Blauenaugen

I don't know what kept pulling me back to his picture. He wasn't posing naked or near naked as many of the other men on the Internet senior dating service were. But he looked just so attractive to me—and he set my imagination going. Standing against a concrete wall plastered with graffiti in blue lettering, he was wearing a blue denim jacket over a red and blue checked shirt, hands casually stuffed in old blue denim jeans. A friendly, comfortable smile in a handsome, angular, roughly shaved face. A brown short-cropped flattop haircut with blond highlights in front. Tall and lanky. He was more sexy to me than if he had been undressed. I kept returning to look at the long lean lines on him—and the so-friendly, comfortable smile—and I undressed him in my mind, imagining that his cock would be equally long and lean—that it would feel so good in my mouth and my channel.

His site nickname was Blauenaugen—Blue eyes. I looked in vain for signs that his eyes, indeed, were blue, but they were shadowed in the photograph. The whole photo had a predominance of blue about it, though, so the name certainly became him. He came from Köln, in Germany—a quarter world away from me on the East Coast of the United States. No chance we'd ever meet.

Still, I was drawn to his profile on the Web site over and over again. I fantasized about what he did for a living. I couldn't see his hands in the photo, so I couldn't see if they were callused like a construction worker's or long-fingered like a musician's. The profile just said "employee." I liked to think of him as both a musician and a construction worker. Good, honest professions. He had some university, though, so he was probably as intelligent as he looked to be. And in my imagination, I placed him both as a musician—sensitive; attentive; long, sensuous fingers promising a long, lean cock that could reach nearly to my heart—and as a construction worker—well-muscled, vigorous, long-lasting, and exuberant while fucking me. Even though he was long and lean in the photograph, his profile set him at 175 to 180 pounds, which promised solid muscle. Power behind the thrusts.

He was coy about the size of his cock in the profile, just saying he preferred not to say. This only deepened my curiosity and my imagining. He posted that he wasn't cut. I thought of Egen, the lover I had had in my thirties, uncut and long and lean of cock. Fucking me in those days before we realized that condoms were needed—letting my lips push the foreskin down off his glans as I took him inside me in foreplay and then the loose feel of the skin inside me as he fucked me deep with that long, lean, hard cock of his. I sat, Blauenaugen's photo before me on my laptop, and masturbated while I imagined him being as vigorous and as rough and as intense in the fuck as Egen had been.

Ah, all of those years ago. I was sixty now—but I'd been a male model and had done everything I could to stay in shape. Blauenaugen said he was thirty-nine. Still young enough to fuck hard. I wondered what he would think of taking someone sixty. I checked the profile again. He posted that he preferred a man between fifty and sixty-five. My hands trembled as I wavered over the message button on his profile. But he was in Köln and I was across the Atlantic. Nothing could become of it. Sigh.

But then he messaged me, having noticed how often I'd clicked on his profile. Although he understood only a little English, and I was able to resurface only a little German from my school studies, we managed to cyber chat a few times over the next couple of weeks. He was as open and friendly in his chatting as his photo suggested he would be. We didn't get into any sexy talk, although I told him over and over again how attracted I was to his photo and profile. I wanted to tell him I wanted to open my legs to him and pull his hard cock deep inside me—even though there was nothing that could come of that. There was this barrier of distance that just wouldn't go away. The ache of the barrier sat heavily on me, and I left off chatting. He was persistent for a while in sending me virtual flowers and kisses, and I sent them back—not wanting to lose contact, but having no farther we could go.

Then, months later, I signed up for a Rhine river cruise that went from Nürnberg to Amsterdam. I wasn't even thinking of Blauenaugen nor had I focused on the fact that one of the stops on the river was at Köln. I really had no idea in my mind where in Germany Köln was. The trip had attracted me because I had lived in Frankfurt am Main as a child when my father was in the U.S. Army and had fond memories of roaming around Bavaria. My plane would land in München several days before the river cruise started, and I would be able to explore King Ludwig's Bavarian castles again.

Unexpectedly, I received a "missing you" message from Blauenaugen at the senior dating site. I brought up that photograph of him and melted once more in imagining moaning underneath him as his long, lean cock sank ever deeper into the quick of me.

I went directly to the atlas and looked Köln up. Hand trembling then, I pulled up my trip itinerary on the Internet, and my heart stopped when I realized I would be in Köln for a full day during my cruise.

Blauenaugen didn't hesitate when I messaged him. He'd meet me on the steps of Köln cathedral in Dom Platz at 10 AM the day we docked very close by. He wondered how we'd know each other—I'd always refused to send him my photo. I was a rather well-known author in the United States, but was thought to be straight, so I didn't want my photo floating in the ether in any other context.

"Could you wear just what you are wearing in your photo at the senior dating service site?" I asked, striving to connect my imaginings with reality.

"Ja, sehr gut," was his reply.

There he was, at 9:45 already, possibly as anxious as I was to meet, although he was looking as relaxed and devil-may-care as he did in his photos, languidly leaning against the wall of the cathedral at the top of a flight of stairs, hands in his pockets—the same pose as in the photo. My heart skipped a beat or two.

His eyes sparkled, baby blue and arresting, as we met. So far so good. He seemed pleased at the sight of me. I didn't disappoint, or, if I did, he covered it up well. He wasn't that tall—not quite as tall as he appeared in the photograph, but he was maybe two inches taller than I was—and he was as lean and wiry as the photo depicted him. That friendly smile, and he was extending a hand. Long, sensuous fingers, but callused as well. Still a combination musician and construction worker in my mind. The feel of the long fingers made me immediately think of the possibilities farther down his body. I looked at his crotch, but I couldn't tell. But as he held my hand in his, I did notice some movement, some awakening down there. I felt myself going hard.

He led me to a nearby café, just off the Dom Platz, and took me inside to a small booth near the back, even though the sun was shining and most of the patrons were lounging out on the sidewalk table. To my surprise he didn't sit across from me, but slid in beside me, sitting close to me as I scrunched up against the wall.

We did our best to make small talk, him in broken English and me in more broken German, while we drank the sweet coffee. He told me his name was Rene, and I worked that over several times until I got it just right. He seemed pleased that I took the effort and didn't seem all that displeased when I still insisted on personal anonymity for myself. His was a nice name; it seemed to fit perfectly.

I was so worried I was a disappointment to him. I kept apologizing for not meeting him earlier in life and telling him how much effort I put into keeping myself in shape.

He just clucked at each of my nervous mutterings and told me I was better than he had thought I would be and, finally, to shut me up on that topic, he took my hand and pulled it under the table and placed it on his cock through the denim of his jeans and asked me if what I felt made me think he was disappointed.

I sucked in air and nearly melted on the spot. His cock went on forever, and it was hard as a rock. I needed no more assurances. I turned my face to his and he brought his lips to mine. His mouth was sensuous, and I was staring into those baby blue eyes of his. I was lost to him. He was slowly opening my lips with his. A sensitive, deep kiss. He tasted of honey and spice. Then, quite suddenly, his tongue plunged into my mouth cavity, fully possessing in, pushing deep in and retracting and then deep in again. I almost gagged and my breath stopped. Perfect—both the sensitive musician and an edge of the rough construction worker.

I didn't ask what he did for a living. I wanted him to remain as I imagined him. I knew that, wherever this was going, it wasn't going far. He would be in Köln and I would be in the United States.

I flinched as we were kissing and his hand went to my belly over my thin T-shirt. I was fully aware of the heat of his hand. His other arm had been draped loosely around my shoulders along the top of the booth and now pulled me in closer. I moved forward into the edge of the table as his arm went behind me. The hand of that arm snaked under my armpit, and those long, sensuous fingers were picking out my nipple through the T-shirt. My nipple had puffed up in the attention he'd given to my lips, and he rolled it around with his thumb and forefinger. The sensation was maddeningly arousing.

I moaned deep in my throat. An animal sound of pleasure and building lust.

"Können ich—Kann ich . . . can I handhaben . . . feel you?" His blue eyes were piercing mine. On a threshold here, gauging whether he was moving too fast, going too far.

I sighed. "Yes, please—ja, bitte."

I tightened up, but tried to relax as his hand went down to my zipper and I both heard and felt it being opened. The fingers on my nipple were driving me wild and the other nipple was feeling the neglect.

A chill of thrill went through me when I felt the fingers at my nipple tremble and both heard and felt his intake of breath as he fished my half-hard dick out of my fly.

"Schön, sehr schön," he whispered, almost worshipfully. "Gross, schön, dicht—nice, big, thick."

I groaned at the touch. Long sensuous, yet callused fingers.

He was fisting it tightly, and it was responding to his touch, getting bigger, longer. Throbbing. And then he began to stroke it—slowly, in long strokes. His thumb went to the slit in the cap.

"Ich herunthole dich—jack you off," he said. He said it softly, but it was more of a statement than a request. And he was too far into doing just that for me to raise the slightest objection.

I moaned again and a deep, soft rattle was coming up from inside me. I turned my face to him, and he possessed my mouth again. Slowly opening my mouth with his sweet, sensitive lips, and then pushing his tongue in again. My gasp was muffled as my eyes were locked once more on those baby blues. I arched my back as his other hand came down and pulled the hem of my T-shirt out of my pants and then went between the shirt and my skin and began rolling and pinching my nipple, skin on skin.

"No, no," I gasped out as I came up for air. I was close to coming, but somehow didn't want to do it here. I didn't want the sex play to end and I was so afraid this was all there would be to it. And then, "Yes, yes, yesssss," as he held my squirming body tight, showing that he, indeed was going to take me to ejaculation, there and then.

I barely had time to slip my napkin under the rim of the table to catch most of the spouting cum as his relentless, slow fisting brought me to completion. His hand came back from under the table top. His thumb was bathed in white cream, and he brought it to his mouth and sucked on it while he gave me a twinkly smile with his lips and those baby blue eyes.

"Schön, sehr schön," he repeated and then drew away from me and took his coffee cup in both hands and drank it down to the dregs.

I felt exhilarated and depressed all at once. "Ist . . . das alles?—is that all?" I mumbled in a weak little voice, very much afraid of the answer.

"Nein. Fick. How you say? I want to fick—to fuck you nun—now. OK? Is OK?" He was looking at me hopefully. "You take fick? Ja? Arschflicker, ja? Me in you?" My spirits soared and he smiled at seeing the effect that the request had on me.

"Ja, aber—but . . . Here? Now?" I asked incredulously. Although if he'd hauled me up and slammed me down on the table and fucked me right there and then I would have let him.

"Nein . . . no. Ich habe—I have—a hotel zimmer—room. Wir gehen—we go now—ja? Willst du ficken?"

"Ja," I answered, trying not to scream it out, but yelling yes, yes, yes, I most certainly will fuck, down to the very quick of me.

He led me, my knees barely able to hold me up in my anticipation and arousal to a taxi stand at the Dom Platz.

"Ach, gut," he said as we approached the cab line. "Gerhardt ist hier."

Gerhardt turned out to be an overlarge brute of a guy who smiled broadly when he saw Rene and me approaching and then looked me up and down with a knowing, almost avarice inspection when Rene told him where he wanted to go: "Marsil am Marsilstein, bitte."

And then he added. "Langsam, sehr langsam, bitte—slowly, very slowly, please." Gerhardt was sniggering when he got into the cab.

Rene put his arm possessively around me and pulled me toward his side of the cab as soon as we entered. As the cab started up, Rene was pulling me in for another long, sweet-starting, rough-finishing kiss.

As he released me, I looked down at his crotch in fascination. He had unbuckled and unzipped his jeans and he was taking out a half-hard cock that was as long and lean as I had imagined it to be. And uncut. I felt the fingers of his hand fan out on the back of my head, and he was gently pushing my face down into his lap.

With a sigh—from both of us—I wrapped a hand around the base of that long cock and pressed my tongue tip into the opening in the foreskin and flicked Rene's cap slit until he let out a long, drawn-out moan and the fingers on the back of my head tightened. He raised his hips to meet me as I let my lips slowly push the foreskin down over his glans and put pressure on the base of the cap all around. He groaned when I let my teeth lightly pressure the base of his glans and pressed the tip of my tongue into his slit. He was producing precum now, and his head was thrown back onto the back of the car seat and he was moaning loudly.

"Schön, sehr schön," he was muttering.

Keeping the foreskin pulled back, I started taking more of him in. He was hardening and lengthening. His free hand was moving down my back, pulling at my T-shirt, getting skin on skin, although he couldn't reach down as far as he seemed to want to.

His dick was impossibly long, if not particularly thick. I wanted it all inside, but that was going to be a chore. Still, I was trying. And Rene wanted it to.

"Alles, alles. Ja, ja, alles," he was moaning. His hips wanted to go into motion; he wanted to start face fucking me. But I took both of my hands and held his pelvis as still as I could—as I relentlessly, slowly swallowed him whole. I was determined. I thought of Egen. In my thirties I could take a cock this long inside me fully. I wasn't going to concede I couldn't do it at sixty.

Rene had given up scrabbling at my back and even of struggling to face fuck me. He lay back in the seat, both hands on the sides of my head now, relaxed and tense at the same time—and moaning, while, inch by inch, I slowly, relentlessly swallowed him whole down to the root.

"Ach, mein Got, alles, alles. Sehr schön, sehr schön," he was gasping, as I held him there. I started to press my teeth to the root of his cock—the same as I did for Egen when I was ready for him to cum—but Rene came alive and pulled me off of him, with an initial jerk, but then slowly and gently.

"Nein. Für das Zimmer. Warten. Für das Zimmer—Wait. For the room." He pulled me up and push me back in the seat and then leaned forward, and in an insistent voice, said, "Marsil, mach schnell—to the Marsil, quickly."

I heard Gerhardt make a smacking sound with his lips and looked up. He was leering at us through the rear mirror and a hand came up and closed as if around a plump cock and he moved it up and down suggestively? "Gut? Gut geblasen?"

"Ja, sehr gut," Rene responded. "Sanft Mund. Wunderbär geblasen kriegen. Und eine grosse Schwanz. Schön Amerikaner Arsch." Although I couldn't follow it all, I could tell that Rene was waxing poetic about the blow job I'd just given him—soft mouth, great sucking, and a nice cock and ass to boot.

"Du frickst der Amerikaner? Die ganze Tag gerammelt? Arschficker alle Tag?" I knew they were discussing Rene fucking me all day.

"Ja, natürlich," Rene answered. And then they both laughed.

"Vielleicht einer Gruppenflick danach?" Gerhardt said. He was looking at me through the rear view mirror. I knew enough German to know that Gruppenflick translated as a gang bang. And I knew what he was suggesting.

"Nein, er ist alles meine—he's all mine," Rene growled back, but he was smiling. I was feeling safe again.

"Es ist schade. Ich habe eine grossen Ständer. Ich auch wünschte schon lange mit ihm vögeln." Gerhardt had stopped in front of the hotel and had both hands free. He was still leering at me through the mirror and he had the middle finger of one hand raised and the other one encased it and was pumping up and down. I had no illusions what he meant. I knew he'd said he had a raging hard on and would like to fuck me too.

After we'd gotten out of the taxi, Gerhardt called out again. We turned, and he leaned out of the window and sternly said to me, "Eine Gummi. Er muss eine Gummi gebrauchen. Rene legt aller Knabe flach." And then he laughed and pulled the taxi away from the curb.

He was warning me to make Rene wear a condom—that Rene fucked all of the young men. I didn't care as long as he fucked me good. But I did rather regret that we would, indeed, need to use condoms. My thoughts went back to the wild sex I'd had with Egen before we used anything like that—and to the sliding of his foreskin inside me.

I must have looked pensive, because Rene hugged me close to him and said, "Keine Angst—don't worry," he whispered in my ear. "I will be sanft . . . how do you say, 'gentle'?"

I turned to him and gave him a hard stare. "Ich nicht . . . I'm not made of glass—Glas. Verstehen? I want you to be my rough construction worker. Oh, never mind, I can't translate what I mean."

But Rene seemed to understand exactly what I meant. He dug a hotel room key out of his jeans and guided me past the front desk and to the stairs. As soon as we were in the room, he was pulling his shirt off and then grabbing me and slamming my back against the wall beside the door. He jerked my pants and briefs down and off my legs, and then he inserted his knees between my thighs and lifted me off the ground. He pulled my T off my torso and threw it off to one side. Taking my hands by the wrists, he lifted my arms over my head and trapped them on the wall above, while his lips and teeth went to the nipple he had failed to give attention to in the café.

I could feel his hard cock between my legs, and mine was rising against his bare, hard belly. We were equally as well muscled, despite my greater age, and he luxuriated for a few moments in gliding his tongue and teeth across my pecs and on my biceps and up into my pits.

But he was anxious, and we both were ready. He let my hands down and dug into his pocket for a condom packet—the warned of Gummi. I held it and slit it open as he fiddled underneath me with his pants buckle and let his trousers and briefs fall to the floor.

We were both panting hard, and we were both muttering "frick, fick, frick," as if it was some sacred mantra.