[This completed series will run in five chapters and will complete posting by the end of the third week.]

January, 1924, the Baron’s Austrian Mountain Chalet

The snow had started to fall fast and furiously when Lady Elizabeth and her son, Paul Winslow, descended from the first-class compartment. Their journey on the rail trunk line from Salzburg had ended at the one room station of the village at the foot of the mountain on the Austrian side of the Italian Alps. A sleigh with the baron’s coat of arms on the side was waiting for them, its two massive horses standing impatiently, pawing the snow and emitting clouds of steam from their nostrils. They were both Black Forest stallions, with sleek burnish-brown coats and golden manes. Both were in heat, showing huge, pink erections between their hind legs, and Lady Elizabeth blushed, turned her head away from them, and looked up the mountain toward where another stallion, Baron Josef von Holst, awaited their arrival.

Elizabeth had almost not come. The last time she’d seen the baron was at a resort beach hotel near Venice. He had taken much for granted and far too many liberties with her--but that he had was what had made her come to him for a ski week at his mountain chalet in the mountains. He’d been so masterful, and she burned for him. She turned her eyes back to the pawing stallions, now letting their need and intention burn through her body.

He had invited her here, to his mountain chalet, on the pretense of giving her son, Paul, ski lessons, but she knew he’d invited them because he wanted to pursue a relationship with her. She’d be a great catch for him. And, in turn, he’d be a great catch for her. She was somewhat at loose ends since her divorce from Lord Aynsley. She was an American and no longer in his set. But whose set was she in in England? She hardly could be ignored. Could she? she wondered, worried now that she might be. She didn’t want to go back to Boston in defeat. And the Aynsleys would never let her take Paul back across an ocean. She couldn’t be separated from Paul. He was her whole world.

Of course, the Baron Josef von Holst could become her whole world without any objection from her. She stared at the pink erections of the Black Forest stallions, as the sleigh driver stowed away their luggage. Ah, the baron, she thought. A stallion in his own right; capable of an erection to rival those horses.

Paul had been silent and brooding for nearly the whole trip. Did he suspect that the baron had assaulted her, compromising her completely, and that she had succumbed to him and wanted more? There was something in Paul’s behavior that was troubling. She wouldn’t think of that now. They were here, at the foot of the mountain, a snowy ride away from a week at the baron’s mountain chalet.

Josef met them at the door of the chalet, all smiles and charm. No one would have known that he had attacked this woman like an animal in heat in the gazebo of a Venice beach resort hotel, nailed her to the cushions with his hard cock, and pounded her into submission, and yet that she had come to him when he called. And had brought her handsome son.

In the background as they moved into the chalet’s foyer, Elizabeth and Paul could see another familiar figure--someone they had agreed reminded them of the Grim Reaper: Giuseppe, the bishop of Milan, swathed in his black cassock.

“You remember the bishop of Milan, I assume,” the baron said. “We all met in Venice last August.”

“Of course, how are you, Your Grace?” Elizabeth said, extending her hand, which the cleric took, brushed his lips against, and dropped.

“Quite fine, thank you.” The bishop was answering Elizabeth’s question, but his eyes were on her handsome son, with his perfect body, blond curls, and lowered eyes of the long lashes. “Just perfect,” he said, as the baron was saying that they were just in time for supper to be served and that they could take drinks in the lounge in front of the fireplace later.

* * * *

The bishop, sitting beside Paul in front of the fire in the lounge, had been whispering to the young man in French as Paul’s mother and the baron had been carrying on a more vocal conversation--in affected British English, despite neither being British--in chairs facing the fire at an angle.

“It’s late and the trip today was tiring,” Lady Elizabeth said, as she rose from her chair. “I think it’s time that I turned in.” No one argued the point with her. She gave Josef a meaningful look, smoothed down the silken flanks of her dress, and rustled out of the room, down the corridor to the bedrooms.

“I think I shall retire too,” the baron said, as he rose and followed the woman.

The two, the bishop and the young man, sat, watching the fire in awkward awareness, as they could hear the sounds from the bedroom passage, where Elizabeth hadn’t progressed very far before the baron overtook her, turned her belly to the wall, pulled up her skirt and petticoats from behind, jerked down her undergarment, and entered her with a strong upthrust. He cupped her chin and pulled her lips to his, while his other hand ripped at her bodice and freed her breasts to his squeezing hands. Far from fighting him, Elizabeth jutted her buttocks out to receive his vigorous thrusts more deeply and returned his kisses passionately, the images exploding in her brain being of massive Black Forest stallions in heat and the baron’s stallion’s cock moving inside her.

Back in the lounge, the bishop put an arm around Paul’s back, the long, black-painted nails of his long, slender fingers accentuated on the stark white of Paul’s billowy broadcloth shirt at the shoulder, and pulled Paul’s body ever so slightly into his body. There was little reaction from Paul, but he didn’t resist the closer positioning of the priest’s body. Throughout the conversation, he’d been looking demurely down at the hands folded in his lap and had answered Giuseppe’s lengthy whispers in short, murmured words and phrases. The bishop brought his lips closer to Paul’s ear and urgently whispered something. Paul shrugged slightly, but he turned his face to the bishop’s to accept Giuseppe’s possession of his mouth. The long, black-nailed fingers of the bishop’s free hand started working the buttons on Paul’s shirt.

The bishop had Paul’s shirt open and had snaked his hand into the opening and was scraping his fingernails across and up and down Paul’s chest and was playing the young man’s nipples. Paul moaned, his chest muscles rippling under the attention of the fingernails. The bishop explored Paul’s throat and chest with his lips and hands long enough that he was making headway in enticing moans and deeper kisses on the lips from Paul, and giving the baron time to reappear, clothed only in a dressing gown. The bishop reached around and down and, putting a hand under Paul’s thigh, enticed the young man to turn his buttocks on the sofa, bringing his right leg up to bend and lie against the back of the sofa.

Sitting across from them and watching intently, the baron let his dressing gown drape open and took his cock in his hand.

The bishop glided his hand up and down Paul’s trousered leg, with each down glide coming ever closer to the young man’s crotch--until the hand was clutching, rubbing, squeezing Paul’s basket, and the young man was moaning low in his throat. Unbuttoning the fly, the bishop pulled Paul’s erect cock out and started to stroke it slowly. He possessed Paul’s mouth and they kissed deeply.

The baron, watching intently, stroked his own cock to the same, increasing rhythm the bishop was using in beating off Paul. The young man languidly turned and twisted his body under the bishop’s assault, but the cleric held him fast and continued stroking his cock, with Paul giving little groans, his eyes going to the baron when the bishop freed his lips and was sucking on the hollow of Paul’s throat. The baron timed his ejaculation with Paul’s. Then, giving the two a desultory look, the baron rose from his chair, drained his brandy glass, and headed toward the corridor to the bedrooms, shucking off his robe as he went, moving back toward Lady Elizabeth’s room.

As the baron departed. Giuseppe sank to his knees in front of Paul, fiddled with Paul’s belt buckle, and unbuttoned the anchors to Paul’s suspenders. In one swift pull, the bishop had Paul’s trousers and underdrawers off his legs. All the while he was looking into Paul’s eyes for a reaction and Paul was looking back toward the corridor that the baron had entered. A light flared in his eyes, though, when the bishop’s hand closed around Paul’s cock and he began to stroke it again. Young and virile, Paul was quick to go erect again. He arched his back and ran the fingers of both hands into the long, straight hair on the bishop’s head, giving a low moan, as the bishop’s mouth opened over the cock.

The bishop’s hands went to the inside of Paul’s smooth, silky thighs on either side, the long fingernails sliding on the tender skin, coaxing Paul’s legs open. Paul complied by spreading his legs. When Giuseppe lifted one of Paul’s legs and hooked the ankle on his shoulder, Paul gave no resistance.

When the bishop grasped Paul’s hips and pulled them to the front of the sofa cushion and rolled them up, Paul gave no resistance. He was still serving the role more of a spectator than a participant, though--or perhaps trying to escape into that role. The bishop didn’t seem to mind as long as the young man gave him no resistance. He had spent considerable time telling the young man in whispered French how beautiful he was and how much he wanted to fuck him--and Paul had offered no resistance to that suggestion.

Paul moaned from deep inside again as the bishop swallowed and sucked his ball sac briefly and, as Paul grabbed his own ankles and raised and spread his legs, Giuseppe’s tongue went to Paul’s puckered asshole.

Pleased with how fast Paul opened to him, the bishop stood between Paul’s spread and elevated legs and slowly unbuttoned his black cassock--all thirty-three symbolic buttons--revealing him to be naked underneath. His body was long and lean, showing slash scars from having been a soldier before dedicating himself to the church. His cock was long and thin too and in upcurved erection.

Paul looked at the man revealed before him with dulled eyes, still with a look of somewhat separation from where they were, from what was happening. This all changed dramatically though, with the first penetration. The bishop crouched down a bit; moved the bulb of his cock to the rim of Paul’s hole; laced a hand around Paul’s neck, bringing Paul’s lips to his and Paul’s eyes staring directly into his; and thrust up inside Paul’s passage with the upcurved cock.

Paul’s eyes came alive, he tried to scream through the swabbing tongue in possession of his mouth cavity, and every part of his body started to writhe--not against the deep invasion of the long cock, but, when it had bottomed and started giving the passage long strokes, Paul became an integral part of the fucking machine, working with the bishop to provide full access and depth.

Coming out of the kiss, the bishop had to take up a nearby linen napkin and stuff it in Paul’s mouth to stifle the young man’s cries and expressions of ecstasy. Paul didn’t seem to mind. His eyes were flashing; his legs, arms, and hips were moving with the fuck; and he was panting heavily.

The fuck was finished on the fur rug in front of the fire, Paul on all fours, and the bishop covering him, fucking him like a dog, his teeth buried in the scruff of Paul’s neck, and his fingernails scratching along Paul’s flanks, belly and chest. The black cassock covered them so that they looked like some sort of monstrous, rocking beetle, with Paul providing the rocking motion with the strength of his knees and legs, aiding the friction of the deep stroking of the long cock inside him.

The bishop came in an explosion. Paul had ejaculated several times, first under the watchful eye of the baron.

Giuseppe left Paul curled up on the fur rug, lightly panting and softly purring.

This is where the baron found him when he came out, once more in his robe. Standing over Paul’s curled-up body, Josef unsashed the robe and opened it to reveal his hairy, barrel chest, and engorging thick, thick, thick cock.

“Present yourself for me,” the baron growled.

Paul looked up at him with slitted eyes swimming in the bishop’s cum. He uncoiled, went on his back, bent and spread his legs, and raised his pelvis with the strength of the balls of his feet, pointing his entrance, oozing dribbles of the cleric’s cum, for a straight, deep slide of the cock, if that was what the baron desired.

“Fuck me. Fuck me, punish me,” he murmured, playing his nipples with his fingers. “I am your whore.”

The baron used the sash to tie Paul’s wrists together behind his back. He went down on his knees, between Paul’s spread legs, grasped the young man’s hips, and pulled his passage onto the erect cock--taking some effort to become saddled as Paul groaned because of the baron’s much greater thickness, more than the bishop had provided.

Paul rose to him, smooth chest against hairy chest, as the baron covered them both with his robe and their bodies rocked against each others, while, with insistent, searching in and out strokes, the thick cock forced the passage open to be buried deep. Paul was moving his hips with the invasion, pulling the baron deeper inside him, increasing the friction of the stroking.

“Yes, yes, just like that,” he whimpered.

The baron came in a flood of cum, and they held there, clinging together, each feeling the racing heartbeat of the other as they cooled off. Josef recharged quickly. Paul gently nudged the older man onto his back by pushing his torso against Josef’s. With a sigh the older man went prone on his back, smiling up at Paul and grasping Paul’s cock and stroking, as the younger man rode the passage-sheathed cock hard to a shared ejaculation.

“Did I do well with the bishop?” Paul whispered.

“You did very well indeed.”

* * * *

The breakfast table was dominated by talk of the snow that had accumulated over the night and various aspects of skiing the novice needed to know about. The Winslows ostensibly had come to this mountain chalet in January for Paul to start learning how to ski from the baron’s Italian ski master, Tomas. There was no hint of what had transpired in the chalet the previous night, although Lady Elizabeth was flashing secret smiles across the table at the baron and humming lightly under her breath, leaving little doubt that she had been satisfied.

“It’s a shame you have to get back to Milan today,” the baron said, turning his attention to Giuseppe, who, sitting beside Paul, had a hand on the young man’s thigh under the table top.

“Nothing to help about it,” the bishop answered in French. “A papal delegation is expected.”

“I trust our business has been concluded successfully--that you speak favorably of the arms deal with Rome to the papal delegation.”

“Yes, quite satisfactorily,” the bishop said, smiling at the side of Paul’s face, which was turned toward his mother, a blissful look on his face. The bishops hand had moved to the inside of Paul’s thigh and Paul had lifted the thigh onto the priest’s lap, assuring the cleric that Paul had been satisfied with him the previous night and would lay under him again if he so desired and could create the opportunity.

“Perhaps it’s just as well that you won’t be here this afternoon,” the baron said. “Two German generals are expected. Perhaps, for the sake of the deal and yourself, you should not be here at the same time. Munitions sales can get quite dicey if the newspapers start printing about them. I believe your name has already been linked to this topic, so it probably would be best for you to be back in Italy.”

“Yes, quite. I should go and complete my final packing,” the priest said, arising and bowing to Lady Elizabeth. “Lady Elizabeth, always a pleasure. Paul, I have a little something for you. Perhaps you can accompany me to my room for a few minutes.”

What the bishop had for Paul wasn’t little and it took more than a few minutes to deliver it. Paul didn’t fight him about it.

Paul was bent over the bed naked, his chest pressed into the coverlet and both his mouth and his fists gathering up gobs of the coverlet material, as the bishop, cassock unbuttoned and flaring out to the side, covered him from behind, taking him in long strokes of the long, upcurved cock, and sliding his long, black-painted fingernails along Paul’s flanks, sides, and biceps. When the stroking turned vigorous, Giuseppe cupped Paul’s mouth to stifle his cries, arched the young man’s torso up toward his, and buried the claws of one hand in one of Paul’s pecs. Oblivious to the pain, Paul slammed his hips back against the cruel upward thrusts of the cock until first he, and then the bishop, shuddered, jerked, and released their seed.

Paul calmly lay there, half on and half off the bed, on his belly, panting lightly, as he watched the priest finish his packing.

Finished packing, the bishop called for an attendant to take his bags, and Paul pulled himself off the bed. The bishop arrested the young man’s move toward the door to the corridor, kissed him on the lips, and mumbled something about feeling free to call on him the next time the baron had need for support for a munitions deal with Italy.

Paul returned to his room, cleaned himself, and sat on the side of his bed for several minutes, wondering who these two German generals were who he’d heard arriving in a bustle as he left the bishop’s bedroom--and wondering what sort of deal the bishop had with them. He also wondered what role he, Paul, was to play in that deal--beyond the role he’d already played as payment for whatever the bishop had done for the baron.

He was here for the baron. To have him, he agreed to do as the baron directed him. But how much more would the baron demand of him?

When he came out, the others were at the fireplace, Paul’s mother sitting in a chair and the generals and the baron standing by the fire and drinking whiskeys. Both of the generals were imposing looking, with substantial bodies and neatly pressed military uniforms despite what would have been a grueling sleigh ride up from the base of the mountain in the snow.

General Felix Von Pelt, the name used to introduce Paul to him, was the taller, somewhat thinner of the two. He wore a monocle and had an easy smile. His smile was going more toward Paul’s mother than in any other direction, though, and Paul surmised that this indicated the direction of the general’s interest. The other general, Hans Steinman, was another matter altogether. He was beefy and had a sly, cruel aspect about him. And his eyes had bored into Paul, an assessing stare that had Paul undressed and riding his cock in his imagination in a matter of seconds. Paul had no doubt what his role in whatever arms deal the baron had going was to be.

The conversation quickly sorted out where each of the conversant had met the baron.

“I met Lady Elizabeth and her son on the beach in Venice last August, as I recall. Is that you’re memory of it, Beth?”

Lady Elizabeth gave him a dreamy look. “Yes, on the beach in Venice. I remember it well.”



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