Here are the salient ingredients, the main facts you need to know about me, him, our relationship, and where it all happened. But not the why, I can't tell you why. I would tell you if I knew, but ... I don't know why all this happened.

I was 31 when it started, tall, dark, slim, with a very hairy chest and spindly legs due to 12 years of marathon running. I had had two relationships with women and one with a young guy my age, all three sexually unsatisfying and emotionally unfulfilling. When I turned thirty, in spite of these relationships and the fact that I shared with my current girlfriend a flat in a posh neighbourhood of Frankfurt, I started thinking of myself as a thirty year old virgin. Sex with my first girl friend had been juvenile, hurried, and embarrassed; sex with my male partner had been furtive, albeit slightly more exciting; and sex with my current girl was ... well, non-existent. She was a Lufthansa flight attendant and I was mostly looking after the cat, rather than being a husband into whose loving arms she could fling herselfon the rare days she was at home. We both knew it would end sooner rather than later.

When I was in my late teens, I used to model for Otto -- a German mail order catalogue. You could adore my hard and exasperatingly flat abs and chest in a long succession of multicoloured swimsuits, in white briefs of every cut and fashion, if you were so inclined, or my boyish good looks in a variety of shirts, suits, casual wear, and exercise gear.

Now I am a banker. I work for one of the world's largest commercial banks, on a trading floor that has something to do with derivatives and the Tokyo Stock Exchange, nothing too complicated if you had have a brain and a business degree (only half a brain is needed for a business degree anyway). I spare you the details of my job, but it is pertinent to this story that because of the time difference, I need to be at work at 6 in the morning to catch the end of trading in Tokyo -- I get up at 4:00 every day, including Saturdays, go for a run, then take the S-Bahn to Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof and walk across Taunusstrasse to our bank's building. I do that in a crisp and perfectly ironed 900 euro suit and 200 euro tie, in hand-crafted shoes: this is our standard dress code, anything less would be conspicuous in the bank, anything more considered ostentatious. Of course if you know Frankfurt, and Taunusstrasse at 5 am, you can imagine how strange my days starts.

And if you don't, here it is: Taunusstrasse is a short, run-down, filthy little street between the main station and a green strip of parkland separating the lower orders from the banking district; it is full of brothels and sex shops, with video cabins and live sex shows, 24 hours, all year round. Imagine me, oozing money from every thread of my Cerrutti (no more Boss, too down-market), prancing in the cold morning wind past the whores and the drunks and johns on the prowl, the few at least still left out on the street at this hour. I could use a parallel street with only one big sex shop, but for some reason, I enjoy the contrast: the big, clean house, the healthy run, the expensive outfit, then through the filth of nightly desires before I reach this most awkward and estranged part of business life: the global bank, the glittering steel and glass tower, full of people who have completely lost touch with real life, well-groomed, good-looking young men in bubbles, insulated, isolated. It is inside such a bubble I proceed through Taunusstrasse, every morning, my head full of numbers, sums, ideas for new trades, hedges, risk profiles, surrounded by secrets and desires.

The whores talk to me, all Eastern European, all ugly, middle-aged, fat, in German, English, often Italian. It depends on the sequence they perceive me: tall, still youngish and pretty- won't spend money on whores, so many ignore me. Others see the suit first: expensive suit, upper class git, not your usual low-life looking for hand job after a night of drink and failure. Not the usual working hour though, so they switch to English: maybe I just got in from Frankfurt Airport, on my way to the hotel. Others see my face and hair only, judge I am neither German nor English -- and speak to me in French, Italian: a few broken phrases or corny expressions like 'Ciao Bello' ... I never reply. I hardly hear them anymore, and after a few weeks, the regular girls stopped trying to engage me in conversation. I now walk quietly, listen to the sounds of the night: the vomiting punter at the corner, the group of teenagers who finally dare to go in and look at the girls, the screaming drunk, the fight behind a window on the second floor, the cool indifference of the policeman on the beat.

Then everything changed. Early in December last year, a new place opened where the last remaining German-style gasthaus in this part of the city had finally gone bust. It was staffed with Russian girls, and the same woman stood outside when I passed on Thursday and again on Friday morning. She was unexpectedly polite to me, maybe because she was new in town -- her few German phrases were still grammatically correct: foreigners who stay longer are unusually talked to in a horrifyingly childish and ungrammatical form of speech they soon acquire and which marks them forever as outsiders. She addressed me with the polite "Sie" rather than a familiar "Du", and invited me to come inside for a drink, rather than "some fun". Despite her manners, I ignored her. Soon she would become aggressive, I thought, vulgar, her speech would assimilate, her tits sag, and her lipstick be smeared.

On Saturday morning, I noticed her standing at the corner again, and she saw me approaching from afar, at 5:11 exactly. She turned around and said something into the door, and a man stepped out: even taller than I am, blond, with piercing blue eyes -- the unexpected Russian, who looks more Nordic, and definitely more German than I do -- but who is in fact the more original "Rus" - genetically speaking. I was stunned. He had a square and chiseled face, and even though he was wearing a thick coat, he was clearly well built and densely muscled. For a second, and the first time ever on this street, I stopped. I expected some kind of assault: he must be the reinforcement, to get me into their new little brothel. I expected him to step forward and block my way, or touch me, or accuse me of disrespecting one of his whores. I clutched my mobile phone in my coat pocket.

Instead, he spoke to me in the same correct new-comer German, very sweet and politely, "would you care to have a look inside Sir?" I felt I owed him a polite "no", an explanation at least, and for a split second I wondered whether I should tell him that I was on my way to work and was not looking for female company -- surely they would never bother me again. Instead -- I have no idea why or how I found this sudden courage, I said "no, but I'd like to have a coffee with you." He smiled. "Would you join me for a coffee?" I said again. He looked at the girl, she grinned a mischievous "told you he was a fag" grin (even though I only realized that later), and before he had said "OK", I said "but not in there." I turned around and saw a Starbucks at the end of the street. "Lets have a coffee there."

I abhor Starbucks. It is one of the vilest forms of American consumerism there is, and it is bad, overhyped coffee, bad service, and misleading "fair" trade schemes. I reckon it will disappear as quickly as it appeared: people won't have the wool pulled over their eyes forever. But I had to make a quick decision, I really wanted to talk to him. Later that day, at the office, where I spent a headless morning of bad trades and slowly surfacing desires, I rationalized my actions: I thought I was really interested in the guy, that instant I asked him out, his life amongst the whores, his immigrant life, the hardships in Russia -- I imagined long conversations full of emotional depth. Alas, I have to admit, I was simply hopelessly attracted to him. His hard face, the stubble on his chin, the short blond hair, the piercing eyes, and, when we sat down in Starbucks and he took off his coat, his bulging biceps, the veins on his strong arms, his strangely elegant long fingers.

"You are Russian, then?" I asked. "Yes." "Are all the girls in your ... house ... Russian?" "Most, yes. One Asian girl we have." His "h's" very heavily aspirated. We switched to English, which he commanded much better than German. He had only been in Frankfurt for a month, but lived in Londonbefore that. "You are not interested in the girls, are you?" "No, no, absolutely not." I confirmed, thinking that he was merely asking whether I would ever end up patronizing his brothel, and while I answered I realized, that he was in fact asking me whether I was gay or not. "I go to work at this hour. I start work at a quarter to six, and I walk ..." "I mean, you are not interested in girls." "I have a girlfriend." His ice-blue eyes looked right into my soul. "But you are not interested in girls." After a pause of unwavering staring, his knees touched mine under the table. "No," I finally conceded, for the first time in my life, to myself, to another person, to a perfect stranger: "I am not interested in girls." We both took a sip of coffee -- mostly tasteless milk foam. "But you like me." I did not answer. "Because you ask me out for drink." "I only wanted to talk to you." "Because you like me." "You are very ... ... very handsome." "Yes", he said nonchalantly. "and I have most amazing eyes, and very good body. I was athlete in Russia. Gymnastics. Big muscle everywhere." His uncoffeed hand now rested on his groin. "And many ... stamina." "You are not ... are you a pimp?" He laughed out loud. "Funny! You call me pimp. ... Haha!" He stripped off his pullover and a massive chest was now clearly visible under a crisp white shirt. I felt weak. Saliva collected in my mouth, and I brought the coffee cup to my lips again. "I am bouncer. I work there as bouncer, to throw out the drunks. Very bad job, but I am new here." I nodded, leaving the coffee cup on my mouth as a protection from embarrassment, unsure what to say next. He continued: "I was rentboy in London, for four year, after I leave Russia.I was only 17 when I leave Russia. I advertise on gaydar. Maybe you see my ad." "No," I said quickly. "You in closet, eh?" "I work at a bank." "So? I have many gay banker ... friends ... in London." I was slow to realize his was referring to his johns. "So you are ... gay?" I asked. "No," he answered, decidedly, firmly. "I am not. I am married now. That's why I move to Germany. My wife live here." "Ah", I said, nodding. "Gone straight then." He gave me a quizzing look. "No more call boy." He smiled, but did not answer. We looked out the window when snow started to fall. I turned towards him, ready to say something, maybe "well that's it then, you are not gay or for rent, and I just came out ... to you ... thirty year old virgin, sexual misfit that I am", or something along those lines, but he started speaking at the same moment, his hard eyes firmly locking in mine: "Do you want to suck my cock? 50 euros." I was startled. I had never paid for sex in my life. It had never occurred to me. Yet before I could think it over, and most likely decide against it, he rose, put on his coat, and said: "Come with me!" I followed.

I am trying to understand why I followed. It had beenmy turn to speak and say: "No, thank you, young Russian hunk, I am totally and utterly in love with you, your soft voice yet commanding tone, your firm muscles and blond fluff on your arms, your bulging biceps, but I am not ready to pay for sex, and, as I said ... and you are not a rentboy anymore, didn't you just tell me ... " I have no idea why I followed him. I only know I had no choice. We walked back to the brothel, where he gave the girl still standing there freezing in the snowy chill a quick nod, then led me into the doorway, but not down the aisle to a big winged door covered in red vinyl, but up a narrow flight of stairs into a small room: it contained a bed and a cupboard, a wash basin, a stack of car and motorcycle magazines, a full ashtray on the floor. There was one window out onto the street, right next to the blinking red neon sign of the brothel. I understood that this was where he lived. He pointed to the floor. "You wife is not living with you?" I asked, shyly, not sure what to do. He did not answer my question, but pointed to the floor. I still did not understand. "Kneel on the floor," he said. I was afraid. I looked into his face: his blond hair, the square jaw, the commanding eyes. He smiled, and I fell to my knees. He unzipped his jeans, and brought out a flaccid cock. "Make me hard, boy" he said. I raised both hands, attempted to touch his cock, the first cock I had touched in a long time. His deep voice now thundered down in a new, much more violent tone: "No hands!", and then, soft and lovingly, he added: "only mouth". I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, then moved my head forward. I felt the tip of his cock on my lips, then stuck out my tongue. There was a drop of salty liquid on his glans, now dissolving onto my tongue. I felt his hand on my head, pushing me towards him, forcing my mouth onto his cock. It quickly hardened, and grew, and grew. Not too fat, but long, straight, beautiful. His groin had a sweet musky smell, which only the slightest a hint of tobacco, and no effeminate perfume or deodorant. It was manly, full-bodied, and erotic. I think that for a second or two, my throat impaled on his long cock, I lost consciousness. "Swallow down, all." he said, after a few minutes. I thought he meant deep-throat him, but before I could react, I felt his body convulse, his hips thrust forward, and wads and wads of cum erupted into my gullet. He doubled down above my head, pressing his prick deeper into me, embracing me in a cocoon of muscle and cock. I could not breath. Then I realized he was stroking my hair.

After a motionless while, the salty taste of his cum now spreading through my mouth, he stood up, withdrawing his still half erect cock out, then used both his strong arms to pull me up by the shoulders. He put his hands on my cheeks and pulled me towards him, placing a wet, long kiss on my lips. "You very good cocksucker. I like." I arranged his clothes, put his coat back on and moved towards the door. "You go to work now, banker boy. Today, no charge. Tomorrow you come back and I will fuck you. 100 euros. Special price for you." I was unable to speak. As a squeezed past his massive bulk in the doorway, I felt his big hand on my arse, a finger pressing into my crack. "Special price for you everyday, because you cute."

*

I need not tell you in detail how I spent that day, I am sure you can imagine. I spent 10 hours glued to a screen, unable to comprehend or think, unable to make decisions, spaced out, and hopelessly confused. I took a taxi home long after dusk, took a shower, went for a three hour run through the forest at Niederrad, around the entire area of Frankfurt/Main airport, then showered again for almost an hour, and collapsed on my bed. I dreamt of tropical islands, sand under my feat, and awoke at four with a raging hard on. It was Sunday, and I spent it in bed. I didn't do my usual Sunday things, didn't even bother to pick up the newspaper from the front door. In the afternoon, I ran 25k -- I usually rest on Sundays -- then ate sausages with sauerkraut at the train station -- food I normally don't touch. At eight I was in bed and quickly asleep, tossing violently and waking often, drenched in sweat, like a sick man recovering from a tropical fever.

Monday morning came.I went through the routine but skipped the coffee. I chose my best tie, and one of the better suits. When I walked out the door, I checked my wallet, to make sure it contained a crisp 100 euro note. I took my usual seat at the end of the first car on the S-Bahn, thinking: why did I check my wallet? Surely I had no intention of seeing the Russian again. I didn't even know his name! I must walk down a different street from now on. No more brothels and sex shops. I left the S-Bahn and -- without thinking -- took the usual exit at Taunusstrasse. Before I remembered my decision to take a different route, I was already halfway down the blocktowards the corner where the Russian brothel lay. I stopped, ready to turn round, when I saw him standing there, waiting. The girl was there too, but now she disappeared in the doorway. When I approached, he smiled, and put his hand on my back, pushing me towards the stairs. He grabbed my ass and pushed me forward into the small room. He closed the door, then hugged me, whilst taking my wallet from my trouser pocket. He didn't look at anything in it, but removed one 100 euro bill, then smiled again. "Special price for my special girlfriend" he said. Then he pointed to the floor again.

I did as I had done the day before, I sucked his massive prick, but I was more relaxed about it. I groaned, which he liked, and after an almost minute-long push down my throat, I came up for air with a gasp, he grabbed my throat his his big, powerful hand, slapping his dick in my face with the other. "Tell me you want my cock." "I want your cock." "Call me Sir." "Sir. I want your cock, Sir." "Good boy", and his cock disappeared in my mouth again. The entire coffeeless morning, no, ever since after the run last night, there had been a strange taste in my mouth, which I had not recognized, and simply put down to a reaction to the unfamiliar sensation of man-to-man sex the morning before, but now, his sweet, long, flawless cock sheathed deeply in my gullet, I realized what that taste had been: it was the aftertaste of his cum, and as his manly smell rose again into my nostrils, I knew I craved more of it. I wanted his cum in my mouth again. I wanted his juice on my tongue, to savour it, then swallow it, slowly. But he pulled out with a sudden decisiveness, and sat down on the bed, pulling me up beside him. He kissed me again, this time forcing his tongue in my mouth, whilst he started to unbutton my shirt and undo my tie. His left hand found its way on my chest, where he stroked an caressed my thick curly hair, while his other hand pushed my head closer into his, tongue thrusting down my throat again and again. His fingers found my nipples and he squeezed them hard. He told me to stand up, and undid my fly. My trousers dropped to the floor, and when he pushed down my briefs, my hard cock sprang to attention and into his face. He ignored it, and instead turned me around, probing my ass first with one, then with two fingers, then pushing his whole face into my crack: I felt the tongue which has just violated my mouth now spread my sphincter and flicking around my man pussy. When he came up for air he said: "You have nice ass, very clean, smell nice. I will fuck you now."

With that he stood up, pulled out a rubber from one of the jeans pockets and put it over his cock, then thought better of it. "You not have much gay sex, eh?" I shook my head. "I think so," he said. "You virgin?" I nodded. He chucked the rubber on the pile of magazines to his right, then grabbed me from behind. I heard him spit twice in his palm and on his cock, then I felt the tip of his massive organ spread my wet manpussy, and with an even and smooth motion he entered me, all the way, without hesitation, without fear, all the way, until I felt his prick so deep in my guts I thought he was ripping me apart. I was convinced he had hurt me, ripped my intestines or my arsehole. I looked down between my legs, expecting blood to be dripping onto the floor, but there was none. He started a rhythmic motion, pulling slowly back, pushing forward faster, but always the whole way, the full length of his enormous cock. Every time he pushed I felt unable to breath, fearing that this time he would push too far, would hurt me, would rip me open. Instead, the pain subsided quickly, and the pleasure increased with each movement. After less than a minute, I felt my arsehungrily craving his cock when he was pulled out, I felt empty and incomplete when he didn't immediately thrust back into me, so I followed his cock, stuck out my arse, showed him hole, begging him to fill it again. "Ah," he said, "my little banker slut already enjoy getting fucked eh.? Say it!" "Yes Sir," I said, still shy. "Louder!" He commanded. "Say 'please fuck me Sir'". "Yes Sir! Please fuck me. Fuck me hard, Sir!" The more I repeated it, the more frantic I sounded. I enjoyed hearing myself say it: "Oh please Sir, break me, fuck me, fuck me!" The more I begged, the harder he thrust, all the way in, his tool filling me, his thrusting pushing my head against the wall in front of me, my knees wobbly. I saw pre-cum, big wads of it, drip from my rigid cock. I did not go soft: I was a cockwhore for real: I stayed hard as long as I had a cock in my ass.

He turned me around and threw me onto the bed, shoving his cock in my mouth. For the first time in my life, I felt the juices of my arse on a man's cock, and savoured them. While I did, however, the feeling of emptiness came back in my ass, and I looked at him with pleading eyes. He smiled: "You have the look of a woman, when she wants more fuck, same begging eyes. You are my whore now." "Yes, Sir, please, make me your slut. Fuck me Sir. Please fuck me!" But before he could put his cock back where it belonged, he erupted, four massive wads of thick cum splayed over my face, over my eyelids, my nose, my mouth. My tongue flicked out to catch as much as I could, but it was too little. He saw my hunger, and while he buried his still spouting cock in my arse again, his right palm collected the cum from my forehead, eyes, nose, and pushed it over my lips and in to my mouth. I greedily swallowed, and when there was no more, I licked his fingers clean, followed the taste down his knuckles, whilst his cock slowly softened in my ass.

*

I spent the day at work unable to sit still, unable, in fact, to sit in any position for long. Twice I went to the toilet to stick a finger up my ass in a vain attempt to restore that feeling of fulfillment, to recall the pleasure I had experienced that morning. At lunch time, I went alone to a restaurant my colleagues and I frequent, and for the first time realized that two of the four waiters were cute and at least one of them gay. When he looked at me, I knew he could read my thoughts. I knew he could see me getting fucked by the Russian bouncer. I knew in an instant that he recognized me as a manwhore. It was of course all in my head. I took an ice-cube from my Coke and played with myself in the toilet, then returned to work with a few cubes still melting inside me. At 8 pm, after a lengthy conference with our desk in New York, I took the S-Bahn home to find Gabriele standing in the hall. "Have a good flight?" I asked, ready to approach and kiss her on the cheek as usual. "There is something we need to talk about. Sit down," she said, motioning towards the living room. I hanged my coat and took off my shoes, then sat down beside her. My first, strange instinct was that something serious needed discussion: she was pregnant. Then I realized that the last time we had had sex was was over seven months ago, she could have hardly concealed it for ... "I met someone." "You met someone? A man?" "Yes. Of course a man." "Well ... " "What 'well ...' ? "Do you love him?" "Yes." "So sure?" "Yes." "Who is he?" "He is ... someone I met in New York, in spring." "Not a pilot?" "No, that would be too ..." "I see. When do I have to move?" "You are giving up so quickly?" "I guess. We never ..." "I know. ..." and then, after a long pause: "You don't have to move. If you want the house ..." "I want the house." "Will you buy it from me?" "No problem." "I need some money now. I am thinking of quitting my job and ..." "The real thing then, is it?" "I think so." "Well, I can transfer a hundred thousand to your account tomorrow. And ..." "That would be great. I will ask the agents to contact you ... they will prepare a ..." "No problem." "You are very ... civilized about this." "What ... there ... how ... how do you think I should react?" "I don't know. Do you love me?" "Yes," I said, hesitantly. "But ..." "But ... ? ... Not enough, maybe." "Yes, I thought so. Not enough," she said, pensively, then got up, got her coat and turned around: "He is here, with me, at the Conrad. I am going to see him. I come back tomorrow to get some things." "Sure. I don't get to see him?" "Better not." "Yes, better not." "Are you OK? You seem ... different?" "Different?" "Yes, ah ... at ease." "Well, work is going smoothly." "Good ... good ... well, I ... I'm off then. I think the taxi is here." "Good! I see you, I ..." She shook her head, and was out the door, and out of my life.

*

I was wide awake at 3:40, and dressed in my winter running gear a minute later. Despite a dull pain in my anal region, I managed to run 10 k that morning, in the chilly winter air, returned for a long hot shower, during which I cleaned my ass as best as I could, detaching the shower head and inserting the tube, douching with warm water at least times. The sensation was remarkable, I had never played with myself in that way before. I realized I was running late, grabbed my trousers, shirt, tie, jacket, dressed on my way to the front door, shawl, coat, and then out and in big, eager strides the 800 meters to the S-Bahn station. On the train, I clenched my buttocks in horny anticipation. For the first time in years, I couldn't wait for the train to arrive, was the first out the door and up the escalator, across the Bahnhofsplatz and into Taunusstrasse. I slowed down when I saw the neon sign of the Russian brothel but no one in front. I was almost at the entrance and ready to pass when I saw him standing in the doorway, talking to someone on the mobile phone. Thegirl was no where in sight. He smiled at me, then cocked his chin in the direction of the doorway and said: "Upstairs. Undress. I am right up."

I hesitated, maybe a second too long. He put the arm holding the phone down and looked at me sternly. For an instant, I wanted to rebel. Who was this man, ordering me around like that. I am definitely not into s/m and master-slave games and all that perverted shit. His ice-blue eyes looked straight at me, and then, when he slowly parted his coat, I saw he was rubbing his cock, pressed against his thigh, long and hard, and I dashed up the stairs. I opened the door to his room: he had cleaned it, there was no more mess, no more magazines and clothes strewn about the place, new sheets on the bed. I took out a 100 euro bill and placed it on the nightstand, fastening a corner under the ashtray. Then I undressed, folded my jacked, my shirt, my trousers, rolled up the tie,and put everything in a neat stack under the bed. I took up my socks and underwear, and then, almost instinctively and stark naked, I knelt down on the floor.

I waited. Four, maybe five minutes. The first minutes I felt exhilaration: my cock was hard, and I had to control my instinct to touch it -- I would most likely have shot my load right there. The second minute I started to feel cold, my cock went soft, and considered covering myself with the blanket from the bed.During the third minute, I became embarrassed: what the fuck was I doing here. I should get up, get dressed, and get to work, not kneel on the floor of a brothel staff room, waiting to suck the monster cock of a straight Russian ex-callboy. But I had been told to be naked, and kneeling. So I knelt, and waited. Finally the door opened. He came in, shivering slightly from the cold. "Oh so fucking cold today ... I cannot wait for summer. I hate cold." I realized he had had a few drinks too many, probably to keep him warm as he manned the brothel door in the wee hours. Then he looked down at me. "You very good cunt, my boy, you undress even though is very cold." I lowered my eyes as he continued: "Today I have too much to drink. Sorry." Thinking he was apologizing for not being able to fuck me I was about to say something, something kind, like a loving woman to her impotent man: "don't worry dear", but when I opened my mouth, he stuck a finger in it, and said: just open wide. With his free hand, he undid his belt and zipper and let his trousers drop to the floor. Then he fished out his limpid cock and before I knew what was happening, a stream of warm, clear, vodka and beer piss was flowing in my mouth, over my face, and all over my naked body. I was speechless, but when the stream reached my mouth again and his finger didn't keep it open by force, I opened it voluntarily, and swallowed a mouthful, and another, and another. "You very good slut, you also drinks my pee. I like a lot," he said, and got hard while talking. The pissing ended, and his hard cock remained in my mouth, now engaging in the familiar motion, the violent thrusts that tickled my gums and one by one widened my gullet until I was able to swallow the whole massive cock again. I heard him say sorry again, and again: he was very drunk. He had his eyes closed, and both hands on my head, half pressing me onto his cock, half stroking me, caressing me. All of a sudden he stopped, withdrew his member, and pulled me up to him. He kissed me passionately, and I could taste the alcohol on his breath, the vodka in his gums. "I sorry I drink too much today," he said, again, and then took me in his arms. He was sweet, tender, undemanding, caring. Softly and slowly, like handling a fragile girl, he put me down on the bed, then stripped off his pullover and shirt: for the first time I saw his whole magnificent body: the massive chest, a smooth eight-pack, covered in fine, velvety blond hair, his broad shoulders and his bulging biceps. He lay on top of me, and in the strangest, straightest way, continued kissing me, fondling my chest, my nipples, then reaching down between us to arrange his cock: I raised mylegs, he found the hole, and between kissing me gently, licking and lightly biting my nipples, he fucked me like he fucked his girls: gently, tenderly, but intensely manly. He shot his load inside me.

*

I was, to my surprise, able to concentrate on my work during the day that followed. I felt that this morning I had been "loved" - not fucked. At noon, I went to the toilet and squeezed out my lover's man juice into my hand and ate it. I walked by the brothel on my way home, thinking of him sleeping in his bed in the little room above the door.

The following day was horror: I had to take an early flight to London. There was no way I could get from my house to my Russian lover and to the airport in time. I returned after a day's work at 10 pm, fell asleep with my clothes on, and slept dreamless until the alarm rang at 3:40. I was up, dressed, and out of the house four minutes later, in the S-Bahn, and at the Russian brothel ten minutes past four. "Hey, boy, you come earlier every day!" my lover greeted me in front of the place. The whore who had put him on me stood by him, smiling. When he placed his arm on my shoulders and started to push me up the stairs, she whispered after me in German: "He say you very good womanin bed." I felt the redness rise in my face as I stumbled up the stairs.

Before the door closed behind him, I already had my shirt open and my tie off, proceeding to undress and serve my Russian master, when the flat of his palm hit me and a burning pain spread on the left side of my face. I was about to ask "why", when he started to speak: "Why you not come yesterday, bitch, eh? Why you not come?" "I was on a business trip, I was not in ..." He was about to shout something in response, then realized what I had said, grabbed my cheek, pressing the thumb into my mouth and holding me firmly: "Next time, bitch-boy, next time you not come, you tell me." He let me go. I stood there, motionless, afraid he would hit me again. Instead he snapped at me: "Continue undress, bitch!" I removed my shirt, undid my belt, then asked: "How?" "How what?" "How do I tell you, Sir, when I have to be away?" "Ah, good, bitch, you call me Sir. You will call me." He turned round, opened the drawer of the nightstand and while I removed my briefs and socks, I heard him write something. When I had folded the last piece of clothing, I knelt down as usual, waiting for him. He grabbed my head again, slapped me softly, then placed the note on the pile of folded clothes. I glanced at it: it was untrained, almost child-like handwriting. A mobile phone number. While I read it, he extracted his cock form his underwear and then rudely forced my head into position and made me swallow his member. He held it down, pressing my head firmly into his groin, I sense a pulsation, and then warm liquid running down my throat so deeply I couldn't even taste it. Slowly, the piss still flowing, he withdrew, filled my mouth, then directed his semi-hard piss pump all over my face. I swallowed eagerly, trying to follow the stream and catch it. My hunger amused him. "Oh I like, you such a wonderful slut. No girl I have is like you, so horny. So want to please."

The fuck that day was different from the last. It was hard, cold, violent. Throughout the half hour he thrust his massive cock into me, he spanked my ass, hit my back, my chest, my abdomen, and tortured my nipples so hard I could see them rise from my flat chest as red, sore peaks. He came in my ass again, but to my surprise, ordered me to crouch on all fours, and stuck three fingers up my manhole, fishing for ass juices and the cum he had just deposited, all of which he shoved into my mouth until he topped it off with another load of piss. "Tomorrow," he said, after we both got dressed again and he was holding me in his arms, "tomorrow, slut-boy, you will eat out my ass."

I was under his spell. The entire day, during my ever longer run in the late afternoon, during the night and into the sleepless morning, I realized that I couldn't contemplate not seeing him the next day. Every fibre of my body wanted to be with him again. My sphincter hungered after him. I jerked off three times that night, thinking of the pleasure that was to follow at dawn, but none of the three orgasms brought any sort of relief. I fetched a cucumber from the kitchen and fucked myself, realizing that the motion of the large vegetable in my ass was more pleasurable to me than any handjob, any blowjob, any cunt on my cock had ever been. I was an ass-whore. I needed cock. I decided to buy a dildo for my nightly masturbations. So far, my Russian master had ignored my cock completely, and I expected that to continue. He was only interested in my holes: my hungry, wet mouth, and my deep, willing ass, and his own satisfaction. He was straight as a die, a total top.

*

Two weeks past of almost daily service to my Russian master. My ass widened, my deep-throating skills improved, and every time I went to see him, I left a hundred euro note with him. The act became a welcome routine: he pissed more often, he came, sometimes two times in one morning, he fucked me hard. He played with my nipples, even use wooden pegs to torture me, and a white, braided rope to bind my hands. He never touched my cock, and never helped me or waited for me to shoot my load. For two weeks, every cold morning, I was all ass and mouth.

Then came the 24 of December. I had to work for four hours, and had off the following two days. I had told my family I was abroad, keeping myself available, just in case I was needed ... Master fucked me very gently that day, and fed me his come in discreet wads right onto my tongue, and after the last spasm, my mouth completely filled with his white goo, he kissed me on the mouth and upon withdrawing, said: "Merry Christmas fuckboy". He then returned the 100 euro note I had put in the usual place, and after I had swallowed most of the cum, Frenched-kissed me for several minutes, swapping the rest of his cum and both our saliva between us. His right hand held my head firmly, the left hand was stroking my cock, until, for the very first time in his presence, I shot my load into his open palm. When I was done, he raised his hand, cupping the white liquid in it, and brought it up between both our mouths. He looked into my eyes, deeply, lovingly, then stuck out his tongue to touch my cum with the tip. He shuddered, then said: "I never taste before other man's", then he inclined his hand just enough for the cum to run towards my lips. "Open, boy", he said, and smiled kindly, as my own lovejuice ran into my mouth, drop by drop. "Good boy. You eat what I give you. Good boy." And again he stroked my hair, then held me in his arms for a long time.

"Tomorrow you come afternoon, at 2, ok? I have surprise. And shave." "I always shave in the morning." "No, shave body. Except little bit around cock. All other you shave, OK?" "Yes Sir," I said, glad to have been given an order.

*

I enjoyed my afternoon off. I found myself in my big bathroom, all the womanly things of Gabriele removed. I was lying on the floor, my new dildo firmly up my arse, the razor blade gliding up and down my legs, my chest, my arms. I realized it would be very difficult to shave my back, and I could feel a fluff ofhair on my lower back. I decided that in future, if Master wanted me smooth, I would have to go to a salon, get waxed, have someone check that my body was indeed flawless and hairless. I also decided to buy some weights and make my arms stronger: they looked feeble when my Russian lover with his bulging biceps held me. I felt like a girl, but then again, maybe that was what turned him on. Maybe harder muscles would only turn him off. I slept in my new, hairless nudity, naked, peacefully.

I rose late, had coffee, but I was uneasy: the day had started without the early-morning violations by my rude lover. It was nine o'clock, and I felt desperately unloved and unfucked. The dildo was no substitute: I wanted cock. The appointed time was 2 pm, but I was at Frankfurt main station at noon. Even on that day, the sex shops were open. I entered Dr. Mueller's, an "Eros Center" with many cabins and a large gay section: not that I was interested in any of the middle-aged guys cruising desperately up and down the dark aisles between the cabins. I was simply passing time, until my Russian stud would call me ... and, I now timidly hoped, would maybe spend the entire afternoon with me. I locked myself in a cabin and started watching a porn movie when my mobile phone beeped and an SMS came through: "Meet me entrance Dr. Mueller" it said. "Here? The sex shop with the most idiotic name in the world? I was already here! Why meet him ... I was forgetting my place. What I should have done is jump up and meet him where he asked, be ready and await his command. Instead I was wondering, second-guessing, doubting. I left the cabin and rushed down and outside. There was nobody there. I went up to the corner and around it towards the side entrance when I saw him standing there, a cigarette in his mouth, hands in his coat pocket. He smiled broadly when he saw me, grabbed my arm when I was close, pulled me into the doorway, and kissed me on the cheek. "Today your big day, slut-boy. From today, no more pay." I looked at him, not understanding. "From today, you not pay me anymore." "Will you still fuck me?" "Yes, everyday. I show you." He held my hand for an instant, pressed my fingers, then led me into the driveway behind the sex shop. He led me through a door next to some garbage cans, told me to wait, then spoke to someone I couldn't see. A buzzer sounded and we went into what looked like a locker room in a gym: wooden benches and twenty or so grey metal lockers. He produced a key, opened one of them, told me to undress completely, fold my cloth, and place them in the locker. Naturally, I did as I was told.

He too took off his coat, checked himself in the mirror, and was plucking some hair from under his lip, when a green light came on above us and a loudspeaker voice said in German -- "that was Marcus, gents, from Munich, one hot boy, put your hands together, and look at the load he's left for you, thank you Marcus. Next we have for you a newcomer, hot and steamy, a hunk of a man, fresh from Moscow, ex-KGB agent, the Russian James Bond, with his massive colt: welcome Sergei and his toy boy!"

The light now blinked, and my master retrieved a dog collar and a leash from his jeans pocket, placed the collar around my neck, attached the leash, and told me to get down on all fours. He then pulled me through a door at the end of the locker room, through three meters of dark hallway, and finally onto a platform covered in cheap red plastic. I looked around: there were mirrors on all sides of the round room, with lights about a meter and a half from the ground, most of them red, two green. My master stood proudly in the center of the room and let go of the leash. I was still on all fours, slowly realizing that we must be in one of thosepeep-show rooms where girls undress and rub their pussies against the mirrors. This was a gay peep show, and "Sergej -- the Russian James Bond and his ... well ... dog" were the attraction. That instant, my master pointed to the floor, and looked at me, smiled for an instant, and said: "Sit boy".Without thinking I sat down like a dog on his haunches. And, like a dog, saliva accumulated in my mouth, as I watched my Russian master slowly sway to music piped into the room, touching himself, stripping -- very expertly, he must have done that before -- removing his shirt, jeans, until he stood in sneakers, 190 cm of tall, fully muscled manhood, his cock hard, his eyes closed, his fingers on his own nipples, turning slowly to the music. The last two lights now turned red: every cubicle around us was full. It was at that moment I realized that anybody could be sitting behind these mirrors. A friend, even a co-worker. My boss, maybe. And I was sitting there, James Bond's dog, panting, salivating, my cock pounding with excitement and pre-cum dripping from it, when in the midst of my fearful thoughts, I felt Master yank the leash again and forcing my head towards him, higher, and onto his hard cock. When I opened my mouth, and a large wad of saliva ran down my chin before I could engulfed the member I had learned to love and satisfy, I heard laughter from behind one of the mirror walls. I was the salivating, cock-sucking slave of the Russian hulk. And despite my fears, the dreadful thought that I was now exposed to the looks of total strangers, my cock was rock hard, and continued to drip. I had never been so horny in my life.

What followed was the hottest sex we had had so far. He pulled me around on the leash, he made me lick his sneakers, then remove them and the socks, lick his toes, his feet, up his left leg and thigh to his cock and balls, he exposed his musky asshole at every cubicle as the euro bills come sliding through tiny slits under the mirrors. Master saw a bill came through and so turned that his ass was up against the mirror, he spread his cheeks with his hands, but only when another bill came through did he pull my leash and lead my mouth and eager tongue to his rosebud. He hadn't showered well, he smelled his deliciously manly aroma and I pushed my tongue as far in as I could. When no more bills came through the slit we moved on to repeat the tease for the next customer. He stroked his cock harder and harder,then looked at me and said loud "oh, oh, I think my dog thirsty, who would like to see my dog drink, eh", who want to see dog drink from his master's cock?" He looked around, until he saw one window where a green 100 euro bill emerged from the slit. The window next to it also had a bill come out, and so Master positioned himself and pulled me between his legs, so that only the paying customers saw his hot, erect cock towering about the trembling head of his dog-toilet. He relaxed, his cock softened a bit, and then the fragrant piss I had learned to crave flowed over my face and into my mouth. It ended too soon, much too soon, I wanted more! But Master was merely looking around, trying to see if anyone else wanted to see me drink piss too. Across the platform, another green bill came through, and we moved over there. I was yanked in place violently, my mouth came open, and I gulped down the rest of my master's piss, another mouthful, and another.

The same procedure was followed when it came to the Russian James Bond "fucking his dog". More bills came through, lights went on and off as the clients changed. For every 50 euro note, he fucked me in front of the paying customer for 3-4 minutes. For every 100 euro note he pounded me ten minutes. I was fucked harder than ever before: I was completely sore, but in heaven. One punter wanted special positions: the note came through but when my lover got into position, it was withdrawn: we then swapped places, so that the punter hadclear view of my ass being pounded. The lights changed every time someone paid extra, so that the payee had the best and sometimes only view of the action. My Master fingered me, spit on me, then pissed again in my mouth. One client paid 5 euro bill for every slap on my face: I endured 200 euros worth of my Master's palm on my buttocks before the john ran out of money.

Finally, when only three cubicles were occupied and our time apparently ran out, Master announced that the dog was hungry and needed to eat, who wanted to see me eat his cum? Almost immediately and simultaneously, a note was slipped through the slit of each of the remaining active cubicles. Then one paid an extra 100. My Master waited for an instant, than pushed back the extra hundred and said: "now everyone pay same, so everyone see same!" Then he pressed a button on the ceiling panel and and two more: the lights around us came down, and a spotlight was left in the center of the platform, illuminating me, the dog, kneeling, and my top master in all his muscled glory towering above me. I sucked his cock a bit, and then he put my face into position, slightly angled back, my mouth wide open, his cock head just above the lower lip, his right hand stroking his massive prick, once, twice, thrice, three more times, and finally he erupted in a small wad, one, two three massive, fat wads of juice, over all my face, into my mouth, and then two more eruptions, until my face was drenched in it. As he had done before, he used his fingers to collect it and feed it into my open, eager mouth, every last drop of it. My eyes were glued shut, my right nostril was blocked, my lips were completely covered in my master juice. I licked the last bit from my upper lip when I realized that without having touched myself at all, I had shot the largest load of my life over my Master's sneakers. A sigh came from the leftmost cubicle, a stifled groan form the adjacent one, then the lights went out around us.

Back in the locker room, Sergei -- as I would now and forever remember him -- dressed first, then waited for me. He wiped some remnants of his semen from above my eye. "Sorry they have no shower here, is very dirty place." I smiled. He took me in his arms and kissed me -- these strange, longing kisses that didn't go at all with his straight image. He didn't touch my cock, he didn't dare taste my cum, but he loved to kiss me, even with the aftertaste of his own cum on my mouth. He let go of me, finally, when a sliding window panel next to the exit door opened. A man sad something in Russian, and when I stood next to Sergei in German: "Good show, boy, very good. You come back!" A wad of bills was handed through the window, then the panel closed. We stepped outside into the winter cold. Sergei took my hand, turned it so my palm faced upwards, then placed three hundred euro bills on it: "This is half of official pay. I half, you half. Usually only 200, but today is Christmas. And here ..." he said, fumbling a wad of bills from his jeans pocket"here is one two three four ... seven eight for you from tip."We had each made over a thousand euros in one hour! Sergei's face gleamed, he grinned at me. "Now you have all money you pay me back. You can make money in future with me. Maybe not so much as Christmas." I wanted to give him my share, I wanted to tell him I did it all for love, I craved his cock and body, his cum and piss, I didn't care about his meagre thousand euro -- my trading bonus for the year came to over 3.5 million! I wanted to pay him a thousand euros every day, but when he so proudly put the bills in my palm, his face had a rare glow: the pride of a man who had earned his keep, and his wife's. And his dog's.

*

In the end, we did 225 shows together. Initially they were all like the first one, but as my training proceeded and we became a well-known act, we incorporated some more bizarre routines: My Russian master would spit and make me catch it with my mouth, like a dog playing with a water sprinkler. We used an assortment of ever larger dildos and other objects to be inserted in my ever looser and ever more hungry arsehole, although true satisfaction only came from Sergei's pounding. We did house calls, and performed on request: at a doctors house Sergei had to fuck the man's wife and daughter alternatingly inserting his cock into their cunts, arseholes, and my mouth. For my birthday, the owner of the sex shop brought in four other performers and advertised the show as "Sergej's famous dog slave drowning in cum". The S&M shows I hated most of all, when along with the bills little request notes came through the slits saying things like: beat the bitch, or "hurt him". For over a year, I was slapped, pissed on, and fucked in mouth and ass at least three, four times a week. Whatever was asked of me I did for Sergei, to see the look in his eyes when the money came in, and for the romantic kiss he gave me after every show.

Then, one day in summer, he was gone. He wasn't at the door at the appointed time, and I did a show on my own, fucking myself with cucumbers and dildos -- attaching one with a suction cup to the base of the mirror wall, and impaling myself on it so that a client standing up could imagine himself fucking me. But Sergei wasn't there next day, and the next day. I went to the whorehouse in the mornings, but neither my lover nor the prostitute who had brought us together were to be found. I walked by every morning and a week later I asked a girl if she knew him -- I didn't even know his real name! -- but she only spoke Russian. Thrice weekly I returned to Dr.Mueller and did my show -- turned out I was popular even without my trainer, but whilst at the height of our fame, every cubicle had been occupied every second of our show, now there were empty slots throughout, and a lot less money.

I had saved all the money Sergei had shared with me. I had put it in a trust account which now amounted to almost one hundred thousand euros. A paltry sum compared with my bonus that year, but it was hard earned money: much harder than my deplorable day-job. I had always intended to give Sergei the money as a present one day, when he wanted to retire, with his wife and children maybe, even though he never shared that side of his life with me. I had no idea what his wife looked like, whether he had gone back to her, whether he had children or not. I knew nothing of him, other than I wanted him more than anything in the world. Now that he was gone, life seemed pointless.

I am still here. You can catch me Thursdays and Sundays, two times in the afternoon. You can watch me spread my ass with dildos, fuck myself, and eat my own cum (only the last show of each day). "Marc the banker slut" comes in fully dressed in a good suit, then takes it off piece by piece and turns into a cock-whore like you've never seen before on this stage! You can also hire me by the hour through a callboy website: I do the same striptease at your hotel or home, and for an extra 500 you can fuck me, spank me, slap me, and feed me all your juices. It'll be great fun for you: I do anything you want. It's a lot less fun for me these days. I miss him. When you fuck me rough and hard enough, you can hear me cry out his name.

By the same author:

/nifty/bisexual/beginnings/alex /nifty/gay/authoritarian/helping-out /nifty/gay/authoritarian/shopping-in-dubai /nifty/gay/encounters/fathers-day /nifty/gay/encounters/turnvater-jahns-boys /nifty/gay/encounters/seat-72