Date: Sun, 1 Dec 2019 15:39:13 +0000
From: Bill Jonners <colin4men@gmail.com>
Subject: Europe with Spartacus 8

The story is written in collaboration with my friend Fred in Norway and is
completely fictional. Ivar is a youngster of the writer's imagination, and
so are the men he meets on his `educational journey'.

If any of our readers have comments and suggestions we are always happy for
feedback. All emails to colin4men@gmail.com will be answered.

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Europe with Spartacus

Chapter 8
Paris (1975)


Ivar stretched and yawned. His back and neck were a bit stiff after the
strange bed, and it was also very hot up in the attic room. He missed his
summer duvet at home. He had always slept nude, summer and winter - a heavy
eiderdown duvet in winter, and a very light one in summer. To sleep with
just a sheet as cover was very uncomfortable for him. "Maybe the landlord
has a blanket for me," the young man said to himself as he tried to find
some decent clothes in his rucksack.

"Wish I had a mirror here," was his next thought. Soon after he was ready
for a night out in Paris. He had put on a new pair of rust-red corduroy
trousers, tight as sausage skin around his hips, with no pockets, no fly
and no belt. There was no room for real underwear so he had put on light
white netting underpants. The boy's buttock globes filled the trousers and
if he had to bend he would show off a smooth arsecrack. He was barefoot in
sandals, and the white t-shirt had cut-off arms and was severed above the
naval.

Ivar found the bathroom and tried to arrange his blond hair even though he
knew that the yellow haystack was unruly. He had borrowed his mother's
hairspray more than once, and had been teased by the Elvis look-alikes with
their Brylcreem and the Beatles guys with straight hair. Ivar tugged his
trousers down a little, a bit too lower than was wise perhaps.

"I'll ask the Americans for their shavers," he thought and let two fingers
follow the light trail from his pubic hair to his naval. He had been sorry
to have fair pubic hair while all his friends were dark-haired down there,
but now he felt sexy being nearly smooth.

The door to the bathroom was opened in a hurry and the two Americans dived
inside. "I have to piss!" Ron shouted, pulling down his shorts.

"Me too." Rod did the same. Ivar rolled his eyes, closed the door, and went
downstairs.

"When do you lock the door, sir?" Ivar asked the man still sitting by the
desk. "I don't have the key."

"Don't worry, son. I don't lock the door until the last guest is inside."
The man smiled.

"But if I.." Ivar was interrupted by the caring host. "If you want to party
late, do so! You are young and in Paris. I'm here to look after you."

Ivar was a bit uncertain about the answer. He remembered his first hostel
in Copenhagen, but the man sounded sincere.

"I need to buy some food, sir. You have a place you can recommend?" Ivar
hadn't had a real meal all day.

"Two houses further down, huge green door. Tell Madame Claire that Monsieur
Isac sent you! Just go ahead, son. It's a bit late but you will get a nice
supper, I'm sure." Ivar felt that this was like an order, but he had no
good alternative, so why not?

The room was small; about ten tables in different sizes. Ivar sat down by
the dark window. A grey-haired smiling lady greeted him.

"I come from Monsieur Isac!" Ivar began. "I would like some supper,
madame. May I have the menu, please?"

"No need for a menu, mon ami. We have a nice supper for you. Wine � red
or white?" She looked very energetic.

"Red, please!" Ivar had studied French menus and hoped to be understood.

Minutes later a carafe of red wine and a bottle of water was brought to his
table. Shortly after that some chicken p�t� appeared, and soon after
that a plate of stewed beef, and finally apple tart with ice cream and then
coffee. He even ordered some dessert-wine, and felt both filled and drunk
when he found his wallet and asked for the bill.

"No bill, mon gar�on. Will you stay long with Monsieur Isac?" Madame
Claire wiped some sweat from her forehead. The room was filled with
customers.

"One or two weeks I hope, madame." Ivar had no fixed plans.

"Please come back tomorrow if you liked the food. You may pay at the end of
the week. Talk to Monsieur Isac. He's a good friend." She used her fragile
hand to pull some of Ivar's messy hair to one side. Then she smiled a
motherly smile and headed for the next table.

Ivar needed the bathroom. He found the door beside the kitchen, no
men/women sides - only one sink for men and a door to what he guessed was a
toilet. He lowered his jeans and underwear down to his ankles, found the
half-hard dick and closed his eyes. He was happy and aroused, and did not
hear that another man had come into the small room behind him.

The man locked his arms around the boy, and put his head close to Ivar's
ears. Strange, but Ivar was not afraid. He felt safe in Madame Claire's
house.

"You thrilled the old lady," the man whispered. "Nothing strange in
that. You are damn sexy, Ivar!"

Ivar had already recognised the man, the smell of cigar and a very special
au de cologne, and now he had remembered his name too. The tall and strong
man held him tight with one hand. With the other hand he spread the boy's
arsecheeks and put a finger deep inside his boy-cunt. Ivar moaned, but
instead of trying to escape, he opened up and pushed his hips backwards.

"I want to fuck you, Norwegian!" the man whispered with a hoarse voice
close to Ivar's head.

"You want to fuck me here, sir?" Ivar commented with a question. He felt a
stiff arrow against the butt, and the man lowered his hand and found Ivar's
still dripping cock. A finger was still inside him, playing with him and
using fucking movements.

"No room here, son. Meet me at Rue Sainte-Anne at midnight. Look for me at
number eleven. Ivar now turned around and tried to dress. The two metre
tall man filled the room. He recognised the man's smile from the first
hostel this morning.

"Thank you for not belting me, sir. I felt a bit responsible for the lads'
action today. I was nude in their presence!" Ivar didn't know why he did
it, but he searched and found the man's stiff cock outside the
military-styled jeans.

"Let me suck you, sir. Please sir." Ivar watched as the man opened the door
to the small cubicle and took command. He placed Ivar on the toilet seat,
opened his belt and pulled down his jeans. He was commando and a thick
cock, close to 25 cm (10 inches) popped forward and met Ivar's open
mouth. Ivar knew this situation. His boss at home loved to humiliate him
with a mouth-fuck in the restaurant's toilet, calling him a whore, although
he called him darling and baby when he had sent his load all over Ivar's
face and mouth. The difference was the size of the cock. This huge man was
a giant.

Ivar tried to recall the address. He was left alone in the toilet-room,
trying to lick the man-milk he just had received from collecting
fingers. The man had been huge, but not cruel. He had let Ivar take the
amount he could manage, and did not force more.

"Midnight!" the man said with a grin when he left.

"Rue Saint Anne," Ivar said to himself. "Number eleven." He remembered the
street from the Spartacus guide he had left in his hostel room. "Not so far
from here," he said to himself, and looked at his watch - nine o'clock. He
adjusted his hair in front of the small mirror. "Three hours for a bit of
night sightseeing."

The wet spot was not very visible in front of his corduroy trousers. He
bowed to Madame Claire when he left through the green door.


Montmartre smelled of roasted chestnuts, but he was too stuffed after the
huge supper to think of buying some. Coming up from the metro station was
like jumping into a huge sports-event - lights, music, shouting and people;
people all around.

"Moulin Rouge," he read. A long queue waited to enter the famous show
theatre inside the coloured windmill. On the hill above he got glimpses of
the pink cream cake-like church of Sacr� Coeur. The floodlit church
competed in a way with all the street lights and advertisements, but made
the Montmartre scenery complete.

"I must go back tomorrow," Ivar thought. Tonight though, he looked for
something else. His mates from home, who had visited Paris, all talked
about one thing: `Strip tease', every young man's dream � if he could
show he was old enough.

Ivar had searched his Spartacus guide for strip shows but hadn't found
anything, just information about the best places to `cruise'. He had
already been offered service when he left the Metro, but now he headed
east. Soon he found a neon-lit sign � `Strip tease � best girls
around!'

The lad hesitated. He looked at the photos outside � only girls. He had
been told that couples were on stage here, doing hot shows. He looked for
the males. Ivar had danced with girls since he was thirteen; from the day
he ran away from the church gospel choir to the dance-hall. He knew a
girl's body dressed up, but he had never been interested in seeing one
naked. He had never had a hard-on when dancing with a girl, but when he
watched his mates presenting a stiff dick in a tight dance, he had trouble
with his own erection more than once.

"I can't meet my brother without having a strip to tell him about," he said
to himself, and went up to the door guarded by a bull of a man in a
circus-like uniform. The man met Ivar's eyes, smiled and opened the
door. He probably recognised a newcomer.

The room was much smaller than Ivar had expected, a sort of theatre filled
with men smoking and drinking side by side. They sat in front of the stage
where a not very attractive girl was dancing, handing her clothes to a very
anonymous man dressed in white. Ivar saw a table beside the stage, and sat
down on a free chair. Seconds later a waiter came to take his
orders. `Worldly' he ordered a vodka-coke, the only strong drink he
liked. The drink arrived soon afterwards and the bill too. Ivar swallowed;
he could have bought a bottle outside for that price. He was happy to have
enough cash to pay for the drink. "I will have to make do with one drink,"
he thought.

A not very young girl sat down on a chair beside him and placed a hand on
his knee. "Please buy me a drink, young Adonis," she said, while her hand
played with his upper leg. If this action had been done by a man, Ivar
would have loved it, but now his body froze. He was an amateur with girls,
but he wasn't easy to upset.

"I'm here just to watch the show and have a drink, Miss!" He used his best
schoolboy-French, and made an irritated movement with the leg. The girl
took the signal, but did not move away.

Ivar focused on the stage where the lady-stripper was down to a featherlike
string.  Her naked low-hanging breasts were decorated with feathers as
well. The man had stripped off his jacket and his shirt and showed a hairy
upper body. Neither of them gave Ivar the Viking any vibrations.

Suddenly the stage-light was closed down and the couple disappeared behind
a curtain.

"Next show in ten minutes. Please buy your drinks!" A metallic voice was
heard in the room and Ivar saw the waitress on her way. He lifted his
glass, and emptied it. Then he turned, gave the girl a light smile, and
went towards the door. The huge guard opened the door for him, like he had
been watching the whole scene inside.

"Not your style, young man?" The man smiled.

"I'm not into old women!" Ivar commented with a direct voice.

"And not younger either perhaps?" The guy was still smiling, while Ivar
blushed in the warm summer-night. The man found a card in his pocket. It
looked like a sort of business-card.

"This place will fit you, I'm sure! I'm sorry I stopped stripping there
myself." The man opened the door for three young tourists on their way
inside. He turned to Ivar and gave him a grin and a thumbs up.

Underneath a streetlight Ivar read the address. "Same street, but another
number. Close to the Opera." He hurried down the street towards the metro
station `Pigalle'. He remembered where to change line, `Madelaine', like
his partner when he won a local `twist and rock' competition � the girl
who left him because he didn't want to screw her. Then Metro `Opera'; Ivar
had managed in the dark night. He found the street too � Rue
Sainte-Anne.

"Strange!" he thought. "It looks like a business street, banks and
offices!" But when he looked closer there were bars and restaurants behind
the curtains. The street was calm but with many young men like himself,
walking and standing, smoking and waiting. From time to time cars were
passing slowly, stopping, lonely men watching. Ivar had no problems
understanding the business.

Ivar smiled. "I have a date. Maybe he will pay me! But will they let me
inside?" He remembered that his passport was in the hostel and he knew he
looked young for his age. He passed number seven and heard noise and music
from inside. He looked at his watch; just eleven. Still one hour to
midnight, still one hour until he was to meet the guy that belted the young
students that morning. He wanted to see the place where the Montmartre
athlete had stripped. He found the card and showed it to two young lads on
the pavement further up the street. They pointed out a gate, and made hand
sign for Ivar where to go.

There was a guard by this entrance too. He asked Ivar about his age. "Sorry
I have left my passport in the hotel, sir," he said. "I have a
recommendation though." He showed the man the business card and the door
was opened without more questions.

The contrast to the strip-show he came from was huge. The room was filled
with men, chatting and drinking. The music was loud and youngsters were
dancing in front of a jukebox, a couple of them shirtless. Behind the bar
were two dark-haired, well-tanned men, dressed in tight leather shorts and
money-belts. Ivar was very satisfied; this was a place for him. He crossed
the floor up to the bar. One or two whistled; one touched his butt. He was
seen, and he loved it.

"I'm gay, for sure I'm gay!" he thought. He had never used that word
before. "I'm gay, I'm always been. And I love it! Damn, and I'm not alone!"

"What did you say, darling?" A barkeeper was right in front of him.

Ivar woke up. "What can you offer me, beauty?" Ivar didn't know what he
said.

"Everything!" The young barman cupped his bulge and grinned.

"Let me start with a beer, eh?" Ivar felt both stupid and aroused. He had
found the bar, and the Viking started to flirt with the barman before he
even was served. And this was his first night in Paris.

Ivar had been dancing with the other youngsters for half an hour
now. `Rivers of Babylon' had filled the smoke-filled room. He had stripped
off his top like the other young men, but kept his trousers on this
time. He remembered the show from Copenhagen, and he had no Caspar
here. When one bottle was empty, he was given another one, but he was
careful. He wanted to be in control.

The barkeeper collected a mic and the juke box was shut down. "Let me
introduce our guest tonight!" he said. "A big hand for Pierre, a free night
from l'Opera and he is here to entertain us." A spotlight pointed out a
small stage. A young man was sitting in a chair, with a robe, pretending to
prepare for the entrance. Ivar swallowed; he had to correct his bulge. A
man put arms around him. "I wish you were in that chair, baby," the man
behind Ivar whispered.

Ivar was super-excited. He did not take notice of the man who hugged him
from behind, he just curled up against him. He followed every movement from
the young dancer who threw away his robe and went on dancing in a
skin-tight black dress. Boney M's `Daddy Cool', filled the room when
Pierre, in one movement, stripped off his top and displayed his naked brown
body. "I'm crazy like a fool," Boney M continued. In a sexy way the dancer
managed to strip his trousers off just when the music changed to `Fever'.

The dancer played with himself on stage. He pinched his nipples, and he put
his hands inside the tiny thong that now was his only piece of
clothing. "Fever when you hold me tight!" the dancer sang, and Ivar sang
too. He knew the lyrics and was a good singer. And when Pierre moaned, Ivar
moaned too. And when the dancer peeled off the thong and just cupped it in
front of a hard cock, Ivar took the hand from the man behind and placed it
on his own crotch. When the dancer at the end threw away the thong and was
completely naked, "Fever all through the night...,' Ivar carried on and
placed the man's hand inside his tight trousers. Ivar was about to cum. For
the first time in his life he was close to cumming in public.

Pierre left the small stage and danced naked through the audience, up to
the bar, where the two men lifted him onto the bar-top. His cock was hard,
not a very big cock, but a cock suited to his light body. He was completely
shaved and a cock-ring made his cock and balls darker coloured than the
rest of his body. The stripper lay down on the bar-top and played with his
body. Ivar moaned. He saw that some of the younger men nearby went close to
the sweating body and touched him. Ivar wished he could have done the same,
but the man behind him held him tight and had cupped his cock inside his
trousers.

"Fever all through the night," Boney M was about to end. Pierre lifted his
hips from the bar and showed his dripping cock on top of his bridged
body. He wanked and moaned, and played with his nipples. The man behind
Ivar used his fingers to squeeze his nipples. Pierre moaned as if he was
cumming when the dance ended, but Ivar the one that came. He spunked off in
the grown up man's huge hand inside the trousers, again and again. He shut
his eyes and pushed his head back, and screamed a silent scream when the
heavy orgasm made his body tremble. The man behind him kissed the back of
his head, and nearly lifted him from the dance-floor with his one free arm.

Coming down to earth, after a visit to the bathroom to clean up, Ivar
smiled a bit shyly at the huge man. "How did you find me, sir? I was to
meet you at number eleven."

"When you weren't there, I thought you might be here, and I knew young
Pierre would perform tonight! You liked him?" The man from the restaurant
toilet grinned.

Ivar blushed. He felt like a kid that had pissed in his trousers. "Your
guess, sir?"

"In your head you stripped tonight, didn't you?" Again the man hugged Ivar.

"Did he cum at the bar? Did he� spunk off�in public?" Ivar asked.

"No, he didn't. He went for his robe but he will be back soon to see his
audience." The man sniffed the hand which had taken care of Ivar's
boy-milk.

"You still want to fuck me, sir?" Ivar asked a bit ashamed. He never
thought he should ask a foreign man such a question.

"My God, yeah. I will, I'll fuck you to heaven once more, kid, but now we
both need something to drink. If you are old enough, baby?" He grinned and
went like a giant up to the bar with Ivar tight beside him. In black
trousers and black tight singlet he looked like a porn-star.

"You must be here on Friday night!" The solitary barman addressed Ivar.
"It's the strippers night for our young visitors!"


To be continued