"This is Claude, Claude Barbier, Neal. He'll be living with us this summer. He's a concert pianist. French."
"I've heard interesting things about you, young man," the Frenchman said. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you better."
This was how I was greeted coming off the train in Gunzenhausen, an ancient Bavarian town on a large lake, Muhr am See, between Nürnberg, thirty-three miles to the northeast, and Münich, ninety miles to the southeast. I had landed in Münich five hours earlier from London and I was strung out. Gordon Haydon, the painter, had harassed me to come to him for the summer, but he hadn't bothered to drive to Münich to pick me up even though he was opening the boot of a perfectly fine Mercedes sedan at the Gunzenhausen station for me to hoist my bag into. And now he was telling me that we wouldn't be the only ones in his lakeside house this summer.
I wondered if the funny little old bald man Gordon had introduced me to as Claude Barbier would be demanding the same privileges Gordon would. Chances were good he would—not only from the way he smiled at me like he could eat me up alive but also because of how familiarly he was placing the surprisingly long and elegant fingers of one hand on the small of my back as we exited the Bahnhof.
I had resigned myself to one lecherous old man when I'd agreed to come model for Gordon "in nature, au natural," as he had put it, in exchange for help with my photography, room and board, and more money than I could have made doing anything else to bridge the school terms at Cambridge. Gordon had been my art professor there in my first year—before the scandal that had sent him into an exile retirement in Germany, but that, since I was of age and of little interest to anyone, hadn't swept me up as well.
At the car, the Frenchman, nearly salivating, held the door of the backseat open for me and probably would have followed me if Gordon hadn't said, "Ride up front with me, Claude."
Ever aware of my surroundings as a possible photo shoot, I avoided eye contact with Claude, who had turned in the front seat to look back at me and was babbling about what had brought him to Gunzenhausen for the summer himself—something about retreating from the busyness of the Paris whirl to perfect the music for a fall concert tour. I didn't listen too closely, and he seemed to be satisfied with an occasional grunt from me and to viewing my golden curls and blue eyes from profile as we curved around the east side of the Muhr am See, turning into ever-more-narrow and picturesque roads and bucolic scenery until the trees were meeting overhead.
I kept stroking my camera, anxious to be out and about and clicking off photos of this beautiful landscape. I also was fully aware that Claude had an arm extended into the backseat and was stroking my knee with long, elegant fingers—so incongruous on his short, rotund dwarfish body.
OK, so Gordon had told the Frenchman exactly what I would be doing for Gordon this summer, I thought with a sigh—and, I suppose, for the Frenchman too if I wanted to earn my keep. I was resigned to it, though. Gordon was paying me far more than he would without the understanding that I'd be lying under him. It's not like we hadn't done it before. He definitely knew his photography art, even though he personally preferred fine art. I couldn't pass up the opportunity for the instruction he could provide. I'd return to Cambridge far ahead of my peers.
And it was just sex—a renewable resource, as Gordon had continuously reminded me while he was banging me at Cambridge. It's a good thing I looked younger than my age, though, or he wouldn't have been banging me and I'd have missed out on the valuable instruction.
The car slowed, and I turned my head to the front windshield, only to drop my jaw in amazement. We were on a narrow lane, Gordon having told me that we were quite close to his lake house. In front of us, though, showing no indication he would move off the road, was a magnificently large gray draft horse, powerfully and beautifully built, and riding on him was an equally magnificently constructed young man. He was naked to the waist, broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. He was riding the horse nearly bareback, with just a red cloth for a saddle. His beefy legs hung down at the sides, there being no stirrups.
"Give him the horn," Claude said.
"I'd love to," Gordon answered, with a chuckle. "But I've already checked him out. He gives his horn; he doesn't take one, old chap. But, seriously, I don't want to spook the horse," Gordon continued. "He's wearing headphones and listening to music—maybe one of your piano pieces." He gave Claude an indulgent smile.
"Ah, in that case . . ." Claude responded, returning the smile and, thankfully, turning full frontal to the wind screen. "What a magnificent body," he said, giving a low whistle.
"The horse or Guido?" Gordon asked.
"Yes," Claude responded, and then he gave a low laugh.
"As I said, he's not for me—or for you, Claude."
"Pity," the Frenchman answered. "But he barebacks his mare so masterfully. Don't you think he bareback well, young man?"
Before I could answer, though, Gordon said, "That's not a mare, Claude. That's a boy horse, I'm sure."
"Well, if so, he barebacks his boy horse masterfully," Claude said, with a snicker.
That told me all I needed to know about the preferred positions of all three men. "Open the sunroof," I said impulsively.
"Excuse me?" Gordon asked.
"Open the sunroof. I must photograph this."
"Good idea," Gordon said. He opened the sunroof, and I stood, coming out of the car up to my waist and started firing off shots of the horse and rider from the rear. I only stopped long enough to reach down to try to brush the Frenchman's hand away—unsuccessfully—from copping a feel of my crotch as I was hanging out of the top of the Mercedes.
Instinctively, the horse rider—who Gordon must know, as he called him Guido—sensed he was being followed, and he turned. The musculature of his chest, ornamented with curly black chest hair, was as magnificent as the view from the back had been. Our eyes met, and I fired off a couple of more shots. He didn't look particularly pleased at that, and, as he pulled the gray horse to the side of the road to give the Mercedes room to pass, he gave me a bit of a scowl. I photograph that too—he was just as breathtaking with a petulant scowl on his face.
I wasn't paying complete attention to him, though, as I had the Frenchman to worry about. He had turned full to toward the backseat, had unzipped me and pulled my trousers and briefs down onto my thighs, and, clutching my buttocks in his hands, had his face buried in my crotch. I was trapped in that position and, for the remainder of the drive to Gordon's house, I lay on the roof of the car; my arms extended; my buttocks being kneaded, with fingers exploring my anal entrance; and Claude expertly sucking me to an ejaculation. Giving in to him, I lay there, moaning, and moved my pelvis so that I was slow pumping his mouth cavity.
No, there was no question of the favors I would be expected to extend to the French gnome during the summer.
* * * *
The house was more than a bit of a surprise. It was set in a grove of trees, with the slope of a pasture behind it gently rolling down to the shore of the Muhr am See. At first it was hard to pick out the house at all. It was constructed of ancient, moss-covered stone slabs. The house rambled from left to right and was nestled into the trees and large boulders coming out of the ground, boulders which were of the same hue as the stones of the house. It was as if the building had sprouted from the ground there and had been there forever, formed at the same time as the topography around it.
Once inside, another surprise awaited me. The back of the house, facing the lake, was almost entirely of glass, and the house was laid out such that nearly every room opened to the glass-walled view of the pasture and the lake.
Despite the twelve hours of plane and rail travel punctuated by sit and run periods in airports and train stations I was also laid out immediately upon arriving at the house. Gordon, with Claude panting behind me, showed me to my room, at the end of a corridor off one side of the main house, showed me my bed, showed me his erection, showed me that he hadn't forgotten how to expertly undress a weary young man, and fucked me missionary style on my bed. Claude watched us, salivating, and took up Gordon's position between my legs as soon as the painter was done.
So, there was no uncertainty of what my role was to be here this summer.
Gordon was tall and gangly; his cock was short and stubby. Claude, who was short and roly-poly, had a long, thin cock. Both men were in their late fifties. Neither had much stamina. They both had fucked me and vacated the room, talking of cigars and scotch on the terrace, in less than a half hour. I rolled over, with a groan, and went to sleep immediately.
When I woke, the sun was setting over the lake. The view was magnificent and I immediately was figuring out exposures and camera stops to capture the sunset the next time it was this good. As I stared at the view, I noticed a feature I wished I could capture immediately, so I grabbed my camera and rushed, naked, to the glass wall, finding, thankfully, that I could push back a panel for an unobstructed shot.
There, in the meadow, were three horses—a heavy gray and two sleek thoroughbreds, a stallion and a slightly smaller mare. And standing there among them was the sturdy young hunk from the afternoon—Guido, Gordon had named him. The tableau was perfect set off by the setting sun. I clicked away with my camera.
The zoom lens gave me a shock. Guido was turned toward the house and I could swear that he was looking directly at me. He had his cock out and was masturbating himself. I was suddenly conscious that I was naked and in full view of him if the light was right. But then he didn't have a zoom lens. I did, and so I continued firing off photos of him stroking himself while the three horses stood by him, one of them nudging his shoulder with his nose.
I was able to handle the camera with one hand, and the other one went instinctively to my own hardening erection—both of the old men had fired off before I'd built up an ejaculation—and I pulled on my cock in rhythm with the young hunk. We came nearly simultaneously.
I was well versed in the knowledge of the play of light, so I was nearly positive that the horseman couldn't see me from where he was standing and with the light the way it was. But part of me wished that he had been able to see me and that we both knew we were jerking off together. I was resigned to a summer of lying under Gordon and Claude, but the man out there with the horses was everything the two of them weren't—young, muscular, virile, handsome, big cocked. In short, a horse in his own right. I hadn't had any men except for old ones, ones who had trouble getting it up and more trouble keeping it up long enough to give me pleasure. Ah, the thought of being ridden by that horse of a man.
* * * *
