The Prince's Club

“Prince Rupert,” I said, rising from my seat at the outdoor patio of the American Bagel and Coffee Company Café. I hadn’t seen him approach with his coffee in one hand and a bagel on a plate in the other. I’d been watching a young man enter Vaduz’s Kunstmuseum square, look around, and then indirectly move toward where I was sitting. I wasn’t at the café by accident.

“It’s just Rupert to you, Mark. I can call you Mark, can’t I? We’re in the club together now and ‘Mr. Matkins’ seems a bit formal for what we share.”

“Yes, yes, it does,” I answered. “Please, join me, if you will.”

Prince Rupert was something not fully clear to me in the Liechtenstein royal family. I just knew he wasn’t in the direct line of succession anymore, although he once was, and that he lived in a giant mansion on Haldenweg, the road winding up the mountain to Vaduz Castle from the financial center of the sixty-two-square mile, filthy rich princedom wedged between Switzerland and Austria. The castle at the top of the mountain was the seat of the Liechtenstein royals.

I understood that Rupert was someone important with the princedom’s finances and thus wielded great power here, but that he was isolated a bit from the social mainstream and spoken of in hushed tones. He also funded a hefty scholarship fund that was bringing young men into the forty-year-old University of Liechtenstein from all over the world. The college had just been limping along, nearly unnoticed, before he started his program.

I had lived here in an enclave, owned by the prince, of like-minded men for six months and had only recently come into Prince Rupert’s direct purview, although he surely knew about me and what I did or I would not have been accepted at his enclave. I was an artist, with a lucrative clientele in the underground arts, and my special collection of specialized old-themed art had come to the prince’s attention.

“I can pause here, if only for a moment,” Prince Rupert said, with an indulgent smile. “I have an appointment at the Kunstmuseum.” That was the small country’s cultural museum. I knew that the prince was on the board there. He seemed to be on the board of most everything in Liechtenstein, which had been one reason I’d gravitated to this remote alpine paradise to live and pursue my work and interests in some semblance of privacy, tolerance, and comradery.

As the prince was settling, my gaze went back to the square, where the young man wandering around on the cobblestones had drawn close. I was happy to see that he was the same young man, claiming to be eighteen years old, who I’d seen in the photo on the Internet site. It was interesting how many of the young men on the site were first- or second-year students at the local university. He looked at me and nodded. I nodded back, and the young man walked past our table toward the other side of the square. He stopped near the opening to the street leading to the church square and stared into a shop window.

“I hope you are settling in well, Mark,” Prince Rupert said. “You will make a good addition to our club, I am sure. Lord Hindsley had told me about your art and your collection—before he was taken up in the unpleasantness. Quite interesting and stimulating—your art. I had urged Hindsley to stay here among us rather than return to England. If he had, he could have avoided scrutiny and punishment. Was it he who told you about our little group in Liechtenstein?”

“Yes, it was. I felt I shouldn’t try to stay on in London,” I answered. “He told me this would be a compatible environment.”

“And the house on Hintergass ist gut, ist bequem?—sorry, is good? It’s comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you,” I answered. “Those of us who have been able to rent from you in that compound are quite simpatico. I don’t know how you say that in German.”

“We say nearly the same—sympatico. I’m happy you found such a place after the unpleasantness in London. You’ll be an excellent addition here—our chronicler, perhaps—in charcoal and paint. You are a fine figure of a man and you are younger than most of us. Some of our members will want to see you at . . . um . . . work, I think. And I’ve seen your art. Very impressive. You certainly know how to capture the mood and the emotion. And I’m interested in the collection of older-formatted versions of the art I understand you have.”

He paused there to chew on his bagel and then take a drink of his coffee, and I looked out onto the plaza. The young man was making another pass, sauntering down the line of shops on one side of the square. He was looking at me. I smiled and signaled with my hand to go into a waiting pattern by patting the air beside the table, out of the prince’s sight, my palm down. I was hoping the prince would say something, and he did, at my prompt.

“I would be pleased to show you the collection anytime you wish, Prince Rupert.”

“Perhaps we could set a date—I don’t have my social calendar with me,” he answered. “We could set one tomorrow evening, if you are available. I am having a gathering at my house on Haldenweg. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes, I know the house,” I said. I almost said “palace,” because that was what it was, a small palace, at elevation on the mountainside overshadowing the town.

“. . . and I would like you to attend. Formal dress. We wear masks, but I provide them . . . and everything else that’s needed. Some of what we use isn’t what you would want to be found carrying around on the street. A little recreation as a group activity.”

“Yes, I would be happy to attend,” I answered. “I’ve heard about the gatherings from some of the others I have talked with in the enclave . . . which reminds me, the house next to mine, the one with the grass tennis court. It seems to be occupied now.”

“Ah, yes, that would be Gunter Altmeir. He’s a member of the club. He travels most of the time. Tennis tournaments. He often comes here before Wimbledon—with one or the other of the tennis players he coaches. They prepare for Wimbledon here. The grass court. This year he has one of the young men just out of the juniors, Brad Brinkley. Have you seen him practicing on the court—the young man, Brad Brinkley?”

“Yes, I have.”

“A beautiful young man, isn’t he? Just eighteen. I understand he has to play in the qualifying round at Wimbledon but that he’s very good.”

“Yes, when he’s practicing, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off him,” I said.

“Because of how well he plays tennis?” The prince gave me an amused look.

“That too,” I said, assuring him of my real meaning.

“I suppose you would like to sketch him.”

“Of course.”

“We might be able to arrange something,” the prince said. “He and Gunter will be at the gathering tomorrow evening.”

“But do you think he—?”

“Yes, Gunter fucks him. He fucks all of his young male tennis players. He says it is part of their discipline. And he applies discipline with them.”

“You mentioned supplying masks at your party,” I asked. “I wonder if . . . protection . . .”

“Condoms are supplied for those who think they need them,” he said. “But look at the time,” he continued. “I’m afraid I must be off for my appointment. No, don’t bother to rise. Stay where you are. I’m glad I ran across you. I wanted to invite you to the gathering.”

And, with that, the prince was standing from the table. He was an imposing man, tall and broad at the shoulders but slender down through the hips. He was a handsome man, of royal bearing, probably in his fifties and graying, but every inch the prince.

I watched him walk across the plaza, happy that we’d met and I’d been invited to a gathering at last. There was a flash of someone else walking between me and the prince’s withdrawing figure, though, and my attention went back to the young man who had been circling around the square. He looked at me. I smiled and motioned him over.

“Are you M?” he asked as he reached the rail between the café area and the cobblestones of the square.

“Yes. Franz?” They were all named Franz in this country—all of the young male prostitutes—and, by custom, I made my assignations only with an initial. It made for privacy and convenience. But if a young man here answered to the name of Franz, you could be sure he was a prostitute who would take your money in exchange for a tumble. I didn’t know how any young man got along here whose unwitting parents actually named him Franz. I would assume he found another name to go by quickly when he came of age—or that he gave in to the inevitable fate of a Franz. I’m sure some did on the basis, as the pay was very good.

“Yes,” he answered me. “You said you wanted a young man to paint. You’d pay 150 Swiss francs.”

“Yes, I did e-mail that. But you know that for 150 francs—”

“Yes, Ich verstehe—I understand,” he said. “I saw you here with Prince Rupert. I understand. You have a car and we’ll go someplace?”

“Yes. You are a beautiful young man, Franz.” And he was a beautiful young man—slender and lithe. Under five and a half feet. He’d moved like a dancer as he’d wandered around the square. Curly blond hair in a mop of a halo around his angelic face. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt that clung to his divinely proportioned body. He’d be the perfect artists’ model for what I sketched and painted. “You did say you were eighteen, didn’t you?”

“Ja, Ich bin achtzehn—Yes, I am eighteen. But I have experience. Ich verstehe, was Sie wollen—I understand what you want. Ich habe dich mit Prinz Rupert gesehen. Ich bin bereit. I saw you with Prince Rupert. I am prepared. You are, I am happy to say, ein erstrebenswerter Mensch—how do you say? a desirable-looking man. I will be pleased to go with you. Most of the prince’s friends are old. You are not. But the prince’s friends are experienced and demanding. They are forceful. Are you demanding and forceful?”

“I can be,” answered. “Sit at the table. Give me your hand.” He did so, putting his hand in mine. We both looked around to see that we were not being observed, and then I pressed his hand to my crotch, making sure his fingers traced the line of my half-hard cock. “Do you still think I might be a desirable Mensch, Franz?” I asked.

“Yes, Sehr wünschenswert—very desirable,” he said, with a smile. I took my hand away. He didn’t. The fingers lingered, tracing the cock, which was engorging, through the material of my trousers.

“You know Prince Rupert and his friends well?” I asked.

“Yes. I am a student at the university here. I am in his program here.”

That told me everything I needed to know about what this Franz would do for me. The university program was the source for Rupert’s supply of young, eighteen- or nineteen-year-old men for the club program. Having their tuition paid was their agreement to prostitute for Rupert and his associates at all-mail parties the prince gave in his mansion. Their fetishes could become a bit extreme. Young men weren’t allowed in Rupert’s program if they weren’t willing to take what was applied.

“You are perfection for my purposes,” I said. “You are finely sculpted.”

“You look like you have a very good body too. You look like you are in good shape. You don’t look old at all. Your accent. Are you English?”

“American.”

“I like that. Gehen wir jetzt an deinen Platz?—Do we go to your place now? Skizzieren Sie mich und ficken Sie mich jetzt?—Do you sketch and fuck me now? Will you beat me?”

“Yes, Franz, we gehen to my platz now—for all of that I will sketch you and then I will fuck you. I don’t know what else we might do.” I handed him 150 Swiss francs and guided him to my car with my hand on his butt. He didn’t flinch. He’d mentioned Prince Rupert. And I knew the prince’s tastes and fetishes. This Franz should be fine with it.

* * * *

Pushing up with my hands and knees, I lifted my groin out from between Franz’s raised and spread thighs, pulling my cock, still hard and throbbing but released of its cum, out of his channel. I rolled up to a sitting position on the side of the bed. The youth, stretched out on his back, whispered, “Oh, fuck, was für ein fuck—Oh, fuck, what a fuck.” I would have considered that a compliment from a whore, if I didn’t suspect he said that to all of his johns. Still, he either was a consummate actor, or he had enjoyed that fuck.

His left arm was raised over his head, still tied to the brass top rail of the bedstead and his right, freed sometime during the struggle, dangling off the side of the bed, the thick cord that once had bound that arm to the rail still wound around his wrist. His ankles were still tied, with long enough leads from his ankles to bend his legs and open them, to the corners of the footrail. The sheets under the young man were mussed up in the struggle to get him tied up and fucked. I hadn’t really forced him. I had told him to make me fight for it. When I got rough, he put up more of a fight, but it was useless against me. Slapping him had made him more passionate; his cheeks and buttocks still blushed from the effort. I was a strong, beefy man. He was but a small, eighteen-year-old youth.

His blond young man’s body was gorgeous in its wild “taken” pose. His cock had gone flaccid and was resting on his lower, twitching belly, his cum glistening on his belly. I knew how to catch that in the sketch and was itching to get that started. His pelvis was elevated on pillows, his hole gaping open, still pulsating. I could capture that too even if it closed up before I could get to it. I could remember how wide I’d opened him. He was tight at first, but he was a whore; he opened up nicely and fully despite his complaints of how thick I was, even after I’d used the thick dildo on him. Once I was fully inside him and pumping, I didn’t hear any complaints.

When I’d pulled out of him and jerked the condom off, I’d deposited my cum on his hole, and I could capture that in the drawing as well, leaving the impression he’d been barebacked. His two pert balls, the size and texture of ping-pong balls, jutted up from under the base of his cock. He had a leather band wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, which had helped keep him erect and had bunched his balls into tight balls, making it easier to pull cries out of him when I patted and squeezed them.

His mouth was still yawning open, his eyes slitted, a dazed look in them that I would have to work hard to get just right, but no matter what the rest of his body would show in the drawing, I wanted his eyes to deliver the message that he had been royally fucked. I’d taken “after” photos as well. I had a technique of making these look like old “early years of photography” shots, which sold as well as the original drawings did.

“Scheisse. Ficken. Du warst zu gross—Shit. Fuck. You were too big,” he whispered in an exhausted, weary voice, now that he’d already taken me.

“You knew I was big. You could see that before I put it in you. You’ve been fucked with a big cock before, haven’t you?”

“Ja, aber . . . yes, but you were grausam—cruel.”

“You’ve been fucked by Prince Rupert before, haven’t you? I would believe the prince has fucked every eighteen-year-old young man in the princedom.”

“Ja.”

“Am I as cruel—grausam—as the prince is? I hear he uses a hand whip.”

“Nein, aber du bist grausam genug—No, but you are cruel enough.”

“And are the rumors true? Does the prince use a hand whip?”

“Ja. And he rides his young men like they are horses. He uses a riding crop on us while he rides us.”

“But you give him whatever he wants?”

“Naturlich—naturally. He is the master.”

“You don’t want me to be cruel?”

“Vielleicht ein bisschen grausam. Du bist ein Meister der Fick—Maybe a little cruel. You are a master of the fuck. Do you untie me now, or do we fuck again?”

“You want me to fuck you again?”

“Ja, naturlich—Yes, naturally.”

“And do you want me to be cruel to you again?”

“Ein bisschen—a bit. Es macht mich kommen gross—It makes me come big.”

“No, I don’t untie you now. That and the rough part were all to set the scene for the drawing. You agreed to model. You agreed to the sex. You have no complaint. You admitted to knowing the prince, and I wager he knows you—every millimeter of you. I’ll bet you go to his club nights when he calls you and that nothing I have done with you can be called cruel beside what happens at his club nights to you.” He didn’t voice disagreement with that.

I put a hand on his right leg and lowered it to where his leg was flat on the bed. He started to move the other one too. “No, don’t move. Stay in whatever pose I put you in. I’m going to draw you now. See, like the other drawings on the wall around the bed. Your experience will be immortalized.”

“You were cruel to them too?” he asked.

“Yes, yes I was,” I said. “Nur ein bisschen—just a bit.” I laughed.

“Werde ich so gefickt aussehen wie Sie?—will I look as fucked as they do?”

“Yes, because you have been fucked as well as they were.”

“That one there. Over there. You did not—?”

“He was fine,” I answered.

“The prince does that. Will you, the next time—?”

“You will be fine.” Nathan had been one of my favorite models—one of Lord Hindsley’s favorites too—in London. The drawing was of Nathan hanging on an X-frame, sagging in exhaustion. He was facing the frame, the welts showing on his back and buttocks. I think I had rendered the welts quite well. The worst of them were cosmetic, provided by my pencil rather than Hindsley’s whip. The scene had been Lord Hindsley’s setup. I hadn’t done that. I didn’t take the cruelty to those links in my own fetishes. He had pushed the envelope in London. Young men—young men from well-connected families—had gone to the hospital. That’s why he was in prison now and I was here. I didn’t carry the taking to the extremes Hindsley did, but I did paint and photograph the results of his escapades without intervening, so there was guilt by association. None of the young men had put themselves in Lord Hindsley’s hands unwillingly.

The age of consent in Liechtenstein was fourteen. Not so in England. Playing on the edge with eighteen-year-olds in England is much more problematic than playing with eighteen and nineteen-year-olds in Liechtenstein, as the prince’s club did, when the edge age here was fourteen. No matter the age, though, Lord Hindsley pushed the envelope. I didn’t use the young men anywhere near as hard as Lord Hindsley had done.

I used them hard, though, I’ll admit. I could say I did it for my art, but that would be only partially true. I did it because it aroused me to use them hard. But then, for the most part, I had found that it aroused them too. The arousal of Franz here, for instance, had gone up when I was slapping him around and had him bound to the bed. BDSM had more adherents than some would realize—or admit, even when they themselves melted to it.

“I will pay you 150 francs more,” I said, as I rose from the bed and went for my drawing supplies. He was just fishing for more money. I was big, yes, but not that much bigger than other cocks I’m sure he’d taken. And I certainly wasn’t as cruel as I’d heard Prince Rupert could be.

“Stay just like that. In that pose,” I commanded. First, I had to have a cigarette. No, first I had to get rid of this spent condom I picked up from the sheets where I’d discarded it. Sometimes I wanted that in the sketch, as well. Three spent condoms in a drawing created an interesting response, such as smiles, shivers, and low moans, to the art in its own right. But this was to be a bareback fantasy. I tossed the condom in the wastebasket. I opened the nightstand drawer and took out the pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. There was a pile of condom packets in the drawer, and I extracted one of those and dropped it on the top of the nightstand too. Franz saw that and moaned.

“Willst du mich noch mal ficken?—will you fuck me again? Wirst du mich pfeifen?—Will you whip me?” he asked, a whimper in his voice.

“Yes, Franz, I’m going to fuck you again. I’m going to give you another 150 francs and I’m going to fuck you again. No, I won’t whip you, though. I try not to whip on the first date—unless I’m not planning on having another date with the young man.” I laughed, but he didn’t join me. The joke obviously had gone over his head. “You are a very nice little piece. And you are going to say yes to it again, aren’t you?” Franz was the type of submissive who wanted to be given firm direction.

“Du bist zu gross—You’re too big,” he whined. He was angling for more money, but I knew I was paying generously by the going rates in Liechtenstein. And he had seen me with Prince Rupert. That would give me license to do a lot with him. Gays gathered here in droves, and they fucked like bunnies. Rent-boys were easy to come by and were cheap. They also were beautiful. Liechtenstein attracted the cream of the crop, and Prince Rupert’s tuition support program selected only the most delicious youths. I hadn’t sought Franz out; he had come to me.

“Not anymore, not for you. I’m not too big for you anymore, Franz. You are reamed for me now.” I leaned over and slid two fingers inside him. He groaned, but he was slow rocking on the fingers, so I knew he wasn’t unhappy. I added a finger, which he took—and then another.

“Are you going to verwenden Sie die Faust—use the fist on me now?” he asked.

“Would you let me do that? Have you been fisted before, Franz?”

“Ja, aber—yes, but I think it should be for more.”

I laughed. Always working at jacking up the price. “No, not today, Franz. Today, just the cock. So, say Ja, Franz. Ja, I can ficken you again.”

“Ja,” he said, in a small voice. “Fick mich wieder—Fuck me again. Sie sind wieder in der Erektion—You are in erection again. You want to fuck me again. For a bit more you can whip me too—or use the fist.”

“You want me to flog you or whip you, don’t you?”

“Ja, ein bisschen—Yes, a bit. And do you have one of those frames here in your house?” He was looking at the drawing of the young man hanging on the X-frame.

I ignored that offer. “Stay just like that Franz. I’ll be back with a sketchpad in a couple of moments.” I pulled my fingers out of his channel. First, I went over to the window and opened it to smoke a cigarette. As I was standing there, naked, leaning on the inner frame of the window inset into the thick old walls of the stone house, I gazed down into the yards of the compound of houses Prince Rupert owned at the corner of Hintergass and Ergertastrasse, north of the Kunstmuseum Platz. I was directly overlooking the swimming pool and grass tennis court surrounded by a high chain-link fence of the house recently occupied by the German tennis coach. Gunter Altmeir was out there hitting the ball with his Wimbledon-bound young protégé, Brad Brinkley. They were both just in athletic shorts and tennis shoes.

Brad was a beautiful redheaded young man. He was muscling up nicely, but the prince had said he’d just turned eighteen, so he was still growing and he was right in the wheelhouse of what aroused me most—something all of the men the prince rented to in the compound agreed with. It’s what made us simpatico. I thought of what Rupert said about Gunter—that he fucked all of his male tennis stars—and I envied the man, especially if all the young men were as desirable as Brad Brinkley was.

I lingered, smoking my cigarette. Play stopped and the two players were moving around the court, picking up tennis balls. Brad stopped and looked up at my house. I was sure he could see me in the full floor-to-ceiling window I was lounging in. I didn’t pull back. I remained there, naked, smiling down at him. More than that, I leaned more into the window, jutting my pelvis, with its half erection, out to give the lad a good look. It only lasted for a moment, but he was the first to pull away. Then I flicked the butt of my cigarette out of the window, went for my drawing supplies, and returned to the bed and worked on the drawing of Franz.

I was quick with my drawings, relying on the swift, strong strokes to capture the essence of my subject. I could always check details in later in the photos I’d taken, if I needed to. I rarely needed too. I usually drank in every facet of an attractive rent-boy as I was fondling and fucking him. Franz was a good model, lying there in the bound pose I’d fucked him into and just moaning quietly. I didn’t do a full drawing. Just enough to know I could fill it in later and have the effect and likeness that I wanted.

Afterward, I put the drawing supplies away and came back to the bed. I had hardened again, imagining fucking an eighteen-year-old youth while I was doing my drawing. It wasn’t Franz I was imagining fucking, though. It was the luscious redheaded tennis player, Brad Brinkley.

As I hovered over the young man on the bed, he murmured, “Du bist zu gross—You’re too big,” to me again, which I ignored and then, as I reached down and then up to untie his ankles and wrists, he asked, in surprise, “Wir werden nicht wieder ficken?—We’re not going to fuck again?”

He was a little poser. He wanted me to fuck him again. He wanted the additional 150 francs I’d mentioned. He also wanted my “too big” cock.

“Yes, we’re going to fuck again, Franz,” I said, as I stood over him, opening the condom packet I’d placed on the top of the nightstand, while Franz watched me, wide-eyed, and then smoothed the rubber down my reegorged cock. I was a fast reloader. I could do this again and again all day and night. And then we fucked again, this time me taking him fully with me so that what he’d leave remembering is that he’d said “Ja” to it and left satisfied.

With his hands and legs free, I gathered him up in my arms in a close chest-to-chest embrace and slowly, deeply entered him, watching his eyes, watching them come alive, at first pained and then surprised at the depth and fullness I was reaching, and then full of need, want, and lust, as, together, we set the rhythm of the deep stroking. Both of us were panting, Franz moaning, me groaning. “Ja, ja. Fick mich einfach so—Yes, yes. Fuck me just like that,” he murmured. At full depth, I had held, rocking ever so slightly, waiting for him to open fully to me, which, at length, he did. With a deep groan, eyes flashing, he cried out, almost in anguish, “Ja. Fick mich tief!—Yes. Fuck me deep!”

I started into long, deep slides, setting a rhythm accompanied by Franz’s moans and the thumping of the brass headboard against the wall and the squeaking of the bed springs—a regular symphony of fuck. As I moved into strong ever-more rapid thrusts, he cried out “Ja. Ja. Fick mich hart! Scheisse! FICK MICH!—Yes. Yes. Fuck me hard. Shit! FUCK ME!” His fingernails dug into my shoulder blades and the heels of his feet rubbed on the meat of my calves and his hips were moving with the rocking motion of my pelvis. I gave it to him hard, deep, and fast then. He cried out and shot his cum up between our heaving bellies, but I fucked on until he was jelly in my arms, collapsed, head arched back, tongue hanging out, mouth blowing bubbles.

“Du bist so gross, so stark, so machtig, so grausam—You are so big, so strong, so powerful, so cruel,” he cried out, moving with me, riding the cock as much as I was fucking him. “Fick mich gut!—Fuck me good!” he added, letting me know the luscious little blond was willingly surrendering to the fuck.

“Fick, fick, fick!” he’d cried out as, rising off his body, with my hands pressing into his arm sockets and straining and thrusting and tensing, trusting, and jerking, thrusting, and releasing and releasing again I spent my load on the small, writhing, eighteen-year-old body.

He left well-paid, smiling, and, I have every reason to believe, satisfied. Halfway through the fuck I no longer was thinking of fucking the small blond in my arms. I was thinking of fucking the redheaded tennis player on the grass court.

The last thing Franz said before he left was, “If you want me to model again, e-mail me,” so I knew that I hadn’t been too big for him after all. He’d also said he thought I was a first-rate artist, and he would love to have the drawing I did of him, although he couldn’t, of course, have a drawing anything like that in his parents’ house. Good for him for having discerning art taste.

I went back to the window and looked down in the neighboring yard. The two men, naked were now on a lounge bed by the pool. Gunter Altmeir was on his back and Brad Brinkley was straddling the older man’s pelvis, riding his cock. The young man did it well; he quite evidently knew how to ride a man’s cock. I stood and watched for a few minutes. I rolled the spent condom off my cock, tossed it back across the room toward the wastebasket, and beat myself off as I watched the fuck by the pool. When I’d splashed the glass of the window with my cum, I pulled the drapes together and went for a cooling shower. When I returned, the two were still fucking, Brad riding the cock high in long strokes. Yes, the young man knew how to ride a cock, taking his time, edging the man under him to the brink and back, and then back to a higher-threshold brink again.

* * * *

“Such art flourished in sixteenth-century Italy, as did sodomy in the artist circles,” I told a conversation group composed of Prince Rupert; a businessman I recognized, despite the mask, because he lived in the same compound I did and we’d shared a university student a few weeks previously—you don’t easily forget someone you’ve been naked with and rubbed cocks with in a third man’s passage—and a priest who had been addressed as Father Stephan, who stood out because he was in a black cassock rather than evening clothes. He wore a mask, but he hardly needed have bothered. I think the men did it just for the “it’s a game” feel of doing so. I had watched him fuck a young man on a table earlier and he hadn’t let his cassock get in the way while he was doing it.

We were in one of a series of entertainment rooms in Prince Rupert’s Haldenweg mansion, watching two masked men in evening wear, with just their flies open, fucking a naked eighteen-year-old university program student on a purple velvet upholstered chair by a fireplace. It was an evening of moving from one tableau to another of older men in tuxedos fucking young, naked men in various settings.

The prince had invited about a dozen club members to his get-together and had provided four of his young “Franzes” for them to screw. He had them labeled as Franz One thorough Franz Five, sans Franz Two. Franz Two apparently had the night off. The prince assured us they all were eighteen or just barely nineteen, the most arousing target age for the club—at least that I was aware of.

I noticed that Prince Rupert kept turning an eye on me, I think to gauge whether I would be shocked by any of the casual debauchery going on around us and, perhaps, wondering if it was giving me inspiration for my art—which it was. It seemed to be some sort of test, possibly before he offered me full membership in his club. I think he was interested in getting some of my artwork cheaply or for free. If he thought I was at all squeamish about young men being ravished by men older than they were, though, he would be disappointed. The activity would have to go a fair piece into the rough and torturous—as long as the young man didn’t object—to give me pause, and nothing close to that was happening in the prince’s elegant formal rooms.

From the way Rupert touched me when we were conversing and the looks he gave me made me wonder if his interests also went to men older than the eighteen-year-old club standard. If he did fancy me, I would cooperate. I went both ways, I wanted to remain in his good graces with this club arrangement he had, and, truth be known, I fancied him.

“Surely you don’t have any Michelangelo, Da Vinci, or Caravaggio works in your collection, M,” the prince asked. “They would be priceless, despite the themes, and would be known to the world by the artist’s technique even if never seen in a museum or catalog before.” Even though most of the members of the club did know the other members, as they shared young men and information on the availability of young men, we referred to each other by initial only.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “But they trained other artists and some of these artists were their lovers as well. It was a period in which close attention to human anatomy in art was in high exploration, so it stands to reason the masters rendered works that would interest you and your associates. They also, not being as much in the public eye, were freer with their own art. I do have several works by such homosexual protégés of the masters, but I also have works from Japan from that period and more recently. The Japanese have a whole range of explicit homosexual art, most of it under the Nanshoku school of art. I have considerable examples of that. Even some that would serve your special interests. I am intrigued with the motif of a man in eveningwear covering a younger, naked man, as seems to be the theme here tonight. I have examples of that, in period dress, of men down through the ages. I would make a great exhibition, putting them together, I think. A very private exhibition, of course.”

“I would love to see such a collection,” Prince Rupert, who we naturally addressed as PR in this setting, said, “and perhaps even acquire some of them,” he added.

And acquire me as well, I wondered. He was standing close to me and I felt the touch of his slender manicured fingers on my arm. I wondered again if he was interested in me in the way he was interested in eighteen-year-olds. It was something to keep in mind. He was a sexy man, and I did gravitate to men of all ages and persuasions. I was considerably younger than he was to the extent that was important to him. And he need only ask to find that, yes, I took cock as easily as I gave it. I didn’t take some of the more sadistic acts I had been told he liked to perform, though—at least I didn’t think I did.

I momentarily wondered if he would be pleased if I stripped and let him cover me here, tonight, in some tableau that his friends could gather around and watch. I would have acceded to that, if he initiated it. I would have painted it, even, and gifted hm the result. I was going hard at the thought of this.

“Please do come look at my collection,” I said, “and, for now, that tableau over there looks inviting . . .”

One of the masked club members we were watching had Franz Three sitting sideways in the velvet chair, with the young man’s torso arched back over the side. Both of the club members were fully dressed in their tuxedos, but both had their hard cocks out. One was kneeling between Franz Three’s spread and raised thighs and was fucking him. The other was standing beside the chair, hands holding Franz Three’s head, and was feeding the young man his cock. “If you don’t mind, I would like to sketch that. I brought my drawing implements. I will gift you the drawing if I render it well and you like it.”

“That would be lovely,” PR said. His hand squeezed my forearm. Yes, I think he was interested.

Just then, a naked young man—Franz Five—padded by in a not-too-quick “you can catch me” run past us, with another one of the club members, fully dressed but with his dick protruding from his fly, in rosy erection, following behind. Franz Five allowed himself to be caught and laid on his back on a table in an adjoining room. He raised and split his legs as the club member, without preamble, inserted himself between the youth’s legs and inside the young man’s hole. Franz Five, showing his enthusiasm for his assignment, cried out a “Scheisse, Ja!—Shit, yes!” at the initial penetration. The club member grabbed the youth’s waist between his hands and bounced him up and down on the table top as he pumped his ass vigorously.

None of the Franzes present that evening acted like they were being coerced into this. The prince obviously was paying them all well—and often.

All the young men here would be several years legal by this small country’s laws, but they’d be young, in keeping with the club members’ tastes. With the age of consent in Liechtenstein set at fourteen, it was both safe and convenient for men interested in youths of eighteen and nineteen to gather in the small principality. Equally advantageous was that gays naturally gravitated to the open permissiveness of the rich principality and that one of the prominent members of the ruling family was a strong patron of the club.

That’s why I had retreated here after the more extreme activities of Lord Hindsley came to light in London. I was accepted as a provisionary member of the club immediately and had already indulged fully in the compound I occupied with other club members, but this was my first summoning to one of the prince’s get-togethers. There were some club members who never came into his inner sanctum. I was well aware that he wanted something from me in exchange for his protection and patronage. He had expressed interest in my art vocally, but I believe he was expressing interest in me sexually nonverbally as well.

Soon thereafter our eyes met across the room when we were engaging in separate conversation groupings. He had taken a hand whip from somewhere and was running his fingers through the strands as he captured my gaze. I didn’t turn away and he smiled. Perhaps I was more curious than I had thought before. But then I’d never thought before of consenting to anything like that.

Another couple of men were entering the mansion, pausing in the foyer, when our gaze had passed over them and was captured by the slow, laughter-laced chase to the table top in the adjoining room and our discussion paused long enough to catch the club member getting mounted on Franz Five and beginning to pump him to the young man’s squealed delight. Having seen those two fuse, my attention went back to the foyer to see that the new arrivals were my new neighbors, Gunter Altmeir, or K to us in this setting, and the eighteen-year-old tennis player beauty, Brad Brinkley. Brad wouldn’t be given an initial for a name in this setting. He would be another numbered Franz. As a gorgeous young man, he’d be given a dozen cocks if the members could manage it. I knew that I wanted to have him under me. And I knew now that he rode cock, and obviously with experience.

As soon as they were there, in the foyer, the prince caught their arrival and pulled them away and into another room. As the prince walked beside the young tennis player, I notice that he swished his hand whip strands against the young man’s thigh. Brinkley didn’t seem to notice.

I went for my drawing supplies and settled down to doing sketches of the various fuck positions the two members and Franz Three were performing on the velvet chair beside the fireplace. They were inventive and, eventually, the young man was taking both cocks in one hole simultaneously, one club member slouched in the chair, the young man in his lap and sheathing his cock, facing him, and the other club member crouched behind, and inside Franz Three.

A tuxedoed, gray-haired man, solidly built but not quite obese, positioned himself close behind me where I sat. He watched as I sketched, his hands, gloved in black leather, gliding down the front of my silk tuxedo shirt, finding where it parted, and insinuating his fingers inside, touching and rubbing my nipples as I sketched. His lips went to beside my ear and he murmured how well I drew, how attractive I was, and what he’d like to do with me.

“Have you ever been taken to heaven with a gloved hand?” he whispered.

I admitted that I had and he could feel me trembling at his gloved touch. I apparently sketched for too long, though, as he abandoned me to follow one of the Franzes across the room.

I was finishing up the sketches of the trio at the fireplace, who seemed eventually to have exhausted themselves in their frenzy when I heard voices in the foyer. K—Gunter Altmeir—was leaving. But he appeared to be leaving alone. I didn’t have much time to analyze that before PR was standing at my elbow. He had a hand on Brad’s arm. Brad, standing a bit behind the prince and sheepishly looking down, was naked. His body was beauty personified—both eighteen years young and developed already as an endurance tennis player.

“If you’ve finished your drawing, would you please come with me?” PR said. “There’s another drawing or two I would like you to do for me. Later we can talk about what other exchanges we might make.”

I stood, gathering up my drawing supplies to take with me, and followed PR through the first floor to stairs leading down to the basement. He guided Brad along with us with a hand on the young man’s arm. Brad docilely followed. He moved like he might have been drugged. But he still moved like a graceful dancer. I couldn’t take my eyes off his pert buttocks and muscular legs.

As I knew would be the case, PR’s basement included a sexual torture chamber. I had already figured that his sexual tastes with young men ran parallel to those that had landed Lord Hindsley in prison in England. This wasn’t England, though. This was the prince’s country and willing eighteen-year-old youths were free game here. And the prince obviously treated them as game.

Rupert muttered something about paying the rent as he placed Brad into the stocks. That the young man gave no resistance marked his understanding, even in a slightly drugged state, that he was the one paying the rent for his training stay in Liechtenstein. That Gunter Altmeir left the house alone marked his acquiescence in this as well. PR obviously owned Brad at this point.

The contraption the prince bound Brad in was a version of a Prie Dieu, a prayer bench, where Brad was kneeling at a rail. The bench was more complex than that, though. The rail was thick and functioned as stocks, with holes to trap the lad’s head and wrists. And his legs were encased in braces that, with the pumping of a lever, lifted his bent legs off the kneeling pad and raised and spread them, with the effect that, when the prince pumped the lever, which he did almost immediately, the young man’s vulnerable buttocks and privates were rolled up and raised in the air, ready for the violating.

As I sketched, the prince spent some time kneeling behind Brad and eating out his ass and sucking on the young man’s cock and balls. Brad moaned appropriately. PR stood after a while and, taking a riding crop, reddened up the young man’s buttocks. Brad cried out and writhed as best he could appropriately.

In the midst of doing this, PR turned and gave me a sharp look. I was sure he was gauging my reaction to his cruel treatment of the young tennis player. I didn’t flinch, though, and kept on sketching. These were arrangements between other people, not me, and I didn’t want to lose standing in PR’s club. To reassure him, I unzipped myself and made clear I was in erection. The prince came over to me, touched my erection with long, sensuous fingers. Again, I didn’t flinch. He flicked his whip against my thigh and I didn’t shrink from that either. Giving a laugh and a slight “later” look at me, he turned back to his task at hand. At length, he moved in between Brad’s spread thighs, holding his erection in his hand. He mounted and penetrated the young man and fucked him. Brad groaned and moaned appropriately.

When the prince was moving Brad to a table top where the young man’s arms were stretched and bound over his head and his buttocks were elevated at the edge of the foot of the surface with his legs spread and raised, bound to overhead chains, he noticed that I had finished sketching. This was evident because I was stroking my cock with the hand I’d been sketching with.

The prince laughed and said, “Would you like a turn with Brad?”

I didn’t lie. “Yes.”

“Not tonight. Tonight Brad is paying for the rent on the house and tennis court I’ve let him and Gunter use. But perhaps we can have some sort of exchange. Perhaps I could come by your house to look at your art collection tomorrow. And perhaps you might be willing to do a little deal with me . . . concerning Brad.”

“Perhaps,” I answered, disappointed that this was not going to be tonight. It wasn’t just because the sex scene that had unfolded in front of me and that I had drawn a couple of sketches from to fill out later had thrown me into high heat. It had. But also I was, in fact, concerned by the cruelty the prince was showing and the young tennis player was accommodating. I could be a bit cruel too, I knew, but I was no Lord Hindsley, or, it seemed, Prince Rupert. I would have liked for PR to turn Brad over to me so that the young man wouldn’t be used as hard as he was being used.

“Ach, Ich glaube . . . I think you are a bit disappointed. Perhaps you’d like to take one of the Franzes home for the night,” the prince said, his voice teasing.

“Perhaps,” I answered.

When I left, having arranged for Franz Four to attend to me in the night at my house after his responsibilities here were concluded, and my leaving unnoticed by the prince and Brad, PR was standing between Brad’s spread legs, hovering over the young man, and fucking him. Brad’s back was arched and he was crying out, “Yes, yes, get it, get it. Fuck me!” So, I guessed he was willing enough.

What caught my attention, though, was that Brad’s head was turned to the side. He was staring at me when he cried out his need. I could have sworn he was trying to convey to me that I was the one he wanted to be fucking him.

As I left the prince’s mountainside palace, prepared to walk down the hill and into the town, the back door of a Mercedes limo opened and a gray-haired, tuxedoed man, wearing black leather gloves beckoned to me. From his stocky build, I presumed this was the man who had stood behind me while I was sketching in the house.

I lay across the backseat, my trousers and jacket off and my silk shirt flared open, virtually naked to the fully clad man covering me, as the Mercedes glided around the city. My legs were bent and spread and I was panting hard and whimpering as a black leather-clad hand slowly sank up inside me, and the gray-haired man fucked me with his fist. He breached the sphincter with his knuckles and buried his hand inside me. He held there and I rocked on the hand, fucking myself on the greased black-leather gloved hand. I let him take what he wanted half because I found such rough treatment sexually fulfilling and half because, if he was in this club of Prince Rupert’s, he was a man of power and influence with the prince, and, since I wished to impress the prince, I would give his friends what they wanted.

He laughed and began to move the hand in countermotion to my rocking. When I was well open to what proved to be an extraordinarily thick cock, he turned us to where he was on his back across the seat and I was saddled on him, riding his cock. His release was timed well to the ultimate arrival of the Mercedes at my house.

* * * *

“Ja, Ich fühle es, aber nicht zu viel. Bitte sei gut zu mir—Yes, make me feel it, but not too much. Please be good to me.” Franz Four was stretched out under me on his belly, tied to the headboard and footboard at the four points, pillows under his belly, lifting his ass to me. I swished the multithonged black leather whip on his back and then down to his buttocks. He was trembling underneath me, already moaning, and I hadn’t begun with the whip yet. I wasn’t all that sure what I wanted to do with it. I raised it and flicked the thongs on his bare buttocks. The lad moaned a deep moan.

“Does Prince Rupert do this to you?” I asked.

“Ja, ja, er peitscht mich—Yes, he whips me.”

“And do you enjoy it?”

“Ja, manchmal—yes, sometimes. Er geniesst es. Das ist alles was zählt—He enjoys it. That’s all that matters.”

“Do you want me to whip you?”

“Wenn Sie das von mir willst—If that’s what you want from me. Bitte. Bitte sei gut zu mir—Please, please, be good to me,” he cried out. He shuddered as I flicked him again and then, when I struck him harder, he yelped, “Gnade. Gnade, bitte!—Mercy. Mercy, please!”

Laughing, I struck him five times—twice across the back, three times on the buttocks, just enough for me to see the hint of welts when I drew him.

“Peitsche mich hart. Lassen Sie mich fühlen. Bestrafe mich. Mach mich hart!—Whip me hard. Make me feel it. Punish me. Make me hard!” Shit, the little fucker liked it. He wanted it. I gave him some more—more than I normally would do with one of my models, and he cried out, “Ja, Ja! Wieder! Mehr!—Again. More!” But I’d had enough. I stopped. He was writhing now, wanting the cock.

“Ja. Ja. Fick mich. Fick mich hart!—Yes, fuck me. Fuck me hard!” I didn’t know if Franz Four was trying to distract me or if he had gotten caught up in the prince’s club because he enjoyed more than a little punishment.

“So, you do like the sting of the whip?—Magst du den Stachel der Peitsche?” I asked.

“Ja. Peitschen Sie mich. Fick mich. Fick mich gut!—Yes. Whip me. Fuck me. Fuck me good!”

That answered that. I whipped him again and again, hard enough to show welts, but not hard enough to break the skin. He writhed under me, murmuring “Ja, Ja. Fick mich gut!”

I dropped the whip to the side, moved over him, planting my fists on either side of his shoulders, maneuvered my erection in place, and began penetrating his ass.

He responded to that. “Oh, Scheisse. Oh fuck. Du bist so gross. Du bist zu gross!—Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. You’re so big. You’re too big!”

“That’s what they all say,” I growled, and then I gave him what he claimed he wanted. I fucked him good. And then I fucked him better. And then I fucked him best. I laced my arms under his, locking my fists behind his neck, putting his body in a severe bow, and rocked him, making his own channel fuck him on my throbbing rod, punishing his young man’s channel deep, hard, and fast with my thrusting cock, riding him hard, fucking him interminably. I needed him to be wiped out. When I was done, he was wiped out and moaning deeply.

I left him then, took a couple of photos, and then gathered up my drawing materials to capture him, bound and stretched out in a heap in mussed sheets. Again, like the street Franz of my last taking here, I freed his arm—his left one—so that it could dangle off the side of the bed, signifying that he was spent, vulnerable, defenseless. This time I drew him from the foot of the bed, his elevated ass and the wide-reamed hole the focus of attention. I draped the whip on the small of his back, the thongs hanging over the side of the bed, to highlight that the young man had been whipped as well as bound. I drew him from a standing position, looking down on him. I accentuated the welts on his back and buttocks in my drawing, although they were more pronounced than I had intended. He had had a taste for punishment that I hadn’t anticipated. I caught the glisten of the cum I’d shot onto the small of his back and the young man’s cum deposited on the sheets under his raised pelvis. I captured his “I’ve been conquered” glazed eyes.

When I had a rough sketch done that I could finish up later, I took a smoking break. When I came back to Franz Four and untied him, he murmured wearily to me, “Willst du mich noch mal Peitschen und ficken?—Are you going to whip and fuck me again?”

“Do you want me too?—Willst du, dass ich?” I asked, curious. He had given in to the fuck like he wanted it.

“Was immer du willst. Der Prinz sagte, ich soll dir geben, was du willst—Whatever you want. The prince told me to give you whatever you want,” he answered in a weary voice.

“Then I won’t whip you again. I don’t want more of that than I’ve already done.”

“Aber du wirst mich wieder ficken, nicht?—But you will fuck me again, won’t you?”

“You want me to?”

“Ja, bitte.”

“But I thought I was too big.”

“Du bist gut gross. Ich will dich wieder in mir haben—You are good big. I want you inside me again.”

I laughed. And then I gathered him up in my arms and we fucked as lovers. I was not gentle with him—I held him close under me, his torso streaming away from me, his head turned to the side, his eyes flashing and his mouth yawning, groaning deeply, as I fucked him hard and deep, filling him, stretching him, giving him everything, taking everything away from him. Through the night.

I would never have done this in England. I would never have gone this far or dared get this sort of pleasure out of what I did to a young man. Was I adjusting to the hedonism and cruelty of Prince Rupert’s world? Would I give myself to him in this way too?

* * * *

Prince Rupert toured my collection of homosexual erotic art the next afternoon. When he left, he held tucked under his arm a bronze sculpture of a satyr fucking a young man that was rendered by the sixteenth-century Italian sculptor Benvenuto Cellini, probably the most valuable work in my collection. In turn, though, I had a lifetime right to live in Liechtenstein and this house rent free and the protection of the prince as long as he lived, and I could visit the work in his mansion frequently. I was solidly in his good graces. He also took a couple of eighteenth-century Japanese wood-block prints of the Nanshoku school of a Japanese lord fucking a young man, both in full, rich kimono regalia, and of a samurai fucking one of his protégés as they trained with the broadsword. He also reserved the drawings I was working on from the club-member gathering at his mansion the previous evening.

That wasn’t all that transpired during the prince’s visit. After having seen my collection of erotic and fetish art, he complained of being throbbingly erect and made quite clear he wanted me to do something about it. He was very direct, as princes often are.

“Will you take my cock? I think that you will,” he said.

“Yes, certainly, Sire,” I answered. “Whatever you want, you may have.” I unbuttoned my shirt and unbuckled and unzipped my trousers, and shrugged my clothes off, standing before him naked. I saw his eyes flash and a small smile form on his lips. I don’t think he expected me so readily and completely to show that degree of subservience to his desires.

“Will you take the whip?”

“Yes,” I answered, simply, casting my eyes down in a surrender of submission.

I knelt in front of him, unzipped and released him, and gave him suck. I did not finish him that way, though. He took me to my studio—I had shown him the restraints on the beds and chairs I used there—and he tied me to the bed, loosely, so that I could writhe quite freely. I gave him no resistance. He flogged me with a riding crop; mounted me; rode me, like I’d been told he would, as an equestrian astride his horse; and released inside me. Throughout I gave him what he wanted how he wanted it and praised his equestrian prowess—and he was, in fact, very good. When he left, I felt confident that my formal invitation to become a full member of the club would arrive in the next mail.

A couple of hours later, Brad Brinkley appeared at my door.

“Prince Rupert told me to come and model for you—until tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Did he tell you what modeling for me entailed?” I asked.

“Yes. I just ask that I not be beaten as much as he did last night—or I’ll be in no condition to play at Wimbledon in a couple of weeks.”

“I’m not going to beat you, Brad. I’m going to worship you.”

And then I did.