Chapter 5 – Chapter 5

September 2 to November 21, 1940

Indeed, for more than a month it was as if the Germans and the occupation didn't exist. Most of the men Paul entertained were middle aged; nearly all were French. Some were older, some younger. Some were in good physical condition and some Paul had to handle gingerly. All had cocks; all put their cocks inside Paul—in his mouth or his ass or both. Some came more to have someone they could talk to intimately, but eventually they all put their cocks inside Paul. Some just held them there, expecting Paul to make them hard and flowing. Some were aggressive and demanding. They all came for Paul—in more ways than one. And most of them left satisfied, leaving behind generous gratuities.

As the days went on, fewer of the men coming to the brothel were young. Paul hadn't a clue to link this with the occupation.

It only took a few weeks for the novelist living in and observing and writing about the Ritz Paris, Michel Paquet, to find Paul. He fucked Paul missionary style, with Paul at the end of the bed, his legs raised and spread and held there by Paul's hands, while Paquet cupped Paul's head in his hands, looked intensely into his eyes and whispered poetry to Paul when he wasn't kissing him on the lips. Paul made the possible mistake of showing affection back and signaling with his body and moans and groans that he was enjoying the fuck more than he was. Paquet seemed to have become taken with him and was reacting more like it was lovemaking than sexual release. He came back once a week as long as Paul was there.

Paquet asked Paul to move in with him and to service just him and his friends. Paul passed the offer off as if Paquet was joking. He wasn't, and the refusal smarted.

In Paquet's wake came Count Jan Bukowski, athletic and demanding. If there had been a trapeze hanging from the ceiling, Bukowski would have wanted to have sex with Paul on it. Paul would have been game for that; he found the count's title an intriguing addition to his "men I have had" collection and his sexual prowess arousing. Bukowski put Paul in all sorts of contortion positions and fucked him hard and deep. The Pole had one of the biggest cocks in Paris, knew how to use it, and treated his partners like pillaged peasants. Considering all of the sex that Paul had to coax out of his older patrons, Paul enjoyed seeing the count walk through the door, and was stretched out on his bed moaning and purring when the count walked out the door.

Even the hanger-on Jewish actor, Bres Moulin, slid in in the count's slipstream. He fucked from hurt and the anger of never being at the center of the attention, making Paul do lap dances for him only, at some point, grabbing Paul's waist and slamming Paul's passage up and down on his nearly adequate cock. All the time Paul had to act like he was enjoying the sex when what he wanted to do was to slap the man, tell him to wake up, and to give up being fully accepted by Michel and Jan and be his own man. But Paul's job was to make men feel masterful in their own terms, so he just groaned and kept telling Moulin how big and masterful his cock was—when it wasn't, really. Paul couldn't remember feeling the man's cut cock inside him at all.

Claude had declared the brothel as a safe haven from the occupying Germans, but it was a promise he couldn't keep. Paul had been there no more than a month when German military officers began to appear at the door. They couldn't be turned away. Nothing could turn the Germans away from anything they wanted from Paris. Paris was slowly being raped by the Germans, and rape is no less rape when it happens over time. And it's no less rape when it is forcibly taken from those who normally would freely give it.

Claude tended to try to divert them to his lesser stable, to men on their way out in terms of desirability and men who could endure more than others, because the Germans came with a reputation for brutality and cruelty. It wasn't a fully deserved stigma, which Paul well knew as he thought back to his night writhing under the German SS captain in the Imperial Suite bedroom at the Ritz. But there were enough of the Germans who were brutal to keep the legend alive.

One of them was a tank commander, General Jürgen Bosch, who spied Paul wafting through one of the parlors when he was making his selection and who insisted that he would have Paul. And have Paul he did, demanding that they go immediately to the "special services" chamber in the basement—with Claude wondering how the hell the general even knew about the chamber—hanging Paul on a hook and whipping him harder than Claude did in the trials and then stretching him on the rack and fucking him into unconsciousness.

It took Paul the last two weeks of October to recover from that visit. Claude declared he was too valuable to be out of commission that long and told him to stay in his own bedroom whenever there was a hint of a German around. When General Bosch returned, asking for Paul, Claude told him that Paul had left the brothel.

Thus it was that, when Paul saw his SS captain from the Ritz in the brothel, it was while peeking out of his door and looking down the corridor as the captain was following another one of the young male prostitutes into another bedroom. Paul shrank from the door with mixed feelings—with the urge to tear down the hall and leap into the man's arms and, at the same time, to hide under the bed so that there was no way the magnificent lover would know that Paul was here, doing this. Later that day, Paul asked Claude who the handsome, younger German officer had been and was told that it was SS Captain Garren von Kaube. At last Paul had a name.

On the night of November 20th, there was one of a series of firebomb attacks on the Jewish sector of the city, with drunken German soldiers in the ranks taking up clubs and knives and going on a rampage that fanned out from the Jewish quarter across the rest the city. A group of the soldiers got into the brothel, tore it apart, and attacked any of the male prostitutes they could run down.

Paul was one of the young men they cornered, beat brutally, and gangbanged. When he lost consciousness, he was suspended between two burly and snarling—and quite fit and virile—German soldiers, who were playing him like a calliope, with both of their cocks inside him.

He woke on the morning of the 22nd, in a well-appointed bedroom—but not one in the brothel—with his head, an arm, and his chest bandaged. He was half out of it on drugs.

He was lying on his back with a nightshirt on that was bunched up around his waist. He otherwise was naked. His legs were raised, bent, and spread. Michel Paquet was sitting in a straight chair next to the bed. His hand was stroking Paul's inner thighs and moved to encase Paul's cock.

"You're awake," Paul heard Michel say as if from underwater.

Paquet then stood, stripped off his trousers, climbed up on the bed between Paul's legs, slid inside Paul's channel, and slow pumped him to a creaming of his channel. The novelist was careful to prop his torso up on his arms so that he didn't press on any of Paul's wounds. As Paquet was fucking Paul, Count Bukowski stole into the room, came to the head of the bed, unbuttoned his trousers, freeing his cock, and turned Paul's face toward him. He waited momentarily to see what Paul would do, but, with a sigh, the young man dutifully opened his mouth to receive the thick cock.

Michel left the room to be replaced between Paul's legs by Count Bukowski, who climbed up on the bed, thrust inside Paul's channel just as Paquet had done, and pumped him more vigorously to an ejaculation. Bres Moulin, whose cock replaced Bukowski's in Paul's mouth, followed up for tail-end thirds in the same vein.

When Paul next woke, he was alone in the room, his legs were raised and spread, and he could feel the cum of the three men inside him—or so he thought, the more awake he became the less he was sure that the penetrations had happened at all. Ever since the first evening when the three of them pressed into at the rue Cambon bar, Paul had fantasized about being shared by the three at the same time. Perhaps he had just fantasized that encounter in his drug-induced delirium.

He had no idea where he was. Although he thought he was becoming more aware of his surroundings, he feared he didn't when he looked up on the wall across the room from the foot of the bed and saw, hanging there, the charcoal sketch that Noell Giroux had made of him at the window in the loft on the day of the German invasion of Paris.