Maybe it was how free the boy was with the boisterous crowd on Saturday afternoon in the Bamberg, Germany, beerhall, with him touching them and they touching him and patting his bottom as he passed. Despite the close quarters and the hands-on flirting, the boy was managing to swing up to six full beer steins in his hands without losing a drop of lager. The array of steins looked almost as big as he did in his short-legged leather lederhosen despite it being in the middle of December. He looked too young for me not to be interested in him, and I was—not least because he looked young. He was the model of German adolescent beauty—blond curls, blue-eyed, gorgeous smile, outgoing personality, robust athletic early-teen build, a bit saucy. I guess his name was Klaus. That’s what the men he was serving beer to called him, and they seemed to be quite familiar with him. He smiled at me as he passed where I sat at a long table, everyone around me being with someone else—except for me. He turned and smiled at me again. I grinned back and raised my nearly empty stein.

I wondered if Helmut Schwartzman knew this was a predominantly gay men’s beerhall. I might have guessed that from the name—the Allemanner bierstube, the All Men beerhall. I could see that by the way the patrons, nearly all men, were responding to each other—and to the handsome young men serving up the beer, including the very young Klaus, who was dancing around, looking delicious, with a big smile on his face.

I had found myself in this historic German town a little over a week before Christmas because Helmut Schwartzman kept a very low profile, as did I both in my business and in my fetish for boys in transition from children to young men. My preference was for blond, blue-eyed, perfectly formed fourteen-year-old boys on the cusp of developing chin peach fuzz. There weren’t too many places I could pursue that fetish without worrying about the law. Interestingly enough, Germany was one of those places, and I made frequent visits to Hamburg, where I had connections. I was in Bamberg just before Christmas on business, though, and not with an intent to pursue my fetish. Not that I wouldn’t want young men; I just wasn’t insistent on age on this trip, which was to be a quick one wedged in during the holidays to bolster my sales figures for the year.

Schwartzman’s business was supplying premium liquor at an under-the-counter price. The business of the company I was working for was smuggling that liquor into him in Germany. The profit margins were good for both my company, which had “liberated” much of its stock off trucks in transit, and Schwartzman’s stories. I had arrived here on Friday afternoon to negotiate the next year’s supply schedule and prices, knowing I wouldn’t be done with that until Monday. He had invited me to dinner at his house on Sunday and had left me to my own devices today. He’d recommended a beerhall to go to, though, that was on Unterer Stephansburg Street near both St. Stephan’s Cathedral and my hotel, the Welcome Hotel Residenzschloss Bamberg. As I walked down that street, I got that this was the gay district of the town. I couldn’t have been happier with the recommendation.

Apparently having taken that I wanted more beer when I had raised my stein to him, when I was actually saluting a handsome boy, Klaus passed me one of the steins of beer he was carrying when he passed and leaned down and asked, with a fetching smile, “Englisch?”

“No. Nein. I’m an American. Ein Amerikaner.”

“Noch besser—Even better,” he said, with a grin, and waltzed off to deliver his other steins.

I was smitten and followed him around the room with my eyes. I noted that he occasionally was looking back at me. And then I lost sight of him. I decided to leave and find some place for dinner before roaming around the area a bit to see what I could pick up. I thought it best to go find a men’s room before I left the beerhall.

Entering the corridor on the back wall of the hall, through a beaded-curtain covered doorway, I saw them further down the dimly lit hall, some distance beyond the door into the men’s room. They weren’t exactly hiding. Some big bruiser had Klaus backed up against the corridor wall. The boy’s lederhosen and briefs were bunched on the wood floor under him and his near leg was raised and bent, hooked on the bruiser’s hip. The guy who had him against the wall was palming the wall on either side of Klaus’s shoulders and he had his face buried in Klaus’s throat on the side away from me. He was in sort of a crouch and jerking upward. Klaus’s body moved up with the jerks and the bruiser was thrusting up into the small blond with blue eyes, almost lifting the boy’s anchored foot off the floor with each thrust. Klaus went up on the ball of his foot and grimaced with each upward thrust. He turned his eyes toward me. He didn’t look like he was in distress, though, so I stood there and watched the two fuck before going into the men’s room. While I watched, Klaus gave me a slight smile and extended his arm, palm down, motioning.

I took that to mean that Klaus wanted me to stay and watch. I remained there momentarily. I did more than watch, though. I unzipped myself, released my hardening cock, and stroked it. I wanted the boy too, and I didn’t care if he knew that. I didn’t mind him seeing that I was well hung either. He continued to smile at me. I heard a sound behind me, someone else entering the corridor, probably to use the men’s room, and I quickly folded my cock back in, turned, and went into the bathroom and up to one of the urinals.

The young man who entered the men’s room must have paused to watch the fucking in the hall too, as it was a long minute before he arrived. In the meantime, I was waiting for my cock to go flaccid enough that it would pass piss. The thought of young Klaus being fucked just on the other side of the wall and down the corridor kept me hard, though.

The guy who came into the men’s room was young, probably no more than sixteen. Another Germanic, blond, with blue eyes, good-looking, trim, teenager. We stood side by side at the urinals. He was looking down at my hard cock, smiling. He reached out and touched the hand I was holding my cock with, clearly indicating he wanted to touch me, and I let him. I was in heat from seeing Klaus being fucked, and I was hard. He took possession of the shaft and gently stroked it, teasing precum out of it, as I put both hands on the wall behind the urinal, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the attention he was giving me.

He murmured something in German, and I opened my eyes and turned them in his direction. The boy looked at me and said, “Ja? Sie wollen es?—Yes? You want it? Willst du, dass ich mich um das sorge?—Do you want me to take care of that for you?” It occurred to me that this men’s room was a regular hook-up spot.

“Ja,” I growled, and when the youth went down on his knees, I turned toward him and let him take my shaft in his mouth and take care of it. He did a good job of it and, thinking of Klaus, I didn’t make him wait very long before he had.

When I came out of the men’s room, the hallway was deserted. Klaus and the big bruiser had finished their business and left. The young German who had given me a blow job slipped past me, gave me a smile, murmured, “Hat Ihnen das gefallen? War das gut?”

With my limited German, I took that to be a question of whether I had enjoyed him. “Ja, das war sehr gut, danke. Du bist ein sexy Junge—Yes, that was very good, thank you. You are a sexy boy.”

He responded, “Du bist auch sexy. Und hing wie ein Stier.” I got that he complimented me on being sexy as well as hung like a bull. He was right about that. I was. He smiled at me again, lingering in the hall. I got what he was after and pulled out a fifty euro note and handed it to him. We hadn’t made a deal on the blow job, but he’d done well, and I’d needed it. So, we parted with smiles. I was in the holiday spirit. Now that I thought about it, maybe he was younger than sixteen. I could think of him as being younger. I wanted to think of him as being fourteen.

I didn’t leave the beerhall. I went back to where I had been sitting, which was still vacant. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before Klaus was there, back in his lederhosen, and with two steins of beer. He put one down in front of me and sat cross-wise on the bench seat beside me and took a swig out of the other stein before putting it on the table.

“American, did you say?” he asked in pretty good English. “Du lebst nicht hier, oder? Ein Tourist? Excuse me. I speak English with you, I think. But my English is not too good. I said I didn’t think you lived here. Are you a tourist?”

“Your English is fine,” I answered. “I’m here on business. Just through Monday. Should you be sitting here with me, drinking beer? Aren’t you working?” I already knew, by observation, that his work made allowances for flirting and fucking, but it was the first thing I thought of to prolong the conversation.

“I served my last beer for the afternoon—to you. I am free now to do what I like. You knew what kind of beerhall this was when you came in?”

“It was recommended to me, but, yes, I saw what kind of place it was when I came in.”

“And you stayed?”

“Yes, I stayed.”

“You watched me ... in the corridor just now.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I watched you.”

“You like to fuck men? You will pay to fuck men?”

“I will pay to fuck boys,” I answered, giving him a steady look.

He returned a slight smile. “Americans have money for such things. I think you are a handsome man, though, so maybe you don’t have to pay often. And you have a very big cock. You showed it to me. I like men who are Pferd gehängt—how do you say it in English? Horse hung?”

“Yes, horse hung,” I said, amused by how direct he was. Pferd gehängt. I’d have to try to remember that phrase. It sounded exactly like what it meant.

“Maybe you don’t need to pay boys to take your cock?”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Achtzehn—eighteen,” he answered.

I snorted. “How old again? No, I said I didn’t like to fuck men. I like to fuck boys—boys ready to become men. Eighteen is more a man than a boy. How old again are you?”

“Vierzehn—fourteen,” he answered.

“The perfect age. And, yes, I sometimes pay for it. For a boy that age, yes.”

“Fourteen is the Alter der Einwilligung—the age of consent—in Germany, you know,” he said.

“Yes, I know. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” And that’s why men with my fetish came to Germany. It was cheaper than going to Thailand or the Philippines to get what we wanted, although it was funny—German men liked to go the Asia for it. Maybe they needed to be far from home when they indulged with boys.

He took a drag on his beer stein and smiled at me over the rim. “Was there something you wanted to see in Bamberg today? It’s Christmas time in Bamberg—a magical time to be here.”

“If I wasn’t going to find something better to do, I was planning to try to find the Christmas market. I heard that Bamberg has one and that it’s a particularly nice one. I don’t know where It is, though. Perhaps you can tell me where to go to find it.”

“Not it. Them,” he said, again with that delicious little smile of his. “We have four, but one, the advent market, The Sand, is already over. The craftmen’s market, on Jacobsplatz, has just started today. The traditional open-air market at the Geyersworth Palace is open, and the medieval market near there is open tonight too. They open after dark. You would have to go to them later.” He gave me a provocative look. “Are you staying at a hotel?”

“Yes, I have a room at the Welcome Hotel Residenzschloss.”

“Ah, not far. There is a path from one market to the next, called the Golden Thread. I could put you on the path for that, guide you through the markets. Maybe you would want dinner before that. I could take you somewhere. You could buy me dinner too and then I could take you to the markets. Are you looking for something special in the markets?”

“I’m going to dinner tomorrow night at the house of the man I’m doing business with here—the reason I came to Bamberg,” I answered, my voice amused at how he was taking charge and surging ahead. I liked where this was going, though. “I should get a gift to take to his family.”

“A bottle of whiskey would be good,” he said, “but they don’t sell that in the Christmas market. I could take you someplace where they sell it cheap, special price but very good quality.”

“I don’t think that’s quite what I had in mind,” I said, with a laugh. Like carrying coals to Newcastle, I thought. The boy would probably be taking me to one of Helmut Schwartzman’s hidden shops and selling me back product I’d had smuggled into the country myself.

“Ah, something German, special to the holidays and the Christmas markets but not ... touristy?”

“Yes, that would be what I needed.”

“I know just the thing. We have a cookie called Hausfreunde, almond-apricot sandwich cookies dipped in bittersweet chocolate, made specially for Christmas and sold in the Christmas markets. I bet your host’s family would love those. They are favorites of mine. They are expensive. But if you want to Beeindrucken—what you say, impress, your host’s family...”

“And you could show me where to buy these cookies in the Christmas market?”

“Sicher, ja—Certainly, yes. And then after we go to the Christmas markets, if you like, we could go back to your hotel and you could fuck me.”

I was taking a drink of my beer when he said that and gagged a bit on it. He laughed. I wondered if he’d waited until I was drinking to drop that bombshell on me. If so, he’d be fun to play with—and to subdue.

“You do want to fuck me, don’t you? Our word for that is ‘Ficken’. I like the sound of that. It’s like what we do with our hands to show being fucked.” He’d made a sheath of the fingers of one hand and he was moving the middle finger of the other hand vigorously in an out of the sheath. Embarrassed, but laughing, I looked around to see if anyone was watching and would know we were negotiating me fucking the boy, but everyone else was busy trying to make someone else.

“Ja, Klaus, ich will dich ficken—Yes, I want to fuck you, Klaus,” I answered. I most certainly wanted to fuck the boy; I’d gone hard again just having him here beside me and so openly talking about it. I saw no reason to beat around the bush on the issue. He certainly wasn’t. And he’d seen me watching him be fucked in the corridor to the men’s room. He took cock. There wasn’t anything to question here.

“So, you speak some German.”

“Ein bisschen—a bit,” I said. I didn’t want to let him know that I used that sentence frequently on my trips to Hamburg. “Ich ficke gerne vierzehnjährige Jungs—I like to fuck fourteen-year-old boys,” I added, just to pin it down.

He laughed again, a tinkly, carefree laugh. He was driving me crazy. “300 euros or $300 U.S.”

“Why would you accept American dollars?” I asked. “Euros are worth more.” I wasn’t going to haggle really. I was enjoying the openly sexy conversation with what obviously was a rent-boy. I’d paid more in Hamburg. I’d pay Klaus in any currency I had on hand. I would pay a lot more to put this delightful boy under me and to hear him pant and sob. I was hung and I could see that he had slim hips. Boys his age and shape suffered under me. I’m sorry to say that was part of the arousal for me in fucking a fourteen-year-old boy and making him suffer a bit for it, but it is, and the opportunity doesn’t come to me that often. I have to go overseas to get it.

“American dollars are worth more on the black market. They are accepted in more places than euros are.”

Smart boy, I thought. He knew his marketplace. “Then we have a deal. U.S. dollars it is—or will be. Shall we go?”

“To dinner? You pay?”

“Ja.”

“To the Christmas market for Hausfreunde cookies?”

“Ja.”

“And to your hotel, where you will ‘Fricken’ me for $300.”

“Ganz sicher ja—Most certainly yes,” I said.

“Mein Gott, du bist gross!—My god, you’re big!” Klaus cried out. He was kneeling at the foot of my hotel room bed, facing the headboard. I was holding him close into my chest, one hand cupping his jaw, holding his head into the hollow of my shoulder and stroking his cock with my other hand.