The Prince's Club

"Willst du mich noch mal ficken?—will you fuck me again? Wirst du mich pfeifen?—Will you whip me?" he asked, a whimper in his voice.

"Yes, Franz, I'm going to fuck you again. I'm going to give you another 150 francs and I'm going to fuck you again. No, I won't whip you, though. I try not to whip on the first date—unless I'm not planning on having another date with the young man." I laughed, but he didn't join me. The joke obviously had gone over his head. "You are a very nice little piece. And you are going to say yes to it again, aren't you?" Franz was the type of submissive who wanted to be given firm direction.

"Du bist zu gross—You're too big," he whined. He was angling for more money, but I knew I was paying generously by the going rates in Liechtenstein. And he had seen me with Prince Rupert. That would give me license to do a lot with him. Gays gathered here in droves, and they fucked like bunnies. Rent-boys were easy to come by and were cheap. They also were beautiful. Liechtenstein attracted the cream of the crop, and Prince Rupert's tuition support program selected only the most delicious youths. I hadn't sought Franz out; he had come to me.

"Not anymore, not for you. I'm not too big for you anymore, Franz. You are reamed for me now." I leaned over and slid two fingers inside him. He groaned, but he was slow rocking on the fingers, so I knew he wasn't unhappy. I added a finger, which he took—and then another.

"Are you going to verwenden Sie die Faust—use the fist on me now?" he asked.

"Would you let me do that? Have you been fisted before, Franz?"

"Ja, aber—yes, but I think it should be for more."

I laughed. Always working at jacking up the price. "No, not today, Franz. Today, just the cock. So, say Ja, Franz. Ja, I can ficken you again."

"Ja," he said, in a small voice. "Fick mich wieder—Fuck me again. Sie sind wieder in der Erektion—You are in erection again. You want to fuck me again. For a bit more you can whip me too—or use the fist."

"You want me to flog you or whip you, don't you?"

"Ja, ein bisschen—Yes, a bit. And do you have one of those frames here in your house?" He was looking at the drawing of the young man hanging on the X-frame.

I ignored that offer. "Stay just like that Franz. I'll be back with a sketchpad in a couple of moments." I pulled my fingers out of his channel. First, I went over to the window and opened it to smoke a cigarette. As I was standing there, naked, leaning on the inner frame of the window inset into the thick old walls of the stone house, I gazed down into the yards of the compound of houses Prince Rupert owned at the corner of Hintergass and Ergertastrasse, north of the Kunstmuseum Platz. I was directly overlooking the swimming pool and grass tennis court surrounded by a high chain-link fence of the house recently occupied by the German tennis coach. Gunter Altmeir was out there hitting the ball with his Wimbledon-bound young protégé, Brad Brinkley. They were both just in athletic shorts and tennis shoes.

Brad was a beautiful redheaded young man. He was muscling up nicely, but the prince had said he'd just turned eighteen, so he was still growing and he was right in the wheelhouse of what aroused me most—something all of the men the prince rented to in the compound agreed with. It's what made us simpatico. I thought of what Rupert said about Gunter—that he fucked all of his male tennis stars—and I envied the man, especially if all the young men were as desirable as Brad Brinkley was.

I lingered, smoking my cigarette. Play stopped and the two players were moving around the court, picking up tennis balls. Brad stopped and looked up at my house. I was sure he could see me in the full floor-to-ceiling window I was lounging in. I didn't pull back. I remained there, naked, smiling down at him. More than that, I leaned more into the window, jutting my pelvis, with its half erection, out to give the lad a good look. It only lasted for a moment, but he was the first to pull away. Then I flicked the butt of my cigarette out of the window, went for my drawing supplies, and returned to the bed and worked on the drawing of Franz.

I was quick with my drawings, relying on the swift, strong strokes to capture the essence of my subject. I could always check details in later in the photos I'd taken, if I needed to. I rarely needed too. I usually drank in every facet of an attractive rent-boy as I was fondling and fucking him. Franz was a good model, lying there in the bound pose I'd fucked him into and just moaning quietly. I didn't do a full drawing. Just enough to know I could fill it in later and have the effect and likeness that I wanted.

Afterward, I put the drawing supplies away and came back to the bed. I had hardened again, imagining fucking an eighteen-year-old youth while I was doing my drawing. It wasn't Franz I was imagining fucking, though. It was the luscious redheaded tennis player, Brad Brinkley.

As I hovered over the young man on the bed, he murmured, "Du bist zu gross—You're too big," to me again, which I ignored and then, as I reached down and then up to untie his ankles and wrists, he asked, in surprise, "Wir werden nicht wieder ficken?—We're not going to fuck again?"

He was a little poser. He wanted me to fuck him again. He wanted the additional 150 francs I'd mentioned. He also wanted my "too big" cock.

"Yes, we're going to fuck again, Franz," I said, as I stood over him, opening the condom packet I'd placed on the top of the nightstand, while Franz watched me, wide-eyed, and then smoothed the rubber down my reegorged cock. I was a fast reloader. I could do this again and again all day and night. And then we fucked again, this time me taking him fully with me so that what he'd leave remembering is that he'd said "Ja" to it and left satisfied.

With his hands and legs free, I gathered him up in my arms in a close chest-to-chest embrace and slowly, deeply entered him, watching his eyes, watching them come alive, at first pained and then surprised at the depth and fullness I was reaching, and then full of need, want, and lust, as, together, we set the rhythm of the deep stroking. Both of us were panting, Franz moaning, me groaning. "Ja, ja. Fick mich einfach so—Yes, yes. Fuck me just like that," he murmured. At full depth, I had held, rocking ever so slightly, waiting for him to open fully to me, which, at length, he did. With a deep groan, eyes flashing, he cried out, almost in anguish, "Ja. Fick mich tief!—Yes. Fuck me deep!"

I started into long, deep slides, setting a rhythm accompanied by Franz's moans and the thumping of the brass headboard against the wall and the squeaking of the bed springs—a regular symphony of fuck. As I moved into strong ever-more rapid thrusts, he cried out "Ja. Ja. Fick mich hart! Scheisse! FICK MICH!—Yes. Yes. Fuck me hard. Shit! FUCK ME!" His fingernails dug into my shoulder blades and the heels of his feet rubbed on the meat of my calves and his hips were moving with the rocking motion of my pelvis. I gave it to him hard, deep, and fast then. He cried out and shot his cum up between our heaving bellies, but I fucked on until he was jelly in my arms, collapsed, head arched back, tongue hanging out, mouth blowing bubbles.

"Du bist so gross, so stark, so machtig, so grausam—You are so big, so strong, so powerful, so cruel," he cried out, moving with me, riding the cock as much as I was fucking him. "Fick mich gut!—Fuck me good!" he added, letting me know the luscious little blond was willingly surrendering to the fuck.

"Fick, fick, fick!" he'd cried out as, rising off his body, with my hands pressing into his arm sockets and straining and thrusting and tensing, trusting, and jerking, thrusting, and releasing and releasing again I spent my load on the small, writhing, eighteen-year-old body.

He left well-paid, smiling, and, I have every reason to believe, satisfied. Halfway through the fuck I no longer was thinking of fucking the small blond in my arms. I was thinking of fucking the redheaded tennis player on the grass court.

The last thing Franz said before he left was, "If you want me to model again, e-mail me," so I knew that I hadn't been too big for him after all. He'd also said he thought I was a first-rate artist, and he would love to have the drawing I did of him, although he couldn't, of course, have a drawing anything like that in his parents' house. Good for him for having discerning art taste.

I went back to the window and looked down in the neighboring yard. The two men, naked were now on a lounge bed by the pool. Gunter Altmeir was on his back and Brad Brinkley was straddling the older man's pelvis, riding his cock. The young man did it well; he quite evidently knew how to ride a man's cock. I stood and watched for a few minutes. I rolled the spent condom off my cock, tossed it back across the room toward the wastebasket, and beat myself off as I watched the fuck by the pool. When I'd splashed the glass of the window with my cum, I pulled the drapes together and went for a cooling shower. When I returned, the two were still fucking, Brad riding the cock high in long strokes. Yes, the young man knew how to ride a cock, taking his time, edging the man under him to the brink and back, and then back to a higher-threshold brink again.

* * * *

"Such art flourished in sixteenth-century Italy, as did sodomy in the artist circles," I told a conversation group composed of Prince Rupert; a businessman I recognized, despite the mask, because he lived in the same compound I did and we'd shared a university student a few weeks previously—you don't easily forget someone you've been naked with and rubbed cocks with in a third man's passage—and a priest who had been addressed as Father Stephan, who stood out because he was in a black cassock rather than evening clothes. He wore a mask, but he hardly needed have bothered. I think the men did it just for the "it's a game" feel of doing so. I had watched him fuck a young man on a table earlier and he hadn't let his cassock get in the way while he was doing it.

We were in one of a series of entertainment rooms in Prince Rupert's Haldenweg mansion, watching two masked men in evening wear, with just their flies open, fucking a naked eighteen-year-old university program student on a purple velvet upholstered chair by a fireplace. It was an evening of moving from one tableau to another of older men in tuxedos fucking young, naked men in various settings.

The prince had invited about a dozen club members to his get-together and had provided four of his young "Franzes" for them to screw. He had them labeled as Franz One thorough Franz Five, sans Franz Two. Franz Two apparently had the night off. The prince assured us they all were eighteen or just barely nineteen, the most arousing target age for the club—at least that I was aware of.

I noticed that Prince Rupert kept turning an eye on me, I think to gauge whether I would be shocked by any of the casual debauchery going on around us and, perhaps, wondering if it was giving me inspiration for my art—which it was. It seemed to be some sort of test, possibly before he offered me full membership in his club. I think he was interested in getting some of my artwork cheaply or for free. If he thought I was at all squeamish about young men being ravished by men older than they were, though, he would be disappointed. The activity would have to go a fair piece into the rough and torturous—as long as the young man didn't object—to give me pause, and nothing close to that was happening in the prince's elegant formal rooms.

From the way Rupert touched me when we were conversing and the looks he gave me made me wonder if his interests also went to men older than the eighteen-year-old club standard. If he did fancy me, I would cooperate. I went both ways, I wanted to remain in his good graces with this club arrangement he had, and, truth be known, I fancied him.

"Surely you don't have any Michelangelo, Da Vinci, or Caravaggio works in your collection, M," the prince asked. "They would be priceless, despite the themes, and would be known to the world by the artist's technique even if never seen in a museum or catalog before." Even though most of the members of the club did know the other members, as they shared young men and information on the availability of young men, we referred to each other by initial only.

"No, I don't," I said. "But they trained other artists and some of these artists were their lovers as well. It was a period in which close attention to human anatomy in art was in high exploration, so it stands to reason the masters rendered works that would interest you and your associates. They also, not being as much in the public eye, were freer with their own art. I do have several works by such homosexual protégés of the masters, but I also have works from Japan from that period and more recently. The Japanese have a whole range of explicit homosexual art, most of it under the Nanshoku school of art. I have considerable examples of that. Even some that would serve your special interests. I am intrigued with the motif of a man in eveningwear covering a younger, naked man, as seems to be the theme here tonight. I have examples of that, in period dress, of men down through the ages. I would make a great exhibition, putting them together, I think. A very private exhibition, of course."

"I would love to see such a collection," Prince Rupert, who we naturally addressed as PR in this setting, said, "and perhaps even acquire some of them," he added.

And acquire me as well, I wondered. He was standing close to me and I felt the touch of his slender manicured fingers on my arm. I wondered again if he was interested in me in the way he was interested in eighteen-year-olds. It was something to keep in mind. He was a sexy man, and I did gravitate to men of all ages and persuasions. I was considerably younger than he was to the extent that was important to him. And he need only ask to find that, yes, I took cock as easily as I gave it. I didn't take some of the more sadistic acts I had been told he liked to perform, though—at least I didn't think I did.

I momentarily wondered if he would be pleased if I stripped and let him cover me here, tonight, in some tableau that his friends could gather around and watch. I would have acceded to that, if he initiated it. I would have painted it, even, and gifted hm the result. I was going hard at the thought of this.

"Please do come look at my collection," I said, "and, for now, that tableau over there looks inviting . . ."

One of the masked club members we were watching had Franz Three sitting sideways in the velvet chair, with the young man's torso arched back over the side. Both of the club members were fully dressed in their tuxedos, but both had their hard cocks out. One was kneeling between Franz Three's spread and raised thighs and was fucking him. The other was standing beside the chair, hands holding Franz Three's head, and was feeding the young man his cock. "If you don't mind, I would like to sketch that. I brought my drawing implements. I will gift you the drawing if I render it well and you like it."

"That would be lovely," PR said. His hand squeezed my forearm. Yes, I think he was interested.

Just then, a naked young man—Franz Five—padded by in a not-too-quick "you can catch me" run past us, with another one of the club members, fully dressed but with his dick protruding from his fly, in rosy erection, following behind. Franz Five allowed himself to be caught and laid on his back on a table in an adjoining room. He raised and split his legs as the club member, without preamble, inserted himself between the youth's legs and inside the young man's hole. Franz Five, showing his enthusiasm for his assignment, cried out a "Scheisse, Ja!—Shit, yes!" at the initial penetration. The club member grabbed the youth's waist between his hands and bounced him up and down on the table top as he pumped his ass vigorously.

None of the Franzes present that evening acted like they were being coerced into this. The prince obviously was paying them all well—and often.

All the young men here would be several years legal by this small country's laws, but they'd be young, in keeping with the club members' tastes. With the age of consent in Liechtenstein set at fourteen, it was both safe and convenient for men interested in youths of eighteen and nineteen to gather in the small principality. Equally advantageous was that gays naturally gravitated to the open permissiveness of the rich principality and that one of the prominent members of the ruling family was a strong patron of the club.

That's why I had retreated here after the more extreme activities of Lord Hindsley came to light in London. I was accepted as a provisionary member of the club immediately and had already indulged fully in the compound I occupied with other club members, but this was my first summoning to one of the prince's get-togethers. There were some club members who never came into his inner sanctum. I was well aware that he wanted something from me in exchange for his protection and patronage. He had expressed interest in my art vocally, but I believe he was expressing interest in me sexually nonverbally as well.

Soon thereafter our eyes met across the room when we were engaging in separate conversation groupings. He had taken a hand whip from somewhere and was running his fingers through the strands as he captured my gaze. I didn't turn away and he smiled. Perhaps I was more curious than I had thought before. But then I'd never thought before of consenting to anything like that.

Another couple of men were entering the mansion, pausing in the foyer, when our gaze had passed over them and was captured by the slow, laughter-laced chase to the table top in the adjoining room and our discussion paused long enough to catch the club member getting mounted on Franz Five and beginning to pump him to the young man's squealed delight. Having seen those two fuse, my attention went back to the foyer to see that the new arrivals were my new neighbors, Gunter Altmeir, or K to us in this setting, and the eighteen-year-old tennis player beauty, Brad Brinkley. Brad wouldn't be given an initial for a name in this setting. He would be another numbered Franz. As a gorgeous young man, he'd be given a dozen cocks if the members could manage it. I knew that I wanted to have him under me. And I knew now that he rode cock, and obviously with experience.

As soon as they were there, in the foyer, the prince caught their arrival and pulled them away and into another room. As the prince walked beside the young tennis player, I notice that he swished his hand whip strands against the young man's thigh. Brinkley didn't seem to notice.

I went for my drawing supplies and settled down to doing sketches of the various fuck positions the two members and Franz Three were performing on the velvet chair beside the fireplace. They were inventive and, eventually, the young man was taking both cocks in one hole simultaneously, one club member slouched in the chair, the young man in his lap and sheathing his cock, facing him, and the other club member crouched behind, and inside Franz Three.

A tuxedoed, gray-haired man, solidly built but not quite obese, positioned himself close behind me where I sat. He watched as I sketched, his hands, gloved in black leather, gliding down the front of my silk tuxedo shirt, finding where it parted, and insinuating his fingers inside, touching and rubbing my nipples as I sketched. His lips went to beside my ear and he murmured how well I drew, how attractive I was, and what he'd like to do with me.