect it's the poor boy's first time for over twenty four hours, because he beats my count of forty by five less. They kiss; make more love, and the boy rolls onto his back. May his God preserve him for evermore! He speaks his love with those precious words, painted on his body! I have seen many gestures, but none have been so bold. ICH LIEBE DICH. Were but this boy had done that for me, I would have worshipped at his feet; followed him at heel like a cur dog; rolled over to take the point of a sword to my innards just to smell him. But how will the man repay him?
He goes onto one elbow and stares down at the boy, who strokes the sides of the man's face with delicate fingers. (I move to a wall mounted camera that is hidden in the painting of an Arab gelding, watching every move the man makes.) For a big man, he's very gentle... fondling the soft skin of his boy's body; tracing his fingers over the words of love; planting small, loving kisses on his rosy-red full lips; whispering his deep love for the precious creature he desires; needs, and I suspect would act like the cur dog rolled over to take the point of a sword to his innards just to smell his young lover. The words are having an effect, because Aleric's boyhood rises again to its full glory; more than full, because as soon as the man fondles it, the skin covering slips back from the glistening head. Now he's like a proper boy, revealing the sensitive parts that will take him to Paradise if the man is wise enough to understand how a boy works. We will see!
Kisses to the neck now... lingering ones, and then back to the rosy-red full lips before he goes down to nibble and suck on one of the boys erect nipples before moving onto the other and doing the same. The boy heaves his buttocks from the bed, wanting more stimulation by the man's fingers, but the man is wise enough not to respond. Instead, while he kisses his way down the boy's perfect abdomen, he places his hands inside the boy's thighs and strokes the softest of boy flesh; the most hairless part of him. (I move to the camera hidden just above the curtains to get a lengthwise view from the boy's feet. I need to see how the man handles the road to unspoken passions.) He does well, and the gentle finger is gratefully received. In fact the boy desires it so much that he reaches down and parts his glorious orbs to allow his man entry. It's time, Man! Do it now!
And he does. Going lower, his lips slip over the pulsating bundle of nerves, and the boy reaches Paradise for a second time, shuddering and shaking and crying out in ecstasy with that beautiful, unbroken voice of his. He is in Dreamland... his man is too, and I'm with them both.
It seems that I may have misjudged this man. He has an excellent tolerance to alcohol. I've helped him a little. The 50mg of Viagra I crushed and added to his Kazandibi was unnoticed when he wolfed it down with his strong coffee, and I'm pleased to see that his manhood is still very much in full bloom and his preparatory juices are flowing freely. If the boy is familiar with the man's phallus entering him, they may have no need of the gel I've provided, which is handily placed on one of the bedside cupboards. And, hopefully, I'm wishing that these two lovers have remained true and do not require those damned condoms. But the boy is young and may not have reached the experience of penetration. I will be most disappointed if that is the case.
But my greatest misjudgment of the man is that of thinking he would ravish the boy for his own needs. He has done no such thing. Instead, he has acted like a true pederast... giving his boy his sexual heights without using him for his own carnal desires. It's as it should be. His boy's pleasures are his pleasures, and I know from personal experience that no greater love can a man have for his boy than that: no greater sacrifice so rewarding to the spirit. This is the summit of love I'm watching, where spirituality outweighs sexuality. But only the man can have such feelings. Even when the passions of spiritual love are so strong, a boy is incapable of neglecting his carnal desires; of understanding the difference between the two. To him they are one; inseparable; indissoluble; joined at the phallus, which leads to the kisses that can melt the heart of a man of stone. But this boy is blessed: his man is not of stone; he is as soft as the finest silks; as malleable as a handful of mercury in a deep earthenware bowl. Lucky boy!
He is on his belly now, the boy, and I change cameras back to the one in the painting. This I do not want to miss!
The man is licking his boy and I can taste the sweat from the boy's skin in my dry throat, and I can smell and taste the muskiness when the man goes between those delicious orbs, especially when the boy retracts his knees underneath him and presents his rosebud to his man. But this is not right. Too uncomfortable for the man... and he needs to be comfortable if he is to pleasure his boy supremely with his darting tongue. At the same time, probably telepathically because they are not new to each other, the boy rolls over onto his back and draws his knees to his chest. And then I almost whoop with delight when I see the man take complete control. I really have misjudged him! He kneels close to the boy, grips his tender hips, and pulls the boy up from the bed so his parted orbs are by his face. Although the boy is lying only on his neck and head, the strong grip of his man is easing any discomfort he may feel. The tongue goes deep, the boy flagellates his own phallus, and it's 3-0 to the boy when he squeals in ecstasy. But the man is not finished. He is lost in his own sea of carnal desires, and he continues to pound at the boy's rosebud; licking and sucking and penetrating. The boy is moaning now; his head tossing from side to side. He has led his man, and now it's time to surrender, which was the ultimate aim in the beginning. Boy leads man; man follows; they drink together at the well of desire, and the boy surrenders his soul as well as his body if the feelings between them are great and mutual, and I have never witnessed such great and mutual feelings as I am now. This is not just true love... this is inseparable souls dancing in the moonlight, or in this case, in a boudoir I have provided for them. I am a good man.
But now I'm getting worried. 4-0 and the man has still not been blessed with release. Either he is a like a eunuch, or he has a power of control greater than any man I've seen. He should have ejaculated at least once during this love fest, so maybe he does have a disability. Maybe he is incapable of sexual release. It's not unheard of, but it is exceedingly rare. So, silently, I send a prayer to Muhammad (PBUH) to help the poor man. Muhammad (PBUH) hears my prayer... and he sends directions down to the beautiful boy who has no equal.
After much kissing and murmurings of love, the sweet boy rolls his man onto his back, takes some of my precious gel (that will be ten Euros please), and smears it over the erect phallus of his man. Then he works some into the inner sanctuary of his being, and while his man is lying on the bed, he lowers himself down until not a breath of air can come between the sweet boy's orbs and his man's hairy groin. And he rides the Race of Lust until his man is shivering and shaking and crying with delight as they pass the winning post, and then both canter to a reluctant halt. 4-1 to the boy.
**********
I switch off the cameras and the rest of the paraphernalia. I have no more need of it at the moment. My own loins have been emptied four times while I was observing the Dance of Love. That's not bad for a seventy-five year old. (The 100mg of Viagra helped a little.) But I reckon if I'd been in the bed with the boy angel, I would have outlasted him. Maybe one day, if Muhammad (PBUH) is good to me, I may yet get to do just that. Tonight will not be the last time these two will frequent my establishment, and maybe the next time I might put a sleeping pill in the man's Kazandibi. This sweet, oversexed little boy will not take too kindly to that, and he knows that I have already fallen in love with him. He may not want my old, gnarled body, but I know he desires the gifts I can give to him, and because I am like his own man, his presence and his body will be reward enough for me.
To be continued...
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