Stories From The Townhouse, gay erotic stories at Gaydemon.

Stories From The Townhouse

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Marine Corps basic training has a reputation for being brutal. It is. In addition to the physical tests of endurance, there is the oppressive heat and humidity and never ending blitz of flying, crawling, jumping and swarming insects of coastal North Carolina. During my basic training, there were a lot of horny grunts like me at Camp Lejeune and in and around Jacksonville. I loved it all.

I saw Lou a few times before I completed basic training. After graduation, I spent about ten months at Camp Pendleton in California. At first, Lou and I kept up with each other by telephone or by mail but communication between us fell off after a while.

I liked Pendleton and I wanted to stay there. I enjoyed my job, the weather and the nude beach immediately below the cliffs of the base.

The Marine Corps had other plans for me. Since I spoke Russian fluently as well as Polish (the language I had grown up hearing my mother speak with her sisters) I was better suited for European duty. My orders were to report to a base in southern Germany where I spent most of my active duty life as a U.S. Marine.

Six months after I had arrived in Germany, I attended a party of enlisted men and low ranking officers. Mid-way through the party, I spotted Captain Jorge, a gregarious Hispanic from New Mexico in his mid-thirties. I was twenty three.

Jorge had a huge chest and massive arms. He was standing among a group of young Marines and couple of the local junger frauen near where the beer was being iced in a tub. Navigating through the mob to reach the beer, I felt his eyes on me. I was the only other seriously muscular guy in the room, and I figured that he was sizing me up as a potential rival for the young ladies' attention.

"You don't have to worry, big fucker," I thought to myself. "It's not the girls I'm after. It's your ass I'm watching. On second thought, maybe you should worry."

I fished a beer from the tub, walked over to an unoccupied spot where I had a clear view of him and stood, leaning against a wall. When I caught his gaze, I nodded. He nodded in response.

About ten minutes later, he walked over and pulled a cold one from the tub. He glanced in my direction while opening his beer, ambled up to me and introduced himself. We repeated the usual opening remarks Marines make--rank, post and home town. I felt his eyes scannng me further. When he'd finished his examination, I suggested that we workout together sometime.

Jorge furrowed his brow in thought. "Yeah, let's do that", he said.

"What an asshole!" I thought as I watched him walked back toward his friends. "A hot asshole, but an asshole".

Even though Jorge continued to glance in my direction during the party, I continued to assume that he was just checking my whereabouts in case he needed to neutralize the competition.

About a week later, Jorge called and we met at the base gym. I was surprised when he turned out to be a nice guy. He'd turned off the arrogance so much in evidence at the party. He had a good sense of humor and I admired his dedication to working out.

After that, we met occasionally during the week for a workout and a couple of beers afterwards. I didn't see Jorge much on weekends, except on a rare Friday night when we hopped from local beer hall to local beer hall. Once we drove to Munich to a beer garden that Jorge had been to before. We drank beer from steins that looked more like water buckets than beer glasses. Wherever we went two oversized muscular Marines we rarely had to buy more than one beer a piece as the friendly locals, male and female, kept the free beer coming our way.

Although neither of us ever talked about girls, girlfriends or women in general, I couldn't decide if he was gay or not. Eventually, I settled into the notion that Jorge and I were going to be work-out and drinking buddies and not fuck buddies.

Around the beginning of my second year in Germany, my father became disabled after an injury in the mine. Not yet fifty, my father looked at least fifteen years older when I flew home to see him. Mining takes its toll.

Within a few weeks of my father's accident, my younger sister's husband abandoned her and their daughter. She and the baby moved back in with my parents. With money tight, two sons still at home, a disabled husband and an unemployed daughter with a baby, my mother was at the end of her rope.

Upon returning to Germany, I started sending as much money as I could spare to my family. Consequently, my spending habits, including my beer binges and trips with Captain Jorge were curtailed though not cut out altogether. I liked hanging out with Jorge, but I was too proud to let him pay my bar tabs even if they were only for a beer or two.

Despite my pride, or maybe in spite of it, Captain Jorge still managed to persuade me to accompany him on occasional drinking binges. Enlisted men aren't paid a lot of money. And, although lower ranked commissioned officers are paid only slightly better than enlisted men, Captain Jorge always seemed to have a lot of cash to spend.

A few weeks before Christmas, Jorge asked me if I wanted to go with him to St. Moritz for the weekend, about a five hour drive from our base. "I'm meeting a friend there" Jorge added.

"I'm not much of a skier. I fall down a lot" I laughed. "And, I don't have the jack for a place like that."

Jorge told me that I wouldn't have to pay anything. Everything was going to be paid by his friend, a wealthy Italian from Milan.

I told him that I felt uncomfortable with letting someone pay my way, particularly someone I didn't know.

Jorge worked on me. I finally gave in and agreed to go if his Italian friend knew in advance that I was coming and that it was OK with him. Jorge called Massimo from a payphone. I heard him tell Massimo that he wanted to bring a buddy with him. Jorge then pressed the telephone to my ear and, unwillingly, I spoke with Massimo, who, fortunately for me, was fluent in English. With typically good Italian manners, Massimo insisted that I come along, adding that he would be offended if I rejected his hospitality for the weekend. When I told him that I wasn't much of a skier, he assured me that he would teach me how to ski himself.

I discovered later that Jorge's telephone call to Massimo had been staged for my benefit.

The Grand Hotel des Bains was outlined in white holiday lights that reflected on the snow. A tall Christmas tree stood in front in the center of a circular driveway. There were so many lights on the tree that, from a distance, it looked like an enormous white flame. Stopping in front, a uniformed man opened my door while Jorge gave the car keys to another uniformed attendant and a bellman appeared to take our bags.

Inside, an animated, well-heeled, mostly European crowd mingled quietly in the beaux arts style lobby or imbibed noisily in the jammed adjacent bar. As we walked toward the front desk, my pace slowed to take in the whole scene. To my surprise, there wasn't a parka or boot in sight.

"Damn! This sure isn't Seven Springs." I commented to Jorge, referring to the ski resort in southern Pennsylvania where I'd gone several times during high school. "I feel like I'm in a 007 movie".

"Hell, Tom. It looks just like Hobbs, New Mexico".

"I wonder if I can get a Rolling Rock in that bar" I joked.

"Forget about the Rolling Rock, buddy. We're in St. Moritz! They drink the fine stuff her...Pabst Blue Ribbon all the way."

Our room was reserved in Jorge's name. The desk clerk, who looked like a Swiss version of Doctor Smith from Lost in Space, never asked Jorge for identification or for a method of payment. As he handed the room key to the bellman, the Dr. Smith-Desk Clerk looked at Jorge and, in a clipped voice added, "Enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Sanchez". The clerk then looked at me and bowed his head formally. In response, I faked a toothy smile and nodded.

The bellman opened the room door for us, followed us into the room and placed our bags on a luggage rack next to the closet. I thought I saw him roll his eyes when Jorge and I said "no, thank you" in unison when he asked if we wanted him to put our clothes away or hang anything in the closet. The bellman went over to the large window and, in a dramatic flourish, opened the drapes revealing the blazing top of the Christmas tree outside and the lights of the town beyond. I walked over to the window and looked down on the people waiting for their cars three floors below and then toward the narrow streets beyond the hotel grounds, illuminated by light and snow.

As soon as the bellman left, I set out exploring the bathroom, the closets, the bureau, the armoire and the large ornate writing desk. "Hey!" I called out to Jorge. "Guess what? The television isn't bolted to the furniture."

"Yeah, how about that?" he yelled while taking a piss in the bidet. "Did you see this urinal? "Must get a lot of midgets here."

"And, there's not a single bottle of Rolling Rock in the bar and only one can of Iron City."

"Maybe we can get room service to go to the nearest 7-11 and pick up a six pack".

The telephone rang and it was Massimo.

An hour later, and dressed in our casual best, Jorge and I met Massimo in the bar adjacent to the lobby. Massimo was tall, with a fair complexion and lean, in his early forties and expensively dressed. He was unlike any of my Italian relatives, who are all dark and stocky, even the women and children. He was gracious, friendly and yet reserved"again, unlike my Italian relatives who are completely unreserved in the presence of strangers.

The three of us drank, ate and talked until after midnight. Following a final glass of wine at the dinner table, as Jorge and Massimo returned to the bar, I excused myself and went back to the room.

By seven o'clock I was awake. In the light of morning, I discovered that our window framed the view of the collection of villages that make up St. Moritz and the Alp Giop and ski runs beyond. I stretched, did some sit-ups and push-ups on the floor, took a shower and waited for Jorge to show up. At 8:30, coffee, scrambled eggs, fruit and a pastry were delivered to the room unexpectedly. I didn't hear from Jorge until nearly ten o'clock when he called and asked if I was ready for skiing.

An hour later, I met Jorge and Massimo in the lobby. I thanked Massimo for the breakfast. After a cup of coffee in a small café on the Plaza Mauritius, we were driven to ski slope by a hotel car. The back of the car was outfitted with everything necessary for a day of skiing. The car stopped a hundred yards or so from a line forming for the gondola. We were met by Kurt, a ski instructor. Massimo explained that rather than teaching me his bad skiing habits as he had promised, he asked Kurt to give me a lesson. As Jorge and Massimo headed off for the gondola and the higher elevations, Kurt and I headed off to the tow line and a beginner run.

Three hours later, I had graduated to the more difficult runs. Kurt stayed close by all afternoon, even though it was apparent by mid-afternoon that he had done his magic and that I would not end up in traction at the end of the day. As arranged, he paid for my lunch at a cafe at the base of some of the ski runs.

At dinner that night, I recounted the success of my day and faking modesty, I jokingly wondered if I Kurt could get me ready for the Olympic trials.

"Undoubtedly, he can". Massimo said, playing along with me. He added that all the Olympic skiers he knew were "idiot savants".

"Well, you got that half right" Jorge added looking at me and laughing.

Somewhere during the third bottle of champagne, Massimo reached over and touched my arm. "Mr. Future Olympian, I want to ask you a serious question."

I put down the glass of champagne and looked at him.

"Will you join Jorge and me in my bed for the night?"

For a few moments, his question caught me off guard, although, it did answer a question"where had Jorge been the night before? It also validated a suspicion"that Jorge was a closet case and it whetted a long felt desire to fuck the hell out of Jorge's ass.

Massimo backed off by adding "Tom, I apologize if I have offended you. You do not have to be with us. But Jorge and I talked about it this afternoon and I know for certain that he would like for you to join us, as would I."

I felt the napkin move in my lap.

Although I had jerked off to the fantasy of fucking Jorg...sometimes just about fucking his monster biceps. Even though I had never included another man in those fantasies, I wasn't about to reject Massimo's request.

I nodded. "Yes".

Jorge looked at me and grinned. "Finally, I get to see you in action".

Jorge was a bottom. The biggest bottom I had ever seen, but a bottom nonetheless. Massimo fucked him first. I watched as Massimo large uncut cock speared Jorge while Jorge, with his hands reaching behind him, hung onto the headboard. [As an aside, based on my experience, Italians have the biggest cocks in Europe, followed by the Spanish. The Germans think of themselves as good cocksmen, but, again, in my experience, they rate only as the nastiest sex, but not necessarily the best sex].

After a while, I stood on the bed, straddling Jorge while Massimo sucked my cock, his own cock still sunk into Jorge's big ass. Trading places, I fucked Jorge, turned on by the sight of the big man spread open in front of me, while I blew Massimo. Jorge's big pecs bounced with the rhythm of my thrusts into his ass.

We each showered several times during the night alone, in pairs or all three of us.

At one point, Massimo dropped to his knees and alternated sucking my cock and Jorge's while Jorge and I kissed and played with each other's nipples. Later, Jorge and I 69'ed each other as Massimo looked on. He then cut in and 69'ed with me and then with Jorge. Massimo also displayed a fondness for eating ass and Jorge and I provided him with what was undoubtedly the finest smorgasbord of ass in the Alps.

Toward the first light of morning, my cock was once again in Jorge's ass. As I bent over to run my tongue across his biceps and into his armpits, I felt Massimo's tongue washing my hole and then the tip of his cock pressing against it. I held my breath as Massimo's dick plunged into me. The pain of the cock in my ass made me go soft inside Jorge. I recovered quickly to the coordinated rhythm of being fucked and fucking.

I heard Massimo's breathing becoming more intense as he fucked me. Sensing his imminent orgasm, I worked Jorge's hole until he was on the edge of climaxing. I responded in kind to Massimo's violent thrusts and slammed my cock harder into Jorge's hospitable ass. Jorge right hand stroked his meat while his left hand held onto the headboard.

Jorge was the first to explode, his chest heaving and forcing bursts of air from his mouth as a torrent of cum erupted from his cockhead, blasting toward his face and neck. Upon seeing my friend's cock milk, I shot, sending my load into Jorge, followed immediately by the sensation of Massimo finding satisfaction in my tight hole.

Spent after a night of sex, we fell asleep around seven in the morning and slept until nearly eleven. After showering, dressing and a quick lunch, Jorge and I thanked Massimo and said good-bye.

"Si vedo presto. I will see you soon, Tom".

"I hope so" I answered.

During the trip back to the base, neither Jorge nor I said much. He drove the first leg of the trip. After stopping for food and gas just north of the Swiss-German border, I took command of the steering wheel. Once back on the autobahn, Jorge rested his hand on my thigh. I got hard as Jorge dug the side of his hand into the space between my balls and my leg. His hand remained there until we pulled up to one of the base gates.

Before I got out of the car, Jorge handed me an envelope with the hotel's name and crest. "What's this?" I asked.

"Open it".

Inside the envelope were ten new 100 dollar U.S. bills.

"What is this?"

"It's from Massimo".

"I can't accept money from someone I don't know" I said handing the envelope back to Jorge. "Nope, cannot do". I dropped the envelope in Jorge's lap.

"Yes, you can. You earned it".

"I earned it. I earned it?"

Speaking very slowly, Jorge said, "Yes. You . . . and . . . I . . . earned it".

I looked at Jorge as a huge light bulb appeared over my head.

"Massimo has been a client of mine for a couple of years", Jorge said. He added that he had other wealthy Italian clients as well as German and Austrian clients and some commissioned Marine officers as clients. Jorge told me that the last time he saw Massimo, he told him about me. Massimo asked Jorge to bring me with him to St. Moritz"specifically for sex. Now, according to Jorge, I had provided what Massimo wanted and Massimo was simply rewarding me for doing so.

"But how did you know that I liked cock?" I asked. "We'd never talked about it."

"We didn't have to. I could tell that you were gay the night I met you. I knew that you were a hell of a lot more interested in my ass than the twats of those pretty girls in the room. And, I was a hell of a lot more interested in what's in your pants than the pussy. So, I mean, it was kind of obvious to me. I don't believe it wasn't obvious to you."unless you're, like...a real stupid jock. Or, what's that word Massimo used idiot "something'"?

Jorge picked up the envelope and offered it to me again. "Take it, Tom. I know you can use the money. You don't have to do this again, but just take the damned money this time."

I looked at the envelope in Jorge's hand.

I reached over and took the envelope and stuck it in my inside coat pocket. Then I extended my hand to Jorge and gripped his hand in mine.

"Thanks, Jorge".

It was the first time I ever took money for sex. It was not the last time.

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