His name was Klaus. He was fourteen—at least the Hamburg, Germany, brothel manager had guaranteed he was fourteen and showed me documentation. It was in German, though, so I could only make out about half of what the documentation said. Before him had been Gebhardt and then Dieter—both guaranteed to be fourteen. Both quite nice to have had.

Klaus was good—very good. There were two single beds in the starkly outfitted Hamburg brothel cell. It wasn’t that long after the end of World War II, so everything in German was starkly outfitted. Klaus was thin—undernourished—Gebhardt and Dieter had been as well. They were all beautiful boys, though, each exhibiting why I preferred fourteen-year-old boys: developing into a man, but flexible, trainable, yielding, still with an aura of innocence, sweet dispositioned, and willing to try new positions. Times were tough in Germany or they may not be doing what they did—offering what they did. If I chose one of them and took him to the states it would be like going to heaven for him. Each of them had tried hard with me to be that boy.

Klaus was doing everything he could to please me—to be that boy taken to the States. I was sitting on the side of one of the beds, facing the side of the other and holding Klaus’s thin waist as he fucked himself on my cock in long strokes, pulling away to where the rim of my glans showed and then thrusting forward, taking me to the root. It was a long slide. I was built long and thick. He professed to want the full possession and challenge of it—to be stretched and fully used.

His buttocks rested on the tops of my thighs. His legs were bent, hugging my hips, his feet flat on the mattress of the bed I was sitting on, using his feet for leverage to fuck his channel on my shaft. His back was arched over the space between the two beds, his fists buried into the mattress of the other bed, holding his small, undernourished, but fourteen-year-old-perfect body in a horizontal position. He was hard, which assured me that, although he may be forced to do this to survive, this was what he was meant to do.

That was important to me. I wasn’t thinking of adopting one of these boys to take back to the States just to give them access to a better life. I wanted to fuck them and for them to want me to fuck them. I also wanted them to be a comfortable companion. I was willing to support them into adulthood if they gave themselves to me fully at fourteen.

“Ja, ja. Du fickst gut. Du bist so gross! Fick mich hart. Komm in mich—Yes, yes. You fuck good. You are so big. Fuck me hard. Come inside me!” Klaus cried, picking up vigor in riding me.

I was up for that, but I like to be in control at the climax. I rose, causing him to collapse on his back on the bed beside the one I lay on. I had him in a missionary position and I clutched and raised his narrow hips to me, achieving an angle for maximum depth. He yielded to me fully, just as I liked. I palmed the small of his back with one hand to keep his pelvis raised to me and gripped his throat with the other, holding his head to the mattress. He writhed a bit under me, but that was from the effect of my long, thick cock working his channel hard. He otherwise was completely docile, yielding, letting me have what I wanted. I wanted it all.

Maybe this was the one.

He cried out, “Ja, Ja! Fick mich hart!” arching his back, holding his legs raised and spread, stretching his arms out straight from his body in a sacrificial position, fisting handfuls of bedspread to keep himself in place, his head arching back and his eyes rolling up into his head, as I banged him hard to an ejaculation.

“Ich liebe es. Nehmen Sie alles!—I love it. Take it all.” Denying me nothing.

After I’d come—inside him as he’d said he wanted, I lowered my heaving chest on his and went into a kiss as he took his own cock in hand and stroked himself off, releasing between our bellies.

The part that came afterward was almost more important to me—the two of us stretched out on one of the beds, he in my embrace, our hands moving languidly over the body of the other, me solid, hirsute, and muscular, he willowy, smooth, and slender, while we conversed on this and that, the topic not as important as the connection between a man and a boy. The second fuck was always the more satisfying of the two—slow and deep, me deep in his soft core, the two of us moving as one to a shared, sighing climax.

When I was sitting in the brothel manager’s office afterward, he smiled at me and said, “So, have you chosen one of the boys, Herr Stover?”

“You guarantee that they are all fourteen?” I asked. That was my fetish. I could pretend for years afterward that they were young, but I needed them to be fourteen—developing into a man, but still young, nubile, flexible, and yielding to my desires—when I first fucked them.

“Ja, naturlich—yes, of course,” he answered, still with a smile. There was quite a lot of money involved here. But there was even more in my periodic trips to Germany from Peru, Indiana, to indulge my fetish for a couple of days. The age of consent was fourteen in Germany, so at least indulging myself here held less of a risk while I was engaged in the activity than doing so in the States. It was in Germany, at the end of the war three years earlier, when my own time as a soldier had brought me into the German heartland at the finish, that I had found, by frequenting such male brothels as this one in Hamburg, that my preferences went to the freshness of fourteen-year-old boys. This was not something I could engage in with Peru boys without great risk. I had a respected position in the town, and the town was too small to hold such secrets forever. Thus, I had come up with this scheme of taking in a destitute supposed relative and raising him.

And fucking the stuffing out of him anytime I wanted. He would be grateful for being taken out of postwar Germany and given a new life in what to him would be a paradise. It was important, though, that he be grateful enough to me to open his legs to me on demand. I was a highly sexed man—I had demands.

I would pass him off as the son of a sister who went to Germany before the war and was stuck there, assaulted, and died recently, leaving a son. I even had put a photograph of such a woman and boy on my desk at the bank—no one related to me, of course, the photo of the boy young enough to have developed into most any boy I selected. I already was putting a scheme to work on why I, a bachelor, would have a young, foreign boy in my house.

“I haven’t decided,” I answered. “And there’s a lot to be done—new documentation, preparing my contacts in my community, travel arrangements—before I decide to do this and pick one of the boys.”

“Ja, Ich verstehe—Yes, I understand. But the boys won’t be fourteen forever, so as soon as you can—”

“As soon as I have decided and made arrangements, I’ll contact you again.” I’d already started on documenting a new life for one of the boys—if I decided to go this way. I almost was decided, but not quite. I already had made contact with someone in New York City to make one of these boys into a nephew whose mother, my sister, had died not long ago. Making a forced pregnancy in war-torn Germany the boy’s background would stave off questions of paternity and circumstance.

“As far as the decision of which one,” I said. “Perhaps another session.”

“Certainly, which one?”

“I think Gebhardt,” I said.

“Excellent. I’ll have you taken back to room 5 and have Gebhardt sent back to you immediately.”

“And then, after that, Dieter again.”

“Yes, of course.” From previous visits, the man already knew I had an expansive appetite and great stamina.

I was nearly home in Peru from the Fort Wayne airport after a New York City stopover en route back from my trip to Hamburg, Germany, when I saw the lad, dripping with water and shivering in the twilight chill. I had just crossed over the South Wayne Street bridge on Peru’s east side to the south bank of the Wabash River, which my house faced on East Riverside Drive. I was riding in my big, black 1948 Buick Roadster, an appropriate vehicle for my position as a bank manager, not a bad rise for a man barely forty, when I saw him.

He was just a boy, maybe fourteen—my mind registered the hope he was fourteen. He looked Italian or Spanish and he was a beautiful boy as far as I could see. He was water soaked, though, and was trudging along like he was shouldering all of the cares of the world. I slowed down and kept pace with him, figuring that would make him stop and tell me what was wrong. But he walked on, listlessly, like I wasn’t even there. I honked my horn, though, and that made him pause and look around.

I leaned far over the passenger seat and rolled the window down. “You gone for a swim or something?” I asked. “The sun’s going down and it’s going to get right nippy out here in a few minutes. You need to dry off. Do you have far to go?”

“I don’t know,” he said, giving me a glassy look.

“I live just up the street. Let’s get you inside and dried off. Then, if it isn’t far, I’ll drive you wherever you were headed.”

He just stood there, looking at me. But at least he didn’t start walking again. I leaned far over a second time and got the door to open. “Come on. Get in. You ever ride in a Buick Roadmaster before?” I’d yet to meet a boy who could resist a ride in a big, black Buick Roadmaster. I’d gotten boys to ride my cock for a chance to ride in a Buick Roadmaster. I can’t deny that the wheels in my mind were already turning in that direction here. He was a beautiful boy, and the way the wet clothes clung to his body made him almost irresistible.

To my surprise, I required no more cajoling. He got in the car. I repeated. “I’ll take you where you want to go, but we can stop off at my place—it’s just up the street—first and get you dry. You’ll catch your death of cold from being soaked like that.”

He laughed, which caught me off guard. It was sort of a strange laugh, though, hollow and touching on hysteria. “What?” I asked. “What did I say?” I instinctively reached over and touched him on the knee. He didn’t flinch from that.

“You said that I could catch my death,” the boy said, the first words he uttered since I’d seen him walking listlessly down the road along the banks of the Wabash.

“What’s amusing about that?” I touched him on the knee again, as if that was a habit of mine when I talked, but I did it on purpose. He didn’t flinch away this time either.

“Not amusing,” he said. “But sort of funny. Nobody told me the river was so shallow here.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter if it was an accident, of course,” I said. “Wet is wet whether you accidentally fall in or you go in on purpose with rocks in your pockets.”

“I didn’t accidentally fall in,” he said. He took a couple of rocks out of his pocket and placed them on the floor in front of him to punctuate that.

I let that sink in for a block. I was moving real slow, wanting to reach some sort of understanding before we pulled into my garage. But it had to be said. “Did you slip and fall into the river or were you trying to drown yourself?”