Assurances had been given that this was where to pick up men in the small town of Mauren in the north of the equally small principality of Liechtenstein. Those in the know knew that Liechtenstein was a notable place for older men to come for young men--one of the princes here ran a university where a certain kind of young man's education could be covered by attending the prince's parties at his alpine castle on the mountain overlooking the principality's capital, Vaduz, and be covered there in orgies of the prince's privilege club. Dean Dunsford, young, blond, angelic-looking, wearing a smile, for one man in particular, and sitting on a bench in front of a public convenience by a Mauren park on Freiendorfstrasse, but going by the name of Gere Gimbel--Austrian rather than American--wasn't at all convinced this would work.
He was dressed to pick up in a cropped T-shirt, displaying his flat, tanned belly; intriguing inny belly button, silky athletic shorts, with side cuts up to the waistband; and tennis shoes, his duffel bag under the bench below him and a tennis racket leaning against the bench seat. He'd been led to believe this would do the trick--a double whammy of combining sexual and sports interest--for one man in particular.
And, in fact, it did do the trick.
The man who walked by him on Freiendofstrasse just about on the minute that he was expected was dressed for tennis. Gere, now in character, recognized him as the man he wanted, tall, thin, tightly muscled, Slavic looking, forty something, although they were hard years. He could be a workman or an academic. He was rather nondescript, not ugly, but not particularly good-looking either. His brown hair was thinning on the top but he had a close-cropped beard and mustache, and the curling of hair out of the neckline of his tennis T-shirt indicated he was at least thinly pelted. But he looked a bit furtive and wary, which Gere had to acknowledge he would look if he knew this bench was a place to pick up young men and that was what he was here for.
At first, it didn't seem that was what he was here for, because he had a bag with the handles of a couple of tennis rackets sticking out of it and, although he gave Gere a close look and they exchanged smiles, he initially walked by the young man, headed north, and Gere thought this hadn't worked. But then the man turned and came back.
"You're a tennis player," he said, as he stood in front of the bench. It was more a statement than a question, and he was nodding toward the covered tennis racket leaning against the bench. It was a top-of-the-line Babolat Pure Aero. Anyone who knew competitive tennis knew it was a racket for a serious player. The man spoke German, but with an accent. Gere knew that it was a Slavic accent.
"Yes, I play tennis," Gere answered in better German. "I am on a hiking vacation, but I like to play tennis along the way. I was told there was a Saturday morning meeting of the better local tennis players at courts somewhere around here, but I couldn't find it."
"You are German?"
"No, Austrian. I live in Vienna."
"Ah, just passing through on vacation then. This is perhaps not the best place in the town for a young, fit man like you to sit, I must tell you."
"I also was told about sitting here, by the men's room in the park. Tennis isn't the only sport I like to play when I am on hiking vacation." Gere gave the man a slight smile and looked directly into his eyes. If this wasn't going to work--if he'd been too forward or he'd been given bad information, the man would move away and continue his way. The man stood his ground, though.
"And you are willing to talk to me? I would not be surprised for you to be looking past me while I stand here, looking for a younger and more presentable man to be coming along."
"I like talking to you just fine. You look just fine to me."
The man smiled. He wasn't being dismissed as unsuitable. "I play tennis with the group you've been told about on Saturday mornings. I know where the courts are. Would you like to come with me? My name is Stefan. Stefan Schmidt."
Not even close to Baris Zaytsev, the young man who wasn't named Gere thought. But then it wouldn't be the man's real name or anything close to it. "My name is Gere Gimbel. Are you a native to Liechtenstein?" he asked.
"My family has been here for a couple of generations, yes," the answer came back.
"Yes, I would like to go with you to play some tennis with your friends this morning," Gere said. "I'm sure that will work up a big appetite, but I have just arrived and don't know of a good place to eat."
"Perhaps after tennis, I could take you to a restaurant with good food and reasonable prices."
"The prices would have to be very reasonable," Gere said.
"Oh, you would be my guest. And perhaps afterward, I could engage you for a bit of entertainment--since you know what purpose a handsome young man would have to be sitting on this bench."
Gere look at Stefan, who had taken a hundred-Swiss franc bill out of his pocket and held it, folded, in his hand.
"Perhaps yes, I would like that," the young man said, smiling up at the man standing before him at the bench. It wasn't lost on Gere that the man had his other hand lowered to be in front of his basket. The hand holding the money opened, and, with a smile, Gere reached over and took the hundred-Swiss franc note and tucked it in his pocket. He stood and said, "So, where is this tennis court you play on on Saturday mornings?"
He should have known that those putting him in place here had done their research. This approach--letting the man do the approaching--had worked a charm.
* * * *
The man was doing a good job of eating Gere out, the young man on his arched back on the man's bed in the Delehala Lane cottage, his arms thrown out at the side in a sacrificial position, clutching the edge of the mattress on either side. Stefan was gripping Gere's thighs behind the knees and spreading and raising them, holding Gere, naked, captive to the man's lust and need. Gere had had no idea the man would be this good in sex. Stefan rose up on his feet, hovering over the younger man. Gere instinctively raised his hands to palm the older man's pectorals, impressed by both the muscularity and the tightness of the man's body--that he had no fat on him, his veins bulging on the surface of his skin, having no flesh to hide in. Most impressive were the bullet marks on the man's torso--on his right side, moving down from below his tattooed right pectoral to his waist. Gere trailed the fingers of one hand down along the pockmarks, as Stefan moved Gere's left ankle to his right shoulder and used his freed hand put his cock head in position.
"Yes, yes. Now," Gere murmured, signaling for the man to take what he wanted from him.
Gere arched his back and head, his eyes going to the ceiling, wildly running across the dinginess from one water mark to the other, panted hard and moaned deeply, as Stefan's cock invaded, sank in, pulled back, thrusted further in, and started the rhythm of the fuck. Gere grasped the man's biceps and tightened and released his fingers to the rhythm of the man's thrusts. The young man moaned, feeling the cock go deep. The man had more length than Gere had imagined he would.
"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," he moaned.
"
Orzites ustojczywo. Ozmite. Ozmite
--Hold steady. Take it. Take it." Without realizing it, the man was revealing that emotions led him to speak in Russian.
Gere took it, endlessly. He'd had no idea it would be this good--that he would melt to this man as he was doing. He didn't miss that the man had spoken in Russian.
The young man had gone with the man calling himself Stefan Schmidt the several blocks to the sports club with multiple tennis courts. When asked about who he worked for in Vienna, Gere was a bit evasive, at this point not going beyond saying it was for the government--or the military service but not as a soldier. Stefan was equally evasive on whether he had a job at all or why, speaking careful German with a Slavic accent, he was living alone in a cottage in a minor principality in the center of Europe. Gere didn't really need to know what his story was on that.
Stefan was a good tennis player. Gere was better, but he couldn't reveal that he'd played intercollegiate tennis for Stanford University in California. He was just a young Austrian who went on walking tours in Europe, played pick-up tennis with natural talent and practice. And he allowed older men to pick him up, take him to their cottages, and fuck the hell out of him.
After tennis, during which all of the men who showed up to play asked Gere to return again and vied with each other to enlist him as their doubles partner, Stefan guided him to a nearby café and paid for his lunch.
"I won't be able to order much at these prices," he said.
"Order whatever you want. We can arrange compensation other than money," Stefan said, touching Gere's forearm with the fingers of one hand and stroking the arm when Gere didn't pull back. They shared a knowing smile. They proceeded to jockey with each other on backgrounds and preferences, making the most inroads on sharing that each was actively and casually gay, that Stefan was a top and Gere a preferred bottom--and, most important--that each was in heat.
They walked back across the town, past the park on Freiendofstrasse to the southern edge of the village and down Delehala Lane, with its spaced small bungalow cottages that probably predated World War II. Stefan's nondescript cottage was set back from the road behind a white picket fence. The yard was scrub compared to its neighbors. It was clear that Stefan wasn't a gardener or, from the apparent condition of the house, the owner or intending to settle here forever. The house appeared to be exactly what it was--a temporary shelter from danger. As they walked, Stefan whispered in Gere's ear how excited that they were going to hook up.
"Maybe I should get a shower first after the tennis," Gere said.
"I like the smell of you. You turn me on. It's a man's scent," Stefan responded, and that was that. The younger man was to find later on that there were two bedrooms, one of them locked, and a bath behind the room that served as living and dining room and kitchen at the front of the small, wooden house. But initially, they made it no further than just inside the door.
Stefan pulled Gere to him and took the young man's lips in a kiss. His right hand pushed down the young man's exposed belly, under the waistband of his shorts, and the two men were rocking together, in the clutch, Gere moaning, as Stefan grasped his cock and stroked him. He was delighted to find Gere in erection, which had been developed by Gere's understanding where this was leading, his intent that it do so, and the dirty talk Stefan had whispered in his ear as they walked.
Gere had initially wondered if he'd have difficulty getting hard for his target, but that didn't arise as a problem with Stefan. That part of this assignment was no trouble whatsoever.
The first fuck was right there on the floor, Gere on all fours and Stefan mounted on his ass, giving it to the boy good, like dogs in heat. The young man was lost in the moment. He'd been sent here to coax Stefan to do this and to want to do it again and again, but Gere didn't give a fuck what he was supposed to be doing now. He wanted Stefan to do this--and to do it again and again.
