Date: Sat, 23 Mar 2002 06:10:47 +0000 (GMT) From: Justin Silk Subject: Paul & His French Maid - 4 TG Paul & His French Maid Copyright JustinSilk 2002. All Rights Reserved Chapter Six : The Brother's Tale The weeks went by and Nicole and I settled into that comfortable cauldron of passion and desire and love and friendship which in other circumstances I might have called the early months of marriage. Then my brother arrived. My twin brother, Andrew. Not quite identical, but close enough at a glance. He phoned less than 24 hours before his arrival in that charming, maddening, laid-back way of his to announce his imminence. In a buzz of pre-flight panic, my brother ended his call something like this: "OK, Paul, you got the details? So Flight 222. Right? ETA 1927 tomorrow. OK? Gotta go or I'll miss the plane. Love you. See you tomorrow." Click. My brother mixes terminal pomposity and life-giving animal energy. Mostly the former. He's called Andy. He lives in Australia. When he's not in London. When he's not somewhere else. So, Andy has arrived. And Nicole and I are leaving. Nicole has a fashion shoot out of town and suggests that it will be an ideal opportunity for me and Andy to have a fraternal weekend. I disagree. So I'm going too. At breakfast Andy invites himself. But Nicole says no. Very sweetly. But very firmly. Andy can enjoy the apartment on his own. And, dear reader, entertain you, which I am sure he will do brilliantly, in our absence. "Andy. Take over and tell your own story," "OK, bro, no worries." +++++++ I decided that as soon as Paul and Nicole left I'd settle down to a quiet drink beside the pool. It was a beautifully warm and sunny evening. I had the apartment and the pool to myself. Paul's neighbour Harvey had gone to Chicago. Nicole and Paul, as you know, had just left for some out-of-town affair. And who knows where the beautiful Sharee might be. I quite like her, what I've seen of her. Which is quite a lot given the skimpy clothes she wears. Paul doesn't seem to think she's all that bright. "A few candles short of a lighthouse. She could have you on the rocks, quick sharp." Paul says he's `not being snide or sarcastic about Sharee. She is a very beautiful woman.' I'd go along with that. Finally alone, I poured myself the lastglass of wine in the bottle, and in a modest pair of baggy shorts lay down on a poolside lounger with my drink and a good book. Well, Nicole tells me it's good. I doubt I would ever have read it myself. For one thingit's about Paris. I'm not as keen on Paris as Nicole and Paul. The book is "Sketches from Memory" and the American author, is an Edmund White. Because Mr White had lived in Paris for many years, Nicole almost admired him. But listen to what my pompous prick of a brother has written [on a scrap of paper I find inside the cover]. "'Sketches from Memory' is a memorial to Mr White's lover and a wonderful evocation of the French capital (which, with London and Barcelona, shares the privilege of being my own favourite city)." `Privilege of being'. Jeez, my brother really is the ultimate tosser. But I love him just the same. Anyway, I'd had a very busy day. I roared around town, visited Paul at his office, lunched with a friend, bought some items I'd forgotten to bring with me from Melbourne, etcetera. Add them to the wine and stir in the warmth of the evening, and soon enough I'll be nodding off. I have no idea how long I was asleep, but I woke with a start and an enormous erection fighting to be free of my shorts. It was probably the sound of water lapping in the pool that woke me. Discovering that I wasn't after all alone startled me even more. In the pool below me, his arms on the poolside, was somebody I had never met before. "Hello," he said, somewhat solemnly and nodding his head slightly. Just from the two syllables I realised that he was German. I tried to hide my stiffy. Not because he was German, but because I am English and was taught that a gentleman stands for a lady, but never for a man. The person in the pool did not react to my attempts to cover up. Without taking his eyes from mine: "Excuse me, I am a business associate of Harvey. I am staying in his apartment while he is in Chicago. He has given me a key. I have just arrived. My name is Jochen. I am pleased to meet you." This introduction was presented almost like a checklist of known facts. Still a little sleepy, although rapidly coming round, I was struck by the intensity of Jochen's gaze. His eyes still locked on mine, he pushed himself up and out of the pool, revealing powerful shoulders, then strong upper arms, muscular chest, six-packed stomach, narrow hips and footballer's hard, smooth limbs. In a word he was young and lithe and athletic and bronzed. Paul will be furiously pedantic if he reads this, pointing out that `there are, in fact, seven words'. But it wasn't this man's athletic build that caught my attention so much as his charisma or `presence'. Had I been gay he could have been my undoing. At least, if my cardio-vascular system was to be believed. And the longer I looked at him, the more I was beginning to think it could. Indeed, when politely I stood up and extended a hand for him to shake, I was overwhelmed by the almost magnetic presence of the man. He seemed to have an aura as attention-getting as the first rumbles of distant thunder. "Hello. What is your name?" he asked. Taller than me by an inch or so, he looked hypnotically down into my eyes as he took my hand and squeezed it strongly. The thunder was now overhead and I for one could feel the jolts of something that felt very much like lightning passing between our shaking hands. As I spoke my name, my knees went weak. And with my involuntary genuflection, I noticed that my pulse rate quickened. My voice appeared to be coming from a long way away. And I haven't even mentioned the palpitations in my chest. The whole box and dice amounted to the strangest sensation. Nothing even vaguely approaching it had ever happened to me before. "Very pleased to meet you, Andy," I heard him say. I heard him say several other things, but beyond registering the sonority and seductiveness of their delivery, I have no idea what they might have been. I felt almost literally shattered by the experience of shaking his hand. "Excuse me, but what are you reading?" Jochen had picked up the copy of the Edmund White and started flicking through it. The book is full of the sketches of Hubert Sorin, Edmund's lover. Jochen looked at the drawings and every now and then, before turning a page, would mutter "Funny". But without smiling or showing any other sign of being amused. Handing back the book he again looked deeply and disturbingly into my eyes. "Thank you. Very amusing." He spoke very good English, of course, but even had he been addressing me in his mother tongue, or Urdu, or Swahili, or Basque for that matter, my wobbly knees would have made me understand very clearly everything I needed to know at that moment. And the fact that my cock was still as hard as when I had woken up, was, perhaps, not without significance. It was confirmation of what my over-revving ticker was telling me. "Would you care for a glass of wine," I asked. "Of course. Thank you." I opened a gewürtztraminer and Jochen and I sat at a table out of the sun and fell into an easy conversation. I told him that I lived down-under. He told me that he was a lawyer. He asked what I did. I answered "Very little." He said that he lived in Bonn. He had a journalist girlfriend called Doris. After we had chatted for a while about our jobs, our partners, our ambitions, our opinions of various countries, our likes and dislikes, Jochen went silent and looked away, out across the rooftops. Then, again looking at me very directly, abruptly asked, "Excuse me, but if I say that the Tower of London is typical of London and the Tour Eiffel is typical of Paris, excuse me, but what is typical of Berlin?" I guessed at The Brandenburg Gate. "Ja, ja. Very good. Very good. It is a joke. Do you see? A play of the words. The Tower of London, the Eiffel Tower and the Brandenburgtur. I always ask English people this question because, excuse me, I think your country people are often very stupid. If they cannot answer this question then they cannot be my friend." He said stupid as if it began with a `z' and contained two very long syllables separated by a `b'. I think he probably had quite a low opinion of the people of my homeland. Pleased though he was with my geographic triumph, I sensed, however, that it might not be my knowledge of German puns that most recommended me to Jochen. I'll say this much for my new Euro-friend, he certainly knows how to get a chap's attention. It was still very warm and I suggested that I would like to have a swim before I had too much more wine. "Ja, me too. I will race you to the other end of the pool." The sun catching the satin of his little white lycra speedos, he made a very impressive racing dive and was almost at the other end of the pool before I even attempted to enter the water. As he swam away from me, I pushed off my baggy shorts and jumped, feet first and naked into the pool. When I surfaced - I'm a terrible swimmer ^Ö blowing water like a demented whale, I expected to see Jochen at the other end of the pool. Instead, I felt a hand on my right thigh and then a fist around my slowly-detumescing hard-on. Almost as quickly as the hand touched my cock, it was withdrawn again. Jochen broke surface about halfway between me and the other end of the pool and struck out strongly away from me, effortlessly crawling his way along. Since I was at the deep end, I decided to show that I could swim well enough and swam down to where he stood watching me. Almost as soon as I got to the shallow end, he doubled up and plunged into the water in front of me. He then straightened up, doing a handstand. His speedos were almost level with my eyes. The front of his speedos, if you get my meaning. Speedos have a special significance for Australians, the brand having been established in Oz, where, to this day, people still know it as the Aussie Cossie. However, it was not the iconic importance of his swimsuit which exercised me on this occasion. The last of the sunshine was making the contours of his rigid cock bulge a major feature of the view. It was so tempting that I forgot any thoughts I might have had about being straight. They seemed irrelevant. I was also fairly sure that, from what he was showing me, Jochen would not be too hostile to what I suddenly had in mind to do. Without another thought, I slid an arm around him and, with my teeth, gently squeezed his very hard prick in its very soft and silky container. I instantly regretted my action. Jochen immediately wriggled free of my grasp and surfaced beside me. I feared I had misjudged totally the intentions of my new friend in positioning his well-filled swim briefs inches from my mouth. "Do you want to drown me?" he asked sternly. Then smiled very broadly indeed. For the first time. "What do you think?" I replied, my heart now close to bursting with excitement. He started to push off his bathers, but I stopped him, pulling his left hand away from the little brief. He dragged me into his arms and, crushing me against the wall of the pool, kissed me passionately. I'd never been kissed by a man before and I'm not sure that I'd willingly surrender to another. But at that moment Jochen had something about him that I found totally irresistible. There was nothing I could have done at that moment that would not have had me, one way or another, face-fighting this sexual animal in just the way that we were now doing. I dropped a hand from his shoulder and traced the peaks and troughs of his six-pack down to the upper edge of his swimmers. Making sure that he really did like what I was doing to him I opened my eyes and looked into his before allowing my fingers to move further south. As I closed my eyes again, my fingers inched down into the intimacy of the speedos. Finally, as a great jolt of sexual electricity punched my chest, I slid my fingers around a hot and hard and heavy penis. Jochen gasped in appreciation. "Ficke!" I think he blurted. Half a second later his hands had pushed off his briefs and were once more pulling my face tighter and tighter against his. With my own hand I was now free to examine what appeared to be a terrifyingly healthy hard-on that, even underwater, I could feel to be oozing generous quantities of precum. I'm no skinny little runt by any means, but Jochen broke from the kiss and nibbling my ear started making suggestions in German which I guessed to be of an explicit and definitely sexual kind. The next thing I knew, I'd been lifted, effortlessly on to his shoulders, my rampant member resting against his broad forehead as he toothed my scrotum and toyed at the lower part of my shaft with his perfect teeth. I threw back my head in what could have been a parody of a stripper I had watched on a video while I was at university. But my movements were not faked. What was happening to me was nothing short of a sexual earthquake. The feel of Jochen's shoulders under my thighs, the alternately harsh then gentle action of his teeth and his lips on my cock, the inquisitive wanderings of his fingers at the base of my spine and below; the heat of him, the strength of him, the awesome, overwhelming presence of him were sending me beyond delirium. Between their other activities, Jochen's lips were able to form almost coherent observations and instructions and encouragements. "Steady." "Oh my god, you are an animal." "Oh, yes, oh, yes, ohhhhh!" Beyond delirium there are few choices of destination. I wanted to pleasure him, too, but, marooned on his shoulders, I couldn't. Not without interrupting this most sensation-loaded experience. I was crying out, certain, but uncaring, that the whole world must be able to hear that a German demigod was bringing me to the cusp of the most explosive orgasm a man could ever have known. I was so light-headed, so sensitive to every touch of this man I'd known for little more than an hour, so on the edge, that it was inconceivable that I hold off my `little death' (that lovely French euphemism for orgasm) any longer. Jochen himself, I guessed from the tremblings blow my thighs, was close to release, his breathing erratic, his body spasming, his eyes, like mine, unable to focus on any one spot for more than a second. Even so, we kept looking at one another as our passions rose. But every time we locked our gazes, some new sensation would cause our eyes to roll back or our heads to jerk or our bodies to buck out of control. Sensing that my aching cock must soon cannon great gouts of white-hot, sperm-laden cream and being keen to take every drop on to his magnificently supple tongue, Jochen raised a hand to lower my shaft to his eager mouth. That touch was all it took. It short-circuited my nervous system. It all seemed to happen in slow-motion. At the tip of my cockhead a first pool of pungent spunk started to grow. It left my satin shafthead and landed on Jochen's left eyebrow. Sliding elegantly down through the blond hairs, it gathered at the corner of his left eye. This first cannoning of precious juices was small compared with what followed. Joined to the first deposit that was now skiing down his nose, a second load fell on Jochen's left cheek, with a third, and even larger, amount being thrown on to his right cheek. As this one-gun salute continued, Jochen's tongue searched for my donations and took them into the safety of his mouth, his sexy lips forming the most seductive smile, before becoming the evidence of a likely eruption below the surface of the water. Even as my last few shots hit Jochen's upper lip and chin, he shuddered violently and the familiar gurglings of a man at climax issued, with some of my spunk, from his mouth. I slid from his shoulders and put my mouth to his. For the first time I tasted cum. Spermjuice. Spunk. Whatever you call it where you live. My own cum. Jochen delivered his load into the water around me. "My gods, that was wonderful. Beautiful. I don't often come without touching. And you did it for me. "I can't believe that this was your first time. Andy.." But my mouth stopped him from saying another word. And I didn't stop kissing him when the phone rang. Later we discovered it was Nicole and Paul from their country retreat. But that can wait until next time, because I can feel Jochen's cock under the water nudging my balls. And you wouldn't want to interrupt that would you?