The Magician's Assistant

His name was Franz. He was eighteen--at least the Frankfurt, Germany, brothel manager had guaranteed he was eighteen and showed me documentation. It was in German, though, so I could only make out about half of what the documentation said. Before him had been Helmut and then Ludwig--both guaranteed to be eighteen. Both were quite nice to have had for the brief time they were with me.

Franz was good--very good. There were two single beds in the starkly outfitted Frankfurt brothel cell. It wasn't that long after the end of World War II, so everything in Germany was starkly outfitted. Franz was thin--undernourished--Helmut and Ludwig had been as well. They were all beautiful young men, though, each exhibiting why I preferred small, slender eighteen-year-olds: developing into a man, but flexible, trainable, yielding, still with an aura of innocence, sweet dispositioned, and willing to try new positions. Times were tough in Germany or they may not be doing what they did--offering what they did. If I chose one of them and took him to the states it would be like going to heaven for him. Each of them had tried hard with me to be that young man I took to the States, to a new life. Even the ones not picked could feel thankful I'd lain with them. Like all Americans, I paid them very well. They did not starve if an American picked them.

Franz was doing everything he could to please me--to be that youth taken to the States. I was sitting on the side of one of the beds, facing the side of the other and holding Franz's thin waist as he fucked himself on my cock in long strokes, pulling away to where the rim of my glans showed and then thrusting forward, taking me to the root. It was a long slide. I was built long and thick. He professed to want the full possession and challenge of it--to be stretched and fully used. Young as he was, he was very experienced on what to do in a male brothel.

I did that for him--fully possessed him.

His buttocks rested on the tops of my thighs. His legs were bent, hugging my hips. His feet were flat on the mattress of the bed I was sitting on. He was using his feet for leverage to fuck his channel on my shaft. He was working very hard to impress. His back was arched over the space between the two beds, his fists buried into the mattress of the other bed, holding his small, undernourished, but eighteen-year-old-perfect body in a horizontal position. He was hard, which assured me that, although he may be forced to do this to survive, this was what he was meant to do--have sex with other men. He was fine being fucked by a man. He just was in the position now that he had to do it for money.

That was important to me--that he enjoyed the fuck and that he could get it up with me. I wasn't thinking of adopting one of these young men to take back to the States just to give them access to a better life. I wanted to fuck them and for them to want me to fuck them. I also wanted them to be a comfortable companion. I was willing to support them into adulthood if they gave themselves to me fully at eighteen.

"

Ja, ja. Du fickst gut. Du bist so gross! Fick mich hart. Komm in mich

--Yes, yes. You fuck good. You are so big. Fuck me hard. Come inside me!" Franz cried, picking up vigor in riding me. He knew all of the words to egg a john on.

I was up for that, but I like to be in control at the climax. I rose, causing him to collapse on his back on the bed beside the one I lay on. I had him in a missionary position and I clutched and raised his narrow hips to me, achieving an angle for maximum depth. He yielded to me fully, just as I liked. I palmed the small of his back with one hand to keep his pelvis raised to me and gripped his throat with the other, holding his head to the mattress. He writhed a bit under me, but that was from the effect of my long, thick cock working his channel hard. He otherwise was completely docile, yielding, letting me have what I wanted. I wanted it all.

Maybe this was the one.

He cried out, "

Ja, Ja! Fick mich hart

!" arching his back, crying out for me to fuck him hard, holding his legs raised and spread, stretching his arms out straight from his body in a sacrificial position, fisting handfuls of bedspread to keep himself in place, his head arching back and his eyes rolling up into his head, as I banged him hard to an ejaculation.

"

Ich liebe es. Nehmen Sie alles

!--I love it. Take it all." Denying me nothing, trying his best to impress me. Somehow he knew what was at stake here, what he was auditioning for. I hadn't told him he was auditioning for a life in the States. The difference between this time I banged him and the last time I'd come to the brothel to do so, meant someone must have told him.

After I'd come--inside him as he'd said he wanted, I lowered my heaving chest on his and went into a kiss as he took his own cock in hand and stroked himself off, releasing between our bellies.

The part that came afterward was almost more important to me--the two of us stretched out on one of the beds, he in my embrace, our hands moving languidly over the body of the other, me solid, hirsute, and muscular, he willowy, smooth, and slender, while we conversed across just a bit of a language divide on this and that, the topic not as important as the connection between an older and a younger man. I was as interested in companionship as I was in gay sex. I'd picked up some German as I'd marched into Germany in the war; Franz was learning English out of necessity to exist with the conquerors.

The second fuck was always the more satisfying of the two--slow and deep, me deep in his soft core, the two of us moving as one to a shared, sighing climax. Him lying there in my close embrace, the muscles of his channel walls rippling over my slow-probing cock, as I stretched and worked him, both of us working to coordinate the rhythm of the fuck.

When I was sitting in the brothel manager's office afterward, he smiled at me and said, "So, have you chosen one of the youths, Herr Sandler?"

"You guarantee that they are all eighteen?" I asked. That was my fetish. I could pretend for years afterward that they were young, but I needed them to be eighteen--developing into a man, but still young, nubile, flexible, and yielding to my desires--when I first fucked them.

"

Ja, naturlich

--yes, of course," he answered, still with a smile. There was quite a lot of money involved here. But there was even more in my periodic trips to Germany from Gibsonton, Florida, to indulge my fetish for a couple of days. The age of consent was fourteen in Germany, so at least indulging myself here with older youths, with eighteen-year-olds, held less of a risk while I was engaged in the activity than doing so in the States. I couldn't indulge in anyone younger than that with the thought to taking him to the States, so I kept with that age.

It was in Germany, at the end of the war four years earlier, when my own time as a soldier had brought me into the German heartland at the finish, that I had found, by frequenting such male brothels as this one in Frankfurt, that my preferences went to the freshness of eighteen-year-olds. This was not something I could engage in with Gibsonton youths without great risk. I was forty, and a private school principal, although it was a girls' school. I wasn't going to risk being exposed to young males in that setting. I had a respected position in the town, and the town was too small to hold secrets such as an older man with a far younger one forever. Thus, I had come up with this scheme of taking in a destitute supposed relative and raising him.

And while I was raising him, I was fucking the stuffing out of him anytime I wanted. He would be grateful for being taken out of postwar Germany and given a new life in what to him would be a paradise. It was important, though, that he be grateful enough to me to open his legs to me on demand--and not to run away from me as soon as I'd gotten him into the States. I was a highly sexed man--I had needs and demands to be satisfied.

I would pass him off as the son of a sister who went to Germany between the wars and was stuck there when Germany began to flex its muscles again, assaulted, and died recently, leaving a son. I even had put a photograph of such a woman and young man on my desk at the bank--no one related to me, of course, the photo of someone young enough to have developed into most any young man I selected. I already was putting a scheme to work on why I, a bachelor, would have a young, foreign male in my house. I would send him to trade school, but I would keep him in my house and bed for as long as possible.

"I haven't decided," I answered. "And there's a lot to be done--new documentation, preparing my contacts in my community, travel arrangements--before I decide to do this and pick one of the young men."

"

Ja, Ich verstehe

--Yes, I understand. But the youths won't be eighteen forever, so as soon as you can--"

"As soon as I have decided and made arrangements, I'll contact you again." I'd already started on documenting a new life for one of them--if I decided to go this way. I almost was decided, but not quite. I already had made contact with someone in New York City to make one of these young men into a nephew whose mother, my sister, had died not long ago. Making a forced pregnancy in inner war Germany the young man's background would stave off questions of paternity and circumstance.

"As far as the decision of which one," I said. "Perhaps another session."

"Certainly, which one?"

"I think Helmut," I said.

"Excellent. I'll have you taken back to room 5 and have Helmut sent back to you immediately."

"And then, after that, Ludwig again. I will, of course, cover all normal fees. I don't expect more free sampling."

"Yes, of course." From previous visits, the man already knew I had an expansive appetite and great stamina. Continuing the sampling was fine as long as I was paying the regular use fees.

* * * *

I was nearly home in Gibsonton, Florida, from the Tampa airport after a New York City stopover en route back from my trip to Frankfurt, Germany, when I saw the lad, dripping with water and shivering in the twilight chill. I had just turned onto East Bay Street running along the inner reaches of the Bull Frog Creek, which my house on East Bay faced. I was riding in my big, black 1948 Oldsmobile 98 sedan, an appropriate vehicle for my position as a school principal, not a bad rise for a man barely forty, when I saw him.

He was just a young guy, maybe eighteen--my mind registered the hope he was eighteen. He looked Italian or Spanish and he was a beautiful young man as far as I could see--small and slender, just as I liked. He was water soaked, though, and was trudging along like he was shouldering all of the cares of the world. I slowed down and kept pace with him, figuring that would make him stop and tell me what was wrong. But he walked on, listlessly, like I wasn't even there. I honked my horn, though, and that made him pause and look around.

I leaned far over the passenger seat and rolled the window down. "You've gone for a swim or something?" I asked. "The sun's going down and it's going to get right nippy out here in a few minutes. You need to dry off. Do you have far to go?"

"I don't know," he said, giving me a glassy look.

"I live just up the street. Let's get you inside and dried off. Then, if it isn't far, I'll drive you wherever you were headed."

He just stood there, looking at me. But at least he didn't start walking again. I leaned far over a second time and got the door to open. "Come on. Get in. You ever ride in an Oldsmobile 98 before?" I'd yet to meet a guy who could resist a ride in a big, black Oldsmobile 98. I'd gotten guys to ride my cock for a chance to ride in an Oldsmobile 98. I'd gotten guys to ride my cock in the backseat of a big black Oldsmobile 98. I can't deny that the wheels in my mind were already turning in that direction here. He was a beautiful young man, and the way the wet clothes clung to his body--to every contour and crevice--made him almost irresistible.

To my surprise, I required no more cajoling. He got in the car. I repeated. "I'll take you where you want to go, but we can stop off at my place--it's just up the street--first and get you dry. You'll catch your death of cold from being soaked like that."

He laughed, which caught me off guard. It was sort of a strange laugh, though, hollow and touching on hysteria. "What?" I asked. "What did I say?" I instinctively reached over and touched him on the knee. He didn't flinch from that.

"You said that I could catch my death," the young man said, the first words he uttered since I'd seen him walking listlessly down the road along the banks of the Bull Frog Creek.

"What's amusing about that?" I touched him on the knee again, as if that was a habit of mine when I talked, but I did it on purpose. He didn't flinch away this time either.

"Not amusing," he said. "But sort of funny. Nobody told me the river was so shallow here."

"Well, it's a creek, not a river, and this is the tail end of it. It doesn't matter if it was an accident, of course," I said. "Wet is wet whether you accidentally fall in or you go in on purpose with rocks in your pockets."

"I didn't accidentally fall in," he said. He took a couple of rocks out of his pocket and placed them on the floor in front of him to punctuate that.

I let that sink in for a block. I was moving real slow, wanting to reach some sort of understanding before we pulled into my garage. But it had to be said. "Did you slip and fall into the river or were you trying to drown yourself?"

"I didn't see any use living," he said. "If it went on any longer he was going to kill me."

"Kill you?" I asked. "He?" I glanced over and for the first time saw that he had a bandage, spotted with blood, wrapped around his bicep. "Who is he? Who would kill you?"

"Raphael. Raphael the Great."

This was getting weird. "Who is this Raphael? Your father? A man you're running away from? And what's so great about him?"

"Not my father. Most definitely not my father." He was quite definite about that. I also, for the first time noted his accent. That, coupled with his looks, told me again that he was Mediterranean in origin. The accent sounded Spanish. So did the name Raphael. What he was wearing was exotic too--definitely not normal wear in Gibsonton, Florida. His trousers were shiny black, clinging to his body, especially now that they were wet. He had a red sash rather than a belt at his narrow waist, and his shirt was white and frilly. He looked like the miniature version of a toreador. There wasn't anything exotic like this about the town of Gibsonton. But then, there was, actually.

"Are you from the circus? From the training school over on the Ringling Brothers Circus wintering grounds?" I asked, the realization that I was right dawning on me. He was from the circus training school. This was a circus town. The Ringling Brothers wintered here in Gibsonton. The circus ran a side-show park and a circus-performer training school on its wintering grounds.

"Yes," he answered.

"And this Raphael is one of the performers there?"

"Yes. He's a magician. I'm his assistant--well, I'm training to be his assistant."

"Is that all you are to him?" I had to ask. The "he's not my father" had been voiced too vehemently. There must be something behind that. And it might be something that interested me.

"Yes, I'm more to him. But he has a temper--especially when he's drunk. He can get reckless with his knives." The young man didn't seem to have any interest in disguising his sexual orientation from me. The initial looks we'd exchanged had probably determined that for both of us--mine as well as his. Those in the lifestyle can usually see it in others. We had, I'm sure.

"As his assistant, you become involved in his tricks, I take it?" My hand went to his knee again--and stayed there.

"Yes."

"And some of them are dangerous."

"Yes."

"That's how you got that cut in your arm?"

"Yes."

"And you don't think it was an accident?"

"No."

"So, being afraid he'd kill you, you came down to the river to drown yourself?" I let that sink in. It didn't take long. He laughed. I laughed with him. I instinctively moved both hands back on the wheel, though, which was losing ground a bit. But he'd as good as told me that this magician was fucking him, and he didn't shrink from me touching him. I was doing OK. It was all a matter of taking it slowly. But the goal was to take it--to take him. He obviously was putting it already, so I wouldn't be robbing anything.

"You must understand," he said. "Raphael is Spanish. I am Spanish too. We Spaniards are very passionate people."

I laughed. "Americans can be passionate too, but we don't usually go around carving each other up."

"Are you? Are you passionate?" he asked. He slid nearer to me on the front bench seat and put one of his small hands on the seat right next to me, touching the side of my thigh. The initiative had shifted nicely.

"Yes, I think of myself as a very passionate person."

"My name is Mateo," he said.

"I'm Steve--Steven Sandler. Let's get you dry," I said. We'd reached my house. It wasn't large. It was a two-bedroom bungalow, set back from and above the street level, a living room and dining room in the front, with two bedrooms, a bath between them, and the kitchen along the back. A garage big enough for the Oldsmobile 98 was at the side, a few steps down from the kitchen, and there was a basement several steps down from the garage. The house was in an expensive part of the town, though, and was kept in pristine condition. I lived alone, and it had a view down to the creek from its front porch. The house was expensively furnished. A private school principal was a prominent position in the town.

Being a school official in Gibsonton, though, was why I had to be very careful in my private life.

As I parked the car in the garage and we were stepping up into the house, I asked, "How old are you, Mateo?"

"Eighteen," he answered.

"Sweet," I said. I palmed his waist as I guided him up into the house. He made no effort to move away from that. I let my hand slide down to his buttocks, and he didn't move away from that either.

I showed him where the bathroom was and how to work the shower. I stood there, not looking directly, but looking, as he stripped off his wet clothes. He knew I was watching. I handed him a large, fluffy towel and said I'd put his clothes in the washer and dryer, which were in the basement.

When he came out of the bathroom, with the towel knotted around his waist, I was sitting by the dining room table. I'd taken off my jacket and my tie and had unbuttoned the top two buttons of my white dress shirt. I kept my body in good shape. I knew I was good looking. I didn't have any trouble hooking up with young guys, although, because of my position, I usually went far out of town to hook up--as far as the male brothels of Europe. He came into the living room and stood there for the longest couple of minutes, the two of us just looking at each other. Then, rather dramatically, Mateo unknotted and dropped the towel and stood there, posing, in the altogether.

It was a very nice eighteen-year-old altogether.

"I would like to do something nice for you for stopping and picking me up," he said.

"What did you have in mind?" I asked in a throaty voice. I was going hard.

Mateo took care of that. He came over knelt in front of me, ran his hands up in inner thighs to coax my legs open, unzipped and freed me, and took my erection in his mouth. I didn't stop him. Instead, I placed my hands on the silken black curls on his head and guided him in giving me head. He gave great head.

I fucked him on the bed in my bedroom, the larger of the two at the back of the house. I'd had the other one decorated for someone younger who I'd long hoped would occupy the room and give me companionship--and more. Or, rather, Mateo fucked himself on my cock. I lay back on the bed, both of us naked, and he rode me in a cowboy.