First Climb Up the Spiral Staircase

by ChrisCross

Copyright© 2018 by ChrisCross

Erotica Sex Story: When fourteen-year-old American Brian visits his parents on U.S. diplomatic assignment to Bonn, Germany, over the summer school holidays not long after the end of World War Two, Brian is taken with--and taken and initiated and trained by--the mysterious, bitter ex-German soldier, Gerhard, who has become the family's handyman and gardener and who lives up a spiral staircase from the family's apartment.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/mt   mt/mt   Consensual   Gay   Fiction   Historical   MaleDom   Group Sex   Anal Sex   Cream Pie   Double Penetration   First   Voyeurism   Revenge   .

I am charging toward a climax when I hear the front door open and my parents’ voices in the foyer below. They’ve come home from the reception at the Belgium mission to the UN early.

I have Tony on my bed on the second floor of my parent’s two-story Manhattan apartment, smooth-skinned fourteen-year-old legs spread, and my pelvis insinuated between them. Our foreheads are plastered together, our eyes intensely staring into each other’s. The mouth of the apartment house’s delivery boy is slack, emitting a long moan. I’m pumping hard, palming one of his adolescent, developing pecs and thrumming his nipple with the hand of the arm I have encircling his back, holding his torso off the bed. The index finger of the other hand is brushing the root of my buried cock as the finger presses into his ass, latches onto his prostate, and rubs rhythmically.

The delivery boy, ready and willing, but with little experience in control, has exploded twice already, and I’m about to come. It’s another stellar performance. We are here because he said he’d heard about me and wanted to see what all of the excitement is about.

Tony obviously has done this before--lain under a man or an older boy, in my case an eighteen-year-old--but he obviously hasn’t done it often--yet. He’s already said he wants me to do him again.

I’m home--if Manhattan during my dad’s assignment to the U.S. Mission to the UN can be called home--on winter holidays. We aren’t that long home from Belgium--and before that, when I was fourteen, Bonn, Germany. I’ve just finished my first year at Georgetown University, down in Washington, D.C. My parents want me to go into the Foreign Service, as they did. I might have some other ideas about that. I’ve done some acting and been in a couple of television commercials already. I may be headed for California after college. I know that if you can’t fuck boys and young men in the Foreign Service, it’s not for me.

Tony is fourteen--that delicious time when a boy is turning into a man and is softness-turning-to-steel hardness and curiosity, especially about his cock and what it can do, and is malleable. I was just fourteen when I was first fucked by a man--a rough former German soldier gardener, living up the spiral staircase in my parents’ Bonn apartment--and shown the ropes of both taking and giving male-male sex.

There’s a lot of wild talk in college about what everyone has done, but it’s mostly bravado. Not with me, though. Since the start of the university year, I’ve probably fucked a quarter of the older teens in my fraternity, concentrating on the ones who came uninitiated but who cast needy eyes in my direction. They keep coming for it.

Georgetown is considered an effete school in the early 1950s. I knew I’d be comfortable coming here. My German handyman-gardener, who I’m sure had a murky past in the recently concluded world war in which his people were soundly defeated, taught me well in not only taking cock but giving it as well--not to him of course. In postwar Germany there were always fourteen-year-old boys lurking around who would gladly lay on their backs and open their legs for a solid meal or warm shirt. I had the meal and shirts but I too lay on my back and opened my legs for the former German soldier as soon as he called me to him.

Hearing my parents, entering the floor below, I hold. Chances are they won’t come up here, up the spiral staircase. There are only spare bedrooms, including mine when I’m home, on this level.

Tony pants and wheezes under me. He moves his face to press in the hollow of my shoulder. Will they come straight upstairs? No, I hear them move toward the den at the back of the apartment. They must have been stingy with drinks at the reception, or Dad was too busy doing business to get properly lit up. They were going for a nightcap--or two, or three. The true mark of a diplomat is a red nose.

I go back to pumping Tony’s ass, setting my cock on overdrive, then backing off briefly, caressing him deep, then masterful overdrive again. He is virginal putty in my arms, yielding to all of my demands. He emits a loud moan, and I have to let loose of his heaving pec and cover his mouth with my hand to keep him quiet for the finale. He is panting and moaning softly as I explore his channel with my cock, moving this way and that way with my pelvis, giving every inch of his sweet passageway loving attention.

He jerks and bites the heel of my hand as I ejaculate, filling his channel deep in three strong spurts. He moans deeply at the sensation of my warm cum spreading inside him. My cock jerks, and I blast him again in an after flow. It was a good one. The sensation of spent pleasure rolls over me in waves. The after-ejaculation kiss is passionate. It was good for him too.

Getting my jollies permits me to ignore the pain where he has bitten me on the hand and shoulder in the throes of jetted-release passion, although I release him immediately and he falls back on the mattress, giving me a dreamy look with his eyes. We’re both young, vigorous, virile. We’ve both come strongly.

He reaches up and rubs both of my nipples with the tips of his fingers. I am still inside him, withering, but only slightly. The excitement of the situation and my young virility will keep me hard enough to start the stroking again whenever I want as long as I maintain possession inside him.

I give Tony a quizzical look. He hadn’t been sure about doing this at the beginning. I’d had to seduce and cajole him.

I see what I wanted to see. “Don’t pull out. Do me again,” he says in a breathy voice.

I really should do him again as quickly as I can recharge--the sound of my parents moving about down the spiral staircase would only enhance the reward of taking the risk of being discovered. One of the secrets of it is fast first, fingering interval, slow second. And he wants it. The expression on his face says it all. He doesn’t seem to realize the change in the setting caused by my parents’ early arrival home, but he would feel it in the urgency possible discovery would bring to the stroking.

He’s mewing and running his claws along my biceps. He wants me hard and probing again. Why do all sweet submissives have to pretend to be a cat at this point?

“You’ve got to go,” I whisper. “Dress quietly, and I’ll get you to the front door without my parents seeing you.” I sit up on the side of the bed, widen my legs, and pull his buttocks between them. He’s fumbling with his T-shirt but can’t put it on because I’m covering his pecs with my hands and squeezing. I kiss him on the neck and he moans for me to be inside him again.

“Fuck me. Fuck me again,” he begs.

I let one of my hands drop to his lower belly, and I give him more cock and balls work with my hands. He’s small down there, not yet fully developed. But what he has is hard as a rock. That’s part of my secret, I think. I work them a while after I’ve fucked them. It makes them think I care.

He lays his head back into the hollow of my shoulder. “Fuck me again, Brian,” he murmurs.

“Can’t now, dude,” I answer. “Parents home. Gotta get you out of here.”

Despite this, I enter his ass with two fingers and finger fuck him for a good five minutes, paying particular attention to his prostate. He writhes under me and explodes again. It’s something he’ll remember.

I pull on my sleeping pants and manage to get him to the door and out without arousing notice from the den. I tousle my hair and make an appearance at the back of the house. I can’t just climb the spiral staircase again; they might have heard us come down. I’ve got to check to make sure they didn’t hear more than one of “us.”

“You guys are home early,” I say.

“More like on time,” my dad responds. “The other times this week we’ve been home late. Hope we didn’t wake you.”

“It’s OK,” I answer. “I won’t have trouble going back to sleep.”

My mother is opening the day’s mail. “Oh, look, a letter from Gerta,” she says, obviously pleased. “And a photo of her with her son and her brother, Gerhard.” This didn’t sound quite so pleased. I feel myself tightening up.

Gerta had been the family maid from four years earlier during my dad’s posting to Bonn. I had no idea they were getting letters from Gerta. My understanding was that they had to let her go late that first summer in Bonn. But that was after she had managed to get my dad to hire her brother, Gerhard, a surviving German soldier from the war, as our handyman-gardener. He’d proved so useful to the family that he’d been kept on for a while after Gerta was let go.

“She say how they’re doing?” my father asks. He isn’t giving this his total attention. The big slug of scotch rocks seems more important to him and he is looking through some documents. It seems he always is looking through work he’s brought home.

“She says they are doing fine,” my mother answers, “but it seems so sad.” My mother’s voice sounds sad too.

“Why so?” my father asks. As he does so, I see that my mother has dropped the photograph on the table she is sitting at. I look down at it and freeze.

“I don’t think she’s found anyone yet. It’s tough raising a child on your own. She doesn’t mention a job, either.”

“Does she ask us to up the money we’re sending?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Good. We’ll send her a bit more then. I want to help her but I don’t want to feel I’m being fleeced.”

“I just wish she’d find a father for that sweet little boy,” my mother says.

I flip the photo over as if that will change everything--that it will make it all go away. How can my mother look at the photo and not know? Although, if they are sending Gerta money, maybe they do know. Surely not. My dad certainly knows. The “sweet little boy” is his--and is the spitting image of him. It was more than Gerhard’s good work that kept him on after Gerta was let go--and set up in a separate apartment. I’m sure it was Gerhard’s blackmail.

And each time Gerhard fucked me, I sure there was a satisfaction of revenge taken. I didn’t care as long as Gerhard fucked me.

It had been sort of a waste, in terms of family togetherness, for me to have flown out to Bonn from my Boston prep school at age fourteen for the summer holidays after my parents moved to Germany, which was still reeling from having lost the war. My father’s assignment at the American embassy kept him super busy, and my mother was on the go constantly as well. And it wasn’t just the days. They had some diplomatic whatever to go to nearly every evening. I spent most of the time in our gloomy, cavernous apartment, as it wasn’t safe for Americans to roam around alone, given the sullenness and impoverishment of the vanquished Germans and the number of unexploded bombs still ticking away in the ground here and there.

I got left alone in the large, drafty pre-First World War German apartment for long stretches of time. My parents looked around for other Americans my age to hook up with that summer, but they didn’t try too hard. They gauged that I was content keeping myself occupied, and no one else seemed to have brought their sub-teen children out. I was too shy and wrapped up with my biological changes from boy to man to go out and find friends myself. It was OK at first, as I had my books to read--not all of which my parents knew I had. It was a sexual coming-of-age period for me and I was very curious. I also was taken with the form of the male body, my own developing quite nicely, and was given more to thoughts of being with and under men than in mixing with girls.

And then, after a while, it was more than OK.

The apartment had huge rooms, with the embassy furniture allowance not being able to come anywhere close to making the place look lived in. Across the front of the top-floor apartment were the living room, some sort of music room--with a platform and a baby grand piano and all--and then the dining room. The entrance foyer extended along the inner walls of the living room and music room. Dad’s large study was in back of the dining room. To the right of the foyer, balancing out the study, was a gigantic kitchen, located so far from the dining room that, my mother said, this must have been a status symbol in old Germany--necessitating having servants deliver the meals quickly before the food cooled.

Gerta was replaced before summer was over and Gerhard stayed around longer to help trot the food across the apartment or we would have been eating most of our meals in the kitchen.

Two corridors, with two bathrooms, separated by an alcove for a spiral staircase leading up--guest in front and the one for the master bedroom last, separated by the staircase alcove led back from the foyer. The hall running past the kitchen went to two large bedrooms, one of which became mine for the summer, and a between-bedrooms bathroom. The other hallway ran between the study wall and the bank of bathrooms and led back to the master bedroom. There was a nook off this hallway too that contained a narrow metal winding staircase to a small landing and a closed door above. The two spiral staircases led up into the attic level and to too servant rooms, with a box room between them.

“That’s Gerta’s room up there, the maid,” my mother had said when she was giving me the guided tour of the hall leading to the master bedroom.

“This staircase,” she said when we got around to my bedroom hallway, “goes up to Gerhard’s room--the handyman.” I looked up to the top of the staircase. The door was slightly ajar, and I sensed the presence of someone up there, just on the other side of the door.

Gerta turned out to be a buxom blonde who probably was in her thirties. She was what we’d call zaftig or Rubenesque--big boned and well-padded without quite slipping over into being considered fat. She obviously was delighted to have the position and she gave me special attention from the start--insisting that I eat more and that I do less in terms of picking up after myself. She gave the same attention to my father--and, as I later learned, more. As well as the cooking, she did the laundry, and she starched and ironed everything of mine, including my father’s and my briefs. She seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time with these at the ironing board in the middle of the kitchen.

She was always patting my head and shoulders and pulling at my ear as she served the meals. And it seems like every time I had an occasion to walk down the back hallway to my parents’ bedroom, she was there, standing on the winding staircase to her room above. More than once she informed me that her room was up there, as if I wouldn’t know that already. She moved as silently as a cat, and she felt no embarrassment in coming into my room when I was just in my pajama bottoms or shorts.

On these occasions she’d let her eyes linger over me and she’d have a comment or two about how I was growing into a fine form of a man.

I’ll have to say that I didn’t take much notice of her, though, because it was her brother, Gerhard, who captured my attention. If the two stood next to each other, you could see the family resemblance, but you saw more dissimilarities than connections. Gerhard was blond as Gerta was, but where she was smiles, flirty flashes of her eyes, and pillow softness and curves, whereas he had a gaunt, haunted look about him. And when he looked at me, his gaze blasted right through my defenses, revealing the struggle he knew I was going through on my sexual development. I tingled “down there” each time his eyes captured mine, and I lay there, naked, open, and vulnerable to his knowing stares.

They were much of the same height, but he was all hardness, angles, and sinewy muscularity to her softness. He rarely smiled whereas she always was jolly, although I must say that I felt like some of that was put on so as to please her employers--my father, especially. They had both been through the war on the losing side and knew depredation, but whereas she hid her experiences behind a visual optimism and rosy exterior, Gerhard let his defeat and a hint of his bitterness show. I knew that if I lay under him, he would take out all of his bitterness of being vanquished in the war out on me. That, however, became that much more arousing in contemplating lying under him.

He was a handsome man despite being war weary, world wise, taciturn, and cynical. He walked with a limp that I ascribed to a war wound and wanted that to be the origin because it made him more mysterious in my imagination of being with him, under him. A balcony ran the width of our apartment and we had use of the back lawn, via yet another metal spiral staircase that descended to it. Also, since we had Gerhard, who took care of the upkeep of the back garden, and we, among the reclusive other tenants of the building, were from the victor nation, we more or less took over the garden.

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