Nice, Cote D'Azur, South of France, October 23, 1978
Doug Anderson had moved to Europe in the summer of 1978 for work. His head office was in Geneva, but most of his time was spent in the south of France. He kept an apartment in Nice, 5
th
largest city in France, gateway to Italy and a hotbed of crime and corruption.
The Cote D'Azur was the playground of the rich and famous. Rock stars, Hollywood legends and faded European royalty all lived there. From Cannes to Monaco, there was always a party going on; and always a seamy undercurrent of criminality persisted. Smugglers, drug dealers, con men and prostitutes were everywhere.
Nice was its capital and for Doug, a transplanted Canadian from Montreal, it was a great place to be.
Doug was 6'3" tall blue eyed and blonde, with a trim body honed by years of competitive swimming. At the age of 27, he still swam to stay in shape and had a very impressive physique with broad shoulders, slim waist, and very strong legs. He was also the proud owner of a very large, fat 10-inch cock that the super tight jeans of the day did little to hide.
As usual on Mondays, Doug went to visit his Russian ballerina friend Irina Proshkova. The statuesque beauty routinely put Doug through rigorous dance training, followed by an equally rigorous fuck session in her dance studio. She remained a demanding lover. Physically powerful, sex with Irina was a real workout.
Lazing in their sweaty post-coital bliss, Irina asked Doug for a favour.
"I need a date for Friday night."
"You want to go out on a date? Irina, I'm honored, but what kind of date and where?"
"Friends are hosting a charity gala in support of the arts. It's for the Ballet de Nice, the Opera de Nice and the Museum de Beaux Arts. It's an annual event, always held the Friday closest to Halloween."
"Excuse me Irina but Halloween isn't exactly a French holiday. It's not even officially recognized in France."
"I know, but honestly, it's an excuse for a party and because it's Halloween it's fancy dress, what you would call a costume party."
"Where the hell am I going to get a costume?"
"At the Opera House."
"Wait a minute. You work at the ballet, why not get a costume at the ballet?"
"There are not a lot of 6-foot 3-inch ballet dancers in the world, so unless you want to wear a tutu, I suggest you try the Opera House. In any case, they are in the same building. You have an appointment tomorrow at 11:00 with Andre, head of the wardrobe department."
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The following morning, 11:00 sharp Doug presented himself at the stage door of the Opera de Nice. He was met by Andre the wardrobe manager, a man of indeterminate age and sexual origin.
"Ah, there you are, Irina asked me to take care of you, and I must say, the pleasure will be all mine. Judging by your physique, I think a military uniform would be best. Something with authority and presence, something masculine, something very tight." He was leering at Doug's crotch while saying this.
"Come with me."
They worked their way into the basement, to Andre's little office.
"Sit here young man, I'll be right back."
A few minutes later, Andre was back, his arms full of garment bags.
"We have three options. There are not a lot of choice for man of your height so.... Let us begin. You must disrobe, shoes off, only the undergarment remains."
Doug stripped down to his bikini briefs. Andre unpacked the first garment bag containing some sort of naval uniform. Turning around, Andre stopped, mouth wide opened and stared.
"Oh, young man, you should go just as you are. A young Adonis, wrapped only in a loincloth. Breathtaking!"
"Andre, it's October. Too cold for loincloths don't you think?"
"Alas, you may be right. What a shame."
Taking the naval uniform, Andre held it up to Doug's frame, checking the size.
"I think the Pirates of Penzance is a bit small. Let's try the next one."
Andre produced leather pants and shirt, horned Viking helmet and long fur cape.
"Andre, I am not wearing that ratty old fur or that stupid helmet."
"You're right, Wagner was always way over the top, even his costumes. So finally, we have this."
"Voila, the uniform of a Lieutenant of the 5
th
Regiment Light Cavalry of the Grand Army of Napoleon Bonaparte. It is from William Tell, by Rossini."
Andre held up the uniform for Doug's inspection. It looked like it might fit.
"Let's try it on Andre."
Andre handed him the shirt, a simple white cotton tunic with a ruffled collar. Next, he held the breeches so Doug could step into them. The pants were dove grey and very tight. They fit like a second skin.
"The waist is good. Now show me the front."
Doug turned, presenting his tightly wrapped crotch for Andre's inspection.
"Do you hang right or left?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, in your natural pose does your penis stay to the right or the left?"
"To the left I guess."
Andre unceremoniously reached into Doug's pants, took his entire package, balls and all, and shifted it to the left.
"There, that is better."
"Better, what do you mean better. This is obscene."
Doug's sexual organs were rudely displayed by the skin-tight uniform. You could almost see the ridge of his cock head, and his balls were clearly defined.
"You don't understand, cavalry officers had to keep the family jewels to one side. You could not have things flopping around during battle, they might get crushed in the saddle."