I turned toward the canal at the sound of the voice. "Excuse me?"
"Ah, English," the man said, his voice heavily accented, but he obviously had better control of English than I ever would have of Dutch.
"I said that young man, Finn, is not for you. He is girly man. He needs a man's man. I think you need a man's man too."
There was no question that the man framed in the doorway down into the green and yellow houseboat was a man's man. He was solid, wearing a flapping-open black leather vest and low-slung black leather pants. He was bald, but hirsute everywhere else, covered with curly reddish-brown hair. Under the hair was a riot of colorful tattooing in an Asian motif. He could have hung in the Rijksmuseum and attracted as much of an audience as Rembrandt did. He was muscular, a Zeus of a man, and arousingly thuggish in facial features.
"You were admiring the boat. You wish to come inside?"
Yes, I wanted to come inside. I was curious. I could have said no and walked on, but I didn't.
The interior was fascinating, decked out like a Spanish galleon—commodious but all efficiency.
After the tour, he said, "Have you ever tasted Genever, the Dutch liquor?"
No, I hadn't. I could have turned that offer down, but I didn't. Neither did I turn down a few drags on whatever he was smoking.
On a sofa, he kissed and fondled me, undressed me, shed his vest and pants. I could have left then, but I didn't. He pressed my head down into his lap. I gave him jaw-challenging head. He ran his hands up my inner thighs. I shuddered and spread them, rolling my pelvis up to his command. He wasn't long, but he had an extremely thick beer-can cock. I was open to him, and he pressed his advantage. I gasped and panted hard, digging my fingernails into his biceps, as he forced himself inside me, stretching and punishing. I hugged his hips with my knees, clutched his hairy ass cheeks. Collapsing, I surrendered full control. Slow slides, sucking nipples. Feasting and fucking.
