The weather forecast: More snow.
The drink: Pousse Cafe: Carefully float the following ingredients in order on top of each other by slowly pouring them over the back of a bar spoon into a Pousse Cafe glass, and then, setting the final layer on fire: grenadine, Bols liqueur, white creme de menthe, dark creme de menthe, triple sec, green creme de menthe, anisette, green Chartreuse, cognac.
The locale: Berlin, Germany.
It was fascinating -- the way the layered liqueurs burned different colors.
The small prismatic conflagration on the table in front of me got the desired effect, reinforcing favorable eye-contact between the young man and me, with me having left the outside snow, and entered the enfolding congenial warmth of the private Brits' Club Bar.
Alain Rollenbatski stood, left his two bodyguards, and took the few steps necessary to close the distance between us.
Such a handsome young man: body of a Greek athlete, evident even beneath his bespoke shirt and suit; dark complexion highlighted by an expensive natural tan; hair black as ebony and cut short but not so much so that it didn't tousle attractively and bang his forehead; eyes so startlingly blue that they could be defined as such even within the dimness of the room; Roman nose that could have been that of some ancient-Roman aristocrat; lips bee-stung but not Botox-enhanced.
"You do know that you're supposed to blow that out?" he said, his accent low and masculine. "Otherwise, it will all disappear."
"And what if I'd rather blow you, before you disappear?" I said, cutting to the chase.
His left eyebrow arched. His lips formed an attractive moue.
"And if I'm straight, possibly offended by your proposition, in the light of my merely having stopped by to do the courtesy of saving you the money you spent on that drink?"'
"I'd offer my abject apologies with the codicil that this place does have a reputation for men hooking up with other men, especially with English tourists like me, for a price; thereby, it's hardly my fault I was so taken by your exceptional good looks, not to mention -- although I will mention -- by your exquisite charm in playing Good Samaritan, to have made an honest mistake."
"Just out of curiosity, how much would it cost me for this blow-job?"
He was way too attractive to ever likely be automatically mistaken for a buyer. There were hustlers who brought in big bucks, known for their exceptionally good looks, who couldn't hold a candle to him. That said, he knew, and I knew -- although he couldn't know how much I knew -- that he would never have been allowed the freedom to peddle his ass or cock, let alone risk the possible complications of casual sex with other than a professional. Even then, he had to be discreet -- the club known for its discreet ownership and clientele. He'd obviously not been so discreet, now, or in the past, that his predilection for same-sex fun and games had escaped the attention of certain people who his father and he would surely prefer weren't privy to that inside information.
I told him how much it would cost to spend blow-job time with me; the sum would have sent a less oil-rich man running. "Of course, if your friends..." I nodded toward his table. "...expect to join in, that'll cost extra."
He laughed. It was a very sincere, very generous, very wonderful laugh. It made him all the more attractive, appealing, and oh-so-sexy.
"And if I, without my friends, would prefer my ass fucked to my cock sucked?" he asked.
"I'd suggest you forget about hooking up with me and wait around for the line-up of men who will be more than willing to pay you for that privilege."
He smiled. He had white-white teeth with a slight overlap of central incisors that if cosmetically corrected would make his smile too perfect.
"Such flattery will get you not only your asking price but my very tight asshole in the bargain," he said. "Do you have a room upstairs?"
I fished my pocket for my extra rent-room key and put it on the table just in front of him. "Shall we walk up together, or do you follow, less obviously, in a few moments time?" I asked.
"How about I follow in about..." He unpretentiously checked the very expensive Rolex on his left wrist. "...five minutes. Can you be undressed by then?"
"For you, I can strip at mach-speed."
"Then, I'll be looking forward to those speedy results." He picked up my key, pocketed it, and went back to his table for whispered conversation with his two companions.
I blew out the flames of the Pousse Cafe and chug-a-lugged what little remained: Bols liqueur and grenadine; more of the latter.
I went upstairs and stripped to do my duty for God and country ... with accompanying excitement at the prospect of my boner up the asshole of the exceptionally attractive stud who had not only propositioned me but was paying for my services. Just because so many people thought I was doing what I was doing not out of real desire but solely because of what was required of me, I was definitely turned on.
Despite all of the obvious research into Alain's preferences, by way of sexual partners, which had me chosen for this job in the first place, I was amazed and flattered by how quickly the pick-up had been accomplished. Under normal circumstances, even with my good looks having warranted, on more than one occasion, favorable comment, I was used to longer lead-ins and not charging a fee.
I was stripped and in my robe when he turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped into the breach. Behind him stood his two bodyguards, to whom he turned momentarily, saying something I couldn't catch. After which, he turned back to me, came all of the way into the room and shut the door behind him.
"Sure they don't want to party?" I didn't want him to know how hot and horny I was just for him.
"I'd bet good money, I'm more than enough for you to handle," he said. "Besides, while I've lucked out with two companions who don't give a fig who or what I fuck, they're not nearly as adventuresome as I am. So, why don't you come on over and show me what that is tenting your robe?"
"Speaking of money," I said, staying where I was. I had been given explicit instructions that people in the business I professed to be in did not commit to anything more than I'd already committed to, until there was an exchange of cold cash.
"Ah, of course," he said. "For a minute there, so anxious to see you stark naked, I forgot." He fished his right front pocket for a roll of bills and tossed it to me. I put it in my robe pocket. I didn't count it. I was horny as hell to have at him, and wouldn't get to keep the money anyway.
"I can play with myself while you make sure I didn't short change you," he said.
I peeled off my robe and dropped it. I could tell just by looking that he wasn't disappointed. Satisfaction was evident in his eyes, in his little gasp for breath, and in the way his pants bulged from his erection.
I tossed the robe onto a nearby chair and walked to stand only a foot away from him. If his cock had been free, it would likely have touched mine -- en garde -- in the space between us.
"I've shown you mine," I said. "How about you show me yours?"
"Yours is bigger," he said.
"Then, lucky for you I'm not a size queen," I said. I slid my hands in between his suit coat and his broad shoulders, pushing his jacket down his arms to slide off, and pool on the floor.
His tie was silk -- green and blue. His button-down collar shirt was startlingly white Egyptian linen. His skin was tanned and hairless through the widening breach I provided with each unfastening of each button that ran from his neck to his belly button.
His belt was Gucci, 24-carat gold double horse heads fastened by threading a bulbous-tipped metal prong through a hole in his leather belt. His pants dropped to leave his black designer -- by Draqual -- cotton briefs, European cut to ride his hipbones and thoroughly mold his dick so I could see each and every swollen inch of it.
I pinched his nipples ... harder ... harder ... waiting for him to wince. He didn't, only smiled. Simultaneously, he stepped out of his loafers, he wore no socks.
Where the large head of his dick pressed outward against the material of his underpants, there blossomed a splotch of wet.
He slid his hands against my thighs, up beneath my arms, around to my back, down to my ass.
"You are one sexy English boy," he said. "Or, do you prefer 'young man'?"
"You can call me 'goddamned sonofabitchn' bastard fuck' for the price you're paying," I gave him leave.
"And why, I always wonder, are Englishmen either the handsomest men on earth, or the ugliest?"
"You think that's true?" I'd found every nationality with pretty people and ugly people, and with pretty ugly people.
"Peaches and cream or pink and pasty. Nothing much in between."
"And I'm pink and pasty?"
"You're slightly grilled peaches with cream--and it doesn't get any better."
"Flattery will get you my cock up your ass, but not a refund."
"Speaking of which, we really should get started, much as I just enjoy just standing here, holding your ass, and having you pinch my nipples. Had I known I was going to run into you tonight, I would have tried to get out of my later engagement."
"More flattery. You must really be hoping that I'll give you your money's worth."
"Oh, I don't figure I need flatter you to get that," he said. "You look like a young man who knows a good catch when he sees one and knows every trick in the book that'll keep reeling me back again ... and again ... and again."
"I should be so lucky," I said and let go of his nipples which were red from my pinching. They stood like little tents pitched on the lower folds of his well-delineated rectangular pectorals.
I dropped to my knees, hooked the waistband of his under shorts on the way down, and peeled the material over his firm ass, being careful not to get any cloth hung up on the up-thrusting of his big as mine, if not bigger, boner.
I was within licking distance of his delicious prick. Even as I watched, its mouth leaked another drool of clear preseminal lubricant.
My gaze up his body showed me his washboard belly and the deep muscular groove that divided his torso from belly to deep indent at the base of his throat.
"Sure you don't want me to give that monster of yours a little -- or a long and lengthy -- suck?" I invited.
"Ideally, I want you to make my cock cream without even touching it, merely by expertly fucking your large dick up my butt," he said. "You manage that, and you'll be seeing a helluva lot more of me than just this evening."
"Sometimes such magic doesn't happen," I said. If he was expecting a miracle as a prerequisite for repeats, he, I, and a lot of other people were liable to end up damned disappointed. "I can only do what I can do and see where it takes us. Speaking of which, how do you want to take it?"
"I want it hard and deep, without you worrying about being too rough, or me asking for my money back."
"That's exactly how I planned it, buddy," I said. I stood up, careful that my drooling cock didn't whack his in passing. "I was asking -- missionary-style, dog-style, up-against-the-wall-style, hanging-from-the-rafters style ... any and every variation thereof style?"
"How about I lie back on the bed, lift my legs, open my ass, and we see what you can do with that?"
I motioned that he precede me to the bed, and I whacked his sexy ass on its way by. He didn't even whelp in surprise. He just looked back over his shoulder and said, "I do like a young man who anticipates my each and every fantasy."
At which point, he turned toward me, sat on the edge of the bed, bent his knees and lifted them, one to each hand. His opened legs formed a vee. His flaccid scrotum cascaded between his heels. His stiff dick jutted like a medieval tower.
I grabbed his ankles, one in each hand, and lifted his legs upward and more outward so I could step between them. His ass still wasn't positioned for a convenient fuck, so I lifted his ankles all of the way to my shoulders and rested them there. His lower body tilted even more when he laid his spine and head against the sheet. I leaned forward and pushed against the back of his legs; his asshole presented itself in perfect and irresistible invitation for fucking.
My hands clamped either side of his handsome face, my thumbs along his manly jaw line, and my fingertips in the black hair at his temples.
"Tell me you're the rare hustler who kisses," he said.
"You want kissed, buddy?" I asked. If ever a man's mouth was a magnet for my mouth, it was his -- which I found more than a little scary. Though I wasn't the novice everyone believed, I had never guessed that the mere anticipation of kissing Alain Rollenbatski would prove the exceeding turn on it was.
"Kiss me," he said. "If I have to pay extra, I will."
I put my lips to his at the exact moment I put the bulbous head of my cock to his winked anal pucker. The pressure of my mouth opened his mouth as the pressure of my cockhead opened his asshole. My wet tongue slid into his face as my cock slid into his butt.
His hands buried in my blond hair, took hold, and pulled my face even closer. His spit tasted of peppermint. His playful tongue was firm and wet and sexy as hell.
He groaned into my mouth as I sank the last of my dick inside of him. My balls-heavy scrotum slapped the small of his back. His nuts shifted like two battling cats in a mole-hair sack. The fist-sized corona of his prick punched his scalloped abdominals and left a wet smear.
We broke the kiss to get some air. I slid my face to give his mouth access to my ear into which he whispered. "I knew you'd be a good top!"
I knew he'd likely be a good bottom, but I never imagined he would be this good. I'd only just fed his ass my entire dick and, already, I was feeling the threat of impending orgasm. If I ended up blasting too soon, there was no way I'd screw him to join me in climax without laying a hand or putting my mouth on his erection. I tried the multiplication tables -- big numbers like 112 x 116 -- to take my mind off whatever was so swiftly elevating my nuts toward the base of my dick where they always were when I started squirting cream.
"Fuck me!" he said. "Make that big dick of yours move inside me."
"Maybe if we waited just a moment..."
"I don't want to wait, stud!" he said, and his asshole moved around my stuffed dick like a mouth giving head. "I want you now. I want you hard. I want you fast."
So I pretended I wasn't as keyed toward ejaculation as I was, and I gave him what he wanted, all of the while doubting that, in the end, it was going to be nearly enough to keep him interested in repeats. Maybe my employer should have looked farther afield for a real hustler to do the job; someone who had real expertise in prolonging a screw; not that my handlers hadn't insisted they'd exhausted all such potential. As far as I was concerned, rank amateur that I was in comparison to any pro in the fucking business, there was something exciting about screwing Alain's ass that was downright disconcerting. I couldn't remember ever having fucked anyone who had me so hot and so bothered in so short a time. Then again, maybe it had less to do with him than with circumstances, although I doubted it. There was something about him that was sexier than the contrived moment.
"Fucking hell!" he yelled as I fucked my cock into higher gear ... in and out ... in and out ... sticking it this way ... pulling it out that way ... even providing a roll of my hips so that my dick literally drilled his rectum.
What really did me in, though, was when his hands found both of my nipples and pinched them ... hard. There was something about those suddenly two very painful spots aflame on my pectorals, shooting their combined ache into my chest and down into my belly and balls that...
"Jesus, fuck, sorry!" This was my way of apologizing to him for my being such a bum fuck unable to control myself for even one second longer. My nuts let go a deluge of spunk that surprised me, as did the intensity and fury of every squirt from me into him.
My cock buried deeply to my erupting nuts, and stayed locked in place. I grunted, groaned, moaned, growled, and rocked my hips to stir my spewing dick within the mess of its own making.
Any conscious control I'd had -- admittedly very little from the get-go --completely transferred to some genuinely primitive part of my brain that was in no way prepared to keep from happening what was happening; quite the opposite, it was determined that what happened keep on happening.
Each new squirt -- how many did I have left in me? -- made my buttocks dimple. Along with his anal contractions, there was the continuing ache from his fingertips still mauling the tender nubs of my nipples.
If I could have pushed all of the rest of my body into his asshole, right along with my exploding dick and cum, I would have done so. If his asshole gave me the pleasure it did, by merely wrapping my prick, I could only guess what ecstasy would be mine if it enfolded all of me within that same funky embrace.
The experience left me exhausted, panting, and completely drained of cum and energy. I was dead weight atop him, my dick still inserted, my sweaty face against his, my body leaned so far forward that our chests touched. It was only then that he released his pinches of my paps.
"Well..." His mouth moved so close to my mouth that his lips tickled. I waited for him to fill the pause with some complaint about not getting his money's worth, maybe even with a request for at least a partial refund. "Talk about a fuck that was truly a fuck," he said huskily. "That was truly one fuck I'll always remember."
Remembered by him because it was over and done so fast? He could have had as much pleasure, if not more, shoving a dildo up his asshole. It was so amateurishly performed by me, he could had more for his buck from a kid whose balls had just dropped.
"Sorry," I apologized a second time. I mustered the strength to get off him. My softening prick came from his cum-leaking asshole with a Plop.
It was while he was saying, "The only one who's sorry, buddy, is me for not being able to stick around for seconds," that I realized my belly and chest were spotted with cream erupted not from my dick -- which had been securely socked deep up his asshole at the time -- but from his erupted penis.
"You came?" A pro wouldn't have acted so surprised. I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I'd screwed anyone to orgasm -- other than me. Certainly, those couple of times had required more than the few minutes I'd managed with Alain.
"Came is an understatement, buddy," he said. While I'd managed to get to my feet, he was still on his back on the bed, his legs bent, and open, as if inviting my return. From his neck to his crotch, he was covered in his pearly spunk; my jism visibly leaked his hair-haloed asshole and drooled his crack. "What I experienced was a ground-zero detonation of H-bomb proportions."