Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

My meeting with Horst the next morning, on Sunday, was almost incidental. I was standing in the foyer of the chalet, waiting for the manservant to bring the car around to take me away, and Horst wafted through on his way from one room to the other. He did a double take, as if he was surprised to see me still there. It couldn't have been the clothes I was wearing. I'd taken them out of the closet of the room I'd been locked in after the manservant finally was finished chain fucking me. There were almost as many clothes about my size in the closet here as in Horst's Munich townhouse.

He gave me a look as if to say he thought I was willingly hanging around for more—but I'd had enough that weekend of the "more" he had to give.

"I paid up front," he said.

"I understand that," I answered. "I'm just waiting for the car to come around."

"Oh," he said and started to walk off. But then me turned and said, "You were great. A great and enduring lay. I'll commend you to your service."

"Thank you," I answered, and then added, because it was the truth, "You have possibly the longest and most talented cock I've ever had inside me. If you do this again, feel free to ask for me specifically."

"Oh . . . thanks," he said, clearly pleased. To show that he really was pleased, he dug into his back pocket, came up with a wallet, extracted a hundred-euros note from it, and handed it to me.

"You don't have to tip me," I said, but both of us knew I was just being polite. I'd already taken the banknote.

The manservant/chauffeur drove the Mercedes, which had smoked windows, half way down the slope until he was out of sight of the chalet, pulled off the road, climbed into the backseat, and set the car rocking fucking me again, crouched between my spread thighs, with my feet leveraging off the interior roof. I didn't begrudge him the fuck. The contracted day wasn't over yet. It reminded me who and what I was, and he wasn't half bad at it.

He delivered me to a specified café in downtown Munich and left me there. A whole new contact from my handlers in the States showed up. I was half expecting to see Hans, but it was an Italian. I knew he was Italian, because he told me he was Italian and that his name was Paulo.

"Let's leave. The coffee in here sucks," he said, standing up from the table.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"I'm Italian. Where would you think we're going? You're doing the quick rounds of Europe. In and out before the authorities get a whiff of you. Didn't you understand that? We're going to Italy. To Portofino for now and then over to Sicily. Your next client is known as The Sicilian . . . then The Turk after that, I think. But you get a week off in Portofino so your back can heal."

"My back? You knew I'd be flogged?"

"That probably did come up when the order was made, yes. It was in the contract I saw."

"And no one told me?"

"Who the fuck cares what you think about it?"

"That's a point, I guess," I answered.

We took the train from Germany to Italy and had a carriage room to ourselves. Somewhere in the Alps, Paulo pulled the shades down to the corridor, and turned to me.

"Why did you pull the corridor shades down?" I asked.

"Didn't I mention that I was Italian?" he answered with a smile.

I sighed as he pulled me up on his lap after I'd knelt between his thighs and given him hardening head, and lap fucked me. Yet another 'interview' not much different from the one Hans had given me when I arrived in Munich.

I made no protest. Even in the world of high-class international male escorts, the pimps take their pound of flesh