Christophe

I pulled a pair of low-rise shorts and a sports shirt out of the closet, put them on, leaving the sports shirt open and not tucked into the shorts, and padded down to the hotel reception desk to start the process of reporting I'd been ripped off, was temporarily destitute, and needed help to start the process of canceling cards and replenishing my funds. I was barefoot. I did have tennis shoes and a pair of boat shoes still, but I was in mourning for the beloved cowboy boots and interested in evoking sympathy at the desk by pointing to where the cowboy boots no longer were on my feet.

As I was talking with the hotel assistant manager, who was all sympathy and clucks, covering, no doubt a few snickers concerning the circumstances of my plight, probably having this problem regularly and even, perhaps being in on the take, I noticed another hotel guest, who was sitting in the lobby and reading a paper, starting to show interest.

The man possibly was in his early forties. Very well put together, dark complexioned and with dark curly hair. He was slim but well muscled and, like me, was wearing shorts and an open sports shirt. Unlike me, he had open-toed sandals on, but no socks. He had that artist aspect about him and was unmistakably French. He was, in fact, much of what I had thought I'd meet and have experience with in the South Pacific. A mature French artist type with a mature model's face and aspect and a sensuous smile. Visions of Maugham and Gauguin floated through my mind.

He also reminded me that I usually went with older men and that my atypical tryst with a younger man hadn't gone too well.

He was turning that smile on me now, as he stood, gave enough pause for us both to know he was commanding my attention, turned the smile even more sensuous, licked his lips, puckered them a bit, and blew a bit of a kiss. Only the French would do it this way, I thought. But the French could get away with it.

I followed him into the hotel bar, where he was already perched on a stool and turned toward me. The barman was at hand, ready to take the Frenchman's order. I recognized the barman who seemed to be on much too large a scale to be standing behind a hotel bar. He had been a performer at the beach party the previous evening. He looked at least half civilized today, although I could see that the tattooing over half his face was real—that it hadn't been makeup the previous night when, as a fully tattooed Samoan warrior, he'd performed a dance in just a loin cloth at the beginning of the festivities on the beach—a loincloth that had disappeared later in the evening to a general gasp of awe.

"Would you like a drink?" the man perched on the barstool asked me. His voice was a smooth baritone. He exuded self-confidence. He was as French as French could be. Both of us knew that, if he wanted to fuck me, he would. This was a gay resort. That's what guys came here for.

"Can't afford it at the moment, although I certainly feel like I need one. You probably heard back there in the lobby that I've been wiped out and am not fluid at the moment. I doubt I have enough cash for the next few days to stay in my hotel room, let alone to pay for drinks."

The man shrugged. "I'm sure I can help you with both the drinks and hotel room—mine."

"In exchange for what?" I asked, knowing what, but curious what he'd say. He obviously had heard that it was another man, staying with me, who had robbed me.

"I'm sure you know what in exchange for," he said, showing me a nice smile. "That Etienne you spoke of at the desk is somewhat of a legend around here, although the hotel staff won't admit it, for financial reasons of their own. And I'm quite aware of what he does with young men like you. I assure you that I'm very good with the cock too. And you are a sweet young piece. I'm very happy to help you out in your time of plight for cocking privileges. American, are you?"

"Yes, I'm American," I answered.

"Nice. Some of my most memorable fucks have been of Americans. They are so naïve of the possible positions, but oh so willing—and appreciative. You look athletic. Can I hope that you are very flexible too?"

"You don't believe in foreplay, do you?" I asked.

"Not when we both know you want me to fuck you. You'd want me to fuck you even if you weren't in trouble."

Thus it was I met Christophe Fortier.

* * * *

"Let's go over to a table overlooking the beach," the man said, "and I'll treat you to a bit of foreplay. I know Americans like that. Then we'll fuck. I'll try you out to see if it's worth my while to help you."

He was holding both drinks he'd ordered—mai tais. Not my drink, but he was paying for them. He also was controlling them. I followed him to the table, where he sat in a chair parallel to the view and waved me to one facing the beach. I was surprised we didn't just go to his room, but he didn't seem all that anxious to proceed, even though I could see from the skimpy material of his shorts that he was hard.

"My name is Christophe. Christophe Fortier. The name is French, of course. Comes from 'stronghold.' That's me—a regular fortress. And you, you're American. You look a bit young to be traveling in the South Pacific alone. Let me see your passport, please."

I showed it to him, knowing he wanted to make sure I was old enough to fuck. I was both amused and flattered. The age of consent here was sixteen, I'd been told. I had no illusions that much of my success in attracting men was that I looked considerable younger than I was.

"I wasn't alone, of course," I said with a smile. "But I would have been better to have been alone."

"No, but you picked up Etienne in the islands, didn't you? You didn't bring him from New York or Miami."

"No, I came from between those two—Philadelphia. And without Etienne. I'm a student—at Princeton, New Jersey. Oh, sorry, my name is Nathan Cassatt."

"Ah, railroads."

I was somewhat taken aback. It was a Mainline Philadelphia name, yes, but for a Frenchman in the remote South Pacific to know about the Pennsylvania Railroad was really something. Not having everyone around me know was one reason I've come this far for my junior trip. It made me wonder if Etienne had known too and had been more attracted by the money than by my body.

"Yes," I answered. "But I came this far to escape that—and to improve my French, if you must know."

"Would you prefer we spoke in French?"

"I'd like to try that," I said. "If I have trouble, your English seems superb and we can always revert."

He'd finished his mai tai and signaled for another—for both of us, although mine was only half gone. He moved into a smooth French, which I found so much more sensuous than English. He also laid his hand on my thigh. I wondered why we didn't just get on with it. I thought he was wrong about Americans wanting a lot of foreplay. I reacted better to someone who approached me and said he wanted to bang me—and then did, wham bang. Of course, that had been Etienne's approach.

"I'm surprised you know the name and the connection to Philadelphia," I said in what seemed to be halting French against his fluid diction in both languages.

"I lived and worked in New York for several years—honing my skills and looking for publishers. The Cassatts do some publishing, don't they?"

"Yes," I answered. But I was a bit nonplussed by that question. They didn't do publishing all that openly. A small, niche publisher, headed now by my father's boyfriend, James, using my father's money and name. The same boyfriend who had taken my virginity and initiated me into wanting sex from men.

"I know of that because I am a writer," he said. He opened the briefcase that had been at his side, hanging from a strap on his shoulder, when we'd come to the table and that he'd put on the floor beside his chair. I could see that he had a laptop computer in there. He took it out; placed it on the table, the screen in front of me; and opened it to a file.

"And you write about the South Pacific?"

"I write about young men being fucked by other men in the South Pacific. Look out toward the beach, Nathan. What do you see?"

"Beach, ocean, palm trees . . . bathers."

"Men bathers, Nathan. Randy men, all working on making or being made. This is a gay beach resort. Men come here to fuck. You came here to fuck. I came here to write stories about men fucking. Men fucking men." He moved the laptop closer to me.

I would have looked at the file on the computer screen if I hadn't been shocked by what he said next and latched my gaze on his face.

"Tell me, this Etienne, was his cock thick and long? Did you have any trouble taking him? Did he do more? Did he fist fuck you?"

"Excuse me?" I said. But he had his hand on my cock through the material of my shorts. He knew that my cock had lurched at that question.

"Was he horse hung? I see that you're approaching that yourself. A bit of a surprise for someone on the small and slender side as you are. Has anyone told you that you are more beautiful than handsome? A beautiful blond. Do you do modeling in the States? Or perhaps pornographic films? Is that James Miester, who runs the Cassatt publishing house, into more than pornographic publishing?"

"That's a lot of questions," I said. "But, yes, Etienne was horse hung"—I'd rendered "horse hung" in English, as I couldn't quite manage the French pronunciation Fortier had given the term. "No, I didn't have trouble taking him. I know I look young, but I'm experienced—and have been reamed wide before Etienne. I came to the South Pacific just for such a stretch. I'm sorry, did I word that wrong? I don't know the French word for 'reamed.'" I could be as straightforward as he was being.

"No, I think you worded that perfectly," Fortier said, with a small laugh. "You probably wonder why I asked. There, read the story I wrote last night—there, read it on the screen."

I began to read, and my jaw almost dropped to my chest. He had written about me and Etienne—at the dance on the beach. I could tell it was us, but it was written even more sensually than the actual experience. I found myself trembling. The actual events had been arousing, but this story made them even more so. I looked up at him.

"This. This is Etienne and me last night. You obviously were observing us. Is this what you write?"

"Yes, this is what I do. I travel regions of the world and write collections of short stories. I am doing this in the South Pacific now."

"You mean like James Michener and

Tales of the South Pacific

? He's already done that."

"Yes, and made a lot of money from it and from the musical made based on it. But mine are different. Mine are in French, for specific collectors who pay a lot of money for them, and mine are hard-core male pornography. And . . ."

"And what?" I asked. It came out a little breathlessly as he was gripping my cock hard, and I was hard for him. If this was foreplay, he was still taking the direct route.

"And my stories are based on observation and experience. That is where men like you and Etienne come in. That is why I might be offering you support until you can regain your finances. I know now, knowing the family you come from, that you will regain your finances. But in the days before you can do that . . . this isn't Philadelphia or New York. I know that eventually you'll be set up again—through contact with an American Express office, and there are a few scattered around on the South Pacific Islands. But—"

"You said you

might

be offering support. You already offered it before."

"I must be sure. For me to support you—I'm not made of money as you are—I must have compensation. Inspiration for my stories. Observed experience. Do you understand?"

"I'm not sure."

"Observed experience may not be accurate. I write from observation, yes. But I write more from my own experience. What I have done myself—what I have done to young men like you. What I have men I bring in to do to young men like you—that I observe and usually participate in. It's why I asked you if you could take an extra-large cock—and maybe two at once. Or a fist. Do you understand what I'm telling you? I write for a highly sophisticated, demanding, and searching audience. I don't write vanilla stories. Have you ever had two men working you over at once—hard?"

I didn't know what to say, so I just shrugged.

"How far into the story have you read on the computer screen? Did you read of the sex on the beach?"

"No. I've read of how provocative and sensual you made the dancing at the beach party."

"Read on," he directed. As I turned my face to the computer screen, I heard and felt the unzipping of my shorts. He gripped my cock, skin on skin, and started a slow stroke as I read. I looked around, in shock, afraid that we were being observed. But this was a gay resort. I'd seen men fucking in the lobby and no one had intervened.

In the story, a complete departure from what really happened, Etienne was coaxing me out onto the beach, beyond the fringe of the lighting from the beach party, where the moon shining off the lapping waves on the beach provided the light.

"This isn't as it happened," I muttered.

"You went to your hotel room," Fortier whispered. "The story had to extend from what I observed. I had to capture where it might go. That's why you're reading this. I need to know how authentic it is—how natural the progression is. Location isn't all that important, although the readers will be more aroused by a beach at night than a hotel room. It's one reason why I asked you about the size of Etienne's equipment and how easily you took it. Why I asked about Etienne's fetish. You didn't have time to find out Etienne's fetish? I have to know if my development beyond my ability to directly observe was authentic. And I have to know if you would go where the Etienne of the story took you."

I moaned as I read on in the story—not just because of what was written, but also because Fortier was slowly jacking me off. Embarrassed, I took another quick look around. The bar was deserted at this time of day other than by the native islander barman. He had come out to the side of the bar, leaning against it, watching us, his dick out and in his hand. His cock was as oversized—a real tropical sea slug—as the rest of him was.

There would be no objection or interference from that quarter. In fact, looking over at the door in the lobby, I saw that the barman had closed that. Probably locked it too. Of course, anyone could appear from the beach, but no one did. From here I could see that the beach was nearly deserted. This obviously was a gay hotel. Most of the men who had been there when we sat down had made their hookups. This activity went in cycles. Regardless, those left were interested in each other, not in what was happening in this bar.

Even if any of the male hotel guests came in from the beach, they were likely to do what the barman was doing—watch the show that Fortier was putting on, using me. He had one hand on my cock under the table top and the other gripping the back of my neck and massaging it. His face was pulled in close over the top of the laptop, watching my expressions as I read his graphic story.

"Are you writing a story about this, what you are doing to me here, in your mind even now?" I asked in a whisper.

"Of course I am. Later I'll have to fill in the emotions it's bringing out of you—or you will, if I let you stay with me. Now read the rest of the story on the screen."

In the story, I was on my back on the sand and Etienne was stretched out beside me, rolled toward me. We already were naked, and he was holding me in a close embrace. He was giving me a hand job, preventing all attempts of mine to work him as well. He wanted me milked first and said so.

"Have you read where he jacked you off first?" Fortier whispered.

"Yes, but that wasn't what he did. He worked me with his mouth first—at great length."

"Because I was right? Because he is magnificently hung and wanted you able to take him? Because he wanted to do more—wanted you more open?"

"Yes. That's what he said. That's what he did."

I read on, my trembling increasing, my moans deeper and prolonged—and not just from the effect of Fortier's hand job in the present. It was the attention Etienne gave me in the story, on the beach. So much different, so much more than he gave me before he fucked me in our room last night. But somehow . . . somehow so Etienne.

In the story he worked me hard, but it was with his fingers, at first, and then his fingers up to his knuckles, and finally his whole fist. Fisting my hole, stretching my channel. My right leg was raised up his beefy chest, the ankle hooked on his shoulder. My left leg bent, my buttocks rolled up to give his fist fullest access. He was deep kissing me on the mouth, sucking on my tongue, pressuring it with his teeth—bringing me to the edge of fearing he'd bite it off. Just like, now that I thought about it, what he'd done at the height of passion last night. And he had his fist up my hole. Holding me tight, preventing me from writhing beyond limited bounds, my huffing and deep moaning competing with the sound of the surf.

My explosion in the story was gigantic, my cum arcing up high toward the sea in multiple spouts. Only then, me exhausted and trembling from the fist slowly moving inside me, did the Etienne of the story turn me on to my knees and forearms and fuck me like a dog to his own ejaculation.

"Oh, god, Oh shit, I'm gonna come," I muttered in the real time of the bar as Etienne creamed my insides in the story. And then I did, my wad hitting the underside of the table and dropping back onto my thighs.

Christophe laughed. "Now you know why I get paid good money for my stories."

My eyes darted over to the bar, where the barman was arcing his cum on a tabletop too, and then going around behind the bar for a rag to clean off the table and going back to nonchalantly polishing glasses.

"It wasn't like that. He didn't . . ."

"He didn't fist fuck you to an ejaculation?" Fortier asked, pulling back from me, but leaving me sprawled in my chair, my dick hanging out of my shorts. He hadn't freed his, although I could see that he was hard inside those shorts and was leaving a precum wet spot.

"But was that a natural progression of what he would do with you?"

"Yes, I guess so." And I did guess so, it seemed, even at the time, that Etienne was headed toward something I'd never done before—almost welcomed him doing.

"And would you have let him fist fuck you?" Fortier asked.

"Yes, I guess," I responded after a bit of silence. If I could take it, I thought, although I didn't say that.

"Have you been fist fucked before?"

"No . . . I haven't." There was just enough pause before I completed the denial to tune Fortier into there being more—something I wasn't saying. And there

was

more. There was James's fetish. The anal balls.

"You hesitate. There's been something comparable?"

"One sex partner of mine," I murmured—I was not about to reveal who it was though—"One sex partner liked to use a string of graduated anal balls."

"Graduated? Graduated to what diameter?"

"Uh, I can't remember . . . but yes, I can. He was proud that he'd found them. The largest three inches, I think."

Fortier whistled. "That large? Why that's probably the diameter of the heel of my hand. You've already been there in reality—or nearly there." He raised his hand for me to see and turned it slowly in the air, bunching his fingers together, exhibiting it for me at all angles. He gave a little laugh and I shuddered. "Would you say the heel of my hand was three inches across? Maybe. Maybe a bit larger, though. Etienne's a much bigger man than me. What would you say his dimension would be? Four, five inches? And I understand it was his fetish. That if he'd been with you longer . . ."