The Magician's Assistant

The young man knew how to fuck. And he was very, very Spanish--passionate, riding the cock wildly like a rodeo rider--or a toreador riding his bull. I liked to think of myself as a bull. He'd been the one to raise the image. He cried out, "¡Eres un toro!--You're a bull!" as he'd impaled himself on my shaft.

I didn't want to disappoint, so I was a bull for him.

Later, after dinner, I showed him the basement, where in the large room down there, I had a full-sized pool table. I was an expert player. He was hopeless at it. That wasn't a problem, though. We didn't fool around with pool for very long until I had him, belly down on the pool table, and I was covering him from behind and above and fucking him in the doggie position.

He was a flexible little honey, and oh so yielding, precisely why I liked small eighteen-year-olds. To give me full access, he managed to lift his left leg and run it along the rim of the pool table. His fists were buried in the felt of the table top, and his back was arched, the fingers of one of my hands buried in his curly black hair, arching his head back, while I palmed his belly with my other hand, possessed him deep with my cock, and fucked the stuffing out of him in long vigorous thrusts. He took it like the circus trooper he was. Looks were deceiving. There was nothing delicate about this young man. He took the cock like a pro.

He slept in my bed that night. I fucked him in a missionary position, holding his ankles and raising and spreading his legs wide as I fucked him deep and he encouraged me to take him totally.

"Me jode duro. Tómalo todo. Me lo dio a mí!" he repeatedly cried as I plowed him. I knew enough Spanish to know he was claiming he was having a good time.

I went to sleep, Mateo in my arms, thinking of my scheme of bringing a German youth into my life and documenting him as an orphan nephew I was raising. There was no reason, I thought, that the youth couldn't be Spanish rather than German. I was smitten with Mateo.

* * * *

We were eating breakfast and I was touching Mateo here and there, almost afraid to believe that the young guy was really here, was so beautiful, and that I had fucked him three times the previous evening, when the doorbell rang.

"I want to speak to Mateo. My name's Raphael." I would have guessed who he was--Spanish, dressed as a toreador, just as Mateo had been and now was again now that his clothes had been washed and put through the dryer. Raphael was a dark, sensual, foxy sort of man--not so tall but perfectly formed. Dark, flashing eyes. I had no trouble understand why Mateo had let the man put him in a magician's act and under him in bed. I myself had found that the young man easily opened his legs for a man.

"I'm sorry, who?" I asked, playing for time.

"Mateo. I was there when you picked him up. You drove so slowly that I was able to follow you here. Mateo didn't come out of your house last night."

"I don't really understand what--"

"I am here, Raphael" Mateo said, coming up beside me in the doorway. No use now denying the youth wasn't here.

"Let me look at your arm," Raphael said, reaching out. "You ran away before I could see it." Mateo wriggled around me and went to Raphael, who unwound the new bandaging I put on the arm that morning. The wound had proved to be just a scratch.

"It's just a nick," Raphael said. "It was just an accident. There will be other accidents like this until you learn not to fidget during that trick. I told you you needed to hold completely still. Maybe you will keep that in mind now. Come, let's go back and resume the training."

"Yes, Raphael," Mateo said. He had a little satisfied smile on his face, and I knew instantly where his love lay and that he was lost to me--indeed, that I'd never really had him. He obviously was very pleased that Raphael had come looking for him. He was just a sweet little piece who liked to have men wanting him--wanting to fuck him.

I just stood there, no longer being in the scope of either man or youth, as they walked off, Raphael's possessive arm around the young man and Mateo comfortably enclosed in the man's embrace.

Three weeks later, after a stopover in New York to make contact and arrangements with the document forger, I was back in Frankfurt, Germany, at the door of the male brothel.

"Ah, Herr Sandler. You have returned. Please, by all means, come inside. Have you made a decision?"

"Yes, I think so," I said. "May I talk with Franz, please, to see if he wants to come to America."

"Ah, yes, good choice. The young man will be delighted."

"While I'm here, though, perhaps--"

"Ah, yes, I understand. Helmut or Ludwig?"

"Yes, please," I said, with a smile. I might as well make the most of the long trip from Gibsonton to Frankfurt.