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Book VI: Serving Selflessly
By Ganymede
(Note to German/Austrian readers: Obviously, you speak and read English if you are reading this. Please consider the accenting of speech as artistic license, and do not take offense.)
Three days after leaving Lord Handley’s house in London, Bruce leaned across the console to nudge Daniil, wide awake and gaping at each new bend along the craggy coastline of the Côte d'Azur. Six hours earlier, they’d checked out of a small, yet exclusive hotel near the Musée Réattu in Arles, Aix-en-Provence. They dawdled through a vineyard, and onto the A8, finally arriving at the Mediterranean at Fréjus. After a brief stop to see the cathedral, they continued on a tiny road along the shore to Nice. Then, a famous corniche, ‘literally a road on a ledge’; the Moyenne Corniche took them to the medieval town of Èze (links to a photo on Wikipedia), perched on a rock some 1,400 feet high.
“I so wanna get laid here,” Daniil announced out of the blue.
At the summit ahead, the ruins of a 12th-century castle overlooked Villefranche-sur-mer and the picturesque peninsula of Saint Jean Cap Ferrat.
“Imagine seeing that when you wake up, Dad. You can do me and watch the sun rise.”
“The perfect setting to make love to the perfect boy, only don’t tell your mom,” Bruce said.
Danill made a face. “You’ll blab, not me. I’m smarter than that.”
His patient father stretched his arms against the steering wheel. “Didn’t Johannes’ last email say for you to text Christoph as soon as we see it?”
Daniil already had his new iPhone out. On the back was a curious heart-like engraving, a gift from another secret admirer.
“He says to turn right past the parking lot. Tell the policeman you’re a guest of Prince Johannes and he’s meeting us. Then, drive up to where the road ends.”
Bruce flipped the turn indicator, stopped for a gaggle of tourists leaving the parking lot, and turned, tires squealing with a blip of the accelerator. He stopped again at the control gate and addressed a uniformed guard.
“Bonne jour. Nous visite avec Prince Johannes. Il nous rencontre.”
American-high-school French brought a smile to le gendarme. “Good afternoon. Please proceed to the Place du Centenaire. Have a nice day.”
Bruce grinned and proceeded slowly up a narrow road lined with exotic trees and plants, with tiny cars and motor scooters jammed into every available space. Restaurants and tourist boutiques gave way to rock walls opposite a precipice. A couple of tight bends and the road ended. He reversed into a space barely longer than the Aston. They were scarcely out of the car when Christoph trotted down a narrow stone-paved path, waving gleefully.
“Guten Tag. Sie liegen im Zeitplan. You are on schedule.”
“Côte d'Azur catamite attire is cool, huh Dad?” Daniil giggled, waving with two fingers.
Christoph wore a Bonza-print Voile shirt, unbuttoned, and swim shorts—Ralph Lauren, ice-blue, high on the thigh with a brazen bulge; boat shoes, no socks; blatantly gay and highly suggestive.
“Hallo Meister Bruce. Und Skippy, Papa wird glücklich sein.”
Ignoring Bruce, the boys hugged as if making up for months apart, not a few days.
“What’s that mean? Papa wird...”
“Papa vill be happy.” Christoph snickered. A quick glance around, his voice low, “He is very looking forward to doing you.”
Envious and excited, Bruce indulged his own unspeakable desire, gorging on Christoph. He was gorgeous, like Daniil; vibrant, energetic, everything a gay boy should be. He offered his hand, not clasping. Small hot fingers and a baby-soft palm wrapped his two extended fingers.
“I envy your papa, doing you.”
“Vhy? You have Skippy to play vith, ya? Vhenever you vant,” Christoph teased back.
“No time for play for the last three hours,” Bruce joked. “As cute as he is, the corniche is too dangerous to look away for more than a second.”
Daniil’s ensemble was understated; an unbuttoned shirt, plain white and collar-less, and Bermuda shorts, light pink with blue and yellow hibiscus print. Modest, if not discreet; lower, a small, yet vital bulge invited longing looks.
Christoph smirked. “Der Aston, it is boy car, fast like Papa’s Porsche, nein?”
He glanced knowingly at Daniil, who grinned and nodded, flimsy shirt loose on his slender abdomen.
So close to two unbuttoned perfect boy bellies, Bruce sweated, his pulse elevated, suddenly undecided which bellybutton he preferred, his son’s sublime innie or Christoph’s outrageous outie.
“Incredible the difference it makes...” he reflected aloud.
Christoph’s navel was a rare spiral. No stigma, it emphasized a fetal connection to a mother he’d never known. It suited him, aggressively out compared to introverted Daniil, whose hooded T-shaped dimple collected lint and semen.
“The view, I mean. It’s spectacular,” Bruce added hastily.
With a hand on Daniil’s slim shoulder, he skewed his little lover, and budding architect, to view Roman-tiled roofs cascading to the sea far below.
“We’re standing at the front door of the archetypal hill town,” he began. “If I remember, Èze was a fortified stronghold for the House of Savoy.”
He ran out of steam. Two giggling gay boys within easy reach didn’t help his concentration.
Christoph took over, pointing. “Louis Quatorze destroy most of ze vall. You see it zere, under ze house.”
Daniil giggled, and pointed, too, at haphazard rubble and chiseled ashlar, a veritable museum of architectural fragments.
“You mean *the* house over *there*?”
Christoph play-punched his arm. “Ya! Zat house, vith ze stone wall.”
“Uh huh, *that* house *with* *the* medieval pointed-arch. Ze stone wall is random-coursed squared rubble.”
Bruce turned, yet tuned in to his son’s taunting tone, mellow innocence and curiosity, already a fount of architecture knowledge. He remained turned away as the boys’ friendly sparring turned to sharing a superficially chaste continental-kiss—the sound alone was distracting, and very arousing. Then, they whispered and giggled after parting, hardly oblivious to him, yet deliberately ignoring a swarthy man standing nearby. He’d followed Christoph, only a few paces behind. Farther back, another man pushed a trundle cart.
“You’re really tanned,” Daniil said, looking his friend over. He couldn’t help feeling a little envious.
Bruce turned back, strange déjà vu as he took in Christoph. Growing attraction by leaps and bounds, the boy excited him in a way that was very different to his own son. He couldn’t begin to define what drew his gaze beyond golden brown skin other than the Spirit of Eros was universal. It lived within any beautiful gay boy.
“Three days you vill be tan, too,” Christoph said with a sly look at Bruce, perhaps a warning to cool it. “All over is best for mein Papa.”
In just ten days, Bruce had learned to be cautious, concealing longing stares and give-away glances. Sometimes, it was all but impossible.
“Lord Handley said Prince Johannes prefers boys with little brown willies,” he said with a playful wink at his son.
“I’ll put lotion on him, if you want, but Mom won’t find out from me; you maybe.”
“Papa gets vhat he vant.” Christoph looked over his shoulder. “All men get vhat zey vant.” He lowered his voice. “Today in Zurich, Papa meet my doctor. Herr Midas also get vhat he vant.”
Impossible to miss his harsh tone, or Daniil’s awkward glance, yet for a few moments, both boys pretended not to notice.
“Mein Schulleiter ist jüdisch,” Christoph went on, cool, not calm. (Schulleiter: principal)
“Are you sick or something?” Daniil asked.
“Herr Midas vant!” Christoph sighed. “A small operation. Es ist jüdisch.”
Recognizing the same frustrated feeling that his own mother brought on when she insisted on something he didn’t want, Daniil sighed, too.
“When will your father get back from Zurich?” Bruce asked to break the silence.
“He say expect him for dinner. Francis park your car in ze garage, and bring ze bags. I take you to lunch.”
Christoph took Daniil’s catamite bag, leading the way up the path, skirting his obvious escort.
Daniil hurried after him. “Are you going to be okay after the operation?”
“Vhy vouldn’t I be? You’re okay, nein?”
Daniel caught up. “That man back there, he looked at us… He’s following us now.”
“Zat is Micky. Monsieur Souris, he is boyguard. Ze pedos from Kuwaitm zey come here; many pretty boys in ze EU. Not ze Eros Union, ve are catamites; ze other EU.”
Their whispering lasted to the next corner. A narrow chasm intersected the road; to the left, a gap between stone garden walls opened to a ragged gorge and a sparkling sliver of ocean. To the right, the stairway ascended into overhanging coconut palms. Christoph went that way, taking steps two and three at a time.
They stopped at a gate in a high rubble wall, peering between wood slats at a verdant garden of grape vines and cacti. Bruce lagged back, peering over the wall and taking photos of succulents in brilliant flower.
“Beschnitten... circumcised; it feel different, nein?” Christoph whispered.
“Why ask me? I’ve always been circumcised.”
“You tight like Marten. Does it hurt?”
Daniil frowned. “No. Why would it?”
“When der schwanz is tight. Papa says tight make Marten more sensitive.”
Daniil filed ‘Schwanz’ away. Claire had said there were any number of words for ‘penis’; ‘polla’, ‘bitte’, ‘cock’, it was endless.
“Mr. Ed said mine’s easily excited. It’s why I’m almost always stiff.”
“I like ze tight cock... Vhen your papa rub, vhat it feel like?”
“Usually, I suck him so it’s slippery,” Bruce chuckled as he came up behind them. “Otherwise, we use coconut oil.”
Christoph thought about it. “Papa say most men prefer die Vorhaut, ze foreskin. American men; some do, some not. For you?”
“I prefer circumcised, the sleek look especially.”
“Be honest, Dad. Mine’s sporty only because Mr. Ed suggested it,” Daniil added.
Though true, Bruce gave a noncommittal shrug. “With a small one, tight looks better. Really tight... it’s hot.”
Finally, openly talking about his son’s penis; it wasn’t just unusual; it was incredibly sexy. He became aroused every time he saw it, or looked at it; even thinking sent a thrill through him.
“Mr. Ed says mine works the same as uncut, only it always tastes fresh, right Dad?”
Having decided ten days earlier that taste was important, if not essential, Bruce’s noncommittal shrug was entirely faked. In fact, he found it difficult to imagine him desiring anything else.
With his father focusing his camera, Daniil posed, casual, side-on, head angled to avoid the sun, yet seeming thoughtful. He licked his lips—wet was sexy, a hint of teeth and tongue; eyes demure, not bashful, a teasing little cocksucker who’d been interrupted.
Bruce gaped disbelief. Yet, just a few feet in front of him, Daniil tempted him like never before. Needy, sensuous, exuding desire; he’d never have believed it of his son. He winked back, his own signal of lust.
After three hours in the Aston, the surge was instantaneous. Daniil reached down to discover his erection, hot and hard and jutting into his pouch. Silent, anxious, being photographed fiddling, mouth agape as if his father’s erection had just departed, all while standing on a stairway overlooking a cactus garden.
Bruce jerked his head toward Christoph, his bulging urge straining the bounds of decency. He smirked, and stepped behind, slim tanned arms wrapping Daniil’s svelte body.
“Marten’s cock is like rocket,” Christoph whispered in Daniil’s ear. “Ich bin scharf auf ihn. (I have the hots for him)
“I have a little rocket,” Daniil whispered back.
“Masturbate him, Christoph,” Bruce murmured, breathing heavily, disbelieving.
“You like aus dem handgelenk schütteln?” Christoph whispered. (lit. shake from the wrist)
There were people nearby, a woman’s voice from beyond the fence, an elderly couple ahead, trudging up the stairs; yet Christoph fondled with urgency, fingers containing Daniil’s pouch and its contents, pulling him close, groin crushed against Daniil’s buttocks, excitement raging no different than coupling.
Giggling, squeezing Daniil’s tiny swollen knob. “You are scharf...” His voice was husky. ”... hot and horny. Marten likes... einhandsegeln.” (to jerk off, wank)
After taking a second photo, Bruce winked at the boys. “I’ll wait up ahead, guys. Do what you need to, just be careful no one sees you.”
Daniil ogled his father as he continued up the stairs. Surely, he couldn’t mean there on the stairs, where people might see them? He eased away, scant inches, enough that the pressure diminished.
Christoph stopped fondling. “Your papa really love you.”
Daniil made a silly face at his father’s back. “What he really loves is my bum!”
“Tell me ze truth,” Christoph whispered, excitement flaring. “Kein flunkern. No fibbing. Since last night, how many...”
He glanced behind, repeatedly poking his left index finger into his right fist. Confused and somewhat surprised, Daniil stared back.
“... you know... bumsen?” His voice low, Christoph added, “Papa get angry vhen I say ficken in public.”
“I can say ‘ficky’ okay. I get fined a buck if I say ‘fuck.’”
A glance behind revealed the boyguard lingering on the stairs, four raucous American tourists trying to get past him. Daniil headed after his father. Christoph was right on his heels, a race taking steps two at a time until they’d nearly caught up to Bruce.
“Papa and I make bet,” Christoph giggled, still whispering. “If I vin, ve do it in ze pool tonight. If he vin, ve do it on ze terrace... So?”
“Um... since last night…. Oh, my… Goodness and Kindness.” Daniil smirked, both virtues a cause for pride. “I made my Dad beg for it this morning.”
Bruce glanced over his shoulder and smothered a laugh, eavesdropping and sidestepping German tourists descending the stairs. “I gave Skippy a Peace of my mind.”
Christoph dodged an overdressed German matron bringing up the rear, pulling Daniil with him. “For real... dreifach?” (Three times, not ‘dry fuck’)
“We always use lube. Doing it dry... it hurts something awful.”
Christoph groaned and held up three fingers. “Drei ist three, dum ass!”
Heads together and giggling, whispering, taking turns peeking at Bruce, who was intent on photographing exotic cacti, and eavesdropping.
“My friend, Mr. Ed, he said three times should be about normal for me,” Daniil confided. “I’m a parastatheis in my first month. So twice in bed and once during the day. Only I really like... bumsen... so....”
“All Eros boy like bumsen!”
Christoph stopped beside a shady break in the stone wall, luscious vines and palms overhanging. He retrieved his iPhone and rapid-fire texted his father. ‘Drei hehe’
Daniil looked over his shoulder. “You bet three, right?”
“Ya. No vaseline bumsen tonight.” With grin at Daniil, Christoph added, “Vot ve use in ze pool, it vash off not as fast.”
He headed off again, the steps ending in a narrow passage between two medieval stone buildings.
“Sex in ze pool, it is ze best. You do zat with your papa?”
Daniil followed along, skipping to keep up. “We don’t have a pool… We’re are we going?”
“Frau Claire hold ze table at Château Eza. Is très magnifique. Ze seafood is ze best.”
“Ze best is in ze shower,” Daniil teased. “My dad says I’m addicted. We would’ve done it today only we left early.”
Christoph looked over his shoulder at Bruce. “Papa and I do bumsen in shower, too.”
“I love being soapy, all slippery against him...” Daniil sighed wistfully. “The most awesome feeling there is.”
They turned into a narrow chasm, walls towering, window boxes hanging from ledges, tourist ads and restaurant menus in display boxes.
“I like most is cuddle. Papa, how you say, parks it,” Christoph whispered. “Hours sometimes.”
“I thought only we did that,” Daniil mused aloud.
Looking up at a sliver of sky, inhaling the musty odor of ten centuries, Mediterranean air redolent with salt and a potpourri of flowers, spices, bread baking. It made Connecticut seem droll, fast food and boom boxes, pretentious McMansions and gentleman farmers. Almost nothing authentic.
“Gay boys do ze same stuff, Skippy. Hug and tongue-kiss; zen suck and ficky. Ze EU boy do better.”
“At Lord Handley’s house, Mr. Ed said people have no idea how good we are at sex.”
Christoph raised his eyebrows, teasing and tempting. “You have favorite for ficky?”
“Love is best; being joined and seeing him smile.”
“Vhen Papa’s schwanz go vay up, zat vhen I know he love me.”
They emerged onto a tiny terrace overlooking the ocean, house walls on three sides, no windows, just a single door, as red as the geraniums cascading over a low stone wall. The view beyond was, in a word, spectacular. The vast Mediterranean, the dramatic cliffs of the Côte d'Azur, beaches and marinas sprinkled along the rugged coast, stepped rows of ancient stone houses.
Again, the boys closed in instinctive attraction, gazing at each other, blossoming puppy-love. Bruce glanced around as he approached; idyllic, romantic, and for the moment, they were safe from prying eyes. No better place for an intimate photo.
“Daniil, Honey, why don’t you and Christoph...” he murmured, blowing a kiss.
His son smiled and leaned in, positioning his head and Christoph’s so both faces were visible. A playful peck quickly turned French, wet and prolonged as a tongue battle ensued, each boy taking turns to probe and recede. For a minute, they shamelessly sucked and slurped, clutching each other and fondling crotches as friendship segued to passion. Bruce almost held down the shutter button, taking photo after photo, switching to high-def video as he sidled closer. He stopped at the sound of voices on the stairs. By then, lips and tongues filled the viewfinder, shockingly zealous, saliva glistening on both faces.
The boys quickly separated, wiping their lips, giggly and excited, and nervous as two chattering girls clattered up the stairs, their parents dragging far behind.
Daniil and Christoph regarded them in silence, disinterested as much as resentful at being disturbed.
“Where’s Chateau Eza?” the oldest girl demanded; her accent American, California-self-centered.
She was long-legged with emergent breasts, freckles, and tom-boyish hair. A churlish cursory glance landed on Christoph, blond, brown, and oozing wealth. With visible disdain, he pointed back down the stairs. The sister, who was far prettier, turned her gaze on Daniil. He quickly looked away. Her limp-wrist gesture was unmistakable as she smirked at her sister.
With neither boy interested in girls, they departed, much to Daniil’s relief.
“Ze old girl like gypsy; her pussy, it smell like anchovy,” Christoph snickered.
Daniil pointed after them, implying they should follow since they were going to the same restaurant. Christoph stepped to the adjacent red door. He couldn’t help smirking as he turned the handle and swung open the door. Beyond was a busy restaurant kitchen.
oUo
Spotting Claire at the furthermost table on the restaurant terrace, Daniil bolted ahead as she stood to greet him. They were still hugging and whispering when Bruce and Christoph arrived.
“It should be feeling nice by now,” Claire whispered.
“Really nice...” Daniil regarded his father with a shy smile, unaware of a lipstick kiss on his forehead. “It itches now and then.”
“Cat scratch, Simon calls it.”
“It’s way better than it was. Really big afterwards....”
“After his workout in Neverland, he was sore the next day,” Bruce added quietly, a discreet handshake in front of a dozen witnesses, two-fingers pressed to her palm.
Daniil whispered something to Claire. She smiled, resuming her seat.
“Sore or not, I’m glad you kept using L’ Entraîneur. The best time to develop elasticity is after a long hard session. Ask Christoph if you don’t believe me.”
“Ze looser ze better,” Christoph confided. “My papa always put in vhen he pull out.”
Bruce worried about ‘looser’. “He’s definitely bigger inside.”
At Lord Handley’s house, he’d watched a video of the little German prince being dropped, his father’s lance piercing, two other men assisting even though Christoph’s boy-hole was loose and sucking. Around midnight, Christoph had taken his turn on the rocking horse, mindlessly slamming his buttocks back, Prince Johannes’ erection penetrating full depth each time. Gaping afterwards, and laughing about how open he was after his father had finished. Like Daniil, it hadn’t bothered him at all.
“Bigger is good,” Claire declared. “For the itch, analgesic inside, Lanoline outside.”
“I used both,” Bruce said abruptly. “And I was careful the next day; maybe too careful. He was begging all the way here.”
“Was not,” Daniil said defensively. “He’s getting really good at it, that’s all. We both are.”
With a shrug, Christoph muttered, “You don’t know vhat is good until Papa do you in ze pool.”
He squeezed past Bruce, making sure to wriggle his butt against the man’s thigh. The terrace was so narrow there was scarcely room for Daniil and Christoph to get into their seats. Daniil resumed whispering to Claire, leaving Christoph looking bored and Bruce studying a menu, anything but look at the breathtakingly beautiful boy who was patiently sitting beside him.
It didn’t help that across the table, Daniil and Claire still whispered. It could only concern him, the last three days, how often he’d plundered his son’s little bottom.
“... we didn’t do it at Sainte Marie de La Tourette,” Daniil muttered. “He wanted to.”
“I should hope not. Le Corbusier’s masterpiece is far too sacrosanct.” Claire’s tone was a clear reprimand.
Daniil stole a glimpse at Bruce. After leaving the monastery, they’d driven a few kilometers down D3, and crossed a small river before lust won out.
“You said not to pass up an opportunity,” Bruce chided.
With two gay boys within easy reach, his attention wavered erratically. Hyacinthe with a golden-blond mane, or his pretty teasing Adonis, brunette, with long curls. A shy smile from one, raised eyebrows from the other, both flirtatious little demons; instinctive, shameless, persistent, until he gave in to his sexual urge.
Daniil, Stirling House tart, was now attuned to his father’s sexual needs. Whether instinct or learned, his gaydar was now fully functional. Peeking, radiating desire, spontaneous eye-contact signaling, committing.
“Christoph, perhaps you can assist with menu recommendations,” Bruce said, increasingly uncomfortable, his erection straining outward, already leaking into his boxer briefs.
Christoph glanced down, spotting the elongated bulge. He brightened, sat up, and leaned closer.
“Ze entrées are gut; not ze caviar, zat is Chinese junk. For ze main course, zere is one choice.” He pointed at the menu, two fingers stroking Bruce’s wrist, flirting Eros-style. “Papa and I get L’Anguille.”
“What’s Anguille?” Daniil asked, trying to see the menu.
Christoph rolled his eyes. “Is très bon. It look like ze villy and live in ze hole.... not ze sea snake...”
Daniil’s gaze drifted sideways, along the terrace wall. Wrought iron tables with white tablecloths, sparkling thin-stemmed wine glasses, nouveau-riche and vieux-riche patrons devouring scrumptious seafood from sumptuous Chateau-Eza-emblemed platters. The two girls and their parents were three tables away, jammed next to the door, waiters bustling in and out of the kitchen.
Claire noticed his frown. “Girls are your bane, aren’t they?”
He flinched. Not willing to admit their whispering was always over his head. He was always the brunt of their jokes.
“They pick on me at school.”
“You’re at the age when girls mature faster than boys,” Claire said quietly. “Don’t rush to catch up. You’ll never be happier than you are right now.”
Daniil took in the younger girl’s suntanned arms, a flimsy gold bracelet with dangling charms, glittering studs in her ears, hair shorter than his, an enviable silk blouse with lacy lapels.
“You’re also far better looking than she’ll ever be,” Claire added, her tone haughty.
The girl’s gaze crossed Daniil’s and he turned away. A moment too late; her wrist drooped from an elbow planted on the table, purple-nailed fingers pointing a ficelle directly at him.
“She knows I’m gay,” he whispered.
“And she’s as jealous as can be. The right man would pay millions of pounds to bed you. She might get a few thousand for her first time.”
Christoph turned cerulean-blue eyes on Bruce, the attraction instinctive, startlingly powerful. His smile was practiced, endearing, enticing, intended to be alluring. Claire observed, smug as she nodded approvingly. In the Union of Eros, temptation and enticement supplanted possessiveness—sharing was crucial.
“Master Daniel, you and I will have salads and split an entree,” she said sweetly.
Like a moth drawn to a lamp, Daniil peeked peripherally at the girl, still pointing her ficelle, a mini-baguette. He watched her bring it to her mouth, vivid-crimson lips pressing on the tip—the ficelle could only be a pretend penis.
Not about to humor a moody catamite, Claire whispered, “She’s a stuck-up bitch, not worth looking at.”
Daniil nodded agreement, blinking in the glare, strangely envious, no longer innocent, increasingly aware how he was unlike other boys. Not to be outdone by a ‘bitch’, he selected a ficelle from the bread basket, held it in his fist where the girl could see it.
Claire leaned closer, a taunting whisper. “A man’s penis is wasted with her smelly twat. Inside you is infinitely more pleasurable. If she annoys you, show her what men treasure.”
He understood, peeking again as the girl bit off the end and chewed, watching him.
With a disinterested shrug at his nemesis, Daniil nibbled crusty flakes, savoring imaginary semen with delight. His expression was longing, dreamy, remembering the delicious full sensation, things only a young gay boy could know. Not ashamed, showing off, and it worked; the girl blushed and stared down.
Daniil needed no words as he turned from the girl to meet his father’s eyes. They smiled as one, both addicted, unable to resist.
Claire switched to Christoph, her voice low. “Tell Daniil why a boy pleases men far better than any girl.”
He nodded, rapt, gazing longingly at Bruce. He touched his tongue to his bottom lip, eyebrows lifting.
“Vith ze boy, ze man is not to make ze baby. Zere is true love.... A man and boy, zey conscrate ze sacred union. Father and son become one.” Divulging a secret, soft, serious, sensuous, eyes like magnets.
Bruce gulped; compared to Christoph, Daniil was a novice, still learning to seduce with a meaningful glance. As much as he loved and lusted after his son, it was impossible to ignore Christoph. Unlike Simon, Christoph was worldly, silently conveying unbridled desire, consciously offering himself, everything a man who loved boys dreamed about.
Claire interrupted the lingering silence; she’d seen enough envious catamites to realize the results of addiction and temptation. Best to nip it in the bud before conflict arose.
“In the Union of Eros, an erômenos selects and an erastês samples. This is why we have Nine Virtues,” she said quietly, resting her hand on Daniil’s slender forearm.
Envy had no place in the Nine Virtues.
“And that would mean what, exactly?” Daniil grumped.
Bruce dropped the menu on the table. “Claire told you at GlenIolaire, only you were more interested in inserting Tuwile. In Ancient Greece, you would be the erômenos. I would be the erastês.”
Claire, ever the attentive governess, picked up. “‘Eras’ is from Eros; the ‘tês’ is linguistic, meaning ‘initiator’ in the active sense. Erômenos is also from Eros. Adding ‘menos’ is the masculine form of the present passive participle.”
“Zis mean erômenos is always ze passive,” Christoph added.
Daniil wasn’t tuned in, not after he realized the two girls from the terrace were now pointing at him, giggling and whispering, ignoring their parents. He didn’t like their mother at all; snooty, like his mother. Then, he glimpsed the menu upside down. All of the entrees were €45! The same thing would be between $12 and $16 in a good Connecticut restaurant—not a lot of money, yet if he asked for one, his mother would have a fit and spoil everything. At €45, she’d walk out.
Christoph went on. “Your papa is active, ze same as Papa; you are passive like me.”
Bruce enjoyed Daniil’s lingering confusion. “The dominant peg goes in the subordinate hole.”
“Not every time,” Daniil retorted, snatching up the menu. “The erômenos selects... L’Esquinado... Only not if it’s squid!”
“I know vhat I want.” Christoph giggle was high-pitched, almost girlish as he gave Bruce a knowing look. “Cock...les,”
Bruce’s penis stiffened further, impossibly hard, lust beyond lurking. Desperate, he lowered his hand under the table, ostensibly scratching his thigh, relocating his erection. Then, his fingers encountered Christoph’s little fingers. In a heartbeat, a small, surprisingly strong hand shamelessly clasped the man-sized bulge.
Christoph smiled knowingly. Overwhelming attraction, primal compulsion, glowing hot with lust. Bruce quivered with gut-churning excitement, a raw thrill as his hand crept higher, little-boy genitalia not quite out of reach, drawing him ever closer. He encountered warm satiny shorts, and kept going, his fingertips lured toward gradually increasing warmth.
“Am I right in thinking Foie Gras de Canard et Anguille fumée is your favorite entrée, Christoph?” he muttered, placing the menu between him and Claire.
The pretty blond boy-prince was unable to stop a self-conscious smile as Bruce’s fingers lightly caressed. Firm yet malleable, his penis and testicles were restrained, molded into a prominent boy-bump.
He pretended to study the menu. “Anguille vill be Daniil’s favorite, too, I think.”
“Maybe we should get Anguille, Mum,” Daniil peeped, his voice a half-octave higher than Christoph’s.
“You’re sure? Ze willy from ze hole?” Claire teased.
However, Christoph was elsewhere; a sigh of visceral joy as he withdrew his hand from Bruce’s crotch, deftly tugging at the leg of his swim shorts. Yanking ice-blue stretchy cloth up his smooth slender thigh, over his crotch, exposing his pouch. A few moments later, Bruce cautiously extended his index fingertip, not soft lambskin like Daniil’s pouch, military-grade ballistic-nylon mesh. Heavy duty restraint and augmentation, not intended for comfort.
Christoph peeked up, eyes wide, wanting, needing. Bruce squeezed the rugged mesh, determining very little. He caught Christoph’s sly sideways smile, a wanton nod, anxious for more. Permission granted, exactly what he expected.
He hurried to unfasten the pouch, expecting cords like Daniil’s. Instead, a Velcro loop encircled the base. Almost no stretch, and it was tight, way tighter than Daniil’s chamois-soft purse, insulated to keep his gonads hot and compacted. Every crackle of hooks parting from loops made him worry. Surely, the Chinese businessmen sitting at the next table could hear?
Bruce withdrew his hand and Christoph’s hand shifted over. He wriggled, extricating his cramped genitalia. He smirked, holding out a mesh tube; put it on the table, standing up like a little flesh-colored teepee.
“All catamites thrive with constraint,” Claire said quietly. “We talked about it the first day, remember?”
“Daniil needed to learn self-control,” Bruce said. “I didn’t realize how much wearing a pouch would help, L’ Entraîneur, too.”
“Some boys need more restriction... It’s not cruel.”
He sweated, thoughts clamoring, disbelief raging, now grasping Christoph’s juvenile erection for the second time. He would never have dared do such a thing before Lord Handley’s party; however, Prince Johannes had been right beside them, lounging on a beanbag, and doing the same thing to Daniil.
The second time around was less stressful. A beautiful boy, uncut, with a plump firm shaft tapering to a pointy tip. He pressed two fingers into the resilient little penis, his thumb opposing. It was far from a handful, a little larger than Daniil’s, easier to masturbate. Unseen, or so he thought; he rubbed slowly, gently up and down, feeling quivering spasms, aware of muted little-boy sighs. He sighed, too, discovering Christoph’s little testicles scrunched either side. The slightest touch was enough to induce a quiver of excitement.
Utterly captivated, Claire tousled Daniil’s hair, very aware that it was as good a time as any to instill sharing. She leaned close to whisper in his ear. He perked up, and whispered back. A moment later, he looked his father in the eye.
“Dad, Christoph wants to know what rubbing a circumcised one feels like. If we switch places, you can wank both of us, and tell him what’s different.”
oUo
Sunset at Èze. Glorious orange and red sky, endless dark shadows along the craggy coast, pinpricks of house lights far below, distant street lights glowing amber, car lights on the corniche like fireflies. Only the swimming pool was sparkling bright; lit from below, crystal clear, a mirror above. On the long sides, a terrace and a forbidding 18th century mini-castle, austere stone walls with deep-slit windows. On the short sides, a few subdued lamps shining on ancient marble columns tucked among an impenetrable hedge; and a concrete-framed pavilion. It was 20th century minimalist-modern with nothing to hide—beyond was a precipice of 80 meters, rocks and ocean below.
Claire, leaned from her chaise longue, rearranged the towel over Daniil. Fine Egyptian cotton, dark bare boy, little round rump still a shade lighter than the rest of him.
“I told you Villa Hyacinthos was the perfect place to make love to a boy, didn’t I?” she teased.
“A private paradise by any name,” Bruce observed for the umpteenth time.
However, the name was important—Hyacinth was a beautiful Spartan boy-prince, the lover of Apollo.
“I could live here forever with what’s his name,” he added, glancing aside.
Daniil was belly down on terrazzo, a glistening glabrous arm crooked under his head, tangled curls after swimming. Listening in. Head turned, side on, watching shadows in the pavilion. Envious of Christoph, who was no longer making out with his father; instead, he was on his knees paying homage, the same way Daniil paid homage to his father’s penis.
“Serving Prince Johannes will be good for Daniil,” Claire remarked after a glance at the pavilion. “All kinds of opportunities. Exciting, too.”
Bruce nodded, sipping chilled Dom Perignon, heady after spending three hours in the afternoon sun. Mindful of Claire’s enthusiasm; she’d already informed him that it wouldn’t be much longer before Daniil took the next important step, serving selflessly.
“Exciting for him, or Daniil?”
He teased to annoy her, in part deserved because she knew they’d taken vows. It bothered him that she was making less-than-obscure references to sharing his son with other men. As if he didn’t know!
Parastatheis notwithstanding, after Daniil’s union with Eros, he was now of the mind that whatever happened, it would be entirely mutual. In fact, Edwin had been adamant; his godson couldn’t do better than serve Prince Johannes Friedrich Wilhelm von Wittelsbach of Hohenlohe-Auersperg.
Claire gave him a withering glance. “Stop worrying; I guarantee you’ll enjoy sweet little Christoph as much as he enjoys Daniil.”
Bruce smiled patiently, another fond look at his son before he turned to Claire. “My first time alone with a prince; I’ll try to behave.”
Daniil skewed his head. “Be careful, Dad. He isn’t as sweet as she thinks. He let me order Anguille. Eel! How gross is that!”
“He gave you a hint, as did I, Master Daniel,” Claire snickered. “Only you were too distracted by those American girls.”
“They were making fun of me being gay...” Daniel objected.
The light faded slowly, as much the sun’s doing as the pool lights turned down. Two shadows emerged from the pavilion, strolling across the terrace. Man and boy, hand in hand, both naked, no shame, certainly not in front of Claire.
“Pool games are nigh,” Bruce interrupted, getting up from his chaise.
He stared at the smallest shadow. The tightening in the front his swim shorts didn’t stop him from divesting.
Claire peeked, not revulsion, not admiring his thickening member, envious that she lacked what boys like Daniil desperately needed.
“Don’t scare him off with that thing!”
Bruce stepped free of damp nylon, ignoring her. His gaze locked on Christoph, not even a towel around his slender middle. Stepping, not daintily, or boldly, or nervously; a hip-swaying gait, practiced. Not fake or tawdry, naturally sensuous, increasingly exotic and erotic with every step closer. It was all Bruce could do not to beckon; this was the way of the Union of Eros, uninhibited men and boys, unbridled sexuality.
Pretending bashful, Christoph skirted the chaise, and Bruce, extending his foot to playfully push off Daniil’s towel. Ogling catamite butt, prehensile toes rubbing. A giggle, as Daniil made a feeble attempt to relocate. The little foot was persistent, wriggling toes into his crack, probing. Unplugged, Christoph’s big toe probed his hole, greasy with tanning lotion, not gaping yet penetrable with minimum effort.
Unable to get away, Daniil rolled onto his back, looking up. Grinning, no stranger to open displays. His father was naked. Prince Johannes was naked. Christoph was naked. All ogling him like an entrée, or maybe dessert.
“Skippy, you vill vatch your papa vith me. Zen Papa be vith you, okay?”
Daniil just nodded.
“Come! Ve swim vhile zey drink Dom.”
He scrambled up dutifully, oblivious to Claire’s contemplation. Scrutiny followed him to the pool edge, three silent admirers of his slender bare body, lean shoulders, narrow waist, sprightly thighs, matchless buttocks, the merest glimpse of a blue L’ Entraîneur.
“He’s emerging faster than I hoped,” she whispered to Prince Johannes.
“He is still tight, Bruce?”
Bruce gawked at his son. “A little more elastic every time. He’s had a lot of practice this past week.”
“Better stretchy than a closed fist.” Prince Johannes gestured to Daniil; his voice low. “He will be the prettiest catamite at Carnivale. I will call Conte Morosini; however, it’s decided, Claire. Daniil will play Tadzio.”
“I’ll start looking for clothes. As young as he is, it’s an honor, Bruce; however, you’ll need to work on his serving skills.”
“Christoph can help. As the youngest catamite, he played Giton at the last Trimalchio’s Banquet.”
“It vas fun,” Christoph said. “Ze theme vas Spanish delicacies, Tortilla Sacromonte; now zhat is gross, Skippy.”
He sprang, arched, sliced, leaving barely a ripple.
“It’s omelet with lamb’s brains and testicles,” Prince Johannes explained.
Like a sleek dolphin just below the surface, Christoph emerged, sculled gracefully, rolling, and diving, disappearing into luminous green water. Daniil gazed, envious, entranced, self-esteem suffering. No diving allowed with a mother who worked in insurance; risk assessment saw to that. Instead, he stepped off the ledge, plunging feet first into liquid warmth. He rose, sputtering, pushing back sodden curls before he chased after Christoph.
Daniil was breathless before he reached the far end of the pool; however, at least he could stand up. His father and Prince Johannes towered over him, both grinning, no one caring that he’d splashed and kept his head above water, unlike Christoph, who slid through the water like a sleek barracuda.
Realizing what was imminent, Claire got up from her chaise at the other end of the pool. She’d seen other fathers exchanging their sons, often and special enough that witnessing that intimate trade with Daniil and Christoph made her quiver with excitement. It was the stuff of fantasy.
“Today's maxim...” Prince Johannes snickered, raising his glass. “Tis a crime against nature to neglect a beautiful boy butt longer than it takes to imbibe a glass of champagne.”
Bruce chuckled as the other man gulped what remained in his champagne flute. He preferred Daniil’s bottom by far, though he was sorely tempted by the princely behind.
“Lord Bruce, it would please me if you plundered my son’s little bum as the gods intended.” Prince Johannes handed his glass to Claire.
“I’d be delighted if you did the same to mine.”
Claire smirked. “A good plunder apiece and then they should be in bed.”
Daniil pointed at Christoph. “He’s first.”
Making funny faces to distract the boys, Prince Johannes stepped to the edge of the pool, jumping in with a splash. Bruce went the other way, descended the stairs, circling behind. The water fight was intense, 45 seconds of frenzied splashing and kicking until both boys were caught, tossed, and caught again.
Upon seeing a sly two-fingered gesture from Prince Johannes, Bruce abandoned his ‘boy-wife’. He captured Christoph in a sexy bear-hug, grinding his erection into the boy’s rubbery rump before he heaved him high into the air. Blond-headed and bronzed, Christoph plunged down, arms and legs grasped by both men, manhandled around. He gazed up at his father, whose strong arms now supported his shoulders and back, familiar hands clamping his waist and hips. Instinctively, he raised his knees, little hands clutching his feet, very aware of what he wanted, and what was required to achieve it.
Erect and ready to rut, Bruce advanced, facing Christoph; his father, too. A swift appraisal of Bruce’s endowment, and Prince Johannes nodded approvingly, not just complicit, eager to assist in his son’s insemination.
“Go on, Dad; stick him! Good and hard,” Daniil chortled from a safe distance.
“All in good time. First, you get them ready,” Prince Johannes interrupted.
“You’ll want this for his bum.” Claire tossed Daniil a dispenser, black with bold white lettering, ready to go.
Daniil was all glee and giggles. “I get to put SPUNK on your willy, Dad.”
It was the first time he’d seen silicone lubricant. Simon said it was expensive, and incredibly slippery.
“It’ll eventually wash off his penis,” Prince Johannes countered, lifting his son’s bottom out of the water. “Get as much as you can inside das nest.”
A squeeze of the pump and SPUNK pooled in Daniil’s small hand. It reminded him of the first time a man’s emission covered his body. Not his father’s semen, Mr. Ed’s; it made a puddle in his bellybutton, lesser spurts splattered from his groin to his nipples. Thick, gooey, white; it had the same kind of iridescence in the light from the reading lamp beside Mr. Ed’s couch.
Prince Johannes parted his son’s buttocks and Bruce leaned away, making room for Danill’s hand, his little fingers heavily coated with SPUNK. Up close, Daniil gaped; das nest was like his own. Not violated, carefully and deliberately reshaped for manly affection, the opening visibly depressed, elongated. A few folds replaced normally tiny, barely visible skin puckers. Beautiful.
He pressed his fingers into the soft, flexible flesh, pushing SPUNK into Christoph, their fathers watching.
“Master Daniel, as much in him as you can,” Claire counseled from the pool deck.
Daniil grinned, adding more from the dispenser, scraping residue from his now-slimy fingers, inserting goop with his thumb. Feeling strangely proud; like the first time his father injected his semen into his rectum; lubricating Christoph’s anus was the prelude to passion, a beginning, not a denouement.
As soon as his son finished, Bruce closed the gap. In a trembling rush, sticking his swollen glans in the crevice. With Daniil locating the opening, he wedged his helmet into a slick hot embrace. Poised to penetrate, he paused as his heart raced, exquisite anticipation, Nirvana ahead.
“For Christoph, d' embrocher is best,” Prince Johannes confided.
“Bruce, he means you should skewer Christoph,” Claire said with quiet authority. “With practice, a catamite prefers swift and complete; all in, no dilly dally.”
“Ze speed of impalement depend on ze cock,” Christoph said coolly, craning his neck.
Danill held his father’s penis on target, comparing. At first glance, his father’s thick engorged shaft and flared rim seemed daunting, yet with practice it was easily accommodated, even by a barely initiated Stirling House tartlet.
“Zis is gut. Your papa slide easy in you, Skippy?”
“Don’t know about easy; it slides okay after a while.”
He watched his father push in, the dark helmet spreading fleshy folds, gliding into a hole that seemed shallow, then swallowing more and more as the tightly stretched rim crept along the shaft. Slow progress, although none of the usual pausing every inch, in fact no hesitation at all—that was a first.
“Simon’s papa is big on ze end,” Christoph muttered, twitching. “I take his willy slow like zis.”
Trevor’s glans was as wide as his son’s balls; Simon said it took some getting used to.
“Nearly there, Bruce. Don’t stop,” Prince Johannes murmured.
He rotated his son’s narrow pelvis, thumbs digging into his hips, applying downward pressure, forcing man and boy together. Christoph shuddered, his mouth opening in a silent gasp.
Danill licked his lips, blinked, silently disputing. His father’s penis was almost all the way in, and no sign of discomfort, just one little groan. Christoph was distracted for sure, but not even a whimper?
“Oh my!” Bruce leaned back.
“Gut! Gut! Alles gut!” Christoph was breathless.
His eyes closed, not dreamy, concentrating. Whatever was going through his head, it was very intense; overwhelming.
Daniil stared, switching between man and boy, now pressed pubis to perineum. Not understanding why Prince Johannes kept pushing his son’s body when it was already right up against Bruce’s middle. They’d completed the union, no sign of his father’s erection, completely inside.
“Dad, what’s happening?” he whispered.
He felt... he wasn’t sure what. Not envious, he’d been in Christoph’s place before, just not as deep.
As if she’d read Daniil’s mind, Claire said quietly, “Your father is sharing something very special, and you will, too, Master Daniel.”
“I could hide out in here all day,” Bruce chuckled, winking at his son.
“What’s happening?” Daniil asked again, more meekly.
“Positioned like this, your father’s penis is long enough to turn into his colon.”
No wonder he felt left out.
“For me to get around the bend, Bruce, you will need to turn Daniil from left to right,” Prince Johannes explained, demonstrating. “Hold his thigh, so he is side on. Push him down on my cock. Remember you’re helping him to love me. Do it sparingly, never hard.”
It didn’t seem possible, Prince Johannes rocking his son’s slim body, guiding it up and down, side to side, not erratically, gently, rhythmically.
“Pay attention, Master Daniel. You’ll be doing it soon enough,” Claire added, a smirk in the offing.
Daniil watched his father’s erect penis withdraw, not even an inch before it eased back. Christoph gasped softly with each careful insertion, a little hand clutching at Daniil’s arm, drawing him closer.
“Up zere, ze dickdarm ist gut, Skippy.” (dickdarm is colon)
Little boy-body jerking with even a slight side-to-side motion, not clenching his teeth, not panicking, panting, hungry for the added pressure inside him, discombobulating delicious sensations, expanding, receding, tormenting.
“Oh! This is incredible... Incredible,” Bruce muttered, trying to describe the sensation. “Like a flowing pulsation...so alive and hot... Oh my! Pulling on me... Yesss!”
“My son enjoys when a man’s cock is in his colon.”
Christoph nodded at his father. Turning to Daniil, his smile was disconcerting, dreamy, faraway
“I think you will enjoy it also, Skippy,” Prince Johannes chuckled.
“My villy, Skippy... frottieren... kräftig!”
“He says to masturbate him. Kräftig is vigorous, as fast and hard as you can.”
Daniil took hold of the other boy’s penis, longer than his own, no thicker though. Uncircumcised felt strange—Christoph had more skin there than Simon, enough to protrude over the tip even when fully erect.
“Kräftig like this?” Daniil teased.
He pinched the slim shaft of Christoph’s penis between his thumb and three fingers, squeezing, vibrating his wrist.
Daniil’s ecstatic father did the rest, a flurry of tempered wriggles against Christoph’s small bottom, tiny jolts in the boy’s core until... until... until...
Prince Johannes recognized the signs, his son’s frantic gasps, erratic shudders, little hands trembling. He held Christoph tightly, restricting movement, enabling Bruce’s thrusts to achieve maximum impact.
“Faster, Skippy!” Bruce grunted.
Contractions were fluid spasms of pleasure, grasping his sex, seething and throbbing in lubricious juices. Impossible that anything could feel so overpowering. Even without moving, it was stimulating yet relaxing at the same time. And the sensation on the exposed tender head of his penis, unbelievable!
Christoph’s father lifted up, presenting, preventing escape as Bruce strained, holding back, readying himself. Parental eyes meeting, silently acknowledging ‘one last time.’
Prince Johannes tilted his son’s body, aligned with his slender thigh higher than before. Bruce pushed in, perhaps too hard. He bottomed, groaning as his erection cranked to the side, sliding in the rest of the way. Unable to stem the surge from tightening testicles, he groaned again, tossing his head from side to side. Ejaculated. Inseminated. All of it spurting into Christoph’s colon.
Both man and boy breathless, shaking, ignoring Claire’s clapping, Daniil wide-eyed and a little bit frightened. Perhaps wondering what he’d gotten himself into...
oUo
After writing the above, your author is taking a half-hour break. Perhaps you can make use of the time and donate. Remember, if you’re enjoying my story: Don’t be thrifty with Nifty.
BTW, you haven’t missed much in the story. Only a few minutes have passed in EU time.
oUo
“.... In German, ‘Der wende der Dickdarm.’ A man’s penis must penetrate your rectum and wend its way thus.” Prince Johannes demonstrated, pointing at Daniil’s lower belly. “Always, your father should rotate your pelvis to assist the turn into your colon.”
Daniil nodded, not daring to say a word, afraid he’d stutter, or worse. Claire placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“It’s better you’re trained the traditional way. Simon practiced for months with a very flexible dildo before Trevor brought him here, to Eze. If you’re used to the sensation, you experience far less.”
“The EU custom is for a young catamite to be in water,” Prince Johannes explained. “Relaxed and floating enables a more fluid motion, certainly better than spooning or mating like dogs.”
Stalling, glancing around nervously, Daniil muttered, “Does it hurt?”
A few yards away, his father was still cradling Christoph, whispering and gently splashing water over his bottom. Scarcely aware of Claire going on...
“Not to worry... It goes away quickly with someone who knows to align you...” The thought unfinished, she looked at Prince Johannes. “Even when your body’s loosened, you’ll feel pressure when he goes that far. Pain and pleasure combine deep within.”
She didn’t expect help from the masters. Instructing a catamite was her job as trainer. However, Prince Johannes smiled, held up his left hand, thumb and index finger apart, pointing with his right index finger.
“This is the length of your rectum, perhaps eight centimeters long. My penis is nearly 18. It reaches the bend, where does it go?”
Daniil shrugged, not ready to go there.
“Not around the bend if my penis is too hard. Even if we are aligned, it pushes up, and tries to straighten what is not. Done often enough, it changes a boy.” Prince Johannes gestured to his son. “Eventually, Christoph’s bowels became looser, so going deeper is easier. Entering his colon is a special pleasure for both of us.”
“Your intestines are compressed,” Claire continued. “Yet they can move around, expand and contract as things pass through.”
“So, like my sphincter?”
“Not nearly as tight, thankfully.”
Daniil gigged. “My dad says it feels like I’m pinching the end off his willy.”
“Inside Christoph feels like soft, delicate flaps,” Prince Johannes said. “They are valves along his rectum, very gratifying when his partner’s rubs against them. Going farther into his colon, the pressure is overpowering.”
Claire beckoned and Bruce waded over. He winked encouraging at Daniil, trying to balance with Christoph hanging from his shoulders, reluctant to let go.
“Hard to believe what I just did… Still, I could tell he enjoyed it.”
“Actually, it was very calming for him,” Claire said.
“It didn’t look calming at the end,” Daniil countered, increasingly nervous.
“Your papa go in so deep, it make me sleepy,” Christoph murmured, peeking at his own papa.
“I was so far inside, when I pulled out, my semen stayed inside,” Bruce added.
He was used to back-flow, the downside of a dilated anus, seeing his semen trickle from his son’s little bottom a few moments after his penis withdrew.
“I guess I’ll try it,” Daniil muttered, as if trying was a matter of choice. “What if I don’t like it as much as Christoph?”
“You will in time,” Claire interjected. “It’s an important part of being a loved boy. It’s required for a House Catamite, more so if he’s a Royal catamite.”
“At my coming out, Mr. Ed said something about ‘around the bend.’ It was the sine qua non of boy love.”
“It is the essential act for both principal and parastatheis. For other men, rounding the bend is something a boy gets to choose,” Prince Johannes explained.
“Once you’ve done it a few times, you’ll be like Simon,” Bruce said, hugging Daniil from behind.
“He says doing the bend is the best feeling ever,” Claire added.
“You vill feel yummy stuffed vith cock, Skippy,” Christoph said dreamily, finally releasing his grip of Bruce’s shoulders.
He sculled away, seeming languid on his back, tired legs barely moving in the water. Very distracted after his pummeling, his eyes closed in concentration, inner muscles pulling in and upward, tightening instinctively, stemming the excretory response until his sphincter closed up.
Bruce pulled his son close, lifting him up, burrowing his face into wet tangled hair. Warm, sleek wriggly boy, very aware of his father’s penis snuggling, nudging his still-plugged buttocks.
“You vill be queer as me after Papa. You vant cock, any vill do,” Christoph teased, coming back to life.
“I’m not overdoing it. I don’t want my hole gaping, least not like yours,” Daniil teased back.
“Eh, you say zat, Skippy! Your papa vill stretch you like my papa; enough vill make ze hole...” Christoph grinned, making a big ‘o’ with his index finger and thumb.
Bruce cupped his son’s buttocks, his hands sliding along lean thighs, grasping behind Daniil’s knees. He lifted, tilting back as he elevated Daniil’s bottom out of the water, presenting his son the same way that Prince Johannes had presented Christoph.
“Christoph, will you do the lubricating?” Claire giggled.
Relishing, Christoph quickly closed the gap, smirking at Daniil. Falsetto voice, taunting.
“Ya, die Schmierung! Vith my papa, you vant lot of SPUNK or you vill squeal like silly girl.” (lubrication)
“I haven’t squealed yet.”
“Ah L’ Entraîneur is still in ze cute little hinterteil. Ze hindquarters, ja, zey must be unhindered for zis. Push out, mein lustknabe.”
“Lustknabe is ‘pleasure boy’ in German. It’s the same as catamite,” Claire explained.
“Hurry up, Blag!” Prince Johannes was impatient to begin.
“I am not brat!”
With a deft tug, Christoph extracted Daniil’s plug, tossed it onto the terrace for Claire to retrieve, grinned as his father handed him the lubricant dispenser. He placed the nozzle in Daniil’s stretched hole, pumping the lever with his thumb, one... two... three... four times, stopping only when excess SPUNK oozed around the nozzle.
“Skippy is ready, now Papa.”
He pumped again, squirting iridescent slime into his cupped hand, slathered it over his father’s erect penis. He aligned them, gaping hole and plump crimson head, remarkably suited.
Prince Johannes sighed longingly, naked Daniil looking up at him, wide-eyed, nervous, excited...
“Relax, little Skippy,” he crooned. “Relax and welcome my cock inside your beautiful body.”
He was patient, experienced, attuned to every movement, savoring the moments preceding actual penetration. He met Bruce’s attentive gaze and nodded slightly. Bruce tightened his grip. Between them a partnership of sorts, each man intent on holding the boy firmly. He nodded at Bruce, hands now cupping small firm buttocks, thumbs pressing apart, opening the passage, guiding his glans through the target.
As he pressed in very gently, the delightful enclosing pressure increased. The moment of truth raced closer, stretching , advancing, slowly embedding his maleness in succulent heat. Then, the wide rim penetrated and Daniil twitched.
A few fleeting moments of uncertainly, yet very aware of what had happened. It bulged inside him, big and powerful, uncomfortable, but in a nice way. Joining completed the timeless bond of man and boy, made them invincible. Painless, yet life-changing. Penetration was essential; possession, not by his father, another man, the prince of Hohenlohe-Auersperg. It was exactly as Mr. Ed said it would be; unforgettable.
Daniil craned his neck to look at his father. Catching his eye, he felt even closer; strangely wanting his father to witness his impaling, no different than watching him impale Christoph.
“Goose grease it isn’t,” Claire said distantly.
“Really slippery, Mum... I feel him... he’s sliding in.”
“Concentrate on relaxing, Dani-boy,” Bruce coached, smiling down reassuringly.
Up close penetration was profoundly personal, revealing innermost thoughts without a word being said. He’d never shared such intimacy with his wife, and didn’t want to.
“Daddy...”
Daniil was breathless, panicked.
“It’s a special sensation,” Prince Johannes whispered.
His pelvis surged, undulated. In a heartbeat, the gap between man and boy closed, stressing the muscle guarding the connection of fundament and essential manhood.
“Ohhhhh....”
“Relax, Dani.”
“Do ze hula dance, Papa...”
Prince Johannes pressed deeper. Daniil groaned, much to Claire’s amusement.
“He needs this even more than Simon did. Make him squirm on it.” She smirked at Bruce as if proving her point.
Prince Johannes swiveled his hips, stretching the still-restricted rectum, settling in. Then, shoving deeper, he paused, tightening his grip on Daniil’s slim abdomen. He smiled at the boy, nodded knowingly, and began oscillating his pelvis as if rotating a hula hoop.
For a few moments, Daniil didn’t move.
“Oh fuck!”
The sensation was unlike any other. Even sheathing Tuwile paled in comparison. His insides twisted, knotted, churned. He writhed, frantic to stop it, increase it... The pressure grew, exhausting restraint, revealing a secret, unspeakable pleasure.
“Your job is to hold him still, Bruce,” Claire chided.
Christoph leered down. “Papa loosen bowel. Make you wobbly.”
There seemed to be no end to it. Princes Johannes swayed, not roughly, gently, moving side to side, back and forth, repositioning organs. Each rotation made Daniil shudder and gasp.
“Now, hold him like I showed you, Bruce.”
Remembering, ‘turn him from left to right,’ Bruce grasped his son’s left thigh, lifting higher, tilting him sideways as required.
“Gently push him onto it,” Claire said distantly. “Don’t fight it, Master Daniil.”
“Never resist,” Christoph added. “Feels strange, ya?”
Daniil nodded, not certain of what he felt. Deep inside, the pressure intensified. He wanted it to stop, to go on forever…
Prince Johannes ceased, leaned back, gazing down. “Our tartlet’s joined the around-the-bend club!”
Daniil blinked as the pressure receded, still very present.
“Zis vill turn you on, Skippy.” A crude snicker between catamites.
He smiled, taking Daniil’s right hand, tracing his finger on his lower belly, pressing in.
“I can’t… feel anything…”
Prince Johannes inched closer. Daniil gasped, eyes wide. Although there was no movement under his fingers, an immense glorious pressure seemed to erupt inside him.
“Ooooohhh…. Ahhh…. Ahhhhh. Fuck me!”
Claire chuckled. “You heard him, Johannes.”
Again, gently squeezing into his colon, an incursion into territory visited only by Tuwile, Prince Johannes took another step to convert Daniil to a shameless sex fiend. A deliberate wobble of his pelvis produced another gasp, not orgasmic spasms, flowing overpowering sensations.
Daniil groaned, twisting away even as he shoved himself down, striving for deeper. Prince Johannes responded with a slow exaggerated rotation, his erection stirring Daniil to his very core, demanding he rock his pelvis to find relief.
“Daddy… next time I ‘m doing this with you… It’s like we’re dancing…”
Bruce grinned, brushing wet tangled locks from his son’s face.
