The Jacket

Jacket Lost

It was the first time I’d worn the jacket and I’d lost it. I had other jackets, but when I’d gone out the day before, I’d decided this one would be best to wear, and I was right. The temperature in Paris was changing, and there was a great variation between late morning and mid afternoon. It was too nice out to want to go to indoor cafés. The Parisian way was to settle in outdoor cafés, drink coffee, leisurely read the paper, and ogle women--or, in my case, men--as city life drifted by you.

I’d been transferred directly and unexpectedly from the Mediterranean, so most of the jackets I had with me before my goods arrived in Paris were lightweight. They weren’t up to the slight chill in the Paris morning, and yet I didn’t want to be the only one sitting inside a café for my morning break from my international export company job. I had sought out the Paris assignment because I also worked as a male model and Paris was the Eden of high fashion. I’d acquired a bit of a reputation for walking the runway, and Paris was a big opportunity for me.

The jacket had been just right for this weather. I’d had it for years and had only kept it for sentimental reasons, because most of those years I had been living in the tropics. The jacket was much too heavy for where I’d lived before now. It was a soft grayish-green wool, woven in an intricate pattern and with leather inserts of nearly identical color as side panels, elbow guards, and wrist bands. But it had come from my father, who had had it made in Oslo during his stint there as the military attaché at the U.S. embassy in Norway. It was much too nice to give to a charity organization in its nearly new condition. I knew my father must have carefully picked it out, as he was as style conscious as I was.

I always had assumed that someday I could put the jacket into service myself. I’d even bought an expensive cashmere neck scarf to go with it in a bazaar in New Delhi that was of a color I thought would match the coat and that, victoriously, had done so perfectly. I’m sure I could be considered overconcerned about style and clothing, but fashion was a major aspect of my life. I took great care with the grooming of my wardrobe and my body, and I’d always found it easy to fall in with men who appreciated the care I took with myself as well. I expected the same of them.

And now, after only one day of wearing the jacket around Paris to various offices and cafés in a flurry of activity in setting up my new life in the French capital, I somehow had lost the jacket. The day had warmed as it had progressed. There were any number of places I could have entered, wearing the jacket, and left, not feeling the need for a jacket. The worst part was that the jacket had had so little part of my life, other than sentimentality and being a timeless style, that I couldn’t be sure I’d even recognize the jacket if I saw it somewhere other than in my closet or on the back of my chair.

Thus it was that, when I was walking past an outdoor café on a Paris street near my apartment late the next morning, I did a double take when I looked into the café and saw a jacket that very easily could be mine draped over the back of a chair. The young man seated in the chair caught my eye as I stood there, wondering and speculating, and gave me a smile. He was a beautiful young man--dark and sultry, with a day’s stubble of beard that added to the sensuality of an athletic-frame European male, and with an infectious and teasing smile that went beyond his full-lipped mouth with dazzling white teeth and into his dark eyes. He was impeccably--and casually--dressed and could well have been a model himself.

I stood there, gawking at him--or, rather, at the jacket, although he obviously didn’t understand that it was the jacket, not him I was staring at--for a moment longer than needed for him to get the impression that I was interested in him. In hindsight, I could see that he was justified in thinking that I had been coming on to him from the beginning. In response, he turned in three-quarters profile to me in the chair, leaned back, and smiled again in a “what you see is what you get” fashion. And what I could see was very presentable indeed.

If I’d given him my full attention, I, of course, would have been interested in him. But my focus was on the jacket. Had I been in this café yesterday? Yes, I think I might have been. Had I sat at that table? Yes, possibly. Could I just have left the jacket on the back of the chair when I left and no one had taken it away? Unlikely--at least that no one would have noticed it as abandoned and taken it away--but not impossible, if the café, one that was open twenty-four-hours a day, remained as busy as it often did.

The smile on his face broadened and he gestured to me, inviting me to sit at the table. The gesture refocused my attention on him more fully, and a couple of parts of me took note--my heart gave an extra bleep, and another part of me noticeably hardened. He was a beautiful young man, fully masculine, but totally sensual. His clothes fit him like a glove, including across the bulge at his crotch. There was a type of man I melted to lay under. This was such a man. I mostly went with older men, but occasionally I preferred a younger one--when I was in the mood for vigor.

I accepted his invitation and sat at the table. In the blink of an eye, a waiter was at my elbow and I had ordered coffee. I would be there, with this dark and sultry hunk, at least as long as it took for me to finish my coffee. The young man’s cup was refilled when my coffee arrived. He was willingly staying around too.

We couldn’t communicate with each other in other than hand signals and the occasionally mutually understood word. He was French and I was American and had unexpectedly and on short notice been transferred to Paris. It would be months--possibly never--before I’d be able to converse in the language, although I did have a facility for learning languages and knew several. I’m pretty good at figuring the essential meaning of a word out when given in context of the situation.

We managed to maintain interest in each other and keep the interaction animated despite the language barrier, with some misunderstandings and, increasingly, at least one quite clear shared understanding--he wanted to fuck me and I was quite willing for him to do so.

He was a university student, making that evident by pointing to a pile of books on the table, and saying the words “Sorbonne” and “architecture,” the latter word pronounced differently in French and English, but perfectly understandable to me when he said it in French. I got across that I very much liked the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, but not that I wondered if it was my  jacket. In turn, he admired my Gucci polo shirt, saying “Gucci?” with a question mark, and I nodded and smiled and said “Oui,” which was about the extent of my French vocabulary at that point. I wasn’t sure--at least then--when he motioned, with a twinkle of his eye, the act of pulling the shirt over my head, that he was propositioning me. Not completely understanding, I smiled back at him and said “Oui.”

That served as some sort of ice breaker and deal maker that I didn’t immediately understand, but had no objection to when I did understand it. The conversation, such as it was, became more intimate, with touching, and lingering gazes, and him pointing to himself and saying “Jacques” and then pointing to me and waiting for me to say “Ryan.”

This was followed with him smiling that million-dollar smile again, pointing up--which I only understood in reliving the moment as meaning he wanted us to go up to someplace private--and popping his tongue in the side of his mouth. I didn’t fully understand that, but I was getting the message. His hand went to my thigh, above the knee, and he looked dreamily at me. I didn’t try to remove his hand, which told him all he wanted to know.

What I did  fully understand was when he folded over the fingers of one of his hands to form a sheath and pointed at me with a quizzical look and a “Oui?” and then showed me the middle finger of his other hand, declaring “Oui,” inserted that finger in the sheath formed with the other hand, moved it vigorously in and out, and popped his tongue inside his cheek again. He wanted to ensure that I was a bottom and was declaring himself as a top.

What could I do but answer with the only French word I’d mastered. I said “Oui,” made a folded-fingers sheath with one of my hands, and pointed to myself and smiled. Just to be sure, he gave me the universal, underhanded, pumping of his fist that was understood anywhere as a jacking off sign, and I smiled again and said “Oui.”

There was some confusion as we stood and each dropped coins on the top of the table and he reached back for the jacket, showing that he knew it was there and thought it was his, no matter how recently acquired. I knew then that he would fuck me and I wouldn’t make a fuss about the jacket, but I realized that we hadn’t established where this coupling would take place. I took my wallet out and extracted one of my personal calling cards, pointing to an address. He smiled and pointed in the direction where my apartment was, not more than two blocks from here, and I nodded in agreement.

I also extracted some euro notes half way from the wallet and gave him a questioning look. But he smiled at me, moved his hand back and forth in a “not needed” gesture and then diagrammed an hour-glass figure with both hands--denoting a woman’s curvy figure, but getting across that he found me attractive enough to fuck me for free. I never had had to pay for it before, but he was beyond irresistible. I would have paid him for sex. His eagerness was enhanced by a thrust of his pelvis back and forward, a licentious smile, and another pop of his tongue in his cheek.

I don’t know if any of the others at tables around us at the café observed and correctly interpreted his mime, but I didn’t care. I laughed. At this point I was also hard as a rock and fairly panting for him.

He was a highly competent lover, his body beautifully proportioned, muscular, and slightly hirsute, with curly dark hair swirling on his chest and down into his trimmed pubes. His cock was thick and long in erection, his balls plump, and his technique straightforward, powerful, and vigorous. He was everything I could want in a fuck, especially one that was unexpected and impromptu.

We needed no language. We kissed inside the door as we undressed each other and showed in gestures and groans that we both approved of the goods we’d gotten in the deal. Naked, but still standing inside the closed door to the apartment, we rocked against each other. Jacques frotted our cocks while we kissed. I too reached down and found him to be uncut. I was cut. I worked his cock for a few moments, reveling in the feel of his loose skin gliding on the hard steel of his erection as I worked him.

In breathy French, he murmured something to me. All I recognized from what he said was his interjection in English of “fuck you” and “bed.”

I took him into my bedroom and sank to my knees between his legs as he sat on the bed and sucked his cock as he guided my deep throating with moans and his hands on the back of my head. He knelt behind me, in turn, as I was bent over the bed, my arms outstretched in submissive supplication, as he ate out my ass and alternated pulling my dick through my legs and giving it suck. I writhed under him, moaning and groaning, as he covered me close from behind, entering me slowly and deeply. I struggled against him half-heartedly and ineffectually, until he was fully saddled, and then gave into him completely, letting him have his way with me as he wished. When I relaxed, I opened more to him, and we both realized and appreciated that I could take him deeper then. He took his victory in long, deep thrusts, and pumped me to his ejaculation. I had already come for him while he was working on opening me up with his tongue.

There had been a moment of awkwardness before I realized he hadn’t come with protection and managed to gesture to him that there were condoms and lube in the drawer of my nightstand. He hesitated but did take out a disk and crowned himself.

He wasn’t in a hurry to leave, and we spent time in each other’s arms stretched out on the bed, kissing and fondling each other, and engaging in a mutual language lesson. He palmed my chest, flicking my nubs and said, “es nichons” and “les nibards,” and, taking one of his nipples between my thumb and finger, I twisted and pinched it and said, “pectorals and nipple.” He pointed to my cock and said “le pénis, la verge, La bite,” and “la pine.” I said “cock, dick, and shaft.” He laughed, leaned over, and took my cock in his mouth. I moved around to where I could take his in my throat too and we sixty-nined. He moved a finger to my hole, penetrated me, and whispered, “l’anus,” which I readily understood, but, with a low laugh, he added, “une coquille.” I knew from his gesture that he was referring to a vagina, having used my ass as one would a woman’s cunt. Panting and breathless, I murmured, “Male cunt. Hole. Yes, oh god yes,” as he penetrated to the prostate with his index finger and rubbed.

He freed his hands and moved them to in front of my face, repeating the gesture from the café of folding the fingers of one hand into a sheath and thrusting the middle finger of the other hand into it. He growled, “coucher avec quelqu’un” and “copuler, s’accoupler” and then, in broken but clearly understandable English, smiled and said, “I fuck you now.” “Forniquer” and “niquer,” he murmured, and added, in broken English, “You understand?” and, strangely enough, I did understand he was going to fuck me again. He also gave me a questioning, pleading look and murmured in English, “No rubber? OK now. Raw fuck? Is better, how you say, feel.”

“Copulate, fuck. Yes, raw fuck. Fuck me now!” I cried out, lost to him to the point of risking it. He rolled over on top of me, stuffing a pillow under the small of my back, as I spread and bent my legs, placing my feet flat on the mattress, and rolling my pelvis up to receive the strong, deep thrust of his cock and prepared to thrust with him. I clutched, alternately, at his shoulder blades and his buttocks, as he plowed me deep and hard, vigorously and with abandon. Young, strong, virile, he took me harder, rougher, more insistently now, and I cried out in passion and ecstasy at the intensity of the fuck.

We needed no language to be lost to each other, to become one, smoothly undulating fucking machine. Him giving me all, taking it all from me. Me luxuriating in a thick, uncut cock, raw barebacking, velvety smooth and loose skin sliding along steel erection, caressing and rippling along my channel walls. Until, with explosive ejaculations and his cry of “Tirer un/son coup!” and my answer in a cry of unbridled passion, “Yes, shit. Fuck. Blast me with your cum!” we both came, together.

I had meant to take him in a civilized, pleasant fuck, the celebration of two beautiful bodies working on consort, but the feel of him moving inside me, unsheathed, raw, hard as steel, as thick as a club, and the intensity of his attack and ravishing of me drove me to distraction and completely undid me. Older men were more experienced, nuanced, but there was no beating the occasional raw vigor and virility of a younger man.

We fucked again, with abandon, like two rutting animals in heat, and I melted under him, orgasming again and again and again at the sensation of him exploding inside me, flooding me deep in my core. He held me, both of us panting heavily, in a close embrace, as he went flaccid inside me, me clutching his buttocks to hold him inside me as long as possible. Young, virile, vital, he recovered yet again to be able to reengorge and fuck me in long, languid strokes, his cock sliding easily through the cum of his previous deposit, bringing me to another ejaculation as well, before we both collapsed in exhaustion. He whispered words and short phrases in my ear, obviously in French. I hoped they were dirty. I took them as such. We dozed off in each other’s arms.

When he left me as twilight was stealing into the windows of the bedroom in my third-floor flat, I watched him put on the jacket--possibly my jacket--give me a smile and a salute, and then turn and leave without a word.

I didn’t begrudge him the jacket. It was well worth the fucks. Even the barebacking--the glorious barebacking with a young, uncut man. I’d have myself checked, of course, but it was worth the risk.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to begrudge him the jacket. The next day as I passed the door of the barbershop I’d gone to two days previously, one of the barbers came to the door and hailed me. He held my lost jacket, complete with cashmere scarf, in his hand.

Elated and feeling like celebrating, I planted a kiss on his lips that had him staggering and wide eyed and went directly from there to the café where I’d met Jacques the previous day, hoping that I might find him there and ready for another fuck. He wasn’t there, but sitting at a table--our table--and reading a book with a jacket I recognized--Thomas Mann’s Der Tod in Venedig, Death in Venice, which I knew dealt with the subject of homosexuality--was a young blond man who was to die for. He was a muscular Nordic god with an impeccable sense of casual dress style. Draped on the back of his chair was a jacket almost identical to the one I had thought I’d lost but now was wearing. He looked up and smiled. He pointed to my jacket and then to his in recognition of the amusing coincidence that such a distinctive jacket could appear twice at any given time in a Paris street café.

I smiled back, gestured at the empty seat beside him, and gave him a quizzical look. He smiled and motioned for me to sit. The waiter appeared immediately, as if by magic, and soon we both had a fresh cup of coffee before us.

I gestured to the book and said, “Thomas Mann?”

“Ja,” he answered. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

“Sorry, I’m American. I speak only English,” I answered, not bothering to add that I spoke Arabic, Greek, and Farsi also, but knowing that had no application here. But, as he smiled and put a hand on my thigh, I figured that differing languages need not be a barrier between us.

He gave me a sexy look and said, “Ich bin Dieter. Du bist sehr sexy,” he added, going right to the familiar form, and I didn’t have the least problem understanding what “sexy” meant.

“I’m Ryan, and you are very sexy too, Dieter,” I answered, putting my hand on the one he had on my thigh, moving them both slightly up my thigh. He closed the distance between there and my crotch on his own.

“Ich will dich ficken,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “Sex mit mir? Ich will dich ficken.”

Yes, you damn well can “ficken” me, I thought. And then, what the hell, I said it too.

I took him back to my apartment and he “fickened” me all afternoon . . . and he was damn good at it.

* * * *

Jacket Found

I was walking down the street from my apartment in Paris to the café where I’d been twice lucky in getting laid. I was having a horny day, having taken the morning off from the international export firm where I’d recently been reassigned to Paris from the Mediterranean to attend a meeting of the models in a coming runway production. I’d come to Paris because I also was trying to make it as a male model and this was a center for that industry. I had a show coming up of swimwear, and we’d been shown and had tried on what we’d wear. What we’d wear was close to nothing, and all of us were horny from looking at each other before we left. Unfortunately, most of the male models were submissives, like I was, so I had to go shopping for relief, if I was going to get any.

I was hoping to pick up another young hunk at the café for a dalliance this afternoon.

Instead, as I passed a barber shop, a strong hand reached out, clamped on my wrist, and pulled me inside the shop. Before I had any idea what was happening, I was in the embrace of a big bear of a man, who planted a kiss on my lips--and not just a friendly peck. He gave me tongue.

I pulled away from him, feeling bewildered and looking bewildered too, I was sure. “Rene. What was that for?” I asked.

It wasn’t like I didn’t know the man. I’d come to him to cut my hair twice since I’d been in Paris. He did a great job and I was quite careful about my appearance and what I wore. He also gave great shoulder and neck massages in the barber’s chair that made me purr.

I’ll have to say he gave a great kiss too, and he was a handsome brute of a man--tall; hirsute, with dark hair, graying at the temple; and thick bodied without being fat really. I’d gone hard in the chair when he gave me the shoulder and neck massages--and the temples too.

“You kissed me earlier this week . . . when I gave you back the jacket you had left in the shop,” he said. “You didn’t do that just because I found your jacket and returned it, did you?” His accent when speaking English was pretty heavy, but he must have a lot of English-speaking clients, because his English was quite good--certainly better than any French I could manage, having found on short notice that I was coming to France.

In fact, that’s exactly why I thought I did it--why I had kissed him. Because I was so happy to see my expensive jacket again that I was afraid was lost forever. The kiss was impromptu, not that I hadn’t been thinking about doing it. He had very sensitive hands and an intoxicating male scent, and he was very close to me when he was cutting my hair. I was highly sexed. I looked at every man I encountered with a “would I?” or “wouldn’t I?” comparison going on in my mind. Rene, although older than me by at least fifteen years and a big bear of a man, was one I’d already categorized as “I would.”

“It was an expensive jacket. I’d looked everywhere for it. I was just delighted that it had been found.”

“And you’re grateful that I saved it for you and gave it back to you?” Rene said, turning and looking at me expectantly. He’d been busy flipping the shop sign to “closed” and lowering the blinds.

“Yes, of course I was grateful--am grateful--to you, Rene.”

“And you only kissed me because I found your jacket and returned it to you?”

“Yes . . . well . . .” I had to pause. Was that the only reason I’d kissed him? Hadn’t I thought about kissing him before? Hadn’t I thought about doing more than that with him? I’d been so randy since I’d arrived in Paris. I’d just earlier this week taken French and German studs home and let them fuck me on back-to-back days. That’s where I was going today--back to the café where I’d picked them up, with the hope of picking up another hung stud. I’d been looking at all of the men as possible sex partners. I hadn’t been put off when I’d thought of Rene as a sex partner. When he’d been cutting my hair, I’d taken glances at his basket, wondering if he was as big there as his feet looked and as I knew his hands to be.

Rene took the pause to mean more than I had meant it to mean at that point. “You kissed me because you like me, I think. You go hard in my chair when I’m touching you. I’ve seen you checking my crotch out. You like me, yes, I think. I like you too.”

“Well, yes, I like you fine, Rene,” I admitted. I saw no reason to deny that. And then my mind started to whirl. Wasn’t I on the street today to find a stud to cover me? Did I really have to go all the way to the café to get that going? I took another hard look at Rene. He was older, but he was a big brute--who knew just how big? And he might be big where it counted most. And he seemed to be panting for me.

“Then maybe you would like to go with me, lay under me.” Rene said. “You tell me you have a modeling job.”

“Not my main job, Rene. Just something I’m doing on the side. But I don’t see--”

“All French models are whores. Everyone knows that,” Rene said, and the way he said it made it sound like it must be true. I’ll have to admit that I’d often thought the same myself. “The men on the street say you are a whore--that you go to the café to find men to take back to your apartment. The men in the street who like men all say they want to fuck you. Jacques, the student, says he’s fucked you and that you fuck good, like a whore. He told his German friend about you, and the German said you were a good fuck too. He said you were a good whore. The Italian bicycle boy says he is in heat for you too. He described the sexy young foreigner in the fancy wool and leather jacket, and I knew in an instant he was talking about you.”

“The Italian bicycle boy?” I murmured, my eyes glazing over. Well, shit, I thought. I’d heard that Paris was just a small town covering a lot of territory. So everyone in Paris does know everyone else’s business?

“I’m not a whore, Rene. I just do the modeling on the side. I’m a respectable businessman.” That sounded a bit hollow even to me. Could I be a whore? I’d been fucked by two different strangers already this week and here I was, out looking for more of it. But I wasn’t being paid for it. Maybe that made me just a slut.

“A respectable businessman who likes men,” Rene said, and then gushed on before I could decide what to say to that. “That is fine in France. Respectable businessmen are expected to have a piece on the side. Some have women. Some have men. It makes no difference--well, little difference. It is still best to be the one who gives cock. But there have to be women and men who take it too. I like men too. I give cock. I like you. I’ve heard that you take cock. When you are in my chair, I think it’s clear that you like me too--that you would take my cock. I have a very nice cock. When I returned your jacket and you kissed me, I had no question that you liked me a lot. I think very much that you would like to be under me--that you would like to have some of this cock.” He took my hand and plastered it to his basket. He was hard and huge . . . and, yes, I’d like something like that very much. It was what I’d come looking for this afternoon. I was looking for it from a younger man, but . . .

“You like men this big inside you? Yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, involuntarily, but it was the truth. And although he’d taken his hand away from holding mine to his crotch, I didn’t take my hand away.

He cupped the back of my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. I didn’t try to draw away from that either. And the kiss was quite sensual. When he pulled back, our eyes locked and I couldn’t hide that I was melting to him.

“I have a lot of experience with men. I will cover you good. You told me when you were last in my chair that you had a model job coming up. In less than a week I think. Swimsuits, you said. You said you’d have to shave your body for it.”

Had I said that? Had I been so open to Rene about my life while he was cutting my hair? I must have been for him to know this. And, yes, I was a bit worried about having to shave myself all over. I’d done it before, but it was a chore and had its dangers when I couldn’t afford to have any nicks.

“Yes, but--” I responded, but not with a lot of conviction.

“I have a deal for you,” he said. Even as he spoke, though, he was unbuckling my trousers and pulling my zipper down. He was that sure of himself. And that was the key to me--a man who would take command. “I will shave you--all over--and give you a good massage. I have a table in the room behind the shop. I’ll do a good job. In exchange, you will let me fuck you. I will do a good job of that too.” He already was encasing my cock in his hand and stroking it.

He fucked me in the barber’s chair, the chair reclined back, me slouched down in the chair with my legs spread and hooked on the arms of the chair. He was standing on the foot rest, crouched over me, his hands gripping the arm rest under my knees, and fucking me with a very nice, thick, long cock.

It’s what I’d come out to find this afternoon, if not where I had thought I’d find it. And I was going to get a nice body massage and a free all-over shave, as well, a task that had been facing me and I was antsy about doing myself.

What a deal. What a cock. What a fuck! He was a power fucker, hard, deep thrusts. Just what I was after.

* * * *

Rene hadn’t lied to me. He did have a back room with a massage table in it. I nearly melted when I saw that the table had wrist and ankle restraints on it and I turned to him as he was taking out the lotions and razors he was going to use and gave him a pleading look.

“You want to have these used? You want the full body massage before the body shave? And you want me to tie you down and have my way with you in the process?”

He’d already fucked me in his barber’s chair--sucked my cock as I sucked his, eaten me out, held me close, taken me hard and deep, licked his cum off my ass. There wasn’t much in the way sexual intimacy we hadn’t experienced already. And he was looking like he might shoot off in excitement at the prospect of controlling me to that degree.

“Yes, please.”

“You are a whore,” he muttered, with a laugh. “On your back on the table.” It was an authoritative command now. He’d gotten the message that I liked to be dominated. “I see you are hard for me again--as I am hard for you. Get up on the table. Now.”

Giving me a sensual, deep-tissue massage after he had restrained my ankles and wrists at the four corners of the table, being careful to give me enough in the leads to writhe under his attentions, which I did in no uncertain terms, he concluded the “on my back” portion of the massage by stroking me off, and, eventually, blowing me to an explosion while he penetrated me with his fingers and worked my prostate. The “on my stomach” portion ended with him straddling my hips and riding my ass to his own second ejaculation.

We rested and I, still on my back and bound to the table, moaned as he explained what would happen in the body shave. The foam used was edible, and he’d be cleaning the cream off with his tongue as he went along. As I lost body hair, he’d be sucked, I’d be sucked, and I’d be fucked again. At the end, he promised, I’d have a hairless body other than on the head, and I’d be sexually exhausted.

That all sounded quite nice to me.

Whereas before, during the full body massage, I had strained against the bonds and, at his direction, tried, ineffectually, to struggle against him, I knew that now, when he shaved me, I wanted to be as docile and relaxed as possible. That wasn’t easy when, from the start, he hovered over me from the top of the table, with my head arched over the end, my mouth open to take the whole of his cock deep into my throat while he creamed my chest, shaved it, licked the cream off, and slowly face fucked me. It was only I who was being shaved clean. Rene was hirsute. His curly pubes tickled my nose as I took him deep in my throat.

He took extra time cleaning up the cream in my armpits after he’d shaved them and had me groaning as he hovered over me in reverse, shaved my pubes and my thighs while I sucked his cock, and then sucked mine in a sixty-nine after tonguing off the cream from my crotch and thighs.

“You may have noticed I hadn’t finished around your nipples nor had I done your face,” he whispered, as he climbed off of me. “I saved those for last.”

“Stubble on the face should be fine for the catwalk,” I answered. But I admit I hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t finished my chest.

“I like to do a complete job.”

“I’ve noticed,” I responded. He’d done a complete job on me twice already.

“And you are mine to do with as I wish,” he growled.

I moaned for him on that assertion of control.

He came back up onto the table below me, on his knees; lifted, bent, and spread my legs; and scooted into me, running his knees under my buttocks, lifting my pelvis. He slapped his cock on my belly and thighs for a few seconds, making it go rock hard.

“Are you--?” I started to ask.

“Yes, I am,” he answered. And then he did. His cock invaded my channel for the third time and he slow stroked me while I lay as quiet as I could and he wielded the razor on my face and the rest of my chest. He licked the remaining cream off, threw the razor to the side, grabbed my hips with his hands, and fucked me vigorously and with a fury that had me bouncing around under him, straining at the restraints again, and crying out in passion and ecstasy, while he fucked me to a mutual explosion.

Afterward, as he, off the table now, glided his hands over my body while we both cooled down, he said, “Such a beautiful body. As long as you maintain your beauty, you will be desirable to men. You can make good money with this body.”

“Become a prostitute? A whore?” I asked.

“As I told you, to be a prostitute in France is not a disgrace. To have a body like this and not let others worship it--that would be a tragedy in France. And as far as being a whore”--here he gave me an exaggerated shrug--“you can buy many nice things--like that fancy jacket you thought you’d lost--if you are going to be giving it away anyway, and the deal you made with me was a full body shave for fucking. You have already whored yourself. Do you feel any worse for having done so?”

I couldn’t disagree with him. The deal had been very satisfying. Just the other day I’d considered paying for sex that had been far less exotic and satisfying--well, no, the sex the other day had been very satisfying--than this.

“Ah, so I think it’s not too bad you feel about being a whore,” Rene said and laughed. “I will make another deal. I will cut your hair and give you massages and body shaves whenever you wish it in exchange for letting me use your body when I am in heat for you. You will be a whore if you agree to that. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said. And, no, I didn’t feel any different in thinking of myself as a whore.

I almost forgot my fancy jacket again at the door, and Rene had to tell me to remain there and went back for it. I rewarded him with a kiss for finding and returning it to me just as I had the first time. This time he copped a feel, though. Our relationship certainly had progressed--and for the better, I thought.

In the downstairs vestibule of my apartment building, I had to stop momentarily as another resident moved his bicycle out of the way. It was the young Italian hunk who lived in the apartment at the back on the ground floor. He was wearing tight bicycle shorts and a pullover shirt, pads on his elbows and knees, leather riding gloves that left the fingers exposed, and a bicycle helmet.

The Italian bicycle boy. It must be the one Rene said was in heat for me.

He was a hunk and the look he gave me there in the vestibule more than hinted that he was, indeed, in heat for me. I smiled, reached a hand forward, and traced the line of his dick in the tight Spandex shorts. He smiled back, making no move to disengage my hand--rather, he thrust his pelvis forward, into my hand--and going noticeably--and quite satisfactorily--hard.

I turned and moved up the steps to my apartment, two flights up. The Italian boy followed me, close behind me. On the landing, he cupped one of my butt cheeks with a hand. I wiggled my butt for him as I climbed the remaining steps. His hand slipped deeper between my thighs, and he was palming my basket from the rear.

Inside my apartment door, he reached out, gently took my fancy jacket off me, pulled me to him, and roughly took my mouth into a kiss while pulling down the zipper of my trousers.

There would be no money exchanged. I didn’t have to be a whore all of the time. Some of the time I could be just a young man with a toned body and fine face who needed and wanted another young, handsome man’s cock inside him.

One thing I thought of, though, when I was on my back on my bed and Sergio was on top of me, his fists trapping my wrists over my head, showing every glorious sign of wanting to take me hard and rough and his thick cock already pushing up inside me, thick and demanding. I must remember to wear my fancy, attention-getting jacket on the street more. And maybe, just maybe, if I was careful and clever enough, I could manage, on occasion, to lose the jacket where I knew it would be found and returned to me by a hung stud. I was already scheming to hang it on Sergio’s bicycle, which he kept in the apartment house vestibule as a signal that I wanted him again. And, god, as he pounded me hard, I was sure I would want him again . . . and again and again.