Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"No, don't move."

That's what I woke up to the next morning. Gordon's voice telling me not to move.

"I've got to piss," I said. I started to move an arm, but he hissed at me.

"I said don't move. You can piss in a couple of minutes." Your pose is just too luscious.

I opened an eye. He was sitting across the room behind an easel and obviously had been painting me while I slept. I slept in the nude, of course—he'd left me that way when he'd withdrawn. He hadn't fucked me, because he couldn't get it up more than once a day, I didn't think, and he'd already had his go at me when we'd arrived at the house. But he'd massaged me until I'd gotten it up and then had sucked me dry while finger fucking my ass.

He'd left me tangled in the sheets, with my buns protruding, and I'd gone to sleep that way and had been so exhausted from the trip here that I hadn't moved before I woke up.

"Sorry, I really have got to piss," I said, and, when he didn't object this time, I pushed myself up and out of the bed and padded to the bathroom off the corridor. I heard what I thought was a record of a piano piece, but it abruptly stopped, and I realized that it must be Claude Barbier practicing on the keys. I couldn't fault with his piano playing.

When I came back, Gordon called me over to the easel and then pulled me into his side. He was just wearing shorts and his fly was open. He had an erection, possibly his only one for the day and I sighed, knowing he'd use it. I looked at his painting. It was near enough finished that he didn't need me to go back into the pose. And while Barbier was a master on the piano, Haydon was a master with the paint brush. As critical as I was of their sexual prowess, I had to be in awe of them both in their separate artistry. I was in the company of truly great artists, icons in their separate disciplines. I needed to appreciate that and be grateful I had been brought into their company. Someday I might find myself to be a footnote in one or both of their biographies.

I turned and threw my right leg over his thighs, reaching down to grasp his cock and holding it in place as I came down into his lap, skewering my ass channel on his shaft. Taking his head between my hands, I put our faces together and entered into a deep kiss. I moved my butt on his cock, bringing him to a quick ejaculation, ending in an appreciative sigh. Then, when he pressed the palm of a hand into my sternum, I arched back with my head and hands to the floor in front of the chair we were straddling and moaned for him as he stroked my cock off and I felt him going flaccid inside me. It satisfied him and it didn't do any damage to me. It was the least I could do for a man who could render me so sensually in oils and possibly give me a footnote in the history of art.

I came back up and took his mouth in mine again. His cock stirred inside me, but just couldn't manage another hardening—at least not then.

My camera was on a side table within reach and I pulled it over. "I want you to look at these shots," I said. "I think some of them are good. I'd like to pick out some and take them into town and have them blown up."

"We don't have to go into town for that—although I plan for us to do so for lunch anyway," he murmured. "I have all of the facilities here to process them. Pick out what you want and tell me how big you want them blown up."

He just smiled and did a couple of turns of the room later that morning, as I was hanging poster-size shots of the horse master on the walls of my bedroom, including a couple of sunset shots of him masturbating.

"You like him, I can tell," Gordon said. He hadn't made any comment of surprise that I had caught the hunk jacking himself off.

"Thus far he's the most striking subject I've seen—well, the horses as well. Somehow they go together."

"You mean he's horse hung."

"That too," I said, with a smile. "You gave him a name yesterday. Guido. So, do you know him?"

"I don't know him in quite the way you may mean," Gordon said. "I know that he's a top too. I unsuccessfully tried to buy him for myself. He was good-natured about it, though. He's Guido Marini, an Italian mother and an absent English father. He lives in a cottage in the woods down near the lake. His purpose in life seems to be those horses of his. I let him pasture them on the slope down to the lake. He has other pastures for them as well. He's part of the tourist industry here, as no doubt you'll learn later. Do you want him to fuck you?"

"I wouldn't turn him down," I answered, trying to sound noncommittal. I thought that was more politic than answering hell yes, I want him to fuck me.

Later, when we'd driven into Gunzenhausen and were seated in the outdoor café, the Vanilla Café, on Hensolt Strasse, I saw him again, and became even more interested in fucking him. He was across the street, near an old clock tower, astride his gray draft horse, wearing German lederhosen and posing for photographs for the tourists. I wanted to run over and photograph him too—and make lewd comments about how good he looked in tight leather shorts.

I didn't have to, though, as, spying us, he walked his horse over to us and spoke with Gordon and Claude in what I recognized as rudimentary French, which, nonetheless wasn't rudimentary enough for me to understand. I would have done better in Italian, and I sensed that Guido would have, as well. The conversation was brief. Although he was speaking with the two men, he was looking at me. I looked right back—looking up as he was still on his magnificent horse, both steed and man exuding power and sexuality.

When he saw a tourist group coming down the street, he moved back to his photo op position.

"What did he say?" I asked Gordon, barely able to contain myself.

"He asked who you were," Claude answered. "He knows who Gordon and I are."

"What did you tell him?"

"We told him you were Gordon's son, here on break from Cambridge. I don't think he believed me, and I didn't expect him to. Everyone around here knows we bring young men to the lake house and debauch them. He asked about you and the camera and we told him the truth—that you were studying photography. That seemed to satisfy him."

"Oh," I said, not knowing what I thought about that. I had been worried that they had said more—more about what I was doing beyond photography here. I had thought I didn't want him to know more about me, but now I realized that I wanted him to know more—to know it all. I wanted him to know that I took cock and would gladly take his.

Sensing my aroused interest, Gordon smiled and said, "the truth is that he asked if Claude and I fucked you," he added, and I felt my blood turn to ice and then immediately boil. "I told him we did. He said he'd like to fuck you too. I said he'd have to ask you about that."

Oh. I felt myself blush and I turned my face away so that they couldn't see the mixed reaction I had to that.

On the way back to the house, I complimented Claude on his piano playing. He asked me if I played, and I said I'd taken lessons but wasn't very good at it. This led into him fucking me at the piano that afternoon when we returned to the house. He didn't have the problem that Gordon had about only being able to get it up once a day.

He told me he'd help me learn a simple rendering of the haunting tune I'd heard him play that morning. I knew it as "Elvira's Theme" from the movie soundtrack to Scarface, but he told me it was Mozart's Piano Concerto Number 21, the "Elvira Madigan Theme." He sat me on his lap, my legs spread over his thighs, and he took my hands in his, his fingers over mine, and guided me in the tune on the piano. We progressed from a simple one-handed version to two hands and then to chords. The tune was intoxicating and I felt myself melting into him, forgetting entirely his resemblance to a toad. His cock engorged up the small of my back, and I was panting when he unbuckled and unzipped my shorts—all that I was wearing—unzipped his own shorts—all that he was wearing—and closing the lid over the piano keys.

"I want to fuck you now," he murmured in my ear.

And I unhesitatingly answered, "Yes, put me on your cock," in a breathy whisper, wanting him inside me.

He lifted and spread my legs so that my ankles were on the top of the grand piano case, raised me with strong hands, and set my channel down on his erection.

"You've done this before," I whispered.

"Many times; many times, young man," he answered wistfully, as if he realized those days were coming to an end, which would make him savor this all the more.

He was longer—much longer—than Gordon was, and able to stay hard longer than Gordon could, and was strong enough to raise and lower me on his cock until we both had come. I stayed with him, feeling him go flaccid, and locking my fists behind his neck as we kissed and he rubbed my nipples. If I received instruction on the piano like this for the rest of the summer, I decided that being fucked by a toad wouldn't be half bad. I didn't even have to look at him in this position.

Still, my daydreams went to the horse master.

Later in the day, when I was posed in the nude on the low rock wall between the terrace and the grass of the pasture and Gordon was painting me, I turned my head at the sound of a neighing horse and looked into the pasture, where Guido's three horses were feeding—and Guido was standing among them and looking up at me.

"Turn your head back to where it's supposed to be," Gordon admonished.

Reluctantly I did so, but I was aching to be looking at Guido instead.

I only saw him one more time over the next month. We took an excursion south of Gunzenhausen to the larger and older town of Weissenburg. Gordon told me that he wanted to show me the reconstruction of the Limes in Weissenburg, one of a five-hundred-mile line of Roman fortresses that had been stretched along Germany to aid in Roman control of the unruly Germans two thousand years earlier.

I only found out why Gordon wanted to take me there after we had arrived. I had noticed that Guido and his horses had disappeared from the pasture area soon after I had arrived—too soon. I'd even ventured down to the lake and found his stone cottage, but it was locked up tight each time I went there. Gordon had told me that the horse master moved around the area with his horses and that he'd be back sometime during the summer. But after a month he hadn't returned.

But there he was, at the reconstructed gates of the Limes in Weissenburg, astride his thoroughbred stallion and dressed as a Roman cavalry officer. He was posing with tourists for photos. I found him to be achingly sexy, as I'm sure some of the tourists who rushed for photos did as well. He looked at me and gave me a little smile when we stood there briefly before Gordon and Claude pulled me away to an outdoor café, but it was just a look. He was too busy taking the tourists' money for photos to come to me, take me to a quiet corner of the fort, and fuck the shit out of me. For some reason I thought that's how he'd fuck—rough and a total taking. And after a month of the "maybe I can get it up" quick sex with Gordon and Claude, rough and total by a horse-hung muscular man was what I longed for.

"So, will you thank me for bringing you to see the horse master today?" Gordon asked, with a mischievous smile on his face.

"Aren't you afraid I'll run off with him?" I countered, a bit confused that he willingly was bringing forth competition—unfair competition at that.

"I want you two to fuck," Gordon said. "I want to see it so that I can paint it, though. We must make arrangements for the magnificent young man to ride you while I capture it in paint—if I can do justice to it. I'm quite certain that Guido would do justice to you."

I didn't know what to think about that—so I shoved it out of my mind.