The contents of this story are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read further.

This story is posted for the exclusive enjoyment of readers of the Nifty Archive. While you are free to make a personal copy, no copy of this manuscript may be published, copied, posted to another web site, or otherwise disseminated without express permission from the author.

Amsterdam Express

Milan was an interesting assignment for me, who had never been outside the U.S. before. The trip there had been exciting -- getting my first passport, changing planes in JFK airport in New York, seeing Manhattan from the air as we circled around to land. Then the real treat: they put me up in the front of the plane all the way from New York to Milan, because they needed my single seat in economy for two people traveling together. I didn't sleep a wink. Well, maybe a couple of hours after the movie.

When I finished the two week job, I did it too well. I got asked to stay for another week. All this time, I was completely lost outside the office. I speak no Italian, and after work would just walk around the city, absorbing sights and sounds. Il Duomo was a trip, and I liked the Galleria especially. The prices were way out of my reach, so I did little shopping, and ate mostly at little Bars, where cheap pasta and pizza was the staple. Most of the city seemed a little seedy, industrial, frozen in time.

Italian men are a treat to watch, too. They seem to have this thing about walking around with semi-erections in their trousers all the time. I only got caught looking a couple of times, and rather than hard glares, I got the "don't you wish yours was as big as mine" stares.

On Friday at two pm, I was supposed to jump on a jet plane and head back to Dallas, arriving just in time for the exhibition Cowboys game on Saturday. My Dad had tickets, and I couldn't wait. Forty yard line, half way up. Perfection!

The call that changed my life forever came through at nine that morning. The local manager's secretary, Gabriela, came into the computer room and said I needed to come upstairs to get a call. I was finalizing the code for a little algorithm we'd put into a search programme with one of the programmers, and she was doing fine, so I went with Gabby to her office.

"Jer!" said my boss as soon as I picked up the phone and said 'Pronto!'

"Hey, Dick, you're working late!" It was 1:00 Am in Dallas.

"Had to catch you before you left," he said. He sounded a little tipsy.

"Want me to bring back some prosciutto?"

"Need you in London on Wednesday morning, Jer. Have to make a presentation to the Board, want you to do the same gig you did for the analysts last month."

My cherished Cowboys were gonna have to do without me. Especially . . . well, never mind. I had a crush on a particular tight end, but he didn't even know I existed, probably wasn't gay, and even if he was, wanted somebody bulkier than my mere hundred seventy-eight pounds on a six-foot five frame. I'd spent hundreds of hours lifting weights, running, eating double Macs and milkshakes, trying to bulk up, but I never gained a single pound. My pants were even getting looser, not tighter. All my 32 in. trousers were getting too big for me.

"How come me?" I said, in as plaintive a wail as I could muster. Hard to do when you have a deep bass voice.

"You got rave reviews, Jer. The board liked the analysts' take on our software, and wants to see what they saw."

"I could come back tonight and fly over with you Monday night."

"Nah, you need a break. Why don't you take a few days and wander around a little, relax, come on over to London on Tuesday morning and we'll get things set up for the presentation. I'll show you a little of the City, we'll fly back on Thursday morning."

There was no refusing him. I figured he was just trying to save the airfare. He's a bear on costs.

"Okay, Dick" I said. "Would you ask Susan to call my Dad in the morning and let him know?"

"You got it, Jer. See you at the Hotel on Tuesday," he said, ready to hang up.

"Wait!" I cried into the phone. "What hotel will we be in?"

"The Savoy," he said. "You're already booked." He hung up, just like that.

Great. Here I was in Milan, dying to go back to Dallas, bags all packed and ready to go, and he wants me to play tourist for five days while he moseys over to London, just so I can hold his hand for a one hour board presentation.

I asked Gabriela to check on flight availability to London. "There are no flights," she told me. "Alitalia is on strike."

That's one thing I could never understand. I was in Milan for three weeks, and there must have been forty strikes of one sort or another. This was the second time Alitalia was on strike since I got there. I asked Gabby about British Airways, but she just gave me a pitying look, the poor dumb Americano, and told me that if Alitalia was on strike, Malpensa was closed, because the airport was run by the airline workers. The international airport, where the flight for New York was scheduled was open, because . . . because it was Italy, I guess.

Okay, escape by plane wasn't possible. Train! Were the train drivers on strike? Fingers crossed, I asked Gabby.

"No, the trains are running, Signore Mills," she replied. "I shall cancel the taxi to the airport." I was supposed to have left at noon. Three hours and I'd have been able to see the Game!

I asked her to book me a seat for the next overnight train to London. I had to go through Calais, where I could catch the ferry to . . . Dover, and then go on to London. (The Chunnel had not yet opened when all this transpired.) She said she would, so I went back downstairs to finish the algorithm with Maria.

At eleven, Gabby came down and told me she had not been able to get anything for Dover, because all the TEE's (Trans Europe Express) were "complete" to Paris and Brussels, but she could get me a compartment on the Amsterdam Express, where I could take an express train to Calais the following morning, Sunday.

Great! Another night in a city I had no knowledge of whatsoever, except that it had a reputation for drugs, I think. I told her to go ahead and book it. I didn't have much choice -- I'd checked out of my hotel, and the hotels in Milan were full -- Gabby checked. Something about a fashion fair or whatnot.

The upside was that I got to spend another lunch with Signore Potrini and Maria and Marco, the people I'd been working with. Gabby gave me the train ticket just before I left, and I gave her the enameled vase for flowers I'd found in a little shop near the Castello Sforzesco, to replace the water glass she used. She liked it, and that made me feel good.

The four of us went to a Taverna right next to the train station tracks, and I had Melanzana Parmesana and another of those wonderful pastas only the Italians can make. Unlike the trains and planes, the restaurants seem to function incredibly efficiently. Maybe the Italians have their priorities right . . .

After a long lunch and pleasant good-byes, they dropped me at the front entrance to the massive main railway station, built by Mussolini in the "Horrific Heroic" style, and I lugged my two bags up the steps and inside. None of the Americans With Disabilities Act niceties here -- you either marched up the steps, or went nowhere. Works for them, I guess.

I eventually found the track my train was supposed to leave from, and it was already there, but you couldn't board it yet. It left at 17:01 pm, and boarding was not permitted until one hour before departure. So I sat on my big suitcase, right by the gate, and waited the half hour plus. I was glad I was in front by the time four o'clock came. There was a mob of people massed to board the train, and Italians have no concept of a line. They all try to get to the front at once, sidle and push, really quite amazing to watch.

When the gate was about to be opened, I was right in front of it, and popped through the gate like a champagne cork, saved from being trampled only by the narrowness of the gate and the enormous bags some of the people carried, meaning only one or at most two people could get through at a time.

My carriage was the last on the train. I only had to walk a few dozen yards before I saw the carriage number, although of course I had to walk to the front of the car to board. The car attendant even helped me with my luggage, showed me to my compartment, and put the big bag up on the rack for me. Gabby told me I should only tip him when we got to Amsterdam, and I guess he knew that, because his hand didn't go out.

He was young, nice-looking, sort of blond Spanish in appearance. Northern Spanish are often light-complected, slim and very European in looks, whereas the southerners are darker, more arabic. His English was perfect, even down to an American accent. His name tag said "Jon," which meant nothing to me at all about his nationality. Jonathan? Jonas? He looked no more than twenty.

I did what everybody does on the trains while waiting to leave. I went out in the corridor and watched the platform, hanging out the window in the oppressive heat.

There was another train on the other side of the platform, and the card said it was going to Amsterdam as well, but via Paris. That was the one I couldn't get on, because it was booked. I looked longingly at it, thinking it would have been so nice to go directly to Paris then Calais, and get somewhere I could actually speak with people, understand what was being said, by tomorrow.

My eyes wandered down the car, looking at all the people leaning out the windows of the car, imagining little stories about who they were, where they were going, and  . .

My eyes locked on a guy directly across from me. He was, quite simply, gorgeous. Dark hair, a long face with generous nose, slim and dressed in a shirt that left not a single crease, it was so form-fitting. And the form was intoxicating. A perfect "V" to a slim waist, the throat open to show a mat of dark hair. I tried to look away, but my eyes kept coming back to him, and before I knew it, he looked up, caught me looking, and gave me a smile that blinded me.

I actually smiled back. I think I flushed, but I held the gaze, and my heart did a little dance in my throat. Wow! THAT never happened before!

Don't get me wrong - I'm gay, and I was no virgin, thanks to my cousins in Waco, but I'd never done it except at Steam Works once when I was drunk, and the spring before with a guy from the Junior class, just before I graduated. Andrew liked my dick, no matter where I put it, and we screwed like bunnies until he went back to Iowa for the summer. It was just lust, though. He couldn't kiss for shit, and preferred doing it doggie-style. I got bored looking at his back, just watching my dick go in and out until he came all over the sheets.

The guy across the platform kept smiling, and I thought "what the hell, it doesn't hurt to flirt a little," so I did. Little smiles, posing a little, twisting my body to show how broad my shoulders were compared to my narrow hips and waist. All very innocent, of course.

He gave a little wave at me, and I waved back. We knew we saw each other and enjoyed the view. The crowds scurried below and between us, and I saw only him. I had to move a few times for fellow passengers, and one time had to go back into my compartment to let a particularly big bag through, and when I went back to the window . . . he was gone.

I got a little panicky, of all things, looking in every window to see if he was there, had moved, but he was not to be seen. Another passenger wanted through, so I backed away, into the compartment doorway, and was back at the window the instant he was past. The vision was not there.

"So, big deal, Jer (My name is Jeremiah, but I hated it and only went by "Jer." Nobody calls me Jeremiah, not even my Dad.), it's not like you could ever do anything about it," I preached to myself.

I saw his shirt on the platform below. Directly below me. He was looking up at me with that big smile, and had a medium-sized leather bag in his hand, a leather jacket over his shoulder.

"You are going to Amsterdam?" he said. His voice was husky, not as deep as my voice, breathy, heavy accent, intoxicating. How did he know I spoke only English?

"Yes," I said, a huge grin on my face despite my effort to look sophisticated, cool. "You?"

"I, also, go there," he said, and just turned and walked up the platform.

"What is he doing?" I thought, as I devoured the sight of his magnificent butt, encased in jeans, two half melons plastered on slim hips, long legs, slim and slightly bowed. My height made his shoulders seem three times as wide as his hips. His face was etched in my mind. Hazel eyes, long lashes, almost black moustache, full and trim. Hair that curled at the nape of his neck, forming tight ringlets on top, glinting with health.

He disappeared behind a big tourist-looking couple, the guy obviously American, broad and tall, his wife in a pink pantsuit that looked as at home here as it would on a cattle ranch back home. When the tourist finally got out of the way, my vision was gone.

I stayed at the window, looking, but he didn't reappear. My spirits did not improve. There was a jolt on the train, I guess signaling that the engine was being attached up front. I looked up, and the train across the way started to move, slowly creeping forward, gradually accelerating towards the front. I watched wistfully as it disappeared, the red lantern the last thing visible as it switched over to another track, far down the platform.

"I am here," said the husky voice, and I almost lost it, turning to my left, looking down into his eyes. His lips are eminently kissable. He stood half a head shorter than me, perhaps five nine.

I don't think we said anything at all. I just backed into the compartment. He closed the door behind him, and he was in my arms, my tongue in his mouth, my hands all over him. He squirmed against my body, and I could feel the hardness of his muscles, the bulge in his jeans.

"I could not stay away," he said when we came up for a little air. "You are a dream."

I didn't know what to say, so I just kissed him again, more tenderly. He is an unbelievably good kisser.

"I am Giordano," he said on the next opportunity. "How are you called?"

"Jeremiah," I said automatically, not thinking. "You are the most attractive man I've seen in all of Italy." It was true. Maybe not to you, lover of Armani's pouty-lipped youths, or you, the admirer of the All-American look. But Giordano was real, captivating, exciting, sensual, gorgeous and very, very sexy.

We sat in the compartment and talked, his leg possessively looped over mine, his hand on my arm, my leg, my shoulder, all the time. He would tell me a little about him, and his hands squeezed me as he made his points, and he'd ask me something, then listen to what I said with his lips on my shoulder, his hands fleeting on my legs, my stomach, my chest.

"You are so strong," he said, feeling my muscles under my shirt, asking me to flex them for him. They aren't big -- kinda ropy, but they're hard as nails. I felt his, as well, and he flexed them for me, and they were almost as hard as mine.

The train started moving, and we kissed deeply again, this time with passion building, and I was about to start unbuttoning his shirt, to see the glory of what my fingertips promised was there, but he said "I have to go."

"What!" I said. I think I whispered, out of frustration.

"I have a couchette in the next car, and I can not stay here, they would not let me," he said getting up. He had a little damp spot at the end of a tube in the crotch of his jeans.

"But I . . . " I got up as well, and looked down into his eyes, mesmerizing pools of honey and green. His lips met mine, and we stood like that for an eternity, my hormones totally out of control, my breath ragged.

"I will be back after the tickets are controlled," he said, and was gone.

I took a few minutes to calm down, just standing there in shock. I'd never felt like this before. This guy pushed all my buttons, pulled all my rip-cords, rattled all the chains around my heart. Wow!

I took off my suit pants and my tie, and threw on a pair of black jeans that were almost the right size. I'd had them washed by the hotel, so they shrank a little from the 32-38 they were when they were new last month. They were also starched and pressed. I never heard of jeans being starched and pressed. I still had too much fabric around my waist, but the butt wasn't too bad. The fabric wasn't tight, but at least it didn't hang in folds.

There was a knock at the door, and the attendant, Jon, came in to control my ticket.

"Will your friend stay here tonight?" he asked in his perfect English. "Want me to arrange it?"

"Can he?" I asked, not even thinking. This compartment only had one bed. If Giordano stayed, it meant . . .

"But of course," he said, a little smile playing on his lips. "I'll arrange everything."

"How much will it cost?" I asked. What the hell did I care? My money? My watch? My soul? Whatever . . .

"I'll leave that to you," he said. He is very attractive, isn't he?"

"I . . . I . . . yes." I could not believe how open this all was.

"You'll make many babies tonight, I think," he said with a wink, and left.

I just sat there, stunned, watching the Italian countryside appear, replacing the dreary buildings of Milan. It was beautiful.

A few minutes later, there was a rap on the door, and the attendant opened it as I jumped to my feet. Me? Nervous? He had a small bottle of Chianti and two glasses on a tray in his hand, and when he pushed the door in, I saw Giordano's shoulder next to him. My blood pressure went up ten notches.

Giordano and the attendant spoke rapidly in Italian, as the tray was laid on the little table by the window, and I stood there like a tree with deep roots. The attendant brushed past me as he backed out, and I think he felt me up, but I wasn't sure. It could have been only an accident. I wasn't hard or anything, but my jeans don't work that well with boxers, and my dick hangs kinda low on the left.

"Enjoy," said the attendant, or something like that, and he closed the door behind him, forcing Giordano into my arms. It didn't take much. We kissed for what seemed like two hours. I could never have got enough of his kisses, I think. The lips so soft yet strong, the tongue sparring with mine as it explored, cajoled my tongue into ecstasy.

I was so horny, my nuts hurt, and my dick was probably spurting like mad.

Another knock came on the door, and the attendant opened it just as we pulled apart. Jon looked down at my crotch and then back up to me with a big grin. "I've reserved a table at eight," he said. "It's the best time to see the mountains. Very romantic."

Giordano spouted something out in Italian, and Jon smiled and left without another word.

"What did you say to him," I asked.

"I told him you were mine alone, and that he should not take any liberty or get any thoughts about being with you," he said very seriously. "He understands now."

"Oh," I said. "I wouldn't do anything with him, anyway. I am interested only in . . . "



"It is good. Let us drink some wine and enjoy the land."

We sat and looked out the window in between sips of wine, kisses, caresses and long gazes into one another's eyes. Jon had put a bag of little peanuts on the tray, and we ate a few of them as well. We touched one another constantly, always avoiding the main prize for one reason or another. I raped him repeatedly in my subconscious, but treated him honorably all the same. He was then twenty-nine years of age, to my twenty-three, and knew more of the joy of building anticipation before making love. I wanted tear his clothes from his body, ravish him on the floor, feel his legs pull me into him, touch his soul with the tip of my dick, fill him with my juices, now under so much pressure they might just penetrate all the way to his heart. I had it bad.

At seven fifty-five, precisely, came the announcement for the first class dining car second service, and we went forward two cars to the well appointed dining car, white linen, crisp white shirts and black trousers with black bow ties on very attractive young men, and two pretty women with white blouses and black skirts.

We had a table for two, and sat just as we were leaving Como, at the foot of the lake of the same name. We were already in the Alps, in Switzerland, and the sun was getting low in the sky, casting huge shadows from the towering peaks.

I can not adequately express the beauty of the next few hours. My vocabulary simply isn't adequate to the challenge.

We sipped a glass of champagne as the train glided almost silently up the grades, giving us views down into valleys of breathtaking depth and bright color, patterns of fields and specks that were cattle. Little houses looked like they had been designed by Disney, so pristine they could not possibly be lived in. Great peaks towered over us, and long tunnels promised more rapturous views as soon as we burst through them.

Two small quail on a bed of lettuce composed the entrée, their succulent flesh redolent of berries and the port used in braising. Giordano ordered half a bottle of a nice white wine, a Pouilly Fumé,  for the Entrée and first course, and we sipped it slowly, savouring the tastes, the scenery, the touch of our legs.

The waiter brought a St. Emilion red wine and uncorked it for us, to let it build its strength for later. The waiter said it would be a shame to let a Cheval Blanc race without training, but I had no idea of what he was saying. Cheval Blanc was the maker of the wine, I noticed later.

Small dover soles in mornay sauce with baby green asparagus comprised the first course, and we talked and gazed into each other's eyes when we could tear our eyes from the vista. At one point we spoke of the rarity of love, and he pressed his leg harder into mine, and a tiny tear glistened in the corner of his right eye, then was gone.

We talked more between courses, and felt ourselves lifted higher and higher, trying to evade the lengthening shadows, escape the night for a time. We sipped the rest of the Pouilly Fumé, and spoke of family and friends, of dreams and ambitions.

We broke through a pass, and looked down to a church on a pinnacle, perhaps a thousand feet below, and it sparkled in the rays of the sun, a castle Disney could never hope to emulate on a crag only God could have built.

The red wine was poured for Giordano to taste, and he said it was good. I took a small amount into my mouth, and it was like no wine I had ever tasted, rich, succulent, smooth and deep, and I understood at last what the wine snobs said about "fruity" tastes in wine. We toasted our luck just before the main course, medallions of venison with thin wisps of french fries, the smallest broccoli and brussels sprouts I'd ever seen, and some sort of squash, yellow-orange, with nutmeg and perhaps cream.

We went through a tunnel, and I saw the church on the pinnacle again, but it was higher, closer. We were descending, somehow going round in a circle.

I was getting pleasantly full, and ate only half of the venison, but all the vegetables. Giordano accepted the two medallions I didn't want, and gave me his squash.

The church was there again, but now a few feet above us, and the almost-horizontal rays of the sun hit the cross at the top and made it gleam like gold.

We sat after the meal, having declined dessert -- although I was tempted, because I had always heard of crêpes suzettes. Giordano asked that the wine be corked and taken to our compartment, as we could not finish it before we had brandy. I was getting a little tipsy, I'm not sure if from the wine or from my hormones.

Snifters of cognac came, poured from a bottle at table and set upon holders with a candle under the bulbous part of the snifter. The waiter twirled the glasses slowly, heating the amber liquid within. The bottle said "Napoléon." Giordano's leg against mine was making my loins ache.

The sun set suddenly, as we went through another tunnel, and came out in the dark shadows, the sky overhead a deep blue, no clouds to form a sunset. The train picked up speed, and we went north, the sun peeking for a tiny fraction of an instant through the valley between two huge peaks, not to be seen again, and twilight seemed t accelerate into darkness.

Giordano took the snifters from the waiter, handing one to me. Not even waiting for the waiter to leave, he said "to our love," and clinked my glass gently with his, the light from the candles making his eyes sparkle, magnetic. The waiter didn't bat an eyelid, just taking the leftover dishes and things from the table.

I sipped the warm brandy, and it was like hot gold to taste, sending warmth through my nostrils, down my throat, through my every nerve and muscle. We stopped talking, and just looked into each other's eyes, and read books about longing, dreaming, wanting, hoping, praying. We squeezed our legs tightly together, and I felt the grip he was taking on my heart.

The couple at the table next to us got up and left. I looked up into the eyes of the wife, and they sparkled with her smile. She said something in French, and I just smiled back, and they left. I looked back at Giordano, and he translated "Young love is so beautiful to see." I wondered that some people could be so caring, and others so cruel.

We finished the brandy, ever so slowly. It was pitch dark outside, there was nothing to see, and yet I wanted it to go on, was almost afraid of going back to the compartment, almost worried that by . . . "doing it" . . . I risked ending the dream.

"It is time," Giordano said, and I paid the bill with a stack of Lira, leaving what I thought was a nice tip for the staff. At least my wallet wouldn't be so thick.

We got up, and I realized I had had quite enough to drink. I wasn't drunk, but I was light-headed, and had to concentrate as we went back to the compartment. In between the last two cars, Giordano pulled me to a stop, and I turned into his embrace, kissing him with a light-headedness that surely could not have been merely the wine. He touched me lightly, with the fingertips of his right hand through my jeans, and I felt a shock of first contact. He moaned in my mouth, and I in his, and my hand went automatically to his butt. The globe of it fit perfectly into my hand, my fingertips just at the crease of his jeans. He moaned again, higher, and I pulled him to me, almost lifting him off the platform.

He pulled his lips back from mine and said again, "It is time." We separated, and I followed him to the compartment. He opened the door, and where once was the pair of facing seats was now an almost full-size bed, the wine and two glasses on the little table at the window, two pillows and a chocolate on each, a silver bucket of ice and a bottle of water on the tiny desktop, with two tumblers. A pair of red rosebuds stood in a vase next to it.

I closed the door behind me and locked it without looking, as Giordano turned round and melted into me, his torso fitting into mine like key into lock. We were standing there kissing passionately, fully clothed one moment, and in only our underwear the next. His chest was tanned and defined, the nipples like tiny barrels on the aureoles, surrounded by a light pelt of black hair that made the tanned skin beneath even more tantalizing.

Without realizing it, my lips were on his left nipple, and I moved him back to the bed, my hands supporting his body as it tilted back, one under his shoulders, the other under the small of his back. His hands found the sides on my boxers, and they were pulled over my butt, down my thighs until my dick snapped from the confines of the elastic band and wedged between his legs. He let go of the boxers, and they fell to the floor. I picked the chocolates off the pillows and tossed them on the table, and swung him around so that his head would be on the pillow, and swiftly pulled his slip down, lifting my penis from between his legs so that the slip would pass.

Giordano sat up a little as I did this, and grabbed my penis in his right hand. "So big, so hard," he whispered, looking down, "So beautiful an instrument on so beautiful a man." I was putty in his hands.

I looked down at his penis, and it was as hard as mine, standing proud and glistening with anticipation. He was tanned all over, from the beaches at Genoa, even his beautifully shaped penis. It was perfectly proportioned for his body, perhaps seven inches long, maybe a little more. Slim, like his body, but with a much larger head, hardly hidden by his foreskin, already peeled back. His pubic hair was no different than his body hair, just a fraction longer, no curls at all, clinging tightly to the skin. I touched his balls, and they were silken, the orbs beneath the skin in proportion to his body, loose in their sac.

I had not seen very many naked men up close, but Giordano was by far the most beautiful. I kissed his penis, his navel, licked his stomach, tasting of salt and musk. I touched my lips to his right nipple, and he squeezed my penis again, moaning, telling me he wanted me, inside him, wanted me to make him come, to take him to paradise.

That was exactly what I wanted to do.

I lay beside him, my penis still in his right hand, and moved my right hand under his neck and head, lifting him to my lips. My left hand moved over his body slowly, touching, feeling. His hip bone jutted far out from the body, and I pinched it lightly. I traced each one of his ribs on the right side, the hollows between them eventually ending in the muscles that make angels fly. I rolled him lightly towards me, and traced his spine from neck to butt, and instead of stopping there, traced down the crack, lightly pausing at the entrance to his body, teasing it with my little finger, then tracing down the little line to his ball sack, over and up the length of his erection, to the slickness he was producing in readiness for me, at the same time lifting his right leg over my waist.

His hand left my penis only to let his leg pass, just holding me, lightly squeezing, forcing out more and more of my clear fluid, making a little pool in the hollow of his belly as he lay back, his left leg somehow under mine, as I crept into his embrace.

I rolled over him, supporting my weight on my right elbow, still plumbing the depths of his throat with my tongue. His legs lifted around me, and he pushed me down a little, so that my penis was under his nuts, between his legs, nestled in the crack of his butt, but with the head a little painfully pressed into the sheet beneath him.

I stopped worrying about getting hard for him.

He moaned, more loudly than before, and I pulled back, afraid I might somehow be hurting him.

"You okay?" I asked in a whisper.

"I want you inside me," he said looking up into my eyes. "I want you to make me come with you inside me. Hurry!"

I reared up a little on my knees and took my dick out from its nest in his crack. I smeared the clear liquid I could milk out on the head, and swiped the lube from the hollow in his belly, then spit a little in my hand. There wasn't enough, but I had no time or inclination to search for something else. It was going to be a long process to get all the way into him. I am ashamed to say that I didn't even consider the possibility of Aids, I ignored all the teachings about safe sex, I didn't have a condom anyway, and if I died and went to heaven tomorrow it would have been worth it.

I'm not huge, I mean not for my size. A little thick, I guess, especially at the base and the head. A little more than ten inches long, something like that. I could lick on it when I was fifteen, when it hit eight inches, and could get the head into my mouth when I hit sixteen, and it was nine and five eighths. Then I got taller all at once, and couldn't even reach it with the tip of my tongue by the time I was eighteen. That's all right. I mean we aren't supposed to have sex with ourselves, it's something to share.

Andrew had no trouble taking all of me up his butt, but he's an inch taller than me. My cousins couldn't get me all inside them, no matter how hard we tried. I kept hitting sort of a barrier inside them, and they said it hurt a lot if I tried to get in any more. Andrew had the same feel inside of him, but I got through the barrier fine. The guy at Steam Works wouldn't even let me try. But he was only five eight, something like that.

Giordano is five eight, maybe five nine. I hoped he could take me completely, but it wouldn't matter if he couldn't. I just wanted inside him so bad, I couldn't breathe.

He lifted his legs around my waist even before I was ready, and I had to pull back a little to get my penis under his balls. I watched the tip of it brush against the little spot, and rubbed it in a little to sort of slick it up. My right hand sort of lifted him up some, to get the angle right. Even hunched over, I had to hold my dick down with my left hand.

He grabbed his butt on either side and pulled apart, and his hole got a little bigger, at least enough so that I could nestle the head of my dick in a moist place. I pushed a little, and it went a smidgen in. I leaned over him and kissed his lips, and he kept repeating, "Come inside me. Now."

I jabbed, and it popped in. The ring of muscle tried to cut the head off, it felt so tight. He moaned, but showed no sign of major pain, so I started a gently rocking, fucking myself into him a tiny bit at a time. I felt his ring moving gradually down my shaft as we kissed passionately. He hunched a little into me, still spreading his butt wide with his hands. I felt his fingers touching the sides of my dick, but he couldn't reach my balls.

"More, more" he said in that wonderfully sexy hoarse voice, and I put more pressure on my dick. Something made things go more smoothly at one stage, and I hit the barrier in the bottom of him I know from my cousins means I can't go any farther. But he kept hunching into me, that tight ring of his stopping me from creaming off right away inside him.

Suddenly, he let go of his butt and grabbed my hips and pulled me into him, using his legs on the small of my back as well, and I was Home. All the way, the ring of his entrance right at the base of my dick, impossibly tight.

"Now," he said, whispering into my ear, moaning, almost keening. "Make me come. Make me a baby inside. Fill me with your love."

I covered his mouth with mine, and lifted his butt up a little, then put a pillow under the small of his back. He wrapped his arms around me, and I began the fucking, starting by only going out a half inch or so, then an inch, then three or four. He whimpered each time I got to the bottom, and each time I got to about one third of the way in, so I knew where his nut was.

I started to pound a little, enjoying the incredible tightness, the warmth and silky smoothness of it all, and his thrusting up with my every downstroke, meeting me halfway, drawing me into the most incredible sexual frenzy ever.

I started to speed up, and he started keening non-stop, and I knew he was getting close, going to come even without me touching him. I hit the no-return point, and just let go, fucking as deeply into him as I could, long strokes, not too fast.

He went berserk. His whole body tensed up, his legs shook like a vibrator, his feet dug into the small of my back, and he screamed into my mouth, just as a vise gripped my dick and I exploded into him, the contractions under my nuts almost painful as I jetted out the semen that had been stored there since the Sunday before when I had a wet dream.

I felt a warm splash on my belly, as he came in spurts between us. I broke away from his lips for a second and heard someone shout as I looked down and saw his penis jetting out a long dollop of his semen, just as I ejaculated into his deepest recesses another dose of mine.

We collapsed into a deep embrace as the last spasms went through us, and I licked a taste of him from his right tit, where a little had reached. We kissed the kiss of lovers, of wedding nights, high school proms, beach parties, and long-wedded couples, all at once. I tried to get deeper inside him somehow, wriggling and moving, but could get no farther.

He stroked my back, taking away the beads of sweat, and held my balls, kneading them like delicate clay.

Our breathing came back to normal, and the kisses became intimate pecks, gentle "I Love You's" in lovers' code.

"You made me come," he said.


"Stay inside me. I want to do it again."

"Me too."

"Wait a minute."


He turned slightly, and rolled us onto my left side, my back towards the window. His leg was pinned under my waist, but he seemed not to mind. He reached over me and did something, and suddenly presented me with a wineglass, partly filled. We sipped from it, spoke of silly things. He said I was the biggest man he ever met. I said he was the only Italian I had ever loved. The told me he wanted me to stay inside him forever, just like that. I agreed wholeheartedly.

Ten minutes later, my fires were restoked, and we were soon writhing in passion once again. This time, I used his cream to lubricate him, and stroked him in time with my thrusts, bringing him to an orgasm only a few seconds after mine.

By the time we reached Mainz, we had slept only a few hours, and made love five times, each time more romantically than the last. I was head over heels in love. It was definite. He was intelligent, a university lecturer, athletic, loved receiving my body, got my hormone into a tornado of desire just by looking at me.

After Mainz, we just slept, until there was a rap on the door. Jon opened the door before we could make ourselves decent. Giordano was laying chest to chest with me, his legs around my waist, his butt towards the door, my dick -- still almost painfully hard -- deeply imbedded in him. I looked right at Jon as he put a little tray with coffee in place of the now-empty bottle of water.

He didn't take his eyes off Giordano's butt, even when I pulled out of him so as to cover him up. His eyes got kinda wide as I pulled out, but that was his problem, not mine. He backed out and closed the door. I don't think Giordano woke until after.

Giordano whispered "thank you" into my ear as I pulled an errant blanket over him to cover his butt, and kissed me on the nose. "You are so handsome," he said. "Like an American Movie Star."

Pure blindness, of course. I'm just ordinary-looking. But I was flattered.

"I need to shower," he said. He got up and went into the tiny stall, and I heard the sounds of water as he cleansed himself. I drank a little coffee waiting for him, and dumped the rest of the wine down the sink.

I washed my penis with soap and a little warm water, and feeling the urgent need to pee, and having the sink at exactly the right height, I put the head of my dick into the drain hole and let loose.

Giordano came out of the shower stall, and looked at me standing there, my dick plugged into the plumbing, and just watched while I finished, drying himself. "Is beautiful, seeing gorgeous man with big thing in morning," he said.

I just laughed and kept peeing, and when I was done, pulled back and milked the last drops out. When I stepped away from the sink, Giordano dropped down to his knees and dried my penis, cooing over it like it was the one that made love to him last night, not me. He called it all sorts of baby names, kissed it, said it was the most he had ever hoped for, that kind of stuff. I know it was said for my benefit, because he said it in English.

Then he took it in his mouth and suckled on it, gagging as it got hard and hit the back of his throat. He took it out, and said "make me come, Jeremiah. Make a baby in me and make me come."

I was inside him in no time, our mouths not glued, but talking through it, him telling me how deep it felt in his body, how big it was, how he still had all my seed from the night inside him, how he was going to keep it there. He massaged my balls, and told me he wanted me to empty them completely inside him, and it began to get urgent, as we approached the City of Amsterdam.

"Hurry," he said, "Fill me one more time before we get there! Make me come!"

I did. He shouted out his release as he grasped me unmercifully in the vise of his butt, and forced me into the . . . fifth? Sixth? I don't remember -- orgasm of the night. We kissed lovingly, but only for moments, as he said "Hurry, shower. We are almost there!"

I pulled out of him, still erect, and kissed him again, jumping into the shower, no bigger than a telephone booth.

"How long can you stay with me in Amsterdam?" I called out through the thin partition. He was headed for Groeningen, in northern Holland, but I wasn't sure if he was supposed to be there on Monday or Sunday, tomorrow.

"For a little while," he said. "We'll see."

I lathered up, and shampooed, all the while talking with Giordano. Where we'd stay, what we'd do. I heard him thumping about, and at one point the compartment door opened and closed. "What on earth are you doing?" I called out.

"I put together the bed and the bucket out the door," he said.

I rinsed off, and opened the shower partition thing, and there he was all dressed, in a nice sweater and black jeans, just beautiful. I got a kiss. I was in love, no doubt about it.

I toweled off, just as we started to pull into the station, Oh, christ, I'd done it again! I grabbed at my little case to get underwear and socks, and managed to get them on before we got to the end of the platform. I had forgotten that we were now the first car on the train, not the last, as first class cars they tried to get closest to the front of the platform.

"We have time," Giordano said. "There is plenty of time. It takes twenty minutes for all the passengers to get off." I got a long, deep kiss as if to prove the point. He tugged at my dick, and said, "This is one I will never not remember." I laughed at his fractured English, but gently.

I reached up for my big case, to get out a fresh shirt and a sweater, like Giordano, just as the train stopped.

"Hurry!" he said. "I'll get out of here to let you more room to dress. I'll wait in the corridor."

I opened the case and pulled out the sweater and shirt, and called through the door, "Where shall we have breakfast?" There was no response. I just heard thumps as people hit bags against the door.

"He probably didn't hear me," I thought

I threw on the shirt and sweater, pulled on my jeans and boots, stuffed the suit and shirt from yesterday on top of the case and closed it up. I opened the door to the compartment to let Giordano back in while I brushed my hair, then grabbed my two cases, ready to go.

"Hey, Giordano!" I called out. "Where did you put your bag?"

I didn't see his leather grip anywhere. I looked under the seat. No. His jacket wasn't there, either. "Maybe he took it out into the corridor to get it out of the way," I thought. So I looked out there. There was no one there, and no grip.

"Probably had to get off the train to let the others off," I thought, grabbing my cases, making sure I had everything. "Oh, shit!" I thought, "I have to give Jon a tip." I reached for my wallet and fished it out of my jeans. I couldn't remember how much cash I had after last night. Dinner had been pretty expensive, as I recalled. Might have to cash a traveler's cheque today.

My wallet was empty. Not a single thousand lire note, no US Dollars of the two hundred I had stashed in the back, no credit cards.

"Giordano!" I yelled out at the top of my voice, rage, hurt, anger all combined into one primordial cry, one bellow.

"He left, sir," said Jon from the doorway. "I have still your passport."

This huge cold fist grabbed my insides, and I sat on the seat, taking the passport case numbly from Jon. I opened it and took out a couple of twenty dollar bills and gave them to Jon, not thinking.

"He left me," I said. Tears were starting to form. "I only just found him, and he left me."

"You don't know him?" Jon said, standing there looking down on me. "You had him in your compartment and don't know him?"

"I . . . I thought he was . . . special." I started to tear up, I couldn't help it. "He just used me. He took my money, both my credit cards, my travelers cheques . . . my heart, and he left meeee." I sobbed, once, then choked back the rest. Fuck if I was going to let this guy see me break down like a goldarned girl!

"He robbed you?"

I wouldn't look at him. "Yes." I said quietly. "It's not the money."

"He hurt you?" Jon said softly. I looked up into eyes dark as coal, full of compassion.

"Yeah." I said. "Bad."

"Do you want to file a complaint?"

"Would that do any good?" I said listlessly. No. It would never bring back the lost emotions, ever erase the treachery.

"No. Such things are . . . not unusual, and they never catch the . . . people who hurt others that way."

"No," I said.

"Come," he said simply.

We walked together down the short platform, to the office where Jon checked out.

"Where are you staying?" he asked me.

"Nothing's booked," I said. "I thought I'd just find a quiet little hotel and stay overnight, then go on to London later."

"Want me to help?"

I looked at him. There was an honest look to him. But then, I'd just shown how bad my judgement was about that particular quality.

"Yes. Very much."

First, we went to an American Express office. Just by the station, and my travelers cheques and credit card were replaced. On the spot. They cashed a check for me. Notified the Visa people. Did it all. The annual fee is worth every penny.

While all this was happening, Jon was on the phone, and when we left the Amex office at ten, he told me I had a room for one to four nights, and we walked to the hotel, only a few blocks from the train station, on the Herengracht. We had coffee and rolls there, while my room was prepared, and I was so happy for the company and the help, I can not tell you.

Jon left at noon, to go home to his parents and get some sleep, and I spent the next three days getting to know Amsterdam through Jon's eyes. The Rijksmuseeum, the canals, the churches, the Vermeers, the shops, the restaurants . . .

I loved Amsterdam dearly, and Jon has become a true friend, someone whose voice is always familiar, always welcome. He's Dutch, of course, with spanish blood from the times when the Spanish occupied much of Belgium and Holland. He has come to Dallas to see me, let me show him a little of America from my perspective, and I have been to visit him once as well, staying with him and his parents. We have grown surprisingly close despite the distance, and I cherish his friendship. We talk on the phone at least once a week. He graduates from Leiden in May, and will come stay with me in Turtle Creek for a while, just until he goes to work in Amsterdam for KLM in July.

I'm still a little in love with Giordano. Still alone. Still dreaming. Still hurting. It's been four years now, and the memory of what happened on the Amsterdam Express is as fresh as if it had been yesterday.

Only Jon calls me Jeremiah.